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.

 

"Kick" Sermon from Grace and St Stephen's 12/10/23

 Mark 1:1-8

          It was a hot and humid Texas summer day, we were visiting my in-laws in Houston in the middle of June and happily enjoying their lovely swimming pool. This was some years ago and at the time I had been trying to teach my son how to swim for quite a while. We had done swim lessons at the YMCA when he was young and spent countless hours in swimming pools with me repeating various things to him about paddling, pushing off, closing your mouth and kicking. It wasn’t getting us anywhere. So he got into the shallow end, prepared to bob around, but then his grandpa, my father-in-law got into the pool. My father-in-law is a big presence. He carries himself with a certain amount of authority, he has a long beard and a long ponytail, he towers over the kids and he has a deep, booming voice. He stood next to my son and watched him as he paddled with his feet on the pool floor. In the quiet of the back yard he started shouting “kick!” in his deep and thundering voice. It was striking and I think all of us, wherever we were, started kicking … including my son … and that was when he learned to swim.

          The voice of his mom that he hears all the time saying the same things was no match for the internal voice that told him he couldn’t do it. The voice that says “this is too hard” “you will sink” “what if it doesn’t work” “you can’t do it.” All of those messages that were preventing him from jumping into the water and trusting, letting the waters enfold him and carry him. His internal voices of doubt blocked his ability trust. But here was a new voice, from someone different and it was somehow able to cut through all the others and change his mind. And then … he swam … and now he is always the last one to get out of the pool because he loves swimming.

          Sometimes we need a new voice to wake us up and change our minds. In the Gospel, that voice is John the Baptist. The description we get of him (guy in the wilderness, wearing camel’s hair and a leather belt, eating locusts and wild honey) tells us he was different, he was a presence. And he speaks with authority and confidence- out there shouting in the wilderness about repentance and the one who is coming. This is a different voice than people are used to. And it seems he was one who was able to cut through the usual chatter and be heard. Because the people came and he attracted a lot of attention. And we are told by Mark that he is the one referred to in the scripture by Isaiah, so he comes with authority.

          Many Biblical scholars agree that the word repentance is a bit tricky to translate as the Hebrew word means something along the lines of “turn back” or “convert” and the Greek word means something like “change one’s mind.”[1] So we may understand John’s message as a call for people to change their minds and in doing so make a way for the Lord, or clear a path for the one who is coming. Any understanding of the word repentance shows that it is an act done on the part of the one repenting, not the one they are repenting too. In other words, we are called to repent or change our minds, we aren’t asking God to change God’s mind- to stop disliking us or see us in a new light, but rather we are the ones doing the changing because God is there, God’s love is there ready and waiting, it is us, the repentant who need to make a path for it.

          This is Mark’s Christmas story. There is no manger, no baby, no gifts or star. Mark is in a hurry, he gets right to it and begins the story when Jesus is grown and his ministry is about to begin. Advent in the Gospel of Mark then is that journey into the wilderness, the listening for that voice in the wilderness and finding the courage to plunge into the waters of baptism John speaks of. It is a call for us to change our minds and make a path for the one who is to come.

          So how do we get there, how do we- a thirsty people, living in a dry and thirsty world- make our way to those cleansing waters? Are there voices or internal thoughts that we need to change in order to hear the call from the wilderness to change our minds, to make a path?

          Last Sunday I sat here in the pews by myself and I was feeling very tired. I was recovering from covid and my head felt heavy. I spent the morning figuring out what to do with my sick child and then going to worship, leading youth group and helping set up a craft for the festival. I felt physically exhausted but also mentally exhausted from an ever-growing list of “to-do’s” that includes packing up our entire house for a cross country move that is fast approaching. I also felt emotionally exhausted from the weight of saying goodbye to so many people I love and care about and will miss deeply. The emotional weight of so many “last times.” It also just didn’t feel like Advent. Our house barely has any decorations between stacks of boxes, sickness had cancelled any plans of fun and nothing felt as fun or joyful without the presence of my youngest son who was home sick. And then I heard an unfamiliar voice- one full of confidence, authority and presence. It was Olivia’s solo. Olivia, the one who used to make me smile as I watched her walk into church alongside her family with her neat braids and adorable little red coat. Her voice came from her heart and filled this vast space. And I felt the presence of Christ in this place, my mind had changed from the exhaustion and sadness and a path was made into my heart for the coming Savior. It was a new voice, cutting through the anxious chatter in my head and my heart heard it. 

          And all I could feel was gratitude. Gratitude for the many times I have been snapped out of the weariness of this world and called to the hope and peace of Christ. Gratitude for the many times the Holy Spirit has shown up in my heart, in this place, with all of you.

          I felt gratitude for my fellow readers in the women’s book group, who have many times calmed my fears by sharing from their wisdom and letting me benefit from their life experience. Gratitude for the many friends I have made here, people who have opened their hearts to me, laughed with me and modeled vulnerability and genuine sharing. Gratitude for all the people who have let me stand by their hospital bed or in their homes when they were homebound and be with them for that part of their journey, hearing their stories, crying with them, praying with them and together making a path for Christ to come. Gratitude for the teens and young people I have gotten to work with. For the many ways they have made me crack up and pushed me to go deep with their questions. For the times when I came with low energy, negativity and out of ideas but then soon caught their energy, enthusiasm and hope and found that my mind was changed and everything just seemed brighter. I will always be grateful for the ways they let me into their lives by sharing so honestly and without any pretenses. Gratitude for all the invitations to performances I received and getting to see the young people live out their gifts and talents so bravely for the world. Gratitude for the baptisms we have all participated in together, when the water of the baptismal font was poured on the heads of new Christians and then sprinkled on our clothes, when it penetrated our hearts and made its way down our cheeks. Gratitude for our ability to make community during pandemic lockdowns, when we found a way to safely worship together under the abundant Colorado sunshine, that first Alleluia we sang together on Easter when we were told it was safe to sing again. Gratitude for the way in which the cosmic nature of the Eucharistic feast was made evident and visible as we knelt together on All Saints, holding white carnations that told our stories of loss but made tangible the presence of the many who are present with us in a different way. Gratitude for seeing my own children live out their baptismal calling through singing in the choir, acolyting, ushering, reading the Scripture and participating in the life of this parish. And gratitude that is too difficult to put into words for the love I have felt here, the genuine acceptance and care.

Gratitude for all the many times when somehow my frantic and stubborn mind has been changed, the Holy Spirit has found a way to break in, to make a path for the Lord and my heart was flooded with Christ’s love.

          And gratitude for what God has in store for us. Even though the future is uncertain- for you, for the church, for me, for the world but God is here. God is ready for us. God is present, calling us to repent, to change our minds and make a path for Christ to come and enter our hearts, our community, our world so that we can dive into the waters, the cleansing waters John is calling us to, and we can trust and swim and say Emmanuel …. God with us.

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[1] Donahue, John R and Harrington, Daniel J. Sacra Pagina: The Gospel of Mark. Pg 62

Am I in Trouble? Sermon from Grace and St Stephen's 10/8/23

Matthew 21:33-46

          It all happened so fast. I was standing there in the kitchen talking to Jeremiah when I heard the awful sound of glass shattering. The room fell silent. We rushed over to find two boys with a dirty old football in their hands and a broken glass pane on the front door of our house. Chaos ensued … I started desperately shooing the dog away from the broken bits, Jeremiah was checking to see if anyone was hurt and the boys quickly began with explanations, “he threw it too hard” “he threw it the wrong way” “he was supposed to catch it” “I told him not to throw it” “he told me to do it.” And from the parents, “You know you aren’t allowed to throw an outdoor football indoors” “go to your rooms” “we have rules and you broke them.” We ordered a new door, but it was back ordered, which meant we had two months to look at the broken door that was soon patched up with cardboard. During that time, I heard more accusations like, “we didn’t know we couldn’t throw it in that room” “mom was standing there and didn’t stop us” “that door is old and flimsy.” Whatever the reason, whatever the fault … one thing is for sure … we all went to bed grumpy that night and we all felt grumpy when we walked by that patched up door.  In our attempts to place blame, in our justifications, anger and frustration, we all felt bad and defensive and didn’t want to deal with the consequences.

 

          As soon as the glass cracked, the faces of all involved asked an age old question, “am I in trouble?” I hate that feeling. As hard as I try to be perfect, to please everyone and to completely transcend my human-ness … I mess up and I know it and I hate when it shows and I hate when I wonder “am I in trouble?”

          I found myself asking this same question when I read the Gospel reading for today. It is a parable about a vineyard. The main characters are: the owner, the tenants, the servants and the son of the owner. The tenants do not come off looking good in this parable. As I read through several commentaries on this passage, I found many opinions (and some arguing with the others) about what each of these characters represent. It is generally agreed upon that the servants that were sent to collect the harvest for the owner are meant to represent the prophets and the owner of the vineyard is meant to represent God. Over the course of the Bible we find a repeated pattern where God sends a prophet and that prophet is treated terribly: rejected, beaten or sometimes even killed. Then, God sends God’s own son as the land owner sent his own son to collect the harvest and that son is killed. Most people believe that this represents God’s son Jesus. At the time of the original hearing of this parable, it would be a foreshadowing or a warning as the crucifixion had not yet happened, but we of course know that Jesus was rejected and killed.

 

          So what does the vineyard represent and who are the tenants? At this point, perhaps you, like me, are wondering “am I in trouble?” and hoping you aren’t the violent tenants. But who the tenants are meant to represent is where there is a difference of opinion. There are many references to Israel as a vineyard, particularly in the book of Isaiah. Some think that the vineyard then represents Israel and the tenants are the people of Israel and so they are the ones in trouble. The ones about whom the audience in the text says, “He will put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the harvest time.” This thinking has contributed to really harmful ideologies and actions over the years that say the people of Israel, or Jewish people are the ones who rejected God’s son and so the Christian church is the new land owner. The answer then for many of us to the question of “am I in trouble?” is “no, blame them.”

          Others point to verse 45 when it says, “When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they realized he was speaking about them. They wanted to arrest him, but they feared the crowds, because they regarded him as a prophet.” So, the tenants then would not be the whole people of Israel but rather the chief priests and Pharisees Jesus was talking to at that time. And since I don’t think we have any ancient Israelite chief priests or Pharisees here today, we would all then say together in response to the question “Am I in trouble?” … “no, it was them.” That feels pretty good. An ancient text for a particular situation and a particular people. We aren’t in trouble.

 

          Except … verse 42 says, “Jesus said to them, ‘Have you never read in the scriptures: The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone, this was the Lord’s doing and it is amazing in our eyes’? Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom.” Uh oh … it says “you.” Does that mean all listeners and readers … Am I in trouble?

          We might be. Yes, this was spoken at a particular time to a particular audience but let’s look at that audience. It says that the chief priests and Pharisees didn’t arrest him because they were afraid of the crowds who regarded Jesus as a prophet. But … what happened to that crowd? It isn’t too long until they start shouting “crucify him.” They quickly shift from thinking he is a prophet to rejecting him.

          And this parable was shared and passed down and written down and is here before us because the pattern gets repeated- God sends a prophet and that prophet is rejected, God sends God’s own son and that son is rejected. The “you” in this passage is timeless. And … we might be in trouble.

 

          But surely there is someone else to blame. Have we rejected Jesus? When God sends the prophets it is to have a relationship with the people. It is because of God’s repeated attempt to be their God and be connected to them. And then God sends God’s own son, to save the world, to preach and teach love, to model forgiveness and mercy and to offer himself in relationship. And he is rejected.

 

          Have you rejected the unconditional love of God and lived as though your life is only worth something if you can prove it, earn it or meet some ideal? Have you rejected God’s mercy in a cycle of blame and shame, condemning others, judging others, living in a well of self-blame? Together each Sunday we confess in unison with these words “we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone. We have not loved you with our whole heart; we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.” It’s as if … we know we are in trouble.

 

          I think most people walk around thinking they are in trouble. The world is happy to blame us for a lot of things. From a young age we learn to tell ourselves we have messed up, we are bad, we have failed, we aren’t good enough. And so we build up defenses. I know for myself, when I am overly stressed, tired or broken down- I get more defensive which then pushes people further away at times when I want them closer. The tenants were trying to take matters into their own hands. They had done bad things when the owner sent his servants and now here comes the son. They were in deep at this point and they knew they were wrong. So they built up their defenses and they killed the son. The text says they said to each other “let us kill him and get his inheritance.” Which is ridiculous because you can’t get an inheritance when the father, the owner, is still around. What a mess they were in.

 

          Jesus then says the part about the stone that the builders rejected becoming the cornerstone. What does a cornerstone do? It holds everything together, and if you reject it … it all falls apart. Everything fell apart for those tenants.

 

          But here’s the thing … Jesus knows this and still keeps preaching, teaching, loving, healing, praying all the way until he is crucified. Prophet after prophet is rejected and God keeps at it. We build up our walls, we trade blame, we wallow in self-hatred, we keep trying to kick out that cornerstone and yet, God stays steady. And the son that was killed is resurrected. Showing us that no matter how deep the mess we have created … salvation is here.  The question is not “am I in trouble” but “am I forgiven?” and the answer is yes. And if there wasn’t some part of us that believed that, we wouldn’t make that confession. When we confess, we stop placing blame on others and we come before God, relinquishing our futile attempts at control and we fall into God’s unending grace, knowing that the cornerstone is strong and eternal.

 

          In case you are wondering, we got a new door. The kids are still paying off the door debt in the form of extra weekly chores. But the funny part is, I keep asking the trash company to do a large item pick up but they haven’t gotten back to me. So the old door is still hanging around, our ongoing reminder of the grumpiness we share. I hope though that it has at some point transformed into a reminder that we all mess up, it’s all ok, our mistakes never outweigh our love and … do not throw footballs in the house!

Sermon from the 8 am service at Grace and St Stephen's 9/17/23

 Exodus 14:19-31

          Last week my family received some big news. News you have heard about if you attended worship last week or are on the church email list. It was a nerve-wracking morning for us. At 6:30 am we gathered on the couch to participate in worship via zoom with the Diocese of Albany, six long prayer-filled hours later after several ballots were cast, my husband, Jeremiah picked up the phone and the voice on the other end said “Hello Bishop Williamson.” I shouted to the kids who were playing in the back yard and we hugged, cried and then composed ourselves and went back on screen to greet the Diocese through zoom. People asked how I was feeling and I responded with “I am feeling all the feelings.” It was a long process that we put our hearts into, it was also incredibly humbling and of course means a major life change and lots of difficult goodbyes.

          Soon after, my mind started racing. If you could listen to my thoughts it would be a dizzying carousel of questions ranging from “where will we live” “what is the next step for my career” and “how do I set up my ministries at Grace and St Stephen’s so they continue to thrive” to “how will our dog do on a cross country car drive” and “when will I have time to pull the weeds from the lawn before the realtor takes picture.” There are so many questions.

          I have never been the type of person to sit back and trust that it will all work out. I have spent my whole life trying to prepare for possible outcomes and fearing that I am falling behind. And yet, I do have faith. Faith that God is with me through all of it, faith that the road ahead will be paved with faith, love and hope. Faith that is part of the fabric of my being from the stories, sermons and experiences that have nurtured me all my life. Stories like the one read today from Exodus. This is a story we know well. We may not remember the order of the Judges or routes Paul travelled but we do know the Exodus. We know it because the Bible tells us over and over and over again to remember it. It is one of the most fundamental stories of the Bible and intimately tied to another fundamental story of the Bible- the resurrection.

          We hear again and again about the waters separating and the people of Israel walking the path from oppression to freedom. In fact, the Exodus is mentioned about 120 times in the Bible. It is definitely something our ancestors, the prophets and God want us to know, remember and retell to others. Remember that God brought the Israelites from oppression to freedom. Remember how the sea was parted and the path was made clear.

          And as often as I have heard the story and as much as I would like to think I have faith, I am pretty sure if I was faced with the sea split open and an unknown journey ahead, I would have packed some sandwiches and made the kids put on life jackets … I have faith but also … life is scary. And things only got harder before they got better. The terrain was not easy, the unknowns unbearable and faith was hard to hold on to, even for those who witnessed the exodus.

           Today, our church is celebrating our 100^th birthday. The actual birth date is not today exactly, but this year is 100 years since Grace Church and St Stephen’s came together and gave us the long name we have today. The Bishop will preach at the 10:30 service and there will be activities and fun through the afternoon. As part of the celebration, throughout this year, our church historian, Marianna McJimsey has been educating us on the history of our church. She told the youth group the story of how the bell in our tower got here and our bulletins, social media and newsletters have been filled with fascinating stories connecting us to those who have knelt on these kneelers before us. When you start to hear all of our church’s stories and think about all that was happening in the world during those 100 years, it is really astounding and beautiful that we are here, celebrating 100 years.

           Because, even in our recent history, the way forward has been blocked by seemingly immovable barriers. A church split, financial struggles, tragic deaths of pillar members, a pandemic, clergy changes and more. When the path ahead seemed blocked, when the way forward was blocked by an impossible boulder, God was with us, carving a way through, separating the seas, inviting us to take a step forward in faith. And here we are, a healthy, thriving, love-filled and spirit-centered church.

          And so we celebrate because we are here. We celebrate because we have a beautiful building, amazing choir and active ministries but also because we have been continuing on this journey for 100 years, sharing the love of Christ and shining a light into the darkness.

          But like those ancient Israelites, we have not journeyed alone. In the passage read from Exodus, we hear that the pillar of cloud that has been guiding them moves from in front of them to behind them and the text says, “the cloud was there with the darkness, and it lit up the night.” The darkness was there, but so was the light. The light of God sustained them as they took each faithful and unknown step. Any journey has light and dark. And there are times when we walk in the darkness, unable to see the way ahead, crippled with fear, fumbling over unknown obstacles. And we try to find our way back to the light, the light breaking through the cracks, promising a way to catch our breath … a way to warmth.

           And no matter how hard we try, sometimes we can’t control the path forward. Even when we have checked off all of our checklists, over-packed and sufficiently worried into all hours of the night- the journey may be completely unexpected and leave us dizzy with questions.

 Almost 8 years ago, when we found out we would be coming to Grace and St Stephen’s I was overwhelmed with unknowns. At the time I had a one and four-year-old. What would it be like raising kids in Colorado? Would I make friends? What about my career, what would I do next? Where would we live? What about mountain lions and rattlesnakes … should I be worried about those? I had no idea what awaited us. The penetrating warmth of the Colorado sunshine, the sincerity and kindness of this congregation, the loving embrace of the kids’ schools. But also, the heart breaks from people moving away, the painful grief of losing loved ones and the isolation of pandemic lock-downs. There was really no way of preparing for any of it.

    But here we are. All of us. Surrounded by statues and stained glass depictions of saints who bravely walked the journey with Christ, enduring suffering, unknowns and yet always making their way toward that pillar of light in the darkness. And now the penetrating Colorado sun shines forth their colorful light on all of us as we walk our journeys.

          As we celebrate this milestone in our journey as a church, we also remember with love those who have gone before us and contemplate what lies ahead, and we do so with faith, trusting that together we will pave the way ahead with hope, love and enduring faith. The way forward won’t always be as clear as separated waters clearing a path and it won’t always be as hard as church splits and pandemics, but we trust that the pillar of light never leaves us and that God is always calling us toward freedom. And that’s why we keep telling our story, to anyone who will listen- our story as Christians walking this journey together. Our story as a people of faith who follow the light of Christ. Our story that is rooted in the stories we tell over and over again. The story of a people who were suffering and oppressed and took a step forward between two walls of water. The story of a people who found an empty tomb and a resurrected Christ. The story of a people who celebrate 100 years of community as Grace and St Stephen’s, with all of our shortcomings and fears- we made it and we will continue to make it because we aren’t alone. “The cloud was there with the darkness and it lit up the night.” Remember this, remember the light in the darkness, share this, let it seep into your bones, and keep going, even when life takes unexpected turns, when your thoughts are chaotic and the weight of life leaves you feeling dizzy … God is there, the light is with the darkness and that is a story worth telling for at least 100 more years.

8 Years

      Today I listened to “Helplessness Blues” by Fleet Foxes on my way to pick up the kids from camp. It’s the song that was on in my car as I drove home late the night of June 29^th eight years ago. Eight years ago my head was spinning and the tears were pouring from a source deep in my gut, a wound in my soul. For eight years that song brings back that memory in a very real way, but also lots of memories of Laura, not just the way her eyes met mine right before she breathed her last. Today, as I drove through streets more than a thousand miles away from the road I took home eight years ago, I was relieved to feel the warm tears on my cheek. I was relieved to know that while time has changed much, it has not extinguished my love for Laura.

               In fact, a couple of months ago I found myself reaching for my phone to text Laura. It was an instinct, but one that I thought faded years ago. It’s been many years since I had that instinctive thought, but my husband sent me a picture and I knew she would appreciate it more than anyone else. My husband was on a retreat with other Episcopal priests and one of the priests showed him a tattoo on her arm, it was of the Woman at the Well but as a voluptuous pin-up girl. And I LOVED it and I knew Laura would too. So I reached for my phone, but when I realized what I was doing and that I couldn’t communicate with Laura through a text, I smiled and appreciated the movement of the Holy Spirit in such unexpected ways and places … like through a tattoo on a stranger’s arm. Those who were in our Bible Study at the coffee shop in Woodville or those who remember the scripture she chose for her funeral or those who knew her ability to embrace the sassy woman within … will understand. She was sassy and honest and sometimes said the thing that made other people squirm. When I say “she” I mean Laura and the woman at the well. But it wasn’t the kind of “in your face” or “gotcha” kind of questions that put up people’s walls or make people defensive. It’s the kind of questions that come from a heart wanting to connect, wanting to understand, wanting to be vulnerable. The kind that make the walls come down, that chip away at defensiveness and create an opening for genuine connection.

               Time can change things. And sometimes, as time beats on, we may find ourselves misremembering, or idolizing or morphing someone we lost. But, I have to say, I am pleasantly surprised to find that the characteristics and traits that Laura and I connected through have only become stronger in me. Age has made me appreciate who I am more and has only lowered any level of intimidation I may have still had in my early thirties. I ask the questions that sometimes make people uncomfortable, I love deeply and I crave genuine connection with others. Those are the places we still connect. I also make tons of mistakes and say the wrong thing. She did that too and she was honest about it, which made everyone feel that they could be themselves around her.

               I still miss her. And I am still so humbled and grateful that I got to be part of her journey. I am grateful that the tears still fall, that her children are now teenagers and are loved deeply and that I remember her in so many ways and in so many places and through so many relationships.

The Gate

Sermon from 4/30/23 at FUMC: Prairie Campus John 10:1-10

          I decided to preach the assigned lectionary texts for this Sunday and as soon as I started reading this Gospel I had a memory from a Bible class I took in seminary. We were studying this passage from John and we had to read a very lengthy article on the sheep gate. It was about what a sheep gate was and all the historical specifics. Somewhere between the logistics of how it would have opened and closed and the specific measurements that were typical of sheep gates at that time, my eyes got very heavy and it was a struggle to finish it. I did not like that article at all. I figured I would just avoid preaching on this passage for my entire ministry career and forever block out all historical sheep-gate related information for the rest of my life. So when I opened up to John 10 and saw the sheep gate I first sighed and then thought “I kind of wish I had paid more attention to that article.” But, because I didn’t, you will be spared from a sermon about the dimensions of a historical sheep gate and hopefully spared from heavy eyelids.

 

          But maybe you have a more mechanical type brain than I do or perhaps you are fascinated with historical details and so you are really wishing I had paid better attention to that article so we could talk more about sheep gates. Well don’t worry, I do think we should spend some time reflecting on the sheep gate, maybe not the dimensions and mechanics of it but meditating on it none the less. Jesus often speaks in parables but we don’t always get clear guidance on understanding those parables. But in this explanation of the sheep gate Jesus directly says (multiple times), “I am the gate.” So it is certainly worth spending some time on.

 

          Jesus as the gate is not the most popular metaphor in Christianity. I have never seen a stained glass window with a beautifully colored and reflective gate at the front of a worship space. I have never seen Christians wear necklaces with gate charms or put gate stickers on their cars. And yet, Jesus tells us “I am the gate.” It is much more popular and understandable to focus on the other metaphors in this passage. Jesus as the Shepherd is a much more relatable image. This idea of a shepherd and his pasture clearly has a deep influence on how we do church as we call our ordained leaders “pastor” and the work of caring for one another as “pastoral ministry.” It is a beautiful model of Christian leadership and evokes images of green rolling hills and a calm and steady presence guiding the herd through both peaceful and uncertain times. And in the verses following this passage Jesus says “I am the good shepherd.”

 

          But, for now, we have a gate. And the image of a gate might not conjure up warm feelings for everyone. My first thought when I think of a gate is a closed gate, a locked gate or being left outside of a gate. I am guessing we all have had experiences like that. Maybe it is an experience of a literal gate being closed. Like arriving late to something and not being let in or wanting to go somewhere but it’s closed. Or maybe it reminds you of any experience of being not being let in- but not because you are late or at the wrong place but because of who you are- your background, your race, your gender, your socio-economic class. When I was growing up my mom would tell me about when she and her siblings weren’t allowed in to the public pool as kids because they are Lebanese and their skin was brown. I thought about that every time we went to the public pool and walked through the entrance gate. For some, the gate is a painful memory, a symbol of exclusion.

          But in the Gospel reading today that isn’t the function of the sheep gate Jesus is talking about. Yes, gates can be used for keeping people out, but Jesus is talking about a gate that lets people in. This is a gate that is open. A gate that protects the sheep from those who wish to do them harm. It is the way in.

 

          That makes us the sheep. In this passage, along with the one following it and many others throughout the Gospels, sheep are used as a metaphor for Christ’s followers. In fact, I remember singing songs about being a sheep during Sunday School when I was a kid. The image of Jesus as the good shepherd caring for the sheep is a popular image on stained glass windows and church wall portraits, and it isn’t because Jesus really liked sheep or was exceptionally skilled at petting sheep. It’s because the idea of Jesus as the shepherd leading his flock of followers is an important image in the Bible and in Christianity.

 

          But as you all probably know, the idea of “being a sheep” is not exactly popular right now. In fact I have seen bumper stickers and t shirts proudly proclaiming “I am not a sheep.” We live in a very individualistic society where we are constantly told that the purpose of all things and what truly matters is you, who you are, what people think of you, what you accumulate, how you feel and your right to do whatever you want to do. And so this idea of finding one’s place in a big group and blindly following the shepherd while walking along with the other sheep- happily unaware of where you are going or what is happening- is not very popular. And it’s not just unpopular, it makes people really angry.

 

          And none of us wants to be mindlessly following the person in front of us right off a cliff. We honor and seek to emulate those who boldly spoke for justice rather than maintaining the status quo. Sometimes we need to go against the grain and question the direction of the flock.

 

          But as Christians we are called to be part of a community and we are called to follow Jesus, to listen to his voice, discern where he is calling us and follow … right through the gate, and right alongside with our brothers and sisters. And sometimes that means giving up some of our individualism to be part of the community. Giving up some of our stubborn insistence and confessing that we do not know all the answers and that we are dependent on God.

 

          And we find that when we walk through this gate, when we follow this voice … we are more than just another sheep. We are called by name. I love that line in this passage, in verse 3 where it says “He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.” One of the commentaries I read suggested this could be referring to “pet names” or “nicknames” that a shepherd has for each sheep. This isn’t what I would typically think of when I think of a shepherd calling in sheep. I picture a tired shepherd herding the sheep into a single file and hurrying them along before slamming the gate and walking away. But this is something different. He is calling them each by a name, a beloved name. He sees them, he knows them, he makes sure they know they are seen and known. We are named, we are valued and we are loved … and we are part of a larger body, a community, a flock.

 

          The passage ends with Jesus saying, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” This is what the gate opens to, this is what we are called by name to. What does it mean to have life abundantly? Sometimes I think there is this idea that if you are a Christian and you are really strong in your faith you should never have fears about death or whether or not life has meaning or if we have a purpose. But those are all really human questions. Sometimes when I realize how quickly my children are growing, how fast the last few years have gone by or when I have to tell someone in their twenties that I am in my forties and see the look on their face- I start to think about life … aging . . . death . . .whether or not I’m doing it all right. You see I am the kind of person who has always tried to do things “right.” I always got good grades, tried to follow the rules and do my best to make others happy. But life is tricky. We don’t get progress reports and the “right” path forward isn’t always clear … if there even is one. Sometimes life is moving so fast and I wonder what am I even doing and what should I be doing and how do I know  … anything really?

 

          And we often are the stubborn sheep who goes the wrong way or the lost sheep. At the end of the day sometimes we replay things we did or said or didn’t do or didn’t say and it all swirls around in our head and the darkness can feel really dark.

 

          But Jesus tells us he is a gate, a gate that opens, a gate that protects and that we are called by name to walk through. We are called to be embraced into the fold of God’s mercy and love. And we see that yes our story and our life matters but it is about so much more than that. We are called to be part of the body of Christ that extends across space and time, that lasts into eternity. We are part of a salvation story that is bigger than us and yet is very much a part of us and we are an important part of it. This is life abundantly. This is life through the gate. A life lived knowing that we are seen and valued and we are not alone. That we are called. And we don’t need a checklist or a progress report, we don’t need to agonize over what we did wrong or right, we don’t have to make all the right decisions, or live up to everyone’s expectations or never make mistakes, we don’t even need to have it all figured out, all we have to do … all we get to do  … is walk through the gate.