My older daughter Sona was born on June 12, 2005. You hear this all the time, that the experience of becoming a parent is one that no book, no council of elders, no class can fully encompass: you have to live it to understand it. I won’t deign to understand the intensity and pain that Julie went through in labor and delivery, though I imagine the moms this morning can tell you some stories. What I remember of those first few hours and days after Sona’s birth was that car ride home. I think I drove, like, 4 miles an hour. And the whole time, I’m thinking, “Jesus, they’re in our lane! Move over! Slow down!” The hospital was 3 miles away from home, and I think it took an hour to make the trip. When we parked, I carried Sona in her bucket seat into the house. Julie whispered to her, “Welcome home.” And then she shut the door. Sona was awake but quiet. The house was musty and silent. And in that moment, as it dawned on me that we had this new creature in our home, I muttered to myself, “What fool thought it was a good idea to leave this child with us?”
I can’t help but wonder if Mary and Joseph felt something similarly when light broke that morning after their first child was born. Our crèche scenes and our paintings and sculptures of the Holy Family can shield us from the awesome sense of vulnerability that must have dawned on Jesus’ parents that morning: my God, we are responsible for this baby, the task is ours, and we are unmoored. Joseph and Mary were poor Jews living under Roman occupation, from a small village that held probably no more than 500 people. It’s a miracle that Mary survived her labor and delivery, as maternal death during childbirth was not uncommon in the ancient world. And then there’s the stark reality of infant mortality during this period: modern scholarship estimates that one in three children died in infancy in the time that Jesus was born. Even as she might be caressing her baby, Mary may have also been thinking, “Will it be too cold this winter? Will I be able to produce enough milk?” And Joseph might have wondered anxiously, “Will enough people want me to carve furniture or erect a shed? Will I be able to buy enough flour and oil for Mary to cook? Will I be able to escape being harassed and shaken down by Roman soldiers?” The Holy Family wasn’t especially protected from the fraught circumstances of life in the 1st century. They lived, like everyone else in Palestine, precarious lives. Every day was a day of risk, and so that morning, as day light poured into that mucky, manure-smelling barn, the question unvoiced but ever present in the minds of this young couple might have been something like mine in 2005: who left this child with us?
In the Gospel of John’s version we don’t actually get a birth narrative like we do in Luke. Instead, we get a prologue that describes Jesus in seemingly abstract terms: the Word, the Word with God, the Word as God. But John does tell us toward the end of that prologue that “the Word became flesh and lived among us.” Eugene Patterson’s version in The Message puts it this way: “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.” This is the extraordinary, unbelievable story of the Gospel, that God puts God’s very self at risk by moving into the neighborhood as a flesh and blood, fragile, vulnerable human being. God puts God’s self into the loving, caressing, trembling arms of a young Jewish teenager and her poor husband, this couple living such precarious lives, and it is this radical act of Emmanuel, God with us, God in the muck and danger of our world, God moving into the neighborhood, that moves the shepherds to wonder and to praise God in our Gospel lesson, and that moves John in his gospel to say that “we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.” Again, Peterson helps us discern the radical, risky act of God’s taking on human vulnerability: “We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like Son, generous inside and out, true from start to finish.”
What God shows us this Christmas morning is that God’s power is in the simple of transformative act of generosity, of solidarity, with God’s creation, a creation that is always at risk and in danger. And God tells us through this fragile child that is God incarnate, God with us, God as us, “I will put myself in the same kind of risk that my creation is in.” God leaves God’s self with us, and while we might wonder at such divine wisdom, we can also marvel at this act: if God is willing to be with us in our human fragility then there is nothing and no place, NO PLACE, where God isn’t willing to be with us.
And this promise, God with us, always, gives Mary and Joseph and you and me the capacity, the energy, the responsibility to do the work of Christmas each and every day, even as morning breaks in and we hold the vulnerable Christ child in our arms and keep him alive one more day. This work of Christmas is best summed up by a poem with this very title, “The Work of Christmas,” by civil rights leader and theologian Howard Thurman:
When the song of the angels is stilled
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the Kings and Princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flocks,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost
To heal the broken
To feed the hungry
To release the prisoner
To rebuild the nations
To bring peace among brothers and sisters
To make music in the heart.
Sisters and brothers, who left this child with us? God left this child with us, and because God left God’s self with us, the promise is here, now, and eternal: God will never leave us. And because God will never leave us, we are inspired, called, and challenged to care for God’s creation, to do the work of Christmas not just on December 25, but each and every day of our lives. May we, this day and always, care for the Christ child, God who risks it all, by recommitting ourselves this morning to the work of Christmas, to find the lost, heal the broken, feed the hungry, release prisoners, bring peace to all, and to make music hum in the heart of God and all of God’s children.
Joseph's Vulnerability-A Sermon by the Rev. Jim Lee (Advent IVA)
Lectionary readings
Brené Brown, a professor at the University of Houston and a leading researcher on shame and vulnerability, tells the story of an encounter with a man in a yellow golf jacket. At a book signing, a couple came up to Brown to get four books of hers signed, and as the wife turned to leave, the man said that he wanted to stay and ask Brown a question. He expressed to her how much he agreed with Brown’s research findings on shame, and of the importance to acknowledge and move past shame, to reach out and share stories. But, he wondered, where were the stories of men? When Brown explained that she only studied women, he muttered, “Well, that's convenient.” Then he went on to tell his story: “We [men] have shame, we have deep shame, but when we reach out and tell our stories, we get the emotional [bleep] beat out of us. And before you say anything about those mean fathers and those coaches and those brothers and those bully friends, my wife and three daughters, the ones who you just signed the books for, they had rather see me die on top of my white horse than have to watch me fall off.” Then this man turned and walked away. “In that moment,” Brown recalls of that evening, “I realized that men have their own stories and that if we’re going to find our way out of shame, it will be together.”
It is 2013, almost 2014, and as a culture we have come so far. We’re not there yet, but we have learned so much from our feminist sisters to embrace and live out the simple premise that women’s lives, stories, and contributions are worth hearing, sharing, rewarding. We’re not there yet, but we have learned so much from our LGBT sisters and brothers to embrace the diversity of sexual and gender identity as gifts from God, and I am so thankful to be part of a church that lives out this ongoing prophetic call, that those at God’s table need not be made up simply of straight men, but of all people whom God has created in God’s image. In December 2013, there is much to marvel at, just how far we’ve come.
And yet, there is also something in this morning’s Gospel lesson that reminds me that even in our complex, sophisticated, cosmopolitan world of the twenty-first century, something still rings true of that man in the yellow golf jacket who cannot voice his stories of shame, whose wife and children cannot bear to hear his deep vulnerability borne of shame. Shame is a universal experience, to be sure, and as Brené Brown has uncovered, the triggers for shame differ at times for women and for men. For a woman, shame is a sticky spiderweb of conflicting, competing expectations, of who she should be, what she should be, and how she should be. Tell me if you’ve heard this before: Be perfect, but make it look natural. Respond to every person’s needs, your children, your spouse, your parents, your boss, your coworkers, your friends. A real woman can have it all. For a man, the primary trigger for shame is the threat that he might be perceived as, or might think of himself, as weak. To be seen as soft, fearful, wrong, defective, to be ridiculed or criticized, are all ways that tell men that they are weak and not worthy of the love of their family and friends, of their coworkers, their supervisor, or their workers. Only strong men are real men. Brown tells another story—and before I tell it, I want to warn you all that I will be using a homophobic epithet. I use it because it is part of the story, but let me pause and say that I and Brené Brown both unequivocally repudiate this kind of homophobic language and its verbal violence. Brown tells the story of a young man in one of her classes who relayed how as a child he loved art—drawing, painting. When his uncle came to visit and saw this child’s art plastered on the refrigerator, he said to the father, “So what? You’re raising a f**got artist now?” That day was the last day this young man picked up a pencil, crayon or paintbrush. That day, a part of this young man’s soul died, and what replaced that part of his heart was this scar of shame that he carried into his adulthood.
In the honor/shame culture of the 1st century, Joseph knew very well how devastating the shadow of shame could be, for him and for Mary. It is a testament to his character that he planned to dismiss Mary quietly. Joseph could have turned what would have been a mark of shame on his identity as a Jewish man—his wife is pregnant but not with him—into an opportunity to project that shame onto Mary, to publicly disgrace her so as to maintain or regain his own sense of honor and manhood. But he doesn’t. There’s already a quiet dignity in Joseph. But that’s not enough. God wants more, and so what does God do? God meets Joseph where Joseph is most vulnerable: in his dreams. And in Joseph’s dream, God tells Joseph that God has a different dream, not only for Joseph but through Joseph for the world. And what does God’s dream look like? It goes something like this: “Joseph, I know this is scary, but there’s more to life than simply living out the same social expectations that leave women where they are, that leave men where they are. There’s more to life than trying to hide your weakness, to push down your fear, to let shame win again, and to let shame ruin so many lives. I know this is scary, but there’s a different way to live, where you live with your vulnerability and uncertainty and messiness, where you embrace all of that, and see what new thing happens.”
So when he awakes from his dream, this dream in which God reveals God’s dream, Joseph does just that: he decides to live differently. He casts aside the social conventions of honor/shame, between men and women, he marries Mary and he names and cares for the baby Jesus. God invited Joseph to step off the deadly wheel of shame that imprisons men and women, and Joseph did, and opened himself to a much more vulnerable way of being, but also a way of being that began to bring God’s dream into the world. Because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he modeled for Jesus a way of being open to others. Because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he taught Jesus that the meek would inherit the earth, that God is on the side of the poor. Because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he showed Jesus that no man should ever raise a hand or stone against a woman, that lepers should be embraced and not avoided, that a poor widow dropping two pennies in the offering plate touched God’s heart far more than the regular pledger, and that a father waits longingly for his lost son to come home so that he can embrace his child who has been found. And because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he gave Jesus the courage to say while he was dying, hanging on that Roman cross, that evil imperial form of execution, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.” Joseph awoke from his dream and gave up the pretense that real men needed to be strong and powerful and right and perfect, and instead opened himself to vulnerability. And when he did, he allowed God’s revolution to begin in the life and ministry of the child he named Jesus.
My sisters and brothers, this Advent season is about preparing ourselves for the God who comes to us as a helpless, vulnerable, poor child born in a stinky barn. This God asks us to strip away the stories that the world tells us we need to be, what we need to have, or else we should be ashamed of ourselves. This God asks you and me to give up the very stories that demand that we be real men or real women, so that we can open ourselves up to being authentic children of God. This God asks us to do something new. And when we do, when we awake from our dreams and begin to live out God’s dream, to be open, to be vulnerable, and to model this radical openness in our lives, then you and I will be ready to receive this child we call our savior, and to make Christmas the truly liberating event that it is: to turn the world upside down by daring to turn the human race into the human family.
Brené Brown, a professor at the University of Houston and a leading researcher on shame and vulnerability, tells the story of an encounter with a man in a yellow golf jacket. At a book signing, a couple came up to Brown to get four books of hers signed, and as the wife turned to leave, the man said that he wanted to stay and ask Brown a question. He expressed to her how much he agreed with Brown’s research findings on shame, and of the importance to acknowledge and move past shame, to reach out and share stories. But, he wondered, where were the stories of men? When Brown explained that she only studied women, he muttered, “Well, that's convenient.” Then he went on to tell his story: “We [men] have shame, we have deep shame, but when we reach out and tell our stories, we get the emotional [bleep] beat out of us. And before you say anything about those mean fathers and those coaches and those brothers and those bully friends, my wife and three daughters, the ones who you just signed the books for, they had rather see me die on top of my white horse than have to watch me fall off.” Then this man turned and walked away. “In that moment,” Brown recalls of that evening, “I realized that men have their own stories and that if we’re going to find our way out of shame, it will be together.”
It is 2013, almost 2014, and as a culture we have come so far. We’re not there yet, but we have learned so much from our feminist sisters to embrace and live out the simple premise that women’s lives, stories, and contributions are worth hearing, sharing, rewarding. We’re not there yet, but we have learned so much from our LGBT sisters and brothers to embrace the diversity of sexual and gender identity as gifts from God, and I am so thankful to be part of a church that lives out this ongoing prophetic call, that those at God’s table need not be made up simply of straight men, but of all people whom God has created in God’s image. In December 2013, there is much to marvel at, just how far we’ve come.
And yet, there is also something in this morning’s Gospel lesson that reminds me that even in our complex, sophisticated, cosmopolitan world of the twenty-first century, something still rings true of that man in the yellow golf jacket who cannot voice his stories of shame, whose wife and children cannot bear to hear his deep vulnerability borne of shame. Shame is a universal experience, to be sure, and as Brené Brown has uncovered, the triggers for shame differ at times for women and for men. For a woman, shame is a sticky spiderweb of conflicting, competing expectations, of who she should be, what she should be, and how she should be. Tell me if you’ve heard this before: Be perfect, but make it look natural. Respond to every person’s needs, your children, your spouse, your parents, your boss, your coworkers, your friends. A real woman can have it all. For a man, the primary trigger for shame is the threat that he might be perceived as, or might think of himself, as weak. To be seen as soft, fearful, wrong, defective, to be ridiculed or criticized, are all ways that tell men that they are weak and not worthy of the love of their family and friends, of their coworkers, their supervisor, or their workers. Only strong men are real men. Brown tells another story—and before I tell it, I want to warn you all that I will be using a homophobic epithet. I use it because it is part of the story, but let me pause and say that I and Brené Brown both unequivocally repudiate this kind of homophobic language and its verbal violence. Brown tells the story of a young man in one of her classes who relayed how as a child he loved art—drawing, painting. When his uncle came to visit and saw this child’s art plastered on the refrigerator, he said to the father, “So what? You’re raising a f**got artist now?” That day was the last day this young man picked up a pencil, crayon or paintbrush. That day, a part of this young man’s soul died, and what replaced that part of his heart was this scar of shame that he carried into his adulthood.
In the honor/shame culture of the 1st century, Joseph knew very well how devastating the shadow of shame could be, for him and for Mary. It is a testament to his character that he planned to dismiss Mary quietly. Joseph could have turned what would have been a mark of shame on his identity as a Jewish man—his wife is pregnant but not with him—into an opportunity to project that shame onto Mary, to publicly disgrace her so as to maintain or regain his own sense of honor and manhood. But he doesn’t. There’s already a quiet dignity in Joseph. But that’s not enough. God wants more, and so what does God do? God meets Joseph where Joseph is most vulnerable: in his dreams. And in Joseph’s dream, God tells Joseph that God has a different dream, not only for Joseph but through Joseph for the world. And what does God’s dream look like? It goes something like this: “Joseph, I know this is scary, but there’s more to life than simply living out the same social expectations that leave women where they are, that leave men where they are. There’s more to life than trying to hide your weakness, to push down your fear, to let shame win again, and to let shame ruin so many lives. I know this is scary, but there’s a different way to live, where you live with your vulnerability and uncertainty and messiness, where you embrace all of that, and see what new thing happens.”
So when he awakes from his dream, this dream in which God reveals God’s dream, Joseph does just that: he decides to live differently. He casts aside the social conventions of honor/shame, between men and women, he marries Mary and he names and cares for the baby Jesus. God invited Joseph to step off the deadly wheel of shame that imprisons men and women, and Joseph did, and opened himself to a much more vulnerable way of being, but also a way of being that began to bring God’s dream into the world. Because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he modeled for Jesus a way of being open to others. Because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he taught Jesus that the meek would inherit the earth, that God is on the side of the poor. Because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he showed Jesus that no man should ever raise a hand or stone against a woman, that lepers should be embraced and not avoided, that a poor widow dropping two pennies in the offering plate touched God’s heart far more than the regular pledger, and that a father waits longingly for his lost son to come home so that he can embrace his child who has been found. And because Joseph embraced vulnerability, he gave Jesus the courage to say while he was dying, hanging on that Roman cross, that evil imperial form of execution, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.” Joseph awoke from his dream and gave up the pretense that real men needed to be strong and powerful and right and perfect, and instead opened himself to vulnerability. And when he did, he allowed God’s revolution to begin in the life and ministry of the child he named Jesus.
My sisters and brothers, this Advent season is about preparing ourselves for the God who comes to us as a helpless, vulnerable, poor child born in a stinky barn. This God asks us to strip away the stories that the world tells us we need to be, what we need to have, or else we should be ashamed of ourselves. This God asks you and me to give up the very stories that demand that we be real men or real women, so that we can open ourselves up to being authentic children of God. This God asks us to do something new. And when we do, when we awake from our dreams and begin to live out God’s dream, to be open, to be vulnerable, and to model this radical openness in our lives, then you and I will be ready to receive this child we call our savior, and to make Christmas the truly liberating event that it is: to turn the world upside down by daring to turn the human race into the human family.
A Blue Christmas Sermon by Larry Budner
“Blue Christmas” sermon, December 15, 2013
Larry Budner
“I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I’m not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.”
Most of us recognize that famous opening line of the best Christmas special ever, “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” and many of us here today feel the same: everyone around is excited about Christmas, or at least happy anticipating how much they will enjoy Christmas after the stress of preparing for it; but the joy is lacking, and we feel out of step.
Some of us here may be in mourning, as we have lost several beloved members of the congregation recently, and others may be suffering from severe depression. However, even for these people, there can be an aspect of their reaction to the Christmas season that seems confusing and out of step.
Lucy, the amateur psychiatrist, tells Charlie Brown that what he needs is “involvement,” and gives him the directing role in the Christmas pageant. As a real psychiatrist, I think Lucy’s prescription is a bit premature.
I would have Charlie Brown look closely at his sentence, “I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.” The idea that there is one correct way which people are supposed to feel at this time of year is a source of great suffering to him: not only is he unhappy, but he believes that he is also a failure at the task of “getting into the Christmas spirit,” which makes him even more unhappy.
Charlie Brown’s experience illustrates an important part of how negative moods develop: we have negative feelings, and then our thoughts and judgments make our feelings worse. We think that we are no good, unlovable, and ineffectual. An important way in which therapists help people is by teaching them to pay attention to the present moment, non-judgmentally, to things as they are. Patients learn to just observe their moods, feelings, and thoughts, not holding on to negative judgments or insisting that things be different from what they are at that moment. Frequently, this relieves the suffering brought on by our own judgments, and lets new perspectives and new ways of engaging the world appear. It’s a tremendous relief when we can trust our gut feelings and instincts to choose a healthy path when the world around us isn’t leading us any place we really want to go.
A great example of this is when Charlie Brown’s heart goes out to the spindly, unattractive Christmas tree in the lot. He sees some potential there and decides to trust his instinct and buy it, instead of the shiny aluminum tree his friends are expecting him to bring back to the pageant.
Charlie Brown is a child who has endured loneliness, rejection, and negative judgments from his peers for much of his childhood. He has a great strength, though, which is his tremendous compassion and sensitivity to others who are rejected and isolated. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to recognize that Charlie Brown is taking care of a part of himself at the same time he chooses the rejected tree. He stands up to the ridicule of his peers because he has cared for himself; he has lived up to his highest values and made himself whole by refusing to be part of a system that judges by external appearance and creates groups of insiders and outsiders.
I would suggest that we quiet ourselves this season through prayer, meditation, listening to music, or any other way that works for you, so that you can see what surprising person or thing in the world draws your heart. I would like to suggest that you, also, trust yourself. It may be that your unhappiness is a symptom of depression, in which case medical or psychological treatment may be a gift from God. But it may also be true that unhappiness at this time of year reflects the deepest part of you, that part of your soul which is a part of God, telling you that things are not right, either within you or in the world around you. It could be that God is inviting you to be in touch with parts of yourself at are hidden away, rejected, hurt or vulnerable, and which need to be reconciled with the rest of you and with the world. It could also be that God is inviting you to be in touch with the parts of creation which are also suffering. There are many around us who are suffering from illness, loneliness, poverty, addictions, family problems, and feelings of meaninglessness and hopelessness.
Think of the great Christmas stories, as well, about people who were made whole when they allowed their heart to go out to things and people around them. Think of the Christmas gospel, and its message of hope for a people suffering under the heavy hand of empire. Think of Ebenezer Scrooge, whose interest in the crippled Tiny Tim came from his sense of his own crippled humanity, and the tiny remnant of compassion which he possessed by virtue of the great compassion showed him by his sister who loved him and rescued him from a mean father and loneliness at school. Think, even, of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, where little Cindy Lou Who, in her innocence and trust, awakens in the Grinch his own remnant of social relatedness underneath decades of isolation and mistrust.
Isn’t there something this season that grabs your attention? Something that arouses your compassion like the tree did to Charlie Brown? Perhaps this Christmas, you should stop trying to have the Christmas the world says you should have, and accept that a “Blue Christmas” may be an invitation and an opportunity. Maybe Lucy was right after all: what you need is involvement. For a little while, don’t try to change your emotions. Sit with them, pondering the paradox that whatever negative emotion you are experiencing may lead you a response which will bring you a measure of wholeness and peace. And then look around. You may have a chance to be a blessing and a Christmas miracle to those around you.
Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown, and thank you.
Amen.
Larry Budner
“I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus. Christmas is coming, but I’m not happy. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.”
Most of us recognize that famous opening line of the best Christmas special ever, “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” and many of us here today feel the same: everyone around is excited about Christmas, or at least happy anticipating how much they will enjoy Christmas after the stress of preparing for it; but the joy is lacking, and we feel out of step.
Some of us here may be in mourning, as we have lost several beloved members of the congregation recently, and others may be suffering from severe depression. However, even for these people, there can be an aspect of their reaction to the Christmas season that seems confusing and out of step.
Lucy, the amateur psychiatrist, tells Charlie Brown that what he needs is “involvement,” and gives him the directing role in the Christmas pageant. As a real psychiatrist, I think Lucy’s prescription is a bit premature.
I would have Charlie Brown look closely at his sentence, “I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.” The idea that there is one correct way which people are supposed to feel at this time of year is a source of great suffering to him: not only is he unhappy, but he believes that he is also a failure at the task of “getting into the Christmas spirit,” which makes him even more unhappy.
Charlie Brown’s experience illustrates an important part of how negative moods develop: we have negative feelings, and then our thoughts and judgments make our feelings worse. We think that we are no good, unlovable, and ineffectual. An important way in which therapists help people is by teaching them to pay attention to the present moment, non-judgmentally, to things as they are. Patients learn to just observe their moods, feelings, and thoughts, not holding on to negative judgments or insisting that things be different from what they are at that moment. Frequently, this relieves the suffering brought on by our own judgments, and lets new perspectives and new ways of engaging the world appear. It’s a tremendous relief when we can trust our gut feelings and instincts to choose a healthy path when the world around us isn’t leading us any place we really want to go.
A great example of this is when Charlie Brown’s heart goes out to the spindly, unattractive Christmas tree in the lot. He sees some potential there and decides to trust his instinct and buy it, instead of the shiny aluminum tree his friends are expecting him to bring back to the pageant.
Charlie Brown is a child who has endured loneliness, rejection, and negative judgments from his peers for much of his childhood. He has a great strength, though, which is his tremendous compassion and sensitivity to others who are rejected and isolated. It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to recognize that Charlie Brown is taking care of a part of himself at the same time he chooses the rejected tree. He stands up to the ridicule of his peers because he has cared for himself; he has lived up to his highest values and made himself whole by refusing to be part of a system that judges by external appearance and creates groups of insiders and outsiders.
I would suggest that we quiet ourselves this season through prayer, meditation, listening to music, or any other way that works for you, so that you can see what surprising person or thing in the world draws your heart. I would like to suggest that you, also, trust yourself. It may be that your unhappiness is a symptom of depression, in which case medical or psychological treatment may be a gift from God. But it may also be true that unhappiness at this time of year reflects the deepest part of you, that part of your soul which is a part of God, telling you that things are not right, either within you or in the world around you. It could be that God is inviting you to be in touch with parts of yourself at are hidden away, rejected, hurt or vulnerable, and which need to be reconciled with the rest of you and with the world. It could also be that God is inviting you to be in touch with the parts of creation which are also suffering. There are many around us who are suffering from illness, loneliness, poverty, addictions, family problems, and feelings of meaninglessness and hopelessness.
Think of the great Christmas stories, as well, about people who were made whole when they allowed their heart to go out to things and people around them. Think of the Christmas gospel, and its message of hope for a people suffering under the heavy hand of empire. Think of Ebenezer Scrooge, whose interest in the crippled Tiny Tim came from his sense of his own crippled humanity, and the tiny remnant of compassion which he possessed by virtue of the great compassion showed him by his sister who loved him and rescued him from a mean father and loneliness at school. Think, even, of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, where little Cindy Lou Who, in her innocence and trust, awakens in the Grinch his own remnant of social relatedness underneath decades of isolation and mistrust.
Isn’t there something this season that grabs your attention? Something that arouses your compassion like the tree did to Charlie Brown? Perhaps this Christmas, you should stop trying to have the Christmas the world says you should have, and accept that a “Blue Christmas” may be an invitation and an opportunity. Maybe Lucy was right after all: what you need is involvement. For a little while, don’t try to change your emotions. Sit with them, pondering the paradox that whatever negative emotion you are experiencing may lead you a response which will bring you a measure of wholeness and peace. And then look around. You may have a chance to be a blessing and a Christmas miracle to those around you.
Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown, and thank you.
Amen.
Advent & Christmas at Messiah
December 1
First Sunday of Advent
The Rector preaches at 8:00am and 10:15am.
The Rev. Jennifer Hughes preaches at 12:00pm.
Advent Family Workshop at 4:00pm
All invited to come and make Advent wreaths, bake cookies and do crafts for Christmas.
December 4, 11 & 18
Advent Morning Eucharist and Discussion at 6:30am
Service led by lay people. All are welcome. After the service people gather for breakfast and discussion.
December 8
Second Sunday of Advent
The Rector preaches at all services.
Advent Festival of Lessons & Carols at 6:00pm
This service features candlelight, readings, carols, and hymns, and is one of the most beautiful of all Anglican liturgies. After the service, a Victorian Christmas-themed reception will take place in the Parish Hall.
December 12
Guadalupe Service at 7:00pm
A bilingual service with red roses, candle procession and traditional Mexican music.
December 15
Third Sunday of Advent
The Rector preaches at 8:00am and 10:15am.
The Rev. Jennifer Hughes preaches at 12:00pm.
December 21
Las Posadas at 5:30pm
The Posadas re-enact Mary and Joseph’s cold and difficult journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem in search of shelter; in Spanish the word means “lodging.” Participants will sing, pray and walk to three homes and return to church for the conclusion. Refreshments and party follows.
December 22
Fourth Sunday of Advent
The Rev. Jim Lee preaches at 8:00am and 10:15am.
The Rector preaches at 12:00pm.
December 24
Christmas Eve Family Service at 4:00pm
A child-friendly service
re-enacting the nativity story. Children of all ages are welcome.
Choral Prelude at 9:15pm
Michelle Temple, harpist with the Pacific Symphony joins the choir led by Dr. David Sheridan in presenting Benjamin Britten’s beautiful piece, A Ceremony of Carols.
Festive Christmas Eve Eucharist at 10:00pm
A festive Eucharist. The Rector preaches.
December 25
Christmas Day Service at 10:00am
The Rev. Jim Lee preaches.
December 29
First Sunday after Christmas
The Rector preaches at all services.
Thanks and Giving - A Sermon by the Rev. Jim Lee (Thanksgiving C)
Lectionary readings
Last week, our nation remembered the 150th anniversary of President Abraham Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg, as well as the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. It is hard not to be awed, even haunted, by the 278 words that make up this historic speech, especially in the wan light of that horrific shooting in Dallas just 100 years later. Lincoln’s words seem not only to honor the war dead on that field in Pennsylvania, but for the one killed in Texas: “It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.” We know now what many in 1863 didn’t fully appreciate, how resonant these words would be to capture the spirit of what it means to live out our vocation as Americans, as people who live in this land, to strive to live out the better angels of our nature.
When Lincoln began his address with the famous words, “Fourscore and seven years ago out fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation,” he was tapping into an ancient Jewish practice of calling forth a recital, a rehearsal of the salvation story that marked the covenant between God and God’s people. Read the Hebrew scriptures, and you’ll see recitals punctuating the text, beginning often with that elliptical description of Israel’s patriarch Abraham, “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor.” This particular recital from Deuteronomy is read right before the start of the Jewish New Year and the Day of Atonement, as if to remind the people every year of their corporate identity, where they came from and where they might be going, and to renew their commitment to this identity, by retelling the ancient story that binds them together. It is a powerful story of God’s partnership with God’s people, of God witnessing the suffering of Israel, of God bringing the people into the land promised to that wandering Aramean centuries earlier. It is a story that Jews read while in prison camps in Babylon, and yes, a story even read while in the death camps in Poland and Germany.
For sure, there must have been years when those reading this recital and those listening to it must have wondered where God’s promise was, so deep was their suffering, so far the land of milk and honey seemed to be from their reality. And yet it is this dogged persistence within Judaism, this demand to read this story, to remind the people, to remind God, of the covenant made with their ancestor, that we see in Jesus’ invitation to his followers to work for the food that endures. Jesus knew, just as his fellow Jews generations earlier knew, that in the course of a community, of a family, of a person, there are years of abundance and years of poverty, times of celebration and times of mourning. There are days that feel and look just right, and there are days so dark that you and I wonder if morning will ever come. Jesus reminds you and me what this true bread that endures, this bread of life, is: the story, the recital, of God’s collaboration with God’s people in the work of redemption and liberation of all creation. Tell this story over and over, through thick or thin, through good times and bad, with full bellies or empty stomachs. Tell the story of the community, that will sustain the community not in spite of but especially when the chips are down.
When we tell this story, then our response is two fold: first, like the ancient Israelites, like Americans today, we respond with gratitude to the renewal of faith, God’s faith in us, our faith in God. We set our first fruits before God as a reminder that it is this relationship that is the true sustaining bread of life. Thanks. Second, we celebrate! We eat! We feast! We dance and sing. We drink. Some of us drink a wee bit too much! And with whom? “Together with the Levites and the aliens who reside among you”: we open our banquet for our families, those we love, and we open our tables and hearts to those we don’t know, those who are yet strange to us, those marginalized by our society, those who don’t feel like they belong. Giving. This response, this responsibility toward not just our own but to others, to whomever is the Other in our midst, is also how we partake in this enduring Bread of Life, because in doing so we enact the life-giving generosity of God, whose story we tell over and over.
President Lincoln knew something of this story, of this promise, of this response. 150 years ago, a month before he stepped onto the fields of Gettysburg, he penned a proclamation calling on the formation of a national holiday of Thanksgiving, which would eventually occur a few years after his assassination. In this proclamation, he writes of the bounties for which the American people should be grateful even in the midst of a calamitous civil war: “They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.” Gratitude. Thanks.
And what then should Americans do, how should they respond? Lincoln continues: “And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.” Giving.
When you and I tell the story of our community, when you and I recite God’s saving work in our lives, and when you and I respond by bringing into our midst the aliens who reside among us, then you and I will have begun to live out this day of Thanksgiving, not only as a day set aside, but a day that points to that community of freedom and courage that shall never perish from the earth.
Last week, our nation remembered the 150th anniversary of President Abraham Lincoln’s address at Gettysburg, as well as the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. It is hard not to be awed, even haunted, by the 278 words that make up this historic speech, especially in the wan light of that horrific shooting in Dallas just 100 years later. Lincoln’s words seem not only to honor the war dead on that field in Pennsylvania, but for the one killed in Texas: “It is for us the living rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation under God shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.” We know now what many in 1863 didn’t fully appreciate, how resonant these words would be to capture the spirit of what it means to live out our vocation as Americans, as people who live in this land, to strive to live out the better angels of our nature.
When Lincoln began his address with the famous words, “Fourscore and seven years ago out fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation,” he was tapping into an ancient Jewish practice of calling forth a recital, a rehearsal of the salvation story that marked the covenant between God and God’s people. Read the Hebrew scriptures, and you’ll see recitals punctuating the text, beginning often with that elliptical description of Israel’s patriarch Abraham, “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor.” This particular recital from Deuteronomy is read right before the start of the Jewish New Year and the Day of Atonement, as if to remind the people every year of their corporate identity, where they came from and where they might be going, and to renew their commitment to this identity, by retelling the ancient story that binds them together. It is a powerful story of God’s partnership with God’s people, of God witnessing the suffering of Israel, of God bringing the people into the land promised to that wandering Aramean centuries earlier. It is a story that Jews read while in prison camps in Babylon, and yes, a story even read while in the death camps in Poland and Germany.
For sure, there must have been years when those reading this recital and those listening to it must have wondered where God’s promise was, so deep was their suffering, so far the land of milk and honey seemed to be from their reality. And yet it is this dogged persistence within Judaism, this demand to read this story, to remind the people, to remind God, of the covenant made with their ancestor, that we see in Jesus’ invitation to his followers to work for the food that endures. Jesus knew, just as his fellow Jews generations earlier knew, that in the course of a community, of a family, of a person, there are years of abundance and years of poverty, times of celebration and times of mourning. There are days that feel and look just right, and there are days so dark that you and I wonder if morning will ever come. Jesus reminds you and me what this true bread that endures, this bread of life, is: the story, the recital, of God’s collaboration with God’s people in the work of redemption and liberation of all creation. Tell this story over and over, through thick or thin, through good times and bad, with full bellies or empty stomachs. Tell the story of the community, that will sustain the community not in spite of but especially when the chips are down.
When we tell this story, then our response is two fold: first, like the ancient Israelites, like Americans today, we respond with gratitude to the renewal of faith, God’s faith in us, our faith in God. We set our first fruits before God as a reminder that it is this relationship that is the true sustaining bread of life. Thanks. Second, we celebrate! We eat! We feast! We dance and sing. We drink. Some of us drink a wee bit too much! And with whom? “Together with the Levites and the aliens who reside among you”: we open our banquet for our families, those we love, and we open our tables and hearts to those we don’t know, those who are yet strange to us, those marginalized by our society, those who don’t feel like they belong. Giving. This response, this responsibility toward not just our own but to others, to whomever is the Other in our midst, is also how we partake in this enduring Bread of Life, because in doing so we enact the life-giving generosity of God, whose story we tell over and over.
President Lincoln knew something of this story, of this promise, of this response. 150 years ago, a month before he stepped onto the fields of Gettysburg, he penned a proclamation calling on the formation of a national holiday of Thanksgiving, which would eventually occur a few years after his assassination. In this proclamation, he writes of the bounties for which the American people should be grateful even in the midst of a calamitous civil war: “They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.” Gratitude. Thanks.
And what then should Americans do, how should they respond? Lincoln continues: “And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.” Giving.
When you and I tell the story of our community, when you and I recite God’s saving work in our lives, and when you and I respond by bringing into our midst the aliens who reside among us, then you and I will have begun to live out this day of Thanksgiving, not only as a day set aside, but a day that points to that community of freedom and courage that shall never perish from the earth.
A Sermon by the Rev. Ellen Hill (Proper 28C)
Sunday, November 17,2013
Proper 28C
Twenty-sixth Sunday after Pentecost
The Reverend Ellen R. Hill
Lectionary readings
Did you notice that the underlying theme of today’s lessons deals with the relationship between human responsibility and God’s promises and commandments? I think the place where that tension is the clearest is in the passage from the prophet Malachi. For the questions which are raised in the Old Testament lesson are the same questions which tend to nag at you and me today. Frankly, if you stop and think about it they’re the same basic questions which seem to appear as the sub-text of a good many of our Sunday morning scripture readings. Questions such as: Why evil people seem to prosper? Why tragedies so often happen to good people? Why some people have so much, while others are barely surviving. Questions which push us to ask ourselves why we should continue to believe that the universe is moral and the creation good in light of all the evil and crime present in our world. And if this God we say we believe in is a God who really cares about truth and righteousness and is all powerful then why does God let all of this go on year after year? What’s the point of being religious, of believing in God since God certainly doesn’t seem to have an eye on what’s happening in this world God created.
The Jews of the 5th century B.C. were asking those very same questions when the book of Malachi was written. They had just returned from exile in Babylon where they’d been held captive for several centuries. Even though they’d reestablished themselves in Israel things weren’t going very well. The people were feeling very uncomfortable about their relationship with God because they felt that God had failed to keep the covenant. The wicked and those who didn’t keep the law were not only going unpunished but they actually seemed to be prospering which is probably the reason why this Old Treatment book was written in the format of a lawsuit.
You see it’s really God who is in the dock this morning. And the summary of the whole passage says the same thing that we’ve heard over and over again: That those who’ve honored God, those who’ve lived according to God’s commandments will prosper. Unfortunately, that isn’t the way things usually seem to work out, at least not for many of us. That’s also the reason why we’re so often tempted to listen to that quiet voice within us which says that since it seems that the wicked are prospering we’re only being fools in not grabbing for ourselves all that we can like everyone else seems to be doing. I can’t help but think that it’s that mentality, that sense of disillusionment with our understanding of our covenantal relationship with God, that has contributed to the incredible number of ethics violations and criminal convictions that we’ve witnessed among our elected public officials. It’s hard to live your life in anticipation that on the Day of Judgement the righteous will be rewarded or to believe that there’s some Book of Life where your name is written down and your good deeds are noted when everyone else seems to be racing off on fabulous trips, driving expensive cars, buying exquisite clothes and moving from one beautiful house to another while you slog along and only seem to get further and further behind.
What the Old Testament lesson seems to be struggling with is whether people really do go unpunished. Whether they do, in fact, get off scot free. Whether God is as uncaring as God seems to be. Otherwise, why would God let good people suffer? Why would God make it seem that living a good and decent life is as meaningless and as much of a waste of time as it sometimes does? These questions aren’t just our questions or the questions of the 5th century Jews, these questions are humanity’s eternal questions.
Eli Wiesel tells a story in his book A Jew Today about a group of Jewish exiles who were left in the desert without food or water. One evening they collapsed with fatigue and four of them fell asleep but only three awoke. So the father dug a grave for his wife and he and the children recited the Kaddish, which is the Jewish prayer for the dead, and then they continued on their journey. At the end of the next day the three of them lay down for the night but only two of them awoke. So, the father dug a grave for his older son and recited the Kaddish with his remaining son and then they continued on their journey. When night came the old man and his son stretched out but in the morning only the father opened his eyes. After he had dug the grave and buried his last son, this is what he said to God: “Master of the Universe I know what you want. I understand what you’re doing. You want despair to overwhelm me. You want me to cease believing in You, to cease praying to You, to cease invoking your name, to cease glorifying and sanctifying it. Well I tell you NO! NO! A thousand times NO! You shall not succeed! In spite of me and in spite of you I shall shout the Kaddish, which is song of faith, for You and against You. This song You shall not still God of Israel!"
This story reminds us that to quarrel with God is really to pay God the supreme compliment. It means that you take God so seriously that you’re willing to argue with God. It means God’s important enough to be worth your anger for we simply don’t get angry at people or about things that aren’t important to us. That same kind of devout and steadfast faith has been repeated throughout history most recently in the death of camps of the Third Reich where God’s name was invoked in prayer and praise in the face of the gas chambers and the ovens of the crematoria.
So often our modern agony as believers arises from the tension of trying to live in a world which seems out of control, in a relationship with what we believe to be a good and powerful God, when the truth is that God often seems weak and victimized by the world. And if God isn’t weak and victimized, and is in fact all powerful, then God certainly can’t be good and must somehow be responsible for evil and must be called to account. Either God is the executioner at Auschwitz and Dresden and Hiroshima or God was a participant with the rest of the victims. You see there must have been a lot of righteous people who were killed at Nagasaki as well as Coventry. And the question is as fresh today in the debate about the drone strikes and poison gas.
Maybe it’s only by looking at God as a participant in the world’s suffering that we can begin to explain what otherwise seems like the profoundly deafening silence of God in the face of incredible evil. Perhaps part of the answer lies in the fact that there are righteous people scattered among the wicked in every community. And what we must remember as Christians is that even a minority of righteous persons can have a salvific effect on the greater community. Jesus Christ certainly proved that. For on that cross he was utterly alone, completely surrounded by evil doers and mockers, which is why as Christians we can’t all retreat to the safety and seclusion of a cloistered life. God has placed us squarely in the middle of evil and corrupt societies. And in those communities our very presence creates the possibility of new history.
We can see that in a small but powerful way right here in Santa Ana where this parish, as the Body of Christ, has for more than 30 years provided ministries to serve the poor, the homeless, the hungry and the discriminated against in this community. As a result of that action the Church of the Messiah has been a healing and transforming presence in this community. But you cannot reform a community unless you’re identified with it. And to be identified with it means you have to become one with it. So it seems that in the face of the complexity of our lives and the evil which seems to surround us on every side, all we can be sure of is our fundamental understanding that humanity in the end is saved by the lives of righteous persons which may, on occasion, entail sacrifice on our part.
Happiness and enjoyment aren’t the aim of life, spiritual growth is. Even though our faith tells us that this world, with it’s seemingly unjust suffering, isn’t the last word; it doesn’t help to soften the paradox of God’s seeming injustice here and now. For that same God, in whom we place our hope and who has the power and freedom to bestow grace, is also the same God who doesn’t prevent cancer cells from growing in the bodies of children or typhoons from killing thousands of innocent people.
That’s our major problem. The contrast between what we feel should be and what actually is. But if we look at the way Jesus answered questions like these in the Gospels we’ll see that he didn’t make those kind of distinctions. Once when he was asked why the wicked prospered he responded by pointing out that God made the sun to shine and the rain to fall on the just and the unjust alike. Most of us really do know that there is some randomness to life. Even though we don’t like to admit it we also know that the real question in life, and the ultimate question behind all of the questions in today’s lessons, isn’t really about unfairness or why bad things happen to good people. The real question is about our relationship with God.
When the disciples asked Jesus about life’s fairness he forced them to examine their own relationship to God. But that makes uncomfortable and just like those 5th century Jews when you and I find that God’s answers are confusing or frightening we’re tempted to look for answers someplace else. We’re tempted to look for a God who doesn’t demand repentance. A God who doesn’t allow tragedy and suffering to afflict the faithful. The only problem is that the idea that only good things happen to good people died on the same day we hung Jesus on that cross. Because in his act of dying Jesus asks us: Can you trust God in both joy and in pain? Can you let go of your demand that God to God on your terms? Can you love God without linking your love to the particular kind of cards that life deals you? For God’s love doesn’t carry any promises about good or bad except the promise that God won’t let anything worse happen to us than what happened to God’s own son.
That’s why we come to that table on Sundays. To be given the bread and the wine that are the body and blood of Jesus which was broken and spilled on our behalf. For through that act you and I remember and we honor the way that God has responded to our questions about the fairness of life in the gift of the Babe born in Bethlehem. For the way that we as Christians have dealt with the paradox of God’s seeming injustice and this enduring faith of ours has its roots deep in our Jewish heritage which was beautifully summed up by Eli Weisel when he wrote the following:
“There were many periods in our past when we had every right in the world to turn to God and say,‘Enough! Since you seem to approve of all these persecutions, all these outrages, have it Your way! Let Your world go on without Jews! Either You are our partner in history or you are not. If you are, do your share! If you are not we consider ourselves free of our commitment since you choose to break the covenant, so be it! And yet and yet we went on, believing, hoping, invoking God’s name. We did not give up on God! For this is the essence of being Jewish! Never to give up! Never to yield to despair! And so it must be for us as Christians as well! AMEN
Proper 28C
Twenty-sixth Sunday after Pentecost
The Reverend Ellen R. Hill
Lectionary readings
Did you notice that the underlying theme of today’s lessons deals with the relationship between human responsibility and God’s promises and commandments? I think the place where that tension is the clearest is in the passage from the prophet Malachi. For the questions which are raised in the Old Testament lesson are the same questions which tend to nag at you and me today. Frankly, if you stop and think about it they’re the same basic questions which seem to appear as the sub-text of a good many of our Sunday morning scripture readings. Questions such as: Why evil people seem to prosper? Why tragedies so often happen to good people? Why some people have so much, while others are barely surviving. Questions which push us to ask ourselves why we should continue to believe that the universe is moral and the creation good in light of all the evil and crime present in our world. And if this God we say we believe in is a God who really cares about truth and righteousness and is all powerful then why does God let all of this go on year after year? What’s the point of being religious, of believing in God since God certainly doesn’t seem to have an eye on what’s happening in this world God created.
The Jews of the 5th century B.C. were asking those very same questions when the book of Malachi was written. They had just returned from exile in Babylon where they’d been held captive for several centuries. Even though they’d reestablished themselves in Israel things weren’t going very well. The people were feeling very uncomfortable about their relationship with God because they felt that God had failed to keep the covenant. The wicked and those who didn’t keep the law were not only going unpunished but they actually seemed to be prospering which is probably the reason why this Old Treatment book was written in the format of a lawsuit.
You see it’s really God who is in the dock this morning. And the summary of the whole passage says the same thing that we’ve heard over and over again: That those who’ve honored God, those who’ve lived according to God’s commandments will prosper. Unfortunately, that isn’t the way things usually seem to work out, at least not for many of us. That’s also the reason why we’re so often tempted to listen to that quiet voice within us which says that since it seems that the wicked are prospering we’re only being fools in not grabbing for ourselves all that we can like everyone else seems to be doing. I can’t help but think that it’s that mentality, that sense of disillusionment with our understanding of our covenantal relationship with God, that has contributed to the incredible number of ethics violations and criminal convictions that we’ve witnessed among our elected public officials. It’s hard to live your life in anticipation that on the Day of Judgement the righteous will be rewarded or to believe that there’s some Book of Life where your name is written down and your good deeds are noted when everyone else seems to be racing off on fabulous trips, driving expensive cars, buying exquisite clothes and moving from one beautiful house to another while you slog along and only seem to get further and further behind.
What the Old Testament lesson seems to be struggling with is whether people really do go unpunished. Whether they do, in fact, get off scot free. Whether God is as uncaring as God seems to be. Otherwise, why would God let good people suffer? Why would God make it seem that living a good and decent life is as meaningless and as much of a waste of time as it sometimes does? These questions aren’t just our questions or the questions of the 5th century Jews, these questions are humanity’s eternal questions.
Eli Wiesel tells a story in his book A Jew Today about a group of Jewish exiles who were left in the desert without food or water. One evening they collapsed with fatigue and four of them fell asleep but only three awoke. So the father dug a grave for his wife and he and the children recited the Kaddish, which is the Jewish prayer for the dead, and then they continued on their journey. At the end of the next day the three of them lay down for the night but only two of them awoke. So, the father dug a grave for his older son and recited the Kaddish with his remaining son and then they continued on their journey. When night came the old man and his son stretched out but in the morning only the father opened his eyes. After he had dug the grave and buried his last son, this is what he said to God: “Master of the Universe I know what you want. I understand what you’re doing. You want despair to overwhelm me. You want me to cease believing in You, to cease praying to You, to cease invoking your name, to cease glorifying and sanctifying it. Well I tell you NO! NO! A thousand times NO! You shall not succeed! In spite of me and in spite of you I shall shout the Kaddish, which is song of faith, for You and against You. This song You shall not still God of Israel!"
This story reminds us that to quarrel with God is really to pay God the supreme compliment. It means that you take God so seriously that you’re willing to argue with God. It means God’s important enough to be worth your anger for we simply don’t get angry at people or about things that aren’t important to us. That same kind of devout and steadfast faith has been repeated throughout history most recently in the death of camps of the Third Reich where God’s name was invoked in prayer and praise in the face of the gas chambers and the ovens of the crematoria.
So often our modern agony as believers arises from the tension of trying to live in a world which seems out of control, in a relationship with what we believe to be a good and powerful God, when the truth is that God often seems weak and victimized by the world. And if God isn’t weak and victimized, and is in fact all powerful, then God certainly can’t be good and must somehow be responsible for evil and must be called to account. Either God is the executioner at Auschwitz and Dresden and Hiroshima or God was a participant with the rest of the victims. You see there must have been a lot of righteous people who were killed at Nagasaki as well as Coventry. And the question is as fresh today in the debate about the drone strikes and poison gas.
Maybe it’s only by looking at God as a participant in the world’s suffering that we can begin to explain what otherwise seems like the profoundly deafening silence of God in the face of incredible evil. Perhaps part of the answer lies in the fact that there are righteous people scattered among the wicked in every community. And what we must remember as Christians is that even a minority of righteous persons can have a salvific effect on the greater community. Jesus Christ certainly proved that. For on that cross he was utterly alone, completely surrounded by evil doers and mockers, which is why as Christians we can’t all retreat to the safety and seclusion of a cloistered life. God has placed us squarely in the middle of evil and corrupt societies. And in those communities our very presence creates the possibility of new history.
We can see that in a small but powerful way right here in Santa Ana where this parish, as the Body of Christ, has for more than 30 years provided ministries to serve the poor, the homeless, the hungry and the discriminated against in this community. As a result of that action the Church of the Messiah has been a healing and transforming presence in this community. But you cannot reform a community unless you’re identified with it. And to be identified with it means you have to become one with it. So it seems that in the face of the complexity of our lives and the evil which seems to surround us on every side, all we can be sure of is our fundamental understanding that humanity in the end is saved by the lives of righteous persons which may, on occasion, entail sacrifice on our part.
Happiness and enjoyment aren’t the aim of life, spiritual growth is. Even though our faith tells us that this world, with it’s seemingly unjust suffering, isn’t the last word; it doesn’t help to soften the paradox of God’s seeming injustice here and now. For that same God, in whom we place our hope and who has the power and freedom to bestow grace, is also the same God who doesn’t prevent cancer cells from growing in the bodies of children or typhoons from killing thousands of innocent people.
That’s our major problem. The contrast between what we feel should be and what actually is. But if we look at the way Jesus answered questions like these in the Gospels we’ll see that he didn’t make those kind of distinctions. Once when he was asked why the wicked prospered he responded by pointing out that God made the sun to shine and the rain to fall on the just and the unjust alike. Most of us really do know that there is some randomness to life. Even though we don’t like to admit it we also know that the real question in life, and the ultimate question behind all of the questions in today’s lessons, isn’t really about unfairness or why bad things happen to good people. The real question is about our relationship with God.
When the disciples asked Jesus about life’s fairness he forced them to examine their own relationship to God. But that makes uncomfortable and just like those 5th century Jews when you and I find that God’s answers are confusing or frightening we’re tempted to look for answers someplace else. We’re tempted to look for a God who doesn’t demand repentance. A God who doesn’t allow tragedy and suffering to afflict the faithful. The only problem is that the idea that only good things happen to good people died on the same day we hung Jesus on that cross. Because in his act of dying Jesus asks us: Can you trust God in both joy and in pain? Can you let go of your demand that God to God on your terms? Can you love God without linking your love to the particular kind of cards that life deals you? For God’s love doesn’t carry any promises about good or bad except the promise that God won’t let anything worse happen to us than what happened to God’s own son.
That’s why we come to that table on Sundays. To be given the bread and the wine that are the body and blood of Jesus which was broken and spilled on our behalf. For through that act you and I remember and we honor the way that God has responded to our questions about the fairness of life in the gift of the Babe born in Bethlehem. For the way that we as Christians have dealt with the paradox of God’s seeming injustice and this enduring faith of ours has its roots deep in our Jewish heritage which was beautifully summed up by Eli Weisel when he wrote the following:
“There were many periods in our past when we had every right in the world to turn to God and say,‘Enough! Since you seem to approve of all these persecutions, all these outrages, have it Your way! Let Your world go on without Jews! Either You are our partner in history or you are not. If you are, do your share! If you are not we consider ourselves free of our commitment since you choose to break the covenant, so be it! And yet and yet we went on, believing, hoping, invoking God’s name. We did not give up on God! For this is the essence of being Jewish! Never to give up! Never to yield to despair! And so it must be for us as Christians as well! AMEN
Prayer Is the Thread of Justice-A Sermon by the Rev. Jim Lee (Proper 24C)
Proper 24C
Lectionary readings
The late Japanese American author Hisaye Yamamoto wrote a short story some 60 years ago that featured a ten-year old Yoneko Hosoume who, on the night of March 10, 1933, became an atheist. That evening, an earthquake shook her family’s California farm, so the entire family ran from the house and sat through the temblor in a rhubarb patch. “Immediately on learning what all the commotion was about,” Yamamoto writes, “Yoneko began praying to God to end this violence. She entreated God, flattered Him, wheedled Him, commanded Him, but He did not listen to her at all—inexorably, the earth went on rumbling. After three solid hours of silent, desperate prayer, without any results whatsoever, Yoneko began to suspect that God was either powerless, callous, downright cruel, or nonexistent. In the murky night, under a strange moon wearing a pale ring of light, she decided upon the last as the most plausible theory.” All of us like to think that we’ve somehow moved beyond this childish understanding of prayer, of something like a divine telegram or email service to God, where millions, billions of little, relentless missives get sent up to some heavenly computer database, where God clicks on a mouse after hearing the message, “You’ve got prayer!” (That’s from a Jim Carrey and Morgan Freeman movie.) You and I like to imagine that we’re a bit more mindful and mature enough to know that prayer isn’t a clogged customer service line, that if we just keep praying eventually we’ll get through and God will ship our requests in two standard business days. (Though I will be the first to admit that whenever I step on a plane I do plead and bargain, asking God to keep the plane in the air. It’s not that much different from my high school petitions, “God, help me ace this exam and I promise to take out the garbage for a whole week without being asked!”)
There is of course in this morning’s gospel lesson something very much about the need to pray always, to not lose heart, to persevere and persist just as the protagonist of our parable does, the widow wearing down the crooked judge until he relents. But this parable is not principally about the oft-asked but brittle question, “Does prayer work?” but instead call us into the deeper question, how does prayer work? What does prayer do? Recall: widows in this era and place and its particularly brutal forms of patriarchy, without husband or sons, were rendered completely outside boundaries of social and economic security, often relegated to abject poverty and extreme vulnerability. Vulnerable, because without male protection, widows were profoundly alone, isolated, alienated, and thus usually in need of charity, care, protection from the cruel forces of their social worlds. But here’s the surprise, the reversal that is so often the case in Luke’s gospel: it is this woman, the widow, the one who is supposed to be the object of pity and charity, who arises and asks not for mere scraps and leftovers, but demands justice. And she cries out for justice not on the outskirts of town but rather in the very heart of power, the house of the judge so full of hubris that he is in his own way disconnected, isolated, from the life of the community. So here’s the stunning portrait of what prayer is: the 1 percent is confronted by the have-nots, the one who thinks he’s above it all locks eyes with the one who doesn’t have anything, not asking for pity but demanding justice and recognition of her innate dignity. And in demanding to be recognized, the widow has brought this judge also back into the community that he disdained. Justice is not only the recognition of the poor and the marginal; justice is also the recognition by the powerful that ultimately, finally, they are in same boat, this same mortal coil, as everyone else.
This then is why the question to ask about prayer is not whether or not it works, or whether God hears the prayers of God’s people, but rather how prayer works, what kind of work prayer does. Jesus reminds us that prayer is intimately connected to the work of justice, because prayer is the very thread that stitches the fabric of justice, that reminds you and me that we are deeply interconnected, and rebinds us into a single garment of destiny. Prayer might begin as a single call, perhaps the call of someone in isolating despair, of someone plunged into the deepest darkness, the most agonizing alienation: in the hospital room, in a prison cell, on the floor of a bathroom, in a dank alleyway. It can be alone on a weekday here at Messiah, or at the back of the church with a member of the intercessory prayer group, or with a group of dedicated folks who pray for those on our list every week. But when this prayer reaches the heart of God, God’s heart is moved to stir the hearts of God’s people to make room for this cry for justice and recognition. Like faith, each one of us might pray as individuals, but like faith, our prayers are not ours own, alone. At its core, prayer is the language that binds all of us to one another, to remind us to look upon one another and respond to one another as God looks and responds to us: as God’s beloved children, with whom God grieves when we suffer and with whom God rejoices when we are joyful. Prayer then might start from each of us, individually, but it ends with us praying as and in community, reminding us that there is no one outside the family of God, no one left behind and no one too high up.
At its heart then, what prayer does when we pray unceasingly, without losing heart, is to work ever more toward transforming the world to weave this garment of God’s justice. The prophetic Hasidic rabbi, Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched with Martin Luther King in Selma, Alabama in 1965 in support of the Voting Rights Act, said of his participation that he felt that he was praying with his feet. But of course, it wasn’t just his feet and King’s feet, but the thousands and thousands of feet who walked and marched and prayed for racial justice. It wasn’t just Heschel’s and King’s but the thousands and thousands of voices that sang and hands that clapped. It wasn’t just Heschel and King but 8000 others who walked with the audacious faith that through power of the Spirit spoken and sung, moving with them that spring morning, their prayers would bring ever more closer the beloved community that beat the heart of God by breaking down the walls that separated people from one another, that kept a widow and a judge from seeing in each other the indwelling of the divine. Later, Rabbi Heschel said this about this kind of prayer: “Prayer is meaningless unless it is subversive, unless it seeks to overthrow and to ruin the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism, falsehoods.” Prayer works because it reminds us of God’s words for us, God’s creation: you are, all of you, my beloved; be beloved to each other. At the end of that march, in Montgomery, Heschel heard King preach the prayer of the widow and of God’s response through God’s community praying together: “Somebody's asking, ‘When will the radiant star of hope be plunged against the nocturnal bosom of this lonely night, plucked from weary souls with chains of fear and the manacles of death? How long will justice be crucified, and truth bear it?’ I come to say to you this afternoon, however difficult the moment, however frustrating the hour, it will not be long, because ‘truth crushed to earth will rise again.’ How long? Not long, because ‘no lie can live forever.’ How long? Not long, because ‘you shall reap what you sow.’ How long? Not long, because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
Before you and I meet together at this table that God prepares for all, we will stand for the Prayers of the People. It is during this time that we are invited to offer our individual prayers, from the depths of our darkest despairs, our most intimate cries to God. And we bring them all together, collect them, and weave them together so that our prayers are not ours alone, but now prayers shared. And when we do, we pray with our feet and with our voices, our prayers become also our cries for justice, our stand in solidarity with the all those around God’s world who also cry out for justice and recognition. People of Messiah, these words, spoken aloud, whispered, uttered silently in our hearts, are the very words that will move mountains of oppression and despair, because these words enter God’s heart and in turn enter ours. May our prayers together, today, every day, always, stich our hearts together so tightly to God’s that when the widows of our lives coming knocking on our doors, crying out for recognition, we might all be ready to open the doors of our hearts, to beat the heart of God, and say to her, “Welcome home, sister, come. There’s a seat at the table just for you.”
Lectionary readings
The late Japanese American author Hisaye Yamamoto wrote a short story some 60 years ago that featured a ten-year old Yoneko Hosoume who, on the night of March 10, 1933, became an atheist. That evening, an earthquake shook her family’s California farm, so the entire family ran from the house and sat through the temblor in a rhubarb patch. “Immediately on learning what all the commotion was about,” Yamamoto writes, “Yoneko began praying to God to end this violence. She entreated God, flattered Him, wheedled Him, commanded Him, but He did not listen to her at all—inexorably, the earth went on rumbling. After three solid hours of silent, desperate prayer, without any results whatsoever, Yoneko began to suspect that God was either powerless, callous, downright cruel, or nonexistent. In the murky night, under a strange moon wearing a pale ring of light, she decided upon the last as the most plausible theory.” All of us like to think that we’ve somehow moved beyond this childish understanding of prayer, of something like a divine telegram or email service to God, where millions, billions of little, relentless missives get sent up to some heavenly computer database, where God clicks on a mouse after hearing the message, “You’ve got prayer!” (That’s from a Jim Carrey and Morgan Freeman movie.) You and I like to imagine that we’re a bit more mindful and mature enough to know that prayer isn’t a clogged customer service line, that if we just keep praying eventually we’ll get through and God will ship our requests in two standard business days. (Though I will be the first to admit that whenever I step on a plane I do plead and bargain, asking God to keep the plane in the air. It’s not that much different from my high school petitions, “God, help me ace this exam and I promise to take out the garbage for a whole week without being asked!”)
There is of course in this morning’s gospel lesson something very much about the need to pray always, to not lose heart, to persevere and persist just as the protagonist of our parable does, the widow wearing down the crooked judge until he relents. But this parable is not principally about the oft-asked but brittle question, “Does prayer work?” but instead call us into the deeper question, how does prayer work? What does prayer do? Recall: widows in this era and place and its particularly brutal forms of patriarchy, without husband or sons, were rendered completely outside boundaries of social and economic security, often relegated to abject poverty and extreme vulnerability. Vulnerable, because without male protection, widows were profoundly alone, isolated, alienated, and thus usually in need of charity, care, protection from the cruel forces of their social worlds. But here’s the surprise, the reversal that is so often the case in Luke’s gospel: it is this woman, the widow, the one who is supposed to be the object of pity and charity, who arises and asks not for mere scraps and leftovers, but demands justice. And she cries out for justice not on the outskirts of town but rather in the very heart of power, the house of the judge so full of hubris that he is in his own way disconnected, isolated, from the life of the community. So here’s the stunning portrait of what prayer is: the 1 percent is confronted by the have-nots, the one who thinks he’s above it all locks eyes with the one who doesn’t have anything, not asking for pity but demanding justice and recognition of her innate dignity. And in demanding to be recognized, the widow has brought this judge also back into the community that he disdained. Justice is not only the recognition of the poor and the marginal; justice is also the recognition by the powerful that ultimately, finally, they are in same boat, this same mortal coil, as everyone else.
This then is why the question to ask about prayer is not whether or not it works, or whether God hears the prayers of God’s people, but rather how prayer works, what kind of work prayer does. Jesus reminds us that prayer is intimately connected to the work of justice, because prayer is the very thread that stitches the fabric of justice, that reminds you and me that we are deeply interconnected, and rebinds us into a single garment of destiny. Prayer might begin as a single call, perhaps the call of someone in isolating despair, of someone plunged into the deepest darkness, the most agonizing alienation: in the hospital room, in a prison cell, on the floor of a bathroom, in a dank alleyway. It can be alone on a weekday here at Messiah, or at the back of the church with a member of the intercessory prayer group, or with a group of dedicated folks who pray for those on our list every week. But when this prayer reaches the heart of God, God’s heart is moved to stir the hearts of God’s people to make room for this cry for justice and recognition. Like faith, each one of us might pray as individuals, but like faith, our prayers are not ours own, alone. At its core, prayer is the language that binds all of us to one another, to remind us to look upon one another and respond to one another as God looks and responds to us: as God’s beloved children, with whom God grieves when we suffer and with whom God rejoices when we are joyful. Prayer then might start from each of us, individually, but it ends with us praying as and in community, reminding us that there is no one outside the family of God, no one left behind and no one too high up.
At its heart then, what prayer does when we pray unceasingly, without losing heart, is to work ever more toward transforming the world to weave this garment of God’s justice. The prophetic Hasidic rabbi, Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched with Martin Luther King in Selma, Alabama in 1965 in support of the Voting Rights Act, said of his participation that he felt that he was praying with his feet. But of course, it wasn’t just his feet and King’s feet, but the thousands and thousands of feet who walked and marched and prayed for racial justice. It wasn’t just Heschel’s and King’s but the thousands and thousands of voices that sang and hands that clapped. It wasn’t just Heschel and King but 8000 others who walked with the audacious faith that through power of the Spirit spoken and sung, moving with them that spring morning, their prayers would bring ever more closer the beloved community that beat the heart of God by breaking down the walls that separated people from one another, that kept a widow and a judge from seeing in each other the indwelling of the divine. Later, Rabbi Heschel said this about this kind of prayer: “Prayer is meaningless unless it is subversive, unless it seeks to overthrow and to ruin the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism, falsehoods.” Prayer works because it reminds us of God’s words for us, God’s creation: you are, all of you, my beloved; be beloved to each other. At the end of that march, in Montgomery, Heschel heard King preach the prayer of the widow and of God’s response through God’s community praying together: “Somebody's asking, ‘When will the radiant star of hope be plunged against the nocturnal bosom of this lonely night, plucked from weary souls with chains of fear and the manacles of death? How long will justice be crucified, and truth bear it?’ I come to say to you this afternoon, however difficult the moment, however frustrating the hour, it will not be long, because ‘truth crushed to earth will rise again.’ How long? Not long, because ‘no lie can live forever.’ How long? Not long, because ‘you shall reap what you sow.’ How long? Not long, because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
Before you and I meet together at this table that God prepares for all, we will stand for the Prayers of the People. It is during this time that we are invited to offer our individual prayers, from the depths of our darkest despairs, our most intimate cries to God. And we bring them all together, collect them, and weave them together so that our prayers are not ours alone, but now prayers shared. And when we do, we pray with our feet and with our voices, our prayers become also our cries for justice, our stand in solidarity with the all those around God’s world who also cry out for justice and recognition. People of Messiah, these words, spoken aloud, whispered, uttered silently in our hearts, are the very words that will move mountains of oppression and despair, because these words enter God’s heart and in turn enter ours. May our prayers together, today, every day, always, stich our hearts together so tightly to God’s that when the widows of our lives coming knocking on our doors, crying out for recognition, we might all be ready to open the doors of our hearts, to beat the heart of God, and say to her, “Welcome home, sister, come. There’s a seat at the table just for you.”
Stewardship Sunday-A Sermon by Nancy Whitehead (Proper 22C)
Lectionary readings
Today is officially Stewardship Sunday. Although you’ve heard some discussion about Stewardship over the last few weeks, today is the day Messiah officially sets aside to discuss Stewardship of our resources, our goals for the coming year and the financial commitment we are each making to the parish . Several weeks ago, Father Abel and I negotiated over who should preach today. A true testament to his negotiating skills is that originally I thought I had won. Only after I sat down to really write this homily, did I realized that perhaps I misjudged, and found out exactly how difficult this is.
The reality is that it is tough to discuss money in church. The trepidation which we all bring to this subject of money in church is deep seated and well founded. Although I was not raised in a church going family, the issue of money and church was part of my upbringing. Neither of my parents were religious or church going. Sundays were for sleeping in, late breakfasts and, in those days before we cared about skin cancer, sitting by the pool, at least here in Southern California. As far back as I can remember, my parents said that my sister and I could attend church anyplace and anytime we wanted to, so long as we got ourselves there and home and as long as they didn’t have to make any sort of financial contribution. My earliest memory of church is when I was about 3 or 4 years old, and my sister and I would walk down to the neighborhood little wooden church and go to Sunday school. I vividly remember the Bible story coloring books. It didn’t last long, and we stopped going, although I didn’t quite understand why. Later, my mother said that the church had told my folks that my sister and I couldn’t attend Sunday school unless my parents attended, and gave money to the church. As it was described to me , it became an “us” against “them” sort of situation, and we stopped attending. In my later childhood, I was told about the agoraphobic neighbor who stopped getting visits from the clergy person after she declined the offer to pledge. As an adult, I have heard similar stories which give a decidedly negative “us vs. them” view of church ‘s asking for money—the TV preachers who are always asking for money, and the family run ministry that mostly benefitted the members of the family—with limo rides and mansions. I’m sure you each have a similar story of your own. The theme of most of these stories is generally that the “church” only cares about your money. Often, there is an undercurrent of “what do they do with all the money, anyway” or “why is there so much focus on money? For the people telling these stories, there is a feeling of “us” vs. “them.” Now, I actually don’t know whether or not those stories from my childhood were true—did the little neighborhood church really kick out my 3 year old self because my parents wouldn’t give? Did the Episcopal priest of my hometown really stop visiting my housebound neighbor because she didn’t pledge? Although I actually don’t know whether these stories were factually true, I am absolutely certain that the stories and the perception of “us vs. them” when it comes to churches and money is reality for many people.
This year is my 23rd year as a pledging member of the Church of the Messiah, and probably my 28th year as a regular contributor to an Episcopal church. Each year, I prayerfully consider my pledge, and have continued to work toward tithing. As I was getting ready for this sermon, and thinking about why I give of my money and my time, I found myself going back to those earliest memories. I can clearly remember when that other view of the church and its requests for money was my reality. However, when I fast forward to today, the reality as to why I give to this Church, and my view as to why I am asked to give, are far different than the one I grew up with.
In the first lesson today, we heard Paul’s second letter to Timothy. Although there is some dispute about its origins, tradition says that this letter was written by Paul from prison, shortly before he died, and that it was the last letter he wrote. The letter overflows with love and gratitude for the people he is writing to. This could be written to us here at the Church of the Messiah, today—-
Imagine—you are kept away by some tragedy, and you are writing a letter to someone in Wednesday’s women, or to Men Seeking God, or the choir or any other group here at Messiah:
"I am grateful to God, when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you."
We could substitute any number of names of our multi generational congregation. But the sentiment is the same—a group of people, held together by love and faith, supporting those in and outside the community in good times and bad, through the grace that was given to us in Christ Jesus. One of the things I truly love about being part of this community for the length of time I have is knowing each person’s human story—here at Messiah, we really are allowed to be human, which means we don’t have to be perfect ,or pretend to be perfect. We can be who we really are. It helps me in my Christian journey to see the ups and downs that others have gone through, --the successes and failures, the births, the deaths, the tragedies and triumphs, and to still be able to see God’s grace in the midst of it all.
So, going back to my early childhood understanding of the reason churches ask for money—there was always some suspicion, or some sense that the churches have all the money they need. I don’t really know the situations in those other church. But, I intimately know the situation here, at the Church of the Messiah. Our clergy and staff do not take vows of poverty, and our building will not maintain itself. In order to do God’s work in this world, this parish needs funding. This funding comes only from the money we, as a parish, raise. Messiah does not currently receive any significant amount of money from investment income. We do not get any money from the diocese or from any other overseeing power. So, that means that all salaries, all expenses, all programs come from the money that we, as a parish, raise. If you really want to know—where does my money go? Or Why are they asking for money again? You can always look at the financial statements, which are posted on the bulletin board outside the office every month. You will see that every dollar spent is contained in the budget, from the amount spent on coffee for coffee hour to the Rector’s salary. And almost all of that comes from the money pledged during Stewardship. One of the goals of this year’s campaign is to be able to hire a full time associate rector or equivalent. There really is too much going on at this church for only one full time priest, even one as talented as Father Abel, so keep this important goal in mind as you make your pledge. You’ll be hearing more about this during the brunch after the service.
In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus asks the disciples
"Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from ploughing or tending sheep in the field, 'Come here at once and take your place at the table'?"
If you’re like me, when you read this passage, you put yourself in the place of the boss—the slave owner—and thought something like –well I hope that is what I would do—after all, aren’t we supposed to take care of those less fortunate? Aren’t we supposed to treat everyone with respect and dignity? I would be happy to have dinner with those who are working for me. So, it seems wrong somehow that Jesus is suggesting that this is not what would happen.
But, when I read the rest of the passage, I realized that I am not the slave owner at all. Jesus says, "Would you not rather say to the slave, 'Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink?' Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, 'We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done.'"
We have done only what we ought to have done. That is what we are called to do. What ought to be done. Whether that is giving of our financial resources, of our time, of our talents, we are called to do what ought to be done.
As many of you know, I had the pleasure and honor of serving as the chair of the discernment committee that resulted in Father Abel being called to be with us here. I used to joke that I was building up points in heaven, and I figured that the discernment committee experience gave me enough points for a lifetime. However, that is really not why I give Messiah my time and financial resources. It is not about building up points in heaven.
I give to Messiah because that is what I ought to do. It is not about a later reward. It is about trying to bring the Kingdom to this place, today. I believe that this parish, the Church of the Messiah, Santa Ana, has a special calling to be that place where everyone is welcome and to be a prophetic voice for justice. Whether you have been attending here for thirty years or thirty minutes, we as a community are called to show how a group of diverse people can actually work together, with grace and gratitude, to bring God’s kingdom a bit closer to reality. I believe that is what we are each called to do, and it is not about “Us” v “Them.” It is all Us. Amen.
Today is officially Stewardship Sunday. Although you’ve heard some discussion about Stewardship over the last few weeks, today is the day Messiah officially sets aside to discuss Stewardship of our resources, our goals for the coming year and the financial commitment we are each making to the parish . Several weeks ago, Father Abel and I negotiated over who should preach today. A true testament to his negotiating skills is that originally I thought I had won. Only after I sat down to really write this homily, did I realized that perhaps I misjudged, and found out exactly how difficult this is.
The reality is that it is tough to discuss money in church. The trepidation which we all bring to this subject of money in church is deep seated and well founded. Although I was not raised in a church going family, the issue of money and church was part of my upbringing. Neither of my parents were religious or church going. Sundays were for sleeping in, late breakfasts and, in those days before we cared about skin cancer, sitting by the pool, at least here in Southern California. As far back as I can remember, my parents said that my sister and I could attend church anyplace and anytime we wanted to, so long as we got ourselves there and home and as long as they didn’t have to make any sort of financial contribution. My earliest memory of church is when I was about 3 or 4 years old, and my sister and I would walk down to the neighborhood little wooden church and go to Sunday school. I vividly remember the Bible story coloring books. It didn’t last long, and we stopped going, although I didn’t quite understand why. Later, my mother said that the church had told my folks that my sister and I couldn’t attend Sunday school unless my parents attended, and gave money to the church. As it was described to me , it became an “us” against “them” sort of situation, and we stopped attending. In my later childhood, I was told about the agoraphobic neighbor who stopped getting visits from the clergy person after she declined the offer to pledge. As an adult, I have heard similar stories which give a decidedly negative “us vs. them” view of church ‘s asking for money—the TV preachers who are always asking for money, and the family run ministry that mostly benefitted the members of the family—with limo rides and mansions. I’m sure you each have a similar story of your own. The theme of most of these stories is generally that the “church” only cares about your money. Often, there is an undercurrent of “what do they do with all the money, anyway” or “why is there so much focus on money? For the people telling these stories, there is a feeling of “us” vs. “them.” Now, I actually don’t know whether or not those stories from my childhood were true—did the little neighborhood church really kick out my 3 year old self because my parents wouldn’t give? Did the Episcopal priest of my hometown really stop visiting my housebound neighbor because she didn’t pledge? Although I actually don’t know whether these stories were factually true, I am absolutely certain that the stories and the perception of “us vs. them” when it comes to churches and money is reality for many people.
This year is my 23rd year as a pledging member of the Church of the Messiah, and probably my 28th year as a regular contributor to an Episcopal church. Each year, I prayerfully consider my pledge, and have continued to work toward tithing. As I was getting ready for this sermon, and thinking about why I give of my money and my time, I found myself going back to those earliest memories. I can clearly remember when that other view of the church and its requests for money was my reality. However, when I fast forward to today, the reality as to why I give to this Church, and my view as to why I am asked to give, are far different than the one I grew up with.
In the first lesson today, we heard Paul’s second letter to Timothy. Although there is some dispute about its origins, tradition says that this letter was written by Paul from prison, shortly before he died, and that it was the last letter he wrote. The letter overflows with love and gratitude for the people he is writing to. This could be written to us here at the Church of the Messiah, today—-
Imagine—you are kept away by some tragedy, and you are writing a letter to someone in Wednesday’s women, or to Men Seeking God, or the choir or any other group here at Messiah:
"I am grateful to God, when I remember you constantly in my prayers night and day. I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you."
We could substitute any number of names of our multi generational congregation. But the sentiment is the same—a group of people, held together by love and faith, supporting those in and outside the community in good times and bad, through the grace that was given to us in Christ Jesus. One of the things I truly love about being part of this community for the length of time I have is knowing each person’s human story—here at Messiah, we really are allowed to be human, which means we don’t have to be perfect ,or pretend to be perfect. We can be who we really are. It helps me in my Christian journey to see the ups and downs that others have gone through, --the successes and failures, the births, the deaths, the tragedies and triumphs, and to still be able to see God’s grace in the midst of it all.
So, going back to my early childhood understanding of the reason churches ask for money—there was always some suspicion, or some sense that the churches have all the money they need. I don’t really know the situations in those other church. But, I intimately know the situation here, at the Church of the Messiah. Our clergy and staff do not take vows of poverty, and our building will not maintain itself. In order to do God’s work in this world, this parish needs funding. This funding comes only from the money we, as a parish, raise. Messiah does not currently receive any significant amount of money from investment income. We do not get any money from the diocese or from any other overseeing power. So, that means that all salaries, all expenses, all programs come from the money that we, as a parish, raise. If you really want to know—where does my money go? Or Why are they asking for money again? You can always look at the financial statements, which are posted on the bulletin board outside the office every month. You will see that every dollar spent is contained in the budget, from the amount spent on coffee for coffee hour to the Rector’s salary. And almost all of that comes from the money pledged during Stewardship. One of the goals of this year’s campaign is to be able to hire a full time associate rector or equivalent. There really is too much going on at this church for only one full time priest, even one as talented as Father Abel, so keep this important goal in mind as you make your pledge. You’ll be hearing more about this during the brunch after the service.
In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus asks the disciples
"Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from ploughing or tending sheep in the field, 'Come here at once and take your place at the table'?"
If you’re like me, when you read this passage, you put yourself in the place of the boss—the slave owner—and thought something like –well I hope that is what I would do—after all, aren’t we supposed to take care of those less fortunate? Aren’t we supposed to treat everyone with respect and dignity? I would be happy to have dinner with those who are working for me. So, it seems wrong somehow that Jesus is suggesting that this is not what would happen.
But, when I read the rest of the passage, I realized that I am not the slave owner at all. Jesus says, "Would you not rather say to the slave, 'Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink?' Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, 'We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done.'"
We have done only what we ought to have done. That is what we are called to do. What ought to be done. Whether that is giving of our financial resources, of our time, of our talents, we are called to do what ought to be done.
As many of you know, I had the pleasure and honor of serving as the chair of the discernment committee that resulted in Father Abel being called to be with us here. I used to joke that I was building up points in heaven, and I figured that the discernment committee experience gave me enough points for a lifetime. However, that is really not why I give Messiah my time and financial resources. It is not about building up points in heaven.
I give to Messiah because that is what I ought to do. It is not about a later reward. It is about trying to bring the Kingdom to this place, today. I believe that this parish, the Church of the Messiah, Santa Ana, has a special calling to be that place where everyone is welcome and to be a prophetic voice for justice. Whether you have been attending here for thirty years or thirty minutes, we as a community are called to show how a group of diverse people can actually work together, with grace and gratitude, to bring God’s kingdom a bit closer to reality. I believe that is what we are each called to do, and it is not about “Us” v “Them.” It is all Us. Amen.
Seeing Lazarus - A Sermon by Jim Lee (Proper 21C)
Lectionary readings
If you’re like me, you might be of two or more minds about this story that Luke has Jesus tell in our gospel lesson this morning. Or perhaps, maybe it’s not split minds, but split hearts that produce a tension in the response you and I might have to this story. On the one hand, there is this sense that our basic commitment to fairness, to justice, maybe to just desserts, has been accomplished in this story. Perhaps only those inclined to sociopathy actually enjoy seeing people suffer; none of us wants poor Lazarus to be so afflicted with poverty, illness, and alienation, and our hearts are healed to witness him in the lap of the great patriarch Abraham, who caresses him as a mother tends to her baby. Perhaps, if we’re honest with ourselves, you and I might even admit to a bit of schadenfreude, that German word that wonderfully expresses and codes its meaning in English – to derive pleasure from another’s misfortune. A rich man, whom Christian tradition calls Dives (which means “rich man” in Latin), has lived and enjoyed social privilege all his life, ignoring Lazarus lying at his doorstep. There is something in us as Americans, perhaps as human beings, to root for the underdog, to cheer when the spoiled rich get their comeuppance, when the down and out get a shot at wholeness and happiness.
On the other hand, there’s something in our US culture and psyche that makes me grieve a bit at Dives’ final lot: consigned to Hades, eternally in torment, father Abraham seems sorrowful at the fact that this chasm, this gap between Dives and Lazarus, between Hades and Abraham is too great to bridge. The story ends without redemption or transformation for the rich man, or for those of his kind. He doesn’t get to wake up like Ebenezer Scrooge does in Dickens’s novel, transformed, gleeful, ready to give away his wealth to Cratchit and especially Tiny Tim. We steeped in American culture love almost more than the rags-to-riches story the story of someone who learns the hard way that ultimately the accumulation of things doesn’t really hold the secret to life, but rather that what’s important is our attendance to our fellow human beings. We want conversion, we want redemption, we want transformation. But this morning, we’re left with tragedy. Yes, perhaps we have the justice that Mary was talking about at the beginning of Luke, where the lowly are lifted up and where the rich are sent away empty. But this ending still feels hollow. One person’s suffering is alleviated just as another’s is about to begin. If God’s justice is really about feeling delight in this passive kind of revenge, then you and I might wonder: is this the great good news promised to us by our Savior?
The Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. preached on this very passage five days before he was assassinated in 1968. In the following, King focuses on why the rich man finds himself in Hades, “Dives did not go to hell because he was rich; Dives didn't realize that his wealth was his opportunity. It was his opportunity to bridge the gulf that separated him from his brother, Lazarus. Dives went to hell because he passed by Lazarus every day and he never really saw him. He went to hell because he allowed his brother to become invisible. Dives went to hell because he maximized the minimum and minimized the maximum.” If I read King correctly here, then perhaps what this story reveals is not so much a warning to Jesus’ listeners, those in the 1st century, and you and me today, that the rich and wealthy will find themselves in some horrific hellfire of an afterlife. If I read his reading correctly, what King is suggesting is that Dives started creating his own hell the moment that he walked past Lazarus and couldn't see him as a brother, a fellow human being, and one who was clearly a human being in deep need. Dives didn’t go to hell after he died because of what he did or didn’t do on earth – minimizing the maximum and maximizing the minimum—no, Dives was already in hell when he died, a hell that looked, smelled and tasted fine because he had all the money and privilege in the world to make what he was doing look elegant and pretty, but really was building the hell that he wakes up into all too late.
This then is the tragedy that isn’t the end of the story, but rather the tragedy that begins the story that is revealed at the end of his life. The psalmist in Psalm 14 begins by saying “fools say to themselves, ‘there is no God.’” I think that Jesus is echoing the Psalmist by suggesting where God is in this story: fools say to themselves, I have no need for others. Or to put it in a different way: I have no need for those whom I consider the Other, those not like me, those whose lives are so different from mine that I cannot recognize the humanity, the divine spark, in them. What Jesus says through this story is that it is in this Other, this person whom we do not see, whom we do not want to see as God’s beloved, that God comes to us, where God dwells most presently, beckoning us to respond. For Dives, the destitute Lazarus was God coming as the Other; for some, Lazarus is someone with a disability or illness who threatens our fantasy of everlasting health and ablebodiedness. Lazarus is the one consigned to the margins of the social worlds that you and I inhabit and have built up: those pushed to the edges because of their sexuality, their race, their undocumented status, their particular faith or lack of it. Those whom we know dwell amongst us, but for one reason or another we cannot bring ourselves to bring around our table, but rather keep at arm’s length, their difference so great, their suffering so vast that we’d rather bunker up, close the door, so that we can keep up the pretense that the world that we have built just so will remain that way.
You see, God calls you and me to attend to and care for our poorer sisters and brothers, those in our community that have felt the pang of ostracism, not only because it is the just thing to do, not only because in doing so we alleviate individual and collective suffering—make no mistake, these are good things. God calls you and me to work for justice and dignity for all human beings, which means that we fight for shelter, food, healthcare, for those who have the least. But just as important, perhaps more importantly, you and I are called to look at, engage, and attend to the Lazaruses in our lives because when we truly see Lazarus for who he is—however and whoever Lazarus is in your and my life—then we will have emerged from our hells and begun to walk into the field of God. God comes to us as Lazarus, vulnerable, suffering, and in doing so invites us to tend and care, not just to help the less fortunate, but to transform our hearts into the heart of God. We don’t need Lazarus resurrected to prove to us that this is what God’s realm looks like: Abraham tell Dives that his family should look to Moses and the prophets. And if you and I do so, when you and I embrace what the prophets proclaim, then we will have experienced what Dives unfortunately never does: what Lutheran priest and author Nadia Bolz-Weber, riffing off the prophet Jeremiah, calls a “divine heart transplant,” where God takes our hearts of stone, hearts of stone created by the idolatries of wealth, accumulation, the false sense of fear and security, and replaces them with hearts of flesh that beat for God’s people and for God who comes to us as Lazarus.
The late great poet Audre Lorde once addressed a group of feminist activists and concluded her speech with the following: “I urge each one of us here to reach down into that deep place of knowledge inside herself and touch that terror and loathing of any difference that lives there. See whose face it wears.” Jesus invites you and me to meet Lazarus at our doorsteps, the ones under our noses that we have trouble seeing, and beckons us to see in the one in front of us suffering the God who suffers with and as Lazarus. Jesus calls us to come out of the hells of our self-imposed alienation, our gated communities and gated hearts, so that we can beat warm hearts of flesh to help heal God’s beautiful broken world, and to heal our beautiful broken selves. Like Moses and the prophets, Jesus implores us to undergo divine heart transplants so that as we care for all the Lazaruses in our lives, we might all find ourselves in Abraham’s bosom, on earth as it is in heaven.
If you’re like me, you might be of two or more minds about this story that Luke has Jesus tell in our gospel lesson this morning. Or perhaps, maybe it’s not split minds, but split hearts that produce a tension in the response you and I might have to this story. On the one hand, there is this sense that our basic commitment to fairness, to justice, maybe to just desserts, has been accomplished in this story. Perhaps only those inclined to sociopathy actually enjoy seeing people suffer; none of us wants poor Lazarus to be so afflicted with poverty, illness, and alienation, and our hearts are healed to witness him in the lap of the great patriarch Abraham, who caresses him as a mother tends to her baby. Perhaps, if we’re honest with ourselves, you and I might even admit to a bit of schadenfreude, that German word that wonderfully expresses and codes its meaning in English – to derive pleasure from another’s misfortune. A rich man, whom Christian tradition calls Dives (which means “rich man” in Latin), has lived and enjoyed social privilege all his life, ignoring Lazarus lying at his doorstep. There is something in us as Americans, perhaps as human beings, to root for the underdog, to cheer when the spoiled rich get their comeuppance, when the down and out get a shot at wholeness and happiness.
On the other hand, there’s something in our US culture and psyche that makes me grieve a bit at Dives’ final lot: consigned to Hades, eternally in torment, father Abraham seems sorrowful at the fact that this chasm, this gap between Dives and Lazarus, between Hades and Abraham is too great to bridge. The story ends without redemption or transformation for the rich man, or for those of his kind. He doesn’t get to wake up like Ebenezer Scrooge does in Dickens’s novel, transformed, gleeful, ready to give away his wealth to Cratchit and especially Tiny Tim. We steeped in American culture love almost more than the rags-to-riches story the story of someone who learns the hard way that ultimately the accumulation of things doesn’t really hold the secret to life, but rather that what’s important is our attendance to our fellow human beings. We want conversion, we want redemption, we want transformation. But this morning, we’re left with tragedy. Yes, perhaps we have the justice that Mary was talking about at the beginning of Luke, where the lowly are lifted up and where the rich are sent away empty. But this ending still feels hollow. One person’s suffering is alleviated just as another’s is about to begin. If God’s justice is really about feeling delight in this passive kind of revenge, then you and I might wonder: is this the great good news promised to us by our Savior?
The Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. preached on this very passage five days before he was assassinated in 1968. In the following, King focuses on why the rich man finds himself in Hades, “Dives did not go to hell because he was rich; Dives didn't realize that his wealth was his opportunity. It was his opportunity to bridge the gulf that separated him from his brother, Lazarus. Dives went to hell because he passed by Lazarus every day and he never really saw him. He went to hell because he allowed his brother to become invisible. Dives went to hell because he maximized the minimum and minimized the maximum.” If I read King correctly here, then perhaps what this story reveals is not so much a warning to Jesus’ listeners, those in the 1st century, and you and me today, that the rich and wealthy will find themselves in some horrific hellfire of an afterlife. If I read his reading correctly, what King is suggesting is that Dives started creating his own hell the moment that he walked past Lazarus and couldn't see him as a brother, a fellow human being, and one who was clearly a human being in deep need. Dives didn’t go to hell after he died because of what he did or didn’t do on earth – minimizing the maximum and maximizing the minimum—no, Dives was already in hell when he died, a hell that looked, smelled and tasted fine because he had all the money and privilege in the world to make what he was doing look elegant and pretty, but really was building the hell that he wakes up into all too late.
This then is the tragedy that isn’t the end of the story, but rather the tragedy that begins the story that is revealed at the end of his life. The psalmist in Psalm 14 begins by saying “fools say to themselves, ‘there is no God.’” I think that Jesus is echoing the Psalmist by suggesting where God is in this story: fools say to themselves, I have no need for others. Or to put it in a different way: I have no need for those whom I consider the Other, those not like me, those whose lives are so different from mine that I cannot recognize the humanity, the divine spark, in them. What Jesus says through this story is that it is in this Other, this person whom we do not see, whom we do not want to see as God’s beloved, that God comes to us, where God dwells most presently, beckoning us to respond. For Dives, the destitute Lazarus was God coming as the Other; for some, Lazarus is someone with a disability or illness who threatens our fantasy of everlasting health and ablebodiedness. Lazarus is the one consigned to the margins of the social worlds that you and I inhabit and have built up: those pushed to the edges because of their sexuality, their race, their undocumented status, their particular faith or lack of it. Those whom we know dwell amongst us, but for one reason or another we cannot bring ourselves to bring around our table, but rather keep at arm’s length, their difference so great, their suffering so vast that we’d rather bunker up, close the door, so that we can keep up the pretense that the world that we have built just so will remain that way.
You see, God calls you and me to attend to and care for our poorer sisters and brothers, those in our community that have felt the pang of ostracism, not only because it is the just thing to do, not only because in doing so we alleviate individual and collective suffering—make no mistake, these are good things. God calls you and me to work for justice and dignity for all human beings, which means that we fight for shelter, food, healthcare, for those who have the least. But just as important, perhaps more importantly, you and I are called to look at, engage, and attend to the Lazaruses in our lives because when we truly see Lazarus for who he is—however and whoever Lazarus is in your and my life—then we will have emerged from our hells and begun to walk into the field of God. God comes to us as Lazarus, vulnerable, suffering, and in doing so invites us to tend and care, not just to help the less fortunate, but to transform our hearts into the heart of God. We don’t need Lazarus resurrected to prove to us that this is what God’s realm looks like: Abraham tell Dives that his family should look to Moses and the prophets. And if you and I do so, when you and I embrace what the prophets proclaim, then we will have experienced what Dives unfortunately never does: what Lutheran priest and author Nadia Bolz-Weber, riffing off the prophet Jeremiah, calls a “divine heart transplant,” where God takes our hearts of stone, hearts of stone created by the idolatries of wealth, accumulation, the false sense of fear and security, and replaces them with hearts of flesh that beat for God’s people and for God who comes to us as Lazarus.
The late great poet Audre Lorde once addressed a group of feminist activists and concluded her speech with the following: “I urge each one of us here to reach down into that deep place of knowledge inside herself and touch that terror and loathing of any difference that lives there. See whose face it wears.” Jesus invites you and me to meet Lazarus at our doorsteps, the ones under our noses that we have trouble seeing, and beckons us to see in the one in front of us suffering the God who suffers with and as Lazarus. Jesus calls us to come out of the hells of our self-imposed alienation, our gated communities and gated hearts, so that we can beat warm hearts of flesh to help heal God’s beautiful broken world, and to heal our beautiful broken selves. Like Moses and the prophets, Jesus implores us to undergo divine heart transplants so that as we care for all the Lazaruses in our lives, we might all find ourselves in Abraham’s bosom, on earth as it is in heaven.
Abel Lopez’s Installation as Rector of Messiah, Santa Ana, California-A Sermon by the Rev. Ed Bacon, rector of All Saints Church, Pasadena
Good morning everyone!
My sisters and brothers, we have come together this morning for a Love Fest. A Love Fest on many levels. Many of us are here because we love Abel Lopez, finding him one of the greatest priests God has ever ordained to the priesthood. Many of us are here because of our love for The Church of the Messiah, Santa Ana, and its magnificent mission in Orange County. All of us are here because of the love of God – we love God and God’s love for us has taught us that every church is God’s favorite church. God desperately needs every church, every faith community to be as healthy as it possibly can be. It is in the best interests of All Saints Church, Pasadena, for Messiah, Santa Ana to be as healthy as it can be and it is in the best interests of Messiah, Santa Ana, for All Saints Church, Pasadena and all other faith communities to be as healthy as they can be.
It is because of my love of God and my understanding that we are all in this thing together, that I as rector of All Saints, Pasadena, have been able to forgive Messiah, Santa Ana for coming to Pasadena and stealing from us one of the finest priests ever ordained. Love always forgives.
Now, in the vernacular of the Episcopal Church, we are here to “install” Abel Lopez as the 13th rector of this outstanding church. There are skeptical wags both in and outside the church who make fun of our use of the word, “install,” in this circumstance. “What do you all do in the Episcopal Church?” my sarcastic friends ask. “Install priest like they were appliances? Like you install a dishwasher or a stove or a refrigerator? Then you plug them in and expect them to wash, cook, and chill for you?”
But in the wisdom of the Book of Common Prayer, this liturgy is formally called, “The Celebration of a New Ministry.” And the new ministry we are celebrating this morning is not just the ministry of Abel Lopez; it is the ministry of all the people of Messiah, Santa Ana, because there never has been a priest who had a fruit-bearing ministry who tried to do ministry by herself or himself. This is a faith community above everything else. This community is called into ministry. There never was a church which had a fruit-bearing ministry who didn’t have as many people in the church – including the oldest members and the youngest members – on mission and in gear with their vocations.
Now two words about this business of vocation and ministry.
The happiest and most fruitful members of any church are those who are doing what God is calling them to do in life. Vocation comes from the word, vocare, meaning “call.” Your vocation, even if you are a physician is not working in a leper colony if you hate that kind of work. Conversely, your vocation is not writing advertisements for the fuzzy dice you can hang from your rear view mirror because the world’s deep needs do not include fuzzy dice.
No. Your vocation is where your deep joys and the world’s deep needs meet. (This definition comes from the Rev. Frederick Buechner.) I have a dear friend who was practicing real estate law and was sinking deeper and deeper into depression. The world does need real estate attorneys but that was not his deep joy. He, with the help of his wife and family and larger community mustered the courage to leave the practice of law and begin teaching teenagers literature in the public school because that is what his true self always wanted to do and it brings him deep joy – not without challenges that all of us face in life – but deep satisfying joy and Lord knows, one of the world’s deep needs is to have caring people in public school classrooms. That’s enough about the word, vocation, for now.
You have a rector in Abel Lopez who is in gear vocationally. He would be miserable selling cars, although, let me tell you, Abel Lopez knows a great deal about cars. I have always asked him to accompany me in choosing a car. He knows everything about them and there is no one more clever, winsome, and wily as a fox in negotiating with a car salesman than Abel Lopez. But Abel’s vocation is as a priest – you can see it in his celebrating the Eucharist. You can feel it in his exquisite and profound sermons. You can know it in his group work and one-on-one pastoral counseling. He is in vocational gear and can be an inspiration for you to get your life into vocational gear. And, please, all of you who are lay persons, remember, priests are not a cut above all other human beings. The reason God calls people to be priests is because God can’t trust priests to be lay people.
A word about ministry. There are two kinds of ministry in the church – church work and the work of the church. Every church has to have a minimum of church work done. The communion silver has to be polished. The bulletin and liturgies have to be distributed at the door. The finances of the church have to be overseen by the best financial minds Messiah, Santa Ana has to offer. The staff and the outreach of the church have to be paid for. The people must be inspired by other members to give generously from the labor and resources of their lives. The choir needs joyful noise and music-makers. AND. As crucial as all of that is, as important as coming here regularly for transformative worship and education and governance is – it is not the ultimate reason we come to worship.
Abel Lopez is a priest who stands in the tradition of the Jewish prophets – the tradition in which Jesus was grounded. There are a lot of traditions in the Bible – the wisdom tradition, the historic tradition, the purity code tradition, and on and on, but Jesus grounded himself in the prophetic tradition when he preached his inauguration sermon at his hometown synagogue in Nazareth – Isaiah 51 he quoted – the Spirit of the Lord is upon me for the Spirit has anointed me to…. Well listen to the way The Message translates it:
God’s Spirit is on me;
he’s chosen me to preach the Message of good news to the poor,
Sent me to announce pardon to prisoners and
recovery of sight to the blind,
To set the burdened and battered free,
to announce, “This is God’s year to act!” Luke 4:18
The prophetic tradition in which we stand says your worship, your educational offerings, and your governance, your community relationality better be beautiful, healthy, transformative, and nourishing. However, please understand, all the prophets from Jeremiah, Hosea, Amos and Isaiah to Martin Luther King, Jr. and Caesar Chavez, and Dorothy Day, and Cornel West say that that all that is rubbish if you are not making life better for widows and orphans, for poor and oppressed people, if you are not finding ways to rehabilitate and free prisoners instead of warehousing them, if you aren’t finding ways to give dignity and freedom from fear to immigrants, to include Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender persons, and if you are not continuing to dismantle systems of discrimination against women and people of color. That is the work of the church – out there in the world. And the church work you do here on these beautiful grounds aren’t worth a flip if it is not helping the world flip every system of oppression and discrimination.
The church is not being church if it’s not in the business of transformation. Transformation must always be at two levels – personal/internal transformation through spiritual formation and political/systemic transformation through acts of mercy and justice for and with those on the margins of life. The prophetic tradition made sure that the people were so immersed in contemplation, prayer, mysticism, and personal conversion that they were accessing God and God’s love all the time – that’s what St. Paul meant when he wrote “Pray without ceasing.” And that the people were so identified with and in solidarity with those who are suffering and outcast that they knew that everyone is in one boat, one interwoven tapestry, one interconnected uni-verse so that as Dostoevsky said, “if you slap someone of this side of the world, someone on the other side of the world winces.” Or Martin Luther King, Jr. said, that our network of mutuality is such that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I cannot be who I am supposed to be until you are who you are supposed to be and vice versa. That includes the undocumented immigrant, the person in prison, and the person living homeless on the street.
Now, finally, a word from our Scripture. All the readings appointed for this Celebration of New Ministry are saturated with shepherd imagery and I have had these passages of scripture in my mind as I have composed this sermon.
As a testimony to Abel Lopez’s brilliant and unconventional leadership – leadership rooted in vocation, the work of the church more than church work, the prophetic tradition, solidarity with the oppressed and the poor, -- Abel wrote me and said, “I love all this shepherd stuff – God and Jesus are our Good shepherd and we are called to emulate God and Jesus and, and, and, but where is the call to Justice in all this?
My friends, that is the question, where is Justice in all this? Where is Compassion? Augustine. Don’t leave a passage of scripture until you find what it says about compassion. About justice.
I wrote Abel back and asked that we read the passage from Ezekiel we’ve just read. For it contains the job description of Messiah, of All Saints, and of all faith communities.
The word of the Lord came to me: “Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel; prophesy and say to them: ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Woe to you shepherds of Israel who only take care of yourselves! Should not shepherds take care of the flock? You eat the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you do not take care of the flock. You have not strengthened the weak or healed the sick or bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays or searched for the lost. You have ruled them harshly and brutally. Ezekiel 34: 1-4
All of us are called to strengthen the weak, heal the sick, bind up the injured, bring home the strays back the strays, and search for the lost. We are never to lead through coercion or fear.
Bishop Diane, our presider today is the only one of us carrying around a Shepherd’s staff this morning. I am of the theological persuasion that she is not ontologically different from the rest of us. Remember, God had her elected bishop because God could no longer trust her to be a priest. She is a symbol person for us – a great one, by the way. She is to remind you and me that all of use are called to be shepherds – good shepherds. Shepherds who are called to feed and nourish all people – and the nourishment we are to give is the nourishment of justice at Ezekiel 34: 16 calls us to.
We are here for a Love Fest, my friends – celebrating Abel’s glorious priestly leadership as rector of Messiah, Santa Ana. May we all remember and commit ourselves to the goal of being emissaries of God our Good Shepherd, who nourishes all with Justice.
Amen.
My sisters and brothers, we have come together this morning for a Love Fest. A Love Fest on many levels. Many of us are here because we love Abel Lopez, finding him one of the greatest priests God has ever ordained to the priesthood. Many of us are here because of our love for The Church of the Messiah, Santa Ana, and its magnificent mission in Orange County. All of us are here because of the love of God – we love God and God’s love for us has taught us that every church is God’s favorite church. God desperately needs every church, every faith community to be as healthy as it possibly can be. It is in the best interests of All Saints Church, Pasadena, for Messiah, Santa Ana to be as healthy as it can be and it is in the best interests of Messiah, Santa Ana, for All Saints Church, Pasadena and all other faith communities to be as healthy as they can be.
It is because of my love of God and my understanding that we are all in this thing together, that I as rector of All Saints, Pasadena, have been able to forgive Messiah, Santa Ana for coming to Pasadena and stealing from us one of the finest priests ever ordained. Love always forgives.
Now, in the vernacular of the Episcopal Church, we are here to “install” Abel Lopez as the 13th rector of this outstanding church. There are skeptical wags both in and outside the church who make fun of our use of the word, “install,” in this circumstance. “What do you all do in the Episcopal Church?” my sarcastic friends ask. “Install priest like they were appliances? Like you install a dishwasher or a stove or a refrigerator? Then you plug them in and expect them to wash, cook, and chill for you?”
But in the wisdom of the Book of Common Prayer, this liturgy is formally called, “The Celebration of a New Ministry.” And the new ministry we are celebrating this morning is not just the ministry of Abel Lopez; it is the ministry of all the people of Messiah, Santa Ana, because there never has been a priest who had a fruit-bearing ministry who tried to do ministry by herself or himself. This is a faith community above everything else. This community is called into ministry. There never was a church which had a fruit-bearing ministry who didn’t have as many people in the church – including the oldest members and the youngest members – on mission and in gear with their vocations.
Now two words about this business of vocation and ministry.
The happiest and most fruitful members of any church are those who are doing what God is calling them to do in life. Vocation comes from the word, vocare, meaning “call.” Your vocation, even if you are a physician is not working in a leper colony if you hate that kind of work. Conversely, your vocation is not writing advertisements for the fuzzy dice you can hang from your rear view mirror because the world’s deep needs do not include fuzzy dice.
No. Your vocation is where your deep joys and the world’s deep needs meet. (This definition comes from the Rev. Frederick Buechner.) I have a dear friend who was practicing real estate law and was sinking deeper and deeper into depression. The world does need real estate attorneys but that was not his deep joy. He, with the help of his wife and family and larger community mustered the courage to leave the practice of law and begin teaching teenagers literature in the public school because that is what his true self always wanted to do and it brings him deep joy – not without challenges that all of us face in life – but deep satisfying joy and Lord knows, one of the world’s deep needs is to have caring people in public school classrooms. That’s enough about the word, vocation, for now.
You have a rector in Abel Lopez who is in gear vocationally. He would be miserable selling cars, although, let me tell you, Abel Lopez knows a great deal about cars. I have always asked him to accompany me in choosing a car. He knows everything about them and there is no one more clever, winsome, and wily as a fox in negotiating with a car salesman than Abel Lopez. But Abel’s vocation is as a priest – you can see it in his celebrating the Eucharist. You can feel it in his exquisite and profound sermons. You can know it in his group work and one-on-one pastoral counseling. He is in vocational gear and can be an inspiration for you to get your life into vocational gear. And, please, all of you who are lay persons, remember, priests are not a cut above all other human beings. The reason God calls people to be priests is because God can’t trust priests to be lay people.
A word about ministry. There are two kinds of ministry in the church – church work and the work of the church. Every church has to have a minimum of church work done. The communion silver has to be polished. The bulletin and liturgies have to be distributed at the door. The finances of the church have to be overseen by the best financial minds Messiah, Santa Ana has to offer. The staff and the outreach of the church have to be paid for. The people must be inspired by other members to give generously from the labor and resources of their lives. The choir needs joyful noise and music-makers. AND. As crucial as all of that is, as important as coming here regularly for transformative worship and education and governance is – it is not the ultimate reason we come to worship.
Abel Lopez is a priest who stands in the tradition of the Jewish prophets – the tradition in which Jesus was grounded. There are a lot of traditions in the Bible – the wisdom tradition, the historic tradition, the purity code tradition, and on and on, but Jesus grounded himself in the prophetic tradition when he preached his inauguration sermon at his hometown synagogue in Nazareth – Isaiah 51 he quoted – the Spirit of the Lord is upon me for the Spirit has anointed me to…. Well listen to the way The Message translates it:
God’s Spirit is on me;
he’s chosen me to preach the Message of good news to the poor,
Sent me to announce pardon to prisoners and
recovery of sight to the blind,
To set the burdened and battered free,
to announce, “This is God’s year to act!” Luke 4:18
The prophetic tradition in which we stand says your worship, your educational offerings, and your governance, your community relationality better be beautiful, healthy, transformative, and nourishing. However, please understand, all the prophets from Jeremiah, Hosea, Amos and Isaiah to Martin Luther King, Jr. and Caesar Chavez, and Dorothy Day, and Cornel West say that that all that is rubbish if you are not making life better for widows and orphans, for poor and oppressed people, if you are not finding ways to rehabilitate and free prisoners instead of warehousing them, if you aren’t finding ways to give dignity and freedom from fear to immigrants, to include Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender persons, and if you are not continuing to dismantle systems of discrimination against women and people of color. That is the work of the church – out there in the world. And the church work you do here on these beautiful grounds aren’t worth a flip if it is not helping the world flip every system of oppression and discrimination.
The church is not being church if it’s not in the business of transformation. Transformation must always be at two levels – personal/internal transformation through spiritual formation and political/systemic transformation through acts of mercy and justice for and with those on the margins of life. The prophetic tradition made sure that the people were so immersed in contemplation, prayer, mysticism, and personal conversion that they were accessing God and God’s love all the time – that’s what St. Paul meant when he wrote “Pray without ceasing.” And that the people were so identified with and in solidarity with those who are suffering and outcast that they knew that everyone is in one boat, one interwoven tapestry, one interconnected uni-verse so that as Dostoevsky said, “if you slap someone of this side of the world, someone on the other side of the world winces.” Or Martin Luther King, Jr. said, that our network of mutuality is such that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I cannot be who I am supposed to be until you are who you are supposed to be and vice versa. That includes the undocumented immigrant, the person in prison, and the person living homeless on the street.
Now, finally, a word from our Scripture. All the readings appointed for this Celebration of New Ministry are saturated with shepherd imagery and I have had these passages of scripture in my mind as I have composed this sermon.
As a testimony to Abel Lopez’s brilliant and unconventional leadership – leadership rooted in vocation, the work of the church more than church work, the prophetic tradition, solidarity with the oppressed and the poor, -- Abel wrote me and said, “I love all this shepherd stuff – God and Jesus are our Good shepherd and we are called to emulate God and Jesus and, and, and, but where is the call to Justice in all this?
My friends, that is the question, where is Justice in all this? Where is Compassion? Augustine. Don’t leave a passage of scripture until you find what it says about compassion. About justice.
I wrote Abel back and asked that we read the passage from Ezekiel we’ve just read. For it contains the job description of Messiah, of All Saints, and of all faith communities.
The word of the Lord came to me: “Son of man, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel; prophesy and say to them: ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Woe to you shepherds of Israel who only take care of yourselves! Should not shepherds take care of the flock? You eat the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you do not take care of the flock. You have not strengthened the weak or healed the sick or bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays or searched for the lost. You have ruled them harshly and brutally. Ezekiel 34: 1-4
All of us are called to strengthen the weak, heal the sick, bind up the injured, bring home the strays back the strays, and search for the lost. We are never to lead through coercion or fear.
Bishop Diane, our presider today is the only one of us carrying around a Shepherd’s staff this morning. I am of the theological persuasion that she is not ontologically different from the rest of us. Remember, God had her elected bishop because God could no longer trust her to be a priest. She is a symbol person for us – a great one, by the way. She is to remind you and me that all of use are called to be shepherds – good shepherds. Shepherds who are called to feed and nourish all people – and the nourishment we are to give is the nourishment of justice at Ezekiel 34: 16 calls us to.
We are here for a Love Fest, my friends – celebrating Abel’s glorious priestly leadership as rector of Messiah, Santa Ana. May we all remember and commit ourselves to the goal of being emissaries of God our Good Shepherd, who nourishes all with Justice.
Amen.
Sermon by the Rev. Ellen Hill-Proper 19C
The Reverend Ellen Hill
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Lectionary readings
Whenever we have passages like the one in this morning’s Old Testament lesson which feature ancient Biblical characters like Moses and Aaron, it’s really easy for me to dismiss them and to convince myself that they have very little to do with our modern contemporary lives. That was my reaction the first time I read these lessons and began to work on this morning’s sermon. Frankly, my initial intention was to preach on the Gospel. You see, I’d just dismissed this lesson from Exodus which struck me a little bit like a second century B.C. soap opera.
Just look at the plot of this morning’s lesson. The Israelites are fed up! They’ve been wandering around in the wilderness for a long time. Moses has disappeared and hasn’t been seen for some time. He’s supposedly some where up on the mountain. So they approach his brother Aaron, who’s been sort of Moses’ first lieutenant, and they tell him that they’re getting tired of hearing the stories Moses has been telling them about his encounters with God. This unseen, distant intangible entity that Moses keeps insisting is looking out for them telling them to do this and then to do that. They’re sick of this God who doesn’t deliver. They want a god they tell Aaron like the gods of the other people around them. Maybe a god like the Canaanite god who seems much more accessible and accommodating. So they begin to lean on Aaron, pleading with him, “Come on Aaron, find us a god we can relate to. We want a god like other people’s gods. Who knows whether this brother of yours is ever going to show up again.”
And so, not surprisingly, Aaron does what we all do under enough pressure because I think that most of us basically dislike confrontation. We have a need to be liked and admired by the people we’re in a relationship with and I think that’s especially true when we’re in a leadership position. So Aaron begins to bend to the pressure.
The part of the story which isn’t in your lesson goes like this. Aaron says, “Okay. Look if all of you will take the gold earrings from the ears of your wives and your daughters I’ll make you a god like the gods of the people around us. So he takes those earrings, melts them down and makes a statue of a golden calf which the people then begin to worship.
In the mean time, God, who’s been in conference with Moses, looks down sees what the Israelites have talked old Aaron into doing and blows up. God tells Moses, “That’s it!” He’s says he’s through with the Israelites. “They’re stiff necked people” he says and he tells Moses to go away and leave him alone so that God’s wrath may burn hot against the Israelites and consume them! But the story doesn’t end there because Moses comes through and shows himself to be a great and courageous leader who demonstrates the profundity of his faith in God. He doesn’t back away in the face of God’s wrath even though God’s made it clear that he’s not holding Moses responsible for the Israelites disobedience. So Moses really doesn’t have to take God on but he does. He reminds God of God’s long relationship with the Israelites and he reminds God of God’s loving nature.
As a result of Moses’ arguments God relents and agrees to spare the Israelites. It’s a great story and there are a number of things that should make us realize that this is also a story about you and me as well. In the first place the story makes it clear that Israel’s existence is solely due to God’s grace. Nothing the Israelites have done has entitled them to be favored by God and that’s also true for us. Some of their leaders, like Aaron were fallible and couldn’t be counted on in the sense of making sure that they didn’t get themselves involved in activities which would bring disaster upon them. That’s also a reality to which we can certainly relate. And finally God, and God alone, is the one thing that is steady, dependable, faithful and always ready to forgive and to allow us to turn, yet again, one more new page so that we can start over. It’s Moses’ unshakable faith in God, in the face of God’s righteous anger, that enables him to save the Israelites. Moses trusts God and has confidence that God’s love and grace for the whole of the created order is something that one can depend upon.
Martin Luther once said, “If I were God and the world treated me as it has treated him I would kick the wretched thing to pieces!” What makes Moses so great is that he does what Aaron and the people were unable to do. What so often you and I are unable to do. Moses was faithful. He gave his devotion and worship only to God and he didn’t allow himself to be seduced by other gods or other idols. That’s an incredibly tough thing to do. In many ways I think that it’s really the central dilemma of our times.
It’s tough to be faithful to an unseen God. It’s hard to give sacrificially of ourselves and our possessions to that God and to follow the commandments we’ve been given. And the reason it’s hard is because idol making, exactly what Aaron did with that image of the golden calf, is a constant part of human existence. We all have idols. The things that we count on to protect us and save us. The things we know are going to sustain us. I’ve often thought that’s the reason that poor people, third world people, are so very often so much more devout that you and I are. God is all that they have. They don’t have the possessions you and I have. They don’t have the education that you and I have which may seduce us into a kind of secular atheism because we can intellectualize and explain all the things that humble people attribute to God.
Churches get sucked into the same kind of idol making and we do that by making things comfortable and being careful that we don’t challenge or confront any of your idols. The truth is that it’s tough as a priest to try to live into the Moses role when it’s so much more pleasant and so very much easier in the short run to play the Aaron part. And that’s especially true in the fall when most churches approach the stewardship season. It’s not fun to make people uncomfortable which talking about money in church inevitably does. Look how uncomfortable some of you got when Abel began asking us at the offertory to give generously to support our ministries here at Messiah.
It’s hard to get us to refocus and remember our story. That story which reminds us who we are and whose we are. The story that reminds us that God has called each one of us into life and God has also given each one of us a purpose. Again and again in our lives our God has delivered us, provided for us and loved us unconditionally. Our problem is that it’s so easy for us to be seduced by the other gods around us. Those gods in our culture which are infinitely more popular and far more commonly accepted than this old fashioned God of ours. Our faith teaches us that human beings have been created in the divine image and we’ve been bound to our Creator by a covenantal relationship which is blessed by the miracle of God’s grace in the power that is implicit in the possibility of forgiveness and new beginnings.
Here at the Church of the Messiah we are at a new beginning. During these next six weeks as we move through the stewardship season you’ll be confronted by things that are mailed to you describing parishioners stewardship stories and by preachers both lay and clergy who’ll share with you their stewardship witness. If we are honest we’ll admit that we all know that it’s imperative that we grow our pledge base if we are going to move forward under our new rector into another century of exciting ministry here in the city. We all know that we need a full time associate, that we need to care for this building which is such a treasure, and that we need to fund the ministries which enable us to carry on Christ’s work here in the world. We cannot bank on auctions which may or may not deliver large sums of money for our budget because auctions are dependent on whoever attends in a specific year and their willingness to bid on the items which have been donated. Our financial pledge base must be enlarged so that we can support the ministry we’re called to do.
What all of this means is that in the coming weeks you’ll be asked to look at your own life and to assess honestly where God and God’s work, as demonstrated by this parish’s ministries, is in your list of priorities. Do you have other gods you worship? Other gods who consume your time and your financial resources which may in fact be golden calves? Idols which draw you away from God. Talking about money in church always makes people uncomfortable and yet it’s what makes our very existence in the world possible. Nothing that you hear from this pulpit or read in the stories parishioners share regarding their stewardship witness will seek to make you feel guilty or put pressure upon you in any way. The only challenge which faces you is the same challenge which was placed before the Israelites. The challenge to ask yourself whether it’s God your Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer who has first call on your time and your money or is it other gods which surround us in our culture and are infinitely more appealing and popular than that old God of Moses.
As I finished working on this sermon I couldn’t help but think of one of Ted Loder’s prayers which beautifully reminds us of what this lesson and the coming weeks of our stewardship season try to teach us. Let us pray. O God of fire and freedom, deliver us from our bondage to what can be counted and go with us into a new Exodus toward what counts but can only be measured in bread shared, swords becoming plowshares, in bodies healed and minds liberated. In songs sung and justice done. In laughter in the night and joy in the morning. In love through all seasons and great gladness of heart. In all people coming together and a kingdom coming in glory. In your name being praised and in our becoming individual Alleluias through Jesus Christ..our Lord. Amen
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Lectionary readings
Whenever we have passages like the one in this morning’s Old Testament lesson which feature ancient Biblical characters like Moses and Aaron, it’s really easy for me to dismiss them and to convince myself that they have very little to do with our modern contemporary lives. That was my reaction the first time I read these lessons and began to work on this morning’s sermon. Frankly, my initial intention was to preach on the Gospel. You see, I’d just dismissed this lesson from Exodus which struck me a little bit like a second century B.C. soap opera.
Just look at the plot of this morning’s lesson. The Israelites are fed up! They’ve been wandering around in the wilderness for a long time. Moses has disappeared and hasn’t been seen for some time. He’s supposedly some where up on the mountain. So they approach his brother Aaron, who’s been sort of Moses’ first lieutenant, and they tell him that they’re getting tired of hearing the stories Moses has been telling them about his encounters with God. This unseen, distant intangible entity that Moses keeps insisting is looking out for them telling them to do this and then to do that. They’re sick of this God who doesn’t deliver. They want a god they tell Aaron like the gods of the other people around them. Maybe a god like the Canaanite god who seems much more accessible and accommodating. So they begin to lean on Aaron, pleading with him, “Come on Aaron, find us a god we can relate to. We want a god like other people’s gods. Who knows whether this brother of yours is ever going to show up again.”
And so, not surprisingly, Aaron does what we all do under enough pressure because I think that most of us basically dislike confrontation. We have a need to be liked and admired by the people we’re in a relationship with and I think that’s especially true when we’re in a leadership position. So Aaron begins to bend to the pressure.
The part of the story which isn’t in your lesson goes like this. Aaron says, “Okay. Look if all of you will take the gold earrings from the ears of your wives and your daughters I’ll make you a god like the gods of the people around us. So he takes those earrings, melts them down and makes a statue of a golden calf which the people then begin to worship.
In the mean time, God, who’s been in conference with Moses, looks down sees what the Israelites have talked old Aaron into doing and blows up. God tells Moses, “That’s it!” He’s says he’s through with the Israelites. “They’re stiff necked people” he says and he tells Moses to go away and leave him alone so that God’s wrath may burn hot against the Israelites and consume them! But the story doesn’t end there because Moses comes through and shows himself to be a great and courageous leader who demonstrates the profundity of his faith in God. He doesn’t back away in the face of God’s wrath even though God’s made it clear that he’s not holding Moses responsible for the Israelites disobedience. So Moses really doesn’t have to take God on but he does. He reminds God of God’s long relationship with the Israelites and he reminds God of God’s loving nature.
As a result of Moses’ arguments God relents and agrees to spare the Israelites. It’s a great story and there are a number of things that should make us realize that this is also a story about you and me as well. In the first place the story makes it clear that Israel’s existence is solely due to God’s grace. Nothing the Israelites have done has entitled them to be favored by God and that’s also true for us. Some of their leaders, like Aaron were fallible and couldn’t be counted on in the sense of making sure that they didn’t get themselves involved in activities which would bring disaster upon them. That’s also a reality to which we can certainly relate. And finally God, and God alone, is the one thing that is steady, dependable, faithful and always ready to forgive and to allow us to turn, yet again, one more new page so that we can start over. It’s Moses’ unshakable faith in God, in the face of God’s righteous anger, that enables him to save the Israelites. Moses trusts God and has confidence that God’s love and grace for the whole of the created order is something that one can depend upon.
Martin Luther once said, “If I were God and the world treated me as it has treated him I would kick the wretched thing to pieces!” What makes Moses so great is that he does what Aaron and the people were unable to do. What so often you and I are unable to do. Moses was faithful. He gave his devotion and worship only to God and he didn’t allow himself to be seduced by other gods or other idols. That’s an incredibly tough thing to do. In many ways I think that it’s really the central dilemma of our times.
It’s tough to be faithful to an unseen God. It’s hard to give sacrificially of ourselves and our possessions to that God and to follow the commandments we’ve been given. And the reason it’s hard is because idol making, exactly what Aaron did with that image of the golden calf, is a constant part of human existence. We all have idols. The things that we count on to protect us and save us. The things we know are going to sustain us. I’ve often thought that’s the reason that poor people, third world people, are so very often so much more devout that you and I are. God is all that they have. They don’t have the possessions you and I have. They don’t have the education that you and I have which may seduce us into a kind of secular atheism because we can intellectualize and explain all the things that humble people attribute to God.
Churches get sucked into the same kind of idol making and we do that by making things comfortable and being careful that we don’t challenge or confront any of your idols. The truth is that it’s tough as a priest to try to live into the Moses role when it’s so much more pleasant and so very much easier in the short run to play the Aaron part. And that’s especially true in the fall when most churches approach the stewardship season. It’s not fun to make people uncomfortable which talking about money in church inevitably does. Look how uncomfortable some of you got when Abel began asking us at the offertory to give generously to support our ministries here at Messiah.
It’s hard to get us to refocus and remember our story. That story which reminds us who we are and whose we are. The story that reminds us that God has called each one of us into life and God has also given each one of us a purpose. Again and again in our lives our God has delivered us, provided for us and loved us unconditionally. Our problem is that it’s so easy for us to be seduced by the other gods around us. Those gods in our culture which are infinitely more popular and far more commonly accepted than this old fashioned God of ours. Our faith teaches us that human beings have been created in the divine image and we’ve been bound to our Creator by a covenantal relationship which is blessed by the miracle of God’s grace in the power that is implicit in the possibility of forgiveness and new beginnings.
Here at the Church of the Messiah we are at a new beginning. During these next six weeks as we move through the stewardship season you’ll be confronted by things that are mailed to you describing parishioners stewardship stories and by preachers both lay and clergy who’ll share with you their stewardship witness. If we are honest we’ll admit that we all know that it’s imperative that we grow our pledge base if we are going to move forward under our new rector into another century of exciting ministry here in the city. We all know that we need a full time associate, that we need to care for this building which is such a treasure, and that we need to fund the ministries which enable us to carry on Christ’s work here in the world. We cannot bank on auctions which may or may not deliver large sums of money for our budget because auctions are dependent on whoever attends in a specific year and their willingness to bid on the items which have been donated. Our financial pledge base must be enlarged so that we can support the ministry we’re called to do.
What all of this means is that in the coming weeks you’ll be asked to look at your own life and to assess honestly where God and God’s work, as demonstrated by this parish’s ministries, is in your list of priorities. Do you have other gods you worship? Other gods who consume your time and your financial resources which may in fact be golden calves? Idols which draw you away from God. Talking about money in church always makes people uncomfortable and yet it’s what makes our very existence in the world possible. Nothing that you hear from this pulpit or read in the stories parishioners share regarding their stewardship witness will seek to make you feel guilty or put pressure upon you in any way. The only challenge which faces you is the same challenge which was placed before the Israelites. The challenge to ask yourself whether it’s God your Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer who has first call on your time and your money or is it other gods which surround us in our culture and are infinitely more appealing and popular than that old God of Moses.
As I finished working on this sermon I couldn’t help but think of one of Ted Loder’s prayers which beautifully reminds us of what this lesson and the coming weeks of our stewardship season try to teach us. Let us pray. O God of fire and freedom, deliver us from our bondage to what can be counted and go with us into a new Exodus toward what counts but can only be measured in bread shared, swords becoming plowshares, in bodies healed and minds liberated. In songs sung and justice done. In laughter in the night and joy in the morning. In love through all seasons and great gladness of heart. In all people coming together and a kingdom coming in glory. In your name being praised and in our becoming individual Alleluias through Jesus Christ..our Lord. Amen
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