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
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St. Philips Day
John 4: 21-22
May 7, 1995
In a book called “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” a Colombian novelist by the name of Gabriel Garcia Marquez tells a story of a strange disease that invades a village. The sickness starts with insomnia and then spreads to a loss of memory. The infected person becomes unable to recall the names of simple things. As the disease progresses, they forget memories of childhood and eventually even the names of the people around them. Finally, they sink into a state where they lose awareness of their own selves. Eventually, this leads to idiocy.
In the novel, one of the villagers conceives of an imaginative way to stave off forgetting. He takes pen and ink, and marks everything in his home with its proper name – table, chair, clock, door, wall. He even marks the animals and plants. Soon after, he observes that this alone will not do for people with the disease. He then begins to label everything with a description of its use. “This is a cow. She gives milk. She needs to be milked every morning.” “This is a blanket. It is used to cover a person while sleeping it goes on a bed.” One of the most touching labels was the names and descriptions of the village and the parish church.
Memories are powerful things. If we lose our memories, we are in danger of becoming dysfunctional and rootless. This is certainly why we name things and assign meanings to places. One of the earliest tasks the Bible reminds us of is to become a namer. The job of giving a name is one that God commands us to do at the very beginning of creation.
Listen – in the second chapter of Genesis it says: “And the Lord God formed every beast of the field and every bird of the air and he brought them to Adam to see what he would call them and whatever man called every living thing, that was its name.” Deep down inside of ourselves, we realize that a place or a person without a name can never have much significance. Deep down in our unconscious, we know that if we fail to name things, fail to see significance and meaning in things, we are on the road to idiocy. Let me even take this one step further and say that the process of naming is the beginning of making something special. We might even say it is the beginning of making something holy. Hence, Baptism. Hence, the christening of ships and other modes of transportation. Hence, giving a church a name.
The ancient Hebrews realized this, also. Our first lesson tells how Joshua commanded twelve men, one from each tribe, to find a stone from the River Jordan and bring it to the priests at Gilead so that they might build a monument and name the place
Let me set this request in its context. The Hebrew people had just crossed the Jordan River. They had been wandering as a nomadic people in the wilderness, and now, finally they have come into the promised land. But they were also very much aware that they were surrounded by potential enemies. Enemies who were like giants. Doesn’t it seem strange to stop whatever they were doing – just to build a monument?
The explanation that Joshua gives is worth noting. “This shall be a sign among you, that when your children ask their fathers in time to come, saying, ‘What mean these stones?”, then you shall answer them “that the waters of the Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord, and these stones shall be for a memorial unto the children of Israel forever.”
On the surface, it might seem as though Joshua were crazy. Imagine taking time to collect stones at a critical moment when there were fortifications to build, crops to place, enemies to face, and a thousand details in establishing a new homeland. But, you see, Joshua understood that memories were of equal importance in building a homeland. “This shall be a sign to you, that when the children ask their fathers in time to come, What mean these stones?’, then you shall answer them-.” Those twelve stones of Joshua pointed beyond themselves.
We might say they had transcendent meanings. They had the ability to speak to the inner souls of future generations. I don’t know what the stones looked like. I’m only certain they were not functional; that is, they were not able to be used for another reason, like as markers directing people to the nearest filling station. These stones, in themselves, contained power and meaning as well as a sacred name for a place and an event. They were there to guard against the Hebrews lapsing into amnesia, or a kind of idiocy that thinks the world begins and ends with the people present.
Recently, there has been a fascinating series in the New York Times on the megachurches of the country. A megachurch is one that has between five and fifteen thousand people attending worship on a given Sunday. The third article in the series was on church architecture. The writer indicated that many megachurches looked more like shopping malls than houses of God. The rationale was that they were there to comfort and entertain people rather than provide them with symbols of spiritual meaning. I wonder what Joshua would say on viewing one of those megachurches that look like a shopping mall. Would he ask: ‘What mean these stones, this wood, this glass???”
One of the reasons I love this special church of ours is that it is filled with symbols reminding us that we are debtors to the past. There is no question that these stones, this wood, this glass, are God’s house, and not simply a convenient building for getting together. Every time we come to worship, the name hits us – St. Philip – the place – jogs our memory and we join a divine human conversation which began long before any of us were born, and will continue long after all of us are dead.
Having said all that I’ve said so far, I feel compelled to issue a sole warning. Places of memory can lead us into all sorts of trouble. Memories are like the roots of a tree. They can give life. Without them, you can quickly descend into a kind of idiocy- But memories, like roots, can also hinder growth. Like roots, they can choke a tree or keep other trees from growing in the same vicinity. On a human level, memories can become addictive, a presence that blocks movement into the future. The difficult task for churches that are proud of their links to the past is how to preserve those precious memories and still be open to possibilities in the future.
Today is our patronal festival day. A day in which we recall those special memories of St. Philip and all who have worked in this parish under his banner. We are reminded that our faith lives on memory, as well as hope and promise. Our faith is based on the reminder that God has acted throughout history. . . hence, we celebrate a day like this lest we forget, or begin to think that everything started with this generation.
Joshua also suggests that our role is not only to name, but also to interpret the memories. Our task is to not only care for the stones, but to interpret the memories lest they become ends in themselves. ‘When your children,” Joshua says, “shall ask their fathers in time to come, saying, What mean these stones?’, then you shall let your children know.”
It is not enough that we have magnificent adobe and wood, and glass. We need to constantly interpret, to preach, to tell the world the meaning of this community that bears the name of Philip. This is a never-ending task that we often forget is so important for our growth as a community. Every Sunday, when I enter this pulpit, I am thankful that right behind me stands a picture of Philip. I don’t know if he looked that way. But this I do know. Those eyes seem to drill into my back, and I am reminded that I am accountable for all that I say to Philip and all who have gone before. Let me tell you, this is a scary feeling for a preacher – to suddenly realize that you are accountable not only to those in the pews and to the Vestry and to one’s Bishop, but to all those who have come and gone before you.
The bottom line for me on this patron saints day is to look at this building, to look out at you who are the living stones of this parish, and look around at the magnificent artwork and architecture, and know that here is a place that honors memories without being chained to the past.
Today, we give thanks for this place called Philip. We give thanks that someday, somewhere, there will be people who might have been afflicted with cultural amnesia – and they will say: ‘What did the Christian church look like in the ’90s???”
And someone will answer: Here is a place called Philip – whose stones are a memorial unto the church forever.
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 -
“St. Philip’s Day Celebration”
John 14: 6-14
May 1, 1994
I have a confession to make – I am a “computer illiterate.” Each year as summer approaches, I promise myself that I shall turn over a new leaf. Finally, I will buckle down and study all the technologies that go along with being a “computer sophisticate.” This year I even took the first step. I went into a computer store and surveyed their “how-to” books. There was one title that really caught my eye. Here was something written just for me: “DOS for Dummies.”
Possibly a similar title might have been written for our Patron Saint Philip, who, even after the momentous happenings of Easter, still was asking Jesus to “show us the Father.” And we read that Jesus turns to him with a look that says, “How can you ask such a question?” And if he had had a book similar to what I found in the computer store, Jesus might have said: ‘Here, Philip, read this. ‘God for Dummies.’ And after you have read it, we will discuss your questions.”
We who bear Philip’s name find that we ourselves are continually raising those dumb questions. “Show us the Father. What does God look like? Where is God found?
As long as I’m confessing, let me go even further. The older I get, the dumber I feel about God. The God I knew as a young person seems to have taken a sabbatical. The God I trusted implicitly without any questions seems to have gone on vacation. We still have little family squabbles over whether it’s he or she. And we still get passionate over morality. But the real questions – like ‘Where is God found?” And “Does God clean up our messes?” Or ‘Is he/she even concerned?” And “How can we recognize the face of God when we can’t even recognize the faces of our brothers and sisters? Those kinds of questions seem to have escaped us. The older I get, the more I am like Philip, saying: ‘Lord, show us the Father.”
Jesus responds to Philip not by recommending a book “God for Dummies,” but by pointing out that all you need is to look about – see the relationship, understand the friendship.
The words in the Gospel are: ‘He who has seen me has seen the Father.” We know God by our relationship to Jesus. And we know Jesus by our relationship to each other. Aelred of Rievaulx, a medieval mystic, wrote simply: “God is friendship.” In this friendship we have with each other, we see God. The high point of last Sunday’s 9:00 service was Peter’s talk to the young people while he told of a friendship with this fellow from Maine. At the end of his talk, he said: “And my friend traveled to Phoenix this week, but he came this morning to be in church with me.” it was at that moment that I understood more about the words: “God is friendship.” Philip said: “Show us the Father.” And Jesus said: ‘Have you not been with me in this community, amongst these friends?”
Earlier in Jesus’s ministry, the same basic question had been raised. And at that time, Jesus said: ‘When two or three friends are gathered in my name, there I may be found.” We know God by our relationship to Jesus. And we know Jesus by our relationship to each other. We are friends in Jesus’ name.
But our culture is stronger than what we read in the Bible. Our culture is a TV culture that tells us something isn’t real unless we can visualize it – the way we would on the 10:00 news. As Children of our culture, we always want to reduce things to pictures. And here is where we find ourselves skeptical, the way Philip was, saying again and again: “Show us the Father.”
Last October, the Archbishop of Canterbury visited Virginia Seminary. He opened his first lecture on the nature of God by telling an anecdote. I believe it is a challenge for all of us who bear the name of Philip.
“A little girl,” the Archbishop said, “was busy one day poring over her picture book, crayon in hand. Her mother asked her what she was planning to draw. “God,” was the brief reply. Her older brother scoffed and said (as only older brothers can): “Don’t be dumb. No one has ever seen God! No one knows what he looks like.” Licking her pencil with determination, the little girl replied: “They’ll know when I’m finished.”
And isn’t this our challenge? To show people what God looks like by being a community of friends with Jesus? Simple. . . basic. . . – you don’t have to have a degree in theology. You don’t have to be seminary trained. All you have to do is be a friend to Jesus and each other. And so, the older I get, the more I look for friends, rather than insight. The less 1 cease to ask: ‘How can I know God?’ – and the more I ask: ‘How can I trust each of you? How can I find friends?”
For some of you, “friends” is an overworked word. It has become almost synonymous with acquaintance. And so, as we come to the end of our thoughts, I would like to leave you with a different ancient word to think about. The word is “companion.” We who bear Philip’s name are challenged to be companions. A companion in its ancient usage is a friend who shares bread with you.
Philip asked: “Show us the Father.” And today, Jesus would reply: “As you meet, and talk and share bread and drink wine-as companions, with holiness in your eyes-and love on your lips, you no longer need to be shown. For there I am in your midst.” AMEN. -
Easter
April 16, 1995
We are here this evening to celebrate the first mass of Easter. This is an ancient celebration where the whole church came to welcome those new members of the body who had been preparing themselves during the period of Lent. This service usually contained baptisms of whole families, instructions about the Christian life, and, ending, with the celebration of the risen Christ.
Tonight I would start our thinking by asking you a question that I believe might have been asked in the early church. What does all this mean for you? You who are a part of this resurrection community, does it make a difference?
The trick in life is to ask the right questions. If we simply concentrate on the factual questions, did it happen? What does it look like? Where do we begin? We will miss the miracle that is about to happen. Those are facts, not truths. If we just concentrate on the facts, Easter will have come and gone, and we simply will be left with an entry doctrine. Something you’re supposed to believe as a Christian, something you can argue about eloquently with your Christian friends, but has little to do with real life, and certainly has nothing to do with people who are joining our community.
So let’s ask the right question. What does the resurrection mean and how does it impact any of our lives? These are truths, not facts.
A French priest wrote a few years ago that the West is the third world of the spirit, impoverished, underdeveloped, unawakened, and unaware of the miracle of our being alive. The miracle that you and I are. Have you ever thought about that? The miracle that each of us here is a living, breathing entity, capable of loving and touching other human beings. What a miracle! That’s a deep truth, deeper than any scientific facts about us.
Walt Whitman wrote, I know nothing else but miracles. I’ll give you a miracle. Look around. Look at yourselves. You’re alive. And all of this because of the dazzling generosity of God.
Let me tell you a story. A priest friend of ours was running a cell group, very much like the ones we have here. Our friend imposed 1 that rule on the group. Any person was allowed to share any part of their life, but in order to speak, you first had to tell something good that was going on in your life, and then you could tell of all the bad things that were happening. Everyone seemed to have plenty of bad news, so this good news standard made for a more balanced discussion. One night a 20-year-old college student who had recently joined the group came in late and looked very strung out. He was crying softly to herself, and everyone turned to her and said tell us about it, Jane. Suddenly she cried out, ohh God, I was raped this afternoon. There was a shock silence. And then everybody started to talk at once, and our friend interrupted and said, wait, Jane, before we go on, remember our rule. Tell us some good news. Jane thought for a long time, and the silence seemed unbearable. Finally, Jane said, Well I’m alive.
That’s the miracle that is right under our noses. That’s what resurrection is all about: Jesus is alive, and so are we
I know nothing but miracles. My God, I’m alive. I breathe through the love and mercy of God, we are here. Magnificent, isn’t it? It must be the good news that we are alive.
And to those of you who are about to join this community, we welcome to the community that is alive. Now being alive means moving, means journeying, means growing. Being dead means ceasing to move, ceasing to grow, ceasing to change. To our welcome to this special community is to be aware of being alive. And aware of the miracle that started on the first Easter and continues with our corporate life. Jesus is alive, and so are we. Alleluia -
Results not Appearances
April 19, 1992
Most of the time we are not seen for who we really are. We may be grateful for that. Most of the time we are accepted or rejected, judged or acquitted, embraced or snubbed on appearances. The same may be said about Jesus. Most of the time, he is accepted or rejected on appearances.
This is why Easter is a confusing day for those who take the gospel accounts seriously. The gospel story you just read is at best puzzling. we encounter the risen Jesus not as a brilliant parade savior, not as a victoriously outfitted leader. Jesus won’t resemble a gardener. Mary who stands on the edge of the burial place as she wants to view, worship and make sure the dead body was safe. She finds an empty tomb and what appeared to be a stranger outside. She supposes him to be a gardener we read it says to him Where have you put him?
What a perplexing, bewildering incident. Jesus comes back from the dead, and Mary, one of his closest friends doesn’t even recognize him. Can this be? Why would the gospel writer say she thought him to be a gardener?
Supposing him to be a gardener, it sounds as if we had best go back to central casting. Surely, a risen savior would have dressed for success, looked more triumphant, have been instantly discernible. Appearances are deceptive. Just as you cannot tell a book by its cover I guess it’s true that you can’t tell a risen savior by appearances. During the week before Easter, I spent a great deal of time reading scriptures, studying commentaries, and meditating upon the resurrection.
My learning this year is that the early church spent a minimal amount of energy on the empty tomb experience. Except for the gospel of Thomas, which you will not find in your Bibles, it was never accepted. All the other accounts of Jesus mentioned the empty tomb experience as a minor event. A blip on the screen a small incident that is recorded but certainly not highlighted.
Now the crucifixion, the passion, that is written up in great detail. You can’t help but recognize Jesus on the cross; there is no mistaking the dying man on Calvary. Where on Sunday, little is written and the few lines that are shrouded in mystery. Supposing him to be a gardener. How could Mary have been so wrong? But not only marry, but Jesus has two friends on the road or Peter, who looked into the tomb and walked away wondering. What are we to make of these baffling short takes?
And the answer, nothing. The early church admitted the confusion, the inability to discern the risen Christ, even when he stood in front of them. But the early church was more interested in the results of Easter, not on the appearances of Easter the proof was not to be found on what was seen or not seen on Easter morning. The burden of proof was to be found on how lives were changed as a result of Easter.
And so it is today. We are not here to debate what a risen savior might look like. We are here to declare and give thanks for the results of the resurrection. How things that were cast down are raised up and the things that have grown old are made new how lives have been changed the historian might find little evidence to support the story of the empty tomb, but no historian will dispute the fact that after Easter the disciples were not the persons they were before, in fact, so great was the enthusiasm of the followers of Jesus. Incidentally, the word enthusiasm comes from the Greek word trios, meaning possessed by God.
So great was the enthusiasm that we can say Christianity began with Easter had there been no risen Christ, there would be no gospels, no epistles, no New Testament, no sacraments, no Christian Church. These are all the results of Easter. Mary might have supposed him to be a gardener yet if we read on, we see she becomes aware of a change period a change in her as well as in him. What is clear by the record is that instead of despair she found herself to be in a community of hope. Instead of fear she was filled with enthusiasm.
And so good people, the message of Easter is not about appearances. Nor is it to be about resuscitated corpses that we may not recognize. Insert is a message about change, and the results are becoming enthusiastic. As it is written in the preface to the Roman Catholic requiem life is changed not ended.
We may not recognize him, but we can become aware of the results all around us. Life is changed not ended. We celebrate not an appearance, not a memory
. We celebrate a result. He is risen and therefore we are changed
Alleluia -
Palm Sunday
April 16, 2000
For years, on this Sunday, we have portrayed dramatically the Passion story. Several of us have taken parts, and each time we ask the congregation to assume the role of the crowd. There are only two words that are spoken, but they are repeated several times. “Crucify him” are those lines. We usually ask the congregation to shout them out with gusto.
At the end of the service, inevitably, people come up to me and say, “I felt strange saying, ‘Crucify him.’ If I had been there, I never would have said such terrible words.”
Maybe so and maybe not. If we look closely at the biblical drama, we can usually find ourselves portrayed in most of the characters. So, let’s mingle this morning with the people of Jerusalem, and see if we might find ourselves in the crowd.
Let me set the stage. Jesus of Nazareth recently had a gala entrance into the city. The crowds shouted Hosannas to a king they knew nothing about. And when he went up to the temple and upset the tables of the moneychangers, they wanted to take back their cheers and substitute a cry like, “Jesus, go home. Go back to Nazareth.”
In the scene in front of us, we are in the midst of an angry crowd. Jesus is standing alone off to our left, and Pontius Pilate is in the center stage. He has just delivered the line, “What shall I do with this man?” The crowd yells back, “Crucify him, crucify him.”
As we jostle our way through the crowd, let us imagine we are reporters for the Jerusalem Daily. Our assignment is to find out just what has happened. On our right stands a well-dressed, prosperous type – the kind of person you might find on the vestry of an Episcopal church.
“You, sir,” we say, “Who are you, and why are you shouting ‘Crucify’?”
“I am Jonathan, a Sadducee,” he says, “and I come from a prominent family that has been in this city for generations. I usually don’t attend these kinds of public demonstrations, but today I am making an exception.”
“You asked why I shout Crucify, why I am here? Let me tell you. A few days ago, this man waltzed into the temple and closed down the family business. He is a disturber of the peace, a zealot who is completely out of control. As long as he said such things as, ‘Consider the lilies of the field – see how they grow,’ he was fun to have around. But when he said, ‘Consider the thieves in the temple – see how they steal,’ that was going too far. He was messing with our economic system, and everybody knows that rabbis shouldn’t talk about money. He wanted to change the status quo, and that was just too much. So I gladly shout, ‘Crucify him, crucify him.’”
Elbowing our way through the crowd, we approach another man. “Who are you, sir? And why are you shouting so loudly?”
“Are you addressing me?” he replies. “It’s not my custom to speak to reporters, but today I shall make an exception.”
“I am Samuel, a Pharisee, one of the religious leaders of the temple. It’s our job to decide who’s in and who’s out. My friends and I have been interpreting what’s right and what’s wrong for years.”
“You have asked me why I shout ‘Crucify!’ with such vehemence. The answer is obvious. The man is clearly a phony. He claims to have been called by God, yet he eats and drinks with addicts, thieves, prostitutes, and other low-lifes. And then says that these sinners will get into heaven before good, honest, God-fearing people like us. Can you imagine? Why, he even healed on the Sabbath, which everybody knows is a day of rest commanded by God.”
“I know, you’re no doubt thinking that, as a religious person, I ought to be more merciful. Well, let me tell you – he has broken innumerable Roman laws, and the government is going to make it hard on everyone because of what he’s done. Isn’t it better that one homeless rabbi, who seems quite irrational, suffer, than for everyone to suffer? We don’t need more troublemakers stirring up the people. So by all means, I will continue to shout, ‘Crucify, crucify’”
Now the crowd is beginning to disperse. The verdict has been given. The people have had their way and as they began to leave, we stop one ordinary-looking woman and asked, “You, madam, what is your name and why are you here?” “I am Sarah. Just one of the many housewives of the city. I wasn’t planning on being here. I was doing some shopping and saw the crowd, so I drifted over.”
“Why did I shout ‘Crucify’? I guess I just got swept up in the emotions of everyone else. On the other hand, if so many people, and influential people at that, were saying he’s bad, there must be something here. You know, where there’s smoke, there must be fire.”
“Yes, it’s true. I was part of the crowd shouting hosannas a few days before. Everybody else was doing the same thing. He should have left right then. It’s become apparent that he doesn’t fit. I’ve heard he says outrageous things like, ‘God is more concerned with people who are not our kind.’ Ridiculous! Everyone knows WE are God’s special people. And furthermore, we don’t need religious fanatics who have very questionable morals, telling us to change our priorities.
These are the faces of the crucifiers. I wonder if they are much different from us. Although 2000 years separate us from those who were gathered in Pilate’s courtyard, I wonder what response we might make to the question, “What shall I do with this man?”
Let’s be honest. We are uncomfortable with change, and people who advocate change are rarely made to feel welcome in our lives. Somehow, in the unconscious part of our brain, the message comes to us. If these people really want to change our system, our world may fly apart. Either people have to at in, go along, adjust, or they ought to leave.
Do you recall the slogan of the ’60s? In the height of the Cold War, people used to say, “America – love it or leave it.” And that’s what the people of Jerusalem were saying – either love the system or leave it.
Jesus refused to leave. So they ended up crucifying him. That was then, and this is now, and still Pilate asks us the question, “What shall I do with this man?” -
“Is Your Nickname Barnabus?”
Acts 4; 23-37
April 20, 1997
My youngest son and his wife are expecting a baby in a few weeks. I’ve been intrigued by how they are going about choosing a name for their child. They have been looking through books, consulting family records, and gathering all the latest California-type names. Weekly, we receive a phone call about some of the more exotic choices: Kellyona Douglas, Quincey Douglas, and (after the : NCAAs) Miles Douglas. Whenever we’ve been told one of these names, we’ve done our best to appear noncommittal.
One thing experience has taught us is that whatever name they choose, in a few short years, this youngest Douglas is probably going to end up with a nickname. And that nickname may or may not have any relationship to what his or her parents have chosen.
I had a roommate in Seminary called Rabbit. His given name was Richard. In grade school, he was a fast runner, and the name just stuck with him. Another friend of my wife was always called $snowflake. Her real name was Janet. Snowflake loved to ski, and she was always sort of flaky. The interesting thing about nicknames is that through the years, they often become the ones they are known by and we tend to forget their given names.
The same thing happened to the person in our first lesson. If I were to mention his name (unless you were listening attentively) I doubt that many would recall his given name. Joseph is what his parents called him. One of the problems is that there are no fewer than sixteen Josephs mentioned in Scripture, everyone from Mary’s husband, to the son of Jacob who was a ruler in Egypt, to a Joseph who lent his tomb for the burial of Jesus.
This particular Joseph was given a nickname by the members of the early church. And it’s instructive to reflect on just how he received his nickname.
Let me set the stage. Way back in the beginning of the church, they were faced with some huge problems. I’ll bet you will not be surprised when I tell you they were financial in (Why is that the church always struggles to make ends meet?)
But back to the story. The Church that started at Pentecost was made up of Jews who had been convinced that the carpenter from Nazareth had risen and was the Messiah. Out of this experience of the Risen Christ, they came together in a very close, loving community. But this community was viewed by many in the larger population as a threat to national unity. And so, those who were influential did their best to nip the movement right at the start. Economic reprisals were one of the Chief tools for discouraging radicals, just as they are today. To make matters worse for the small community, the church maintained a vision of sharing all things in common. Translated, this meant that each member bore the hurts and hardships of one another. This seemed like an exciting vision until more and more people became unemployed. Then the vision seemed more of a pipe dream and less of a unifying goal. This economic problem presented the church with one of the low points in the early community’s life.
When things looked darkest and Sunday appeals seemed to be falling on deaf ears, Joseph stepped forward. He sold a piece of property, presented the money to the Apostles, and paved the way for one of the finest moments in the history of the church. Joseph’s generosity inspired many others. It was because of ads magnificent act of generosity that Joseph was given the nickname Barnabus, which literally means son of encouragement.
Let me attempt to point out three reasons Joseph was given the nickname.
First, Joseph believed in the vision, that dream of what the church could be, and with God/s help, would be. Believing in the vision means more than simply acknowledging that it’s a good idea. Believing in the Vision means being committed to doing whatever it takes to accomplish the dream. Believing in the vision means exercising one’s imagination to see things that aren’t there, and to commit to things that are yet to be built.
Second, Joseph was willing to move forward now, and not wait until everything was nailed down. We might even say that he was willing to act on his hunches.
There is a piece of time-worn wisdom of the Church that goes, “Don’t look before you leap, you will decide to sit down.” Most of us have had an experience of stopping and considering all the pros and cons of a situation… and then never moving forward. Bob Cox, our Senior Warden, is fond of reminding us of “the paralysis of analysis.” Those inner voices that remind us of the “what ifs?” Can’t you just hear those voices saying to Joseph, What if you need the money for your old age? Or, “What if the Apostles don’t spend your money wisely?” Joseph, though, was able to move ahead on the promises of God and not get bogged down by the “what ifs.”
My third point is that Joseph had faith in the future. At a time when everybody else was feeling a sense of despair, Joseph possessed a sense of optimism and hope. At a time when the noble experiment of the Christian community was about to fall apart, Joseph stepped forward and laid his resources on the line.
I’ve said it before, one’s expectations of the way things will turn out often determine your present actions. If you think a situation is doomed to failure, your behavior is usually cautious and protective. If you think something will turn out well, you’re much freer with whatever you put into it. And Joseph, if nothing else, had great expectations.
So this is why the early church called him Barnabas. Before it was clear who he really was, his parents had named him Joseph. But as his real self emerged, the nickname Barnabas, son of encouragement, became a truer way of identifying this hero of the church.
St Philips has had a number of Barnabus people in its history – those heroes who have stood up, come forward, and made significant contributions to our ongoing life. People like John and Helen Murphey, Walter Roedeger, Mary Huntington, Harry Sinclair, and many others that I can’t recall at this time. They have been our Barnabas’s and have helped to make this place what it is today. And they will be remembered as Sons and Daughters of Encouragement.
But what about yourselves? I guess after 20 years that I can be frank with you. There are a number of people within the sound of my voice who have the resources to act in a Barnabus fashion, to put significant monies, 50, 20, 10 thousand dollars on the line for the future of this community. I believe there are some of you who if asked, would join the order of Barnabus, would be proud to be known as sons and daughters of encouragement. And so I’m asking… and counting on you to step forward.
How about it? . . . -
Easter Warnings
April 23, 2000
What a magnificent day! Easter is the crowning jewel in the church calendar. It’s truly the best day of the entire year. It’s the model for every Sunday. The church overflows with people. Flowers are everywhere. The music is outstanding. The hymns are all golden oldies. There is a magical sense of celebration in all that we do. It’s truly a great day to be alive and to be here in church.
But it’s also a dangerous time. A note of caution needs to be sounded. Easter may also be a time when you could be changed. There are forces within the service, hidden forces, which have not been tamed by our over-familiarity
And so, if you get too close, listen too intently, hear the message too well, if you pause too long by the empty tomb, your mind may be permanently discombobulated. Come to think of it, we should have put a notice in our bulletin, “Warning – Easter may be hazardous. Approach this service with caution. Your life could be changed forever.”
One of the changes might be that you would have to view yourself in a different way. I don’t know about you, but I frequently experience a crisis of confidence. I don’t feel that I am worth much. If the truth were known, sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see (to use a church term) a sinner staring me back. Sometimes when I’m sitting quietly in church and I review my life, I begin to think of that old black hymn, “It’s me. It’s me, O Lord. Standing in need of prayer.
My point, my warning, is that if we really hear the Easter message, we’re going to have to give up that view of ourselves. We’re going to have to admit that the most real thing about ourselves is that God loves, and that love is unconditional. No matter what you have done, or said, or have caused, no matter what – the basic message is that there is more mercy in God than sin in us. And that means you are forgiven, loved, appreciated, and worth more to God than you ever thought possible. As we focus on the empty tomb, we see that God will go to any length to assure us of our lovableness, even coming back from the dead.
My hope is that you will enjoy this day without getting too many surprises. I want to give you a fair chance to avoid dangerous paths. You might want to abstain from thinking too seriously about the Resurrection. The message of the Resurrection is a signal that the way we thought about life and death has to be reversed. If the Easter story is true, really true, then it is NOT that life is short and death is forever. It is life is forever, and death is short. Death is merely an event; something that happens to us all, but life continues, even after death
In funerals, I often am fond of saying, God doesn’t take death yet seriously. From God’s perspective, death is not an ending but simply the beginning of new life. Or as the old Latin requiem put it, as in our prayers for the dead, “Vita mutator, non-tollitar.” Life is changed, not ended.
This is the underlying claim of Easter. It’s as if God were like a good broker (I wrote this before the stock market went down), and God asks us to look beyond the short term. Our lives are not crammed between the dates of our birth and death. They are more like a long-term investment from God.
It’s a scary time for people who take the experience of Easter seriously. The fact is that you can’t inhale the fragrance of Easter and be content with life as it is. Listen once again to the story as it comes from the pen of St. Mark.
Three women were making their way through the cold, dark streets of Jerusalem, preparing for one final act of devotion a salute to a dead leader, a recognition of a past relationship. When they arrive at the cemetery, that place of death, the stone sealing the tomb had been rolled away and there sat a young man, dressed in a white robe. He gave them some unexpected news. “Jesus of Nazareth is not here. He is going ahead of you.”
And Mark’s Gospel says of the women, “They went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement seized them.” The story ends abruptly with these words, “They were afraid.”
Have you ever wondered why they were so frightened? They came to pay their last respects to a dead leader. And they are suddenly told that he is alive and will be encountered in the future. There’s more to come. You would think they would react joyfully, but Mark puts it this way: “They were scared half out of their wits.”
The message from the young man is not about what God has done or is doing, but rather that you can expect more from God in the future. And this can be unsettling.
Undergirding this message is the realization that God is not finished with these women. There’s more to come. And the last word will be God’s.
For those of you who feel like most of your life is over, who feel that the future has already been shaped by your past; the message of Easter is truly startling. The message is simply that there is more to come. Much more. You ain’t seen nothing yet. And this is scary for it asks us to be like the three women; not settling for what is, but instead willingly placing our hand in God’s hand and being prepared to step into the unknown future.
My advice to many of you here this morning is, don’t pause by the empty tomb. Don’t listen to the message of Easter, for you may hear the words, “He is ahead of you.” You are being beckoned into the future, a God who doesn’t stop at death. And the message could be hazardous to your priorities. It could change the way you view life. You have had fair warning.
Happy Easter. -
New Beginnings
Acts 10
Revelations 21: 1-7
April 23, 1977
One of the most enjoyable books of the past year was a novel called in the Beginning by Kayam Potok. Hotel starts out his novel with this reminiscence. I can remember hearing my mother murmur these words while I lay in bed with a fever. Children are often sick darling, that is the way with children. All beginnings are hard. You’ll be alright soon. I remember bursting into tears one evening because the passage of the Bible commentary had proven too difficult to understand. I was about nine years old at the time period you want to understand everything immediately, my father said, just like that. You only began to study the commentary last week. All beginnings are hard.
I say it to myself today when I stand at the start of a new school year. All beginnings are hard. Teaching the way I do is particularly hard. Often students are shaken. I say to them what was said to me. Be patient, you are learning a new way of understanding. All beginnings are hard
. And sometimes, I add what I have learned on my own. Especially beginnings that you make yourself. That’s the hardest of all.
This is precisely where Cornelius and Simon Peter found themselves. In our lesson this morning, facing a new beginning. Cornelius was a Roman centurion by trade and a religious seeker by temperament. One day it was announced to him that all his asking and seeking and knocking on the ears was going to bear fruit. He was about to be given new insight into ultimate reality, and he was told to send for Simon Peter, who was at Joppa. Cornelius did this, and the chain reaction was thrust to Peter, the big fisherman, out into a new situation. Realize that Simon Peter was a provincial Galilean Jew. Taught all his life not to associate with people to the West of him. He had never had the experience of interacting religiously with these people. Suddenly he was face to face with an entirely new situation. And like all new beginnings. I’m sure it was hard. It called for some new relationships and new ways to communicate the gospel. And I’m sure Simon Peter, as well as Cornelius, had lots of questions about each other and the new situation.
Life has a way of doing this to us, doesn’t it? Suddenly, when we’re sitting comfortably in our provincial, insulated world, where we have become accustomed to a way of life, where we know what to expect, suddenly we are thrust out into brand new situations. And, like all beginnings, they are hard and scary, and raise many questions in our minds.
I’m sure you realize by now that I’m not just referring to Simon Peter, or to myself. I’m referring to you also. You know this from your own life. Most of us would rather fight than switch. We would do almost anything rather than be thrust into a new beginning. It’s hard, isn’t it? It’s hard because new beginnings mean a sense of disequilibrium, a sense of change, a sense of the unknown. All beginnings are hard.
I suppose that is why most people and most institutions avoid new beginnings like the plague. They represent something hard, and oftentimes something painful. My observation has been that people and institutions have become past masters at avoiding new beginnings. And one way an institution can do this is just to keep doing the same things over and over and over again. The only thing they do is to sandpaper or oil up the old machines, once in a while.
Do you ever have the feeling, when you join an institution, any institution, that it’s almost like seeing a continuously running movie? I can recall that feeling as a child, when my mother gave me $0.50 to go to the neighborhood theater on a rainy day. Two or three films would be showing, but it never mattered when you arrived or when you left. It was all pretty much the same. Delightful, diverting, but ohh so very predictable. Another way for people to avoid new beginnings is to stop dreaming, to cut off the visions of what could be, and to settle down for what it is. John Gardner says, the reasons mature people stop growing is that they forget how to dream, and become less and less willing to try new beginnings. Gardner reminds us of the biblical truth, that without vision the people perish, and without new life, all the gains of the past slowly rot away. And without new beginnings, we are left with an endless routine.
One short parenthesis that I would insert in this, my maiden sermon. And that is, that I am not saying nor implying that the past is unimportant. One of my principal tasks as your new rector is to honor the past period. Saint Phillips has a glorious tradition, it has had a series of remarkable accomplishments with great leaders. Both lay and clerical. Without the past, we would be nothing, you know it and I know it. Our sense of history is important period I hope that I never get tired of hearing, and you never get tired of telling me, anecdotes and stories that are from your past.
Yet in a sense, all the wonderful past is just a prologue to our new beginning. Important as it is, and it certainly is, we can’t stop there. We have got to move into the future, building on the solid foundations that have been laid for us.
In the next few months, I intend to do a lot of listening period I want to hear about your past, but more than that, I want to hear about your visions and dreams. I started this listening process last weekend, with the vestry and long-range planning committee. And in the pulpit, I plan to share some of the hopes and dreams that I could bring to this magnificent place. I propose that we take as our theme song, for the next few months, that period piece I used to hear old timers play. You tell me your dreams, I’ll tell you mine. This is what Simon Peter did once he got to cesaria. He began to recount his experiences and share his vision. I can think of no better investment that we could make on this first leg of our journey together than sharing and meshing and time together our dreams.
Somehow, I’ve always been attracted to the dreamers in scripture. They always have a handle on reality, which is exciting as well as terrifying. One such person, John, is sitting on the Isle of Patmos dreaming dreams, having visions, looking into the heart of existence. This is what he wrote,
Then I saw a new heaven, and a new earth, and I heard a loud voice proclaiming from the throne, Now at last God has his dwelling among men! He will dwell among them, and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, there shall be an end to death and to mourning and crying and pain, for the old order has passed away. Behold, I am making all things new.
I am making all things new is a long name, but it’s one of the names of God. I am making all things new. I am the new beginning. The alpha and the Omega. The beginning and the end. That’s who he is. That’s where he’s to be found, that’s his dwelling place.
And the dream of the Johns, and the Simon Peters, and all who have been touched by God’s grace is to find God in new beginnings, in the unknown, in the untested. For that, God’s dwelling.
We can’t ooze into the future; we have to leap into it, and thus find God. We can’t hold back ourselves from people who are different; we have to share our visions, and in the sharing, we will find God.
Well, what about yourselves? How’s it with you? Are you willing to risk dreaming dreams? Are you willing to go out into the unknown and find God in new ways? This is my challenge to you, on this, my first sermon.
As we think and pray about our new life together, perhaps T.S. Eliot, with his lines from The Rock, can speak to each of us. Let these words echo in your hearts, be grasped by them.
Where the bricks have fallen, we will build new stones. Where the beams are rotten, we will build new Timbers. Where the work is unspoken, we will build with new speech. There is work together, a church for all, and a job for each. Every man to his work.
Amen
/se