Sermon from First UMC Delmar, 3/9/25 Luke 4:1-13 “Grounded”

 

    One summer when I was young, one of my neighborhood friends suggested we walk up the street and enter the high school and watch my sister’s dress rehearsal for her dance recital. I can’t remember if I questioned this idea, but I do remember that I went. We often ran around on the block through neighbor’s back yards and the school was just at the top of the street so it probably seemed ok. Until … we came out of the rehearsal and saw the whole neighborhood frantically looking for us. Remember, this is before cell phones so no one knew where we were. My mom was so worried and I was in so much trouble. I received my punishment … I was grounded. Right in the middle of summer, the best days for playing, particularly in Northeast Ohio where I lived. Instead of running around with the neighborhood friends, I would have lots of time to think, reflect and wallow. Lots of time to think about my decision-making, who it effects and how I would do it differently. And, honestly, I don’t know that I was ever grounded again … so I guess you could say it was effective.

 

         I don’t know if kids still get “grounded.” I know that my husband and I don’t really ground our kids, we typically use screen time as the currency for consequences- taking it away when needed and adding more when earned. But when I hear the word “grounded” it still conjures up memories of punishment, consequence and dread. I’m not sure where the term comes from, perhaps it’s like when there is bad weather and all planes are “grounded.” You have to stay put, no taking off, not until you are ready. But I wonder if there is another meaning, perhaps one that involves a spiritual component. Sometimes when people are looking for stability or calm or peace they will say “I need to feel grounded.” It’s like when emotions, worry, anxiety, and stress are pulling us up into a whirlwind of chaos until we are spinning and can’t remember which way is up and which way is down and so we look for a way to get our feet back on the ground. To be grounded and steady even while everything else is swirling around us. It’s like finding our spiritual center to keep us from falling apart. Or connecting with the presence of the Holy Spirit that is within us, rather than chasing other things for fulfillment, bringing ourselves back to peace and steadiness, while also, like something our parents might have said to us as children, “thinking about what you have done and how you will do it differently next time.”

 

           In the reading from Deuteronomy, there is grounding instructions for the nomadic people of Israel. They have been wandering, searching, following, looking for a steady place to rest their feet, trusting that the path they are following will lead them to the promised land and they get these instructions about what to do when they come into the promised land. They are to make an offering and with it, tell their story. The story of their people- the whole story about Jacob and Moses and oppression and wandering and God’s steadfast presence. Then, even in this new land, they will remember who they are, they will remember that it was God who brought them there, they will remember their story of being oppressed, afraid … lost. They will be grounded in that reality, and it will shape their actions and words, it will center their hearts around the heart of God.

 

          In the Gospel reading we also find Jesus “led by the Spirit in the wilderness.” He too is taken away from all that is familiar and comfortable and brought to a wilderness filled with temptation and risk. In a sense, it’s like he is grounded as a child would be- sent away from all pleasures, alone with his thoughts. But he is quickly met with temptation. It says that “for forty days he was tempted by the devil.” The first temptation is to turn the stone into bread. Remember that Jesus is fasting and has eaten nothing. This goes beyond mental temptation, this is physical temptation, going against the strong urge the body has to survive. The next temptation is authority over “all the kingdoms of the world.” This could certainly have been a more efficient way of Jesus influencing people- rather than all the relational/preaching/praying/healing- just outright authority, demands and power- with none of the messy stuff like touching hurting people, threats against you and unending arguments with religious officials. The last temptation is to throw himself from the pinnacle of the temple and test that he will be caught by angels. This is putting God to the test, demonstrating glory. It must have been a dizzying offer- standing at the pinnacle, looking down, lightheaded from lack of food and the potential for a moment of dazzling power.

 

          In his commentary on this passage, Luke Timothy Johnson says, “the tests would suggest to the Hellenistic reader the threefold categories of vice: love of pleasure, love of possessions, love of glory. Jesus’ refusal of these lures would identify him as a righteous person, a sage truly capable of teaching virtue.” (Sacra Pagina: Luke, pg 76). It seems that some things are timeless- like temptations. We are still in a world fraught with temptations pulling as hard as they can to bring us down the path of love of pleasure, love of possessions and love of glory.

 

          And here he is, out in the wilderness, away from everyone, where no one can see, hungry, faced with a path of suffering and pain … and all that anyone could desire is presented to him. And he walks away. He walks right out of that wilderness and right into preaching. He immediately begins his ministry. He reads from Isaiah, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free.” And just as he immediately begins his ministry, he immediately is rejected. He instantly goes from being offered power and glory at the pinnacle of the temple to being run out of town by an angry mob and being offered death and pain as they try to push him off a cliff. His ministry begins with rejection.

 

          I don’t know about you, but I can say that in my own life, the times when I most need grounding, when I most need my heart steadily set on God, when I most need to be sure of who I am, is when I am facing rejection. Whether that is rejection from others or rejection from the way I hoped things would be. And watching those we love get rejected can be especially painful. We do our best to give children a strong sense of their belovedness so that when the rejection comes- when we send them off to the tough world of socialization, they will stay grounded, remembering that they are loved, remembering there is more to life than the painful feelings rejection brings and assured that they are precious in God’s sight. Jesus was grounded, he has been through the wilderness, he was sure of his relationship with God, he knew who he was and so he passes through the angry crowd and keeps at it.

 

          Perhaps you are feeling like your feet have come off the ground, like you are caught spinning in a whirlwind, unable to find the ground, reaching out and longing for peace, for stability but not sure where it went. There is certainly much in this world to leave us spinning. I don’t need to tell you that we live in a divisive and heated climate, where emotions run high and grace seems in short supply. We live in a fast paced world that is constantly pushing us toward those vices of love of possessions, love of power and love of glory. Where the road of peace is messy and hard but we are surrounded by superficial promises of an easier, more efficient path. Where morals and values are often exchanged for money and power. A world where there are endless things on our phones to distract us from our own thoughts. And perhaps, you are looking for grounding- solid footing on the solid rock that is Christ.

 

          Today is the first Sunday of Lent. It is a time when we reflect on what tempts us, what distracts us and what pulls us away from walking the deeper path with Christ. It is a set apart time when we can look at the things in our life that leave us spinning and the things that ground us. When we are called to root out that which is fleeting, selfish and shallow and dig our feet into that which is steady, loving and deep. Practices like prayer, journaling, walks, scripture reading, regular worship and deep breathing are not hard to do but are so very valuable and needed. Things that give our hearts space to feel the heart of God, quiet to hear the Spirit’s guidance and clarity to think about decisions we have made and how we want to make decisions in the future. It’s like we are being grounded. Told to step away from the things that are not life-giving and make room for the things that are life-giving. A chance to be reminded that beyond all the felt urgency and chaos and stress, we are part of a much larger story. A story of God’s unending love, of Jesus’ journey of salvation and the continual relationship God calls us into.

 

          I work as a hospital chaplain and last Wednesday I was scheduled to be there at 7 am to help distribute ashes for Ash Wednesday. If you think about it, Ash Wednesday is kind of an odd thing we do. We pray prayers of repentance, we are told we will die and then we walk away with dirt smeared on our heads. I’ve always loved it for all of its oddness and the way it takes us out of our normal routines and calls us into this special Lenten journey. But at the hospital it took on a different context that I couldn’t help but reflect on as my thumb wiped across forehead after forehead. Foreheads of family members trying to appear steady as they walked their loved one to surgery, foreheads of those who were sick and in pain, foreheads of nurses leaving an overnight shift of medicines, messes and trying their best to bring comfort, foreheads that could only be reached by slightly lifting the surgical caps of surgeons who quickly headed back for the next procedure and foreheads of fellow chaplains who will go and look into the eyes of those who are afraid, alone and facing death.

 

As I repeatedly placed my thumb into the small cup of ashes I thought about how the words I was saying, “remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return” were not shocking or unusual for these people. The reminder of death’s reality is part of their life. They do remember that they are dust and to dust they shall return because death is all around them. And as I thought of this, I felt deeply moved at how this simple practice put their experience in a larger story. A reminder for them not of a cold hard reality of death, but rather a much larger salvation story that death is but a part of. A reminder of the peaceful and loving reality of death and that not even death can separate us from the love of God. A reminder that we are not alone. We are all in this life and death together, it is something that we all continually learn to accept. And as I watched the dark bits of ash circle down the drain when I washed my hands in the hospital bathroom, I felt grounded. I knew the Holy Spirit was in that place, in the people whose eyes met mine when I touched their foreheads and in me- and the swirling chaos of the world felt quieter even with all the beeping of machines and the beds being pushed down hallways. God’s love was there, God’s love is here, let us ground ourselves in that love and a peace that passes all understanding. Amen

Sermon from St. Johns, Cohoes 2/2/24

 

Luke 2:22-40

          I had an interesting experience this week. I was invited to be part of a conversation of chaplains serving in various healthcare contexts around the area. This was an online meeting and began with a time of conversation around a passage of scripture. This group on this occasion was made up of all Christian chaplains and they were reflecting on what it means to be made new in Christ. The majority of the chaplains were originally from other countries. They talked about their experiences of becoming citizens and living in this country as immigrants. As the meeting went on, people talked about difficult visits and situations they were dealing with as chaplains, heartbreaking situations with patients struggling and grieving families. They also prayed for the victims of the plane crash. And after listening to one another, reflecting together and praying, everyone logged off and went back to the work of sitting with those who are suffering.

           It was a simple, every day, routine moment, and yet, also a beautiful and moving witness of faith. Each person came with their own unique stories, their own struggles and their own frustrations … but also each person came from such varied backgrounds and experiences, united by hope, brought together by their faith in Jesus Christ. Each person was introduced to Christ in very different parts of the world, different languages and with different traditions and yet together they understood their common source of hope. And so they do their work of ministering each day, holding space for the work of the Holy Spirit, and keeping vigil for the savior of the world.

          It got me thinking about Simeon and Anna. Day in and day out they kept vigil, living devoutly, living in service and devotion to God, holding vigil as they waited for the promised savior of the world to come.

          We do not get much time with Simeon and Anna in the Bible. We find them only in the Gospel of Luke and only for a few lines. But in those lines we get to know quite a bit. We know that Simeon was “righteous and devout” and that the “Holy Spirit rested on him.” And that he would not die until he had seen the Messiah.  And we know that Anna is referred to as a “prophet” and has been a widow living at the Temple for a long time.  And she is 84 years old.

          I have a John Wesley study Bible that I often use as part of sermon preparation. John Wesley was an Anglican priest who started the Methodist denomination. In his notes on this passage he says, “Let the example of these aged saints animate those whose [gray] heads, like theirs are a ‘crown of glory.” They both are examples of persistent belief, unwavering hope and vibrant and bold prophetic ministry even at an older age.

          I say bold and prophetic ministry because their message is not one of easy comfort. Simeon says that not everyone will follow Jesus and that Jesus is “destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed.” They are not here to signal that it’s all sunny skies ahead. Simeon says to Mary, “a sword will pierce your own soul too.” This is not a cozy kind of “look at the beautiful baby, what a nice boy he will be” kind of message. It’s more of a “God has saved us but buckle up …” They were not naïve in their old age. They knew Jesus would face trouble ahead- and his presence would create conflict for many.

          And yet, Anna and Simeon also had the long view. At our last church in Colorado, I helped lead a Women’s Book Group that met every week. There were several in the group who had not yet reached retirement age but several more who were older. I loved the conversations and was enriched by the shared wisdom. One of the things I always appreciated was learning from those who had come to a place where they could see the long view of things. When we would worry about things happening or panic about covid or stress about the uncertainty of life, they would stay calm and see all of it as part of the ever changing patches that make up the bigger quilt of life. They would take it in stride, recognizing that emotions, feelings and anxieties pass and that the sun will keep setting and rising. It sounds like this was where Anna and Simeon found themselves. Anna lost her husband early and fasted every day. This was not an easy life she was living, and yet she praised God when she saw Jesus. She held on to hope. She understood that even though there were difficult days, the salvation story of which she was a part, was long. And Simeon rejoiced even though he knew there would be pain and struggle because he saw the long view. Redemption had come, the Savior was here and even though division and pain would come, there is a light to enlighten the nations … for all of eternity. And I find a kind of peace in that … and comfort. The scope of faith is beyond the momentary, we are part of a much bigger story of God’s saving grace.

          In fact, I find comfort in these words every day. Some time, about a year ago, after my family moved across the country and as we were all feeling lost in a new place- trying to figure out how to create routines and make friends and find community somewhere new- I started praying Compline from the Book of Common Prayer every night. No matter how heavy my eyelids are, I reach over for the little red book on my nightstand and turn to the bookmarked page that’s become a bit crinkled. And my lips and eyes go through the Compline service as my mind wavers in and out. Some nights I am anxious or energized or feeling frantic and I find myself rushing over the words and forcing myself to pause and let my heart catch up. Some nights I come to the service with a more open heart, saddened by the changes and chances of the world and some of the words blur as a tear fills my eye. The words striking directly into my heart and the Psalms feeling like they were written exactly for this time and place. But every time, I come to these words from Simeon. It comes at the end of the service. After all the intercessions for people that I know who are hurting, after prayers for those who work through the night and those who weep through the night, after confessing my sins and remembering that the very last phrase of the Lord’s Prayer is left off in Compline, I come to the words of Simeon … at the end. It’s a slightly different translation than what is in many of our Bibles, and I think it is a bit more poetic: “Lord you now have set your servant free    to go in peace as you have promised; For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior whom you have prepared for all the world to see: A Light to enlighten the nations, and the glory of your people Israel.”

     And I feel a kind of release, like I am being sent off into dreamland in peace, my heart warmed by the light to enlighten all nations. But it also gives me pause as I am reminded that I have seen the Savior. I have not held the baby Jesus as Simeon did, but I have experienced and witnessed Christ in the world and I have been marked by the water of the baptismal font and get to call myself a Christian. It also makes me think about this light to enlighten the nations and wonder how that light has enlightened me and how I have spread that light to others … how have I been part of this spreading of light to all people?”

          It is a comfort, a hope, a peace and a challenge to all of us. What does it mean to live as a people who have seen the Savior? What does it mean to carry forth the light to enlighten the nations?

          Thinking back on that conversation I was a part of- the diverse group of chaplains opening their hearts to one another. They come together, they reflect on the Bible and what it means to be a follower of Christ. They share from their hearts and create space to hear one another and then they go forth, like Anna, to speak about the child who brings redemption … the light to enlighten the nations.

          I wonder … is that a bit like what we do here when we gather. We reflect on the scripture, we affirm our faith together, we come together to offer presence to one another, we extend peace and care, we bring our true selves, not as the world sees us but as God sees us, we experience the risen Christ in the breaking of the bread and then we go forth … to go in peace … with eyes that have seen the Savior …

Sermon from Holy Spirit ELCA John 2:1-11

 

          This past week I found myself on an unexpected trip back to where I grew up- a small town outside of Youngstown, Ohio. Because the Friday before that my best friend’s mother died. I met my best friend when I was three years old. We lived one block apart, so over the years we spent a lot of time together, eventually getting our first jobs together, visiting each other in college, standing in each other’s weddings and holding each other’s babies. Through all of that her mother was a steady presence. Someone who always welcomed me and was always there. So I was very sad when she died, but also my heart broke for my friend. She was very close to her mom and as our parents age we know that there will come a day when we will have to say goodbye, but there really is no way to prepare for it. And so I cried as I thought of her pain and grieving. And I was so overwhelmed with pride for her as she told me the story of how she sat next to her mother that final night, showering her in love, reassuring her, getting her what she needed and honoring her wishes of how she wanted to die. So when the funeral arrangements were set for last Wednesday, I bought an Amtrak ticket, packed a bag and headed to Ohio …. And I wasn’t the only one. Our other close friends also called off work, bought plane tickets and made travel plans. And the sister of my friend also had her friends coming in from all over the country. Plus, their mother’s friends and family. Many people came together.

          And with each person came more flowers and more food. Soon the kitchen table where her mother had prepared many meals, was covered in cookies and deli trays and ice cream and snacks until they piled up and overflowed onto other surfaces. People came and brought things and offered hugs and shared memories and loving words all to try to show something we couldn’t show. The piles of food and the packed rooms were all people trying to make tangible what is intangible. And that’s love. Every cracker, every lily, every car parked outside was a sign of love, a reaction to what was felt in our hearts, a way to show the abundance of feelings that cannot be seen but only felt. And we all hoped that it would bring love and comfort and warmth to their grieving hearts.

 

          I thought about this as I was looking out the window on my train home Thursday and reflecting on today’s Gospel passage. I have sometimes heard this passage used as a way to show God’s blessing on weddings or parties or even drinking. But I wonder …is that perhaps looking at the materials rather than the reason? Like someone bringing cookies to the home of a grieving loved one and that being interpreted as “they really think cookies are special and important” rather than seeing the intent behind it? The Gospel of John refers to what happened at this wedding in Cana as a “sign” and of course signs point to something else. Just like a cookie or flowers brought to the grieving, the water turned to wine is about the love behind it. God’s love for God’s people- something intangible represented by something tangible.

 

          God loves us. And in order to show that love, God comes to be with us through Jesus and Jesus performs signs and miracles to show that love here on earth.  A way of making something invisible, visible. God’s love poured out for us through giant containers of wine filled to the brim.

           And the Gospel tells us that they really were full and there were many. It was an abundance. There was no shortage. And it was noticeable and appreciated by the guests. The image of a heavenly banquet is used frequently in the Bible. A depiction of a great feast with ample food with all needs met and an abundance of blessings. This is the image God gives us for our final reunion with God into eternity. Overflowing, abundant love.

          But Jesus does not stand up and announce to the crowd that it was him who did this. And yet, the text says the disciples saw this and believed in him. All of this is about convincing his followers that he is who he says he is. That Jesus is God and his words and actions are a sign of God’s love for us.

          But, in addition to the disciples, there is another example of one who believes in this text. I’ve always found the exchange with Mary at the beginning of this passage a little odd and not at all how one would expect a conversation between mother and son to go. So I did a bit of digging and in his commentary on this passage, Biblical Scholar Gilberto Ruiz, explains the kind of stiff and formal language Jesus uses with Mary. When Mary tells Jesus that there is no more wine he says, “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me? My hour has not yet come.” It sounds a bit like “who cares and stop bothering me” and if either of my sons referred to me as “woman” I would definitely be taken aback. But, Ruiz explains that this language was not at all rude or even unusual for that time. It was common to address someone as “woman” and the expression he uses is “a common Semitic expression that implies a sense of disengagement, not active hostility.” That said, even in those days, it was not typical family talk and implies some distance in the conversation between Jesus and his mom. This is not about a mother/son moment, but rather about understanding God’s timing.

          Mary is not taken aback by this exchange and turns around and says to the servants, “do whatever he tells you.” She is not bewildered or hesitant or upset, she is completely confident that Jesus will do the right thing. His explanation that “his hour has not yet come” seems to make sense to her as she trusts his understanding of God’s time regardless of whatever sense of urgency people may feel. Mary seems to completely get all of it. In telling him about the wine, she understands what he can do and in telling the servants to do whatever he says, she trusts him, his timing and his decision-making fully. Of course, we are not far past Christmas so many of us still have the image of Mary at the birth witnessing the angels in our minds, so it may not be surprising that she understands all of this, but still an incredible witness of faith and trust right from the beginning, when Jesus is first building his following.

         What Mary understood and what the disciples were starting to see is that God provides. And as they drank their wine, maybe it was easy for the disciples to believe, but over time as they journeyed with Jesus and began to understand just what that means, and how far it would go- it perhaps became more difficult, especially as they watched him suffer and die. And yet, Jesus understood it all and continued to show through actions, signs, miracles and words that God provides abundance. Abundant love, abundant care and an abundant desire to be in relationship with us. The intangible love poured out for us through wine. The invisible grace made visible through the body of Christ.

          Last Wednesday after I went to the funeral I went over to my friend’s house. A house that hosted many sleepovers, dinners, holidays and parties. A house I know better than my own. An address that will forever be ingrained in my memory. I wasn’t sure what it would be like going there knowing my friend’s mom wouldn’t be there. What would it be like to see her things still around, her bed empty and her family missing her deeply. Soon after I entered, my friends’ very young daughters and nieces handed me a little ticket and begged everyone to please come downstairs for the performance. We obediently took our places and paid close attention as the Taylor Swift music began playing and they began their performance of twirls, cartwheels, spins, hair flips and giggles. They were holding hands and spinning as their tiny faces lit up with joy. And we all smiled with them and applauded and enthusiastically “oooohed and aaaaahhhed” every wild and energetic moment.

           I thought I would be entering a house that felt empty … and my friend’s mom’s absence was deeply felt and very real …. But the house was not empty. Where I thought there might be emptiness was actually full of abundance. Those little girls loved their grandma and will miss her dearly, but in every smile and giggle and hug for each other, their grandma’s memory was present, her legacy passed on and her deep love for them present. God provides. Of course that doesn’t mean we don’t hurt or grieve, or long for or suffer … but God’s abundance continues to pour out onto us.

 As a hospital chaplain I hear many stories of grief and loss. People will share with me their deepest stories of hurt- losing loved ones and figuring out how to go on without them. I usually ask them what helped them get through those darkest times and again and again I see their face lighten as they look at me and say “God …. That’s the only way I got through.” Something intangible made tangible through strength and perseverance, hope and resiliency. Water into wine … cookies on the table …. Abundance where there was emptiness.

Christ the Prisoner- Sermon from St Paul's Episcopal Albany 11/24/24

 

John 18:33-37

          During the week, I get to spend time serving as a hospital chaplain. This means I go from room to room asking patients if they would like to have a conversation. Sometimes, they reply with “but I’m not religious” but I explain that the chaplains visit everyone and we provide space to talk about anything on their mind whether or not they are religious. When I knock on the door of a hospital room, I may have a name and a birthdate but beyond that I have no idea what to expect behind the door. It could be someone who just received a devastating diagnosis, it could be someone on the phone fighting with their spouse, someone happily dressed and ready to go home or someone prepared to scream at anyone who walks through the door. It really doesn’t matter because every time I enter into a patient’s room, I see them as a child of God, no matter what may be happening around them.

 

          But I had an experience the other day that distracted me a bit. I entered the room and the patient was restrained and next to the bed stood two armed police officers. Now, this is not a particularly unusual scene to find- I have visited with plenty of folks who have been incarcerated and plenty who have had someone in the room to monitor their safety- but for various reasons I found this room particularly distracting- maybe it was because my mind naturally kept wondering why the person was incarcerated? Maybe because during the visit the guards changed shifts which created a bit of a scene. For whatever reason, I left that room feeling uncomfortable. At first I thought maybe it was because of all of the distractions, but it wasn’t until I read today’s Gospel passage in preparation for today, that I realized, that visit wasn’t sitting right with me because I let all that was going on distract me from the child of God that was in front of me. I did not fully see and fully focus on the person and allowed myself to be swayed by all of the things in the room that took away from their humanity.

 

          As a pastor, I have visited parishioners in prison or jail before. It’s always a heart-breaking process. There is this person that you care about and in the situations I was in, they were behind a glass, talking through a telephone and surrounded by people watching them closely and even for me, on the other side of the glass, it felt confining- being led through various steel doors that required ids to open – it felt like a very constricted environment in many ways, and with many barriers to genuinely connected with the person behind the glass. So many people watching, so many things in place to separate.

 

          These are the memories that came to my mind when I read the Gospel passage for today … Christ the King. Because the Jesus we encounter in this passage from John is Christ the Prisoner. This part of the Gospel lesson comes right after Jesus is arrested and “bound,” right after his disciple Peter denies being his disciple, right after Jesus is smacked in the face and right after Pilate asks Caiaphas why the religious authorities don’t deal with Jesus themselves and he says “because they can’t put anyone to death.” And so here we meet Jesus today. A bound, beaten, chastised and denied prisoner. And right after this passage he will be flogged and beaten. Our Christ the King is Christ the Prisoner.

 

          And Christ the Prisoner is how they all want to see him. Pilate is trying to get him to say he thinks he is a king so he can get this over with. No one wants to hear his words or see his humanity, they especially don’t want to see his divinity, they want to see him as the prisoner, they want to despise him, to kick him and mock him and cheer when the criminal is freed and he is not. They want to label him, dismiss him and get it over with.

 

          When you think of a population that is most despised, most looked down on and most hated … it’s usually prisoners. And that’s what Jesus is in this passage. The one we worship and bow to is the one who is bound and beaten. The one who we call ruler, King, Savior … is ridiculed, mocked and despised. It’s all flipped over, topsy-turvy, messed up, askew, not right, nonsensical. Christ the Prisoner is Christ the King.

 

          The Gospel has a way of doing that, God has a way of doing that- flipping things around, the last shall be first, the humble lifted up, the mourning are blessed … the crucified is the savior.

 

          Surely then, those who worship Christ, those who follow the Gospels will be a people who value the lost, the lonely, the dehumanized, the poor, the suffering, those cast aside and not the powerful, wealthy and arrogant … right?

          Surely then, those who worship Christ, those who follow the Gospels will know that when they are downtrodden, rejected, despised, cast out, thrown away that Christ is with them … right?

          Surely then, those who worship Christ, those who follow the Gospels will know that they do not have to be perfect by the world’s standards, flawless, without sin and never wrong in order to know Christ’s deep and endless love … right?

 

          Surely we will know that in the darkest parts of ourselves, in our shame, in our despair in the parts of ourselves that are too dark, too difficult, too embarrassing, too imperfect … in those places the light of Christ dwells. The light of the one who was judged, despised, bound, accused and mocked. Surely we will know that Christ our King can see behind the masks that we wear- to the child of God underneath, despite all the distractions, all the chaos, all the societal standards, all the mistakes and all the flaws.  Jesus says “Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” He says this not when he is raised in Glory on the throne, but when he is bound and beaten and the world has turned against him. This is the voice that holds the truth. Can we listen?

 

          Can we see beyond the labels and the standards and the expectations and the distractions and see the light of Christ in one another, can we see the love of God in our very imperfect world, can we see the Holy Spirit that dwells within us in our flawed bodies?

 

          There are many different types of people that I encounter in the hospital and in the world. I see people of all different backgrounds and religions, people with a criminal background and those who have led a life of tremendous love and generosity. People who have been lifelong Christians and devoted themselves to the church and people who have never set foot in a church. One thing that I find over and over again in all types of people of all ages and from all backgrounds is that it can be really hard to convince people that they are loved- like truly loved. I think this is the most heartbreaking part for me of being a chaplain and it was definitely the most heartbreaking part of being a youth pastor at our last church and a pastor before that … people are carrying so much shame. It is not nearly as hard to convince others that someone else is deserving of God’s unconditional love- even if that person has done terrible things- but to convince someone that they do- that’s a challenge. A challenge God was so invested in that God sent God’s only son here to this world to see us face to face, to endure suffering, to be beaten and bound to tell us that God loves us … not just them, but us, you and me. The prison uniform does not distract God from seeing the beloved child within. Your mistakes and wounds do not distract God from seeing the beloved child you are.

 

          So this is how we end our church year. Next week we begin a new liturgical year with the first Sunday of Advent, we go back to the beginning of the Gospel story, but today we come to the end, the last Sunday in our yearly walk through the Gospels … and our beautiful conclusion is a prisoner proclaiming the truth before being flogged. This is the hope of the world, that our brokenness is not the final answer, that our mistakes are not who we are, that our labels do not define us before the one who created us, that our hatred and divisions and attempts at dehumanizing one another will fade and give way to a much greater love, that we are not hopeless, we are not thrown away, we are not forgotten …. We are made whole, we are forgiven, we are loved by Christ the Prisoner. This is Christ the King.

Stewardship Sunday Sermon from St. Stephen's Episcopal in Delmar

 11/17/24 Matthew 6:19-21

          I grew up in a small suburb of Youngstown, Ohio called Girard. It was a working class town that bordered the edge of Youngstown where the old steel mills sat and where the Italian immigrants settled and where you can still find great Italian food. My Orthodox mother and my Congregationalist dad needed to find a church to get their baby baptized when they moved into town and so they agreed on the United Methodist Church downtown. I was that baby. I grew up learning Bible stories from felt boards and leaflets taught by loving volunteers who told stories of how I screamed in the nursery as a baby. I was part of the pack of kids that ran around in sagging tights and stiff dresses while the adults all talked at coffee hour in the parish hall. I went to church picnics and Wednesday night Youth Club and nervously did the motions to the children’s musical. I passed notes on the backs of bulletins with my sister and got scolded when the giggles got too loud. My parents led the youth group for a while when my sister was a teenager and I was still in the single digits and while they led the meetings, the custodian showed my sister and I where to find the big wheels and let us ride them around the downstairs. I went to lock-ins and helped pick up all the rubber darts from the dart guns before the worship service started.

 And when I was 13 it was time for confirmation classes. Every Wednesday after school I sat in a room with other 13 year-olds and learned about the Christian faith. This was a step up from leaflets and felt boards, this was the deep stuff. We talked through various scenarios and how to make decisions based on our faith and it was taught by the actual pastor. The one who stood up front in the fancy robes was sitting around the table with us, a bunch of 13 year-olds and he let us … even encouraged us to ask questions. A pivotal moment in my life was the day he brought out the easel and markers and said “ok, ask any questions you have about church, God, religion … anything.” After he started writing down people’s questions, even the silly ones, I could see he was sincere, so I let loose. I asked all of the questions that were being stored up in my mind for all those years of listening to sermons and hearing Bible stories. I even asked the big ones like “why do bad things happen to good people.” Here’s the interesting thing about that. I can picture clearly that moment. I can picture the creepy clown picture on the wall, I can picture the pastor, the marker on the easel, the feel of the chair I was sitting in, but I can’t remember at all what the answers were or if he even gave answers. Something profound happened in that moment of being invited to share my questions and thoughts about faith and being taken seriously and that is the moment at which my call to ordained ministry began. It was when I realized that all that church stuff and all the hymns and all the Bible stories and all the faith lessons …. They were for me too, not just the adults, not just my parents. It was as if in the invitation to ask those faith questions, God was inviting me into a relationship- a dynamic, deep, living, vibrant relationship. And it changed my life.

 Soon after the confirmation service, I got mail. When you are thirteen you are not yet jaded by bills and advertisements and so mail with your name on it is exciting. It was addressed to me and it was a box and in that box were envelopes with different colors around the edges and a number in the corner and my name on each one. That’s right, I got offering envelopes and I was floored. I was a full-fledged part of the church with my own name on my own envelopes and I got to give my own money to God. And I did. I figured out ten percent of my allowance, birthday money and eventually pay checks from the dairy queen and gave my tithe and every time I put it in the offering plate it reinforced for me that this faith stuff, church, God, all of it was something I get to be a part of. I am seen, I am needed, I am important to the body of Christ.

 Years later after I was ordained and I was serving as an associate pastor of a large United Methodist Church, the Senior Pastor asked me to attend a “Stewardship Academy” that the conference was hosting. I thought it would be presentations on the various stewardship programs churches can use and looking at what works well and which aspects of various programs folks have found meaningful. There was some of that, but mostly it was about the theology of giving. We looked at Bible passages related to tithing and giving from the Old Testament to the New Testament and looked at thoughts about giving over the history of the Church. Through all of it, the main point that came up again and again was that giving is an opportunity, it is an invitation to participate in worship through our gifts. Or as Chris Cassidy said last Sunday in his testimony, it is “where we can worship God from what we have.”

 I have been to a lot of fund-raisers as I am sure you have as well. I have listened to speeches on why I should give to various causes, received endless asks for money through the mail and participated in many drives and benefits. Typically, those will focus on what your money pays for. Like if you give to this organization, your gift will provide this many meals to someone in need. Or if you give to this university, your gift will help a scholarship for this many students. These are all important causes and helping people understand where their money will go is important, especially in these days of constant scams and hacks, but stewardship is different than say … public radio’s annual pledge drive. It is participating in worship, an opportunity and a calling. We give in response to God’s abundant love, not because we expect to get something from it but because we are part of a relationship with God through the church.

 And of course we believe in responsible money management, transparency, and proper budgeting, but stewardship is also about trust. The Gospel reading in Matthew is a beautiful passage about where to invest our hearts. Jesus says “where your treasure is, your heart is.” But this passage does not stand alone, it is part of a series of teachings of Jesus and soon after this, Jesus says “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life …” and then the familiar passage about considering the lilies and how God clothes even the grass of the field. It makes sense that a passage about storing one’s treasures in heaven rather than on earth, would be followed soon after with instructions to not worry. Giving is about trust. It is about trusting in the work of building the Kingdom of God. It is about drowning out the voices of panic and urgency over worldly things and investing in something more lasting, more trustworthy, more connected to our souls. We trust that God is the source of creation and that placing our hearts and our faith and our gifts with God is how we do the work of building the Kingdom of God on earth as in heaven.

It’s also about God’s trust in us. Stewardship is about right use of resources. God entrusts creation to us, a bold move that at times may seem hard to believe, but nevertheless, here we are, entrusted with the care of what God has created. So our call to stewardship is a call to mutual trust, a call to a relationship, a call to be part of the body of Christ, part of the work of God, to claim our faith as our own and accept the invitation into a relationship with God.

Over the past 10 months since my husband was elected Bishop of the Diocese of Albany, I have had the privilege of getting to experience and worship with folks from all across the diocese. On most Sundays, the kids and I go with him as he visits churches around the Diocese. And each week it is a fresh experience of the work of the Holy Spirit through the Church. Each week we experience the familiar words of the Book of Common Prayer but in very different ways. And each week we get to meet people and hear stories of how they have experienced Christ in their lives. And the kids get to experience a lot of cake. In Schenevus I met Matt who is a young adult and plays the organ for the small group of dedicated parishioners in a small church on the top of a hill. His grandmother taught him to play the organ at a young age so the church would have music and he has not only stuck with it, but given his heart to the work of Christ through that church. He is also a high school teacher and he and Nancy, the priest, are working with a group of students at the high school to get a grant to establish a pantry with clothes and resources for students. The members of the church will wash, fold and sort clothes so that every family is provided for. In Coxsackie, I met Frank, the priest of the church who works full time, serves as a fireman and pastors two churches. He and his wife Misty are active in the motorcycle community and have created a genuine family feel at the church. People come in with their leather vests and bandannas and leave their motorcycles in the parking lot while they stand and say the Nicene Creed and kneel for the Eucharist. In Potsdam we walked into a church full of young families and crawling babies for a confirmation service. The mayor of the town and her children told us about what the church means to them. At Paul Smith’s Chapel we were ushered onto a boat after service that took us to coffee hour on an island where the hosts told us about how generations of their family devoted themselves to that church and the community. And here in this church my family has experienced your hospitality as teenagers served us delicious pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, I got to participate in the ecumenical Good Friday service here and was moved to tears at the heartfelt messages the clergy gave and just last week joined in recognizing and celebrating the work that Healing a Women’s Soul does for victims of domestic violence. Again and again I have been reminded that the Holy Spirit is at work here in this church, in this diocese and in this world, in unexpected ways and through all kinds of places and people and it has renewed my trust and my joy in offering my gifts.

 As I reflect back on my journey of giving, I feel a bit of longing for those days of innocent trust when I got those first offering envelopes. As we age it seems that the cares and worries of life become heavier. The world gets scarier and more uncertain and the call to trust and faith feels harder to follow. There’s always so much noise, so many voices wanting our attention, so many things to attend to, so much to worry about, so many people trying to convince us to spend more, do more, want more and care less about others. It can be hard to hear the voice of God, hard to discern the way forward, hard to hold on to faith, and so we gather together and we try to wrap our minds around the abundance and magnitude of God’s love for us and then we keep answering that invitation to a relationship, offering what we have and investing in hope … together.

 

Sermon from St. John’s Troy 9/15/24

 Mark 8:27-38

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

John 6:51-58

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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