August 30, 2009 Homily for 5th Sunday Dinner on the Grounds
Having a genie that will fulfill all of our dreams, or as in some versions of this fantasy at least three of them, is an idea older than the Arabian Nights. Maybe we have had occasion at some time in our lives to think about how we would craft our three wishes to manipulate the genie and get the most from each wish. I admit I've thought about it. This little parable with a genie that fulfills one's every desire is a good illustration of the danger of having so much control. The control we think we may have over the world around us is really just an illusion. When we try to exert God-like control, even though we lack the wisdom and power of God, something is bound to go wrong. Choices we make can have unexpected and dangerous side-effects.
The ultimate lesson of the holy man in this parable, with his prayer beads, is that the wisest path for us is to still our hearts, let go of our need to have everything our own way, and turn our wishes over to God in prayer. There is a now-famous little prayer that expresses this idea in a most powerful way--the Serenity Prayer. You may be like me someone who says the words of this prayer often, or you may never have heard of it, but I think it is worth repeating now and pondering. Please say it along with me if you know it. "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
Let's think about what this prayer says to us. There are many things in life over which we have no control, and yet we will often preoccupy our minds with thinking about how to control them. If we had our own way, we would control the opinions of other people, their actions, what they think about us, how they treat us and others. We would control the environment around us, where we work and where we live, even the weather. We would control the events that trouble us or the illnesses that beset us. All of these are things that we have likely spent many hours of our lives fretting about, worrying over, or trying to fix. Yet, at some point, if sanity and serenity are to prevail, we have to admit to ourselves that we don't have real control over people, places, or things that happen. As the serenity prayer suggests, all we can do is accept that we cannot change such things, even though we want to. Such acceptance brings serenity, an inner peace. In that moment of acceptance, we are letting go of the illusion of control and admitting that God is really the only one in charge.
But such acceptance does not make us weak. On the contrary--when we stop the useless frittering away of our time by trying to do God's job, we are empowered to exercise the control we do have: control over ourselves. Why does the serenity prayer say that we need "courage to change the things we can"? I think that's because the real reason why we spend so much time preoccupied with the actions and faults of others is that we don't really want to face the things in ourselves that may need to change. It does take courage to look that deeply within, but that's where prayer and God's help can liberate us. When we examine ourselves and find some attitude that needs adjusting, we can work on it until we are free of its influence. True inner peace comes from acceptance of ourselves as well as of others.
Finally, the Serenity Prayer says that we need wisdom to know the difference between what we can change and what we cannot. Once again, prayerful inner examination will help us to make that discernment. In general, however, we will usually come around to the same conclusion: the only persons we have either the ability or the right to change are ourselves.
If we want to have peace of mind and joy, a habit of daily prayer, including God in our lives, is essential. How else can we have a true perspective on our lives? When we preoccupy our minds with worries, fears, and the need to control, we forget God's true place. Since those preoccupations are often about something that has already happened or something that may happen in the future, such thinking keeps us from living fully in the present moment. As Christ himself said, " Do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." When we don't focus on what is happening right here, right now, we miss what is real and important and exciting and beautiful about our lives. If we wish to encounter God, we will only find Him in the present. God is always with us, if we but turn to him.
If you are a fan of Forward Day By Day, you may have read a quotation attributed to Saint Francis de Sales in Friday's entry: "When you are not too busy, pray for a half hour every day; when you are too busy, pray for one hour every day." Letting go of the busyness of our lives and the anxieties that accompany such busyness is the best antidote for the stress of modern living. We can face and handle anything when we have grounded ourselves in God, who can help us through prayer to have a better and wiser perspective on everything. "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
Monday, August 31, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Wearing the Armor of God
Sermon for Sunday, August 23, 2009
Lessons for this Sunday:
Psalm 84, "God's House"
1st Kings 8: 1, 6, 10-11, 22-30, 41-43
Ephesians 6: 10-20
John 6: 56-69
We humans are on a perpetual quest to feel at home inside our own skins, to be at peace with our deepest selves. Most of us have experienced times of anxiety or shame when we would like to run away from our very selves, if such a thing were possible. Sometimes we feel as if our body has betrayed us, and we feel ourselves to be trapped in a prison of flesh and bone. Then, the voice of reason in our heads may be losing the argument to the voice of fear and anxiety. From my own experience, it feels as if these moments are among the most painful ones we ever suffer. Finding peace and calming our anxious hearts is the healing we can hope for since the home we are seeking is the home where our souls connect with God. St. Augustine put it this way: "My heart does not find rest, Lord, until it rests in thee."
During the years of restless wandering in the desert, the people of Israel kept the Ark of the Covenant in a tent. After David became king, he wanted to build a "house" for the Lord's Ark, but the prophet Nathan was sent to tell David that building such a house was not his role. David was promised the continued favor of the Lord and told that his successor would be his son. That son, Solomon,would be allowed, at last, to build a temple. The Lord was reluctant to place his "house" in a permanent position, and, in his words of dedication, Solomon displays his famed wisdom as he expresses God's intention: "Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built." The temple, like our physical bodies, can hold within it only a portion of the infinite and awesome Spirit of God. Even so, any place where we encounter the Spirit is a holy place and the home of the Lord.
Solomon goes on to make a radical statement: the temple he has erected will attract people of all nations--foreigners will be drawn to it, and they will be welcomed there "so that all the peoples of the earth may know your name and fear you, as do your people Israel, and so that they may know that your name has been invoked on this house that I have built.” Wherever God dwells, in our need we humans are invited to be there also.
Psalm 84 provides an outline of some of the places where God can be found at home: a tabernacle, a swallow's nest, a desolate valley, a pool of water, a mountain top, a king's court. This little chapel has been God's home since 1885, but the beautiful valley and shepherding mountains around us have been God's home since the day of Creation. Like the Spirit itself, home is an idea, if an all-encompassing one.
Camelot. If you are like me and you've read the Arthurian stories since childhood, that name may make you smile as it conjures up images of knights, fair maidens, and a round table. I recently attended the stage version of the musical Camelot and found it delightful. In the play, as Arthur is musing about his vision for his kingdom, he tells Guinevere how, from a hawk's perspective flying high above the earth, there are no borders and boundaries. Borders are a human invention, and Arthur goes on to remark how amazing it is that human beings are willing to die for an idea.
The idea Arthur proposes for Camelot is that his knights, from their societal positions of wealth and power, should use the gifts they've been given to protect those who are weaker and poorer than they. They will fight for what is right rather than to display their might. They will be sent out on quests to do good deeds, and when they return to the court, they will tell the stories of their valor. To insure the noble equality of this brotherhood and their respect for one another, they would be seated together with the king at a large round table. Imagine that. Think for a moment about what Arthur had to say about ideals of social justice, faithful courage, and democracy that we continue to value today. Unfortunately, even in our modern world we have not reached the perfect state that Arthur, who was called the Once and Future King, envisioned.
The first Arthurian stories began making the rounds by way of troubadors in the Middle Ages. Although there is insufficient evidence to prove there was a real King Arthur, many historians agree there probably was such a king. Until it was abandoned around 410 A.D., Britain was the farthest outpost of the Roman Empire. When the Romans left, they left behind native peoples- the Celts--who had been exposed to the Roman version of civilization and to Christianity. The Romans abandoned England because increasing invasions by Anglo-Saxon warriors were proving to be too costly and troublesome, and the Roman legions were needed at home. Like the Biblical King David who gathered the people of Israel under one rule and established the city of Jerusalem, the 6th Century King Arthur gathered the remnant Celtic peoples together and made a home for them in Britain and a seat of power in Christian Camelot. For as long as he was king, the invading hordes of pagan Anglo-Saxons were held back. Sadly, as all human endeavors ultimately come to an end, Arthur's kingdom was destroyed by the revolt of his illegitimate son Mordred. Arthur and Mordred gave each other fatal wounds in their final battle, and it is said that Arthur was taken to the Isle of Avalon. Glastonbury Abbey, which sits atop a hill once surrounded by marshes, is believed to be the site of Avalon. It is also believed to be the place where Joseph of Arimathea brought the holy grail, the chalice with which he caught drops of Christ's blood as he stood beneath the cross.
Since the physical evidence of a real King Arthur is scarce, some people like to say the stories of this great king are myths or legends. Whether he had a physical existence or not doesn't really seem to matter to me. What matters about King Arthur is the idea we associate with his name, an idea that has inspired the imaginations of countless people down through the ages. The Arthurian idea brings together all that is best and most noble in human endeavor and in the Christian faith. As Christians we are called to go out into the world and serve those in need; to sacrifice our own comfort to advance the greater good, no matter the cost; to ensure that justice is done and all are treated fairly; to give fealty and loyal tribute to our Lord and King, Christ Jesus. We are called to be Knights of the Lord's Round Table, where we feast on the Bread of Life.
Maybe it was Paul's words today in the Letter to the Ephesians that caused me to make this connection between the Lord and King Arthur. Paul tells us "Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness. As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God."
Paul says we must put on the armor of God, an armor made available to us through our shield of faith. With the breastplate of righteousness and the sword of the Spirit to defend us, we will be able to conquer the enemy--the spiritual forces of evil. Every single thing Paul has listed here is something intangible; in other words, he is giving us metaphors for ideas. Righteousness is an idea, but we certainly know what it looks like when we encounter it. The same is true for what Paul calls the opposite of righteousness, those spiritual forces of evil. In the inner landscapes of our souls, we know what it feels like to engage in the kind of battle that Paul is describing. Although those who are physically near us may never guess what is going on deep inside us, the crusade for righteousness can be an ongoing struggle we undertake on a daily basis. When we ask for the Lord's assistance on the battlefield, our quest for peace is more easily accomplished.
In today's gospel lesson, some of the disciples can't comprehend the ideas the Lord is speaking of. Jesus says, "Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me." Some disciples are disturbed by these words and say, "This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?" Taken literally, as the disciples hear it, these are hard words to submit to. But Jesus goes on to say, "It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life." He asks us to ingest his Spirit, to make the Spirit of God part of our inner being, part of every fiber of our bodies, so that we know without doubt that He abides within us. Paul speaks of armor and swords when he tells us to take the Spirit with us. Jesus uses a more universal idea, something that men, women, and children should all understand: the Spirit of the Lord is as much a part of us as the food we eat, and it is also as necessary as bread to our very existence. We are the houses of God, and the kitchens and the bread boxes, too.
Earlier I said that there is very little physical evidence of the existence of King Arthur, and yet many of us choose to believe there was such a man. Considered a great king, he has been called the Once and Future King since the British people held out hope that he would return someday to save them, just when they needed him the most. For similar reasons, Jesus of Nazareth can also be called the Once and Future King. There is a great deal of corroborating evidence that the man known as Jesus did in fact live and establish a movement that has spread all over the world. Arthur himself came under the sway of Christ the King, and all of Arthur's noble ideas reflect his Christian principles.
Jesus Christ expressed a few really important ideas, but since they are ideas, and therefore intangible, we humans find ways to doubt and question them. Are they really so hard to believe? Mercy and forgiveness, healing and protection come from God. When we seek God, our prayers are answered. God dwells within us as we dwell in him, in Spirit. God is love. All of us, if we try hard enough, can come up with personal examples of how these ideas of God have been manifested in our lives.
As it says in Hebrews 11:1: "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Let us hold on to faith for dear life. Life is dear, isn't it? Thanks be to God!
Lessons for this Sunday:
Psalm 84, "God's House"
1st Kings 8: 1, 6, 10-11, 22-30, 41-43
Ephesians 6: 10-20
John 6: 56-69
We humans are on a perpetual quest to feel at home inside our own skins, to be at peace with our deepest selves. Most of us have experienced times of anxiety or shame when we would like to run away from our very selves, if such a thing were possible. Sometimes we feel as if our body has betrayed us, and we feel ourselves to be trapped in a prison of flesh and bone. Then, the voice of reason in our heads may be losing the argument to the voice of fear and anxiety. From my own experience, it feels as if these moments are among the most painful ones we ever suffer. Finding peace and calming our anxious hearts is the healing we can hope for since the home we are seeking is the home where our souls connect with God. St. Augustine put it this way: "My heart does not find rest, Lord, until it rests in thee."
During the years of restless wandering in the desert, the people of Israel kept the Ark of the Covenant in a tent. After David became king, he wanted to build a "house" for the Lord's Ark, but the prophet Nathan was sent to tell David that building such a house was not his role. David was promised the continued favor of the Lord and told that his successor would be his son. That son, Solomon,would be allowed, at last, to build a temple. The Lord was reluctant to place his "house" in a permanent position, and, in his words of dedication, Solomon displays his famed wisdom as he expresses God's intention: "Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot contain you, much less this house that I have built." The temple, like our physical bodies, can hold within it only a portion of the infinite and awesome Spirit of God. Even so, any place where we encounter the Spirit is a holy place and the home of the Lord.
Solomon goes on to make a radical statement: the temple he has erected will attract people of all nations--foreigners will be drawn to it, and they will be welcomed there "so that all the peoples of the earth may know your name and fear you, as do your people Israel, and so that they may know that your name has been invoked on this house that I have built.” Wherever God dwells, in our need we humans are invited to be there also.
Psalm 84 provides an outline of some of the places where God can be found at home: a tabernacle, a swallow's nest, a desolate valley, a pool of water, a mountain top, a king's court. This little chapel has been God's home since 1885, but the beautiful valley and shepherding mountains around us have been God's home since the day of Creation. Like the Spirit itself, home is an idea, if an all-encompassing one.
Camelot. If you are like me and you've read the Arthurian stories since childhood, that name may make you smile as it conjures up images of knights, fair maidens, and a round table. I recently attended the stage version of the musical Camelot and found it delightful. In the play, as Arthur is musing about his vision for his kingdom, he tells Guinevere how, from a hawk's perspective flying high above the earth, there are no borders and boundaries. Borders are a human invention, and Arthur goes on to remark how amazing it is that human beings are willing to die for an idea.
The idea Arthur proposes for Camelot is that his knights, from their societal positions of wealth and power, should use the gifts they've been given to protect those who are weaker and poorer than they. They will fight for what is right rather than to display their might. They will be sent out on quests to do good deeds, and when they return to the court, they will tell the stories of their valor. To insure the noble equality of this brotherhood and their respect for one another, they would be seated together with the king at a large round table. Imagine that. Think for a moment about what Arthur had to say about ideals of social justice, faithful courage, and democracy that we continue to value today. Unfortunately, even in our modern world we have not reached the perfect state that Arthur, who was called the Once and Future King, envisioned.
The first Arthurian stories began making the rounds by way of troubadors in the Middle Ages. Although there is insufficient evidence to prove there was a real King Arthur, many historians agree there probably was such a king. Until it was abandoned around 410 A.D., Britain was the farthest outpost of the Roman Empire. When the Romans left, they left behind native peoples- the Celts--who had been exposed to the Roman version of civilization and to Christianity. The Romans abandoned England because increasing invasions by Anglo-Saxon warriors were proving to be too costly and troublesome, and the Roman legions were needed at home. Like the Biblical King David who gathered the people of Israel under one rule and established the city of Jerusalem, the 6th Century King Arthur gathered the remnant Celtic peoples together and made a home for them in Britain and a seat of power in Christian Camelot. For as long as he was king, the invading hordes of pagan Anglo-Saxons were held back. Sadly, as all human endeavors ultimately come to an end, Arthur's kingdom was destroyed by the revolt of his illegitimate son Mordred. Arthur and Mordred gave each other fatal wounds in their final battle, and it is said that Arthur was taken to the Isle of Avalon. Glastonbury Abbey, which sits atop a hill once surrounded by marshes, is believed to be the site of Avalon. It is also believed to be the place where Joseph of Arimathea brought the holy grail, the chalice with which he caught drops of Christ's blood as he stood beneath the cross.
Since the physical evidence of a real King Arthur is scarce, some people like to say the stories of this great king are myths or legends. Whether he had a physical existence or not doesn't really seem to matter to me. What matters about King Arthur is the idea we associate with his name, an idea that has inspired the imaginations of countless people down through the ages. The Arthurian idea brings together all that is best and most noble in human endeavor and in the Christian faith. As Christians we are called to go out into the world and serve those in need; to sacrifice our own comfort to advance the greater good, no matter the cost; to ensure that justice is done and all are treated fairly; to give fealty and loyal tribute to our Lord and King, Christ Jesus. We are called to be Knights of the Lord's Round Table, where we feast on the Bread of Life.
Maybe it was Paul's words today in the Letter to the Ephesians that caused me to make this connection between the Lord and King Arthur. Paul tells us "Be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness. As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God."
Paul says we must put on the armor of God, an armor made available to us through our shield of faith. With the breastplate of righteousness and the sword of the Spirit to defend us, we will be able to conquer the enemy--the spiritual forces of evil. Every single thing Paul has listed here is something intangible; in other words, he is giving us metaphors for ideas. Righteousness is an idea, but we certainly know what it looks like when we encounter it. The same is true for what Paul calls the opposite of righteousness, those spiritual forces of evil. In the inner landscapes of our souls, we know what it feels like to engage in the kind of battle that Paul is describing. Although those who are physically near us may never guess what is going on deep inside us, the crusade for righteousness can be an ongoing struggle we undertake on a daily basis. When we ask for the Lord's assistance on the battlefield, our quest for peace is more easily accomplished.
In today's gospel lesson, some of the disciples can't comprehend the ideas the Lord is speaking of. Jesus says, "Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me." Some disciples are disturbed by these words and say, "This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?" Taken literally, as the disciples hear it, these are hard words to submit to. But Jesus goes on to say, "It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life." He asks us to ingest his Spirit, to make the Spirit of God part of our inner being, part of every fiber of our bodies, so that we know without doubt that He abides within us. Paul speaks of armor and swords when he tells us to take the Spirit with us. Jesus uses a more universal idea, something that men, women, and children should all understand: the Spirit of the Lord is as much a part of us as the food we eat, and it is also as necessary as bread to our very existence. We are the houses of God, and the kitchens and the bread boxes, too.
Earlier I said that there is very little physical evidence of the existence of King Arthur, and yet many of us choose to believe there was such a man. Considered a great king, he has been called the Once and Future King since the British people held out hope that he would return someday to save them, just when they needed him the most. For similar reasons, Jesus of Nazareth can also be called the Once and Future King. There is a great deal of corroborating evidence that the man known as Jesus did in fact live and establish a movement that has spread all over the world. Arthur himself came under the sway of Christ the King, and all of Arthur's noble ideas reflect his Christian principles.
Jesus Christ expressed a few really important ideas, but since they are ideas, and therefore intangible, we humans find ways to doubt and question them. Are they really so hard to believe? Mercy and forgiveness, healing and protection come from God. When we seek God, our prayers are answered. God dwells within us as we dwell in him, in Spirit. God is love. All of us, if we try hard enough, can come up with personal examples of how these ideas of God have been manifested in our lives.
As it says in Hebrews 11:1: "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." Let us hold on to faith for dear life. Life is dear, isn't it? Thanks be to God!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Fathers and Sons
Sermon for Sunday, August 9, 2009 Buck Mountain Church
Lessons:
2 Samuel 18: 5-9, 15, 31-33
Psalm 130
Ephesians 4:25-5:2
John 6:35, 41-51
We say history repeats itself, and there is, sadly, too much evidence of the truth behind that warning. I think what actually happens is that we humans continue making the same mistakes, from one relationship to the next, even from generation to generation, until we are finally willing to learn the lessons life so readily provides us. The learning of those lessons may, in fact, be the substance of what makes life worth living. Unfortunately, sometimes it seems that we have to be beaten over the head by our issues before we take notice of them. Until we become aware of the need for change, change cannot happen. As Robert Frost put it, "Our very life depends on everything's/ recurring till we answer from within."
Parents, either as role models or as guides, can be the most powerful teachers we ever have. As I sat down to work on this sermon on Wednesday evening, I received a collect phone call from the young man I correspond with in prison. J. is 26 now, and he has been in prison since he was 18 for doing something pretty dumb on his 18th birthday. If he had still been 17 or had been fortunate enough to have a more merciful judge, he would have been out of prison 4 years ago. As his luck would have it, he was given 22 years in prison, while his partner in crime, who did exactly the same thing J. did, received a reasonable 3 year sentence from a different judge. J. is a bright young man, with a caring heart and an inquiring mind. He is taking college classes by correspondense and tutoring his fellow inmates. Our letters and conversations often center around matters of conscience, of religion and spirituality.
Knowing that I would be working on this sermon, I asked J. about his father and their relationship. He simply said that he misses his dad and is grateful for having the father he had. J.'s father, who left him and his mother when he was a boy, has died while J. has been in prison, and I fear there was never a peaceful closure to issues between the father and son. I have known J.'s mother for years, so I have my own perspective on this young man's tragic circumstances, and I believe J.'s reckless behavior can, at least in part, be traced to his need to get his father's attention. In his young eyes, his dad, who told stories of his own youth as a rabblerouser, must have seemed like a larger-than-life hero. The more J. tried to impress his dad, the more his dad rejected him, or so it seems to me. Now with his father dead and J. lingering in prison, that wounded relationship will never have a chance to heal.
Father and son. How many stories have been passed down through the ages about that powerful, primal relationship? There are expectations on both sides that can be impossible to meet. Our story today from 2nd Samuel of the great King David and his rebellious son Absalom is a tragic example.
We continue the story of David, many years after last Sunday’s episode of a young king’s lust for the beautiful Bathsheba. As our vicar noted in her sermon last week, David admitted his guilt and accepted responsibility for his actions. His contrition and his status as the favored one resulted in God’s allowing him to remain king. God’s mercy towards David is good news for all of us. However, even though God showed mercy to David in the face of an egregious sin, the consequences of that sin played themselves out in succeeding events. Sin has a way of creating its own punishment. The fabled apple, as we know, does not fall far from the tree.
Years have passed, and David is now an old king, with many grown children by different wives. That sounds like potential trouble, doesn’t it? His eldest son Amnon becomes obsessed with lust for his half-sister Tamar, and he schemes to get her. After he traps and rapes her, Amnon is filled with disgust for her and sends her away in disgrace. Absalom is her full brother, and, outraged on Tamar’s behalf, he vows to get revenge on Amnon. Their father David does nothing to intervene.
You might assume that Absalom would simply storm off and beat up his brother Amnon, but that is not Absalom’s way of doing things. For two years he stews in secrecy, then invites Amnon to his house for dinner, where Absalom orders his servants to kill the honored guest, who also happens to be his brother and the king’s son. After committing this crime, Absalom leaves the country for three years, but David, who misses him, is convinced to let him return to Jerusalem.
Then Absalom, who is described as being the most handsome man in all of Israel, a man much beloved by the people, plots to overthrow his aging father and grab the throne for himself, and he nearly succeeds. Our lesson today joins the story at this point, when David’s generals are heading out to pursue the rebellious prince. In the hearing of others, the old king gives these orders to Joab and Abishai and Ittai: “Deal gently for my sake with the young man Absalom.” But Absalom’s pride will prove to be his ironic downfall. His long, thick, beautiful hair is caught in tree branches as he rides his mule beneath them, and he is left hanging there by his hair. That’s where Joab and his armor-bearers find Absalom and deal with him in the traditional way for those who are considered traitors: they kill him without qualms.
Surely David, that old warrior, should not have been surprised. Yet he grieves mightily for his lost son, more than we see him grieve for the death of the child born to Bathsheba. Maybe he now fully recognizes the wages of his own sin, the way the consequences of his past have moved out around him over the years like concentric circles, like waves moving outward from the source of their disturbance.
The scene of David’s grief is for me one of the most touching scenes in the Old Testament: ‘The king was deeply moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept; and as he went, he said, "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!"’ Like the endlessly forgiving father in Jesus's parable of the prodigal son, David doesn't care that his son betrayed him; all he sees is that a promising young life has been wasted. If he could have had one more chance to speak to Absalom, he might have used words very like St. Paul's words in today's letter to the Ephesians: "Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you." Absalom's downfall began with justified anger towards his brother, but that anger consumed him and transformed into arrogance and contempt for his father and the law.
Those words of David, grieving his lost son, "Absalom, Absalom," were used by William Faulkner as the title of the novel that I believe is his masterpiece. As usual with Faulkner's work, the novel is a complicated, multi-layered story, set as a conversation between two young men, sitting in their dorm room at Harvard and trying to make sense of Southern history. Quentin Compson, who is also a main character in The Sound and the Fury, tells the story of Thomas Sutpen, a Mississippi plantation owner who made a fortune by crooked speculation during the post-Civil War years. Sutpen's ill-gotten fortune and his family are destroyed by a conflict between his two sons--half-brothers, one white and the other black. The tragedy of brother in enmity with brother and the failures of their father match the biblical archetype of the story of David and Absalom. History repeats itself in such enmity. But hatred and division are not part of God's plan for us. The children of mankind are intended by our heavenly father to live in peace with one another.
Whether it is between a father and son, or mother and daughter, or father and daughter, or mother and son, the relationship between a parent and a child is, to say the least, a complicated thing. Very few of us manage to play our role flawlessly, on either side of the relationship coin. I cringe when I think of the ways I disappointed my parents or failed my son.
But it is this very relationship of parent and child that the Lord God of the Universe chose to enter. There is much for us to learn from the way God embodies both roles. Explaining the Trinity is beyond my abilities, but at the very least, when we speak of the Father and Son, we are supposed to think of them as one being. Last winter, a friend of mine from my spiritual direction class who is the youth pastor at her church told me a child’s explanation for the Trinity. The child said to her that speaking of God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit reminded him of the way his mother was several different people in one. She was the daughter of his grandma and the sister of his aunt as well as his mother. I like that explanation as well as any I’ve ever heard. The prism through which we view God determines what we see and experience of the Divine.
So what does Jesus show us about God? God chooses to enter our world as one of us, as a weak and helpless infant born to a family of modest means, and in so doing, he shows us we are in no way separate from Him. Jesus, the incarnation of the Father, is our brother. He usually speaks of himself as "the son of man." He also says he is the bread of life, "the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die." Bread is the most basic of foods, and grain is often the one crop or commodity that keeps poor people from starving. Jesus knew that those listening to him would understand the fundamental connection between bread and life. Going without bread for many people could mean death. Jesus is saying that what God has to offer is not something imaginary or expensive or hard to find, but something very much a necessary part of everyday life.
Jesus also tells us that all we have to do to receive this bread from God is ask. "So I say to you, ask and it will be given you; search and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you... Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him!" [Luke 11: 9-13]
When our earthly relationships fail us, as they are bound to do from time to time, we need but turn towards God for what we seek. That divine spark of the eternal that resides in Jesus Christ also resides in us; we are his brothers and sisters, the children of a Father who will not fail us. The lovely collect for today offers the prayer we seekers need: "Grant to us, Lord, we pray, the spirit to think and do always those things that are right, that we, who cannot exist without you, may by you be enabled to live according to your will; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen."
Susan Hull
Lessons:
2 Samuel 18: 5-9, 15, 31-33
Psalm 130
Ephesians 4:25-5:2
John 6:35, 41-51
We say history repeats itself, and there is, sadly, too much evidence of the truth behind that warning. I think what actually happens is that we humans continue making the same mistakes, from one relationship to the next, even from generation to generation, until we are finally willing to learn the lessons life so readily provides us. The learning of those lessons may, in fact, be the substance of what makes life worth living. Unfortunately, sometimes it seems that we have to be beaten over the head by our issues before we take notice of them. Until we become aware of the need for change, change cannot happen. As Robert Frost put it, "Our very life depends on everything's/ recurring till we answer from within."
Parents, either as role models or as guides, can be the most powerful teachers we ever have. As I sat down to work on this sermon on Wednesday evening, I received a collect phone call from the young man I correspond with in prison. J. is 26 now, and he has been in prison since he was 18 for doing something pretty dumb on his 18th birthday. If he had still been 17 or had been fortunate enough to have a more merciful judge, he would have been out of prison 4 years ago. As his luck would have it, he was given 22 years in prison, while his partner in crime, who did exactly the same thing J. did, received a reasonable 3 year sentence from a different judge. J. is a bright young man, with a caring heart and an inquiring mind. He is taking college classes by correspondense and tutoring his fellow inmates. Our letters and conversations often center around matters of conscience, of religion and spirituality.
Knowing that I would be working on this sermon, I asked J. about his father and their relationship. He simply said that he misses his dad and is grateful for having the father he had. J.'s father, who left him and his mother when he was a boy, has died while J. has been in prison, and I fear there was never a peaceful closure to issues between the father and son. I have known J.'s mother for years, so I have my own perspective on this young man's tragic circumstances, and I believe J.'s reckless behavior can, at least in part, be traced to his need to get his father's attention. In his young eyes, his dad, who told stories of his own youth as a rabblerouser, must have seemed like a larger-than-life hero. The more J. tried to impress his dad, the more his dad rejected him, or so it seems to me. Now with his father dead and J. lingering in prison, that wounded relationship will never have a chance to heal.
Father and son. How many stories have been passed down through the ages about that powerful, primal relationship? There are expectations on both sides that can be impossible to meet. Our story today from 2nd Samuel of the great King David and his rebellious son Absalom is a tragic example.
We continue the story of David, many years after last Sunday’s episode of a young king’s lust for the beautiful Bathsheba. As our vicar noted in her sermon last week, David admitted his guilt and accepted responsibility for his actions. His contrition and his status as the favored one resulted in God’s allowing him to remain king. God’s mercy towards David is good news for all of us. However, even though God showed mercy to David in the face of an egregious sin, the consequences of that sin played themselves out in succeeding events. Sin has a way of creating its own punishment. The fabled apple, as we know, does not fall far from the tree.
Years have passed, and David is now an old king, with many grown children by different wives. That sounds like potential trouble, doesn’t it? His eldest son Amnon becomes obsessed with lust for his half-sister Tamar, and he schemes to get her. After he traps and rapes her, Amnon is filled with disgust for her and sends her away in disgrace. Absalom is her full brother, and, outraged on Tamar’s behalf, he vows to get revenge on Amnon. Their father David does nothing to intervene.
You might assume that Absalom would simply storm off and beat up his brother Amnon, but that is not Absalom’s way of doing things. For two years he stews in secrecy, then invites Amnon to his house for dinner, where Absalom orders his servants to kill the honored guest, who also happens to be his brother and the king’s son. After committing this crime, Absalom leaves the country for three years, but David, who misses him, is convinced to let him return to Jerusalem.
Then Absalom, who is described as being the most handsome man in all of Israel, a man much beloved by the people, plots to overthrow his aging father and grab the throne for himself, and he nearly succeeds. Our lesson today joins the story at this point, when David’s generals are heading out to pursue the rebellious prince. In the hearing of others, the old king gives these orders to Joab and Abishai and Ittai: “Deal gently for my sake with the young man Absalom.” But Absalom’s pride will prove to be his ironic downfall. His long, thick, beautiful hair is caught in tree branches as he rides his mule beneath them, and he is left hanging there by his hair. That’s where Joab and his armor-bearers find Absalom and deal with him in the traditional way for those who are considered traitors: they kill him without qualms.
Surely David, that old warrior, should not have been surprised. Yet he grieves mightily for his lost son, more than we see him grieve for the death of the child born to Bathsheba. Maybe he now fully recognizes the wages of his own sin, the way the consequences of his past have moved out around him over the years like concentric circles, like waves moving outward from the source of their disturbance.
The scene of David’s grief is for me one of the most touching scenes in the Old Testament: ‘The king was deeply moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept; and as he went, he said, "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!"’ Like the endlessly forgiving father in Jesus's parable of the prodigal son, David doesn't care that his son betrayed him; all he sees is that a promising young life has been wasted. If he could have had one more chance to speak to Absalom, he might have used words very like St. Paul's words in today's letter to the Ephesians: "Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you." Absalom's downfall began with justified anger towards his brother, but that anger consumed him and transformed into arrogance and contempt for his father and the law.
Those words of David, grieving his lost son, "Absalom, Absalom," were used by William Faulkner as the title of the novel that I believe is his masterpiece. As usual with Faulkner's work, the novel is a complicated, multi-layered story, set as a conversation between two young men, sitting in their dorm room at Harvard and trying to make sense of Southern history. Quentin Compson, who is also a main character in The Sound and the Fury, tells the story of Thomas Sutpen, a Mississippi plantation owner who made a fortune by crooked speculation during the post-Civil War years. Sutpen's ill-gotten fortune and his family are destroyed by a conflict between his two sons--half-brothers, one white and the other black. The tragedy of brother in enmity with brother and the failures of their father match the biblical archetype of the story of David and Absalom. History repeats itself in such enmity. But hatred and division are not part of God's plan for us. The children of mankind are intended by our heavenly father to live in peace with one another.
Whether it is between a father and son, or mother and daughter, or father and daughter, or mother and son, the relationship between a parent and a child is, to say the least, a complicated thing. Very few of us manage to play our role flawlessly, on either side of the relationship coin. I cringe when I think of the ways I disappointed my parents or failed my son.
But it is this very relationship of parent and child that the Lord God of the Universe chose to enter. There is much for us to learn from the way God embodies both roles. Explaining the Trinity is beyond my abilities, but at the very least, when we speak of the Father and Son, we are supposed to think of them as one being. Last winter, a friend of mine from my spiritual direction class who is the youth pastor at her church told me a child’s explanation for the Trinity. The child said to her that speaking of God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit reminded him of the way his mother was several different people in one. She was the daughter of his grandma and the sister of his aunt as well as his mother. I like that explanation as well as any I’ve ever heard. The prism through which we view God determines what we see and experience of the Divine.
So what does Jesus show us about God? God chooses to enter our world as one of us, as a weak and helpless infant born to a family of modest means, and in so doing, he shows us we are in no way separate from Him. Jesus, the incarnation of the Father, is our brother. He usually speaks of himself as "the son of man." He also says he is the bread of life, "the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die." Bread is the most basic of foods, and grain is often the one crop or commodity that keeps poor people from starving. Jesus knew that those listening to him would understand the fundamental connection between bread and life. Going without bread for many people could mean death. Jesus is saying that what God has to offer is not something imaginary or expensive or hard to find, but something very much a necessary part of everyday life.
Jesus also tells us that all we have to do to receive this bread from God is ask. "So I say to you, ask and it will be given you; search and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you... Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him!" [Luke 11: 9-13]
When our earthly relationships fail us, as they are bound to do from time to time, we need but turn towards God for what we seek. That divine spark of the eternal that resides in Jesus Christ also resides in us; we are his brothers and sisters, the children of a Father who will not fail us. The lovely collect for today offers the prayer we seekers need: "Grant to us, Lord, we pray, the spirit to think and do always those things that are right, that we, who cannot exist without you, may by you be enabled to live according to your will; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen."
Susan Hull
The Body and the Bread
Sermon for Sunday, July 26, 2009 Graves Chapel
Lessons for this day: Psalm 145; Ephesians 3:14-21; John 6:1-21
St. Paul writes of the the Lord's "power at work within us" as a force beyond our human ability to imagine or explain, a mystery to us humans, but something we feel nonetheless. This feeling that Christ is dwelling in our hearts Paul calls "the fullness of God." I think it is probably true that all Christians seek to experience that kind of "fullness," but I think it is also true that we don't always know how to achieve it. The indescribable mystery of it makes such a connection to Christ seem unattainable to too many people. I don't believe Christ ever intended for us to have such a hard time experiencing his nearness to us. In so many of the stories about him and in his words, he shows us the way.
This past Wednesday, July 22nd, was the saint's day for Mary Magdalene. Setting aside the recent sensational speculation about her in The DaVinci Code and other such books, we do know that Mary Magdelene was a very important figure in Christ's life. With the exception of Mary his mother, Mary Magdalene is the only woman mentioned in all four gospels. She follows him to the foot of the cross, staying with him until he dies, something most of his male disciples failed to do. On the third day, she rises early to go to his tomb and tend to his lifeless body, and in doing so, she becomes the first one to see the risen Lord. She has been called "the apostle to the apostles" since she hastens to obey Christ's instructions to her, that she should go and tell the others what she has seen. Through her tears and fear, Mary Magdalene cannot at first recognize the Lord, but she knows who he is when she hears him say her name: "Mary." In the gentle tenderness and sweet intimacy of that recognition, we can see and feel the tender nature of the love the Lord has for all of us. Mary Magdalene models what it means to have a relationship with Christ. Knowing that we are known by the Lord, that we are graced and embraced by God's love, and trusting in that love is all we need. That is the fullness of God.
Paul says that in this fullness, we are "rooted and grounded in love" as Christ dwells in our hearts by faith. To be grounded is to be "well-balanced and sensible" according to my Oxford American dictionary. Being grounded suggests having one's feet firmly planted. There is nothing silly or fanciful about grounding; being grounded is just plain common sense. Today's gospel lesson from John illustrates a way in which the Lord offers His very practical kind of grounding. In the story of the feeding of the 5000, Jesus instructs the people to sit on the ground in small groups so that they may be fed.
Hearing this story, we may get caught up in the miracle of it--how Jesus is able to take the five barley loaves and two fish and transform them into such an abundance of food that all 5000 people are plentifully fed and twelve baskets of food are left over. That is indeed a miracle, but it is first and foremost a response to a pressing human need. Let's look at what doesn't happen. Seeing that huge crowd of people, Jesus does not say, "Whoa, that's a lot of people out there, and they seem to really dig me. I wonder what I can get from them? Maybe I should call my agent and the marketing staff and see what we can sell them. I wonder if anyone would be interested in buying bottles of water from the Sea of Galilee? " No, Jesus does not allow the adoration of the multitude to stroke his ego or ignite his greed. Instead of looking at the crowd and wondering what they can do for him, he sees their need and seeks to help them and provide for them.
Nor does he shirk his responsibility. He doesn't sneak out the back way to avoid dealing with the situation. When Philip says, "Six months wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little," Jesus doesn't throw up his hands and shriek. After he hears from Andrew about the boy's fish and bread, Jesus simply says, "Make the people sit down." So, all of these many people are asked to be seated in small groups, where they can join together in the shared intimate experience of being fed by the Lord. Jesus reveals his power here, but not in the ways we might expect worldly power to be revealed. His power is found in the fullness of the love he shows his flock by feeding them abundantly.
Nowadays, when we Christians come to the altar to receive communion, we are reenacting Jesus's feeding of the 5000. What does that mean? Like the multitudes who craved the teaching of the Lord, we seek Him out on Sunday mornings. Whatever our backgrounds and differences may be, we join together as we move forward to kneel and receive the bread and the wine. And he fills us. As shocking as Christ's word are about our eating his flesh and drinking his blood, what we receive there is assurance of his love for us. Our ingesting of the bread and wine is a symbolic ingesting of the Lord himself. We physically and spiritually take him into our bodies and allow the Lord to live in us. In this way, he comes to dwell in our hearts. He lives in us, as we live in him. Literally!
Now, as a former high school English teacher, I think I'd better explain what I mean when I say "literally." I have certainly had occasion to point out to students who say such things as "It is literally raining cats and dogs" that poodles and long-haired persian cats are not, in fact, falling from the sky. The expression, "raining cats and dogs" is a figure of speech, of course, and things said figuratively are the opposite of things expressed literally. When I use the term literally, I mean to emphasize that what I have said is factually true. For something as highly symbolic, moving, and meaningful as the service of holy eucharist, I do not take my use of "literally" lightly at all. Ever since that first breaking of bread with the disciples, on that last night in the upper room, when Jesus gave to us the words we still use in our communion services,
we Christians have believed the Lord's promise that he becomes one with us in the eating of the bread and the drinking of the wine. The intention of the symbolism is to present the literal truth that Christ, in spirit and in power, enters our bodies and abides within us always. As the priest says:
"On the night he was handed over to suffering and death, our Lord Jesus Christ took bread; and when he had given thanks to you, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me.”
"After supper he took the cup of wine; and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, and said, “Drink this, all of you: This is my Blood of the new Covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.”
The service of communion is a reminder to us that, since the spirit of the living Christ abides in each of us, then we are truly all one with each other as well as with the Lord. Is there any better way to illustrate that truth than by having us share a meal together as members of the same family? As thousands are fed in communion services here in our country and around the world on Sunday mornings, so the five thousand assembled in groups on a hillside above the Sea of Galilee were fed so many years ago by the Lord himself.
I think Jesus's instructions for the sharing of holy communion go beyond the symbolism of the service itself, however. He repeatedly said to the disciples, "Feed my sheep." Throughout the gospels, he instructs his followers to provide food and care for the poor and hungry. In the epistle of James, attributed to James of Jerusalem, believed to have been the brother of Jesus himself, James gets right to the point. "What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, 'Go in peace, keep warm, and eat your fill,' and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith, by itself, if it has no works, is dead." In our society, where greed and consumerism are celebrated and honored, sometimes we are afraid to share what we have with others. Giving up some of our plenty for the aid of others goes against the grain. The story of the feeding of the 5000 should allay our fears; as Christ both shows and assures us, the more we give, the more we will be given. The fullness of the Lord is abundance and abundant love.
Susan Hull
Lessons for this day: Psalm 145; Ephesians 3:14-21; John 6:1-21
St. Paul writes of the the Lord's "power at work within us" as a force beyond our human ability to imagine or explain, a mystery to us humans, but something we feel nonetheless. This feeling that Christ is dwelling in our hearts Paul calls "the fullness of God." I think it is probably true that all Christians seek to experience that kind of "fullness," but I think it is also true that we don't always know how to achieve it. The indescribable mystery of it makes such a connection to Christ seem unattainable to too many people. I don't believe Christ ever intended for us to have such a hard time experiencing his nearness to us. In so many of the stories about him and in his words, he shows us the way.
This past Wednesday, July 22nd, was the saint's day for Mary Magdalene. Setting aside the recent sensational speculation about her in The DaVinci Code and other such books, we do know that Mary Magdelene was a very important figure in Christ's life. With the exception of Mary his mother, Mary Magdalene is the only woman mentioned in all four gospels. She follows him to the foot of the cross, staying with him until he dies, something most of his male disciples failed to do. On the third day, she rises early to go to his tomb and tend to his lifeless body, and in doing so, she becomes the first one to see the risen Lord. She has been called "the apostle to the apostles" since she hastens to obey Christ's instructions to her, that she should go and tell the others what she has seen. Through her tears and fear, Mary Magdalene cannot at first recognize the Lord, but she knows who he is when she hears him say her name: "Mary." In the gentle tenderness and sweet intimacy of that recognition, we can see and feel the tender nature of the love the Lord has for all of us. Mary Magdalene models what it means to have a relationship with Christ. Knowing that we are known by the Lord, that we are graced and embraced by God's love, and trusting in that love is all we need. That is the fullness of God.
Paul says that in this fullness, we are "rooted and grounded in love" as Christ dwells in our hearts by faith. To be grounded is to be "well-balanced and sensible" according to my Oxford American dictionary. Being grounded suggests having one's feet firmly planted. There is nothing silly or fanciful about grounding; being grounded is just plain common sense. Today's gospel lesson from John illustrates a way in which the Lord offers His very practical kind of grounding. In the story of the feeding of the 5000, Jesus instructs the people to sit on the ground in small groups so that they may be fed.
Hearing this story, we may get caught up in the miracle of it--how Jesus is able to take the five barley loaves and two fish and transform them into such an abundance of food that all 5000 people are plentifully fed and twelve baskets of food are left over. That is indeed a miracle, but it is first and foremost a response to a pressing human need. Let's look at what doesn't happen. Seeing that huge crowd of people, Jesus does not say, "Whoa, that's a lot of people out there, and they seem to really dig me. I wonder what I can get from them? Maybe I should call my agent and the marketing staff and see what we can sell them. I wonder if anyone would be interested in buying bottles of water from the Sea of Galilee? " No, Jesus does not allow the adoration of the multitude to stroke his ego or ignite his greed. Instead of looking at the crowd and wondering what they can do for him, he sees their need and seeks to help them and provide for them.
Nor does he shirk his responsibility. He doesn't sneak out the back way to avoid dealing with the situation. When Philip says, "Six months wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little," Jesus doesn't throw up his hands and shriek. After he hears from Andrew about the boy's fish and bread, Jesus simply says, "Make the people sit down." So, all of these many people are asked to be seated in small groups, where they can join together in the shared intimate experience of being fed by the Lord. Jesus reveals his power here, but not in the ways we might expect worldly power to be revealed. His power is found in the fullness of the love he shows his flock by feeding them abundantly.
Nowadays, when we Christians come to the altar to receive communion, we are reenacting Jesus's feeding of the 5000. What does that mean? Like the multitudes who craved the teaching of the Lord, we seek Him out on Sunday mornings. Whatever our backgrounds and differences may be, we join together as we move forward to kneel and receive the bread and the wine. And he fills us. As shocking as Christ's word are about our eating his flesh and drinking his blood, what we receive there is assurance of his love for us. Our ingesting of the bread and wine is a symbolic ingesting of the Lord himself. We physically and spiritually take him into our bodies and allow the Lord to live in us. In this way, he comes to dwell in our hearts. He lives in us, as we live in him. Literally!
Now, as a former high school English teacher, I think I'd better explain what I mean when I say "literally." I have certainly had occasion to point out to students who say such things as "It is literally raining cats and dogs" that poodles and long-haired persian cats are not, in fact, falling from the sky. The expression, "raining cats and dogs" is a figure of speech, of course, and things said figuratively are the opposite of things expressed literally. When I use the term literally, I mean to emphasize that what I have said is factually true. For something as highly symbolic, moving, and meaningful as the service of holy eucharist, I do not take my use of "literally" lightly at all. Ever since that first breaking of bread with the disciples, on that last night in the upper room, when Jesus gave to us the words we still use in our communion services,
we Christians have believed the Lord's promise that he becomes one with us in the eating of the bread and the drinking of the wine. The intention of the symbolism is to present the literal truth that Christ, in spirit and in power, enters our bodies and abides within us always. As the priest says:
"On the night he was handed over to suffering and death, our Lord Jesus Christ took bread; and when he had given thanks to you, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this for the remembrance of me.”
"After supper he took the cup of wine; and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, and said, “Drink this, all of you: This is my Blood of the new Covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.”
The service of communion is a reminder to us that, since the spirit of the living Christ abides in each of us, then we are truly all one with each other as well as with the Lord. Is there any better way to illustrate that truth than by having us share a meal together as members of the same family? As thousands are fed in communion services here in our country and around the world on Sunday mornings, so the five thousand assembled in groups on a hillside above the Sea of Galilee were fed so many years ago by the Lord himself.
I think Jesus's instructions for the sharing of holy communion go beyond the symbolism of the service itself, however. He repeatedly said to the disciples, "Feed my sheep." Throughout the gospels, he instructs his followers to provide food and care for the poor and hungry. In the epistle of James, attributed to James of Jerusalem, believed to have been the brother of Jesus himself, James gets right to the point. "What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, 'Go in peace, keep warm, and eat your fill,' and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith, by itself, if it has no works, is dead." In our society, where greed and consumerism are celebrated and honored, sometimes we are afraid to share what we have with others. Giving up some of our plenty for the aid of others goes against the grain. The story of the feeding of the 5000 should allay our fears; as Christ both shows and assures us, the more we give, the more we will be given. The fullness of the Lord is abundance and abundant love.
Susan Hull
No Need to Fear
Sermon for Sunday, June 28, 2009
Psalm 30 Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-15; 2: 23-24 Mark 5: 21-43
The little girl being brought back to life by Jesus is a favorite resurrection story for many Christians, for good reason. The death of any child is a great tragedy. The child's father Jairus was a leader of the synagogue, the kind of official who might ordinarily scorn Jesus and call him a false prophet, but when it came to saving his own child's life, Jairus was willing to take a chance with the carpenter's son from Galilee. As they neared his home, Jesus assured him, "Do not fear; only believe." The desperate faith of Jairus was rewarded most spectacularly when his little daughter rose from her deathbed and began to walk about. We would like to assume that this miracle transformed Jairus into a confirmed believer. His terrifying experience with death had a happy ending.
Today's lesson from the Wisdom of Solomon has a few definitive things to say about death, the most important of which is "God did not make death, and he does not delight in the death of the living." The world we inhabit is full of death and full of people who say that others deserve death, in their eyes. This verse suggests that God thinks no such thing, "For he created all things so that they might exist." Wisdom tells us, "the generative forces of the world are wholesome," for "righteousness is immortal." God's intention for us, as for all living creatures, is to live in joy and abundance, "in the image of his own eternity." How did things go so wrong for humankind? This particular biblical chapter provides a curious answer: "Through the devil’s envy death entered the world, and those who belong to his company experience it."
I know the phrase "the devil's envy" sounds like the serpent in the garden and that old explanation for how Death entered the world. But the part that I find especially interesting is the suggestion that death is an experience. I decided it might be useful to look at the long section of Wisdom left out of today's lesson, the verses from 1:15 to 2:23, to see how or why the unrighteous experience death in a way the righteous do not. What I found out, not too surprisingly, is that the experience is a matter of attitude.
In that long section of verses, the faulty reasoning of unrighteous people is exposed. Such people tend to see their lives as too short and unhappy; they envy others who seem more blessed than they. They grasp onto everything with both hands, trampling anyone who gets in their way. They don't care if they harm others; they only care about themselves and their stuff. How is this an experience of death? Every day of self-centered living, of hording blessings, is governed by fear. That kind of joy-destroying fear robs a person of all that makes life worth living. When we are self-preoccupied, when our needs and selfhood have primary importance for us, then the loss of self, what we understand as death, will be the ultimate fear. In that fear, we experience death.
Can you think of people who seem to value the lives of others more than they value their own? No, better yet, think of how you feel that kind of love for someone very dear to you: a child, a spouse, a close friend. As you consider with gratitude all of the ways this person enriches your life, you know that you would do anything for this beloved one. That is the kind of sacrifice that the Lord has made for us, and it is the kind of love that makes death meaningless. When we live our lives fully in generous community with one another, we will never experience death in the way a self-centered person will. We will not succumb to fear because we know the self is not important and cannot be lost even in physical death.
I want to make sure what I am saying is clear. Of course I will die someday. But if I truly believe in the eternal life Christ offers me, there is no reason for me to fear death. Remember what Jesus said to Jairus: "Do not fear; only believe." On the occasions when he raises others from the dead and in his own death and resurrection, Jesus shows us the way to enter a life after death with a promise of hope.
I may feel this way because I was at the bedside of my mother and both of her sisters when they died. For all three of them, it was such a peaceful passing and such a blessing. At the time, I had no doubt they would be with the Lord. All three of them were women of strong faith and kind and loving hearts. Not one of them had a mean or selfish bone in her body; they were the most generous people I've ever known. Putting God and others first, then, must be the way to embrace a full experience of life, an experience that cancels out both fear and death.
Maybe we are supposed to understand that death, as a transition to another state of being, is simply one part of life. This is especially obvious in the natural world. Since our passage from Wisdom says God "created all things that they might exist," we may well wonder why some animals are born predators and some are born to be preyed upon. We humans may fear our own deaths, but we can be very careless about the lives of the creatures who share our planet.
I want to tell you a story about my box turtle friend. Every summer since I've lived in my current house, and that's now ten years, a small box turtle makes an appearance in my yard. She has very distinctive yellow marks on her shell, and the back of it is missing a piece, as if someone tore off the hem of a skirt.
Early last summer, I had out my riding mower, and as I mowed the too-tall grass, I hit something hard, what I thought was a stick. Later, in that part of the yard, my dog found the remains of a box turtle. I was devastated at the idea that I had killed my old friend. As I felt almost paralyzed by the thought of harming a small creature, I reflected about what kind of lesson I could learn.
That's when I had to admit to myself that I didn't like the image of myself as a killer, even when the killing was accidental. I wanted to be able to think of myself as being a better person than that. I also wanted to be able to believe I had some control over such things, but I had to admit that any control I have over the world around me is an illusion. Life and death are pretty much out of my hands. That was a sobering thought.
A few days later, I got up early on the morning of a day that promised to be very hot so that I could water my garden. As I lifted my watering can above a marigold, I saw underneath the bright yellow flowers my old friend the box turtle, alive and well. I realized I had killed another poor turtle that had found its way into my yard, and although I still regretted it, I was immensely relieved and grateful to see my old friend unharmed. To my earlier understanding that I have no control over life and death, I was able to add the great consolation: God does! My turtle became a witness of resurrection for me.
Now, a new mowing season has begun. Two weeks ago, before I got out my mower, I scouted around my rose and lilac bushes to make sure no small creature was in harm's way. The grass was very tall after all the rain we've had, and I started my usual route around the lower edge of my lawn, where the woods meet the grass. Near a brush pile, my mower blade engaged with something low and hard, and having run over a box turtle last summer, I had the sickening feeling that I had just killed another one. The next time around the yard, I stopped and found the shattered pieces of a turtle. I was very afraid that I really had killed my old friend this time. I felt, once again, like a murderer, and I had to revisit last year's event, wondering what the message was for me this time around. I started to feel like Typhoid Mary, as if I have a special gift for inadvertently causing harm to others.
Over the next few days, I worked my way toward thinking that God wants me to fully grasp the idea that death is not the final word. In the wildness of nature, life and death go hand in hand. The prophet Isaiah must have pondered this very thought when he wrote his peaceable kingdom parable, setting things to rights between lions and lambs. We caring humans don't wish to see or participate in any suffering or destruction, and we would like to see some reason for it, but the final conclusion is that death is simply one part of life. It is a passage from one chapter of life to another.
On Thursday night, exactly a week, almost to the hour, when I killed the turtle, my resurrection turtle appeared again in my flower bed. I dubbed her Mary Magdalene last summer when she opened my eyes to redemptive grace, and there she was again.
As Psalm 30 so beautifully says, "Weeping may spend the night, but joy comes in the morning." Gratitude is the only appropriate response to a resurrection, and in the many twists and turns of life, in illness and in healing (as with the woman who touched the hem of Christ's cloak and was given a new life), we are offered such resurrection experiences over and over again. We may all feel secure in taking a chance with the carpenter's son from Galilee.
Life abides indeed!
Susan Hull
Psalm 30 Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-15; 2: 23-24 Mark 5: 21-43
The little girl being brought back to life by Jesus is a favorite resurrection story for many Christians, for good reason. The death of any child is a great tragedy. The child's father Jairus was a leader of the synagogue, the kind of official who might ordinarily scorn Jesus and call him a false prophet, but when it came to saving his own child's life, Jairus was willing to take a chance with the carpenter's son from Galilee. As they neared his home, Jesus assured him, "Do not fear; only believe." The desperate faith of Jairus was rewarded most spectacularly when his little daughter rose from her deathbed and began to walk about. We would like to assume that this miracle transformed Jairus into a confirmed believer. His terrifying experience with death had a happy ending.
Today's lesson from the Wisdom of Solomon has a few definitive things to say about death, the most important of which is "God did not make death, and he does not delight in the death of the living." The world we inhabit is full of death and full of people who say that others deserve death, in their eyes. This verse suggests that God thinks no such thing, "For he created all things so that they might exist." Wisdom tells us, "the generative forces of the world are wholesome," for "righteousness is immortal." God's intention for us, as for all living creatures, is to live in joy and abundance, "in the image of his own eternity." How did things go so wrong for humankind? This particular biblical chapter provides a curious answer: "Through the devil’s envy death entered the world, and those who belong to his company experience it."
I know the phrase "the devil's envy" sounds like the serpent in the garden and that old explanation for how Death entered the world. But the part that I find especially interesting is the suggestion that death is an experience. I decided it might be useful to look at the long section of Wisdom left out of today's lesson, the verses from 1:15 to 2:23, to see how or why the unrighteous experience death in a way the righteous do not. What I found out, not too surprisingly, is that the experience is a matter of attitude.
In that long section of verses, the faulty reasoning of unrighteous people is exposed. Such people tend to see their lives as too short and unhappy; they envy others who seem more blessed than they. They grasp onto everything with both hands, trampling anyone who gets in their way. They don't care if they harm others; they only care about themselves and their stuff. How is this an experience of death? Every day of self-centered living, of hording blessings, is governed by fear. That kind of joy-destroying fear robs a person of all that makes life worth living. When we are self-preoccupied, when our needs and selfhood have primary importance for us, then the loss of self, what we understand as death, will be the ultimate fear. In that fear, we experience death.
Can you think of people who seem to value the lives of others more than they value their own? No, better yet, think of how you feel that kind of love for someone very dear to you: a child, a spouse, a close friend. As you consider with gratitude all of the ways this person enriches your life, you know that you would do anything for this beloved one. That is the kind of sacrifice that the Lord has made for us, and it is the kind of love that makes death meaningless. When we live our lives fully in generous community with one another, we will never experience death in the way a self-centered person will. We will not succumb to fear because we know the self is not important and cannot be lost even in physical death.
I want to make sure what I am saying is clear. Of course I will die someday. But if I truly believe in the eternal life Christ offers me, there is no reason for me to fear death. Remember what Jesus said to Jairus: "Do not fear; only believe." On the occasions when he raises others from the dead and in his own death and resurrection, Jesus shows us the way to enter a life after death with a promise of hope.
I may feel this way because I was at the bedside of my mother and both of her sisters when they died. For all three of them, it was such a peaceful passing and such a blessing. At the time, I had no doubt they would be with the Lord. All three of them were women of strong faith and kind and loving hearts. Not one of them had a mean or selfish bone in her body; they were the most generous people I've ever known. Putting God and others first, then, must be the way to embrace a full experience of life, an experience that cancels out both fear and death.
Maybe we are supposed to understand that death, as a transition to another state of being, is simply one part of life. This is especially obvious in the natural world. Since our passage from Wisdom says God "created all things that they might exist," we may well wonder why some animals are born predators and some are born to be preyed upon. We humans may fear our own deaths, but we can be very careless about the lives of the creatures who share our planet.
I want to tell you a story about my box turtle friend. Every summer since I've lived in my current house, and that's now ten years, a small box turtle makes an appearance in my yard. She has very distinctive yellow marks on her shell, and the back of it is missing a piece, as if someone tore off the hem of a skirt.
Early last summer, I had out my riding mower, and as I mowed the too-tall grass, I hit something hard, what I thought was a stick. Later, in that part of the yard, my dog found the remains of a box turtle. I was devastated at the idea that I had killed my old friend. As I felt almost paralyzed by the thought of harming a small creature, I reflected about what kind of lesson I could learn.
That's when I had to admit to myself that I didn't like the image of myself as a killer, even when the killing was accidental. I wanted to be able to think of myself as being a better person than that. I also wanted to be able to believe I had some control over such things, but I had to admit that any control I have over the world around me is an illusion. Life and death are pretty much out of my hands. That was a sobering thought.
A few days later, I got up early on the morning of a day that promised to be very hot so that I could water my garden. As I lifted my watering can above a marigold, I saw underneath the bright yellow flowers my old friend the box turtle, alive and well. I realized I had killed another poor turtle that had found its way into my yard, and although I still regretted it, I was immensely relieved and grateful to see my old friend unharmed. To my earlier understanding that I have no control over life and death, I was able to add the great consolation: God does! My turtle became a witness of resurrection for me.
Now, a new mowing season has begun. Two weeks ago, before I got out my mower, I scouted around my rose and lilac bushes to make sure no small creature was in harm's way. The grass was very tall after all the rain we've had, and I started my usual route around the lower edge of my lawn, where the woods meet the grass. Near a brush pile, my mower blade engaged with something low and hard, and having run over a box turtle last summer, I had the sickening feeling that I had just killed another one. The next time around the yard, I stopped and found the shattered pieces of a turtle. I was very afraid that I really had killed my old friend this time. I felt, once again, like a murderer, and I had to revisit last year's event, wondering what the message was for me this time around. I started to feel like Typhoid Mary, as if I have a special gift for inadvertently causing harm to others.
Over the next few days, I worked my way toward thinking that God wants me to fully grasp the idea that death is not the final word. In the wildness of nature, life and death go hand in hand. The prophet Isaiah must have pondered this very thought when he wrote his peaceable kingdom parable, setting things to rights between lions and lambs. We caring humans don't wish to see or participate in any suffering or destruction, and we would like to see some reason for it, but the final conclusion is that death is simply one part of life. It is a passage from one chapter of life to another.
On Thursday night, exactly a week, almost to the hour, when I killed the turtle, my resurrection turtle appeared again in my flower bed. I dubbed her Mary Magdalene last summer when she opened my eyes to redemptive grace, and there she was again.
As Psalm 30 so beautifully says, "Weeping may spend the night, but joy comes in the morning." Gratitude is the only appropriate response to a resurrection, and in the many twists and turns of life, in illness and in healing (as with the woman who touched the hem of Christ's cloak and was given a new life), we are offered such resurrection experiences over and over again. We may all feel secure in taking a chance with the carpenter's son from Galilee.
Life abides indeed!
Susan Hull
"The Word Is Very Near You"
Sermon for Sunday, May 24, 2009 Easter 7
Acts 1:15-17, 21-26; Psalm 1; John 17: 6-19
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." So begins the Gospel of John, reflecting the first chapter of Genesis, where God manifests his power by bringing all of creation into existence simply by speaking the Words. Where God lives, what God looks like--these things are ultimately a profound mystery, and that mystery reminds us of our human limitations. There are very few things we can presume to know about God, but one thing we do know is that God comes to us in the spoken and the written word and in the living word of Jesus, the Word made flesh.
In that beautiful story of Creation, God is said to have made humans in his own image. We like to say that our ability to speak, our way with words, is what separates us from animals. Is it not then also true that our use of language makes us more like God? Unfortunately, humans are just as likely to misuse our gift with language as to use it in the Lord's service. The very Words of Scripture have been argued over and invoked to justify a host of sins, including the institution of slavery. Sometimes the misuse of Scripture has been a result of over-zealous righteousness or simple misinterpretation. The Words of God have great power and are to be used with a caution guided by prayer. The ability to use words may make us more like God, but it doesn't give us the mind of God, to know all of what God intends. Using scripture like a crow bar or a Ouiji board would most likely not reflect the will of God. A little more discernment is called for.
One of the most influential sayings of Jesus certainly must be "Many are called, but few are chosen. " [Matthew 22:14] The adherents of predestination, such as John Calvin, used the idea they believed to be put forward in this verse to suggest that only a very select few would be allowed by God to enter the kingdom of heaven. These elected ones were predetermined by God before they were born, and no one else, no matter how well they lived their lives, would qualify for salvation, according to the Calvinists.
Just try to imagine the behavior of those who believed themselves to be among the elect. Imagine how they may have treated those they considered God's rejects. If you can carry those thoughts to a conclusion, what you end up with is something like the Salem witch trials.
Last Sunday I was at my spiritual direction class at Richmond Hill, and the Episcopal priest in charge there, who is also a biblical scholar and a faculty member of the RUAH School, preached on this very line from scripture. The Rev. Ben Campbell told us that this verse has been mistranslated and misinterpreted down through the ages. He said that a better translation of the verse would be "Many are called, but few choose to go." Whether we find the salvation we seek and the heavenly rest we may think we deserve depends on our willingness to go where we are called. The invitation is ours; do we accept it or not? When there is work and sacrifice involved in accepting the invitation, we may prefer to stay home. But that choice is ours; God does not exclude us.
The story for today from the Acts of the Apostles offers an example of someone being chosen to the exclusion of someone else. Peter leads the apostles as they make a decision regarding which of the remaining followers of Jesus will be chosen to replace Judas among the Twelve. Lots are drawn between two worthy candidates, "and the lot fell on Matthias, and he was added to the eleven apostles." Have you ever wondered what happened to Joseph called Barsabbas? We have all had experiences of being left out, of being the ones not elected for some position, of being the last ones picked for a side of softball, or simply being rejected outright for something we have set our hearts upon. Not being chosen feels a lot like not being loved, and we may feel unworthy of even God's love. I have thought maybe Barsabbas felt humiliated and rejected as the one NOT chosen to join the apostles. He may, however, have felt relieved with the way the lot fell and preferred to go on with whatever ministry he was already performing. I think it is my post-predestination sensivity that has me worried about the feelings of Barsabbas.
Still, for whatever tasks we undertake, we are called to choose our Words very carefully when we, as Christians, represent the Lord in the world. Loving, or even liking, those who seem very different from us may be difficult, but we are asked to show love in our words and our deeds even when we don't yet feel it. If God intended to offer salvation to all, and not just to a select few, then we are asked to wear a face of welcome and invitation to everyone we encounter. In today's lesson from John, we hear that Christ knew there were no exceptions to God's love, no ones to be left behind. He says in his prayer to God, "All mine are yours and yours are mine." Christ is praying over the apostles as He takes his final leave from them. He is sending them out into the world to spread the Word, and he wants to be sure they are ready. He asks God to protect them. Listen to what he says: "I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your Word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them...Holy Father, protect them in your name... Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they may also be sanctified in truth." Here Jesus says that he has given his disciples the Words of God, and that these words are truth and power. He says that in hearing and obeying the words, the disciples have proven their faithfulness. As he takes leave from them, Jesus entrusts the disciples with using the Word wisely, in truth and love.
Thursday, May 21st was Ascension Day, commemorating Christ's removal from this world. Even as he left the disciples behind and prayed for their mission, he promised to leave the Advocate with them--the Spirit. An Advocate is someone who takes your side and pleads on your behalf. An Advocate is a guide and a companion. By specifically saying he would remain with the disciples in spirit and truth, he asked them to pay attention to their inward inclinations. Examining our hearts and listening attentively for the word of God is the basic task for all of us who call ourselves Christian. In the gospel events when we see Jesus interacting with people, teaching or healing them, in every case he asks them to examine their inward leanings. [the rich young man, the woman at the well, the blind and the lame, etc.] From such inner searching comes humility, a true perspective on the nature of our relationship with God, and the Way to a life worth living.
Once, when I was a teenager and in a situation that wasn't clear to me at the time but turned out to be a matter of life or death, I had the experience of God speaking to me. I heard those words in my heart, in a strong and commanding voice that overrode the usual confused chatter in the teenage brain. Later, when I fully understood what had happened, I knew I had heard the voice of God, and my faith was sealed. I have never heard that voice so clearly since then, but I believe I hear from God in quieter ways, in my thoughts and dreams, whenever I pay attention. Whether I pay attention or not is my choice.
When Moses was laying down the law for the people, as recorded in the book of Deuteronomy, he said, "The Word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can do it." He told them they didn't have to wait for God to come down from heaven and show them the way. He didn't want any more excuses from them for bad behavior. Like Jesus so many years later, Moses wanted the people to know that the Spirit of God was always within them, ready to guide and console them.
In this way, the Spirit is within us as well. We can listen for that "still small voice" whenever we choose.
Susan Hull
Acts 1:15-17, 21-26; Psalm 1; John 17: 6-19
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." So begins the Gospel of John, reflecting the first chapter of Genesis, where God manifests his power by bringing all of creation into existence simply by speaking the Words. Where God lives, what God looks like--these things are ultimately a profound mystery, and that mystery reminds us of our human limitations. There are very few things we can presume to know about God, but one thing we do know is that God comes to us in the spoken and the written word and in the living word of Jesus, the Word made flesh.
In that beautiful story of Creation, God is said to have made humans in his own image. We like to say that our ability to speak, our way with words, is what separates us from animals. Is it not then also true that our use of language makes us more like God? Unfortunately, humans are just as likely to misuse our gift with language as to use it in the Lord's service. The very Words of Scripture have been argued over and invoked to justify a host of sins, including the institution of slavery. Sometimes the misuse of Scripture has been a result of over-zealous righteousness or simple misinterpretation. The Words of God have great power and are to be used with a caution guided by prayer. The ability to use words may make us more like God, but it doesn't give us the mind of God, to know all of what God intends. Using scripture like a crow bar or a Ouiji board would most likely not reflect the will of God. A little more discernment is called for.
One of the most influential sayings of Jesus certainly must be "Many are called, but few are chosen. " [Matthew 22:14] The adherents of predestination, such as John Calvin, used the idea they believed to be put forward in this verse to suggest that only a very select few would be allowed by God to enter the kingdom of heaven. These elected ones were predetermined by God before they were born, and no one else, no matter how well they lived their lives, would qualify for salvation, according to the Calvinists.
Just try to imagine the behavior of those who believed themselves to be among the elect. Imagine how they may have treated those they considered God's rejects. If you can carry those thoughts to a conclusion, what you end up with is something like the Salem witch trials.
Last Sunday I was at my spiritual direction class at Richmond Hill, and the Episcopal priest in charge there, who is also a biblical scholar and a faculty member of the RUAH School, preached on this very line from scripture. The Rev. Ben Campbell told us that this verse has been mistranslated and misinterpreted down through the ages. He said that a better translation of the verse would be "Many are called, but few choose to go." Whether we find the salvation we seek and the heavenly rest we may think we deserve depends on our willingness to go where we are called. The invitation is ours; do we accept it or not? When there is work and sacrifice involved in accepting the invitation, we may prefer to stay home. But that choice is ours; God does not exclude us.
The story for today from the Acts of the Apostles offers an example of someone being chosen to the exclusion of someone else. Peter leads the apostles as they make a decision regarding which of the remaining followers of Jesus will be chosen to replace Judas among the Twelve. Lots are drawn between two worthy candidates, "and the lot fell on Matthias, and he was added to the eleven apostles." Have you ever wondered what happened to Joseph called Barsabbas? We have all had experiences of being left out, of being the ones not elected for some position, of being the last ones picked for a side of softball, or simply being rejected outright for something we have set our hearts upon. Not being chosen feels a lot like not being loved, and we may feel unworthy of even God's love. I have thought maybe Barsabbas felt humiliated and rejected as the one NOT chosen to join the apostles. He may, however, have felt relieved with the way the lot fell and preferred to go on with whatever ministry he was already performing. I think it is my post-predestination sensivity that has me worried about the feelings of Barsabbas.
Still, for whatever tasks we undertake, we are called to choose our Words very carefully when we, as Christians, represent the Lord in the world. Loving, or even liking, those who seem very different from us may be difficult, but we are asked to show love in our words and our deeds even when we don't yet feel it. If God intended to offer salvation to all, and not just to a select few, then we are asked to wear a face of welcome and invitation to everyone we encounter. In today's lesson from John, we hear that Christ knew there were no exceptions to God's love, no ones to be left behind. He says in his prayer to God, "All mine are yours and yours are mine." Christ is praying over the apostles as He takes his final leave from them. He is sending them out into the world to spread the Word, and he wants to be sure they are ready. He asks God to protect them. Listen to what he says: "I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your Word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them...Holy Father, protect them in your name... Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they may also be sanctified in truth." Here Jesus says that he has given his disciples the Words of God, and that these words are truth and power. He says that in hearing and obeying the words, the disciples have proven their faithfulness. As he takes leave from them, Jesus entrusts the disciples with using the Word wisely, in truth and love.
Thursday, May 21st was Ascension Day, commemorating Christ's removal from this world. Even as he left the disciples behind and prayed for their mission, he promised to leave the Advocate with them--the Spirit. An Advocate is someone who takes your side and pleads on your behalf. An Advocate is a guide and a companion. By specifically saying he would remain with the disciples in spirit and truth, he asked them to pay attention to their inward inclinations. Examining our hearts and listening attentively for the word of God is the basic task for all of us who call ourselves Christian. In the gospel events when we see Jesus interacting with people, teaching or healing them, in every case he asks them to examine their inward leanings. [the rich young man, the woman at the well, the blind and the lame, etc.] From such inner searching comes humility, a true perspective on the nature of our relationship with God, and the Way to a life worth living.
Once, when I was a teenager and in a situation that wasn't clear to me at the time but turned out to be a matter of life or death, I had the experience of God speaking to me. I heard those words in my heart, in a strong and commanding voice that overrode the usual confused chatter in the teenage brain. Later, when I fully understood what had happened, I knew I had heard the voice of God, and my faith was sealed. I have never heard that voice so clearly since then, but I believe I hear from God in quieter ways, in my thoughts and dreams, whenever I pay attention. Whether I pay attention or not is my choice.
When Moses was laying down the law for the people, as recorded in the book of Deuteronomy, he said, "The Word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can do it." He told them they didn't have to wait for God to come down from heaven and show them the way. He didn't want any more excuses from them for bad behavior. Like Jesus so many years later, Moses wanted the people to know that the Spirit of God was always within them, ready to guide and console them.
In this way, the Spirit is within us as well. We can listen for that "still small voice" whenever we choose.
Susan Hull
Everyday Miracles
Sermon for April 26, 2009
We are called Easter people, we Christians. Easter, the celebration of Christ's resurrection, is the defining event of our faith. Jesus, the carpenter from Nazareth, has died as the Crucified one, the Christ, to show us the way to newness of life. Because of His resurrection, no death is final. As dogwoods and redbuds bloom in tapestry, as the trees leaf out in tender green, it is easy to be reminded of rebirth and new beginnings. Perhaps the bright yellow goldfinches at my bird feeder provide an illustration closer to our human experience. As we often find ourselves in need of transformation after enduring a difficult stretch of time, the goldfinches shake off the drab grayish-green feathers they have worn during the weary winter months and adorn themselves with the very brightness of spring. Life is challenging, and bad things happen. Pain and suffering are an unavoidable part of the fabric of life. But we Easter people know that every loss, every ending, is followed by an open door. The stone rolled away from the tomb is the promise of that.
For the disciples of Jesus, we who gather here as well as the apostles who were with him and witnessed his death, the open door to a new beginning could be obscure. The apostles did not believe Mary Magdalene when she told them she had seen the risen Lord. On the occasions when he appeared among them, as in today's lesson from John, they did not believe their own eyes, and were, as it says, "disbelieving and still wondering." I think it is a shame that Thomas, who was absent for the first appearance of the resurrected Lord, has been disparaged as a doubter down through the ages. He simply said outright what the others must have been thinking: "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." Thanks to the skepticism of Thomas, everyone else is allowed to see the physical evidence all doubters seem to require.
In today's reading from the Book of the Acts of the Apostles, Peter is well aware of the doubting astonishment in the crowd before him, people who have just seen a lame man healed in the name of Jesus Christ. He says to them, "...you rejected the Holy and Righteous One and asked to have a murderer given to you, and you killed the Author of life, whom God raised from the dead. To this we are witnesses. And by faith in his name, his name itself has made this man strong, whom you see and know; and the faith that is through Jesus has given him this perfect health in the presence of all of you." What is Peter saying to us, here and now? We have our doubts and fears; faith is a steady unwavering stream for very few Christians. Like Thomas, we may feel the need of physical evidence that the Lord is with us.
Peter calls Jesus "the Author of Life." An author is someone who creates with great care. As co-creator with God, Jesus has fashioned with love a world marked by glorious abundance, such a bounty of blessing that much of it often goes unnoticed and unappreciated. When I can bring myself to full awareness of the wonders around me, I see how the Lord is always trying to get my attention, like a child waving his arms and saying, "Look at me."
Sometimes he sends a goldfinch darting across my line of vision, and then I am reminded that the Author of Life continues to make all things new and glorious through his redeeming love.
Peter says that he and the other apostles are "witnesses" to the resurrection. Maybe it is hard for us to make that claim. We were not in the room with Thomas and the other apostles. But I have certainly witnessed many resurrections over the years. We humans have setbacks or endure hardship, illness or job loss or divorce. We lose the ones we love dearly and suffer the great pain of grief. Somehow, we move forward through our sorrow as we might travel through a dark forest, afraid to take the next step but taking it anyway. Without our conscious awareness of His guiding presence, the Lord moves us forward. The veil of sadness begins to lift and we are consoled. Maybe then we will express our gratitude to the One who has seen us through what felt like a kind of death. More likely, we will simply walk through the open door.
Inasmuch as each day can be a new beginning, the opportunity for resurrection is always offered to us.
Here in Graves Mill, we are approaching the 14th anniversary of the great flood. If you were not around to experience the flood or its aftermath, I will try to give you an idea of what it was like. To begin--it rained 23 inches in 24 hours over this valley. Right down the little hill from here, where the Kinsey Run joins the Rapidan, the village of Graves Mill was simply washed away: the post office, a two-bay garage, an old blacksmith's shop, the voting house, and two old store buildings just disappeared. As the flood waters jumped the bend in the river and headed across the field toward the Estes place, my cousins who were there ran out the back door and up the hill to a barn. From that vantage point, they watched a tumultuous sea fill the valley. My cousin Dee told me that a flotilla of uprooted trees the size of an ocean liner swept down the waves. When it was over, the valley looked like a bombed out war zone. Some people said so much topsoil had been washed away that it would be impossible for anything to grow here again. And yet, by the following spring, the fields were green again. Down the sides of the mountains, gaping scars made by mud slides looked like wounds where a giant bear had raked its claws. Even those scars have healed over and disappeared. Now, that was a resurrection. It was also a miracle of healing.
Peter tells the astonished crowd, " the faith that is through Jesus has given [this formerly lame man] perfect health in the presence of all of you." I understand why people have a hard time putting their faith in the biblical healing miracles. We all know of someone who was in need of such a miracle, whose faithful life seemed to be deserving of such a miracle, but who died anyway. On the other hand, we also hear of people who are healed through prayer. Why does the process have to be such a mystery? I think the answer to that question may be that our idea of healing and the Lord's idea of healing are two different things. Healing can be an inner change of heart, an inner peacefulness granted by our closeness to God. It can be a fleeting moment of joy on a dreary day. It can be the mending of a broken relationship. It can be the restoration to life of a wounded and devastated landscape. Remember, in his death and resurrection, Christ made the kind of death we fear impossible. For the Lord, death itself can be a kind of healing for someone who is suffering in illness and pain. Death opens the door for the suffering into a new and grace-filled life.
Maybe the way for us to a better understanding of the Lord's miracles is to recognize the miraculous in every moment of our lives. Gratitude for the gifts of food and shelter and health that we take for granted, for the air we breathe and the loved ones we cherish can lead us to an appreciation of our very lives as miracles.Opening our eyes to natural wonders is a way to witness the Lord's generous hand at work all around us. Even though we humans crave the show-stoppers and question faith in a God who cannot produce such big miracles whenever we believe we need one, the Lord continues with miracle-making at every moment. We just need to be willing to see how God is always present in what we think of as the ordinary.
The gospel lesson today, with the resurrected Christ appearing to the astonished disciples, is the perfect demonstration of how the Lord joins us in our daily lives. When he first appears to them, saying, "Peace be with you, " they are completely dumbfounded and terrified that they are seeing a ghost. What is Christ's method of connecting with them and allaying their fears? He says, "Do you have anything to eat?" Ponder that for a moment. The Lord really does join with us in the breaking of the bread, and since breaking bread is something we do several times a day, he is indeed with us always. As he had prayed for the disciples in John 17, just before his arrest and crucifixion, he said, "As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us...so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them."
As I believe in the Presence and pray for the nearness of God, it is good to be reminded that the Lord of the Universe is trustworthy and permeable, emanating from the warm hearth of my soul rather than from some distant galaxy. Goodness and love and kindness express themselves in the human desire for sharing the most basic of life's essentials: safe shelter and warm bread. As today's beautiful psalm suggests, we can pray in thanksgiving for our blessings: "You have put gladness in my heart, more than when grain and wine and oil increase. I lie down in peace; at once I fall asleep. For only you, Lord, make me dwell in safety." When we join hands at table or embrace heart to heart, the Lord's Spirit in me sings in chorus with the Spirit in you.
The Lord is risen indeed!
Alleluia!
Susan Hull
We are called Easter people, we Christians. Easter, the celebration of Christ's resurrection, is the defining event of our faith. Jesus, the carpenter from Nazareth, has died as the Crucified one, the Christ, to show us the way to newness of life. Because of His resurrection, no death is final. As dogwoods and redbuds bloom in tapestry, as the trees leaf out in tender green, it is easy to be reminded of rebirth and new beginnings. Perhaps the bright yellow goldfinches at my bird feeder provide an illustration closer to our human experience. As we often find ourselves in need of transformation after enduring a difficult stretch of time, the goldfinches shake off the drab grayish-green feathers they have worn during the weary winter months and adorn themselves with the very brightness of spring. Life is challenging, and bad things happen. Pain and suffering are an unavoidable part of the fabric of life. But we Easter people know that every loss, every ending, is followed by an open door. The stone rolled away from the tomb is the promise of that.
For the disciples of Jesus, we who gather here as well as the apostles who were with him and witnessed his death, the open door to a new beginning could be obscure. The apostles did not believe Mary Magdalene when she told them she had seen the risen Lord. On the occasions when he appeared among them, as in today's lesson from John, they did not believe their own eyes, and were, as it says, "disbelieving and still wondering." I think it is a shame that Thomas, who was absent for the first appearance of the resurrected Lord, has been disparaged as a doubter down through the ages. He simply said outright what the others must have been thinking: "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." Thanks to the skepticism of Thomas, everyone else is allowed to see the physical evidence all doubters seem to require.
In today's reading from the Book of the Acts of the Apostles, Peter is well aware of the doubting astonishment in the crowd before him, people who have just seen a lame man healed in the name of Jesus Christ. He says to them, "...you rejected the Holy and Righteous One and asked to have a murderer given to you, and you killed the Author of life, whom God raised from the dead. To this we are witnesses. And by faith in his name, his name itself has made this man strong, whom you see and know; and the faith that is through Jesus has given him this perfect health in the presence of all of you." What is Peter saying to us, here and now? We have our doubts and fears; faith is a steady unwavering stream for very few Christians. Like Thomas, we may feel the need of physical evidence that the Lord is with us.
Peter calls Jesus "the Author of Life." An author is someone who creates with great care. As co-creator with God, Jesus has fashioned with love a world marked by glorious abundance, such a bounty of blessing that much of it often goes unnoticed and unappreciated. When I can bring myself to full awareness of the wonders around me, I see how the Lord is always trying to get my attention, like a child waving his arms and saying, "Look at me."
Sometimes he sends a goldfinch darting across my line of vision, and then I am reminded that the Author of Life continues to make all things new and glorious through his redeeming love.
Peter says that he and the other apostles are "witnesses" to the resurrection. Maybe it is hard for us to make that claim. We were not in the room with Thomas and the other apostles. But I have certainly witnessed many resurrections over the years. We humans have setbacks or endure hardship, illness or job loss or divorce. We lose the ones we love dearly and suffer the great pain of grief. Somehow, we move forward through our sorrow as we might travel through a dark forest, afraid to take the next step but taking it anyway. Without our conscious awareness of His guiding presence, the Lord moves us forward. The veil of sadness begins to lift and we are consoled. Maybe then we will express our gratitude to the One who has seen us through what felt like a kind of death. More likely, we will simply walk through the open door.
Inasmuch as each day can be a new beginning, the opportunity for resurrection is always offered to us.
Here in Graves Mill, we are approaching the 14th anniversary of the great flood. If you were not around to experience the flood or its aftermath, I will try to give you an idea of what it was like. To begin--it rained 23 inches in 24 hours over this valley. Right down the little hill from here, where the Kinsey Run joins the Rapidan, the village of Graves Mill was simply washed away: the post office, a two-bay garage, an old blacksmith's shop, the voting house, and two old store buildings just disappeared. As the flood waters jumped the bend in the river and headed across the field toward the Estes place, my cousins who were there ran out the back door and up the hill to a barn. From that vantage point, they watched a tumultuous sea fill the valley. My cousin Dee told me that a flotilla of uprooted trees the size of an ocean liner swept down the waves. When it was over, the valley looked like a bombed out war zone. Some people said so much topsoil had been washed away that it would be impossible for anything to grow here again. And yet, by the following spring, the fields were green again. Down the sides of the mountains, gaping scars made by mud slides looked like wounds where a giant bear had raked its claws. Even those scars have healed over and disappeared. Now, that was a resurrection. It was also a miracle of healing.
Peter tells the astonished crowd, " the faith that is through Jesus has given [this formerly lame man] perfect health in the presence of all of you." I understand why people have a hard time putting their faith in the biblical healing miracles. We all know of someone who was in need of such a miracle, whose faithful life seemed to be deserving of such a miracle, but who died anyway. On the other hand, we also hear of people who are healed through prayer. Why does the process have to be such a mystery? I think the answer to that question may be that our idea of healing and the Lord's idea of healing are two different things. Healing can be an inner change of heart, an inner peacefulness granted by our closeness to God. It can be a fleeting moment of joy on a dreary day. It can be the mending of a broken relationship. It can be the restoration to life of a wounded and devastated landscape. Remember, in his death and resurrection, Christ made the kind of death we fear impossible. For the Lord, death itself can be a kind of healing for someone who is suffering in illness and pain. Death opens the door for the suffering into a new and grace-filled life.
Maybe the way for us to a better understanding of the Lord's miracles is to recognize the miraculous in every moment of our lives. Gratitude for the gifts of food and shelter and health that we take for granted, for the air we breathe and the loved ones we cherish can lead us to an appreciation of our very lives as miracles.Opening our eyes to natural wonders is a way to witness the Lord's generous hand at work all around us. Even though we humans crave the show-stoppers and question faith in a God who cannot produce such big miracles whenever we believe we need one, the Lord continues with miracle-making at every moment. We just need to be willing to see how God is always present in what we think of as the ordinary.
The gospel lesson today, with the resurrected Christ appearing to the astonished disciples, is the perfect demonstration of how the Lord joins us in our daily lives. When he first appears to them, saying, "Peace be with you, " they are completely dumbfounded and terrified that they are seeing a ghost. What is Christ's method of connecting with them and allaying their fears? He says, "Do you have anything to eat?" Ponder that for a moment. The Lord really does join with us in the breaking of the bread, and since breaking bread is something we do several times a day, he is indeed with us always. As he had prayed for the disciples in John 17, just before his arrest and crucifixion, he said, "As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us...so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them."
As I believe in the Presence and pray for the nearness of God, it is good to be reminded that the Lord of the Universe is trustworthy and permeable, emanating from the warm hearth of my soul rather than from some distant galaxy. Goodness and love and kindness express themselves in the human desire for sharing the most basic of life's essentials: safe shelter and warm bread. As today's beautiful psalm suggests, we can pray in thanksgiving for our blessings: "You have put gladness in my heart, more than when grain and wine and oil increase. I lie down in peace; at once I fall asleep. For only you, Lord, make me dwell in safety." When we join hands at table or embrace heart to heart, the Lord's Spirit in me sings in chorus with the Spirit in you.
The Lord is risen indeed!
Alleluia!
Susan Hull
The Via Negativa
Sermon for March 22, 2009
Today marks the mid-point in the season of Lent, a time of quiet preparation for both the sacrifice and the jubilance of Easter. The term Lent comes from an Old English word akin to length since this is the time of the year when days begin to lengthen. We all welcome the added hours of daylight and the greening of spring.
Some of you may, like me, be trying to observe the traditional Lenten practice of self-denial and self-discipline, and finding it to be a difficult challenge. If Lent is really supposed to be a time when we delve into our hearts and try to know ourselves better, then I have been successful at that in one aspect. I know I have a very difficult time giving up things I am attached to--like chocolate. I also realize that our Lenten practice could have a more serious objective than providing a test for our sweet tooth.
During these days of reflection, I have been reading about Lent, and I now think we are called to give up--to surrender--anything we are attached to that harms us. On that kind of scale, our attitudes are also weighed in the balance. If we are in the habit of beating ourselves up emotionally for every little mistake we make, we can give up that need to be mean to ourselves. If we indulge ourselves too often in impatience, anger, self-righteousness, or self-pity, we can give up those self-destructive behaviors for Lent. Now, that would be a real challenge, wouldn't it? The truth is, we would have a very hard time giving up anger, say, or self-pity if we have never even acknowledged to ourselves that such an attitude creates difficulties for us. Knowing ourselves that well takes a lot of self-examination. Thomas Merton once said that the task of knowing ourselves requires us to "become conscious that the person we think we are, here and now, is at best an impostor and a stranger. We must constantly question his motives and penetrate his disguises."
Most human beings would prefer to examine someone else's shortcomings than turn around and point an accusing finger toward ourselves. When we refuse to take a good look at our own faults or believe we are blame-free, that is denial. Denying the truth about ourselves will get us nowhere. Remember, Jesus had something to say about finding the speck in someone else's eye while ignoring the log in our own. In addition to saying we should not find fault with others, I think he meant to imply that the log blinds us to the truth we need to discover about ourselves.
In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul offers us the consolation we need when we think about the our numerous sins and prefer to avert our eyes from them. "All of us once lived ... in the passions of our flesh, following the desires of flesh and senses, and we were by nature children of wrath, like everyone else. God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ...For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God--not the result of works, so that no one may boast." Accepting ourselves as we are, warts and all, takes a great deal of humility, and that much humility can be hard to come by. Rather than accept responsibility for who we are or what we have done, we generally find it easier to justify our own less-than-perfect choices by blaming someone else. Isn't that often the way of human nature? Lucky for us, we can turn to the Divine Nature of God when we finally get ready to let go of the sins we hold so dear.
Turning our shortcomings as well as our fears over to God is a process of surrender. Surrender is not a word or an action Americans generally wish to consider. Surrendering sounds really weak and cowardly. Only losers surrender, right? In so many ways from basketball bracketology to American Idol to the space race to waging war, we think we are supposed to fight to be number one. Losing is an appalling option for Americans. That sort of attitude only adds to the sense of tragedy so many of us feel as people around us right now are losing their jobs and their homes.
But spiritual surrender isn't about giving up or losing. It isn't about weakness or resigning ourselves to an unhappy fate. Spiritual surrender is about accepting that I lack the power to overcome my problems by myself and choosing to turn my weakness over to the One is who infinitely more powerful than I. When I consider all of the ways I have tried to force changes in myself or in others and failed every time, I understand that my will alone is not enough. When I, with humility, overcome my denial and accept the reality of my situation and my powerlessness, then I can let go and let God take care of it. In a state of denial, like an ostrich with her head in the sand, I cannot improve my life and move forward. Once I see myself honestly, and seek the Lord's healing help through surrender, I discover a new power--the power to change the things I can. I can certainly work to change my bad attitudes and self-defeating behaviors after I have finally acknowledged their existence!
In our Old Testament lesson today, the chosen people of Israel, under the leadership of Moses, were having a hard time identifying their bad attitudes. They were whining about the food. God sent poisonous serpents to get their attention, and it seems to have worked pretty quickly! (Snakes have that effect on most people.) God orders Moses to make a serpent of bronze and set it up on a pole so that the people can look at it and be healed of their snake bites. The serpent was lifted up above them to stand as a symbol of God's healing and forgiving grace.
In our gospel lesson, Jesus makes reference to that old history when he says, "Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life." Think about what He means here. He is looking ahead to the time when he will be lifted up to die a painful and humiliating death on the cross. As he moves toward Jerusalem and that bitter end, Jesus attempts to prepare his followers for what is to come. Knowing that such suffering is required of him, knowing where his path leads him, the Lord still moves forward. He is able to face his future with courage because he accepts it. He knows what is going to happen to him, but he also knows what will be on the other side of the suffering. And he surrenders to all of it. The way up--the way of the cross and salvation--is also the way down, into suffering.
The priest, teacher, and writer Henri Nouwen is one of my favorite spiritual writers, and I have been reading his book with daily lessons for Lent, Show Me the Way. Of this passage in John's gospel, Nouwen says, "Jesus presents to us the great mystery of the descending way. It is the way of suffering, but also the way to healing. It is the way of humiliation, but also the way to resurrection. It is the way of hiddenness, but also the way that leads to the light that will shine for all people. It is the way of persecution, oppression, martyrdom, and death, but also the way to the full disclosure of God's love...The 'lifting up' that Jesus speaks of refers both to his being raised up on the cross in total humiliation and to his being raised up from the dead in total glorification...You are probably wondering how, in imitation of Jesus, you are to find the descending way...Each one of us has to seek out his or her own descending way of love. That calls for much prayer, much patience, and much guidance."
There is an official Latin name for that descending way, and it dates back many years in church history. The via negativa was explored by the early church mystics, and St. John of the Cross wrote a famous treatise about it in the 16th century called The Dark Night of the Soul. This past Wednesday I gave a presentation on 20th century poet T.S. Eliot, who explored the via negativa in his long poem "East Coker." To Eliot, the descending way is a process of complete surrender to the darkness and the unknown--a way to get through the "cloud of unknowing" by immersing oneself in it. I like the words Eliot uses to express that kind of surrender:
"I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."
In these terms, surrender sounds very peaceful, doesn't it? So much of life in these troubling times seems like a struggle, but it doesn't have to be that way. Surrender is about letting go of the struggle. The descending way allows us to fall into the waiting, wide-stretched arms of the Lord. There, as the mystic Dame Julian of Norwich said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well."
Susan Hull
Today marks the mid-point in the season of Lent, a time of quiet preparation for both the sacrifice and the jubilance of Easter. The term Lent comes from an Old English word akin to length since this is the time of the year when days begin to lengthen. We all welcome the added hours of daylight and the greening of spring.
Some of you may, like me, be trying to observe the traditional Lenten practice of self-denial and self-discipline, and finding it to be a difficult challenge. If Lent is really supposed to be a time when we delve into our hearts and try to know ourselves better, then I have been successful at that in one aspect. I know I have a very difficult time giving up things I am attached to--like chocolate. I also realize that our Lenten practice could have a more serious objective than providing a test for our sweet tooth.
During these days of reflection, I have been reading about Lent, and I now think we are called to give up--to surrender--anything we are attached to that harms us. On that kind of scale, our attitudes are also weighed in the balance. If we are in the habit of beating ourselves up emotionally for every little mistake we make, we can give up that need to be mean to ourselves. If we indulge ourselves too often in impatience, anger, self-righteousness, or self-pity, we can give up those self-destructive behaviors for Lent. Now, that would be a real challenge, wouldn't it? The truth is, we would have a very hard time giving up anger, say, or self-pity if we have never even acknowledged to ourselves that such an attitude creates difficulties for us. Knowing ourselves that well takes a lot of self-examination. Thomas Merton once said that the task of knowing ourselves requires us to "become conscious that the person we think we are, here and now, is at best an impostor and a stranger. We must constantly question his motives and penetrate his disguises."
Most human beings would prefer to examine someone else's shortcomings than turn around and point an accusing finger toward ourselves. When we refuse to take a good look at our own faults or believe we are blame-free, that is denial. Denying the truth about ourselves will get us nowhere. Remember, Jesus had something to say about finding the speck in someone else's eye while ignoring the log in our own. In addition to saying we should not find fault with others, I think he meant to imply that the log blinds us to the truth we need to discover about ourselves.
In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul offers us the consolation we need when we think about the our numerous sins and prefer to avert our eyes from them. "All of us once lived ... in the passions of our flesh, following the desires of flesh and senses, and we were by nature children of wrath, like everyone else. God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ...For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God--not the result of works, so that no one may boast." Accepting ourselves as we are, warts and all, takes a great deal of humility, and that much humility can be hard to come by. Rather than accept responsibility for who we are or what we have done, we generally find it easier to justify our own less-than-perfect choices by blaming someone else. Isn't that often the way of human nature? Lucky for us, we can turn to the Divine Nature of God when we finally get ready to let go of the sins we hold so dear.
Turning our shortcomings as well as our fears over to God is a process of surrender. Surrender is not a word or an action Americans generally wish to consider. Surrendering sounds really weak and cowardly. Only losers surrender, right? In so many ways from basketball bracketology to American Idol to the space race to waging war, we think we are supposed to fight to be number one. Losing is an appalling option for Americans. That sort of attitude only adds to the sense of tragedy so many of us feel as people around us right now are losing their jobs and their homes.
But spiritual surrender isn't about giving up or losing. It isn't about weakness or resigning ourselves to an unhappy fate. Spiritual surrender is about accepting that I lack the power to overcome my problems by myself and choosing to turn my weakness over to the One is who infinitely more powerful than I. When I consider all of the ways I have tried to force changes in myself or in others and failed every time, I understand that my will alone is not enough. When I, with humility, overcome my denial and accept the reality of my situation and my powerlessness, then I can let go and let God take care of it. In a state of denial, like an ostrich with her head in the sand, I cannot improve my life and move forward. Once I see myself honestly, and seek the Lord's healing help through surrender, I discover a new power--the power to change the things I can. I can certainly work to change my bad attitudes and self-defeating behaviors after I have finally acknowledged their existence!
In our Old Testament lesson today, the chosen people of Israel, under the leadership of Moses, were having a hard time identifying their bad attitudes. They were whining about the food. God sent poisonous serpents to get their attention, and it seems to have worked pretty quickly! (Snakes have that effect on most people.) God orders Moses to make a serpent of bronze and set it up on a pole so that the people can look at it and be healed of their snake bites. The serpent was lifted up above them to stand as a symbol of God's healing and forgiving grace.
In our gospel lesson, Jesus makes reference to that old history when he says, "Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life." Think about what He means here. He is looking ahead to the time when he will be lifted up to die a painful and humiliating death on the cross. As he moves toward Jerusalem and that bitter end, Jesus attempts to prepare his followers for what is to come. Knowing that such suffering is required of him, knowing where his path leads him, the Lord still moves forward. He is able to face his future with courage because he accepts it. He knows what is going to happen to him, but he also knows what will be on the other side of the suffering. And he surrenders to all of it. The way up--the way of the cross and salvation--is also the way down, into suffering.
The priest, teacher, and writer Henri Nouwen is one of my favorite spiritual writers, and I have been reading his book with daily lessons for Lent, Show Me the Way. Of this passage in John's gospel, Nouwen says, "Jesus presents to us the great mystery of the descending way. It is the way of suffering, but also the way to healing. It is the way of humiliation, but also the way to resurrection. It is the way of hiddenness, but also the way that leads to the light that will shine for all people. It is the way of persecution, oppression, martyrdom, and death, but also the way to the full disclosure of God's love...The 'lifting up' that Jesus speaks of refers both to his being raised up on the cross in total humiliation and to his being raised up from the dead in total glorification...You are probably wondering how, in imitation of Jesus, you are to find the descending way...Each one of us has to seek out his or her own descending way of love. That calls for much prayer, much patience, and much guidance."
There is an official Latin name for that descending way, and it dates back many years in church history. The via negativa was explored by the early church mystics, and St. John of the Cross wrote a famous treatise about it in the 16th century called The Dark Night of the Soul. This past Wednesday I gave a presentation on 20th century poet T.S. Eliot, who explored the via negativa in his long poem "East Coker." To Eliot, the descending way is a process of complete surrender to the darkness and the unknown--a way to get through the "cloud of unknowing" by immersing oneself in it. I like the words Eliot uses to express that kind of surrender:
"I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing."
In these terms, surrender sounds very peaceful, doesn't it? So much of life in these troubling times seems like a struggle, but it doesn't have to be that way. Surrender is about letting go of the struggle. The descending way allows us to fall into the waiting, wide-stretched arms of the Lord. There, as the mystic Dame Julian of Norwich said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well."
Susan Hull
Sermon for February 22, 2009
Sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, February 22, 2009
These are hard times, the hardest times most of us have ever seen. People are losing their jobs and their homes, and there are dire predictions about the months ahead. Every family seems to have been touched in some way by this economic crisis. As difficult as these times are, maybe they will serve the purpose of reminding us what is really important in life and bring us together in new ways. One of my friends told me that she had assured her grown children, "As long as one of us has a house, we all have a house."
The collect for today asks for the Lord's help as we try to be changed into his likeness, and I think these hard times may offer us the very crucible we need for such a transfiguration. Looking and acting like the Lord may not be a high priority for most Americans when times are good. When we have ready money, we get busy with the business of life, spending our time, energy, and wealth as we pursue our life's dreams. And there is nothing really wrong with that, I guess, if we can juggle all of that spending and the Lord's work at the same time. It's probably just a matter of focusing our attention; however, the heavy losses people are now suffering will offer us both time and incentive to change our focus and simplify our lives.
I know that is easier said than done, of course, and I also know it is nearly impossible to feel hope or a sense of purpose when you are living in what feels like disaster. At such a time, we may find ourselves praying harder than we ever have, and we may wonder if God will answer our prayers. All of today's lessons speak to the issue of seeking God and hearing what he has to say.
In the lesson from 1st Kings, the prophet Elijah is under duress. He has done the tasks the Lord appointed for him, but in accomplishing the Lord's mission, Elijah has angered Queen Jezebel, who would very much like to be "rid of this troublesome priest." He has fled to Horeb, the holy mountain of God, and there Elijah does hear the Lord instructing him to make himself ready. As Elijah stands expectantly on the mountainside, "Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence." It is in the sound of sheer silence that Elijah can finally hear what has also been called, "the still, small voice of God."
It seems to me that the tumult of rock-splitting wind, of earthquake, and of fire could be a metaphor for the inner turmoil Elijah was experiencing. If that is the case, the lesson here is clear: if we really want to hear what the Lord has to say to us when we are most afraid, then we first have to still our emotions and settle our hearts. Once we are in that quieter, more peaceful state, we will be better able to listen to that still, small voice of reason and hope the Lord offers us. We have to make ourselves ready, as Elijah did, to receive the Word.
There are echoes of this instruction in today's psalm, Psalm 27: "You speak in my heart and say, 'Seek my face.' Your face, LORD, will I seek." In the quietness of our very hearts, the Lord will speak to us, if we are patient and attentive enough to hear. The psalm ends with these sweet words: "O tarry and await the LORD'S pleasure; be strong, and he shall comfort your heart; wait patiently for the LORD."
I have a habit of saving old issues of the Episcopal daily reader, Forward Day by Day. In the issue from February of 1994, I found this story by an anonymous writer: "It is easy to see God in a church. But God is in other places, too. I remember a time when I was observing a therapist working with a young woman who was having a psychotic episode. She was trapped in a nightmarish delusion and couldn't get back by herself. She was unaware of her surroundings, terrified by the phantoms she beheld. I watched as the therapist spoke gently to her; as she answered, her tortured descriptions of what she was seeing tumbled out of her mouth in anguished clumps. They spoke for a long time, he listening to her talk about what her mind was showing her. She grew quieter and began to cry a little. Then the therapist asked gently, 'Can you tell me where you are and who I am?' The girl did not answer for a time. Then she said, haltingly, 'I don't know where I am, but you are Dr. Smith.' In that moment I felt her cross over from her world of illusion into our world. It was as if Christ had reached over and helped her step across. She didn't know where she was, but she allowed herself to know the one who could help her return. In that moment, I felt as if I had witnessed one of Jesus's healing miracles. It was a bland, institutional-looking dormitory room in which we were sitting. But surely the Lord was in that place."
This beautiful, sad story of mental illness and healing has much to show us. Our inner demons of worry and fear and anxiety may torment us as much as this young woman's delusions terrified her. Yet, even when we are unable to feel God's presence, He is there with us, listening to us. And when we are finally able to be led to quiet peace, we will know the Lord and hear his voice.
This Sunday could also be called Transfiguration Sunday, since today's Gospel lesson from Mark is about that important event in the life of Christ. St. Peter was one of three disciples there with Jesus on the mountain when "he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus." Peter sounds out of his head when he suggests that they should build three dwellings for the holy ones and stay there. He has not yet grasped the fleeting nature of human contact with the divine. But he certainly remembers well hearing the voice of the Lord speak from the heavens, as he attests in his letter, our epistle for today. What did the Lord say? "This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!"
In his letter, Peter, who has by now grown in wisdom and stature as Christ's designated leader of the early church, reminds all of us: "You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts." Listen. Be silent. Make your hearts quiet that they may receive the Lord's consolation. In a world full of crisis and conflict, achieving that kind of stillness may be a challenge. I believe it will be in such heartfelt silence that we will hear the voice of the Lord requiring us to reach out in loving kindness to those around us more desperate even than we. Our ability to respond in love will make us the shining ones to those who need us, and in that way we, too, will be transfigured into the likeness of the Lord.
Susan Hull
These are hard times, the hardest times most of us have ever seen. People are losing their jobs and their homes, and there are dire predictions about the months ahead. Every family seems to have been touched in some way by this economic crisis. As difficult as these times are, maybe they will serve the purpose of reminding us what is really important in life and bring us together in new ways. One of my friends told me that she had assured her grown children, "As long as one of us has a house, we all have a house."
The collect for today asks for the Lord's help as we try to be changed into his likeness, and I think these hard times may offer us the very crucible we need for such a transfiguration. Looking and acting like the Lord may not be a high priority for most Americans when times are good. When we have ready money, we get busy with the business of life, spending our time, energy, and wealth as we pursue our life's dreams. And there is nothing really wrong with that, I guess, if we can juggle all of that spending and the Lord's work at the same time. It's probably just a matter of focusing our attention; however, the heavy losses people are now suffering will offer us both time and incentive to change our focus and simplify our lives.
I know that is easier said than done, of course, and I also know it is nearly impossible to feel hope or a sense of purpose when you are living in what feels like disaster. At such a time, we may find ourselves praying harder than we ever have, and we may wonder if God will answer our prayers. All of today's lessons speak to the issue of seeking God and hearing what he has to say.
In the lesson from 1st Kings, the prophet Elijah is under duress. He has done the tasks the Lord appointed for him, but in accomplishing the Lord's mission, Elijah has angered Queen Jezebel, who would very much like to be "rid of this troublesome priest." He has fled to Horeb, the holy mountain of God, and there Elijah does hear the Lord instructing him to make himself ready. As Elijah stands expectantly on the mountainside, "Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence." It is in the sound of sheer silence that Elijah can finally hear what has also been called, "the still, small voice of God."
It seems to me that the tumult of rock-splitting wind, of earthquake, and of fire could be a metaphor for the inner turmoil Elijah was experiencing. If that is the case, the lesson here is clear: if we really want to hear what the Lord has to say to us when we are most afraid, then we first have to still our emotions and settle our hearts. Once we are in that quieter, more peaceful state, we will be better able to listen to that still, small voice of reason and hope the Lord offers us. We have to make ourselves ready, as Elijah did, to receive the Word.
There are echoes of this instruction in today's psalm, Psalm 27: "You speak in my heart and say, 'Seek my face.' Your face, LORD, will I seek." In the quietness of our very hearts, the Lord will speak to us, if we are patient and attentive enough to hear. The psalm ends with these sweet words: "O tarry and await the LORD'S pleasure; be strong, and he shall comfort your heart; wait patiently for the LORD."
I have a habit of saving old issues of the Episcopal daily reader, Forward Day by Day. In the issue from February of 1994, I found this story by an anonymous writer: "It is easy to see God in a church. But God is in other places, too. I remember a time when I was observing a therapist working with a young woman who was having a psychotic episode. She was trapped in a nightmarish delusion and couldn't get back by herself. She was unaware of her surroundings, terrified by the phantoms she beheld. I watched as the therapist spoke gently to her; as she answered, her tortured descriptions of what she was seeing tumbled out of her mouth in anguished clumps. They spoke for a long time, he listening to her talk about what her mind was showing her. She grew quieter and began to cry a little. Then the therapist asked gently, 'Can you tell me where you are and who I am?' The girl did not answer for a time. Then she said, haltingly, 'I don't know where I am, but you are Dr. Smith.' In that moment I felt her cross over from her world of illusion into our world. It was as if Christ had reached over and helped her step across. She didn't know where she was, but she allowed herself to know the one who could help her return. In that moment, I felt as if I had witnessed one of Jesus's healing miracles. It was a bland, institutional-looking dormitory room in which we were sitting. But surely the Lord was in that place."
This beautiful, sad story of mental illness and healing has much to show us. Our inner demons of worry and fear and anxiety may torment us as much as this young woman's delusions terrified her. Yet, even when we are unable to feel God's presence, He is there with us, listening to us. And when we are finally able to be led to quiet peace, we will know the Lord and hear his voice.
This Sunday could also be called Transfiguration Sunday, since today's Gospel lesson from Mark is about that important event in the life of Christ. St. Peter was one of three disciples there with Jesus on the mountain when "he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus." Peter sounds out of his head when he suggests that they should build three dwellings for the holy ones and stay there. He has not yet grasped the fleeting nature of human contact with the divine. But he certainly remembers well hearing the voice of the Lord speak from the heavens, as he attests in his letter, our epistle for today. What did the Lord say? "This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!"
In his letter, Peter, who has by now grown in wisdom and stature as Christ's designated leader of the early church, reminds all of us: "You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts." Listen. Be silent. Make your hearts quiet that they may receive the Lord's consolation. In a world full of crisis and conflict, achieving that kind of stillness may be a challenge. I believe it will be in such heartfelt silence that we will hear the voice of the Lord requiring us to reach out in loving kindness to those around us more desperate even than we. Our ability to respond in love will make us the shining ones to those who need us, and in that way we, too, will be transfigured into the likeness of the Lord.
Susan Hull
Sermon for January 25, 2009
Homily for January 25, 2009 Buck Mountain and Graves Chapel
It isn’t easy being a prophet. In today’s Old Testament lesson, we see the prophet Jonah in one of his better moments, walking across the city of Ninevah to warn the people of the destruction God has planned for them. But this is Chapter 3 of Jonah, and at the end of Chapter 2 Jonah was vomited from the belly of the whale. You may not remember the reason Jonah ended up being swallowed by a whale in the first place. When God originally called Jonah to take his message to the people of Ninevah, Jonah was afraid, no doubt believing the people would not be very pleased with any person delivering such a warning. So, in order to get away from God and his obligations, Jonah boarded a ship and headed in the opposite direction. Displeased with Jonah, God sent a big storm, and when Jonah confessed to the sailors that he was the reason for the storm that tossed their ship, the sailors threw him overboard. Kindly, God, who clearly had plans for Jonah, sent a whale to rescue him.
If you are, like me, a big fan of the Aubrey-Maturin seafaring novels by Patrick O’Brian, you know that in the 18th century, when tall ships traversed the seas of the world, sailors were very superstitious about carrying a clergyman as a passenger. If a bad storm arose or other problems ensued when a man of the cloth was aboard, the sailors might choose to throw the Jonah, as they called him, into the sea. For all I know, sailors may still have an aversion to people like Jonah. So, whether you follow God’s call or try to avoid it, being a prophet (or a preacher) can be dangerous business.
What is the job description for a prophet? A prophet is someone who can see the big picture. A prophet can look into the future and see the end point of the path that people are currently pursuing. A prophet has the insight and wisdom to know the likely results and consequences of the chosen path. Since people are usually perfectly happy to continue in the direction they are headed, prophets are not popular. They can be scorned or reviled, thrown into jail like Paul, or killed like Jesus. It isn’t too surprising Jonah tried to avoid his duty as a prophet.
Events of the past week unavoidably focused our nation’s attention on the great American prophet and martyr of the 20th century, Martin Luther King, Jr. I am grateful to have been a child in the 1960s, to have grown up in Madison County, in a Southern state, and to have been a witness to the turmoil of the times. Seeing the world then, through a child’s eyes, was a test, to say the least, so you may ask why I am grateful to have grown up during such turbulent times. I believe we all learn our most enduring lessons from the challenges of life. My parents were churchgoing Christians and good people, and they took me to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School. What I learned there was that Christ calls us to love one another and to love our neighbors as ourselves. I will never forget some of the songs we learned, and one I remember well--I can even remember being in a Sunday School room and singing it--was “Jesus Loves the Little Children.” Maybe you remember that one, too. It goes like this: “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.” I believed those words with my whole heart, because the Jesus I had come to know extended a welcome to everyone, even tax-collecting sinners like Zaccheus. (There was a song about him, too.) Jesus did not discriminate against anyone.
But the world I grew up in didn’t seem to match Jesus’s dream. I attended an all-white elementary school. The only African-American in the building was an elderly custodian, and we children were instructed to call him Uncle Jim. I am ashamed to say I still do not know the man’s full name. What I was taught at Sunday School was not being taught or lived at Waverly Yowell Elementary.
Historians now say the nightly news on television in the 1960s was an instrument of social change, and I understand what they mean. Seeing it before my very eyes, I could not understand how some white Southerners, who no doubt called themselves Christians, could use fire hoses or turn vicious dogs on peaceful protestors simply asking for their basic human rights. Dr. King showed me what it meant to use no force but the force of righteousness and to turn the other cheek to injustice. I was in 8th grade when Madison County Schools finally integrated, and I was in 9th grade when Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. By the time he died, King had become my hero. He spoke the truth in Christian love, and he did what he did with more courage than I had ever witnessed, in the face of constant threats against his life.
On Tuesday, when Barack Obama was inaugurated, many Americans spoke of how Martin Luther King’s dream had finally come true. If they meant that we, as a nation, have reached a point of color-blindness, when we truly judge others “by the content of their character and not the color of their skin,” I do not believe we are there yet. I hope and pray a door has been opened into that new world where the teachings of Jesus Christ may finally be fulfilled in the dream of Martin King, but I think we still have some distance to go. We may believe “Jesus loved the little children, all the children of the world,” but until our actions match those beliefs, we are not truly answering Christ’s call to love one another. Those actions must include tolerant acceptance of everyone we encounter as we seek and serve Christ in all persons.
Former Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church Edmond Browning wrote: "Jesus came into the world to save the world, the whole of the world. There was nothing outside God's intention in the act, and there is nothing outside it now. Life is hard. Life will always be hard. But it is holy."
In his inaugural address our new President warned us of the hard times ahead and asked us to “pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off,” and help him to remake America. We are truly living in dangerous and difficult times, and even if we did not vote for Obama, we may agree with the urgency of his call to action. We may feel the need to heed his call and do something for our neighbor and our country. But what do we do?
A call is a very risky thing. In today’s lesson from the gospel of Mark, we see Jesus calling his first four disciples, who immediately drop what they are doing and join him. Reading that, we might say, “Well, I probably would answer a call if Jesus came to me and asked me directly. I could see myself doing what the disciples did.” If we are really being honest with ourselves, we might also say, “Those disciples must have been nuts. They didn’t even know who Jesus was at that point.”
We certainly know much more about Jesus today than Peter, Andrew, James and John could have known back then. Many Christians do feel called to serve the Lord in a variety of ways, and we can see the results of their response as they serve food to the homeless or volunteer for organizations like Habitat for Humanity. Good works are important in a world so full of hurt and need, and any way in which we reach out to our neighbor fulfills the golden rule. But I think a call from Jesus Christ asks more of us. When Jesus called his disciples, he turned their world upside down. What he asked for was a complete change of course. What he wants from us is a mindfulness of all we do so that all we do is an expression of love. When he spoke of his disciples, Jesus said, “You will know them by their love.” Can the same be said of us?
I know it’s hard. Believe me, I have tried to practice what I preach, and I find some people extremely hard to love. The driving-too-fast guy who cuts back into my lane and nearly runs me off the road—definitely not someone I feel much love towards. In truth, I sometimes find it hard to love close members of my own family—they can be very annoying at times. There are days when I find it hard to love myself. But the task is to see ourselves and everyone else as children of God. Loving each other as brothers and sisters in Christ, fallible as we all are, is the foundation of Christian community. May it also be the foundation of our nation as we move forward through the challenges we face.
Susan Hull
It isn’t easy being a prophet. In today’s Old Testament lesson, we see the prophet Jonah in one of his better moments, walking across the city of Ninevah to warn the people of the destruction God has planned for them. But this is Chapter 3 of Jonah, and at the end of Chapter 2 Jonah was vomited from the belly of the whale. You may not remember the reason Jonah ended up being swallowed by a whale in the first place. When God originally called Jonah to take his message to the people of Ninevah, Jonah was afraid, no doubt believing the people would not be very pleased with any person delivering such a warning. So, in order to get away from God and his obligations, Jonah boarded a ship and headed in the opposite direction. Displeased with Jonah, God sent a big storm, and when Jonah confessed to the sailors that he was the reason for the storm that tossed their ship, the sailors threw him overboard. Kindly, God, who clearly had plans for Jonah, sent a whale to rescue him.
If you are, like me, a big fan of the Aubrey-Maturin seafaring novels by Patrick O’Brian, you know that in the 18th century, when tall ships traversed the seas of the world, sailors were very superstitious about carrying a clergyman as a passenger. If a bad storm arose or other problems ensued when a man of the cloth was aboard, the sailors might choose to throw the Jonah, as they called him, into the sea. For all I know, sailors may still have an aversion to people like Jonah. So, whether you follow God’s call or try to avoid it, being a prophet (or a preacher) can be dangerous business.
What is the job description for a prophet? A prophet is someone who can see the big picture. A prophet can look into the future and see the end point of the path that people are currently pursuing. A prophet has the insight and wisdom to know the likely results and consequences of the chosen path. Since people are usually perfectly happy to continue in the direction they are headed, prophets are not popular. They can be scorned or reviled, thrown into jail like Paul, or killed like Jesus. It isn’t too surprising Jonah tried to avoid his duty as a prophet.
Events of the past week unavoidably focused our nation’s attention on the great American prophet and martyr of the 20th century, Martin Luther King, Jr. I am grateful to have been a child in the 1960s, to have grown up in Madison County, in a Southern state, and to have been a witness to the turmoil of the times. Seeing the world then, through a child’s eyes, was a test, to say the least, so you may ask why I am grateful to have grown up during such turbulent times. I believe we all learn our most enduring lessons from the challenges of life. My parents were churchgoing Christians and good people, and they took me to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School. What I learned there was that Christ calls us to love one another and to love our neighbors as ourselves. I will never forget some of the songs we learned, and one I remember well--I can even remember being in a Sunday School room and singing it--was “Jesus Loves the Little Children.” Maybe you remember that one, too. It goes like this: “Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.” I believed those words with my whole heart, because the Jesus I had come to know extended a welcome to everyone, even tax-collecting sinners like Zaccheus. (There was a song about him, too.) Jesus did not discriminate against anyone.
But the world I grew up in didn’t seem to match Jesus’s dream. I attended an all-white elementary school. The only African-American in the building was an elderly custodian, and we children were instructed to call him Uncle Jim. I am ashamed to say I still do not know the man’s full name. What I was taught at Sunday School was not being taught or lived at Waverly Yowell Elementary.
Historians now say the nightly news on television in the 1960s was an instrument of social change, and I understand what they mean. Seeing it before my very eyes, I could not understand how some white Southerners, who no doubt called themselves Christians, could use fire hoses or turn vicious dogs on peaceful protestors simply asking for their basic human rights. Dr. King showed me what it meant to use no force but the force of righteousness and to turn the other cheek to injustice. I was in 8th grade when Madison County Schools finally integrated, and I was in 9th grade when Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated. By the time he died, King had become my hero. He spoke the truth in Christian love, and he did what he did with more courage than I had ever witnessed, in the face of constant threats against his life.
On Tuesday, when Barack Obama was inaugurated, many Americans spoke of how Martin Luther King’s dream had finally come true. If they meant that we, as a nation, have reached a point of color-blindness, when we truly judge others “by the content of their character and not the color of their skin,” I do not believe we are there yet. I hope and pray a door has been opened into that new world where the teachings of Jesus Christ may finally be fulfilled in the dream of Martin King, but I think we still have some distance to go. We may believe “Jesus loved the little children, all the children of the world,” but until our actions match those beliefs, we are not truly answering Christ’s call to love one another. Those actions must include tolerant acceptance of everyone we encounter as we seek and serve Christ in all persons.
Former Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church Edmond Browning wrote: "Jesus came into the world to save the world, the whole of the world. There was nothing outside God's intention in the act, and there is nothing outside it now. Life is hard. Life will always be hard. But it is holy."
In his inaugural address our new President warned us of the hard times ahead and asked us to “pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off,” and help him to remake America. We are truly living in dangerous and difficult times, and even if we did not vote for Obama, we may agree with the urgency of his call to action. We may feel the need to heed his call and do something for our neighbor and our country. But what do we do?
A call is a very risky thing. In today’s lesson from the gospel of Mark, we see Jesus calling his first four disciples, who immediately drop what they are doing and join him. Reading that, we might say, “Well, I probably would answer a call if Jesus came to me and asked me directly. I could see myself doing what the disciples did.” If we are really being honest with ourselves, we might also say, “Those disciples must have been nuts. They didn’t even know who Jesus was at that point.”
We certainly know much more about Jesus today than Peter, Andrew, James and John could have known back then. Many Christians do feel called to serve the Lord in a variety of ways, and we can see the results of their response as they serve food to the homeless or volunteer for organizations like Habitat for Humanity. Good works are important in a world so full of hurt and need, and any way in which we reach out to our neighbor fulfills the golden rule. But I think a call from Jesus Christ asks more of us. When Jesus called his disciples, he turned their world upside down. What he asked for was a complete change of course. What he wants from us is a mindfulness of all we do so that all we do is an expression of love. When he spoke of his disciples, Jesus said, “You will know them by their love.” Can the same be said of us?
I know it’s hard. Believe me, I have tried to practice what I preach, and I find some people extremely hard to love. The driving-too-fast guy who cuts back into my lane and nearly runs me off the road—definitely not someone I feel much love towards. In truth, I sometimes find it hard to love close members of my own family—they can be very annoying at times. There are days when I find it hard to love myself. But the task is to see ourselves and everyone else as children of God. Loving each other as brothers and sisters in Christ, fallible as we all are, is the foundation of Christian community. May it also be the foundation of our nation as we move forward through the challenges we face.
Susan Hull
Advent Homily, December 21, 2008
Homily for Advent, Nine Lessons and Carols 12/21/08
Advent means coming, and during this season, as we hang garlands of greenery and light candles, we make preparations for the arrival of love. The infant Jesus was born into a very dark world, darker even than ours seems to us today. The Palestine of 2000 years ago was a place oppressed by a ruthless Empire and marked by savage inequalities. In that place and time, women and children had no rights at all. Yet, the Almighty God chose a young woman and her child as the instruments of his entry into the world. And so we say, “Love came down at Christmas.”
How do we recognize love when we encounter it? Love is lovable. Who can resist showing love to a little baby? Love is humble, born to a poor family. It doesn’t call attention to itself, and yet humble love has a mighty way of attracting others --like shepherds and wise kings. Love is vulnerable, seemingly powerless, but it is strong enough to crack the coldest hearts and to move armies and nations in support of righteous causes. Love is innocent, free of sin and guilt and yet freely forgiving the sins of others. Born into darkness, Love is light, a light that drives away fear and spreads its blessing equally to all. Like the tiniest of candles in a vast dark room, even the smallest act of kindness is a redeeming expression of love to someone sorely in need of love. Like light, Love is endless and cannot be conquered by darkness. The invincibility of love is proven every time we share love’s light with others.
The Lord and his Light be with you this day and always....
Susan Hull
Advent means coming, and during this season, as we hang garlands of greenery and light candles, we make preparations for the arrival of love. The infant Jesus was born into a very dark world, darker even than ours seems to us today. The Palestine of 2000 years ago was a place oppressed by a ruthless Empire and marked by savage inequalities. In that place and time, women and children had no rights at all. Yet, the Almighty God chose a young woman and her child as the instruments of his entry into the world. And so we say, “Love came down at Christmas.”
How do we recognize love when we encounter it? Love is lovable. Who can resist showing love to a little baby? Love is humble, born to a poor family. It doesn’t call attention to itself, and yet humble love has a mighty way of attracting others --like shepherds and wise kings. Love is vulnerable, seemingly powerless, but it is strong enough to crack the coldest hearts and to move armies and nations in support of righteous causes. Love is innocent, free of sin and guilt and yet freely forgiving the sins of others. Born into darkness, Love is light, a light that drives away fear and spreads its blessing equally to all. Like the tiniest of candles in a vast dark room, even the smallest act of kindness is a redeeming expression of love to someone sorely in need of love. Like light, Love is endless and cannot be conquered by darkness. The invincibility of love is proven every time we share love’s light with others.
The Lord and his Light be with you this day and always....
Susan Hull
Sermon for October 26, 2008
A sermon given at Buck Mountain Episcopal Church (10:30) and Graves Chapel (5:00)
Lessons:
Deuteronomy 34: 1-12
Psalm 90: 1-6, 13-17
1 Thessalonians 2: 1-8
Matthew 22: 34-46
Our lessons today provide us with a set of bookends. In Deuteronomy, we have the passing of Moses, the great giver of laws. In the gospel reading from Matthew, Jesus speaks the words that sum up all the laws in a way that anyone should be able to understand. “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” If we love God with all of our being and we truly love our neighbors as ourselves, we will be incapable of violating any commandments, or in any other way causing harm. Jesus tells us that love is the only law we really need to know. For this reason Jesus, whose life was sacrificed for love of humankind, has been called “the fulfillment of the law.”
If you’ve heard me preach before, you may have noticed that one of my favorite biblical themes is “God is Love,” and we are reminded of that one again today. Unfortunately, we may feel that we have good reasons to doubt whether God is really love. All of us have had experiences that have broken our hearts or made us want to shake a fist at God and ask, “Why?” At this very moment, someone somewhere is suffering. Someone is grieving. Someone is afraid. Where is God in all of this?
One answer that people have for the inexplicable tragedies that occur seems to be “It was God’s will.” Believing as I do that God is only love, I cringe when I hear that said. I believe that God does NOT will the bad things that happen. God does NOT cause the tragedies. In granting humans free will, to choose the good over the bad, to choose love over hate, God allowed us to control our own fates. Bad things happen because of human willfulness, human error, and human complexity coming into conflict with natural forces. With all of our freedom, we have made a pretty good mess of things.
Even though we often disregard Him, however, God never abandons us. We think of God the Father and God the Son, but, as we also hear, they are “one being.” God knows our sorrows because God chose to enter them. To understand our lives, God became fully human, and for our sakes, he died an excruciating, lonely death. God knows what it means to suffer. When our hearts break, God’s compassionate heart breaks, too. God does not cause our suffering, but he is there to suffer with us and offer divine consolation.
I have felt that blessed compassion in my own life. My sweet mother, a devoted Christian, died too young of a terrible and rare neurological disease. Yes, it was very unfair. But from all I can read about Steele Richardson syndrome, its most likely cause is something environmental. How can I blame God for the way humans have polluted his creation? And I certainly can’t blame God for my father’s suicide. But I want you to know that in the dark days after the deaths of both of my parents, God made his presence known to me in very powerful ways. That is where God is in the deep sorrows of life--there to console us, to lift us, to draw us into his loving arms. He came to me in the love of friends and family, in the outpouring of sympathy and help. He came to me in a letter written by one of my mother’s best friends, who assured me that I had done everything I could for Mama, even though I believed I had not.
What then does God will for us? As a former presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church, the Right Reverend Frank Griswold once said, “We have so reduced and so limited notions of God’s will to orders and commands that we have lost sight of the truth that God’s will is fundamentally a matter of divine affection and delight. God’s fundamental will for us is our deepest well-being.” His predecessor, the Right Reverand Edmond Browning said something along similar lines when he wrote, “What is the purpose of the autumn leaves? We know why they need to fall: it is so the tree can rest during the winter, and so the soil can be renewed by their decomposing. But why, before they die, do they burst into this glorious song? It is hard for me to imagine any other reason besides the disposition of God toward the good and the beautiful. Many things need not be lovely, but they are.”
There are so many stories in scripture that illustrate the abundant love of God, and sometimes it is a nurturing, mothering love. In the Book of Proverbs, the Wisdom of God is personified as a woman named Sophia. Of Wisdom it is said, “She is more precious than jewels, and nothing you desire can compare with her...Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to those who lay hold of her; those who hold her fast are called happy.” [Proverbs 3:15-18] I like thinking about Sophia as the feminine side of God’s nature, and not just because I’m a woman. I wish I’d heard more about her when I was a child who feared the stern, white-bearded old man some people called God.
Jesus also reminds us of the compassionate love of God when he says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” [Matthew 23:37] He speaks directly to the way humans reject the love so freely offered by God when he says the people “were not willing” to be gathered under his wings. Jesus also lets us hear how much the act of giving love to others brings him joy.
In December, if all things go well, my first grandbaby will be born. As I think about this unborn child, I am already beginning to understand something my friends, who are already grandmothers, have shared with me. I hear that being a grandmother is more precious even than motherhood, and that spoiling grandchildren is a great blessing. Those of you who are already grandparents probably know what I’m talking about. Giving love to our children and grandchildren, feeling that we would do anything for these precious ones, is, I believe, the kind of love God feels for us.
I’d like to tell you my story about my great-aunt, Mary Estes Hawkins. I say my story, because Aunt Mary was to me someone uniquely special. I never really got to know well any of my own grandparents; both of my grandfathers were already dead when I was born, and my grandmother Estes was sick and in a nursing home from the time I was very young. But for some reason I can attribute only to her love and compassion, Aunt Mary became my grandmother. Her daughter Dolly and my mother, though cousins, were as close as sisters, and since Dolly and her children lived with Uncle Buck and Aunt Mary, we spent a lot of time at their house. Age-wise, I fit somewhere in the middle of Aunt Mary’s grandchildren, and we played together. I spent many nights at her house. I realized that Aunt Mary saw me as one of her own by the way she treated me with the same love and generosity. This became very clear to me one time after Aunt Mary and Uncle Buck returned from a trip, and she brought me the very same souvenir gift that she brought her granddaughters. I still have and treasure the little glass lamp. And I still treasure my memories of Aunt Mary.
I was reminded of her and her kind of love by these words in today’s psalm: “May the graciousness of the Lord our God be upon us; prosper the work of our hands; prosper our handiwork.” My mother crocheted and embroidered, my aunt Clara cross-stitched and knitted--seeing women at such work is infinitely comforting to me. Aunt Mary did handiwork as well, and what I remember seeing her do was tatting--a way to make lace with fine needles. If you will indulge me, I’d like to share a poem I wrote in honor of my aunt Mary:
Aunt Mary
With a needle and white thread
she tatted lace around a kerchief
as she rested in the evening, day’s work
done in kitchen and garden.
She was a descendant of the first one
who sewed polished bone to deerskin,
all those who demonstrate
by the work of their hands
and the refinement of their nature
a belief that life is more
than just a struggle to survive.
What is the current state of civility?
The work of fostering concord
requires too much time.
Few hands still fashion wood
into smooth bowls or graceful chairs
in a world far removed
from simple art, simple pleasure,
simple need.
Lamplight kindled her silver hair,
head bent as she shuttled the needle,
her movements rhythmic as a loom.
I’d love to hear her soft voice again,
unfold a damask napkin
and sit down to dinner at her table.
I want to hear the creaking of the earth
as it turns from darkness towards dawn.
We are all called to be instruments of the love of God in the lives of others. We are called to seek and serve Christ in all persons. As St. Teresa of Avila said, “God has no hands, nor has he feet nor voice except ours; and through these he works.” If God is love, then it is our job to make that love known in the world. And we are blessed in the giving. To quote Bishop Browning again, “As we have been created to love and savor the world God has given us, so we have also been created to care for each other, to serve whom we can while we can. While God’s goodness does not depend upon ours, and God’s plan unfolds whether we go along with it or not, we are intended to mirror the love which created us in the love we bear one another.”
So, remember, “Life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us, so be swift to love and make haste to be kind.” (Henri-Frederic Amiel)
Susan Hull
Lessons:
Deuteronomy 34: 1-12
Psalm 90: 1-6, 13-17
1 Thessalonians 2: 1-8
Matthew 22: 34-46
Our lessons today provide us with a set of bookends. In Deuteronomy, we have the passing of Moses, the great giver of laws. In the gospel reading from Matthew, Jesus speaks the words that sum up all the laws in a way that anyone should be able to understand. “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” If we love God with all of our being and we truly love our neighbors as ourselves, we will be incapable of violating any commandments, or in any other way causing harm. Jesus tells us that love is the only law we really need to know. For this reason Jesus, whose life was sacrificed for love of humankind, has been called “the fulfillment of the law.”
If you’ve heard me preach before, you may have noticed that one of my favorite biblical themes is “God is Love,” and we are reminded of that one again today. Unfortunately, we may feel that we have good reasons to doubt whether God is really love. All of us have had experiences that have broken our hearts or made us want to shake a fist at God and ask, “Why?” At this very moment, someone somewhere is suffering. Someone is grieving. Someone is afraid. Where is God in all of this?
One answer that people have for the inexplicable tragedies that occur seems to be “It was God’s will.” Believing as I do that God is only love, I cringe when I hear that said. I believe that God does NOT will the bad things that happen. God does NOT cause the tragedies. In granting humans free will, to choose the good over the bad, to choose love over hate, God allowed us to control our own fates. Bad things happen because of human willfulness, human error, and human complexity coming into conflict with natural forces. With all of our freedom, we have made a pretty good mess of things.
Even though we often disregard Him, however, God never abandons us. We think of God the Father and God the Son, but, as we also hear, they are “one being.” God knows our sorrows because God chose to enter them. To understand our lives, God became fully human, and for our sakes, he died an excruciating, lonely death. God knows what it means to suffer. When our hearts break, God’s compassionate heart breaks, too. God does not cause our suffering, but he is there to suffer with us and offer divine consolation.
I have felt that blessed compassion in my own life. My sweet mother, a devoted Christian, died too young of a terrible and rare neurological disease. Yes, it was very unfair. But from all I can read about Steele Richardson syndrome, its most likely cause is something environmental. How can I blame God for the way humans have polluted his creation? And I certainly can’t blame God for my father’s suicide. But I want you to know that in the dark days after the deaths of both of my parents, God made his presence known to me in very powerful ways. That is where God is in the deep sorrows of life--there to console us, to lift us, to draw us into his loving arms. He came to me in the love of friends and family, in the outpouring of sympathy and help. He came to me in a letter written by one of my mother’s best friends, who assured me that I had done everything I could for Mama, even though I believed I had not.
What then does God will for us? As a former presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church, the Right Reverend Frank Griswold once said, “We have so reduced and so limited notions of God’s will to orders and commands that we have lost sight of the truth that God’s will is fundamentally a matter of divine affection and delight. God’s fundamental will for us is our deepest well-being.” His predecessor, the Right Reverand Edmond Browning said something along similar lines when he wrote, “What is the purpose of the autumn leaves? We know why they need to fall: it is so the tree can rest during the winter, and so the soil can be renewed by their decomposing. But why, before they die, do they burst into this glorious song? It is hard for me to imagine any other reason besides the disposition of God toward the good and the beautiful. Many things need not be lovely, but they are.”
There are so many stories in scripture that illustrate the abundant love of God, and sometimes it is a nurturing, mothering love. In the Book of Proverbs, the Wisdom of God is personified as a woman named Sophia. Of Wisdom it is said, “She is more precious than jewels, and nothing you desire can compare with her...Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to those who lay hold of her; those who hold her fast are called happy.” [Proverbs 3:15-18] I like thinking about Sophia as the feminine side of God’s nature, and not just because I’m a woman. I wish I’d heard more about her when I was a child who feared the stern, white-bearded old man some people called God.
Jesus also reminds us of the compassionate love of God when he says, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” [Matthew 23:37] He speaks directly to the way humans reject the love so freely offered by God when he says the people “were not willing” to be gathered under his wings. Jesus also lets us hear how much the act of giving love to others brings him joy.
In December, if all things go well, my first grandbaby will be born. As I think about this unborn child, I am already beginning to understand something my friends, who are already grandmothers, have shared with me. I hear that being a grandmother is more precious even than motherhood, and that spoiling grandchildren is a great blessing. Those of you who are already grandparents probably know what I’m talking about. Giving love to our children and grandchildren, feeling that we would do anything for these precious ones, is, I believe, the kind of love God feels for us.
I’d like to tell you my story about my great-aunt, Mary Estes Hawkins. I say my story, because Aunt Mary was to me someone uniquely special. I never really got to know well any of my own grandparents; both of my grandfathers were already dead when I was born, and my grandmother Estes was sick and in a nursing home from the time I was very young. But for some reason I can attribute only to her love and compassion, Aunt Mary became my grandmother. Her daughter Dolly and my mother, though cousins, were as close as sisters, and since Dolly and her children lived with Uncle Buck and Aunt Mary, we spent a lot of time at their house. Age-wise, I fit somewhere in the middle of Aunt Mary’s grandchildren, and we played together. I spent many nights at her house. I realized that Aunt Mary saw me as one of her own by the way she treated me with the same love and generosity. This became very clear to me one time after Aunt Mary and Uncle Buck returned from a trip, and she brought me the very same souvenir gift that she brought her granddaughters. I still have and treasure the little glass lamp. And I still treasure my memories of Aunt Mary.
I was reminded of her and her kind of love by these words in today’s psalm: “May the graciousness of the Lord our God be upon us; prosper the work of our hands; prosper our handiwork.” My mother crocheted and embroidered, my aunt Clara cross-stitched and knitted--seeing women at such work is infinitely comforting to me. Aunt Mary did handiwork as well, and what I remember seeing her do was tatting--a way to make lace with fine needles. If you will indulge me, I’d like to share a poem I wrote in honor of my aunt Mary:
Aunt Mary
With a needle and white thread
she tatted lace around a kerchief
as she rested in the evening, day’s work
done in kitchen and garden.
She was a descendant of the first one
who sewed polished bone to deerskin,
all those who demonstrate
by the work of their hands
and the refinement of their nature
a belief that life is more
than just a struggle to survive.
What is the current state of civility?
The work of fostering concord
requires too much time.
Few hands still fashion wood
into smooth bowls or graceful chairs
in a world far removed
from simple art, simple pleasure,
simple need.
Lamplight kindled her silver hair,
head bent as she shuttled the needle,
her movements rhythmic as a loom.
I’d love to hear her soft voice again,
unfold a damask napkin
and sit down to dinner at her table.
I want to hear the creaking of the earth
as it turns from darkness towards dawn.
We are all called to be instruments of the love of God in the lives of others. We are called to seek and serve Christ in all persons. As St. Teresa of Avila said, “God has no hands, nor has he feet nor voice except ours; and through these he works.” If God is love, then it is our job to make that love known in the world. And we are blessed in the giving. To quote Bishop Browning again, “As we have been created to love and savor the world God has given us, so we have also been created to care for each other, to serve whom we can while we can. While God’s goodness does not depend upon ours, and God’s plan unfolds whether we go along with it or not, we are intended to mirror the love which created us in the love we bear one another.”
So, remember, “Life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us, so be swift to love and make haste to be kind.” (Henri-Frederic Amiel)
Susan Hull
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