Homily for January 27, 2019

Homily for Sunday, January 27, 2019.   Graves Chapel.

The 3rd Sunday in the Season After Epiphany

“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.” AMEN.

Some five and a half centuries in the long history of the Jewish people separate the events recounted in our lessons today from Nehemiah and the Gospel of Luke. In a way, you could say these passages bookend each other, as each opens the Holy Word in a new way to a new generation. Although the people who hear Ezra read from the book of the law are very different from the ones in Nazareth who see Jesus open the scroll and read from the Prophet Isaiah, this is what they have in common with one another: a deep longing for what has been promised them.
In Nehemiah, we encounter a defeated and exiled people returned at last to their home. King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon had vanquished Judah and destroyed Jerusalem in 605 BCE, capturing most of the people and taking them as slaves to Babylon. There they languished by the River Euphrates, their tragic lives rendered in these words of the 137th Psalm: “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, and there we wept, when we remembered Zion. On the willows there, we hung up our harps. For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?”
Now, some sixty years later, they have come home.
King Cyrus of Persia, called Cyrus the Great because of his fostering of human rights, conquered Babylon and, out of sympathy for the Hebrew people and respect for their religion, Cyrus allowed them to return to Judah. He appointed Nehemiah as their governor. Finding Jerusalem in ruins, Nehemiah is confronted with the daunting tasks of rebuilding the city and reviving the spirit of the people. Many of them have no memory of what it was like to worship in that holy place, to hear their law read aloud in an assembly. So very many years have passed. In recognition of a holy day, “the Feast of the Trumpets,” considered the first day of the new year on the Hebrew calendar, Nehemiah summons the priest and scribe Ezra and asks him to read for the people. As it is described, “Accordingly the priest Ezra brought the law before the assembly, both men and women and all who could hear with understanding.” As Ezra stood before them, he began with prayer, blessing the Lord, and we are told, “… and all the people answered, ‘Amen, Amen,’ lifting up their hands.”
The people are understandably overcome with emotion as they hear at long last the words of their law being read by the priest, but Ezra closes the reading with these words to them: “This day is holy to the Lord your God; do not mourn or weep…Go your way, eat the fat and drink the sweet wine and send portions of them to those for whom nothing is prepared, for this day is holy to our Lord; and do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.”
“The joy of the Lord is your strength.” The exiles have returned home, but there is still anticipation among them for the coming of the promised Messiah.  Their waiting stretches into centuries. In our gospel lesson, we encounter Jesus very near the beginning of his ministry. After he was baptized in the Jordon, a voice spoke from heaven, saying, “This is my son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” His mission has been confirmed for him and for all who heard and understood those words. Then Jesus spent forty days in the wilderness, undergoing a time of testing. Now, he has returned home to Nazareth for a different, difficult kind of test.
In the synagogue on the sabbath, according to custom, he stands to read from the scroll that is given him, the words of the Prophet Isaiah. He finds a particular place, from Isaiah 61, and reads just a few of the words there, before handing the scroll back to the attendant and sitting down to answer questions. This is what Jesus reads: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,  because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” In a very clear way, Jesus announces his ministry to the people of his hometown, explaining what he has been sent to do:  provide for the poor, release the captives and those who are oppressed, heal the sick, and proclaim the year of the Lord. These very words would have brought tears of joy to the people of Nehemiah’s time, the ones who heard the law being read at long last by Ezra. It seems the Messiah’s mission is a profoundly meaningful, yet simple one: to bring evidence of love where love has been greatly needed.
From his seated position as teacher, Jesus then proclaims to those who hear him, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” Although the people of Nazareth, who knew him well, were astonished and (in some cases) offended at these words of Jesus, what he omits from that passage of Isaiah is almost as intriguing as what he reads. If you look at Isaiah 61, you will see that Jesus reads only verses one and two of that chapter—but he leaves out the second half of that second verse.  Many of the most specific and memorable prophecies of the coming of the Messiah are found in the Book of Isaiah, so it is not surprising that Jesus uses the words of Isaiah to announce his arrival. But Isaiah 61:2 in its entirety says, “… to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God.” Whereas his cousin John, who baptized Jesus in the Jordon, preached a message of hellfire and damnation, in his very first teaching, does Jesus let us know by this omission of words about God’s vengeance that his emphasis will be on God’s mercy and love? As Ezra had comforted the people so many years before, “The joy of the Lord is your strength.”
Today we are each of us, in some way, feeling like exiles and waiting for the Messiah to come and rescue us.  We long to be closer to God and to one another, to believe fully in that joy that promises to be our strength. In the 1940 Episcopal hymnal, the very first hymn was “Come Thou Long Expected Jesus.” This beloved song of Advent could serve as the theme song for all of us who have waited and continue to wait for a closer communion with the Lord. As the first verse says, “Come, thou long-expected Jesus, born to set thy people free; from our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee.”  May it be so for us, this day and every day.  AMEN.

Homily for November 18, 2018

Homily for 5:00 Service, Graves Chapel: November 18, 2018

Love and faithfulness: As Christians, we understand those qualities are expected of us. But do we consider how our Lord is faithful in his love for us? In today’s lesson from the letter to the Hebrews, the writer reminds us that we can place our faith in Christ’s steady faithfulness. We may certainly recognize our own sins and feel ourselves to be unworthy of Christ’s love, but we are reminded of the Lord’s words, “I will remember their sins and their lawless deeds no more.” Most mornings, Dave and I spend time together sharing morning prayer, and whenever we say the confession [that same confession we expressed here a little while ago], I sometimes find myself cringing in recognition of my guilt when I say the words, “We confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone.” Especially on two counts, my thoughts and what I’ve left undone, I feel myself convicted. In spite of our personal failures, we are assured that we can approach our Lord and expect mercy, “with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience.” The writer continues, “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who has promised is faithful.” 

As human beings, we are just about guaranteed to commit some kind of sin every day. We know we are far from perfect. What a fantastic blessing it is to know that we can count on a Lord who is always more faithful to us than we are capable of being to him. Out of a love so great that it led him to the cross, Jesus always showers us with mercy when we seek forgiveness —even when we believe we don’t deserve it.

When we think of our human experiences of love, forgiveness, and faithfulness, surely we consider our family members and closest friends, the ones who over the years have demonstrated to us what love and faithfulness can truly mean. But do we often consider how impossible it may be to define either of these terms without including a reference to the other?  What is love without faithfulness? Can faithfulness be inspired in someone who does not love? 

The story of Naomi and her daughter-in-law Ruth offers a beautiful illustration of how love is intertwined with the persistence and courage required of faithfulness. After both of her sons have died, the already widowed Naomi tries to send her daughters-in-law back home to their own families, where their prospects for new marriages—and, hence, survival—would be better. Naomi herself decides to leave Moab, where she has lived for years and where her sons had married, and to head home to Judah.  After she tells the young women of her decision, and pleads with them to return to their families, a tearful Orpah follows Naomi’s instructions and kisses her goodbye. Ruth, however, says, “Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die—there will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me and more as well, if even death parts me from you.” 

So, Naomi and Ruth travel on together to Bethlehem, from where Naomi and her husband Elimalech had originally come, arriving just as the barley harvest is underway.  Needing to provide for them, Ruth suggests to Naomi that she could join some of those harvesting in the fields and glean among the ears of grain left behind. Naomi gives Ruth her blessing, and the other harvesters are kind to her.  As it happens, a wealthy kinsman of Naomi’s husband Elimalech owns the field where Ruth is gleaning. Boaz arrives at the field and asks his servant in charge of the reapers who this strange young woman is, and he is told that she came with Naomi, that she has been working hard all day. 

From Boaz and from Naomi, we discover what family connection meant for faithful Jews in those days.  Learning the young woman is a distant member of his own family, Boaz instructs Ruth to stay in his field and to keep close to his young women, where she will be safe. When Ruth prostrates herself before Boaz and asks why she has found favor in his sight, he tells her, “All that you have done for your mother-in-law since the death of your husband has been fully told me...May the Lord reward you for your deeds.” He shares his food and water with Ruth and sends her back to Naomi with a bag full of grain. 

When Naomi learns of Boaz’s kindness to Ruth, she realizes that this may open an opportunity for Ruth. So, Naomi, who is still very concerned about Ruth’s future prospects, says, “My daughter, I need to seek some security for you, so that it may be well with you.” According to Jewish law, a male next-of-kin was required to marry the widow of one of his kinsmen, so Naomi tells Ruth what she needs to do in order to secure Boaz for her next husband. 

Considering all of the things Ruth might have wanted to say when she is told by Naomi that she must try to marry this stranger, an older man, Ruth’s actual words are evidence of the love and trust she holds for Naomi. She simply says, “All that you tell me, I will do.”

Boaz seems to be very touched by Ruth’s modesty and rightful claim, and he fulfills faithfully his obligation to her, first by making sure another man who is actually more closely related to Ruth’s deceased husband will not want to marry her using the “next of kin” rules. He goes into the city of Bethlehem to find this other man and asks a group of ten elders to observe their negotiations, not only over Ruth’s hand but also over a piece of land Elimalech had left behind. The other kinsman refuses both, relinquishing his “right of redemption” to Boaz. The witnesses confirm this transaction, sending Boaz off with their blessing, and Boaz returns home to follow through on the commitment he has made to both Ruth and Naomi. In his kindness, wisdom, and faithfulness to law and to family, Boaz proves himself to be a man of the highest principles. 

Now we come to the joyous last paragraph of today’s Old Testament lesson, when Ruth becomes the wife of Boaz and bears  a grandchild for Naomi, a son for Boaz named Obed, who will be the grandfather of King David. When we approach the end of Advent next month and draw with Mary and Joseph close to the manger in Bethlehem, the City of David, “to see these things that have come to pass,” let us remember the story of Ruth and Naomi, of their love and faithfulness. Let us, with Mary, ponder the birth of the one whose love and faithfulness will transcend all others’ and inspire the whole world down through the ages. 

Thanks be to God for the quiet and blessed graciousness of Naomi, Ruth, and Boaz.  Thanks be to God for their inspiring story of love and faithfulness fulfilled. As we pray to our Lord, who is ever faithful to us, let us be reminded of Ruth’s words to Naomi,  “Where you go, I will go.” AMEN.

Homily for October 28, 2018

“Son of God, have mercy on me!” So says blind Bartimaeus to Jesus from the side of the road. Jesus, accompanied by a large crowd of followers, stops in his tracks and asks the beggar, “What do you want me to do for you?” When the blind man responds, “My teacher, let me see again,” Jesus rewards his faith and grants Bartimaeus the restoration of his vision. We are told the formerly blind man joins the procession of Jesus’s followers. It may be that he is rejoicing with gratitude for the mercy he has received. 

Each of today’s lessons illustrates something about the joy any person might feel when he or she is the recipient of mercy. The prophet Jeremiah prepares the way for the people of Israel when he proclaims, “Sing aloud with gladness...give praise and say, ‘Save, O Lord, your people, the remnant of Israel.” Jeremiah also provides the Lord’s response to the peoples’ request: “See, I am going to bring them from the north, from the farthest parts of the earth, among them the blind and the lame, those with child and those in labor, a great company, they shall return here...and with consolations, I shall lead them back.’” We understand that at this point in the history of Israel, the people have been in exile for many years, largely because of their faithlessness and disobedience. Even so, it is clear that God wants to bring them home, to show them the graciousness of his abundant mercy. 

The writer of the Letter to the Hebrews reinforces the Lord’s willingness to rescue and save, as he did for Bartimaeus, any who put their faith in him. He suggests that Christ’s purpose in his status of “permanent priesthood” in heaven is always to intercede on our behalf: “Consequently, he is able for all time to save those who approach God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them.” 

I wonder if the people of Israel were able to believe they deserved God’s mercy? Do we ourselves trust that we have done enough to earn the Lord’s mercy?  Our guilt and shame may sometimes prevent us from believing we deserve forgiveness. Sadly, if truth be told, we don’t always believe others are worthy of our forgiveness, much less the mercy of the Lord. No wonder we have a hard time believing that we deserve forgiveness, especially from other persons we feel we have harmed. If our conscience bothers us, we may ask someone for forgiveness halfway believing we won’t receive it. What a joy it is when the other person does forgive us! That joy is the blessing of mercy.

I am reminded of the time when Corrie ten Boom was placed in the position of offering forgiveness and mercy to someone. You may have read or heard of her book, The Hiding Place, which tells the story of her Dutch family’s efforts to save Jews in Holland from the Nazi death camps. Although they were able to save many people, ultimately their hiding place was discovered, and Corrie and her family were taken to a German concentration camp, where her father and sister were killed by the Nazis. Corrie alone managed to survive, and in 1947 she returned to Germany to deliver a message of forgiveness to the Germans, a message she believed they sorely needed. 

As she herself told this story in 1972, Corrie said to the Germans assembled before her, “When we confess our sins, God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever.”  Just imagine how difficult it must have been for Corrie to say those words, to offer the hope of God’s loving mercy to the people whose nation was directly responsible for the deaths of so many innocent people, including her father and sister. Only her own great faith in God’s love and mercy could have enabled her to do that. 

After she delivered her message, the silent crowd dispersed, but one man came toward her. Corrie told what happened next in this way: “One moment, I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and crossbones...It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh overhead lights, the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes, the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin...”

“Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: ‘A fine message, fraulein! How good it is to know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!’”

What would I have done had I been in Corrie’s place? What would any of us have done if confronted in this way by someone we knew to be responsible for the deaths of our loved ones? I am sure I would not have had the courage to do what Corrie ten Boom did.

At first, she fumbled with her purse, looking down at her feet. Though the man did not appear to recognize her, he told her that he had been a guard at Ravensbruck, where Corrie and her sister were, but that after the war, he had become a Christian. He said, “I know God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Fraulein, will you forgive me?”

Even though she felt frozen in place, unable to raise her hand to grasp the hand of the man in front of her, Corrie ten Boom said she realized that “forgiveness is an act of the will,” not the heart. When she finally took the man’s hand in her own, something remarkable happened. She felt as if a current raced from her shoulder down her arm and into the “joined hands.” She felt the current as a healing warmth and she exclaimed, “I forgive you, brother! With all my heart!”

In that moment, Corrie ten Boom may very well have recalled the words of Jesus from the cross, when he prayed for those who crucified him: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”  Is this not what we refer to as “Amazing Grace”?

From the wayward children of Israel, from the ones who nailed Christ to the cross, we can learn that God is truly always more willing to grant us forgiveness and mercy than we ever are to ask for it. Even when we are too stubborn to do what we believe we ought to do to earn God’s favor, it is still available to us. Like the Nazi prison guard who sought forgiveness from Corrie ten Boom—and received it—we can put our faith in the lavish mercy of God. 

In this time of what has been called bitter division among the various groups in our country, mercy and forgiveness are much in need. We may not agree with one another on every issue, but as Christians, we are called to extend the hand of civility and friendship to each other. Laying our divisions aside, we can begin to find common ground in our love of Christ.

At his first inauguration, on March 4, 1861, just a month before the first shots of the Civil War were fired at Fort Sumter, Abraham Lincoln closed his inaugural address with these impassioned words: “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

The Christ we follow is a powerful and generous Lord, as blind Bartimaeus discovered. As the prophet Jeremiah reveals, our God rejoices in every opportunity to shower us with mercy. We pray that the better angels of our nature will enable us to receive the Lord’s mercy and offer it, along with our love, to our neighbors. AMEN.

S

To Serve

Homily for Sunday, September 30, 2018

Judgment and mercy. My fellow members of a Wednesday morning contemplative prayer group at Graves Chapel have been pondering together these fundamental concepts of our Christian faith. In our prayers of confession, we expect the judgment of God, but also hope for God’s loving mercy. Since our country’s earliest history, the Puritanical element in American Christianity has presented God’s judgment as harsh, unrelenting. The story of the Fall of Man, of Adam and Eve’s sin and subsequent expulsion  from Eden, is used as the primary example of human weakness and God’s punitive judgment. Contained in Genesis 3, this story of temptation,  disobedience, and judgment has cast a long shadow on human history.  Yet, how often has anyone pointed out to us the significance of one verse in that chapter? Genesis 3:21 has not had the emphasis it deserves,  but in this verse we see how God’s judgment, harsh as it may seem, is always tempered by mercy: “And the Lord God made garments of skins for the man and for his wife and clothed them.” We have been taught too much, it seems, about the wrath of God and not enough about God’s abiding mercy. Whenever we feel unworthy of mercy or unable to defend ourselves from harsh judgment, I hope we will remember a vision of the Lord God with needle and thread in hand, sewing garments for Adam and Eve.

The current Roman Catholic pope, Pope Francis, has said this about the effects in today’s world of harsh judgement: “We lack the actual concrete experience of mercy. The fragility of our era is this, too: we don’t believe there is a chance for redemption; for a hand to raise you up; for an embrace to save you, forgive you, pick you up, flood you with infinite, patient, indulgent love; to put you back on your feet. We need mercy.” [END QUOTE] If mercy is our world’s greatest need, we ought to consider what it means to move from righteous judgment to mercy. We are called to help others to find their way to such mercy. 

In Biblical terms, what does it mean to be a judge? Today’s lesson from Numbers 11 corresponds to an account recorded in Exodus 18; in both accounts, Moses is advised that he needs help dealing with all of the issues raised and disputes argued by the many people of Israel. Moses is asked to select seventy elders for this task. In the Exodus account, they are specifically called judges and are given the responsibility of hearing and settling cases brought before them. In today’s lesson from Numbers, what the elders do is called “prophesying.” Either way, we are meant to understand that they act with wisdom.  As we might say, the elders use their gifts of judgment in discerning what is right or wrong, fair or unfair as they guide the children of Israel.

“Use good judgment” may have been words of advice given to us by our parents when we were young. It was another way of saying “Use good sense” as we navigate the perils and choices of our lives.  Somehow the idea that each of us is called to use good judgment in making decisions about our own lives has been extended to a troubling tendency to feel we deserve the right to judge others.  This human tendency was clearly an issue in Jesus’s day; how many times did Our Lord instruct his followers, “Do not judge others unless you wish to be judged in the same way”?  We can also turn our apparent need to find fault with others on ourselves. Do you also hear that interior voice sometimes calling yourself “Stupid” or worse? Speaking (or just thinking) a harsh condemnation of myself or others may arise from my own feelings of failure. When we have been told too often how undeserving we are of God’s love, how can we begin to believe that we should expect mercy?

In today’s lesson from the Epistle of James, we hear of a more mutually loving approach to helping each other with our human failings. James writes,”...anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed.” Isn’t that an interesting idea—that sin is like a kind of illness from which we can be healed, with each other’s loving help and prayer? That sounds very different from the finger-pointing condemnation of sinners to eternal damnation that has, unfortunately, become part of our American religious culture. James, the brother of Jesus, calls us to hold each other accountable, yes, but as an act of love among equals.

What does Jesus himself say, in today’s lesson from Mark, about sin and judgment? One of his disciples asks him to judge the behavior of someone who was not an “official” follower but was casting out demons in the name of Jesus. You might think Jesus would have a harsh word of judgment for such an imposter, but instead he says, “Whoever is not against us, is for us.” In other words, if someone behaves with love and mercy for others, he behaves the way Jesus wants all his followers to behave. For Jesus, that is sufficient.  

In the verses preceding the ones in this lesson, Jesus has drawn a little child from the crowd and taken the child in his arms. As we have been told from the days of our own childhood, Jesus loves the little children. He also uses the idea of childhood as a metaphor for innocence, weakness, and vulnerability. Sometimes, instead of saying “little ones” when he refers to the most vulnerable members of society, Jesus uses the term, “the least of these.” The harsh words he did NOT use for the man casting out demons in his name, Jesus now uses for anyone who would hurt one of the vulnerable ones. He says, “If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea.” That condemnation may very well comprise the strongest words of judgment spoken by Our Lord. Being thrown into the sea with a millstone around our necks? There doesn’t seem to be any mercy in that judgment, and yet this harsh judgment is reserved for a particular type of sinner: anyone who would abuse or take advantage of someone as vulnerable as a child. 

Is that a reason for justice most of us could find acceptable? Let us recall now that the idea of judgment is closely tied to the term justice, although the two terms are NOT equivalent. Justice is what should follow rightful judgment; if the judgment is too harsh, then justice will not prevail. In the most beautiful and eloquent (at least in my ears) explanation in scripture of the Lord’s will for us, we find these words in Micah 6: 8: “He has told you, O Mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” How succinctly all three qualities are tied together in a way that illustrates the necessity of each: without humility and a love for kindness, how can any human offer fair judgment and dispense rightful justice ?  That love for kindness is exemplified, of course, in mercy. 

We are called, it would seem, to remove the stumbling blocks that our society places before the ones most beloved of Christ, the ones he called his little ones. We may ponder what it may take to remove those stumbling blocks as we move forward, but that is probably a sermon for another day. Even so, our own openness to the experience of God’s loving mercy is surely a blessing available to each of us. It can begin with gratitude.

The collect appointed for today reminds us of a reason for such gratitude, opening as it does with the words, “O God, you declare your almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity...” O, God... How helpful it could be to remember these words and deeply feel the mercy and pity of God!  AMEN.

Homily for September 30, 2018

Judgment and mercy. My fellow members of a Wednesday morning contemplative prayer group at Graves Chapel have been pondering together these fundamental concepts of our Christian faith. In our prayers of confession, we expect the judgment of God, but also hope for God’s loving mercy. Since our country’s earliest history, the Puritanical element in American Christianity has presented God’s judgment as harsh, unrelenting. The story of the Fall of Man, of Adam and Eve’s sin and subsequent expulsion  from Eden, is used as the primary example of human weakness and God’s punitive judgment. Contained in Genesis 3, this story of temptation,  disobedience, and judgment has cast a long shadow on human history.  Yet, how often has anyone pointed out to us the significance of one verse in that chapter? Genesis 3:21 has not had the emphasis it deserves,  but in this verse we see how God’s judgment, harsh as it may seem, is always tempered by mercy: “And the Lord God made garments of skins for the man and for his wife and clothed them.” We have been taught too much, it seems, about the wrath of God and not enough about God’s abiding mercy. Whenever we feel unworthy of mercy or unable to defend ourselves from harsh judgment, I hope we will remember a vision of the Lord God with needle and thread in hand, sewing garments for Adam and Eve.

The current Roman Catholic pope, Pope Francis, has said this about the effects in today’s world of harsh judgement: “We lack the actual concrete experience of mercy. The fragility of our era is this, too: we don’t believe there is a chance for redemption; for a hand to raise you up; for an embrace to save you, forgive you, pick you up, flood you with infinite, patient, indulgent love; to put you back on your feet. We need mercy.” [END QUOTE] If mercy is our world’s greatest need, we ought to consider what it means to move from righteous judgment to mercy. We are called to help others to find their way to such mercy. 

In Biblical terms, what does it mean to be a judge? Today’s lesson from Numbers 11 corresponds to an account recorded in Exodus 18; in both accounts, Moses is advised that he needs help dealing with all of the issues raised and disputes argued by the many people of Israel. Moses is asked to select seventy elders for this task. In the Exodus account, they are specifically called judges and are given the responsibility of hearing and settling cases brought before them. In today’s lesson from Numbers, what the elders do is called “prophesying.” Either way, we are meant to understand that they act with wisdom.  As we might say, the elders use their gifts of judgment in discerning what is right or wrong, fair or unfair as they guide the children of Israel.

“Use good judgment” may have been words of advice given to us by our parents when we were young. It was another way of saying “Use good sense” as we navigate the perils and choices of our lives.  Somehow the idea that each of us is called to use good judgment in making decisions about our own lives has been extended to a troubling tendency to feel we deserve the right to judge others.  This human tendency was clearly an issue in Jesus’s day; how many times did Our Lord instruct his followers, “Do not judge others unless you wish to be judged in the same way”?  We can also turn our apparent need to find fault with others on ourselves. Do you also hear that interior voice sometimes calling yourself “Stupid” or worse? Speaking (or just thinking) a harsh condemnation of myself or others may arise from my own feelings of failure. When we have been told too often how undeserving we are of God’s love, how can we begin to believe that we should expect mercy?

In today’s lesson from the Epistle of James, we hear of a more mutually loving approach to helping each other with our human failings. James writes,”...anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, so that you may be healed.” Isn’t that an interesting idea—that sin is like a kind of illness from which we can be healed, with each other’s loving help and prayer? That sounds very different from the finger-pointing condemnation of sinners to eternal damnation that has, unfortunately, become part of our American religious culture. James, the brother of Jesus, calls us to hold each other accountable, yes, but as an act of love among equals.

What does Jesus himself say, in today’s lesson from Mark, about sin and judgment? One of his disciples asks him to judge the behavior of someone who was not an “official” follower but was casting out demons in the name of Jesus. You might think Jesus would have a harsh word of judgment for such an imposter, but instead he says, “Whoever is not against us, is for us.” In other words, if someone behaves with love and mercy for others, he behaves the way Jesus wants all his followers to behave. For Jesus, that is sufficient.  

In the verses preceding the ones in this lesson, Jesus has drawn a little child from the crowd and taken the child in his arms. As we have been told from the days of our own childhood, Jesus loves the little children. He also uses the idea of childhood as a metaphor for innocence, weakness, and vulnerability. Sometimes, instead of saying “little ones” when he refers to the most vulnerable members of society, Jesus uses the term, “the least of these.” The harsh words he did NOT use for the man casting out demons in his name, Jesus now uses for anyone who would hurt one of the vulnerable ones. He says, “If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea.” That condemnation may very well comprise the strongest words of judgment spoken by Our Lord. Being thrown into the sea with a millstone around our necks? There doesn’t seem to be any mercy in that judgment, and yet this harsh judgment is reserved for a particular type of sinner: anyone who would abuse or take advantage of someone as vulnerable as a child. 

Is that a reason for justice most of us could find acceptable? Let us recall now that the idea of judgment is closely tied to the term justice, although the two terms are NOT equivalent. Justice is what should follow rightful judgment; if the judgment is too harsh, then justice will not prevail. In the most beautiful and eloquent (at least in my ears) explanation in scripture of the Lord’s will for us, we find these words in Micah 6: 8: “He has told you, O Mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” How succinctly all three qualities are tied together in a way that illustrates the necessity of each: without humility and a love for kindness, how can any human offer fair judgment and dispense rightful justice ?  That love for kindness is exemplified, of course, in mercy. 

We are called, it would seem, to remove the stumbling blocks that our society places before the ones most beloved of Christ, the ones he called his little ones. We may ponder what it may take to remove those stumbling blocks as we move forward, but that is probably a sermon for another day. Even so, our own openness to the experience of God’s loving mercy is surely a blessing available to each of us. It can begin with gratitude.

The collect appointed for today reminds us of a reason for such gratitude, opening as it does with the words, “O God, you declare your almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity...” O, God... How helpful it could be to remember these words and deeply feel the mercy and pity of God!  AMEN.

“Absalom, My Son, My Son”

“Absalom, My Son, My Son!”

Have you had an opportunity to see the documentary film about Mister Rogers, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” Since I watched that wonderful public television show with my son when he was a little boy, I very much wanted to go see the movie about dear Mister Rogers. I found myself crying through most of the film, and Dave admits to shedding a few tears himself.  “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood” depicted a community where everyone learned how to treat each other with polite kindness and sincere compassion. Whether they joined him on the show or watched from home, Mister Rogers helped children understand that sometimes we experience pain or confusion, but that such times of difficulty give us opportunities to show our love for one another in the ways we extend a helping and supportive hand.  Mister Rogers gave children the tools to deal with scary things, like illness or disability or the death of a much-loved pet.

I couldn’t help but think of Mister Rogers and his beloved community when I read the lesson today from Paul’s letter to the Church at Ephesus. He begins by saying, “Put away falsehood, let all of us speak the truth to our neighbors, for we are members of one another.” It seems that we are not simply bystanders in the lives of those nearest to us; no, as neighbors “we are members of one another.” Our neighbors are also our family, and I think the children of Mister Rogers’ “Neighborhood” understood that connection. Paul goes on to say, “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.”

Forgiving one another isn’t always easy, and sometimes that can be most difficult among members of a family. I’m sure many of us have heard stories of siblings who have had a falling out and haven’t spoken to each other for years. The perceived betrayal by someone we love can be harder to accept than the conflicts we experience with strangers.
Considering the sometimes irreparable rifts among family members, I find today’s Old Testament story of King David and his son Absalom truly remarkable and deeply moving. When he learns of his son’s death, David says words that could pierce any heart: “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!” If you don’t know the back story of this situation, I would like to share it with you so you can fully appreciate David’s loss—and his reaction to it.
By the time of the events in this story, David is an old man. Some years before, Absalom had murdered one of his half-brothers and was exiled. Even so, after three years, David forgave him and Absalom returned to Jerusalem. Then, over a four-year period, unbeknownst to his father, Absalom carried out a campaign to undermine his father’s authority among the people. Ultimately, Absalom gathered many followers and declared himself the king in his father’s place. David is compelled to flee with his army, and Absalom’s powerful force is set in opposition. At the point in today’s lesson from 2nd Samuel where our story begins, David’s generals Joab and Abishai have a plan to defeat Absalom and restore the kingdom to David. Even though his son has betrayed him in these truly egregious ways, David still instructs the generals to show mercy to Absalom, telling them: “Deal gently for my sake with the young man Absalom.” When he learns that Absalom has been killed, David grieves with all his heart.
Remarkable, isn’t it? In some ways it seems that David’s grief for his lost son foreshadows the events spoken of by Jesus in today’s gospel lesson. Jesus is a descendant of David, and the great king’s grief is enough to cover the generations. When the ones who oppose Jesus complain about him, they refer to his parentage: “Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he now say, ‘I have come down from heaven’?” Jesus contends that he is the son of the Heavenly Father and that he is the “bread of life.” “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” The righteous Jesus will be sacrificed for all of us, and his Heavenly Father, like Absalom’s father David, will have cause to grieve the death of a child.
On this day, the one-year anniversary of the events in downtown Charlottesville, how can we not reflect on the lives of all who were affected by the white supremacists’ rally that tore our city apart? I think of Susan Bro, whose daughter Heather Heyer was killed, mown down deliberately by a speeding car. Like King David, Susan Bro has experienced the excruciating grief of a parent who loses a child. So many people, old and young, were traumatized by the events of that day in downtown Charlottesville, and much healing still needs to happen. The authorities have prepared for anniversary events that may unfold today; I pray no one is hurt.
We should also not forget the mother of James Alex Fields, the driver of the car that struck and killed Heather Heyer. Even though her difficult son was the alleged perpetrator of a vicious crime, it seems he must have suffered from mental illness. She grieves, too, for a young and troubled son whose life has effectively been lost.
Now, in our nation, we are as divided, it seems, as were the opposing groups in Charlottesville last August. This past week, I had lunch with the woman I have always called “my little sister,” though we are not blood relatives. (Karen is also from Madison, and I’ve known her since we were both children.)  Unfortunately, Karen lost her only sister in a car accident when Sissy was just eighteen, so Karen’s parents have also suffered the grief of King David. Even though Karen and I are at this moment on opposite sides of the political divide, I love her and I must put our differences aside. As Mister Rogers and St. Paul have taught us, tenderhearted neighborliness comes first. Where did some of Mister Rogers’ wisdom come from? He once said, “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Fred Rogers was born in 1928, so during his lifetime there were many very scary things in the news. Still, his mother’s wisdom and his capacity for love prevailed—and serve as reminders to all of us. There are always brave and loving helpers to be found.
Paul closes his letter to the Ephesians with an injunction to model our lives after Jesus if we wish for lasting peace: “Therefore, be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.” We are all called to be “the helpers” to one another. Maybe when we don’t know what else to say, we can simply ask, “Won’t you be my neighbor?”
I pray that by the example of your love and mercy, O Lord, we will know how to live with our neighbors in loving kindness and peace, especially during these and all times of trouble.  Amen.

Homily for July 29, 2018

Homily for Sunday, July 29, 2018:  Good Shepherd and Graves Chapel

Warm hospitality… that is what we are being asked to consider through today’s lessons. Hospitality is not simply a sharing of food and drink among family and friends, though few things in life are better than such convivial sharing. Hospitality, we are reminded, is God’s gift to us and the Lord’s sign of blessing. We understand from the Old Testament prophet Elisha that the bountiful feeding of his people is the Lord God’s purpose and plan: “They shall eat and have some left!”

Will you please take a moment with me now to recall and then reflect upon a memory you have of a meal celebrated with family? Maybe a special holiday dinner comes to mind, or maybe a simple evening meal with your immediate family. I hope, like me, you find a smile beginning to warm your heart. Can you see the faces of the ones seated around the table with you? You may even remember each one’s customary seat. Can you hear the sounds of conversation and laughter? Can you see, maybe even smell the platters and bowls of good food being passed? If you have such happy memories, and I pray all of us do, reflect on what such a shared meal might represent in God’s kingdom. Is there a better metaphor for the Lord’s intimate and loving companionship with us than the experience of a family dinner? Commissioned by Our Lord at the last supper he shared with his closest friends, the Holy Eucharist—Holy Communion—is the profound outward and visible sign of the gift of loving intimacy we are invited to share with Our Lord and with one another.

The earliest Christian churches were house churches—meaning that services were held in the private homes of the members; maybe one particular home was established as the church base for a certain community. Imagine the kind of trust and love that must have prevailed among those members. After all, they lived in a time when Christians could be persecuted, even martyred, for their beliefs. If you were the host, having the courage to open your door to all who wished to attend a service, even newcomers, must have been fraught with anxiety. Yet, walking in the footsteps of the Lord, you understood that hospitality itself was the key to building a Christian community—and you opened your door. When Paul writes to the members of the church at Ephesus, he prays for their courage and steadfast faith. He says, “I pray that…he may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love.” “Rooted and grounded” by our faith, we are called to make the Lord’s love visible in this world by our own hospitable lovingkindness.
Hospitality was clearly important to Jesus during his ministry. Even before his ministry officially began, the first recorded miracle of Jesus occurred when he turned some water into wine at a family wedding in Cana—saving the host from embarrassment. Today’s story of the feeding of the multitude, 5000 people, recounts a miracle that is recorded in each of the four gospels. The context and the details of the miracle are important to our understanding of Christ’s expectations for the ministry of hospitality. At this point in his life, Jesus is feeling worn out. He has crossed the sea and climbed up a mountain with his disciples, hoping to have a respite from the desperate crowds that now follow him, seeking his blessing and, often, healing. Even so, when he sees the large group of people climbing the hillside toward him, Jesus knows he must not only welcome them, he must also provide some nourishment for them. He asks the disciples what food is available, and famously takes five barley loaves and two fish and turns them into enough food for all those people—with twelve baskets left over.
How does he manage this miracle? Jesus tells the people to sit down on the grass; in another of the gospel accounts, we are told he asks them to sit in small groups. Then, certainly with the assistance of the disciples, Jesus walks among the people, distributing the food until all are satisfied. He has welcomed them to a kind of dinner they can understand and enjoy together—a picnic on the lawn with those nearest to them. All who are hungry for what Jesus has to offer are fed. Is it any wonder that “When the people saw the sign that he had done, they began to say, ‘This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world’”?  Jesus simply disappears quietly when he realizes that the crowd wants to take him by force and make him king. Ruling over them with political power is NOT the objective of the Lord. He simply wants to provide for their human needs, including their need to believe in a loving God. For that reason, in the intimacy of the Last Supper, Jesus models for his disciples the way he wants them to “feed his sheep,” with a communion of bread and wine that reenacts his feeding of the multitude as it also serves as a reminder of his death on the cross—the ultimate sacrifice of his love.
With communion [or with a 5th Sunday dinner] we experience the intimacy of enjoying a feast with friends and family.  That comfortable feeling of hospitable togetherness would certainly have been at the root of the success of the early house churches. Yet, it can also be experienced at the largest of cathedrals. A few Sundays ago, Dave and I were in Washington and we worshipped that morning at the National Cathedral. That beautiful and imposing space, built with such majesty to the glory of God, also has its own feeling of warm hospitality, thanks to the people who serve there. When we went forward to receive communion, I asked for directions to the St. John Chapel, where we had been told priests would be present to offer the laying on of hands for healing. A kind usher guided us to the chapel, just to the right of the main altar. When we entered the chapel, we found three priests at separate stations, individually greeting those who had come for prayers and quietly praying for and with them. Dave and I moved to the back of a short line to await our turn.
When we were invited forward by a woman priest, we knelt before her, and I said we were there to pray for healing for our good friend Donna [who has had the 3rd recurrence of her cancer]. I will never forget the kindness and compassion of that priest as she placed her hands on our shoulders and quietly offered prayers for Donna and for all those who love Donna. We left the chapel and the cathedral with a feeling of great hope, the blessed assurance that all will truly be well with our friend. In that small chapel within a grand cathedral, we experienced the presence of our Lord through the loving words and kind hands of a priest.
By telling us that the bread and wine of communion are his own Body and Blood, Jesus provided a way for each of us, 2000 years after his life and ministry, to experience his gracious presence. We call this feast “communion” because we share it in community with each other and with the Lord, around a common table. As priest and theologian Richard Rohr has said, “More than a theological statement that requires intellectual assent, the Eucharist is an invitation to socially experience the shared presence of God, and to be present in an embodied way. Remember, within a Trinitarian worldview, everything comes down to relationship.” Whether we kneel together in solemn worship at the communion rail or sit on the grass at a family picnic, we can experience the Lord’s presence with us—and in each other.
[Whenever I am here in Graves Mill] I think often of large family dinners at  my grandmother’s house, of the many loving hands that prepared the food, of comfortable and comforting relationships. Of corn pudding, peach pickle, and pies of all varieties! Do we first learn how to love God from learning how to love one another? Or, is the ability to love implanted in us by a gracious and generous God? The beautiful words of Psalm 145 suggest that in and through God all things are possible: “The Lord is faithful in all his words/and merciful in all his deeds…The Lord upholds all who fall; he lifts up those who are bowed down…The eyes of all wait upon you, O Lord,/and you give them food in due season…You open wide your hand/and satisfy the needs of every living creature…The Lord is righteous in all his ways/and loving in all his works…The Lord is near to those who call upon him…”
Truly, the Lord IS always with us. It is simply up to us to recognize the Lord’s presence, to make ourselves fully present as we call upon God, as we seek the Lord’s face, as we serve the Lord in one another. It is with joy and reverence I now pray, “Be present with us, O Lord, in all of the ways we break bread together, in all of the ways we practice your gifts of hospitality. And be present with us, Lord, in our need.” AMEN.