Green Pastures

The "Parable of the Sower" (or "Parable of the Soils") -- Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

2011-07-11T14:03:00.000-07:00

I spent the summers of my late teens and early twenties working for a large farming operation. My particular division was crop production, where we produced wheat, barley, alfalfa, soybean, hay, and, of course, corn. There were times (like harvest) when it was really quite exciting; but in reality most of my summers were spent preparing soil for planting, which meant picking rocks; hours and hours of picking rocks, walking through acres and acres of freshly plowed fields. In an area famous for its limestone quarries, you can imagine just how many rocks a freshly plowed field can produce. With all the modern technology available today for field preparation (tractors, plows, discs), guess what? Rocks still have to be picked up by hand!

The parable before us today (Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23) is typically known as the “Parable of the Sower.” Yet perhaps it would be more appropriate to call it the “Parable of the Soils,” because what is really interesting about this story are the various conditions of each of the soils.

The first soil we encounter is the soil of a beaten-down path, the kind one can still imagine surrounding crop fields even today. The soil is hardened, not open to life. You can well imagine a sower casting seed into a field by hand (as was common in ancient times), and some happens to fall onto the pathway beside it. Obviously it does not provide a nurturing environment for seed. Yet even this kind of soil has its usefulness: it's good for walking on!

The second soil in our parable is the “rocky ground.” For obvious reasons, this is my favorite. Back in my rock-picking days, it was quite easy to see which parts of a field were picked properly. As soon as the seed-corn germinated, the seed in rocky ground sprang up quickly because rocks hold moisture, especially after a good rain. But over time the parts of a field that are rocky tend to be sparse, while the clean parts of a field flourish and produce more corn. This is because the moisture held by rocks quickly evaporates when the sun beats down on the soil causing the newly germinated plants to wither and die.

Our third soil reminds me of many an English countryside. Those who have ever traveled in England will surely remember the countless hedgerows that separate pastures and fields, marking off ancient boundary lines and providing barriers for pastoral animals like sheep and cattle. Obviously, any seed corn that would fall into a hedgerow, though protected from the sun’s menacing heat and provided with plenty of moisture, would be robbed of the nutrients that it needed to grow to maturity, having to compete with the thorns and thickets that make up hedgerows.

As Jesus explains to his disciples, each of these three soils represents a common response to the good news of the kingdom that the disciples would experience as they went out to sow the message of their Lord. We can readily see this truth for ourselves. Many are they who respond to the Gospel with the indifference of a well-trodden path that has just been seeded with corn. Even before the soil of their hearts has a chance to respond, "Satan" comes to snatch it away, never knowing the better. Then there are those who hear the Word, respond with the excitement of newfound discovery, only to have their faith wither and die because there is no depth in their experience. More frighteningly are those whose response is represented by the hedgerow. Their faith grows yet never comes to maturity as the strangling concerns of their lives rob them of essential nutrients.

But, my friends, there is a fourth soil – the good soil. And what is it that makes it good? Is it that the soil is any better than the other? Is there some special quality about it? Is it endowed with the principle of life while the other soils are not? Is there something supernatural in it, perhaps? No, any farmer (ancient or modern) can tell you that the difference between good soil and bad soil is not necessarily in what the soil is made of, but rather in how it is prepared. To produce a crop of a hundredfold, of sixty-fold or of thirty-fold takes much soil preparation. Back in my farming days, we had to fertilize, plow, pick rocks, disc, pick more rocks, rake, and pick even more rocks before we had a field of good soil.

It takes a lot of hard work to prepare a field for seed; it takes a lot of hard work to prepare a heart for the Gospel. Many of you know this from experience as no doubt you have friends and family members within whose hearts you have been picking rocks for years. And you know this corporately as parish as well. Good Shepherd has been working the ground of this community for many years, and has seen many fruitful harvests.

Yet even despite our best efforts, sometimes it seems that others come into the fields we've been working on for many years and proceed to tread them underfoot. Other times, it's as if the soil itself produces a fresh crop of rocks that need to be picked. And thorns and thistles are always looking for the right opportunity to invade a field to rob the rightful seed of its essential nutrients. But don't be disheartened. A farmer's work is never done. Each year we must continue to work the fields, pick the rocks, trim the hedgerows, and prepare the soil. Remember: the life is in the seed, not the soil. And every farmer knows that there really is no such thing as bad soil; just poor preparation.

The Most Inclusive of Exclusive Claims (John 14:6)

2011-05-22T22:58:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it is because of the magnitude of the issue – the clash of competing systems of faith – that I find myself more aware, painfully aware, of the divisions that that persist in the Body of Christ. Our divisions are not simply a matter of competing doctrinal systems. Rather, they are more often than not caused by allowing systems, theology, doctrine, or whatever pet-viewpoint we espouse (political, social, or ideological) to define our loyalties and to shape our relationships in such a way as to exclude those with whom we may differ.

In a paradoxical way our Gospel this morning may bring clarity to this point (John 14:1-14). Here portrayed for us by the author are Jesus’s last words to his closest friends, his disciples, on the night of his betrayal and arrest. And herein is one of the most memorable sayings recorded in the New Testament: “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (14:6). Immediately we are struck by the weight of this claim. It matters little whether we take them as the actual words of Jesus or the interpretive gloss of a gospel writer. These words, and its exclusive claim that Jesus is the unique savior of the world, simply cannot be dismissed, set aside or explained away.

Jesus is not portrayed by our author as saying that he is “a way” (i.e. one of many possible ways), or “a truth” (i.e. one of many possible truths), or “a life” (i.e. one possible way of life); but rather, THE way, THE truth, and THE life. The language here is intentionally exclusive. To put it in the bluntest terms possible: according to our Gospel, all paths simply do not lead to Heaven.

If that were not enough, Jesus goes on to say in the very next statement, “No one comes to the Father, but by me.” Again, these words could not be more exclusive. The claim here is that Jesus is the unique revelation of God to the world. In our modern day, so pre-occupied we are with so-called tolerant speech, inclusive language, and political-correctness, these words could not be more alarming, more painful to our ears. They are downright scandalous, especially when invoked, as they are by many Christians, to rationalize an exclusive vision of the kingdom of God.

Yet I contend that this passage forces us to grapple with the paradox that is the Gospel. Indeed, if read on a superficial level it is impossible to make sense of the exclusive claim of Jesus – “I am the way, the truth, and the life” – and not come to the conclusion that very few people in this world today, or at any time in the past or in the future, will actually be saved. How then can we reconcile these words to the other majestic statement in the Gospel of John? –“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son…” (John 3:16).

Indeed, herein lies the paradox. It is only when we read this claim in light of the all-encompassing, all-inclusive and universal work of Christ on the Cross and in the Resurrection (i.e. in light of verses like John 3:16) that we can begin to make sense of it. It is precisely because Jesus is THE way, THE truth and THE life that the Cross and the empty tomb of Easter are good news for all people, every person, and each race, gender and age.

Jesus did not die just for Christians. He died for all. Jesus is not the Savior of Roman Catholics only. He is not the savior of the Protestants only. And he certainly is not the savior of Episcopalians only. He is the savior of ALL.

Those of you who are familiar with C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia , no doubt recall the last book in the series, called The Last Battle – which portrays the final apostasy and the resulting apocalypse of Lewis’ fantasy world of Narnia. Those familiar the Narnian tales will recall that the Christ-figure in the story is a Lion named Aslan, the Son of the Great Emperor Beyond the Sea, who created Narnia. In the first of the series of seven books – The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe – Aslan goes to the extent of dying a humiliating death on behalf of one of the main characters, a child from our own world named Edmund, to save him from the captivity of the White Witch. Like Christ, he also overcomes death by being resurrected, and ushers in a new age for Narnia.

At the end of the series in the last book, Narnia is in conflict both internally and externally. Narnia’s hostile neighbor to the South, a mysterious foreign country called “Calormen,”attempts to conquer the entire world in the name of their god, Tash. Tash is a false god, who even makes an appearance in the final book in the form of a terrible winged Dinosaur-like demon. The Calormenes form an unholy alliance with a few treacherous and greedy subjects of Narnia, in particular an Ape named “Swift,” who fools the good inhabitants of Narnia into believing that Aslan has returned and that Aslan and Tash are really two names for the same God.

The final battle of Lewis’ fantasy world would take too long for me to tell. But the story ends with the de-creation and the dissolution of the Narnian world, and the dividing of all of the creatures and inhabitants, both past and present, into two groups – one which goes off to disappear into Aslan’s shadow (into outer darkness and separation) and the other which is invited into “Aslan’s country” (which of course is Lewis’ metaphor for heaven). The main characters of the story, all children from our world, are surprised to discover that a Calormene warrior – a worshipper of Tash -- is also among those who have entered into Aslan’s country. His name is Emeth, and they ask him to tell his story, of how he too had ended up in Aslan’s country. Emeth then proceedsto tell his story:

…I fell at Aslan’s feet and thought, "Surely this is the hour of death, for the Lion (who is worthy of all honour) will know that I have served Tash all my days and not him." Nevertheless, it is better to see the Lion and die than to be Tisroc of the world and live and not to have seen him.

But the Glorious One bent down his golden head and touched my forehead with his tongue and said, "Son, thou art welcome."

But I said, "Alas, Lord, I am no son of thine but the servant of Tash."
He answered, "Child, all the service thou hast done to Tash, I account as service done to me."

Then by reasons of my great desire for wisdom and understanding, I overcame my fear and questioned the Glorious One and said, "Lord, it is then true, as the Ape said, that thou and Tash are one?"

The Lion growled so that the earth shook (but his wrath was not against me) and said, "It is false. Not because he and I are one, but because we are opposites, I take to me the services which thou hast done to him. For I and he are of such different kinds that no service which is vile can be done to me, and none which is not vile can be done to him.

Therefore if any man swear by Tash and keep his oath for the oath's sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn, though he knew me not, and it is I who reward him. And if any man do a cruelty in my name, then, though he says the name Aslan, it is Tash whom he serves and by Tash his deed is accepted. Dost thou understand, Child?"

I said, "Lord, thou knowest how much I understand." But I said also (for the truth constrained me), "Yet I have been seeking Tash all my days."

"Beloved," said the Glorious One, "unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek."

Then he breathed upon me and took away the trembling from my limbs and caused me to stand upon my feet. And after that, he said not much, but that we should meet again, and I must go further up and further in.

In the final analysis, Jesus’ exclusive role as Savior of the world – the way, the truth, and the life – turns out to be the most inclusive and most unifying principle there is! Systems of theology and doctrine cannot unite; denominations cannot unite; bishops cannot unite; ideology cannot unite; force-of-arms or military threats cannot unite; politics certainly cannot unite. Indeed, the only thing that can unite the human race is the God who became human in the Person of his Son – the One who assumed our nature, experienced our trials and temptations, shared our sufferings and afflictions, bore our sins and transgressions, died our death, and raised us up again with him.

Sermon Outline (Pentecost 20)

2010-10-11T13:30:00.000-07:00

Old Testament: 2 Kings 5.1-3, 7-15c (Story of Naaman the Leper)
Psalm: 111
Epistle: 2 Timothy 2.8-15
Gospel: Luke 17.11-19 (Story of the Ten Lepers)

1. From the realization of need comes the recognition of grace.

2. From the recognition of grace comes the opportunity for thanksgiving.

3. From thanksgiving comes service.

St. Francis' Sermon to the Birds: Read at Good Shepherd's Animal Blessing Service (October 9, 2010)

2010-10-11T13:26:00.000-07:00

My little sisters, the birds, much bounden are ye unto God, your Creator, and always in every place ought ye to praise Him, for that He hath given you liberty to fly about everywhere, and hath also given you double and triple rainment; moreover He preserved your seed in the ark of Noah, that your race might not perish out of the world; still more are ye beholden to Him for the element of the air which He hath appointed for you; beyond all this, ye sow not, neither do you reap; and God feedeth you, and giveth you the streams and fountains for your drink; the mountains and valleys for your refuge and the high trees whereon to make your nests; and because ye know not how to spin or sow, God clotheth you, you and your children; wherefore your Creator loveth you much, seeing that He hath bestowed on you so many benefits; and therefore, my little sisters, beware of the sin of ingratitude, and study always to give praises unto God.

Saint Francis of Assisi - 1220

A Lack of Faith or Faithfulness? -- Pentecost 19 (October 3, 2010)

2010-10-04T20:58:00.000-07:00

OT: Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4
PSALM: Psalm 37:1-10
EPISTLE:2 Timothy 1:1-14
GOSPEL: Luke 17:5-10

Imagine one of your children using their “lack of faith” as an excuse for not performing a task or doing a chore. For instance a parent might ask: “Did you do your homework?” “I didn’t have enough faith to do it,” says the child. “Did you take out the trash?” “I didn’t have enough faith.” “Did you feed the dog?” “I didn’t have enough faith.” Sounds absurd, doesn’t it? What does FAITH have to do with taking out the trash? Or doing homework?

And yet what is our favorite excuse for not doing the things that we are called to do as disciples of Christ? – Our lack of faith! Amazing, isn’t it? This is precisely what Jesus rebukes his disciples for in our Gospel (Luke 17:5-10):

“The apostles said to the Lord, ‘Increase our faith!’ The Lord replied, "If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, `Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey you.” (vv. 5-6)

The meaning of this passage is often misunderstood. Jesus was NOT criticizing his disciples for their lack of faith; i.e. he was not saying that their faith was less than a mustard seed’s worth. The amount of their FAITH was not the issue. Rather, FAITHFULNESS was the issue.

To help us understand this better, it would do well to consider this request in context. In the passage immediately preceding the apostles’ request, Jesus had instructed them about the extent of forgiveness:

“So watch yourselves. If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him. If he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times comes back to you and says, 'I repent,' forgive him." (vv. 3-4)

We all know how difficult it is to forgive someone who has sinned against us. But seven times a day? Is it any wonder the apostles exclaim, “Increase our faith!”?

“No,” says Jesus. “Faith is not the issue.” They had enough faith. Even with faith as small as a mustard seed they could say to a mulberry tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it would be so (cf. v. 4). Rather, what they lacked was faithfulness – i.e. acting in obedience to what Christ was calling them to do; surrendering their will to Christ’s. This point is brought home further in what Jesus says next:

"Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, `Come here at once and take your place at the table'? Would you not rather say to him, `Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink'? Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, `We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!'" (vv. 7-10)

One of the things I find intriguing about this passage is that it is one of the very few places in the Gospel accounts where the immediate followers of Christ are called “apostles.” (The term “apostle” is used many times elsewhere in the NT, but not normally in the Gospels.) Why might this be? Perhaps it has something to do with meaning of the word. The usual term “disciple” means “one who is taught,” whereas the term apostle means “one who is sent” – that is to say, “sent on assignment.” Perhaps Luke, our evangelist, is reminding us that Jesus’ followers are not merely students; rather, they are entrusted with a task, an assignment. Jesus’ followers are “sent-ones” – entrusted and commissioned with the task of advancing the Kingdom of God. This includes us! We would do well to remember that, like Jesus’ immediate followers, we too are “disciples” in the fullest sense of the word – perhaps not “Apostles” with a capital “A,” but certainly “little apostles” within our own spheres of influence, entrusted and commissioned with the task of proclaiming the good news of Christ, not only with our lips and in our lives.

I highly doubt that any of us are called to the task of uprooting mulberry trees. So don’t go home and try it. Faith is not a magic act. Yet if God ever did call us to uproot mulberry trees, we certainly have the faith to do it. That’s Jesus’ point! It doesn’t take a great deal of faith to accomplish great things. It only takes faithfulness -- stepping out in obedience with the faith we already have!

So why do we scoff at doing the things that we are called to do? Why do we continue to use our favorite excuse? (I hear this excuse all the time...I use this excuse myself!) Why do we find faithfulness so difficult?

“Oh, I tried loving my neighbor, but I don’t think I have enough faith.”

“I can’t share my faith with others or invite them to church, I don’t have enough faith!”

“I don’t have enough faith to stand up for what is right and just.”

“I just don’t have enough faith to make a pledge to the church.”

(Ah, yes, the pledging thing again…you perhaps were wondering when I was going to bring this up!)

Yes, we’ve been talking a lot about stewardship these past weeks. But if what I have said about pledging hasn’t quite resonated with you, then I implore you to reflect on what you heard from those of your fellow parishioners who gave their stewardship testimonies in the last three weeks. The stories differed in the details, but there was a common thread that ran through them all. Their stories can be summarized as follows:

• Each story told of economic struggles and hard times. (We all struggle from time to time to make ends meet.)

• Nevertheless, each one told of how they were challenged in the midst of struggle to respond in faith to Christ’s call to begin a discipline of giving. Each stepped out in the faith that they had, perhaps only a baby-step at first, but a step nonetheless.

• Each person found along the way that God continued to meet all of their needs with each step in faith – i.e. they proved faithful to the call and God rewarded their faithfulness.

• Finally, each told of how their faith actually increased along the way.

The irony is that what the apostles asked for – MORE FAITH – is the very thing that each faithful disciple (or "little apostle") receives along the way when they step out in faith and obedience, and submit their wills to the will of Christ.

Thoughts on Haiti -- A Sermon (January 17, 2010)

2010-01-18T14:54:00.000-08:00

NY Times Op-Ed Columnist, David Brooks, begins last Thursday’s opinion column with these words: “On Oct. 17, 1989, a major earthquake with a magnitude of 7.0 struck the Bay Area in Northern California. Sixty-three people were killed. This week, a major earthquake, also measuring a magnitude of 7.0, struck near Port-au-Prince, Haiti. The Red Cross estimates that between 45,000 and 50,000 people have died.” (Red Cross figures now go as high as 150,000 people.) Brooks rightly opines, “This is not a natural disaster story. This is a poverty story.”

Also featured in the news this past week was the well-known televangelist, Pat Robertson, whose comments ignited a firestorm of media attention in their implication that the cause of this natural disaster lies in a pact that the people of Haiti had made with Satan in an obscure Voodoo ritual that allegedly took place in the late 18th century in order to overthrow French rule.

My first reaction to Robertson’s remarks were anger and the desire to publicly dissociate myself from his remarks and from everything he stands for, including his version of the Christian faith. On more sober reflection (though I am no more in agreement with him now than I was at first), I can well understand his need to find some kind of theological explanation or moral rationale for this tragic disaster, for it is conundrum that all people of faith share.

Disasters of such magnitude inevitably cause crises of faith. Yet we all know it doesn't take a natural disaster to cause a crisis of faith. Any spouse who has lost a lifelong mate, any parent who has lost a child, or any child who has lost a parent -- perhaps in a car accident or to an incurable disease -- has faced the question, “Why did God allow this to happen?” If God is both ALL-POWERFUL and ALL-LOVING, then how could he allow his people to suffer so?

This dilemma has led some to suggest that our assumptions of God are simply mistaken. Perhaps God is not both all-powerful and all-loving. Perhaps he is just one or the other, but not both. Take, for instance, Harold Kushner, the popular rabbi and author of the book When Bad Things Happen to Good People. Kushner certainly errs on the side of God’s all-loving nature when he suggests that God cannot prevent bad things from happening, though God’s love is nonetheless always present to give us strength when they do. On the other side of the spectrum, some extreme forms of Calvinism would hold that God is not all-loving, i.e., that God loves only the Elect. This is a rather tidy explanation until disaster suddenly falls upon the Elect (like Job in the OT) with no apparent reason.

For many people of faith the fallback explanation is to find a moral or ethical root cause, because someone or something simply has to be at fault in order to vindicate the justice of God. So if we cannot point to personal sin, we must invoke the doctrine of original sin, or (according to Robertson) see as the cause an ill-advised pact with Satan. Priests, ministers and pastoral caregivers face this dilemma all the time. Crises of faith within the flock become crises of faith for the shepherds of the flock. Multiply that by the number of people under one’s care, and it is easy to understand why some prominent religious leaders like Pat Robertson resort to ready-made ethical cause-and-effect explanations.

But there are no ready-made answers. If you came to church today seeking such an answer then you will no doubt leave disappointed. I can only hope to put some things into perspective for you. So I leave you with two observations.

First, natural disasters happen. There is no ethical cause-and-effect mechanism for natural disasters. Earthquakes occur where they do, not because the people who live in those locations sin or because those nations are more evil than other nations; but rather because the tectonic plates that make up the earth’s crust shift from time to time.

We would do well to recall the perspective of Jesus. His remarks in Luke 13:1-5 come readily to mind: “Do you think that these Galileans were worse sinners than all the other Galileans because they suffered this way? I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish. Or those eighteen who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them do you think they were more guilty than ...all the others living in Jerusalem? I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish.”

It does not take a rocket scientist to realize that if one builds a house or a city on a fault line there will likely be consequences. This is the nature of the world that God created. How quick we are to rejoice in the splendor and beauty of God's creation when it cooperates with our plans and movements! But when we happen to be in the way of the physical realm acting according to its nature, how quick we are to blame God! We simply can't have it both ways.

Second, all human tragedies have a moral or ethical component, even those which involve natural disasters. (No, I’m not contradicting what I said earlier.) That’s why Brooks’ Op-Ed piece comes closest, in my opinion, to giving us a theological rationale for the disaster in Haiti, and he was writing from a political perspective! What makes this disaster the epic human tragedy that it is are the poverty and human exploitation, and the systemic evil that existed in Haiti before the disaster ever occurred, and will certainly exist, if not increase, in its aftermath. But these evils are pervasive. They are not limited to Haiti, though certainly they have taken root in a most pernicious and highly successful manner on this tiny island nation. That's why this disaster is truly global in both its scope and effects.

Indeed, Pat Robertson is correct about one thing: Satan and his minions (if we are prone to personify evil in this manner) are very active in this world. But neither Satan nor his demons can move tectonic plates. As the primordial story of the Fall tells us, the main weapon in the Serpent’s arsenal is deception. And Haiti is filled with generation upon generation of deception -- cultural, political, and spiritual. The spiritual darkness that shrouds that tiny island nation is but a microcosm of the darkness that affects the whole world, though perhaps in varying degrees; and the Gospel of Light is the only hope of dispelling the darkness.

The question is, what can we do as the Body of Christ to stem the tide of deception, to dispel the darkness, and to preach the gospel of liberation to a world that desperately needs the light of Christ?

"Wearing Our Dirt" - A sermon preached on the Sunday of the Baptism of Our Lord (January 10, 2010)

2010-01-12T09:28:00.000-08:00

OT: Isaiah 43:1-7
PSALM: Psalm 29
NT: Acts 8:14-17
GOSPEL: Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

The baptism of Jesus by John is the subject of some of the earliest Christian art. It is found in early third century fresco paintings in the Roman catacombs as well as being the subject of great mosaics found in the baptisteries of the imperial age church. All of the elements of the story of Jesus’ baptism from the Gospels are portrayed in these works of art, including Jesus standing in the Jordan River, John the Baptist (dressed in camel hair) pouring water upon his head, and the Holy Spirit descending upon Jesus as a Dove. Assumed, if not somewhere written, are the words from heaven: “You are my Son…with whom I am well pleased.”

The reason for these works of art is obvious: the early Christian saw Jesus’ baptism as a picture of their own. Jesus’ baptism gives meaning to the baptism that Christians receive. What happened to Jesus at his baptism happens to us in our baptism. Like Jesus, we too receive the Holy Spirit in baptism; and as Jesus was proclaimed the “Son of God” at his baptism, we receive our adoption as children of God. There’s a beautiful symmetry here. But there’s also a theological conundrum, because Jesus received John’s baptism, not “Christian baptism” per se (in the sacramental sense).

John himself testified that he merely “baptized with water.” His baptism was a ritual washing of repentance, signifying the washing away of sins and a return of the people to their covenant relationship with God. Luke’s account portrays those who came to John as a people “filled with expectation” and “questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah” (Luke 3:15). But John could only give them water and the promise of forgiveness and a restoration still to come. He could not give them what he too sought: “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming…He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (v. 16).

And yet, no sooner does Luke record these words than we see Jesus, the One who baptizes with the Holy Spirit, rather nonchalantly submitting to John’s baptism (cf. v. 21). Absent from Luke’s account is any protest and questioning from John. But nonetheless the question is implicit: why would Jesus submit to John’s baptism? Is this not the Son of God who “lived as one of us, yet without sin,” (as our Eucharistic Prayer D expresses it)? This is the Savior, Christ the Lord, who takes the burden of our sins into his own sinless life, and puts them to death when he himself dies on the Cross. Surely Jesus did not need a baptism of repentance to mark the beginning of his adult public life and ministry. He did not need to be reconciled or brought back into a covenant relationship with God. So what is going on here? Of course, theologians down through the ages have pondered this question and offered up complex theological rationales. But there is perhaps no better explanation (that I have found) than a story once told to me by my Great-Aunt Helen.

Aunt Helen was the sister of my paternal grandmother, the oldest of six children. She had more impact on my faith as a child than anyone else in my life, and could she tell a story! Her father (my great-grandfather) was a chicken farmer in Delaware. Life was hard at the turn of the century. As Aunt Helen would say, “In those days, the only thing there was ‘plenty of’ was dirt.” And since her family did not have indoor plumbing (let alone a hot water heater) you can imagine that bathing – something we take for granted – was quite a chore. Once a week, each Saturday night, the family would fill a large washtub in the kitchen with hot water from kettles, and each person in the family (a family of eight mind you) would in turn take a bath in that tub. My great-grandmother would be the first to bathe, since “going first” was one of the only luxuries she had in life. Then each child would have his or her turn, the oldest children first washing the babies, and then going in the order of “cleanest to dirtiest” (the rule in the family being that the dirtiest child went last). Aunt Helen would laugh as she described how often she fought with my grandmother over which of them was dirtier. By the time the children were finished, the water was usually the color of coffee.

Yet there was still another person that needed a bath: my great-grandfather, who would come in from the fields after everyone else had bathed. Except for an additional kettle of hot water used to replenish the tub, he stepped into that same coffee-colored water, the water that everyone else had bathed in. Then, after his bath, he would put on his only white shirt, the shirt he wore to church. As Aunt Helen described it, “Over time that shirt looked more gray than white.” Since she was responsible to wash that shirt each week, she was embarrassed by its appearance, especially when her father sat next to the other deacons in their Baptist Church. She began to resent that shirt, and to resent her father for being so poor. She was angry at her circumstances. But then, one Sunday, while sitting behind her father in church, she suddenly realized to her own shame the reason that shirt had become so dingy gray over time: “He was wearing OUR DIRT.”

Is this not what we see in Jesus? What is the significance of his submitting to the baptism of John if not a willingness to stand in complete solidarity with us? – A willingness to put on and to wear OUR DIRT?

In everything that Jesus does, we see God at work, showing us how intimately God relates to human beings, yet without sin. Jesus did not need baptism because he was not a sinner. However, we do. We need to be cleansed by God, refined by the Holy Spirit. And because we need that cleansing, Jesus stands in solidarity with us – enters our condition, puts on our dirt, in order that the mere sign of outward cleansing (water) can become the instrument and means by which we receive the true spiritual cleansing (by the Holy Spirit).

In his baptism we see Jesus entering our condition, just as he was born into this world, and just as he would hang on the Cross of his death. In this way God in Christ identifies himself with us in every aspect of our existence – birth, life and death – in complete solidarity with us. This is why Jesus is called “Emmanuel” (“God-with-us”). God is with us, and God is for us, even in the depths of our sin as he meets us where we are in our deepest need for reconciliation.

Reflections on the Star of Bethlehem - A sermon preached on the Feast of the Epiphany (January 6, 2010)

2010-01-07T10:08:00.000-08:00

OT Lesson: Isaiah 60:1-6
Psalm: 72:1-7, 10-14
Epistle: Ephesians 3:1-12
Gospel: Matthew 2:1-12

One of my favorite Television sit-coms of late is The Big Bang Theory, which airs on CBS. The show is about two male Caltech prodigies in their 20s, Leonard and Sheldon. Leonard is an experimental physicist with an IQ of 173, and Sheldon is a theoretical physicist with an IQ of 187. They live across the hall from an attractive blond waitress, named Penny, who predictably enough happens to have show-biz aspirations. Leonard and Sheldon’s ‘geekiness’ and sheer intellect are contrasted with Penny's social skills and common sense. In the very first episode, after they’ve made their introductions, Penny tells Leonard and Sheldon: “I'm a Sagittarius, which probably tells you way more than you need to know.” To which Sheldon responds: “Yes, it tells us that you participate in the mass cultural delusion that the sun's apparent position relative to arbitrarily defined constellations at the time of your birth somehow affects your personality.”

The Star of Bethlehem, about which we read in our Gospel lesson this evening, continues to baffle both believer and skeptic alike, particularly those who search the ancient records for some indication of an astronomical phenomenon that may have occurred at or around the time of Christ’s birth. Part of the problem is that we don’t really know the year of Christ’s birth, let alone the month or the day. So when the records tell of a supernova or a comet, rather than solving the issue, these records tend to cause more controversy than not. The fact of the matter is that we simply cannot identify what the Star of Bethlehem was to be able to pinpoint the time of Christ’s birth, nor do we know the time of Christ’s birth with enough precision to be able to identify an event or astronomical phenomenon as "the Star of Bethlehem."

That being said, the story of the Star of Bethlehem continues to inspire research down to our very day. In recent times researchers have employed computer models to track down this star based on what we know about Near Eastern astrology (particularly Persian or Zoroastrian understandings). Now, mind you, we don’t really know all that much about ancient astrology, but what we do know is enlightening. The result of this kind of research is that more recent theories tend to be much less extraordinary and luminary than the traditional bright star that we often see perched above the little town of Bethlehem on Christmas cards. The recent trends suggest that the Star of Bethlehem was a quite natural event – e.g. the conjunction of planets with other planets or with important stars, and/or the alignment of planets within certain constellations. These are the kind of “natural” or “ordinary” events that ancient astrologers understood as telling stories of real events here on earth or perceived as omens or as foreshadowing certain events that would take place (much like pop-astrology does today, though today’s astrologers do so with more personal pretense and individual application and much less political pretense and national application).

As such, the planet Jupiter is often a prime suspect for the “Star of David,” particularly as it is the fourth brightest object in the sky (after the sun, moon, and planet Venus). One theory I recently read about, based on computer models, speculates that the conjunction of Jupiter with the star Regulus around the year 3 BC, along with its traverse through the constellation Leo “the Lion” (which often represented the tribe of Judah in ancient times), may have been read by our watchful Magi (a term synonymous with “astrologers”) as indicating an important event – the birth of the “King of the Jews.”

As most people know, the night sky’s constellations are fixed and predictable, as is the sun’s course in the seasons and the phases of the moon. But planets are another matter altogether. Planets tend to “wander,” which is precisely why they are called “planets” (planetes in Greek means “wanderer”). Given that all planets, including the earth, revolve around the sun at different speeds and in different orbits, and given the slant of the earth’s own axis, predicting where any given planet is going to be in the sky at any given time is a tad trickier than predicting the apparent position of the constellations, and sometimes full of surprises as planets tend to wobble on their own axes as well. But the most intriguing thing about planets is that, relative to the earth’s own revolution around the sun, sometimes planets appear to stop in the sky and then to reverse their course – an optical illusion on an astronomical level (but one that was sure to get the attention of ancient astrologers when it happened). And “where” such an event happened, relative to other heavenly bodies (not to mention relative to places on the earth), was seen in the ancient world as significant.

Now certainly educated people of our day will tend to share the views of Sheldon, the Caltech physicist that I told you about earlier. The movement of planets and constellations relative to other planets and stars still is of interest to many an amateur astronomer, but we don’t take such things seriously anymore. The apparent position of plants and the identification of constellations are arbitrary things.

OR ARE THEY? With all of our advances in modern science and technology, could we perhaps have “outsmarted” ourselves?

If there is a lesson here in this Gospel for educated moderns it is that ultimately NOTHING is arbitrary in the will and providence of God. St. Paul tells us in Galatians 4 that “in the fullness of time God brought forth his Son, born of a woman.” The story of our Gospel tells us that every last detail in all of God’s creation was prepared for this precise moment, for this very time and event: the moment that God’s Son entered into this world. Even those objects which we now know to be hundreds, perhaps thousands of light years away from our own small planet, were carefully choreographed by God to perform an elegant cosmic dance in the sky to proclaim the birth of the King of kings and Lord of lords. Our Gospel also tells us that God prepares people, nations and even kings to receive him. These ancient astrologers may seem backward or even naïve to us moderns. But were they really? The fact that they invested their time and money, at great personal sacrifice no doubt, to go on this “fool’s errand” into another country to search for this particular child at this particular time, tells us that they had some distinct advantages over the typical modern person: they were attuned to God’s created order, knowledgeable of its patterns, sensitized to its cosmic resonance, and perfectly comfortable with the notion that the Almighty Creator of the world is intimately involved in all aspects of nature.

I often wonder as our knowledge has increased whether our sense of the divine in the universe has diminished; whether our view of God has become too small. Perhaps people have a hard time believing in God because the God that is presented to them is no better than a magician doing the occasional hat trick. But the God of our Gospel is not the “Great magician” in the sky. He controls all things, even the stars in their courses relative to events here on earth. That is a much grander view of God; and a much more terrifying one. But this view of God must be balanced by the deeds of this God, and his love shown forth to us and to all humankind, in the birth of his Son, Jesus Christ. Once seen in this light, we can see that true greatness – the greatness of God – is not to sought after in marvelous signs or flashy events, but rather in the subtle, gentle, unassuming witness of his constant care for creation, his call of people from every tribe and nation, and his sacrificial love for all of us in the person of his Son.

A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Body of Christ

2009-11-13T13:21:00.000-08:00

The following is the address given by the Rev. Daniel K. Dunlap on the occasion of his installation as Rector of The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Tomball, Texas on November 12, 2009.
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Auspicious occasions, such as this, often begin with a quote gleaned from a great spiritual classic. With the big announcement this week from Rome that the Vatican was joining together with scientists to explore the implications to the Christian faith of the possibility of life on other planets, I couldn’t think of a more appropriate classic to quote from than that great 20th century spiritual classic – Douglas Adam’s A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. In the last chapter of Adam’s book comes this final entry from the Hitchhiker’s Guide:

“It said: The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question How can we eat? the second by the question Why do we eat? and the third by the question Where shall we have lunch?’’’

We laugh because we know that there is a great deal of truth in this statement, perhaps not on the Galactic level (that we yet know of at least), but certainly in the human sphere: Survival, Inquiry, and Sophistication – the “how,” “why” and “where” phases of our human experience. Such applies not only to great civilizations, and our own empty stomachs from time to time, but also to communities (dare I say to parishes as well).

In April 2008, our parish, The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Tomball, TX, suffered what many simply refer to as “the split.” (I like to call it “the departure.”) We went from being a parish that had arguably been in the “sophisticated” phase to one that was forced back into the phase of “survival.” Those of you who were here during that time (and I’m happy to say that we have active members who were not with us yet) will remember that first parish meeting with Bishop Wimberly, then-Canon Doyle, and Bob Biehl after “the split.” I was at the meeting, more out of curiosity and moral support than any sense of commitment or responsibility at that point. But the foremost question on people’s minds was “how?” How can we continue? How can we survive as a parish? How can we go on? How do we do church?

By the grace and mercy of God, through the support of the diocese, and through the commitment of those who remained, and the leadership of a great vestry and a great team of ministry leaders (there are, of course, many names we can mention here…), Good Shepherd as a parish did survive. Our prayers did not go unanswered. In the subtle ways that the Spirit moves among the people of God, we found answers to the question “how,” though, admittedly, we still have quite a way to go before we can completely live into those answers. However, what we have learned so far is what we read about this evening in the book of Numbers, Chapter 11; namely that the Spirit of God does not reside solely on the designated leader of the people, Moses (or in our case the rector of a parish), but rather comes upon others who share the burden of ministry. God says to Moses of the seventy elders, “I will take some of the spirit that is on you and put it on them; and they shall bear the burden of the people along with you so that you will not bear it all by yourself” (cf. Numbers 11:17).

We have a long way to go, but certainly in the past year we have re-learned the “how” of being a parish again, and I believe the lessons we have learned make us a much healthier parish at that, where the people of God share in the burden of ministry, and where hospitality means all are invited and included at the Table again. I think a moment like is a reason to celebrate, not my new ministry, but our new ministry.

A great part of the answer to “how phase” took place in the discernment process that led to the adoption of our new Core Values and Mission Statement. I want you to look at the cover of your bulletin tonight. It’s a different cover than what we’ve been using on Sunday mornings. It includes a logo (see above), a Celtic cross design on which our five Core Values are emblazoned: (1) WORSHIP, the very center of our common life together; and radiating out from the cross, on the outside circle or nimbus, are (2) FAMILY, (3) CHRISTIAN FORMATION, (4) OUTREACH, and (5) HOSPITALITY. Each of the Core Values on the nimbus is in a dynamic, overlapping, and fluid relation to the others, and all flow from the center—from WORSHIP, our Eucharistic celebration at the Altar of Christ. I want you to get accustomed to this logo. Memorize these Core Values; internalize them. These are what the “new” Good Shepherd is about. In large part, these Core Values answer the “how” questions for us. Yet I would be remiss if I did not also point out the glaring omissions on the last page of your bulletin, in the Ministry Leaders section where the word “OPEN” marks the place where a name should go under two categories: Fellowship and Outreach. This does not mean where not doing these things. But how much more effective would we be if we had people to take on these tasks? Core Values are not static statements. Merely saying so does not make it so. Rather they are living statements, ideals that should continually challenge us; values that we need to live into.

Suddenly, our parish finds itself in the “why” phase – Inquiry. Now, perhaps it’s because I’m a history and philosophy type, but I really like this phase. I glory in it! Asking ourselves questions like “why” do we do the things we do? “Why” is the world the way it is? “Why” does God allow this to happen in our lives and not that? “Why” does God loves us? “Why” does God love me? “Why” can’t I always feel the love of God in my life? “Why” do we exist at all? This is the bulk of what we do in church. It is the reason we gather together, we read the Scriptures, we confess the Creeds, we baptize our children, and partake of the bread and wine in the Eucharist. (There is a reason why our Anglican tradition refers to the sacraments as “holy mysteries.”) The why-phase is the most dynamic and exciting of all the phases. It shares in the vulnerability of the “how” (the survival phase) because those in the why-phase realize how precariously close they are to falling back into the how-phase. However, those in the why-phase are also able to look beyond it into the next phase: the where-phase – the phase of “sophistication” (in Adams’ terminology), but what I think for our purposes may be better called phase of “fulfillment.”

But here’s the secret of living successfully in the why-phase: the why-phase reaches no conclusion before its time. It is content to live in the tension of the preliminary. A parish or a church in this phase must live in the humility that some “why” questions are not easily answered and that we as the People of God are called to explore such questions side-by-side with people with whom we may not always see eye-to-eye. (This of course is the unique calling of The Episcopal Church and those of us who have made the decision to stay in it. It is the unique calling of our parish.) Those in the why-phase are content merely to fulfill Christ’s commandment to “love one another as Christ has loved us” (cf. John 15:12). Such people exemplify a love that, in the words of St. Paul, is sincere, hating the evil, while clinging to what is good; a devotion to one another in brotherly love, honoring others about themselves. Such a people never lack zeal, but are full of spiritual fervor in serving the Lord. They are joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. They share with those in need and practice hospitality. They bless those who persecute them, when cursing would be so much easier to do. They rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn. They live in harmony with each other, and are willing to associate with the downcast and the outcast; never repaying evil with evil, but seeking to live at peace with all people. (See Romans 12:9-17.)

May we never ever leave the why-phase, at least on this side of the Resurrection. That is my prayer for Good Shepherd. Why? Because the next phase is fraught with presumption, danger and strife. Those in the why-phase are always conscious of how close they are to falling back into the “how-phase,” the phase of survival. Those who presume to have moved on to certainty – into a supposed sophistication phase – have coddled and soothed themselves into thinking that they are safe. They have forgotten how close they are to the how-phase. As Douglas Adams informs us in his sequel to The Hitchhiker’s Guide (appropriately entitled The Restaurant at the End of the Universe): “There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened.”

My friends, it has happened. We’ve experienced it right here. One fateful day in April 2008, the universe as we knew it, the universe that so many of us thought we had finally figured out, instantly disappeared, only to be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable! …And more wonderful, mysterious, and beautiful, I might add. The sophisticated phase is not a phase that we can presume to enter, nor can we afford as a parish ever to be tempted into believing that it is attainable in this life. Those churches or parishes who do actually end up killing the spirituality of their fellowship ironically by making it too spiritual! According to author and theologian, Simon Chan (Spiritual Theology), such churches, in believing they have all the answers (or at least the answers to all the really, really important issues in life), seek to impose these “answers” on others. They begin to exist purely for their own spiritual ends; ironically opening themselves up to an even greater danger, since any minor infraction becomes an infringement that demands radical action. Simon Chan writes, “Fellowships that seek to preserve the purity of the ‘New Testament church’ are more likely to experience ugly schisms than are churches that have no such pretensions.”

Douglas Adams quips, “When all questions of space, time, matter and the nature of being have been resolved, only one question remains – Where shall we have dinner?” (The Restaurant at the End of the Universe). Well, some have chosen to have their “dinner” at another table, around another altar. Whatever else we may be tempted to think of those folks who left us, we need to remember that their universe disappeared on that fateful day in April 2008 as surely as did ours. They too had to re-enter the how-phase. Let us pray remember to pray for them, that they too will be content to remain in the why-phase and not be in such a hurry to answer the “whys,” lest they rush headlong back into the “where.”

My friends, I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am to be part of this wonderful adventure into the unknown of this enormous universe that God has created for us to explore. I thank our God for his grace and I thank his people for their support. For some mysterious reason he chose me to be your guide as we “hitchhike” our way through parish life in the Body of Christ. I would never presume to tell you that I will always know where we are going. I can only commit to you tonight that on this leg of the journey we will get wherever we are going together.

Veterans Day Commemoration (read by Joe Sturdevant)

2009-11-09T13:03:00.000-08:00

The story goes that a soldier was watching a military parade with his grandson. The boy looked up at his grandfather and asked, "Grandpa, was you a hero??" The old Vet thought a while and then answered quietly: "No I don't think I was a hero...but I served with a lot of them."

The holiday we commemorate today used to be called Armistice Day, after the document signed on a small train car in a French forest on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in the year 1918, which brought to an end the First World War. Well over 4 million Americans served in that conflict, and all of them are now gone, except for one. He's Frank Buckles, of Charles Town, West Virginia, who 92 years ago today was on active duty in the United States Army. Corporal Buckles is a living connection to a war fought many years ago. But today there are more than 23 million veterans.

You might ask who they are, and what, if anything, makes them different from other Americans. (Statistics as of 2008)

The number of military veterans in the United States was 23.2 million.

There were 1.8 million female veterans.

The number of black veterans was 2.3 million. Additionally, 1.1 million veterans were Hispanic; 276,000 were Asian; 160,000 were American Indian or Alaska Native; 27,000 were Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander; and 18.3 million were non-Hispanic white.

There were 9.2 million veterans 65 and older. At the other end of the age spectrum, 1.9 million were younger than 35.

There are five states with 1 million or more veterans. These states are California (2.1 million), Florida (1.7 million), Texas (1.7 million), New York (1 million) and Pennsylvania (1 million).

26 percent of veterans 25 and older have at least a bachelor's degree. 91 percent of veterans 25 and older have a high school diploma or higher. There are 10.4 million veterans ages 18 to 64 in the labor force.

As these numbers demonstrate, our veterans represent the entire spectrum of our American culture.

Vice President Cheney’s address last year at the Tomb of the Unknown: “Military service demands a special kind of sacrifice. The places where you live and serve, the risk you face, the people you deal with every day -- all of these are usually decided by someone else. For the time you spend in uniform, the interests of the nation must always come first. And those duties are shared by family members who make many sacrifices of their own, face separation during deployments and sometimes bear extreme and permanent loss.

Military service brings rewards as well. There is the pride of developing one's character and becoming a leader, serving a cause far greater than any self interest and knowing that our nation's cause is the hope of the world. Every man and woman who wears America's uniform is part of a long, unbroken line of achievement and honor. No single military power in history has done greater good, shown greater courage, liberated more people, or upheld higher standards of decency and valor than the Armed Forces of the United States of America.”

G. K. Chesterton said: “The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.” American soldiers take some of America with them wherever they go.

General Colin Powell tells this story: He’d had a wealthy Japanese businessman come into his office and describe what it was like for him as a child in 1945 to await the arrival of the dreaded American beasts, and instead meet a smiling G.I. who gave him a Hershey bar.

In thanks, the businessman was donating a large sum of money to the USO. After thanking him, General Powell gave him as a souvenir a Hershey bar he had autographed. The businessman took it and began to cry.

Vice President Cheney concluded his comments last year with this tribute:

There is no mystery behind the endurance and the success of American liberty. It is because in every generation, from the Revolutionary period to this very hour, brave Americans have stepped forward and served honorably in the Armed Forces of the United States.

The following story was told at the White House. It happened in Italy, in a time not too long after the end of the Second World War. A father wanted to encourage his young son to do well in school. After the boy got good grades, his dad took him on a journey to Rome. Near the end of their vacation the father said, "Now we'll have the most important day. I'm going to take you to a sacred place." He brought the boy to the military cemetery at Anzio, the final resting place of nearly 8,000 American servicemen.

As they stood there among the rows of crosses, the father turned to his son and said, "Read those names and read those birth and death dates. These are young people, young soldiers who crossed the ocean and came here, and made the extreme last sacrifice to give you freedom and dignity. You owe them everything that is good in your life today. You have to swear here today that you will never, ever forget that you owe them everything you have, and you will always be grateful to their country and to them for what they gave you."

That little boy became the Prime Minister of Italy. All his life he kept his promise to his father, and when he visited the White House, he expressed his nation's continuing gratitude to the people of United States.

The America that liberated Europe six decades ago is still an active, hopeful presence in the affairs of mankind. In a world of so many perils, from hunger and disease to political oppression to the spread of deadly technology, America remains the best hope of those who suffer and live in fear. Our cause is liberty, justice, and peace, and millions breathe free today because of American soldiers who fought and sacrificed for that cause.

Many of those heroes rest in places like Anzio and Arlington and along Veterans Memorial in Northwest Houston. Yet many of them are still with us as friends, as neighbors and colleagues. They are America's veterans, and they are still the pride of our nation. They have fought our wars, defended our shores and kept us free. May God keep us ever grateful for their service.

The Measure of Our Reliance on God - Pentecost 23 (November 8, 2009)

2009-11-09T12:44:00.000-08:00

1 Kings 17:8-16
Psalm 146
Hebrews 9:24-28
Mark 12:38-44

They were both widows and they were both poor. They were also down to their last resources. These are the circumstances in the two stories we read from today’s lessons: the Widow of Zeraphath (1 Kings 17), who gave her last bit of meal to the prophet Elijah during a drought in the land; and the Widow in the Temple (today’s Gospel from Mark 12), who placed her two last copper coins in the Temple treasury while Jesus was teaching in the Temple.

No, this is not a sermon on stewardship, and certainly it is not a sermon on tithing, if only for the fact that tithing involves giving ten percent and these women gave everything they had left. It is however a sermon on sacrifice and reliance, more particularly, about how we measure our reliance on God. Let me tell you my thesis from the outset: the measure for reliance is sacrifice. That is to say, how much we rely on God is directly proportional to how much we are willing to sacrifice.

In both of these stories, the widows are literally down to their last earthly resources. The Widow of Zeraphath tells Elijah, when he tells her to bring him a morsel of bread, “As the LORD your God lives, I have nothing baked, only a handful of meal in a jar, and a little oil in a jug; I am now gathering a couple of sticks, so that I may go home and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die.” Similarly, when Jesus notices the widow in the temple: “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” The Greek text is a little stronger here than we see in our translations. Literally, she put in her “bios” – i.e. her life.

Now it is instructive to consider the context of Jesus’ statement here. Giving money to the Temple treasury was not the anonymous act of placing one’s tithe or pledge envelope into the offering plate each week as we have become accustomed to in church. In the section of the Temple called the “Court of Women” were thirteen large receptacles. (Notice that these receptacles were specifically placed in the “Court of Women” rather than the “Court of Men” so that all could contribute to the upkeep of the Temple; and then notice Jesus’ remarks about “devouring widow’s houses” – but I digress.) As people came forward to toss in their gifts they were expected to announce the amount and the purpose for which the gift was given in order to be heard by the priest overseeing the collections.

Of course, there was a practical purpose for this: as any church treasurer can tell you, it’s good to keep track of the amount of receipts coming in (and expenses going out). But over time these public announcements, naturally enough, became occasions for pride; a demonstration of one’s wealth and generosity; an occasion to assert one’s status. How impressive it is to give a great gift and to have it announced for all to hear! The greater the amount given, the greater one’s status becomes. Things are not too different today. Who isn’t impressed when someone with great wealth (like “Bill Gates”) gives an enormous amount of money to a worthy cause. It’s worth celebrating, especially if one’s organization or charity happens to be the beneficiary!

But the mistake we often make is to assume that the amount of a gift is an accurate indicator or measure of the amount of one’s piety. This is certainly the assumption of those in the Temple on this particular occasion. Pretty soon we come to regard those with wealth, status and resources as the ones truly in God’s favor. But it’s just this idea of piety that Jesus warns against: “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows' houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.” “Don’t be like them!” Jesus says. The scribes were the lawyers of the day, experts in the Torah, especially the oral tradition. But they were also every bit as proficient in finding ways around the law and applying the law to enrich themselves – hence, Jesus’ comment about “devouring widows’ houses.”

How impressive it would have been to watch such people, with their long robes and great status, tossing large sums of money into the temple coffers, calling out the amount for all to hear, announcing their piety to the world! In such a crowd, who would notice a lone widow tossing in the two lowest coins in the realm? – Jesus noticed. And it was not the sum of her gift that Jesus declared was measure of her piety and faith, but rather the amount of her sacrifice – she had given all that had; she had thrown in her whole life. But, mind you, this was not a gamble. She was not laying all her money down on God in one last desperate bet on life. Rather she was trusting her life to God.

As I said at the beginning of this sermon – the measure of our reliance on God is not the amount that we give, but what we willing to offer to God in sacrifice.

A Sermon for All Saints Day (November 1, 2009)

2009-11-09T12:40:00.000-08:00

It is the conversation that every parent dreads, and yet no parent is able indefinitely to avoid: “Where’s grandma?” If the parent is a Christian, the answer typically is “She’s in heaven,” or perhaps “She’s with Jesus.” “When is she coming home?” “She’s not coming home.” “Why not?” “She’s with God now. It was her time.” “Will we see her again?” “Yes, dear, someday.” “When?” “When we go to heaven to be with Jesus.”

These questions are uncomfortable, even for people of faith, for death is still an insurmountable mystery – the great divide, the journey from which no one (at least in our limited experience) has ever returned. How can we attempt to explain to children not only that which we know so little about ourselves, but that which we tenaciously devote a lifetime of resources, money and efforts of self-preservation to avoid?

But the search to find an explanation of or to make sense of death is as old as human self-awareness itself. Each culture, every society, every human community that ever existed has attempted to provide answers. The funerary rites of many civilizations, both past and present, often provided for the comfort of the dead through gifts of worldly goods, and even caches of food and drink, to make the journey into the afterlife less arduous or perhaps more enjoyable once the dearly departed arrived at their final destination. Many ancient monuments, many of the great ancient wonders of the world (e.g. the Pyramids of Giza, or the Necropolis of China’s First Emperor), were built in the attempt to make sense of the mystery death.

Christians are not immune from devising our own images of death to cope with mortality. We imagine St. Peter standing at the pearly gates admitting the worthy into heaven (or else sending the unworthy to that “other place”); each disembodied soul occupying his/her own cloud; earning our angel wings, and receiving halos. In the West, especially since the time of Augustine, speculation on what happens to the soul after death led to the development of the doctrine of purgatory, and eventually to the abuse of that doctrine in the sale of indulgences, which was one of the presenting causes of the Protestant Reformation in the 16th century.

Many of these images seem so natural, so much a part of our popular belief, that we automatically assume that the Bible’s pages are filled with descriptions of disembodied, winged and haloed saints; of the pearly gates of heaven and streets of gold. But, in fact, the Bible has very little to say about the immediate experience of death or what theologians like to call the “intermediate state” between the death and the resurrection. Do not misunderstand me, the Bible has plenty to say about death. One of the most important biblical stories (Adam and Eve) tells us how death entered the human condition, revealing death as a curse. But the Bible says surprisingly little about what it is like to experience death, or of what happens to the soul immediately after death.

However, this does not mean that the Christian faith is devoid of any satisfying answers. For this is where biblical faith – the faith of the Church – stands apart from all other kinds of faith. While most religions prepare their adherents for death, the Bible’s testimony and focus is on LIFE. Jesus did not say, “He who hears my word and believes the one who sent me will have a pleasant afterlife; or will reach Nirvana,” but rather, “He who hears my word and believes in the one who sent me will have eternal life.” The whole focus of the Bible is on LIFE not death.

This is precisely why the doctrine of the resurrection, and consequently the Church’s belief that Christ was raised from the dead, is a non-negotiable of the Christian faith, even if there is much about the resurrection that is still a mystery to us. This morning’s Gospel, the account of the raising of Lazarus, affirms both the tragedy of death and the hope of the resurrection. Jesus weeps; he is greatly distressed – not merely because his friends, Mary and Martha, have lost their brother; but because death is a tragedy. Death is not intended to be our destiny. But then Jesus commands that the stone that closed off Lazarus’ tomb be rolled away, even though he had been in the tomb for four days: “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” he says to Martha. He then calls forth Lazarus from the grave; because Lazarus, the friend of Jesus, is called to life, not to death.

St. John’s vision in the Book of Revelation expresses the same truth in this way: I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. A new heaven and a new earth, just as there is a “new Jerusalem” – the Church of God.

LIFE, full-bodied LIFE, not some kind of ethereal, disembodied “after-life” is the description that the Bible provides us, and what we as Christians believe is the destiny of every child of God. And with this knowledge, and the power that lies behind the knowledge of our appointed destiny of life, the Christian cannot help but be transformed even in this present life. As St. Paul says: “Just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.”

It turns out then that we as Christians have much to hope in; for we have the ultimate answer to our great adversary, death – the victory over death that we have in the One who died for us, and was raised again on the third day – not only for ourselves, but for those who have gone on before us (our loved ones, our friends, our parents, grandparents, etc.) – ALL THE SAINTS. When we remember them, when we pray for them, when we recall their godly examples and influence on our lives – we are not invoking mere memories; nor are we simply calling up spirits from the dead. Rather we are celebrating with them – in a real way – the life that both we and they NOW HAVE in Christ. For the promise of Christ is as true for those who precede us in physical death as it is for those who tarry still on earth – for what we do here at the altar of our church, and what each community of Christians throughout the world does each time they gather for worship, is joined together with the worship all who have died in the knowledge of God and of the Lamb, who stand before his throne night and day; where we are numbered with them as a multitude that no one can count, from every nation, every tribe, every people and every language; where we join with ALL the SAINTS in the cry: “Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!”

The Christian Journey - Pentecost 21 (October 25, 2009)

2009-10-25T17:53:00.000-07:00

Jeremiah 31:7-9
Psalm 126
Hebrews 7:23-28
Mark 10:46-52

The following sermon was preached by Fr. Jack Holman on his last Sunday as Associate Rector of Good Shepherd Church. He and his wife, June, are moving to a retirement community in Minnesota. They will be greatly missed.

A major metaphor of Christian life is that of a JOURNEY. This image captures the sense of our being on-the-way and of being accompanied and guided by SOMEONE. As a people, our journey begins with Abraham, leaving home, as with Moses, During the Exodus, we travel through the desert in which we learned where we were going and with whom... then came the Diaspora, the scattering. Many of the separated members of the People of God found themselves in different locations, areas, and towns.

Our Christian history, like that of the Jews, is marked by a deep ambivalence in this pilgrim journey. A desire to settle down, sink roots, establish a stable life is up against the need to move on…… following a Revelation, with endless surprises and turns. Our term “PILGRIMAGE” contrasts with St. Augustine’s image of the City of God, as a stable, boundaried municipality. The journey of the People of God exists alongside the conviction that “a mighty fortress is our God.” While we Christians are settlers and builders - our fidelity is pledged, since Abraham and Moses, to a mobile God whose revelation requires uprooting and repeated departures, leaving comfort and relative security and heading out into the unknown. But the metaphor journey has in it another image, that of PASSAGE. Christian scholars have been exploring the passages, which pattern modern religious maturing. Apart from the classic passages of birth, adult initiation, marriage and death, other perilous transitions affect our lives. Each of these passages, is a critical period of opportunity and danger, which shapes the direction of our life journey. We need to remember that the central paradox of a passage is always loss and gain, a time of peril and possibility. During a passage we become vulnerable to both personal loss and unexpected grace. Some vivid examples of losing and gaining are One, the loss of a parent or Two, when we fall in love. In the death of a parent we lose our beginning and our security. While love poses the question: If I admit this person I will have to change. Thus, a passage begins in disorientation and the threat of loss. It matures into a second stage as we allow ourselves to fully experience and name this loss. In the reluctant, gradual letting go of a parent or the slow, gingerly admittance of a love, we are both losing and finding ourselves.

Passages are oftentimes described as “something we undergo” or as going on a voyage on uncharted waters. Both passages include leaving the familiar, traveling for a time while uncertain about the destination and, for the Christian, expecting to meet God on the way.

Psychologically, we grow by letting go of parts of ourselves no longer necessary or adequate for our journey, we are purified of parts of ourselves that do not fit the future. The reordering of our lives that a passage promotes is also a disordering.

I once recalled to you the images on the History Channel showing a wagon train on the way West and leaving behind, along the wheel tracks, beloved and heritage items that hindered their progress to the promising land. As did the traveling Israelites who jettisoned their family and tribal gods picked up in Egypt as they came to realize these gods had nothing to do with the One True Living God. It’s true that we all whether as a family, a church, or a nation, acquire things, thoughts, ideas, cultural attitudes, etc., or a library, in our journeying through life that eventually we are compelled to leave along the roadside.

The British anthropologist Mary Douglas writes about the “potency of disorder”. And this potency is not only psychological, but also religious. This time of vulnerability and loss is also a time of potential grace.

In the threat and even chaos of a life passage, we experience the opportunity for extraordinary growth. We find unsuspected strengths; we are startled by our ability to risk and to trust. It’s generally only with hindsight do we recognize the gracefulness of a time of passage. From that threat and loss, we emerge not just different and wounded but stronger. In the darkness of that passage or in the uncharted waters of our voyage we found a new direction and confidence in our lives.

This experience of the grace of a passage illumines the third stage: emergence and re-incorporation into the community changed and matured. The journey of Christian maturing is patterned with many different passages. We ARE a people in movement, pledged to and in pursuit of a not always discernible God. Movement and change, then, are of the essence of religious growth. The call of the Spirit is constant, to which we need and will respond.

It is not surprising that a person might yearn for the good old days. But we need to anticipate and perhaps move from one camp, one structure to another. We may either in exasperation or in calm confidence ask: How many times must we be ready to begin again? How does seventy times seven sound? That is, in fact, the real miracle of Christianity. It is set in the Testament of the New, ordered to the fresh possibilities rather than the old mistakes of life. It proclaims the availability of the Spirit who would breathe on the earth and make it a New Creation.

Christianity is a faith of HOPE that reassures mankind, the Church, even a parish, that we can become renewed in Christ Jesus. Our redemption as well as our maturity is achieved precisely in the shifting human condition where beginning again or carrying out one’s responsibilities, adhering to principles, is a daily challenge. Ever since Christ’s first followers had to begin again to preach the good news at Pentecost, the Spirit has been our strength for the new beginnings of life. The Christian life is not a die-straight road into the future. It is more like a maze laden with wrong turns and dead ends, with surprises and difficulties. We make our way through it by always finding ourselves again, redeemed by the thousand resurrections of His spirit through which we are healed and can move forward.

The difficulties of our present world, nation, church and personal seem enough to discourage the strongest of us. The temptations to drop out, turn aside in search of a private peace with the ever-changing secular world are very great. But the Christian who lives by the Spirit knows that there is no end to our need to pack up, strike the tent, and begin again. We also know that God’s promises are the guarantee that we CAN ALWAYS BEGIN AGAIN. That is what the resurrected life of the Spirit looks like. In living it, as church, as Christians, we are a source of hope, a real sign of constancy, of salvation for the whole world.

We, you and I, as members of the Body of Christ, will always be faced with choices and decisions that mark a difficult passage. We can refuse a grace¬-full possibility shrinking back preferring to remain dormant in Egypt or to begin, to continue our journey retaining, carrying with us only our life-giving, strength-giving Ark, Holy Scripture, the sustaining, Word of God, our Eucharist, both is our beacon, our pillar of fire, our column of cloud, guiding us into a more mature existence and deeper commitment to live in Christ, to participate with Him in His mission to reach out in love and concern for the world and all those who dwell therein.

Remaining faithful in the keeping of unity of Christ, wherever it leads us until finally at the last, we leave everything on the side of the road to join with Him who runs to greet us joyfully with outstretched arms and the words: “Fidelis servus et prudens. Well done thou good and faithful servant. Come, enter into the kingdom which has been prepared for you.”

Jesus on Marriage and Divorce - Pentecost 18 (October 4, 2009)

2009-10-05T20:18:00.000-07:00

Genesis 2:16-24
Psalm 8
Hebrews 1:1-4, 2:5-12
Mark 10:1-16

Contrary to what many people think, Jesus did not come into the world to be social reformer. His mission was not that of an ethicist or moral engineer. Unlike the great rabbis of his time, he did not bequeath to his disciples a systematic interpretation of the Law of Moses; it was not his intention to establish a great rabbinical school in the name of Rabbi Jesus. Yet when pressed to render his judgment on issues that exercised the greatest legal and ethical minds of his time, particularly on social matters, he did not pull any punches. So profound were his insights, so radical was his perspective on things, so transforming his ethic, that common folk could not help but sit up and take notice. On many occasions the crowds were amazed that he spoke as “one with authority,” and not as the scribes and teachers of the law. It is for this reason that Jesus was pressed throughout his ministry, particularly by his opponents, to weigh in on the controversial matters of his day.

And what issue could be more controversial than marriage and divorce (a subject that still creates controversy in our day). Not surprisingly, the two main rabbinical schools of Jesus’ day differed on this issue. Rabbi Hillel had taught that a husband could divorce his wife for any reason that displeased him, like burning the evening meal. Rabbi Shimei on the other hand taught that a man could only divorce his wife on account of sexual impurity. So which side would Rabbi Jesus take in this debate? The Pharisees ask him: “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?” (Mark 10:2). In typical custom, Jesus responds with a question of his own, “What did Moses command you?” They answer, “Moses allowed a man to write a certificate of dismissal and divorce her” (vv. 3, 4).

Now here is where the dialogue gets very interesting, but I caution you to remember what I said earlier: Jesus did not come into this world to be a social reformer or moral engineer. The only reason we know anything about Jesus’ views on marriage and divorce is because the Pharisees were attempting here to test him. It just so happens that his answer was so radical for its time that it was remembered and recorded for posterity sake in the gospel accounts (so radical in fact that the gospel writer Matthew felt compelled to soften the impact of his teaching by including an adultery exception like that of Rabbi Shimei.) But as far as we know, Jesus never ever preached a sermon on marriage and divorce (which is ironic since his followers cannot seem to preach enough on the matter!).

But as I said, here’s where the dialogue gets very interesting, because Jesus and his detractors are both able to appeal to Moses. Naturally, the Pharisees argue for the legality of divorce from the provision for divorce in the Mosaic Code. Jesus, however, appeals to the beginning – to the creation account of Eve in the Book of Genesis, which as part of the Torah was believed to have been written by Moses. Jesus infers from the creation account of Eve that God never intended for a man to divorce his wife.

So then is there a contradiction in the Law? Not at all, for Jesus goes on to explain: “Because of your hardness of heart [Moses] wrote this commandment for you. But from the beginning of creation, 'God made them male and female.' 'For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.' So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate” (vv. 5-9). Later on, when asked privately by his disciples (who were no doubt baffled by his earlier statement), Jesus will be even more direct and blunt: “Whoever divorces his wife and marries another commits adultery against her; and if she divorces her husband and marries another, she commits adultery” (vv. 10-12). Now, mind you, there is no indication that Jesus ever offered this judgment outside of the goading of others. The account reads almost like the classic “Jack Nicholson” moment in the film A Few Good Men: “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!”

Now, my friends, that is God’s standard. That’s the ideal. That’s the way God intended things since creation. And Jesus is not about to qualify this teaching, or water down the text, or suggest loopholes – not for them, and not for us. But, on the other hand, he’s not going to deny the reality of human sin either – i.e., the hardness of the human heart. Nor do I think it was Jesus’ intention here to abolish the divorce laws of the Mosaic Code. Rather, as on other occasions, his intention is to put the Law into perspective, i.e., to show that at most the Law is intended to curb sin, for it is powerless to prevent it! And it is certainly not intended to promote sin! After the creation of humankind on the sixth day, "God saw all that he created and it was very good” (Gen. 1:31). However, in a world broken by sin, divorce may be permissible, but it is never good.

Obviously there has never been a time in human history – not then and certainly not now – when we humans have ever been able to live up to this standard. In fact, all have fallen short of God’s standard, whether we’ve been married to the same person for fifty years or have been divorced three times. NONE of us has been able to live according to the standard of fidelity and mutuality that the Genesis creation account invokes. There are periods of brokenness in every relationship, no matter how outwardly strong they appear to be. And societies have always found it necessary to navigate and negotiate the course of human relationships. That’s not going to change.

But here’s the point. While the world around us may not change, while there may always be a need in society for the legal and ethical redressing of areas affected by the Fall (e.g. the legal recourse of divorce), we, the People of God, can be changed, we can be transformed, we can be renewed. And that is the beauty of Jesus’ teaching, for the appeal to the Genesis account of our creation is an appeal to what is authentically human about us. In and of ourselves, this may be impossible, but in Christ all things are possible for he is the “authentic Human Being.” We may not be able to go back and fix the past, and I’m not suggesting that we even try, but we can begin to work on the present – to be authentically human to each other – where we are now in the relationships we have now with each other. And when we fail (as we are bound to do from time to time) we must remember that in Christ is always the hope of redemption and of resurrection - for ourselves and in our relationships: in our marriages, in our friendships, in our families, with our parents, with our children, with our brothers and sisters; yes, even in the Church.

Who Do You Say That I Am? - Pentecost 15 (September 13, 2009)

2009-09-18T10:08:00.000-07:00

Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 116:1-8
James 3:1-12
Mark 8:27-28

“Who do the people say that I am?” This is the question that Jesus asked his disciples near the city of Caesarea Philippi. And, of course it seemed that everyone had an opinion about Jesus – Some say… “John the Baptist, still others, Elijah, or one of the prophets.” Things haven’t changed all that much in 2000 years. No matter whom you ask people have an opinion about who Jesus is. But Jesus then asks his disciples the same question, “Who do you say that I am?”

It is important to recognize that Jesus asked all of his disciples this question, though it was Peter who gave the answer. Thus it is important to recognize that Jesus invites us all to answer for ourselves: “Who do you say that I am?” Before us today is Peter’s answer, as recorded by Mark, where he says quite directly, “You are the Messiah.” But then Jesus says something quite remarkable in response: he tells them not to tell anyone about him.

The next time we are tempted to say “The Bible says this…” or “Jesus says that…” with the purpose in mind of setting someone else straight or correcting what we might think is an error in their belief, or their theology, or something about their conduct or how they choose to live their lives, we might do well to stop and ponder one of the very few direct instructions he ever gave to those who followed him: not to tell anyone about him. It is not without cause that James warns us in his letter that “Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers and sisters, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness.”

And it’s none other than Peter himself – he who gave this great confession that Jesus was the “Messiah” – who proves this very point moments later. After Jesus tells them that he must undergo great suffering, rejection by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and then be killed and raised on the third day, Peter takes Jesus aside and begins to rebuke him. Now, we don’t know exactly what Peter said, but it’s not difficult to imagine him saying, “No, no, Jesus, you must not say these things! It cannot be that the Messiah of God would become subject to death.” Jesus response is direct: “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Now, I have to wonder, how often is our confession that Jesus is the Messiah (the Christ) encumbered by our setting our minds on human things rather than on the divine? How often is our confession of Christ as Savior compromised by our expectations of what Jesus is like? How he would act? What he should do for us? How he would regard those around us? What he would expect from us? What we would hope that he would expect from us? I dare say if we are honest with ourselves, we should fare little better than Peter did on this occasion.

This leads me to say something that may shock you on first hearing: What we confess with our mouths is not nearly as important as what we do with our lives. Now this might sound at first like a complete and utter rejection of the Gospel as we have become familiar with it, as it was presented to us as children, as we taught it to our children, and as we teach it from the pulpit and in our Sunday school classes. Surely, there are those who might say that I have just run roughshod over the whole Reformation teaching on Justification by faith. So let me say this clearly and categorically: what we believe about Jesus as Christians is important, very important. Indeed, if we confess with our lips that Jesus is Lord, we will be saved. But what good is such a confession if we fail to do as Jesus has done?

Look what happens next in our gospel. Jesus calls the crowd together around his disciples and then he says to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Now consider what he didn’t do, especially in this context. He didn’t say, “Hey, I’m the Messiah. If you want to be my disciples, you have to believe that I am the Messiah sent by God. You have to believe that I am the fulfillment of your Scriptures, Israel’s hope and consolation.” Now, again, I believe that Jesus is all these things, and I also think it’s pretty important that we believe these things. But the call to discipleship is not primarily about a set of propositions and belief statements. Rather it is about how Jesus can be seen in us – his followers – in the way we pick up our crosses and follow him.

Whoever we say Jesus is, he should be seen in what we do, in how we act, in the people we spend time ministering to. (Often these are not the people we find ourselves naturally drawn to. But they are the people that Jesus was drawn to: tax collectors, sinners, the lame, the sick, prostitutes, and so on.) This is the real challenge in our Baptismal promise: to pick up our cross and follow him.

On the Eucharist - Pentecost 11 (August 16, 2009)

2009-08-18T08:41:00.000-07:00

The following sermon was preached by Fr. Jack Holman, Associate Rector of The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Tomball, TX.

Proverbs 9:1-6
Psalm 34:9-14
Ephesians 5:15-20
John 6:51-58

Eating alone in silence is not the option of choice for most of us. Human loneliness is graphic in large cafeterias in our area. It just isn’t natural not having someone to talk to, someone to share with. We feel profoundly for the poor lonely men and women who must eat their meals by themselves. Somehow they seem cut off from the rest of the human race. The message of the Eucharist is that we need never eat alone. Sure, on occasion or even frequently we may have to take our meals by ourselves, but we are never really alone because Jesus is with us. Jesus, who fed the multitudes, Jesus who enjoyed the table fellowship of his apostles is the very same Jesus who is with us not merely in the Eucharist meal but wherever we are and wherever we go. No matter how alone or cut off we may feel, Jesus shares the table with us. Saying Grace emphasizes this. The Eucharist means that Jesus has come to eliminate loneliness from human life. Even though occasionally we may be alone, as long as we believe in the love which Jesus manifested when feeding the multitudes, we know there is no reason for us to be lonely.

Scripture commentators tell us that while the Last Supper was indeed the last meal that Jesus ate with his followers, before his execution, it was not the first of the “table fellowships” which Jesus shared with them. Eating a meal together had deeply religious significance for all small religious groups in the time of Jesus. Therefore, it is very likely that the fellowships which Jesus shared with his apostles before the Last Supper were religious meals in tone and symbolism. The Eucharistic Rite is described as many things: a sacrament, a memorial, a sacrifice. But above all else, it is a meal and it plays the role as a sacrament, a memorial, or a sacrifice, insofar as it is a banquet. Not just an ordinary banquet; it’s a wedding banquet, a meal that celebrates the love among those who deeply love one another, even though it doesn’t look like any kind of meal at all. Jesus has compared the kingdom of his heavenly father to a wedding banquet and the Eucharist is a union between Jesus and his followers in that kingdom

Furthermore Paul compares the love between Jesus and his church to the love between a man and a woman. The Eucharist is a celebration of the union between Jesus and his church. Saying that it is a celebration of a passionate love does not seem to be an exaggeration. We sing and celebrate the Eucharist because we are convinced that God is deeply in love with us.

Those of us, who assemble around the altar to eat the bread of the Eucharist, necessarily and inevitably, commit ourselves to do all we can to eliminate physical suffering in the world. Hunger, poverty, ignorance, sickness, misery—none of these have any place in the world in which the Eucharistic banquet is celebrated. Now we are under no illusion that they can be eliminated immediately; nonetheless, as Christians we must consider ourselves committed to do all in our power to overcome physical suffering. Just as Jesus did, we must take compassion on the multitudes, even if we realize our compassion is not going to be completely effective. The war on poverty began not in Washington but along the shore of the sea at Tiberias twenty-one centuries ago.

This is not to say that there is any specific way of “feeding the hungry” which every Christian must follow; much less to say that specific legislation is endorsed by the gospel. But it is to say that every Christian must be profoundly concerned about hunger—or any other kind of human misery—where ever it occurs, and must do all that he can to work for its elimination. Theologians tells us: Non salus sine pauperes: There is no salvation without the poor!

We don’t minimize the importance of the theological controversies raised over the Eucharist down through the ages, but there is a danger that these controversies may blind us to the basic message of the Eucharistic banquet. We need only to take Jesus at his word that this bread and this wine is his flesh and blood and that we are in communion with Jesus and his work when eating this bread and drinking this wine. We are brought into contact with a new life, a life which is the ‘springtime of the world”. It does make us an integral part of the great historical process which began on Sinai and was renewed in the Upper Room. It does give us a share in the sacrifice and suffering of Jesus and it does promise us ultimate reunion with Jesus in the new life of the Resurrection.

Neither the theological discussions going on thru the centuries, nor the exegetical considerations, should cause us to overlook the message of Marks’s gospel: Where he writes: “He who eats the bread of the Eucharist is really in communion with Jesus and is working together with him in fulfilling his covenant”. Let’s not overlook the familial nature of the Eucharist. Then and now it was a family banquet, a small intimate gathering of a group of close friends. Early Christians, whatever their understanding of the precise relationship between the Lord’s Supper and the Passover, were quite aware that the Lord’s Supper was a gathering of people who loved one another. In other words, the covenant of Jesus was a covenant rooted in a love feast of a group of intimate friends To the extent that Eucharistic banquets do not manifest this profound affection which Jesus and his apostles felt for one another, they are less than adequate symbols of what the Eucharist really means. We may not always know the person next to us and that’s unfortunate, but if we are not prepared to love that person or anyone else in church, then we simply do not understand what the Eucharist means-no matter how sophisticated our theology or our exegesis may be.

We humans hunger after meaning, hunger for purpose and faith. We can understand how the Good News of Jesus can protect us from ever being spiritually hungry again. The purpose and meaning that the Good News puts into our life, makes it impossible for us to drift into chaos and confusion. It is not merely a banquet of wisdom as stated in Proverbs. It’s a kind of unity with God and his Messenger for which there was no preparation in the OT. It is obvious that Jesus is speaking of a form of union with God that is quite new. The Eucharist represents the most intimate union that is possible between Jesus and us, between God and us through Jesus. The love of Jesus for his followers was such that he would remain, somehow or other, present with them through the Eucharist, bringing life now, not only through his teaching, but by his presence! Case closed!

"The Bread from Heaven" - Pentecost 10 (August 9, 2009)

2009-08-11T10:07:00.000-07:00

1 Kings 19:4-8
Psalm 34:1-8
Ephesians 4:25-52
John 6:35, 41-51

Many of the stories in the Old Testament have an epic character to them, where the forces of good battle against forces of evil. This is no less of our story from 1 Kings. The hero of our epic story is the prophet Elijah – one of the last surviving prophets of God. He is a wanted man, for the wicked Queen Jezebel has been purging the nation of its prophets of Yahweh and replacing them with prophets of Baal. In our Old Testament reading (1 Kings 19:4-8), we see Elijah at a tragic, low point in the story… a low point in his life… ready to give up. At first reading, this seems strange, because he has just won a major battle against the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18). However, no sooner had Elijah defeated the forces of Baal than Queen Jezebel resumed her manhunt with renewed vigor, and Elijah is forced to flee into the barrenness of the desert. In the desert, under a solitary broom tree, Elijah falls into a deep depression and asks God to take his life. “It is enough; now, O LORD, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors” (1 Kings 19:4). At this point, God sends an angel to minister to him. Upon waking him, the angel bids Elijah to get up and eat the baked bread lying near him on hot stones. He does this twice in fact. And through this bread, prepared by God’s angelic messenger, Elijah is given the strength, encouragement and endurance he needs for the forty day journey to the mountain of God – Mount Horeb.

Once again the connection between our Old Testament reading and the Gospel appointed for this Sunday (cf. John 6:35, 41-51) is the metaphor of Bread. Our gospel begins with the words of Jesus: “I am the Bread of Life. He who comes to me will never be hungry. Whoever believes in me will never be thirsty” (Verse 35). Bread is an incredibly powerful metaphor, both in Scripture and in the historical narratives of virtually every culture. Bread is as old as culture itself. Anthropologists mark the beginning of civilization with the cultivation of grains – e.g., wheat, rye, barley, rice. Our earliest human ancestors may have had a diet richer in protein, gathering nuts and fruit and hunting game, but it was not until humankind mastered the tilling of the soil for grain crops that human populations could settle into communities and nations. Ancient Rome was just as dependent on the breadbasket of Egypt to advance its dominion as are Western nations today dependent on oil rich countries to fuel modern society and advance modern values and ideals.

You see, there is more to bread than meets the eye or nourishes the body. It is the root of human ingenuity and industry, the fundamental building block of culture. Bread is fundamentally a human “invention,” yet the ability to make bread depends entirely on God’s goodness in creation – i.e., in creating the seeds of the earth, sending the rains, and providing the nourishment to grow. In a very real sense, one could say that the making of bread defines what it means to be human. Yet if this is true, it is true in the sense that it defines what it means to be human in relation to each other and human in relation to our Creator. This is expressed well in the Offertory of the Roman Mass:

“Blessed are you, Lord, God of all Creation: Through your goodness we have this bread to offer, which earth has given and human hands have made. It will become for us the bread of life. Blessed be God for ever.”

It should not surprise us, then, that throughout the biblical narrative God meets his people in and through bread. The preparation, giving and eating of bread is no less than the juncture of divine and human fellowship – whether it is in the unleavened bread of the Passover meal, the Manna in the wilderness, the showbread in the Tabernacle which David and his men were permitted to eat to replenish their strength, or in the bread that Elijah ate to strengthen his body and replenish his soul. Throughout Scripture, God demonstrates his companionship towards humankind in bread. In fact the words “companion” and “companionship” come from the Latin words “com” meaning “with” and “panis” meaning “bread” – i.e., to partake of bread together.

For Jesus then to make the claim to be “the bread that came down from heaven” would have been astounding to his hearers. Remember these were people who were steeped in these stories from the Old Testament; good Jews who knew that Jesus’ statement amounted to a claim that he was in himself the mediator between God and humankind, that God meets us and communes with us in Jesus. Indeed, our Gospel tells us that it was this claim that caused the crowds to complain about him and disbelieve his message; this same prophet who only a day before had fed the five thousand with five loaves and two fish. “Is this not Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know?” Is he not a mere man like the rest of us? No doubt they could have accepted Jesus as a good teacher, a rabbi, or perhaps a prophet; no doubt, had he given them the sign they demanded they would even have accepted him as a prophet on par with the great Moses! Even today there are people who can accept Christ as a good teacher or perhaps a prophet. But Jesus claims to be more than this, much more. At one and the same time, his claim is grounded both in the human and the divine. By saying that he is “bread” he is claiming to be fundamentally human (in fact the fundamental human – the founder of a “new humanity”). By claiming to be “from heaven” he claims a divine origination, like the Manna from heaven, and yet much more than Manna that merely feeds for a day. For the Bread that Jesus gives is his own flesh, and the life that he gives through his body is eternal. It is in Jesus, in partaking of him through his broken flesh, that we meet God, that we are strengthened, encouraged, and given eternal life. But more than this…it is in Jesus, in participating in our human condition, that God meets us and solidarity and companionship with God is established.

It is for these reasons that on his last night with his disciples, Jesus gave us the bread and wine of the Eucharist – the holy food and drink of eternal life. Through these actions at the altar, the Church’s primary act of worship together, that we meet the Christ who died for us, the Christ who is risen for us, and the Christ who will one day come again us. This is the Church’s hope and faith. This is our faith as the body of Christ.

"The Bottom Line" - Pentecost 9 (August 2, 2009)

2009-08-03T09:35:00.000-07:00

Exodus 16:2-4, 9-15
Psalm 78:23-29
Ephesians 4:1-16
John 6:24-35

I recently re-connected with one of my college roommates on Facebook. For the last few weeks, he and I have been reminiscing about college and the apartment we shared with three other guys. Of course we also talked about the things that we used to bicker about, like dirty dishes, house cleaning and food supplies. I was reminded of the many times the four of us would wait each other out to see who go shopping for food. During the lean times we would carefully ration what few food supplies we had – Graham Crackers, Saltines, dill pickles, Cheez-Whiz, Cool Whip, ketchup packets, etc. (We also kept Dominos Pizza very busy!) Sometimes we would go for two weeks before someone would break. On one such occasion, my roommate Billy was scrounging around for something to eat, when suddenly we heard a cry of delight coming from inside the refrigerator: “Aha! A jar of peanut butter!” A moment later, Billy grabbed his coat and keys and made for the door. “Where are you going?” we asked. “You guys win, I’m going shopping,” he replied. “Why’s that?” “Because we’re out of peanut butter, and when you’re out of peanut butter, you’re out of food.” Everyone has a bottom line.

It’s virtually a cultural universal that the metaphors we use for food are whatever happens to be the bottom line; the basic thing you need to stay alive. In many Asian cultures, the word “rice” and the word for “food” are the same. In Melanesia, the same applies to yams. For Billy, it was peanut butter – the one food item, stuffed somewhere in the back of a refrigerator or a pantry, that he could always count on if there was nothing else to eat (unless of course someone had forgotten to throw away the empty jar!).

In English, the word “bread” is often synonymous with food. “Give us this day our daily bread,” we pray in the Lord’s Prayer. Bread also happens to be the biblical metaphor for food, because bread in biblical times happened to be the staple, essential, bottom-line food. If Jesus had been Melanesian, he would have spoken about yams. (Imagine that! "I am the Yam of life!") But bread it is. And bread it was that the crowd was looking for when they sought Jesus on the other side of the Sea of Galilee from where he had so recently fed a crowd of five thousand with five loaves and two fish. When they finally catch up to him in Capernaum, they ask, “Rabbi, when did you get here?” Jesus responds bluntly by pointing to their bottom line: “Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves” [cf. John 6:25-26].

Now this response may seem harsh on Jesus' part. After all, they had just been fed by Jesus, and obviously this Jesus was someone who seemed concerned for the hungry, someone who showed compassion on the multitudes. Obviously he also had the power and authority to do something about it! And besides, it’s a good thing to well-fed! Would that everyone in the world had enough to eat every day! None of us would allow a child to go to bed hungry if we had the resources to feed him. This is all very true, and yet Jesus still goes on to challenge this crowd’s bottom line: “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you. For it is on him that God the Father has set his seal” [John 6:27].

It is evident that the bottom line for Jesus was different than the bottom line for the crowd that sought him out. “What must we do to perform the works of God?” the crowd asks Jesus [John 6:28]; a question that betrays not only their basic misunderstanding, but that of people down through the ages. How often do we look to our needs as the bottom line in our relationship with God? What must we do, what deed must we perform, to get God to fulfill our basic needs? – To fill our bellies and pay our debts? Perhaps the need is little less tangible, e.g., our emotional or relationship needs. And when bread or finances do not miraculously materialize, when emotions and relationships fall apart, we conclude that either we have failed to do something for God or, more often than not, that God has failed us. Was this not Israel’s attitude as they complained to Moses and Aaron? – “If only we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread” [Exodus 16:3].

“This is the work of God,” Jesus answers, “That you believe in him whom he has sent” [John 6:29]. In other words, Jesus reminds us that there is something more basic than food or clothing or any of our material needs; so basic in fact, that Jesus co-opts the very metaphor we use to describe our basic physical needs: BREAD. “Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness,” the crowd retorts. “It was not Moses who gave you bread from heaven,” Jesus says, “But it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world” [cf. John 6:31-33].

Now I realize that in an age of uncertainty it is all too easy to focus on our material needs. This is true not only for the poor, but for the rich as well – perhaps more so! J.K. Rowling describes her life before the success of the Harry Potter series as being “as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless,” and yet “… I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”

Now, mind you, we are not presented here with an either/or choice. Jesus is not telling us to make a choice between our bellies and our relationship with God. It is not that we should be unconcerned about the physical, or not trust God to see to our needs. Rather, Jesus reminds us that OUR solid foundation, our bottom line, is a right relationship with God – a relationship that is grounded in our faith in what Christ has accomplished for us on the Cross and in the resurrection – the forgiveness of our sins and a new life in him; a relationship that we re-affirm at this altar each time we gather to partake of his body and blood – the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation. Herein, Jesus reminds us what the true bottom line is for us: “I am the Bread of Life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty” [John 6:35].

Bread – the bottom line physically; as it turns out, the bottom line spiritually as well, but not bread that spoils, not bread that fills the belly merely for a day, but the bread that fills us for eternity: Jesus Christ.

The Real Miracle in the Feeding of the Five Thousand - Pentecost 8 (July 26, 2009)

2009-07-28T18:56:00.000-07:00

2 Kings 2:42-44
Psalm 145:10-19
Ephesians 3:14-21
John 6:1-21

The Feeding of the Five Thousand is perhaps the most talked about miracle in Scripture. It is the only miracle of Jesus that is recorded in all four Gospels — giving the preacher ample opportunity to preach on it. Considering that three of the gospels – Matthew, Mark, and Luke (the Synoptic Gospels) – are related to each other in literary terms, this may not seem too important. But the fact one of the distinctive characteristics of John’s Gospel is that the author deliberately leaves out most material from the Synoptic accounts, means that the author thought this miracle important enough to repeat yet again.

Thematically, the Feeding of the Five Thousand is important for establishing a link between the ministry of Jesus and the Old Testament prophetic tradition. The authors of the Gospels were very keen to make the connection between the lives and ministries of great prophets of old, like Moses, Elijah, and Elisha and the One that they believed was the promised Messiah of Israel – the culmination of the Law and the Prophets. This connection is seen in our reading from 2 Kings 4, where the prophet Elisha, during a widespread famine, feeds a hundred people with 20 loaves of barley bread, and afterward there is some leftover. We also see an interchange between Elisha and his servant, who protests the impossibility of feeding so many with so few loaves: “How can I set this before a hundred people?”

Similarly we see Jesus instructing his disciples to feed a large number of people – some 5000 men and with fewer resources, only five barley loaves and two fishes. And like Elijah and his servant, the disciples of Jesus protest beforehand, “Six months wages would not be enough bread for each of them to get a little.” Yet after the feeding, there is enough left over to feed twelve baskets. (Do note that Jesus feeds more people than does Elisha, but then Jesus is the Messiah).

But there is another reason this miracle is among the most talked about in Scripture, and that is because, with the exception of the virgin birth and the resurrection, it is perhaps the most difficult of the recorded miracles for those with critical minds to believe in. Even critical minded people can accept the healing stories of Jesus. After all, they understand that faith has a powerful effect on both spiritual and physical well-being. But multiplying loaves and fish?– This seems more incredible, more difficult to explain away, and so many theories have arisen to explain how it was done.

The most notable explanation is the suggestion that when the boy who had the loaves and fish shared them with others his example inspired others to bring out what they had brought with them and share as well. I’m not going to try to explain how or explain away how Jesus multiplied the loaves and the fish. (I happen to believe in the miracle-stories, so it doesn’t really create a dilemma for me.) What I’d rather spend my time doing is focusing on the lesson that this miracle story is intended to convey – the real miracle of the story if you will. It is a most ordinary miracle, one that all of us can perform; yet one with extraordinary results, leading to other miracles. It is the miracle of compassion.

Think of the story about Elisha for a minute. Here we see a man coming to bring the prophet an offering during a famine. The Talmud informs us that the region of Baal-Shalishah was produced the earliest crops in all of Israel. And so here we see this man, bringing barley bread to Elisha, made from the first ripe grain of the season in all of Israel. It was a faith offering brought to a prophet of God in the hopes that God would, in return, shower his blessings upon the Land.

And Elisha, after receiving the offering, says to his servant "Give it to the people and let them eat, for thus says the Lord, ‘They shall eat and have some left.’" Give it to the hungry ones here with me; feed them, for they need it. But what response does he get in return? He is told it is not possible, there is not enough to go around.

In the four Gospel stories about the feeding of the 5000 we hear something similar. Jesus is teaching on a hillside, and when evening approaches the disciples become concerned. They fear the crowd will go hungry, and their solution is to ask Jesus to send them away so that they will not have to worry about them. But Jesus says to them: “You feed them.” How often would we implore the Lord to send people away from our midst, so that we no longer have to worry about them; people in need, people who are hungry, people who are outcasts, people who do not fit in. “Send them away!” we say. “We don’t want to deal with them; we don’t want to worry about them. It’s not that we don’t want what’s best for them; it’s just that we don’t have the resources to see to their needs. It’s not our gift, Lord.

So Jesus asks Philip, “Where shall we buy bread for these people to eat?” Philip replies quite predictably: "Six months wages would not buy enough bread to for each one to have a single bite." Another disciple, Andrew, finds a boy among the crowd with 5 loaves and two fish. “But what are they among so many people?” he asks.

Far too often this is our response to the call of God. Jesus says to his disciples (to us), “You feed them.” Often our response is to point out our lack of resources. “Lord, we are too weak... our parish is too small... our resources are insufficient... How can we help with what little we have? We don't even know how we will we make do ourselves. How can we feed so many? We have so little and the need is so great.”

Well, I have news for you: We will never have enough resources. We will never have the right sets of gifts, the optimum number of people, enough money to do what needs to be done, or sufficient means to meet the needs that exist in the world. Our human efforts and human resources will always fall short of the calling of God. WHY? Because God's call always transcends our resources and abilities, whatever they may be, no matter how "rich" or "poor" we are in human terms. God calls us to go beyond ourselves -- because ministry is not what we do for God, but what God does through us.

And that, my friends, is the miracle of compassion -- the miracle that takes place in the heart of God's people, which is nothing short of exhibiting and manifesting the heart of Jesus towards those who need it most. And when we respond to the call of God we cannot help but be empowered – we become the very instruments that God is able to use to bring relief to the suffering, provision to the poor, encouragement to the oppressed, consolation to the bereaved, hospitality to the outcast. It is at this point that we open ourselves up to see the power of God at work in us and through us.

You see, in the final analysis, the feeding of the five thousand is not primarily about pulling rabbits out of hat; it is not a miracle retold in Scripture to demonstrate the wonder working power of Jesus. Rather, it is a lesson to show us that when we open ourselves up to compassion of Christ and to his call – there is nothing, absolutely nothing that can thwart the will of God or diminish the love of God from being manifest to others in and through our lives.

Standing in the Gap - Pentecost 7 (July 19, 2009)

2009-07-28T18:21:00.000-07:00

Jeremiah 23:1-6
Psalm 23
Ephesians 2:11-22
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

“We are called to stand in the gap and that has not and will not change.”(Carol Barnwell, Communications Director, Diocese of Texas, July 2009)

Sometimes we can be very naïve in our reading of the New Testament. We read it with rose-colored lenses, thinking that there were no serious or divisive controversies in the New Testament age – at least none as serious as those which threaten to divide our churches today. Well, I have news for you: there has never been a time in church history when the Body of Christ has not been under the threat of division; and this includes the New Testament age. Today’s reading from the Book of Ephesians [2:11-22] reminds us of this.

Read in light of the controversies of the day (rather than reading it as just another theological treatise) we can begin to appreciate that, in context, this passage was an admonition of sorts. Specifically, it served as an admonition directed towards a predominantly Gentile church – i.e., a church tempted to think too highly of itself as it looked down upon those of Jewish descent, and thus a church in danger of division. The “presenting cause” (if you will) was the Law of Moses and, more specifically, the practice of circumcision which Gentile believers rejected, but which many believers of Jewish descent still regarded as a necessary rite of initiation.

By the time this letter was written, Gentile Christians no doubt outnumbered those of Jewish descent in most places, and were presumably enjoying their newfound preeminence in the Church. But here the author takes the opportunity to remind them that they were once “far off” … “without Christ and aliens from the commonwealth of Israel” … “strangers to the covenants of promise and without God in the world.” After reminding them of their former alien-status, the author proceeds to tell them that there is absolutely no basis or reason for divisions amongst Christians of different backgrounds, because “…Christ is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.”

Once again – this week – we were made painfully aware of how divided our own Church and Communion are. (On a personal note, I tried very hard to ignore what was going on in Anaheim. However, the media and blogosphere managed to break through my self-imposed indifference to remind me of just how close the Anglican Communion actually is to dividing and separating into factions.)

True, the issues of today are very different from those of St. Paul’s day. Nevertheless, we are witnessing the same dynamics at work: people of strong convictions on both sides of serious issues alienating each other, and setting up walls of division between themselves for the sake of preeminence in the church. Somewhere along the way, we have forgotten that “Christ is our peace”; and that in his flesh he has made us one Body, by breaking down dividing walls and abolishing all of our hostilities.

I know it is natural at this point to object to what I am suggesting. After all, if this statement were true (or if it applies to OUR controversies) – i.e., if Christ really has broken down all “dividing walls” and abolished all hostilities through his flesh – then how is it that otherwise sincere Christians still find themselves so divided? Why are there differences of opinion at all? How can it be that the Church of Christ is of two minds on such important matters? I believe the answer can be boiled down to a simple distinction: The difference between “being” and “knowing;” i.e., the difference between “what we are” and “our understanding of what we are.”

Now the dirty little secret in academic circles is that philosophers and theologians have known about this distinction for a long time; indeed, they have built whole careers on it! How this distinction applies to the Body of Christ is quite simple: there is a crucial difference between “what we are in Christ” and how we understand and experience “what it means to be in Christ.” Intuitively, we all know this to be true, especially when it comes to our own personal Christian walks. For example: We so fervently believe in Christ’s victory in our lives! And yet… how difficult is it to live that life of victory? As a tenet of our faith we believe that Christ has conquered sin and death, and yet… we continue to struggle with sin and the prospect of death! Each week we drop to our knees in confession, because we believe that God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins. But if “knowing” was identical to “being,” we would never have to confess our sins because we would never sin!

Individually, we experience salvation as a process. It is process for us corporately as the Body of Christ as well. Hence, if “knowing” was identical to “being,” it would stand to reason that there would no longer be any differences in the Church. Yet as St. Paul reminds us elsewhere, what we know we know “only in part”: “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known” (cf. 1 Corinthians 13:9, 12).

It is when one or more parties in the Church confuse “knowing” with “being” that separation and division in the Body of Christ becomes inevitable. It is only a matter of time.

Most of you know I have not always been an Episcopalian. My original ordination was in the Reformed Episcopal Church, a group that separated 136 years ago from the Episcopal Church because they could no longer tolerate differences of opinion in that denomination. However, 136 years ago the controversies were not over homosexual bishops and same-sex unions, but rather whether or not ministers should wear Eucharistic vestments … and whether candles should be placed on the altar … and whether the altar should even be called an altar (rather than a table) … and whether a priest should be called a priest! These issues seem petty and unimportant to us today; indeed, they are no longer important to the Reformed Episcopal Church! But they were important enough at the time to separate from the main body. Though the issues have changed, the underlying problem for the original Reformed Episcopalians is the same one we face today: the confusion of “knowing” with “being.”

When someone or some group insists that they alone “know” or possess the truth they are, in essence, making a claim to be the embodiment of the truth. Recent events clearly demonstrate this. On the one hand, we have the “ultra-conservatives” (for want of a better term) who have so settled the issues in their minds that no amount of potential new evidence, scientific research, or even careful consideration of and attention to pastoral needs could ever dislodge their conviction that not only do they KNOW the truth but that they themselves ARE the truth – that is, that their separate existence apart from the rest of the Anglican world embodies “true Anglicanism.”

On the other hand, what is becoming ever so clear to the rest of the Anglican Communion is that the “elites” and “social activists” in our Church are confusing American-style democratic processes with the voice and leading of the Holy Spirit, and majority voting procedures with the consensus fidelium (i.e., the consensus of the faithful). As a result, our national church ends up ignoring or belittling the legitimate concerns and consensus of the rest of the Anglican Communion, while insisting that the Anglican Communion should accept us on our terms (always under the veiled threat of withdrawing our financial support).

That’s why I’m thankful to part of the Diocese of Texas, and indeed, your priest here at Good Shepherd. You may not always feel like it (and I sometimes might be negligent in telling you), but you are a gift to this diocese; and the diocese as a whole is a gift to The Episcopal Church. Why? Because, as Carol Barnwell (communication director for the diocese) recently expressed it, “We [as a diocese] are called to stand in the gap and that has not and will not change.” As your priest I am here today to remind you that Good Shepherd parish is called to “stand in the gap” as well. I’m not telling you anything you do not already know from your own experience. We live this calling every day. We are keenly aware of the costs and the struggle. It will always be a part of our DNA.

So what does it mean to stand in the gap?

Standing in the gap means guarding and protecting that which has been received by the Church and remaining faithful to our Anglican heritage and consensus. But it also means remaining open to the guidance and prompting of the Holy Spirit, and thus perhaps to the possibility (if only hypothetical) of the emergence of a new consensus on issues that, at present, are controversial.

Standing in the gap means understanding the difference between “knowing” and “being.” It means that if we would ever hope to know the fullness of Christ we must first live into the truth that we – ALL OF THE BAPTIZED (even those with whom we disagree) – are the Body of Christ.

Standing in the gap means standing precisely where others will want to build walls of separation, walls of hostility and division, walls that Christ through his flesh tore down, and refusing to step aside or out of the way.

Standing in the gap means being called to offer ourselves as a bridge of reconciliation to those, on both sides, who cannot see beyond their own prejudices to appreciate the gifts that others of different opinions might bring to the table.