Sermon from Easter Vigil 4/16/22 at Grace and St. Stephen's

 

          I have fond memories of my first Easter Vigil service. Growing up Methodist, I had attended several Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter morning services but the Vigil was something new for me. It was my first year of seminary and Jeremiah was doing his student ministry at an Episcopal church by our school in New Jersey. His priest was giving him the opportunity to chant the Exsultet and he was nervous about it.
I walked across campus with him from the student apartments to the darkened chapel where he practiced over and over again. To this day, when I hear it chanted I still think back to sitting in that empty chapel and listening as the words bounced off the large wooden cross and empty altar. The next day I attended the service and was completely caught up in it. The dramatic fire lighting up the pitch black space, the series of readings that layered upon one another to build up to the dramatic moment we are now in, the loud organ and passionate shouts of Alleluia as the big black curtain dropped and massive amounts of lilies appeared. The joy on everyone's faces as we sang those first Alleluias that had been buried away since Ash Wednesday. It gave me goosebumps on my arms and tears in my eyes. The strawberries and champagne that followed the service were also a surprise for this cradle Methodist.

          While it was all very new to me, it of course is very old to the church. The first evidence of the Great Vigil service is from the second century in the region that is now Turkey. In my church history class, I remember my professor detailing the way in which the ancient church celebrated this liturgy, processing in the candidates for baptism who proclaimed their beliefs and were celebrated as new Christians. It is in fact one of our oldest Christian liturgies and yet it still feels so very relevant and even at times emotional. It still speaks to us today- in this very different time and in this very different part of the world.

          Perhaps that is because this story that we are reenacting, retelling and recelebrating is so very real. We all know darkness. We all know heartbreak, pain and uncertainty.

          One of the things that always strikes me on Good Friday is how normal the day is outside of the church. Inside the church it is a dark, empty, sad space full of mourning and loss. We read the last words of Christ and sing songs about crucifixion and loss. We walk out in silence and some even with stomachs growling from fasting and we contemplate the emptiness of a world without a Savior.  But when we walk outside the doors it is a normal Friday with school, work, social activities, movies to watch and tasks to complete- you can even find Easter egg hunts and kids sitting on the laps of giant bunnies on that day when our hearts sit in darkness.

          In the same way when tragedy strikes or when a loved one dies we experience that same strangeness- when the mourner's world is shattered and their heart grief-stricken but the rest of the world goes on. Cars keep going up and down the roads, children keep laughing and the world continues to spin. It is strange to have one reality in your heart while living in the midst of a very different reality. To have a thick and heavy darkness inside while standing in the sunshine next to people going about their normal days.

          It is a juxtaposition we Christians know well. We go about our normal lives and daily routines but with this remarkable story filling our hearts, bringing us hope even in the despair and wisdom even in uncertainty. We mark our seasons not by the sports calendar or the sales events at the car lots, but rather by this ancient calendar that takes us through birth, life, death and resurrection. We believe in crazy countercultural ideas like that love is the source of all being, that justice matters and that we should do nonsensical things like feed the poor, clothe the naked, bring healing to the suffering and actually care about people other than ourselves. Where widows and children have more wisdom than rulers and things like water, bread and wine are more valuable than the most expensive jewels.

          And today we got to participate in the miracle of new people entering this life of faith with us, newly baptized Christians that will be nurtured by our community, loved into faith by their parents and guided by their godparents and sponsors.

          It isn't always an easy thing, guiding people into this life of faith. In fact, I am a godparent and often wonder how best to live into that role. I try to find ways to teach my godchildren about the faith, give them meaningful gifts to remind them of their faith and always make it known that I am available to talk about anything- even doubts. But it isn't as if one can force another into believing, or persuade someone simply by words to live into this countercultural value system we swear to. Perhaps the best that we can do is promise to be with them through the whole story- through the darkness and unknown and through the resurrection and joy. And to keep reminding them of that story, keep finding ways to whisper it into their lives- that love wins, hope is real and resurrection will come. That the flowers that withered and died will burst forth from the ground again, that those who suffer in pain will rise in glory, that the sun that has set will rise again, that no matter how heavy the darkness, how uncertain the path, how miserable the anguish … God doesn't let go.

          Thinking back on that first Easter Vigil I experienced, the one that started with an Exsultet chanted again and again into a dark and empty space- one of the reasons I remember it so fondly is because that was a special place for me that I like to remember. Part of why it is special is because it was a place where I often felt carried in my faith by others. A good seminary experience is a time of deep questioning, a time of picking all aspects of your faith apart, a time of being confronted over and over again with the injustices and pains of the world, a time for constructive arguments, life's deepest questions and brave people sharing their doubts. It is a time to let your walls down so that you can be shaped and molded into someone who can lead others into this life of faith. One of the things that helped me most during that time took place every Thursday in that chapel where I listened to Jeremiah practice his Exsultet- my fellow students and professors who were asking those hard questions and sharing their own pains and vulnerabilities, who were questioning and challenging- they all knelt for the bread and the wine together every Thursday and in kneeling with them, I knew I could get back up. I remembered the rest of the story, I remembered and was carried by the power of faith, I was prepared for kneeling alongside others in their darkness.  Their model of faith even in darkness, strengthened mine.

          Perhaps this is how we can be good God parents, good church members, good fellow Christians along the journey- we can keep kneeling together, keep reaching up for the Holy Mystery of the body and blood of Christ even in a world where that doesn't make sense to most people. We can keep reminding each other that the dark curtain will drop, the Alleluias will return and the lilies are just hiding behind the altar. We keep walking this story together over and over again and praying it into the world. So that when the tomb is empty we can see it, we can understand it and we can shout Alleluia even when the rest of the world is just going about their daily lives.

          After all, we baptize while it is still dark. The baptisms tonight were before the lilies sparkled and the Alleluias rang out and the tomb was declared empty. They were baptized into darkness, uncertainty and loss. That is faith. That is our radical story of hope and persistent belief. Of a God who is still with us in the dark. That is our countercultural, radical, strange, hard to explain Christian story- that we believe even in the dark, that hope never dies, that love is stronger than death and that faith is worth having. That is why it feels so good to shout Alleluia, not because we don't know darkness, but because we do.

Sermon from Grace and St. Stephen's 2/13/22 "Trees and Chocolate Cake"

 

Jeremiah 17:5-10, Psalm 1

          Our Tuesday morning Women’s Book Group has been learning a bit about botany as we read together Braiding Sweet Grass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. In the book she weaves together her knowledge as a botanist with the passed down wisdom she is the recipient of as a member of the Potawatomi Nation. So when I read this metaphor about the tree by the stream, sending out its roots, nourishing its leaves and bearing fruit-  in both the Jeremiah reading and the Psalm, I immediately thought about all the learning I have been doing through reading this book.

          One section in particular came to mind.  She is talking about the mast fruiting phenomenon of pecan trees, meaning that the trees go for long stretches of time without bearing fruit and then all together offer an abundance. She writes, “When the trees produce more than the squirrels can eat, some nuts escape predation. Likewise, when the squirrel larders are packed with nuts, the plump pregnant mamas have more babies in each litter and the squirrel population skyrockets. Which means that the hawk mamas have more babies, and fox dens are full too. But when the next fall comes, the happy days are over, because the trees have shut off nut production. . . so [the squirrels] go out looking, harder and harder, exposing themselves to the increased population of watchful hawks and hungry foxes. The predatory-prey ratio is not in their favor, and through starvation and predation the squirrel population plummets and the woods grow quiet without their chattering. You can imagine the trees whispering to each other at this point, “There are just a few squirrels left. Wouldn’t this be a good time to make some nuts?” All across the landscape, out come the pecan flowers poised to become a bumper crop again. Together, the trees survive, and thrive.”

          It is mutual thriving, interconnectedness … like a tree sending out roots to the stream, bearing fruit for the animals and feeding the people. There is no way to look at nature and not see how everything is connected. The air, the land, the plants, the people … all reliant on one another.  And so the prophet Jeremiah uses this metaphor. For the tree, the water is life. Without the stream it withers. So it is for Judah. Jeremiah is referring to the people of Judah as the tree and God as the source of life, when they continually separate themselves from that source they cannot thrive.  As Father Jeremiah said in his Wednesday night Bible Study on this passage, “Self-reliance is repeatedly the sin named by the prophet Jeremiah.” A failure to recognize our interconnectedness and our dependency leads us away from the source of life, from what sustains us. It takes us further from the river.

 

          I once found myself in a place that survived by the river. It is a small town with a couple of restaurants, a couple of churches and a diner on the edge of town along the state highway called “The Speed Trap.” I learned a lot about small towns and what it means to be in a community in the years that I served as a pastor there. Their proximity to each other and distance from a city kept the people very interconnected. They saw each other at the drug store, the grocery store, the post office, school pick up and church. Sometimes their interconnectedness drove me crazy. I heard lots of things “secondhand” “So and so said this the other day at so and so’s house.” Rumors took off quickly. There were feuds that lasted generations even after the initial cause was long forgotten. And people were so comfortable with each other that they often went straight past polite and made me very uncomfortable with the direct manner in which they spoke to one another.

          But it wasn’t long before I was part of the community. Because of the 30 minute commute home, church members would often have me over for dinner when I had a late meeting. They let me into their homes, showed me family pictures, told me their stories, fed me delicious food and even changed my flat tire. They trusted my new ideas, listened to my sermons and called me their pastor. As they were sustained by the river, I was sustained by them in sometimes unexpected ways. Like when I would show up to a house for a pastoral visit and see the Tupperware on the table which meant I was going home with a treat, and sometimes that was chocolate cake. Or when a retired pastor who attended the church seemed to magically appear at the hospital after I had my first baby and sweetly nestled my son’s fresh skin into the nook of his aging arm. When sweet Clarence had my then toddler son and I over for apple picking and fresh honey from the hive and I had so many apples that I shared them with my neighbors in the city. When I returned from maternity leave to find that a thoughtful man in the congregation had installed a curtain over the window in my office door and a mini fridge next to my desk to make it easier for me to pump milk for my new baby. Or when the funeral director and I let tears fall as we rode in the car together past the elementary students lined up along the road, as they said good bye to their classmate. That place with roots in the river was a place where people sustained one another, not always easily, but steadily.

 

          Last week marked six years since we saw Pike’s Peak on the horizon with a car full of car seats, snacks, toys and everything else that could fit. It has been six years since we came to a place not sustained by a river but rather sustained by a mountain. I remember telling my then four year old, “the white on the top of that mountain becomes the water we drink from our sink!” It took us a while to learn how to grow things here. It takes time, attention, watering and protection from the hail. Eventually we found a way to develop roots. My husband now has a full garden that we all help tend to and celebrate the first signs of sprouting spinach. And at the same time our roots have found a way to thrive in the thin mountain air and dry earth.  This place too is interconnected.  And like everywhere else, that can also drive me crazy. The differences in religious and political perspectives can sometimes make for tenuous connections and heated conversations.  But I also see the many ways in which we sustain one another here. People here are more likely to let you in than in other places I have lived. They are used to new people and will give you a chance. Many people don’t have generations of family here and so friendships become deeper out of mutual need and appreciation. And sunshine soaked hikes are a great way to open up to one another while navigating boulders.  Every week I meet more amazing people who inspire me with their openness, passion and ability to speak honestly about what they believe. This place, with roots in the mountain, is a place where people sustain each other, not always easily but with eagerness.

          The tree by the river in both Jeremiah and the Psalm remind us that we need to stay close to the source. The water is life. God is life. We stand by the stream of God’s grace and strength and let our roots soak it up. It nurtures our soul and makes our leaves green and then we are able to bear fruit for the world around us. We are at our best when we remember not to drift off alone in the desert, bent on our own self-righteousness or our unwillingness to see the benefit of others. Because here among the trees, close to God, we can get through the drought, whether it is a pandemic, tragic loss, doubt, sadness or the absence of hope, because we have the shade of one another’s leaves. We are interconnected, like the pecan trees that feed the squirrels … thriving together.

Sermon from 12/26/21 at Grace and St Stephen's Episcopal Church

 

John 1:1-18

          Today’s Gospel reading is a creation story, one of divine origins and explanation. It is a birth narrative, but instead of a manger and donkeys and shepherd it is simply a light in the dark. It is a theological treatise telling us about God and how we are connected to God. It is a revelation, the beginning of a story about God incarnate through Jesus. It is a Christological statement about the power and position of Jesus Christ. It is a beautiful poem about humans and God.

          It is all of these things and yet, what strikes me most about it isn’t the bold proclamations, grandiose statements, eternal time frame or creation-sized wideness of it, but rather what strikes me most is the smallness of it. The closeness.  The distance between God and the Word is so small that it doesn’t actually exist.  What strikes me most is the intimacy. This is how we came to be, this is how the Word came into the world, this is how God chose to be in the world … through intimacy … closeness.

           As secular Christmas traditions come to a close, perhaps you like so many others are relieved to be done with it, relieved to set aside the consumerism and forced sentimentality. But for all of the negative associations and eye rolling that comes with some secular Christmas traditions, at their heart I do believe they are a kind of reaching out for intimacy. Twinkle lights strung along the frame of a home to say “we want to celebrate with our neighbors and even the strangers walking by, we want to add light and beauty to your darkness.” Gifts are exchanged in an effort to show appreciation, connection, thought and relationship. Pre made holiday cards with happy faces and corrected addresses to say “I still think of you.” Sugar and flour mixed together and baked into reindeer shapes to say “I want to be the source of something that brings you a little bit of happiness.” Old songs sung out of tune to connect us with our past traditions and unite our voices.  Maybe it all falls short, maybe it all just looks like consumerism, maybe it all becomes things that overwhelm us … but I would like to think that at the root of it all is an extended hand, reaching out for closeness … for intimacy.  The intimacy that brought us all into being. 

          “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.” Not one thing … this was how we came to be.  You can’t tell the Christmas story without intimacy. Whether it is a mother and her baby, the Word and God, or the Holy Spirit like a dove coming upon Jesus.

           Perhaps then this is what we look for at Christmas. When we are pushing our cart down aisles of scarves or earrings or coffee mugs, what we are searching for is that way to reach out to someone, to connect. When we remember with sometimes painful longing Christmases of our past, perhaps what we are craving is the closeness we felt in those moments with people we can no longer get close to.

          Many of you know that I ran for political office and it was a wild experience that stretched me and challenged me in ways I never expected.  I learned a lot in a relatively short period of time. But I can say that what I treasure the most about that experience is the intimacy I got to experience. Like from the woman who stood in her driveway in her bathrobe and told me all about the struggles of raising her two special needs children and the ups and downs of their journey. Or the man who let the tears fall as he told me about his struggles with depression and his son’s battle with addiction.  Maybe even the guy who made me so angry I was shaking because as we stood there talking, eye to eye with only the frame of his front door between us we were actually daring to come close enough to a world completely unlike our own that we could hear it … just a little.  I definitely experienced intimacy with the people who walked that journey with me, the ones who built me up when I deflated and laughed with me when the only other option was crying. I appreciate those experiences of closeness so much, perhaps even more than I would have in 2019 before we ever knew how isolated we could be.

           When I read about covid cases rising and vaccine effectiveness decreasing there is something in me that aches. It felt so good to make crafts together again at Advent Lessons and Carols, to see the kids dressed as shepherds and cows, to hug family, to meet up with friends, to sing together, to be in this space. To be physically present with each other, to be close … to be intimate. We know now that we can’t take it for granted.

          One of the reasons I enjoy working with teens so much is because they are good at connecting.  They haven’t yet learned to build up walls and take sides and put up defenses and pretend that they don’t need anyone.  So they are genuine, they ask questions, they laugh together, they share experiences, they cry without apologizing, they tell you when you say the wrong thing and they open up their heart. It is a reaching out for relationship that we learn to hide, to pretend isn’t there or to take for granted. It is that craving for connection that is part of who we are since creation.

          The Gospel tells us about that creation, that the world came into being through the Word.  The Word is the light that shines in the darkness, the light that the darkness cannot overcome. The light that enlightens everyone. This means that we have that light, that intimacy, that unextinguishable light, we have it within us. It is how the world came into being and it is a light that enlightens us all. It can’t be taken away. The intimacy that we crave is always with us, in us, shining on and through us. This is our creation story, our birth story, our history and future.

           In the beginning was the Word.  A Word means revelation, a word means something is said, something is communicated.  The purpose of a word is to say something.  And on this day after Christmas we have heard the Word.  It is Jesus.  It is light and love in our world.  It is a light that the darkness cannot overcome.  It is God drawing us into that relationship that has existed since the beginning and will exist long after our end.  It is an invitation into intimacy.

          We don’t know what tomorrow will bring. We don’t know if we will find ourselves in quarantine or isolation either physically, mentally or spiritually. But we know that God has spoken.  The Word has come into being and brought us into being. It enlightens us, calls us and compels us to reach out to others. And no matter what happens, that light will never be overcome by darkness. So even as we take down the twinkle lights, put the presents on the shelf, recycle the cards and regret eating too many of the cookies- let us embrace the intimacy.  The connection we all have through the Light of the World. The light that we share, the light that is big enough to encompass creation and small enough to fit inside our hearts.

Which story do I tell?

 

               There are a lot of decisions we make when we recount past events. What do we highlight? What do we gloss over? What do we want to be the lasting impression we give others? We do this when we talk about our kids’ behaviors, our marriages, our childhoods and everything else in life. We decide which story to tell. Do we tell of the struggles or the triumphs, the frustrations or the pleasant surprises?

               I was faced with this decision when I woke up Wednesday November 3. I had been dealt a crushing blow the night before. After months of answering questions, candidate surveys, recruiting volunteers, raising money, speaking to groups, meeting with people, preparing for forums, responding to endless emails, updating social media and SO MUCH door knocking … I lost my run for School Board. The campaign took over my life. I worked really hard as did my team. My heart was in it which made the loss hurt all the more. I worked with three wonderful candidates during the campaign (for four spots) and only one of us won. On Wednesday I went down some spirals. I was broken-hearted so I cried, frustrated and angry so I went off on rants and embarrassed. I lost publicly and that brings with it a certain amount of embarrassment. But I knew that the way in which I framed this wild experience is the way in which it would live on in my memory, so I had to decide what to tell myself.

               I could beat myself up. I could question if I was actually good enough, if I am good enough at anything, if everyone knew the whole time I was no good, if it was all a waste of time … I could think about the stomach aches I had the whole day of a candidate forum, having no idea what people would ask and what the other candidates would say (there was definitely some strange moments). I could think about all the angry and suspicious emails, the ones where people try to trap you and label you and make you look awful. I could remember only the angry people who answered their doors. The guy who went off on a LONG rant that started with typical concerns, then communism and the lying media and then said “we need to declare war on school boards.” That was the only time I lost it the whole campaign (well, publicly). I got really mad at that kind of language. I was mad that people told me I needed a security camera system at home if I won and that I needed to find ways to ensure the safety of my children. I told him that kind of violent language was not ok. He saw how upset I was and was shocked. Or maybe the guy who went off on my ten-year-old about critical race theory and the National Educator’s Association while he was innocently standing alone waiting for his dad. It left my son in shock, fear and swearing he would never run for political office. Then there was the morning when my fingers were frozen, everything kept blowing away, my head was pounding and just as I was finishing canvassing a housing development a guy yelled at me for being there and said it wasn’t allowed. I dreaded the angry emails that would follow. So much anger came at me and I am not sure why. There was the day I found out how much “dark money” was going into the campaigns of my opponents. Right after I was so proud of surpassing my fundraising goal of $10,000 I found out that an outside group was giving $100,000 to other candidates. That did not feel good. And all the doors closed right in my face while I was talking, honestly those were my least favorite. I felt like I wasn’t even seen as a human being. There were setbacks, stomach aches and things said by others that were so upsetting. It was hard to express to people how important the election was and in the end I was so angry at the low voter turnout (when compared with other school board elections in past years). People did not care but I cared SO MUCH. Is that the story? One of defeat, anger, embarrassment and frustration?

               There is more to it than that. My youngest son loved knocking on doors and talking to people. People were so kind to him. I stood in driveways with people as they poured out their hearts to me, shared what they have learned and what they care about and I felt completely honored by that. I connected with people over the phone while phone banking and got to really share who I was. I met amazing people who are doing great work for this city despite defeats. People who have lived here a long time and worked hard to establish themselves threw their weight behind me because they believed in me. Teachers gave up their Saturdays or stayed after a long day of school to knock on doors in support of me. The people at our church were so excited and supportive and it felt like I was doing it with them. Meet the candidate events became an exciting time of sharing ideas and making new friends. People I had never met put my name in their yards, on their windshields and filled in the circle next to it on their ballots. Friends and family I grew up with gave generously. Former teachers and former church members made financial contributions and sent emails of encouragement. I got to see so many corners of this city and most people were happy to see me walking their neighborhood. And the thank yous. So many thank yous. “Thank you for doing this.” How could I tell this story without that? The bond I made with Chris, Shawn and Julie. The way we fought together for the bond renewal so the students of this community could have facilities that aren’t crumbling around them. The pride my family had when they saw my signs or heard my radio ads or we got a flyer in the mail with my face on it. The opportunity I had to work with so many intelligent and good people, especially my campaign manager. The possibility of getting to serve the students, the hope I had in the future of our school district, the feeling that I was actually doing something about it. Plus, I learned so much. I got to tour schools, meet with administrators, research public school funding, listen to speakers who have been in this field for a long time and read so much about topics that were new to me. It felt like I was back in school (which I love). And that guy who yelled at me when my fingers were frozen and my head was pounding … he found me later to apologize and his compassion made my heart flood with compassion.

               No matter how I tell the story I can’t change the ending. I lost. Am I humbled that I got over 15,000 votes or embarrassed that I missed a spot by over 2,000 votes? Depends on the day. The fact that I lost is real, but I know that sometimes we learn and grow more from losses than from wins. I know that I would not have lost if I had never tried. I know that I worked hard and gave it my all and am proud of the campaign I ran.

               In the first few days after the election people kept talking about “when you run again” or “next time.” It was a completely ridiculous idea to me. I told my team to throw away the signs and shut down the account. But now I have a stack of signs tucked away in the corner of my garage, not because I plan to run again but because I have learned that I have no idea what life will bring … and I am not afraid of losing. I was given an amazing opportunity to stretch myself and open myself up to something I had never experienced before. And so as I etch this experience into my long term memory I do so with all the emotions- anger, frustration, joy, sadness but it is all wrapped in gratitude. My hope is that will always be the subject, moral and ending of the story whenever and however I tell it … gratitude.

What it's really like ...

              At 3 am I was startled awake by my nine-year-old standing in front of my bed.  “Mommy, I think I might throw up.”  The next four hours were a blur of gentle touches, trashcans, reassuring words, prayers and cartoons in the dark I saw through sleepy eyes.  Was it COVID? Would we all get it? What meetings do I need to cancel today?  All the while I still had a pit in my stomach from when my doctor called to tell me my first mammogram showed something in one breast.  Two days later after covid tests and lots of laundry I randomly picked a seat at the school board meeting.  I quickly realized the people all around me were very upset.  As I sat there listening to the anger in people’s voices … anger directed at those sitting in the very same seats I am campaigning for, my mind bounced between feeling compassion for everyone upset, thinking about my messaging as a candidate, wondering if the covid numbers will keep rising, wondering if my kids will get covid and fighting that anxiety knot from the diagnostic mammogram scheduled the next day. 

               Days kept going full of meetings, emails, phone calls, youth group events to run, permission slips to gather, sermons to prepare [I just had to pause and text my husband, asking him to bring home my vestments because I left them at the Episcopal Church and I need them for serving Communion at The Methodist Church tomorrow].  As I bounce from thing to thing I remember that when I decided to run for School Board someone gave me this warning “as you campaign there will be traps along the way, be careful not to get caught in them.”  At the time I had no idea what he meant.  Now I know. 

               Everyone wants me to be something.  I am not conservative enough for the conservatives and not liberal enough for the liberals.  People tell me “I will support you if …”  and then tell me how to change my messaging.  I get invitations to events and have to ask myself if it is actually a way for me to share my message and connect with people or a way for people to put me in a corner, label me a certain way and then tune out everything I have to say. 

               Last Tuesday my husband had a meeting so I led Morning Prayer on Facebook myself.  The scriptures were: Psalm 26, Kings 8:65-9:9 and Mark 14:66-72.  Over and over again I kept hearing about integrity.  I felt emotional reading them because they felt like the exact thing my heart needed to hear.  Campaigning and being a pastor have many similarities.  In both situations people want you to align with what they already think and believe.  In both situations support from others can feel conditional and uncertain.  In both situations if you do not tend to your soul and remember who you are then you get lost.  Standing at all these school Open Houses reminds me a bit of standing in the post worship greeting lines.  Most people are in a hurry and you just try to say whatever you can as quickly as you can, some people are upset and you try to do your best to listen and respond in a way that is genuine and honest and some are ready to connect with you and you feel so appreciative of a moment to truly see another and feel seen. 

               Today I find myself with something rare: time to myself.  As I sort through all the anxious thoughts I have had these past few weeks, process the fears and think about the things that have upset me and why and also the things that have moved me and why, I find myself feeling like I want to cry.  Not the kind of cry I expected- not because I feel overwhelmed or scared or sad, but the kind of cry that comes from a heart overwhelmed with gratitude.  I feel so incredibly grateful.  The mammogram was fine, just dense tissue.  The kids are fine, all negative covid tests, all recovered and so incredibly happy to be going to in person school.  My mom just got her booster shot.  The big church event last Sunday went really well and was really fun.  I was the first name drawn for the ballot order lottery meaning I will be the first of seven names listed on the ballot (for three spots).  Several of the current school board members have been incredibly helpful and kind.  And I have gotten to meet some great people and learn about really wonderful things at all the schools I have been to.  I am learning so much.  And I got all nine burrs out of my dog’s fur with minimal biting.  All a reminder that I will be ok no matter what, not because life is easy, not because bad things don’t happen but because I can remember who I am regardless of all of that. 

Are you sure you want to do this?

 Sermon from 8/28/21 St Stephen’s Day Acts 6:8-7:2a, 51c-60

           For a few months now I have been preparing a campaign to run for school board.  I have met with teachers, principals, retired educators, trusted friends, students and community members to learn from their perspective and hear their concerns.  It has been a valuable learning experience.  Out of these diverse perspectives there has been one question that seems to come up again and again, one question that almost inevitably finds its way into either the beginning or end of a conversation, and that is: “Are you sure you want to do this?” 

          It is asked out of care, concern and a realistic understanding of the divisive world we live in today, where anything you say or do will make someone mad.  In addition to this, those who have known that I am running have sent me links to articles about school board meetings across the country breaking out into shouting matches or sometimes, even worse, fist fights.  I have seen videos of school board members being escorted to their cars amidst screaming parents making angry gestures.  And through it all I continue to be determined, fueled by my care and concern for my own children, the children I know through volunteering in the schools, the teens I minister to here at our church and fueled by my deep hope and passion for a future with hope, a bright future of opportunity, respect and possibility. 

         And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was being invited into some serious contemplation by the Holy Spirit on Wednesday.  It was that same question, the “are you sure you want to do this?” Only this time it was in a text message I saw on my phone as I sat right in the middle of a contentious school board meeting, just a few blocks away from here.  People were angry.  The kind of angry that skips polite greetings, proper procedures and waiting your turn.  There was shouting, booing, clapping, tears and just a general feeling of unease.  Again, I wasn’t deterred, seeing all the more the importance of having people on the board who are open-minded and able to stay calm under fire.  And then I listened to a story on NPR about school board meetings in America.  They interviewed one woman, a school board president, whose son drives her to meetings so that her car can’t be identified and she keeps a baseball bat by the front door now and immediately assesses what in the board room might be used as a weapon by angry citizens. 

          After hearing that story, I came home to reflect on the scriptures for today in preparation for this sermon.  First it was the reading from Jeremiah where God tells Jeremiah to prophesy to the people and he does, he says what God tells him to say and they say, “you shall die!” and gather around him.  And in the Gospel reading from Matthew we hear Jesus say, “Therefore I send you prophets, sages, and scribes, some of whom you will kill and crucify, and some you will flog in your synagogues and pursue from town to town …”  And of course the story of the saint we celebrate today, St Stephen.  A man who, even though he was “full of grace and power, did great wonders and signs among the people” … and had “the face of an angel” was surrounded, dragged and stoned to death because of the words he spoke about Jesus. 

        It’s a lot.  A reminder that even when you are called to something, even when you speak for the benefit of the community, even when you believe you are speaking a prophetic word from God … there are no guarantees for your safety.  In fact, it might actually be more likely you will make people angry.  Truth-telling is not usually the way to make people happy.  Basically, what I heard again and again in the readings for today is: “are you sure you want to do this?”

         As I was contemplating all of this I also had the usual worries about my kids being in school during a pandemic, my husband running a church during a pandemic and other disrupting thoughts- paired with a jam packed schedule where I literally needed to be in multiple places at the same time.  If anyone noticed my shrinking, picked at fingernails they might have asked “are you sure you want to do this?” 

          In the midst of all of this I was reminded of something.  Something we all know in a deep place within ourselves, something we forget, we drown out with worries, disappointments, hurts and fears.  Something at the heart of Jesus’s words to every grieving and depleted person he met.  Something found in the faith of Jesus on the cross and echoed by Stephen as he cried out on his knees surrounded by bloodied rocks ... “I will be ok no matter what.”

         I have a framed quote by my bed from St. Julian of Norwich, it says “All shall be well, all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.”  She said this not as she sat at a park on a perfect weather day beneath the warm sun and smiling sweetly at the chirping birds.  She wrote these words in the midst of an illness that almost took her life, a persistent illness she suffered through.  In the midst of dramatic visions that made her sound crazy to outsiders.  During a difficult time period where the future was uncertain and disease was rampant.  As she knew the realities of pain and was surrounded by uncertainty she proclaimed “all shall be well.”  Similar to “I will be ok no matter what” these are not situational words based on our conditional comfort or good feelings, this is instead a deep truth, one that comes from persistent faith and a willingness to connect with the Holy Spirit within.  It comes from the moments when we let ourselves give in to God’s abiding presence and experience that peace which passes understanding.

        When I read the Acts reading and feel that tension build.  When the people are angry and accusing Stephen and he doubles down on his indictment of their hardened hearts, their refusal to listen to the Holy Spirit … I kind of want to say to him “are you sure you want to do this?” But he does not waver, he does not soften his message and no one around can deny that he is “full of grace and power.”  Even as they close in on him, even as his body is overcome, even when he knows he will die, he boldly speaks from faith and assurance, the kind of faith that knows that “all shall be well” even when pain and fear are screaming otherwise.  And his last words are asking God to forgive those who brutally murder him.  Stephen unleashed a well of peace, love and courage that continues to pour out all these many years later as we read his words and commemorate his life and death. 

          And so our church bears his name.  As I strain my neck to look up to the top of the tower from down at the bottom I think about when those stones were laid.  When the founders of the church invested their time, talents and money to build this beautiful building.  A testament in stone to a hope that lasts longer than our bodies, a faith that cannot crumble or be shaken.  Did others ever ask them “are you sure you want to do this?” as the tower stretched higher and higher.  And now here it stands in the midst of a busy downtown, through all weather, through pandemics, through uncertainty, through fears and division.  And it bears the name of St Stephen, the man who knew “all shall be well.” 

          

Image from https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/pronoun-policy-debate-leads-chaos-virginia-school-board-meeting-n1272134

Sermon from Grace and St Stephen's August 22

 

John 6:56-69

          Many of you may know by now that I have thrown my hat into the ring for an upcoming local election.  It is true, I am now a bit of a politician, although trying to manifest only the positive aspects of that.  It has been a wild ride full of learning, meeting new people and studying everything from educational funding in Colorado to yard sign prices.  It also means that I have managed to find one more area of my life in which I am completely dependent on volunteers.  Being a pastor, running a youth group, various boards and committees, PTA, other school involvement- all of these things that I have devoted my life to have one thing in common- they depend on volunteers.  And now I have added a campaign to the mix.

          It is a tricky thing, enlisting others to give of their time.  You want to start soft, so as not to scare them away and also to make sure you can rely on this person.  The last thing anyone wants is a family playing Mary, Jesus and Joseph that doesn’t show up on Christmas Eve.  When you find really great, reliable, passionate people you want to say “will you please do this major responsibility that will be hard and take a lot of time but we really need you!” but you realize all that will get you is a hole in the wall shaped like their body as they flee as fast as possible.  And when someone comes up to you and says “I want to volunteer, what can I do.”  I find myself so overwhelmed with relief, disbelief and ideas that I may only manage to say something ridiculous like “great, can you carry this piece of paper to the other end of the room.”  And then regret the wasted opportunity. 

          Now before you start getting anxious about what sign-up sheets will be passed out at the end of this sermon, please be at ease, this is not a drawn out attempt at finding someone to manage the dunk tank at the church picnic next week … although … if you feel so moved … I could use that.  But rather, this is my reaction to the Gospel reading today.  The first thing that stood out to me are all the people who bailed on Jesus.  After Jesus’ words about eating his body and drinking his blood and his assertion that he is the Son of Man, John writes, “Because of this, many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him.”  Jesus was not into the soft sell.  It was eat my flesh or go home.  And many of them did go home.

        It’s a bit hard for us to imagine today.  Here we are thousands of years later worshipping Jesus who we never even got to see walking around doing miracles.  These early followers decided to leave after they saw the miracle of the loaves and fishes, Jesus walking on water and they got to hear all of his teachings first hand and be in his physical, earthly presence.  It’s hard to imagine walking away from the Son of God standing right in front of you.

           At the same time, I kind of get it.  In verse 60 the disciples say “This teaching is difficult.” Scholars say that the word difficult could also be interpreted here as “unacceptable, hard, offensive.”[1]  He was telling people to eat his flesh and drink his blood.  Definitely an offensive ask without the hindsight we have now and the Eucharistic understanding we carry.  And it was offending a lot of people, people with status, people with learning, people with power. 

          It was also going to get violent.  His flesh would be broken, his blood spilled … he would be killed and it would be gruesome.  So, yeah I get why some people might decide to cut and run at that point.  Jesus isn’t asking for someone to bring a dish to the Passover potluck.  He is asking them to stick with him through despair, violence, offensive teachings and death.  And to stand with him against a lot of people who wanted him to go away. 

         Sometimes I want to cut and run and the stakes aren’t even that high.  Sometimes life just seems completely overwhelming.  The other day I saw a sweatshirt advertised that said “what if it all works out?”  I have come up with a lot of “what ifs” in my lifetime and that one almost never makes it into my thoughts.  We don’t know how things are going to go.  We don’t know if covid will keep getting worse, if we or our loved ones will get a bad case, if we are making the best decisions right now, or when it will all work out.  We don’t know how tests, elections and hard conversations will go.  Meanwhile the news is full of scary stuff.  People in Haiti getting pounded by natural disasters, hazy air from raging wildfires, desperate people chasing planes in Afghanistan and full hospitals.  When we go about our work of doing good in the world, of bearing hope, of boldly speaking for peace and love … sometimes the uphill climb is overwhelming.  And perhaps you, like me, have moments where it feels like too much. 

          Then the question goes from, how could those early disciples walk away from Jesus to how did Jesus manage to keep anyone around?  It is a big ask.  “Follow me” even when everyone else is saying not to. “Follow me” even when it feels like too much.  “Follow me” even when the blood is shed and the flesh broken and it seems as though all hope is lost.  All it will take is your whole life, your heart, your mind, your spirit …

          This makes me think of a hike my family did a couple weeks ago.  It was at the end of a vacation where we hiked a lot and it was a hazy, hot day but we decided to stop at Hoosier Pass.  The views were amazing, but at such a high elevation the breathing was getting harder and the steep paths were making our legs burn.  Our kids started to express their doubts.  I started to wonder if they were right.  Maybe we should just enjoy the views from where we are, it is getting hot and harder to catch my breath.  How long would the path go, what if it gets harder, the kids have little legs, maybe it’s time to go back?  We decided to go just until a curve in the path and just see what’s on the other side.  As we neared the turn we all felt pretty good about turning around soon, but then we saw how near we were to the top and suddenly our legs had more stamina, our breathing felt more steady and it didn’t seem so bad after all.  So we went to the top, we took some pictures, breathed in the cool mountaintop breeze and headed back down feeling accomplished. 

        Our calling to follow Christ is more than a hike up a mountain, probably more like many hikes up many mountains with lots of tripping and falling along the way.  But like that rough patch in the hike, what matters is our spirit.  Jesus had a difficult ask.  He never did the soft sell, always after the full commitment.  Always after unconditional devotion.  There are no persuasive essays, fancy ads or eloquent stump speeches that can make that kind of conversion.  It has to come from the spirit.  It has to come from God’s spirit within and around us. 

          Preachers can talk until their voices give out, music can create an emotional response, technology can wow us but what it all comes down to is the same as it was when Jesus looked at those disciples and basically said “so, are you in?” The revelation of God through Jesus Christ is the same as it was and the same as it will be.  The commitment Jesus asks has not changed.  The promise of God’s presence in the bread and wine, the assurance of salvation, the unconditional love of God, it’s all still there. 

          And today, all this time later we will be confronted with the flesh of Christ and asked if we want to keep following.  It is more than a sign-up sheet, more than a time commitment, more than a raised hand.  It is a giving over of our hearts made possible only by the Holy Spirit.  God’s grace calls us, the Spirit nudges us, Jesus asks us … are you in? 

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[1] Moloney, Francis J. Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of John. The Liturgical Press, 1998. Pp 225