SERMON: Rest, Damn ye!

PENTECOST 7 | MARK 6:30-34 | “REST, DAMN YE!”

In the early 1800s, a young clockmaker and inventor nicknamed “Park” fell deathly ill. The doctors said that his liver was affected, and his kidneys were diseased. They prescribed for him a noxious medicine that was slowly poisoning him, and, in fact, several of his teeth had fallen out because of it. Park had all but given up when a friend suggested that perhaps he would feel better if he went for a brisk buggy ride.

He thought that was nonsense, but having no better ideas, he went. Unfortunately, the horse was uncooperative, and Park found himself stranded beside a farmer’s field. Park was too weak to even whip the horse into action, so he just waited until a farmer plowed far enough towards him to hear his feeble cries for help.

Eventually the farmer DID hear him, and Park asked him to start his horse for him. The farmer dutifully obeyed, and then a very strange thing happened. As soon as the horse started trotting, and picking up speed, a strange feeling of excitement and exhilaration overcame Park. By the end of the buggy ride, he was completely healed.

He didn’t know what to make of this strange occurrance until, many years later, he apprenticed himself to a Mesmerist and faith healer. Mesmerists, the predecessors to modern-day hypnotherapists, believed that there was a subtle ether, a dynamic, invisible substance that lay between all things and could be manipulated by the mind, especially for the purpose of healing.

After working for this Mesmerist for a couple of years, Park began to piece together the outlines of a healing system that was to revolutionize the world. He discovered that a person’s thoughts affect their health. He believed he has stumbled upon the healing method of Jesus, amply supported by the scriptures. For time and again Jesus tells the people he heals that it is their own faith that has healed them.

Park believed that it was not, as most people believed, the grace of God that healed people, not directly, anyway. But that healing came as a result of a mechanical, predictable, and scientifically verifyable principle of nature. Disease does not have its origins in the body, but in the mind; and that by changing our beliefs, our thoughts, we can change our health, for good or ill.

Park struck out on his own and set up shop as a healer in his own right. And people FLOCKED to him. From hundreds of miles around, morning, noon, and night, Park was flooded with patients. And they just kept coming. Over the next several years, he worked himself ragged, tending to the endless line of sick and desperate people that had sought him out.

Over the years, his students watched him as he lost his own vitality, and his own health. By the time he collapsed at the relatively young age of 64, he had healed some 12,000 people. His gravestone read, simply, “Phineaus Parkhurst Quimby, 1802-1866. Greater love hath no man than that he lay down his life for his friends.”

Park was truly an amazing man. Whether you put stock in his healing technique or not, he was certainly onto something. After all, the thousands upon thousands of people would simply not have kept coming if he had been a complete fraud. But his story is also tragic, because, had he cared for himself half so well as he cared for complete strangers, he might have lived to heal twice as many people as he did.

Park is not alone, of course. A lot of us have trouble caring for ourselves, even when our occupations are oriented around helping other people. The number one problem that besets ministers, in fact, is not poverty or irksome parishioners or meddlesome bishops or a million other possible complaints, it is BURNOUT. 2000 ministers per month leave the ministry in the United States. In fact, of every 20 people who enter the ministry, only one of them will retire. Do you know of any other jobs that have a turnover rate of 95%?

People in other helping professions have similar difficulties. Most of us go into our fields, at least in part, because we genuinely care about people and we want to help them. But we soon discover that there is a bottomless well of pain in the world, and that we can never draw all of the water off, no matter how hard we try, no matter how many hours we work, no matter how we sacrifice ourselves to make it happen.

That doesn’t stop us from trying, however, until we ourselves fall ill, until we break down, before we throw up our hands and say, “Enough! I’m out of here.” And the helping professions lose the very people that can do the most good.

Jesus is no stranger to this phenomenon. If you recall in our reading last week, Jesus is rebuffed by his native townsfolk and responds by sending out seventy of his followers to reduplicate his efforts far and wide.

In today’s reading, the seventy have returned, tired, hungry, worn out. Jesus tell them, “You need to take it easy for a while; let’s take a couple of days off, shall we?” But what happens? Jesus and the apostles run smack into that bottomless well of suffering. They aren’t able to get away. The people just keep coming, and coming, and coming. Finally, Jesus gives up on the retreat idea and just ministers to them. The scripture doesn’t tell us, however, what kind of toll it took on him and the disciples. But we can guess.

There is still a lot of suffering, a lot of need in the world. As Jesus once said, “the poor you will always have with you.” The sick, too, and the hurting, and the homeless, and the mentally ill, and…you name it. How do we do what we can do without sacrificing ourselves?

It isn’t easy. Part of the problem is the Catholic tradition of imatatio Christi, the imitation of Christ. This is the tradition that tells us that we are supposed to try to be as much like Jesus as we possibly can. And since Jesus sacrificed himself for others, well then, so should we!

Protestants also practice imatatio Christi, but they layer on another unhelpful tradition, the Protestant work-ethic. This tradition is deeply rooted in our culture, and it gives people the insidious message that if they are not accomplishing, accomplishing, accomplishing, they are not worthwhile. Unless we are incessantly producing, we have no gauge by which to measure our worth. So, if we are in the helping professions, we measure our value, our self-esteem, our job performance by how much suffering we can alleviate, how many people we can touch, how much we can help. Of course, those who are not in helping professions are also plauged by this horrendous notion. Job burnout is rampant across the board. People work themselves into the ground every single day, regardless of their job descriptions.

And this, my friends, is an evil. Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s good to help people. We’re supposed to do that. But the Judaic revelation is that we are worthwhile simply because we ARE, not because of how much we can accomplish. The Judaic revelation is revolutionary not only because of that, but because it is the very first time in human history that rest is mandated for the whole of creation, including and especially, those humans who work the hardest. And it’s not just a suggestion, it’s a commandment. Every seven days, you are to do no work. Every seven years, you must let the soil rest and not plant anything. When a young couple marries, neither of them is to have any responsibilities for any entire year. They get a year off to enjoy each other and to grow their love. How amazing is that?

But that is the graciousness of our God. That is the generosity, the care, the love for us that God has. God does not require us to work ourselves into the ground. Instead, God REQUIRES us to get enough rest, to take time to enjoy our lives, to play, to spend time with our families. Unfortunately, ministers, who should GET this more than other folks who don’t know the scriptures as well, somehow ignore it or overlook it, or somehow think it doesn’t apply to them.

The Episcopal Church just a couple of years ago released a study that says that the number one crisis in the Episcopal Church was not schism, not homosexuality, was not the place of women in the church. It was clergy self-care. And, as I’ve said, this is not just an issue for clergy. It is an issue for ALL of us. Because we are ALL ministers—we all have to pay the rent, feed our families, and still make tame to do good in the world. Because that’s the kind of people we want to be.

Yes, there are a million things that need to get done. Yes, there are more people to help than you can possibly get to. They can wait. They MUST wait. Because if you do not care for yourself, you may not BE there tomorrow to help anyone. Like Park, you might find yourself on the wrong side of the helping professional’s desk with bad news about your heart or your blood pressure or your sugar level.

In our reading from Exodus, the people of Israel are told that if they do not take a sabbath for themselves, they shall be put to death. Now, we presume that this means by some legal action, by stoning or some such thing. But even without such penal recourse, doesn’t it stand to reason that that is precisely what will happen? We don’t need anyone hurling rocks at us to punish us for not resting on the sabbath. We do quite a good job of punishing ourselves, just as Park did when he worked himself into an early grave. If we do not rest, we will die.

Caring for the world begins with caring for YOU. Yes, it’s trite. Yes, you’ve heard it before. Yes, it’s common sense. So why can’t we GET IT? I’m terrible at it, you’re terrible at it, we’re all terrible at it. Blame the tradition, blame the culture, blame the bottomless well of suffering, but when you come right down to it, we have to take responsibility for ourselves, each and every one of us, to care for ourselves FIRST, to love ourselves at LEAST as much as our neighbors, to put all our words about care and ministry and love into practice in our own lives before we extend those things to others. Charity doesn’t just start at home, it starts IN you, FOR you.

I’ve worked hard to find that balance for myself. It hasn’t been easy. I still have trouble “turning off” the monkey mind, turning off the computer, stopping thinking about work, or my next sermon, or worrying about what I have to do next, what I have to write next, who I need to visit next, and on and on and on. But I’ve built in structures into my life to make it manageable. I try to take at least one and a half days off every week. I make sure I get one long vacation of at least three weeks a year, and one or two shorter times away as I am able. I am looking forward to going to Spain next month not just because I love to travel, but because I love MYSELF, and I need the time away to restore my mental health, my physical health, and my soul.

Because I know I’m coming back. Because I know there will be a good amount of work waiting for me when I return. Because I know there is a bottomless well of grief in this world, and I want to be in as good a shape as I can, to do the most good that I can do. Because I want to support you to go out and do the most good that you can do. And that means caring for ourselves. Not just caring for each other. But YOU caring for YOURSELF.

Makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? Yeah, I know, me too. But that is what we are called to do. Not just by our families, not just by our doctors, not just by your minister, but by God. It’s not optional. It is a religious obligation.

Now, as liberal Christians, we’re not big on religious obligations. We don’t shake our fingers at each other and exhort one another to tithe, to fast on fridays, to go to mass at least once a week. Ours is a kindlier, softer approach to faith that takes into account the fact that life has hiccups and we’re all just doing the best we can.

But not this time. This time, I’m going to get my Irish Catholic priest on and give it to you mean. “Rest, doggon it!” Take care of yourself. Love yourself. It’s the true test of whether you actually believe all that stuff you tell other people when you tell them to “take care.”

By the way, Park’s work didn’t end when he died. His students picked up his work and carried on, and today, the New Thought movement has spread to every continent on earth, and has several million practitioners. Some of them call themselves Christian Scientists, some the Unity School of Christianity, some the Church of Divine Science and some the Church of Religious Science. All of them carry on Park’s work, whether they acknowledge their debt to him or not. And let us hope they carry it on with greater wisdom, with more care, especially for themselves. Let us pray….

Holy and gracious God, you commanded your people to rest, not due to some arbitrary notion, but because you love us. Help us to love ourselves enough to heed your commandment, not only for our own benefit, but for the benefit of those we so earnestly desire to be there for. Give us resolve, give us discipline, but most of all, give us compassion for our own bodies, for our own needs, and still the compulsive drive to “do” that nags at us incessantly. Help us to recognize, to feel and to know that just to be is a blessing, and that rest and recreation are not luxuries, but necessities. For we ask this in the name of Jesus, to took himself apart for a little while, often. Amen.

[Info and statistics for this sermon came from: http://mondaymorninginsight.com/index php/site/comments/newspaper_pastors_often_succumb_to_job_burnout_due_to_stress_low_pay/and http://www.yearofjubilee.org/2008/07/clergy-statistics-and-resources/]

SERMON: The Dream of Zion

JULY 4 2009 | THE DREAM OF ZION

That most curious artifact of American religion, THE BOOK OF MORMON, depicts the adventures of Lehi, a Jewish man and his family who are suffering in post-exilic Jerusalem. In a stunning vision of the coming Christ, Lehi is instructed to build a large ship and set sail with his family for a new land, that God would reveal to them. This land would be a land of righteousness, a new Jerusalem, a new promised land of peace and prosperity for Lehi’s descendants.

Lehi and his family arrive on the shore of a new world, which LDS scholars figure is probably somewhere in Central America. But wouldn’t you know it, the new world was not all it was cracked up to be. All the corruption that Lehi was trying to flee caught up with him as his descendents and other Jewish refugees formed warring nations and competed for…well, all of the petty things that humans everywhere compete for.

You would think that this story would serve as a cautionary tale for Joseph Smith himself, the translator of this reputedly ancient text. For not long after completing the translation, Smith picks up his whole fledgling church and relocates them from upstate New York to Kirtland, Ohio. But the Ohio folk aren’t too keen on these odd sectarians and their “gold bible,” and they tar and feather Smith in front of his house.

It may not come as a surprise to you that Joseph Smith has a revelation in which God says he is preparing a new place for them. Independence, Missouri, saith the Lord, is to be the New Jerusalem. But no sooner to the Mormons begin to settle there than their inhospitable neighbors–no doubt annoyed by their perfect hair and their sunny dispositions–threaten them with such violence that they high-tail it back to Kirtland. The New Jerusalem, apparently, will not be held in Missouri.

But not so fast. The Lord had spoken, after all! So, picking a new, remote corner of Missouri, the prophet and his people tried again. This time, their gentile neighbors responded with such vehemence that they murdered 17 of the mormon settlers, including children. Far from repremanding the mob, the governor of Missouri promised that if the Mormons did not leave his state he would have them killed himself.

The Mormons decided to flee once again, this time to Nauvoo, Illinois. So many of them descend upon this little town, in fact, that in almost no time its population rivals that of Chicago. THIS, now, will become the American Zion, the New Jerusalem, where God will establish his reign on earth, amongst his faithful remnant, the Latter Day Saints.

Emboldened by their success in Nauvoo, Joseph Smith announces he will run for president, so as to make all of America a holy land under God, and to hasten the completion of Zion. How do you think THAT went over with the Mormons’ gentile neighbors? Not well. Joseph is thrown in prison along with his brother, Hiram. But even that does not assuage them. The pitchfork-weilding mob overpowers the guards, and murders Joseph and his brother in their cell. Not a single man was prosecuted for this violence.

Fearing for their lives, the Mormon congregation at Nauvoo saddled their horses and loaded their wagons and headed out for a new location for their cherished Zion, although they didn’t know where they were going. Eventually, on the shores of the great Salt Lake, God revealed to them through their new prophet, Brigham Young, that this was, indeed, the spot. They formed the sovereign nation of Deseret, and celebrated the fact that Zion had arrived at last.

Or had it? I have always found the Mormons’ insistence on a physical, political reality for God’s kingdom to be unusual, even eccentric, but in fact it is deeply biblical, and is an expectation that was shared by Jews, Christians, and Muslims for most of their histories. It is only since the advent of America and our democracy that the notion of a physical Kingdom of God on earth has fallen into disfavor. Remember, the Jews certainly expected God to establish his throne in Jerusalem, and for many centuries, they were content that that had indeed already occurred. The problem for them was not establishing the Kingdom of God on earth, but KEEPING it there.

Christians anticipated a mellinial kingdom, where Christ would return and establish his Kingdom, and rule the nations with mercy and justice entertwined. St. Augustine, in fact, argued that when the emperor Constantine converted to Christianity, that the Kingdom of God had, indeed, arrived. The events predicted in the book of Revelation had come to pass, and that Christ reigned through his vicar on earth, the Pope.

Each of the Protestant countries hoped they would be able to succeed in creating the Kingdom that they thought God wanted them to bring about, none too successfully. Even the pilgrims came here hoping to succeed at this elusive destiny. The Mormons are only the last gasp of this triumphalist theology.

Which isn’t to say it hasn’t died completely. The Moral majority revived the dream of turning the US into a theocracy, and several of them are still at it, although most of them have been relegated to the lunatic fringe by now.

So, here’s what I’m thinking: Founding the Kingdom of God on earth? Do you think maybe we’re setting the bar just a bit high? I mean, on a good day, we only have one politician exposed for lewd conduct or adultery. We have major unemployment, crime is rampant, our prison populations are small cities in their own rights, and let’s face it, the clergy are a mess. Pick a religion, any religion. The Kingdom of God? Who are we trying to kid?

Here’s an idea: Let’s set the bar a lot, lot lower. Instead of trying to capture the elusive perfection that the Kingdom of God demands, why don’t we just try to be a Pretty Good society? You know, still having ideals, but ideals that are not so  IMPOSSIBLE that we set ourselves up for failure? Ideals like life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Justice for all? The equality of all people? Government of the people, by the people, for the people.

Because, unlike how some on the lunatic fringe would have it, this much lower bar IS the dream of America. It has little to do with God, and everything to do with fallible people doing the best we can to BE the best we can.

And the fact is, even with the bar so much lower, we still have a long way to go. Some people are still more equal than others. Liberty is still a dream to many. Prosperity likewise. Justice can still be bought. Happiness has proved obstinately elusive for many folks. Don’t get me started on health care. It’s a right, not a privilege—that’s all I’m going to say.

St. Paul said, “When I was a child, I thought as a child…but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” The notion that we can found a literal, political Kingdom of God on earth—at this stage in our moral and psychological evolution—is a childish thing. It’s like playing dress-up in God’s wardrobe while he’s at the office. And normally, I’d say, yeah, you look good in big hats and fancy robes, so tear it up, have some fun. But this PARTICULAR game of dress-up is too dangerous. People really get hurt. Remember David Koresh? Jim Jones? Nasty business, this Kingdom of God game.

We’ve got our work cut out for us just creating a Pretty Good Society. We haven’t achieved the Dream of America yet, let alone some allegedly perfect Kingdom. And the Dream of America is a good dream. It’s developmentally appropriate. It may even be achievable. What’s more, unlike the Kingdom of God, where the benevolent patriarchs order everything for the multitudes of perpetual children, the Dream of America requires us not to follow, but to lead, to take responsibility for this dream. It is a group effort that requires all of us to buy in, to shoulder a portion of the load, and sometimes, to carry it for those that can’t. That’s what it means to be an American. The Pretty Good Society is within our reach, but it is going to take all of us to grasp that gold ring.

And okay, it’s not the Kingdom of God, but what is? If you can’t have the whole pie, half a pie still tastes pretty darn good. That’s what I’m celebrating today. A truly tasty half a pie. And everybody SHOULD get a slice. Let’s make this dream work and make sure everyone gets a slice, shall we? Let us pray…

Forgive us, God, for presuming that we can actually create a colony that mirrors your true and eternal Kingdom. It was silly of us, and a lot of good people got hurt. We’re going to knock it off, now. Instead, help us to live up to some goals we actually CAN achieve. Help us to take care of each other; help us to have compassion for those that have fallen on hard times; help us to extend our hearts to people we don’t even know; help us to put aside our own wealth so that everyone can just have enough; help us to create a Pretty Good Society, where everyone has power, everyone has enough food, everyone knows justice, everyone has a place to lay their heads, where everyone can see a doctor, where everyone can go to school and have a job and a meaningful life. It’s not the Kingdom, but it’s still a lot to ask, and we have so far to go. Bless us, bless our leaders, bless our Dream, make us the people we aspire to be in our best moments. For we ask this in the name of him who called us to peace, to justice, to compassion, even Jesus Christ. Amen.

Sermon: Nobody’s Perfect–not even God

PENTECOST 3 | MARK 4:35-41



Elie Weisel in his book THE TRIAL OF GOD, tells about an actual trial he witnessed as a young man in the Auschwitz death camp. The adults around him were frantic as they watched their fellow Jews being marched out to the gas chambers, and they wondered aloud how God could possibly have betrayed them so utterly. For the Jews, the terms of their covenant were very simple. We will worship only you as our God, and God, in turn promises to protect them. 



What happened? They wondered. Why had God forsaken their covenant? Why did he not protect them now? The prisoners decided to have a formal trial, to try God for his indifference–apparently in absentia. 



A judge was selected, as well as other roles, and the trial began. Numerous possible defenses for God’s abandonment were put forth–was it a punishment for straying from the Law? Was it a purification, as in the flood of Noah? Was it a sacrifice, as in the sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham? Or, like the same story of Abraham, was it all just a test of their faith? Perhaps, they reasoned, it was simply a consequence of free will. 

The debate raged for hours–it may have gone on for days. Eventually, however, the arguments were exhausted, and the judge announced his verdict. Guilty. God was guilty of breaking the covenant. One rabbi complained that he was not surprised. God had never been GOOD. He had simply been on our side. And now he had, apparently, made a deal with another people, the Germans, whose banners proclaimed, “God is with us.”



The Trial finished, the prisoners. dissembled–and what do you think they did next? They went to pray.



Even in the midst of war, in the face of death, in the event of God’s apparent abandonment, these Jews did not abandon THEIR side of the covenant–they prayed. What they did, in fact, was take God AS HE WAS. A turncoat, maybe. Indifferent, apparently. A traitor, decidedly, but they still accepted him, AS HE WAS.



Lisa and I were discussing this story this week because I had been struck in our Gospel reading by a curious line I had never noticed before. It’s near the beginning of the passage, where the evangelist says, “They took him, just as he was, in the boat.”



What can this mean? In context, Jesus has been teaching people all day. He was exhausted, he was probably more than a little bit cranky. And yet, even though it was early in their association with him, they didn’t say, “Well, aren’t you full of yourself? Enough of this!” and walk away. Instead, they took him, AS HE WAS, in the boat with them. 



I find it fascinating that, as I go about my daily business, when people I meet discover I am a priest, they instantly start confessing. Not formally, of course, but ACTUALLY. Within moments of discovering my vocation, many people just launch into these baroque justifications that I didn’t ask for and the situation doesn’t require. It’s the oddest thing. 



But they do it nevertheless, and frequently the content is the same–either God has disappointed them somehow, or the church has–or they believe that they have somehow disappointed God, and turned away from him in shame. 



What is clear in these situations is that these people feel hurt–by God, by God’s people, by circumstances, by their own choices, and by the estrangement from God and from sacred community that results.



I always feel profoundly sad when this happens, because it is clear that someone has indeed failed–but I usually pin the blame on my fellow clergy for not adequately, clearly, and forcefully proclaiming the Good News that Jesus came to offer us in the first place.



I understand the ministry of Jesus as one of deep and profound reconciliation between people and God. And the way Jesus did that was usually by modeling that reconciliation in his own relationships. He took people AS THEY WERE. He loved them AS THEY WERE. And he assured them that God loved them the very same way.



When Jesus called his disciples, he called them as they were–smelly fishing clothes and all, with all of their personality quirks, all of their failings, all of their failures, all of their problems, even all of their sins. He loved them just as he found them.



Little wonder, then, that as Jesus stumbled aboard their boat, tired and grumpy, scripture says that they took him exactly the same way. 



Look, I’m not perfect, you’re not perfect, and I’m going to go out on a limb and say that, if scripture and human experiences are any indicators, God’s not perfect, either, and neither is Jesus. 



Thank God. Nobody likes the perfect guy, and frankly, I have little use for a perfect deity, either. The Jews are certainly convinced that their God has his bad days, and yet they still cling to him. And the very mystery of the incarnation is that Christ left by his glory and joined our lot, wholly and completely uniting himself to our imperfect state. 



And if the Gospel required that we be perfect, that would be Bad News indeed, and not the Gospel at all. As I’ve said often before, perfection is a fiction that exists nowhere in the phenomenal universe, not even in God. The only place it exists is in the human imagination, where it proliferates like a raging virus, leaving nothing but emotional, spiritual and social wreckage in its wake. 



This is the wreckage I witness whenever I hear one of these impromptu confessions. People either run or are pushed away from God when they just don’t measure up to some arbitrary standard of alleged perfection. But just as often, people turn their backs on God when God does not measure up to their expectations. How many of us run away from God because God has let us down?



I guess what I’m saying here is that not only does the Good News insist that we give ourselves a break, but shouldn’t we give God one as well?



I mean, if the Jews can forgive Auschwitz, might not you or I be able to forgive God the hurts we have suffered? If the disciples could accept Jesus as he was, even when he was being Mr. Grumpy Pants, why can’t we? If we so desperately long to be forgiven by God, should we not perhaps try to do the same for him?



And remember, forgiveness and acceptance don’t preclude confrontation, exhortation, or correction. Jesus accepted his disciples, and loved them, even though he was probably a little miffed for their lack of faith in our reading. He probably didn’t appreciate being awakened and was without a doubt suffering from low blood sugar and resurgent grumpiness at that moment. That’s okay, and it was okay for him to scold them a little. Just so, it’s possible for us to love, forgive, and accept, and still speak up when we feel let down, or abandoned, or hurt. We can even call God out for such things. 



Because that’s what people who really love each other DO. That’s what REAL relationship is about. And that’s the kind of relationship God wants to have with us. It’s the kind of authentic relationship in community that we ought to have with one another. 



Because everything ISN’T rosy. People AREN’T perfect. God isn’t perfect and neither are you or I. A perfect person wouldn’t really need anyone else. The rest of us, though, need each other to correct us, to love us, to uphold us, and to forgive us. And we do the same for them. 



The disciples “took Jesus as he was.” Wouldn’t we be better off if we could do the same? If everyone could? The Good News is only good, after all, when it is put into action. In the Lord’s Prayer, we ask God to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” We are being called to a great circle of Grace, where forgiveness and acceptance are offered to friend and foe, the living and the dead, to humans and the Divine. The question before us is–do we want IN? Let us pray…



God, in Jesus you reached out to us just as we are.
Help us to accept ourselves in the midst of our imperfections, and help us to extend that grace to others in return–to our friends, to strangers, to those that bless us and those that hurt us.
Help us to extent it even to you.
Help us to live into the Community of God you call us to be, in our families, here in our church community, and in the world,
as we seek to live out the Good News proclaimed to us by your son, even Jesus Christ. Amen.

SERMON: Great Things for God…

PENTECOST 2, 2009 | MARK 4:26-34

I’ll tell you another parable: Once upon a time there was a young man, an Evangelical Christian, who was sitting in church one day, and suddenly felt convicted to surrender his life to the proclamation of the Gospel. So great was his conviction that he instantly rose, went to the altar, took the pastor by the hand, and confessed his call. He stood before his congregation that day, and told them he believed that he had been called to do great things for God. The people approved of his decision, and over coffee hour, made much of him.

 

And despite the fact that the young man was really sincere, real life seemed to get in the way. He went to college, he met a wonderful young woman that he wanted to marry. Soon there was a child on the way and rent to pay. Every now and then during the altar call in church, he would feel a little twinge of guilt, that he didn’t seem to be getting around to doing those great things for God, but he didn’t see any other way ahead given his commitments. But he was young, he told himself, he had time.

 

Until the time ran out. In late middle age, he had a heart attack. He didn’t die, but he realized he would have to take things a lot easier, now. He realized he would probably never do anything great for God. There was no one around, so he was able to let go, and he quietly sobbed.

 

This was how his pastor found him. He surprised the man when he came in and laid a hand on his shoulder. But by this time, the man’s grief was so great, and his sense of guilt so acute that he poured his heart out without reserve. He told his pastor about his call to do something great for God, and how he had just never gotten around to it; how he had wasted his life, how he had failed.

 

His pastor was overcome with compassion, and shushed him. “But look at what you’ve done,” his pastor said. “You’ve had a very happy marriage, you have raised two beautiful children, at the top of their class, you founded your own business and you employ many people. You teach Sunday school and support the ministry of our church with your time and your money. Everyone who knows you admires you. You’ve done everything God requires and then some. What makes you think what you’ve done isn’t great, or that it hasn’t been pleasing to God?”

 

Which is just the sort of infuriating thing a pastor WOULD say. But consider for a moment the truth of it. It’s true, the man did nothing unusual. In fact, it’s so “normal” that it’s hard to care about. It was really, really tempting to end the story by adding,”And then zombies crashed into the hospital room, entangling themselves in the IV, and feasted on the pastor’s brains.”

But I restrained myself, and for a good reason. Just look at this man: He didn’t go to Africa to do AIDS relief, he didn’t spearhead a religious reformation, he didn’t found a homeless shelter. He wasn’t faithful in what we normally think of as a heroic, dramatic way. He DIDN’T do A GREAT THING. Instead, he was faithful in small, inconspicuous ways. He did many, many GOOD things, and that goodness added up to a life well-lived.

We live in an age where we project everything to comic book proportions. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love comic books and popular culture as much as the next guy, but you have to admit that it very often feeds us a pretty warped view of reality. So much so that even I, the guy who wrote this parable, had to fight pretty hard to keep the zombies out of it. Why is it that the quiet heroism of a life lived faithfully day after day is not enough for us?

In our Gospel reading today, we read the very first parable that Jesus tells in the Gospel of Mark. And since Mark is our earliest gospel, this is the very first, the earliest parable of Jesus’ in the canonical scriptures. And, for a first parable, it’s not bad. It’s really clear that Jesus has a long way to go, though. It doesn’t have the power or the punch or the clarity of the Prodigal Son or the Good Samaritan. Okay, it’s a little weak. But we know he gets a lot better, and it’s always interesting to trace an artist’s development.

One of the reasons it’s weak is that it’s so opaque. Who does the farmer represent? God? Us? Agribusiness? What is the crop? Who does the harvesting? None of this is clear. If he had continued in this vein, Jesus would have gained a reputation for being “Mr. Cryptic” rather than for being a great teacher. Fortunately for everyone he improved. But one thing about stories that are obscure is that they are also malleable.

What it said to me, as I meditated on it, was that even though it seems we are sleeping, growth is happening. Even though we are not doing much, great things are getting done, slowly, often imperceptibly from day to day. A mustard seed, invoked in the companion parable in our reading, grows into the largest of shrubs, but if you looked at it every day, you would hardly notice, because the change is taking place so slowly. Yet a great thing is emerging from this small beginning.

Saints and superheroes work miracles and wonders, they do impossible things that inspire us. We wish we could be them, we wish we could be even half as great as they are. But on this planet, there ARE no flying men in spandex, saints work more miracles in legends than they ever did in truth, and zombies rarely feast on the brains of the clergy–even though many of them deserve it, and I have met some that made me wonder….

Instead, it is as the Buddha says in the Dhammapada, “Do not underestimate good, thinking it will not affect you. Dripping water can fill a pitcher, drop by drop; one who is wise is filled with good, even if one accumulates it little by little.” THIS is how God actually works. Not dramatically, as in the comic books, but quietly, slowly, often imperceptibly, growing goodness like the unfolding of a plant.

We can see this in our own lives, right here in our own community. The word “Salvation” comes from the same root as “salve,” an ointment for healing. Salvation is the healing of souls, and there are few of us whose souls are NOT in need of healing. Salvation rarely happens quickly, despite the dramatic conversion or healing stories peddled by the televangelists. Instead, it happens slowly, quietly, often imperceptibly. It happens by being in community, where, free from our family of origin pressures, we can learn to love others in healthier ways than we were taught, and where we can allow ourselves to be loved. It happens through the sacraments, through which we admit our dependence on God through our participation in such signs and symbols, and through which we receive grace according to the measure of our faith. It happens through our experience of God’s faithfulness, day after day, in the smallest things, through events that inspire faithfulness in us, again, in the smallest of ways. Through these things we slowly transform from the hurting people we were into the kind of people God is calling us to be. Through the slow, quiet work of grace, we are healed, we are saved, and we, in turn, do the work of God.

But this work isn’t great by the estimation of the world. It IS great, however, by virtue of the cumulative effect of millions of seemingly insignificant acts of faithfulness. “Do not underestimate goodness,” don’t think “it will not affect you,” as the Buddha says.

I needed to be reminded of this, this week. I was feeling like a failure as a pastor because I have not been able to spark the dramatic growth in this parish that we have all hoped for. I feel responsible, I feel like I have let you, myself, and God down. I know I’m probably not alone. We have all been working very hard. We’ve put a lot of love, a lot of sweat, and even a few tears into this parish, and even though most of us are proud of the many things we’ve accomplished, it hasn’t been as dramatic as we hoped for. We aren’t flooded with new parishioners, people are not abuzz about our unique, interfaith approach to the Gospel.

Instead, God has been doing something else, something harder to see, something quiet, something true. He has been healing us. For most of us come to this parish with scars inflicted by other churches, with hurts from past relationships, some of them inflicted by our own families. We come to this table tentatively, afraid of being burned again, yet willing to trust just one more time.

Of course, we’re not a perfect community–what would be the point of a perfect community, after all? I certainly wouldn’t be welcome in such a place, with all of my flaws! We are, however, a GOOD community, healthier than most, and one in which the Spirit of God is active, if we only take the time to notice it. We are not doing GREAT things, as defined by the world, but many, many GOOD things are happening here, quietly, slowly, truly, the way God actually works.

As we plan for our future, let’s keep this in mind. God may not be calling us to be GREAT, in some cartoonish, dramatic way. It may be that God continues to call us as he has been doing, calling us to be faithful, calling us to love one another, calling us to the healing of our souls, calling us to reach out–not to thousands, but to one or two people at a time–to touch them with healing, to love them back to wholeness, to provide them safe space to reclaim their spirituality, their faith, their soul once again.

This is not an insignificant calling, and it’s something we do really well. And perhaps the vagueness of Jesus’ parable is helpful. We thought at first that we were the farmer, but perhaps we are the grain. God seems to be sleeping, but he is not. We are growing, not in numbers, perhaps, but in soul. Healing is happening. Community is happening. We are slowly, quietly, often imperceptibly, becoming the kind of people God is calling us to be. And that, my friends, is GREAT. Let us pray….

God, what are you doing, here? It’s hard for us to see it, even harder for us to understand it. Help us to continue our journey in faith that you are working in us, even when we cannot see it, even when it seems like the motion is so slow we seem to be going backwards. Inspire us, by thy Holy Spirit, to be faithful in every small matter that confronts us, even as you are faithful to us, so that, step by small step, we may be transformed into the people you intend us to be. For we ask this through Jesus, who told little stories that continue to yield great fruit. Amen.

SERMON: Frustrated Guy…

TRINITY SUNDAY 2009

I hate email. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are good things about it. I enjoy its speed and ease of use, BUT there is something about it that I really hate. It, like no other medium, brings out my bad side.

Just the other day I had received a book cover revision from a designer. Now, about a month ago I had received the first draft of the cover and had sent back my requests for fixes. So when I opened my email and saw the “revised” cover, I was…annoyed. Almost none of the changes I had requested had been made. It still looked amateurish. Without bothering to count to ten first, I hit “reply” and let loose.

Now, I do not consider myself to be a typically immoderate man in temper. No one could accuse me of being a rageaholic. And indeed, by the time I finished the email I had cooled off some, and combed back through the letter, removing every “hot spot” I could identify.

Was there, I asked myself when finished, just a hint of snarkiness left? There was. Just the smallest bit. But I WAS annoyed, yes? Is it such a bad thing to allow a whiff of that through, so long as I am not lashing out? I hate spending a half hour massaging two paragraphs–it eats up SO much time. I glanced at my TO DO list, said, “Enough!”, and sent that puppy off.

Almost instantly I panicked, rushed to my OUT box and reread the note. Yes, all of my frustration was clearly apparent, despite my editing efforts. And indeed, when the designer replied, his annoyance was on full display as well. (Sigh…)

I hate acknowledging that I have Frustrated Guy inside me, I hate it even more when he pops up, takes over, and embarrasses me. Some people simply should not be allowed to come out and play, especially if they don’t play well with others.

Fortunately, Frustrated Guy isn’t the only personality I have going for me, but I sure struggle with him. Perhaps you know what I mean. I always WANT to put my best foot forward, I always WANT to come across as patient and kind and helpful. It’s who I consider myself to really be, on the inside. And then boom! Frustrated Guy takes over and mucks everything up. Frustrated Guy…FRUSTRATES me. Now THERE’S a vicious circle for you.

The Poet Rilke once said, “We contain multitudes,” and that certainly seems to be accurate in my experience. I have certainly observed it in my friends as well. We’ll be sitting there, having a lovely conversation, and then all of the sudden, Angry Girl shows up out of the blue. Was it something I said? And that, of course, is when Victim Guy makes and appearance. It’s enough to make you schizophrenic, except that it’s happening to all of us, all of the time. Sometimes when I think about how hard it is to surf my own emotions and those of the people around me, it makes me appreciate the relative stability of animals, and it is tempting to run off and live in a cave.  A cave with cable…

This multiple personality phenomenon even seems to show up when we encounter God. Christian tradition has even named these personalities: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I say, why stop at three? But there’s no quibbling with the Nicene Council, and I’m getting too old for the banishment thing, anyway. The early church fathers even divided history into dispensations during which one of God’s multiple personalities held sway. The long stretch before the coming of Christ was the Age of the Father, the relatively brief Age of the Son lasted only thirty years while Jesus was kicking up trouble, but the Age of the Spirit has had a good long run, starting at Pentecost and continuing on to the present day.

Sounds like the Son got the short end of the stick, there, but I’ll let Jesus fight his own battles. My point is that, if scripture is any witness, we might rename these three periods the Age of Angry Guy, the Age of Wise Guy, and the Age of Mostly Absent Girl. The point is that even God “contains multitudes,” and indeed, these three simply do not exhaust our experience of God. There’s also Hero Guy, Mr. Faithful, and Comfort Lady in there, among many others. I think the Hindus have it right. For them, God has a million faces, each of them a valid personality, an expression of the divine that is somehow both unique and true.

A transpersonal psychologist by the name of Roberto Assagioli made the identification, awareness of, and integration of subpersonalities an important part of his therapeutic method. So long as we are unaware of our subpersonalities, they can “take over” and control us. But once we become aware of them, name them, recognize them when they surface, then we can give them permission, or not, to come to the fore and direct us. All of us have them, these subpersonalities–apparently even God. The question is, do they have US? Do they control us, or do we control them?

We aren’t born with all of them in place, either. They develop–some of them as a result of healthy and nurturing relationships, some emerge as coping mechanisims. Too many emerge as the result of trauma. Others can emerge as a result of epiphanies, experiences of wonder, or spiritual awakenings.

In both our readings from the Sutra and from the Gospel of John this morning, we are told something very similar. That as a result of religious instruction, a person can be “born again.” As Jesus tells Nicodemus, this is not a physical rebirth, but a spiritual, metaphorical rebirth. A new personality is engendered as a result of a spiritual awakening. The question is, will this new personality flourish, or will it be stillborn? St. Paul, in his Epistle to the Romans, speaks about the Old Man–the personality of the person we used to be before we had our spiritual awakening–and the New Man–the new spiritual personality. Paul talks in a very similar way that Assagioli does about controlling these competing personalities, and he exhorts his readers to be aware of the struggle that is happening within them, to reject the impulses of the Old Man and to encourage the growth and strength of the New Man.

This is a lot of work, though, as most worthwhile things are. It requires diligence. It’s tedious to always be aware of what personality is driving you at any given moment, and exhausting to always be questioning and editing them. But unless we want to let Nasty Guy rule the world, that’s what we’ve got to do.

We’re heading into a very difficult time as a parish. We have some hard decisions to make, and it might mean we will, at times, feel scared, or insecure, or angry. It will be tempting to leap to conclusions about what so-and-so said, or what they meant, or what their “real” motivations are. It will test our ability to be a loving community, but it’s precisely when times get tough that we discover whether we are a REAL community or not. If we are going to navigate these waters safely, we’ve got to be aware of when Fearful Girl and Angry Guy are taking over. We can listen to what they have to say, of course, but then we should discern carefully whether they are the best representatives to communicate our thoughts. It might be that Compassionate Guy and Patient Chick may present your case with much more diplomacy and efficacy. It’s not going to be easy, but it will go much more smoothly if we can all discern and monitor the multitudes that are swarming inside us all.

There is an old Indian story that says that there are two wolves inside each of us–one wolf is a lone predator, prowling about thirsting for blood, and the other wolf is noble, nurturing to those in its pack and extremely loyal. The two wolves are constantly contesting with one another. It’s hard to tell which one will win. On the other hand, it’s not hard to predict at all. The one that will win is the one that gets fed.

Let us, in the months to come, carefully discern the personalities within us. Let us not reject those personalities that we dislike, the ones that embarrass us or make trouble for us. Let us make a place for them at our inner council table, and let us listen carefully to their wisdom. But let us also be careful about who we allow to speak for us, who we allow to take over. Let us be conscious of who is being fed, and how much. For we all contain multitudes. But we DON’T have to be controlled by them. Let us pray…

God, you know us inside and out. You know all the personalities we harbor within us, and you love every part of us. Help us to likewise love ourselves, but to cultivate within ourselves the kind of discernment, awareness, and self-control that will enable us to be the kind of people we want to be, the kind of people you call us to be. Help us to love one another, even when it gets hard, even when we are angry or frightened. Help us to recognize when Angry Guy is taking over, and to hand things over to Compassionate Girl when it is appropriate to do so. And we WILL need your help in this. Empower us with your Holy Spirit to be your loving presence, both to the world, and to one another, and perhaps especially, to ourselves as well. For we ask this in the name of Wise Guy, your Son, even Jesus Christ. Amen.

SERMON: Divine Union/Marriage

EASTER 3–UNION/MARRIAGE

 

Last weekend,  I was privileged to perform a wedding at the historic Morris chapel at the University of the Pacific in beautiful downtown Stockton. The bride and groom were a friendly, lovely young couple, and it was entertaining watching the testy familial relations between his Chinese relatives and her Phillipino clan.

 

The rehearsal was more fun than they usually are. I asked them to practice their vows, and coached them on speaking louder so that those in the back row could hear them. “C’mon, Jeremy,” I coaxed, “These folks have come a long way to hear these words.” He tried again, and burst out laughing. Finally, he got the right volume, but I had to instruct him further. “Jeremy, look at HER when you’re saying this. If you’re not careful you’ll end up married to the flower display.”

 

The next time he tried it they both burst out laughing. We got through it. But then the day of the wedding arrived. The bride walked down the aisle, as radiant as any I have ever seen. He met her at the stairs and led her to her place. We stood during the readings. Thankfully, no one fainted in the heat. And when we came to the vows, I turned to Jeremy and said, “Repeat after me.”

 

He nodded, dutifully looked at his bride and in a loud even voice, began to repeat my words:

“I, Jeremy, take you, Kristine, to be my wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer….”

 

He was doing fine. Except that he wasn’t. Watching his eyes, I saw that what was just a form to be practiced yesterday, he was saying for real, now. The words were registering. Too late, perhaps, he was actually conscious of what he was saying, and I could read the panic and the promise as it played out upon his face.

 

“…in sickness and health, until death do us part. This is my solemn vow.”

 

I watched him warily as he teetered back and forth for a moment, as the finality of what he had just done washed over him. He had MARRIED himself to this woman, and she to him. They had made a sacred vow to one another in the presence of everyone they held dear, and if he didn’t get that before, it was evident he was getting it then, in the moment he was doing it.

 

His moment of realization brought home to me just what an awesome promise a marriage vow is. In taking his vows, Jeremy was saying “yes” to this person, not in every decision, certainly, but in every day of his life. He was saying yes to waking up with her, to sharing his material wealth with her, to sharing his inner life with her, to sharing his body with her, to sharing his future with her–to sharing all that he has, and all that he is. That is a profound and awesome promise.

 

It takes a lot of preparation to get to that stage, if it is to be real. It takes a lot of maturity, a lot of compromise to do it well, a willingness to know and be known that doesn’t come easy for many people. It requires both strength and vulnerability in equal measure, and a great willingness to make one life out of two.

 

To be successful, of course, the effort must be made by both parties. Both bride and groom must want this kind of joining, this kind of intimacy, this kind of permanence. But when all these things are present, it is a wondrous thing. A true marriage is always a mystical act. Because in this process–which begins months or years before the marriage, but is sealed and signified in the ceremony itself–two lives combine to create a third. Even if there is no physical offspring, there is always a mystical offspring, for the lives of two people come together and a new life begins–the life of the relationship itself.

 

For the rest of their marriage, the health of either one of them as individuals will be weighed against the health of this mystical third entity. The needs of either of them will be evaluated, and often sacrificed, in order to make sure this mystical third is fed, loved, cared for, and happy. When couples fight, when relationships end, it is usually because this mystical third person, the relationship itself, has not been nurtured, has not been ministered to, has not been adequately loved.

 

That marriage is an intrinsically mystical act should be no surprise to us, however. This intuition is so strong that scripture often uses it as a metaphor for Israel and the Church’s relationship to God, and to Jesus, respectively, and the mystics of many traditions likewise employ the symbolism of marriage to describe the intimacy between divinity and the human soul.

 

Last week we discussed the apophatic mystics–those for whom the experience of God is void of all images–and the metaphor that they most often employ to describe their union with him: Deification. But what about the kataphatic mystics, those for whom God appears employing symbols and images? Overwhelmingly, these mystics speak about their union with God in terms of marriage.

 

And unlike the apophatic msytics, whose writings are terse and tentative, the kataphatic mystics let it all hang out. They are romantic fools. For them, even though the experience of union is impossible to describe, when they do write about it, it is in the most flowery, romantic, sickningly sweet terms imaginable. No less a heavyweight than Augustine even waxed treacly when he wrote:

 

“O Lord, do I love Thee. Thou didst strike on my heart with Thy word and I loved Thee…. But what do I love when I love Thee? Not the beauty of bodies nor the loveliness of seasons, nor the radiance of the light around us, so gladsome to our eyes, nor the sweet melodies of songs of every kind, nor the fragrance of flowers and ointments and spices, nor manna and honey, nor limbs delectable for fleshly embraces. I do not love these things when I love my God. And yet I love a light and a voice and a fragrance and a food and an embrace when I love my God, who is a light, a voice, a fragrance, a food, and an embrace to my inner man…. This it is that I love when I love my God…”

 

This kind of description is common not only in Christian mysticism, but in Hindu mystics, sufi mystics, and Jewish mystical writings as well, among others. Rabia is no less eloquent in describing her love for Krishna, when she writes, “My joy –My Hunger –My Shelter –My Friend –My Food for the journey –My journey’s End –You are my breath, My hope, My companion, My craving, My abundant wealth. Without You — my Life, my Love –I would never have wandered across these endless countries. You have poured out so much grace for me, Done me so many favors, given me so many gifts –I look everywhere for Your love –Then suddenly I am filled with it. O Captain of my Heart, Radiant Eye of Yearning in my breast, I will never be free from You, As long as I live. Be satisfied with me, Love, And I am satisfied.”

 

Gorgeous stuff, but it is not just beautiful poetry, it is a sincere attempt to communicate something that is essentially ineffable–the union between a soul and her God. Just as a bride and groom surrender themselves to the unknowable in their vows, so too does the mystic surrender him- or herself to mystery in the act of divine union. They leave behind forever their former, separate life, and they, together with God, their beloved, they create a new life–one that they could not even imagine on their own. A new life that is not the product of either spouse alone, but of the joining of these two lives, one that must be nurtured and loved if it is to thrive.

 

But just as in a human marriage, if it is to work, if it is to thrive, if it is to be permanent, both parties must want it. The testimonies of the mystics and of Jewish and Christian scripture is clear. God desperately desires this kind of relationship with us. God loves us and wants our love in return. God wants to surrender himself to us, and wants us to surrender ourselves to him so that a new, more vibrant, more abundant life can be born.

 

In training spiritual directors, I hammer home again and again that we are here for one thing and one thing only: to foster intimacy between the client and the divine. It is our job to be matchmakers–bring the client again and again to the dance, to identify what resistance they might have to this marriage, to assist them in wooing the divine. Spiritual directors, and ministers in general, are professional busybodies, always trying to match you up. It’s annoying, I know, but we mean well.

 

Because, really, all the resistance is in us. Scripture and the mystics clearly tell us that God already has on his tuxedo and his bootineer. We might be having cold feet, but God is ready for the wedding. As an officiant, I usually have the best man and maid of honor sign the wedding certificates BEFORE the ceremony, rather than after, because, you know, things are crazy after a wedding and people want to drink, not do paperwork. So once I have their signatures, I usually nudge the groom conspiratorially, saying, “Dude, the paperwork is all done. You’re legally married. You don’t actually HAVE to go through with the ceremony.” Because typically, you know, men, being men, can take or leave the ritual stuff. But God isn’t your ordinary guy. He WANTS to get married. And, annoyingly, he is popping the question ALL THE TIME. We’re just too busy with our nails and our shopping to notice.

 

I’m being silly of course. Even the mystics will admit that these are metaphors. But this metaphor–marriage–is the closest we humans ever get to what God wants with us. He wants to promise himself to us forever. He wants to say yes to us forever. He wants to merge his life with ours, to create a new life that simply wasn’t possible before. THAT’S what God wants.

 

It’s a big commitment, it means your whole life has to change. But I’ll tell you, when you read the mystics, there’s no question–they feel loved. And isn’t that what we want more than anything? It’s what God wants more than anything, too. Let us pray…

 

God, the kind of relationship you want scares us.

It’s such a big commitment–I’m just not sure we’re ready.

Now, don’t be that way, it’s us, it’s not you.

But keep at us, okay.

Keep wooing us, keeping telling us you love us,

keep proving that you will be there,

from this day forward, for better, for worse,

for richer, for poorer,

in sickness and health,

until–and beyond–death.

Keep at us until we, too, are willing to say, “I do.”Amen.

SERMON: Grumpy Jesus and the Pager in the Baptismal Water

I remember another baptism several years ago. I had married Sheila and Dan a little over a year ago at the Interfaith Chapel in the Presidio there in San Francisco, and there we were again at that same chapel, with a little baby girl cradled in their arms.

I love baptisms—they have all of the joy and very little of the stress of weddings. And they are completely unpredictable, because you never know what the children will do.

 

But this particular baptism wasn’t unpredictable because of the baby, but because of the godfather. There he was, holding that sweet little girl, bending down towards the baptismal font so I could do my water-pouring thing, when we all heard a loud and unexpected splash. And there, floating to the bottom of the font, was one very damp pager, which had, apparently, fallen out of the godfather’s shirt pocket.

 

Before I could censor myself, I laughed out loud. It was obviously NOT funny to the godfather who seemed poised to ditch the baby and go fishing for his precious pager, but the symbolism struck my funny bone hard, and it was all I could do to maintain my serious and pious liturgical composure. God seemed to be speaking in that unexpected moment, a moment that could have been a turning point if the godfather had been open to it.

 

Our Gospel reading today reveals another turning point, one that is not unrelated to the pager story. In this scene we see Jesus at his grumpiest—in all of his “don’t bother me I haven’t had my morning coffee yet” glory.

 

This is kind of a disturbing story because Jesus really comes off as a bit of a jerk, here. He is intolerant, rude, and outright insulting. This is not the “tender and mild” savior we love to adore, this is the “what side of bed did you get up on, and why don’t you go back to bed and try it again” savior that never really caught on in popular piety. Statues of Jesus flipping worshippers the bird were briefly produced in Florence in the 14^th century, but quickly fell out of favor after the encyclical entitled “Jesu nicitas.” I am, of course, making this up.

 

But you can’t make up the stuff in this gospel reading. Jesus is crass, crude, and NOT out to make friends and influence Canaanites.

 

But it shows us something really important about Jesus’ own understanding of his ministry. He is not interested in helping this woman because he is not here for her. His understanding is very tribal—he’s here to minister to Jews and only Jews. A Canaanite? Why should he bother?

 

Look at what he says to her: “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” I’ve often thought out parish motto should be “we give what is holy to dogs,” but while I mean that ironically and playfully and with no disparagement to canines, Jesus is not being so generous, here. He MEANS to be insulting.

 

But look at what this brave and tenacious woman does. She doesn’t slink away with her figurative tail between her legs. She’s a mother. She’s got a child at stake. She’s FIERCE. And she does not back down. She stands her ground and answers him, and you can almost here her voice dripping with hurt poison: “True,” she says, “But even dogs eat the scraps from the master’s table.”

 

And in this moment, something shifts inside Jesus. It’s not a little thing, it’s a big thing. This moment is the tipping point in the entire Gospel story, where even Jesus realizes that he’s NOT just here for the Jews, but for EVERYBODY.

 

Culturally, we are in the midst of a similar tipping point. We’ve been through quite a few of them in the past couple of centuries. We have moved from the position that “only our tribe matters” to the idea that “only our nation matters,” which is, arguably, an improvement. And we have moved from there to the idea that all white people matter. Within our own lifetimes we have seen the shift to the position that people of all races matter, and even more recently, that people of all sexual orientations matter.

 

But we’re being called beyond that as well. We’re being called beyond the arrogant assumption of human superiority to the great truth that all living creatures matter, and that the earth herself is a living body that must be respected and protected and revered.

 

In this reading we see Jesus coming to the massive realization that his ministry was not about what he thought it was about—it was about much, much more. And thankfully, he was reflective and sensitive enough to see it—that’s why we love him, even when he has an off day.

 

The jury is still out on whether we can learn the same lesson, however. And here is where Kaelin can be our teacher. In this act of baptism we are doing something very counter-cultural and prophetic. In this act we proclaim that it is not just adults that matter, that even this baby—who has earned no praise for his stunning wit or meritorious accomplishments yet—is as important to us as any one of us here.

 

In this act we do not make this child holy, but we symbolically proclaim what is already true, that he is holy by virtue of his birth, his being, and that he ministers that holiness to everyone with the eyes to see it. In other words, he makes US holy, and in this baptism we gratefully receive him and his gift to us.

 

But we also, in this rite, proclaim our responsibility: for Kaelin, for all creatures, for the world, to make it a safe place for Kaelin’s children to be born, free of poverty, hunger, disease, and environmental impoverishment.

 

Kahlil Gibran wrote in the reading we just heard that our children do not belong to us, and that is wisdom. What he did not say was that we DO belong to THEM, wholly and completely, and we have a responsibility to pass on to them this world in better shape than we found it.

 

Therefore, in this rite we proclaim that there is no separation between the church and the street, the secular and the sacred. The pager MUST fall into the baptismal font, for there is no part of our life that is not sacred, there is no part of our lives that do not impact the sacred lives of others. We are responsible for EVERY part of our lives, and we are responsible to him (Kaelin).

 

THAT is a tall order. But here we are, like Jesus, staring at the Canaanite woman, the prophetic word has been spoken, and what are we going to do? What way will we tip? Are we going to spit on her and tell her to go away, or are we going to let our hearts melt within us, dissolving millennia of prejudice and anthropomorphic arrogance and recognize all of being as worthy of our love and care and respect and reverence and ministry?

 

God loves to shock us out of our complacency, out of our ideological ruts. And he’ll use anything at hand: a plucky foreign lady, animals, children, even a pager dropped in a bowl of blessed water. What do we need to open our eyes to the blessedness of all things? This morning, we will use water and oil to recognize the blessedness of Kaelin. Let us learn from him, and carry this awareness to all the world. Let us pray…

 

You almost blew it, Jesus.

But at the last moment,

you met the Canaanite woman with that love you’re famous for.

Help us to have a similar change of heart,

as a race of creatures, as a culture, and as individuals,

To behold the blessedness of all beings,

And to act as if that sacredness mattered,

Not just in church, but in all our affairs.

For in doing so we will proclaim your good news to all creatures,

And baptize the whole of life, in holiness and wholeness.

For we ask this in the name of Mr. Grumpy-pants, our Lord. Amen.

SERMON: Get Out of the Boat

As many of you know, I preached my first sermon when I was fifteen years old, and was licensed as a minister in the Baptist church at sixteen. My vocation floundered after we left that church, but many years later, while I was doing my Master’s degree at Holy Names College, it reemerged in a kind of surprising way. I had been studying with the world-famous neo-pagan theologian Starhawk, and had learned much about that tradition. I enjoyed it, and when several friends who resonated with that path asked me to perform life-cycle rituals for them, well, how could I refuse.

 

But it felt odd, because, well, as much as I enjoyed doing the rituals, it was not my path. I was an Episcopalian, and quite an ardent one at the time, I must say. The requests to officiate for people however just kept coming, and it precipitated a minor crisis of identity. What emerged from that crisis was a renewal of my vocation as a Christian minister. I discerned that God was calling me to be a priest, nudged along by my neo-pagan-leaning friends, which is kind of weird in the way that God often is.

 

So I stepped out on faith, and paid a visit to the Episcopal Seminary just a few blocks from here. And I was told, rather coldly, too, that if I didn’t have $35,000 I could pretty much forget it.

 

I was stunned. Floored, really. I sat before God and prayed, “Okay, Lord, I believe you are calling me to be a priest, but here’s this brick wall. What do you want me to do?”

 

That very day I saw an ad in the back of Gnosis magazine, advertising vocations in the Church of Antioch, one of the largest churches in the Old Catholic Succession in the US. Thinking “what the heck?” I answered the ad, and within a week, I was speaking on the telephone with Bishop Tim Barker. He asked me for a transcript of my Master’s degree in Spirituality, and assigned some reading for me. And then he asked me how soon I could drive up to Seattle to be ordained a deacon.

 

Well, I was stunned. Should I do this? I asked myself. I started reading the material on Old Catholicism, and quite frankly, some of it scared the willies out of me, because every tale of an earnest and hard-working minister of the Gospel was followed by another depicting a minister who was a slimy crackpot selling self-generated indulgences door-to-door, or baptizing kittens.

 

Now, I’m more amenable to the baptism of felines these days than I was then, which I hope doesn’t put me in the crackpot camp, but still at the time I was deeply concerned. I pleaded with God about whether or not I should go, and I agonized about it as I have about few things since.

 

But what came to me was that what I was afraid of was mostly the unknown. I believed—as I still believe—that the call was real. All that was needed was the courage to face the mystery, to walk out into the unknown, trusting that all would be well in the end.

 

I remembered this crossroads in my own life when I was pondering the Gospel reading for today. The passage actually paints a pretty frightening scene. Here are the disciples, being blown about in a storm in this tiny little boat, and they look out and see this figure walking towards them on the water. Suddenly, they are not just frightened for their lives, they’re frightened for their souls—who knows what kind of supernatural beastie it was coming towards them! But then Jesus calls out saying, “Don’t be afraid, it’s me!”

 

Everyone is relieved of course, but then look what Peter does. He says this really crazy thing: “Hey, why don’t I climb out of the boat and walk on the waves WITH you”—in the middle of this choppy lake in a storm.

 

Right, he’s nuts. But you have to admire that magnitude of nuttiness. I mean, it’s not baptizing kittens, nuts, but it’s pretty nutty. And this is what makes Peter stand out from the crowd, too. HE GETS OUT OF THE BOAT.

 

It took a lot of courage to do that. And, of course, he didn’t do it perfectly. He did it irratically, he did it with help, he fell and got back up again. But HE DID IT.

 

It’s hard to have that kind of courage. It takes work to have that kind of trust—that God is going to catch us, that everything will be okay. Because really following Jesus, really doing what we were put here to do, really living up to the full potential of what we were made to be—that takes guts, maybe even madness.

 

And in some ways it’s even more scary for us today than it was for Peter. Because back then, Peter could see Jesus with his own eyes. We can’t do that today. We have to take it on faith that he is there. On the other hand, we aren’t bucking about in a rowboat in the middle of a storm. I’ll see your choppy waves, and raise you one unseen deity, Peter, because it’s still hard.

 

I haven’t always had that kind of guts. There are plenty of times when, presented with a major crossroads of faith, I turned around. But I’m grateful that when it really mattered, like my call to the Old Catholic priesthood, I was able to get out of the boat and walk towards Jesus, scary as it was.

 

And I know I’m not the only person in this congregation who has had that kind of courage. One of the most courageous people I know, in fact, is Clare Hedin. I remember when she first showed up here at Grace North Church, the first time I heard her sing. I said to myself, “This woman is the real deal,” because she quite literally knocked my socks off. And she has rendered me equally sockless many times since.

 

I especially admire her faith in her own gifts, her courage in offering those to others in a variety of contexts, and her desire to use everything she has been given for the healing and reconciliation of the world. That takes faith. That takes guts.

 

I feel grateful to have been one of the people in this life to have heard her, and to be ministered to by her. I am honored to play on her team, because she inspires me to present my own gifts with courage, and indeed, sometimes shames me that I have not been a better steward of my gifts.

 

And that’s why I admire Clare—she’s one of the craziest people I know. Because regardless of the odds against her, regardless of the magnitude of pain in the world or in her own life, regardless of the people who wish she would just shut up and be a good sheep, she has the guts to GET OUT OF THE BOAT.

 

I don’t suffer under the illusion that she walks on water, of course. She slips around as much as anyone. But she’s OUT OF THE BOAT, following to the best of her ability, the call of the divine to use her gifts to make this world a better place.

 

I love you, Clare—your surfing ministers to me, and when at times I’m feeling shy and insecure—and I do have my moments—I think of you, and it helps me to leap over the rail onto the waves.

 

Clare is not the only person in this community with that kind of courage, of course. We have no shortage of surfers, here. Diane inspires me, too, with her willingness to throw caution to the wind and enter seminary in her fifties. Ric inspires me to live my faith out loud, despite the ignorance and prejudice in the world, and regardless of how people might misunderstand me. Anne and Elvira inspire me with the innovative business that they’ve started. Phyllis and Lola, in both their faithful service, and their equally faithful setting of boundaries to preserve themselves.

 

Each in your own ways, you have displayed the courage to leave the safety of the boat, and chance the mystery of the waves, walking towards that voice that calls you to be who you are, and to do what you are here to do.

 

I have often said, it is not the job of the priest to serve the world, it is the job of the priest to encourage the people in the pews in their ministries, because it is each of YOU who serve the world. We meet here to encourage and inspire and support one another, so that each of us can bring forth our gifts and share them, no matter how scary the storm, how uncertain our footing, or how distant God might seem to us at any given moment.

 

It takes a lot of chutzpah to jump that rail and get out of the boat. Conventional wisdom, of course says “stay put where it’s safe,” but Jesus says, “Come.” Bring forth that beautiful voice that is yours alone, like Clare. Jesus says, “Come.” Bring the gifts of service that give you life, like Phyllis. Jesus says, “Come.” Be willing to take a chance at the very age that others are becoming set in their ways, like Diane. Jesus says, “Come.” Come be part of a crazy church that will affirm you in your ministry, just as it did me.

 

Only you can say what you are here to do, and only you can do it. And only you can choose to walk on the waves, crazy as that might sound to anyone else. But if God is calling, even if you can’t see him, I encourage you to hear that voice saying, “It’s me. Don’t be afraid. Come.”

 

Let us pray…

 

Jesus, in the midst of a storm,

You met those who loved you,

You comforted them, you saved them,

And you bid them come to you,

Even when it seemed like madness.

Give us the courage for such madness today,

Meet us in the storm, catch us when we fall, so that we might follow you into impossible places, and further confound the world, and through us heal it, renew it, and show it thy love. Amen.

SERMON: Loaves and Fishes

This week I passed a significant milestone in my life. I completed the first draft of my novel. My first novel. It’s 520 pages long, and I actually got to write the words THE END at the end of it. I’ll probably erase those, but man! It felt good to write them.

 

And it was hard, too. I mean, I’ve written books before, but they were always non-fiction, theology. You do an outline, you sit down, you pound it out. Boom! You’re done. But fiction, that’s HARD. I’ve been on the steepest learning curve I’ve ever encountered writing this book, and I have learned so much about plotting, pacing, characterization, and something that surprised me, point of view was a toughie.

 

But as challenging as it has been, it has also been exhilarating. I usually write for an hour a day, and unlike many other projects I’ve worked on, writing this book I have almost always felt like I had more energy, more life, more zip than I did when I sat down to write.

 

Now, I don’t know if it’s any good, of course. It could be that this book is complete crap. But I do know that what it has done in me to write it is nothing short of miraculous. I’ve put in a little bit of effort, and yet I feel like what I’ve gotten back from it is exponentially larger. It defies logic, yet if our Gospel story is any indication, it might be some kind of cosmic law, as well.

 

In this reading, Jesus is doing what he is here to do. He’s ministering to people, he’s teaching them. He is in the center of his integrity, and even though he gets tired, there seems to be no bottom to the well he’s drawing from. He’s handing out the small amount of bread he’s got, but for some reason, it doesn’t seem to give out, there’s enough for everybody, in fact, there’s more than enough.

 

The world’s economies work on what is called a scarcity model—there’s only so much stuff in the world, so we have to hoard it and make sure only the right people get what little there is. Even the church has operated on this model. In the Anselmian model of the atonement—the model still proclaimed by the Roman Catholic Church—there is only so much grace in the world, and it must be doled out a little at a time, through the sacraments, and only to those people who deserve it.

 

But the Gospel turns this upside down. The Gospel preaches an abundance model. The Gospel proclaims that there is enough for everybody, that we should be wasteful, even wonton with our valuables—with our food, with food and shelter, with affection, with our creativity, with laughter and tears and especially with love.

 

Lao Tzu says the Tao is a well that is continually drawn from, but which never dries up. Now, it’s true that there may only be so much oil buried under the sands, but we got along fine without it for millions of years, and we’ll find a way to go on without it again. But of the things that REALLY matter—compassion, forgiveness, love, creativity—there is no shortage on these things. These are things people really need. And if we made a little effort and stopped this hoarding nonsense, little things like food and shelter would be no problem, either. There is enough in the world for everyon, everyone, everyone to live a full and happy life.

 

In our own parish, we’ve been struggling with this balance of scarcity and abundance. I don’t think this is because we have bought into the scarcity model, but because we have not been operating out of our own integrity. We are a spiritual community. It is not our calling to run a business, to manage property and tenants, or to maintain buildings. It is not what we are here to do, it is not something we are necessarily very good at. No wonder it sapped all of our strength and almost forced us to collapse.

 

We went through a very difficult time, there, where there was no energy or new life, or creativity, or vitality. And we’ve all been very tired.

 

But Jesus doesn’t call us to that kind of life. Jesus says that he came that we might have life, and have it more abundantly. I don’t know about you, but I am so ready for some of that abundant life in our community. I am ready for some fun, I’m ready to get together with my friends and do something OTHER than pour over by-laws. I’m ready to brainstorm, to vision, to dream, to get creative with ritual, music, liturgy, and art. I’m so done being a businessman—I’m ready to be a human being again. How about you?

 

I thank God that Mary Sue showed up on our doorstep—that we can hand over to her the things that excite her and give her life—those very same things that sapped life from you and me.

 

As our readings a few weeks ago from St. Paul attest, the eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” because we all have gifts and talents that contribute to the whole. And when each and every one of us is operating from the center of our integrity, which we are all doing those things that excite us, that spark our creativity, that give us life, then the story of the loaves and fishes is not just a quaint myth but a living reality in our midst. When we are each doing the things we are on this earth to do, none of us will feel put upon, or burned out, or abused—just the opposite. We will have energy and creativity and drive to burn.

 

So whatever your gift is—whether it’s writing novels, or sermons, or songs, whether it’s making furniture, or painting paintings, or healing or cooking or massage, whether it’s done in community or alone—I encourage you to DO THAT. And there’s a word for what you’re doing: MINISTRY. For when you are in the center of your integrity, when you are doing the very thing you are here on this earth to do, you edify not only yourself, not only the people around you, not only your community, but the world.

 

Indeed, I would go so far as to say that when you are doing the thing that you do best, you are ministering to God. Because when you are doing that thing you do, you unleash a torrent of abundance that heals and nurtures and inspires everyone. And THAT is the abundant life that Jesus calls us to, both as individuals and as a community.

 

The Buddha said that he distrusts miracles, and if by miracles you mean something that a rare few people can do, something extraordinary and supernatural, then I have to agree with him, because it distracts us from what we are here to do. But what Jesus did with those loaves and fishes, that wasn’t a miracle. That was something that each and every one of us is called to do, every day of our lives: What we are here to do. Because when we can do that, everyone benefits, and there’s always enough to go around, and more to spare.

 

So if you’re tired, worn out, or discouraged, I invite you to ask yourself, “Is this what I’m here to do?” Because I suspect if it is, you wouldn’t be tired, and if it isn’t, why are you knocking yourself out? And what are you waiting for? Let us pray…

 

Holy and inspiring God,

Thank you for helping us hold things together over the past several months.

But now, it seems we have turned a corner,

Help us to take a step back and reassess where we are putting our energy.

Help us to identify those things that you are truly calling us to do

And give us the courage and the willingness to do those things,

Not only for our own salvation,

But for the salvation of the world,

For we ask this in the name of the one who taught us

from the center of his integrity, even Jesus Christ. Amen.

SERMON: The Rectification of Names

When I was about twelve, I had a very humiliating experience. Actually, twelve was a particularly humiliating year, but one experience stands out as being especially humbling. My family was entertaining one weekend, and one of my father’s colleagues, an FBI agent, was standing with my father and I around the barbeque grill. Now, my father spent his entire careers as a federal agent, so our house was a veritable parade of FBI, Customs agents, and Postal Inspectors. My father enjoyed entertaining his colleagues, and I always got a thrill being around non-church people. They always seemed so…dangerous. Forget the fact that they were FBI agents, it was the fact that they didn’t go to our church that made them suspect and exiting. 

 

So on this particular day, my dad’s FBI friend asked me about school. And, grateful to be included in the conversation, and eager to make a good impression, I answered him. 

 

I don’t remember what I said. It wasn’t anything special that I recall. But what I do remember is this: my father stiffened, his jaw tightened, and he turned red as a beet. When I was finished speaking, he turned to his friend, and apologized for me. “Don’t mind him,” he said, “he’s just showing off. His vocabulary is a bit too big for his britches.”

 

I was horrified. I felt ashamed. I was just being myself, and my Dad was ashamed of me. I don’t remember what I did after that, but I remember wanting to run up to my room, or maybe crawl under a rock.

 

I should have known something like that would happen. My parents were very big on the cliché, “Act your age.” Although usually they used it to mean I wasn’t acting as mature as I should be, perhaps I should have been prepared to be reprimanded for acting too old for my age. 

 

Acting in a way that is appropriate to one’s station is very important in traditional societies, and even though my mother loved Elvis Presley, my childhood was very Traditional in many respects. Other cultures, of course, are much more strict. Many of them have very clearly defined roles that are sanctioned by the religious establishment, and stepping outside of those roles can have dire consequences. 

 

One great proponent of strictly defined roles was the ancient Chinese philosopher, Confucius. He saw the chaos in his society, and attributed it to the fact that people were not properly respecting their roles. Fathers were not acting like fathers, mothers were not acting like mothers, sons were not acting like sons, rulers were not acting like rulers, slaves were not acting like slaves, and therefore, society was in grave peril. His answer was something called the Rectification of Names, which sounds very fancy, but actually just means, “act your age,” or, in a more extended way, “act according to your role and station.”

 

If you’re a father, act like a father, take command, demand obedience and respect. If you are a daughter, act like a daughter, do whatever your parents say without question and marry to person they pick out for you and don’t say boo about it. Because the salvation of society depends upon it, this Rectification of Names must be enforced, which would have been a lot easier if Confucius had ever gotten a ruler who decided to put his philosophy into practice. Fortunately for obstinate daughters throughout China, that didn’t happen. 

 

Not that it’s my intention to bag on Confucius, although if the Taoists are to be believed, he really had it coming. But I’m suspicious of anyone who comes along and says, “this is how certain people ought to behave, OR ELSE.”

 

What would have happened if everyone had simply kept in their “proper” place? Almost nothing important in history. What if the Continental Congress had stayed in line and never had a revolution? What if Gandhi had stayed in his place? What if Martin Luther had never questioned the wisdom of Rome? What if Jesus had acted like a normal, acceptable prophet? 

 

Well, he probably wouldn’t have been killed. Nor would Martin Luther King, Jr., had he stayed in his “proper” place. There is a bumper sticker I love that says, “Well-behaved women rarely make history.” And that’s true of men, too. 

 

Jesus’ wisdom in our Gospel reading today runs directly counter to the Traditional wisdom that Confucius and almost every other society espouses. It is almost impossible for us to decide, when we are in the thick of things, what is good and what is evil. 

 

That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t practice discernment, or that we shouldn’t punish violent offenders, but it does mean that we should avoid condemning people in the name of God just because they color outside of the lines. If we did, we would eliminate every artist, every poet, every sage, every prophet, every inventor, every person that propels society forward scientifically, artistically, socially, and morally. 

 

It’s simply not our call. Only God gets to judge someone’s worth on this earth, and as long as you’re not actively hurting another person, I say, let your freak flag fly. God knows there are people who would like to see the doors of this church close, because there’s hardly a line in Christianity that we haven’t completely ignored with our crayons.

 

But I thank God that we are a Congregational church, and that no bishop, no synod has the power to close our doors because we refuse to follow the rules. 

 

And the same goes for you. I’ve heard lots of people say, “I’m not a Christian because I don’t believe what the church teaches.” But I say to you, if you want to call yourself a Christian, do it! If you want to call yourself a Hindu or a Zoroastrian, knock yourself out–you’ll still be welcome to dine at this table. 

 

Let the darnel grow up with the wheat, because as Lissa has informed us, not all wheat is good, and, quite frankly, some of my favorite people are darnel. Let’s let people be who they are, and let God decide the value of a person’s life. More than that, I hope you will be who YOU are, and trust God that where you have been led is a valuable place. 

 

Because, in truth, no one is completely wheat, or completely darnel. We are all of us fields sown with mixed seed. And at the end of time when the darnel is gathered up and burned, when all that is unreal is revealed to be the illusion that it is, the good crop that God has sown in us will come to fruition. The question isn’t what kind of grain are we, but how much goodness can we yield? And the truth is, we don’t always yield the best crop by following the rules, staying in our place, or coloring inside the lines. Let us pray…

 

Jesus, you are the coyote

that tricked the world.

You flattened mountains,

and raised up the valleys,

humbled the proud, 

and the ennobled the humble. 

Work your counter-cultural grace in us,

that we may value the unique people you have made us to be,

no matter who it ticks off. 

Help us to reserve judgment,

of others, and of ourselves,

that we may, with Mechtild of Magdeburg,

live welcoming to all. Amen.