Month: August 2023

13th Sunday after Pentecost, 27 August 2023, Proper 16:Exodus 1:8-2:10; Psalm 124; Romans 12:1-8; Matthew 16:13-20

The women of Egypt participated in quiet resistance against Pharaoh. Upset by the fertility and competence of the Israelites, a new pharaoh “who did not know Joseph” oppressed them, and made them do heavy work: they built cities, and constantly added oppression. No matter what was done, the Israelites multiplied, and the Egyptians were “ruthless” in their oppression.

Finally, the pharaoh ordered that all boys born to the Israelites should be killed. The midwives were to kill the babies. The midwives “feared God” and resisted. When questioned, they asserted that the Hebrew women gave birth so quickly they couldn’t get there in time. Then it was not just the midwives ordered to kill Hebrew boys, but all Egyptians: the boys should be thrown into the Nile.

Moses’ mother hid him for three months, but then could hide him no longer. She built a basket with papyrus, lined with pitch and bitumen so it would not sink. And she hid it among the reeds on the side of the river, apparently choosing a place where she knew it would be found. She has her daughter watch to see what happened.

As it happens, the basket was found by Pharaoh’s daughter, bathing in the river. She knew the baby was a Hebrew boy; when Moses’ sister appears, she offers to find a wet nurse for the baby. Pharaoh’s daughter pays Moses’ mother to feed him “until he grew up”.

Everyone knows what is happening but no one says. The midwives are resisting Pharaoh’s orders, but so is his daughter. Moses’ mother must have known that she had left the basket in a spot frequented by Pharaoh’s daughter, who in turn must have known that the baby’s mother was caring for him. Layers of unspoken knowledge, and silent collaboration against oppression.

Jesus asks explicitly about knowledge: “Who do you say that I am?” Peter (whose name in Aramaic is “kēpā”), recognizes Jesus as “The Messiah, the Son of the living God”. Jesus then says Peter has been given this knowledge from “my Father in heaven”. He proceeds to tell Peter that he would be the rock (also “kēpā” in Aramaic) on which the Church would be built. The disciples, however, are told not to tell anyone Jesus’ true identity. Some people know, but they cannot say.

Knowledge, we often say, is power. But knowledge can also be dangerous. We make choices about what information we share with whom. The knowledge of how they resisted was so dangerous that Hebrew and Egyptian women never acknowledged what they were doing. Jesus knew that his life was in danger, so warned his followers of the need for silence.

Tomorrow is the 60^th anniversary of the March on Washington. Part of what happened in the Civil Rights movement was a refusal of silence: the harms of segregation and racism were named. People spoke up. Shared speech created new communities of knowledge. It mattered.

When do we keep silent? Why? Is it to protect others? Or to protect our reputation? Are there times when our silence harms others rather than protecting them? Knowledge is power. Sometimes we must keep silent, and sometimes we must speak.

Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 15, August 20,2023: Genesis 45:1-15; Psalm 133; Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32; Matthew 15: (10-20), 21-28

Last week our reading from the Hebrew scriptures took us through the beginning of the story of Joseph; we heard how his brothers, jealous of his father’s love for him, decided to get rid of him. They first propose to kill him; then they think better of it, and plan to just abandon him in a pit in the desert, with no water. They will not have blood on their hands, but he will certainly die. Then finally, they decide to sell him as a slave to merchants traveling to Egypt.

Joseph’s brothers know that what they are doing is wrong. That is why they keep stepping back. They mean harm, but they do not want to be guilty of death.

The lectionary has skipped forward many years. When the story picks us, Joseph, who successfully interpreted the Pharaoh’s dream to mean that there would be seven years of plenty and then seven of famine, had become the governor of the land. There was famine, not just in Egypt, but everywhere. But there is grain in Egypt. His brothers have come for a second time to purchase grain, and on Joseph’s orders, they brought their brother Benjamin. Joseph has fed them and treated them well, but also designed a trap. When they leave, he had a servant put his silver cup in Benjamin’s sack. When they set out, he sends his steward to follow them, claiming they have stolen his cup; whoever has done so will become Joseph’s slave. The cup is found in Benjamin’s sack, and they are hauled before Joseph. At this point Judah intervenes and asks to remain in Benjamin’s stead, as Benjamin’s loss would mean the death of their father.

This is where we pick up the story: Joseph sends all his attendants away, and, weeping, reveals himself to his brothers. They are “dismayed”, which is probably an understatement. They are uncertain about what this means. But Joseph surprises them:

“I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life.” Joseph turns the story around and sees God’s purpose in his experience: he was saving lives, including those of his father and brothers.

In the years between when he was sold as a slave and when he revealed himself to his brothers he had not just had positions of power: he was also wrongly accused by his master’s wife of sexually assaulting her, and spent at least two years in prison. It is safe to say it had not always been easy. We would not blame Joseph for harboring a bit of resentment against his brothers. And maybe he did: it must have been deliberate that he asked that Benjamin come. And there must have been an easier way to reveal his identity than to wrongly accuse Benjamin of theft.

In spite of whatever resentment Joseph had, he also loved his brothers: he returned the silver they had brought to buy grain. He made sure they had enough, and that his father would have enough. More than that, he tells them that what may have been an evil deed was designed by God to protect life. He offers forgiveness.

Forgiveness is hard. People often say, “forgive and forget”, but it is easier to forgive than to forget. Joseph did not forget. And he makes his brothers squirm. But he does forgive, because he sees that his presence in Egypt has allowed him to save the lives of many people including his brothers and his father. After his brothers have been anxious, they embrace, and he kisses all his brothers. And the relationship is healed: “and after that, his brothers talked with him”.

When people have harmed us, we probably should not forget it: we have learned something about those people. But forgiveness is different: for me at least, it means moving forward from the anger and resentment of whatever harm has been done. This is the case even on occasions when I cannot, like Joseph, find a silver lining to the harm done to me. It allows me to live with myself.

Every Sunday we say the Lord’s Prayer, and ask God to (in the modern translation) “forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us”. How well do we forgive? Maybe it is helpful to remember how Joseph offered forgiveness: he did not allow his brothers to forget that they had harmed him, but treats them with generosity. And life goes forward.

Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 14, August 13,2023: Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28; Psalm 105:1-6, 16-22, 45b; Romans 10:5-15; Matthew 14:22-33

Today’s gospel is the account of Jesus walking on water. Jesus has sent the crowd away, and told his disciples to take the boat to the other side. He goes up alone on the mountain to pray. The boat makes slow progress, because “the wind was against them”. Early in the morning, Jesus starts walking across the sea towards the boat. The disciples, not surprisingly, were initially terrified, but then Jesus spoke to them. Peter asks to be commanded to come to him, and begins also to walk on water. Then he noticed the strong wind, panicked, and started to sink. Jesus reaches out his hand to save Peter, asking, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” And the wind dies down.

As has probably been clear to my readers, I have a soft spot for Peter. He is so human, and he makes so many mistakes. His actions in today’s reading is no exception. First, he wants proof it’s Jesus walking on water: “If it is you, command me to come to you on the water”. When Jesus does, Peter sets off. He makes one mistake: he looks away from his path towards Jesus, and notices the wind which has made the journey so hard. And he starts to sink. He calls to Jesus for help, and Jesus helps him.

I am afraid of heights, but occasionally have found myself hiking at high elevations. And often even on what is not really a mountain, there is sometimes part of a trail where you are on a ledge, or something that reminds me that if I fell, it would be a long way down. I have learned my limits: if there’s a narrow ledge, I stay as far in as I can. I have also learned not to look: if I keep my eyes focused on the path, I’m all right. The friends I hike with are patient, but also remind me to keep my focus.

It is a gift to know where to look, to have a path to follow. As I was thinking about this, I began to reflect on how many young people today suffer from anxiety: not just worry, but paralyzing fear. There are many things for young people to be anxious about: individual issues (financial stability, jobs) and global ones (racism, poverty, war, environmental crisis). In all this, it is sometimes hard to see the path, or know which one to pursue. Anxiety is a rational response.

Peter’s answer when caught in a storm is to call out to Jesus. But when we call out to Jesus, generally the help we need is offered by people around us. Calling on Jesus signals our need for spiritual support; but even in spiritual crisis, many of our needs are very practical. And, because we are in communities, we may call out for help, or we may reach out a hand when we hear a call. We may be able to show the way.

We all face storms in our lives. While it may not often require walking on water, the world can be extremely complicated. Sometimes we will call out. We will also hear others who have called out. We need to listen, and respond when we hear their calls.

Feast of the Transfiguration, August 6, 2023: Exodus 34:29-35; 2 Peter 1:13-21; Luke 9:28-36; Psalm 99 or 99:5-9

Today is the Feast of the Transfiguration, focusing on the moment when Peter, John and James are with Jesus on a mountaintop, where Jesus, as was his wont, had gone to pray. While he was praying, his face is transformed, and his clothes became “dazzling white”. Suddenly they see Moses and Elijah talking with Jesus speaking “of his departure”. As Moses and Elijah “were leaving”, Peter decides they should build three dwellings, for Jesus, Moses and Elijah. At this moment, a cloud descends on them and a voice says, “This is my Son, my Chosen”.

We usually encounter this story on the Sunday before Lent, where it sets us up for Lent and the journey to Jerusalem. Because August 6 falls on a Sunday this year, we encounter it again, and it sits differently in the middle of the parables we have been hearing. There is so much you can say about this story, which appears in the gospels of Mark, Matthew and Luke. Jesus’ face is transformed in prayer, as was Moses’s as he came down from Mount Sinai: “the skin of his face shone because he had been talking to God”. Can we see when people have had a profound experience of God? Or there is one of my favorite subjects, the marvelous cluelessness of Peter; it always comforts me that in spite of how often he gets it wrong, he is the rock on which Jesus will build his church. Another direction is thinking about those moments which have transfigured us, moments when we have been transformed.

But I am struck in this story by the role of community. Even when Jesus goes off to be “on his own”, he takes some of his disciples. He’s not alone. He prays apart, but has a conversation with God. The disciples, though tired, watch. When the disciples see Jesus with Moses and Elijah, they seem to sense that these three are connected, and they want to make it permanent with three shelters.

Today we often talk about spiritual journeys, or our own spiritual journey. Even those of us who are churchgoers often think about our spiritual lives as individual. And that is important: we each encounter God in our own ways. But thinking about Jesus and his various companions-the disciples who accompany him to the top of the mountain, Moses and Elijah chatting with him about his “departure”-makes me wonder if any of us are ever really journeying on our own. Jesus may have been transfigured, but Peter, John and James had a pretty profound experience as well. These days some of our companions may be virtual, whether in books, videos, or online groups, but they are there.

In reflecting on my own spiritual journey, it is made up of people, from the churches I attended as a child to those I’ve attended as an adult; particular writers who spoke to me in ways I needed at a particular time; study groups with whom I shared my deepest hopes and fears; friends and colleagues who have made a difference in my life.

I know I am not alone in this: my friends will tell me about a church they attended, or a preacher, or a prayer group. And it is not just those of us who are church-y. People follow a particular guru, or find a particular writer helps them focus their lives. Ask someone how they became who they are, and they will tell you: they had guidance from a book or teacher, or an online group that supported them.

It is not just that we grow in community; the community responds to us. When Moses came down the mountain with “the skin of his face shining”, the Israelites “were afraid to come near him”; they only came when he called them. He is bringing back what he gained from one conversation to a community. There’s an exchange. Sometimes we are transformed by others, but it’s also possible that we (often unknowingly) transform others.

As we think about the moments that have transformed us, let us remember those who have been part of those transformations, as catalysts and observers. And it is not only Jesus who is with us. It is the saints who have been or are present in our lives. For them, and for the communities which have sustained us, we give God thanks.