Memorial Service for Andrea Douglas
Crown, PA
October 12, 1996
Death, anyone’s death, particularly an untimely death like Andrea’s, brings us up short. We’re puzzled, we’re hurt, we’re angry, we’re fearful. For death to some is like a thief in the night – robbing us of a very dear person. And then we gather here, wondering: How can we ever turn this sorrow into joy? And how can we turn our sadness into an act of celebration? And how can we turn tragedy into meaning?
When someone leaves this fragile island, which we call earth, the emptiness the gap they leave seems to widen with every passing day. And yet – and yet we are reminded that every exit is also an entrance into something else. And for this, we can be joyful. I think it was William Faulkner who once wrote, “You have to say goodbye to some things in order to say hello to others.” So we come together to say goodbye to Andrea – but with the sure and certain hope – that this exit is also an entrance into a larger life. As we said back in the memorial service in Tucson – ”she rides on with God.”
We’re fearful at times like this, because we think of death as an ending – something that has robbed us of a precious person. But death isn’t the enemy. It’s the fear of death – that is so debilitating. Once fear of death is put aside, we can begin to celebrate life. We can begin to see – and appreciate the wonderful memories that we have of Andrea. And although we see now through a glass darkly, we can begin to appreciate that “Whether we live or whether we die – we are the Lord’s.” And that neither death nor life can separate us from the love of God or from Andrea. There’s an old Scandinavian proverb that goes – “Those who love the Lord – never see each other for the last time.” And this we believe. And this we celebrate today.
The tragedy of Andrea’s death is not so much that she has gone from our sight. The pain will pass with time. But the tragedy is that she never fully knew how much she was loved and cherished by all who are here today.
Andrea – more than most – wanted to be loved by everyone, and yet she never discovered just how much people cared about her. It’s as if we look in a mirror dimly and can’t see the beauty and goodness that shines back at us – – – it all seems hidden. She, like all of us at times, felt abandoned, alone, and unloved. Yet somewhere within that tragedy, we can affirm that Andrea is at peace. For now, she knows that she is beloved.
There was a four-line affirmation that came out of the 2nd World War. It was found in a bunker that survived a terrible battle. It’s an affirmation that turns our perception of abandonment into a hopeful affirmation. It moves us from tragedy to meaning. Here it is:
I believe in the sun, even if it is not shining.
I believe in light, even if it is dark.
I believe in God, even if He is silent.
I believe in love, even if it is hidden.
We may see through a mirror dimly – We may only know in part – but this we do know – that love never ceases – and that God’s love continues to surround us. And that Andrea will continue to grow in his love.
Andrea left us a legacy of love – one that can’t be quantified by its length (29 years is such a short time) – but rather is calculated by its intensity. Her flame burned brightly – and for this we give thanks – for people are not measured by their years – but ultimately – by how much they have loved. And beyond a doubt, Andrea was one who loved greatly.
it’s interesting to note – one of those strange coincidences – that she died – the week that we celebrate St. Francis’ birthday -Francis, that wonderful Saint – who loved animals, as well as people. And certainly, that characterized Andrea’s life – Horses and dogs – animals of all sorts and conditions were her friends. And the love she had spread its warmth to all of us, A miracle beyond our grasp – a glory past our dreaming.
So let us end our thoughts this afternoon, by saying line by line after me, the prayer St. Francis, that so characterized Andrea’s love.
Let us pray.
Lord, make us instruments of Thy peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy;
O divine Master!
Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood and to understand; to be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive; Pardoning that we are pardoned; Dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
Amen
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“Advent, A Time to Be Patient”
James 5: 7-10; Matthew 24: 42-51
December 17, 1995
I want to begin our thoughts this morning with a prayer that the Archbishop of York gave at a gathering of bishops from all over the world. Let us pray:
Eternal God, who tarries oft beyond the time we hope for, but not beyond the time appointed by thee; From whom cometh in due season, the course that cannot fail, the truth that cannot be. Make us faithful to stand upon our watchtowers, and await – what thou wouldn’t say to us. Amen.
I have a friend who starts playing Christmas carols long before Thanksgiving. She tells me she just can’t wait. By the time Christmas arrives, she’s an emotional wreck – worn out, stressed, over-stimulated, and broke from visiting those churches of commerce which we often call Malls.
Malls, you know, are really secular churches. They have liturgies as intricate as the one you are now participating in at this moment. The muzak plays the hymns. The computers are their scriptures. The cash registers ring out the “amen&” The sales are the rubrics, and the discounts are the blessings.
But wait, my middle name isn’t Scrooge. I love Christmastime. I really do. I even love to shop – once in awhile. But the church, in all its wisdom, has tried to counteract all the hoopla and busyness by suggesting we insert four Sundays before Christmas and call them Advent. This is a time to move away from the frenetic scene and try to recover a sense of waiting, a sense of mystery, and a sense of anticipation before we give in to the holiday frenzy.
The church is not playing the Grinch who stole Christmas. It is merely reminding us to see these four weeks as a mysterious time of waiting, sort of like a pregnancy, where you really can’t do anything about it. Just let it happen, don’t plan it, don’t control it – just let it happen and it will all turn out. Advent is a season where we are presented with the uncontrollability of things. The perverse refusal of God to be packaged, managed or controlled by either the stores, our culture, or our own anxieties at this time of the year.
I don’t know exactly to whom or at what time of the year James is writing his Epistle (which we read partially in church), but I think the church was quite smart in choosing this portion for the third Sunday in Advent. But listen to his words to us: “Be patient, good people, until the coming of the Lord. Be patient.” But how, we ask, can you be patient in an impatient time? How can you be patient when you have a great longing, a strong desire to fill up the emptiness, to go back to being a child, to have a miracle happen, to control the way and the time that God will come to us? How can you learn to wait and watch and anticipate rather than being concerned with making it happen?
Let’s face it – even at our best, we don’t handle deferred wants very well. We want to do things, handle wants, fix our needs – right now. As someone said: ‘We have a fixation on the fixable.” Patience is not a high value in our culture. Waiting is only a last resort when nothing else seems to work.
A long time ago, Samuel Beckett wrote a brilliant play which was a spectacular failure. He called it Waiting for Godot. It was a big flop on Broadway and on television. Its lack of success came from its thesis which was repellent to our credit card culture – the culture which says you can have it all and you can have it now – just use the plastic.
In the play, two vagabonds chat aimlessly on a stage. Their purpose for coming to this place, they explain, was to wait for God, who had promised to come at some future date. The records are faulty. It might happen on Friday or on Saturday, or on Sunday. The thing they cling to is that he said he would come. “In the immense confusion,” a character says, “one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for God to come.”
People reacted negatively to that message. They wanted to hear about a world where we could have instant gratification. No waiting. Where God would come on call. Where we could make it happen on time and in our own way. People wanted certainty, not confusion. They wanted to hear that they were in control of life. But are we?
Becket, like the writer James of our Epistle, was reminding us to move from instant gratification to deferred gratification, from receiving it all right now to learning to be patient.
James wrote in his Epistle to a people who are at the end of their rope. They had tried everything in their bag of tricks, and no miracle had happened. God had not instantly appeared. They had called repeatedly upon the Lord, and nothing had changed. They had hoped that God would “tear open the Heavens” and come down to show them the way. And nothing occurred. So James is saying that after you have tried everything, when all else fails, read the instructions, which say: ‘Be patient. God will come is his/her good time.”
The secret is learning to wait on God. Learning to just ‘be” and put away all thoughts of doing or of making it happen. Learning to simply sit back and to enjoy God. Thafs a lesson that I am learning as a grandparent. What I’ve had to do is put aside my expectations with my grandchild. Oftentimes, I want her to perform on cue and be that special, well-behaved child that any grandchild of mine of course, would be. What I have had to learn, sometimes painfully, is that she is a two-year-old and no matter what I do, she is going to act like a two-year-old. And I’d better learn to enjoy her as she is. And so it is with God. No matter what we do, we cannot control God, nor can we expect God to act the way we would like. And therefore, our only task is to learn to sit back and let it happen.
Let me illustrate the problems we face when we do this by quoting from some reflections by a friend in Boston. “I remember,” he said, “in seminary years ago hearing from the classical teaching of the church something incomprehensible. It came from John Calvin in what has come to be called The Westminster Catechism.’ The question is asked: What is the chief end in life? And the answer Calvin suggests is: ‘To glorify God and enjoy him forever.’
My friend said, “I had no idea what to make of that. Talk to me about living a moral life, and I could understand that. Talk to me about working for a better world, talk to me about making a contribution to the world, and I might feel burdened, but I would know what you’re talking about. But, tell me that the main point of my life is to glorify God and enjoy God forever, and I was clueless. Could it be that the whole business of religion isn’t about duty and hard work? Maybe the job of even being here on Sunday for church isn’t first of all to teach us some good lessons or some good tips for life. Maybe we’re here to enjoy God. And maybe we’re here to just be and not do.” And maybe, I would add, we’re just here to wait and watch and anticipate God’s presence among us, touching our souls, being born in us, and simply enjoying him forever.
So to that person that I mentioned at the beginning, whom I stressed out, or to all of you who find December a trying time, would echo James’ words: ‘Be patient. Be patient until the coming of the Lord.” And use this Advent to learn to enjoy the Lord and learn to let it happen. And when the pre-Christmas anxiety hits you, try sitting back and maybe repeating to yourself that magnificent prayer on page 832 of the Prayer Book that reads
“0 God of peace, who has taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved. In quietness and in confidence shall be our strength. By the might of thy spirit lift us, we pray to thy presence, where we may be still and know that thou art God. For remember, remember, our end is to enjoy and glorify God as we await God’s coming. . .. AMEN. -
Wishful Thinking VS Hope
Luke 1: 39-49
December 6, 1992
Several years ago, I heard a story of a woman who desperately wanted to win the Arizona Lottery. Every time she heard that it would be over two million dollars, she would begin to pray like crazy. And the night before the drawing, she would get down on her knees and start a litany going: “ah God, let me win the lottery!” The next day, she would run to the morning paper to see if her name was listed…and it never was there.
But sure enough, the next time she heard of a jackpot of over two million she began to pray again. And the night before, she got down beside her bed and said, “Oh God, I’ve been a good person. I have a family that can use the money. Please let me win the lottery.” The next day, same thing, scanning the paper–her name not listed.
And once again, a few weeks later, two million in prize money. The night before, she knelt down and said: “Oh God, I’m a good church-goer. I’m even an Episcopalian, and I tithe. Please let me win the lottery.” The next day, she picked up the paper, didn’t find her name, but as she was throwing away the paper, a voice came down from the heavens saying: “Hey Lady, give me a break, will you? Buy a ticket!”
Our culture today is wish-ridden, but not particularly hope-filled. We’re like the woman in the story. We wish we would win the Lottery, but we don’t bother to buy a ticket. We look for magic, but have lost the elements of hope.
During these four Sundays in Advent, we’re trying to probe the meaning of hope. By sermons, by music, by readings, we’re trying to put flesh on our understandings of the word, the feeling, the expression, so that we might become a hopeful people rather than a wishful people. The church offers us some images to aid our understanding a highway and a pregnancy, Last week we looked at a highway, this week at a pregnancy.
But first, let’s understand the nature of wishful thinking – something that most of us do more than we care to admit. Wishful thinking is not just another name for hoping. It’s actually an anti–symbol. Anti-symbols are not exactly the opposite of symbols; they are replacements. They take the place and allow us to believe we’ve got the same thing, even though we settle for less. It’s like substituting passion for love or a pulp magazine for great literature, or a cartoon for a masterpiece. Anti-symbols allow us to believe we’re in touch with reality, when all we have is a pale substitute.
The key to understanding the difference between wishful thinking and hoping is to recognize that wishful thinking is generally followed by the word “that.” It has a specific object in view, it’s concrete, and usually looks for magic. I wish that I might win the lottery, or I wish that there were several one-hundred-dollar bills in the collection basket — concrete yet something less than hope. The very specificity of wishful thinking gives it away. We might say I hope that my pain will go away. What we’re really saying is, I wish that it would disappear. Nothing wrong with that wish except that it’s less than hope.
Soren Kierkegaard, the great Danish philosopher, once wrote in his journal just before his death: “Hope is a new garment that has never been worn. Nobody knows how it will look or how it will fit… Wishing, on the other hand, is an old garment. By its very tangibility. It reduces what we wish for to what we know from our past. Somehow, wishing leaves off the sense of mystery and challenge so characteristic of hope.
This is why pregnancy is such a powerful symbol for hope. There is a sense of mystery and wonder associated with pregnancy. We can’t hurry it along. So we’re challenged to wait and see, to be patient. This is one reason that Advent is a difficult time for those of us who are impatient. We want what we want, and we want it now. ( At least tell us what’s under the tree.)
But a mystery like hope isn’t available at Dillard’s for $9.98 while it lasts. Hope is illusory without being an illusion. Hope is shrouded in mystery. “How we see through a glass darkly — and only then shall we see face to face,” St. Paul said. Now we are pregnant, but then (later) we shall give birth. The child will appear. Hope will have a name.
Advent is a time when the church says, “For God’s sake, don’t interpret things too soon. Wait, hesitate, hold back your desires for answers. Live with the question because something is taking its course, birthing in you. What is going to be born hasn’t appeared yet. Hope is that new mysterious garment that will be put on in God’s time and not according to our time tables.”
I’m grateful for our strong music tradition at St. Philip’s. I’m grateful to Judy, the choir, the orchestra — for music speaks to hope far more deeply than words. Bach in Magnificat gives us not only a feel of Mary and her pregnancy, but also gives us glimpses of hope. Like the clouds that surround the mountains in the window, we catch momentary flashes of hope, just as the clouds reveal the mountain tops once in a while. And as the Magnificat continues, it builds in its beauty, but it doesn’t show you everything all at once. The birth comes later, yet the message of the music is that hope is part of the rhythm of our hearts. And you can sense that message at the end of Communion when the choir sings the Gloria.
It’s difficult to get the hang of hoping. Music helps, watching a figure like Mary helps…But I tend to start wishing instead of hoping. Wishing is so ingrained in my life. I use the word hope when I mean wish, and therefore, I speak of hoping for health, wealth, reputation, victories, triumphs and I forget that at the heart of hope, the only basis of hope is the wonderful goodness and mercy of God.
Let me end our thoughts on hope this morning by sharing a story from a man named Viktor Frankl. His story of living through the horrors of a concentration camp speaks powerfully to those of us who search for hope. As far as Frankl understood hope, he began to find meaning in the most miserable of circumstances.
In his autobiography, Frankl gives us an Advent parable. He tells us that when he was first arrested and sent to the concentration camp, he managed to hide a manuscript that he had written. He hid it in his jacket lining. He was hoping (translated this into wishing) that he could smuggle it out and that it would be published and get him fame and help him to be released.
When he arrived at Auschwitz, he had to surrender his clothes and, in turn, was given the worn-out rags of an inmate who had been sent to the gas chamber. “Instead of the many pages of my manuscript,” he writes, ” I found in the packet of the newly-acquired coat a single page torn out of a Hebrew prayer Book, which contained the main Jewish prayer Shema Yisrael: (Hear, 0 Israel, the Lord thy God is one.)”
“How should I have interpreted such a coincidence?” Frankl writes, ” it was a challenge to wait and hope for a future that I could only dimly understand. I was being asked to live with unknown hope instead of being saved by what I could put on paper.” In the depths of the hell of the concentration camp, Franki began to see through a glass dimly. As he put on that prison garment, he caught a glimpse of hope…a glimpse of the mercy and goodness of God.
I pray that each of you, through Advent, will receive a glimpse of hope and not settle for wishing. I pray that the song in your hearts will not be about the presents and the Christmas list, but instead somewhere in the recess Of your mind, you can remain expectant and wait and hear these words:
My soul magnifies the Lord
And my spirit rejoices in God
For He who is mighty has done great things for me
And Holy is his name.
Amen -
Christmas Eve
December 24, 2000
Of all the crazy, mischievous, hare-brained, foolhardy, cock-a-mammy ideas that Christianity has come up with – and then asked people to take seriously – surely, none could be as catastrophic as the Christmas story. The story of God entering the world as a baby to save the world.
I mean, let’s just make a list of the really weird, brazen, dangerous, unbelievable religious understandings that are clustered around the story. One – that the Messiah would come to us as a helpless baby, that he would be born into a family of non-white, despised, third-world people. Three, finally, the most astounding assertion of all, that the baby could – make a difference in this fallen, dog-eat-dog world.
What boggles the mind is that many people would buy the whole shebang. The birth, the life, the death, and the Resurrection. It’s true, in some places, they have managed to mute the message, obscure the meaning, and trivialize the story. This can be done by placing great emphasis on the holiday season and forgetting the radical nature of the birth story.
Some years ago, the New York Times tried to find some soft news for Christmas Day. They looked around for something warm and fuzzy that didn’t offend anyone. The lead story was of a Muslim gentleman who visited a church on Christmas. The Muslim was quoted as saying, “The religious words didn’t make much sense, but it was a wonderful experience.” He then went on to say, “Couldn’t we just have the spirituality without the theology? Couldn’t we have the greenery, the candles, the good music, and not worry about the meaning of this birth?”
Well, the answer is NO! No, you can’t have the outward trappings without coming to grips with the meaning of this birth, not here, at least, not tonight, in this church, for we celebrate that God has a face, a name, a family. God is not some abstract principle, some good feeling of the season. God has a name: Jesus.
There are groups that try to capture this story for themselves. They would lead you to believe that this God came exclusively for them. There’s a bumper sticker I’ve seen around town that says, “Our God Reigns.” I have a feeling that it’s also saying, “Your God doesn’t reign, but ours does, so there.” They would have us believe that God came to save a certain segment of straight-thinking, Bible-reading, and right-acting folk.
Well, I have news for you. The story of this birth is a demonstration of God’s colossal lack of taste. Jesus comes to everybody. The question tonight is not who’s in and who’s out, who’s allowed to be a part of the feast and who is excluded, who’s permitted to serve and who is not invited. The question is who knows about the birth, and does it make a difference in the way people act towards each other?
The world into which this birth happened was a maze of interpersonal walls and social boundaries. The differences between people were clearly delineated. There were the clean and the unclean, the righteous and the unrighteous, the legal and the illegal, the good and the bad. But God came to break down those barriers. If you look closely, you will and that the birth itself was living proof that there were no outcasts.
Take a moment and observe the people gathered around the baby. Don’t let sentimentality cloud your understanding. Mary was probably in Bethlehem because of her sexual indiscretion, as far as the people in Nazareth were concerned. Joseph would have been looked down upon for having ignored the law and marrying a sinner. The shepherds were unclean by virtue of their work. And the Wise Men were Gentiles, a group considered beneath God’s contempt.
The story we tell at Christmas is a story of God’s mad love affair with all humanity. It’s a story of how God is born and comes among outcasts, and how God has come as a baby to save all people.
A friend of mine, who used to live in New York, tells in one of his books of an incident on Christmas Eve. He was walking through a depressed area on the Upper West Side. There, on the wall of an abandoned building, he saw all the graffiti that is so common in that area. All kinds of things had been written – four-letter words, names of lovers, gang signs, and a lot of scribbling. And right there in the middle were the words, “Jesus Saves.” My friend said his first reaction was profoundly negative. It disturbed him that someone would write his beliefs among the rest of the garbage-type words. But as he walked on and thought about it, he began to feel that here was a wonderful symbol of the Birth Story. Here, on an abandoned building, was the reason for God’s birth.
This is an audacious, crazy claim that we make this night: the claim that God chooses to do the work of human salvation in the form, in the flesh of this baby. It’s a scary claim because God has taken us so seriously that we must take God seriously. It’s a crazy claim because we can no longer feel that God can be the private property of a chosen few. God is forever joined to all parts of creation.
This is our claim, our claim to fame – the only claim that we can make tonight – the only claim that makes a difference to the barriers people set up to divide us from each other. This birth, this incarnation, is the story of God coming to each one of us. And for this, for this tonight, we give thanks.
Amen -
World Aids Day Meditation
December 1, 1999
What a magnificent psalm. My soul waits for God – yet at the same time – I cry out to God – why hast thou forgotten me. The psalmist so accurately reflects the contradictions within us all. The contradiction of longing and hope, of terror and doubt – of facing the realities of suffering and death – and yet hoping and longing for God’s intervention into life.
Tonight, of all nights, is a time of contradiction. A service to mark World AIDS Day – to acknowledge our hope for a cure, and yet to mourn for those who have died. It’s a time to come together to acknowledge the uncontrollability of things – the fragility of human nature – the perverse refusal of life to be packaged and managed.
Tonight, of all nights, we are faced with choices, with understanding, with interpretations. Is it all just luck, fate – that good people should be struck down – or is there more to life than we can understand? To put it in theological language, is all of the suffering within the providence of God? The psalmist waits for God, yet wonders, “Why hast thou forgotten me?” Two ideas on a collision course. God as a comforter, healer, and God as judge, who forgives and loves, who shows mercy but also is in control and makes demands.
So, where are you tonight? is your religion concerned with finding happiness, or is it a religion of facing terror or despair? And the possible absence of God, as well as the presence of God.
Can you take a leap of faith and face the terror with hope – that God will be present – even when we feel a sense of loss?
Frankly, I would like to have all that religion offers – but only on my own terms. I’d like to have a little bit of terror–facing reality – understanding judgment – as well as mercy – just a little bit of terror (not a lot) so that we can switch it off – like a horror movie – which I know will be over. But I don’t want the terror that makes me face my own fragility – that makes me question
n– whether there is a God – whether he/she has a plan – and
whether or not I have a part in that plan.
So my friends, are we blessed or are we cursed? Is your religion a comfort or does it threaten your very existence? The choice we face – is religion a terror in the face of love? Or is it joy at discovering we are loved?
This evening, we mourn for those who have died of AIDS. We let the tears of longing settle in our hearts. But more than that, we are here to remember. Who might you remember – a friend, a love, a name? Can you feel the importance of dispelling anonymity? Can you grasp the importance of reaching out to someone with AIDS?
I think the terror we feel – on a night like this is the fear of intimacy – the terror of partnership. Religion reminds us that we are called into partnership with God. A partnership that acknowledges an intimacy with all creatures from God.
We are here to acknowledge a partnership that entails a pattern of living and dying – of entrances and exits – of beginnings and endings. A pattern of living with God and dying with God.
In my denomination, we have begun this past Sunday singing hymns with words like – O Come O Come Emmanuel. And Emmanuel means “God here with us.” We are preparing to acknowledge that God comes and acts – and loves us into a partnership. A partnership where our tears can turn to joy, and our longings can turn to hope.
So remember – those who have died of this dread disease, but remember them with hope, for they are loved.
I would end our thoughts with some words from Raymond Carver, who died a few years back – but not before he was able to see clearly the contradiction in his own life. Despite his weaknesses – his fragility – he shared the secret of hope in his poem called d
‘And did you get what you wanted from life? Even so – I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved.
To feel myself beloved on the earth.”
And so, tonight, we commend to God those who have died of AIDS. And we hope for a cure – And we affirm that all who are HIV positive or have AIDS – are beloved – for God is with them – and they are with God.
Amen -
Advent: A Time to Let Go of Illusions
December 6, 1998
For anyone who takes Advent seriously, it’s a rough time of the year. There is a huge disorientation factor that goes on inside oneself. The culture and the church seem deliberately to clash.
Outside, we are assaulted by the culture to buy – to spend money we don’t have. We’re told we will not be satisfied until our households possess a certain product. And unless a certain thing appears under your tree, you are not part of the in crowd.
And then we come into church, and we encounter harrowing figures like John the Baptist, who tells us to repent, and to get rid of all the things which seem to hold our life together. We are told to be prepared to put aside everything that has given us status.
Even sitting here in church this morning, I am overwhelmed by this sense of disorientation. On one hand, I am transported to some faraway place by the magnificent music of Bach (particularly if I don’t listen closely to the words, which are so radical). Then I crash to earth when I hear the words of John the Baptist saying, “Repent, you brood of vipers.” (Not a nice form of greeting towards someone who sees himself as a pussycat.) And then we hear, “Don’t say we have Abraham as our father.” In other words, don’t appeal to your pedigree, or whatever your status symbol may be. It doesn’t cut the mustard. Repent!
A few weeks ago, the magazine section of the New York Times devoted its entire space to the Changing of status in the United States. Status, as defined by the New York Times, is how you fix another person quickly and effectively in her place; preferably beneath you. We were told that status in America is important (as if we didn’t know it). Status makes possible a map of the social territory. It defines who and what we are. It tells us who is in and who is out.
But it is also a form of bondage, enticing as it may be. It is enticing because it seems to protect us and give us a sense of stability. We can so easily tell if we belong or not. It is bondage because we are so dependent upon it.
The magazine then told us how the old WASP values and protective colorations were being discarded and replaced. And then we come to church and hear how we ought to replace even the new status symbols. The only status that John recognizes is that of a sinner. If we were to translate John’s words into modern idiom, we might hear him say, ‘/Don/t say I’m a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant.” As if that will do something for you. It doesn’t mean anything to God. Give up the illusion that God is in his heaven and all is right with your world. Get rid of the notion that you are deserving of God’s grace. Repent!
The problem is, we don’t want to give up our old status. We want to think and act as if we are entitled to God’s favor. Repentance then, for many of us, becomes a dirty word.
Repentance is about struggling to tell the truth about our lives and who we are. And sometimes telling the truth hurts. It strips us of all that we seem to hold dear. We have to get rid of many of our illusions.
Back in the dim past, while in clinical pastoral training, I can still recall a most unsettling exercise. It was called “Life Boat.” I definitely would not recommend it as something to try at your next dinner party.
“Life Boat” is a training game that allows us to look at ourselves. If you’ve ever been a part of it, you are probably having a knot in your stomach just thinking about it. It was many years ago that I played it, but I still remember it vividly.
Six of us from our group were chosen. We were asked to sit on the floor in a circle, and imagine ourselves on a sinking lifeboat in the high seas. We were told that unless we removed one of the six people, the boat would sink. We were not allowed to be martyrs and had to want to stay in the boat. Three minutes were allotted for us to say whatever we wished to each other before a secret ballot would be taken, and one would be voted out. After the first ballot, the game gained in intensity. We were told that we would have to ballot every three minutes. Each time another person would be asked to go overboard, and we could not volunteer to be thrown overboard.
It is incredible how lifelike a situation this becomes. Initially, I managed to stay in the boat by saying how I hurt my back, and how others would have a better chance in the water. (Poor me. I wasn’t up to the rigors of swimming at the time.) I gathered enough sympathy over my supposed weakness that I stayed in the boat for the first ballot. My next ploy was to suggest that we might be there for a while, and I was good company and knew a lot about group dynamics. I would be a real asset in keeping people’s spirits up, and I would help with the religious sensibilities of the remaining group. It worked, and one of the more contentious of the group went in next. After that, I played on my status at home and told them about my children and wife, who needed me. A single person was voted out. Next, I allowed that I had first aid training, not much, but some. And, the group might need that later, and also that I was important to my community back home. It worked, and we were down to three. I sized up the situation and supported a woman because she said she had studied survival techniques. By that ploy, I gained an ally, and then we were down to two.
We faced each other for three minutes and talked about not wanting to die, and how important our futures might be. The vote, I knew, was about living with guilt, or not living at all. I’m not going to tell you what I wrote, but we canceled each other’s vote, and we sat there not looking at each other.
Those few moments in the exercise allowed me to move to church this morning, but I’m not necessarily making brownie points with God. I know that I’m in need of truth-telling, of a radical honesty, of getting rid of the notion that I’m deserving of God’s love. Before one seeks a cure, one must confess the ailment and its symptoms. Advent is a time when we are asked to go inside ourselves, to take a long, hard look at who we are, and what we are. Advent / is a time to move from status to chaos, from permanence to recovery, from comfort to naked truth. Advent is a time to face our flaws. Alan Jones, the present dean of the cathedral in San Francisco, once said, “Years ago, English priests would leave a printed card when people were not at home. It had written on it, ‘The Vicar called today, and was sorry to find you out.’”
That’s what Advent is all about. It’s a wake-up call.
A time to repent, to put aside our status. Most of us want to be found by God this Christmas. But first we have to be found out.
Amen -
You Can’t Shop for Christmas
Isaiah 11: 1-10
December 7, 1997
The other day, my wife said to me, “Let’s go shopping for Christmas.” I was engrossed in watching a football game, so I gave one of those husbandly replies, “Sorry, dear, but you can’t purchase Christmas, no matter how hard you try.” I won’t tell you her response, but after I got into the car with her to drive to the department store, I said to myself, “That’ll preach. You can’t shop for Christmas.”
Now, that’s not good news for most of us. We would like to encourage people to shop around for Christmas. Not at department stores, but at our religious malls, sometimes called churches. Preachers would like to convince people that it’s all quite complicated, this business of meeting God at Christmas, and therefore you’ve got to spend time and effort, and money, in experiencing God. After all, we spent at least three years in seminary learning about God. Doesn’t it make sense that the person in the Pew is expected to shop for a while before meeting with God? I believe we’ve done a pretty good job in making that point. Around Christmas time, we have a lot of window shoppers.
But consider for a moment what Saint Augustine said, before experiencing God, you thought you could talk about God. When you began experiencing God, you realized that what you are experiencing cannot be put into words.
They say that confession is good for the soul. Sometimes, when I look over my past sermons, I’m embarrassed. A logical, analytically explained about God. And yet, deep down, I know Saint Augustine was right. You cannot describe or categorize or even talk about God. All you can do is experience God.
In the 10 commandments, the prohibition against graven images of God makes the same point. The commandment is not simply a warning against making a statue of God. Rather, it is saying that God is beyond all images, physical or mental. Beyond our descriptions, beyond our categories, beyond even the most articulate of preachers. And, the implication is that if we persist in playing word games, we’re going to miss God completely.
The third commandment is a corollary to all this talk about graven images. It prohibits you from even mentioning God’s name. Judaism felt the name of God was so sacred that it couldn’t be said out loud. Part of this comes about because there was a realization that in naming you had to 1st describe whom you named.
Martin Buber, the Jewish theologian, once tried to read into history the way ancient Israelites handled this problem. He found out they used a symbol rather than a name. This symbol we have translated into the word, Yahweh, or in a more modern translation, Jehovah. But Uber points out, that Yahweh was not a name, not a word, but an exclamation that comes from an ecstatic experience. When a worshipper encountered God he or she might say Yahweh! The way we might say, wow what a surprise! Uber roughly translates Yahweh into the words, ohh you are the 1! God cannot be named only exclaimed.
And so, here we are in the midst of advent. A very strange season of the church year. A time when we are reminded that we really can’t do anything about God. We can’t shop. We can’t search. We dare not even speculate. All we can do is watch, wait for, and expect and possibly hope that God will come to us.
And so we sing, ohh come oh come Emmanuel. Emmanuel isn’t a name like George, or Harry, or Susie. It’s more like a longing, a wish, a prayer from the deepest recesses of our hearts. Emmanuel, roughly translated, means God is with us. And therefore the meaning of the hymn that we sang as we started our service volumes, oh come oh come and surprise us. We are waiting period, ohh come ohh come and be present.
The prophet Isaiah put it this way. Be prepared for anything. Be prepared for surprises from God. Be prepared for the one who comes in the most unexpected ways. A shot from the stump of Jesus a savior from an insignificant family. A still small voice in the midst of shouting world lies down with the lamb
Sometimes, we can find parallels in the strangest places. The other night, while I I was watching an old classic Marx brothers movie I found it a parable for Advent. In a day at the races, Groucho Marx is fooled by his brother Chico. They are at the race track. Groucho has been waiting to place a bet on a truly great horse, a sure thing. Chico comes by and tell him he can’t place his bet until he has first purchased and studied A breeder’s guide. When Groucho follows his brother’s advice, Chico then suggests that he also purchase and read a few other helpful books that trace the lineage and record of the horses. By the time Groucho has looked into all of these, the race is over.
We are offered a blinding truth in advent. No amount of studying, no amount of searching, will help us if we miss the gift. The gift we miss is God and God comes in the most surprising ways. Words cannot describe God’s coming. All we can do is wait, watch and expect and then exclaim ohh you are the 1!
Amen -
Groundbreaking
Matthew 21: 14-22
October 26, 1997
P.D. James, the British mystery writer, has come out with a disturbing novel called The Children of Men. The setting is in the near future.
It takes place in a time when people have lost the ability to conceive children. For 25 years, no children have been born. Women have taken to pushing around dressed-up animals in baby carriages. Dolls are sometimes bought and treated as children. Playgrounds have all been shut, and the entire world is preparing to close down when the last survivor dies.
In this future world, no one wants to deal with the unpleasantness at the beginning or ending of life, and so the government has made sure that women can’t conceive and has also arranged for mass suicides. The old and the weak are drugged, floated out to sea in barges, and sunk as a bank plays “Somewhere over the Rainbow.”
Meanwhile, adults are entitled to government-sponsored massages and all the creature comforts, as no one needs any longer to deal with the drain on resources of young children and older folk.
Like all such troubling visions of the future, this one is intentionally disturbing. A world where children have no place. A world, which doesn’t have time for those who are not making a contribution to society, is a scary place.
It’s a world that starts out by being indignant that children are shouting praises to God. It’s a world that says, “Children should be seen and not heard.” It’s a world in which the sick and the weak are ignored. It’s the world of the first century. But it’s also a world view that cuts close to home.
We live in a world where children are one of the most endangered species. We live today in a country where we spend more time and pass more legislation to disenfranchise those who can contribute the least.
Today, we are taking one small step to reverse that trend. Today, we are reminded that there will be no St. Philip’s or any church if we don’t pass on our faith. Today, we are investing, in a small way – maybe the only way – in saving this planet from P.D. James’ story line. Today, we are taking a risk, believing it, trusting that what we ask for in prayer, God will provide by challenging the hearts of this community.
As soon as I finish this homily, we are going to take up our regular offering. This is what we give for our ongoing ministry at the present_ But as a part of that liturgical act, as soon as the ushers have finished, rm going to ask you to get up and follow the brass quartet and choir to the parking lot, where we will complete our offering by blessing the pledges to the “Yes to the Future” drive, as well as breaking ground for the Children’s Center
Two stories before we begin our offering. First, the financial people sent me a note last week questioning the bill for the brass quartet. (You people don’t come cheap.) The finance people were saying, “We don’t have all the money collected. Things are tight. Why the expense for a brass quartet?” Well, ended up paying for the quartet myself. Not because I have a big discretionary income, but because I felt that we, as a community, were taking a giant step of faith, and we ought to have a brass band. And believe me, this is a giant step. If we don’t raise $600,000 in the months ahead, we’re going to be in deep trouble, and I’m going to be out of a job.
So lets follow the brass band. For those of you of little faith – you can say we’re following the brass band to the poor house. For those of you who believe what Jesus said, “Whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive,” then you know that with banners flying, we’re moving into God’s future.
The second story. A Tibetan lama, who crossed the Himalayas on foot when the Chinese occupied his country, was asked by reporters, “How did you manage such a difficult journey?” He replied, “One step at a time. One step at a time.”
Today, we are taking one giant step into the future. I invite you to walk and take these steps with me. Amen -
What is the Meaning of a Pledge?
Mark 12: 38-44
October 27, 1991
It’s a strange feeling coming back from a holiday and finding the canvas half completed. It’s even a stranger feeling to find that there is no need to urge people to give, it is all been taken care of. And it’s the strangest feeling to see the canvas going smoothly into here, we’re glad to have you attend our canvas meeting rector, but if not, that’s fine. We can carry on without you.
It’s a strange feeling but also a wonderful one period the meta church is working, there are many ministers here not just those with round collars. Canvas people, stewardship people, development people, I salute you. And to those of you who have already made your pledge I salute you too. You have demonstrated your sense of ministry towards our community.
So now that you have made your pledge, what does it all mean? Has it made you feel good or bad? Richard or poorer? Let me suggest that your pledge could be one of the most significant and meaningful acts of your life. It could be a method whereby your very self-image gets renewed, reformed and revitalized.
Why do I say this? I believe a real pledge can only be made by a person of substance. Poor people cannot pledge. They cannot forward to pledge. It takes away from their security. A pledge for poor people is viewed as a loss. A pledge for people of substance is seen as saintly, where they see themselves as philanthropists. Poor people who are viewed as a disaster for they see themselves as needy.
So who’s rich and who’s poor? Who is a philanthropist and who is a loser? It’s not easy to tell is it? Two people can pledge, for one, it’s an act that makes him feel wealthy, for another, it’s simply an act that makes him less able to afford something else.
Our gospel lesson, which we just read, is about this same issue. A widow and some so-called rich people are seen giving to the temple, fulfilling their pledge. Jesus points out that some pledges are meaningful and some are not. And you can’t tell by the amounts, or by the way people are dressed, appearances are often deceptive. Yet we are asked to make judgments, to go beyond the superficial, to discern who’s rich and who’s poor in this little vignette.
How might we recognize a person of substance? Can you discern a truly wealthy person? By their bank account, stock portfolio, car they drive, their home? Maybe, but not necessarily. Jesus invites us to go beyond these circumstances and discern real wealth, real lasting substance. So who’s rich and who’s poor? It’s a question that Americans need to stop and ask themselves.
I read recently of a person who was working for a mere pittance teaching English to agricultural students. She wrote about some friends of hers, Jose and Maria. You know, she said, I feel incredibly rich. If I’m ever sick or when I get old, I know for a fact that Jose and Maria would take me in and look after me. What do most people in this country know for a fact about what will happen to us when we get old, or when we get sick? It doesn’t really matter about how much you’ve collected. It’s more about how you feel about yourself and how others feel about you, whether you are of any value or not.
Comparing people in this country to the woman in Central America, we are, for the most part, poverty-stricken. She is well connected, a woman of substance; her wealth is in her relationships, her work, her ability to give herself up, her friends. Our wealth, for the most part, lies in what we have accumulated, what’s in the bag, our net worth, and Jesus would say that makes us incredibly poor.
It is interesting to note that money in the Bible is either associated with mammon or manna. Mammon is the God of greed. When you worship mammon you never have enough, you become attached to material wealth. Mammon in the Bible is the great symbol of insatiable watch. If my mom were to be translated into contemporary English we might use the word consumerism.
Manna, on the other hand, is also a synonym for money and scripture, manna in that sacramental outflow that sustained people in the worst of times. Mana comes from God. It is identified with God in heaven, it is the symbol by which God feeds us and cares for us. When we have mana, we can afford to be generous, give it away or manna makes us people upsets people when we have mammon we are always hungry and never satisfied.
Our whole life, in one sense, can be interpreted by how we perceive our money. Is it may not the manna? Is it a gift from heaven or is it filthy? The wonderful part of this season, the magnificent part of pledging, is that it forces me to reevaluate my money. How do I view it?
Is it mana, a renewable resource because of God’s abundance? Or is it mammon, something that gives me a sense of loss if I part with it? Mana or mammon this is the season to make the declaration. Are you rich or are you poor?
A story is told by Gordon Crosby, the well-known pastor of the Church of the Savior in Washington. He tells of when he was a minister of a small congregation in a railroad town in Virginia. The treasurer of the congregation sent for him one day, and told him that he needed help. We have in our church, the treasurer said, a widow with six children. I have looked at the records and discovered that she is pledging and actually placing in the collection plates $10 per week. I am sure this must be more than 10% of her income. She cannot afford it. We want to go to her and let her know that we release her from her pledge, or at least get her to reduce it.
Cosby said, I am not wise now. I was less than. I went to her and told her as graciously and supportively as I knew how the message from the treasurer. As I talked tears came to her eyes. I want to tell you, she said, that you are taking away my dignity and meaning. My pledge makes me feel like a person of substance in this community.
Well, there it is. Cosby learned the secret of giving that day. A pledge is not based on accumulated wealth banana feeling, a knowledge, and understanding that you are a person of substance and can’t afford to give away mana. And Jesus called his disciples to him and said to them, Truly I say to you, this widow has put more than all of those who are contributing, for she is rich beyond her wildest dreams. She, by her pledge, is a woman of substance.
Amen -
The Addictive Power of Money
Matthew 6: 19-21, 24-33
October 20, 1996
I want to talk to you this morning about an addiction. This addiction is fairly common. The more we have of the addictive substance, the more we want it. The reason (if we’re to be perfectly honest) is that we like what it does for us. It’s pleasurable. We often say to ourselves: “It’s better to have this addiction than not to have it.”
This addiction starts, for many, when we’re quite young. At an early age, it begins to shape our lives. Our society condones and even encourages us to be an addict. And soon we find ourselves measuring our self-worth by how much of the addictive substance we use and accumulate.
After awhile, we become completely hooked. We need more and more to satisfy our craving. We also begin to plan our lives around our addiction. It often becomes so important, so much a part of our life, that we sacrifice family and friends to feed our addiction. Cigarettes, alcohol, drugs are all pikers compared to this addiction. The amazing thing is that Jesus understood this. Almost 2000 years ago/ Jesus spent a great deal of his time teaching and warning us of the destructive nature of this addiction. Listen to his words from our Gospel this morning. “You cannot serve God and Mammon.”
Jesus deliberately chose to use an Old Testament term for money. He called it “Mammon.” In those days, people were more realistic about the addictive power of money. Money was taken seriously. It was recognized as a demon, or another God, depending on your theology. And once you were hooked, people understood that it was impossible to have any other loyalties. That is the nature of an addiction. Mammon took over your life and ate away at your soul
I noticed recently a fascinating article in The Wall Street Journal. A financial manager made this statement. “Money,” he was quoted as saying, “is more important than friends. Friends will let you down.” That man believes in the temporary nature of friendships. “Friends will let you down.” Only a god, something indestructible, someone you can count on, he says, deserves our loyalty, our devotion, our trust, our addiction. Mammon, you are present today as well as in the Old Testament days.
Of course, we’re much too sophisticated to call money Mammon. We don’t usually give names to the dark forces that inhabit our lives. The truth is that we’ve become experts. Money, we tell ourselves, is a neutral thing. Old sayings, like “Money is the root of all evil,” we laugh at and say, “That’s a product of Victorian thinking. Something only preachers might warn us about.” But is it? I sometimes wonder what would happen if the Surgeon General printed warnings on all our money like: “This bill can be injurious to your health,” or “Watch out. This can be addictive. You may end up relating to this substance closer than you do to friends and family. Closer than to your God.”, . or “You may be losing your very soul by holding on so tightly to this bill.”
I want to suggest a parable for us to think about this morning. I believe if we listen closely to it we will gain an insight into our addictions and the problems that can arise. The story is a fable told to children, but it’s anything but childlike.
Once upon a time, the fable goes, there was a beautiful nightingale. This nightingale used to soar through the night, singing its song of love throughout the countryside. One day, a peddler appeared who was selling worms.
Just one feather from its wing was all the peddler asked in exchange for a worm. It was a painless kind of transaction. After all, one feather didn’t seem like such a big deal. Of course, the plot is fairly routine, and you can easily predict the crisis. After a while, the nightingale becomes hooked on worms. And the more she got, the more she wanted. Eventually, we find that she had traded so many feathers that she could no longer fly. And then the fable gives a twist to the old story – which makes it a scary parable of life.
One day, as the peddler made his rounds, he found the nightingale standing by the road. She had become aware of her addiction to the worms and wanted to reverse the trend. And so she worked through the night and had assembled a bunch of worms to trade back for her wings. But the peddler only laughed. “What do you think I’m in this for?” he said. “My business is worms for feathers, not feathers for worms. You’ll just have to learn to live with the fact that you can no longer fly because of your addiction.”
That’s Mammon’s game. Its business is to blind you to your addiction until it is too late. To make you think this is the most important part of your life and neglect other parts. To help you deny your addiction until you can no longer fly. The fable reminds us to watch out. You may find that the trade cannot be reversed.
Jesus said it clearly. “You can’t serve God and Mammon.” Did he want us to give away all our money? Go on welfare? I think not. Jesus spent time, accepted gifts, and went to parties with the wealthy as well as the poor. It was not money that concerned him; rather, it was the addictive quality of money. He warned us that money had power and could get between you and God. The issue he alludes to in many parables was not about how much money you had or did not have; the question he raises with us is about your relationship to your money. Does your money allow you to fly? Or does it simply allow you to buy more worms?
Gordon Cosby, one of my heroes, who is the pastor of the Church of the Savior, in Washington D.C., made these statements, which might be helpful for us to ponder in the weeks ahead. First, he said, “To give money away is to win a victory over the dark powers that oppress us.” And second, he said, “What would happen if we were to judge persons’ self-worth not on what they have but on how much they have been able to give away?” Could this be the beginning of breaking the power of money?
This sermon isn’t really about the Every Member Canvass. I’m even going to commit the unforgivable sin and tell you that whatever you pledge will be just fine. The Vestry will form the budget on whatever you give. The issue really is your relationship to your money, not to a church budget.
I often meet a person who thinks I’m after their money. What I’m really after is their soul. Whomever has ears to hear… let them hear.
Amen
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