St. Philip’s Day Sermon
Isaiah 30: 18-21
John 14: 6-14
May 5, 1991
Today is the time we have set aside to celebrate our patronal festival, that special day when we not only remember Saint Philip, but all the members of this community who have made this place holy ground.
I must admit, it’s difficult to preach after this past Wednesday. On that afternoon, many of us came together to give thanks for Harry Sinclair’s life. Harry, as you might know, was a symbol of this place. One of the bearers of the tradition, and so, for me, there feels like a big gap in the long line of people that call this place home. This church, this House of God, this building, this Center for celebration, is a holy house to many people. It has many rooms in it large enough that everyone has a place to stand, a place to be, yet small enough so that everyone is recognized, known and loved. And we all gather in this place like pilgrims, gathered around the campfire, the altar, holding hands and sharing stories and breaking bread together. Some of those stories were shared on Wednesday afternoon. They were about Harry, one of the pilgrims. And today we share some other stories about Philip and other people who have led us, mentored us, pointed us, and walked with us along the way.
I’m glad our community is named after Philip. Philip, of all the disciples, was the one always raising the dumb questions, Where is the father? And, before that, how can we possibly feed 5000 people? You and I wouldn’t possibly be naive enough to ask those questions, period, too embarrassing. Suppose we were to look stupid? Suppose we were the only ones who didn’t know the answer? But Philip, our patron St., is a searcher, and asker of questions period, and so, somehow, that gives us permission on this day to risk raising those dumb questions about life. Questions like, Where is our home? And how do we get there?
Have you ever seen an amnesia victim, a person who has lost his way, not sure of who he is or where his home is? It is painful to watch one of these victims. A lot of us are suffering from amnesia right now. We’ve lost our way and don’t even want to ask this question; our pain is the realization that we are no place, nowhere, no way. Yet this Society of ours wants to avoid pain at all costs. So we run after some easy answers or do things to cover over the pain. And therefore, from an amnesia victim, we quickly become addicts, looking for a quick fix.
Several weeks ago, I read some interesting words by an analyst who specializes in eating disorders. The analyst said, most of us want to feel at home in this world of ours, yet we constantly get lost and then seek out addictive substitutes.
Further, she writes, we want to be rooted in this world, but instead we see permanence by indulging in overeating. We want to be spiritually grounded, but instead we confuse it with booze. Worst of all, she says we long for wholeness, yet we confuse it with addiction in religion and psychiatry. We lose our weight, we lose ourselves, and we lose each other in this addictive society. The analyst concludes, we need to find a way home that is not characterized by addiction.
All I can say is Amen. And that’s our task in this parish church, helping each other to find a way home. We’re pilgrims, nomads, travelers, companions around a campfire telling stories, breaking bread, and helping each other to find a way home.
This place, this parish church, is a place of invitation. Here is where we are invited to follow the one who dared to say. I am the way. In Jesus, the world is turned upside down, greed is replaced by love, self-interest by common interest, power by compassion, loneliness by connections to the one who walks with us.
So what does walking in the way mean for you, you who bear the Saint Philip’s name? What does coming home mean for us in this parish church? Or, as I am always saying to myself when I’m writing a sermon, be specific, Douglas. Stop using religious language and get it into the pews.
I believe it means a new type of connection with the rest of the human race. A connection of suffering and sacrifice, a connection of openness and listening, a connection of compassion and understanding, a way of love.
The early apostles were accused of turning the world upside down to make way for the radical new way of love. They’re isolated in small groups characterized by intimacy and self-disclosure. The apostles told stories, shared life, loved one another, cared for each other, and, through this community, began to move together towards home.
This, too, is what characterizes our community. This is what we’re all about. We’re all in the process of becoming; we’re the big comers who tell stories, share life, and break bread. We are learning to love one another. I think Alcoholics Anonymous has a saying that we might borrow, at least for our groups. We’ve got to learn to walk the walk and talk the talk before we can find our way home.
Not long ago, I heard a social worker address a group. She told of her adopted son. She found him living like an animal in a nearby border town, abandoned by his parents because he had a twisted, deformed leg from birth. She told us how she had adopted that child and how he had several operations. How she had spent thousands of dollars teaching that child to walk like everyone else. In the years that followed, she told how he had grown to be tall, straight, and handsome. At this point, she stopped her narrative and said, My son is an adult now. Where do you think he is? The group responded, in college? In the movies, in politics? In the army? No, she said, he is in Florence prison serving a life sentence for one of the worst crimes you could imagine. You see, she said, I taught him to walk, I just never taught him the way to walk.
The gospel on this patronal day, shouts out the good news. Jesus is the way. He will show us the path, the way to walk, if we but join hands, he will join us in our walk if we but let him. We are not there yet, but we’re going home. So that’s the purpose of this parish church to be a path on the way home, a doorway to eternity.
We are going home to that banquet where the prodigal son, where the long-suffering mother and the rebellious daughter, were the exile and the stranger, where the man and the woman, the east in the past, the Arab and the Jew, the poor and the rich, the lion and the lamb, the dead and the living all can walk down the road together
this parish church called by the name of Phillip, is the door. Jesus is the way. We are all here, this morning, on the Road home. And I thank God, as I know you do, to be a part of these pilgrims who have found this place, this holy ground, to be the door to going home.
Amen
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Do you really believe the stories in the books of Acts and in Genesis that we have just heard? Do you think they really happened? A tower – an unbelievable tower – was raised up, but the venture ended in disaster. The builders were scattered to the ends of the earth. Is this not a crude story, attempting to account for why diverse people speak different languages?
And what about that post-Resurrection experience? Do you really believe that people gathered together – people who were of different languages and different cultures – and suddenly communicated in a common tongue? is this not simply a crude attempt by the early church to express the hope for unity?
You’re right, in part. The story of Babel is a myth. The story of Pentecost is probably a myth. But you’re wrong if you reject it and forget the truth of a myth. As Thomas Mann once said: ‘Myth is a truth that is and always will be, no matter how much we try and say it was in the past.”
Did those people really think they could build a “from here-to-eternity” edifice? Did they think they could defy gravity, chance, human error, human sinfulness, God himself? Did they believe that by their furious activity, they could achieve everlasting security?
They did, and if so, are they any crazier than we are? We who keep coming up with new schemes for personal and national security. We who keep inventing what we call new paradigms – new ways, new values for handling life.
Personally, I am fascinated by the Babel building. Without their kind of self-deception – their kind of denial that often accompanies ambition – we would have no pyramids, no world trade centers, no magnificent art, no breathtaking symphonies. Only those who are crazy enough to push beyond the edge, only those who are willing to take risks, who dare to dream, who maintain visions, can wear the label of Babel.
“Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens, and make a name for ourselves.” Those are the words of an ambitious people – people who are success-oriented. They don’t want to just fake it, they want to make it, to be ”numero uno,” as a people and as individuals. And that’s not all bad.
How many of you would like to be operated on by a doctor who said, “I am just a run-of-the-mill surgeon. I’ll do an average job on you.”? Or how many of you would be comfortable flying on an airline on which the pilot announced: “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll try to get you to your destination, but I’m not the best pilot in the sky.”? No way. We want – we expect – the very best. We want the person who expects to be the top of his field – nothing less. We want an ambitious person, not one who has settled for being average
Before turning to the New Testament story of Pentecost, let me point out that the two characteristics of youth are ambition and idealism. When we are young, the world is our oyster. We want to be the very best we can be. We want to succeed in ways beyond anything that has happened before. And we want to do all this for the sake of or for the good of humanity. We don’t just have a job – we have a career. We’re not concerned with doing our task until retirement. We have a vocation, a calling, a commitment that is forever and will make an impact on future generations. And we believe we can do it – “Save the World,” “Convert the Heathen,” “Discover the Cure.” Ambition and idealism – they are the stuff of youthful dreams.
Now let’s turn to the picture of Pentecost. It is an idealized picture where people of many languages come together and are able to communicate – where a sense of wholeness overcomes natural separations – where the spirit speaks a heart language that breaks down the walls of class and nation, where no one is an “ethnic” and all are one.
Now you and I know this vision is simply an illusion. As Americans, we hope that all those people on this first Pentecost spoke English or we’d be lost. You know the old joke: ‘What’s a person who speaks three languages called? Trilingual. What’s a person who is fluent in two languages called? Bilingual. What’s a person who can only speak one language called? An American.
But Pentecost, that’s an idealized picture. I doubt if there were Americans present. Suddenly, everyone spoke the same language – or to put it in terms we can grasp, everyone communicated. All of God’s people spoke the language of the heart. I think this is what is meant when we say we may not be of one mind in the church (language is the vehicle of communication of the mind), but, God willing, we are all of one heart (the spirit is the vehicle of the heart). Pentecost – where suddenly separated people were transformed and an idyllic situation was created.
Babel and Pentecost – they are myths – idealism and ambition, parts of the youthful condition. What really happens as we get older is that idealism is the first to be dropped. We talk of idealism as the illusion of youth. We quickly become cynical as we experience frustration. And then we forget the youthful ideals. But we still hang on to part of our ambition – when, in fact, we should abandon the ambition and hold on to the idealism
It’s easier to build a tower than to break down barriers and speak with one voice. When we are young, we want to do something great for the world. When we get older, we settle for doing something good for ourselves. When we are young, we want to give of ourselves for humanity’s sake. When we get older, we simply want to prove to others that we have something to give. mellow, in the process of aging, we forget – we have amnesia. The idealism of youth departs. The ambition of youth is scaled down. We no longer remember as we face the reality of “getting older.”
It is our task this morning to remind ourselves of the traditions of Pentecost and Babel. These are traditions that we have put aside as we’ve gotten more cynical and skeptical. These are traditions that are rich and important for the people of God.
There is a wonderful Hasidic story about a man who received news that a relative had died and had left him a substantial piece of property. All he had to do was contact his rabbi to receive the inheritance. So he went to see the rabbi, who told him: ‘You’re absolutely right. Your relative is the prophet Moses. And the treasure is the Jewish tradition.” The story ends with an analysis and an admonition. The man was woefully ignorant of his own inheritance. Don’t let us be. Often, we are like that. We sit on enormous treasures without realizing their worth. We have the traditions of Pentecost and Babel. The Babel custom needs to be monitored, with boundaries set upon it. The Pentecost needs to be remembered.
Every once in a while, we have experiences that remind us of these myths. Two weeks ago, I attended a multicultural conference on starting and sustaining ethnic congregations. I was there because of San Pedro – our Hispanic congregation, which hopes to enlarge. Each day in the conference, we worshipped in a different tradition – Asian, Native American, African American, and Hispanic. At the end of each worship experience, their leader would invite us to hold hands and say the Lord’s Prayer in our native tongue – Korean, Pakistani, Hawaiian, Navajo, Chinese, English, Spanish. As the words were said, I felt a spirit rise within me. And an amazing thing happened each day – we all ended together, and then there was a silence. And the spirit seemed to whisper to us: ‘We are one! We are one!” And if we were to build on this experience, we could speak the language of the poor, understand the rich, listen to the voice of Koreans and Latinos, and affirm that we are children of a creator who loves us all as if we were one.
May the Lord, on this day of Pentecost, renew in us the idealism and ambition of youth. May the Lord give us a vision where we are one. May the Lord take our minds and think through them, take our lips and speak through them. May the Lord take our hearts and set them free.
Amen -
“FINDING THE LORD IN THE VALLEY OF DRY BONES”
Ezekiel 37: 1-14
May 13, 1984
It has been one heck of a week. During most of the time, bad news has rolled in like waves on a beach -one tragedy after another. Everyone I have talked with appears to have been affected by an untimely death, or the murder of a child, or a broken marriage, or a serious, just-discovered illness. The dominant note of the past week seems to have come from the pit of despair.
Ezekiel, more than any other writer of Scripture, describes the feelings that many of us have had. He uses the symbol of the Valley of Dry Bones to portray the plight of the Hebrew people. Here is the image for all who feel as if they are in the depths of desolation — cut off, lonely, betrayed, confused, hurting.
You will recall that Ezekiel describes the people of Israel as dry bones- bones without flesh or sinew, separated and cut off from one another, scattered across the valley, and in that vision, the Lord asks Ezekiel if those bones would ever live again. Ezekiel answers from the bottom of that valley, “Lord, thou knowest — not me. ”
Have you ever felt that way? When you are really in the pit of despair, you are not sure that you will ever climb out. In times of dry bones, there is neither hope nor promise nor anticipation that things will ever get better. People tell me they feel numb, cut off, bones without flesh, more like puppets than human beings. And for the most part, people are convinced that tomorrow will just bring more of the same.
Sometimes we are asked, or ask ourselves, if our bones will ever live again, and the best answer we can come up with is: “Lord, thou knowest — not me. ” I can see in some of your faces that you have been there before. You know what it is to be in the valley of dry bones, and it’s not pleasant, is it?
But here is another learning, which I discovered as I meditated on Ezekiel’s vision. It seems almost obvious, but let me simply underscore it, and that learning is that people do not enter or remain in the valley of dry bones because they like it, or think it is an appropriate place to be, The pit is not a place consciously chosen, but we really have little choice when circumstances propel us into valleys.
One of the lay readers spoke to me on Friday and pointed out that Ezekiel was a “downer” for Mother’s Day. All I could say was that it didn’t seem right to have a cheery lesson put a happy smile over a week filled with tragedy, and sometimes, even on Mother’s Day, we can learn more from the lowlands than from the high spots.
All this brings me to my next point. I learned from Ezekiel that the valley of dry bones is often the place where the Lord is found. To use Ezekiel1 s image: Here is where God is to be found breathing life into dead bones,
That seems strange, doesn’t it? Here in the most terrible of places, in the pit of despair, in the valley of dry bones -here is where the greatest gift is to be found. It is almost unreal, isn’t it? You would think that new life would happen on the mountaintops, where things are going well, where we are happy, feeling confident, feeling successful. But not so; Scripture says it happens in the valleys.
Someone once said that the opposite of “real” is not false”, but the opposite of “real” is ‘fantastic”. And this certainly is a fantastic truth contained in Ezekiel- the truth that God comes to us in death situations, breathing new life into the broken spirit, into dead bones. It is a fantastic truth, but to Christians it ought not to be surprising, for it is the truth of the Resurrection.
Well, what does all this have to do with Mother’s Day? I can see many people here with ‘ parents to celebrate this special time. Let me try to tie this day in with the. Valley of dry bones,
At the outset I would declare that, despite the TV and pulp magazines portrayals of family life, much of it is often characterized by living in the pits rather than on a series of pinnacles. And that’s not bad; it’s just difficult. Therefore, I salute mothers who allow their families to remain in the valleys without avoiding or trying to gloss over the low points of family living.
I read a piece from a book by Adolph Guggenbuhl-Craig about family life. In this book, Dr . Guggenbuhl-Craig, an eminent Jungian psychiatrist, poses a key question for every family relationship/ He asks us whether we see the family as/an arrangement designed to do with well-being or with salvation.
That is not an easy question . Essentially he wants to know whether we see the family as a place in which we grow, where we find healing and, ultimately, where we find God. Or is it a place of comfort, happiness and peace? This distinction, he tells us, is terribly crucial to family life. Listen to his/words :
“For the sake of/our well-being, we are urged to be happy, A happy person sits at his family table among his loved ones and enjoys a hearty meal. A person who seeks salvation wrestles with God, the devil, and the world. He confronts death.”
And, we might add, he finds himself or herself walking in the valley of dry bones more often than not. But remember: Even in that valley God can and does breathe new life into broken and separated bones.
Our New Testament lesson, the Lazarus story, is in many ways a parallel to Ezekiel’s vision. it is also a Resurrection story of God’s breathing new life into dead bones,
Lazarus dies, and Jesus weeps. This tells me that he does not take pleasure in our dying, yet he lets them happen. Jesus is not like the anxious parent who tries to protect her child from all difficulties. Instead, Jesus grieves, waits, and stands at the door of the tomb. Then he calls Lazarus by name. “Come out, ” he says.
He does this to teach us that God can and does breathe new life into dead bodies. The great Resurrection message is always the same: God can and does breathe new life into dry, decaying, dead bones.
One last thought: I often feel, after weeks like this one, that they are simply an accident. They are intrusions on my fairly regulated, even-keeled existence. And sometimes think weeks like the past one are indignities to be avoided at all costs.
But the Bible says that dry bones and graves are very much a part of life, and even goes so far as to declare that they are sources, or at least places, where new life happens. I find that irksome and inconvenient; it is not the way I would do it. But it is true, and it is a fantastic truth, it is the truth of the Resurrection.
So, those of you who are in the valleys, remember: We look for salvation, not merely happiness, and we receive a tremendous Mother’s Day gift — the gift of new life when we hear the words: “Lazarus, June, Roger, George, Peggy, come out. ”
What a fantastic Mother’s Day gift from God our Mother and God our Father!
Amen -
A Homecoming
Genesis 3: 22-24, Luke 7: 36-50
May 14, 1998
Scholars tell us that no chapter in Holy Scripture has been subjected to more attention than the third chapter of Genesis.
Countless numbers of people have searched for the garden. Learned books have been written interpreting the actions of Adam and Eve. I can still recall how smart we felt in seminary, where we discovered how this and other chapters were put together by several storytellers over hundreds of years.
Whether you’ve been to Sunday school or seminary, I’m sure you know the third chapter of Genesis is about the fall. The story is absurd if taken literally, but profound if we see it as a myth. A myth, explaining in a story, the human condition.
Adam and Eve stand for all of us, and they have it made. The Garden was the perfect environment. All their necessities were provided. No worries, no cares, no anxieties. Life was good.
And they blew it! They tried to push the boundaries farther than they were allowed. Their punishment, or the consequence of their actions, was that they were evicted permanently. And so we read, “God drove them out, and at the East of the Garden (I suppose this was the entrance), God placed the cherubim and a flaming sword which turned everywhere.”
Amazingly, this myth of the eviction is found in almost every religion. This story, or others similar, is not unique to the Judeo-Christian Scriptures. Parallels can be found in Roman, Greek, and Persian literature. You can even and similarities in Native American lore. But more important for us, the eviction story is deeply embedded in our own psyches. Thomas Wolf articulated it for the 20th century when he wrote, You Can’t Go Home Again. For him, You can’t go home again meant the South, his childhood memories, his roots that never could be recovered after life in Boston.
Well, here we are celebrating the fact that one of our sons is coming home. Here we are saying the possibility does exist – to come home.
Actually, this is the third time our parish has said, “Come home, John, to our desert Garden of Eden.” Three times we have said, “John, come and make your home with us.” The first was fifteen years ago, when we invited John to come from Memphis as our Music Director. The second was to come and be ordained a Deacon after we had sent him to the seminary. And now, we bring him back home again as our Priest and Organist. Thomas Wolf may have had his troubles reclaiming his old life, but we are here to affirm that John can, and is able, to come home again.
But what does it mean that John has come home as a priest? What does it mean that we, this community, have chosen to call him home as a priest? Let me quote an ancient rabbinical tale to help clarify this. Once upon a time, a rabbi was asked how it felt to be chosen as a rabbi. To be chosen as the person who ministers in God’s house. “Well”, the rabbi said, “I understood what it meant to be chosen much better when I worked in the sheepfold. There every tenth lamb was chosen for service in the temple, just by reason of being number ten. In that way,” the rabbi continued, “I was chosen to be a rabbi. No one is chosen because he is better than anyone else. And everyone is chosen for something. Everyone has some internal gifts that suit him or her to be chosen. In some strange way, each of us is that tenth lamb – chosen for service in God’s house.
So John, we have chosen you, or, more to the point, God has chosen you to come home. Not because you are holier, or better, but simply because out of his love He has called you home again.
One further caveat: one of the problems Thomas Wolf had, and we often have when we think of going home, is that we look for Eden- Eden, that perfect spot where all our needs are met and all our dreams of living together are fulfilled. But Dietrich Bonnhoffer reminds us that going home means to accept the reality of our particular bunch of people, and to stop fantasizing that they are or might become some idealized bunch of people. Choosing to go home means some reality checks on both sides. This family, John, is made up of a lot of sinners. We’re a pretty dysfunctional lot. Yet we’re a community that God has chosen – chosen to make His home with us. And we welcome you back, “warts and all.”
But back to our lessons. In the first lesson, God kicks Adam and Eve out. But the good news is that God can change his/her mind. This, for me, is the essence of the God event recorded in Scripture. The God-event, in the Gospel, is God’s choosing to make his home with us; which means that the old sentence of eviction has been lifted.
Have you ever wondered why the Gospel stories are filled with incidents of Jesus having meals with people? Have you ever wondered why the principal sin that Jesus condemns is a lack of hospitality? in other words, not opening one’s home, inviting to a meal? Have you ever wondered why most of Jesus’ teachings surround events of eating?
I think it’s because Jesus’ life is an expression of homecoming. He tells us in so many ways that God welcomes us to the homecoming banquet, where the elder brother and the prodigal son, the exile and the stranger, the straight and the gay, the poor and the rich, the sinner and the saint, the lion and the lamb, will feast together in peace. This is what every communion service should be reminding us about. A homecoming, where no one will be outside; where all will be chosen.
My brother John, you are the living proof that Thomas Wolfe’s words are not necessarily true. The myth of the fall is not the last word. We are here to declare, “There is life after Boston.” You can come home again. John, we warmly welcome you to the community. We are your family, as you are family to us. Amen -
How long is your Hyphen?
Mark 16: 9-15
May 12, 1991
The late Senator Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri used to complain of a disease found among his constituents. He called it, The Simples. This means they expected him to take problems that were inherently complex and find answers that could be written on a postcard.
I can understand the frustration of those who have this simples. They want the kind of answers you would give to a child when asking the kind of questions you would put to Solomon or Einstein. At the same time, I can identify with those constituents in Missouri. I too long to eliminate complexity, and wish to return to simple answers.
The same feeling is true for theology, the talk about God. Home for the simples. We will do almost anything to avoid looking at a difficult doctrine. And so in most pulpits today, the Sunday after Ascension, you won’t hear a word about this complex doctrine. Instead, there will be lots of talk about a secular holiday, Mother’s Day.
But let’s move in where fools often blunder and say something about the doctrine of the ascension, for it is important as far as Christians are concerned. Basically, the ascension is the day on which Jesus left his disciples. But if we are to go deeper than the simples, we must ask, what is the truth behind the myth? What is the learning behind the incident? What is the revelation behind the doctrine?
Most people either reject the story of the ascension out of hand as a fairy tale, or they become literalists or fundamentalists and begin to think of Jesus as the first astronaut. But that’s the simples taking over. A more complex answer is to see this as a story containing, describing, and illuminating an essential truth in our relationship with the Lord. The ascension as a doctrine never concerned itself with the body of Christ’s leaving; it only focused on the why. The ascension is a story of separation for a wider, deeper, more inclusive relationship. The ascension is a doctrine that enables us to go beyond the Jesus of history to proclaim a cosmic Christ
. Several years ago, I had the rare privilege of spending four days sitting at the feet of Bishop John Robinson of England. It was his last American appearance before his untimely death. Bishop Robinson was one of the most exciting theologians of the century. He constantly questioned, searched, and looked at every angle of those truths we tend to take for granted.
In one of his lectures he talked about how we get caught into thinking that God is up there, particularly when we failed to understand the ascension. Jesus left his disciples not to go up there but to be universally present to everyone.
The ascension reminds us that we have a universal Christ, a Christ seen in the face of Buddha, of Christ found in the acts of Abraham, a Christ for the new age as well as the old age. And the message from that story is that God does not confine it to Palestine of the 1st century, or to any particular place. He separates himself so he can be more closer, more present, in a more universal way.
Now some of you are saying, That’s interesting, but let’s face it. It is still Mother’s Day, and we certainly hope the preacher will say something about this holiday period and so, I will attempt to do something never done before in the annals of Christian preaching. Make a connection between the doctrine of the ascension and Mother’s Day.
This Mother’s Day, is a celebration of mothers, but it is also a celebration of the relationship we have to mothers, or might I say to parents in general. Therefore, as we think for a moment about this holiday, I would ask you to think about that relationship.
Doctor Harold Halperin has written a very helpful Cutting Loose. The subtitle is an adult guide for dealing with one’s parents. The challenge of the book is in perceiving our parents more realistically, and then being able to deal with them in an adult fashion. The book suggests the more fully we can see them and ourselves as adults interrelated with all other adults, the easier it will be to interact with them. We need to distance ourselves, yet at the same time feel a meaningful connection to our mother and father figures. Carlyle Marni, the great southern preacher, calls this process establishing a-so between you and significant others. This particular punctuation mark is something of a paradox. A- denotes both a connection and a separation, a certain distance and yet a certain relatedness as well. Bonnie says the question, how long has your-? It is really crucial when it comes to relating to other human beings. There is nothing guaranteed or automatic in this area. For example, I know some people who have never managed to establish any- at all, either they never get loose and remain embedded in their parents, or they go to the opposite extreme and rebel so completely that there is no-, just a long blank between their parents and themselves. These are two extremes where the basic relational tasks never get done.
Let me suggest that Jesus realized his disciples also needed to develop a hyphen. They needed to go through the same process as we do with our parents. And let me suggest that the story of the ascension is actually a story about why Jesus needed to act like a parent. The disciples, the followers past and present, as a result of this act, could then perceive him in a more realistic way
. Dare we say that Jesus made mistakes? Yes, because the ascension helps us to see Jesus in the cold light of reality. Dare we say that Jesus grew in his understanding? Yes, because the ascension enables us to look realistically and see how he changed. Dare we say that Jesus is the Christ for all time? Yes, because the ascension separates our dependence and leads us into seeing him as a universal figure.
I hope I haven’t been guilty of the samples for the ascension, like apparent food, is neither easy to understand, nor is it a child’s play to preach about. Yet on this day when we simultaneously celebrate Mother’s Day and the ascension, I invite you to look at your hyphen, for the hyphen Is a delicate balance between parents and children, and between this Jesus we meet in the gospel and the believers in the pews.
There, I did it. Both of these days may be different, but they both have hyphens, opportunities to understand our relationships.
Amen -
Whatever you Ask
John 14: 6-14
May 6, 1990
G, K, Chesterton once said, “You can look at a thing ninety-nine times and be perfectly sure. But if you look at it the one-hundredth time, you are in danger of seeing it. ”
So let’s look at our text once again. It’s so very common, so used by preachers, so overworked that we tend to dismiss it (or even worse, tend to disbelieve it! ) . Listen to Jesus’ words, “Whatever you ask in my name, I will do it. ” Can this possibly be the ninety-ninth time we have seen these words?
“Whatever you ask in my name, I will do it. ” These words are addressed to the early Church. They are a promise made to the community. But they were elicited by Saint Philip
Let me set the stage: it was soon after Easter. And you might recall that most of the disciples believed the message of Mary and the others who had visited the empty tomb. They believed in the Resurrection, yet, as in any group, there were stages of belief. Some believed unquestionably. Some, like Thomas, were looking for concrete physical evidence. Some, like Philip, were trying to fit the experience in with other beliefs.
Jesus appeared to the twelve. He came to them where they were–indoors, keeping a low profile, hiding, still fearful lest they end up like their leader, staked out on a cross.
Jesus showed himself , and Philip , our Patron Saint , began to raise questions . It is not that Philip did not believe. It is merely that he wanted to clarify his doubts, to place all his questions in some context, to connect the rising-from-the-dead with his belief in a just God.
It is really quite wonderful to have Philip as our Patron Saint . Every time we hear of Philip in Holy Scripture he is always involved in a human situation that we can all readily identify. Philip acts like we might, pressing Jesus for reality, for meaning, for more information. He’s like us in that he sees only half the picture, and usually that’s focusing on the problems rather than on the solutions :
How can we feed 5000 people with a few fish and a small amount of bread?
How are you and the Father one ?
How can the impossible possibilities happen?
And each time Jesus patiently replies, acts out–reveals to Philip and the rest of the community the amazing possibility that whatever you ask in his name, he will do it.
Good people, the great religious challenge facing the Church is not as commonly thought–keeping people moral, straight, or in ethical balance, making sure we don’t stray from the straight and narrow. The great religious challenge is to induce people to expand their horizon, to go beyond the negative, to learn to expect great things, to believe in miracles.
Good people, we ask for too little. When we ask things of God, we settle for a thimbleful of grace when we could have a whole river full of miracles.
The crucial issue in life, the penetrating question that God raises is: “How much or how little will we settle for? ” The great enemy is not evil or temptation or lack of resources, The great enemy is our narrow, negative, fearful, shortsighted thinking.
A friend of mine told of an experience, in picture language, describes our predicament. It happened last year at the beginning of the fishing season. He was up in the mountains fishing for trout. After a few hours of frustration, my friend noticed another fisherman downstream. He was having phenomenal luck, yet he seemed to be doing a very strange thing,
Each time he caught a trout–and he was reeling them in one after another-each time he would measure the fish. It seemed as if he threw back all the large ones. Finally, my friend could stand it no longer. He went up to the man and said, “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing you threw back the really good fish and stuck the little ones in your pail. Have you caught your limit? ”
“No , ” replied the fisherman, “it’s just that I’m going to cook them and I only have a six-inch pan”.
My friend, who told me this story, said that to him, up in the mountains, there was revealed a parable of life. He suddenly understood why all of us in the church act like we have only _ six-inch frying pans. We forget that Jesus has assured us that whatever–whatever we ask for in His Name will be provided.
Maybe we have to be willing to throw away our small frying pans!
Maybe we have to learn to trust in God’s promises!
Maybe we can’t settle for inches when God would have us go for miles!
Maybe that is what keeps us indoors, survival-oriented, fearful, small!
Thirteen years ago in my first sermon as a part of this community, I shared a dream. It was taken from some writings of Dick Shepherd. Dick Shepherd was the Vicar of one of the great parishes in England. At the beginning of Dick Shepherd’s ministry, he spelled out his vision in these words :
One night in my dreams I saw one of the greatest churches standing in a great square in a great city. There passed into the church’s warm inside hundreds and hundreds of all sorts of people, going up to the temple of their Lord with all their difficulties, trials, and sorrows. And I said to them as they passed, “Where are you going? ” And they said only one thing, ‘This is our home. This is where we are going to hear of the love of Jesus Christ. ”
Thirteen years later, I still have that vision. And I am convinced that we haven’t come close to reaching our potential as a community. We haven’t come close to becoming the greatest parish in the Episcopal Church. We are twelfth in size nationally, but what number are we spiritually? What is our size in terms of our shared ministry? How many small churches within our large church do we have where intimacy, participation, and ministry are the marks of our life together?
Maybe we haven’t dreamt enough, envisioned enough, thought in great enough terms!
Maybe we don’t see what God would have us do!
Maybe we concentrate too much on the problems!
St Philip, as nearly as I can discern, was a negative thinker. He usually counted the cost, looked at the obstacles, focused on the problems, and had what we would call “tunnel vision. ” But Jesus never stopped with St Philip’s assessment. Jesus stretched him, turned him around, urged him to greater visions for God’s sake.
And to all of you out there, you who bear the mark of Philip, who call yourselves by his name, I invite you on his patronal day to be stretched by God.
I invite you to allow God to do great things with us, and through us, I urge you to be open to God’s leading.
in a small chapel cut out of rock on Lookout Mountain in Alabama, a legend appears over the front of the chancel, it reads :
God has always been as good to me as I would allow
On this St Philip’s Day, let us allow God to do great things for His Kingdom.
Let us go with confidence,
pray for greatness–
–for remember,—remember . .
Whatever we ask in His Name, He will do it!
Amen -
Prayer
May 12, 1973
There is a great deal of talk today about the energy crisis. We seem to be standing on the edge of a steep Cliff, looking down on a threatened collapse of our economic and environmental systems. Every day renewed that the source of the earth’s energy, coal and oil, is drying up and this is scary.
But today, I want to concentrate on another type of energy crisis. We, in the church, seemed to be standing on the edge of a steep Cliff looking down on the threatened collapse of our systems. If we look below the surface of our busy churches, we can observe that the source of our spiritual energy, prayer, is drying up, and in many respects, this is more frightening of the two crises
Can you imagine a church without prayer? A religion without talking to God? A faith without some sort of ongoing dialogue with the Almighty? Sounds of silence would be terrifying.
Sometimes it surprises me how quickly prayer is drying up. Yes, we still go through the motions, in most churches, but somehow there’s a feeling abroad that we have outgrown prayer. In our day, we do not pray before an examination; we simply study. But pray for rain, we simply seed the clouds. When a friend is ill, we do not usually indulge in prayer by his bedside; rather we go to a phone and call a specialist.
Perhaps our age is so advanced that we’ve passed beyond the need to pray.
I have always been fond of the story of the two men in a rowboat in the midst of a storm. As the waves rose, and the boat threatened to capsize, the two men they needed outside help. They were not religious, but they decided that prayer was all that was left, so in the teeth of the Gale, one of them shouted the only prayer he could muster. Ohh God you know that I haven’t bothered you for the past 15 years but if you’ll just get us out of this mess, I promise you that I won’t bother you again for 15 years
Another reason that prayer is drying up is that we’ve lost contact with whom we’re talking. We’ve become so concerned about relevant language, lack of repetition, and familiar wording, that we have forgotten that prayer is simply talking with God. I think it becomes easy to neglect prayer if it is seen as some type of performance. If we worry over originality and sound, then it is best for professionals, and our task, if any, becomes a minor critic. Quickly, the spiral goes downward, from tentative speaker of prayers, to critic of prayers, to non-user or neglectful of this aspect of the Christian experience
I confess that there are times when I wonder about the shallowness of the Christian Church. I ride around and think about the institutions that are established in all their beauty. My mind runs to the buildings we occupy, the bureaucracies that we have built, the techniques we have mustard, and the brains that we have commandeered for Christ say. Frequently, I am driven to ask myself, did ever so many labor with so much, to produce so little?
Jesus said, not to the world at large but to his disciples, without me, you can do nothing. We can build our buildings and issue our position papers, we can structure our committees, and push for various causes, but where it really matters, where we’re in for the long haul, where we require the energizing of the spirit, it is still true that without God we can do nothing. We seem to have everything in the Christian Church, but the power of God’s Spirit. We suffer the sterility of abandoned prayer; our spiritual energy crisis is long past the mildly serious stage.
Well, what can we do about it let me try to speak to each of you personally. You may be among those who feel that we have with prayer, if you are, I should like you to challenge you to try it again. Don’t say that you will wait until the major social problems are solved, or your own doubts are clarified, before you pray; you may have forgotten by that time what prayer is all about.
You may be among those who feel that praying is really for the professionals. if you are, I should like to challenge you to begin, right now, and talk to God. Talk about what you have done and what you have failed to do. About who you are and who you wish you were, and who the people you love are, and who the people you don’t love are. Talk to God about what matters most to you, and then join the familiar words using these corporate prayers of the ages to press your innermost feelings. And finally, whatever your thoughts were in the past about prayer, I challenge you to believe that somebody is listening. Believe in miracles. Believe that your father hears you and cares for you, and loves you, and will come for you as you speak to him.
Let me read you some wise counsel from Brother Lawrence. He comes from a much simpler and less complex civilization than ours, but he has a lot to tell us.
God lays a great burden upon us with little remembrance of him from time to time, a little adoration, sometimes to pray for his grace, sometimes to offer him thanks for the benefits he has given you and still gives you in the midst of your troubles. He asked you to console yourself with him as often as you can; the least little remembrance will always be acceptable to him. And then you’ll not cry very loud, for he is nearer than you think.
That’s it, the secret of overcoming our energy crisis in the church. It’s really very simple, you need not pray very loud, he is nearer than you think Amen -
What is the Meaning of Life?
May 14, 2000
You are only young once, but you can be immature forever. And when, we might ask, when do we become mature? is it in the afternoon of life, or do we have to wait until the evening of life?
For those of you in the evening of life, I have some bad news. Because you are past sixty-five, because your children are grown, because you are retired, that doesn’t make you mature. Wrinkles and gray hair are not signs of maturity. Experience and longevity are not the same as wisdom.
Now this is a heck of a way to start a Mother’s Bay sermon, but the truth is that motherhood, fatherhood, and even grandparenthood are not a necessity of maturity. Age, experience, and learning all count for naught when we are talking about maturity.
So, when do we become mature? I was at a meeting a few days ago and someone said, “When are you people going to grow up?” All of us spontaneously admitted we still had a long way to go. When do we approach maturity? When can we say we are getting wiser, gaining true understanding, “growing into the full stature of Christ,” as our Baptism urges us to become? When can we simply declare that the passing of years doesn’t merely mean that we’re getting closer to dying?
TS. Eliot once put it this way, “All our knowledge leads us nearer to our ignorance. All our ignorance is near death. But nearness to death is no nearer to God. Where is the life we have lost in living?”
All our knowledge leads us nearer to ignorance. Where is the life we have lost ,,, living? In school, you can find out everything about the world except the deeper questions of meaning. As you get older, you learn how to cope and maybe how to die, but never about why you are here. Finding out about the meaning of life and why you are here are the types of questions that only seem to be asked within a religious context.
Eliot suggests that in the business of living, we have lost the questions that lead to maturity. Today, I want to raise those kinds of questions with you.
Robert Fulghum, the author, who has become so popular with self-help books, suggests that the question of meaning is always in the back of Is mind. He says he raises it at every opportunity “Usually,” he says, These chances occur at the end of a lecture, when the professor turns and asks if anyone has any questions.” if there is a little time left and there is a silence in response to the invitation, Fulghum will jump in and ask, ‘What is the meaning of life?”
Generally, everyone laughs, begins to pick up his or her things, and the class is over. He writes this doesn’t stop him from asking because at some point, someone just might blurt out the answer. He says he would hate to have missed it simply because he was too socially inhibited to ask.
Fulghum reported that once, and only once, did he get a serious answer. It happened on the Island of Crete, at a seminar on human understanding and reconciliation. The Director of the Institute, Alexander Papaderos, had just finished a lecture and asked, ‘Are there any questions?” Silence greeted the director. Finally, Fulghum found himself asking Dr. Papaderos, “What is the meaning of life?” The usual laughter followed, and people started to go out. But the director had heard a serious question and decided to answer it.
Taking his wallet out of his hip pocket, he fished into a leather billfold and brought out a very small, round mirror about the size of a quarter. What he said went like this. When he was a child during the war years, he had found this piece of mirror on the road where a German motorcyclist had been killed by partisans. Papaderos had not been able to find the whole mirror, but he had kept the small round piece as a souvenir.
At first, it was just a toy, but as he grew older, he found he could use the mirror to reflect light into dark places where the sun would never shine. After a while, it became a game, a challenge, to see if he could get light into the most inaccessible places. Finally, he said, “As I became a man, I realized that this was not just a child’s game. This was a metaphor for what I might do with my life.”
Papaderos went on to say, “I came to understand that I am a fragment of a mirror, whose design and shape I do not know. Nevertheless, with what I have, I can reflect light into the dark places of the hearts of people and maybe change some things.” And then he said, “I understand that I am not the source of light. But light is there, and it will only shine in many dark places if I reflect it. Perhaps others may see and do likewise. At any rate, this is what I am about. This is the meaning of my life.” “Then,” Fulghum tells us, “Papaderos took the small mirror out, and holding it carefully, caught the bright rays of daylight and reflected the light onto my face.”
Marcus Borg, a Yale scholar, often refers to Jesus as a teacher of wisdom.” Wisdom teachers were those rabbis who counseled their disciples on how to be mature and wise in a world where most people were childlike. Wisdom teachers were the ones who constantly reminded us that we were to seek enlightenment. In the Gospel, Jesus reminds us that we are the lights of the world. For people who think less highly of themselves, this is startling. “You are light,” he says. “Don’t hide your light under a bushel.” A simple teaching, you might think, but the implications are profound.
The rabbis tell a wonderful story about a teacher of wisdom who asks his students, ‘When can we tell that we are mature?” None of the students can answer. And so he says, “Let me give you a hint. When you realize that you can be a reflection of the light of the Creator, then you are on the road to maturity.
One student then says, “How do we know that we are on the road, good teacher? Is it when we can distinguish right from wrong?” “No,” says the Rabbi. “It is when we are autonomous, making our own choices?” “No,” says the Rabbi. “It is when you can look at a man or a woman and know that he or she is your brother or your sister.” And then he went on to say, “Until you can do that, no matter what age you are, no matter what time of day it might be, it is always evening and you will always be childlike.”
Jesus said it. “Don’t hide your light under a bushel. Treat each person as a member of your family, for we are all related.” Let’s take the last word from our children. One of the favorite Sunday School hymns is “This Little Light of Mine.” And do you recall the ending? “Let it shine, Let it shine, Let it shine.”
Amen -
Saying Goodbye
May 19, 1996
John Hughes, a British psychologist, contends that saying hello and saying goodbye are the two major learning tasks all humans need to accomplish. He states: “I would venture to say that 98% of all people in mental hospitals are there because of a faulty ability of saying hello or good-bye. Some adults have never learned to say goodbye. They continue in their childlike relationship long after they have chronologically moved past that stage.”
And so it was with the first disciples. They had been with Jesus throughout his teaching ministry. They had been with him during the past 40 days of incredible intimacy. And Jesus, who was very conscious of where his friends stood in their understandings, must have watched with growing concern as they slipped back into the old dependent relationships. It’s not hard to read between the lines and hear the disciples, looking for approval, wanting Jesus to control their lives, hoping that he would point them in the right direction, telling them how and when to proceed: But Jesus, I believe, wanted something more from his friends. He wanted to see them grow and move into their potential. And he knew that in order for that to happen, he must first teach them to say goodbye.
Several years ago, I lived in the Berkeley area for a semester, and I discovered a remarkable psychiatrist by the name of Sheldon Kopp. I never met the gentleman in person, but I did get to know him through his writings. One of his books has the intriguing title, If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him. This refers to the advice that if you encounter anyone who begins to solve all your problems, and you find you are constantly looking for his or her approval, the wisest thing you can do is to say goodbye to that person.
‘Many times,” Dr. Kopp writes, “patients come to him the way a little child takes a broken toy to a parent and they say: ‘please fix this for me, or tell me how to fix it. You are big and I am little. You have a direct line, I will do what you tell me to do.”‘ Kopp’s whole book challenges the validity of this kind of relationship. He suggests that if you want people to grow, you have to teach them to say goodbye and to take the risk yourself of severing a dependent connection.
And this is precisely what we find Jesus doing. In the scene that we call “The Ascension”, the disciples learn that Jesus will no longer be around to guide their steps. No longer will Jesus be present, pointing out the pitfalls. From here on out, the disciples were free. Free to choose, free to fail, free to grow.
This, as any parent can attest to is a risky business. Most of us parents are usually plagued by the “what ifs”. What if she forgets what I taught her? What if he is unsuccessful? What if??? But that’s a risk one takes. Most parents know that you can’t protect a child throughout his or her life. I think the popular term is: “You’ve got to give them wings, if you want them to fly.” You’ve got to teach them to say hello to maturity.
So why is it on this special day that we usually see the church stumbling around? Why is it that we usually ignore this key event in the life of Jesus? Why is it that we so often simply argue over the literal interpretation of a very symbolic act?
Is it because deep down we are fearful of the implications of the Ascension? Let’s be honest, most times we are scared to cut the cord, scared that we’re inadequate for what lies ahead. In our religious life, we are scared to say goodbye to our childlike faith and take the risk of a mature religion. It’s so much easier to remain dependent, helpless in our relationship with God- But the Ascension reminds us that Jesus respects us so much that he departs. He gives us space. He lets us stumble & He leaves us with questions rather than easy answers. He lets us wrestle with our doubts rather than spoon-feed our dependencies. J Thomas Merton once spoke of his friend, a Tibetan Lama who had to leave or be killed by the Chinese Communists. A fellow monk sent him a message: “What shall we do now that you are leaving?” The Tibetan Lama sent back this reply: “From now on, brother, everyone stands on his own feet.”
Merton commented, “The time for relying on structures has disappeared.” Structures and people can be helpful, but when they are taken away, you must learn to stand on your own two feet, take the risk of maturity.
The Ascension is one of those essential days when we are challenged to say goodbye to childlike religion. No longer can we depend on the Bible to be our answer book. It suddenly becomes a book that raises questions. No longer can we look to Mother Church for the right response to tough questions. We now have to do our own wrestling with difficult choices in life. No longer can we come on a Sunday just to be fed. From now on, we’ve got to think of feeding others.
Several weeks ago, I scheduled an all-day Saturday meeting of the Quest group. When Saturday came, I was embarrassed. I had forgotten to put it on my calendar. Near the end of the morning, I came home and found this message on my answering machine. “Where are you?” I was totally shocked. But when I arrived at the meeting, much to my surprise, they had organized themselves and had grown in the process. This unplanned event was a key event in the maturity of this group of people. Brothers and sisters, everybody stands on his or her feet.”
I have a friend who has made a promise to any rector that he will give $100 to a church that will set off firecrackers on Ascension day. And one of these days, I intend to collect that money. But I hope we will see the fireworks not as symbolic of Jesus going to heaven, but rather as the time that we celebrate Jesus’ trust in us, for he was willing to leave, to say good-bye, so that we could learn to say hello, and grow in a mature relationship to God.
Amen -
Lessons Learned from the Acts of the Apostles
Act 6: 1-9
May 10, 1998
Sometimes, preaching can get you in a whole lot of trouble. I’ve never stirred up a group of people to the point that they wanted to do away with me. (The best I’ve managed to do, on rare occasions, is have someone cut his pledge, or walk out of church shaking his head.)
But on that day, many years ago, it was a different story. The young preacher began to hear murmurs of blasphemy, which escalated into a bloodthirsty mob. Finally, they chased him from the pulpit, and in a rage, they began to throw rocks. (Now that’s feedback the likes of which I have never experienced.)
But let’s start the story from the beginning. For there is a lot here from which we might benefit.
It began with another type of feedback. The feedback came to the Apostles soon after the church was established.
The Apostles were being hassled by some young, come-lately, out-of-towners – church members – Greeks, who were upset over the distribution of food. It seems, or should I say, the Greeks perceived that the locals were getting more, or better food, at the common meal. And when these complaints became a groundswell, the Apostles set a new pattern for church life. One that has been followed in every generation. They formed a committee and found someone else to deal with the problem.
It was this feedback from the Greeks that encouraged them to have a reorganization. And the solution was to invent a new order of ministry – the role of the deacon. This new grouping had as its job description to look after the food distribution. Some of you may recall when we last had a deacon present, that he wore his stole over one shoulder. This was to symbolize the way a waiter might wear a napkin for serving. I think it was also implied that these new deacons would look after the widows and orphans. This was done this re-organization – so that the Apostles, the really important ministers, would not have to do the pedestrian tasks, like calling on shut-ins and being concerned over administration. A tradition that also seems to have continued to this day.
One other thing we might learn from this story is that the new deacons were all Greek, establishing another well-honored principle of church life. The ones who complain the most, are the ones who get the job of solving the problem. In those days, there didn’t seem to be any lack of volunteers. And the Greeks, being the newest group to be converted, were also the most eager to step forward when volunteers were needed. They hadn’t yet learned to say, “Oh, I’ve done that all before. Let a younger person take over.”
Among the number of Greek deacons was a youthful, eager beaver named Stephan. We really don’t know much about him, except that he was filled with the enthusiasm of youth. He also felt that serious changes were needed right now. (It’s always interesting when a new deacon comes on board. Immediately, they want to make changes. And the changes usually are to the time-honored traditions.)
Well, a group from this one congregation began to feel threatened, and they started to argue over the changes. We are told that they had a public discourse and began to be angry with Stephan. Finally, a group began to say, “This guy has to go.”
In those days, there wasn’t any such thing as a golden handshake, pension plans, or IRAs. The method of getting rid of the preacher was through stoning. (Congregation, do not take notice of this fact.) And stoning was hard work. It was not everyone scrambling for a baseball-sized rock and throwing it. Or, some disturbed people hurling insults. What happened in the stoning was that someone dropped a very large stone, which immobilized the victim. And then the others finished the job by dropping huge bone-breaking rocks on top of the person. It was hot, hard, difficult work. And the people needed to take their coats off to do it. And then we read that they wanted to leave their coats with someone trustworthy, in order that they would still be there when they returned. In short, they needed a “coatholder.” And we read that the participants found someone named Saul to do the job.
Now let’s take a moment and look at what a coat holder does. For this, too has become a time-honored tradition in the church. A coatholder is someone who stands away from what is being done, but holds the coat of someone doing the job. A coatholder is, therefore one who makes it possible for someone else to do evil. It is someone who participates, but doesn’t get their hands dirty.
The church is full of coatholders. They occupy a special place on the moral landscape. It is a particularly dangerous place because coatholders fool themselves into an assumption of innocence. They convince themselves that they are not actually doing anything wrong. Paul could have said at the end of the day, “I did not stone anybody. I merely stood around and watched.” It’s the same way we often say, “I did not tell the joke. I just laughed to be polite.” Or, “I do not hate anybody. I just don’t have the time or money to spare for those in need.” Or, “Certainly, I did not agree with that direction. I just did not want to get involved.”
All of us are coatholders in one way or another, making it possible for others to do evil. Some play an obvious role at home, or work, or at church. Others of us have simply made peace too easily with racism, poverty, injustice, and corruption.
But all of us are coatholders to a certain extent.
In our complex society, where it’s so easy to be uninvolved and feel impotent, where we seem to be unable to make a difference, it is easy to look clean and be dirty by association, to look innocent, and at the same time be guilty. Coatholders, that’s what most of us are. And it’s because of that that martyrdoms take place.
We return to the story. Stephan, even when he was being stoned, managed to forgive his murderers. His last words were, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
People outside the religious establishment often tell me that the church is made up of hypocrites. I usually don’t argue with them, for I know better than most what lies underneath our masks of respectability. But I also know that God doesn’t hold that against us. That we can rise to great heights.
GK Chesterson once said, You can look at a thing nine-hundred and ninety-nine times and be perfectly safe. But, if you look at it the one-thousandth time, you are in danger of seeing it.” Pray God that we may have the one thousandth look and see lessons for life in the story in Acts.
Amen
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