Sermon from St. John’s Troy 9/15/24

 Mark 8:27-38

          How do you enter a swimming pool? Are you the kind of person who runs across the cement and then does a cannonball into the water? Do you gather up floaties and rafts and nervously balance on top of inflatables, occasionally letting a toe dip in? Maybe you are a side sitter, kicking your legs in the water and participating in the fun while staying half dry? Maybe you are like my kids, hurriedly getting on sunscreen and then rushing down the pool stairs and squealing in freezing delight before pushing off the side. Or maybe you are like me, I like to gradually work my way in, letting my legs adjust and slowly getting deeper while repeatedly telling my kids to stop splashing until finally I just jump in and take off swimming. No matter how you enter, there’s really no getting around the discomfort of that transition, especially if the water is very cold. Whether you do it in one moment or extend it gradually, it’s a shock to the system as your body moves from the warm air that it knows to the cold water that is unfamiliar. A transition that often leaves us with a confusing mix of gasping for air, chattering teeth and big smile. It can be exhilarating, uncomfortable, invigorating … maybe even painful.

Painful maybe the word to describe the way it feels right now to be thinking of summer swim days while the leaves are changing and school is back in session.  Whether it’s diving into a pool or a new season of life or a new school routine … it can be a shock to the system, one that we are reluctant to jump in to.

In the Gospel reading today, Jesus offers a shock to the system … and the disciples aren’t thrilled. Today’s passage is not a “come to me all who are weary and I will give you rest” kind of thing … it’s more of a “go grab two pieces of wood used for torture and carry them” kind of thing.

          It starts off with a win for the disciples. Jesus asks them who they say he is and Peter gets it right. Peter says “You are the Messiah.” He gets it, Peter is the star student, understanding that Jesus is the one sent by God, after all of Jesus’s teaching and preaching, it’s exciting for a disciple to show that he understands, and a bold statement about who Jesus is. But before he can put the gold sticker on his chest, Jesus presses further. Jesus starts talking about the really hard stuff. About how he has to suffer and die. And that’s when Peter has had enough and so he rebukes Jesus and goes from a gold star to being called Satan. Jesus is serious, and it’s time for the disciples and anyone who wants to follow him, to get serious too.

 

He says to the disciples and the crowd “if any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” It’s hard for us today to understand the impact of this statement. When we hear “cross” we think of the shiny gold crosses we wear around our necks or the beautifully raised crosses in our worship spaces, but for those first listeners, a cross meant agony, suffering, embarrassment and shame for one’s family. These were not words taken lightly … this is deep end stuff.

 

In his commentary on this passage, NT Wright says, “Following Jesus is, more or less, Mark’s definition of what being a Christian means; and Jesus is not leading us on a pleasant afternoon hike, but on a walk into danger and risk. Or did we suppose that the kingdom of God would mean merely a few minor adjustments in our ordinary lives?” In other words, Jesus is calling us to dive all the way in. He is calling his followers to give him not just a polite nod, but their whole hearts.

I have been serving as a hospital chaplain at Samaritan Hospital and in that role, I spend a lot of time with people who are at a crossroads of some kind- maybe they are contemplating a major change in how they take care of their health, or preparing for a life of sobriety, or realizing they need to change unhealthy lifestyles or relationships. I see them when they are dipping their toes in the water, considering diving in to a new way of living, but nervous about the hard work of change. Some are ready to dive right in, some aren’t so sure and some are only ready to make small changes. As an outsider, listening to their story, I can see that on the other side of the hard transition is freedom and peace. I can see that they are held down by the chains of addiction, self-hatred, or unhealthy relationships. And I am rooting for them, hoping they will make those hard changes and find the peace on the other side. But trust, faith and change are scary … for all of us. Sometimes we would rather stay in captivity than risk our comfort and predictability for freedom.

 

But Jesus calls us to the way of freedom. Jesus calls us to live for God, to live a life of salvation, a life focused on love and forgiveness, to walk the path of the cross. In his commentary on this passage, Douglas Hare says, “It is not enough to confess Jesus as Messiah and Lord. He must be acknowledged as suffering and crucified Lord, and this acknowledgement must not be one of theory but of practice. To confess Jesus truly means to walk the way of the cross in one’s daily life.” Jesus is calling for our whole selves, for our willingness to dive in, our willingness to cling to the cross even when life is difficult, even when we are tempted by those, who like Peter, want us to find an easier way. Jesus is calling us to follow him, and he is headed to the cross.

We are called to resist the ways of the world that tell us to live for wealth, comfort, ease and popularity. To resist the quick fixes and escapes that get us through a moment but leave us empty a moment later. To resist self-protection and instead embrace an eternal love. To a life of faith. A life lived knowing that we are loved and because we are loved we can love ourselves and others. A life lived on thy will be done, knowing that hard times will come, but as we journey together with Christ we are not alone.

 

When we enter this Christian life we do so through the waters of baptism. Many of us were baptized as babies but over and over again in life we are given new opportunities to live into those waters, to embrace our faith or resist it, to remember our baptism or to attempt to wipe it away. Sometimes the waters of baptism, the way of faith, a commitment to Christ is like cool water on a thirsty tongue and we run toward it, sometimes it’s more like a cold swimming pool that we approach with hesitation- some dive in, some dip a toe in, some wade in gradually and some watch from the side- but the thing about swimming is, once you are in, suddenly it’s the outside air that feels harsher. Your body quickly acclimates to the water and soon you dread the smack of cold air that comes when you get out. That’s the thing about life, the truly good stuff, the lasting memories, the deep relationships, the life-changing healing, always seems to come on the other side of those tough transitions, the ones we dread, the ones we put off, the ones we fear. When Jesus told the crowd that in order to follow him they have to take up their cross, it must have seemed utterly impossible, like the most terrifying thing you could think of. But once we embrace the love of God and the path of Christ, it can be difficult to imagine life without it.

And so we embark on this journey together, as those marked with the waters of baptism. We do our best to love others as Christ does, to devote our hearts to God and live in peace, and we are human, so sometimes, like Peter, we go off course, we cling to what we know, we grasp tightly to what seems easier, but still Christ calls us, over and over again- to a love that is eternal and never goes away- like the cool embrace of water on a hot summer day, wrapping around us and embracing us as we journey ahead.

Sermon from Lutheran Church of the Holy Spirit 8/18/24

 

John 6:51-58

          Today is a typical Sunday for me in that I typically do find myself in churches I have never been in before, meeting people I have never met before, in a denomination that I am not ordained in and bringing my kids to a place where they have never been before … and they have to ask where the bathroom is and hope that the coffee hour offerings include sweets and that maybe there will be other kids. But, this Sunday is not typical in other ways. Typically, these days I am arriving with either a miter or crozier in my hands as I help carry my husband’s things into the church. Since February, when my husband was consecrated as the Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Albany, me and my kids are typically traveling with him on Sundays to one of the 106 churches in the diocese and getting to know folks from the Catskills to the Adirondacks to the Hudson Valley.

          On a typical Sunday our GPS takes us to a beautiful building that’s been standing for over a century, we walk into a thoughtfully designed worship space with absolutely stunning stained glass windows, a sizable pipe organ that fills the space with music and often a historic cemetery next door. We are met with big smiles, warm welcomes, and many times a big cake afterwards with a thick layer of icing. My husband and I post pictures on social media of the unique experiences we find at each location, the beautiful architecture and smiling faces. But … typically … there is another story too … the one we hear after the cake is consumed, the folding chairs are stacked and the bulletins put in the recycling bin. It’s the story of their very real struggles as small churches. A story that transcends denominational lines- one of clergy shortages, inability to pay medical benefits and a full time salary, leaking roofs and diminishing endowments, and a deep desire to welcome more people, but a frustration in not knowing how to do that in a way that is authentic.

          Both stories – the one of the beautiful historic building with loving people and the one of decline and struggle are the very real truth of these communities of Christians. It is a reality even though it might not always be what people see. When many people think of “church” these days they may think of hypocritical, judgmental people proselytizing and condemning others. Or they may think of big fancy churches spending large sums of money on clergy who only work on Sundays and spend most of their time looking down on others. But of course, we who are here, we know that is not reality.

          But most people don’t really know what’s real. They don’t know the real stories in people’s hearts, the struggles and pain. They don’t know the motivations and true intentions of others. We live in a world where it is increasingly harder to know what is real. Is the photo, video, essay, social media profile, email or phone call from a real person or Artificial Intelligence? We learn that if something is too good to be true it probably isn’t real. We put our guards up and wade through a world of biased news, edited looks, spam mail, fake calls and highly processed food. And as we get closer and closer to a presidential election, folks have a lot at stake and a lot of money invested in making sure you accept their version of reality. It’s about rhetoric and algorithms that only serve to confirm what we already are thinking. And so … what is real?

         In the Gospel reading today, people bring this question to Jesus. What he is saying is outlandish. He is standing among Jewish leaders celebrating Passover and saying that he is more perfect than the manna God sent from heaven to feed their ancestors in the wilderness. And he won’t stop saying these really inappropriate and uncomfortable things about eating his flesh and drinking his blood. Surely, this is not real. So they question Jesus about this. Maybe when questioned he will realize how wild he sounds or realize other people are listening and make his message more appropriate and less offensive. But no … he doubles down. He digs his heals in to this cannibalistic message of eating skin and drinking blood and he just won’t seem to stop even though it’s clearly making people uncomfortable.

          Even as we read this thousands of years later, the idea of publicly talking about blood and broken flesh is still uncomfortable and not generally socially acceptable. He would do much better if he would use flowery language or clever jokes or pictures with silly cat faces … something more comfortable, easier to digest. But no … it’s all flesh and blood.

          In fact, Biblical scholar Francis Moloney points out that as Jesus is questioned about these offensive claims, he actually changes the words he is using to become even more graphic. Moloney states, “the shift from the more respectable verb “to eat” to another verb that indicates the physical crunching with the teeth accentuates that Jesus refers to a real experience of eating.” [1]So before this passage, in the Greek language, Jesus is using a more general verb meaning “to eat” but in this passage he shifts to use a different verb that is more graphic and actually means crunching one’s teeth into. Jesus is not messing around, he is not backing down, he is being direct and real- even if that realness is too much for people. And soon after this we see that it is, some people stop following him.

         What Jesus is offering is not fake, it is not always comfortable, it is not polite and it does not fit with what people expect. He is calling people to consume him, to ingest him, to let his presence sink into their cells and change the fabric of their being. It is a deep kind of closeness he is talking about. And it may sound shocking or weird or uncomfortable but also amazing. An invitation into a deep and real and incarnate relationship with God, one that comes from a love that has no end and will see us through this life and the next. We are invited to something real, in a world of distance and fakeness and artificial- we are called to let our guard down, put down the walls and let the blood and flesh of Jesus enter our bodies and sustain us in a way that is real.

          I work as a part time hospital chaplain and in that role I have the privilege of entering into a very vulnerable and personal space with others. When I enter the patients’ rooms they do not have all the masks they may typically wear: clothes, make up, friends, distractions, strong fronts, busy schedules or any of the other things we use to fit into the world. They are themselves and what I find again and again, is a craving for real connection. People want to be seen, heard and feel connected to another person. They want to show their true selves. And in my role as a chaplain, I don’t have to convince them of anything, get any information from them or impress them, I get to just create space and remind them that God is with them.

         Those real interactions are actually my favorite part of the church visits I do with my husband. Behind the stone church walls and fading carpets, behind the unbalanced budgets and fears for the future, are real stories, real people. And they care deeply about each other and the saints who have prayed in their pews before them. They love their church because it’s where they feel real relationship, where Christ shows up in the person next to them, in the quiet space and in the body and blood offered every Sunday.

 
          What we do every Sunday is pretty wild. We talk about flesh and blood, we talk about eating flesh and blood. We gather together as real people and open our hearts to a love that is eternal and sees us for who we are. We believe that this is real. This talk of body and blood, this call to union with the creator of the universe, this invitation to consume Christ into our flesh and blood bodies. In a world that feels increasingly artificial we have this offer of something real and deep and motivated fully by love. An invitation, a wild, outlandish, inappropriate, offensive invitation to ingest something real and lasting and enter into a closeness that lasts an eternity.

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[1] Harrington, Daniel L, ed. Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of John. The Liturgical Press. 1998, pp 222

"Falling" Sermon from Delmar First UMC 6/30/24

 

Mark 5:21-43

          Today’s passage from Mark is one of my favorites and I have preached on it many times as it has come up in the lectionary cycle. In fact, this was the first scripture I preached on in my very first appointment, many years ago as the associate pastor of a United Methodist Church in Ohio. Back then I was in my mid-twenties, newly married, just graduated from seminary and did not yet have any kids. I was excited to finally be a pastor, something I had prepared a long time for and I was determined to get it right.  The sermon was well-researched and well-rehearsed. It contained appropriate study and time and I had prepared for every part of the liturgy. Being prepared in a brand new vocation was important to me. I remember in those days calling my mentor before my first funeral to make sure I knew how to get every detail of the service right, including where to stand at all times.

          I still try to get everything right, which I think is a natural thing when you care a lot about what you are doing. I want to be a great mom because I love my kids so much. So I sometimes get caught up in trying to make sure every little thing is right- like picking out the perfect sunscreen that balances good protection without whatever chemicals are currently considered harmful. I want to be a great wife, pastor, friend and human so I try to think through decisions and be responsible in what I do, considering things like how others feel, environmental impact of decisions, and more.

         So, as a person who likes to take a careful and thorough approach, I have always begun my sermon preparation on this text by analyzing the text itself and researching what experts have said about it. This passage, like so many others in the Gospel of Mark is part of a sandwich. Meaning, it begins with one story, then in the middle cuts to another and then goes back to the first one. So, you get two stories sandwiched together.  In this case, it begins with the story of the leader of the synagogue’s daughter and then right in the middle of that cuts to a story of a bleeding woman touching the cloak of Jesus and then goes back to the story of the synagogue leader’s daughter.

          This sandwiching of two stories typically gives us a lot of clues as to why these stories are included in the Gospel, hints at what to take notice of. For example, in this passage we see the number 12. The dead little girl is 12 years old and the woman has been bleeding for 12 years. There is also a juxtaposition of power. An important and named leader compared to an unnamed woman getting scolded for touching Jesus.  All of these clues help us see things like the spectrum of faith and Christ’s mercy.

          But this time, as I began to look at this passage, I saw something I had never noticed before – falling. Jairus, the synagogue leader comes to Jesus and falls down at is feet and then the bleeding woman, after she is healed, comes before Jesus in fear and trembling and falls down at his feet. In both cases what follows the fall is a plea for help, a desperate cry and complete and utter vulnerable honesty.  No longer upright, no longer holding it together, they fall and out comes their pain, their fear, their begging, their humanity before Jesus. And Jesus sees them.

           Confession: sometimes I find myself watching those video shorts- tik toks or reels of people falling at very inconvenient times, like in the middle of a wedding – straight into a swimming pool - and sometimes it is hilarious and sometimes it’s painful to watch. No one wants to fall. It’s what happens when something else takes over our plan to get it all right, whether that’s an ice patch disrupting our walk down the driveway, a long wedding dress ruining a picture perfect walk down the aisle, or pain dropping us to our knees, or suffering pouring the strength right out of us. We even use that term for love, we say someone is “falling in love” meaning something else is taking hold of them, and their heart is knocking them off where they thought they might be going.

          And here in this passage from Mark we have a powerful religious leader falling to his knees. His composure is taken over by his love for his daughter, he falls and begs. He begs Jesus to heal his dying daughter. I can imagine that he had tried many things before this, that he tried to make it right, do what he could, but nothing worked and so now he was on his knees begging.

          And then the bleeding woman meets Jesus. The text tells us that she had tried many physicians and spent all of her money to find healing but it only worsened. She tried everything she could but it didn’t work so she took a chance on a traveling prophet and when he faced her she fell down.  Both she and Jairus tried their best but the answer they sought came when they gave up, leaned only on faith, fell down and threw themselves before Jesus.

          As someone who tries my best at everything I do, I understand their frustration, their desperation … their emotion. Sometimes no matter what we do, things don’t turn out the way we had hoped, the pain does not disappear and the way ahead is still hard.

          I recently started working as a part time hospital chaplain at Samaritan Hospital. I visit anyone who says they are open to seeing a chaplain. So I see people from all religious traditions and in all health circumstances. As I started serving in this role, I thought back to the days when I did Clinical Pastoral Education, which is a training program for hospital chaplains. I did that training about 20 years ago. I remember that when I did the training I was very concerned with doing everything right- I didn’t want to do or say the wrong thing and I wanted to get it right because these were people in very trying times and I wanted to be helpful. I remember sometimes feeling nervous or uncomfortable.

 I was thinking about that because it’s so different from how I feel now when I visit patients. I do not feel nervous or uncomfortable at all, and honestly that kind of surprised me. I enjoy the work and find it very meaningful, and I also find it to come much more naturally now than it did when I was younger. I think that’s because I have learned over the years that we don’t have to get it right in order for God to show up. I have seen time and time again, the Holy Spirit’s presence when everything goes wrong and learned to trust that God is always there, whether we say the right things or not.

          And so what I do is create space for people. I sit with them, listen to them, take a genuine interest in them and care about who they are and what they say. And what I see time and time again is that when people are given that space, when they stop feeling like they need to do or say everything right or put up a front, or pretend everything is ok, they allow themselves to be vulnerable, for their true feelings to emerge and even when they are lying in a hospital bed … in their own way they fall before God, revealing their humanity, crying out in hope and seeking connection with another. And somehow, someway, that always brings some type of healing or feeling better. I am not saying that somehow finding true faith brings some kind of magical healing to all physical ailments, but rather something about the act of just letting go, falling before God and letting the emotions out- brings a type of healing, where the Holy Spirit shows up and hope sustains. When we know that it’s ok if we didn’t get it all right, it doesn’t matter if we made mistakes- who we are at our core is seen by a loving Creator and that brings a healing that is deep and powerful.

          This was not the last time that Jairus or the woman would suffer. Life would bring pain again as they were human as we all are, but because of Jesus, they knew that they were loved, that God is the source of healing and that there is hope. They knew that God sent God’s own son Jesus into the world because God loves us so deeply, and that knowledge literally knocked them to the ground.

          Planning is good, preparation is good, but leaving our hearts open to the unexpected presence of the Holy Spirit is essential to our faith. Letting ourselves exhale and shed the weight of all we carry on our shoulders, the worry, the uncertainty, the helplessness and falling on our knees is where we may finally find the healing we seek. Amen.

         

9 Years

9 years. That’s how long it’s been since Laura died. It’s also the term for a Presiding Bishop in the Episcopal Church. I spent this week in Louisville, Kentucky at the General Convention of the Episcopal Church and was able to be present for the historic moment when the House of Deputies affirmed the House of Bishop’s election of a new Presiding Bishop. I also had the privilege of attending the retirement celebration dinner for Presiding Bishop Michael Curry. Nine years ago he was elected. Nine years ago my husband, Jeremiah, was at the General Convention that elected him in Utah. Nine years ago I was on the phone with him as he took breaks from the convention work and as I took breaks from the crowded Hospice room where Laura was fighting for every breath and we both tried to hold it together because we both loved her. Our Bishop at the time, Mark Hollingsworth had the House of Bishops pray for Laura. I have always appreciated that, even more so now that the House of Bishops is community for me in a new way. Sometimes life falls into cycles. Every time Bishop Curry speaks I find myself filled with emotion. One reason is because he is a powerful, passionate speaker who has done amazing things for the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Communion and he will be greatly missed. The other reason is because I realize nine years is a long time.  It’s been a long time since Laura was alive.

               The night after the new Presiding Bishop was elected I had a dream about Laura. She was coming towards me and she looked very young and as she approached I kept having realizations that it wasn’t her, it was just someone who looked a lot like her and every time I realized that I felt a wave of sadness through my body. I think I had that dream because as I have thought about what to say this year, I have realized that there is a danger in filling in the pieces of memory with assumptions and maybe even things I have thought Laura might think or say or do … because our brains can only hold so much and as much as we try to avoid it, the memory we have of someone is incomplete. I don’t want to try to make it complete by guessing what she might think or say or do about things that she never got to think or say or do.  And yet, I still want to hold onto and honor the memory I do have of her and the memories all of her many loved ones and friends have of her. And so, I keep writing every year on this day, knowing that it will fall short of capturing who she was … but that’s only human.

               Laura brought out an authenticity in myself and others. She did that by always being so authentically herself. She said the things that needed to be said, even if it was uncomfortable. She was her same sarcastic, deeply caring, witty self with everyone, and I think that’s why everyone’s relationship with her was so meaningful and the loss felt so deeply.

               I have been thinking a lot about authenticity. I thought that being in my forties would be a time of nicely settling into the life I have built, the relationships I value and the person I want to be for the rest of my days. Instead it has felt like upheaval. And not just because of a cross country move, completely new role in the church and a sometimes fumbled and awkward approach to introducing myself to loads of new people. It’s also been a wild ride of hormones, getting to know my body, anxiety and deeply felt emotions that sometimes scare me. (I hesitated before saying hormones, but if I am going to honor Laura, then I have to be able to be brutally honest. She faced death, cancer and unplucked chin hairs with brutal honesty and courage, so surely I can talk about midlife changes.) So rather than a gentle settling in to the life patterns I have established and predicted paths I have held, it feels more like jumping from a plane (and I’m really hoping the parachute works.) And I have sometimes wondered how to be authentic when I am not really sure who I am right now.

               This is where I start to do that thing where I want to fill in the blanks of what Laura might think or do or say and say that she would understand or would tease me for always worrying, but she didn’t get to see her forties, and that injustice still makes me sad and angry. What I do know though is how courageously she faced the upheaval that came into her life. Her kids stayed front and center in her mind, even when her head was pounding and her heart was breaking. She wouldn’t let go until I told her they were ok. Her authenticity meant she was able to ride the changes and tragedies of life with eyes wide open, unwavering faith and a devotion to her family that surely has made them the wonderful people they are today. And, she definitely put her foot in her mouth and said awkward things sometimes.

               So that’s what we do  … we face each day with courage, we hold firm to our faith in a God who is loving and never leaves us, we continue to love our families fiercely and sometimes we are awkward and sometimes we mess up. Because life is brutiful but we love love love always always always.

 

Grateful for her blog, that helps me remember her: https://publiclookin.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2015-02-03T11:57:00-08:00&max-results=7

Photo taken from her blog

Exasperatingly Ignorant Message from 4/30 Healing Service at Christ the King

4/30/24 John 14:6-14

          I was trying to discern which scripture to talk about today and after going back and forth on several ideas and not being able to decide and stepping away from it and thinking some more and still not making a decision, I thought I’d look to the liturgical calendar and see if there is a feast day today. There isn’t, so I looked ahead one day and saw the feast day of St Philip and St. James on the calendar for tomorrow. I decided to look at the scriptures for their feast day. The Gospel starts with this well-known and beautiful declaration by Jesus of who he is “I am the way, and the truth and the life …” It’s a verse many know by heart and is frequently found on inspirational devotions or artwork. But after that is when we get Philip.

          First, some context- this passage is part of what’s called “The Farewell Discourse” when Jesus is helping the disciples prepare for his death and really bringing home everything he has been teaching them about who he is. So Jesus washes the disciples’ feet, he foretells his betrayal and also he foretells Peter’s denial of him. And then he starts giving them this beautiful talk on who he is and his relationship with the Father. At the beginning of the chapter read today is a passage that I have frequently preached at funerals “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places …” I love this passage and for so many years it has brought comfort, hope and faith to those who have read it, whether in times of pain, at the graveside of a loved one or in times of despair.

          But, right after Jesus says this, Thomas is like “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” to which Jesus responds with more beautiful explanation but then after that, Philip still is like “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.” Which sounds to me sort of like “ok, but can we have something more to hold on to, can you just show us the Father because these beautiful words you are sharing and all the many acts we have witnessed are not enough and we aren’t satisfied.” In his commentary on this passage, Francis Moloney says, “To know Jesus is to know the Father, and Philip is exasperatingly ignorant in asking Jesus to show the Father.”[1] “Exasperatingly ignorant” … not a flattering description and yet …. This is the scripture we read for Philip’s feast day, “exasperatingly ignorant” is how the church has remembered him for thousands of years.

          It makes me think of this stupid screwdriver we have at home. We have had it for probably our entire 18 year marriage and I still can’t figure it out. And it’s one of those ones with all the different heads so it’s always the one most easily accessible in the house. It’s got the two rows on the bottom where the various heads are and you have to turn to the one you want and then click it back into place so that the screwdriver doesn’t keep shifting when you are trying to use it. Every time I use it, I fiddle with it and turn it and click it and it doesn’t work and then I asked Jeremiah to show me how to use it, to which he responds with an exasperated “I thought I just showed you.” And then eventually I just say forget it and use one hand to hold the stupid thing in place and the other hand to turn it and make whatever I am working on a million times harder. I don’t know why, but it just isn’t clicking with my brain and I feel “exasperatingly ignorant” whenever I use it … like Philip … so I guess one might say … I feel saintly in my inability to understand.

          But I wonder … does anyone really understand? Like, really get it? I’m talking about both the stupid screwdriver and all the mysteries of life, death and resurrection. I actually really admire Philip in this passage. These disciples didn’t know the Gospel story, they didn’t have commentaries and sermons and thousands of years of hindsight to try to make sense of it all. It was probably pretty mind-blowing. Jesus is like “me and the Father are one” and Philip is like “that’s awesome, so like, show us the Father.” But the thing is, in this context and given their relationships, I don’t get the impression Philip is trying to be a jerk, but rather, he is genuinely seeking more. He is digging deeper, trying to understand, and being brave enough to speak up when he doesn’t, knowing that Jesus will help him get there.

          “Not getting it” has been at the center of my faith journey. I am a questioner. I want to understand and make sense of things and that has lead me to a deeper and deeper walk with God over the years. When I was 13 and taking confirmation classes, my pastor invited the students to ask any questions they had relating to faith/God/church. I had many. The primary one was “why do bad things happen to good people?” He listened to all of our questions and wrote them on the chalk board. He heard them, honored them and wrote them down for us to contemplate, but he didn’t get nervous or uncomfortable or try to explain them away or give us knee jerk answers. We just sat with them. And that was foundational to my faith. It was ok that I had questions and I now had the footing to ask them and engage in a dynamic, meaningful journey with God. It was shortly after that confirmation class that I felt a calling to be a pastor. So my faith story, my call story, my life story is centered around not knowing … “exasperating ignorance” you might say.

          All these years later and I am still finding fresh ways to not know what the heck is going on. We recently moved here for my husband to be the Bishop of the Diocese and I think I underestimated how hard moving is … with young kids. It really hit me how painful it would be to watch their pain at the Christmas Eve service at our last church, the Christmas Eve service was our last service there as the moving truck arrived on December 27th. That church was the center of our world. I was on staff as the youth pastor and pastor of visitation. I also led several groups and preached and all kinds of stuff. The kids were in the youth choir, Sunday School, youth group, vacation Bible School, ushers, acolytes and all kinds of stuff. But most importantly and the part that made it so gut wrenching to leave- we were loved deeply there and we loved deeply there. They were our people, our fellow travelers on the journey of faith through hard times and good times. About halfway through the service I looked up and saw the boys getting emotional up in the choir loft with their chorister robes on. The dam was burst and my tears were flowing, I could hear the sniffles all around me and then the head usher, a stately, big, military guy who had just lost his wife suddenly and had taught Isaiah how to usher and encouraged him, he motioned for Isaiah to come over to him and right there in the service they were hugging and both crying. It was brutal and also really beautiful. The boys’ friend walked us to our car … so many tears. I realized that I was going to need to help them navigate this move, not just the packing and the unpacking, but all of the emotional weight. And I wasn’t sure if I knew how to do that.

          And here we are, and while I have learned a lot in these past few months and we have all grown in ways we didn’t expect. There is still so much I don’t know. Ever since I left the church that I was solo pastor of about 10 years ago, I have mostly done ministry with Jeremiah and was on staff at his church. That has worked really well for the family and helped us find routine, balance and time together. But now he is a Bishop and I have a lot to figure out. People have asked me many, many times what I will be doing and if I will start pastoring a church. I appreciate that they ask because it shows their acknowledgement of my call and identity but the only answer I can come up with is “I don’t know.” I know, it’s exasperatingly ignorant. I joked that when people ask what I am working on I will start saying “anxiety and depression.”

          In my quest to strengthen my faith through all this and help me discern, I took up a Lenten practice that I had done several times before and I started a daily prayer journal for Lent. I picked up an old journal that I had used for several Lents years ago and as I opened it each day to write I started flipping through the pages at the front. I began reading entries from 2, 6 and 8 years ago. It reminded me of something that has been central to my faith that somehow in all of the chaos of moving and losing old patterns and being constantly plagued by indecision and not knowing which way to go- I had stopped doing. In those old pages I wrote about where I saw God in each day. It was sometimes really profound things like sitting next to the bed as someone breathed their last and sometimes really simple things like extra snuggles on the bed with my babies or a stunningly beautiful flower in my path.

          So, I started being really intentional about doing that again. It helped me focus on the present moment rather than the weight of a million decisions or a future completely unknown. And I started finding my footing again. It reminded me of how those of us who are exasperatingly ignorant get through life- one step at a time, and of where we, who like Philip are searching for the Father can find the presence of God, right here in our midst. Even if we can’t explain all of the mysteries of the universe.

          When we got into the car and started driving across the country, I found myself starting to think about all of the people I have said goodbye to over the years. People from all of the churches I have served over the years, friends from all the places we have lived and loved ones that have died. And I remembered this woman named Mary. She was an elderly member of the church I pastored but by the time I came to that church she had a number of health ailments that prevented her from leaving the house much and so I visited her at her home. She had been through immense trauma, tragic deaths of loved ones and so much pain both emotionally and physically and yet she was SO full of love. Every time I left she asked me for a hug and she gave the absolute best hugs, those really strong ones that don’t overpower you but also make you feel fully embraced. Eventually she was in the hospital. It was time for the dialysis to end. Her health was fading quickly. The family was told she would soon die and they called me to come. I went to her hospital room and talked with her. She was fully alert and fully smiling and her usual warm self. Her family started to fill the room. I told her I would leave her to be with her family and she asked me if I would stay. I of course said yes and sat in a chair by the bed. I will never forget what that room felt like as one by one she gave a whole hearted hug to her many loved ones. Everyone was crying and everyone was smiling. She would look at me between hugs and smile. She died within hours. That was the end of her life- big, full-bodied hugs filled with the warmth of her never ending well of love. She gave me a gift by asking me to stay, one that I will forever be grateful for.

          I don’t think Mary had all of life figured out, if she did, she never told me. But she sure did love Jesus. Through the darkness and the light, she loved Jesus and she stayed on that journey with God even when it was hard. It was love that sustained her and love that she gave to sustain others. And if that’s what it looks like to not have all the answers, I will take it.

          Jesus invites us to stay on the journey. He doesn’t give us a quiz to see how many Bible passages we memorized or if we can adequately explain the bodily resurrection. He keeps walking with us and showing up all around us even when we aren’t taking the time to notice. For me, this is how healing comes, by sticking with faith, by knowing that God isn’t leaving me, and that the love of God will never end.  Even when we are exasperatingly ignorant.

 

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[1] Moloney, Francis S.D.B. Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of John. The Liturgical Press. 1998. Pp. 396

Sermon from St. Paul's Albany, April 21 "Not Calm"

Psalm 23

          When I first saw that the 23^rd Psalm was in the lectionary for today, I thought “I don’t want to preach on that.” It’s not that I don’t respect and love this Psalm, it’s just that it’s such a calm and peaceful Psalm and calm and peaceful are not the words I would use to describe how I was feeling at the time. In his commentary on this Psalm, Walter Brueggemann says, “ … the speaker of the Psalm is confident and serene in the face of every threat.” Which is beautiful and lovely but not even close to an accurate description of how I have been feeling these past few months.

           It made me think back to a day, soon after we moved. It was pouring down rain and I had to go to the post office because I realized we still had one of the garage door openers from our old house in our car. So I needed to mail it to the new owner with an apology. I got to the post office and it was open but no one was there. I waited for quite a while and other people came, waited a bit and then left in frustration. Finally, the guy working there came. He was very kind and explained that he was working solo and had to attend to something. Another worker arrived and started asking him about the problem they were having there and turned to me and said “look at him, he stays so calm, he never worries about anything … it’s because he has Jesus.” To which the guy nodded and smiled. I paid, went back out into the rain, pulled up Google maps because I had no idea how to get anywhere, and thought “I have Jesus, why can’t I be like that?”

         Life felt very destabilized. We had just moved across the country, we left all of our friends, our church, our home, our community and I was in the thick of the transition- getting license plates changed, encouraging my sad kids when they got off the school bus with stories of getting lost or not making friends or missing Colorado and all the fun of finding new doctors, dentists and more. And I was not handling it with complete confidence and serenity as the Psalmist appears to.

           In fact, I feel like most people are not gently sitting by the still waters in complete serenity and are experiencing some type of destabilization. I have friends who are preparing to watch their children graduate and move away to college, friends in the midst of career changes, loss, health struggles and all kinds of unpredicted change.

          Even the church, which ideally is a place of stability, is in destabilizing times. Some suggest that in Psalm 23, when it says “you prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies” that this is the worshipping community, for us Christians this is the Eucharistic feast, a beautiful banquet of abundance and love poured out by God. But what about when that beautiful banquet feels unsteady? As I have traveled around the diocese visiting churches with my husband, the Bishop, I have found wonderful, welcoming communities of faithful Christians who are engaging in passionate worship but also have concerns. Churches are declining, finances are unsteady, there is a shortage of clergy and covid took a tool on church attendance and religious programming that we have not yet recovered from. All in the midst of a changing world where many no longer rely on the institutions that have held us together for so long.

          Our lives, the church, the world is not stable, it is not ideal, it is not calm and serene. And so it makes sense that many of us feel dizzied by the changes of life and not perfectly at peace as we walk through the pastures.

           And actually, Psalm 23 is honest about that. The setting for this idyllic scene is the real world. The Psalmist is living in the real world and describes it throughout the Psalm- souls that need restoration and reviving, dark valleys, fear, evil and enemies. This is not a Psalm written by someone who has not known trouble, someone who has never experienced the darkness of the world, someone living in a fairytale with their eyes closed to the pain of living. This is a Psalm written by someone who knows, life can get hard. There are valleys, there is evil, there are enemies, there is fear and we are souls in need of restoration. And in this way, I can relate to this Psalm.

           I can also relate to being a sheep. The image of Christ as shepherd speaks to me. Like a sheep, I can be easily confused. Like a sheep, I can be thrown off my intended path. I get lost, I wander and sometimes lose sight of the way back. Lost sheep can end up alone, hungry, thirsty and afraid … hoping to hear the voice of the shepherd, calling them to restoration, to sustenance, to nourishment. I too hope to hear that voice.

           I also appreciate the way the Psalm moves from impersonal to personal. At the beginning of the Psalm, God is referred to as “Lord” and “he” but then in the middle God is referred to as “you” several times before the Psalm ends with “I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.” What starts as a formal declaration or communal praise quickly turns to something deeply personal and intimate. The turn from “God” and “worshipper” to “you” and “I” is very moving and real. Because in those moments of life when we are very aware of the darkness and the dangers and the unknowns, our formality shifts to something that comes from deep in our hearts. The formal address is set aside when one is crying out from the depths of their heart. And when the Psalmist experiences the presence of God, they are touched not by a distant God watching over from on high but rather a God who is near, near enough to anoint, lay out a picnic and walk next to them. There in the pasture in the shadow of death, dining in peace, it’s a you and I intimacy, a deep level of knowing God as near, as near as our own beating heart.

           It is a beautiful Psalm and one that is cherished by many, but I still wasn’t sure if this was the scripture that I was being called to preach today. I just wasn’t sure if my worrying, fretful mind was in the right place for this Psalm. I was thinking about this on one of those beautiful sunny days we had at the beginning of the week and just feeling overwhelmed with all kinds of worries and unknowns and so I decided to take the dog for a long walk. I had recently discovered that I could easily get to Albany Rural Cemetery from our house and so I started walking that way. When I got to the cemetery it was empty and quiet, only the birds were making noise. Having recently lived in Southern Colorado, I am still in awe of the beautiful colors here, the kids and I talk about how the bright green grass and blooming trees look like they have been colored with a marker. We also marvel at the abundance of rivers, creeks and ponds. And so as I walked along I was just in awe over the way the grass sparkled under the sun and how the creek gently bounced through the trees and the way the big pond softly held the geese. I looked at the graves as I walked, some were new and many were old, some of the years revealed young lives and many were elderly. And then it occurred to me … I was literally walking through the valley of the shadow of death. I was surrounded by the dead, faced with the harsh reality that all is fleeting and that there is so much unknown in the world. And yet, I felt the presence of Christ so near and in such a tangible way through the beauty of new life all around me. The woods that had laid bare and dead for the winter were now springing forth new life, the crunchy brown leaves being replaced with green and the life-giving stream was quenching the thirst of new buds and chirping birds. Right there in the midst of death, in the midst of a strange and destabilizing world … God is near.

          We are Easter people, and that doesn’t mean that we will always be calm and serene, it doesn’t mean we will always laugh in the face of fear or shrug off the concerns of the world. It means that we know the realities of this life. We know death, we know darkness, we know fear and yet we still proclaim new life. We still come to God’s feast in the midst of enemies, we still follow the voice of Christ our shepherd because resurrection and new life are also very real. And in the darkest valleys we know goodness and mercy still exist and our souls can be restored.

          The first thing that I think of when I hear Psalm 23 is how people love to memorize it. Something about it makes people want to hold onto it and keep it in their brain. Time and time again I have seen people who were struggling or in the hospital or near death say these words. Sometimes they couldn’t remember where they were or the names of their loved ones but still they could say these words. Something about this Psalm comes to life when we need it, and so people say it on their death beds and we say it at funerals. Maybe it’s because when we get to the end of our lives, we look back and we see that all that time when we thought the darkness was creeping in, that our enemies were at our heels and that pain was pursuing us, when we look back we can see so clearly that surely it was goodness and mercy that were at our heels, pursuing us … God was there in the valleys … God was the one pursuing us. And, like that calm and serene Psalmist, we can breathe deeply knowing that … no matter what … “I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Branches

Sermon from Jeremiah’s Consecration 2/24/24 Acts 1:15-26, John 15:1, 6-16

         We have gathered together today to celebrate a big event, a momentous occasion that involves the Holy Spirit, prayer and the naming of a new leader … of course I am referring to the naming of Matthias as the 12^th apostle. Today is the feast day of St. Matthias. And in case you have any doubts about the importance of the Matthias event, notice it’s placement in the book of Acts. It is sandwiched right in between the Ascension of Christ and the day of Pentecost, two occasions that are without a doubt monumental in the life of the Christian movement. The fact that Matthias is named as the newest apostle in the midst of these profound experiences of heaven and earth meeting perhaps reminds us that the business part of the Christian movement can, in fact, be just as Holy Spirit-driven and needed as the dramatic experiences. A reminder that the Ascension and Pentecost were not just for those who were there to experience it first hand, but the beginning of a movement meant to light the world on fire, meant to spread far beyond one geographic location. And for that, they needed leaders.

 

          Matthias has a unique call story. Most people know the stories of the disciples being called by Jesus on the shore as they abandoned their boats and began literally following him. But this story of nominees and casting lots is a bit less romantic and a bit more practical. What I appreciate about it is that Matthias knew what he was in for. The disciples who were personally called by Jesus really had no idea what was going to happen. They didn’t yet know about the suffering, loss, danger and sacrifice that would face them. They didn’t know that the man they followed would die on a cross. They didn’t know there would be an empty tomb. But when Matthias joins them, he knows. His eyes are wide open. He was there as a witness to the suffering, death, resurrection and ascension. He knows it’s complicated. He begins his time as an apostle not as a curious fisherman but as someone who is fully aware of the whole story- he even knows the tragic story of the guy he is replacing. What we don’t know is if he actually wanted to do it- the text doesn’t tell us if he was excitedly raising his hand in the air or hiding in a corner hoping they forgot his name. But either way, he is in and he knows there is a lot of work ahead.

 

          And of course, we are gathered today to celebrate another new leader in the Church, one who also has a lot of work ahead … a guy I know sort of well … Jeremiah. The process of getting to this day was not a short one. As far as job interviews go … it is quite long … and thorough … and involved. During that process there are many people who offer their perspectives, concerns, fears and hopes. The reality of declining numbers and struggles is laid bare and there is a lot of time to contemplate the weight of the role. So in a way, Jeremiah comes into this with eyes wide open, like St. Matthias, he knows it is complicated, weighty, emotionally laden and difficult. But, like St. Matthias, he also faces a future full of unknowns. Could Matthias have predicted that flames would soon come down from the sky and people would start speaking different languages, that Christianity would take off like a rushing wind to all corners of the world and through generations to come? This Holy Spirit stuff is anything but predictable.

 

 

          And while we may think we know what a Bishop does, there is a lot of room for unknowns. As we gather in this place surrounded by buried bishops and stately portraits, we are reminded that each one had a unique story, callings lived out in different ways. Jeremiah and I have experienced a variety of bishops- everything from the grandfatherly warmth to us as seminarians from Bishop Croneberger, the deep voice and precise liturgy of Bishop Arthur Williams, the intelligent wit of Bishop Pursell, the vulnerable sharing by Bishop O’Neill of his heartbreaks and celebrations, the wise advice of Bishop Lucas and watching our kids slop around in mud chasing pigs and gathering eggs with Bishop Hollingsworth. There are many ways to follow the path.

 

          But for all of the unknown journeys, all of the varied callings, for St. Matthias, Bishop elect Jeremiah, all the bishops, all the priests, all the laity, all of us … me and you … the set of instructions remains the same … be a branch. The reading from the Gospel of John so beautifully paints this picture. Jesus is the vine and we are the branches, held together by love, abiding in Christ’s love and stretching out as a branch from the vine to put that love into the world.

 

          We learn to be branches through the love of others, those who teach us the stories of the Bible, who model self-giving and demonstrate the love of Christ. For Jeremiah it was through his grandparents who read him Bible stories even as a baby growing up in the hills of rural Ohio, through his parents demonstrating the transformational power of a life lived for Christ, through the professors at Greenville College who encouraged him to dive deeper in his faith and introduced him to the Book of Common Prayer, through the professors at Drew and General and mentoring clergy like Elizabeth Kaeton and Lauren Ackland who challenged him to stretch himself in faith, modeled thoughtful and responsible ministry and inspired him to make sure that the branches are always stretching further to include the lost and the least. Through the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Youngstown, St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in Toledo and Grace and St Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Colorado Springs who opened their hearts to him, trusted him and boldly followed Christ with him. And through our two children who stretched our hearts and our capacity for love beyond what we ever imagined. All of these have made him into the branch that he is today.

 

          The past six months have given me the opportunity to get to know the people of this diocese. When Jeremiah first said he had been nominated for this ministry I knew little about the Diocese of Albany. Before we came for the ABC tour, for the meet-and-greets, we did a lot of reading, looked up church websites and researched, but nothing prepared me for what I found when I got here … branches. From the moment we arrived we felt and witnessed the presence of the Holy Spirit. We have seen branch after branch- people talking about their faith, engaging in ministry, holding one another and us in prayer and opening their hearts in love. Of course we have heard about the heart aches, the fears, the worries and the pain, but overwhelmingly we have felt love here; we have felt connected through the vine, by the love of Jesus Christ.

 

          In all of the emotions and ups and downs and unknowns and buying and selling of houses and new schools and teary farewells and nervous hellos and questions and learning how to pronounce “sch” as “sk” and not “Sch” …  there is one moment that stands out to me, that I will never forget. Last spring, I was standing in the kitchen of our house in Colorado. Jeremiah was at the dining room table doing a virtual interview with members of the diocesan search committee. I was doing my best to keep the dog happy so he didn’t bark and occasionally listening to what was being said. I felt sad at the possibility of leaving Grace and St Stephen’s and all the people we loved there and unsure of what might lie ahead. Folks on the interview team were sharing their genuine and honest concerns about the diocese, what they saw as the challenges and how painful some of the struggles have been. It made my stomach hurt. But then, someone on the team said “you know … I feel really hopeful for this diocese, there is so much possibility, I mean, if we do this right then we can be a model for The Episcopal Church – a model of reconciliation and love across difference and we can have a future that is Holy Spirit filled and thriving.” My perspective shifted and I felt hope-filled, excited and like this could be something really great. Like all of us together, from Pottsdam to Hudson, Morris to Essex … and even beyond, can be part of a movement caught on fire by the Holy Spirit spreading the love of Christ in ways yet unseen, a people caught up in the love of Christ and finding bridges where barriers once lived, a vine that is growing and thriving and winding and circling through branches upon branches.

 

          St. Matthias may have known the road ahead would be hard, but did he know that Pentecost was coming? Jesus is at work here in this place, in this diocese, in these hearts and I can tell you that the man who has been elected to serve here as Bishop is a person of deep faith, sincerity and persistent hope.

 

Much of the journey to this day has been about calling. Calling is a word we use a lot in the church. I remember in my ordination process writing paper after paper and answering question after question about my calling. When a person is ordained we use that word “calling” and when we as Christians are finding our place in the world from career to marriage and even nominating folks for vestry we use that word “calling.” It is a word that has both inspired, excited, motivated and moved me and also scared, haunted and bewildered me. It has given me both direction and thrown my path into disarray. Perhaps you have felt this too. It is a big question to ask what the creator of the universe is beckoning one toward. And it is a big weight to feel that one must get it right. But the Gospel of John reading today makes it all so clear. Jesus says “abide in my love.” That is the calling Christ gives us. I know that for Jeremiah, a deep sense of God’s calling has nurtured, sustained and fueled this whole journey and will sustain his journey ahead. I have often marveled at his ability to rest so confidently in the assurance that he is following God’s call. My prayer for him is that he will continue to feel that deep sense of calling and by doing so will continue to abide in the love of Christ. My prayer for the diocese of Albany is that we all will dwell in the assurance of God’s calling and in doing so will abide in the love of Christ. Today is the beginning of a new chapter. We know it will involve fancy hats and a big ring, but we also know it will involve challenges and hard days. But if we all keep our prayers focused on this calling to abide in God’s love then we can know that we are where God is calling us to be and . . . the Holy’s Spirit’s in-breaking may be just around the corner.