Storied Grace

The Bread that Endures

I was honored to be asked to officiate Morning Prayer and preach at the Monteagle Sunday School Assembly on Sunday, August 5. Molly and I so appreciate their warm hospitality.

Readings: Exodus 16:2-4,9-15; Psalm 78:23-29; Ephesians 4:1-16; John 6:24-35

Today’s Gospel reading from John contains some very familiar words from Jesus: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” Jesus’ conversation with the crowds today is on the heels of the feeding of the 5,000, where five barley loaves and two fish from a young boy were multiplied to feed everyone there. When he leaves, the crowds follow him–they seek him out. They’re following him because they’ve seen signs, wonders and miracles beyond imagining. And they want to see more. Jesus knows this, so he admonishes them to look deeper, to look past the signs and wonders, past the oohs and awws and wows, and instead to look at what the signs reveal: Jesus Christ himself.

“Do not work for the food that perishes,” Jesus says, “but the food that endures for eternal life.” But they don’t seem to get it. They’re looking for another sign. They remember the manna in the wilderness, and they ask what Jesus is going to do. They just don’t seem to understand completely who Jesus is.

But this is not unusual in John’s Gospel. Throughout Jesus says and does things that confound and confuse. The crowds don’t understand–his own disciples do not understand. We understand more because we know the ending of the story; we read it in the light of the Resurrection. But not so with the people in real time; they will understand later. Jesus is just operating in a different plane. The crowds are talking about bread, but he is talking about himself. The woman at the well is talking about water, but he is talking about himself. Nicodemus is talking about going back into his mother’s womb, but Jesus is talking about being born again. They just don’t get it. They don’t get who Jesus is, that the person standing in front of them is the Son of God, fully God and fully human, who came to Earth to save the whole human race.

But maybe we shouldn’t be too hard on them. Maybe we don’t get it either? Not really. We hear Jesus say that he is the bread of life, and to work hard for the bread of life that endures forever, Jesus himself. But it turns out we like to work really hard for the bread that perishes.

We work hard for prestige. We want people to think the best of us, to only see us with our face on. We hide away certain parts of ourselves, keep them tucked well out of sight. We make sure our dirty laundry, anything that’s embarrassing, is kept out of sight when we have company. We work hard to make and preserve our public image.

We work hard for power. We like to influence. We like people to know who we are, to call on us when they have a problem or need a strong voice, to ask us to serve on their boards and help with their public events. “Call on her,” they might say. “She’s a pillar in the community.” We like that.

In short, we work hard to build our own kingdoms. I’m reminded of the recent Broadway musical “Hamilton.” It portrays well Alexander Hamilton’s endless pursuit of leaving a legacy, something that will outlive him and enshrine him in history. We’re not so different, are we?

We work hard for the bread that perishes, that does not endure. We get some satisfaction–after all, all of these things are good. It is good to have a good name, to influence decisions, to leave a legacy. Those are good things. But that stuff ultimately falls away; it perishes.

But today’s invitation is this: Don’t work so hard for that stuff that perishes. Work for the bread that endures forever. Come to Jesus.

That’s not an easy thing to do. Let’s not fool ourselves. It’s easy enough, I suppose to come to church on Sunday and listen to some annoying seminarian talk. Maybe the hymns are good, and we can’t miss that great potluck.

But that’s not what Jesus is talking about. Jesus is talking about reorienting our entire lives and dedicating ourselves wholly, completely, to him. Jesus is talking about a radical change. The English poet and priest George Herbert said it this way: “Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee.” Jesus is calling us to turn ourselves completely over to him, to dedicate our lives solely to him. Jesus is calling us to stop playing in the sand, to stop building our own castles, our own kingdoms.

We have been called to work for the Kingdom of God. Seven whole days, not one in seven. All of ourselves, not just part of us. Faithful to the end, not just when it’s convenient. Choose the bread that endures forever.

“I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” What an invitation; what a calling. It’s a daily and persistent invitation to grace, to abundant and eternal life in Christ.

We choose to answer this calling in big moments in our lives, when we choose to make one of those life-altering and defining decisions, and chiefly in the sacraments of the Church. But we also choose to answer this calling, to respond to this invitation, in the daily, boring, normal decisions of our everyday lives, when no one is looking, when we are not even thinking about how this seemingly small choice will impact our lives later.

Last week my wife and I helped at a choir camp in Arkansas. In addition to learning sacred music and singing for a service at the end of the week, the kids put on a Broadway review. This year’s show was about finding those small moments in our everyday lives when we can choose faith, hope, and love, when we can reach out to others with the love that God has shown us.

The final number was “Seasons of Love” from Rent. I’m sure you’ve heard the song. 525,600 minutes… the song asks how best can we measure and mark the passage of time in our lives. The answer: In acts of love. It’s a powerful piece, in no small part because of its association with Rent. Four of the lead characters had HIV or AIDS, and the play tracks the devastating effects of the epidemic in New York City at a time when most people would rather look away in fear.

We choose Jesus Christ when we choose not to look away, when we choose love instead of fear, when we embrace the other, especially those unlike us. That’s when we choose the bread that endures forever. It’s in the small, everyday moments. Rowan Williams said it this way: “Our faith … depends on the possibility of meeting Christ in any and every place, and in any and every person. The degree to which we fail to find him, see or hear him, in anyone, is the degree to which we have not grasped–or rather yield to, been grasped by–his Lordship.”*

When Jesus Christ is our Lord, we can serve and love our neighbor completely and freely. When Jesus Christ is our life, we can die to ourselves, because we know we will live forever with him.When Jesus Christ is our bread, we can give ourselves away.

Today is your last Sunday together as a summer community. You are going back to your respective communities. Why not take up the challenge this year? Choose the bread that endures forever. In those everyday moments, in encounters with other people, especially those unlike us, choose Jesus Christ. Choose to see him shining in their lives. Look for him, and don’t stop looking until you find him; he’ll show up. Choose Jesus everyday, because he has chosen us, you and me, day after day after day, for all eternity.

*Rowan Williams, The Truce of God (London: Collins/Fount, 1983), 33.

Superheroes are Frauds

A sermon given at St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church in Springdale, Arkansas, on July 22, 2018. St. Thomas’ is the parish that sent me to seminary. It is always so good to be with them.

Proper 11, Year B
Readings: II Samuel 7:1-14a; Psalm 23; Ephesians 2:11-22; Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

“S doesn’t stand for ‘Super.’” My wife Molly explained this to me one night recently as we were watching a movie. Molly continued: “S doesn’t stand for ‘Super.’ It’s a symbol from his home planet meaning ‘Hope.’” Well, whatever it means, there’s no denying he is super. That’s why he’s many people’s favorite superhero. “Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound”–that’s our guy, our hero. Seemingly undefeatable with a high sense of morality, standing up for ordinary people like me, and insusceptible to the things that can get me down like the flu and machine gun fire. Superman. That’s the hero for me.

All of our superheroes, whether because they’re from a different planet or world, are super wealthy and geniuses, or were bitten by a spider–all of our superheroes are superheroes because they have some sort of extraordinary power, something that makes them different from you and me, that makes them more than human. They don’t have to worry about normal stuff like the flu; they can tackle the big problems of evil. Their narratives try to convince us that they, and they alone, can be our messiahs, our saviors, our hope.

Because of that, today’s reading from the Gospel according to Mark can catch some of us off guard. It can be surprising, even if it is so ordinary. Jesus tells his disciples that they all need to take a break. “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while,” Jesus says. They’ve been busy, to the point of not having time to eat. From the beginning of Mark’s Gospel (and we are only six chapters in at this point), Jesus has been going at a breakneck speed. He’s baptized, driven off into the wilderness, calls his disciples, launches his ministry, heals and teaches and preaches and debates with religious authorities. He calms a storm. He commissions his disciples and sends them out ahead of him to preach in other towns. He preaches in his hometown synagogue and is rejected. He feeds the 5,000 and walks on the water. Jesus has been busy.

So he gives the invitation: Come away and rest a while. You’ve been running ragged. Take a load off. Of course, as we read today, they couldn’t rest, not at that moment. They were met with multitudes everywhere they went, and Jesus had to stop to heal and teach.

But this can be alarming to some because of how ordinary it is. Jesus has to rest. It’s a reminder of his humanity–that while he is fully God, he is also fully human. And with his humanity come certain limitations. He has to rest. Rest is a good and holy and necessary thing for all of us, even our Lord.

Not for Superman, though–not really. He doesn’t need his rest. He’s better than we are.

But here’s Jesus, and he needs a nap. Just like me.

We like our superheroes to come with fancy outfits and superhuman abilities. We like them to come with a buffer against all that ails us mere mortals. We like them to tackle the problems we can’t, the evil in the world. They give us hope.

God could have sent a Superman. God could have sent a conquering, undefeatable military hero. God could have blinked and made a new world. But that wasn’t the plan.

The plan was to send the Son of God, the Word, Jesus Christ, as a baby who would grow up to be a poor traveling teacher without a place to lay his head, who would be susceptible to things like the flu and the cross and death. Not a super-man, but someone who is fully God and fully man.

And in him, in him alone, is hope. The incorruptible superheroes we like to lift up are frauds. Despite the S on his chest, there is no hope in the likes of Superman, or any of those Super-People we lift up as our heroes.

In Jesus Christ is the hope of the world.

The author of the letter to the Ephesians tackles the question of how we are saved through Christ. In our reading today, the author writes that “in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ.” The writer is discussing the conflict in the early Church between Jewish believers in Jesus and non-Jewish believers in Jesus. The biggest question in the early Church was what to do about non-Jews. Did believers in Jesus–all originally Jews–have to follow the Jewish law? Did they need to be circumcised, follow the dietary restrictions, and observe Jewish festivals? If they did, then non-Jewish followers of Jesus had a few more requirements before they could be accepted fully into the community of believers. If not, then we are saying that belief in Jesus Christ is enough, and while those other things might be good and even important for Jewish followers of Christ, they are not necessary for non-Jewish followers.

The writer is arguing that through Christ these two competing groups–Jews and non-Jews–are reconciled, or brought together, to God and to one another. The dividing wall that has separated them has been broken down. Why? Because through Christ and through Christ alone, we all have access to God: Through Christ we all have access in one Spirit to the Father. And because of that we are all members of the household of God, with Christ as the chief cornerstone.

But we need to notice: It is through the blood of Christ, through his death, that we are reconciled with God and with one another. It is through the humanness of Christ–the very thing that our superheroes try to reject–that we are saved. All of this is only possible because of the humanity of Christ, because he was willing to die, just like each one of us will die. Because of all of that, he is our only hope, he is the source of our unity, he is our Savior. Through him we get to God, and we become part of the very family of God, with prophets and saints of ages past. Through his death and resurrection, evil and death are really defeated, and we really have life.

You know, our grownup superheroes look a little different than they did in the comic books or on TV. Our superheroes don’t wear capes anymore; they look more like Clark Kent than Superman. They don’t have laser vision; they usually have impressive resumes and even more impressive bank accounts. They don’t have an “S” across their chests; but they have fancy titles and prestigious positions. Sometimes they have an “R” or a “D” after their name. But their message is the same: Put your hope in me. Trust me to solve your problems. I’m invincible and all powerful. Let me save you; let me be your Messiah.

Perhaps even more often we hold ourselves up to this superhero standard. We exalt ourselves, expect us to solve our own problems, to be our only hope. We try to convince the world that we can rise above ordinary, human problems. We walk around with smiles painted on our faces, afraid someone might catch a glimpse of the crack in our defenses. We are terrified that someone might see that we are not faster than a speeding bullet, not more powerful than a locomotive, and most days, we cannot even jump over a casual hurdle.

We cannot be our own Messiahs. Those outside voices cannot be our Messiahs. But the good news is that’s not the Christian hope.

For our hope is in a God who came as a human, to live and die and rise again on the third day; who, yes, got tired and needed a nap. It’s disarming–and even a little alarming–that Almighty God would come in such an unexalted, normal way. But that was the plan to save us, to free us from the powers of sin and death, to defeat evil, and to make us children of the living God.

God our Mother

We are called to be bound up in God, to live in God’s love, to base our decisions and go about our lives with a different world in mind. We are not of this world, with its limits and shortcomings and failings. And thank goodness. We are of God. We belong to God. We live in God.

A sermon preached at Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church, Chattanooga, Tennessee, on the 7th Sunday of Easter, Year B, and Mother’s Day.
Readings: Acts 1:15-17, 21-26; Psalm 1; I John 5:9-13; John 17:6-9

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus is saying goodbye to his disciples. He is praying that God will give his disciples–and us–strength to be witnesses of Jesus Christ. And it does take strength. Jesus’s prayer says that just as he was in the world but not of the world, so, too, are we in the world but not of the world. We are separate from the world somehow, even if we live in it, because we are united to God through Christ.

“They do not belong to the world,” Jesus prays, “just as I do not belong to the world” (Jn 17.14). It is easy to see how Jesus did not belong to the world. In the beginning of John’s gospel, we read that Jesus “was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him” (Jn 1.10). Throughout his life, he moves in a different plane. As fully human, he lived like us, with both suffering and joy. But he was also fully God. And that means Jesus’s relationship to God the Father was a little different from ours. Their relationship was so close, so intimate and personal and connected. And people picked up on this. People could see that Jesus did not belong to the world. He belonged to God, and God alone.

Jesus is calling us to this. We are called to this relationship with God, through Christ. We are called to belong fully to God; we do not belong to this world.

Growing up, my mother showed me what it is like to be connected to God in this way–or at least, as much as we can now. My mother lived in the confidence that Jesus was always just a breath away from her. As a single mom in college for much of my childhood, her confidence in God could not be theoretical. She depended on God, in a real way, for real needs.

One Sunday night, we were driving home from church. I couldn’t have been older than seven. The little church was out in the country, and we had to take a winding state highway back to the town where we lived. That particular night, we rounded a corner, and there was a deer. I’m sure it’s an experience most of us have had. Mom slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. As the deer crushed the front of the car and hit the windshield, the only thing I remember is Mom saying, Jesus. I suppose there were a lot of things she could have said. But her instinct was to pray the shortest prayer she could spit out in that split second. Her first line of defense was to breathe the name Jesus.

Mom sings all the time, sometimes without knowing it. One of her favorites is “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” It fits her. One of the lines in that hymn is that we should take “everything to God in prayer.” And she’s not bashful about this. Even today, when I say I have a problem or worry, her response is often, “Well, have you prayed about it?” And there aren’t many things she hasn’t prayed for. She prayed when we hit the deer. She once prayed over a car that couldn’t be fixed for a while, but needed to make it through a trip. And I know she prays for Molly and me. We can feel her prayers.

In a real way, Mom’s citizenship is not in this world. It is in heaven. She belongs to God, and God belongs to her. She still lives in the world: she goes shopping, she pays her bills, she works. But her eyes are toward God.

This is what God wants from us. God desires for us to be in close relationship with God, to be drawn up into the life of God. And today, this is what Jesus prays we might experience. Jesus acknowledges that his disciples, his closest friends, are not his, but are God the Father’s. They are a gift to Jesus from his Father, and just like Jesus, they belong to the Father. The same is true for us. We belong to God as God’s own beloved children.

I have heard it said that if we want to see the love of God, we should look at the love of mothers for their children. I think that’s true with me. And for many, that’s how they understand the love of God. Children belong to their mothers, forever. The children may be great or not. They may be wonderful role models or get into trouble. But they still belong to their mother.

I heard a story recently about a mother with two sons. One son was the valedictorian of his class, went to college, had an internship at NASA, and went on to a successful career and to have a family of his own. His mother loved him very much. But the other son had some troubles. He had a problem with addiction, even at times stealing money from his mother to support his habit. His mother loved him very much, too. When the older brother asked her about it, she said that she had no illusions about the challenges her youngest son faced. She could see plainly the damage he was doing to himself and others, including her. But she loved him. And she always would. And he would always have a place at her table.

So maybe it’s true much of the time: If you want to see the love of God, look to the love of a mother. But sometimes people are hurt by their mothers, whether by absence or neglect or abuse. I once met a young woman in the emergency room when I was working as a hospital chaplain. Her name was Paige. She was there with her mom, who was dying. When I asked how she was doing, she said she didn’t know what to feel. Her childhood had not been a good one. She was neglected by her mother, and eventually abandoned. She had only reconnected in the last few weeks as her mother’s condition worsened. This young woman, now a mother of two of her own, looked over at me, with tears running down her cheeks. She said, “You know, the worst of it is, I was so scared of being a mother. I was afraid I would not be able to take care of my kids, like my mom. I’m still scared.”

So I asked, “What made you change your mind, Paige?”

“I became a Christian. And I learned how to be a mother from God.”

She learned what love looked like from God. She learned what acceptance looked like from God. She learned what forgiveness looked like from God. She learned what motherhood looked like from God. She learned that she had the strength and courage to love as a mother, because God loves her. And God, the mother of us all, loves us, too. Fiercely.

I think this is part of what it means not to be of this world. In this world, love has conditions. Belonging has its limits. We experience our own shortcomings and the shortcomings of other fallen human beings. But not so with God. We belong to God, forever and always. The love of God is boundless.

That is the world we are called to live in. We are called to be bound up in God, to live in God’s love, to base our decisions and go about our lives with a different world in mind. We are not of this world, with its limits and shortcomings and failings. And thank goodness. We are of God. We belong to God. We live in God.

We are in this world, but we are not of this world. And because of that, we can love with an otherworldly love. We can dare to love with the very love of God.

Jesus Christ and Mayberry

Christ calls us to Christian community, where we who are many and different are one body, because we all share one bread and one cup. This is real, authentic community, stripped of illusions, where we are not united because we are all the same, but because we all belong to Christ.

A sermon preached at Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church in Chattanooga, Tennessee, on April 15, 2018, Easter 3, Year B.

Readings: Acts 3.12-19; Psalm 4; I John 3.1-7; Luke 24.36b-48

One of our biggest temptations during times of uncertainty and transition is to long for those good ole’ days–the unspecified times in the past when in hindsight, everything seemed right and good and like it should be. The country artist Rascal Flatts says it this way: “I miss Mayberry, sitting on the front porch drinking ice cold cherry coke, where everything is black and white.” Whatever our own personal Mayberry might be, we miss it. Those were the good ole’ days of yesteryear. But, ultimately, Mayberry is a temptation because it is an illusion, and an illusion that can become an idol. Those good ole’ times we idealize had their own rough patches. Maybe we don’t remember them so well now, but they were there.

Mayberry

The Church is subject to the same temptation. We miss the good ole’ days when… When everyone was off work on Good Friday; when there weren’t baseball games or Ironman triathlons on Sunday; when we didn’t disagree on this or that; when every family looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.

The first letter of John, which we heard from this morning, shows us that there was never this golden time in the Church when everything was perfect. Our reading today has this lovely verse in it: “See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are.” How perfect. It is tempting to hear that and smile and claim we are all one family, each one of us a child of God, all united in our love for God and for one another. Just like in Mayberry, sitting on the front porch swing, ice cold cherry coke in hand, loving Jesus and loving each other, without a care in the world.

But, if we’re honest, that’s not reality–not for us, and not for the community of I John. No, the community to which this letter is addressed is a community in turmoil, in the process of dissolution. It had fractured in two. From the rest of the letter, scholars think that the opponents of the writer of I John claimed to be sinless and perfect themselves, that Jesus’ humanity was not important for salvation, and that they didn’t have to follow the commandments, including Jesus’ new commandment to love one another. The writer of 1 John tries to argue against all these heresies. And naturally, both groups claimed to be speaking by the power of the Holy Spirit.*

These are serious disputes. They’re not arguing about small things, but about the foundation of who they are, only 70 or so years after the death and resurrection of Christ. The stakes are high. People are upset. We’re not in Mayberry anymore.

We read this section of I John during Eastertide, so we get this picture of turmoil and conflict in Christian community alongside the resurrection appearances of Jesus, alongside the surprise and wonder and excitement of discovering that Christ is risen! We get this communal friction alongside our alleluias. But that’s the whole point of Easter, really, because that does reflect our lived reality as Christians in community. Over and over again, right in the middle of our hopelessness and conflict and turmoil, the resurrected Christ shows up.

In today’s reading from the Gospel according to Luke, the disciples are in a room in Jerusalem. They have been met by a couple of folks who were on their way to a town called Emmaus. They met a man on the road who talked with them about Jesus and his death. And then at table, this man took bread, broke it, and gave it, and their eyes were opened. And the man was Jesus Christ. They run back to Jerusalem to tell the others. And while they are telling them, Jesus shows up.

They are startled and terrified. Jesus says, “Peace be with you.” He shows them his hands and his feet. He commissions them as witnesses to his life, death, and resurrection. They are sent to proclaim the good news.

duccio_locked_doors1 — The Resurrected Christ appears in the room with his disciples.

Jesus chooses to show up, to reveal himself to his disciples, when they are wondering what the future holds. Jesus chooses to show up when they are terrified and on edge. The resurrected Christ shows up, not when things are perfect and calm, but when they need him most–in their anxiety, questioning, and despair. And Christ makes them a community again–a community of witnesses to the good news of God in Christ.

Christ shows up here, too. Christ shows up in our lives today. The resurrected Christ shows up in the midst of our turmoil and uncertainty. And Christ makes us, like those first disciples, witnesses to the good news of God in Christ Jesus: that the love of God is stronger than death itself, and that God loves us–even us–with such powerful love.

Christ does not call us to Mayberry, where differences are ironed over and ignored, this imagined community of what-ifs. Christ calls us to Christian community, where we who are many and different are one body, because we all share one bread and one cup. This is real, authentic community, stripped of illusions, where we are not united because we are all the same, but because we all belong to Christ.

Christ calls us to be a resurrection community, where God’s love is not only abundant in these walls, but where God’s love spills out of us and we become bold witnesses to what God has done in Christ.

But for this to happen, we must leave Mayberry behind. The what-if, imagined, idealized Mayberry communities only distract us from what Christ is calling us to now. These Mayberrys keep us planted in the past, in the world created in our image and in our likeness. They are a prison; they are blinders on our eyes; they are stumbling blocks on the way. But the resurrected Christ calls us to the now. We are called to be his witnesses now. We are called to see a world created in the image and likeness of God. We are called not to Mayberry, but to the Kingdom of God and to live a resurrection life in Christ.

*See, e.g., Raymond E. Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple: The Life, Loves and Hates of an Individual Church in New Testament Times (Mahwah, N.J.: Paulist Press, 1979).

We Have No King but Christ

Or we can follow Jesus on the way of the cross. Jesus Christ can be our king. We can put our ultimate trust and loyalty in him.

agnus — The Lamb of God that takest away the sins of the world. A stained glass window at my sending parish, St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church in Springdale, Arkansas.

Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church
Chattanooga, Tennessee

Good Friday

Readings: Isaiah 52:13-53:12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 4:14-16, 5:7-9; John 18:1-19:42

The Gospel today provokes the question, who is our king? We have two choices: the emperor or Jesus. Which king will we follow? In whom will we place our trust?

The crowds at Pilate’s headquarters give us their answer: “We have no king but the emperor,” they cry. Jesus, this King of the Jews, is not their king. Their loyalty lies with Rome.

Pilate’s king is certainly the emperor. Pilate’s power is dependent on his relationship with the emperor–he only serves at the emperor’s pleasure. If Pilate wants to hold on to power (and he does), he must stay on the emperor’s good side. Send the taxes to Rome; maintain order no matter what. Pilate has no king but the emperor.

The followers of Jesus are faced with the same choice in a sense. Will they follow Jesus to the cross, or will they go their own way? The women and the disciple whom Jesus loved follow Jesus all the way to the cross; others choose to abandon him and seek their own self-preservation against the threat of Rome.

Who is our king? Ultimately this choice is a question of trust. We are asked, in whom will we put our trust? Will we place our trust in emperors? Or will we place our trust in Jesus Christ, the Son of God? Will we look to fine palaces, places of power and prestige, with thrones and symbols of authority? Or will we look to a hill on which stands Jesus’ throne, the cross?

In our daily lives, we are presented with many emperors. We are invited over and over to place our ultimate trust in a never-ending stream of things and people. We are told to put our ultimate trust in the power of money. Invest in this scheme; buy gold; hire this financial adviser; trust the market. We are told to put our trust in political figures or ideas. Follow this person; they know how to straighten everything out. If only everyone would buy into this taxation strategy, everything would be fixed. If only we all listened to this news source, we could be saved. If we carry a gun, we will always be safe. And then there’s our health: take this magic pill. Practice this form of meditative stretching. Go see this doctor or read this book. Now we can freeze our bodies and put them in storage, all in the hope that one day when they find a cure for our illness, they can revive us and heal us. All these things become the keys to our own peace and security.

We are looking for saviors. After all, we need saviors. The world in which we live is often unstable and unpredictable. Our bodies and our pocketbooks are prone to threats. We want something to save us–something to protect us from vulnerabilities, from weakness. That’s what emperors are. They are our saviors–or those who claim to be our saviors, to have all of the answers. These are the things that claim our loyalty. Follow us, say these worldly emperors, and you will never be vulnerable. And we are tempted to respond, like the crowds, “We have no king but [these] emperor[s].”

Or we can follow Jesus on the way of the cross. Jesus Christ can be our king. We can put our ultimate trust and loyalty in him.

The way of Jesus–the way of the cross–is not the way of these emperors. It is not a way that directs us away from vulnerability; it takes us right into it. It is not a way that shields us from weakness; it plunges us into it. It is not a way that shys away from pain; it shows us that the price of love is pain. And to our amazement, we find that this way is the way of life and peace. It is a path paved with love–not sentimental love, but true love that sacrifices and gives without seeking anything in return.

This salvation is different from what is offered by the worldly emperors. Unlike them, Christ does not claim to offer us a carefree way. Christ offers us life and freedom: a life and freedom rooted in the power of love, in the power of giving everything and holding nothing back, in the power of sacrifice, in the power of obedience to God, in the power of the cross.

On Good Friday, we look at Jesus, we look at the cross, we look at this way of love that plunges us into vulnerability, weakness, and pain, and we are called to choose that. We are called to confess that we have no king but Christ. We are called to reject the emperors of the world for what they are: false gods with empty promises. For on the cross, we see the Son of God; we see our King. We see the way of life and peace. We see our salvation and the salvation of all the world.

This Is Not What We Expected

We look for God and find God where we do not expect: in a beaten, tortured man on a cross, in a dead man laid in a borrowed tomb.

Cross palms

A sermon preached on Palm Sunday at Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

This is not what we expected.

“This is not what we expected,” said the crowds that laid down palm branches and cloaks to herald the Messiah on a donkey, who now hangs suspended between heaven and earth on a Roman cross. The victorious conqueror they imagined appears to be vanquished and conquered, breathing his last, yet another example of the brutality of the Roman Empire in their occupied land.

“This is not what we expected,” said the twelve disciples as Jesus took bread and wine at a familiar feast, and said, this is my body, this is my blood. They revolted at the announcement that Jesus was near death’s door. They took offense at his claim that they would desert him.

“This is not what I expected,” said Peter after the arrest, as he followed Jesus from the garden to the courtyard. He thought he could stay by Jesus’ side, but he denied–one time, two times, three times–I do not know the man.

“This is not what I expected,” said Pontius Pilate, as he washed his hands. Here was a man in which he could find no fault, and yet the crowds cry, crucify him, and give us Barabbas.

“This is not what I expected,” said Simon of Cyrene, a passing visitor in town for the Passover, as he was forced to pick up the cross from a struggling man, badly beaten, whom he had never seen. Simon would be bathed in the blood of this man sent to die for reasons Simon didn’t even know.

“This is not what we expected,” said the women at the foot of the cross, as they watched Jesus suffer, cry out to God forsaken, and die. Their grief and shock were overwhelming. And how could they, all women, be the only followers of Jesus there?

“This is not what I expected,” said the Centurion at the cross, as the sky turned black, as the veil of the Temple was torn in two, as the earth shook. “Truly this man was God’s Son,” he said as he watched the lifeless body of Jesus, still nailed to the tree. And yet this Roman soldier confessed who Jesus is: the Son of God.

“This is not what I expected,” said Joseph of Arimathea, as he led a group with the body of Jesus to a new tomb. Joseph thought that he would lie there with his family, but now this great teacher lies there instead.

Is this what we expected? Did we expect that God would become man and die? Did we expect that God’s power would be shown in weakness, in pain, in suffering, in death?

Palm Sunday reminds us that this story we know so well, the story we tell week after week at the Eucharist, is something unexpected. God in Jesus Christ subverts what we think of power and strength, for in Jesus Christ power is shown in submission, and strength is shown in weakness, even to the point of death. We look for God and find God where we do not expect: in a beaten, tortured man on a cross, in a dead man laid in a borrowed tomb.

It is still in the unexpected that we find Jesus. We find him in those places where we don’t tend to look, in forgotten places, in unseen corners of the world. We find him in people who do not look like us, who are so different than us, in the faces of the poor and the oppressed. We find him in ourselves, staring back at us in the mirror, in the middle of our broken lives. We find him in our suffering, in our pain, and in our death.

This is not what we expected. This is not who we expected–God Incarnate, riding into our lives on a donkey. God Incarnate on a cross, sharing our death.

Today, we remember and celebrate all that is unexpected about Jesus as we are invited, once again, to walk his final steps to his death with him through this Holy Week. Come and see and be surprised to discover the depths of his Passion for us, the great shock, the great Unexpected Event, that awaits us all on the other side of his cross.

…As We Forgive…

We understand that this radical forgiveness is not easy. It is not something to shrug off. Sometimes it is absurd.

A sermon preached on the Tuesday in the third week of Lent at the Chapel of the Apostles in Sewanee, Tennessee.

Readings: Song of the Three Young Men 2-4, 11-20a; Psalm 25:3-10; Matthew 18:21-35

A video of this sermon in Spanish can be found here.

In the Gospel reading today, there are many differences between the Spanish and English versions. It is important to know that the English version is more accurate, because it is closer to the original Greek than the Spanish version.

In reality, the functionary is already a slave. This slave must pay the king a debt that he cannot pay. This debt is absurd. It is equal to 150,000 years of work. Certainly, it is impossible for the slave to pay the debt in this life. Impossible. So the king forgives his debt.

Then upon leaving, the slave meets another slave who owes him, in the Spanish version, a small sum. Relative to the debt the slave owed the king, this is true. But this debt is equal to 100 days of work. It is not small, but it is significant. The average worker in the United States makes $35,000 each year. 100 days of work is equal to approximately $13,000. This is not a small sum in reality. It is significant. To forgive this debt is difficult. To forgive is no doubt a sacrifice. To forgive this debt has real consequences for life.

It is important to remember this–to remember that to forgive is a sacrifice with real consequences for our lives. If we are honest, to forgive such a debt is absurd for us.

But that’s the point. Jesus tells Peter to forgive not seven times, but seventy-seven times. When we shed our self-righteousness and are honest with ourselves, we understand that this radical forgiveness is not easy. It is not something to shrug off. Sometimes it is absurd.

And it always has real consequences for our lives. Forgiveness means that we must die. This is a consequence. But when we forgive, especially when it is not easy, forgiveness means we will live. This is also a consequence.

May we live in the same way we pray: Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. For there is the path of eternal life.

The Cross in Daily Life

Laying down our lives is not done in a single heroic deed or event. Rather, it is a daily response–in every action, no matter how small or mundane or boring or tiring–to God’s faithful action.

A sermon preached at Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Second Sunday in Lent, Year B
Readings: Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16; Psalm 22:22-30; Romans 4:13-25; Mark 8:31-38

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it” (Mk 8.34b-35). Last week the adult formation class began looking at Life Together by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German theologian and pastor who knew something about taking up his cross and following Jesus, and knew about losing life for the sake of Christ and the gospel. He was executed by the Nazi regime by hanging on April 9, 1945, just three weeks before the Soviets liberated the camp. The legend is that when the dawn came, he whispered to his cellmate, “This is the end. For me, the beginning of life.” He was stripped naked, paraded to the gallows where he said a prayer, and then hanged. Bonhoeffer lost his life because of his dedication to Jesus Christ, which led him to oppose Hitler and the Nazi regime through his writings and lectures, through running an underground and illegal seminary, and through participating in a civilian intelligence network that smuggled Jews out of the country and plotted an assassination attempt on Hitler’s life.

Bonhoeffer

“This is the end. For me, the beginning of life,” said Bonhoeffer as he walked to his death, his cross in the shape of a gallows. And certainly Bonhoeffer walked toward eternal life, toward Paradise with God, toward heavenly rest and his just reward. But the problem with stories like Bonhoeffer’s is that they are extraordinary. Maybe too extraordinary. And when we focus on the extraordinary nature of Bonhoeffer’s life and death, we miss something important. We miss what happens everyday–the very ordinary and often dull moments that make up a life but don’t make it into the legends or headlines. For Bonhoeffer, his march toward the gallows was not the beginning of life, really. For he had life all along. In his everyday and mundane routine, he had life, for he had Christ, the source of Life itself.

In today’s reading from the Gospel according to Mark, Jesus says, “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it” (Mk 8:35). In the context of the gospels, losing life means, simply, dying. At this point Jesus knows where his journey is taking him. His path of peace will lead to death on a cross. So on a basic level, he’s talking about a literal death. A literal cross. Like Bonhoeffer walking up to the gallows and stepping over the threshold into eternal life.

But Jesus’ words mean more than that, too, for they are also about how we live now. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it” (Mk 8:35). This is what we do in our baptisms. We take on the life of Christ, and we lay down our life. And while this is done in a single moment at our baptisms, it is also done daily, in the ordinary and mundane routines and decisions of our lives. It is not flashy. It does not make headlines. It is boring. But it is life.

This life is lived out in discipleship. It requires something of us. It requires following Jesus on the way of the cross, losing our life day in and day out, and taking on the life of God. Everyday we pick up the cross, and find peace. Everyday we lay down our life, and find the life of God. We commit ourselves to God and to God’s mission in the world. We see the work of God around us, discern our calling within that work, participate in that work, and give ourselves away to that work, to one another, and to God.

Bonhoeffer’s life was a life of daily discipleship. It was a life of following God, dedicated to following God despite what was happening all around him. Bonhoeffer laid down his life daily, and daily picked up the life of Christ. He laid down his life in every action, every sacrifice, every conversation, and every prayer. And at the end, when his life was required, he found that he had already laid it down. His life was already given to God, so it could not be taken by evil.

I know someone named Amy. Amy’s job is long-term home care for those with alzheimer’s disease. She takes care of one patient at a time. She keeps up their home. She cooks for them, trying to keep their favorite meals on the menu even with dietary restrictions. She makes sure they are washed and clean. She takes care of their pets, even after they have forgotten they have a pet. She waits with them as their memory fades, until she becomes a stranger. She ministers to the family that is just trying to keep their head up through this most difficult time. She goes to funerals.

If you asked Amy why she does this, she would tell you it’s what God has called her to do. There are no plaques or memorials to honor her; she probably won’t be remembered in any history books. But this is just what she does, day in and day out, year after year, faithfully. She lays down her life bit by bit for these patients who become her friends. She does this the best she can, because she knows when she serves these people in their final years, she is serving Christ. And there is nothing she would rather do. This is her ministry; this is her cross; this is how she lays down her life and follows Christ. And each day, as she lays down her life for Christ and for her friends, she finds the true life of God.

Amy shows us that laying down our lives is not done in a single heroic deed or event. Rather, it is a daily response–in every action, no matter how small or mundane or boring or tiring–to God’s faithful action. In baptism, God reaches out to us. God makes a covenant with us as beloved children of God. And we respond the only way we can: We take up our cross, whatever that looks like in our particular life, and we follow Christ. We lay down what is convenient and take up God’s covenant. We lay down our dreams and take up the dream of God. We lay down our illusions and take up God’s vision. We lay down our life, and take up Christ. And there we find that in Christ is life, the abundant and true life of God.

How Can We Keep from Singing?

Our song is not one of naive and cheap optimism, but one that springs from a secure hope in a God who bears our pain and shares our joy. It is a song with the cross and the resurrection in view. And from that place of hope, we offer our lives as a song of love and praise to God.

THE FEAST OF THE PRESENTATION OF OUR LORD
February 2, 2018
Chapel of the Apostles
Sewanee, Tennessee

Readings: Psalms 42-43, I Samuel 2.1-10, John 8.31-36

A video of the sermon can be found here.

Today Hannah sings a song of triumph and confidence in the power and love of God, a song of reversal of the status quo, a song of justice and mercy. But let’s rewind the story a little. Hannah’s deepest desire is to have a son. She prays for a son. She travails before God. She weeps bitterly, and she vows that if God would give her a son, she will set him apart as a nazirite before God. God hears her, and she gives birth to Samuel. Once Samuel is weaned, she takes him to the priest Eli. And then she sings. Her heart breaks out into doxology, it overflows with praise to God.

When God shows up, when God breaks into our everyday lives, when the glory of God makes the world shine, how can we keep from singing? How can our hearts not overflow with praise? How can our thankfulness not spill out into melody?

But the temptation here is to embrace a sort of prosperity gospel, where praise is abundant when things are great, but a desert when our lives seem to have more valleys than mountaintops. And yet sometimes, like Hannah, we have to weep bitterly before God. We need to bear our hearts to the One who always hears, who already knows.

This is doxology, too. This is praise, too. This is part of Hannah’s Song. Hannah’s weeping and crying out to God is in the confidence that God hears, that God knows, that God understands. Her words today are an affirmation of this: God does indeed hear, especially those of low estate, those who weep bitterly, those who cry out, those who fear the worst. God is there. The glory of God shines there, too.

Wherever we are in our lives, whether in a moment of blessing, or a place of grief, fear, or pain, God is there. And we sing our song. Our song is not one of naive and cheap optimism, but one that springs from a secure hope in a God who bears our pain and shares our joy. It is a song with the cross and the resurrection in view. And from that place of hope, we offer our lives as a song of love and praise to God. You are God; we praise you. You are the Lord; we acclaim you.

Sacrifice in Corinth

A central part of what it means to follow Christ in Corinth or in Chattanooga is to consider the needs and concerns of our brothers and sisters in Christ above our own, so that we bear one another’s burdens and celebrate one another’s joys. At its greatest depth, love in Christ means sacrifice.

Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church
Chattanooga, Tennessee

The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B
January 28, 2018
Readings: Deuteronomy 18.15-20, Psalm 111, I Corinthians 8.1-13, Mark 1.21-28

Corinth was like the Las Vegas of the ancient Mediterranean world. It was a racey place, a wild city with a reputation, but also a business center. And as such, it attracted people from all over. And these diverse people brought their gods with them. Scholars say that there would have been innumerable shrines to innumerable gods in the city. And no one was worried about being mutually exclusive. It was sort of like an endless religious buffet of whatever suited you at that moment.

In today’s passage from I Corinthians, Paul writes to people who live and work and worship in this context. They are new to this Way of following Christ. And they are arguing about a lot of things, like eating meat sacrificed to countless idols in the city. So they ask Paul: Should we eat meat sacrificed to idols? Or shouldn’t we? It seems simple enough, and yet it is not. The rich would accept social invitations to dine in the temples, and these opportunities were a chance for social advancement. As for the poor, the only time they might eat meat was when it was distributed at public religious festivals after it had been sacrificed to idols.

So the question about eating meat is a serious one for the Corinthians. It is about the worship of idols, certainly. In eating this meat that was sacrificed to an idol, am I being unfaithful to the one, true God? But it is about other things, too. What happens if my friends invite me over to the neighborhood temple? Do I decline the invitation for my own religions reasons or can I accept it? Can I eat the only meat I’m likely ever to get, despite the fact that it’s given in the name of another god? What should we do? These are not abstract questions. The issue affects the nitty-gritty of daily life in Christ. At the root of all of these questions is, how do I follow Christ in Corinth?

St. Paul gives an interesting answer to all of this. On the one hand, he says, it doesn’t matter. They’re just idols. There is only one, true God, and as long as you know that, it’s okay. You have freedom in Christ. But on the other hand, eating this meat might cause division in the assembly. There are some who are not sure about this, who are trying to feel their way around this issue. Don’t boast that you’re further along than they are, that you figured it out first. You might hurt them, and if you do that, you’re hurting Christ. So, Paul concludes, I’m not going to eat the meat, even if I have the freedom to do that. My relationship with my fellow Christ-followers is too important. We’re connected, and I am not going to do something that hurts them. I’m going to limit myself out of my love for them. I’m going to make my own sacrifice. And St. Paul is asking them to do as he does: limit themselves out of their love for others in the assembly, despite the sacrifice of social status or opportunities for advancement.

And there it is, the answer: a central part of what it means to follow Christ in Corinth or in Chattanooga is to consider the needs and concerns of our brothers and sisters in Christ above our own, so that we bear one another’s burdens and celebrate one another’s joys. At its greatest depth, love in Christ means sacrifice.

This is what it means to be the Church. We are a community of believers who strive to follow Christ, brothers and sisters baptized into Christ’s death and resurrection, a family of very different people with the same mission of representing Christ to one another and to the world. We are a communion of love–not the sentimental love of romantic comedies, but a love that loves until the end, no matter the cost, despite our differences, a love that makes sacrifices.

But we can’t do this on our own. I once heard about a group of nuns living in New York City. They provided social services to a very poor, rundown, and frankly forgotten area of the city. They had moved there a long time ago, when the neighborhood looked pretty different. They stayed when the grocer down the street decided to close up shop. They stayed when the school consolidated with another school because there weren’t enough teachers. They stayed when social services moved in and then moved out again. They stayed as their own resources dwindled, and as calls for them to move to a better part of town mounted. The nuns stayed through it all. A researcher was intrigued by what gave them their staying power, and asked one of the aging nuns in the bunch, “Everyone is gone, but how do you stay? How are you able to go on, seemingly without getting burned out or giving up?” They answered, “We love the people here.” “Yes, I’m sure you do,” the researcher replied. “But so did the grocer, and the teachers at the school who left, and all of those people in those nonprofits that moved out. How is your love different?” “Well,” the nun replied, “These people are my family… And I pray a lot. I have felt the love of God, so I know there’s plenty to go around here.”

Perhaps what the nun was getting at is this life of sacrificial love does not depend on our own strength alone–indeed, it can’t depend on our strength alone. In our baptisms, we are invited to share in the very life of God, a life which is endless and infinite Love between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit–a Love that we are caught up in, that we are pulled into, that reaches out to us and feeds us, a love that connects us to one another as brothers and sisters and makes us children of God. We all share in this love, and it is from God’s love that we are able to love one another. Because of that we can bear one another’s burdens, we can love no matter the cost. We can love our life away, because we are connected to the very source and Lord of Life.

But we should not fool ourselves. This way of life, this way of loving every day, of making sacrifices for our brothers and sisters around us, leads us down the way of the cross, down the way of giving all for the sake of another, down the way of laying down one’s ambitions, one’s hopes and dreams, and one’s very life for another. And in a world so concerned about the self, about getting ahead, about getting a competitive advantage or the upper hand, there could be nothing more counter-cultural, no way of life more radical. And yet we find, at the end of that way of love that holds nothing back and sacrifices all, there we find nothing but life and peace–the life and peace of God.