Storied Grace

A sermon for Proper 22
October 9, 2022

“Go and show yourselves to the priest.” Jesus encounters ten lepers today in the borderlands, the no-man’s land between Galilee and Samaria. While Jews and Samaritans do not mix, the lepers live by a different code. When you are completely cast out from society, trodden down, robbed of all dignity, you make friends with whomever is around. These lepers are a mixed group: nine Jews, one Samaritan. 

To be a leper in the time of Jesus was to experience marginalization at a deep level. Lepers were not only those with Hansen’s Disease. In fact, most of them probably didn’t have that. Instead, Leprosy was a catch-all term for skin conditions that the community feared were contagious. These folks were cast out of town, told to stay away from family and friends, put to the margins, until their health condition could be cleared by the priests. Only then would they be welcome back. 

These lepers, in a sense, become exiles in their own homeland. And as exiles, they experience a host of spiritual and emotional challenges, rooted in the agony that stemmed from their complete rejection. Some people still know what that is like. The person living with HIV/AIDS, kept at arms’ length from family. The veteran, homeless because of PTSD, who is never looked at square in the face. The refugee fleeing persecution in Afghanistan, only to be called a terrorist here because of what she wears on her head. The child who wants to play with others so badly, but who can’t because chemicals in their brains make quote-on-quote “normal” socializing impossible to understand. The teenager with involuntary tics. That elder in the wheelchair who can’t get through doors, onto porches, into concert venues. These are the exiles in their homeland, the lepers among us now, those kept at the edge, whether intentionally or not. Their agony is so much greater than just a physical agony. Like those lepers of Jesus’s time, theirs is also a spiritual agony of rejection, of not being seen as bearing the very image of God. 

If you’ve ever been in that kind of spiritual valley, you know that sometimes all you can do is cry. It’s lonely in your struggle. You feel powerless. At times you pray that prayer that Jesus cried from the cross, that ancient prayer from the psalms: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? 

All of that is churning in the background for these lepers, out in the borderlands. But it so happens that Jesus walks through the borderlands. Jesus walks into no-man’s land. He goes where others don’t. He sees those whom others ignore. He knows the ones pinned against the wall, stomped on, without hope. He hears them when they cry. He hears us, when we are lost, wandering, unsure of our next step, out of options and out of hope. 

“Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” That’s the cry of the lepers, echoing all of those psalms they once heard in the Synagogues before they were kicked out of good society. Jesus hears them. “Go and show yourselves to the priests,” he says. They head out, perhaps confused at first. The condition is still there. But then it’s not. They are healed. And they run to the Temple, and then to their cities, and then to their families, back into their lives. Full of joy. 

But one among them takes a different tack. He’s the only Samaritan. He doesn’t know what the others are doing. After all, when Jesus tells them to go show themselves to the priests, they go in different directions. The Jews head to Jerusalem. The Samaritan heads to Mt. Gerizim, to his own, different, Samaritan priests. He doesn’t know about the other nine, but when he sees what happens, he turns back. He worships Jesus. He sees Jesus for who he is: His savior, his Messiah, God in the flesh. 

Jesus responds to him. “Your faith has made you well,” Literally, Jesus says, your faith has saved you. Jesus is no longer speaking about his medical condition. He’s no longer talking about his cure. He’s talking about something deeper. He’s talking about his soul, his very spirit. You’ve been made well; saved. And then like the nine, he goes on: to his temple, to his city, to his family, to his life. But his life is now radically altered, different. His joy is complete. His soul is healed as well as his body, for he knows the Savior. 

Jesus is telling us through this encounter that there is a deeper healing available to us. We, like those lepers, often pray for cures, physical, mental, and emotional. But Jesus has on offer a deeper, spiritual healing, a salvation for our souls. It makes us complete, for it reconnects us to God. You see, only when we live in God can we be complete, made whole, saved. It all happens through Christ, through our life in him, through our faith in what he has done. And no matter what happens in this life–even when we are on our deathbed–nothing can steal that completeness from our soul. For nothing can separate us from God and God’s love in Christ Jesus. We are healed, made well, complete, saved, for we know the Savior. 

This deeper, spiritual healing happens as we come to a font. We are baptized into the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, made a child of God by grace and grace alone, not because of anything we can do, but only because of what Christ has done. But it doesn’t stop there. If it does, we are a little like those nine who were cured and went on their way. No, it can’t stop there. We must return, over and over again, faithfully, to the One who healed us, who saved us in those waters. Occasionally is not enough. We must go to him daily, in daily prayer, in weekly worship, where we receive grace upon grace and our baptismal healing is renewed and strengthened. Thereby we are saved, just like that Samaritan leper. Our souls are transformed. Healed forever. Made well, whole, complete. Nothing can ever take that away from you. 

Since October is stewardship month, here’s the stewardship pitch. It has nothing to do with your money. Stewardship is much more important than that. Our stewardship question is, are we returning to worship God, to thank our Savior, for all he has done, and especially for this greatest gift of salvation? Are we like the nine who go on their merry way, who accept healing but aren’t yet whole, who don’t fully realize the stakes of what is going on? Or are we like the one, who returns with thanksgiving, recognizing the One who has done it, and is thereby made whole, complete, well? 

You don’t have to wait until 2023. Start now. But go ahead and make that pledge for 2023. In the year to come, I’m going to make going to Jesus daily in prayer and weekly in worship a priority. Occasionally is not enough. I’m not only going to go to him when I need something, or when it’s convenient, or when it doesn’t conflict with anything else in my life. I’m going to make going to Jesus, daily in prayer, weekly in worship at a church, my number one priority. 

Because, my friends, when we realize just what Jesus has done for us–when we realize that he has made us well, made our souls complete in God–when we realize that, what else can our reaction be if not worship, if not adoration, if not continual praise? 

God in Christ has arrived in the borderlands of our lives. He has heard our cry. He has seen our pain, our separation, our human condition of sin. And he has made us well through our baptismal participation in his life, death, and resurrection. Our question is: Are we going back to him to worship?  

A sermon for Proper 22
October 2, 2022

“Increase our faith,” the apostles ask Jesus today. It seems strange to me that this group of men would need their faith increased. You and I perhaps, sure. But these men? They have been walking with Jesus, hearing him teach, seeing all sorts of signs and wonders, and yet they still ask, Increase our faith! On my worst days I like to remember this. If faith was sometimes hard for these men, for Peter and James and John and all the rest, then maybe it’s okay if it’s hard for me sometimes. And I can borrow their prayer, “Lord, increase my faith.” But what are we asking for? 

Oftentimes in American Christianity, we treat faith like money. You’ve heard me say that before. We think, if I work hard and get five faith tokens, I can buy that miracle or purchase that gift from God. That is not faith. That’s consumerism, and it’s idolatry. 

So what is faith? Faith and faithfulness are the same word in the Bible. Faith and faithfulness all come down to one thing: trusting in God, no matter what. Faith is all about our relationship with God–that’s why Jesus tells us about a servant and a master today. We have to learn to trust in God over time, as our relationship with God grows and deepens, and as God proves to be faithful to us, time and time again. When we see God show up, no matter what, we learn that we can trust God, that we can lean on God, that we can depend on God’s promises. We learn to have faith, because God is faithful. Even in times of trouble, even in times of despair, God shows up. Our problems may not go away; there may still be pain and struggle; but God is there, smack dab in the middle of it all. 

This is what we read from Lamentations today. From the pits of despair, in deep sadness and tribulation, the writer exclaims, “But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” This is something he has learned, something he has come to trust, even in the most unimaginable of times. He has learned that God shows up always, time and time again, no matter where we are at, no matter how far we have sunk. God is there, because God is faithful. To have faith means to trust in that. 

In a way, we’re all like rescue dogs. I remember when we got our dog Fancy. She’s a beagle-boxer mix, and had been wandering through the woods of Tennessee. She had a hole in her ear, probably from a fight. She was starving. When we brought her home, our other dog, Pete, was thrilled, over the moon. He loves other dogs. He ran around her, trying to get her to play. But she growled and snapped back at him. She wasn’t sure what to think of Molly and me, either. But over time, she learned that Pete was her friend. She learned that we were not going to hurt her. She learned that we loved her, that we were faithful to her. In response, she grew in her love and trust for us. She grew in her faith in us—she learned she could depend on us, count on us. 

We’re like that with God. Life breaks us down and hurts us sometimes. When we get wounded, we become just like Fancy, unable to trust anyone but ourselves. But God shows up. Day after day, God is there. And day after day after day, we learn that we can trust God, we can count on God. We can have faith in God, because God is faithful. 

When we pray like the disciples, “Lord, increase our faith,” we are actually praying for a deeper and more real relationship with God. We are praying that God would help our trust deepen and our love grow. We are praying for the grace to remember and know that God always shows up and can be counted on, no matter what, because God is faithful. 

This month marks the beginning of our stewardship drive. We are asking you to pray and consider how you will support this church family in the year 2023 with your time, talent, and treasure. I know most, if not all of you, are used to this. You are all faithful givers, and I am so grateful. 

Your pledge goes to make sure this church continues to be a sign in this community of the love of God in Christ Jesus. Your pledge makes sure that the gospel is preached, that forgiveness is declared to penitent sinners, that the Sacraments are rightly administered, that Jesus Christ is proclaimed, that our neighbors are loved. 

It is easy and tempting to reduce a pledge drive to a financial matter. But I don’t want us to do that. Instead, I want us to think about how turning in a pledge card is a small act of faith. Turning in a pledge card is a way of saying, “I don’t know what the coming year holds, but I’m going to commit myself to supporting the work of God this much every month.” It can be a way of saying, “God has been so faithful to me, so I am going to give back to God some of my blessings as a sign of my faithfulness in return.” It can also be a way of saying, “Lord, increase my faith. I’m going to commit this to you, and I’m going to depend on your promise that you will bless me for this sacrifice, that you will show up for me, that you will show yourself faithful. Through this small act, “Lord, increase my faith” in your goodness, in your love, in your faithfulness.

I promise you: God shows up. God always proves to be faithful. God always blesses us when we sacrifice to support the work of God and the Church in the world. This year, no matter the amount, take that step of faith. And as you turn in that pledge card, you might add that prayer from God, “O Lord, faithful God who always shows up and can be depended on, increase my faith.”

A sermon for Proper 21
September 25, 2022

“You only are immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and to earth shall we return. For so did you ordain when you created me, saying, ‘You are dust, and to dust you shall return.’ All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

These words come from the burial service in our Book of Common Prayer. It is called the Commendation, the part of the service where we put our loved one into the merciful arms of our Savior forever, and we ask that God give them rest. If you, like me, watched some of the Queen’s funeral last Monday, you will have heard very similar words at her funeral at Westminster and at her committal at St. George’s. The Queen, after all, an Anglican was buried according to the liturgy of the Church of England’s Prayer Book, a service not reserved for monarchs alone, but for all of God’s people. Those same words spoken over her mortal body will be spoken over mine, and yours, someday. 

Death and burial bring into stark contrast what really matters in this life. So often we go through life on autopilot, not thinking too seriously about our deaths and the life to come. The death and burial of a loved one give us a moment of reflection. For as the Prayer Book says, “all of us go down to the dust,” we know not when.  

Jesus tells us a parable about death and eternal life today. He invites us to consider what happens to our souls after death, the consequences of our lives right now. Are we preparing for the life yet to come?

There was a rich man and a poor beggar named Lazarus. Of all the parables Jesus told, he only ever names one character: Lazarus. This is an important guy. Lazarus means “God has helped me,” but honestly, that doesn’t seem to be the case in this life. Lazarus lives a life of suffering. He is laid at the gate of the rich man, day after day. He can’t even get there himself; he must be carried. Day after day he is stepped over, ignored. All he wants is a scrap of food. Only the dogs attend him, licking his sores, trying to give him some relief. 

Then we have the rich man. He is no ordinary rich man. He is a very rich man. In Roman society, the rich would wear a white robe with a single thread of purple woven into it. That single thread would show just how rich they were. Purple dye was that expensive. This man, by contrast, wears all purple everyday. This is a Jeff Bezos, an Elon Musk, a Bill Gates. And how does this rich man use his extraordinary wealth, his many blessings? Jesus says he feasts sumptuously everyday. And in all his feasting, Lazarus wasn’t given a scrap. The scraps, we presume, are given to his dogs. 

Wealth wasn’t this man’s problem. Financial resources are a blessing from God, after all. Rather, his sin was living only for himself, greedily hoarding those blessings. 

Death comes for us all, and it came for the rich man and Lazarus. Jesus says, “The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried.” The poor man is carried away by angels and the rich man is not. The rich man is buried. But Lazarus, based on what Jesus says, or doesn’t say, is not. Ignored in life, he is ignored in death. But not by the angels of God. And they each go on to their reward. As they do, we see a dramatic reversal. 

Lazarus goes on to the bosom of Abraham, Jesus says. He is comforted. He is at peace. The rich man, who day after day feasted, who wore all purple, who showed off his extravagant wealth by building monuments to himself in this life and never reaching out a hand of compassion, he finds no comfort. From Hades, he sees Lazarus next to Abraham. He recognizes Lazarus. He knows him by name. He proves that he willfully ignored him day after day after day. 

And the rich man repented. He called out to Lazarus, my friend, forgive me. I should have done better–could have done better–by you. I had been given everything in that world, so many blessings from God, and helping you would not have put me in any bind. It would have been easy, but I chose not to. And I was wrong. Please forgive me, dear Lazarus. 

Well, the rich man could have said that. He should have said that. But he doesn’t. It turns out we tend to die the way we live. Even in death, he cannot acknowledge his wrong to Lazarus’s face. He cannot repent because he still sees Lazarus as beneath him. Don’t believe me? Consider that instead of calling out to Lazarus, he calls out to Abraham. Oh great Father Abraham, I am in agony. I need some assistance. Send your lackey, that Lazarus fellow, to help me out. Put him to work for me. He ought to serve me. I am still better than him. But Abraham tells him that’s impossible. There’s a chasm between them. As in life, so also in death. In life there was a gate, a wall, a separation of the rich man’s own making. In death, there is a chasm, also of the rich man’s own making. 

We will die how we live. If we live hoarding, we will die holding on to things that cannot come with us. If we live for ourselves, we will die alone. If we live angry or prideful, we will die full of anger and pride. If we live in fear, we will die in fear. If we live unrepentant, we will die unrepentant. If we live as if we will save ourselves, giving in to the illusion that we are somehow immortal, we will die with no hope. As in life, so also in death.  

We will die how we live. If we live generously, in thanksgiving for all of our blessings, showing the generosity of God to others; we will die generously, thanking God for everything we have and everything we are, and giving those blessings back to the God who gave them to us in the first place. If we live for God and for others, we will die surrounded by angels who will fly us to our rest. If we live in love, we will die in love. If we live peacefully, we will die at peace. If we live repentant, we will die trusting in the mercies and grace of God–as sheep of God’s own fold, lambs of God’s own flock, sinners of God’s own redeeming. 

“All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” Alleluia literally means “God be praised.” We need to start practicing that song of praise right now, or we might not know how to sing it when the time comes. We need to make it our song right now while we are on this earth, for we will die how we live; as in life, so also in death. 

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. God be praised! Unlike the songs of this world–the songs to ourselves, the songs to our wills, the songs to our ways, the songs to our power, the self-interested songs that lift us up–this is the song of heaven. It’s the song of saints and angels. This is the song of Lazarus and those who have lived and died in the fear of the Lord. 

We can sing this song in so many ways right now. We sing it right here on Sunday mornings, as our voices join the heavenly chorus already in progress. We sing it daily as we offer prayers to God, lifting up our lives as living sacrifices. We sing this song when we reach out a hand of love, a hand of compassion to someone in need. We sing this song when we call someone who is lonely on the phone, just to check in on them. We sing this song when we give of ourselves and make some sacrifice, whether big or small, in the Name of Christ, seeking to serve Christ in all persons and loving our neighbors as ourselves. 

Alleluia. God be praised! I hope that’s my song right now and as I take my final breath. And I hope it’s your song, too. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. God and God alone be praised, worshiped, and adored, now and forevermore. Amen. 

A sermon for Proper 20
September 18, 2022

“The parable defies any fully satisfactory explanation.” That’s what the footnote to this parable in one of my favorite Bibles says. The parable of the dishonest manager has puzzled generations and generations of Christians. It’s not that we can’t get any message out of it; we can. Rather, it is more that all of our wrestling with this text will bring us up just a little short, and we can’t seem to get to that easy-to-grasp, if challenging, message that the parables are so famous for giving us. 

The truth is, parables can be tricky things. We can sometimes expect parables to be something they’re not. Here’s what I mean: some parables are allegories. They are stories we know and love, where each character of the story corresponds to some spiritual reality. Let’s think of the Prodigal Son. The Father is interpreted to be God. You and I are either the Prodigal or the elder son. We walk away from the parable understanding more about our place in the world, our relationship to God, and our relationship to one another. 

Other parables are closer to old fashioned morality plays–stories with an ethic, a moral, embedded in them. Think about the Good Samaritan. Jesus’s message is clear even to children: treat those in need like the Good Samaritan treated the hurt man on the road. 

But not all parables are like that. Some parables are closer to riddles, or even absurd jokes. They can be harder to understand. Today’s parable of the dishonest manager falls into that category. 

If we try to make this parable into an allegory, we will be frustrated. For any allegory we can come up with is going to be lacking. For example, we could say that the dishonest manager is Jesus, writing off our debts. Our debts to whom? Perhaps to God the Father. There are many problems with this. First, it sets the Father up to be this absentee, vindictive creditor, and we know the Father isn’t like that. And are we saying that the Son must somehow trick the Father into relieving our debt burden? No. Finally–and perhaps most significantly–the problem with this approach is that the manager does not, as the old hymn says, pay it all. No, he only forgives a small portion. But that’s not actually what Jesus does; he forgives it all for us, a debt we could never pay. 

What about one of those morality plays? Again, there are issues here. Is Jesus commending dishonesty? Is Jesus telling us to cheat our employers, to mess with the books, to go ahead and steal those sticky notes and office supplies? I don’t think so. I don’t think Jesus is trying to hold up this manager or employer as some sort of moral exemplar. 

Instead, Jesus is telling a funny story to make a point, a kind of absurd joke. Jesus takes something from his listeners’ everyday lives. He tells a story about an absentee landowner and his crooked manager. Most of the land in Jesus’s time was held by absentee landowners, especially in the backwaters of Galilee. These landowners didn’t care for the tenants, because they were never there to get to know them, and they greedily sought to extract every ounce of value out of the land. These landowners appointed managers, most of them crooked and dishonest. The manager in the parable is certainly that. He has been accused of cooking the books, likely adding exorbitant interest charges on top of the exorbitant fees the landowner already had. It wouldn’t have been hard for the people in Jesus’s time to identify with this story. I can almost hear those people in the crowd saying, “yep, I’ve been there before.” They’ve been cheated by these managers and absentee landowners before. 

Jesus is using these scoundrels to make a point. He uses scoundrels a lot, it turns out. He will tell a parable about a widow and an unjust judge. He will tell a story about tenants who try to take over a vineyard. Jesus isn’t afraid to use villains to make his point. 

So what is it that Jesus is telling his disciples, and us, to do? While this manager is no moral exemplar, we can learn something from him. This dishonest manager has a goal–security. While he is a manager, he is adding on those interest charges, the charges he will later cancel, to make himself some extra money. We can assume he’s good at it. When he is notified he will be let go, he still has that supreme end goal, his security, in mind. So he cooks the books a little more; changes the charges; cancels a menial amount of debt, just enough. Doing this he knows will ingratiate him to members of the community, and they will make sure he is taken care of. 

He is shrewd–that’s what Jesus calls him. That’s what we’re called to be, too. But unlike this dishonest manager, we follow a different Lord and a different code. And unlike the dishonest manager, our end goal cannot be our security. 

Of course, that dishonest manager’s goal is always there as an idol. Security takes the form of many things–money in the bank, the right friends and connections, a solid retirement, a legacy. So much of it comes down to that false god of money, or Mammon, as Jesus says in the Greek text. Whether we have a lot of money or not, we can put it before anything else. We can put our hope for a good life in it. If only I had a little more. If that’s our chorus line, we will never stop. We could be as rich as Elon Musk and want just a little more. If only, if only. If that’s how we approach it, we’ve made wealth, money, into a god. And as Jesus says today, we can’t serve the true God and that false god at the same time. 

Our end goal isn’t security; it can’t be. Our end goal is love. It’s loving God with everything we are; it’s loving our neighbor as we love ourselves. And we can be like that dishonest manager in this way: We can put that goal–love–before anything else. We can sacrifice in order to achieve that goal. We can be aggressive about pursuing that goal, about pursuing love. We can make our love of God and neighbor the first thing we think of in the morning and the last thing we think of at night. We can devote our time, our talent, and yes our treasure, to the pursuit of that goal. We can let love drive us. And we can use everything that happens in our lives, whether good or ill, to advance us step-by-step to that goal of loving God and our neighbor. If we do that shrewdly, like that manager, we will be welcomed into the eternal homes with true treasures: welcomed into the very life of God, whose very essence is Love.

In the end, it comes down to this: What do we really want? What’s our end goal in this life? And what are we willing to do, willing to give up, willing to sacrifice, in order to get there? 

What god are we actually serving?  

A sermon for the 14th Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 19
September 11, 2022

In our gospel reading from Luke, we hear some parables. But first, Luke sets the scene. It’s important to know who it is Jesus is talking to. Luke writes, “All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’” So we have two groups around Jesus: sinners on the one hand, and the religious leaders on the other. To put it differently, we have people who admit they do not know God and are coming to Jesus to hear more on the one hand, and we have the starched and pressed religious elite who have everything figured out and show up to church with their Bible verse memorized on the other hand. And those religious leaders, the ones with everything figured out, are grumbling about how cavalier Jesus seems to be with the company he keeps. 

So Jesus tells them three parables, the two we hear today, immediately followed by the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Each parable has the same structure, the same dilemma, and the same celebratory outcome. Jesus is really trying to drive his point home. 

Something or someone has been lost. They’ve been misplaced somehow. This happens in all sorts of ways. The Prodigal leaves home on his own accord, confident he can handle things himself. The sheep innocently runs off, gets lost, and doesn’t know the way back. As for the coin, an accident of some kind happens. It gets rolled off. Something knocks it off. It gets lost because someone else was careless or thoughtless or made a mistake. In the end, it doesn’t matter how they get lost. They are all lost. 

Not only are they lost, but they are missed dearly. That’s the bigger point in the story. The shepherd goes out and searches until he finds that bleating sheep; the woman searches and searches until she finds her coin; the father waits and watches until his Son shows up and greets him on the road at first sight.  Once reunited, there is a party. A big party. Because when something or someone we love is missing and missed dearly, we party when there is reconciliation and reuniting. 

The gospel ends with the interpretation: Jesus says, “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” 

Then what happens? How does that original crowd–sinners on the one side, religious leaders on the other–how do they react to what Jesus has said? Luke doesn’t tell us. He leaves it to our imaginations in a sense. 

It is, perhaps, easiest to imagine the reaction of those tax collectors and sinners. They know where they fit in that story. They are the lost sheep, the lost coin, the lost Son. Who knows how they ended up being lost. Maybe, like the sheep, it was an accident? They started walking down a path until one day they looked up, and they didn’t know where the fold was. Maybe they got lost like the coin? Someone pushed them, whether purposely or accidentally, off the table and they rolled under the couch, unseen and unheard. Maybe they were like the Son? They made a decision one day, and they left and didn’t look back until things got bad, and they’re trying to find a way out. Those tax collectors and sinners know what it’s like to be lost. And they know what it’s like to be found. After all, here’s Jesus who has come looking for them–calling them, asking them to follow him, searching them out wherever they are. He’s telling them, the forgotten about and the pushed aside and the wandering, that there is grace enough for them and that the God of the Universe loves them and wants to know them! 

Maybe you have been there. Maybe you have been in that low, forgotten place. And maybe you saw the shepherd round the corner. Maybe you saw the woman light that lamp and search. Maybe you saw the father running for you as you crested the hilltop. My friend, you know the grace of God. You’re open to the grace of God. And the thing about being open to the grace of God–it means you’re open to giving grace freely, for you have received it freely. 

But what about those starchy religious leaders? Their reaction is harder to predict, perhaps. They’ve spent their lives doing what they know is right. They’ve never left the sheep fold; they’ve never been pushed off and rolled out of sight; they’ve never packed up and left. At least, as far as they know. They’re the 99, the 9 coins, the older son. They are in their pew Sunday after Sunday. Their Book of Common Prayer is worn and falls open to page 355. They close the hymnal before the hymn ends because they know the last verse. They are the vestry members, the volunteer organizers, the good ones who show up. 

Jesus is holding up a mirror to them. That’s what parables do. Like the elder son, they are grumbling that the prodigal has returned and is welcomed back. He has some rough edges and needs a good bath, and he has really caused some damage. Does he deserve to be here, too, after all he has done? 

Like those ninety-nine sheep, they don’t understand why the shepherd leaves them, the ones who did everything right, to go after the one that always runs off and had it coming anyway. And sure, maybe they didn’t bleat when they saw him sneaking away. Maybe they didn’t try to alert the shepherd when this other fellow was wandering off, but are they their brother’s keeper? Can they be responsible for that? 

Like those nine coins, they were just fine. What value did that tenth coin add in the end, really? Couldn’t he find a different collection to be with? And yes, they saw what happened. They saw when that other coin was rolled off the table and pushed out. Maybe they helped that process along, just a little, by isolating that tenth coin and not letting him be a full member of the collection. But he was expendable–he was a little dinghy anyway. Now they have grown used to being a group of nine, and they are happy just as they are. Reservations for nine are easier to get than reservations for ten. Groups of nine have more of that family feeling than groups of ten. 

Why should the elder son, the ninety-nine sheep, and the nine coins have a party? Why should they celebrate? Foolish sons make stupid decisions. Wandering sheep get lost. Coins that don’t fit in aren’t trying hard enough to belong.  

This second group, they don’t know the grace of God–not really. They’re closed off to the grace of God. And the thing about being closed off to the grace of God–it means you’re closed off to giving grace freely, because how can you give something freely if you haven’t received it already, freely?

All the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. He was visiting St. Alban’s, and there might be a potluck or something. They crowded in–male and female, old and young, Republican and Democrat, rich and poor, black and white, straight and gay. The preacher said, “Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” They responded, “Alleluia. Christ is risen.” They stood up when they were supposed to kneel and didn’t know how to cross themselves. “The gifts of God for the people of God,” came the invitation. They came up to the altar, but didn’t know how to hold their hands. Maybe they didn’t even know what was going on. After they went back to their pews and talked about the dove hunt last weekend. And the Pharisees and the scribes, the religious folk who knew what to do, I wonder if they were grumbling. Or maybe they were smiling, and rejoicing, and praising God, because the whole family is here.  

A sermon for Proper 16
August 21, 2022

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you,” so says the Lord to the prophet Jeremiah. God is calling Jeremiah to his vocation, to the life of a prophet, to speak difficult truths and warnings to the people of Judah. Jeremiah speaks at a difficult moment–at a time when everyone wants to close their ears to anything that makes them uncomfortable. It will become a time of great suffering and hardship, as the empire of Babylon lays siege to Jerusalem and ultimately destroys it. Solomon’s temple will be gone. Countless lives lost. Much of the people carried off into exile. Jeremiah was chosen for this moment, to be a prophet at this time.

I cannot help but think of that line in the Lord of the Rings. ‘“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”’

It is not surprising that Jeremiah objects. He says, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” Like Moses before the burning bush and all the other prophets, Jeremiah wants to hold back. He wants to take the easier path. It’s a difficult time, Lord. Not only that, but Jeremiah comes from a complicated family history, from a line of priests that was sent away in exile to the boonies a long time ago by King Solomon for a political faux pas. Jeremiah is not only young, but his family is a problem. People know his family name; they remember the shame; they know his secret. How can he possibly speak with any authority, with any power, with any persuasion, at this difficult time? 

God dispenses with Jeremiah’s excuses. Go, God says, and do not be afraid. Because I am with you. When you’re speaking difficult truths to a stubborn king, I am with you. When you’re ridiculed in the streets, I am with you. When you’re thrown to the bottom of a pit and left to die, I am with you. When you’re in a besieged city, I am with you. When everything around you is destroyed, I am with you. When you’re left alone by everyone else, I am with you. I am with you always, for I have appointed you and consecrated you–set you apart for a special purpose. I am with you always, so do not be afraid, Jeremiah. Do not be afraid; look to God for all that you need. 

Today we are baptizing Hannah, and I wonder if we can hear God speaking to her, and to each of us, in these words to the prophet. Hannah, before I formed you in the womb I knew you; and before you were born I consecrated you. Hannah may not be appointed as a prophet to the nations (maybe she will be), but God has already spoken purpose to her soul. This purpose is made evident today as she is brought to the waters of baptism, where she is made a child of God, marked as Christ’s own forever, sealed by the Holy Spirit, set on a path of grace. Her calling–and the calling of each one of us who is baptized into the Body of Christ–is to proclaim Christ in word and deed; to show the goodness and love of God by her life; to live in the Spirit; to walk this path of grace with the help of Jesus and all of us. 

Like Jeremiah, she is called to live this life of God’s love and goodness and peace in a world that so often is filled with violence and hatred and fear. It can be difficult, scary even, to be a beacon in such a place. Jeremiah says, I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy. Hannah is only an infant; who is she to turn the tide away from violence to love, away from hatred to goodness, away from fear to peace? Who is any of us to turn the tide? 

Who are we? We are children of the living God, redeemed by the life, death, and resurrection of Christ himself. And this God who has called Hannah, this God who has called each of us, is present here and now to work through us–no matter the odds, no matter the difficulties, come what may. 

So do not be afraid. Do not be afraid, Hannah. Do not be afraid, children of the Most High God. Follow where God leads. Live the life you have been called to live–lives that reflect the character and nature of God. As we will sing in a moment, so I say now: Look to God; do not be afraid. Lift up your voices, the Lord is near! 

We cannot know what God has in store for Hannah–that is true for all of us. But we can teach her, by our words and actions, what it means to trust God and not be afraid. We can show her, by our words and actions, what it means to follow where God leads, come what may, and to know that we are never forsaken, never abandoned, always loved. We can encourage her to live her life in a way that proclaims the love and goodness and peace of our great God who has given everything for us, and to walk that path of grace, however imperfectly, knowing that Jesus is walking right beside her. It’s our job to do those things for her as the Body of Christ. 

This past week the renowned theologian, author, and Presbyterian minister, Frederick Buechner, died. I want to leave us with his words, words that speak to Hannah today and, I hope, to all of us in our Christian journeys: 

Hannah, “Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you. There’s only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you’ll reach out and take it. Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.”

A sermon for Proper 15
August 14, 2022

Like last week, our reading from Hebrews is all about faith. I think faith is one of the most misunderstood concepts in Christianity. That’s a problem. When we see faith wrong, it will ultimately lead us to see God wrong. We call that idolatry. 

Sometimes we can see faith as tokens we have because we’re really good boys and girls and try really hard. Put our five tokens of faith in the God-machine and get out a blessing. Not only is that the wrong way of seeing faith, but it’s the wrong way of seeing God. We end up worshiping a vending machine that is supposed to work for us! 

Instead, faith is rooted in a trusting relationship with God. Faith must be rooted in understanding who God is–our creator, our master, our friend. We dare to put it all in God’s hands, come what may. We trust that God’s got us, that God’s holding us, that God loves us, that God is bringing us home. We trust, even when things are bad or go a way we don’t like. That’s faith. 

Another way we get faith wrong is we think it’s an individual endeavor. We think faith is all about me, about what I think, about how I can impact what’s going on around me. We make religion all about me, me, me. 

But here’s the thing: religion, the word, means to bind together. True religion, or we might say true faith, is about binding us to God and to one another. We cannot be Christians on our own. Obviously we need to be yoked to Jesus. But we also need to be yoked to one another, bound together on this journey. Bound together, not just to people we like or who are like us, but bound together to the whole Body of Christ.  

In addition to the Body of Christ around us right now, Hebrews reminds us that we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, by those faithful who have gone before us. The saints. People like Abraham, Isaiah, Jeremiah. People like John the Baptist, James, and Mary. People like our grandparents who prayed with us; our parents who dragged us to church; all of those whom we love but see no longer. The great cloud that is supporting us in ways we cannot fully understand. 

The Christian life is a marathon. Hebrews today calls it a race that is set before us. If we’re going to finish this race, we need to lay aside those things that are slowing us down–the sin that clings so closely. We need to lay aside the ways we try to manipulate God, the ways we think this faith thing is all about us and what we can do by our own strength. And then we need to put on the true yoke of faith that binds us to Christ and to one another. 

We run this marathon together. We run it imperfectly, but Christ helps us along the way, and we help one another. We don’t give up, because it doesn’t all depend on us. And if we persevere, with the help of Christ and that great cloud of witnesses, we will make it. In the end, maybe that’s the best image of true faith. 

A sermon preached for Proper 14
August 7, 2022

Our reading from Hebrews today comes from that famous faith chapter. You know the one. The chapter starts out, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” The writer then lists out what those heroes of the old testament did by faith. We heard today about Abraham–a man who left everything he knew because God promised to show him another country. A man who imperfectly clung to the promise of God that he would be the father of many nations, even though he and his wife Sarah had no children. 

Faith: the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Or as another translator put it, “Now faithfulness is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of unseen realities.” Evidence of unseen realities: not mirages, not phantoms, not figments of imagination, but realities that already exist in the mind of God. Unseen realities we are bold enough to grab and hold onto, even now. Unseen realities that shape how we live in this world.

Be like Abraham, Hebrews is telling us. Follow God from where you are now to a country that God will show you–follow God to an unseen reality–not desiring to go back to where you came from, but leaning forward to a future only God knows. 

What is that future? Hebrews is talking about heaven, life eternal with God. The writer says that these faithful heroes desired a better country, that is, a heavenly one, the city prepared for them. We are to desire that heavenly country, too. Our animating desire should be life eternal with God–a gift that comes to us from God by grace through faith in Christ Jesus. Faith is daring to believe that God is taking us there. Faith is holding onto God and keeping the destination in mind. Faith is believing the promise–that this world is not the end, but that there awaits a new place of redemption, of renewal, of rest, of resurrection. We keep looking to the horizon of heaven by faith. 

But that doesn’t get us off the hook in this world. I grew up singing a hymn, maybe you did, too. It says, “this world is not my home, I’m just a-passin’ through.” I think hymns like this one do us a disservice, because they set up heaven as an escape, and they can give us permission to get through this world as quickly as possible, without even looking around us. If that’s the case, we’ve missed something important. For while we keep one eye on the horizon of heaven, looking to the promise of life eternal, we keep another eye right here, trained on what’s going on at this present moment. 

That’s what Jesus is saying in today’s gospel. He says, “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Don’t be afraid, good people of God; keep your eye trained on that heavenly horizon. It is the Father’s good pleasure to have a place prepared for you–a place that has plenty of good room for you and all God’s children. But then immediately Jesus gives us instructions for the here and now: “Sell your possessions, and give alms.” In doing so, Jesus says that we will be making purses for ourselves that do not wear out, “an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” 

I like talking about heaven. I bet you do, too. But when we bring up what Jesus says today, it makes me uncomfortable. Because I got a little money in the bank. And I like nice things. 

Sell your possessions, and give alms. Now before we all go out and have a big yard sale, let’s pause. It’s okay to have some money in the bank. It’s okay to have some nice things. It’s not okay to be enslaved to those things and to make them more important than Jesus. It’s not okay to be enslaved to those things and make them more important than your neighbor. 

Jesus gives us this command for two reasons. First, he knows that our things, more than anything else, can distract us from that heavenly horizon. We get so preoccupied with what we have or what we don’t have, that we lose sight of a heavenly reward. We work so hard to build treasures here on earth, that we forget about heaven altogether. That’s what the parable of the rich fool was about last week–the one who built barns and bigger barns to hoard all of his stuff, and none of it went with him when he died. 

The second reason Jesus gives us this command is that when we give alms, when we care for the least of those around us, we are caring for Christ himself. In Matthew 25, the righteous ask Jesus, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry, or thirsty, or naked, or in prison?” What does Jesus say? As you do it to one of the least of my brothers and sisters in need, you have done it unto me. Jesus is reminding us, especially those of us with a little money in the bank, that our wealth comes with ethical obligations toward others. And if we are unwilling to fulfill those obligations, we don’t have our eyes on that heavenly horizon. 

Looking to the heavenly horizon is about a lot more than what’s coming after death. It’s also about how we live right now. How are we storing up treasure in heaven right now? Because I promise you, we are all storing treasure somewhere. We just have to make sure it’s going into the right account. With faith in those things hoped for and that unseen reality, let’s keep our eyes on Jesus, never wavering. Let’s watch out for Jesus to come on that heavenly horizon in the clouds of glory. And let’s watch for Jesus to show up on our doorstep in the form of a neighbor in need. If we do that, we will never be short on real treasure–the treasure that lasts for eternal life. 

A sermon preached on the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 11
July 17, 2022
Luke 10:38-42

We come today to a familiar passage of scripture. We read that Martha, who has a sister named Mary, welcomes Jesus into her home. That is to say, Martha is in charge. We know from the gospel of John that these are the sisters of Lazarus, whom Jesus raises from the dead. They are Jesus’s good friends, and they give this rabbi who normally does not have a place to lay his head, a bed for the night. They welcome him, and with him his company of disciples. 

These two sisters take very different approaches to Jesus’s visit. Mary, we read, sits and listens at Jesus’s feet. She takes the position of a disciple, learning from the master. Martha, on the other hand, gets to work getting things ready. Cooking. Setting the table. Getting the wine. All of the things that go into making a visit like this one a success. More than that, these things were demanded by society. In Jesus’s time, hospitality, welcoming others into your home, was not just a matter of being polite. It was a religious obligation. Martha is trying to fulfill what God expects. It is not an accident that in Greek, the words for “many tasks” are polle diakonia. Diakonia–we get deacon from that word. Service is an important, even religious, matter. 

Is it any wonder, then, that she gets frustrated with her sister? Her sister, who is supposed to answer to her, the matron of the house, is off listening to Jesus. Gabbing. Martha goes to Jesus. “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” Maybe you’ve felt like her before. Maybe there have been times when you’ve felt like everything depended on you and no one was around to help. And let’s be honest; these important things must get done. 

Jesus responds in a way that might make us uncomfortable, especially those of us occupied with those polle diakonia, those important, religious tasks of hospitality. “Martha, Martha,” he says, his voice full of compassion, “you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” The better part. Those words must have stung Martha. 

There is a long history of interpreters wrestling with this text. Generally, you’ll find two interpretations. The first is something like: Mary represents the contemplative, prayer, study, things like that. Martha represents the active, doing things in the world, working. Mary, the contemplative, is better than the active. You should seek to be contemplative, and don’t worry about the active part of faith. A second interpretation is similar. Mary represents the contemplative and Martha represents the active. Some of us are one, while others are the other. It’s okay. Don’t try to be something you’re not. 

I think both of these are wrong. I think Jesus is speaking not to the form of our discipleship, but to our focus. I happen to believe that all of us are called to be like Mary, the contemplative, spending time in prayer at the feet of Jesus. I also believe we’re called to be like Martha, putting our prayers into action, doing the work of God to which we have been called. The question is not, are you a Martha or a Mary? The question is not, is Mary better than Martha? The question is, regardless of what you’re being called to at any given moment, are you focused on Jesus? For that’s the better part. It’s about our focus. 

Clearly, it’s easy to be like Martha and get away from that focus. It’s easy to get caught up in our tasks, our work, our service, diakonia, and forget why we’re doing what we’re doing. It becomes less about Jesus and more about ourselves. When that happens, watch out. 

But you can also be like Mary and lose focus. Growing up my church had prayer meeting every Monday night. I went every Monday night. And every Monday night I took a nap under the pew. 

The truth is, sometimes our faith calls us to be like Mary, sitting at the feet of Jesus, absorbing his teaching, listening intently. At other times, our faith calls us to be like Martha, getting to work, doing good service, taking part in that diakonia religious duty. We’re both-and people. Regardless of what we’re up to, our focus must be Jesus, Jesus, and Jesus. We don’t do anything for ourselves and our glory. We do everything for Jesus. 

But here’s the deal: We cannot be Martha until we’ve spent time being Mary. We cannot be Martha until we’ve spent time being Mary. We cannot serve until we have learned from the feet of Jesus. Our service means little unless we are connected to Jesus and learning from him. 

Let me be blunt and put it this way: You can work at the food bank all day every day, but unless you are praying, studying, learning from Jesus, and receiving strength weekly from this altar, your service is more about you than it is about God. 

Friends, we cannot neglect our spiritual health. We cannot neglect our relationship with Jesus. We cannot neglect that time learning at his feet. Or we will find that we do become worried and distracted by many things, and we lose focus on the one who is the way, the truth, and the life. 

Thankfully, we have the opportunity like Mary to come to the feet of Jesus. As the old hymn says, to “look full in his wonderful face.” We will be blessed so we can be a blessing. We will be fed so we can feed others. We will be loved, so that we might share that love with a broken world. Regardless of what we’re being called to do at any given moment, when our focus is on Jesus, we’re learning that “better part” that Mary knew about. And that will never be taken away from us. 

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 9
July 3, 2022

There are some people in this world who get what they want when they want it. They snap, and they have it. That’s a perk of the powerful. Everyone answers their phone calls; everyone wants them on their board of directors; everyone knows their name. These folks don’t have to put up with some of the stuff we normal folks put up with. They get the short lines, the direct access. They don’t have to do things they don’t want to do. 

Naaman in our Old Testament reading is like that. He’s the general in Aram, the bigwig. He’s a powerful man. He snaps, and he gets what he wants. But then something happens to him that is beyond his control. He gets leprosy. 

The uncontrollable happens to all of us, no matter who we are, no matter how powerful we are. And no, I’m not talking about the President of the United States falling off a bicycle here. Steve Jobs, an innovator who made a lot of money, dies from pancreatic cancer. Ronald Reagan, one of the most influential and powerful presidents of the modern era, suffers from Alzheimer’s disease. Stephen Hawking, endowed by God with such gifts for intelligence and discovery, gets ALS. The rich, the powerful, the intelligent, the Naamans of the world–the uncontrollable happens to them, just as it happens to us. That’s the cost of mortality. 

Naaman is distraught. But there is an enslaved girl working in his house, someone he had taken captive and tore from all she knew. This enslaved girl knew about uncontrollable things happening–she knew what that was like, the pain, the heartache, the helplessness. Unlike Naaman, powerlessness was her reality. She could snap all she wanted to, but no one was going to come running. And yet, some deep well of charity within her points her captor in the direction of healing: “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.”

So Naaman goes to Israel. After a dramatic episode with the king, the prophet Elisha gives him instructions: dip in the Jordan river seven times. That’s it. Simple enough. But Naaman gets angry. He’s not used to being treated like this. He has no desire to dip in the muddy and dirty and septic Jordan. He would rather go home, to Damascus, and enjoy the waters there. He wants the prophet to wave his hand, and with a dramatic gesture, to cure him. 

For Naaman, this backwater place he’s come to for healing is a long way from Damascus. It’s a long way from his comfort zone. He can’t snap and get what he wants here. He doesn’t get the best water here–no, he has to use the same water everyone else is using. No special treatment. But he finally relents. He dips seven times. And he is healed. 

You and I are called to the waters for healing, too. Each and every one of us, no matter our station in life, no matter the money in our bank accounts, no matter the power of our position–each and every one of us is born with that leprosy of Naaman’s. It is sin. It is hardwired into us, into our natures. That’s what we mean by original sin. 

But we are not left without a cure. Like that enslaved girl in today’s story, there are voices all around us, from Scripture, from our tradition, telling us of the hope of healing: “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his leprosy.” If only you knew about Jesus and his saving life, death, and resurrection, you can be cured of your curse of sin and death. 

That cleansing hope is not found where we expect it. Perhaps, like Naaman, we expect the clean and pristine waters of Damascus. Perhaps, like Naaman, we expect something big and theatrical, the waving of a hand, the muttering of words, the magicking away of sin. Instead, we are brought to a little font, a little bowl, a little water. Perhaps the blue waters of the Gulf would be our preference. Maybe we would rather be at Lake Hamilton or Greers Ferry. But salvation is not found there. Healing is not found in those waters. No, it is found in a little bowl, in a little font, a handful at a time: in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. 

It’s a long way from Damascus. This unassuming place is a long way from those waters we prefer, those places we pine for. But there’s salvation in these waters. There’s healing in these waters. In an instant, our souls are regenerated, transformed, made into a new creation. The curse of sin and death is obliterated. We are taken from a path of sin and put on a path of grace, forgiven and restored and adopted and marked as Christ’s own forever. And this promise is for anyone who desires to come to these waters. You don’t have to be a Naaman. You just have to be yourself as God created you. The water is there for us. 

Naaman went home after that. That was enough for him. But we keep coming back. We keep coming back to these waters, to this place of hope and healing. We come to this altar, and here, as we take bread and wine, we renew our baptisms, and our bonds to Christ and to one another are strengthened. And more healing gets in. The Holy Spirit keeps up the good work in us. And healing, full and complete salvation, it comes. Bit by bit, sip by sip. 

There’s still a lot we cannot control in this world. Powerful or not, rich or not, smart or not, savvy or not–the world throws its worst at us regardless. It’s out of our control, and the unexpected happens. Singer-songwriter Adele said it this way in a recent hit: “There ain’t no gold in this river that I’ve been washin’ my hands in forever.” She goes on, “I know there is hope in these waters but I can’t bring myself to swim when I am drowning in this silence.” If Adele would answer my phone call, I would tell her: Friend, you won’t find the hope you’re looking for in those waters. But I know where there are some hope-filled waters. That’s my message for us today, too. 

Yes, the waters in this world are out of our control. But the good news is, we don’t have to control them. Because when we come to these waters, when we come to this altar, when we come to our God, we approach the One who controls it all. We put our hope in God, now and forever. And God heals our souls. And nothing in this world or the next, no matter how bad or uncontrollable–nothing is able to take that hope and promise of God’s healing love away from us.