3 Lent A 2011
Exodus 17: 1-7; Ps 95; Rom 5: 1-11; John 4: 5-42
Funny how we can get so close to the water, but never drink.
The Tibetan Buddhist religion honors pilgrimage. There are many sacred sites in Tibet—shrines and holy mountains and ancient monasteries. There is a constant flow of pilgrims to these sites.
Once a pilgrim arrives at a sacred place there are certain rituals to perform, certain prayers to recite. Climb these steps while saying this prayer, for example, or spin this prayer wheel several times, or kneel by the tomb of this saint. I’ve experienced a similar rhythm of customs and prayers at many Catholic sacred site.
One photo of Tibetan pilgrims that I saw in a magazine haunts me to this day. At one monastery, pilgrims were lined up to pass crouched down under a long wooden table. On the table was piled ancient sacred manuscripts. The caption said the pilgrims believe that if they pass under the table, the wisdom contained in the manuscripts above them will descend through the table and bless those underneath.
My first reaction was “Ack! Take those books and preserve them, and then how about reading them?” But then I reflected that iI do something like this in my own life. On my nightstand a small stack of books usually rests, and all too often they lie there undisturbed or only cracked occasionally. On my office shelves are other books that I have bought with excitement, but never read. Maybe I secretly believe the wisdom contained within will silently pass through the air and reach me on my bed or at my desk!
And looking deeper, how often do I live my days caught up in my tiny anxieties and private to-do list, oblivious to the presence of God at all times? How often do I kneel in prayer and find my mind elsewhere? How often do I take Communion in my mouth, the taste of the bread and wine on my tongue, and fight a wandering mind and am not struck in quiet awe at the gift of the living Christ who has come to me again?
"If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, `Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water."
Jesus’ words to the Samaritan woman at the well are meant for each of us. The amazing woman who stays and matches words with the Jewish stranger gives us a great gift—her willingness to explore more deeply Jesus’ mystery invites us to do the same. Her average day’s weary chores becomes so much more. She dares to answer the strange traveler who breaks social convention by even speaking to her. And so an ordinary day of life in a small Samaritan village is transformed.
It is transformed because the woman asked the right things. “How is it that you ask me for a drink?” “Where do you get that living water?” And finally, “Sir, give me that water, so I may never be thirsty again.”
The woman receives an answer from Jesus each time, and so much more. She is so transformed that she must go and tell the story.
Faith and tradition says that we meet Jesus every day. By faith Jesus lives in the depths of our souls. Jesus is visible in the face of the poor and those in need. Jesus hears prayer. The living Word of Christ is read and proclaimed each Sunday. The living Jesus comes to us in the Sacraments.
What do we ask of him? Do we ask anything?
Do we ask for the strength and help to cope with our lives? We ask well. Do we ask that he help those whom we love, and all those in need? We ask well.
Or do we ask for living water? Do we ask to taste his living presence? Do we ask to plunge ever deeper into the mystery of his very soul? Do we ask to know him as he is, to see his face?
If we ask these things, we ask very well. And Jesus will answer. He waits by the well for each of us, hoping we will ask for living water.
archived musings and preachments
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Go
2 Lent A 2011
Genesis 12: 1-4a; Ps 121; Romans 4: 1-5, 13-17; John 3: 1-17
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
On a recent retreat, our Bishop spoke of his two pilgrimages to Santiago. The ancient pilgrim road, which crosses all of northern Spain, has been revived. We hung on the Bishop’s words as he spoke of the long walk, because the traditional way to make the pilgrimage is to walk. Walking the Road to Santiago takes weeks.
There are many temptations on that strange road. One of the greatest temptations is to simply give up, to stop walking. One feels like one has come to the end of one’s own strength. One wonders if the long journey even means anything.
But those who give up miss that final climb to the top of Mount Joy. They miss the sight of the spires of the great gothic Cathedral of Santiago rising from the mist. They miss the final walk into the medieval city, touching the foot of the statue of Saint James, walking in deep silence past his tomb, standing on the floor of the Cathedral as the huge thurible, taller than an adult, swings from chains over one’s head as the pilgrims shout with joy. They miss the rest of their lives knowing that they have walked the Road, knowing that they were faith-filled enough or crazy enough to drop everything and simply walk a road worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet.
They miss the God who is the God of journeys.
The God of the Bible is the God of journeys. Just ask Abram. Abram the Father of faith was simply a man who listened to the voice of God and chose to get up and go. Abram had no idea where the road would take him, only that the God of journeys had made a promise. If Abram had known that his family would be torn by strife, that he would face enemies, that he would be granted terrifying visions, that God would change his name and his wife’s name, that the promise of God would take years to come to fulfillment—would he have gone? Would he have had the nerve to set his foot on the road?
But he did set out. He decided to trust not in what was familiar and settled, but to trust in a promise. When I wrote the notes for this sermon, my finger slipped and I typed “tryst” rather than trust. I think my fingers were smarter than my brain. Abram decided to live by tryst, that ancient word for an agreement to go out and meet one’s beloved. Abram’s journey was a walk into the heart of a loving God.
Nicodemus walked out into the night to keep another tryst.
What drove him out, I wonder, into the night to meet the strange, new, young rabbi? What restlessness, what dissatisfaction with his old life, what curiosity or anxiety about the new teaching from the new prophet? Perhaps Nocodemus himself did not know. But he did walk out, only to keep a tryst and more. Strange images of uncontrollable wind, of adults being born a second time, of a bizarre ancient image of a metal snake raised on a pole and of a Man who would also be raised up just “that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” A walk into the night became another tryst, a journey into the heart of Christ, the Christ sent by God. Nicodemus’ journey had only begun.
When we listen to Christ’s call, when we walk out in trust, when we keep the tryst, we are never the same again. We are called from what is familiar to a new life, a new journey, to meet the God we thought we knew as if for the first time.
I used to hear our Collect today, speaking of “all who have gone astray from your ways”, as those who wander off from the safe and stable teachings of God. I think that those who have gone astray are those who refuse the journey, who sit down or lay down by the path, who go back to the safe-seeming privacy of their homes and their predictable lives. To truly believe is to trust, to trust is to walk out of the familiar to keep a tryst with a God of journeys. That God calls us to the road, away from what seems safe, into new life and the new paths we each are called to explore, that we together as a church are called to explore.
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
Genesis 12: 1-4a; Ps 121; Romans 4: 1-5, 13-17; John 3: 1-17
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
On a recent retreat, our Bishop spoke of his two pilgrimages to Santiago. The ancient pilgrim road, which crosses all of northern Spain, has been revived. We hung on the Bishop’s words as he spoke of the long walk, because the traditional way to make the pilgrimage is to walk. Walking the Road to Santiago takes weeks.
There are many temptations on that strange road. One of the greatest temptations is to simply give up, to stop walking. One feels like one has come to the end of one’s own strength. One wonders if the long journey even means anything.
But those who give up miss that final climb to the top of Mount Joy. They miss the sight of the spires of the great gothic Cathedral of Santiago rising from the mist. They miss the final walk into the medieval city, touching the foot of the statue of Saint James, walking in deep silence past his tomb, standing on the floor of the Cathedral as the huge thurible, taller than an adult, swings from chains over one’s head as the pilgrims shout with joy. They miss the rest of their lives knowing that they have walked the Road, knowing that they were faith-filled enough or crazy enough to drop everything and simply walk a road worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet.
They miss the God who is the God of journeys.
The God of the Bible is the God of journeys. Just ask Abram. Abram the Father of faith was simply a man who listened to the voice of God and chose to get up and go. Abram had no idea where the road would take him, only that the God of journeys had made a promise. If Abram had known that his family would be torn by strife, that he would face enemies, that he would be granted terrifying visions, that God would change his name and his wife’s name, that the promise of God would take years to come to fulfillment—would he have gone? Would he have had the nerve to set his foot on the road?
But he did set out. He decided to trust not in what was familiar and settled, but to trust in a promise. When I wrote the notes for this sermon, my finger slipped and I typed “tryst” rather than trust. I think my fingers were smarter than my brain. Abram decided to live by tryst, that ancient word for an agreement to go out and meet one’s beloved. Abram’s journey was a walk into the heart of a loving God.
Nicodemus walked out into the night to keep another tryst.
What drove him out, I wonder, into the night to meet the strange, new, young rabbi? What restlessness, what dissatisfaction with his old life, what curiosity or anxiety about the new teaching from the new prophet? Perhaps Nocodemus himself did not know. But he did walk out, only to keep a tryst and more. Strange images of uncontrollable wind, of adults being born a second time, of a bizarre ancient image of a metal snake raised on a pole and of a Man who would also be raised up just “that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” A walk into the night became another tryst, a journey into the heart of Christ, the Christ sent by God. Nicodemus’ journey had only begun.
When we listen to Christ’s call, when we walk out in trust, when we keep the tryst, we are never the same again. We are called from what is familiar to a new life, a new journey, to meet the God we thought we knew as if for the first time.
I used to hear our Collect today, speaking of “all who have gone astray from your ways”, as those who wander off from the safe and stable teachings of God. I think that those who have gone astray are those who refuse the journey, who sit down or lay down by the path, who go back to the safe-seeming privacy of their homes and their predictable lives. To truly believe is to trust, to trust is to walk out of the familiar to keep a tryst with a God of journeys. That God calls us to the road, away from what seems safe, into new life and the new paths we each are called to explore, that we together as a church are called to explore.
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Rickety
1 Lent A 2011
Gen 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Ps 32; Rom 5: 12-19; Mt 4: 1-11
How do we feel about being “rickety”?
In the 19th century a few dedicated people revived monastic life in the Church of England. One of the first Orders had a rough beginning—only three or four men to start, no money, lots of suspicion in a country and a church where monks had been suppressed centuries before. One or two members of the original group left.
After several hard years, things picked up for these monks. They attracted a couple of wealthy patrons, and moved into a nice building. Public attention became more positive. They attracted more new members.
It did not last. One of the patrons died and the other decided to do other things with his money. Several of the new candidates did not stay. The monks were back to being broke with only a few members sticking it out.
One of these, very discouraged, complained to another: “We’re back to where we started! Things feel all rickety again!”
After a moment, the other monk replied, “The day things stop being rickety is the day we stop depending on God.”
The truth is, thing are always “rickety”, insecure, unstable, liable to change at any moment. We ourselves are “rickety”—fragile, with weak and changeable wills and uncertain faith. At different life-stages we change—we acquire new health concerns, our relationships change or end, even the state of our souls change. Faith that was once warm goes cold. Things we felt to be sure feel less certain, or completely uncertain.
This week we were given stark reminders that our life on this planet is rickety. A technologically advanced nation is brought to a standstill by an earthquake that even they did not expect. Thousands of miles away, the waves wrecked docks and boats and swept the unwary out to sea. As of Friday Noon, the Vicar of St. Timothy’s Church Brookings was at sea with his father, having chosen like experienced sailors to ride the tsunami surge in open water.
But the rickety nature of our lives calls forth what is deepest in us, and faces us with choice. The Oregonian printed a photo of a Japanese soldier tenderly carrying an old man on his back through flood waters. The article said that an American aircraft carrier is steaming to Japan’s coast to offer aid. There are still those among us here who remember a time when gentle Japanese soldiers and American ships coming to help Japan would be inconceivable. But we are called away from anger and fear and the ways of war to the ways of peace, once we acknowledge our common human “ricketyness” and our dependence on one anther in this lovely, uncertain, rickety life we share.
The Gospel says that Jesus the Son of God completely shared our rickety life.
Jesus’ own baptism was an experience of wonder and assurance and light. But Jesus does not go from this moment of wonder into a successful career as professional Messiah. He goes into the desert, away from fame and assurance and light. In the desert, life is stripped to its basics. In the desert, you realize that you are small and not strong at all. In the desert, you are not in control. Wild animals call the desert home. Spirits are there. The devil is there. And God is there, although God can be as strange and unpredictable as the wild animals.
That desert, that disorienting place where we are small and rickety and not in control—that is the place where the baptized Jesus must face what is real.
“Temptations” are not urges to be naughty. Temptations are tests—to uncover what is in our hearts, to reveal what is true about our humanity. Tests—to reveal what is true about the world and about God. Tests—the kind of tests where, one way or the other, we emerge changed. That change is unpredictable.
The proctor of the test is the devil, whose name in Hebrew means “the accuser”, the one who knows our weaknesses and uncovers our doubts and fears, our anger and our greed.
“Command these stones to turn into bread”—gratify yourself, be self-sufficient, feed yourself independently of God or farmers or bakers or anyone else.
“Throw yourself down”—be exceptional, unique, entitled to care and supernatural tricks over and above any other human being who walks this earth.
“All these I will give you…” be greater, be in control of others, be master of your own fate. But the devil trips himself up here—he adds “worship me.” For as Bob Dylan said, you gotta serve someone.
Jesus refuses—refuses a self-sufficient life, refuses an exceptional life entitled to more care than any other person, refuses a dominating life controlling others and his own fate. He brings God into the equation—we live through God’s constant living speech, we are entrusted to God’s care, all true power belongs to God and we are entrusted with the humble care of one another.
Jesus chose a rickety life.
Rickety means that we entrust ourselves to God. Rickety means that we know we cannot and do not have to manage our lives alone. Rickety means that God is at the center, and we rely on God for all things. Rickety means that we are free to live a loved and vulnerable human life, dependent on one another, dependent on the earth and its creatures, dependent on God the source of all that is good.
Rickety is the only true strength.
Gen 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Ps 32; Rom 5: 12-19; Mt 4: 1-11
How do we feel about being “rickety”?
In the 19th century a few dedicated people revived monastic life in the Church of England. One of the first Orders had a rough beginning—only three or four men to start, no money, lots of suspicion in a country and a church where monks had been suppressed centuries before. One or two members of the original group left.
After several hard years, things picked up for these monks. They attracted a couple of wealthy patrons, and moved into a nice building. Public attention became more positive. They attracted more new members.
It did not last. One of the patrons died and the other decided to do other things with his money. Several of the new candidates did not stay. The monks were back to being broke with only a few members sticking it out.
One of these, very discouraged, complained to another: “We’re back to where we started! Things feel all rickety again!”
After a moment, the other monk replied, “The day things stop being rickety is the day we stop depending on God.”
The truth is, thing are always “rickety”, insecure, unstable, liable to change at any moment. We ourselves are “rickety”—fragile, with weak and changeable wills and uncertain faith. At different life-stages we change—we acquire new health concerns, our relationships change or end, even the state of our souls change. Faith that was once warm goes cold. Things we felt to be sure feel less certain, or completely uncertain.
This week we were given stark reminders that our life on this planet is rickety. A technologically advanced nation is brought to a standstill by an earthquake that even they did not expect. Thousands of miles away, the waves wrecked docks and boats and swept the unwary out to sea. As of Friday Noon, the Vicar of St. Timothy’s Church Brookings was at sea with his father, having chosen like experienced sailors to ride the tsunami surge in open water.
But the rickety nature of our lives calls forth what is deepest in us, and faces us with choice. The Oregonian printed a photo of a Japanese soldier tenderly carrying an old man on his back through flood waters. The article said that an American aircraft carrier is steaming to Japan’s coast to offer aid. There are still those among us here who remember a time when gentle Japanese soldiers and American ships coming to help Japan would be inconceivable. But we are called away from anger and fear and the ways of war to the ways of peace, once we acknowledge our common human “ricketyness” and our dependence on one anther in this lovely, uncertain, rickety life we share.
The Gospel says that Jesus the Son of God completely shared our rickety life.
Jesus’ own baptism was an experience of wonder and assurance and light. But Jesus does not go from this moment of wonder into a successful career as professional Messiah. He goes into the desert, away from fame and assurance and light. In the desert, life is stripped to its basics. In the desert, you realize that you are small and not strong at all. In the desert, you are not in control. Wild animals call the desert home. Spirits are there. The devil is there. And God is there, although God can be as strange and unpredictable as the wild animals.
That desert, that disorienting place where we are small and rickety and not in control—that is the place where the baptized Jesus must face what is real.
“Temptations” are not urges to be naughty. Temptations are tests—to uncover what is in our hearts, to reveal what is true about our humanity. Tests—to reveal what is true about the world and about God. Tests—the kind of tests where, one way or the other, we emerge changed. That change is unpredictable.
The proctor of the test is the devil, whose name in Hebrew means “the accuser”, the one who knows our weaknesses and uncovers our doubts and fears, our anger and our greed.
“Command these stones to turn into bread”—gratify yourself, be self-sufficient, feed yourself independently of God or farmers or bakers or anyone else.
“Throw yourself down”—be exceptional, unique, entitled to care and supernatural tricks over and above any other human being who walks this earth.
“All these I will give you…” be greater, be in control of others, be master of your own fate. But the devil trips himself up here—he adds “worship me.” For as Bob Dylan said, you gotta serve someone.
Jesus refuses—refuses a self-sufficient life, refuses an exceptional life entitled to more care than any other person, refuses a dominating life controlling others and his own fate. He brings God into the equation—we live through God’s constant living speech, we are entrusted to God’s care, all true power belongs to God and we are entrusted with the humble care of one another.
Jesus chose a rickety life.
Rickety means that we entrust ourselves to God. Rickety means that we know we cannot and do not have to manage our lives alone. Rickety means that God is at the center, and we rely on God for all things. Rickety means that we are free to live a loved and vulnerable human life, dependent on one another, dependent on the earth and its creatures, dependent on God the source of all that is good.
Rickety is the only true strength.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Different
7 Epiphany A 2011
(Lev. 19: 1-2, 9-18; Ps. 119: 33-40; 1 Cor. 3: 10-11, 16-23; Mat. 5: 38-48)
In the desert, a young monk went to visit one of the elders. He told the old man, “My brother has harmed me and I want to get him back.”
The old man said, “You must banish this thought from your mind.”
The young man replied, “I can’t do that.”
The old man said, “Then you must not act on this thought.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then, you must move far away so you cannot do anything to harm your brother.”
“I can’t do that either.”
The old man stood up and called to one of his companions, “Make some soup for this brother, for he is very weak. As for me, all I can do is pray for you.”
When I remember this story, I ask myself, “Where am I in this array of choices?” I myself am sensitive and prone to anger, and when offended I often dwell on thoughts of revenge.
Today we hear that we are to be holy. Holy means different, set apart. A holy life is different in significant ways from others. Holiness is not primarily a feeling of inner peace or spiritual contentment, as pleasant as those feelings may be. Sometimes these feelings can be deceptive and can hide the truth of our lives from ourselves. Biblical holiness is concrete and real.
Holiness is as real as how much of your harvest you take for yourself, and how much you leave for others. The book of Leviticus is all about how Israel is to be and act holy, like a different kind of people. We hear about how to be generous in gathering the harvest—leave the edges of the field and what is left by the first gathering for the poor and for strangers. Don’t steal, don’t defraud, don’t violate fair labor practices, don’t gossip, don’t take revenge. These may seem easy, but there are many ways we can participate in these injustices—that’s why we use the Confession that adds “the evil done on our behalf.” God is proposing a tough, self-critical way of life.
And Jesus takes this life even further. Some have called Christianity “the great untried idea”, and today Jesus’ teaching is a example of this. “Love your enemy” “Do not resist an evil-doer” Most of us are loving and affectionate towards those who love us back. Jesus is talking about difficult love, thankless love, counter-cultural love. But if we Christians have one world-transforming truth to bring to the table, it is this. Love your enemies, do not resist an evil-doer.
It is impossible. But it can be done.
It is impossible because, if we are honest, we admit the angry and vengeful thoughts of our hearts, and we admit the limits of our love.
It can be done, and we have seen some imperfect examples of non-vengeful and risky love. Ghandi’s non-violent protests, the peaceful American civil rights protests, Bishop Tutu’s “truth and reconciliation” process in South Africa, even some of the non-violent protests recently in Cairo—they are glimpses of the fact that there are ways to live and act that do not surrender to the rage and revenge that fills our hearts. Perhaps we have seen smaller, less famous examples of living by this new way, a way that transforms rage into love and hope.
It is impossible, but do not despair. We may be like the angry young monk in the desert tale, but we can change. If we choose, and if we ask for Christ’s strength, then Christ will change us.
If we become a community that lives in this daring way, then the Gospel will look like it matters. Our larger culture does not hate God or the Gospel. Our larger culture simply does not believe that there is anything different about we church people, that we do not really live in this new, difficult, and outrageously loving way.
May we be a changed people of outrageous Gospel love.
(Lev. 19: 1-2, 9-18; Ps. 119: 33-40; 1 Cor. 3: 10-11, 16-23; Mat. 5: 38-48)
In the desert, a young monk went to visit one of the elders. He told the old man, “My brother has harmed me and I want to get him back.”
The old man said, “You must banish this thought from your mind.”
The young man replied, “I can’t do that.”
The old man said, “Then you must not act on this thought.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Then, you must move far away so you cannot do anything to harm your brother.”
“I can’t do that either.”
The old man stood up and called to one of his companions, “Make some soup for this brother, for he is very weak. As for me, all I can do is pray for you.”
When I remember this story, I ask myself, “Where am I in this array of choices?” I myself am sensitive and prone to anger, and when offended I often dwell on thoughts of revenge.
Today we hear that we are to be holy. Holy means different, set apart. A holy life is different in significant ways from others. Holiness is not primarily a feeling of inner peace or spiritual contentment, as pleasant as those feelings may be. Sometimes these feelings can be deceptive and can hide the truth of our lives from ourselves. Biblical holiness is concrete and real.
Holiness is as real as how much of your harvest you take for yourself, and how much you leave for others. The book of Leviticus is all about how Israel is to be and act holy, like a different kind of people. We hear about how to be generous in gathering the harvest—leave the edges of the field and what is left by the first gathering for the poor and for strangers. Don’t steal, don’t defraud, don’t violate fair labor practices, don’t gossip, don’t take revenge. These may seem easy, but there are many ways we can participate in these injustices—that’s why we use the Confession that adds “the evil done on our behalf.” God is proposing a tough, self-critical way of life.
And Jesus takes this life even further. Some have called Christianity “the great untried idea”, and today Jesus’ teaching is a example of this. “Love your enemy” “Do not resist an evil-doer” Most of us are loving and affectionate towards those who love us back. Jesus is talking about difficult love, thankless love, counter-cultural love. But if we Christians have one world-transforming truth to bring to the table, it is this. Love your enemies, do not resist an evil-doer.
It is impossible. But it can be done.
It is impossible because, if we are honest, we admit the angry and vengeful thoughts of our hearts, and we admit the limits of our love.
It can be done, and we have seen some imperfect examples of non-vengeful and risky love. Ghandi’s non-violent protests, the peaceful American civil rights protests, Bishop Tutu’s “truth and reconciliation” process in South Africa, even some of the non-violent protests recently in Cairo—they are glimpses of the fact that there are ways to live and act that do not surrender to the rage and revenge that fills our hearts. Perhaps we have seen smaller, less famous examples of living by this new way, a way that transforms rage into love and hope.
It is impossible, but do not despair. We may be like the angry young monk in the desert tale, but we can change. If we choose, and if we ask for Christ’s strength, then Christ will change us.
If we become a community that lives in this daring way, then the Gospel will look like it matters. Our larger culture does not hate God or the Gospel. Our larger culture simply does not believe that there is anything different about we church people, that we do not really live in this new, difficult, and outrageously loving way.
May we be a changed people of outrageous Gospel love.
Friday, February 11, 2011
.“Mission Impossible”, some hard teachings from Matthew
On Matthew’s nameless mountain, Jesus the new Moses speaks the demands of the new Law, and it is harsh reading (Mt 5: 21-37).
If you are angry, you will be judged. If you look with lust, you are just as much an adulterer as if you were coming out of a cheap motel room looking guilty. Except for cases of “unchastity”, divorce is the same as adultery too. And oh, did I mention tearing out your sinful eye, cutting off the hand with which you sin?
What do we do with these texts? Take them literally? A few people in the early church did, so bishops issued decrees that self-mutilation was not approved. Be “selectively literal”? Even if we are not going to cut off hands or pluck out eyeballs, who passes a day without getting angry or “looking with lust” if only for a moment? Anyone? Really? Or do we dismiss these texts as representing a Jesus that we want no part of? If we walk a path of dismissing texts and teachings that make us uncomfortable, the result is a cozy and fuzzy belief-set conforming to our own wants and hopes. In effect, we have committed idolatry; we have placed our own desires on an altar and swung a bit of inoffensive incense over it.
Well, my favorite Biblical commentator was Abba Joseph of the early Desert, who when asked the meaning of a Biblical text replied, “I know not.” But here is what I do know:
These texts do not allow any of us to remain in our own “comfort zone.” They do not allow any of us to be complaisant in any sense of self-justification. We are all revealed as falling short, tending towards self-delusion, prone to failing the high standard over and over again.
And when we come to the end of our self-justification, the end of our personal delusions, then end of our complaisance—then we stand as we are, human and ordinary, limited and in need, before God. And in that moment we begin to know who God is and who we are, and God can begin to really do something for us, in us, and through us.
If you are angry, you will be judged. If you look with lust, you are just as much an adulterer as if you were coming out of a cheap motel room looking guilty. Except for cases of “unchastity”, divorce is the same as adultery too. And oh, did I mention tearing out your sinful eye, cutting off the hand with which you sin?
What do we do with these texts? Take them literally? A few people in the early church did, so bishops issued decrees that self-mutilation was not approved. Be “selectively literal”? Even if we are not going to cut off hands or pluck out eyeballs, who passes a day without getting angry or “looking with lust” if only for a moment? Anyone? Really? Or do we dismiss these texts as representing a Jesus that we want no part of? If we walk a path of dismissing texts and teachings that make us uncomfortable, the result is a cozy and fuzzy belief-set conforming to our own wants and hopes. In effect, we have committed idolatry; we have placed our own desires on an altar and swung a bit of inoffensive incense over it.
Well, my favorite Biblical commentator was Abba Joseph of the early Desert, who when asked the meaning of a Biblical text replied, “I know not.” But here is what I do know:
These texts do not allow any of us to remain in our own “comfort zone.” They do not allow any of us to be complaisant in any sense of self-justification. We are all revealed as falling short, tending towards self-delusion, prone to failing the high standard over and over again.
And when we come to the end of our self-justification, the end of our personal delusions, then end of our complaisance—then we stand as we are, human and ordinary, limited and in need, before God. And in that moment we begin to know who God is and who we are, and God can begin to really do something for us, in us, and through us.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Annual Address 2011: going out
In this past Advent, we have seen a great Light. At Christmas, we received that Light among us, taken flesh in Jesus. At Epiphany, that light broke forth as a gift to the world. Now, in Epiphanitide, we are the Light. As the seasonal blessing at the end of Mass says, “May Christ the true Light be manifest in you, that your lives may be a light to the world.”
In last week’s Gospel we heard how Saints Peter and Paul is called to hear God’s call and to go, to go into the world and not wait for the world to come to us. This gift and this call was given to people who had nothing and who lived on the edges of power and of influence. The God and Father of Jesus likes the edge, and God likes calling simple and unlikely people at the edge to speak healing to the broken and to speak in challenge to those at the center of power and of wealth. This speech may be in words, or in actions, or simply by a witness of life.
And today? Today Jesus gathers us around and tells us that if we are poor in spirit, grieving, simple-hearted, thirsting for justice, that we are happy and we are blessed. That’s good news for us, dear friends in God. If we are feeling at the end of our string, if we are troubled by thoughts of poverty or need, if we think we are too tired and too broke to do anything, then good news! Our own co-patron Saint Paul’s words to the Corinthians are addressed to us as well: “Not many of you were wise, not many were powerful, not many of noble birth.” But we’re the special kin of the prophets and the saints, and we are ready for God to do great things among us and through us.
I am glad that we have heard this call and this promise already, and live it in many ways.
This past Fall we were blessed with a creative and energetic stewardship consultant, Jaimie Sanders. Jaimie offered her talents and her energy to us and together with a hard-working committee conducted a very positive Fall process we called “Loaves and Fishes.” We did not breathe a word of poverty or scarcity the whole time, and dared to believe that we are blessed and rich in God. The campaign did turn out a measurable increase in pledges. But more than that, we used the campaign to turn our language around, even the language that some of us secretly say to ourselves even while we try to keep a brave face.
Jaimie offered her talents so generously because, as she said, “I believe in what you are doing here.” Her study of where Saints Peter and Paul spends its resources, financial and property and human, revealed that 30% of our resources go towards outreach to the larger community. That feels to me like a decent New Testament sense of what a community of the Gospel should look like.
I think our primary task this year is to embrace and live into our call as a community charged and empowered to “Go!” and to welcome as gifts the people and the opportunities and the change that will result.
We have been changed. The threads which have woven into our DNA—that Catholic sense of being at service to the poor, the Celtic Christian story of a joyful and passionate search for God, and most lately the Spanish Misa—have all brought new members and new energy and even a new language and culture among us. We learn so much. We are enriched in so many ways. As many Episcopal parishes in this Diocese seek to re-invent and to renew themselves, we are asked “how did you do it?”, especially in regard to nurturing a Spanish-speaking community in our midst.
My own life as priest and rector continues to grow and to be challenged in so many ways. No downward coast to retirement for me! There are always struggles and frustrations built into the life of a parish priest, but all in all I love my life and I rejoice in the opportunities given to me to not simply care for but to grow the church. Especially, the growth of the Misa community and my work as chaplain of the Academy for Formation and Mission enriches my own life and sense of ministry. I am very grateful for my life and call, and I thank God and thank all of you.
As we live into a deeper sense of call and of mission here at Saints Peter and Paul, I believe that these are our challenges:
We need to each broaden our sense of the mission and life of the overall parish and give thanks. Last week’s text from Paul about factions in the Corinthian community could be paraphrased for us—“I am an 8 o’clocker”, “I always go to 10”, “I’m here for the music”, “I’m here for the Celtic emphasis”, “I’m here for the Misa”. We each have our special reason to be drawn to this community, and I am grateful for any note we strike that has appeal to any given person. But how can we acquire a deeper sense of the whole—give thanks for it, delight in it, value each person as well as each experience available at this surprisingly diverse community?
I think that for the sake of the Gospel as well as for our own health we need to seek ways to be more involved in the neighborhood. This will call for some extra effort on my part, but I cannot do this alone. I welcome ideas and energy to make this a reality.
With all of our energy, we need a way to look at our financial life that is at the same time faith-filled and grateful yet realistic. We may be seeing some fundamental changes in this Diocese in terms of how congregations like ourselves view sustainability and their relationship to other parishes. I am not suggesting that combining parishes is anywhere in the near or far future—that really does not work that well and one community usually comes out on the losing end. I think our own location is priceless for mission and for witness and the Diocese would be saying a loud “no” to God by suggesting it be abandoned. But I have been meeting with a small group of eastside clergy in order to imagine how we can live and work together in ways that respect the integrity of our communities yet not endlessly duplicate programs and mission in each location.
We need to draw more people into active leadership, and to deepen a sense of willingness to serve in traditional leadership roles as well as do new projects. It is harder and harder to attract people to Vestry and other such roles.
We began a great adventure with the successful founding of our Spanish-speaking community, or rather the Spanish-speaking and worshipping portion of our parish. It is still a work in progress. Ways to share leadership, share stewardship, and just share life with one another are all clear goals for us and for the future.
Our own common life has seen great comings and goings. We welcomed a number of newcomers: in the English-speaking community, we welcomed Joe Bender, Michelle Power, William Gustafson and Craig Miller whom we “missioned out” for a time to support the continuing congregation at St. Matthew’s, Paul Peavy and Mark Taylor, Jacob and Tiffany and Aylah Arnold, and Brian Oldham and Dale Walker. We said goodbye to beloved long-time member George Monsauret, who with spouse Lydia are among the 1940’s generation of continuing members. In the Spanish-speaking community there is a dizzying sense of growth and of staying, so much so that I am not proud of the fact that I am not able to provide a reliable list of those whom have come and have stayed with us since last Annual Meeting. But that community has predictable names and faces and has developed the ministries of acolyte and lector and chalice-bearer and sacristy assistant, as well as gathering to help care for the grounds and to clean the church.
Our life here is so rich. Our call has never been clearer. Our opportunities have never been so abundant. Our reasons to give thanks have never been more abundant. Thanks to all of you who help make this a community that listens to God, that acts on what we hear, and that cares for one another as we pray and seek and serve and go to the new people and places where God calls us to be.
In last week’s Gospel we heard how Saints Peter and Paul is called to hear God’s call and to go, to go into the world and not wait for the world to come to us. This gift and this call was given to people who had nothing and who lived on the edges of power and of influence. The God and Father of Jesus likes the edge, and God likes calling simple and unlikely people at the edge to speak healing to the broken and to speak in challenge to those at the center of power and of wealth. This speech may be in words, or in actions, or simply by a witness of life.
And today? Today Jesus gathers us around and tells us that if we are poor in spirit, grieving, simple-hearted, thirsting for justice, that we are happy and we are blessed. That’s good news for us, dear friends in God. If we are feeling at the end of our string, if we are troubled by thoughts of poverty or need, if we think we are too tired and too broke to do anything, then good news! Our own co-patron Saint Paul’s words to the Corinthians are addressed to us as well: “Not many of you were wise, not many were powerful, not many of noble birth.” But we’re the special kin of the prophets and the saints, and we are ready for God to do great things among us and through us.
I am glad that we have heard this call and this promise already, and live it in many ways.
This past Fall we were blessed with a creative and energetic stewardship consultant, Jaimie Sanders. Jaimie offered her talents and her energy to us and together with a hard-working committee conducted a very positive Fall process we called “Loaves and Fishes.” We did not breathe a word of poverty or scarcity the whole time, and dared to believe that we are blessed and rich in God. The campaign did turn out a measurable increase in pledges. But more than that, we used the campaign to turn our language around, even the language that some of us secretly say to ourselves even while we try to keep a brave face.
Jaimie offered her talents so generously because, as she said, “I believe in what you are doing here.” Her study of where Saints Peter and Paul spends its resources, financial and property and human, revealed that 30% of our resources go towards outreach to the larger community. That feels to me like a decent New Testament sense of what a community of the Gospel should look like.
I think our primary task this year is to embrace and live into our call as a community charged and empowered to “Go!” and to welcome as gifts the people and the opportunities and the change that will result.
We have been changed. The threads which have woven into our DNA—that Catholic sense of being at service to the poor, the Celtic Christian story of a joyful and passionate search for God, and most lately the Spanish Misa—have all brought new members and new energy and even a new language and culture among us. We learn so much. We are enriched in so many ways. As many Episcopal parishes in this Diocese seek to re-invent and to renew themselves, we are asked “how did you do it?”, especially in regard to nurturing a Spanish-speaking community in our midst.
My own life as priest and rector continues to grow and to be challenged in so many ways. No downward coast to retirement for me! There are always struggles and frustrations built into the life of a parish priest, but all in all I love my life and I rejoice in the opportunities given to me to not simply care for but to grow the church. Especially, the growth of the Misa community and my work as chaplain of the Academy for Formation and Mission enriches my own life and sense of ministry. I am very grateful for my life and call, and I thank God and thank all of you.
As we live into a deeper sense of call and of mission here at Saints Peter and Paul, I believe that these are our challenges:
We need to each broaden our sense of the mission and life of the overall parish and give thanks. Last week’s text from Paul about factions in the Corinthian community could be paraphrased for us—“I am an 8 o’clocker”, “I always go to 10”, “I’m here for the music”, “I’m here for the Celtic emphasis”, “I’m here for the Misa”. We each have our special reason to be drawn to this community, and I am grateful for any note we strike that has appeal to any given person. But how can we acquire a deeper sense of the whole—give thanks for it, delight in it, value each person as well as each experience available at this surprisingly diverse community?
I think that for the sake of the Gospel as well as for our own health we need to seek ways to be more involved in the neighborhood. This will call for some extra effort on my part, but I cannot do this alone. I welcome ideas and energy to make this a reality.
With all of our energy, we need a way to look at our financial life that is at the same time faith-filled and grateful yet realistic. We may be seeing some fundamental changes in this Diocese in terms of how congregations like ourselves view sustainability and their relationship to other parishes. I am not suggesting that combining parishes is anywhere in the near or far future—that really does not work that well and one community usually comes out on the losing end. I think our own location is priceless for mission and for witness and the Diocese would be saying a loud “no” to God by suggesting it be abandoned. But I have been meeting with a small group of eastside clergy in order to imagine how we can live and work together in ways that respect the integrity of our communities yet not endlessly duplicate programs and mission in each location.
We need to draw more people into active leadership, and to deepen a sense of willingness to serve in traditional leadership roles as well as do new projects. It is harder and harder to attract people to Vestry and other such roles.
We began a great adventure with the successful founding of our Spanish-speaking community, or rather the Spanish-speaking and worshipping portion of our parish. It is still a work in progress. Ways to share leadership, share stewardship, and just share life with one another are all clear goals for us and for the future.
Our own common life has seen great comings and goings. We welcomed a number of newcomers: in the English-speaking community, we welcomed Joe Bender, Michelle Power, William Gustafson and Craig Miller whom we “missioned out” for a time to support the continuing congregation at St. Matthew’s, Paul Peavy and Mark Taylor, Jacob and Tiffany and Aylah Arnold, and Brian Oldham and Dale Walker. We said goodbye to beloved long-time member George Monsauret, who with spouse Lydia are among the 1940’s generation of continuing members. In the Spanish-speaking community there is a dizzying sense of growth and of staying, so much so that I am not proud of the fact that I am not able to provide a reliable list of those whom have come and have stayed with us since last Annual Meeting. But that community has predictable names and faces and has developed the ministries of acolyte and lector and chalice-bearer and sacristy assistant, as well as gathering to help care for the grounds and to clean the church.
Our life here is so rich. Our call has never been clearer. Our opportunities have never been so abundant. Our reasons to give thanks have never been more abundant. Thanks to all of you who help make this a community that listens to God, that acts on what we hear, and that cares for one another as we pray and seek and serve and go to the new people and places where God calls us to be.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
New Law, new Law-giver
In the Torah, in the book we call Exodus, Moses climbs the sacred mountain alone. The journey has been hard, and the people have been tested along the way. After a long wait, Moses receives from God’s own hand the basic law of conduct that we call the Ten Commandments. As Moses ascends, he knows by God’s own words that the people waiting have already been unfaithful, and the coming of the Commandments among them as they hold festival will cause pain and division and even death.
In Matthew’s tale of the New Law (3: 1-12), Jesus the new Moses also ascends a mountain. But the differences reveal the newness of the reality he brings.
It is the “crowds”, the poor, the outcasts, those living on the fringe, who gather around Jesus, and not the wilderness-proven children of Israel. The place that Jesus chooses to speak is just a place, some nameless hill in the wilderness, a place like many others, ordinary. Jesus is not heroically alone like Moses—his disciples “gather around.” Jesus does not seek a stone on which to carve his words—his lips themselves, and the ears of those who hear, are the “living stones” of the new revelation. Unlike God on Sinai, Jesus does not claim reverence for himself. It is the broken people gathered before him that are the focus of his words. And the word that begins each “saying” is “blessed.” The Greek word may also be translated “happy.”
And who are happy? The new Law turns upside-down our assumptions of who is happy, who is blessed. The poor in spirit, the meek, those who mourn—they are happy. Those who long for healing and justice and a new earth—the peacemakers, the merciful—they are blessed in their longing. And those who are not only blessed, but who will rejoice and be glad, are those who are hammered and hunted and beaten down by the powerful, by the Herods and the High Priests and the Caesars of that and every world. Those who are so oppressed are the kinsfolk of the prophets, of the ancient saints.
Where are these people today? How do we stand in relation to them? Where are their cries, their sorrows, their longings heard? What “wild hope” within ourselves lies hidden, covered over by discouragement and by the dreary sameness of life-as-it-is. What is kindled to hope within us by this outrageous game-plan of the Kingdom of Heaven and its unlikely King?
In Matthew’s tale of the New Law (3: 1-12), Jesus the new Moses also ascends a mountain. But the differences reveal the newness of the reality he brings.
It is the “crowds”, the poor, the outcasts, those living on the fringe, who gather around Jesus, and not the wilderness-proven children of Israel. The place that Jesus chooses to speak is just a place, some nameless hill in the wilderness, a place like many others, ordinary. Jesus is not heroically alone like Moses—his disciples “gather around.” Jesus does not seek a stone on which to carve his words—his lips themselves, and the ears of those who hear, are the “living stones” of the new revelation. Unlike God on Sinai, Jesus does not claim reverence for himself. It is the broken people gathered before him that are the focus of his words. And the word that begins each “saying” is “blessed.” The Greek word may also be translated “happy.”
And who are happy? The new Law turns upside-down our assumptions of who is happy, who is blessed. The poor in spirit, the meek, those who mourn—they are happy. Those who long for healing and justice and a new earth—the peacemakers, the merciful—they are blessed in their longing. And those who are not only blessed, but who will rejoice and be glad, are those who are hammered and hunted and beaten down by the powerful, by the Herods and the High Priests and the Caesars of that and every world. Those who are so oppressed are the kinsfolk of the prophets, of the ancient saints.
Where are these people today? How do we stand in relation to them? Where are their cries, their sorrows, their longings heard? What “wild hope” within ourselves lies hidden, covered over by discouragement and by the dreary sameness of life-as-it-is. What is kindled to hope within us by this outrageous game-plan of the Kingdom of Heaven and its unlikely King?
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