My kingdom is not from this world, Christ the King, Proper 29 – 2015

[RCL] Psalm 132:1-13,(14-19); 2 Samuel 23:1-7; Revelation 1:4b-8; John 18:33-37

For most of us, living as we do in a republic, imbued with democratic values, the very concept of monarchy seems remote and eccentric. True, some of us enjoy watching or reading about the latest headlines about the House of Windsor. But in an election year, even the beautiful Duchess of Cambridge or her husband don’t long distract us from the real world of Clinton and Sanders, Trump and Carson.

So when the collect for today has us pray that the restoration of all things is all about a King of kings and a Lord of lords, we are cast into unfamiliar territory. Perhaps we reach out to older translations that have Jesus say that his kingdom is NOT of this world, which, of course he didn’t say.

Nor do the lessons in either track appointed for today help us with our sense of alienation, a disjunction between our life experience and the world of scripture, as the texts talk of a Davidic king, or the “Ancient of Days” enthroned in clouds of splendor. Of course it is true that our spiritual ancestors could only think and write within cultural norms, but nor may we devise a theology of Jesus suggesting that he is to submit to public approval every four years.

Perhaps two suggestions may be of help. Today’s lesson from Revelation points to two things. The first is that the baptized are incorporated into a “royal priesthood”. This means that, in Jesus, we have become those who stand as a body or company. We are given the task of mediating between God and humanity and creation. We are God’s agents of reconciliation. At home, work, school, play, in social interactions – even on Facebook – we echo God’s plea, “Come to me all you who work and are burdened and I will give you rest.” We speak and act not merely as a priesthood, but as a priesthood invested with royal authority, a royal status epitomized in servanthood.

In the same passage from Revelation we read:

“Look! He is coming with the clouds;
every eye will see him,
even those who pierced him;
and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail.
So it is to be. Amen.
“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.”

Every Sunday when we proclaim the faith of the Church when we say together in the Nicene Creed, “He will come again in Glory to judge the living and the dead and his kingdom will have no end.” For just as now, the royal priesthood works for justice and mercy, tells of God’s forgiveness and unfathomable love, and lifts up the Cross as the sign and symbol of Christ’s redeeming work. We look forward in hope to the end times. When, in a manner we may only express in poetry, symbolism and ritual, the world will be put right, Eden restored and sorrowing and crying will be no more.

When Pilate asks Jesus if he is the King of the Jews, Jesus seems to prevaricate. “My kingdom is not from this world.” Even though he is a descendent of the hero king David, Jesus claims no affinity with the structures associated with nationalism, with monarchy or republics. “My kingdom is not from here.” His kingdom is about truth, ultimate truth, truth that originates with God.

On this Christ the King Sunday we commit ourselves to Jesus, “the way, the truth and the life”, the king who is a servant. Who comes, teaches, heals, reconciles, dies and rises again, who lives through us and who will return. Nowhere is this more evident as in Eucharist when we bring the world to God through Jesus and offer “ourselves, our souls and bodies” as we “dwell in him and he in us”. So the royal priesthood is nourished and strengthened to be Christ in the street and supermarket, Christ beyond the red door of our parish church and the coming of the true King is announced and heralded from the rooftops.

Download the sermon for Proper 29B.

Written by The Rev. Anthony Clavier 

Anthony is the Vicar of St. Thomas’ Church, Glen Carbon, with St. Bartholomew’s, Granite City, IL and Co-Editor of The Anglican Digest.

Holy Ground, Holy Spaces, Proper 28(B) – 2015

[RCL] 1 Samuel 2:1-10; 1 Samuel 1:4-20 (as canticle); Hebrews 10:11-14; Mark 13:1-8

Today’s lessons are a mixture of life struggles, miracles and prophecies.

The story of Hannah may resonate with numerous women in our own age. Infertility is a widespread challenge that women face, at times, silently.

Hannah’s cultural context differs significantly from ours. In ancient Israel, motherhood was the epitome of accomplishments for women. Not being able to conceive was seen as a sign of punishment or God’s displeasure. Nowadays, women of childbearing age in this country enjoy innumerable lifestyle choices and accomplishments are measured in a myriad of areas. However, the stigma, misunderstanding or lack of tact women of today may experience could be as insensitive and cruel as Hannah’s was.

There is much we could learn from Hannah’s strength of character, her persistence, resilience and ability to manage her emotional roller coaster, even in the midst of peer pressure. Not all stories have a happy ending. In this case, the Lord had compassion on Hannah and granted her the blessing of bearing a child, Samuel, who became a prominent figure in the history of the people of Israel.

Paradoxically, Hannah promised to return to God the exact thing for which she prayed. That selfless act may serve as a reminder to us that all things on earth and in heaven are God’s gift to us. It is a reminder of the truth behind the phrase many congregations recite during the offertory “All things come of thee, O Lord, and of thy own we have given thee.”

Hannah is blessed with the gift of life. She proclaims her gratitude in a song to her Lord. “My heart exults in the Lord; my strength is exalted in my God.” It is this song that Mary embraces when visited by the angel with the good news about the coming of Emmanuel.

This story may serve as a model for us of what it means to live faithfully in days and situations that may seem godforsaken. Hannah’s faithfulness to God, resilience and perseverance serve as great inspiration for the Christian community in the world when we face challenges or tasks that, at first glance, seem overwhelming, such as the signs of the times, the decline in membership, the call to end hunger, violence, and to be fully present in a world in need of peace and reconciliation.

Jesus’s conversation with the disciples points us to this very reality of a crumbling world, which we dare say, is an opportunity for rebuilding and hope. It is an opportunity for the faithful to embrace our commitment to fully participate in God’s mission in a renewed and creative way.

The interaction narrated in today’s gospel takes place towards the end of Jesus’s ministry. The scenes preceding the text describe Jesus’s teaching and cite particularly his warning about the destruction of the temple.

Impressed with the settings, the disciples expressed their sense of awe for the infrastructure in front of them. The masonry work in Jerusalem was indeed impressive and not comparable to that of Galilee. Jesus’s response to the impressed disciple may seem dismissive at first glance. However, this is one of those Jesus-Teaching-Moments that would not only reveal to the disciples a powerful truth about God’s power and grace but also give us, believers of this century, an opportunity to revisit our perceptions, understanding and relationship with the physical spaces that host our gatherings as we continue with the apostles’ teaching and the breaking of the bread.

Although the Gospel focuses on the end of times, the central point on buildings and signs may give us a perfect analogy to meditate on our current reality as we struggle with failing, demanding and impressive infrastructures that house our collective worship.

For decades, our buildings have been symbols of wealth and power. The Episcopal Church’s red doors have been a sign of welcome and visibility in our communities. Yet, the signs of the times show us that the decline in church attendance or church life as we knew it is an evolving reality.

We run the risk of remaining in a state of awe, like the disciples, admiring our stain glass windows, wood, paintings, carvings, and stones or we could run the risk of remaining in denial and exclusively focused inward just like the man in Anthony de Melo’s story:

A father knocks on his son’s door “Jamie”, he says, “wake up!” Jamie answers, “I do not want to get up, Papa.” The father shouts, “Get up, you have to go to school!” Jamie says, “I do not want to go to school.” “Why not?” asks his father. “Three reasons,” says Jamie. “First, because it is so dull; second, the kids tease me; and third, I hate school.” The father responds, “Well, I am going to give you three reasons you must go to school. First, because it is your duty. Second, because you are forty-five years old; and third, because you are the headmaster.”

We may rather stay under the covers of denial about the state of our communities. The signs are visible. The world needs our commitment as disciples and apostles to engage in the mission of God in the communities where our buildings are located. Yes! The buildings are a means to an end, a receptacle of God’s grace to facilitate God’s mission. Our buildings are vessels to facilitate community and service.

Jesus’s response today is to us an inspiration to focus on God’s mission outwardly. The buildings we once treasured may be limiting us from engaging the world in meaningful and powerful ways.

This past summer a resolution presented to the General Convention of our church addressed the challenges we face with our physical spaces. The resolution highlighted the fact that our buildings are underutilized and constricted by habits, customs and mindsets that preclude us from using them as sacred spaces for the greater good. It emphasized that our worship services are one of many expressions of the holy use of buildings.

The resolution invited us to tap into our Anglican understanding of incarnation, so that it’s not just formally religious things that are sacred, but other activities too can become sacred and sanctified, themselves benefitting from being present in church buildings. It is an invitation to be creative and to redefine our perceptions and relationship with the assets we have been blessed with.

A new outlook to our church’s infrastructure can be life-giving and generative beyond our wildest imagination. It may require us to deconstruct our worship of building behaviors and build new practices and understanding of mission. Many Episcopal churches and of other denominations have discerned the signs of the time and have stepped out in audacious faith to bring Christ and Church to the world, from celebrating Eucharist in a corner store, in a park, or opening our sanctuaries to community gatherings.

Our buildings are holy ground, spaces where we find a sense of community, where we are fed and nourished. It is not only a space in which to dwell, but also a space to be formed, prepared and sent out into the world to bear witness of God’s faithfulness and greatness.

May we develop a theology of sacredly inclusive use-of-space that is adaptive and generative both financially and spiritually. May we collaborate to re-envision the purpose of our buildings and be aware of the need of walking in faith outside of our walls to bring about reconciliation into the world. Amen.

 

Download the sermon for Proper 28B.

Written by the Rev. Miguelina Howell

The Rev. Miguelina Howell is Dean-Elect of Christ Church Cathedral, Hartford.  She currently serves as Vicar of the Cathedral.  Miguelina serves as CREDO faculty and member of the Council of Advice for the Latino/Hispanic Missioner of the Episcopal Church.  She is originally from the Dominican Republic and has served God’s mission overseas, as member of the Episcopal Church Staff and as the 7th Rector of Church of the Epiphany in the Diocese of Newark.

Penny for Your Thoughts, Proper 27(B) – 2015

[RCL] Psalm 127, (19-22); Ruth 3:1-5, 4:13-17; Hebrews 9:24-28; Mark 12:38-44

Benjamin Franklin once said, “a penny saved is a penny earned.” Yet, despite the sage words from Mr. Franklin, pennies are often readily available; all one has to do is look on city streets – pennies are in abundant supply. People all the world over are happy to get rid of their pennies. Oftentimes, people won’t bother to pick them up when they have fallen.

The penny occupies a peculiar spot on any currency chart. It’s worth next to nothing, but not really. Because of the penny’s peculiarity, it’s difficult to divide. What’s 10% of a penny? Matthew 10:29 proves that one could have purchased two sparrows for one penny in Jesus’ time – “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny.”

The term “a penny for your thoughts” was ‘coined’ in 1522, with Sir Thomas More’s book, Four Last Things. As with most idioms or sayings, no one is exactly sure who first said “a penny for your thoughts” But Sir More was the first to publish it.

Perhaps our widow, in this Gospel story from Mark, should receive some credit for the phrase, “a penny for your thoughts,” as well. Her bold, uninhibited vulnerability to offer all she had to live on was a true sign of sacrifice. In her adherence to Jewish law, she brought her tithe to the treasury – an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. Her revolutionary giving posture was to give 90% above the tithe – Now, how’s that for a stewardship model?

If she was anything like the other women portrayed in the Gospel of Mark. We know that this woman embodied faith to approach God boldly, perform loving acts for God, stand as an example of piety to be emulated, and speak truths when others would not. It could be suggested that she was a poor widow, because her late husband was a poor man. So to approach the treasury and pour out and offer all she had to live on, was to say, ‘this is all I got, it isn’t worth much, God, I’ll give you a penny for your thoughts.’

Those thoughts are embedded throughout Scripture. God’s thoughts towards her were that, she could live with the certainty that “Before God formed her in the womb God knew her, and before she was born God set her apart; God appointed her” and had a purpose for her. (Jeremiah 1:5)

She could lived with the guarantee and gratitude that God had her life all planned out because “surely God knew the plans God had for her, cause God said so, plans for her welfare to prosper her and not for harm, plans to give her a future with hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

Those thoughts are true for us as well. We can live in the assurance that we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us (Phil 4:13). And we can live with the knowledge that nothing is impossible with God (Luke 1:37).

Knowing the thoughts God has towards us is important to carrying out our ministry on this earth.

Our sister in this story pushed passed the shame of being a struggling widow. She broke open the doors that would have said your two cents aren’t enough; pennies cannot do a thing. She paid no attention to the offerings others had in comparison to her own. She understood there wasn’t a thing she could do, but by giving all she had to God that could change.

Similar to American art teacher and musician Judson W. Van DeVenter who penned the lyrics for the Christian hymn ‘I Surrender All.’ DeVenter said “For some time, I had struggled between developing my talents in the field of art and going into full-time evangelistic work. At last the pivotal hour of my life came, and I surrendered all. A new day was ushered into my life.”

Once those two coins hit the bottom of the treasury it ushered a new day, a new season in the life of the widow, because of her surrender, sacrifice, and sacramental giving.

Worship is essentially our response to God’s love, generosity and graciousness. Worship edifies our souls, and God delights in our worship. Remember our sister from Canaan whose daughter was tormented by a demon? When she went to Jesus and his disciples, Jesus didn’t even speak to her at first. His disciples tried to quiet her and send her away. It’s not until she bowed down and worshipped Jesus that Jesus responded to her. Our worship gets God’s attention. (Matthew 15:21-28)

Giving is an act of worship. The widow’s giving, and in our giving, we are worshipping God. Her selfless act of vulnerability, her posture of worship got Jesus’ attention. The Gospel states, once she gives all she had to live on, Jesus called his disciples and said to them, Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more that all those who are contributing to the treasury.” Her worship received Jesus’ attention.

She gave all that she had to live on, so that the work of God’s kingdom could be done. Prior to getting Jesus’ attention, Jesus is telling his disciples about the pitfalls of “Scribe-like” behavior and cautions them to beware! To be clear, “Scribe-like” giving (not “Scribe-like” behavior) is important and helpful to the growth of the Church. When we give from a place of sacrifice and surrender, this is our devotion to God. God looks at the heart and wants for us to be able to trust God with all that we have for what we have are gifts from God.

Rev. Charles Cloughen, Jr. states in his book, One Minute Stewardship Sermons, that ‘God is generous, giving, loving, forgiving, and gracious. God desires our loving response to His generosity.’ The oxymoron here is that God is generous even in our scarcity. Most often our loving response is not sacrificial giving similar to that of the widow. Out of her poverty she gave and took the huge risk of not being able to afford to live. One might look at her and begin finger wagging and calling her less than smart. How will she live, if she gave all she had to live on to God? It doesn’t make much sense. In today’s society that kind of giving may be frowned upon tremendously. Even sacrificial giving may be shunned because of the thrill of the accumulation of material possession in our society. But, this widow understood giving to God was a sure way for a substantial return on her investment.

Some biblical scholars believe however that her gift presaged Jesus’ own surrender and sacrifice to God’s will for His life. In this Gospel, our poor widowed sister reflected Jesus’ behavior, “though he was rich, yet for (our) sake became poor, so that by his poverty (we) might become rich” (2 Corinthians 8:9).

Anyone can give out of their’ abundance and excess, but it takes a true believer to give out of his or her poverty. Sacrificing and surrendering of all that she had, this poor widow was able to attain all she needed to live on and her heart sang the words of Van DeVenter’s Hymn:

All to Jesus I surrender,
All to him I freely give;
I will ever love and trust him,
In his presence daily live.

Refrain:

I surrender all,
I surrender all,
All to thee, my blessed Savior,
I surrender all.

AMEN.

Download the Sermon for Proper 27B

For reference and further study

  • Cloughen, C. (1997). One minute stewardship sermons (p. 2). Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse Pub.
  • Harrington, Daniel J., and John R. Donahue. “The Scribes and the Widow.” Sacra Pagina Series. Collegeville, Minn.: Liturgical, 1991. 362-365. Print.
  • Mays, James Luther. The HarperCollins Bible Commentary. Rev. ed. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2000. Print.
  • Newsom, C. (1992). The Women’s Bible commentary (pp. 350-357). London: SPCK ;.
  • The Origin of the Phrase “A Penny For Your Thoughts” (2014, December 7). Retrieved October 18, 2015.
  • Who Said. (n.d.). Retrieved October 18, 2015.

Written by The Rev. Arlette Benoit

The Rev. Arlette Benoit is a graduate of General Theological Seminary in New York City where she earned her Masters in Divinity with a Certificate in Spiritual Direction. She was ordained to the priesthood in June 2013 in the Diocese of Atlanta. Rev. Benoit now serves at St. Paul’s Episcopal Atlanta GA, as Associate to the Rector. While at seminary she interned with The Episcopal Church’s Office of Black Ministries. She continues to be involved with the Office of Black Ministries, and assist and provides consultation for the planning of the S.O.U.L (Spiritual Opportunity to Unity and Learn) Conferences for youth and young adults, in addition to working with a team of clergy and lay leaders to develop The Rising Stars (RISE) Experience — a new initiative aimed at countering the “School-to-Prison Pipeline” where children are pushed out of public schools and into the juvenile and criminal justice systems. Rev. Benoit was also recently appointed to serve as a Youth Ministry Liaison for the Office of Youth Ministries representing Province Four of The Episcopal Church.

They are resurrected in our hearts, All Saints’ Day, Year B – 2015

[RCL] Wisdom 3:1-9; Psalm 48; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44

All Saints’ Day is one of the most underrated church holidays of the year. It is overshadowed by its more glamorous cousins, All Hallow’s Eve and Thanksgiving, similar to how Holy Saturday gets lost in Holy Week. But All Saints’ Day can bring us a unique blessing just as Holy Saturday does because they are days that are about how some of the darker parts of human experience can be washed in holiness when they are brought before God.

All Saints’ Day is so important because it is the one church holiday set aside during the year to tend to our grief. We experience grief on Good Friday and Holy Saturday, but that grief is for the suffering and death of Christ and the grand theological ideas that accompany them. All Saints Day is for us, for remembering the people we loved, who were important to us, who made an impact on our lives and then died and left us behind.

Grief is one of life’s most powerful human experiences, and grief is often very lonely. Many of us have awakened on the morning after the death of a loved one and simply marveled at how the sun can rise another day and the Earth can continue to turn after our world has been abruptly destroyed. We are grateful for all the concern friends and colleagues show us, but find it so strange to realize that while they truly felt sorry for us during the time they were in conversation with us or the moment they kindly took to send us a card or email, this event that turned our world upside down really meant very little to them.

We’re not angry at them. Of course no one would love or care for or agonize over our departed loved one the way our own family would, but it is just so surreal to realize that after someone says something kind to us about it, that person will go right back to thinking about what to put on the dinner table or whether to go to the movies that weekend. It is a realization that all of us have at some time or another that our own personal battles and tragedies and defeats really matter very little in the big picture of the world.

They matter very little 364 days a year in 99.9% of the places on this Earth. But our grief does matter on this day, in this place. On All Saints’ Day, in God’s Holy Church, the losses that we have borne over the years come front and center and are named for all to hear, on holy ground. On All Saints Day, our grief is no longer lonely and isolating, but we gather in this sanctuary and let our grief bind us together in a new and powerful way.

All Saints’ Day is an important ministry to us in our losses because it helps us reenter that place of mourning in a rhythm, year after year after year each November. As the green and life of the summer die and go to their winter rest around us, so we bring up the pain of loss on purpose in this rhythm, year after year. And each year that we revisit the loss, the pain softens and loses a little sharpness, begins to go to its own winter rest. Every time we name our loved ones among the saints, we honor not only their lives but our own long battle with memories both painful and joyful.

And it is so important to honor their memories. Most of our departed loved ones had a funeral to commemorate them. But the funeral happens right after the loss and often our emotions are completely chaotic, not to mention the practical circumstances we are trying to manage. If you have lost someone close to you, either due to sudden accident or long illness, you probably remember the days in the immediate aftermath as a haze of confusion. There are hundreds of details to attend to—notifying friends, organizing a service, pulling together money for a casket and burial plot, thinking about wills and estates, the volatility of family brought together in a pressure cooker of emotion. Frankly it is often not a time to treasure the memory of the departed. Many grieving families float through the funeral in a sort of disconnected shock.

This is where All Saints’ Day comes to our aid once again. There is no chaos, there are no arrangements to be made, no being singled out to sit at the front of the church in a black suit or dress, no finding directions to the cemetery. We are all in this together, and the ones we are remembering are long settled in their resting places. It’s the chance to be private about our grief, taking out our memories in the quiet of our hearts and turning them over one by one, taking our time to remember and reflect. But we all enter that sheltered and quiet heartspace of our own at the same time, in the same place. As you bring up the faces of your dearest departed before your mind’s eye, cherishing the chance to do so peacefully and uninterrupted, your neighbor is doing the same. We enter the valley of the shadow of death together, and walk through it in solidarity with one another.

There is someone else who is in solidarity with us in our grief, and that is Jesus. In our gospel today, we see him in the exact situation we have faced in our own lives—the inevitable but painful death of a loved one. Lazarus had been sick, they all knew there was a possibility he might die. But even Jesus can’t quite believe it at first. He doesn’t want to believe it, and asks if he’s been buried, hoping maybe the message has gotten twisted along the way and Lazarus is still just sick. “He said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus began to weep.”

Jesus sees so much pain in his lifetime, and he bears it so bravely. He sees the suffering of his people crushed under the imperial rule of Rome, and he doesn’t cry. He sees five thousand hungry and poor on a hillside needing him to feed them, and he doesn’t cry. He sees people tormented by demons, bleeding or paralyzed or diseased for years, and he doesn’t cry. He continues his ministry and cares for them.

But here, at last, he breaks, and for the simple, everyday loss of a simple, everyday beloved friend. Nothing grand or dramatic. One of his best friends gets sick and dies, and Jesus weeps. And so perhaps on this day of letting our heartaches step out into the open on holy ground, we can be in solidarity with Jesus as much as he is with us. He always bears the burden for us. Maybe today we can say, “Jesus, we understand how you feel. We’re sorry you lost your friend. We love you. Come be with us for a while and we’ll all be in this together.”

Jesus brought his friend back, just as on the final day we will all be brought back to life by him to live with him and in him. And how did Jesus raise Lazarus up to new life? How did he bring him back from the dead? By calling his name. “Lazarus, come out!” Today, we’re doing the same thing. We’re calling out the names of the ones we loved who have passed on, and they answer. They are resurrected in our hearts, brought to life in this time and place. Whether on one side of the border between life and death or the other, we all want to be with our loved ones. As the communion of saints joins spirits across the divide today, we may realize that we are being called by name today as well, named and loved by the ones who have gone before us.

Download the Sermon for All Saints, Year B.

Written by The Rev. Whitney Rice

The Rev. Whitney Rice is an Episcopal priest in the Diocese of Indianapolis and currently the Priest-in-Charge of the Shared Ministry of St. Luke’s Shelbyville and St. Thomas Franklin. A native of Lee’s Summit, Missouri, she comes to ordained ministry by way of the University of Kansas and Yale Divinity School. See more of her work at www.roofcrashersandhemgrabbers.com.

Healing our Blindness, Sermon for Proper 25(B) – 2015

[RCL] Psalm 34:1-8, (19-22); Job 42:1-6, 10-17; Hebrews 7:23-28; Mark 10:46-52

Bartimaeus son of Timaeus was a nobody. He wasn’t just any nobody he was a nobody among the nobodies. People often walked past Bartimaeus and at best they thought of the blind beggar as a nuisance. Day in and day out Bartimaeus would make his way to his familiar spot. Feeling his way along the crowded streets of Jericho, Bartimaeus was invisible to the people who hustled by on the way to something glamorous and important.

You see Jericho wasn’t just any city, Jericho was a city for the important people, the well-to-do. Herod had his winter palace there and all the rich Roman families spent their winters in Jericho. Jericho was an oasis, a destination city. You couldn’t get to Jerusalem without passing through Jericho so anyone who wanted to be seen had to have an address in Jericho.

So every morning Bartimaeus made his way to the Jericho Road, knowing that the rich people, the military and the important people had to pass by on their way. Jericho Road was the place to be if you were a blind beggar. But even on the main road Bartimaeus was invisible. Occasionally someone would drop a copper penny or two in his bowl so that he could eat for the day. But deep down in his heart Bartimaeus knew he was someone. He knew that God’s love for him was deeper than his blindness. He was certain that even though people tried not to see him, God saw him and that was all that mattered.

Then something happened that changed Bartimaeus’ life forever. He heard that the Rabbi name Jesus was in Jericho. Rabbi Jesus had been preaching and large crowds of people gathered to hear him but Bartimaeus couldn’t get close. He had heard about Jesus, whispers here and there that Jesus could perform miracles, that he cured the sick and preached about God’s love.

Bartimaeus decided this was his chance, this was his time. Jesus was passing by and he mustered every ounce of strength he had and shouted “Jesus, so of David have mercy on me!” The good people following Jesus, even his disciples, told Bartimaeus to be quiet but he yelled all the louder; “Son of David, have mercy on me!”

It happened almost too quickly. The people parted and someone grabbed Bartimaeus’ hand and suddenly he was kneeling before Jesus. This man who for most of his life was invisible, this man who no one recognized, this nobody was standing before of Jesus. The words tumbled out of his mouth faster than his brain could process them; “My teacher, let me see again.” And with just seven words Bartimaeus could see!

The story of Bartimaeus is often held up as one of the great healing miracles of Jesus. In the gospels Jesus transforms the lives of those on the margins and draws them more and more into the center. But what if we saw this story as the crowd, the followers of Jesus, being blind and not Bartimaeus.

The crowd in our gospel saw this blind beggar as annoyance, disturbing Jesus as he preached God’s kingdom. Bartimaeus was an disturbance, a distraction from the ‘way things are done’, but Jesus skillfully moves him from the sidelines, recognizes his humanity and dignity and draws him closer to the center.

Bartimaeus wasn’t blind where it really mattered. Barimaeus had a perfect vision of what it meant to be a beloved child of God. Not only did he know that he was a beloved child of God he insisted on being treated like a beloved child of God. Not even the crowd could hold him back and Jesus recognizes him for his bravery.

We as the church can quickly become like the crowd; blind to the needs of those sitting right outside our doors. The Bartimaeus’s of our day do not necessarily sit with a bowl begging and blind, they are the ones in greatest needed reaching out along the Jericho road leading into our church. Like in our gospel we, the crowd, are the ones in need of having our sight restored, our blindness healed, our vision focused.

If we listen hard enough and look long enough we hear the cries of Bartimaeus still. Listen…

Jesus, son of David have mercy on us….

  • We are the ones who are blinded by a world who deems them of no account.
  • We are those who are blinded by a society that too often measures worth by the things we own and the cars we drive.
  • We are the ones who have been told time and again that we are of no value that we are outside the realm of God’s love and peace.
  • We are the ones blinded by the pain of grief and loss, broken relationships and failed dreams.
  • We are the ones blinded by a disease and crippled by a diagnosis.
  • We are the ones blinded by the word illegal and immigrant and refugee.

How do we respond to the many Bartimaeus’s in our own time? We show them to Jesus.

Notice in the gospel the crowd is the first miracle of healing. The crowd is given their sight and actually sees Bartimaeus. And once their blindness is cured the crowd didn’t pray for Bartimaeus, they didn’t form a committee, or call a meeting or even have a theological discussion on the merits of Bartimaeus. The crowd saw him and showed him to Jesus and let Jesus do the rest.

The same is true for us. We are called as followers of Jesus to first be healed of our blindness so that we can see clearly to invite others to share in Christ’s healing.

As Bishop Michael Curry said to the Episcopal Church gathered in Utah this past June; “Put Jesus up front. Put sharing that good news in front. Put forming our people as followers of Jesus – as disciples for real – at the front. And then put inspiring and enabling them to serve in their personal lives, and for us to witness in the public square in the front. That’s the church; that’s the movement.”

Once we as the church recognize those on the margins, those sitting on the sidelines, our faith demands that we show them Jesus and together be healed.

Because if you notice at the end of the Gospel story Bartimaeus didn’t go off and found “The Society for the Formerly Blind of Jericho”, he didn’t go dancing through the streets shouting from the rafters, he “regained his sight and followed in the way.”

In the end as Christians that is all that we can do once our vision has been restore and blindness cured, follow in the way of Jesus.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see. Amen.

Download the sermon for Proper 25B.

Written by The Rev. Deon Johnson

The Rev. Deon Johnson has served as Rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Brighton, MI for the last nine years. A Liturgical Consultant, Deon specializes in helping communities revision their worship spaces to better reflect both their needs and the theology of welcome found in the Eucharist. In his spare time Deon enjoys working on websites and is an avid photographer.  

 

Drink the Cup Jesus Drinks, Proper 24(B) – 2015

[RCL] Psalm 104:1-9,25,37b; Job 38:1-7,(34-41); Hebrews 5:1-10; Mark 10:35-45

One remarkable thing about a lot of Christians is the way they approach the world and one another. There is a quiet reserve, a sense of hospitality and genuine submission to one another. People who observe this often mistake it for weakness, but it is a genuine behavior marked by love and concern for the other. That is because Christians who practice their faith and heed the teachings of Scripture do amend their ways over time.

In today’s Hebrew scripture and Gospel readings there is a theme of submission that is easily ignored in our culture of strong egos and competition. We begin with Job’s encounter with God. Job’s friends are debating why such suffering has been inflicted upon him. Job has lost his family, his cattle and land and has suffered impoverishment and illness. They finally conclude there is no answer except that God is “great in power and justice.”

Then God himself answers Job out of the whirlwind in some of the most majestic poetry in Scripture. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth…On what were its bases sunk, or who laid its cornerstone when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?” (Job 38 vss. 4-7 NRSV)

This is grandeur on a scale of which we need to be reminded. We often personalize God and reduce God’s image to that of benevolent teddy bear who gives us warm hugs. This God is no teddy; and Job is swept up in the presence of the God of creation resulting in his own humbling submission.

In the Gospel reading, Jesus is confronted with a request: James and John want to join him as a power triumvirate in heaven. They presume their friendship and respect for him comes with a reward, and they want to lock it in while things are going well. Jesus’ response is to use their request as a teaching moment for his disciples and each of us: “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” They replied, “We are able.” Then Jesus said to them, “The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized; but to sit at my right hand or at my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.” (Mark 10:38-40 NRSV)

So, Job and James and John are looking at things the way we often do. They tend to see God as someone to be placated either through worship, obedience or honorifics, but they expect something in return. In Job’s case, he gets unmitigated suffering and loss. James and John are also warned that the cup of suffering will be theirs. Okay, so who signs on for that?

Well, many do. There are Christians throughout the world that have embraced the God of the whirlwind and have accepted the cup of suffering. Desmond Tutu comes to mind as one who could have simply held the positions of Bishop of Johannesburg and then Archbishop of Capetown with their status and privilege. Instead he used those offices and his Nobel Prize to challenge the evil of apartheid, risking his own life because he knew, loved and served a God who was above and beyond all earthly powers.

Carl is a man who had a successful career as a consultant. After his retirement he continued to attend his church, but he also devoted his time to finding out who were the poor in his community and bringing people together to help serve them. He helped organize weekly suppers for everybody at his church with meals supplied by local restaurants. He created new community where people from the neighborhood and all walks of life met for food and fellowship. He also organized a successful program that began providing food on the weekends for children in need. Now afflicted with a serious illness, he and his wife continue to remain interested and concerned about others.

These examples of Christians who are willing to drink the cup Jesus drinks are our guides to Christian living. They know what truly matters to God and they are at work in the world without care about their place or prominence in the Kingdom of God.

The readings today help us focus on the question of what God expects of us, and how we are loved by God. The teddy bear hugs are replaced with leadership for true and laudable service to one another, especially the stranger, the poor and the needy. When we behave as people of God on a mission, little else matters.

Download the Sermon for Proper 24B.

Written by The Rev. Ben Helmer is a retired Episcopal priest who lives in Arkansas.

The Depths of Despair and the Promise of the Kingdom, Proper 23(B) – 2015

[RCL] Psalm 22:1-15; Job 23:1-9, 16-17; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31

The readings from the Psalm and Job seem to contrast sharply with the gospel and epistle lessons appointed for this day.

In Psalm 22 and in Job we hear the human cry of abandonment and grief caused by the perceived absence of God. By contrast, in the mysterious letter to the Hebrews we are assured of a God who is indeed present to us; God shares in our suffering, the author writes, through Jesus, our high priest. And in the gospel of Mark we are given the promise that we can indeed enter into the presence of God, referred to here as eternal life, by the grace of God. Let us then look at each of these readings.

Job puts into words the experience of so many human beings who cry out to God only to be met by silence:

“Oh, that I knew where I might find him,
that I might come even to his dwelling!
If I go forward, he is not there;
or backward, I cannot perceive him;
on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him,
I turn to the right, and I cannot see him.”

In plain language, God is nowhere. God is absent to Job. In our day, in this advanced 21st century, what comes to mind immediately is the plight of refugees pouring into Europe by the thousands, escaping the horrors of war and utter loss of safety. One wonders: what are they feeling about their God? If they could articulate their pain, it would sound very much like Job’s.

Or to pluck out an example of a fellow Christian from our tragic 20th century history: We see Dietrich Bonhoeffer in 1945 sitting in his cold prison in Tegel, echoing the agony of the psalmist and of Jesus on the cross: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”

Bonhoeffer, one of the very few Christian pastors to protest the treatment of Jews in the terrible Hitler years in Germany, was imprisoned for a long time and then executed following one of the last orders of that murderous dictator. In a letter from prison he writes:

“God would have us know that we must live as [human beings] who manage our lives without him. The God who is with us is the God who forsakes us. . . . Before God and with God we live without God. God lets himself be pushed out of the world on to the cross.” These paradoxical sentences are as tough to listen to as the cry of the psalmist and the lament of Job. And yet they are rejuvenating in their honesty and faith, unlike the silly and empty declarations of what constitutes Christian faith that we hear in the public arena today by people who have no idea how costly Christianity is. Bonhoeffer’s words are life giving because they are the words of one who understood the good news: that the gospel makes no sense without the tragedy and darkness of the cross.

“God has made my heart faint,” Job acknowledges. “The Almighty has terrified me. If only I could vanish in darkness, and thick darkness would cover my face!”

Terrible words and utterly truthful; if we have never felt such fear, then we will have difficulty understanding the good news of the kingdom that emerges from the cross. If we have never been confronted by such darkness, we will miss the light. In theological language, we cannot experience resurrection without the death of Good Friday.

In the Letter to the Hebrews the writer reminds his readers who were being tested by severe persecution and suffering that they are not alone:

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

By comparison, the gospel story at first reading doesn’t sound so tough, does it? Here comes a lovely young man who is obviously attracted by the message of the charismatic prophet Jesus who speaks words of truth and who heals the sick. How exciting to be in his presence. The man, referred to elsewhere as a ‘rich young ruler,’ comes to Jesus prepared; he is decent and he loves his religion, as do we who are gathered in church today. He is in earnest as he asks an important question: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” One cannot help wondering: What kind of answer is he expecting? Jesus gives him a rather obvious Jewish answer. “Keep the commandments.” What a relief the rich young ruler must have felt. “I’ve done all this,” he replies, “I’ve kept the commandments,” and we can almost hear his sigh. He is probably ready to go away, feeling that he is already in, a member of the inheritance club. And then something strange happens. Jesus looks at him and sees a great potential for the kingdom. He loves him. He wants him as one of his followers. He must have reminded Jesus of Peter and John when he first called them. Jesus does not coerce; he gives a choice. Here is a man who is already doing the churchy things: he observes the law, he fulfills his duties as a member of a family and of a religious tradition. But in order to become a follower he must give up the one thing that is most precious to him, the thing that stands between him and his ability to become a disciple. “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor. . . then come follow me.” The man, who a moment ago had been so confident, was shocked and went away grieving, “for he had many possessions.”

And suddenly, the story that seemed so sunny and hopeful, becomes a tough one to listen to. For it forces us to ask the question: What is it that I cannot give up so that I can follow Jesus? This gospel encounter makes it clear that for those who have much, the great difficulty lies in giving up their possessions. But even those of us who have few possessions are tied down to a treasure that may not be counted as money or things. What obsession, what addiction, what personal pride, what ambition, what other love keeps us from loving God enough? It sounds so difficult that we are forced to ask with those present that day in Palestine: “Then who can be saved?”

The answer that Jesus gives turns us from ourselves to God’s power and grace. Once we reach the point of knowing that nothing we can do will save us, that with Bonhoeffer and with the writer of the letter to the Hebrews we recognize that God knows our suffering because he suffers with us, then we are ready to ask, “What can I do to inherit the kingdom, to have eternal life, to be saved,” if we are to use an expression familiar and misunderstood by many.

Again, Jesus’ answer is difficult. Give up the self and follow me, he tells us, for the one who is first will be last, and the one who is last will be first. These biblical passages together show us quite clearly and rather painfully that the values of the kingdom are radically different from the values of our society. The darkness is necessary for the light to come. Those who are last in the world become first in God’s kingdom. The God who seems absent is the God who is with us and, to save us, God lets himself be pushed on the cross. Thanks be to God.

Download the sermon for Proper 23B.

Written by Katerina Whitley

Katerina is an author, lecturer, and a retreat and workshop leader. She was born in Thessaloniki, Greece, and emigrated at 16 years of age to the United States to study music and literature. She spent years studying theology and teaching children of all ages, edited Cross Current for the Diocese of East Carolina, worked for the then Presiding Bishop’s Fund for World Relief, freelanced as essayist for two decades, and has six books in circulation, five biblically based books published by Morehouse and one, her cookbook, published by Globe-Pequot/Lyons Press. Her latest books, two novels, are waiting publication. She lives in Louisville and is a parishioner at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church.  

Hearts of Flesh, Proper 22(B) – 2015

(RCL) Job 1:1, 2:1-10 and Psalm 26; Hebrews 1:1-4, 2:5-12; Mark 10:2-16

Today’s gospel leaves many of us uncomfortable for one reason or another.  It doesn’t come across as good news.

First, we have what sounds for all the world like Jesus’ absolute prohibition of divorce. That’s enough to cause us to squirm if we have a divorce in our personal background or as part of our family history. It’s uncomfortable as well for others of us who realize that our intact marriage does not make us better people than those whose marriages have collapsed; we too could have experienced divorce.

Jesus sounds demanding as well when he confronts his disciples over their efforts at crowd control. He doesn’t want children to be kept from coming to him. However, the thought that runs through the mind of many a parent and grandparent is, “but should there not be some decorum?”

Jesus offers us children – in all their innocence, spontaneity, and even wildness – as a model for the kingdom he has come to proclaim. The entrance requirement for that kingdom is that we become like them: accepting, trusting, in the moment.

We who are adults may understand all too well what Jesus means about children and the kingdom, we may even admit that what he says rings true. But we look at our sad adult selves and realize that we are jaded, calculating, suspicious, and world-weary, hardly fit to pass through the portal; and this makes us sad and disappointed in ourselves, disappointed by life.

Today’s gospel deals with these discomforting matters, but the real center of what Jesus says here lies somewhere else. It is to be found where he speaks about “hardness of heart.”

Do you recall where that phrase appears? Jesus is explaining why the law of Moses recognizes divorce: “because of your hardness of heart.” The passage in question, found in the twenty-fourth chapter of Deuteronomy, doesn’t legislate divorce, but simply admits that it takes place. It then legislates about certain cases involving remarriage of the same couple after their divorce. Jesus says that hardness of heart required this legislation. Then he raises the discussion to a higher plane by citing the establishment of marriage when humanity was brand new.

Hardness of heart is the problem. The big one. Not just for people who divorce or come close to doing so. It’s a problem for all of us adults, whatever the state of our relationships. This hardness of heart can damage our most intimate relationships, and it gets played out in other areas of life as well. Hardness of heart is what distinguishes us from the young children whom Jesus offers us as models for his kingdom.

The heart in question here is not that beating organ in your chest, the subject of cardiology, nor the heart pictured on Valentine’s cards, the emblem of romantic feeling. What is meant is the heart in the biblical sense: the core of human existence, what makes us who we truly are.

The hardening of this heart is the great danger in life. A hard heart is a lost opportunity, for God most readily works in the world through hearts truly alive.

A heart that has become hard cannot be pure because it cannot pursue the purpose for which it exists. To the pure in heart Christ makes a tremendous promise: they shall see God. To miss the realization of this promise is to miss everything.

Yet all of us suffer from hardness of heart to one degree or another, and such hardening can happen without our awareness of it.

The core of our existence hardens when we run scared, when forces such as pride and fear and hatred reign inside us.

Our hearts harden when we accept glittery substitutes, sensational idols, or even prosaic security in place of the authentic and challenging life God constantly offers us.

Many forces in this world, including people and institutions, contribute to hearts becoming hard. The deadening of our core is often presented as something else: a toughening, a maturation. Sometimes it is even applauded. We take this internal deadness as a normal development rather than as a travesty.

Christianity claims that in response to this menace, God wants to replace stony hearts with hearts of flesh, hearts tender and alive.

One place where the exchange is meant to happen is in worship. This is what we are about here and now. Public worship is an important part of Christianity’s discipline for maintaining a heart that lives.

All this carries important implications for how congregations worship, for the messages communicated through liturgies, sermons, hymns, and sacred actions. Anything that passes for worship yet causes hearts to harden takes people in the wrong direction and must be rejected. But worship that fails to soften hearts and restore them to life is also seriously flawed. Attending church must not increase the deadness at people’s centers nor leave them unchanged. What all of us need is nothing less than a new heart.

The Christian tradition refers to many reasons why people attend church, indicating how public worship is in truth a complex activity. These reasons include praising and thanking God, hearing the Scriptures and the sermon, praying for the needs of all people, participating in the Holy Communion, and engaging in fellowship with believers. All these reasons are important.

Yet the case they make for public worship may not be convincing to people who have not experienced such worship on a regular basis or have not found it engaging. To them these reasons may seem unrelated to their concerns and those of the world.

However, tradition offers this further reason for attending church that may make more sense and possess greater urgency: through participation in public worship, our hearts can be kept from becoming and remaining hard.

This reason for public worship may make sense to some people who do not appreciate the other reasons.

These people recognize hardness of heart as a human problem.

They wonder where a remedy lies.

They believe, or want to believe, that our God can replace stony hearts with hearts able to love.

These people are standing on the doorstep of this temple.

They are eager to find a fellowship where week by week those who participate welcome God’s gift of a living heart.

They await an invitation to enter, so that together with us they may experience through worship how hardness of heart need never have the last word.

Let us pray.

God of astounding mercy, make the heart of each of us like that of a little child, that we may welcome your kingdom with joy.  Give us hearts of flesh, able to love with a love like your own.

Through our worship continually transform us, that we may welcome others who desire your gift of a new heart.

We ask this in the name of Jesus, and in the power of your life-giving Spirit.

Amen.

Download the sermon for Proper 22B.

Written by The Rev. Charles Hoffacker who is rector of St. Paul’s Parish, Baden, Maryland.  He is the author of A Matter of Life and Death: Preaching at Funerals (Cowley Publications).

Careful Seasoning, Proper 21(B) – 2015

(RCL) Esther 7:1-6,9-10; 9:20-22; Psalm 124; James 5:13-20; Mark 9:38-50

Lest you think you’ve inadvertently stumbled onto yet another cable television cooking show, remember that Jesus himself brought it up: salt.

Salt is essential to human life. The National Academies of Science recommend that each of us, on average, take in about 2400 milligrams of sodium daily. That’s about eight-hundredths of an ounce, or roughly a teaspoonful.

If you eat a whole lot less than that, your cellular electrolytes may become unbalanced, resulting in an increased risk of heart attack, stroke, and cardiovascular disease. Yes, that’s right—for most people, low sodium intake is dangerous.

And if you consume a lot more than the average, you can take on extra weight or become at risk for high blood pressure. Excess sodium can also be toxic. So, high sodium intake is also dangerous.

So—salt is essential to human life, but having either too little or too much is fraught with risk to our health, safety, and even survival. Hey, maybe this is about cooking, after all: too much salt, and the dish is ruined; too little salt, and the dish is tasteless.

Jesus’ metaphoric use of salt deserves some deconstructive analysis. It’s a complex metaphor. You’ve heard the old expression, “He’s the salt of the earth,” right? That indicates that someone is dependable, decent, and trustworthy. Jesus uses that very expression in the Sermon on the Mount—“You are the salt of the earth.”

Yet salting the earth is a destructive thing. This was the “scorched earth” tactic of warfare before Agent Orange was devised. According to the Book of Judges (9:45), Abimelech sowed his own capital of Shechem with salt after quelling a revolt. He killed all the people, razed all the buildings, and then salted all the fields—assuring that no one would forget who was the boss.

Salt, you see, is itself neither good nor evil—but it can be used for good or for evil, to sustain life or to prevent it, to regulate the body’s electrolytes or to induce a stroke.

You can take something with a grain of salt, thereby making it more palatable; or you can rub salt into a wound, thereby increasing the pain.

Add to this that in the Roman Army, salt was a regular part of a soldier’s compensation. If a solider was “worth his salt,” if he had performed well, he’d be paid accordingly. And, before refrigeration and freeze-drying and chemical stabilizers, salt was the best preservative known to humankind.

Salt is so powerful a symbol that Mahatma Ghandi was able to use it to topple the British colonial rule of India. In 1930, the British levied a tax on salt, as they had a monopoly on the salt trade. Ghandi decided to walk some 240 miles to the sea coast, a journey lasting 23 days. And the procession following him grew until it was 200 miles long. Upon reaching the ocean, Gandhi raised a lump of mud and salt and declared, “With this, I am shaking the foundations of the British Empire.” He then boiled it in seawater to make the commodity which no Indian could legally produce—salt. Historians consider this event a turning point in the movement for the independence of India, something that was not finally achieved until 1947.

Something remarkably similar happened with tea in Boston harbor, you may remember—a turning point in the movement for American independence.

The British in 1930, it seems, had very little appreciation for their own history, and thus were destined to repeat it. And, they did not understand the importance of salt.

Jesus, of course, does not underestimate the power of figures of speech, or images, or allegories. And so his discourse on salt is just jam packed with meaning, and nuance, and symbolic value.

And, although many paths present themselves, there’s just one particular direction for us to go with this sodium-soaked sermon: a discussion of religion in contemporary society.

We are all familiar with over-salted religious organizations and sects—radical fundamentalists, extremist ideologues, that sort of thing. You can almost feel the severely high blood pressure in the veins of most television evangelists, can’t you? This kind of religion clearly suffers from a surplus of salt, for when their bodies naturally try to expel the excess, they try to rub the salt in other people’s wounds. As if to punish people for being wounded.

This kind of religion is very dangerous—and it is always focused on demeaning and degrading others, because they are not living up to some fictive standard of behavior. I call their standards fictive, because they are always based on human interpretation, not true divine inspiration. Women must obey their husbands, men should not sleep with men, men must not marry the daughter of a foreign God—all these are abominations in the sight of God; that’s what our holy Scripture tells us.

And these folks, who are condemning these few things as Holy Writ, go off and eat their shellfish, or shed innocent blood, or sow discord in a family, or tell lies, or dig into that delicious pork tenderloin (or any meat that was killed more than three days ago)—and, you know what? All these are abominations, too.

This is the danger of over-salting religion. While we see more and more of it around us, fortunately we Anglicans are more delicate in our seasoning. We’re too careful in the crafting of our language, too shy for emotive outbursts, too reticent in our outward expression. And don’t get this wrong: these are all good things! We rarely suffer from too much salt.

But we more often risk the other danger—too little salt in our religion.

For this, there is inspiration not from the Holy Spirit, at least not directly, but from J. Edwin Bacon, Jr., the Rector of All Saints Church in Pasadena, California.

In a sermon, Father Bacon expresses concern that the preaching from pulpits in this country has become too neutral—less salty, if you will. And, as a result, religion becomes more and more of a problem. “Jesus proclaimed that religion too frequently is not a part of the solution. Too often is not only a part of the problem. It is the problem.” Like salt that has lost its flavor.

The Revelation to St. John (chapter 3)—quoting Father Bacon again—“speaks of the Church … that had become so bland, so ineffectual, so callous to human suffering, so cowering before the saber-rattling of the empire of the day, so lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, that God said, ‘I will spew you out of my mouth.’ That is exactly what happens to churches and other faith communities that do not stand up, speak up, and act up when human beings are not treated with the dignity and honor due those who bear the image of God.”

It’s easy to see the over-salted religious zealots and say, “That’s not us!” But what of the diet of bland spirituality served at so many altars?

Salt is essential to human life, but having either too little or too much is fraught with risk to our health, safety, and even survival.

Finding the balance is a life-long journey. It includes taking risks, being willing to allow failure, making mistakes, and trying new things. And it includes turning around, going back to what works, avoiding hazards, and steering clear of danger.

It’s a never-ending, constantly changing, and life-consuming crusade. And the only way any of us has even a glimmer of a chance of success is because God’s wills it so.

Here, among the faithful, we find the strength to persevere. Here, among the faithful, we heed the warnings to avoid pitfalls we might otherwise suffer. And, here, among the faithful, we find the motivation to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God.

So, here we are, friends:

  • A place where we have never put too much salt on our liturgy.
  • A place where you do not need to check your conscience at the door.
  • A place where our worship can serve to transform the people of God, empowering us to daring action on behalf of the oppressed.
  • A place where every part of you is welcome, and every hurt can be healed.
  • A place where salt is used liberally—but not to excess.

It is here, in the carefully seasoned assembly of the faithful, that we will find the strength, the wisdom, and the inspiration to use the gifts God has given us to transform ourselves and the world around us for good. Amen.

Download the sermon for Proper 21B.

Written by The Rev. Dr. Barrie Bates who is interim rector of St. Peter’s Church, Essex Fells, New Jersey. He welcomes your comments, questions, and challenges (revdocbates@gmail.com).

 

The Path of Discipleship, Proper 20(B) – 2015

(RCL) Proverbs 31:10-31; Psalm 1; James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a; Mark 9:30-37

For much of Christian history, being identified as a “disciple of Jesus” has been considered high praise. The disciples, after all, were the handpicked group of followers who lived, learned, and labored alongside Jesus. They were commissioned to heal the sick, baptize sinners, and proclaim the Good News of God in Christ to the ends of the earth.

But if we listen closely, we can’t help but notice that Scripture does not always portray the disciples with such glamor and reverence. Consider today’s reading: For the second time in Mark’s Gospel, Jesus takes the disciples aside to teach them that he will soon be given over to human hands and will suffer, die, and rise again. And for the second time, the disciples don’t get it.

In fact, Mark’s Gospel tells of Jesus trying to teach the disciples this crucial lesson on three different occasions, and each and every time, the disciples don’t get it. Instead, they’re concerned with things like which one of them is the greatest and what the folks in town thought about them and what they were going to eat for lunch.

But what is most perplexing of all is the fact that, not only do the disciples fail to understand Jesus’ teaching about his suffering, death, and resurrection, but they’re also too afraid to ask Jesus any questions about it!

And as maddening as the disciples’ failure to understand or even ask questions with the hope of understanding may sound to us, how often are we guilty of precisely the same thing? How often are we afraid to ask a question because we think we should know the answer, or because we’re afraid our question is stupid, or even because we’re afraid of the answer?

After all, if knowledge is power, then ignorance is weakness.

Perhaps the disciples were afraid to ask Jesus a question because they should have been paying better attention. Or maybe they were afraid to ask because Jesus would think they were ignorant. Or maybe, just maybe, they were afraid to ask Jesus a question because somewhere deep down, they already knew the answer.

Jesus said, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.”

Mark, with his characteristic briskness and brevity, doesn’t reveal the expressions on the disciples’ faces when they heard Jesus utter these words. He doesn’t tell us about the gasps and the horrified stares and the hard gulps. And he says nothing about the heavy hush that surely descended upon the disciples. All Mark says is, “They were afraid…”

And although Mark is also silent as to why the disciples were afraid, we can surmise that they feared for the fate of their friend and leader. Each and every one of them had left their families and their livelihoods to take an enormous risk in following Jesus, and so hearing that he expects to be arrested and killed—never mind the bit about rising from the dead—all comes as quite a shock.

But what if the disciples were afraid for another reason as well? What if, along with their fear about what would become of Jesus, they were also afraid of what would happen to them? After all, if Jesus was arrested and killed, surely his closest associates would come under scrutiny as well. Perhaps what was at the root of the disciples’ fear is the fact that they were beginning to understand, even just a little, what the true cost of discipleship is.

In a world where wealth is good but more wealth is better; where consumerism is king; and where our worth is measured by what we have rather than what we give, the cost of discipleship is hard news that many would prefer not to hear. But it is also the Good News that we so desperately need to hear!

A few weeks ago, Episcopalians from around the world gathered near Hayneville, Alabama to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the martyrdom of Jonathan Daniels who was killed during the height of the Civil Rights movement in 1965. Daniels’ death came as a result of his pushing an African-American teenager named Ruby Sales out of harm’s way when the two walked into a corner store to buy a soft drink, only to be met by an irate man pointing a loaded shotgun at them.

The cost of discipleship was, for Jonathan Daniels, his very life. And as the disciples began to process their fear about what Jesus was teaching them, perhaps they were beginning to realize the heavy cost that discipleship would place on their own lives. These are, of course, extreme cases, but they make plain the fact that we cannot confess the faith of Christ crucified and risen without coming to terms with the reality that discipleship places a claim on us—it costs us something. For some of us, it may cost us what is popular. For others, it may cost us our comfort zones. And for still others, it may even cost us a friend.

Of course, there is an easier way. We could simply listen to Jesus’ hard teaching about suffering and death and resurrection and continue on without asking any questions—as if nothing had ever happened. But deep down in our bones, this path will leave us wanting. It’ll leave us to preach a half-hearted and watered-down Gospel that has more to do with being comfortable and complacent than with the cross of Christ.

No, the path of discipleship is hard. It leads us through suffering and even death, and it costs us dearly. But in the end, we discover that it is this path that leads to resurrection and life! Amen.

Download the sermon for Proper 20B. 

Written by The Reverend Marshall A. Jolly who is the Rector of Grace Episcopal Church in Morganton, North Carolina (Diocese of Western North Carolina). He earned a BA in American studies from Transylvania University and a Master of Divinity and Certificate in Anglican Studies from Emory University’s Candler School of Theology.