Reflections on the Sunday Lectionary

Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 23, October 13, 2024: Job 23:1-9, 16-17; Psalm 22:1-15; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31

“And before him no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account.” Thus the Letter to the Hebrews lays out our vulnerability before God. We cannot hide: we are naked before God, and all our thoughts are visible.

Our reading from Job and the Psalm have a sense of that vulnerability, but also of isolation. Job has given up the patience with which he first bore his sufferings, and is crying out to God. He just wants a chance to place his case before God, certain that if he could, God will justify him. But no such luck: God is nowhere to be found. “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, but I cannot see him.” Job’s despair is understandable.

A similar sense of abandonment shapes the psalm. You may recognize Psalm 22 from the Good Friday liturgy: it is the psalm that Jesus quotes when he is on the cross. The psalmist acknowledges both their sense of abandonment, but like Job, also their faith in God. “O my God, I cry in the daytime, but you do not answer; by night as well, but I find no rest. / Yet you are the Holy One, enthroned upon the praises of Israel.”

When I have gone through hard times, like Job and the psalmist, I have sometimes not felt the presence of God. In retrospect, I suspect that what is crucial is that God was not present in the way I expected, but was in fact present through those who cared for me. But it can be hard to recognize God in the mix of fear, grief, and anger that tends to overwhelm me in those difficult times.

These readings are not particularly comforting; nor is the Gospel. We start with the story of the rich man, who is told that he has to sell all he has and follow Jesus. As I examine my books especially, that is hard to read. Yet when Francis of Assissi heard this gospel, he did give up his goods and follow Jesus. I can confidently tell you, on my authority as a historian, that Francis is in a very small minority. And yet my monastic friends tell me that there is great freedom in not having things.

Jesus does not stop there. He explains to the disciples that they have to cut themselves off from their families to follow him. To say this is hard is an understatement! Sure, riches are promised in both this world and the next. But thinking about the fates of Jesus’ followers, they got the persecutions Jesus promised in this life. Again, I think we can confidently acknowledge that relatively few Christians over the past two thousand years have followed this.

“The word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow”. Thus the Letter to the Hebrews. If our readings from the Hebrew scriptures speak to our experiences of feeling abandoned by God, those from the New Testament speak to the choices we need to make when doing our best to follow Jesus. Those choices are not easy.

There is another part to the story. We know that even when God feels furthest away, God is present. And we know that while we will, like the disciples, often fall short of what we should do to follow Jesus, we can be forgiven, we can try again. The love of God is expansive, and Jesus asks us to separate ourselves from those things that stop us from showing that love in the world. We do what we can.

Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 22, October 6, 2024: Job 1:1; 2:1-10;
Psalm 26; Hebrews 1:1-4; 2:5-12; Mark 10:2-16

There are weeks when I wonder what the people who organized our lectionary were thinking, and this is certainly one of them. We start with Job, who will be our companion for the rest of October. This is the beginning of the story, a fable: Once a upon a time, there was a man in the land of Uz. In the section we skipped, we learn that Job was a wealthy man. He had seven sons and three daughters, and “seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, five hundred donkeys, and very many servants”. One day the “heavenly beings” presented themselves to God, and with them was one called the “Accuser”, also called Satan. His exchange with God is similar to the one we read today: God touts how faithful Job is, the Accuser says, well, sure, he hasn’t suffered, it’s easy to be faithful when things go well. So God gives the Accuser power, but says he can’t physically touch Job.

So suddenly one day, a string of disasters lead to the death of all Job’s livestock, and the death of all his children. Job’s response is to tear his robe, shave his head, and fall on the ground, saying, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return there; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”

And then comes the passage we have here. The Accuser suggests to God that Job can still pray because he hasn’t physically suffered, so we get the sores all over his body. And still he does not curse God.

Job is the story we use to talk about the problem of undeserved suffering, if any suffering is ever deserved. Why, in the words of Rabbi Harold Kushner, do “bad things happen to good people”? Kushner points out that we have two choices: we can think of God as a master manipulator who decides who suffers and who doesn’t, or we can think of God as an observer who will accompany us. I can’t imagine a God who spends their time micromanaging the world, so like most Episcopalians, I choose to think of God as one who observes and accompanies us.

This week I read an interview with Munther Isaac, the pastor of a Lutheran church in Bethlehem.* While the West Bank has seen less violence than Gaza, attacks on Palestinians there have grown. When he was asked about hope, he said he didn’t think about hope right now: “We are just trying to survive and live day by day”. And then he said this: “We pray for deliverance, but the Bible doesn’t promise deliverance. It promises that God will be with us.” It is good to remember the difference..

If Job draws our attention to the problem of suffering, Mark draws our attention to the challenges of faithfulness. Here we have Jesus on divorce, in a passage that has often been weaponized against people, whether those who are divorced, or gay and lesbian Christians. If Job is about suffering, this passage has caused suffering.

But it helps to see it in context: the Pharisees set Jesus up with a question: “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife”. They want to trip him, to show that he is not faithful to the law. Jesus does his usual thing, of asking them a question in response: What did Moses say? Moses allowed men to get a certificate of divorce and divorce their wives. Jesus then says, “Because of your hardness of heart he wrote this commandment for you.” Instead, he suggests the spirit of the law is different. He then speaks of the way marriage joins two people together, becoming one, and says “what God has joined together let no one separate”. These are the words we use in the wedding service, words that affirm marriage as a sacred institution.

That’s all well and good, but then Jesus suggests that those who remarry after divorce are committing adultery. This is the logical consequence of his teaching on marriage. And yet, I don’t think we should read it literally. On a certain level, a second marriage is a betrayal of the promises made in the first. But Jesus recognizes that humans sometimes suffer from “hardness of heart”. Divorce represents a failure of the hope and promises which people bring into a marriage. That is true, and we should not pretend otherwise, however right in other ways a divorce might be. We are, Jesus said, people of hard hearts. Yet this is not meant to exclude or punish those who divorce and remarry: we have hope, after all, that our hearts can open. At the center of Jesus’ ministry is a message of love and radical inclusion. We can acknowledge failure and move forward in hope.

And Jesus follows this with an opening, welcoming the children who have pressed around him. He invites the people around him to come to God not as sophisticated adults, but as children, with open hearts. Children approach the world with wonder and excitement. We can try to do so too.

Somehow, covered with sores, Job still praises God. Like a child, his heart is open. Following Jesus requires us to try to soften our hearts, to open them to the love around us. And to remember that while we may not be spared suffering, God is with us.

* “Palestinian and Christian in a Violent Time“, Interview by Elizabeth Palmer. The Christian Century, October 2024, 48-53.

Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 21, September 29, 2024: Esther 7:1-6, 9-10; 9:20-22; Psalm 124; James 5:13-20; Mark 9:38-50

Three years ago this week in the liturgical year, I started writing these reflections. I have missed a few, but almost every Sunday for the past three years I have written something that bounces off the scripture readings for that day. I have now written through the three year lectionary cycle. My reflections are just that, someone sitting with scripture and trying to make sense of it. Some readings speak powerfully to me, others leave me wondering what I could say. I have been reminded repeatedly how much I am fed by the Hebrew scriptures, and not just the gospel. I probably repeat myself, because I have my pet ideas.

My reflections are always shaped by the state of the world. My first was one very much a “just coming out of COVID” one, reflecting on prayer as a way we stay connected. James’s command to “pray for one another” made me think about the previous 18 months of isolation, grief, and fear. We prayed a lot, but what for? If you don’t think that God is sitting there waiting to hear your prayer and answer your requests, what is it it does? I still think the way we are connected to not just God but to each other is the real gift of prayer. The reminder of our relationship to others, to the world, and to God is so important.

I was struck looking back at my first post that I completely ignored the rest of the week’s readings. And yet the story of Esther is a great story, and the reading for today is the basis for the Jewish celebration Purim, where people get dressed up and really party. That is not and obvious response to the story. Esther, a beautiful young Jewish virgin, is selected by King Ahasueris to replace his former queen, Vashti, who had not obeyed his order. Haman, the King’s advisor, has planned to kill all the Jews and seize their money. Esther learns of the plot, and we read here how she tells the King of it, and saves her people. At the same time, Haman is hanged, and the officials who had planned to kill the Jews are themselves killed. So the Jews are saved, but many others die. And the Jews were to remember this forever, as a a time of “feasting and gladness”.

There are many things I love about the story of Esther, which is very much a story of the marginalized turning the world upside down, triumphing over a corrupt official. In the seventeenth century, one of the responses to a misogynist pamphlet is called “Esther hath hanged Haman”. But reading it today, with a war in the middle east that began when one group carried out a brutal attack on Israelis, I am wondering. That war has led to the almost complete destruction of Gaza by the Israeli military, including schools, hospitals, and homes, and now significant damage in Lebanon. Is total destruction necessary to preserve a people? Do you have to destroy one group of people to protect another? Is there a way to get out of this cycle? How do and should our ethical obligations intersect with political and military calculations? These are not questions with one answer, and people of faith will come to different conclusions.

Pray for one another, James tells his readers. As we do, we are connected. For almost a year, I have been praying for the Israeli hostages in Gaza, but also for the people of Gaza. For years I have prayed for the hungry and homeless, for refugees and migrants, to remind myself of the needs of the world. I have also prayed for friends, for those who have been very ill or have died. At first I found it strange to pray for those I did not know, but as I have done so, I have felt my heart grow.

We are told often how divided we are in the US right now, and almost everyone feels it. I have read impassioned suggestions about how we heal the divide. One way to start is to seriously pray for one another. Pray for one another, and pray for everyone. It is not always easy, but it is what we are told to do.

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 20, September 22, 2024: Proverbs 31:10-31; Psalm 1; James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a; Mark 9:30-37

Today’s reading from Proverbs is one of the ones which makes me want to respond with various snarky comments. A “capable wife” is “more precious than jewels”. No kidding, I want to say. As Proverbs continues with a list of all she does, up at dawn and working into the night, buying land, producing goods, I want to take a nap. She is endlessly industrious, for the good of the family. She is generous to the poor. She is working hard so that her husband can be “known in the city gates, taking his seat among the elders of the land”. He can do so because of her work. But then towards the end of all this busy-ness and activity, comes this: “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue”. Somewhere in all this activity she finds wisdom and kindness.

We do not often see wisdom linked with kindness: when we talk about wise people they know a great deal, but we do not often reflect on how they treat others, or the values that are part of their wisdom. But James is on the same page as the writer of Proverbs as he admonishes his readers to , “show by your good life that your works are done with gentleness born of wisdom”. James knows that this is counter to wordly wisdom: the conflicts he sees come from “envy and ambition”, from covetousness and greed.

James knows that turning away from such ambitions is a challenge; it was as counter-cultural in the first century as it is in the twenty-first. As if to remind us just how hard it is to get out of that ambition/competition mindset, today we have the account of the disciples arguing with each other as to which of them was the greatest. This, as Jesus is trying to explain that he will be killed and will rise again after three days. Jesus slaps them down, telling them that “whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all”. In welcoming a little child, Jesus continues, they will be welcoming him, and welcoming God.

I’ve been puzzling over that: why is welcoming a little child so important? Little children are needy, and can’t care for themselves. Because of their needs, the presence of children makes it difficult to plan, as parents can all attest. So maybe the magic of welcoming children in Jesus name is welcoming the ways we are not fully in control.

If we are honest, it is almost impossible to let go of all the cultural messages we receive about status, money and possessions. I certainly have not done so! But we can work to keep them from governing all our actions. The disciples, after all, ended up traveling long distances to preach the gospel, and faced terrible deaths. We don’t have to be so extreme, but the little children are a big help. By accepting their unpredictable and often immediate needs, we can cultivate wisdom shaped by kindness and gentleness.

Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 18, 8 September 2024: Proverbs 22:1-2, 8-9, 22-23; Psalm 125; James 2:1-10, [11-13], 14-17; Mark 7:24-37

Today’s gospel tells the story of the Syrophoenician woman. Jesus has gone to a house where he hopes for some privacy, time away from the crowds. But people find out where he is, and inevitably come seeking healing. The Syrophoenician woman doesn’t have a name, just an identity. She comes for her daughter, who is possessed by “an unclean spirit”. And Jesus’ first response is somewhat shocking: he tells her that his work is for the Jews, and “it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

Rather than challenging his characterization, the woman accepts it but turns it around: “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” And Jesus accepts her rebuke, and tells her that he daughter is healed.

I always find the first part of this shocking because I like to think of Jesus as welcoming and inclusive, which he generally was. But this week I’ve been thinking about the second part: that he accepted his first response was wrong, and changed. The rebuke came from a gentile, and a woman: who was she to push back? It is a reminder that Jesus was human: he was challenged, and he accepted it. He changed. Our society often honors those who hold fast to their ideas, but it we should honor those who, when faced with new ideas or experiences, are willing to change.

In today’s epistle, James’ message could almost be a commentary on the gospel. He is not here concerned about ethnic and religious exclusion, but about favoritism based on wealth. He thinks his audience has favored the rich. Favoritism, he points out, is not part of following Jesus. More to the point, the rich, through their actions, hurt others. “Is it not the rich who oppress you? Is it not they who drag you into court?”

This is also connected to action: James reminds us that faith is not enough. It does not provide food for the hungry, or shelter for the homeless. And that is what they need, not prayers. “Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead”.

These readings remind us that we are all connected: Jesus is distinguishing between Jews and Gentiles, while James sees Christians favoring the rich over the poor. But to make such distinctions runs counter to the core teachings of both the Hebrew scriptures and of Jesus: to love your neighbor as yourself. And together Jesus and James remind us that inclusion is a work in progress.

May we open our hearts to all, and do what we can to serve their bodies as well as their souls.

Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 16: 1 Kings 8:[1, 6, 10-11], 22-30, 41-43; Psalm 84; Ephesians 6:10-20; John 6:56-69

Solomon has built the Temple, and the ark of the covenant has been brought by the priests to “its place, in the inner sanctuary of the house, in the most holy place, underneath the wings of the cherubim”. And “the glory of the Lord filled the house of the Lord”. This was by no means a foregone conclusion: after all, the Israelites thought that the Lord was in the ark, and up to this moment, the ark had lived in a tent on a cart, moving from place to place. Suddenly a nomadic God is given a home. Solomon’s speech prays that the Lord will stay in put, so that they can turn to the Temple to pray, so they always know where their Lord is. Solomon acknowledges the many other Gods known at the time, but the Lord God of Israel he says, “there is no God like you in heaven above or on earth beneath”. The Temple gives the people of Israel a fixed place toward which to pray, but they need to make sure their God is there so that their prayers are heard.

In the epistle, Paul is concerned about how we clothe ourselves, in the “whole armor of God”. There is a belt of truth, a breastplate of righteuousness, and whatever shoes allow you to proclaim “the gospel of peace”. As someone who can’t wear all the shoes I would like to wear any more, I appreciate the sense that different people need different shoes! Our clothing is completed by the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the spirit, “which is the word of God.” Paul imagines us surrounded by the tools of faith, to protect us from evil and from temptation. The tools of faith are imagined in terms of the uniforms of Roman soldiers.

Paul’s image of our being wrapped in tools of faith helps us think about today’s gospel. Jesus begins by saying that “those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.” You can’t blame the disciples for talking among themselves, and saying “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” Even if you leave out the macabre imagery of eating flesh and drinking blood, it’s hard. What does Jesus mean when he says that he abides in us, and we in him? Is it as literal as what Solomon imagines for the Lord in the Temple? Or not? And how do we abide in someone who abides in us? I am confused; this is a mystery.

But is an important one mystery. Jesus is talking about where we place ourselves, how we locate ourselves with him. Just as Solomon is anxious that they know that the Lord will stay in the Temple, Jesus wants us to stay with him, and he with us. Paul suggests it is easier if we wear “the whole armor of God”. Where are you? Can we own that we abide in Jesus?

Thirteenth Sunday of Pentecost, August 18, 2024 (Proper 15): 1 Kings 2:10-12; 3:3-14; Psalm 111; Ephesians 5:15-20; John 6:51-58

After all the adventures, David has died, and is succeeded by his son Solomon, the second child Bathsheba bore him. Solomon is very pious, and goes to the high places to sacrifice to the Lord. When he went to Gibeon, the “principal high place”, he had a dream. God asked what he should give him. Solomon recounts his fathers long and good leadership, but says he is “only a little child”. He asks for an understanding mind.

Those of us who grew up on fairy tales know that those offers-“I’ll give you your wish”-are often tricks. But Solomon has aced the test, asking for something that will serve others more than him. The Lord promises that he will have “a wise and discerning mind; no one like you has been before you and no one like you shall arise after you.” But, Solomon gets extra, the promise of riches and honor throughout his life. We speak even today of “the wisdom of Solomon”: this is how he is remembered.

Paul also asks his readers in Ephesus to distinguish between wisdom and foolishness. But in a surprising move, Paul contrasts the foolish way of drinking wine (debauchery) with singing: psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. To do this is to give thanks to God. I quite like the idea that singing in community is born of wisdom.

Our first two readings focus on wisdom, being focused on both God and the good of those around you. The Gospel takes us to mystery: Jesus tells his audience that he is “living bread”, and those who eat it will live forever. When there are questions, Jesus doubles down: he tells his listeners that “unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” He repeats this with slightly different words. And then he says, “This is the bread that comes down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live for ever.”

You cannot blame Jesus’ listeners for their questions. What does “living bread” mean? And honestly, the whole idea of eating someone’s body and drinking their blood is not very attractive, aside from being counter to Jewish dietary rules. We live in different planes: we need the literal bread, but we also need to be fed spiritually. But his words point to mystery, the central mystery of the Eucharist. That has, after all, been the subject of debate for centuries.

I struggle a great deal with the apparent exclusiveness of Jesus’ promise: I know many people doing God’s work in this world who would not say they do it in Jesus name. I read Jesus’ promise of life to be about being spiritually alive: being open to the goodness of God’s creation, to give thanks for it, and to engage with it in a spirit of compassion and kindness. This is not a flat experience: there are good days and bad days, periods of time when joy and thanksgiving are a long way away. Some days we just put one foot in front of the other. But if we are spiritually alive, even in those times, we still try to live with compassion and kindness, and we seek to connect to the goodness of creation.

I am just as confused by Jesus’ words today as were those who listened to him 2000 years ago. They are a mystery. But we might follow Solomon and hope for wisdom. Or we can take Paul’s advice, and take pleasure in singing. In doing those things, we keep ourselves spiritually alive. Wisdom may not solve a mystery, but it can help us live with it.

Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 14, August 11, 2024: 2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33; Psalm 130; Ephesians 4:25-5:2; John 6:35, 41-51

Last Sunday in our reading from 2 Samuel, we heard Nathan predict to David that “the sword will never depart from your house”. And this week we see it. We have skipped a lot of the story. In the intervening years, David’s first son with Bathsheba has died; he has another son with her, Solomon. Meanwhile, his oldest son has raped one of his daughters, and his son Absalom killed the rapist. Absalom was banished for a time, was restored, but then set himself up against David, having himself proclaimed King in Hebron. He has rebelled against his father.

Our reading picks the story up just before the decisive battle is to be fought between David and those supporting him, and Absalom and his followers. David does not want Absalom killed, telling them to “deal gently” with him. Absalom’s army is defeated. Absalom is killed: he is caught by a tree while riding a mule, and then killed by soldiers while hanging from the tree. David’s lament, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!” cries out across the centuries, the lament of the parent who has lost a child. In the battle, the soldiers did not care that Absalom was David’s son: they had no mercy on the rebels.

One of the things I love in the Hebrew scriptures is the humanity that shines forth: we may know that the violence in David’s family is the result of David’s actions, but we are asked also to see David as a grieving father. Sin does not render him outside humanity.

Our epistle seems to acknowledge the heavy lessons David has had to learn, and to focus on the positive: what should we do? Paul, in his letter to the Christians at Ephesus, is concerned with the consequences of sin. He offers advice to the congregation. Some of this is obvious: tell the truth, turn from theft to honest labor. Then there is his concern about anger: we can be angry, he says, but we should not sin. Somehow anger can lead to sin. And we should not let the sun set on our anger. “Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander”, Paul advises. “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted.” Paul tells us that sin leads to division and discord, and we should turn from it. Division and discord, the bitterness and wrath that Paul names, become sinful.

It seems to me that the combination of David’s story and Paul’s message speak to us profoundly in the present moment. Both in different ways remind us that our behavior and attitudes, whether in the family, at work, or in the community, have consequences that do not stop with us. It is easy to be righteous about our positions, our views on the world, or what we do on a daily basis. We all want to be right. The newspapers are full of discussions of how divided we are as a nation, and part of that is the certainty of so many of us that we are right; at the same time, those who disagree with us do not just have different ideas, but are bad people.

How do we put away “bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander”? How do we learn to be kind to one another, even tenderhearted? This can be a challenge in families, and in workplaces; it certainly has operated in the church. It is most publicly acknowledged in politics, but politics grows out of everything else. We need to put aside our certainty, and live in some humility: there’s always a possibility that we are not right.

Kindness is an underappreciated virtue. But it is one greatly needed right now.

Eleventh Sunday After Pentecost, August 4, 2024 (Proper 13): 2 Samuel 11:26-12:13a; Psalm 51:1-13; Ephesians 4:1-16; John 6:24-35

This week, more than most, we get the fallout from last week’s readings. It starts with David and Bathsheba: Bathsheba (now just “the wife of Uriah”: she has lost her name) mourns her husband, but David takes her in and marries her, and she bears a son. But the Lord is not happy, and sends the priest Nathan to David. Nathan doesn’t directly tell David off; instead, he tells him a story, about a rich man who seizes the poor man’s ewe to feed a guest, instead of using one of his own. The ewe was the only sheep the poor man had, and he had bought a ewe, which could begin a small flock. David is outraged, and says the rich man “deserves to die”. And then Nathan provides the punchline: you are the rich man. Nathan proceeds to show David just how he had done exactly what the rich man had done in the story. And he will not die, Nathan says, but “the sword shall never depart from your house”. And David admits to Nathan that “I have sinned against the Lord.”

It is important (and useful) to think about Nathan’s words about the future not as a curse, but a prediction. David has taken to violence and subterfuge, and the practices of the head affect everyone: violence and subterfuge become the way people learn to live. Those who have dealt with family conflict know how it circles and reaches out its tentacles in strange ways. And it does it through the generations. We don’t need curses for it to happen: it happens.

It may not be an accident that our psalm today is the Psalm 51: we say this on Ash Wednesday. “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving-kindness; in your great compassion, blot out my offenses.” It recognizes that while we may not have sinned like David, we all have things we’ve done we would rather forget. In the 16th and 17th centuries, it was often said by those about to be executed; for many crimes, men could escape execution and prove their literacy by reading the first verse of it, which came to be known as the “neck verse”.¹ But the psalm turns to hope: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” Also, “Give me the joy of your saving help again, and sustain me with your bountiful spirit”. With God’s help, we can turn to something different.

Our other readings seek to bring listeners to a better way of living. The people fed on the mountain are somewhat annoyed when they wake up in the morning and Jesus and the disciples are gone. How dare they? They find Jesus, but Jesus tells them off: “you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of loaves”. And then proceeds to talk about food that perishes (that bread that goes moldy) and the food of eternal life. At the end of the discussion, Jesus promises, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

I sometimes struggle with the bread metaphor, because it is far too easy to slip between the metaphorical and the real. There are people who believe in Jesus who are starving. And the cynical might say, why worry about feeding people? But if you hold on to the metaphor, Jesus is giving you everything you need to learn how to live your life.

Paul is also advising his followers on how to live life. He tells his readers that “We must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness and deceitful scheming.” We turn away from that (it sounds a lot like David, doesn’t it?) . We live by “speaking the truth in love”, and in that way form a body “as each part is working properly, promotes the body’s growth in building itself up in love.”

Building itself up in love. What a great phrase. It gives life to the idea of the bread of life, which is what allows us to do that. It is how you build community. It is how we build community. Amen.

1. Nerdy footnote on the neck verse: in the middle ages, there was something called “benefit of clergy”, which protected clergy from being executed the first time they committed a crime: they were protected by the church. Since the clergy were basically the only people who could read, reading the neck verse became the proof that you were clergy. As literacy spread, benefit of clergy turned into a first time reprieve for men. It did not apply to women, as they could not be clergy. Those who were reprieved with benefit of clergy were branded, so it was only good once. ↩︎

Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, July 28, 2024: 2 Samuel 11:1-15; Psalm 14; Ephesians 3:14-21; John 6:1-21

This summer we’ve got some of the Bible’s greatest hits. Today is no exception: first, the story of David and Bathsheba, and then John’s account of the feeding of the 5000.

I am interested right now in two characters who are barely given space or voice in these two stories: Bathsheba, and the boy who had the five barley loaves and two fish.

David sees Bathsheba, who is “very beautiful”, finds out who she is, and sends messengers to her. Now, David is the King. When the King sends messengers, you don’t refuse. So, even though she is purifying herself after her period (when she would have been unclean), he “lay with her”. In all this, she is apparently passive and has no power: this is a rape. Her one action is to send a message to David that she is pregnant, and he calls her husband back so the child could plausibly be his. Uriah returns, but does not go to his house. So David ensures that he is killed in the next battle, but can be assumed to be the father of Bathsheba’s coming child.

David is, in all this, pretty terrible. But this week I found myself wondering about Bathsheba: did she love Uriah? Did she have other children? Her message that she was pregnant suggests this was not her first child. Did she enjoy her time with David? What happens to her after Uriah dies? What happens to the child or children? So much of the story is missing: her story doesn’t matter.

In the Gospel, there’s another person I started wondering about: the boy with the loaves and fishes. Were the loaves and fishes for his family? Why did he give them away? What prompted his generosity, which enabled Jesus’s demonstration of abundance? What did his family eat, once their food had been shared among 5000? What did he think about what happened?

For the writers who compiled our scriptures, these questions are, of course, irrelevant. But it’s useful to think about them, because we’re not always the center of the story. We regularly have walk-on parts in other people’s stories. And often we’re not the good Samaritan, but the innkeeper who helps. Or sometimes, like Bathsheba, we’re caught up in events we can’t control. We are, needless to say, the center of our own story, but that’s not always the one that matters.

Bathsheba, in a situation where she could not control things, still made sure David knew his responsibilities. As far as we know, they had no further contact. She did what she could, and she didn’t let David off the hook. Sometimes that’s all we can do: make sure we’ve named what has happened.

The boy in the Gospel has food, and he shares what he has. As far as we know he gets no return. He does what he can. And that’s sometimes where we are: we have something that can help, and we do what we can.

It’s useful to remember that sometimes we are bystanders, who do what we can in often complicated situations. That’s also comforting, because we do not always need to be the heroes. Most of our lives are not heroic. Last week we reflected on encountering Jesus in the everyday, unspectacular way. This week we are reminded that our actions may seem unspectacular, but are no less important.

As we go through life, it is good to know how to remind abusers of their responsibilities, and to do what we can. And it may seem little, but without the generosity of the boy, there would have been nothing to feed the 5000. Miracles often grow from small acts.

Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 10, 14 July 2024: 2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12b-19; Psalm 24; Ephesians 1:3-14; Mark 6:14-29

Two of today’s readings talk about dancing, not exactly the subject you expect in the Bible. And they are very different dances. In our reading from the Hebrew scriptures, we hear the story of the Ark of the Covenant being moved from the house of Abinadab to Jerusalem, the city of David, where David had prepared a new tent for it. The Ark was the holiest item for the Israelites, containting the tablets with the Ten Commandments, and maybe Aaron’s rod and a bowl of manna. It is precious.

The Ark is carried in a new cart, with “the chosen men of Israel, thirty thousand” following led by David. We are told that David and “all the house of Israel” were dancing “with all their might”. We think of dancing as pleasure, but the phrase “with all their might” is repeated later, so it means something important. This is dancing as work, as service, to celebrate the coming of the ark to Jerusalem. They were not dancing in a void: they were accompanied by “lyres and harps and tambourines and castanets and cymbals”. This was noisy. But dancing here was a form of worship and respect, as this was what was due to the Lord.

In the gospel we have a different dance, with a less joyous ending. Mark’s gospel is retrospective: Herod is hearing the news of Jesus’s ministry, and he thinks that John the Baptist has come back to life. And so we hear, in retrospect, the story of John’s death.

John had been Herod’s prisoner, because Herodias, Herod’s wife, is angry that John has told Herod he should not have married her, his brother’s wife. But Herod likes listening to John, and knows “he was a righteous and holy man”. So John is imprisoned, but not executed.

On his birthday, Herod gives a banquet, and his daughter danced for the company. He was so pleased with her performance that he promised her anything she asked. On her mother’s advice, she asks for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. And so John is executed, and his head is delivered to her on a platter.

David danced to celebrate and honor; Herodias uses her daughter’s dance of entertainment as a way to achieve the death of John the Baptist. Dancing is not good or bad, but it can be used in good and bad ways. The same is true of much of what we do. What is the use we put our activities to? Do we do things to praise God? Or to serve our own? Are we acting out of love?

As always, the Bible does not provide a simple message. We cannot say dancing is bad because it led to the death of John the Baptist. But we can say that living with grudges is not good, and acting on them even worse.

As we move forward with the week ahead, may we dance to honor God.

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, July 7, 2024, Proper 9: 2 Samuel 5:1-5, 9-10; Psalm 48; 2 Corinthians 12:2-10; Mark 6:1-13

“Jesus is coming in 2031” the sign held by the street preacher on London’s Oxford Street said. What an odd sign, I thought. Such a strange combination of precision and vagueness. And it was far enough in the future to seem a bit unreal. What am I supposed to do in 2024 to prepare for 2031? But also, if the sign had told me that Jesus was arriving tomorrow, what would I do? I’d probably say that I was unlikely to trust a random guy standing out on the street.

I thought of this man as I read today’s gospel. The Jews of Jesus’ time believed a messiah was coming, but they were not sure when. So when Jesus showed up at his home synagogue, teaching, the response is perhaps predictable. We know this guy, we know his mother, brothers, and sisters. His sisters are with them. “And they took offense at him.” You can imagine their thinking: who did he think he was? why should we believe him?

Jesus, amazed at their unbelief, “could do no deed of power there”. He told his disciples that “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.” And it’s true. Whether it’s our siblings, or people we went to school with, it is hard to let go of who they were when we first knew them.

Jesus’s response is to leave his home, and head to the villages around. Then he asked his disciples to take a risk. He sent them off in twos, ordering them to take nothing for their journeys. They had authority over unclean spirits, and were to go out to preach repentance, heal the sick, and cast out demons.

I imagine the disciples on the road giving much the same impression as the street prophet with whom I began. They come to town and tell everyone to repent. Does anyone listen? Would I? Would you? If not, Jesus has told them to move on.

Like the people of Israel, we struggle to hear the prophets among us. And mostly, we do not want to hear them. But here’s the thing: Jesus is not coming in 2031. Jesus is here, now, asking us to pay attention. And often we don’t: not because we don’t want to, but because we don’t recognize him. Jesus isn’t coming to us like that, is he? The messiah can’t be that guy we knew when! She does not look the way we expect Jesus to look. And so on.

In our baptismal covenant, we are asked to “seek and serve Christ in all persons”. But if we are honest with ourselves, we don’t. And it is not just the poor and needy: we say “all persons”, and I often find it harder to seek Jesus among the rich and powerful. As we go through the week ahead, it is worth thinking about who in the world, near or far, is speaking to us for Jesus. What are we missing because we cannot see Christ in particular people?

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 8 (June 30, 2024): 2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27;
Psalm 130; 2 Corinthians 8:7-15; Mark 5:21-43

Today’s gospel includes two miracles of healing. In the first, there is a woman who has hemorrhaged for twelve years. I always respond to the sentence about her suffering viscerally, I want to speak to her, to tell her how sorry I am, do whatever I can. This is miserable in so many ways, physically and psychologically. And in Jewish society, menstruating women were unclean. The many physicians who had seen her had done no good. Having heard about Jesus, she thinks that just touching his cloak would heal her. And remarkably, it does. It’s an almost invisible exchange in the crowd, and only Jesus is aware of her. He tells her that her faith had made her well. But it was not just her faith: it was Jesus’ power.

“Your faith has made you well” is one of the frequently quoted phrases from Jesus. It has often been used to blame the sick for their illness. But that’s not what Jesus is doing. All of us have known people of great faith who suffered terrible illnesses and despite prayers and the wonders of modern medicine, they were not physically healed. Like the woman in the story, they seek out medical help as well as spiritual help. And they have been healed: they are loved and cared for, and in my experience, are at peace. What faith does is to acknowledge that this is not under our control. The message here is not that faith is enough; but that you go to the doctor and have faith.

Jesus’ power is also called upon in the other miracle story. Jairus has asked Jesus to come heal his sick daughter: he is on his way, followed by a crowd, when the woman touches his cloak. After he had spoken to the woman, people came from Jairus’ house telling him that his daughter was dead. Jesus asks why everyone is mourning, as “The child is not dead but sleeping”. H goes to her room, takes her by the hand, and tells her to get up. And she does.

Both these stories recount miraculous healing. But the woman in the first story is touching a corner of a cloak, unwilling to make demands. Jairus is the leader of the synagogue, and expects to be able to ask Jesus to come. Jesus does not choose between these two people seeking help: he helps both.

These stories remind us of two important things. First, there are different ways to approach Jesus, ways we all take at different times. Sometimes we think we can just about reach the cloak, a reminder of Jesus’ presence. And that can be enough. At other times we need Jesus to come, to be exactly where we want him and take care of what we need. The other is that healing means many things, and happens in ways we do not expect. We need faith.

Fifth Sunday of Pentecost, June 23, 2024 (Proper 7): 1 Samuel 17: (1a, 4-11, 19-23), 32-49; Psalm 9:9-20; 2 Corinthians 6:1-13; Mark 4:35-41

You really can’t blame the disciples. The Sea of Galilee is relatively narrow, but it can still see wild storms. They are in a boat, at night, when the storm comes up. And water is swamping the boat. I think any of us would be afraid. And honestly, with the teacher you admire asleep in the stern, of course you would wake him. If nothing else, you really need help bailing out the boat.

It’s what happens next in Mark’s account that is surprising. Jesus wakes up, “rebukes the wind”, and tells the sea to be still. And the wind dies down, and the storm ceases. There is a dead calm. And Jesus asks them, “Why are you afraid?” This is one of the times when I can imagine all kinds of snappy comebacks from the disciples. It starts with “WHAT just happened?” I can hear a teenager voice responding, “Why do you think?” I mean, it appeared that our boat would sink.

Jesus then asks the question that we continue to ask: “Have you still no faith?” To which my thought is, of course I have faith in you as a teacher, but I had no idea you could control the sea and the wind! Jesus is acting in a setting where we had not imagined his power.

If anything, the story of David and Goliath is even more familiar than that of Jesus calming the storm, and has become a familiar metaphor for seemingly unequal contests. But in our reading today (including the optional bits) we get the set-up. Goliath is introduced: in our text, he is six cubits and a span (roughly 9 ft. 9 in.); in others he is still 4 cubits and a span (6 ft. 9 in)–very tall, but not a giant. His armor is described in terms of the weight of the metal, and he is carrying a bronze javelin. He is, on the face of it, terrifying.

And he is not nice. Instead, he taunts the Israelites, proposing single combat to decide the fate of nations. David inserts himself into this scene, having left his sheep with a “keeper”. He proposes to fight Goliath. Saul resists: David is “just a boy”, and has not been trained as a soldier. David talks back, reminding Saul that he has killed lions and bears while protecting his sheep. David is prepared, he says, but in a different way from Goliath. So Saul gives David his armor, but David can’t move in it, so removes it. So David faces Goliath in his normal clothes, with a staff and a slingshot, and 5 smooth stones in his pouch. Goliath, meanwhile, has a shield bearer in front of him, and is covered with armor.

It is not surprising that Goliath “disdained” David, and he was also clearly insulted that the Israelites had sent someone so unsuited to the task to fight with him. But David reframes the battle. Goliath comes with “sword and spear and javelin”, but David comes “in the name of the Lord of hosts”. And suddenly the contrast works in David’s favor: Goliath draws “nearer” to meet David, but David “ran quickly to the battle line”. His speed is as important as his slingshot: he can get his shot before Goliath attacks.

Just as the disciples did not expect Jesus to calm the waters, it is pretty clear that Saul (and presumably the rest of the Israelite army) did not expect David to be successful. But no one else in the army wanted to face Goliath, so they let David go. In both these stories, the ending is highly improbable. Yet the improbable happens.

The problem for me is that while the improbable sometimes happens, it does not always. And our wanting something improbable does not mean it will happen. It does not mean it will happen even if the improbable will advance the kingdom of God in the world. The reminder that the improbable *does* sometimes happen is also a reminder of how God disrupts our expectations.

“Have you still no faith?” My answer is that I have faith in the risen Christ who died for our sins. I’m not sure I expect Jesus to calm the storm, cool the temperatures, or mitigate the consequences of climate change. Here David and Goliath provide important context: it may have seemed unequal, but David had spent years preparing, building the skills he used to kill Goliath. It is not enough to wish for the improbable to happen: we have to prepare the ground for it.

Fourth Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 6, June 16, 2024: 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13; Psalm 20; 2 Corinthians 5:6-10,[11-13],14-17;
Mark 4:26-34

Samuel goes to find a King for Israel, and the Lord tells him that one of the sons of Jesse the Bethlehemite will be the one. Jesse, called upon to produce his sons, first brings out the oldest. It should be the oldest son, that’s what is expected. Samuel is impressed, but the Lord tells him that this is not the one. “The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” One by one, seven of Jesse’s sons pass before Samuel, but none are chosen. When pressed, Jesse admits that his youngest son is out keeping sheep. David is called. He is described as having beautiful eyes and being handsome. And the Lord tells Samuel, “this is the one”.

How often are we expecting one person to be key when another turns out to be more important? I’m pretty sure Jesse was just as surprised as Samuel that it was his youngest son who was chosen. Many of us know the story that follows: David is a key figure in the history of the people of Israel, called the author of the psalms we say each Sunday. It’s important that Joseph is “of the house and lineage of David”, linking Jesus to this royal line. David matters. As we will see over our readings this summer, David does some things that are noble, and others that are not so noble. But it’s easy to forget that he was not the expected choice. It’s a reminder that, as in the words of William Cowper’s hymn, “God moves in mysterious ways/ His wonders to perform”.

Our gospel reading today tells us of other mysteries: the way the Kingdom of Heaven grows. It is like seeds that we plant: we don’t know how they grow, but they do. And then farmers will harvest them. Or, Jesus tells his disciples, it is like a mustard seed: it grows from a tiny seed to a great bush, big enough for birds to nest in it.

Here’s the thing: in Jesus’ time mustard was not a cultivated crop, but a weed. Mustard will self-seed. You cannot control where it will grow. Farmers might not welcome the appearance of mustard, because it disrupted their plans. We are familiar with the sense that with the Kingdom of God something small becomes something big. But we often forget that the Kingdom of God takes its own shape, and grows where it will and how it will. In spite of the efforts of church administrators over 2000 years, the Kingdom has been deeply resistant to fitting in with their plans. Many of those now revered as saints, after all, were actually finding their own way to live out the Kingdom whether or not the organized church agreed!

We are part of the Kingdom, and we scatter our seeds. We never know which will grow. It may not be the ones we expect, and they may not grow where we think they should. But David was not expected to be the one chosen by Samuel, and the mustard plant sends its seeds all over. Amazing things can happen, if we just let them. We cannot control it, because God does indeed move in mysterious ways.

White mustard, the type native to the Mediterranean.

Third Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 5, June 9, 2024: 1 Samuel 8:4-11, (12-15), 16-20, (11:14-15); Psalm 138; 2 Corinthians 4:13-5:1; Mark 3:20-35

The elders of Israel came to Samuel, and ask to have a king appointed over Israel. Samuel is not happy, but the Lord’s response is that the people “have rejected me from being King over them”. Samuel warns the people that a King will exploit them: take their sons for the military, draft workers to work his land, take daughters to work in his kitchens. He will, Samuel warned, take a tenth of your flocks, “and you shall be his slaves”. But the people are determined: all the neighboring nations have Kings, and they want one too. So Saul became King.

Samuel’s warning about the abuses of power seem prescient, and often get lost in our understandings of scripture. Samuel was right in the history of Israel, as we will read in the Hebrew scriptures over the course of this summer. He was right also in history, in our experience. Whether the petty tyranny of a manager or the use of power by those in positions of political authority, we have all seen the way power (even very little power) can go to people’s heads.

The Lord’s reminder in this is that the Lord should be King: the Lord is the one who should exercise power. I am not sure that we, like the Israelites, actually want to have the Lord as King. It can be a bit terrifying. Why that is so is evident in today’s reading from Mark’s gospel.

When our reading opens, Jesus has just healed a man with a shriveled hand on the Sabbath, and has appointed his disciples with power to cast out demons. The crowds are uncertain, and some say that Jesus himself is possessed by demons. His response rejects that idea, but is still challenging.

Jesus denies that he is possessed, for “How can Satan cast out Satan”? In the words that Abraham Lincoln quoted in his House Divided speech in 1858, “A house divided against itself cannot stand”. So Satan could not fight Satan.

Even more important than Jesus emphasis on unity, is Jesus’ comment on family. His mother, brother and sisters have come for him, concerned for his safety. Jesus asks who are his family. Then he affirms one of the more radical elements of his teaching: “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

The family was the basic social unit of Palestinian society. In rejecting his birth family, and creating a new family, Jesus was challenging the social order. He is also challenging us. Are we ready to think of “whoever does the will of God” as a member of our family? Episcopalians in the Diocese of San Joaquin have experienced divisions among Christians, among those who all claim to do the will of God. Can we reflect God’s love with our divisions?

Together, today’s readings ask us to think about how we see ourselves in the world. What is our relationship to structures of power? Do we open ourselves to all who do the will of God, or do we live in the cocoon of our family? Do we live in a bubble of people who largely agree with us? Do we see those who understand God differently as members of our family? I suspect that few of us are completely open to those who do God’s will. And this is perhaps a reason we are not eager to have the Lord as a King over us: an earthly King may abuse us, but will not challenge the way we live our lives as much as Jesus does.

Trinity Sunday, May 26, 2024: Isaiah 6:1-8; Romans 8:12-17; John 3:1-17; Psalm 29

It is a fearful thing to see God. God reveals themself to Moses through the burning bush; even when delivering the commandments, Moses does not see God’s face. When Isaiah sees the Lord, sitting on his throne, he is distraught: “Woe is me!”

Today is observed as Trinity Sunday, the day when we focus in particular on the central mystery of Christianity: the idea of “God in three persons”: one God, with three aspects. I grew up with “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit”; not all families, however, are healthy, and that language can be difficult for some. Some now use “Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer”, which provides a functional description, if not exactly a person. I find both helpful, but also reminders of the fundamental mystery of three “persons” making one God, one God with three aspects. It’s not surprising that there are Jewish and Muslim theologians who doubt that Christianity is a monotheistic religion.

I don’t pretend to understand the Trinity, but reading Isaiah this week, I wondered if the fear he expresses is a clue. It is, after all, easier to see the face of Jesus than the face of God. The concept of the Trinity to some extent makes God more accessible. When we see Jesus, we are reminded, we are seeing God. One of the ways I find the Trinity helpful as a concept is that there is always at least one person of the Trinity with whom I feel a relationship. Sometimes it’s Jesus, sometimes it’s the Creator God, occasionally it’s the Spirit.

Paul reminds us in his letter to the Romans that we are “children of God”. As children of God, we are, *with Christ*, God’s heirs. That places us in a special place in relation to Jesus, but also in relation to each other. Anyone with siblings knows that being siblings is not a guarantee of getting along, or liking each other. But most of the time, we understand our connection to them, and often, our shared histories and mutual obligations.

The Trinity is a mystery. But it is a mystery that holds us together. May we hold the mystery in our hearts, and always grow in our relationship with God: three in one and one in three.

Pentecost, 19 May 2024: Ezekiel 37:1-14; Acts 2:1-21; John 15:26-27; 16:4b-15; Psalm 104:25-35, 37

The spirit descended on the house. “And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each.”

At a former church I attended, we read the reading from Acts in many languages: we started with ancient Greek, ended with English, but we used all the languages known by church members. You heard the cacophany. It wasn’t that easy to pick out any one language, though.

Recently I’ve wondered if what really happened was that people heard what they needed to hear, if what was preached spoke to their varied needs and feelings. That is no more miraculous than the multiple languages, but speaks to the ways we hear the words of the gospel in different ways at different times.

In Ezekiel’s account of the Valley of the Dry Bones, bodies are not fully alive until they receive the spirit. We need the spirit, which comes among us on the day of Pentecost.

Amen.

7^th Sunday of Easter, May 12, 2024: Acts 1:15-17, 21-26; 1 John 5:9-13; John 17:6-19; Psalm 1

There are Sundays when parts of the readings are difficult to reconcile with life as we know it. John’s gospel today is primarily Jesus’s prayer before his ascension: directed to God, it is spoken aloud so the disciples hear it. Jesus asks God to “protect them. . .that they may have my joy made complete.” Insofar as we know the fates of the disciples who are listening to this, they were executed for their work in spreading the gospel of Jesus. So whatever protection God offered, it did not protect them from a terrible death. And what is the joy that has been made complete? And then Psalm 1: “Happy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked”. Really?

The problem is that we can point to any number of examples in the world today of people who have most certainly not walked in the counsel of the wicked who are far from happy, and certainly have not been protected. Whether victims of war in Gaza, Sudan, or Ukraine; victims of environmental disaster around the globe, we can point to people who have lost loved ones, or homes, or communities through no fault of their own, other than living where they live. And yet, we always find amidst the despair signs of hope.

The promises John makes are not, of course, focused on physical experience as much a spiritual experience. You may face danger, and loss, but the protection is that you are not alone: God is with you. God may manifest themself to you through people who care for you or help you, or even just show that they recognize your suffering. Those who have suffered profound loss, for instance, often talk about the importance of feeling not just God’s presence and love, but also practical assistance from those who show up.

In recent weeks, students concerned about the war in Gaza have set up tent camps at many colleges and universities. While they have demands focused on the divestment of university funds from Israel, the immediate impulse is simply to do something to call attention to the unimaginable suffering of the people of Gaza: 35,000 dead, thousands of children left without surviving parents, all hospitals and universities destroyed. It feels important to many to show that this suffering is seen.

The joy and happiness that we read about in today’s gospel is not, of course, the casual happiness that we so often talk about, or recognize on social media with confetti. It is rather joy and happiness of the spirit, grounded in relationship with God and Jesus. It is the knowledge of that connection that carries us through. We are not protected from bad things; we are protected from being alone. May we always feel God’s presence with us.

Sixth Sunday of Easter, May 5, 2024: Acts 10:44-48; 1 John 5:1-6; John 15:9-17; Psalm 98

Today’s readings focus on inclusion, community, and friendship: these are things the Church talks about a lot, but does not always act on. In Acts we hear Peter preaching to a mixed audience of Jewish Christians and Gentiles. A big controversy among the followers of Jesus in the early years was who could be a part of the movement. Jesus was a Jew, and his disciples were Jews. He presented himself, and his disciples understood him, as a fulfillment of the Hebrew scriptures. Was his gospel only for the Jews? Or for everyone? Paul had always been preaching to the Gentiles, but Peter was the apostle to the Jews. Peter was not as conservative as some, who held that to be a Christian you had to be circumcised and keep the rabbinic laws. But he still maintained a separation between Jewish Christians and Gentile Christians. The final agreement for inclusion is recorded at a Council in Jerusalem recorded in Acts 15.

In today’s reading from Acts, we hear the end of the story where this is in play. The story actually starts with Cornelius, a Roman officer in Caesarea, having a vision of an angel, who tells him where to find Peter, who is staying in the nearby town of Joppa. At the same time, Peter has a vision: he is hungry, and the vision is of many creatures, with the command to “kill and eat”. Peter asserts he has never eaten anything unclean. The voice tells him that “what God has made clean, you must not call profane” (10:15). When Cornelius’ men come to find him, he hears a voice from God telling him to go with them. He goes, along with some of the believers in Joppa. At Cornelius’ house, there are the members of his household and others.

Almost the first thing Peter says at Cornelius’ house is “You are well aware that it is against our law for a Jew to associate with or visit a Gentile. But God has shown me that I should not call anyone impure or unclean.” (10:28) Cornelius asks to hear “everything the Lord has commanded you to tell us”. So Peter unfolds the Gospel, from John the Baptist, to the ministry of Jesus, to his death and resurrection. While Peter preaches, the Holy Spirit descends on his listeners, even the Gentiles, who were speaking in tongues and extolling God. So Peter orders that they be baptized. The answer about inclusion at this moment ended up being simple: if the Gentiles could hear the Gospel, they could be baptized. Peter had learned that he “should not call anyone impure or unclean” (10:28). Cornelius was changed, but so was Peter.

In the Epistle, we are reminded of our community with other Christians: if we are children of God, we love all the other children of God. And then in John’s Gospel, in his final instructions to his disciples, Jesus commands them to “love one another as I have loved you”. He continues, “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

This is all difficult. It is very difficult to love all of God’s children. Furthermore, we are much more likely to be willing to lay down our lives for our families, not our friends. Many of us have close friends about whom we care deeply. But I would be surprised if many of us think of ourselves as being willing to die for them. What we do is talk about friends who are “like family”. We try to incorporate close friends into family. But Jesus calls out friendship, a chosen relationship outside the structures of society, as central. His disciples are not a pseudo-family, they are friends.

What would it mean to elevate friendship to the highest level of importance? What would it mean for the church not to describe itself as a family, but a group of friends? What would it mean for us to accept that we should be willing to die not for our families, but for our friends? What would it take for us to accept the challenge to love all the other children of God? What would it take for us to actually welcome everyone in our churches? Probably as much as it took for Peter to accept that Cornelius and his household and friends should be baptized!

But it is possible. It was possible for Peter, so it is for us. For, as the Psalm reminds us, we can “Sing to the Lord a new song, for he has done marvelous things.”

Fourth Sunday of Easter, 21 April 2024: Acts 4:5-12; 1 John 3:16-24; John 10:11-18; Psalm 23

This Sunday is known as Good Shepherd Sunday: we read not only the passage from John describing the work of the good shepherd but the comforting words of Psalm 23. So it’s useful to think about shepherds.

The first time I preached, it was on Good Shepherd Sunday. I had been called by one of the then wardens of my church on Tuesday, and asked to preach Sunday. It would be a difficult Sunday. Our rectors, a married couple, were about to start a scheduled sabbatical. However, on Maundy Thursday we had learned that their marriage had broken down. Both would be present on Sunday, but obviously they were in no state to preach jointly, and you couldn’t have just one. To say that the congregation was traumatized would be an understatement.

Yet if you are ever in such a situation, there is not a better set of readings. Every time this Sunday turns around, I am reminded of their importance. “The Lord is my shepherd”, the psalm proclaims. “There will be on flock, one shepherd”, John reports Jesus saying.

Here’s the thing: in our daily lives we easily forget this. We mistake individuals in our lives for the good shepherd. Parents, leaders, charismatic writers & preachers: we substitute our relationship with them for our relationship with God. The church delegates to the clergy and bishops the pastoral role: pastor is the Latin for shepherd. Like the good shepherd, they care for and protect their sheep. Congregations become deeply attached to their clergy, but the clergy always move on. And always, we need to be reminded: the good shepherd is still God, not any of the humans who try to carry out God’s will.

The letter of John takes this a step further. It reminds us, as does John’s Gospel, that Jesus laid down his life for us, so by this we know love. We should follow suit, and “love one another”. Yet that love is not a feeling, but an action. “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?” We show love, John’s letter tells us, by “truth and action”.

The fact that the Lord is our shepherd is a great comfort: there is a reason that the 23rd psalm is regularly read at Jewish and Christian funerals. It reminds us we are cared for and protected. We can remember that “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me.” Because of that, we can also do our best to love one another, “in truth and action”. But also because of that, we can accept not only our inevitable failures, but those of the people we rely on.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Amen.

The Good Shepherd, in Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church, Merced, CA. Photo by Rev. Gail Bernthal

Second Sunday of Easter, April 7, 2024: Acts 4:32-35; 1 John 1:1-2:2; John 20:19-31; Psalm 133

I observe this every year on this Sunday, but the story of Thomas is one that is sufficiently important that those who constructed the lectionary have us read it every year the Sunday after Easter. So it behooves us to pay attention.

Thomas often gets a bad rap: he insisted that he could not believe without seeing Jesus, just as his friends had. Jesus to some extent starts this, saying “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Given that the Gospel of John was written fifty or more years after the events it describes, most of those reading them would not have seen the risen Jesus: Jesus’ words speak to them. But in the early years, it is precisely the witness of the apostles that is important. In Acts, we hear that “With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus”. In 1 John, we are told that John is declaring “what we have seen with our eyes”. It mattered that the first people to tell the story had seen the risen Jesus.

Thomas wants to see the risen Jesus, and does so; he then offers the powerful affirmation, “My Lord and my God!” Thomas, like the other disciples, goes off to preach; he is said to have established the church in India. We have two apocryphal documents said to be his writings: The Infancy Gospel of Thomas, and the Gospel of Thomas. Thomas was an important part of the early Jesus movement.

What interests me this year about Thomas — building on what I wrote last week for Easter–is the role of community in the events following Easter, as well as in all our readings today. All the stories about the aftermath of Jesus’ crucifixion show his followers seeking each other out. After all, Jesus’ purported crime, claiming to be King of the Jews and thus in opposition to Rome, implicated all his followers in political disloyalty.

So it is no wonder that when Jesus first appears to his disciples, they are huddled together in a locked room. He shows them his scars, he wishes them peace, and breathes the Holy Spirit on them. Thomas isn’t there. And he’s missed a big event for the group. So it’s not altogether surprising that he has his doubts. He wants to share the experience with his fellows. Shared experience is a critical part of community.

This search for community is not limited to the apostles. Today, after shocking events, there are often communal gatherings or vigils. The wake after someone’s death, or sitting shiva in the Jewish tradition, are reminders that when hard things happen, we need each other.

The role of community extended beyond the immediate aftermath of Jesus’ death. Acts tells us that the early Christians shared everything in common, so “there was not a needy person among them”. Those who were wealthy sold all they had and brought the proceeds to the community. They lived as a community, not as individuals. They knew they needed each other, so they helped each other. It is a striking contrast to the individualism of so much of US society today, and we can learn from it.

The Psalm proclaims, “Oh, how good and pleasant it is, when brethren live together in harmony.” Indeed it is. Amen.

Easter, March 31, 2024: Isaiah 25:6-9; Acts 10:34-43; Mark 16:1-8; Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

The journey of Holy Week is intense. We walk with Jesus and his friends through triumph and despair. Thursday night and Friday, I find, are devastating. Watching the stripping of the altar, attending a service in a church empty of all its usual decorations, both provide a physical reminder of the terrible things that happened to Jesus. The gospel narratives are all in the third person, so we can only imagine what is in the minds of Jesus and of his followers.

What we do know is that after Jesus was crucified and buried, his followers were both frightened and grieving. They spent time with each other. This is what we do when we grieve: we try to surround ourselves with others.

Today’s gospel makes this clear: in Mark’s account, Mary Magadalen, Mary the mother of James, and Salome go together to annoint the body-to do the things they did not have time to do before the sabbath. They are doing what needs to be done, but they are not alone. And they are together when they are told the news of the resurrection, and told to give instructions to the others to go meet Jesus in Galilee.

We live in a society that is very focused on the individual. But when things are difficult, we need each other. We need community. We saw this in the hardest parts of the pandemic, when all sorts of groups of friends sought each other out for conversation and community: it may have been online, but it was necessary. The good thing about going through the hard times together is we can celebrate together.

So today, we celebrate.

He is risen!

He is risen indeed!

Palm Sunday/The Sunday of the Passion, March 24, 2024: Mark 11:1-11 or John 12:12-16; Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29; The Passion: Isaiah 50:4-9a; Philippians 2:5-11; Mark 15:1-39; Psalm 31:9-16

Today we experience what I’ve come to think of as whiplash Sunday: we begin with the joyous procession into Jerusalem with palms, and end with the death of Jesus on the cross. These are two familiar gospel stories, but back to back it’s always a bit discombobulating. We are presented with the readings as if it’s two separate services, the Liturgy of the Palms and the Passion, but we do them together.

So it is useful to turn to the other readings we do to get some perspective. Our reading from the Hebrew scriptures in the Passion part of the service is from Isaiah. Isaiah says he has been given “the tongue of a teacher”. And the Lord God “wakens my ear to listen as those who are taught”. So we need to listen. In Philippians, Paul reminds us that Jesus “did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited”.

These are not obvious movements. Those of us who are teachers, in any way, how do we learn to listen as those who are taught? How do we turn ourselves into our students? How do we hear as they hear? What is it we hear? And even more, how do we not take our positions–maybe not equality with God, but in the world–and not exploit it? These are challenges.

If we listen, pretending we do not know what we know, we hear a movement from celebration to tragedy. We hear failures of courage, but we also see people angling for personal power and position. In a section we did not read, Jesus is betrayed by Judas. Peter denied knowing Jesus. Pilate knew Jesus did not deserve to be crucified, but went along to oblige the crowd. There were failures to go around. We hear how quickly we can move from triumph to grief.

Most of us have not suffered as Jesus suffered. If we have, we have not done so willingly. But most humans, at a certain point, have suffered. We know that happiness and joy are transient, that life will also include grief and sorrow.

Of course, we know the end of this story. We know that Jesus will rise from the grave. We know that through his death and resurrection we are saved. But we need to get from here to there. That is what we do in the coming week.

Still, as we go through this process, we can listen. When we experience pain and suffering, Jesus was there too. We are not alone. In the week ahead, we walk with Jesus on a road that leads to the cross. This week, our job is to be there, and know that we are not alone.

Fifth Sunday of Lent, March 17, 2024: Jeremiah 31:31-34; Hebrews 5:5-10; John 12:20-33; Psalm 51:1-13

“I will put my law within them, and I will write it in their hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be my people.” (Jeremiah 31:33)

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

Our readings today include Jesus telling his disciples of his impending death. But they also give us hope. In Jeremiah, we hear God’s promise of a new kind of covenant, one in our hearts. God promises that the Israelites will not need to be taught about God, but will all know him. Furthermore, “I will remember their sin no more”. If God is in our hearts, he is always there, and we are never alone.

In the passage from John, Jesus never responds to the Greeks who want to see him, but in the midst of his last sermon in John’s gospel, he reminds us of the way things that seem like losses actually multiply. Jesus’s example, and that of the saints who have followed him, mean that we get to be the many grains of wheat that come from one that died. We take their example, and do our work in the world. I have found that kindnesses beget other kindnesses. Today we talk about paying it forward, but that is how one act of generosity leads to others.

Next Sunday we will read the story of Jesus’s passion, and move into Holy Week. We will hear again of Jesus’s last meal with his disciples, his arrest and trial, and his death on the cross. And in two weeks, we will proclaim with confidence, “He is risen”. In the meantime, may we know God in our hearts, and may we find ways to be the fruits of the wheat that has died, and spread God’s love with all who we encounter.

Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 10, 2024: Numbers 21:4-9; Ephesians 2:1-10; John 3:14-21; Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22

Today our gospel includes John 3:16, which for many evangelical Christians is the central text of their faith: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” I remember my surprise when one of my students, a faithful evangelical, tested my Christian identity with it. I failed: I was a good Episcopalian who had never been told that John 3:16 was the be all and end all. But I’ve come to appreciate it. The promise of eternal life for believers is powerful.

But this is not the only gospel passage that talks about salvation and eternal life. If there was a proof text in my church growing up, it would have been not a verse, but a passage, Matthew 25:34-40:

‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world, for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’  Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you or naked and gave you clothing?  And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.’

One major strand of theological debate over the past 2000 years has been about the relationship of these two passages, both of which promise eternal life. Is it faith, or is it works? Is it what you believe, or is it what you do, how you treat “the least of these”.

It seems obvious to me that in some ways the answer is both. And that it works both ways. For some, like Francis of Assissi, belief turns us to serving others. For some of us it works the other way: serving others gives us a glimpse of God that supports belief. In either case, faith and works are not in opposition.

The rest of the passage in Matthew is perhaps more challenging than the first part. After all, we can all feel good about the times we have helped “the least of these”. We’re fine. Or maybe not:

Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘You who are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels, ⁴² for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, ⁴³ I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ ⁴⁴ Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison and did not take care of you?’ ⁴⁵ Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ ⁴⁶ And these will go away into eternal punishment but the righteous into eternal life.” (Matt. 25:41-46)

Most of us at some point have not helped someone who needed help, whether a homeless person on the street, or someone begging for money, or someone else. And we’ve always had a good reason: our own resources and needs, time, or even fear.

When I acknowledge my failures, I am deeply grateful for the simple promise of John 3:16. But I always try to keep myself in mind of Matthew’s words too. They give me guidance in my life.

This post is in memory of Susan Pickles, who quizzed me on John 3:16, but was eventually surprised that I cared about scripture. In 1997, her husband killed her and her two children as she sought a divorce.

Third Sunday in Lent, 3 March 2024: Exodus 20:1-17; 1 Corinthians 1:18-25; John 2:13-22; Psalm 19

I always find it interesting how a Sunday’s readings echo and connect to each other. Today is particularly striking. It is the middle of Lent, and we are reminded in today’s Psalm that “the Heavens declare the glory of God”. We also read the Ten Commandments. The pairing reminds us that God’s commandments are tied to the glory of God: we obey them in part because of the world God created. The psalmist also tells us that “the law of the Lord is perfect”, and the Lord’s statutes are just and “rejoice the heart”. “The commandment of the Lord is clear and gives light to the eyes”. Law here is not punitive, but part and parcel of the goodness of the Lord.

The conversation between readings continues as we move from the Hebrew scriptures to the gospel and epistle. Today’s gospel is John’s account of Jesus throwing the merchants and money changers out of the temple. In doing so, Jesus implicitly turns back to the commandments we have read in Exodus: the center of worship is God, and all the buying and. The problem in the Temple is not the worship of God, it is everything else that is happening.

Paul reminds us that the message that Jesus offers makes no sense to the two audiences Paul is most interested in: Jews and Greeks. For Jews, Jesus’ death on the cross–an ignominious end if ever there was one–is the stumbling block. For the Greeks, it is foolishness: Jesus does not enter the wisdom tradition in the way they expect. And if we forget what we know, the message is indeed foolish: God came in the form of a man who died on the cross? Jesus told us to treat everyone as if they were him? We really have to treat everyone as if they might be Jesus? Everyone?

While Christianity has spread worldwide, the central message of love Jesus preaches can still feel foolish. Most Christians don’t do it. Churches have a long tradition of deciding who is worthy of love, or of help. They always have (and had) reasons for doing so, just as those who set up their stalls in the Temple had reasons to do so. But Jesus calls us back to the center, just as he did in the Temple.

So, the challenge is how will we be foolish this week?

Second Sunday in Lent, February 25, 2024: Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16; Romans 4:13-25; Mark 8:31-38; Psalm 22:22-30

Today Bishop David Rice joined us, and in his sermon, reflected on the gospel. Today’s gospel from Mark is one of the hard ones, where Jesus tells his disciples that those who wish to follow him must “deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me”. It’s a reminder that this is a hard road. Or, as the bishop quoted G.K. Chesterton, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried.” The true gospel, Bishop David suggested, could be summed up by “Love everyone, help everyone”.

So how do we follow this road? I think the other part can be glimpsed from thinking about the readings from Genesis and from Paul’s letter to the Romans. Our reading from Genesis is one where we hear God making a covenant, a promise, to Abraham. Part of that promise is that he will be the ancestor of a multitude of nations: a wild promise to a 99 year old man with no children, whose elderly wife is past menopause! But it’s a promise that comes true.

Paul, in his letter to the Romans, reflects on that promise and reminds us that the promise to Abraham is not provisional: it is a result of Abraham’s faith in God’s promise, a faith that ignores the improbability of its fulfillment. Similarly, it is our faith in the risen Christ that offers us salvation.

Why does this matter? Because it is very hard to love everyone, let alone to help everyone. We live in a society that defines itself by opposition: I’m for this and against that, I support these people, I hate those. We are told that the level of polarization in the US today is higher than at any time other than just before the Civil War in 1861. Can we love those whose values are not just different from ours, but opposite to ours? Can we help everyone who needs it? We can try. But it is indeed a cross, a hard road to follow. As Chesterton noted, it is difficult.

We should love everyone and help everyone. That’s the gospel. It’s not a feeling, it’s an action. We try to love and help because of our faith in Jesus. The promise of today’s readings is that when we fail (and we all fail, trust me) it is not the end of the story. Our faith is what saves us.

First Sunday in Lent, February 18, 2024: Genesis 9:8-17; 1 Peter 3:18-22; Mark 1:9-15; Psalm 25:1-9

A few weeks ago, after one of our recent rains, I went outside and saw a rainbow in the sky. I don’t think I’ve ever lived somewhere where I see as many rainbows as I do in Merced: there’s something about how many systems move across the valley that we routinely get rainbows. That, we are told in the story of Noah, is a promise from God, that God will never send a flood “to destroy the earth”.

This promise is an interesting one to be reminded of on the first Sunday of Lent. Mark’s version of the temptation of Jesus is brief, just one sentence. “He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.”

What does God’s covenant with us, symbolized by rainbows, have to do with the temptation of Jesus in the wilderness? Why did the organizers of the lectionary put these readings together?

We live in a world surrounded by temptation. The most mundane (and common) for most of us is consumption. In a world of fast fashion and cheap stuff, it is really to convince yourself that some appliance, pair of shoes, or outfit will actually change our lives. One year my Lenten discipline was not to look at any of the many catalogs that regularly arrive in my mailbox, trying to convince me that I need one thing or another: by the end of Lent, I was much clearer on what I did and did not need. Other temptations are more subtle, but reflect the rewards that come from playing up to the powers that be.

Jesus, Mark tells us, was tempted by Satan and was with the wild beasts; but also, angels waited on him. The angels here feel to me like the rainbow, a promise that God has not abandoned you.

As we enter into Lent, it is worth remembering all parts of this: God’s promise in the rainbow, Jesus being tempted, and the angels waiting on him. It is worth asking what temptations we are facing, major or minor, but also where we find angels waiting on us. Who is serving as an angel in our lives?

Last Sunday after Epiphany, February 11, 2024: 2 Kings 2:1-12; 2 Corinthians 4:3-6; Mark 9:2-9; Psalm 50:1-6

We end up here every year at the end of Epiphany: up on the mountaintop, with some of the disciples seeing Jesus in glory. The accounts in the gospels of Mark, Matthew and Luke are largely similar: the disciples are always Peter, James and John. While jesus is praying, his clothes become dazzling white. The disciples see Jesus with Moses and Elijah. Peter always suggests they make dwellings for Jesus, Moses and Elijah; a cloud covers the sky and they hear God’s voice saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!”. Then the cloud disappears, and they are alone with Jesus on the mountain. The disciples are terrified. There are more words in Matthew and Luke than in Mark, but it’s the same story. And whether Jesus orders their silence (in Mark and Matthew) or they just don’t tell, it is not talked about afterwards.

What are we to make of this? One way to think about it is that it makes sense that the last Sunday of Epiphany, a season that focuses on Jesus revealing himself, we get a story of his most dramatic revelation, one that links him with Moses and Elijah, who would have been for his disciples important prophets.

This probably meant something different for Jesus than for his disciples. Jesus often went up on mountains to pray, generally either alone or with a few of his followers. For Jesus, we can imagine that this is an experience that confirms his ministry and his path forward: he knows he is going in the right direction.

For his disciples, I imagine it would have been both energizing and terrifying. To see Jesus, their rabbi, with Moses and Elijah would have confirmed to them that they had chosen the right leader. The three dwellings that Peter proposes would have been a permanent representation of Jesus’ place among the great prophets of the Hebrew scriptures. If it was affirming to see Jesus with Moses and Elijah, it was terrifying to hear God’s voice. Matthew tells us (17:6) that “they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear”.

Thinking about this story, it seems to me that we are with the disciples. We know from the message that we have from Jesus that this is a good place to be: following Jesus is good for us and for the world. But it is also terrifying. More than anything, the response of the disciples to the Transfiguration is a reminder that this is not necessarily an easy path. Jesus changes our lives, and that is never easy.

Our reading from the Hebrew scriptures reminds us that the difficulty of following God and serving the Lord has never been easy. Elijah tries to convince Elisha not to come with him. Elisha insists: his final wish from Elijah is to inherit a double share of Elijah’s spirit. Elijah warns it is a hard thing, which Elisha will receive if he sees him as he is taken from him.

Most of the people of Israel were not Elijah or Elisha. Most of those who followed Jesus did not leave everything behind. We draw attention to saints because most of us are not saints. It’s too hard. But it always helps to look, and to think about how we can, even in limited ways, be good disciples.

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, 4 February 2024: Isaiah 40:21-31; 1 Corinthians 9:16-23; Mark 1:29-39; Psalm 147:1-12, 21c

Last Monday on X (formerly known as Twitter) Elmo asked a simple question: “How is everybody doing”? At this point, there are 19,000 responses, which range from stories of grief and loss to existential dread. People are clearly not well. I thought of this as I read today’s gospel. Jesus goes to the home of Simon and Andrew, where Simon’s mother-in-law has a fever. He took her by the hand and lifted her up, and the fever left her. This made it possible for her to serve her guests. (That’s one of those comments that I always wonder about!)

It turns out it was not just Simon’s mother-in-law who needed help. At sundown (the end of the sabbath) all who were sick and possessed of demons came to be healed. “The whole city” was gathered. People were not well. They needed help. And Jesus cured the sick, and cast out many demons. But the next morning, he went off to a deserted place to pray. When he was joined by his disciples, they wanted him to go back: there were more in need of help. Jesus said no: he needed to move on. He needed to preach in other towns. He knew what road he had to follow.

Jesus is a model for those in the helping professions: he has a clear sense of his mission, and he does not allow himself to get sidetracked by the needs or ideas of others. He has as we say in contemporary parlance, “good boundaries”. Paul also has a clear idea of his mission: it is to spread the gospel. So while Paul’s account of how he changed to meet the Jews, those under the law, and those outside the law may make it look as if he has no center, he does. His center is his mission to spread the gospel. If he has to fit in different worlds to do so, he will.

What road are you on? What road are we on together? How do we stay with that road as life pushes us in one way or another, or when we, like Elmo and Jesus, get overwhelmed with the needs of others? Our readings today do not tell us it will be easy, but Isaiah promises that the Lord “gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. We need to always know what our core mission is, what road we are traveling.

Fourth Sunday after Epiphany: Deuteronomy 18:15-20; 1 Corinthians 8:1-13; Mark 1:21-28; Psalm 111

The season of Epiphany is one where Jesus is revealed. Over the past two weeks, we have heard stories of Jesus calling his disciples. Today we hear another story, of Jesus preaching at Capernaum. There “he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes”. So there was something different in his teaching.

At Capernaum he also confronts a man who had “an unclean spirit”. When the man cried out, Jesus rebuked the spirit, saying “‘Be silent, and come out of him!’” The onlookers were amazed, both at his teaching with authority and his ability to command an unclean spirit.

We do not, in the Episcopal church, say much about authority. And yet we need to know how to recognize authority, and identify those who claim authority with no justification. Who do we believe? In an era of artificial intelligence and fake news, this is not a trivial question. Just this morning I read about a set of websites that use AI to create fake obituaries after sudden deaths. In one case, they even falsely said that a young man who died in an accident had been murdered.

Recognizing authority is not a new problem. In today’s reading from the Hebrew scriptures, Moses tells the people of Israel that there will be other prophets who follow him. The Israelites are warned that if they do not heed a prophet sent by the Lord, they will be held accountable; on the other hand, prophets who speak in the name of other gods, or who have not been sent by the Lord, “that prophet shall die”. The Lord reminds people that they have to recognize who really speaks for the Lord.

Obviously, recognizing authority is critical not just in our lives as Christians, but in our lives as citizens. Paul provides some guidance here in our reading from Corinthians, when he reminds us that “knowledge puffs up, but love builds up”. Looking for love may help us discern those who speak with authority. Does what someone says increase love? Does it build connection and inclusion?

In the documentary shown this week, A Case for Love, which was inspired by Bishop Curry, we heard stories of people who had acted with love, and the impact of their choices. When we act in love, and use love to encompass everyone, we bring healing to people and to the world. We can even act in love towards those who have done terrible things: we do not need to deny the things they have done, but it is only if we treat them with love and respect that we have hopes of change.

Recognizing authority is a challenge. What our gospel today reminds us is that the authority may not come from those we expect to hold it. Jesus was, after all, just the son of a carpenter, not a scribe or a pharisee. And yet he had authority.

Let us keep looking for love.

First Sunday after Christmas, December 31, 2023: Isaiah 61:10-62:3;  Psalm 148; Galatians 4:4-7;  Luke 2:22-40

In today’s gospel we leave the intimate scene in the manger that dominates Christmas images. With his parents, we travel the short distance to Jerusalem. There his parents follow Jewish law and present their first born son at the Temple and dedicate him to the Lord. At the temple, Luke reports that Jesus was recognized by two people. Simeon was elderly, “righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him.” He had been told he would not die before he saw the Messiah. When Simeon holds the infant, he proclaims thanks to the Lord, saying, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”

Following Simeon’s hymn, the prophetess Anna, who was 84 and “never left the temple but worshiped there with fasting and prayer night and day”. She saw the infant, she praised God and spoke of the child to everyone “looking for the redemption of Jerusalem”.

I am struck by the response of these two elderly people. Maybe we have Christmas all wrong. We talk about the magic of the day for children, but children have little difficulty creating magic in their lives. It is those of us who are older, who have lived with the griefs and challenges of life, who know how difficult it will be for the children we love, who most need Christmas. We need the reminder that life is not just work and hardship, but that there is salvation and hope. Our work at Christmas is not just for the children, but to remind ourselves of the hope that

Both Simeon and Anna see the child, and know hope. They announce that hope to those around them. It may be difficult among the busy-ness of preparing for Christmas, doing all the things that need doing, that it is about hope. May we listen to Simeon and Anna. As we listen to them, we can admit that we welcome the hope of salvation that has arrived with Jesus.

First Sunday in Advent, December 3, 2023: Isaiah 64:1-9; 1 Corinthians 1:3-9; Mark 13:24-37; Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

This is the first Sunday of the new church year, and the Gospel for today ends by telling us to “Keep awake”. Soon, Jesus is telling his followers, the world they know will pass away. But no one knows when it will happen, so you have to stay alert. This is not a prescription for long term sleep deprivation, though, but one for long term attention.

While Jesus tells his followers that this end time he is telling them of will happen soon-“this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place”-we know many generations later that it has not happened. Or it has not happened in the way we understand it. So what do we do?

We may not be facing the end times, but we all have finite lives. And it is important to pay attention. We need to pay attention to the world around us. And we need to live in the world following Jesus as best we can. If we do, we will be ready for the things that come our way. And there is much we can pay attention to these days: the environmental crisis, the ongoing wars in Ukraine and Gaza, the refugees fleeing violence and an unforgiving climate, homelessness, child poverty, growing racism and antisemitism, the list could go on. None of us can act on all of these, but we do what we can where we are.

The season of Advent is a season of preparation. As we prepare for the arrival of the Christ child, we need to also be aware of the longer story. As we pay attention, there is also hoe from Paul: Christ will “strengthen you to the end”: “God is faithful”. As we wait, as we pay attention, we are not alone. That is another thing to which we need to pay attention.

25th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 28, November 19,2023: Judges 4:1-7; Psalm 123; 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11; Matthew 25:14-30

When I first started reading today’s gospel, I groaned inwardly. This parable of the talents so easily slides into “being rich is good, and you’ll get richer”. After all, the slave with 5 talents trades with them and doubles his wealth, as does the slave with 2 talents. The slave given only one talent was afraid of losing it. When the master returns, he rewards the first two and then punishes the third, who is thrown into “outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth”. I’ve always had a soft spot for the third slave, who had little and was afraid of losing it.

But as I read it, I began to play with the biblical word “talent”, a unit of money, and the English word talent, or gift. And I started to think in the way I do in my day job as a teacher. Every teacher knows that their students have different abilities, skills, and knowledge. When I was in high school, I had a crusty Russian teacher who would ask students who were struggling if they did well in math. She then showed how learning a language was like learning math: she tried to help them use their gifts in a different context.

In my history classroom, some gifts and skills are more useful than others. What I and most teachers try to do is what my high school Russian teacher did: to help students use the skills and gifts they have as well as they can, to build on what they have to get a bit further.

God has given us each gifts, what Paul calls “gifts of the spirit”. We have choices about what to do with them. How do we share them? How do we ensure that the gifts we are given multiply? How can we avoid being so risk averse, like the third slave in the parable, that we don’t dare share our gifts? So often we are, like the slave with one talent, afraid that we won’t be good enough, holding ourselves to impossible standards. But whenever we share our gifts, even feeble ones, they somehow increase. Sharing our gifts is a risk, but it is a necessary one.

It’s not about making money. It’s about making God’s kingdom.

All Saints, November 5, 2023: Revelation 7:9-17; Psalm 34:1-10, 22; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12

Today we observed the feast of All Saints, when we remember the saints who have shown us the way. In the calendar, All Saints on November 1 is followed by All Souls day on November 2, when we remember all those who have died, whether or not they are saints.

In many Catholic cultures, there is a tradition that the time between October 31 and November 2 is a time when the dead can visit us – a source of many Halloween traditions. The Mexican traditions of Día de los Muertos (All Souls) encourage people to remember their ancestors, not just those they have known: the visual displays in ofrendas, with pictures and gifts, are a vivid reminder of those who have gone before us.

In the last year, many people I cared deeply about have died, so the remembrances of All Saints and All Souls seem more important than ever. The Litany of the Saints incorporates saints known and unknown, and gives us an opportunity to remember those in our personal pantheons.

This remembrance is important, because we carry things from those we have known and loved. They have all have taught us something. In honoring All Saints and All Souls, we have the opportunity to also give thanks for their lives and the gifts they have given us.

May we remember those who have gone before, and pass their lessons on to those who will follow us.

Twenty-second Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 25, 29 October 2023: Deuteronomy 34:1-12; Psalm 90:1-6, 13-17; 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8; Matthew 22:34-46

The Pharisees ought to have known better by this point in Jesus’ ministry. If you ask Jesus questions, you will not come out of it well. In today’s gospel, they ask what is the greatest commandment. Jesus answers with complete orthodoxy.

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” This is a paraphrase of Deuteronomy 6:5, the start of the sermon of Moses before the Israelites enter the land they are to be given. Moses tells the Israelites to “Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead, and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.“(Deut 6:7-9) In other words, Moses had told the people of Israel that this was their central obligation. To this day, Jews put a mezuzah on their doors, and rolled inside is a scroll with the Hebrew text of Deuteronomy 6:6-9, 11.

But Jesus adds another commandment: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself”. This is taken from another version of commandments given by Moses, and the full text of the verse is interesting: “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord“. (Lev 19:18)

Jesus continues, telling the Pharisees that “On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” Again, this was not a controversial statement. Many discussions of the Ten Commandments refer to the two tables, with the first set of commandments being our duties to God, and the second set our duties to our neighbor. You can certainly fit all of the ten commandments under these two.

These two commandments are thus central to Jews and to Christians. But we all know that both of these are simultaneously simple and hard. Jesus’ answer invites more questions. What does it mean to love God with all our heart? what does it mean for our human loves? And how should we love ourselves? Because only if we know how to love ourselves do we know how to love our neighbors.

I confess that this week, as we watch the terrible violence in Israel and especially Gaza, I was particularly struck by the full text of the verse Jesus references for the second part of his statement. “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people.” We are singularly bad at this as individuals and as societies. I suspect that I’m not the only one who remembers vividly the ways I think someone or other has hurt me. I hold grudges. And we do it as nations. We hold grudges, and we seek vengeance.

There is nothing simple about loving our neighbors, even without thinking we should not hold grudges. Yet we often feel helpless in the face of violence and vengeance. The violence is Gaza is grounded in a long history of both antisemitic violence and violence against Palestinians. In the Episcopal Church’s office of Government Relations email calling for a ceasefire, they suggest both reaching out to those with political power, and prayer. Here is what Bishop Curry said this week:

Prayer matters and makes a difference. We must pray. So, pray for wisdom and moral courage for world leaders so that violence does not beget more violence—because violence doesn’t work, and violence will not bring about a just and sustainable and enduring peace.

We can all pray. So let us pray, that we and those throughout the world may learn to love God, and love our neighbors.

Twenty-first Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 24, October 22, 2023: Exodus 33:12-23; Psalm 99; 1 Thessalonians 1:1-10; Matthew 22:15-22

Today’s gospel provides a line that is often cited out of context: “Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s”.

This seemingly simple answer is a way of deflecting a trick question from the Pharisees. This is always a sign with Jesus that the answer will not be as simple as it seems. “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor” seems to demand a yes or no answer. But Jesus asks first to see the coin which would pay the tax.

This may mean that he did not carry money: just as he instructed his followers to “take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts” in Matthew 10, he traveled without money and lived outside the normal exchange economy.

Whether Jesus did not carry money, or asked for it for dramatic effect, he uses the coin to answer the question. The coin has the emperor’s head on it. So that is his. What Jesus did not say, but his listeners would have known, was that we were made in the image of God.

In life, answering the question of what we owe to God and to the state can sometimes be complicated: should we pay taxes to support policies we think are unjust? What is it that belongs properly to God? How can we be faithful to God and faithful to a government that will, almost inevitably, in one way or another act counter to God’s will as we discern it? Numerous protest movements in the U.S.–abolition, Civil Rights, anti-war, pro-birth–have, after all, based their resistance on their understanding of their moral obligations.

There is no simple answer to the question of what belongs to God and what belongs to the political power under which we live. It is, instead, a question we will answer in different ways at different times. But we need to remember it is a question.

19^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 22, 8 October 2023; Exodus 20:1-4, 7-9, 12-20; Psalm 19; Philippians 3:4b-14; Matthew 21:33-46

The Lord’s delivery of the Ten Commandments in Exodus 20 is very dramatic. It takes place, we learn in the previous chapter, in the third month after the Israelites left Egypt. After two days of preparation, the Israelites are at the foot of Mt. Sinai, while Moses is called to the top of the mountain, and then told to get his brother Aaron. Everyone else is at the foot of the mountain.

The mountain is shrouded in cloud and smoke, and there is thunder and lightening, and the sound of a trumpet. It was evident that something important was happening. And it appears the Israelites are grateful that God is speaking to Moses, not to them: they are convinced that should God speak to them, they will die.

What God has to tell Moses is not complicated, just ten rules for living. They deal with four big things. First, our relationship with God. Second, our relationship with time. Third, our relationship with family and neighbors. Finally, our relationship with money and wealth.

These were rules which sought to create new ways of being as the Israelites built their life away from the Egyptians. They are often simplified into two, love God and love your neighbor. But do more, pushing back against overwork and exploitation.

“Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy”. This is part of loving God, making time for God. But it is also taking time away from work. A right relationship with the world makes time for rest and worship.

Similarly, the command not to covet represented a direct challenge to the exploitation the Israelites had left behind in Egypt. After all, as we learned in Exodus 1, their enslavement had been a result of the Egyptians’ fear that the Israelites would become more numerous and more prosperous than they. The Egyptians coveted the wealth and power the Israelites had accumulated, so enslaved them.

We see the results of such covetousness again in today’s gospel. In his parable, Jesus describes tenants who covet the owner’s vineyard. They decide to kill the heir, so they can seize his inheritance. Here covetousness leads to murder. In contrast, the tenth commandment suggests a world where all are allowed to flourish equally.

A world governed by the commandments God gave Moses would be a world of peace and flourishing. We do not live in that world, if anyone ever has. Many people find themselves working two jobs, and our culture celebrates overwork. In a society where the rich have become exponentially richer over the past twenty years and the wealth of most has been stagnant or falling, exploitation is baked into our society and our laws. On television and Instagram, we are encouraged to covet the lives of the rich and famous. Our relationships with God, each other, and to time and money are all distorted.

God is calling us to think about how we live in the world. And we have a relatively simple and clear set of guidelines to transform it. How can we begin to live into it?

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 21, October 1, 2023: Exodus 17:1-7; Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16; Philippians 2:1-13; Matthew 21:23-32

The Israelites are still in the desert, and they are camping in a place with no water. The writer of Exodus tells us that “the people quarreled with Moses”, because without water they would die. Why did we leave Egypt, they wondered, just to die in the wilderness? Moses reports the quarrel to the Lord, who rather than rebuking the people, provides water: if Moses will use the staff he used to part the Red Sea to strike a particular rock, there would be water. And so it was. Whatever he thought of their complaints, the Lord knew that the Israelites needed water.

“Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.” This command from Paul’s letter to the Philippians is one many have taken to heart, but which has also been the source of great harm. Some have read this verse, and others like it, as making it an obligation to not think of yourself. This reading has especially been directed at those without power; in doing so, it has enabled many kinds of abuse.

I have often read this in light of my understanding of the great commandment: to love God, and to love your neighbor as yourself. At some point, someone pointed out to me that you had to love yourself well to love your neighbor well. Yet we do not talk much about what it means to love yourself. What are we allowed? At the very least, we are allowed water in the desert.

I was intrigued this week to read that Greek texts have a word that is often omitted in English translations: “also”. Philippians 4 would then read “Let each of you look not to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.” This shifts the focus, and makes more sense with Paul’s message, which is how the church at Philippi could flourish as a healthy community. To flourish, to be a community of compassion whose love overflows, members need to be able to care for themselves and for others. Like the Israelites, they need to be able to ask for water in the desert.

Modern Christians have had trouble with the idea that we should think of ourselves, that our own needs are important. We pay attention to the need for service, to give of ourselves to others. To do this without attending to our own needs leads to people burning out. The needs of the world are great, and none of us can attend to all of them. And unless we have the water we need to live, we will not be able to respond. There is a difference between acknowledging our own needs and being full of “selfish ambition”.

It is easier to make a simple statement: think of others first. But both the writer of Exodus and Paul suggest a more complex situation. We need to attend to our own needs in order to respond to others. Only then can we be part of a community, as Paul suggests in verse 15, that will “will shine among them like stars in the sky”.

Seventeenth Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 20: Exodus 16:2-15; Psalm 105:1-6, 37-45; Philippians 1:21-30; Matthew 20:1-16

You cannot entirely blame the people of Israel for complaining: they are in the desert, and while the Egyptians have been destroyed, they have no obvious food to eat. They have left the fleshpots of Egypt and are afraid. The Lord hears their complaints, and acts. He tells Moses and Aaron that the Israelites will have meat in the evening and bread in the morning. Sure enough, that evening quails come over their camp, providing meat for dinner; the next morning, a “fine flaky substance” is on the ground, providing bread. There is enough.

The Lord acted here with generosity. Today’s psalm retells the significant parts of the story:

In today’s parable, the landowner acts with generosity. Some workers were hired early in the morning, but additional workers are hired throughout the day. Yet they are all paid the same wage, the daily wage promised the first workers. Modern readers might agree with those hired first that this was not fair: they had worked more, and deserved more. They don’t understand such abundant generosity.

In our lives, we like to keep score: because I did this, I deserve that. This person did this bad thing, so does not deserve the same things I do. Just as the Lord provides for the complaining Israelis, so the Lord provides for all. The Lord is not keeping score as we do: those who worked only an hour still worked, and are welcome. Cradle Christians are no more virtuous than converts, old time members of congregations than newcomers.

The Lord’s generosity ensures that all are cared for. It is a different way of being in the world, hard for us to accept. But we are all at times grateful for a generosity that does not keep score. That is the Kingdom of God.

Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 19, September 17, 2023: Exodus 14:19-31; Psalm 114 or Exodus 15:1b-11,20-21; Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35

Today’s lessons in Paul’s letter to the Romans and Matthew’s gospel focus on scale: who we are in relation to God. It is somewhat humbling, but also a source of relief.

“So then, each of us will be accountable to God”. Thus ends our reading from Paul, when he is trying to get the members of the congregation in Rome to focus not on their different interpretations of rules about food and eating, but on the big picture. It’s not up to us, Paul says, to tell people what they should be doing as they live their lives, as long as they are living it “in honor of the Lord”.

Clearly, the church in Rome was no different from modern churches. We may not worry about what people eat, but there are certainly issues that some think are vital and others do not. For some today it is abortion, for others it is the rights of migrants. At different times of history, different issues have surfaced as deal breakers for some in the church. Paul’s reminder that others are not accountable to us for what they do, but to God, is one we might all try to keep in mind!

Jesus too is reminding us that it is God who is our judge. When Peter wants to know how often he should forgive, Jesus tells him, “Not seven times, but I tell you, seventy-seven times.” In the parable that follows he contrasts the mercy given to the slave who owed 10,000 talents to the harshness that same slave showed to one who owed merely 100 pennies. God, he suggests, is extraordinarily generous, and we should be too. We need to forgive. We are accountable to God, as are those who have harmed us.

Because we so often hear that we should “forgive and forget”, it is worth observing that Jesus says nothing about forgetting: forgiveness is separate from memory. When I forgive, I do not always forget the harm that was done me, and there are limits to my trust going forward! The King did not forget the debt he had forgiven, after all.

The reminder of scale in this weeks readings is comforting. We don’t have to take care of everything, because we, and those we know, are accountable to God. We need to be ready to forgive, and to let go of our obsessions, to be part of a community. God will take care of the rest.

Fifteenth Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 18; 10 September 2023: Exodus 12:1-14; Psalm 149; Romans 13:8-14; Matthew 18:15-20

We need neighbors. We need each other. Our history is marked by cooperation and conflict, and many efforts to help us live together. All our readings today circle around our lives with others.

The Hebrew scriptures today set up the Passover: Moses and Aaron give the people of Israel instructions on what they are to eat, and how they are to eat. Here it is clear that they are addressed as a group: the instructions are for “the whole congregation of Israel”. And they need to know others: if their household was too small to eat a whole lamb, they were to “join its closest neighbor”. The sign of the lamb’s blood on the door posts and lintel would tell the Lord that this was a house of Israelites, and they would be spared the death that would come. Furthermore, they were to remember this day: “throughout your generations you shall observe it as a perpetual ordinance”. Which, some three thousand years later, they do. The Passover Seder still includes lamb, bitter herbs, and unleavened bread.

Paul focuses on attitude: “love one another”. He repeats this, reminding his readers that the commandments can be summed up as “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Just as you would not harm yourself, you should not harm your neighbor. “Love does no wrong to a neighbor.” This is easier said than done, leaving aside the fact that people sometimes do harm themselves. Paul doesn’t say it, but to fulfill this, we need to learn to love ourselves. We need to “live honorably as in the Day”. Loving ourselves and others changes the way we live. There is a reason that versions of this golden rule appear all over the world.

Finally, Matthew reports Jesus providing his disciples with extremely clear guidance on how to resolve conflict, advice that works not only in the church but in the world. Start with a conversation with the other person. If they don’t listen, bring in two people as witnesses, and try to find a way forward. Only then do you bring in the church. If they won’t listen to the church, they should be shunned, “as a Gentile or a tax collector.”

All of us have to deal with other people. Following the guidance in these readings would not hurt as we do so. Approach others with love, trying not to do harm. Try to resolve conflict quietly: it may not work, but it’s worth a try. And finally, remember what needs to be remembered. The Lord orders the Israelites to remember the Passover. We remember days that matter to our nation, like Independence Day; but we also celebrate birthdays, we remember anniversaries, and we also note the anniversaries of deaths. Many of us will remember 9/11 tomorrow. Such remembering anchors us in time, and they anchor us to others.

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another.” It is hard, but a good way to live.

14th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 17), 3 September 2023: Exodus 3:1-15; Psalm 105:1-6, 23-26, 45c; Romans 12:9-21; Matthew 16:21-28

Last week our readings began the story of Moses; between then an now Moses has grown up and become sensitive to the abuse of his people. He killed an Egyptian who was abusing the Israelites, and fled. He has now married the daughter of a priest of Midian and has a son. The verses just before the section we read today says,

After a long time the king of Egypt died. The Israelites groaned under their slavery and cried out. Their cry for help rose up to God from their slavery.  God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them. (Exodus 2: 23-25)

We are following the actions of two actors: Moses and God. The account we have today is the story of how Moses comes to act for God. It is not a forgone conclusion that Moses will do what he did.

There is a bush burning, but not being burned up. Moses stops. He pays attention. It is only when he stops to examine this mystery that God calls to him. And Moses is by no means certain about this assignment: while the promise of the “land of milk and honey” is nice, Moses’ question, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” is not unreasonable. I’m pretty sure Moses knew Pharaoh would not say, “Oh, yes, of course, I know your people are treated unjustly, feel free to go”. That’s not how it works. All God says is that “I will be with you”. And we sense that soon Moses will be acting on behalf of the Lord.

Moses’ second question is more interesting: who should I say sent me? Who are you? Not just “the God of your ancestors”, but “What is your name?” God’s answer has been one of the great translation challenges: “I AM WHO I AM”. Or maybe, “I AM WHAT I AM” or “I WILL BE WHAT I WILL BE”. Tell them, God says, “I AM has sent me to you”.

But God continues: The Lord, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you’: This is my name forever,
and this my title for all generations. I AM is here and will be here. I AM will be with Moses as he does the hard work of bringing the Israelites out of Egypt.

Answering the call is not always easy: in today’s Gospel reading, Jesus promises his disciples that following him will be hard. His followers will need to “deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me”. There was no easy way to the Son of Man in his Kingdom.

The story of salvation that Jesus promises is abstract, but Exodus is deeply practical. It is not an accident that the story of the Exodus gave comfort to enslaved people in the United States: the journey out of Egypt turned out to be hard, but the Israelites did come to the land of milk and honey. In our faith lives, we think both about creating the Kingdom of God on earth-working for justice, helping those in need-and eternal salvation. They are two sides of a coin.

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.

Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, July 30, 2023, Proper 12: Genesis 29:15-28; Psalm 105:1-11, 45b; Romans 8:26-39; Matthew 13:31-33,44-52

Today’s readings are full of promises: good promises and bad promises, promises kept and betrayed. We start with a broken promise. Jacob worked for seven years for Laban to win his daughter Rachel who Jacob loved; after seven years, Laban instead gives him his older daughter Leah. Laban argues that the younger daughter cannot be married before the older one, but if Jacob works another seven years, he can marry Rachel.

The psalm tells us to rejoice in the Lord. The psalmist reminds us that “He has always been mindful of his covenant/ the promise he made for a thousand generations:/ The covenant he made with Abraham,/ the oath that he swore to Isaac.” This is the Lord we can count on, promises that are kept.

Paul is also full of promises. These are somewhat more complicated. Paul is thinking through predestination, the idea that our salvation is set before we are born, and is not in our control. Predestination is comforting in a way, as it takes control out of our hands. But that is also difficult: most of us like to be in control. And we might even like to know if we are among the saved. So Paul suggests that those who truly love God will also be “justified”, or saved. He suggests that, “if God is for us, who is against us?” And then comes the rousing promise, one that many of us have heard before:

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing will be able to separate us from the love of God. That’s quite a promise.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is describing the Kingdom of heaven. With a series of images, Jesus reminds us that while the Kingdom may seem small, its value is all out of proportion to its size. The little mustard seed produces a great tree; the merchant sells all he has for the one pearl of great value. But then there is a sorting: the net catches many fish, but the bad fish are thrown out. The promise Jesus makes at the end is a hard promise: “The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

We, of course, want to believe with Paul that we are among the righteous, that we will not be among those weeping and gnashing their teeth. But I do not find it comforting to know that anyone will suffer in the furnace of fire.

Promises matter. We seek assurances that promises will be kept. But promises also take decisions away from us: once we have promised, there are choices we do not have. Not all promises have happy endings. So we have trouble with promises.

As Christians we make promises, starting with those which (for many of us) were made for us when we were baptized. We reaffirm those promises when we have a baptism, and again at the Easter vigil. We promise to renounce Satan, and accept Jesus. We promise to be faithful, to resist evil, and when we sin, to repent and turn to the Lord. These are promises to God.

But the next set of promises turn to the world: to “proclaim, by word and example, the good news of God in Christ”. To “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself.” And finally, to “strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?”

In baptism, we make promises to God. We try to keep them, but often fail. (That makes the promise to “repent and return to the Lord” valuable!) And while we may not always believe it, God promises us life eternal. Nothing “will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus”.

Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 11: July 23, 2023: Genesis 28:10-19a; Psalm 139: 1-11, 22-23; Romans 8:12-25; Matthew 13:24-30,36-43

Our readings today begin with a dream. Jacob is traveling and stops for the night “because the sun had set”. He used a stone for a pillow, and went to sleep. He dreamed of a ladder connecting earth and heaven, with angels going up and down the ladder. And in his dream, he received a promise from the Lord, promising him the land he was lying on, and promising that his descendants would be “like the dust of the earth”, spread in all directions. When he woke up, he recognized the place as “the gate of heaven”.

Jacob’s ladder is a marvelous image, and has inspired people all over the world. The medieval masons carving the front of Bath Abbey in England framed the west entry is decorated with an illustration of Jacob’s Ladder: angels are climbing up it, and demons are heading down. Some centuries later, enslaved people in the American south used the image as a metaphor for spiritual growth: “we are climbing Jacob’s ladder“. The image of Jacob’s ladder is a reminder that the deep longing for connection with God has a long history.

In biblical sources, that longing is sometimes a hope, sometimes more of a certainty. The writer of Psalm 139 suggests that the Lord is always there, in a way that may be terrifying and may be comforting. On the one hand, there is nowhere they can “flee from your presence”; on the other, it is protective:

If I take the wings of the morning /and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, / Even there your hand will lead me and your right hand hold me fast. (Ps. 139, 8-9)

The psalm ends with a request to be led “in the way that is everlasting”. Like Jacob, the journey to heaven is a goal. Jesus, in today’s reading, makes that more difficult. In the second parable of the sower, Jesus notes that the good seed is mixed with weeds, and the weeds need to be gathered first and burned so that the wheat can then be gathered.

This parable is not particularly comforting: the saved and the damned are all mixed up together. Jesus tells us that the Son of Man will send his angels and throw the evildoers into the furnace, where there is “wailing and gnashing of teeth”. The righteous, on the other hand, “will shine like the sun in the Kingdom of their father”. How do we know which we are?

The concern with being saved, and how we can be sure we are saved, has a long history among Christians, going back to the letters of Paul. Today’s letter offers a more generous reading: if you are led by the Spirit of God you are children of God. But this is hope, and “in hope we were saved”.

Jacob’s ladder is an image of ongoing effort, climbing. Paul sees us having made a choice at a defined moment. However it comes, both remind us that the longing for connection to the divine is part of our lives.

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 10; July 16, 2023: Genesis 25:19-34; Psalm 119:105-112; Romans 8:1-11; Matthew 13:1-9,18-23

Over the past few weeks, the passages from the Hebrew Scriptures have focused on the stories of Abraham and his descendants. These are great stories, as stories. They are more challenging as our understanding of God’s message to us.

Abraham and his descendants are special: they will be the start of a new nation. And the Lord, according to the writer of Genesis, is always there for Abraham and his son Isaac, at least at the end. It wouldn’t be a good story if there were not some drama. But we have heard Sarah laugh at the promise that she, as an old woman, would finally bear a child, only for the prophecy to come true. Abraham is asked to bring Isaac to a place of sacrifice, only to have a ram appear at the last minute. In today’s reading, we learn about Isaac and his sons.

Like Sarah, Isaac’s wife Rebekah was, as the scripture says, “barren”. But after Isaac prays to the Lord, she conceived, and gave birth to twins. The twins started fighting in the womb, and the rivalry never ended. Esau, the elder, was Isaac’s favorite, while Jacob was his mother’s favorite. Jacob takes advantage of Esau’s hunger, and gets him to sell his birthright, the inheritance rights of the firstborn. Isaac got his sons, but sibling rivalry is alive and well.

So what’s wrong with this story? Nothing, really. Except the model of divine intervention, where the Lord takes care of the family, is not one we experience, or at least in the same way that Abraham and Isaac do. They get VIP treatment. We may pray for an outcome, but whether the Lord does what we want is not something we can take for granted. Plenty of those who have prayed for the gift of children have not received it. Those who have prayed that someone they love not die have not always been rewarded.

Does God love those whose prayers have been answered more than those whose prayers have not? With Jesus, God offers salvation to all, not just one family. God is not in the business of managing our everyday lives: if everyone is included, none of us are VIPs. When our prayers may not be answered as we had hoped, but he is with us. And that is part of the story for us: in the Lord’s Prayer, we ask that “thy will be done”. Thy will, not my will.

God is calling us to hear the word and bear fruit. Readers of the parable of the sower in today’s Gospel might reflect that Jesus does not speak like an experienced gardener. For it is not just the soil that matters, but the seed. Not all plants flourish in all soils. Every gardener discovers what does and does not flourish, even on good soil. On some level Jesus knows this. Jesus speaks to his followers in a series of parables, and each tells stories in different ways. Different parables speak to different people. Even those who are “good soil” need to have the right kind of seed.

Our job is to be good soil; but it is also to share the good news in ways that can be heard. Where do we sow the seed? What seed do we sow? How can we find the seed that will flourish in the particular soil where we cast it? That is our challenge now.

Sixth Sunday of Pentecost, 9 July 2023: Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67; Psalm 45: 11-18 or Song of Solomon 2:8-13; Romans 7:15-25a; Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Jesus’ words are among the most familiar from the Gospels. In the 1928 Episcopal Prayer Book, they were among the “Comfortable words” read before Communion. Yet most of us do not have a direct line to Jesus, so may not always feel that we are given rest. Life is stressful in various ways, from events in the world, to events in our lives. Work and family issues can be hard. When are we given rest?

But then I remembered a conversation with a wise older friend many years ago. She told me that when things were difficult, she always had a short list of people through whom she hoped, as she put it, “Jesus would come to me”. Generally, she added, it was not the person she wanted, but a person she actively did not want. But sure enough, someone would come. And the fact that it was whoever it was reminded her that the community of the Church was not just a group of friends. It opened your heart to others.

And so it is. Things are hard, but someone does something to help, to lighten the load. They bring a meal, they run an errand, do the shopping, or just sit with us. Things may not be easy, but someone does something that gives us rest. This is what community means. For this I always say a prayer of gratitude.

Jesus does not promise that life will be easy, but we will not be alone. And that makes a difference. When we are weary, there will be rest.

Amen.

5th Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 8: Genesis 22:1-14; Psalm 13; Romans 6:12-23;
Matthew 10:40-42

Everytime the story of the binding of Isaac comes up in the lectionary, I get upset. It is a story of child abuse: the fact that Isaac in the end is not sacrificed does not make up for the terror he experienced. He knows what is happening, and knows that his father is willing to sacrifice him. It is also the story of an abusive God, who demands that Abraham sacrifice his only son. (Well, the only one living with him, which was all that counts for him.) If Isaac is terrified, Abraham is clearly distraught.

The end of the reading gives us Abraham’s lesson from this: “On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided”. I am always relieved that Isaac is not sacrificed. But I am always angry that the Lord puts Abraham and Isaac through this. We can’t pretend that this is just the Hebrew scriptures: last week Jesus told us that he came not to bring peace, but a sword, dividing parents from children and siblings from each other. I am not comfortable with this.

This year, I decided to think about this reading in light of the Gospel. Today we read in Matthew the section of the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus talks about welcome. Jesus calls us to welcome everyone. Here, following the Lord is providing water and welcoming the righteous. This is the God who calls us to love, to welcome and to community.

What I have come to think in all this is that following the commands of the sermon on the mount, following Jesus in the way of love, will sometimes put us at odds with others. It is now, for instance, illegal in Florida to provide housing to undocumented people. Christians there have choices: we can love our neighbors, all of them, or we can follow the law. These choices create division.

I do not want to follow a God who would ask me to sacrifice my child. But I know that following Jesus in the way of love may lead me to make choices that may divide me from others. Then we can hope, with Abraham, that “it” (whatever “it” is) shall be provided.

4th Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 7, June 25,2023: Genesis 21:8-21; Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17; Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39

In the flurry of book banning in the last year or so, an atheist requested that a library remove the Bible from the school library, because of its depiction of sex and violence. It was clearly a mischievous move, and the Bible was eventually restored to the library, as all books should be. But our readings today-both the Hebrew scripture and the gospel-are a reminder that our scriptures are full of dark things. Maybe we should read them with caution!

Sarah may have laughed at the promise of a child, but once that child came, she was jealous. We have a brief image of the two boys playing together, and then Sarah reacts. She wants her son to be Abraham’s only heir. She wants him to send Hagar and her son away. God intervenes, and tells Abraham it will be all right, but not surprisingly, Abraham is distressed. But he follows the instructions, and sends Hagar and Ishmael away with some bread and some water. In the desert, some water is not enough. The author of Genesis allows us to see Hagar’s distress: when she is out of water, she leaves her child under a bush, and moves far enough away that she can’t see him die. But God hears them, and suddenly there is a well next to her, and they live. In Islam Hagar (Hajar) is revered as the mother of Ishmael, who some believe was an ancestor of the Prophet Muhammad. So from this story of rejection and fear we trace another faith.

The gospel is equally hard on us: “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword”. This is not sweet Jesus, this is hard Jesus. If you love your parents, or your children, more than Jesus, you are not worthy of Jesus. We are asked to “take up the cross” to follow Jesus.

It is not surprising if your reaction is, “Why? Of course I love my parents/children more than anything.” But as we get older, we know loss: parents die, so (more painfully) do children sometimes. Life is not all fun and games. In all of this, good and bad, Jesus is there if we let him. As with Hagar in the desert, there will be water, and we will be cared for.

3 Pentecost, Proper 6: Genesis 18:1-15, (21:1-7); Psalm 116:1, 10-17; Romans 5:1-8; Matthew 9:35-10:8

Abraham is hanging out at the entrance to his tent. It’s hot, he’s not doing much. Three men appear, and he bows to them: he knows they are important. He invites them to rest under the tree with some refreshments, and to have their feet washed. Then he goes to Sarah, and tells her to make cakes; to a servant to kill a calf; and adds curds and milk. As told in Genesis, this doesn’t take much time, but preparing the calf, and making the cakes is not happening in five minutes.

Abraham somehow knows these are important men, so he stands while they eat. Sarah stays in the tent, outside the social world of men. Then they ask for her, and one of the men makes a promise, that “your wife Sarah shall have a son”. And she “laughed to herself”, wondering if “After I have grown old, and my husband is old, shall I have pleasure?”. The writer of Genesis is very frank about bodies and sex here: Sarah is old, long past menopause. And they are old, so apparently not having sex. But many societies assumed that women needed to have orgasms to conceive, so Sarah is wondering about that.

The Lord (now identified as one of the visitors) asks Abraham why Sarah laughed, and asks, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” Sarah denies her laughter, afraid. But after her son is born, Sarah says “God has brought laughter for me.” Laughter moves from doubt to rejoicing.

I have always loved this story. In it we have two responses to the Lord: Abraham knows it is the Lord, and treats the Lord as an honored guest. Sarah, back in the tent preparing cakes, not part of the discussion (never even addressed directly) laughs at the thought she would have a child. She places herself in the story. Abraham acts with certainty, Sarah expresses doubt.

Paul tells us that we “are justified by faith”. Because they had faith, the disciples followed Jesus’ instructions to go out to “cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons”. Like Abraham, they just do it.

We can respond to God with certainty, but many of us are more like Sarah, astonished by the promises that have been made to us. We may doubt; but we too can be astonished by what God has done for us.

6th Sunday of Easter, May 14,2023: Acts 17:22-31; 1 Peter 3:13-22; John 14:15-21; Psalm 66:7-18

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” My first response to reading this was that this is a transactional relationship, not one of love. It continues, assuming that you do these things, then God will do these things for you. Sounds like a quid pro quo to me!

Our culture likes to think that love is *not* transactional, but spontaneous, open and giving. We sometimes think of it as something that escapes analysis: to say why we love someone seems to draw lines around our feelings. Yet we routinely do things for people because we love them. We also sometimes love because we are loved.

The love Jesus talks of is a circle: you love him, you will be loved by the Father and be loved by Jesus. It is also an action, not a feeling: keeping the commandments. And the promise from Jesus is that we will not be orphaned: there is an Advocate, with us for ever.

The Gospels were written long after Jesus’ death, and recorded the stories told in particular communities of Jesus people. The earliest parts of John’s Gospel date to c. 70 CE; other parts were not in their final form until after 90 CE, sixty years after Jesus’ death. By the time it was completed, the community of Jesus people only knew Jesus through the stories that were told. John’s Gospel reminds them that they did not need to know Jesus personally to be part of him: if you love him and keep his commandments, the Advocate, the Spirit of Truth, will be with you.

In his sermon to the Athenians, Paul tells them that the God he is speaking of “is not far from each one of us”. Jesus tells his followers that if they love him, “I will love them and reveal myself to them”. God is close by, our readings promise.

I am not sure I always keep Jesus’ commandments, though I try. But the promise that I am not alone is one that helps me get through the hard times.

Fifth Sunday of Easter: Acts 7:55-60; 1 Peter 2:2-10; John 14:1-14; Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

“Be my strong rock, a castle to keep me safe.” The psalmist is concerned about shelter and safety, the things we hope for in the places we live. The psalmist wants a refuge to protect him. The castles that I have seen in Europe are almost all on top of hills, in defensive positions. They protect you from the world.

Jesus offers his disciples a dwelling, but the image is very different. “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.” Rather than a defensive place, this is a vision of welcome and abundance, and they struggle to understand it. They want to know who the Father is, and how they get there.

Jesus tells them that “I am the way, the truth, and the life”: following him is how you get to the Father’s house. But he also makes it clear there is room for everyone in God’s house. It is not an exclusive place. Older translations made the abundance seem greater, saying “In my father’s house there are many mansions”.

Jesus’ vision of abundance and welcome is often difficult for contemporary Christians as well. Christians all try to follow Jesus in the right way, but there are many differences between the ways we do so. Different Christian communities prioritize different aspects of Jesus’ teaching, and draw different lines. Jesus calls us to see ourselves as connected, even if different: there are many dwelling places.

Jesus has prepared a place for all of us. We often talk about welcoming everyone, but that is often an aspiration rather than a reality. Our challenge is to believe that even if we don’t do so well in this world, everyone is welcome in God’s house. There we will find many dwelling places, and room for all.

Sunday of the Passion/ Palm Sunday, April 2, 2023. The Liturgy of the Palms: Matthew 21:1-11; Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29; The Liturgy of the Word: Isaiah 50:4-9a; Philippians 2:5-11; Matthew 27:11-54; Psalm 31:9-16

Today takes us from the highs of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem (but on a donkey, so don’t get too excited) to the lows of his trial and execution by the Roman authorities. Even before we hear the story of the trial and crucifixion, Matthew’s gospel tells us that the city of Jerusalem was in turmoil with his entrance, a sign that people did not know exactly what to make of his arrival.

Palm Sunday/Sunday of the Passion contains both the entry into Jerusalem and, in the reading of the Passion narrative, a trailer for Holy Week. We know what comes next. In doing so, the service provides an exaggerated version of our lives. Most of us have moments of great joy in life, but few of us have not also suffered loss and grief. So this is not just a preview of Holy Week and Easter, it is a reflection on our lives.

The narrative energy of both the stories we read is driven by crowds. Oh, wow! Someone is coming into Jerusalem and my friends are cheering! Let’s cheer! We’re standing outside Pilate’s palace and when he asks what he should do, a crowd roars. There were probably a few people who were in both crowds. Crowds have an energy of their own: when you are in one, it is easy to get carried away and do things you might not otherwise do. This is as true now as it was then. After all, there are concerts where crowdsurfing, or throwing clothing on the stage, is expected; that is not everyday behavior! So an enthusiastic crowd cheers Jesus on his entry, but a crowd also cries for him to be crucified. They eagerly join the soldiers and chief priests in taunting Jesus on the cross. A crowd can encourage you to love; it can also encourage you to hate.

The week ahead is the center of the church year. There is no Christian faith without Good Friday and Easter. We would all like to think we would have been faithful, but Jesus’ closest friends struggled to do so: they fell asleep in the Garden, and Peter denied his connection to Jesus. In a moment of crisis, Jesus was alone. The cheering crowd abandoned him.

We live in a country that is, we are frequently reminded, deeply divided. We are frequently reminded that we increasingly live in isolation from those who think differently from us. These different communities are, at times, like the crowds we read about today. As we enter Holy Week, it is worth considering the crowds we are part of. How can we make sure we are following Jesus, and not just following the crowd?

Fifth Sunday in Lent, March 26, 2023: Ezekiel 37:1-14; Romans 8:6-11; John 11:1-45; Psalm 130

The Lord instructs Ezekiel to tell the bones, “I will cause the breath to enter you, and you shall live”. Today’s passage from Ezekiel makes the process of bringing bones to life very graphic. There’s nothing abstract: first the bones get sinews and flesh: “There was a noise, a rattling”. But after this first stage, Ezekiel realizes there is no breath in the bodies. So the wind comes and they live.

The story of Lazarus that we hear in today’s gospel is graphic in other ways. It is also more troubling. While Ezekiel is bringing a whole valley of anonymous bones to life, Lazarus is a specific person: he has sisters who love him, and it turns out that Jesus loves him too. Jesus hears he is ill, but waits two days before going to his home. As he did in last week’s gospel, John presents Jesus as describing the purpose of problems for others as opportunities to demonstrate God’s power, to glorify God.

By the time Jesus arrived at Bethany, we are told, Lazarus had been in the tomb four days. Both Mary and Martha, Lazarus’ sisters, tell Jesus that had he arrived earlier, their brother would be alive. They are both still weeping, and when brought to the tomb, Jesus weeps too. But when Jesus asks them to move the stone from the front of the tomb, they resist: four days after death, the body with have a terrible smell. No one wants to smell it.

Jesus insists, and after a long prayer delivered “for the sake of the crowd”, Jesus calls, “Lazarus, come out!” Lazarus does, and the wrappings are unwound from his body. For John, the end of the story is that as a result of this, “many of the Jews who. . .had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.”

For the writers of Ezekiel and John, the bringing of life to the bodies of the dead is the story. What happens next? What do the revived bodies do? The playwright Eugene O’Neill imagined Lazarus responding to his new life by laughing: in his play Lazarus Laughed, Lazarus tells people that they have a “high duty to live as a son of God–generously!–with love!–with pride!–with laughter!” He travels all over the Roman empire, filling stadia with crowds, laughing and proclaiming that there is no death. Ultimately he is killed by the Roman emperor, but even when being killed he offers laughter, his joy in life and conviction that there is no death.

We have been promised new life with Jesus’ resurrection. What do we do with our new life? Do we, like Lazarus, embrace that life? Do we live generously and with love? What do we do with with the life we have been given?

Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 19, 2023: 1 Samuel 16:1-13; Ephesians 5:8-14; John 9:1-41; Psalm 23

Today’s readings all circle around what we see, and how we understand what we see. We are repeatedly reminded that, in the words of 1 Samuel, “the Lord does not see as mortals see”.

“Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” The disciples see a man who has a disability, and assume it was rooted in sin. While few today would express the same direct link between disabilities and sin, we live in a world that treats disabilities as deficits, and assumes physical deficits are matched by cognitive ones. Those who are hard of hearing, for instance, are often treated as if they have lost their intelligence along with their hearing. We make it very difficult for those with disabilities to be full members of society. We may not talk about sin, but we often act as if those with disabilities are less than fully human.

Jesus pushes back against the notion that blindness was a result of sin, but his answer is also troubling. “He was born blind that God’s works might be revealed in him.” Would God make someone suffer so that Jesus could demonstrate God’s greatness? Yet in the rest of the story, only the formerly blind man recognizes God’s greatness. His earlier suffering seems a high price to pay!

Jesus heals the man born blind. He uses saliva to make mud, spreads it on the blind man’s eyes, and tells him to wash in a certain pool. The rest of the Gospel reading explores how the blind man, his neighbors, and the Pharisees understand what has happened to him. His neighbors are not sure he is the same person: they have no way to understand how his blindness was cured. They hear the story, but it doesn’t make sense. The Pharisees repeatedly ask how it happened, and criticize Jesus for healing on the sabbath, thus breaking the law. They cannot imagine God working in the world as God had in the time of Moses. The formerly blind man just tells his story; when he is driven out, Jesus finds him, and he becomes one of the followers of Jesus: he sees.

Who sees, and who sees what? We see with our eyes, but we also use “I see” to say we understand. Sight and understanding are linked. But we need to learn to see: when those who have been blind for many years regain sight as a result of surgery, they only slowly pick up distinctions in the world. It is very hard to see things, in either sense of the word, if we do not know they exist. The blind man’s neighbors, and the Pharisees, could not grasp how the man had regained sight because it was something they did not think could happen.

“The Lord does not see as mortals see.” In Samuel, we learn that rather than choosing Jesse’s eldest son, the Lord chooses David, the youngest. He was not considered important enough to be brought to the sacrifice; he has to be brought from the field where he is watching the sheep. But the Lord chooses David. The Lord, the scripture tells us, “looks on the heart”.

We are left with a question. If seeing is learned, we have all learned what to see and what not to see. How can we look on the heart? What are the things we do not see? What do we not see accurately? Are there forms of suffering we miss? Or forms of healing? What does God see in the world today? How does God act? Are we able to see it?

Third Sunday in Lent, March 12, 2023: Exodus 17:1-7; Romans 5:1-11; John 4:5-42; Psalm 95

We need water to live.  We need it on multiple levels.  We need it for our bodies, and we also need it to grow the food we eat.  This winter I suspect we have all had conversations that simultaneously express being tired of the rain and cloud and grateful for it, knowing we need more. 

So the anxiety of the Israelites in the desert was understandable.  And while Moses named the place Massah and Meribah for their quarelling,  the Lord gave them water.  The same staff which had opened the Red Sea for them, moving the water out of the way, now gave them the life giving water.   

Today we read all of one of the psalms we say regularly in Evening Prayer, psalm 95. But after the glorious call to praise that is part of the daily office, we hear the Lord speaking to the Israelites, castigating them for hardening their hearts. The Lord confesses that this made him angry: “They put me to the test, though they had seen my works”. But he still gave them water, as another demonstration both of the Lord’s power and care for them.

Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well, a central gathering place in any pre-modern town.  Jesus needed something to drink, and she had the jar that could provide it.  At the same time he offered her “living water”.  She does not understand what that might be.  But the living water means you will never be thirsty again. 

“Since we have been justified by faith”, Paul begins our epistle reading.  This is a powerful proclamation. Paul continues: “We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. We are justified by faith: it’s not what we do, it’s what Jesus has done.  It is no wonder that Martin Luther, anxious that he had not done enough for salvation, found his comfort in Paul’s letter to the Romans.

Jesus is the living water.  It is the water we need to live.  We affirm this when we do a baptism, or when we renew our baptismal vows at the Easter Vigil.  We can be overwhelmed by Jesus’ teachings.  But when we remind ourselves that this is living water, it offers comfort that we will be taken care of.  All that we need to do is to have faith. 

“Come, let us sing to the Lord; let us shout for joy to the Rock of our salvation.”

First Sunday of Lent, February 26,2023: Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Romans 5:12-19; Matthew 4:1-11; Psalm 32

Last week we were up in the mountains, now we’re in the wilderness. It is only after Jesus has been there forty days and forty nights that the tempter comes to him. It took that long for the tempter to think Jesus was vulnerable to his blandishments. What the tempter offers is power: power to turn stones into bread, to have the angels catch him in mid-air, or power over all the kingdoms of the world “and their splendor”.

My guess is that few of us have been offered such enticing temptations. We think people in power have, though, and often that they have “sold their souls”. But what about us? Our job in Lent is to think about these things. What temptations do we face? What is it that chocolate, or dessert, or whatever we have given up for Lent, stand in for?

Here the story of the garden of Eden may be instructive. God did not want Adam and Eve to have knowledge of good and evil: that’s the one tree they are not supposed to eat. God knows that knowledge will cause trouble. But they *want* knowledge; and the serpent tells them they will not die, but their eyes will be opened. Adam and Eve fall for it. They want to know.

So do we: we seek knowledge. Knowledge gives us power. As individuals, we’re interested in gossip (let’s be honest!) or other people’s secrets. As a society, we want to know how things work. Innovation proceeds regardless of the impact. Decisions about everything from medical care to sentencing by the courts are driven by algorithms that few of us understand, but which use our age, race, gender, education and goodness knows what else about us. Our computers know what products we have looked at, and end up sending us creepy ads for similar things.

Knowledge of course, like any kind of power, can be used for good or evil. Our job in Lent is to ensure that we are using knowledge to advance God’s kingdom. To quote Jesus, to not just worship God, but “serve only him”.

Last Sunday of Epiphany, February 19, 2023: Exodus 24:12-18; 2 Peter 1:16-21; Matthew 17:1-9; Psalm 2

Strange things happen on mountaintops. Mountaintops are among the world’s “thin” places, places where this world and others meet. Maybe because there is less oxygen, maybe because the effort getting up there, maybe because the astonishing vistas we see there, mountaintops are places that change us. For the ancient Hebrews, God lived on mountaintops. So in today’s lessons, we have mountaintops.

Moses goes to the mountaintop to receive the ten commandments. His journey is marked by mystery: for six days, the “glory of the Lord” settled on the mountain, and it was shrouded in cloud. On the seventh day, Moses is called by the Lord. The writer tells us that the glory of the Lord was “like a devouring fire on the top of the mountain in the sight of the people of Israel”. It was terrifying. Moses went into the cloud and disappeared, effectively, for forty days and forty nights.

In today’s Gospel, in a passage that follows the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus goes with three of his disciples to a “high mountain”. The scene starts out with Jesus being transfigured before his disciples, “his face shone like the sun”. And Moses and Elijah appeared, talking to Jesus. Strange though this must have seemed, Peter seems to take this in stride, planning to make three dwellings. But then a “bright cloud overshadowed them”, and they hear the Lord’s voice, telling them that Jesus is his son, and “Listen to him”. They are terrified and fall to the ground.

What is most striking here is that while the voice of God is terrifying, Jesus is not: he “came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up, and do not be afraid'”. This is the reassuring gesture of a friend. When they do, they are alone with Jesus on the mountaintop. But Jesus does not want this story told, at least not yet: he tells his disciples not to tell it until after he has been raised from the dead.

The message here is clear: we need to listen to Jesus, but we do not need to fear him. Unlike God, who is terrifying, Jesus is approachable, and cares for us. Our job is to listen. That is difficult enough.

6th Sunday of Epiphany, 12 February 2023: Deuteronomy 30:15-20; Psalm 119:1-8; 1 Corinthians 3:1-9; Matthew 5: 21-37

“If you obey the commandments of the Lord your God that I am commanding you today, by loving the Lord your God, walking in his ways, and observing his commandments, decrees, and ordinances, then you shall live and become numerous, and the Lord your God will bless you.”

Today’s readings from both the Hebrew scriptures and the Gospel focus on commandments and laws. The writer of Deuteronomy makes it seem simple: walk in his ways, observe his commandments, decrees and ordinances. To me, the red flag that this is not so simple is that there are commandments, decrees, and ordinances: this is getting complicated.

The psalmist continues this theme, but tells us we are happy if we “walk in the law of the Lord”. Again, the reference to “all your commandments” makes me pause. What if I forget one? What if I cannot, for some reason, follow them all. Several writers have recently tried to follow the biblical commandments as literally as possible. In their books (A.J. Jacobs, The Year of Living Biblically and Rachel Held Evans, A Year of Biblical Womanhood) both note the difficulty of meshing rules developed in an agrarian society 3000 or more years ago with modern life.

And if you think Jesus is going to make it simpler, you should skip this week’s Gospel. Jesus tells us that following the commandments is not just not doing particular things (murder, adultery, etc.) but the spirit behind those actions. We are to make peace with those with whom we are in conflict. Oh, and by the way, looking at someone with lust is the same as committing adultery.

To put it simply, we’re screwed. I am pretty certain that every married person has at one time or another looked at someone not their spouse and lusted: not that they acted on it, but they looked. And in our culture of division and conflict, most of us have people we don’t want to deal with; we have probably called others a lot worse than “fool”. Some of us have bad bosses, people who have power over us and use it badly. Some of us have family conflicts, over money, politics, you name it. Some of us have been hurt by others and long for vengeance. In all of these, we at least momentarily, see others as less than human.

This is when it helps me to remember that the gospels are stories told within Christian communities about Jesus 40 and 50 years after his death. So in this passage, it’s evident that we all fail at least one of the tests Jesus puts to us. But the people who wrote down these stories also had a follow-up: the grace given to us by Jesus’ death and resurrection.

Paul tells us that insofar as we argue and are jealous, we are “behaving according to human inclinations”. So we are. Paul also reminds us that ultimately we are not in control, but God is. If we can’t fully follow the rules in spirit and act (and we can’t) our only hope is God’s grace. It is that which allows us, in the words of our Baptismal Covenant, to “seek and serve Christ in all persons”. When we do that, we are following the commandments.

Fifth Sunday of Epiphany, February 5, 2023: Isaiah 58:1-9a, [9b-12]; 1 Corinthians 2:1-12, [13-16]; Matthew 5:13-20; Psalm 112:1-9, (10)

If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil, if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday. (Isaiah 58: 9b-10)

“You are the light of the world. . . let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14, 16)

One of the things that I like about February is the longer hours of daylight. It is light earlier in the morning, after that cruel stretch in late December and early January when sunrise gets later. The light in the evening is particularly noticeable. Light matters. Today’s readings circle around light and darkness, focusing on how we as the faithful provide light.

In today’s reading from Isaiah, the prophet is criticizing those who make a great show of their piety, but do not follow the Lord’s commandments. They may fast, but at the same time they “serve their your own interest. . .and oppress all your workers”. The fast that the Lord chooses instead is “to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free”. We usually think of fasting as self-denial, but Isaiah defines the fast as one from selfishness and pettiness, not just food. If you do this, “your light shall rise in the darkness”.

Similarly, Matthew in today’s Gospel reminds us that if you light a lamp, you do not hide it, but place it where its light can be widely seen. It is this light that illumines the “city on a hill”. And what Jesus wants seen in this light are the good works of his followers.

There has been a long debate in Christianity about the importance of what we do. Paul, and in following him Augustine and later Martin Luther, focused on the importance of faith. Another tradition points to works. Faith and works are not opposed to each other, they nurture each other. Yes, faith is important; we repeat the creed weekly. But there are weeks when I am not sure I believe what I am saying. I have questions. Faith is sometimes wobbly, and doubt is an occasional companion. In the Episcopal tradition, we welcome questions, but questions can sit awkwardly with faith. At those times, a focus on doing provides a way to be faithful.

Another reason to emphasize action is the way it links us to the other Abrahamic faiths. Christianity is unusual as a religion in its emphasis on belief rather than action. In both Judaism and Islam, observance of certain practices is what is important. These are relatively simple in Islam: you acknowledge Allah, pray five times daily, give to charity, fast during Ramadan, and if you can, make a pilgrimage to Mecca during your lifetime. The laws followed by observant Jews, shaped by the ten commandments, also focus around love of God and love of neighbor. Both the Qur’an and the Hebrew scriptures fill these out with various ways you carry out these commandments, but the requirements are always moving out from the central commandments.

After Jesus tells his followers to let their light shine, he turns to the law: “I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.” Your righteousness, he continues, must “exceed that of the scribes and Pharissees.”

What is the law that we must follow more righteously than the scribes and Pharisees? Is it the various dietary and purity customs that are laid out in Leviticus? Does it mean not eating shrimp and not working on the sabbath? Given that Jesus breaks a narrow interpretation of the commandments about work on the sabbath, this seems unlikely. Instead, Jesus is calling us to the fast that Isaiah calls for: a fast that brings justice and freedom.

We would be kidding ourselves if we thought a fast for justice and freedom was easy. But it is useful to think about what it would mean.

Third Sunday after Epiphany, January 22, 2023: Isaiah 9:1-4; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23; Psalm 27:1, 5-13

The Gospels, we know, are not historical texts. They are the stories people recorded fifty or more years after the events happened. Each Gospel tells not just slightly different stories, but when they tell the same stories, they tell them differently. In last week’s reading from John’s Gospel, John tells his followers that Jesus is the real deal, and some of them go to follow him. Andrew calls his brother Simon to join him and they follow Jesus. Jesus is not looking for followers: they come, and they enable his ministry.

Matthew tells a slightly different version of this event. In Matthew, John has been arrested. Jesus is calling people to repent. He sees Simon Peter and Andrew fishing, and calls them to him: “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people”. Likewise, James and John, the sons of Zebedee, are called from their boat.

Does it matter whether Jesus’ disciples followed with an invitation or without one? Not really. Ultimately, Jesus had disciples who not just followed him, but provided companionship and support, even if that was sometimes flawed. Jesus did his work with a group who became close friends who were with him almost all the time. His ministry was supported by a community.

At times I would rather, like Andrew and Simon Peter in John’s Gospel, make the choice myself. But when I’m tired, and lack energy, I think of how nice it would be to have an invitation to respond to. In either case, it is a remarkable story: these men dropped what they were doing to follow Jesus. It was literally a life-changing event. I have heard, over the years, many sermons about how we should become fishers of people. That is, after all, what Jesus asks his first followers to be.

I am stuck, however, on what came before that. Do we go grab our friends to hear this amazing person? Or when this man calls our name, do we follow? Or do we pretend we didn’t hear someone calling, and just stick with what we’re doing? One of the aspects of Matthew’s story that never ceases to amaze me (not always in positive ways) is that the four men Jesus calls just GO. They don’t say goodbye to anyone, they don’t pack anything, they just leave.

In his sermon today, Bishop David spoke about the call to live a Jesus-centered life. Whether we have heard that there’s something exciting happening, or we are called, today’s gospel asks us how we are joining Jesus. How do we want to be part of this community?

Second Sunday of Epiphany, January 15, 2023: Isaiah 49:1-7; 1 Corinthians 1:1-9; John 1:29-42; Psalm 40:1-12

Imagine my surprise when I looked at the readings for this week, and realized that the Gospel was another version of the story of Jesus’ baptism by John that we had read last week. In that passage, Matthew records John as recognizing Jesus before he was baptized, but the spirit descending from heaven is presented as a personal revelation to Jesus. This week, John recognizes Jesus, but also tells others that he saw the spirit descend on Jesus. In today’s gospel reading, the emphasis moves from Jesus being blessed by God to Jesus being seen by others. The contrast between the two mirrors experiences all of us have had: there are times when we are able to see ourselves in a new way, but that is often shaped by how people respond to us.

In John’s gospel, Jesus’ baptism by John is not the end of the story, but the beginning. Jesus’ ministry begins with his baptism. John recognizes Jesus and tells his followers; some of them follow him. Where are you staying? Andrew goes to get his brother Simon Peter. They hang around him for the rest of the day. You get a sense of the buzz, as when someone first listens to a good new band: you have to hear this!

We often tell people to trust their gut. But in our lives, we regularly look for advice or affirmation from others. We consult with friends and family when we are falling in love. We take advice when thinking about a new job, or moving to a new place. We recognize that those who know us and care about us can help us see our way forward. As friends and family, we listen to those we care for and try to help them discern what is best for them and their life. Lives play out in community.

In the church, when someone experiences a call to ministry, we pay attention to their feeling. But we also test it: we have a discernment committee which meets with them over time to help them think through their call. Sometimes a discernment committee will affirm where someone thinks they are going, but it might also help them see more clearly the direction they are really called to. In other words, the Church assumes that one’s ministry is created in dialogue with the community.

We think of Jesus as always knowing what the story of his ministry would be. But maybe he didn’t know what would happen with his call: maybe he knew he was called to something, but wasn’t sure what. We know that later in his ministry, he wanted to know how he was seen. Maybe the way he was followed by some of John’s disciples shaped how his ministry developed. It mattered that they addressed him as “Rabbi”.

As we listen to where God is calling us, it is also worth listening to where those around us are calling us. What are the gifts they call out? God may be speaking to us through them.

First Sunday after Epiphany, The Baptism of our Lord, January 8, 2023: Isaiah 42:1-9; Acts 10:34-43; Matthew 3:13-17; Psalm 29

Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him; he will bring forth justice to the nations. (Isaiah 42:1)

Today we celebrate the Baptism of the Lord. In Matthew’s gospel we hear that Jesus came to where John was baptizing. John offered a baptism of repentance to those who came. According to Matthew, he recognized Jesus, and almost refused to baptize him. But Jesus pushes back, and says this is the proper sequence. And so Jesus is baptized.

Baptism is the way we become members of the Church. In baptism, we say, “you are marked as Christ’s own forever”. When we are baptized we, or if we are infants, our parents and godparents, make promises. According the current Book of Common Prayer, we promise in two directions. First we turn away: we renounce the spiritual forces that fight against God, the evil powers of this world “which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God”, as well as sinful desires “that draw us from the love of God”.

When we turn away, we always simultaneously turn towards something. In this case, we turn towards God, accepting Jesus as our Lord and Savior. We affirm the creeds of the church, and make promises: to “continue in the apostles teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers”; to “persevere in resisting evil”; to “proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ”; to “seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as yourself”; and “strive for justice and peace” and to “respect the dignity of every human being.” Like the person or people Isaiah describes, we are to bring justice and peace to the nations.

These are important promises. They are also powerful. And we do not just make them once. We reaffirm them every time there is a baptism; we also reaffirm them at the Easter Vigil. The repetition of these promises has had a profound effect on my faith, my understanding of how I should live in the world.

There is another part of the story of Jesus baptism, however. As Jesus comes out of the water, he sees the Spirit of God descending on him. Isaiah tells us that this gives one power: power to do justice, to be a light to the nations. Jesus hears a voice from heaven saying “This is my son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased”. As in Isaiah, the spirit of the Lord gives power. Baptism is not a one way street.

Baptism does not just make us members of the church: it gives us power. We do not just make promises to do things. We are marked as belonging to Christ, and as a result, have the spirit working with us. Because of baptism, we are never alone as we seek to bring justice to the nations. As we remind ourselves in the words of Ephesians at the end of Evening Prayer each week, “God’s power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine”.

1st Sunday of Christmas: The Holy Name of Jesus, January 1, 2023: Numbers 6:22-27; Galatians 4:4-7 or Philippians 2:5-11; Luke 2:15-21; Psalm 8

Names are important. Names mark us as members of communities large and small. Parents think hard about the names they give their children: do they carry a family name? Or that of a friend? We may have a family nickname, or one among our friends. Lovers often have private names for eachother. The stories behind our names, public and private, are stories of our communities.

Today’s reading from the book of Numbers raises the question: why and how do names matter? First the Lord gives Moses the words of a blessing that frequently closes a service: “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you; the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.” But then he says, “So they shall put my name on the Israelites, and I will bless them.” The Israelites now carry the Lord’s name, and it carries a blessing.

There are more names. The Psalmist starts by addressing the Lord: “Oh Lord our Governor, how exalted is your Name in all the world!” We have two choices of Epistle: in Galatians, Paul tells us that because we are adopted as children of God, we now address him by a new name, “Abba, Father”. In Philippians, Paul tells us that God gave Jesus his name, one to which “every knee should bend”.

The Gospel begins with the familiar story of the shepherds visiting Mary and Joseph and the baby, as well as whoever else is there. They tell those they see at the manger about the message of the angels: clearly there are others present, because Mary and Joseph already know that this baby is special!

After eight days, Luke tells us, they hold a bris. At a bris, held on the eighth day of a Jewish boy’s life, he is circumcised and given his name. And so Jesus is given his name, the name Mary and Joseph had been told to give him. But a bris is not a private event, but a communal one: these days there is often a big party, but at the time of Jesus birth, one would expect neighbors to be there as witnesses and helpers. They need to know the baby’s name.

Names, both what we are called and what we call others, mark our places in the world. So did Jesus’ name. The shepherds, along with the ritual circumcision, remind us that Jesus was born into a community, even if it was a temporary one created by an order from the emperor. Through baptism, Paul reminds us, we become part not just of a community, but a family.

From time to time, you can read a story of someone who as a result of illness or injury cannot remember their name. The effort to find out their name is a reminder that names create connections. Like Jesus, from the moment we are named, we are part of a community. Thanks be to God.

Christmas Day, 2022: Luke 2: 1-20

Today is Christmas. We remember the story of the couple who travelled 70 miles to address a political demand. They come to a very crowded town, because all of David’s descendents had to travel to Bethlehem. There is no room for them, but they have a stable. A baby is born, and shepherds are told of his birth, and come to admire him.

We are used to hearing the story as one about a family who is not welcomed. But a recent article in the Christian Century by Kelly Nikondeha reframed the story for me. What if we thought about the story as one of people making room for everyone who needed it, even though there was really no room left? This squares with Palestinian concepts of hospitality, after all. Many of us have slept on sofas, or in attics, or other found places. I have friends who have camped outside a crowded house at a holiday: they join for meals, but there’s no more room.

What if we imagined other women coming to the stable to help Mary? Before the shepherds arrived, there were other women, helping Mary and Joseph, providing care for the new family. This was what happened in pre-modern societies: women helped birth children, and cared for women who had just borne them.

Most of the images we have of the nativity are of an isolated couple in a stable disconnected from a community. The stable was in town, so in the midst of life. When local women learned that a woman needed help, and they came. The stable was warm, and there was bedding. 

This imagining of the story makes it a story of people caring for each other, welcoming a stranger in need. It is a story of community. It is a fitting start to the story of Jesus, who himself  built a community that welcomed everyone.

Over the years, I have added figures to my creche. The central figures are lovely wooden ones my father bought in the 1960s. But the rest is now entirely non-canonical, with a lama, an elephant, a penguin, some Lego Santas and Cookie Monster, among others. When one friend saw my creche, the next year she appeared with a rubber duckie Jesus and Santa.  They have now joined the crew.  When asked about it, I tell people that since we say that all are welcome at God’s table, all are welcome in the stable too.

As we welcome the Christ child, we are asked to welcome those who show up and need to be cared for.

We wish all of you a Christmas in community.

Fourth Sunday in Advent (December 18, 2022): Isaiah 7:10-16; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25; Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18

The story is familiar; we hear it every year. An unmarried woman receives a visit from an angel, who tells her she will bear a son, and the Holy Spirit will impregnate her. Her fiance, who is rightly concerned that his allegedly virginal intended wife is pregnant, gets a visit from an angel in a dream telling him that Mary is pregnant not by some local man, but by the Holy Spirit. I think he would be reasonably justified in responding with incredulity.

This is a weird story. In one of the great understatements of scripture, Mary’s response to the angel is “she wondered what kind of greeting this might be”. Both Mary and Joseph accepted visions which they might legitimately have dismissed as unreal. Both took actions which put them at odds with social norms: Mary agreed to be pregnant outside of marriage, and Joseph agreed to marry her (and delay sexual activity) while she was pregnant by the Holy Spirit.

We are so familiar with the story that it is easy to forget how strange it is. Today’s gospel gives a sense of the context in referencing Joseph’s initial decision to “dismiss Mary quietly” so she wouldn’t be subject to public disgrace. But the Lord appeared to him in a dream, and he changed his mind. We are used to honoring Mary’s acceptance of the Holy Spirit. But Joseph too accepted a vision from the Lord, and did something hard in marrying a pregnant woman.

There’s a medieval English carol, The Cherry Tree Carol, which tells the story of Joseph and Mary traveling, when the pregnant Mary has a craving for cherries. An exasperated Joseph responds, “Let the father of the baby gather cherries for thee”. Needless to say, the highest branch of the cherry tree bends down so Mary can reach the cherries. I’ve always loved the carol, because it portrays Joseph and Mary as normal people. Medieval peasants expected Joseph to resent the situation because they would have.

Over the centuries, we have become accustomed to the Christmas story, but it is worth remembering how strange it is, and how both Joseph and Mary acted with courage against the expectations of their culture. What they did was hard. May we, like Joseph and Mary, also be willing to say yes when the Lord calls us.

Third Sunday of Advent, December 11, 2022: Isaiah 35:1-10; James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11; Psalm 146:4-9 or Canticle 15

A few days ago a friend and I drove up into the foothills of the Sierra for a day out. As we drove through grasslands that a few months ago had been dry and brown, you could see the green emerging. Yesterday’s heavy rain will further the greening of the land. Seeing the green makes me happy, and so when I read Isaiah saying that “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing” I feel the joy. I have seen the almost miraculous greening of the land when the rains come.

Isaiah’s prophecy is one of bounty and goodness, a vision of the potential goodness of God’s world: the lame will walk, the blind see. Along the way, God’s people will not go astray. And finally, “Sorrow and sighing shall flee away”. It is hard, in our world, to imagine a world without sorrow; it was equally hard for those who heard Isaiah. This is magic. Isaiah is echoed in Psalm 146, where we hear of the Lord “who gives justice to those who are oppressed, and food to those who hunger”.

We have two choices for the psalm today: Psalm 146, and Mary’s magnificent hymn about the transformative work of God. Mary tells us that the waiting is over. God “has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.” The world is transformed. It has happened. The waiting is over.

This assurance that the waiting is over is picked up in today’s Gospel reading. John the Baptist, now in prison, sends his followers to ask Jesus whether he is the one whose coming John had predicted. Jesus, as he so often does, does not answer directly, but tells them to tell John what they see and hear. Again we hear the echoes of Isaiah: “the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.” Jesus shows who he is by his actions, not his words.

In Advent we wait in two ways: we wait for the arrival of the baby Jesus, who becomes the Jesus who preaches and transforms lives. But we also wait for what will come, the future coming of Jesus. Jesus healed the sick, just as Isaiah had promised; his words and actions changed lives. We do our best to share Jesus’ transformative love in our lives. Yet we are still in the world, a world with sorrow and sighing, hunger, disease, and injustice. We are waiting for the world that Isaiah promised, and that Jesus embodied.

Second Sunday of Advent, 3 December 2022: Isaiah 11:1-10; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12; Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19

All our readings today look to the future, a future of both goodness and change. In Isaiah, we hear of the future time when the spirit of the Lord will rest on the ruler, and “with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth”. The unnamed ruler will not just rule with justice; “with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked”. After that, peace will extend to the natural world: “The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid”. In this future, Isaiah tells us, “the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord”.

The Psalmist shares a vision with Isaiah, but offers it as a prayer rather than a prophecy. “Give the King your justice, O God, and your righteousness to the King’s Son; that he may rule your people righteously and the poor with justice”. When this happens, people will share in prosperity, and the oppressor will be crushed. And “there shall be abundance of peace till the moon shall be no more”.

According to Paul, “whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction”, to give us hope. Paul turns to the words of Isaiah and other quotations from the Hebrew scriptures. All of them point to a God of Hope. He closes with the words we often use as benediction at Evening Prayer: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

Hope is not blind optimism. It is a vision of what could be. And getting there will not be simple. When John the Baptist appears, he announced that “the Kingdom of Heaven has come near”. He promises that the one who comes after him will baptize with “the Holy Spirit and fire”. Like Isaiah, John tells us that to get to the end, there will be destruction: “His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will . . . gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”

Paul knows that the winnowing that John promised has not yet come to pass: it is still in the future. He asks the Romans to live “in harmony with one another”, to glorify God. And, he asks them to “welcome one another, just as Christ has welcomed you”. Paul asks us to live with eachother as if we are in the world that Isaiah prophesied. The God of Hope, Paul suggests, is visible in our attempts to create a model of the world to come. It may not be in the world around us, but it can be visible in small worlds.

It can be hard to hold on to hope in the world today. We live in a world which appears to be defined by scarcity (real or artificial), not abundance. There are wars, and people flee them. Climate change has brought more extreme weather: there are droughts and famines, but also flooding caused by more intense hurricanes and monsoons. The richest people in the world live an unsustainable lifestyle with mega-yachts, private jets, and trips to space, while an increasing number of the rest live one crisis away from disaster. It is hard to believe that we can get to the other side of this without significant suffering; we hope, like the psalmist, that the poor will be rescued and the oppressors crushed.

What do we do? Hope for Paul is not just a thought, but an action: harmony, welcome. We welcome those who wish to live into this world of abundance, because when you live in abundance, you can live in harmony. Such actions are not confined to church: they need to define our approach to the world. We need to know who the oppressors and oppressed are, so that we can work against the oppressors and support the oppressed.

Hope is not just assuming everything will be rainbows and puppies at some point in the future. It is living it into existence, in all parts of our lives.

November 27, 2022, First Sunday of Advent: Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44; Psalm 122

It’s the first Sunday of Advent, and as happens every year, the readings try to shock us with the coming of something new. It’s not entirely clear what it is, as the Hebrew scriptures and the New Testament have rather different visions. But it is new, and important. And it’s about time.

The readings are obsessed with time. We are too. We are on time, we waste time, we spend time, we make it, find it and test things with it; we want a time out or we don’t have enough time. Our society is driven by time. But the scriptures are talking about a different kind of time, a time in some undefined future.

According to Isaiah, “in the days to come”, “out of Zion shall go forth instruction”. The Lord will judge the nations. People will “beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.”

The Psalm offers time as a vision of peace in Jerusalem when we praise the name of the Lord there: “Jerusalem is built as a city that is at unity with itself”. There in Jerusalem are thrones of judgment. We are asked to “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem”. Here Jerusalem is both the city, but also the place where the Temple provided a home for God. In praying for the peace of Jerusalem, we are praying for the peace of God.

This peaceful image shifts when we get to Paul, who tells us that “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep.” When we wake up, we hear from Jesus that “About that day and hour no one knows”. What we know is when that time comes (and we hope we are awake) there will be judgment: two people will be together, whether men in the field or women grinding meal, and “one will be taken and one will be left”. We must “keep awake”, and “be ready”.

The coming of the Son of Man has been expected by Christians since the time of Jesus and Paul. At different times particular dates and times have been proposed. From time to time we hear of a preacher who has determined the exact time when this will happen; his (and it is *his*) followers dutifully prepare only to find that nothing has happened.

This presents a problem. What is it we need to keep awake for, if not for some power snatching us away (or worse, leaving us behind)? If not the rapture, then what? What are we to be ready for? Are we ready to pray for the peace of Jerusalem? To, as Paul suggests, “live honorably in the day”? We need to be ready to be servants of Jesus, living our life as he has called us. We never know when we will be called on to respond to those in need, and we do not know what that need will be.

The time is already here. We do not need to wait for some astonishing event. We just need to be present. We can make our own contributions to beating swords into plowshares, and we can pray for the peace of Jerusalem. If we live honorably, anchored in Jesus, we are ready. It’s about time.

Last Sunday of Pentecost, 20 November 2022: Jeremiah 23:1-6; Canticle 16; Colossians 1:11-20; Luke 23:33-43

It’s the end of the year (for the church at least!) and as we do in the world, we glance back but mostly look forward.  Jeremiah promises that the Lord will both “attend” to the evildoers who have scattered his flock, and then “gather the remnant” back to the sheep fold, and they shall “be fruitful and multiply”.  “They shall not fear any longer”.  Furthermore, in the future the Lord will raise up for David “a righteous branch”, who shall “execute justice and righteousness in the land”.   That’s quite a promise! 

The Canticle we say today instead of a psalm is the song of Zechariah, one of the canticles we use during evening prayer.  Zechariah had not believed the promise of a child to his wife Elizabeth, and had been rendered mute for his disbelief.  When his son was born, he was able to speak again, and these are his first words.  He recites the ancient promises to Israel, and points to the way John will have a role in fulfilling them. “The dawn from on high will break upon us!”

The Gospel takes us, finally, to the cross. This feels like an ending, but it is also a beginning.  Jesus asks God to forgive those who are crucifying him, “because they know not what they do”. He is mocked and taunted: if he is a King, why is he there?  In Luke’s account, we have the two thieves who are crucified with Jesus.  One joins the taunt: why can’t you save yourself and us?  The other thief pushes back, reminding his fellow that they were condemned justly.  “We are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong”.  He then asks Jesus to remember him “when you come into your kingdom”.  Jesus instead promises that the second thief will join him in paradise that day.

This echoes Paul, who promises us that God has “rescued us from the power of darkness, and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved son”.

Every time this Gospel comes around, I am reminded of the end of a poem by John Shea, “A Prayer to Jesus”, where he remarks that, “I am both thieves”.  So are we all.  We all at times want magician Jesus to whisk us away from suffering and into Paradise.  Can we just skip the pain?   At other times, we are all too aware of our failings and limitations.  There’s no one to one relationship here, this much sin leading to this much suffering.  It often seems as if suffering is unequally distributed. 

Jesus’ promise to the second thief is not that he won’t suffer: he will. He will die the same cruel and long death that Jesus will die.  But that is not the end.  This is the thing with our suffering: it is not the end of the story.   

We often pray for Jesus to be with us in times of need.  But Jesus flips this around: we will be with Jesus.  “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

November 13, 2022, 23^rd Sunday after Pentecost: Isaiah 65:17-25; Canticle 9 (Isaiah 12:2-6); 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13; Luke 21:5-19

“As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”

I think one of the most difficult things to accept is that the world we live in is not permanent.  People we love will die; we lose jobs and friends; buildings will be demolished, or burn down. The world we know—the patterns of behavior, the things we depend on—will not be the same at some point in the future.  We watch the destruction of wildfires nearby and we know that the destruction they bring will ultimately come to this planet that we love, even when we do not act as if we do.

When things are going well in our lives, we do not want change, but change comes.  Jesus promises us that there will be wars, earthquakes, famines and plagues.  As a historian, there are few times in history when most of these promises/predictions could not be said to be true. We have certainly seen all of these.  Most of us have not suffered persecution in Jesus’ name, but the rest is clearly visible.

And then what?  Isaiah promises “new heavens and a new earth”.  It sounds wonderful: “no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress”.  Babies will not die soon after birth; those who work will reap the rewards of their work.  In this peaceful and beneficent world, “The wolf and the lamb shall feed together”.  

We tend to assume that change will be bad, at least any change that we have not chosen.  But Isaiah promises change for the good, full of blessings from God.  It comes from the conviction expressed elsewhere in Isaiah, in today’s canticle, one we say often in evening prayer.  “Surely it is God who saves me/ I will trust in him and not be afraid.” The world is always changing.  There are wars, earthquakes, famines and plagues; because of modern communications, we know this.  We see suffering not just nearby, with homeless people huddled in doorways, but far away, in the victims of famine and war, the refugees and migrants we see on our televisions. 

We all in our own ways seek to help those in need, but what we do is pathetically inadequate. In this world, this suffering will always be there. We all look to the world Isaiah describes and Jesus promises, the new heaven and the new earth where there is no suffering or grief, and enough for everyone. Then we will follow Isaiah’s instructions, to “be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating.”

November 6, 2022, Feast of All Saints: Daniel 7:1-3,15-18; Psalm 149;
Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

“The holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom for ever—for ever and ever.” (Daniel 7:18)

The celebration of All Saints is powerful, with the reminder of those who have gone before us. We remember famous saints and less famous ones, the saints who have illumined our lives in various times and places. We end our Litany of the Saints with names offered up by members of the congregation, those who have been their guides along the way.

Let’s be honest: the good thing about adding the names of those we have known is that they make sainthood more attainable. Most of the saints were probably insufferable, or at least difficult to live with. What allowed them to do the things we admire them for was a singlemindedness that puts their service to God before everything else. Few of us share that focus, that willingness to put God before all human connections.

All Saints is also a celebration of hope. Paul talks of the “hope to which Jesus has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints”. This is a hope we have through baptism, not through any special behavior. We too will join “the saints triumphant”.

That all sounds pretty good, until we get to the gospel. We hear the Beatitudes, Jesus’ blessings. Blessed are you, he says, if you are poor, hungry, grieving, under attack: your reward is great in heaven. But woe to you if you are rich and well fed, happy and admired: the reverse will be true for you. Not necessarily very comforting. Jesus is once again challenging the order of his (and our) world.

Then we get the command: Listen. “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” He ends his admonition with a restatement of the golden rule: “Do to others as you would have them do to you”. Now, this is hard. Most of us, when people hurt us, want to hurt them back: that’s human. Jesus is calling us to a different way so that we remake the world.

Sometimes this passage is read to mean that it is our Christian duty to be a doormat, accepting whatever comes. But that’s not what Jesus says: he never says being treated badly is good. He tells to pray for abusers, not to hang out with them. I try to be respectful to people who have treated me badly, but I do my best to not place them in a position to do it again. We have to treat ourselves, not just others, as we want to be treated. Love is an orientation toward healing. It is neither uncritical nor always “nice”. Sometimes tough love is necessary: a woman I recall every year on All Saints once lovingly told me to stop being so full of myself. It was hard to hear, but I needed it.

The golden rule is an ethical guideline in most major religious and ethical traditions. Treating others as we wish to be treated can be difficult, but it is transformative. The shift in orientation is healing for us. When I think of the saints who have guided me on my way, what I remember is the way they faced the world with love.

But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day;  the saints triumphant rise in bright array;       The King of Glory passes on his way.     Alleluia, alleluia!

–Hymnal 1982, Hymn 287

21st Sunday of Pentecost, Proper 26: Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4; Psalm 119:137-144; 2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12; Luke 19:1-10

When I lived in New Haven, my friend Gretchen Pritchard, who was then in charge of Children’s Ministries the Episcopal Church of St Paul and St James, taught me one of my most important lessons in ministry. She invited me to start a youth group for the middle schoolers in the church. I didn’t have a desperate need to start a youth group, but I was invited, so I said yes. I was hopelessly unprepared for the level of hormones that floated around the room sometimes, but the kids were great.

When starting up, I sent a letter to all the parents about a day retreat we were planning, asking them to get in touch so we would know how many kids were coming. Radio silence. No, she told me, you won’t hear from people. You have to call them. So I learned to make phone calls to the parents to organize events. Gretchen invited me, I invited others. And from then on, I knew that if I needed to reach people, I had to reach out to them individually.

I thought of that lesson when I re-read the story of Zacchaeus in today’s gospel. He was rich, the chief tax collector, and was curious about Jesus. He was short, so the only way he could see Jesus was by climbing a tree. And Jesus calls him. He needs a place to stay. Zacchaeus is happy to oblige. It doesn’t look good: everyone knows that Zacchaeus got rich off the backs of everyone else. But in inviting himself to Zacchaeus’ house, Jesus changed his life.

Jesus knew what he was doing. Zacchaeus welcomed him and announced that he is giving half his possessions to the poor, and will make right anyone he has defrauded. When Jesus affirms his salvation, he observes that Zacchaeus too “is a son of Abraham”, and that he had come “to save the lost”. The very fact that Zacchaeus was a surprising host was the point. When invited, he answered.

I try to remember the power of a non-judgmental invitation. People like to help. People like to be invited. So for us, as a small congregation what can we invite people to that is manageable for us but enjoyable for others? Where can we put ourselves out in the world?

Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost: Joel 2:23-32; Psalm 65; 2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18; Luke 18:9-14

I lived much of my life on the east coast of the US, where rain was usually regular but intermittent; I also spent long stretches of time working in Britain, which is generally known for regular rainfall. It was not until I moved to California with its specific seasons of rainfall that the scriptural passages that describe the bounty of rain really hit me. I now understand the magical transformation of the brown landscape to green when the rains arrive.

You visit the earth and water it abundantly;
you make it very plenteous; the river of God is full of water.

You prepare the grain, for so you provide for the earth.

You drench the furrows and smooth out the ridges;
with heavy rain you soften the ground and bless its increase.

Psalm 65:9-11

In the book of Joel, we are instructed to “be glad and rejoice” in the early rain, “abundant rain, the early and the later rain”. There will be a good harvest of grain and wine and oil. The damage done by pests will be undone. “You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied”. This is a picture of abundance, of God’s bounty and generosity. There is every reason to “praise the name of the Lord your God”. The Lord will be in the midst of Israel, and the people will know that the Lord is their only God.

Yet this bounty is not the beginning of a stable or peaceful world. The consequences of this bounty and presence are not entirely what those in authority might want. The Lord’s spirit will be poured out on everyone, and “your sons and your daughters will prophesy”. Even slaves will receive God’s spirit. God’s spirit is not observing the usual hierarchy, but embracing everyone. This is a sign of the day of judgment: suddenly we have portents in the heavens and on earth. “The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood”. At this point “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved”.

God’s abundance, in other words, does not just support the world as it is; it is a sign of radical transformation. God’s world is not our world. This passage from Joel was used by religious radicals during the Reformation to sanction preaching by ordinary people, especially women, but also uneducated men.

This same emphasis on God’s vision being different from that of the world is evident in the parable in today’s Gospel. Here we have two men praying at the temple. One is a pharisee, who carefully kept the laws. His prayer offers gratitude to God that he is not like others, but that he follows the laws given in the scripture. The tax collector, on the other hand, is off in a corner, asking God for mercy for his sins. Yet Jesus tells the disciples that it is the tax collector who is justified, “for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

It is comfortable to think that God wants the world to be a better version of what we want it to be. Today’s readings warn us against that comfortable vision, drawing our attention to the ways following the Lord will turn the hierarchies of our world upside down. It is tempting to be like the pharisee, confident in our vision of the world and our place in it. What would it mean for us to see ourselves as the tax collector, woeful failures in following God?

Credit: http://www.bl.uk/learning/images/uk/crown/large2180.html

19th Sunday after Pentecost: Jeremiah 31:27-34; Psalm 119:97-104; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5; Luke 18:1-8

The parable in today’s gospel is designed, Jesus says, to show us the importance of praying always. It’s a short story: there is a judge who did not fear either God or the people. A widow kept coming to him, asking for justice. The judge grants the widow’s petition not because it is right, but because he is tired of being pestered. Jesus closes by saying, if the unjust judge can do the right thing, how much more will a just God hear the prayers of his people.

But that is not the end of the story. Jesus ends with a seemingly unrelated question: “when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?” Whose faith? What faith? Is it the faith of the widow, who believes that if she persists, if she does not lose heart, her plea for justice will be answered? Is the faith that the Son of Man is looking for that of those who pray always, who do not give up? It seems like it.

I am always ambivalent about advice to pray for things. I don’t buy the idea of a God who is sitting there deciding whose prayers get answered and whose do not. Why does one person get their prayer answered and not another? You can hardly say that all those who pray faithfully always have their prayers answered.

So I don’t usually pray for specific things. Confronted with joy and with sorrow, with blessings and confusion, I find myself offering them to God. I have prayed with those doing something hard that they do not feel alone. I have prayed when those I loved were very ill. I have prayed for those who are dying, and for those who love them. Unlike the widow, I do not pray always, but I pray.

So do we, as a congregation. Our small congregation has kept going, kept on praying. Most of our services for the last 10 years have been morning or evening prayer. We pray. We don’t know what will come next. But for now, like the widow, we are persistent. We are present every Sunday, and we pray. We don’t just pray for ourselves: we pray for our friends in Shepherd of the Valley Lutheran Church, and for those around us in Merced, and we pray for the world.

In the Gospel, Jesus suggests that praying always helps us to not lose heart. This is the faith that the Son of Man will want to see. In the Epistle, Paul is writing to Timothy, encouraging him in his ministry. He tells him to “be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable”. Keep on going, no matter what is happening.

We are human, so we do lose heart. Paul was worried that Timothy would lose heart. We lose heart as individuals and as communities. But we also persist. At our best, we keep praying, but at least we keep showing up. Sometimes showing up is the best we can do. The liturgy helps, because when we do lose heart, it gives us words to pray with and to find our way.

People sometimes think that faith is an easy way out. But faith is not easy. It was not easy for the widow in the Gospel. It certainly was not easy for Paul, and evidently not for Timothy. Todays readings offer little comfort, but do offer a way to live in faith: pray always, be persistent, and do not lose heart.

Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost: Lamentations 1:1-6;  Psalm 137; 2 Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 17:5-10

Where did you learn your faith? What has supported it? What helps it grow? Paul writes to Timothy and provides a genealogy of Timothy’s faith: it “lived first in your grandmother Lois and you mother Eunice”. Timothy, Paul was sure, would follow in the faith of his maternal line. But maybe Paul is not actually as sure of Timothy as he says, as he has to tell Timothy not to be “ashamed” of testimony about Jesus, or of Paul’s imprisonment. The rest of the selection we have here is a pep talk from Paul to Timothy. Here’s what we believe, don’t be ashamed, and keep up the teaching.

In reading Paul, I was fascinated by Paul’s understanding of the way we learn our faith from those around us: in Timothy’s case, his mother and grandmother. Some of us learned our faith from our parents or grandparents; but what I learned from them has been added to over the years by teachers, preachers, and friends who modeled different aspects of faith. It was a useful reminder that our faith is not an insolated interaction between us and God, but always embedded in relationships that show us ways of being in that relationship, and help us move into a deeper relationship with God.

Today’s gospel starts with what seems like a simple request from the apostles to Jesus, to “Increase our faith”! Jesus’s response (as is so often the case) is not very satisfying, because the size of faith is not the issue. If their faith was even as big as a (tiny) mustardseed, it could move a tree from its current location into the sea. You do not need a great deal of faith to have a big impact. The problem is not needing more faith, but being willing to do the hard work of faith.

What are the apostles afraid of? Why do they feel the need for more faith? Will more faith help them do what they are commanded to do? Why do we, with at least (usually) a mustardseed sized faith, fail to move the trees in our way? Is that not the way it works today? Or are we, as Paul suggested of Timothy, ashamed? or are we afraid? If afraid, are we afraid of success or failure? What will faith ask of us? Do we really want the things we pray for? What would happen if all our prayers were successful?

These are questions many of us ask ourselves at one time or another. If there’s any comfort in these readings, it is that these challenges have been experienced by followers of Jesus from the apostles onward. We are not the first, and we won’t be the last. Just as we learn our faith from others, we share our doubts and fears with others. What will happen we we trust the power of our faith?

16th Sunday after Pentecost: Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15; Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31

Today’s readings from the Epistle and the Gospel are very clear: don’t get too hung up on money. In Paul’s words, “The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil”. I read this as I receive yet another retirement planning email from my employer, and see stories in the national press about how to protect your money given the stock market. Today’s paper had a long story on how tech entrepreneurs have decided that they can treat others badly and there will be no consequences because they and their friends are rich. The love of money often seems to be a national religion.

What’s so wrong with it, the skeptical might wonder. Paul acknowledges that those who are wealthy in this world can do right, but they need to place their hope not in “the uncertainty of riches”, but on God. They should not be “haughty”, but humble, focused on God, not wealth. But that’s hard to do.

Jesus is even more explicit in the story of what is often known as Dives and Lazarus. The rich man, resplendent in “purple and fine linen”, feasting “sumptuously” daily, dies and suffers in Hades. The poor man, covered in sores, eating scraps from the rich man’s table, dies and is with Abraham. The rich man’s failure to acknowledge the poor man is at the center of the problem. He thought he was better than the poor man, only to find out too late he was not.

Paul’s letter to Timothy is one of what are known as pastoral epistles, concerned with helping Christians live in the real world. It acknowledges that Christians might be rich “in this present age”; they are not kicked out of the church, but asked to put their wealth in the right place, as a tool and not an object of love. They should be “rich in good works”. They are to “fight the good fight of the faith”.

We live in a world which is even more likely to worship money than did Jesus and Paul. Love of money is not the root of all evil, but of all kinds of evil. The temptation for the rich, as Jesus suggests, is to separate themselves from the poor, to think of themselves as better. We see this in many ways, from the increasing inaccessibility of housing for those with modest incomes to the new hobby of the ultra-rich, flying into outer space.

There are many in Merced who do not have enough, who work multiple jobs, or scrape through from week to week. This is the result of an economic system that prioritizes the love of money. Few of us live the life of the rich man Jesus describes. But many of us have enough, and can use the reminder “not to be haughty”. We can be “generous and ready to share”. This means putting God at the center, not money. It was a challenge in Paul’s time, and remains one now.

Lazarus and Dives, illumination from the 11th century Codex Aureus of Echternach, Wikimedia commons

Fifteenth Sunday of Pentecost: Jeremiah 8:18-9:1; Psalm 79:1-9; 1 Timothy 2:1-7; Luke 16:1-13

For the past few weeks, we have heard Jeremiah passing judgment on the failures of the people of Judah and Jerusalem. Repeatedly he has told them of the disaster that faces them because they have not been faithful to the Lord. Two weeks ago we had the image of the potter, who would reshape the pot if the people of Judah did not mend their ways. Last week there was less hope, as Jeremiah described the environmental disaster that would soon come. Now we have a shift in tone. We learn that while the Lord passes judgment, such judgment does not come with joy.

“My joy is gone, grief is upon me, my heart is sick.” Jeremiah’s lament is the Lord’s. Lament is important. When you lament, you sit with pain and sorrow. You do not offer comfort, and you do not try to fix things. You sit or stand and weep. In many places in the world, loud wailing is an important part of the process of grieving, often a role given to women. Such ritual mourning allows us to acknowledge loss, to register the human feelings of despair.

Much of the lament is in questions: Is the Lord not in Zion? Is her King not in her? Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then has the health of my poor people not been restored? What is wrong? Why are things still wrong? These are the questions we ask when grieving: they don’t erase they pain, but articulate its impact.

What I find comforting about Jeremiah here is that the Lord is with us in the abyss, when we are absorbed in loss. Like us, Jeremiah asks questions: why? Isn’t there anything that will fix it? Jeremiah doesn’t say, “See, I warned you”. He is not reminding people of why they deserved this, but is just sitting with them, joining their grief. The psalmist is the same: “How long will you be angry, O Lord?”

Those who live through terrible things find ways to hope. But always, they need to lament first: to name their suffering and the pain it has caused. In the midst of their enslavement in the southern US, enslaved people developed a vibrant musical and religious tradition. They knew pain: on Good Friday, when I hear, “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”, I know that they had been there. But they also found hope. They answered Jeremiah’s question, “Is there no balm in Gilead? ” with the confident assertion that “There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole/ There is a balm in Gilead, to heal the sin sick soul”. They turned to the Holy Spirit.

Jesus’ presence with us is the center of Christian hope. But we often forget Holy Saturday in our rush from Good Friday to Easter. There was a long day of grief and despair. The apostles and the men on the road to Emmaus did not know the end of the story that we live with. If we rush too fast to the hope offered by the Resurrection, we cannot be with people in the time between. Sometimes, with Jeremiah, we need to experience the pain, to lament. And later, may we proclaim that “There is a balm in Gilead.”

Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 19: Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28; Psalm 14; 1 Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-10

Today we get two sides of the story of our relationship with God, the story that is repeated throughout scriptures. We begin with a gift from God; humans turn away from that gift; God judges; humans repent and are forgiven, given new life. And then it begins again.

Jeremiah is reporting on the first part of the story: the Lord is speaking in judgment on his people, who “are skilled in doing evil, but do not know how to do good”. Jeremiah looks around, and the earth is barren, an ecological disaster. The Lord promises some mercy, but only after disaster: “The whole land shall be a desolation; yet I will not make a full end.”

It is hard not to see ourselves in the bleak ecological vision of Jeremiah, especially after we in Merced have lived through more than a week of extreme heat. We may not panic when the temperature goes over 100°, but when it reaches 115°, everyone thinks it’s too hot. We know we are living with the results of climate change, with more extreme weather of all kinds. The recent floods in Pakistan meant that one-third of the land was under water. This is perhaps not God’s judgment on us, but we are certainly collectively accountable for the overuse of fossil fuels that has created the climate crisis, a crisis that is most severe in the regions of the world that have done the least to create it.

The psalm continues the account of God’s judgment: “Every one has proved faithless; all alike have turned bad”. Yet there is hope: some have turned to the Lord, and “when the Lord restores the fortunes of his people, Jacob will rejoice and Israel be glad”.

Human beings fail and fail repeatedly. One of the things that makes the apostle Paul so powerful is his acknowledgement of his own wrongdoing. In the letter to Timothy, he recounts his persecution of Christians. “I was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and a man of violence.” Yet there was mercy, and he had been chosen to serve Christ. For him, “the grace of our Lord overflowed for me with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus”, making him a powerful example of the possibility of redemption.

In the parable of the lost sheep, Jesus focuses on how much repentence means. God welcomes the righteous, but “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance”. The shepherd goes looking for the lost sheep, just as the widow searches for the coin. Each of us matters. And forgiveness and mercy are available to all of us.

The cycle of the biblical stories always ends one way: with forgiveness and mercy. It is what can give us hope as we confront our individual and collective failures. “There’s a wideness in God’s mercy like the wideness of the sea”, our closing hymn (#470) proclaims. It is sometimes difficult to trust in that mercy, but it’s there.

Thirteenth Sunday of Pentecost: Jeremiah 18:1-11; Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17; Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33

What a group of readings! Three of them are scriptures I really like, and then there’s the Gospel. So I’ll start with where I’m comfortable. Jeremiah likens God to a potter, who having made a mistake, destroys their work and builds a new pot. If the people of Judah are the pot, God is promising to shape something new against them. BUT if they change their ways, God will leave them.

For about 15 years before I moved to Merced, I regularly took a pottery class. A good potter controls the clay, just as God will do. (I was never entirely in control of the clay, so I was adequate but not a great potter.) I came to think that what made a really good potter was the ability to recover from their mistakes. And God is wondering, watching the people of Judah and Jerusalem, whether he’s made a mistake. If the pot starts going in the right direction, great, but if not, that’s it.

Psalm 139 is one of my favorite psalms, where the psalmist ruminates on God ongoing presence with them: God has “searched me out and known me”, indeed “you knit me together in my mother’s womb”. This sense of the presence of God throughout the psalmists life, alongside them, is truly comforting. It is not surprising that this is a psalm often used at funerals.

Then we get Paul’s letter to Philemon. Paul is writing to Philemon, Apphia and Archippus, and the “church in your house”. Philemon is Paul’s “dear friend and co-worker”, Apphia his “sister”, and Archippus his fellow soldier. These are people he trusted. He is sending Onesimus back to them from his prison. Onesimus had become “a son” to Paul while Paul was in prison: serving Paul, but also converting to Christianity. This relationship with Paul should, Paul thinks, change his other relationships. Onesimus was evidently a slave of Philemon; it is not clear if he had run away, or was somehow a problem. Now Paul wants Philemon to take him back “no longer as a slave, but. . .a beloved brother.” “Welcome him as you would welcome me.” Paul asks Philemon to do this out of love. But what Paul is asking is to upend a set of social relations, making a slave equal to his master. And he is not sure of the result. Still, at the center is Paul’s conviction that being a Christian changes our relationships to each other.

Last week, Jesus told the parable of the wedding feast, and like Paul he challenged the worldly hierarchies in which he lived, and we continue to live. This week, Jesus goes further, in one of the more shocking gospels, where he tells us that to follow him, we have to hate our families, and even life. That the price of following him may be separation from the people and even life that we hold dear. To say this is a difficult instruction is an understatement.

This might be a good time to think about how the Gospels were written. While they are written as if they are a first person account, they were in fact written down late in the first century. In the case of Luke, it was probably forty or fifty years after Jesus’ death. Luke’s report of Jesus warning about the costs of discipleship is descriptive of what is, not prescriptive of what should be. In Luke’s time, you might well put yourself at odds with your family by following Jesus, and you might well lose your life. It might be reassuring in the first century to know that Jesus recognized the danger. The challenges of following Jesus in the 21^st century US are not so dramatic.

The rest of the story is more useful than the opening. Jesus asks, who would start building without knowing the full cost? If you do, you get caught with a half finished house, and look like a fool. The costs we face are different from those faced by those to whom Luke wrote. In the Diocese of San Joaquin we know that our interpretations of Jesus’ gospel can lead to painful divisions. People lost friends, and a sense of a church home when the former diocese left the Episcopal church. The choices people made in 2008 were hard choices. The differences between what people think it means to follow Jesus are real; the costs of one’s position are not imaginary.

I am fortunate that I have not had to pay a high price for following Jesus. But I am always helped by the psalmist’s reminder that the Lord is with me at all times: “You press upon me behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.” With that confidence, it is possible to follow Jesus.

Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost: Jeremiah 2:4-13; Psalm 81:1, 10-16; Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16; Luke 14:1, 7-14

God is angry with the House of Jacob and the families of the house of Israel, Jeremiah tells us. “I brought you into a plentiful land to eat its fruits and its good things. But when you entered you defiled my land, and made my heritage an abomination.” This image of environmental degradation is followed by an account of how they have abandoned their Lord for other gods. And all for nothing. They have abandoned living water, and dug their own cisterns, which are cracked. A cracked cistern will not hold water, so vital in the desert. Without water, they will die.

The Psalm continues this theme. I am the Lord who brought you out of Egypt, but “my people did not hear my voice, and Israel would not obey me.” If they would listen, I would defeat their enemies, and feed them “with the finest wheat”. They suffer now, but if they would listen to God, they would not.

If our readings from the Hebrew scriptures focus on the outcome of abandoning God, the readings from Hebrews and Luke make it clear that following Jesus involves behavior that goes against what is expected. Paul asks us to remember prisoners as if we were in prison with them, those who are tortured as if we are being tortured with them. If such empathy might be reasonable, Paul’s instruction to “keep your lives free from the love of money” is definitely counter-cultural! If we do these things, however, the promise is that Jesus will always be with us.

Luke’s parable of the wedding feast proposes another counter-cultural approach: put yourself at the bottom, because it’s better to be moved up than to be moved down. Jesus is explicitly telling his followers not to be caught up in the hierarchies of the day, but to go against them. And then his advice to his host is more surprising: don’t invite the fancy people, as if you expect reciprocity. Offer hospitality to those who cannot give back: “the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind”. Repayment is not now, but “at the resurrection of the righteous”.

It is not surprising that the people of Israel failed to do what they were expected to do. We do too. It is one reason we say the confession on a regular basis. We live in a world that expects us to honor worldly hierarchies, where concern for money is considered a good. It is easier to worship worldly gods than to follow the Lord. Those of us with money and homes keep the hungry and the poor at arms length: we might help at a communal Thanksgiving, but we don’t generally invite the hungry and homeless into our homes.

But just because we fail a lot, it doesn’t mean we fail all the time. Here’s what everyone who has entered into relationship with the poor, or prisoners, or the hungry has come to know: we may start out thinking we are helping them, but if we enter into relationship and make ourselves vulnerable, we are served as much as we serve.

Actions have consequences, we teach children. But that is true for good actions and bad ones. The challenge to us is “hear the voice” of the Lord, to move outside our comfort zone, to enter relationship with those who are outside our worlds, and to let ourselves be changed. And as the psalmist and Paul both tell us, when we do that, God will be with us.

Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost: Jeremiah 1:4-10; Psalm 71:1-6; Hebrews 12:18-29; Luke 13:10-17

The woman appeared, bent over by a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She cannot stand up straight. Jesus sees her, and calls her over. “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.”

My first reaction on reading this week’s gospel is to think about the pain of the woman. Eighteen years! It must have been so hard. But as I read it over, I was increasingly struck by Jesus’ response. He calls her over, and does what is needed. He doesn’t make a big fuss, he just does it. And then he defends his actions (healing on the Sabbath) by reminding his critics of what they do for their animals on the Sabbath. Why not help a human, let alone a “Daughter of Abraham”?

What really strikes me is that this is a direct response with little fuss. There was no committee or study group, no resolution. Just a need and a response. That is rare in the world today. Our congregation has run out of the yellow bags that we used to give out, but one of the things that I liked about having them was the availability of a direct response to need. If you’re hungry, I have food for you. We can’t always do this: I don’t always have food with me, or money. And many needs, from housing to immigration issues to health care, cannot be dealt with so easily.

We may not be able to act so directly, but when thinking about “what would Jesus do”, thinking about how to make our response to the many needs of the world as straightforward as possible is a good first step.

Tenth Sunday after Pentecost: Isaiah 5:1-7; Psalm 80:1-2, 8-18; Hebrews 11:29-12:2; Luke 12:49-56

There are weeks when I read the lessons for Sunday and would like to wish them away. The lectionary doesn’t allow us to do that. We begin with Isaiah’s account of how the house of Israel will be destroyed because it has not been faithful to the Lord; we end with Jesus’ promise of division: “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!” No sweet kumbaya resolution here.

What is this division, though? Why? Jesus is not promising division for its own sake, but because of choices that people have made. If we choose to follow Jesus, we will go against the world in some things. Jesus brings division because he asks for choices. He asks us to be ready, to act as if life could end at any minute. And most of us don’t, most of the time.

This lesson appears as part of a long series of teachings. Many of the stories Jesus tells are about being ready to answer for your behavior. Jesus has ended his previous story focusing on the responsibility of his followers: if you know what is needed, then you are more at fault for what you do not do. “From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required, and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded.” (Luke 12:48)

I suspect I am not alone in being uncomfortable with such apocalytic language. But as is so often the case in the Bible, these descriptions of conflict and punishment reflect not what Jesus wants, but what happens. If we follow Jesus, we will be divided from some of those around us.

The gospel reading ends with Jesus asking us to pay attention to the signs, and be ready to respond. What signs do we see that ask for a response? An obvious one is climate. Here in Merced, we know about drought and global warming. If we see these signs of potential climate catastrophe, what does it mean to respond as followers of Jesus? We think about those most vulnerable: that’s what it means to love our neighbors. So we use less water and drive more efficient cars; we might put solar panels on our houses to save electricity costs. But such care for creation is controversial: there are still those who do not think we need to act to slow the warming of the planet. Loving all our neighbors may divide us from others.

In her hymn celebrating the impending birth of Jesus, Mary sings of God’s work: “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.”

We live, as did Jesus, in a society where power has accumulated in the hands of the wealthy. Jesus called his followers not to follow the hierarchies of the world, but to love everyone. We are called to do the same. When we see signs, we need to pay attention. And we need to respond in ways that reflect the love of Jesus.

Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 14: Isaiah 1:1, 10-20; Psalm 50:1-8, 23-24;
Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16; Luke 12:32-40

Isaiah’s vision is dramatic: “What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices?
says the Lord; / I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams / and the fat of fed beasts”. The rituals of the Hebrews are not effective: prayers, assemblies, incense, you name it, God has no use for it. Instead, God wants action.

cease to do evil,
learn to do good;

seek justice,
rescue the oppressed,

defend the orphan,
plead for the widow.

Form without content, God says in Isaiah’s vision, is of no use. The people of Israel have to change. Change is hard. Those in power in particular will suffer. But this is what is necessary. If they are “willing and obedient”, they will “eat the good of the land”. The warning is stark however: “If you refuse and rebel,/ you shall be devoured by the sword”.

This tension between form and action, faith and works, articulated by Isaiah, is one that has remained in the Christian tradition. It is a tension, though, not a battle: we need both faith and action. The Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century focused to some extent on this tension: Martin Luther thought that the ceremonies of the Church were not the path to salvation. But Protestants expected faith to lead to action. In the early 1600s, the very Puritan town of Dorchester in England provided education for children, health care, and housing for the elderly and infirm: they showed their faith in action.

Paul emphasizes this. Faith, he tells us in the familiar line, “is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen”. But he goes on to tell the story of Abraham, who did not just have faith, but followed commands: he left home, he lived in tents. He did all this in the hope of “a better country, a heavenly one”. We may have faith in things unseen, but the results of faith are (or should be) visible.

In the Gospel, Jesus promises his followers the kingdom. But first, they are to-in an echo of Isaiah-sell their possessions and give alms. As he said in last week’s Gospel, we put our energy where we put our treasure. “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

None of this is easy. Isaiah makes that clear. The people of Israel are following the rules. Paul reminds us that Abraham took huge risks with his faith. Jesus knows that selling your possessions is not exactly what we are taught to do. most of us do not do it. But we can ask about how we live, and how we balance the world and our faith. Where is our heart? Where is our treasure?

Eighth Sunday after Pentecost: Hosea 11:1-11; Psalm 107:1-9, 43; Colossians 3:1-11; Luke 12:13-21

“One’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions”, Jesus proclaims in today’s gospel. The Gospel gives us a Jesus who is very counter-cultural, both for the first century and the 21st. Certainly modern American capitalism wants our lives to be focused on possessions: consumer spending is a major driver of the economy. The messages that surround us value our income and our spending. One year my Lenten discipline was to not look at any of the catalogs that clog my mailbox; it became really very clear how need was manufactured. Absent catalogs, I did not want new clothes, or a new kitchen gadget, or garden furniture. I had enough.

Jesus in the Gospel is not necessarily telling us to get rid of things, but not to fixate on them. They are not what matters. We should not “store up treasures” for ourselves on earth. When we die, they don’t come with us. The Psalmist tells us that God “satisfied the thirsty, and fills the hungry with good things”. Jesus refers to those who are “rich toward God”. What is the value we put on our relationship with God?

One clue comes in the letter of Paul to the Colossians, where he asserts that in Christ our superficial differences are gone: “there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free”. If Paul were writing today, he would undoubtedly talk about rich and poor, white and Black, immigrants and farmers. One way to think about being rich toward God is ensuring that we are breaking down barriers, not building them up.

Being rich toward God is not just about the barriers in the world we do or do not put up. It is about our minds and hearts. Paul tells us to “put to death, therefore, whatever in you is earthly”. It is as much about what’s in our heads as what we do. One of the things I learned during my Lenten fast from catalogs was that it wasn’t just that I bought things-I usually didn’t-but I thought about them. I fantasized about life with this chair, or desk, or briefcase, which would magically make me a new person.

We live on earth, so the odds of fully ridding ourselves of things that are earthly, in our lives or our hearts and minds, is remote. But the process is important. These readings make us ask questions. Do I have enough? What is enough? If I am to break down barriers, what do I need to do? What does it mean to be rich toward God? What do I need to do to be rich toward God?

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost: Hosea 1:2-10; Psalm 85; Colossians 2:6-19; Luke 11:1-13

There’s a lot in our readings today. The Gospel gives us the Lord’s prayer. We say the prayer at least once a week, many of us daily. We know it by heart: it is, in many ways, written in our hearts. But it’s good from time to time to stand back and think about it, and think about the context in which it appears.

Jesus is teaching: his friends asked him to teach them to pray. And he starts the prayer with the word “Abba”, which has been translated as “Father”. But scholars note that Abba is a familiar word: some think it’s like “Dad”, others “Friend”. But it’s a prayer to someone you know and someone you can count on. This is underlined by Jesus’s first story: “Suppose one of you has a friend…”. So it is a friend to whom we pray.

Jesus tells us more about this friend: this is a friend who will respond. Maybe not immediately, but if we’re persistent. Or, this is an adult who will try to satisfy a child’s requests. Who, Jesus asks, “if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion?” If we know how to give “good gifts” to children, “how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him”. This is quite a promise!

Paul’s letter to the Colossians adds to the sense of intimacy Jesus suggests. Paul reminds his readers that in Jesus “the whole fullness of the deity dwells bodily”. Since we are now part of Jesus’ body (the body of Christ), “God made you alive together with him”. He “erased the record that stood against us with its legal demands”. Our trespasses are forgiven. Paul ends by saying there are no other rules: you don’t have to have visions, or worship angels, or anything else. You just have to stay rooted in Christ.

Some of this is hard. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that God may answer my prayers, but not always the way I want them answered. This friend image is helpful. If God is a friend, we know that sometimes our friends can’t do what we want when we want it. Sometimes they tell us that something we’re thinking of doing is not a good idea. A real friend will is not just a candy store giving us what we want.

It’s not that bad things won’t happen. They will . Right now I’m watching the Oak Fire and its destructive rage. But when bad things happen the promise is that Jesus, our friend, is with us.

Diane Butler Bass, in her book Freeing Jesus quotes Rev. Dr. Eric Elnes recommending to his congregation:

I have a suggestion for the next time you approach God in prayer. I invite you to imagine that your very best friend is before you-someone who is no less loving or gracious, or endearing, or wise than your very best friends on earth. If you will treat God like your very best friend, you will eventuall ycome to know the God whom Jesus and Abraham knew as a friend.

We should try it. I know I will.

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost: Amos 8:1-12; Psalm 52; Colossians 1:15-28; Luke 10:38-42

Some weeks, I think the organizers of the lectionary have it in for me. Our readings start out with Amos, decrying those whose only goal is to make more money, resenting the times they could not sell, using false weights to cheat the poor. My first thought was that he was talking about the US today, not ancient Israel.

We move to the Psalm, which begins with railing against a tyrant who “boasts of wickedness . . .love all words that hurt”. The righteous shall, instead, laugh at him who “trusted in great wealth and relied on wickedness”. They trust instead in the mercy of God.

Paul’s letter to the Colossians provides a summary of the faith, and proclaims the saving work of Jesus. In Jesus “you who were once estranged and hostile in mind, doing evil deeds, he has now reconciled”. You’ll be all right, he says (in effect) as long as you continue “steadfast in the faith”.

We end with the familiar story of Martha and Mary: Mary sits and listens to Jesus, while Martha does the work of the household. Martha wants help, and asks Jesus to get Mary to do so. And Jesus responds that Mary, by listening to him, “had chosent the better part”. True confessions: I dislike this gospel. I’m a lifelong Martha, stepping in to do what needs doing. I am angry at Jesus’s response, which seems oblivious to the fact that the meal for him and his disciples requires someone to work. Every time I read it I think, “Only a man would say this”. Why do we need to make one way better than the other? We need Marthas.

We live in a society which primarily values all the things that these readings tell us to avoid. We admire those with money, no matter how it is made or what they do with it. Oh, you lied? Weren’t you clever! You don’t like what someone has said? Use social media to organize an attack. And we value the Marthas of this world, the ones who get things done. Perish the thought that you sit and listen, doing nothing! Busy-ness is a badge of honor. The church is not immune from this: we take what we learn in our day jobs and apply it to the church, valuing the big budget, grateful for the volunteer Marthas who keep things running.

Yet if we need Marthas, we also need Marys. These readings present a warning not to get carried away with the ways of the world. Money, and busy-ness are not the be-all and end-all. We should not be busy for the sake of being busy. We need to stop from time to time: to think about where we are going and why, to let ideas percolate, to attend to the voice of God. We need to make time to listen.

The psalmist describes themselves as “a green olive tree in the house of God”. An olive tree sits there and produces fruit. Like Mary, it is not consumed by meeting needs, real or imagined. Yes, there is work that needs doing, and we are glad that Martha has done it. But we also need to listen to God’s voice, and consider where we are called. It is as necessary as our work. Not better, but necessary. We each need to be both Mary and Martha.

Fifth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 10: Amos 7:1-17; Psalm 82; Collosians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37

The story of the Good Samaritan is one of the most familiar of Jesus’ parables; the term “good Samaritan” has even entered the language to refer to those who help us, especially when traveling. Like all the parables, it is open to multiple readings: not only has what I see in it changed over time, but so is what I think is most important.

The story begins with a question: how do I inherit eternal life. Jesus sends the lawyer to the law. He correctly answers: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” Like a good lawyer, he has a follow-up question for Jesus: who is my neighbor? The parable is Jesus’ answer.

As a child in Sunday School, the message was simple: be kind to people, help them. Some years later, I learned to interpret some of the code. The priest and the Levite were leaders of the community, who knew the same law that the lawyer had cited, but failed to act. The Samaritans on the other hand, were outsiders, and generally not respected by the Israelites: it was important to the story that the person who helped was not one of the ones who might be expected to help, but the outsider.

A few years ago, I realized that Jesus made being a neighbor was not a noun but a verb, not something you were, but you did. “Who was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” That being a neighbor was how I responded to the man sleeping in the doorway or the woman panhandling, as well as the nice people who actually live next door.

But today, I think the question of “who is my neighbor” is most important. This is a question that we need to ask indivially and corporately, locally and globally. It is at the center of our political divisions. Who belongs? Who is a real American? To whom do we have obligations of neighborliness? Is it just the people in our street, no matter how difficult? Or is it some broader neighborhood, or even the city of Merced? How do we-as a parish, a city, a nation-welcome and incorporate newcomers?

One way we fail as neighbors is through the policies of exclusion we support or allow in our name. Do we write zoning rules that make it harder for poorer people to live near us? Do we design school districts that keep our children with the children of “other people like us”? How often are we, deliberately or inadvertantly, like the priest and the Levite on the road?

Jesus is pretty clear here: we can’t draw lines and create barriers for who is our neighbor and what we do for them. The Samaritan tells the innkeeper to spend what was needed. You can argue today as to whether that help should come from indiduals or congregations or the state, but the help should be there. This is hard: the needs of the world are overwhelming. This is why it is useful to think about the collective as well as the individual response. We do not have to do it all, but we cannot just cross to the other side of the road and ignore those in need.

Go and do likewise, Jesus tells the lawyer. It’s hard not to imagine his sinking heart as he received these instructions. Like us, he knows what he is supposed to do. Like us, he always knew. Now he had to do it. So do we.

Fourth Sunday after Pentecost: 2 Kings 5:1-14; Psalm 30; Galations 6:7-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

“The Lord appointed seventy others and sent them on ahead of him in pairs to every town and place where he himself intended to go.” He told them, “Go on your way”.

I’m a good Episcopalian. I don’t like to knock on doors, and the idea of traveling without a purse and expecting strangers to put me up? I don’t think so. Furthermore, we are a community that was without a building for 10 years, and the loss of our building was painful. So this is not a gospel that I find comforting. It is instead very challenging. And let’s face it: it’s not just me. Most churches are tied to buildings. Even if you knock on doors, you do so to invite people to a building.

I’m currently traveling in England, and this morning I attended the local parish church. It was, it turns out, celebrating 150 years since the church was dedicated. The church is famous for liturgy and music, so it was a splendid service, with a musical setting commissioned for the occasion and the Bishop of London presiding and preaching.

This, needless to say, put front and center in my mind the tension between us in our buildings and the Gospel. Yet maybe it’s not as much of a tension as I initially thought. As Bishop Sarah Mullaly reminded us this morning, what happens in our buildings supports us when we go out into the world. The church is both the building and the people. When I remember the churches I have been a member of, it is not primarily the buildings I remember, but what happened in them: how the people of God did God’s work where they were.

And it doesn’t always have to be complicated. In our reading from 2 Kings today, Elisha agrees to heal Naaman of his leprosy. But Naaman is disappointed because Elisha did not come out himself, but sent a messenger with the message that he should wash in the Jordan seven times. Why didn’t Elisha come out to him? Why wasn’t there some drama, calling on the Lord, or some complex ritual? If he just needed to wash in the river, what was so special about the Jordan? He eventually goes along with it, and is indeed healed.

Do we, like Naaman, sometimes make things more difficult than they need to be? I know I do, when I panic about Jesus sending his disciples out. If I remember that I am sent out to do my work, not the imagined work that I think it should be, then it is manageable.

In the week ahead, may we see ourselves living our lives, bringing the good news, not by knocking on doors, but through how we live our lives. What does it mean to live as if we are going out, as Jesus commands, to do God’s work?

Third Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 8: 2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14; Psalm 77:1-2, 11-20; Galatians 5:1, 13-25; Luke 9:51-62

Elisha asks Elijah for a “double share of your spirit”. Elijah tells him he has asked for “a hard thing”. Faith is often a hard thing.

In today’s gospel, we meet Jesus as a fierce taskmaster: he won’t let one person bury his father, and when another wants to say goodbye to his family, he tells them that no one who “looks back is fit for the Kingdom of God”.

In my daily life, I teach history, and I can comfortably say that one of the things that people do is look back. They look back, and tell stories about where they were and how they got here. Jesus is telling us that the story starts anew when they join him. Maybe a few people manage that, but most of us are tethered to Jesus and the world.

Paul is also demanding: we need to renounce the “desires of the flesh”, fornication, impurity, idolatry, but also jealousy, anger, factions. There’s a long list, and most of us will find ourselves at one point or another somewhere on his list. IF we can put those things aside (a big if!), we will enjoy freedom in Jesus. The fruit of the spirit is “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” Sounds kind of nice, doesn’t it?

We often find ourselves in settings where someone decrees that a true Christian would do X. Many of us are convinced that those who proudly proclaim their Christian identity are not practicing the love and inclusion we see in Jesus. And they would say that one or another of our beliefs is counter to Christianity. But what if, as Jesus suggests, none of us are fit for the Kingdom., yet we are all there because of God’s grace?

It’s a hard thing to follow Jesus; all of us fall short at some point or other. But all of us are, ultimately, welcomed into the kingdom anyway. It’s a reminder to us as we engage with each other and with the world. We don’t have to agree with people, but we need to disagree in ways that keep them human. It’s a hard thing, but what I needed to hear this week.

Second Sunday after Pentecost: 1 Kings 19:1-15a; Psalm 42; Galations 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39

All the other prophets have been killed, and Jezebel wants to kill Elijah. It’s not surprising that he runs and hides. An angel provides food and water for him, and tells him where to go. The word of the Lord tells him that the Lord is about to pass by. The Lord, the story says, was not in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire. The Lord appears with the “sound of sheer silence”. The Lord tells Elijah to return home, but you know he is being protected.

The Gospel reading from Luke tells the story of the man of Gerasene who was possessed by demons – so many they called themselves “Legion”. This man was frightening: he was naked, he lived in caves and not in a house. Like many unhoused people now, he spoke erratically and his behavior was unpredictable. He would be locked up and then “break the bonds and be driven by the demon into the wilds”. I see men and women like this in my city neighborhood: there are places where they camp, sometimes even in the alley behind my house.

I am struck by how calm and kind Luke’s story is. Jesus talks to the demons, and he is even kind to them: he allows them to take over the herd of swine rather than “return to the abyss”. (It’s not so kind to the herd of swine, but that’s another story!) And he’s kind to the man: there’s no drama, just a calm engagement with a problem. After the demons leave, the man is dressed, and “in his right mind”. And people are terrified!

Paul tells the Galatians that their relationships with each other are fundamentally changed by baptism: all the things that would divide them are erased: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” We do not live in a world without distinctions, and Christians (myself included) are often inclined to posit one idea or another as the mark of a “real” Christian. But that’s not what Paul tells us. We are one in Christ Jesus. Sometimes I think that is the hardest message in the Bible!

Today is Juneteenth, a new Federal holiday that marks the day enslaved people in Texas learned that they had been freed by the Emancipation Proclamation, issued more than two years earlier. The celebration, kept alive in Black communities particularly in the South, acknowledged how important freedom is. We celebrate that freedom, but also acknowledge the enslavement that made emancipation necessary. It is a good time to remember that in Christ, all boundaries are dissolved. The boundaries we police come not from Jesus, but from the world.

There’s so much here: the kindness and protection of the Lord, the breaking down of barriers and divisions. These stories challenge us to be kind, to simply do what is needed, and to avoid creating false distinctions. All of these are hard. What we need to do more often is to try to listen for God’s voice in the sound of sheer silence.

Pentecost: Genesis 11:1-9; Acts 11:1-21; John 14:8-17, (25-27); Psalm 104:25-35, 37

Today is the day of Pentecost, the 5oth day after the Resurrection. We celebrate the presence of the spirit among us, and hear the story of the Spirit coming upon the disciples. Central to our readings today is the reading from Acts, where we hear that when the Spirit descends on the disciples, they are able to speak in all the languages of the Jews gathered in Jerusalem.

But we start today in Genesis, with the story of the building of the tower of Babel. “Now the whole earth had one language and the same words.” They sought to “make a name for themselves” and build a tower that reached to heaven. The Lord is disturbed by their ambition, and fearful of what they might choose in the future: “nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them”. The Lord then says, “Come, let us go down, and confuse their language there, so that they will not understand one another’s speech.”

The confusion of language divided the nations of the world. The story from Acts tells a story of connection. The Holy Spirit comes upon the disciples and gives them the gift of tongues, so that they can be understood by everyone in Jerusalem: all can hear the story of “God’s deeds of power”. This is a healing of the brokenness of the world. It is sufficiently astonishing that Peter needs to tell his listeners that they are not drunk, “It is only nine o’clock in the morning”!

In the Gospel, Jesus promises that those who believe in him “will do greater works than these”, because He will be with God. “If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.” This is an extraordinary promise; and one that many of us may have trouble believing. I don’t think I know anyone all of whose prayers have been answered; they certainly have not always been answered in the way we hoped. Jesus has that covered: “I do not give to you as the world gives”.

Jesus also tells us that those who love him will keep his commandments. This too is a difficult message to believe: those who love Jesus (or at least claim to) have done many things which seem far from his commandments. Certainly the actions of Jesus’ followers have not always been marked by love of one another!

We still live in a broken world. During Easter season, we do not say the confession: its absence is a reminder that our sins are forgiven by Jesus’ death and resurrection. Today was the first time since Easter that we have confessed our sins. Jesus ends his message to his disciples telling that that the Holy Spirit will be with them, and “will remind you of all that I have said to you”. Even the disciples would need reminders. We certainly do too.

We live in the world of Babel, where the Holy Spirit may help us bridge the divides of language and culture, but does not erase them. Those divisions get in the way of our following all Jesus’ commandments. The promise of Pentecost is that the Holy Spirit is with us, and if we let it, can heal the divisions among us. The question for us is always, will we listen?

Seventh Sunday of Easter: Acts 16:16-34; Psalm 97; Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21; John 17:20-26

We face this week remembering the 19 children and 2 teachers who died in a school shooting in Uvalde, Texas, as well as the 10 who were killed at a supermarket in Buffalo, New York two weeks ago. Their families are in our hearts and prayers. Each time the news tells us of another mass shooting, my heart breaks, not only for the new victims, but those who suffered a year ago, or two, or ten or twenty. And not just the families of those who died, but the children who survived, often watching friends die. A twitter thread this week reminded me that the survivors of 1999’s Columbine massacre are now parents themselves, watching their children be trained to protect themselves from the kind of shooting they had survived.

We all hope that we do not have to face what families in Uvalde and Buffalo have faced in recent weeks. But all of us will face grief. When people die, we grieve; our grief is intensified when death is unexpected. The death of children is particularly painful, as we imagine the lives they might have led. Watching a parent grieve the death of a child is the most painful thing I have ever seen. It’s not surprising that Michelangelo’s Pietà is such a powerful sculpture.

Where does this leave us in Easter season? As we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, what do we do with our human grief when those we love and care for die? What, if anything, can today’s readings offer us? The Psalm reminds us (v. 10) that “The Lord loves those who hate evil”. It doesn’t say anything about those who are evil, but it asks us to hate evil deeds.

The story of Paul and Silas reminds us that suffering is not new. The account we read in Acts provides a graphic account of how they were beaten before being thrown into jail. The story of Paul and Silas singing in jail inspired those arrested on freedom rides and sit ins in the 1960s. It also, like so many of the passages from Acts we have read this Easter season, reminds us that the core of the Gospel, for Paul at least, was simple: “Believe on the Lord Jesus”. His jailer and his whole household are baptized immediately.

Revelation also keeps it (somewhat) simple this week: “Let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” Jesus’ prayer in John 17 insists that “[you] have loved them even as you have loved me”.

We are not promised that nothing bad will happen to us. Certainly Paul’s life and that of the other disciples demonstrates that following Jesus was not an easy path. And grief is a part of that: John’s gospel tells us that Jesus addresses his grieving mother from the cross. There is a long tradition of art and poetry focused on Mary and her grief: we see our own pain in hers. But there is also another offer: that we are loved as God loves Jesus, and that anyone who wishes may take the water of life as a gift. There is grief, and there is God’s love. We hold on to the love to carry us through grief.

Sixth Sunday of Easter: Acts 16:9-15; Psalm 67; Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5; john 5:1-9.

My first reaction to many questions is, “It’s complicated”. Is this really what God wants? Should I do it this way or that way? How does how we got here shape what I should do? Today’s readings remind me that it does not have to be complicated. Sometimes, you need to just do it.

Paul sees a vision, so he goes to Macedonia. Lydia urges him to come stay at her home, and he does. There’s no debate or weighing options. Paul sees a need and responds; he’s offered housing, he accepts.

Similarly, Jesus responds to the sick man at the Sheep Gate-who had been there 38 years-with a simple question. “Do you want to be made whole?” The man answers indirectly, explaining why he hasn’t been able to get into the pool. Jesus’ response is simple: “Stand up, take your mat, and walk.” And the man did.

My challenge for the week ahead is to figure out when I’m making something too complicated. When am I overthinking? When is there a simple response? Maybe, sometimes, I can just do.

Fifth Sunday of Easter: Acts 11:1-18: Psalm 148; Revelation 21:1-6; John 13:31-35

Yesterday a young white man, who had bought into the theory of the great replacement, murdered ten Black people in Buffalo. The shootings of Asian women in Dallas earlier this week appear to have been motivated by anti-Asian racism. Other shootings in recent years have targeted Jews, Muslims, Sikhs, and Mexicans, as well as the LGBTQ community. These communities are targeted as outsiders, polluting (in some way) society. So it is a matter of good timing that today’s reading from Acts provides an account of the process whereby Peter came to include gentiles in the Church.

In Acts, Peter returns to Jerusalem and is criticized by the “circumsized believers” (the Jews) and asked why he went to “uncircumsized men” (gentiles) and ate with them. This is a question about purity, one that Jesus had faced as well. Peter describes his journey: he did not initially want to engage with the gentiles. When his vision orders him to get up, to “kill and eat”, Peter refuses, saying “‘nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth'”. The voice from heaven tells him, “‘What God has made clean, you must not call profane.'” This exchange is repeated two more times before the vision ends.

When three men arrive at the house where Peter was, the spirit told him to go with them, and “not make a distinction between them and us”. He follows the men to a house, where the host tells him that he had a vision that he should send for Simon, called Peter, for a “message by which you and your whole household will be saved”. Peter tells his critics that when he began to speak, “he Holy Spirit fell upon them just as it had upon us at the beginning”.

As far as Peter was concerned, if they received the Holy Spirit as the disciples had in Jerusalem, they were included in the Church. And his critics were silenced, saying, “God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life”. They were forced to see that God acted in ways they did not expect. It is hard to exaggerate what a transformative experience this was for both Peter and the other disciples in Jerusalem.

Today we still struggle, in both church and in the world, with questions of who belongs. Sitting in the Diocese of San Joaquin, where a former bishop tried to take the diocese out of the Episcopal church over the ordination of a gay bishop, we are familiar with these debates in the church. But desire for exclusion exists outside the church as well, motivating a wide range of political groups. Whether they are anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim, anti-Jew, anti-Black, anti-gay, or anti-trans, they seek to define some group or groups as outside the boundaries of “us”.

Who belongs? Jesus tells us in today’s Gospel: love one another. “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Or, in the two great commandments, those who love God and love their neighbor. In the words of our Baptismal Covenant, we should “seek and serve Christ in all people”. At the end of the parable of the good Samaritan, Jesus asks his listeners, “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” (Luke 10:36). Here being a neighbor is not a fact, but an action. Similarly, for Jesus, love is an action, not a feeling.

In the account from Acts, Peter is taking the teachings of Jesus into a new context, bringing new people into the church. We, as Christians, are constantly challenged with understanding the Gospel in a world very different from the one Jesus lived in. Who belongs, in our church or in our community? How are we neighbors to them?

If we follow Peter, and the parable of the Good Samaritan, we find ourselves looking to behavior. Peter saw that his audience of gentiles had received the Holy Spirit just as the disciples had. Jesus saw that the Samaritan acted as a neighbor to a man in need. We too need to be neighbors to those in need.

Who belongs? Those who love God and love their neighbor. This is not, Peter tells us, passive. And he, as well as other Christians in Jerusalem, had to admit that their boundaries had been wrong.

We can be neighbors to everyone in need. But we can also say that if you are excluding people from your idea of neighbors, whether because of race, ethnicity, sexuality, or gender identity or any other characteristic, you are not showing the love that Christ ordered us to show to each other.

Who belongs? From the beginning, the Church has struggled with this question. In today’s readings, both Jesus and Peter offer an answer. If we follow the Spirit, we know, like the early Christians in Acts, God has given “the repentance that leads to life” not just to “us”, but to those we least expect. And so we welcome all who will try, with us, to love one another.

Third Sunday of Easter: Acts 9:1-20; Revelation 5:11-14; John 21:1-19

Paul’s experience on the road to Damascus appears to be solitary. He is not alone, but while others hear the voice, only Paul saw Jesus. His companions lead the now blind Paul into the city, where there is a house where he can sit for three days. We don’t know anything about those three days, other than that he neither ate nor drank.

There are lots of visions in the story of Paul on the road to Damascus: the light that blinds Paul, his vision of Ananias coming to him, and Ananias’ vision of Jesus. The Lord asks Ananias to go help a known persecutor of his followers, and it’s not surprising that Ananias initially balks. But he is convinced, and goes to lay his hands on Saul. Saul/Paul regains his sight, is baptized, then eats. Then “for several days he was with the disciples in Damascus”.

Saul’s vision on the road to Damascus changed his life, but for the rest of the book of Acts (and in his letters) he is always in communities. Being a disciple is not solitary: you are always reaching out to new disciples, and connected to other disciples. The Christian life oscillates, for most of us, between the individual and communal. We pray individually, we have our own experiences of the divine, but we worship together, and we serve together.

All the appearances of Jesus to his disciples (after appearing to Mary in the garden) are to them in a group, whether all of them gathered in a room, two on the road to Emmaus, or the group hanging out at the Sea of Tiberias going fishing. Yet while Jesus is with a group, his interrogation focuses only on Simon Peter: Do you love me? Simon’s repeated assurances that he does lead to the commands to “Feed my lambs”, “Tend my sheep”, and “Feed my sheep”.

The question is always to us as individuals: do you love me? If you do, then you tend to and feed the sheep and lambs. For both Peter and Paul, that meant making their whole lives about proclaiming the good news; both suffered imprisonment and death. They were both alone and worked with other disciples.

How do we tend the sheep and feed them today? Our service and ministries are one way. Worshiping together is another. Other work of feeding and tending comes through our daily work. We do this, as did Peter and Paul, with other disciples, who tend to us and feed us, as we tend and feed others.

Do you love me? The question comes to us as individuals, but we answer it in community.

Second Sunday of Easter: Acts 5: 27-32; Psalm 150; Revelation 1:4-8; John 20-19-31

This Sunday is one of the Sundays where we get the same reading each year: on the second Sunday of Easter, we hear the story of Thomas: doubting Thomas, as he is often known. I suspect I am not alone in having a soft spot in my heart for Thomas, who gives all of us permission to ask questions, to talk about what we sometimes can’t believe because we can’t understand.

Every Sunday, we say the creed: we affirm belief. But I know from conversations with many people over the years that there are things that almost all of us have trouble with. The Resurrection is high on the list. What exactly do we mean by it? how do we understand it? The story of Thomas reminds us that such questions go back to the time right after it all happened. Thomas needs to see Jesus to believe the stories he has heard.

I don’t think that when the disciples talked about seeing the risen Christ, he was back like he was before the crucifixion. In today’s gospel, the first time Jesus appears to the disciples, he enters a room whose doors are locked; the next week, he enters again, “although the doors were shut”. Other Resurrection appearances are equally strange: on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) Jesus appears walking next to the two men, but as soon as they recognize him, he disappears. Jesus is embodied after the Resurrection, enough for Thomas to feel his hands and his side; but he is able to move through doors and appear and disappear in mysterious ways.

The Resurrection is something new. It’s not the world we know. We are constantly trying to learn what this mystery means. If, like Thomas, we are sometimes confused and asking questions, it’s not surprising. We are waiting, Paul tells us, for a “new heaven and a new earth” (2 Peter 3:13). There are moments when the shape of that new heaven and new earth are clear. The other moments, when the outlines are vague, are times when I am reassured by Thomas’s questions, reminded that I’m trying to understand something outside my experience.

Sunday of the Passion/ Palm Sunday: Luke 19:28-40; Isaiah 50: 4-9a; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; Luke 23:1-49

Today is the Sunday of emotional and spiritual whiplash. We begin our service waiving palms and singing Hosanna, and then the church gives us the trailer for coming attractions, so we end with Jesus dead. Jesus enters Jerusalem cheered by throngs on the roadside, and leaves it on his way to be crucified. It’s a lot. Some churches stay with the Palms and hosannas, leaving the Passion for later in the week. But I’m always glad they come together

The conjunction of palms and the Passion means we can’t be too comfortable. The readings are grounded in faith, with Isaiah’s proclamation that “It is the Lord GOD who helps me; who will declare me guilty. The Psalmist is a little more anxious: “I have heard the whispering of the crowd . . . they plot to take my life”; but still, “But as for me, I have trusted in you, O Lord”, so “Make your face to shine upon your servant/ and in your loving-kindness save me.” Threat and faith are both there.

The Passion narrative is oten read as a play, with a narrator and speaking parts, with most of the congregation as a chorus. When I have participated in such readings, the hardest part is when all of us, as the crowd, have to call for Jesus’ death: we’re all part of the story. A few times I have served as the narrator, and the best part was that I didn’t have to join in. What we learn, again and again, is that we all fail sometimes.

In the longer version of the Passion narrative (Luke 22:14-23-56), we are reminded that even Jesus’ closest followers failed repeatedly. He chooses a few to join him in prayer at Gethsemane, and they fall asleep. Peter, on whom Jesus promises to build his church, denies his relation to Jesus. And these people were his close companions, who had been with him on a daily basis.

Jesus is joined on the cross by two thieves, one of whom taunts Jesus by asking him to save them all. The other, often seen as the good thief, acknowledges his guilt and asks Jesus to remember him. The poet and theologian John Shea reminds us: “I am both thieves/ scrounging for the kingdom/ and cursing the cross.”¹ We all are.

We spend Holy Week going back and forth. We’re never allowed to settle in one place. The movement back and forth provides a reminder of our frailty; it makes me a little less sure of my virtue. If we don’t rush to Easter, we can use the time to become more honest with ourselves.

¹John Shea, “Prayer to Jesus”, in The Hour of the Unexpected (1977), p. 12

Fifth Sunday of Lent: Isaiah 43:16-21; Psalm 126; Phillippians 3: 4b-14; John 12:1-8

When I came to live in Merced, the passages of scripture that speak of water in the desert took on new meaning. “I will make a way in the wilderness/ and rivers in the desert”, Isaiah promises us. The psalmist, in rejoicing that the Lord had restored the fortunes of Zion, adds, “Restore our fortunes, O Lord/
like the watercourses of the Negev”. All of this, Isaiah tells us, is because the Lord is “about to do a new thing”.

The Hebrew scriptures today are full of promise, of joy and celebration. It’s a bit odd to see this in the middle of Lent, but that’s what we’ve got. It is a reminder of the promise: after all, we know the end of the story. It is why Paul can celebrate “the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord”.

In the midst of all this, the gospel may seem a bit surprising. It is six days before the Passover, and Jesus is with Mary, Martha and Lazarus. Martha is serving. And then Mary, instead of sitting and listening as at other times, herself serves. She takes a pound of expensive perfume, puts it on Jesus’ feet, and wiped his feet with her hair. This gesture is both extravagant and erotic, expressing love and intimacy.

In the exchange that follows, when Judas suggests the value of the nard might more usefully given to the poor, Jesus pushes back. The perfume had been bought for the day of his burial, and he will not always be with them. Extravagance is not unreasonable with those who face death. I’ve known people with cancer diagnoses who immediately start crossing things off their bucket lists: they visit places they have always wanted to visit, or return to favorite places; they spend time with those they love. When time was finite, they used resources to celebrate life.

The gifts I have appreciated the most are the least expected: the ones that come not at birthdays or Christmas, but on a random day. And they are not always expensive, but they represent care and affection. That is true of all gifts: what resonates is the relationship they carry. As Mary anoints Jesus’ feet with nard, she tells him what he means to her.

Sometimes this passage is read with a focus on “You always have the poor with you”, suggesting we don’t need to do anything for the poor. But that misses the point. Mary celebrates Jesus’ presence, and takes something valuable to serve him, to care for his feet. That’s not wrong, we’re told. If we are to celebrate the new thing that God is doing, how do we do it? What are our extravagances?

4th Sunday of Lent: Joshua 5:9-12; Psalm 32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Many years ago, I attended a vestry retreat where the leader, a professor at the local seminary, guided us in a reflection on the parable of the prodigal son, our gospel reading today. We were asked to put ourselves into the story. Given that we were all active members of the church, and were willing to take on service, it is not surprising that all of us identified with the older brother: he stayed home, was responsible, and never had a big party thrown to celebrate him. The father tells his older son that, “you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours”. But that’s not what the older son feels.

I have often thought about that discussion, because the more I reflect on it, the greater the problems are. First, this makes engagement as a layperson in the life of the church appear to be a joyless experience. If that’s the case, the church has failed. Yes, there is work: we fill out reports for the diocese, and the national church; we make sure we have materials for our services; we set things up and we take them down. It can be a lot, especially when you are a small congregation. How do we make this work (because it is work, let’s be real) be to some extent filled with joy? What is needed so we feel we have been celebrated, that we have not been taken for granted as workhorses?

The other problem is that we are all, at some time or other, both brothers. We may not, like the younger brother, have wasted our inheritance on sex and drugs, but we have turned our face from God. Even though we work hard, our confidence in our virtue may be a bit too smug. And maybe, sometimes, we are the father, welcoming a friend, sibling, or other relative who had drifted out of our lives.

Paul tells us that “from now own, we regard no one from a human point of view”, but that seems to me a counsel of perfection. We are all too human, all too often. Many of us often, no matter who we are and what do, feel put upon and taken advantage of: we are the older brother. But if we remembered, like the older brother, that God is always with us, would that make it easier? Would we take some of God’s abundance to celebrate?

Lent asks us to examine ourselves, to be honest about our failings. Even if we are often the older brother, we can think about how we too, like the younger brother, have not always had our eyes on God. We too need God’s mercy.

There’s a corollary, though. If we are the younger brother, we need a big party to celebrate that we are here, we have turned our focus to God. We need to learn to celebrate as we go, so we can embed joy in the work.

Third Sunday of Lent: Exodus 3:1-15; Psalm 63:1-8; 1 Corinthians 10:1-13; Luke 13:1-9

One of my pet gripes are people who attribute some longed for outcome, whether recovery from illness or the return of a missing loved one, to prayer. I appreciate their gratitude, and know the value of prayer. My first response however, is to think of those who have also prayed for a loved one who did not recover, a missing person who is found, but dead. Why is one set of prayers accepted and not another? Are those who are found alive, or who recover, more virtuous than those who die? Does anyone deserve to suffer as those whose prayers are not answered do?

Jesus takes this point from the other end: in responding to allegations that Pilate had mingled the blood of dead Galileans with the blood of Roman sacrifices, in violation of Jewish rules for caring for the dead, he asks if they “were worse sinners than all other Galileans”. And the obvious answer is no. The same is true for the eighteen people who died in the collapse of a tower. Instead, we are told we all need to repent: to turn to God. That doesn’t mean that we won’t die, but in repenting, we gain the life that matters, eternal life with God. Repentance does not exist on its own, however. Jesus turns from telling us to repent to the parable of the fig tree. And the gardener reminds the owner that the fig tree needed to be fed; it needs manure. And we are both the gardener providing nourishment and the fig tree needing it. Repentance involves not just an inward turning to God, but action.

In my experience, these are all intertwined. I can’t feed others unless I am fed. We are fed in many ways: by hearing the word in scripture, by prayer, and by teaching, of course. But we are also fed in our human relationships, the communities in which we live. All of those can serve as food for us as we seek to turn towards God, and then feed others.

Exodus today gives us the story of Moses and the burning bush. I was struck by God’s assertion that “‘I have observed the misery of my people … I know of their sufferings and I have come down to deliver them.'” While the Hebrew scriptures focus on the special care the Lord has for the Israelites, we know too well that the Lord does not rescue all who suffer. You only have to observe what is happening in Ukraine at this moment (or any other war) to know this is not true. The history of atrocities (including many carried out in Jesus name) is a reminder that suffering has not disappeared. Jesus knows that those who suffer are not more to blame than the rest of us. What is offered instead is eternal life.

When the Lord tells Moses that “IAM WHO I AM”, there is another promise: of God’s presence with us. We will not be alone. Sometimes that is even more important.

In a few minutes we will pray for the world and those in need. We offer these prayers knowing that many prayers we offer regularly cannot be answered easily. When we pray for the hungry and the homeless, refugees and migrants, for victims of war and oppression, and for those we love who are sick in body, mind and spirit, we do not expect instant solutions. I hope that those we pray for feel God’s presence. But our prayer is not enough: we turn to doctors, nurses, and others when we are sick. We provide food for the hungry, and work to house the homeless. We try to figure out how we can help victims of war. In doing these things, we do Gods work in the world. Through us, and the things we do, we hope we share God’s presence with those who suffer. Eternal life is indeed good news that feeds us, and allows us to help others.

Second Sunday of Lent: Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18; Psalm 27; Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35

The authors of scripture were, like many of us, often anxious and afraid. The world was uncertain. In today’s reading from Genesis, the Lord speaks to Abram in a vision. The focus is on Abram’s anxiety about his legacy. He is childless, yet the Lord still promises Abram that he will be succeeded by his own child. He tells him to “look towards heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them.” Abram’s descendants will be as many as the stars. Abram believed this, unimaginable though it might be. Then the Lord promises Abram the land he was in “to possess”. After Abram offers a sacrifice, the Lord makes a covenant that Abram and his descendants will hold all the land from “the river of Egypt” to the Euphrates.

I read this with a sinking heart. There are many wars around the world, most over who possesses, or controls, the land. Is Ukraine part of Russia? How would we know? What are the appropriate borders of Israel? What rights have people who live as minorities in nations around the world? These struggles take place in the context of nation states, entities which largely emerged in the 19th century, swallowing smaller political units with different linguistic, cultural and religious traditions. As a historian, I know that there is nothing about thinking God has provided land to you which has been good for the world.

Today’s Psalm takes on fear and anxiety in another way, focused on trusting God: this is not about conquest and possession, but surrender to God. “One thing have I asked of the Lord; on thing I seek; that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life . . . The Lord will sustain me . . .O tarry and await the Lord’s pleasure; be strong and he shall comfort your heart.” (Ps. 27:5, 14, 18) This is another way to imagine a covenant with God: not as offering possession, but offering protection and comfort.

The image of protection recurs in the Gospel. Luke has Jesus foretelling his death, while telling the Pharisees it is not yet time. Unlike most of us, at this point Jesus is not driven by fear, just by his understanding of time. And then he offers the lament: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem . . . how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.” (Luke 13:34)

We are seeing terrible scenes of destruction in Ukraine; while Ukraine is not the only place suffering from war and destruction, its location in Europe has made it a focus of greater attention than other such struggles. The battle for possession is one that leads to violence and grief. If we think of the Lord offering shelter and comfort in the psalm, or Jesus as a hen seeking to shelter her children, we are offered a way to engage with these conflicts. How can we help? What can we do to offer help, shelter, and comfort? The Psalmist hopes that,”In the day of trouble, he shall keep me safe in his shelter.” Can we too be like a hen gathering her brood to protect them? God acts through us; it is our job to find ways to act for God.

First Sunday in Lent: Deuteronomy 26:1-11; Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16; Romans 10:8b-13; Luke 4:1-13

“A wandering Aramean was my ancestor.” This passage from Deuteronomy is one of the oldest in the Hebrew scriptures, and its commandment a central one in the Hebrew scriptures. It includes the instructions to the Israelites of how to thank God. That thanks comes with a recitation of the salvation history to that time: life as an alien in Egypt, enslavement, and escape. They say that Lord saw “our affliction, our toil, and our oppression”. They acknowledge that the departure from Egypt was accomplished with “a terrifying display of power”. And then brought them to the land they are now in, a “land flowing with milk and honey.” In response to that gift, they are to present to the temple the first fruit of the ground they have been given.

Reading this while watching scenes of refugees from Ukraine traveling to Poland and other European nations reminds me that there are still many “wandering Arameans”. It is not just Ukrainians: Afghans, Iraqis, Congolese, Uighurs, and Rohingya are among the many who have taken to the roads fleeing war and violence. They are fleeing because of “terrifying displays of power”. The Israelites were fortunate, because their Lord gave them a rich land; but not all are so lucky.

The passage from Deuteronomy is not really about refugees, though it is difficult right now not to think about them. It is about giving thanks, giving back to God from the gifts we have been given. Our offerings are a representation of our thanks.

Today’s psalm is full of promises: “Because you have made the Lord your refuge. . .There shall no evil happen to you, neither shall any plague come near your dwelling.” It is a lovely promise, but many of us can provide examples of how it has not come true. Many of those who have trusted in the Lord have suffered, whether through war and violence or illness. What does it mean when God gives “his angels charge over you”? Are we to be the angels? I think the core of the psalm is later, because trouble will come, and then God says, “I am with him”. And sometimes, in my experience, that is enough.

As we enter Lent, many of us have given something up, or taken something on, to better attend to God. In the Gospel, Jesus reminds the devil not to put God to the test. Instead, he fasts for 40 days in the wilderness. My mind keeps returning, though, to refugees fleeing war. They have already given up so much. They are trusting: maybe God, maybe just other people. May we do what we can to help them. And may God give his angels charge over them.

Last Sunday of the Epiphany: Exodus 34:29-35; 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9: 28-36.

Today is the last Sunday of the season of Epiphany, where we rejoice in Jesus’ presence among us. And two of our readings focus on encounters with God and their aftermath. In Exodus, we hear that when Moses returned from Mt. Sinai having received the ten commandments, his face was shining because he had been talking with God. Aaron and the other Israelites were afraid to come near him. When Moses reported on his encounters with God, his shining face was the sign that he had spoken with God. After he had told the Israelites what he had heard, he covered his face with a veil.

The account of the Transfiguration in Luke is a partner to this story. Jesus goes up to the mountain to pray, accompanied by Peter, John and James. While he was praying, “the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.” Moses and Elijah appear, talking to Jesus, and after they leave, a cloud descends on the mountain. The disciples were terrified even before a voice comes from the cloud. Luke tells us that “they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.” (Luke 9:36)

There are many things you can say about the Transfiguration. What strikes me today is that it is terrifying to see the face of God. It is also terrifying to see those who have seen the face of God. We ask for God’s presence, assuming it is comforting, but maybe not. God is not only comforting, but also challenging. I can’t hide from God those things I would rather keep hidden. Maybe God will comfort, but God may also make us uncomfortable. The shining face of Moses and Jesus are signs of God’s power.

It is a terrifying thing to see the face of God, but still we seek it. At the same time we fear being seen as a whole, we long to be. It may even be comforting to be seen for who we truly are.

Seventh Sunday of Epiphany: Genesis 45:3-11, 15; 1 Corinthians 15:35-38,42-50; Luke 6:27-38; Psalm 37:1-12, 41-42

There’s an awkward moment in the story of Joseph when he reveals himself to his brothers. “But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence.” In that moment, we see them dealing with their own guilt, uncertain what awaits them now. They had, after all, sold their brother as a slave. When they had first gone to purchase grain in Egypt, Jacob had kept Benjamin, being loath to lose him as well as Joseph. In Genesis 42, the writer tells us that when Joseph had asked them to bring their younger brother, they had turned to each other lamenting that they had sold Joseph into slavery. The guilt they had displayed then was nothing to the dismay of finding that the man who controlled their fate was the brother they had sold.

While few of us have been sold into slavery by our brothers, I suspect most of us have had people do things that hurt us. Every now and then we are in a position to help those people later, and the human impulse is not to do it. Joseph, however, does not seek revenge. instead he treats his brothers with generosity. After the first awkward silence, Joseph suggests that their actions were part of God’s plan, so that he could save them now. And after that, they talked.

Jesus says, “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” Do what Joseph did. Anyone, Jesus reminds us, can be nice to people who are good to them. Loving those who harm you is hard. People sometimes think that because the Gospel talks of love, it’s nice. And while the outcome may be rewarding, it’s difficult. Jesus is asking us to not respond with our first response, but to find a way to respond with generosity of spirit. It’s a lifelong journey.

The psalmist is also thinking about this, and maybe this is the message we need to remember:

Do not fret yourself over the one who prospers, *
the one who succeeds in evil schemes.

Refrain from anger, leave rage alone; *
do not fret yourself; it leads only to evil. (Ps. 37:8-9)

It is a life-long journey to learn to leave rage alone. May we always feel God’s presence as we learn to love our enemies.

February 13, The Feast of Absalom Jones: Isaiah 42:5-9; Psalm 126; John 15:12-15

Though generally this would be the sixth Sunday of Epiphany, we have observed the Feast of Absalom Jones. For those who have not encountered him before, Rev. Absalom Jones (1746-1818) was born enslaved in Delaware. His family was separated by a sale, and at 16 he moved to Philadelphia. He first purchased his wife’s freedom, then then his own in 1784. After he was free, became a lay leader in the Methodist church in Philadelphia. When that church decided to segregate its seating, requiring Black people to sit in the balcony, so the Black members left. Jones, along with Richard Allen led the group which established first the Free African Society, a mutual aid group, and then in 1791, the African Church. The African Church became St. Thomas African Church in the Episcopal Diocese of Pennsylvania in 1794. Jones was ordained Deacon in 1795 and priest in 1804, becoming the first Black priest in the Episcopal Church.

There are many issues, social, political, and theological, that Jones’ life, and the readings for today raise. For instance, the Methodist church only separated Black and white members when the number of Black members had rapidly increased. Modern research that shows that a dominant group, whether white people, or men, or any other dominant group, tends to feel that they are outnumbered once a non-dominant group makes up about 30% of the group. In other words, long before a group is a minority, they are concerned about losing status. Do we do that? How do we respond to demographic change?

If the fear of the Methodists which led them to isolate Black people in the balcony reminds those of us who are white to watch our own responses to demographic change, the community around Absalom Jones which formed the African Church provides other lessons. They experienced discrimination together, and they stayed together. Today’s reading from John exhorts the disciples to “love one another as I have loved you”. And this is what Jones and his friends did. As the Free African Society, they functioned as a mutual aid group: they played an important role in helping their fellow Philadelphians through the yellow fever epidemic of 1793. But they also sought to worship together, and they sought to worship as part of a larger group. They built and sought community.

For Absalom Jones, one of the most important elements of loving his community was his advocacy for freedom. In 1797 and 1800 he petitioned Congress for the abolition of the slave trade and the emancipation of slaves, a petition that Congress would not even accept. He regularly preached against slavery. His Thanksgiving Sermon, preached on January 1, 1808, celebrated the end of the legal importation of enslaved people to the US. He preached on a text from Exodus, emphasizing the connection of enslaved people in the US to the experience of the Israelites in the Bible.

And the Lord said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by  reason of their task-masters; for I know their sorrows; and I am come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians.

In his sermon, Jones insisted that God was on the side of the oppressed: “The history of the world shows us, that the deliverance of the children of Israel from their bondage, is not the only instance, in which it has pleased God to appear in behalf of oppressed and distressed nations, as the deliverer of the innocent, and of those who call upon his name.”

How do we ensure that we join God on the side of the oppressed and innocent? I generally hope that, in spite of Jesus’ commandment, we don’t have to die for each other. We do have to love one another. When we live in community, we make decisions in relation to each other and each other’s needs. As Jones and the other members of the Free African Society showed in Philadelphia in 1793, that is the whole community, not just your friends. We are called to pay attention, listen, and then act.

Epiphany 5: Isaiah 6:1-13; Psalm 138; 1 Corinthians 15:1-11; Luke 5:1-11

“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips.” (Isaiah 6:5)

“I am the least of the apostles, unfit to be called an apostle.” (1 Corinthians 15:9)

“Go away from me Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:8)

Isaiah, Paul, and Simon all express a sense of inadequacy. They are, they know, sinful, not worthy of God, and certainly not worthy to speak for God. All experience something miraculous: Isaiah’s vision of God, Paul’s encounter with the risen Christ, and Simon’s with Jesus in the early days of his ministry. And in spite of their self-proclaimed inadequacy, they are all called to witness to God’s wonder and majesty, as well as God’s mercy.

We are in the midst of what pundits are calling the great resignation. As reporters explore the phenomenon, they note the ways in which our culture makes us feel that we are not doing enough. In minimum wage jobs, it can be because no matter how hard we work, we can’t get ahead; in professional jobs, there are often few boundaries to say when we’ve done enough: there’s always more to do. Two years of living in a pandemic, and people are rejecting the culture of never enough. They want better pay, or better boundaries to their work. They want to feel as if they are doing enough.

The church too, can be guilty of setting impossible standards. We’re often small groups of people, trying to live out the Gospel, and there are so many needs, but not enough of us, or of time. And beyond the needs of the world, the institution wants us at meetings and trainings. While we may rationally know that it is critical to choose your tasks, I at least am generally more aware of all I am not doing than what I am doing.

Today’s readings suggest that we let go of our feelings of inadequacy. Isaiah, it turns out, can prophesy; Paul can preach; and Simon can catch people for Jesus. They may have sinned, but it turns out they are good enough. “Do not be afraid”, Jesus tells Simon. Again and again, scripture tells us we are enough. We should not be afraid of our failures. That is indeed good news.

4th Sunday of Epiphany: Jeremiah 1:4-10; Psalm 71:1-6; 1 Corinthians 13:1-13; Luke 4: 21-30

Today’s epistle is one of the more familiar passages of scripture, where Paul tells us that love is the greatest spiritual gift. When I first saw that this was the reading, I thought, oh, yeah, I know this. No need to think. But as I read it again, I realized that it is a message for all of us. Over the past few weeks, we’ve heard Paul talking about spiritual gifts, and today he tells us that if those gifts, whether speaking in tongues, prophecy, or faith are not exercised with love, they are worthless.

“Love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude”. Uh-oh. I like to think that my faith is anchored in love, and that I show love at all times. But we’re two years into the pandemic, and my love for those who have not been willing to make the small sacrifices to protect others has been sorely tried. No, let me be honest. I am impatient with those who won’t wear masks, and who won’t get vaccinated. I’m arrogant about my choices, and while I’m not rude in public, I am in my head.

Christians have always divided on a range of issues: whether the nature of the Trinity in the 4th century, or the meaning of the Eucharist in the 16th. Today those debates are centered on issues of identity: race, gender and sexuality. Can women preach? Can gays and lesbians be married? Is abortion the greatest sin? What do we owe (if anything) to the descendants of those slaves who built up the wealth of this country, and of many of our churches? Many of these have become not just religious debates, but political ones. It’s complicated, and hard.

Opponents of the ordination of women, or gay people, or of abortion, or reparations have not been precisely loving to those of us who disagree with them. It is difficult to respond to demonization with love. But that is exactly what God is calling us to do. It’s hard work.

Given this, I was grateful for today’s psalm, one of my favorites.

“Be my strong rock, a castle to keep me safe;

you are my crag and my stronghold” (Psalm 71:3).

Whenever I read this, I think of Durham Cathedral in England, perched on a rock above the River Wear. Now they tout the woodland paths along the riverbank, but the walls of the Cathedral were part of Durham Castle; the Bishop had not only religious but political and military power. It was indeed a castle to keep you safe. If we have that strong rock, we may have the courage to love.

3 Epiphany: Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10; Psalm 19; 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a; Luke 4:14-21

The beginning of today’s reading from 1 Corinthians offers a radically inclusive vision of the church. We were all baptized into one spirit, Paul tells us, whether we are Jews or Greeks, slaves or free. The rest of the passage uses the metaphor of the body to insist that we are all important, whatever our gifts and whoever we are. There’s a tension, at least for the modern reader, between the insistence on the importance of all, the shared spirit, and the hierarchical vision of both gifts and the body. But the point of one body, while there are, Paul suggests, less respectable and more respectable members, we all depend on each other. Paul says that “the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensible”.

In today’s gospel, Luke tells the story of Jesus preaching in the synagogue where he grew up. Jesus reads from the prophet Isaiah, where Isaiah announced that he brings “good news to the poor . . . release toe the captives and recovery of sight to the blind”. If the reading was familiar, none of his listeners expected him to tell them that “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” It is Jesus’ radical proclamation of the Kingdom of God.

Let the oppressed go free. Proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. We can only help bring Jesus’ proclamation to life if we remember we are one body, and that we depend on all the members of that body. Most of us have at least on member we would rather not depend on, but that’s not our choice! Recognizing the other members of the one body is often hard, but it is our challenge and our task.

Isaiah 62:1-5; Psalm 36:5-10; 1 Corinthians 12:1-11; John 2:1-11

“Now there are a variety of gifts, but the same Spirit”. (1 Corinthians 12:4)

Paul’s discourse on spiritual gifts in 1 Corinthians emphasizes that while we are different, with varied gifts, activities, and services, the work we do is for and led by the same Lord, “for the common good”. Paul mentions some gifts: the utterance of wisdom, the utterance of knowledge, faith, healing, working miracles, prophecy, the discernment of spirits, speaking in tongues. These are clearly gifts of the spirit.

Over the years, I have come to expand my understanding of spiritual gifts. After all, no one who has been part of a church community thinks you can get along with just the gifts that Paul lists. These are important, especially teaching and wisdom. But so too is hospitality, generosity of spirit, and willingness to serve. It may not seem spiritual, but the people who stay after a parish pot luck to put away the chairs and take out the trash are demonstrating spiritual gifts of generosity and kindness.

We hear in today’s gospel the story of the wedding at Cana, where Jesus did his first sign, turning water into wine. The working of miracles was one of Jesus’ gifts, along with all the others in Paul’s list. This is the first one he does, and he isn’t exactly eager. It is his mother who grasps the problem of hospitality (it would be a woman, wouldn’t it?), and tells him to act. Although he resists, when she tells the servants to obey him, he does. Like the miracle of loaves and fishes, the wedding at Cana solves a practical problem. What if we saw the fact that our communities functioned as a miracle just as much as turning water into wine? These things are, like the gifts Paul lists, done for the common good.

Churches speak often of gifts, of time, talent, and treasure. But time and talent are not always recognized as spiritual gifts, and, like treasure, seen as meeting the practical needs of the congregation. In the familiar Shaker hymn, “‘Tis the gift to be simple” (Hymnal 1982 #554), we learn that “when we find ourselves in the place just right,/ ’twill be in the valley of love and delight.” One way of recognizing our spiritual gifts is noticing the place that feels “just right”. When we find it, we are indeed in a “valley of love and delight”.

1 Epiphany: Isaiah 43:1-7; Psalm 29; Acts 8:14-17; Luke 3: 15-17, 21-22

Today we celebrate the Baptism of our Lord: when Jesus shows up at the place where John the Baptist is baptizing people. John baptizes him, and then the dove shows up and tells him, “You are my Son, the beloved: with you I am well pleased”. Jesus really hasn’t done anything special, but God is pleased with him nevertheless. This strikes me as something we might all ponder: God can be pleased with us just as we are.

But I’m more interested in the nature of baptism here. The crowds have begun to wonder if John is the Messiah, but he quickly tells them he isn’t. He makes a distinction: he baptizes with water, while the Messiah will baptize with the “Holy Spirit and fire”. A similar distinction between types of baptism is made in the book of Acts: Samaria had accepted the “word of God,” and had been baptized “in the name of the Lord Jesus”. But they had not received the Holy Spirit. Peter and John are sent to pray for them “that they might receive the Holy Spirit”.

This distinction, between baptism in the name of the Lord and receiving the Holy Spirit is interesting. It frames thinking about faith as an ongoing process: we start with being baptized with water, becoming part of the family. That is indeed a singular process. But the rest isn’t. Somewhere along the line, we receive the Holy Spirit. But for me at least, it’s not as dramatic as what is described in Luke. The work of the Holy Spirit is not a one time thing, but an ongoing process. I think I’ve got it figured out, and then something happens, and the Spirit pushes me somewhere new. The Holy Spirit is moving, in our lives and in the world.

Second Sunday of Christmas: Jeremiah 31:7-14; Psalm 84; Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a; Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23 (or Matthew 2:1-12, or Luke 2:41-52)

Last week I reflected on how Christmas is shadowed by death and grief. The three kings come, and bring gifts, including the myrrh used to anoint the dead. In today’s gospel, Joseph is told in a dream to take the child and his mother and “flee to Egypt” because Herod wants to destroy the child. Matthew makes this journey seem straightforward: “Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and to to Egypt”. But the journey of the refugee fleeing danger is not, we know, so straightforward. Bethlehem is not right next to Egypt, so it’s not like Joseph, Mary and the baby could just take a stroll and get to a new country.

This is also a journey driven by fear. Herod wants to find the child “to destroy him”. In this 18th century Andean version of the flight into Egypt, you see Herod’s agents killing the children in the background. Over the past 20 years, we have seen many scenes of desperate refugees fleeing war and violence. They have not always received a warm welcome; many are victims of traffickers who take their money but don’t protect them. I wonder about Joseph heading to Egypt: does he encounter danger? Who helps them? Are Joseph and Mary welcomed in Egypt? Or do they face, like so many migrants today, hostility and mistrust?

(Anonymous, Andean 18th C, “The Flight into Egypt“)

First Sunday after Christmas: Isaiah 61:10-62:3; Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7; John 1:1-18; Psalm 147 or 147:13-21 OR 1 Samuel 2:18-20, 26  • Psalm 148  • Colossians 3:12-17  • Luke 2:41-52

There are two sets of readings for today (different versions of the lectionary) and I had written on the one we didn’t use before I realized my mistake! So this will be a bit disjointed, but I didn’t want to lose what I’d thought about this afternoon.

The beginning of the Gospel of John is a text of mystery: the sentences don’t entirely make sense. But the central point, that God came and lived among us. From him we have received “grace upon grace”, “grace and truth”. But this grace is only possible because, as John puts it, “the Word became flesh”. In the midst of the mystery of John’s text is Jesus’ humanity.

Christmas is, like Easter, a time when we are confronted with Jesus’ humanity. But at Christmas, we also see Christ as part of a family, connected to parents and neighbors. It is not accidental that most of the readings that make me giggle focus on this part of Jesus’ life. The Gospel of Luke today pushes us twelve years ahead from where we were yesterday. You can read it several ways: the gospel presents this as a sign of Jesus’ precocious wisdom, though his ministry is 18 years away.

I read this account from the perspective of Mary and Joseph. It’s hard to be a parent to God’s son, and the rules are not at all clear. They are evidently a pious family, heading to Jerusalem every year for Passover. This time, we have a slightly rebellious tween staying behind to ask questions and engage with the teachers in Jerusalem. His parents are worried: they had traveled a whole day from Jerusalem, and have to go back to find him. It takes three days to find him. Most parents I know would be extremely anxious about this. You can hear Jesus’ response, “Didn’t you know that I must be in my Father’s house” as a sign of piety, but I’ve known enough 12 year olds in my life to hear it also as the voice of a child trying to claim independence, even if not quite ready for it. Like most 12 year olds, Jesus knows more than his parents.

Our secular Christmas celebrations are all happy and celebratory, but Jesus’ death is never far away in our readings. For the feast of Holy Innocents on Tuesday, we learn of Joseph, Mary and Jesus fleeing as refugees to Egypt, while all the children under two in Bethlehem were slaughtered. The gifts of the wise men include myrrh, used to anoint the dead. And today’s reading takes place at Passover in Jerusalem, the time of year and the place where Jesus will be killed by the Roman state. We are not allowed to forget pain and sorrow while we celebrate.

One of my favorite prayers comes from Evening Prayer II

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake.

Book of Common Prayer, p. 124

Many years ago, this was prayed for me when I told my reading group that I was engaged. We always hope we can shield the joyous. But we cannot do so forever. We celebrate, as we do at Christmas. This year we are reminded, maybe more vividly than in other years, and that death is a part of life.

Third Sunday in Advent: Zephaniah 3:14-20; Canticle 9: Isaiah 12:2-6; Philippians 4:-4-7; Luke 3:7-18

“Sing aloud, O daughter of Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart.” What a great way to start listening to the readings! We move on to Paul, telling us to “Rejoice in the Lord always”. We are told that if, “by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving” offer our requests to God, “the peace of God which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus”. This is a promise.

But don’t get too comfortable: we move from Paul’s promise to John’s preaching to the crowds. “You brood of vipers!” I can’t say that this is the most welcoming message I can imagine. It doesn’t invite you to feel good about yourself. And yet John is surrounded by crowds, evidently people who understand their need for a baptism of repentance, to change their minds, and their lives. And that change is not necessarily big: if you have two coats, give one away; if you have extra food, share. You don’t need to leave your job, even if you are a soldier or tax collector, just don’t take advantage of your position to exploit or extort others.

We have to repent, to change our minds and lives, to get to where we can, with Paul, rejoice in the Lord always. What John and Paul leave out is the way that this is something I at least need to do over and over. There’s a reason I am relieved that we say the confession every week. I get distracted by the world, and need to shift my focus back to Jesus. When I do, I can once again rejoice in the Lord, and sing with all my heart.

2 Advent: Baruch 5:1-9; Canticle 16 (Luke 1:68-79); Philippians 1:3-11; Luke 3:1-6

Advent is a time of waiting, and waiting for change. But the readings today focus more on the change. In Baruch, we are called to “Take off the garment of your sorrow and affliction, O Jerusalem, and put on forever the beauty of the glory from God.” The image is concrete: we need to be dressed to celebrate. Baruch tells Jerusalem to rejoice that God has remembered them. “For God has ordered that every high mountain and the everlasting hills be made low and the valleys filled up, to make level ground, so that Israel may walk safely in the glory of God.” What a promise: that God will smooth the ground to make your way safe! Luke refers back to that promise at the end of today’s gospel, seeking to create continuity between Jesus and the salvation history of Israel.

In the gospel, we also hear about John, preaching “a baptism of repentance”. Yesterday I read an essay by Professor Brittney Cooper, a Black feminist scholar, on repentance. It was part of a series in The Christian Century on “how I changed my mind”, and the title was “Why I came back around to repentance“. Cooper suggests that we should think of repentance not as cataloguing and confessing sins big and small, but changing our minds, as we get rid of ideas that separate us from God. “What if”, she asks, “at base, our faith practices were about a willingness to change our minds in ways that allowed us to bend more easily toward love, justice, mercy, and grace?”

The season of Advent is a season of waiting for change. We think of the change as the birth of Jesus. John preached a baptism of repentance. I have always understood sin as that which separates us from God, and repentance as bringing us back to God. If we understand this as a season of changing our minds, it moves our focus to how we, as a community of Christians, can collectively let go of ideas and actions that harm us and others, and follow God in trying to make “the crooked straight, and the rough ways smooth”. When we do that, we will be on the road to justice and love. And we will be ready to welcome Jesus into our lives.

Today’s readings: Jeremiah 33:14-16; Psalm 25:1-9; 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13; Luke 21:25-36

It’s the first Sunday of Advent, the start of the liturgical year. But instead of parties and shouts of “Happy New Year,” the church starts the year with anxious waiting. Advent is not quite penitential, but it is filled with a combination of hope and fear. In the Gospel, Jesus talks about “the signs in the sun, the moon and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves.” He goes on to look forward to the time when Heaven and Earth will pass away, and warns us to be ready for that day. Not a very happy message, but one that resonates with many of us, facing climate change and its impact on the world we live in, never mind a pandemic that has been going on for almost two years now. The earth is sending us messages. But between wars, famines, droughts, and earthquakes, such messages have been heard at many times and in many places. Not surprisingly, the apocalyptic writings of scripture have been among preachers’ greatest hits fairly regularly over the last 2000 years! We live in a world where things go wrong, and people suffer. The end of that might not be a bad thing.

If Luke warns us to be ready for all the terrible things that will happen before Jesus comes again, I found myself drawn more to the words of Jeremiah, where he describes the world that God will bring, when God “will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel”. Jeremiah reminds us why we might look forward to that. When the “righteous Branch” of David comes, “he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety.” This is the world we want to live in. As the US continues its long racial reckoning, and the Sunday after the murderers of Ahmaud Arbery were found guilty, it is good to remember that justice brings safety.

The psalmist is not concerned with the coming of a new world, but offers us a path. He asks to be taught — “Lead me in your truth and teach me”. We’re told that the Lod’s “compassion and love . . . are from everlasting”. And he asks the Lord, as we all must, to “Remember not the sins of my youth and my transgressions; remember me according to your love.” The psalm offers reassurance that “All the paths of the Lord are love and faithfulness to those who keep his covenant and his testimonies.”

I am glad that we get to Luke’s warnings after we have heard from Jeremiah and the Psalmist. They put justice and love at the center. Building a world of justice and righteousness, we have learned over thousands of years, is not easy. But movements toward justice have often come from what felt like end times. The warnings that Luke offers and the promise that Jeremiah gives us are necessarily intertwined. I don’t know what it means to be ready for the “Son of Man coming in a cloud”, but if that is what it takes to get to the world of justice, righteousness and safety, I will do my best, like the psalmist, to follow the Lord’s paths.

“My kingdom is not from this world”, Jesus tells Pilate in today’s gospel (John 18:36). This Sunday, the last in the church year, is commonly known as “Christ the King Sunday”, or “The Reign of Christ”. If Jesus’ kingdom is not from this world, what does it mean in this world? In the epistle, taken from Revelation, we’re told that Jesus is “ruler of the kings of the earth” (Revelation 1:5). In our first reading, the last words of David, we are told that “One who rules over people justly, ruling in the fear of God, is like the light of morning, like the sun rising on a cloudless morning, gleaming from the rain on the grassy land” (2 Samuel 23:3-4). All this talking about kings and kingship is a bit strange for those of us living in a republic founded on the rejection of kings!

I’m not sure I know what to think about Christ’s kingdom: it’s not from this world, but this world is the only one I know. The multiple metaphors around the idea of Christ’s kingship suggest it’s one that many have struggled over. When I read about the light of the morning, I know it is a kingdom I wish for. It is simultaneously not from this world, but one we seek to build in this world. So today I have no bright ideas, just a question to ponder. What does it mean for you that Christ is King, that we are living in the reign of Christ? What do you differently because of that? How can we feel the light of morning? What are we doing to build the kingdom?

In today’s Hebrew scripture, we hear the story of Hannah (1 Samuel 1:4-20). Hannah is much loved by her husband Elkanah, but she has no children: “the Lord had closed her womb”. Her husband’s other wife, Peninnah, had “sons and daughters”, and taunts Hannah with her childlessness. Hannah, we’re told, grieves her childlessness. The account in scripture suggests very messy family dynamics, as Hannah is apparently the favorite wife, even though she was childless.

Hannah goes to the temple to pray, “deeply distressed”. She is watched by the priest Eli as she prays silently and weeps, and he asks her “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself?” When she tells him she is not drunk, but praying from “anxiety and vexation”, he asks the God of Israel to grant her petition. And so it is: the story tells us that she and Elkanah worshiped before the Lord, went back to their house, and that Elkanah “knew his wife Hannah”. She conceived and bore a son, Samuel.

I am intrigued by Eli’s initial reaction, his concern that Hannah is making a spectacle of herself. She’s altogether too emotional in her prayer. Is Eli a closet Episcopalian? I’m uncomfortable with people who make a big deal about their faith. Like many Episcopalians, I’m not big on extemporaneous emotional prayer! Yet when we pray from our hearts, sometimes it is emotional. If we’re sharing with God our deepest joys, longings, fears, and griefs, there should be emotion. Maybe it’s time for me, like Eli, to better value the prayer that comes from the heart. And even make a spectacle of myself!

When I read the scriptures for today, I was struck that we have spent the last few weeks with women who need or want to bear a child. Ruth and Naomi are widowed; without a husband and a child, their place is uncertain. When Ruth bears a child to Boaz, Naomi helps raise him; they are safe. Ruth’s son is the father of Jesse, who is the father of David. Hannah’s position is more secure, loved as she is by her husband, but she longs for a child, and may feel that her long term security depends on bearing one. Again and again, we are reminded that God’s purposes are effected through the birth of children. As we hear Jesus, at the end of today’s Gospel, talking about the “birthpangs” of the new creation, his metaphor reflected the very real importance of bearing children in his society.

Today’s gospel (Mark 12:38-44) tells the story of Jesus watching people coming to the temple and making gifts to the treasury. The reading starts with Jesus’ warning, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces . . . they devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

My first reaction when I read this was to smugly assure myself that I’m not one of them: it is other people who pretend to piety but rip people off. I’m certainly not one for long prayers! And I don’t think I devour widows’ houses. But the second part of the reading brought me up short. Here Jesus observes rich people putting in “large sums” to the treasury at the temple, and then a poor widow put in two coins, worth a penny. She had given more, Jesus tells us, because she gave not out of abundance, but out of scarcity. She gave “everything she had”.

Maybe, then I am like the scribes: I haven’t given everything I have, either financially or otherwise. I own a house, travel for pleasure (at times), and give time and attention to things other than God. My job certainly takes up more of my time and attention than God or Church. Church is one of my things, but by no means the only one.

Our congregation has been asked to be more intentional about stewardship. My old church talked about stewardship of “time, talent, and treasure”. What would it mean for me to give, if not everything I have, more of what I have? What can I do that’s sacrificial? Like so many of us, there are many demands on my time. If I am, like the widow, to give “all that I have”, maybe that’s where I need to focus. How can I make more time for God? If I don’t want to be a scribe, I need to think about this.

We think we know what love is, but today’s readings remind us of its many dimensions.

Today in the Gospel of Mark, we read the familiar great commandment, as Jesus answers what is clearly asked as a test: “‘The Lord our God , the Lord is one: you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'” (Mark 12:29-31) This passage was memory work in my Sunday School in 3rd grade. I’m always intrigued about what I hear when we read such familiar words. Today, it was the way loving God was a full body experience: heart, soul, mind and strength.

We also see love that involves heart and mind and strength in the reading from Ruth. The custom of the Hebrews was what is called levirate marriage: a childless widow is expected to marry the next brother, and her first child with him will be considered that of her first husband. If that’s not possible, a woman should return to her birth family and be married again. Naomi has no more sons, and is to old to bear another. As a foreigner in Moab, Naomi is planning to return home: there she will not be a stranger but a neighbor. Ruth resists the rules of patriarchal society, refusing to return to her mother. Somewhere in the years of her marriage, Naomi had become important to her. “Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God.” (Ruth 1:16)

We often hear this passage read at weddings, where the love and loyalty that creates unity is focused on husband and wife. But the love that frames the story of Ruth was not the conventional love of husband and wife, but the close ties between women across generations. That love was strong enough for Ruth to break the rules. She went with Naomi back to Judah, where she was a stranger and a foreigner. The familiarity of the passage obscures the risk that Ruth took.

Love, scripture repeatedly reminds us, is not easy, and it’s certainly not soft. The great commandment tells us that loving God takes everything we have; loving another human being, as Ruth does Naomi, is how we learn to take the risks, and maybe even breaking the rules, that loving God demands of us.

Job 42: 1-6, 10-17. Today we reach the end of the book of Job. Job, having listened to God’s assertion of their primacy, acknowledges his ignorance. “I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know.” (42:3) The lectionary moves on, skipping verses 7-9, and recounts how Job’s fortunes were restored, to “twice as much” as Job had had before. Job now has 14,000 shee, 6000 camels, a thousand yoke of oxen, and another 1000 donkeys. He has more children, and “in all the land there were no women so beautiful as Job’s daughters”. (42:15)

But I’m interested in the bit that is barely visible in the lectionary reading: what happens between Job’s acknowledgment of God’s sovereignty and the restoration of his wealth and position. Here God gets angry at Job’s friends: the ones who had tried to protect themselves by telling Job he must have done something wrong. They are required to make a sacrifice and bring it to Job. Then Job prayed for them. It’s only after Job prays for his “friends” that his fortunes are restored.

From time to time on social media someone will quote Maya Angelou, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” Job would have been more than justified in ignoring his (former?) friends: they had showed him that they would not stand with him. I find it hard to think that they are still his friends. Instead, Job prays for them. That prayer opens the door for Job’s restoration. It’s something to think about: maybe we need to believe people are who they show themselves to be, and also pray for them. Praying for those who have hurt me is hard, but it’s also a comfort, because I can imagine that someone who I’ve hurt is praying for me.

Job thinks he’s been hard done by. After all, he was a righteous man, who did good, and followed God’s commandments. But since God’s deal with Satan, misfortune has overtaken him, and he doesn’t understand why. His friends are no help, suggesting maybe he really deserved it, if he’d done this or that differently he’d be fine. Now, in today’s reading, we hear the beginning of God’s response: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” (Job 38:4) The following verses proclaim God’s work in creating the world and watching over it. God reminds Job that Job’s not in control, God is. These words are echoed in Psalm 104, where the psalmist asserts, “You have set the earth on its foundations . . . O Lord, how manifold are your works! In wisdom you have made them all. (Psalm 104:5, 25)

We would mostly, like Job, want there to be a reason for suffering. “Why me?” is our frequent response to problems. Few of us want illness, suffering and pain, and if we can do something to prevent them, we will. People want to think that by virtuous living (whether it’s diet and exercise, or ethical decisions, or going to church every Sunday) they can escape illness, disaster, and loss. But it doesn’t work that way. Our response to such events is like Job’s: to lament, to cry out in grief and rage and ask why.

God’s response to Job is a reminder that we can’t control the outcome, which takes some responsibility off us. At the end, Job, who has now heard God’s voice again, proclaims not his virtue but his ignorance: “I have uttered what I did not understand, thing too wonderful for me, which I did not know.” (Job 42:3) I’m not happy with ignorance, and our own stories don’t always wrap up as neatly. Few of us have the reward of Job, who received “twice as much as he had before” (Job 42:10)! As we confront the losses we inevitably face, Job reminds us that this is not a new story; if we’re lucky, somewhere in the midst we will hear God’s voice.

The psalm for today is Psalm 22, whose first verse Jesus cries out from the cross. The despair mirrors the despair of Job, who in todays reading (Job 23:1-9, 16-17) laments that he cannot find God. In spite of his prayer, God’s hand is “heavy”. Prayer is not a magic spell, and the prayer of lament is a frequent form. Job and the psalmist have been abandoned, they think, by God. While Job is absorbed in God’s absence, the psalmist complains loudly, and notes that his enemies “laugh me to scorn”, because he trusted in God and God has abandoned him. His fate, he suggests, makes God look bad. This is not quite the feeling of “Why me?” that all of us have felt at one time or another when something terrible happens: these writers don’t understand why God isn’t there for them.

The dark night of the soul is a common experience in the lives of mystics, saints, and many people of faith: a feeling of being alone, being abandoned by God. It leads to doubt and fear. God isn’t there. Here’s the thing: they don’t stop talking to God. Job doesn’t stop, the psalmist didn’t stop. Mother Teresa spent 50 years worrying that God had rejected her, but she continued her ministry. Somehow they (and many others through the centuries) kept going because that seemed right. This is truly faith. Because of this, it’s too bad that the lectionary doesn’t include the last two verses of Psalm 22:

21  I will declare your Name to my brethren;

         In the midst of the congregation I will praise you

22  Praise the LORD, you that fear him;

        Stand in awe of him, O offspring of Israel

        All you of Jacob’s line, give glory.