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.”
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.
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