Jamie Parsley's Blog, page 26
July 25, 2021
9 Pentecost
July 25, 2021
2 Kings 4.42-44; John 6.1-21
+ Occasionally, I preach about things I really enjoy preaching about, and sometimes about things I don’t really enjoy preaching about.
Well, today, I get to preach about something I really LOVE to preach about.
I love to preach about the that one event that holds us together here at St. Stephen’s, that sustains us and that, in many ways, defines us.
I am, of course, speaking of the Holy Eucharist—Holy Communion.
I LOVE to preach about and explore and talk about the Mystery that is the Eucharist.
I love pondering the beauty of why what we do with bread and wine here at this altar is so important to us, to vital to us.
I love thinking about all the ways God works through this meal we share here.
But, I also really like the “symbolism” of the Eucharist, and I use that word “symbol” very carefully.
If we were going to look at the Eucharist from the perspective of those first Jewish followers of Jesus, we would see that this bread we share at this meal is essentially the Lamb that was offered on the altar, and this cup is the blood that was shed from that lamb.
Jesus, as we all know, has become the Lamb that was offered and slain on that altar as a sacrifice.
(Certainly that is how Jesus saw his role)
So, what we do today and on every Sunday and Wednesday is a continuation of what was offered in the Temple in Jesus’ own day.
We tend to forget this important fact in our Christian life.
We forget that this is a meal we share with one another.
We often come to Communion without really thinking about it.
We often think of Communion as a quaint little ritual we do, sort of like a Church-version of a tea party.
But when we put the Eucharist in the larger perspective of our history as the people of God, we realize that every time we partake of the bread and wine of the Eucharist, we are joining in at that sacrificial worship that has gone for thousands of years.
This is the sacrifice of wine and wheat we hear about in the book of Joel.
Now, I know some of you immediately find ourselves bristling when you hear the word “sacrifice” here.
Sacrifice and the Mass seem a bit too…Catholic..for some.
But it is a sacrifice.
What we do here is sacrificial.
And just to make sure you don’t think this is one of Fr. Jamie’s weird, quirky takes on what we do here, I would like to draw your attention once again to the Book of Common Prayer, in the back, in the Catechism.
On page 859
The second question under “The Holy Eucharist” is,
Q.
Why is the Eucharist called a sacrifice?
A.
Because the Eucharist, the Church's sacrifice of praise and
thanksgiving, is the way by which the sacrifice of Christ is
made present, and in which he unites us to his one offering
of himself.
So, the Eucharist is this incredible thing really.
It is a meal.
It is a “symbol” of the sacrifice of Jesus.
It is a way to remember Jesus and all he has done.
All this just goes to show us this wonderful way in which God works through something very basic in our lives to make something deep and meaningful.
Namely, I am talking about food.
Nothing draws us closer to each other than food.
Food is an important way to bond with each other.
And food a great reminder of how God truly does provide for us.
Our scriptures for today give us some interesting perspectives on food as well.
In today’s reading from the Hebrew Scriptures, we find Elisha feeding the people.
We hear this wonderful passage, “He set it before them, they ate and had some left, according to the word of the Lord.”
It’s a deceptively simple passage from scripture.
But there’s a lot of depth to it too if you really ponder it.
In our Gospel reading, we find almost the same event.
Jesus—in a sense the new Elisha—is feeding miraculously the multitude.
And by feeding, by doing a miracle, they recognize him for who he is.
For them, he is “the Prophet who has come into their midst.”
For us, these stories resonate in what we do here at the altar.
What we partake of here at this altar is essentially the same event.
Here we are fed by God as well.
Here there is a miracle.
Here, we find God’s chosen one, the “Prophet come to us” Jesus—the new Elisha—feeding us.
We come forward and we eat.
And there is some left over.
The miracle, however, isn’t that there is some left over.
The miracle for us is the meal itself.
In this meal we share, we are sustained.
We our strengthened.
We are upheld.
We are fed in ways regular food does not feed us.
There is something so beautiful in the way God works through the Eucharist.
This beautifully basic act—of eating and drinking—is so vital to us as humans.
But being sustained spiritually in such a way is beyond beautiful or basic.
It is miraculous.
And as with any miracle, we find ourselves oftentimes either humbled or blind to its impact in our lives.
This simple act is not just a simple act.
It is an act of coming forward, of eating and drinking, and then of turning around and going out into the world to feed others.
To feed others on what we now embody within ourselves—this living sacrifice to God.
And how do we do that?
We do that by serving others by example.
By being that living Bread to others.
The Eucharist not simply a private devotion.
Yes, it is a wonderfully intimate experience.
But it is so more than that.
The Eucharist is what we do together.
And the Eucharist is something that doesn’t simply end when we get back to our pews or leave the Church building.
The Eucharist is what we carry with us throughout our day-to-day lives as Christians.
The Eucharist empowers us to be agents of the Incarnation of God’s Son.
We are empowered by this Eucharist to be the Body of Christ to others.
Through the Eucharist, we become God’s anointed ones in this world.
And that is where this whole act of the Eucharist comes together.
It’s where the rubber meets the road, so to speak.
When we see it from that perspective, we realize that this really is a miracle in our lives—just as miraculous as what Elisha did and certainly as miraculous as what Jesus did in our Gospel reading for today.
So, let us be aware of this beauty that comes so miraculously to us each time we gather together here at this altar.
The Eucharist is an incredible gift given to us by our God.
Let us embody God’s anointed One, the Christ, whom we encounter here in this Bread and Wine.
Let us, by being fed so miraculously, be the actual Body of Christ to others.
Let us feed those who need to be fed.
Let us sustain those who need to be sustained.
And let us be mindful of the fact that this food of which we partake has the capabilities to feed more people and to change more lives than we can even begin to imagine.
Let us pray.
Holy God, you sustain us. You give us manna from heaven each time we come before your altar—food that sustains our souls, food that makes us what we eat—the Body of your Christ in this world. Help us to go out from here to feed others with this manna, this Bread of heaven you have given us, so that the world may be truly fed. We ask this in the name of Jesus, our true Bread. Amen.
July 18, 2021
8 Pentecost
July 18, 2021
Jeremiah 23.1-6; Psalm 23; Mark 6.30-34, 53-56
+ We’re going to see how closely you paid attention to the scripture readings this morning.
Don’t you just love it when your priest starts out the sermon like this?
OK, so without looking at your bulletin: if there was a theme to our scripture reading what would it be?
And there is, most definitely, a theme.
Shepherding is the theme.
Today we are getting our share of Shepherd imagery in the Liturgy of the Word.
In the reading from the Hebrew Bible, we get Jeremiah giving a warning to the shepherds who destroy and scatter, and on the other hand, a promise of shepherds who will truly shepherd, without fear or dismay.
In our psalm, we have the old standard, Psalm 23, that has consoled us and upheld us through countless funerals and other difficult times in our lives.
In our Gospel reading, we hear Jesus having compassion on the people who were like sheep without a shepherd.
Certainly shepherds are one of the most prevalent occupations throughout scripture.
And because we hear about them so often, I think we often take the occupation for granted.
We don’t always fully take into account the meaning shepherds had for the writers of these books or even for ourselves.
Shepherds have been there from almost the beginning.
The first shepherd in scripture is, of course, Adam and Eve’s son, Abel. (his brother Cain was a farmer)
And throughout scripture, the shepherd has been held up as an example—both good and bad.
Certainly the reason shepherds were used as examples as they were was because it was a profession most people of that time and in that place would have understood.
People would have understood the importance of the shepherd in sustaining the flock, in caring for the flock and leading and helping the flock.
And people would definitely understand what would happen if a flock didn’t have a shepherd.
They would lost.
They would be at whim of nature and storms.
They would have no one to lookout after them.
They would have no one to be there for them, protecting them and guiding them.
No wonder Jesus had compassion on those people who went about like sheep without a shepherd.
The shepherd and the role of a shepherd is so important that scripture truly does see God as our ultimate Shepherd.
In the Gospels Jesus shows the way for us embody this aspect of God’s goodness in our life.
Just as God is the Good Shepherd, so is Jesus himself the Good Shepherd.
And Jesus as Jesus is the Good Shepherd, so are each of us called to be Good Shepherds.
We know that there are people out there who need someone.
There are people who are alone, and scared, and aimless.
There are people who have no direction in their lives.
There are people who are truly lonely, who feel abandoned and who are without anyone to care for them.
It is our job to embody our God who is a Good Shepherd and be that person in their lives, to be good shepherds to others.
Even if we ourselves often feel lost or abandoned or alone as well in our lives.
When we, as followers of Jesus, feel abandoned and lonely and aimless, we know full well who it is that guides us, who it is that loves, who it is that looks out after us.
But there are many people in the world who do not have that consolation in their lives.
And it is when we encounter those people that we must step in and be a Good Shepherd to them.
Now, you see now why shepherding is not something taken lightly in scripture.
Still, even for us, all this talk of shepherds might not really click.
After all, most of us have probably never even met a shepherd and, to be honest, I am not even certain there are shepherds anymore in this industrialized age of electric tagging of animals and night-vision monitoring.
I once preached that exact same sentiment in a sermon here at St. Stephen’s on a Good Shepherd Sunday years ago.
As I said that, a person who visiting very slowly raised their hand.
Now, when I’m preaching and something like that happens, I am wary.
I never know where such a thing is going to go.
Is this someone who is going to try to highjack my sermon?
Is this someone who going to correct me or contradict me?
Anyway, I did stop and motioned to this person.
And they said, “Actually, I worked as a shepherd. I worked for years as a shepherd. And you’re’ right. It’s just like that. It is a matter of genuinely caring for our sheep, of leading them and protecting them from predators. And sheep in turn know their shepherd. They listen to their voice and know it. And they respond.”
I loved that. That was truly a mini-sermon in and of itself.
I loved that this person who was just passing through Fargo and stopped at our church shared that.
So, how does the image of the shepherd have meaning for us—citified people that we are?
Well, for us it does mean, as I said last week, that to be a truly effective leader, you must first be a follower.
To truly be a good shepherd, you have to know what a Good Shepherd is, what a Good Shepherd DOES.
You must know what makes a shepherd good, and then embody that goodness.
For us, we see what a Good Shepherd is.
In our scriptures readings, we see that God truly was a Good Shepherd to those who loved God and sought to be God’s people.
We find Jesus also preaching about God being a Good Shepherd, who then, in turn, becomes a Good Shepherd to us.
In this way we learn.
In this way we are experiencing the Shepherd in a beautiful and wonderful way.
We are receiving all that the Shepherd promises, so that we can go out and be good shepherds ourselves to those who need us.
We know that all we do is not all about just us.
We know that when we are good shepherds to others, we bring the very Kingdom of God in our midst.
Fed by our Good Shepherd, we can go out and feed others.
Sustained by our Good Shepherd, we then can sustain others.
Served by our Good Shepherd, we can then serve others. .
When we are weak, when we are beaten down, when we are pursued by the wolves of our lives, we know that we are protected and cared for and looked after.
When we are wearied by the strain and exhaustion of our everyday worlds, we know that someone is there, guiding us to a place of refreshment and rest.
But again, it’s not just about us. About ME.
We must, in turn, be good shepherds to those who need a shepherd.
We have to go out face our jobs, our broken relationships, our ungrateful families, the prejudice and homophobia and sexism and racism and fundamentalism and violence of that seemingly at-times unpleasant world in which we live.
And in the face of those things, we must be good.
We must lead others through those pitfalls.
But we do so knowing that we are led and sustained. .
We face the unshepherded world shepherded.
“I will raise up shepherds,” God says in our reading from Jeremiah today. “And they shall not fear any longer, or be dismayed, nor shall any be missing, says the Lord.”
That hope is what we carry with us as we go forward from here.
We are the shepherds that are raised up.
And we, and those we serve, shall not fear any longer.
We and those we serve will not be dismayed.
Nor shall any of us be missing or lost because our Great Shepherd truly does love us and know us and care for us.
Let us pray.
Holy God, Good Shepherd, guide as we are meant to be led. Feed us with the food from your hand. Protect us with your staff. And hold us close in your love. Help us to trust in you and remind that, in doing so, we will be led the finest pastures, where we will dwell with you forever. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.
July 11, 2021
7 Pentecost
July 11, 2021
Ephesians 1.3-14; Mark 6.14-29
+ When I was a kid, there was a taunt that we could use against one another that really got us at our core.
I don’t know why this word did that to us.
It’s a pretty innocent term.
But it did.
The word was—“chicken.”
If we wavered, if we lost heart, that word, “chicken” was hurled at us with force.
“Stop being so chicken!”
Even now, after all these years, I have to admit: the word still holds some weight.
It can still provoke me.
Well, these past few weeks we’ve been hearing in our scripture readings about prophecy and how it is not always a fun and enjoyable thing.
Let’s face it.
Prophecy is not for chickens.
Look at our Gospel reading for today.
Poor John the Baptist.
He paid the price for his prophecies.
And many of us fear the ramifications of those who do not like the fact that the prophecies of change are coming true.
But for those who are standing in the way of this overwhelming change, there’s no denying the fact.
Change is happening.
And it needs to happen.
Because this change shows that to be a follower of Jesus in this world means that we have to be looking forward.
We have to be looking into the future.
A future in which all people in this church are treated equally and fairly and inclusively.
We have to be visionaries.
And, as I say over and over again, we have to prophets.
We have to exploring new ways to be those followers of Jesus in this day and age.
Being a follower of Jesus means being people of change.
Being a follower of Jesus means we are constantly looking for new ways to live out that radical following after Jesus.
Being a follower of Jesus means that we are constantly looking for new ways to be radical in our acceptance of all people.
Because that is exactly what Jesus did.
What we see happening in our Church frightnow is a kind of fulfillment of what Paul talks about in his Epistle this morning to the Ephesians:
“With all wisdom and insight,” Paul writes, “[God] has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.”
Isn’t it amazing how that scripture speaks to us?
And it’s true.
God has made known to us the mystery of this incredible will of God, to gather up all things in Christ, things here on this earth and things in heaven.
Later in on our reading today, Paul talks about our inheritance as followers of Jesus and as Children of God.
This Gospel of our salvation is, for Paul, “the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people…”
We, all of us—no matter who we are—are inheritors.
And because we are, all of us, no matter who are, are Children of the same God.
And as a children of that God, we are co-inheritors.
Now, again, that’s not new to us here at St. Stephen’s
We have been proclaiming this here at St. Stephen’s all along.
And it is good to know that the larger Church is proclaiming this and is working toward the goal of being that kind of a Church—being a fulfillment of that scripture.
Of course, not everyone agrees in the same way about what being inheritors of the Kingdom is.
But, that’s the way it is going to be sometime with prophets in our midst.
Sometimes the prophecies are heeded and proclaimed and sometimes they are resisted.
Our job as followers of Jesus is not vilify those who think differently than we do.
Those who may oppose us and scold us and punish us for what we are doing are not our enemies.
They are our fellow co-inheritors.
They’re just more jealous of their inheritance than some of the rest of us.
For me, I am have no problem sharing my inheritance with everyone.
And I think many of us this morning feel that way.
Our job is continue to do what we have always done—to joyfully love and accept everyone in love, even those with whom we differ.
Our job as followers of Jesus and inheritor’s of God’s Kingdom is to continue to welcome every person who comes to us as a loved and fully accepted Child of that same God.
Our job is to be radical in our love and acceptance of others, no matter who they are.
And our job as followers of Jesus is to see every person who comes to us as Jesus sees that person.
And Jesus sees those people—and all of us—as loved.
Loved fully and completely by God.
This is not easy to do.
It is not easy being a prophet—of proclaiming God’s Good News to others.
Sometimes we might even find ourselves tempted to resist this weighty calling of ours.
Certainly, in our reading from the Hebrew Scriptures today, we find Amos resisting his call to be a prophet.
Amos says, “I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees, and the Lord took me from following the flock, and the Lord said to me, “Go, prophesy to my people…”
I love that scripture.
Because it is speaking to each and every one of us.
Here we are, in our jobs, in our day-to-day lives.
And God is calling each of us to prophesy to God’s people.
To prophesy this radical love and acceptance.
To prophesy the fact that we when we love each other and accept each other, the Kingdom of God that each of as children of God are inheritors of, will break through into our midst.
You have heard me say this again and again: I believe that an effective leader must first be an effective follower.
And as Christians, who are followers of Jesus, we also must, in turn, be leaders to each other and to others.
Each of us must be leaders and prophets to those we are called to serve.
We of course have a choice.
We can be despotic leaders who use and abuse and mistreat the people we are called to serve.
We have certainly seen A LOT of those in the Church and in society.
Or we can be humble leaders as Jesus himself was a humble leader—a leader who realizes that to be an effective leader one must serve.
In those moments it’s helpful to have coping skills to get us through the journey—and to do so without disrespecting or hurting those we encounter on the journey.
So, let us cling to this prophetic ideal of leadership.
Let us be the prophet, the listener, the spiritual friend, the inheritor, the seeker, the includer, the loved child of God.
Let us be the visionary to see that change is happening.
Change is happening.
It’s happening right now.
Right here.
Change is in the air.
Change for the better.
Change for a revitalized Church built on love and respect for God and for each other.
It is not the time to chicken out.
It is not the time to bow to pressure.
It is not a time to compromise, or to rest on our laurels.
It is time to keep on working, to keep on standing up for who we are, to keep on being prophets, to keep on furthering the Kingdom of God in our midst.
Because, look!
It’s so close.
It’s right there, just within our grasp.
It’s almost too incredible to even imagine.
I almost can’t wait for it anymore…
Let us pray.
Holy and loving God, you have instilled in us a vision of the way things should be—a world, a people and a Church formed as you intended them to be. Help us to bring this vision to pass. Instill in us a desire to do justice, to love mercy and to walk humbly with you and those you call us to serve. All this we ask in Jesus’ Name. Amen.
July 4, 2021
6 Pentecost
July 4, 2021
2 Corinthians 12.2-10; Mark 6. 1-13
+ In our gospel reading for today, we find Jesus coming to his hometown and people taking offense at him.
He seems to shrug that off with a simple, “‘Prophets are not without honour, except in their home town, and among their own kin, and in their own house
And to a large extent, that is the truth.
Prophecy can be a good thing, and prophecy can be a bad thing.
It depends on where you end up on the receiving end of prophecy.
We hear a lot of about prophecy in scripture of course.
And we hear a lot about prophecy in our society.
But we need to be very clear here:
Prophets are not some kind of psychics or fortune tellers.
Yes, they see things and know things we “normal” people don’t see or know.
They are people with vision.
They have knowledge the rest of us don’t.
But, again, prophets aren’t psychics or fortune tellers.
Psychics or fortune tellers tend to be people who believe they have some kind of special power that they were often born with (if we believe in such things)
Prophets, as we see in scripture again and again, aren’t born.
Prophets are picked by God and instilled with God’s Spirit.
God’s Spirit enters them and sets them on their feet.
And when they are instilled with God’s Spirit, they don’t just tell us our fortunes.
They don’t just do some kind of psychic mumbo jumbo to tell us what our futures are going to be or what kind of wealth we’re going to have or who our true love is.
What they tell us isn’t just about us as individuals.
Rather, the prophet tells us things about all of us that we might not want to hear.
They stir us up, they provoke us, they jar us.
Maybe that’s why we find the idea of prophets so uncomfortable.
And that’s what we dislike the most about them.
We don’t like people who make us uncomfortable.
We don’t like people who stir us up, who provoke us, who jar us out of our complacency.
Prophets come into our lives like lightning bolts and when they strike, they explode like electric sparks.
They shatter our complacency to pieces.
They shove us.
They push us hard outside the safe box in which we live (and worship) and they leave us bewildered.
Prophets, as much as they are like us, are also unlike us as well.
The Spirit of God has transformed these normal people into something else.
And this is what we need from our prophets.
After all, we are certain about our ideas of God, right?
We, in our complacency, think we know God—we know what God thinks and wants of us and the world and the Church.
Prophets, touched as they are by the Spirit of God in that unique way, frighten us because what they convey to us about God is sometimes something very different than we thought we knew about God.
The prophet is not afraid to say to us: “You are wrong. You are wrong in what you think about God and about what you think God is saying to you.”
Nothing makes us angrier than someone telling us we’re wrong—especially about our perception of God.
And that is the reason we sometimes refuse to recognize the prophet.
That is why the prophet is not often accepted in their home town.
That is why we resist the prophet, and resist change, and resist looking forward in hope.
We reject prophets because they know how to reach deep down within us, to that one sensitive place inside us and they know how to press just the right button that will cause us to react.
And the worst prophet we can imagine is not the one who comes to us from some other place.
The worst prophet is not the one who comes to us as a stranger.
The worst prophet we can imagine is the one who comes to us from our own neighborhood—from the very midst of us.
The worst prophet is the one whom we’ve known.
Who is one of us.
We knew them before the Spirit of God’s prophecy descended upon them.
And now, they have been transformed with this knowledge of God.
They are different.
These people we know, that we saw in their inexperience, are now speaking as a conduit of God’s Voice.
When someone we know begins to say and do things they say God tells them to do, we find ourselves becoming very defensive very quickly.
Certainly, we can understand why people in Jesus’ hometown had such difficulty in accepting him.
We would too.
We, rational people that we are, would no doubt try to explain away who he was and what he did.
But probably the hardest aspect of Jesus’ message to us is the simple fact that he, in a very real sense, calls us and empowers us to be prophets as well.
As Christians, we are called to be a bit different than others.
We are transformed in some ways by the presence of God’s Spirit in our lives.
In a sense, God empowers us with the Spirit to be conduits of that Spirit to others.
If we felt uncomfortable about others being prophets, we’re even more uncomfortable about being prophets ourselves.
Being a prophet, just like hearing the prophet, means we must shed our complacency.
If our neighbor as the prophet frightens us and irritates us, we ourselves being the prophet is even more frightening and irritating.
The Spirit of prophecy we received from God seems a bit unusual to those people around us.
Loving God?
Loving those who hate us or despise us?
Being peaceful—in spirit and action—in the face of overwhelming violence or anger?
To side with the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized when it is much easier and more personally pleasing to be with the wealthy and powerful?
Or BE the wealthy and powerful!
To welcome all people as equals, who deserve the same rights we have, even if we might not really—deep down—think of them as equals?
To actually see the Kingdom of God breaking through in instances when others only see failure and defeat?
That is what it means to be a prophet.
Being a prophet has nothing to do with our own sense of comfort.
Being a prophet means seeing and sensing and proclaiming that Kingdom of God—and God’s sense of what is right.
For us, as Christians, that is what we are to do—we are to strive to see and proclaim the Kingdom of God.
We are to help bring that Kingdom forth and when it is here, we are to proclaim it in word and in deed.
Because when that Spirit of God comes upon us, we become a community of prophets, and when we do, we become the Kingdom of God present here.
Being a prophet in our days is more than just preaching doom and gloom to people.
It’s more than saying to people: “repent, for the kingdom of God is near!”
Being a prophet in our day means being able to recognize injustice and oppression in our midst and to speak out about them.
And, most importantly, CHANGE those things.
Being a prophet means we’re going to press people’s buttons.
And when we do, let me tell you by first-hand experience, people are going to react.
We need to be prepared to do that, if we are to be prophets in this day and age.
But we can’t be afraid to do so.
We need to continue to speak out.
We need to do the right thing.
We need to heed God’s voice speaking to us, and then follow through.
And we need to keep looking forward.
In hope.
And trusting in our God who leads the way.
We need to continue to be the prophets who have visions of how incredible it will be when that Kingdom of God breaks through into our midst and transforms us.
We need to keep striving to welcome all people, to strive for the equality and equal rights of all people in this church.
So, let us proclaim the Kingdom of God in our midst with the fervor of prophets.
Let us proclaim that Kingdom without fear—without the fear of rejection from those who know us.
Let us look forward and strive forward and move forward in hope.
I don’t know if we can be truly content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities, as we heard from St. Paul’s in his second letter to the Corinthians today.
But having endured them, we know that none of these things ultimately defeat us.
And that is the secret of our resilience in the face of anything life may throw at us.
“For the sake of Christ,” let us bear these things.
With dignity.
With honor.
Let us be strong and shoulder what needs to be shouldered.
Because, we know.
In that strange paradoxical way we know that, in the way of Christ, whenever it seems that we are weak, it is then that we are truly strong.
June 27, 2021
5 Pentecost
June 27, 2021
Mark 5.21-43
+ If you’re anything like me—and I know some of you are on this one—you know how awful being impatient can be.
We want certain things—and we want them NOW.
Not tomorrow.
Not in some vague future.
NOW!
And it no doubt drives those of around us crazy.
But I am impatient.
I want to be doing certain things.
And I have never liked waiting.
Waiting is one of the worst things I can imagine.
Many years ago, I studied a famous play by Jean-Paul Sartre called No Exit.
I’m not going to go into the whole plot of the play, but the essence is this.
Three damned souls arrive in hell, expecting torture and fire and unending pain.
Instead, they’re brought into a plain room.
And they wait.
And wait.
And wait.
There’s more to the play than this, but essentially, it’s about hell being simply a waiting room in which one waits and waits and waits.
To me, that play has always been terrifying.
I understand it.
I get it.
Yes!
That’s what hell would be like (if I believed in hell)
Impatient as I am, ultimately I know that waiting and being patient is a good thing sometimes.
I’ll give you an example.
If you have lost anyone, due to death especially, but also due to divorce or any other type of separation, you are going to mourn.
Mourning is a terrible thing.
It is something none of us want to go through.
It is so deeply and unrelently painful.
And the pain doesn’t seem to go away.
For any of us who goes through it, we have all come to that moment when we simply want to be done with mourning.
We want to be past it.
We want to escape this thing that we simply cannot escape.
We feel trapped by it—walled in on all sides by it.
So, we want to be done with it all and move on.
We realize that death and mourning and grief are all part of our own experience of hell here on earth.
Because, right there, right then, in the midst of it all—it’s truly the most terrible thing.
In fact, it’s very much like Sartre’s hell.
We want to be done with mourning and sadness and all that goes along with losing someone we love.
The fact is, as much as we want that—it doesn’t work this way.
We can’t rush these things.
Things happen in their due course.
Not OUR course.
Not MY course!
But the proper course.
God works in God’s own time.
Now I know that sounds like a platitude.
And I know that those sound like empty words when we are in midst of our own personal hell.
But it really does work that way.
And this is probably the most difficult thing for us.
Because we don’t see things the way God sees things.
Rabbi Harold Kushner, who wrote that classic, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, used the analogy of a carpet.
There are two sides of a carpet.
There is the top side of the carpet, where everything is beautiful and orderly.
The top side of carpet is that way the carpet should be seen.
But there’s also the underside of the carpet.
On the underside of the carpet, we see the stray strands of yarn, the ugly dried glue, a distorted view of what the carpet actually is.
While we are here, we are living on the underside of the carpet—the carpet being our life and the world.
It often feels like things don’t make sense.
It’s because we’re seeing it from this undersided view.
But God sees things from the upperside of the carpet.
And one day, we too will see our lives from that perspective as well.
And somehow, in some way, it will all make sense.
I truly believe that!
But the key is: we need to be patient.
Impatience is present in our Gospel reading for today, but in a more subtle way.
Our reading from the Gospel today also teaches us an important reflection on our own impatience and waiting, and also about how the hell of death is ultimately defeated.
We have two things going on.
We have Jairus, the leader of the synagogue, who has lost his daughter, even though he doesn’t know it yet.
The hell of death has drawn close to Jairus.
While Jairus is pleading with Jesus to heal his daughter, we encounter this unnamed woman who has been suffering with a hemorrhage for twelve years—twelve years!—is desperate.
This so-called unnamed woman actually, according to tradition, has a name.
Veronica.
And she is, it is believed, to be the same woman we encounter whenever we do the Stations of the Cross.
At Station #6, she is the one who wipes the face of Jesus as he carries his cross toward Golgotha.
So, Veronica is impatient.
She wants healing.
I can tell you in all honesty that as I read and reflected and lived with this Gospel reading this past week, I could relate.
I can relate to Jairus, who is being touched with the darkness of death in his life.
And when I read of the woman with a hemorrhage grasping at the hem of Jesus’ garment, I could certainly empathize with her impatience and her grasping.
Many of us have known the anguish of Jairus.
We have known the anguish and pain of watching someone we love die.
And many of us know the pain and impatience of Veronica.
We often find ourselves bleeding deeply inside—and I don’t mean just physically but emotionally and psychologically too—with no possible hope for relief.
For us, as we relate, that “bleeding” might not be an actual bleeding, but a bleeding of our spirit, of our hopes and dreams, of a deep emotional or spiritual wound that just won’t heal, or just our grief and sadness, which, let me tell you, can also “bleed” away at us.
And when we’ve been desperate, when we find ourselves so impatient, so in need of a change, we find ourselves clutching at anything—at any little thing.
We clutch even for a fringe of the prayer shawl of the One whom God sends to us in those dark moments.
When we do, we find, strangely, God’s healing.
And in this story of Jarius’ daughter, I too felt that moment in which I felt separated from the loved ones in my life—by death, yes, of course.
But also when I felt that a distance was caused by estrangement or anger.
And when I have begged for healing for them and for myself, it has often come.
I have shared with you before the pain of the estranged relationship I had with my sister, how for years we had little or nothing to do with each other, due to what we later realized were outside, nefarious forces in the guise of “family.”
But someone, in God’s own time, after years of praying about that relationship, it was healed.
It was truly a miracle in my life.
And I am very grateful for it.
But it came in God’s own time.
Not in mine.
It is a matter of simply sometimes waiting.
For Jairus, he didn’t have to wait long.
For the woman, it took twelve years.
But in both cases, it came.
Still, I admit, I continue to be impatient.
I probably will always be inpatient.
But even now, even when the pain of mourning comes back, when I truly mourn still, after many years for loved ones I’ve lost, in the midst of it all, I can hear those words that truly do comfort me:
“Why do you make a commotion and weep? Your loved one is not dead but only sleeping.”
Resurrection comes in many forms in our lives and if we wait them out these moments will happen.
And not all impatience is bad.
It is all right to be impatient—righteously impatient—for justice, for the right thing to be done.
It is all right to be impatient for injustice and lying and deceit to be brought to light and be revealed.
And dealt with.
It is all right to be impatient for the right thing to be done in this world.
But we cannot let our impatience get in the way of seeing that miracles continue to happen in our lives and in the lives of those around us.
I know, because I have seen it again and again and, not only in my own life, but in the lives of others.
We know that in God, we find our greatest consolation.
Our God of justice and compassion and love will provide and will win out ultimately over the forces of darkness that seem, at times, to prevail in our lives.
Knowing that, reminding ourselves of all that, we are able to be strengthened and sustained and rejuvenated.
We are able to face whatever life may throw at us with hope and defiance and, sometimes, even joy.
We are not in Sartre’s hell.
Trust me.
We’re not.
At some point, the doors of what seems like that eternal waiting room will be opened.
And we will be called forward.
And all will be well.
That is what scripture and our faith in God tell us again and again.
That is how God works in this world and in our lives.
So, let us cling to this hope and find true strength in it.
True strength to get us through those impatient moments in our lives when we want darkness and death and injustice and pain behind us.
Let us be truly patient for our God.
If we do, those words of Jesus to the woman today will be words directed to us as well:
“your faith has made you well;
go in peace;
be healed.”
Let us pray.
Holy God, the God of life, we are impatient. We are impatient for so much in this life. We are impatient for an end to suffering and injustice and pain. We are impatient for all things to be restored to fullness and goodness. But mostly we are impatient for your presence in our midst, for your blessings and your joy. Help us to be patient, and in our patience, help us to be aware of the needs of those around us who also, in their impatience, are need of love and care. In Jesus’s Name, we pray.
June 21, 2021
Asexuality and Anglo-Catholicism
For most of my career as a Priest in the Episcopal Church, and more specifically as a solidly Anglo-CatholicEpiscopalian, I considered myself a very proud part of a long tradition in Anglo-Catholicism: the celibate priest.
Celibate Anglo-Catholic priests have a long and vital place in the Church. Many of my personal heroes in the Church were these single priests—both female and male—who lived life of selfless devotion to God and the Church, who prayed the Offices daily, who celebrated Mass with deep devotion, who cared passionately for those in their care, and who did so as single priests in the Anglican or Episcopal churches. I looked longingly to these priests as examples. But I also took comfort in the fact that I was not alone in my singleness. Others had also walked this same path I walked. And I felt somewhat justified in my celibacy by these brave priests who gave up everything for Jesus.
Now, before I go on I should be somewhat transparent about who I am as a Christian: despite the fact that I’m Anglo-Catholic, I am also a life-long, committed progressive. I’ll even be more blunt: I am a good, old-fashioned liberal. I have never shied away from that term. In fact, I have embraced it and held it dear to who I am. My being a liberal Christian means that I believe in the full-inclusion of all people in the Church, no matter who they are, regardless of sex or sexuality or race or whatever.
Having said that, I did go to a conservative Anglo-Catholic seminary, I served in a diocese that was, until recently, very conservative in regard to the issue of homosexuality and I have served alongside many clergy and have served many Christians who hold views very different from my own. I have certainly never been quiet about my views and opinions, even in those places where the conservative view definitely held precedence.
But to complicate the matter even more, I should be clear that at as “liberal” and progressive as I might be socially or politically, I strive to be fairly orthodox in my theology and spirituality, which is one of the main reasons I very proudly call myself an Anglo-Catholic. I truly do believe in the core Catholic beliefs. I believe in the transcendence and imminence of God, the Incarnation of Jesus as God’s Son and his Resurrection from the dead, the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist. I have a deep devotion to the saints, and most especially the Blessed Virgin Mary. At my core, I am solidly Catholic in my beliefs, and it is that faith that sustains me, that keeps me going, that hold me up in the difficulties of life. And it most certainly sustains me when fears about death come creeping into my head.
Still, my beliefs aside, among my liberal/progressive friends, I was always a kind of anomaly. Yes, I was liberal. Yes, I fully and vociferously supported the full-inclusion of all people in the Church. Yes, I married same-sex couples and spoke out and fought hard so that all people could participate in ALL the sacraments, I was still an odd duck. I was the celibate Anglo-Catholic. And I was proudly and gladly so. I was an oddity even among my progressive Anglo-Catholic clergy-friends. As LGBTQA+ people were fully welcomed into the Episcopal Church, many of my previously celibate clergy friends found partners and married. I remained single and celibate.
Only as time went by—only within the last few years in fact—did I realize that calling myself “celibate” might not be the right way to describe my single state. Celibacy, I realized, was a choice one made in one’s life, a committed decision to remain single and not engage in sex. For many of my celibate fellow-clergy, celibacy was often a heavy burden for them, something under which they struggled.
However, for me, the struggle was simply not there. “Celibacy,” as I previously understood it, certainly held no burden. It was natural. It was comfortable. It felt so very right. I didn’t have the temptations for companionship and sexual intimacy some of my celibate clergy friends had. Not even remotely.
And so, when asked by progressive friends why I still remained celibate when I could certainly date and get married, especially now that all the restrictions for doing so were gone for all people in the Episcopal Church, I found myself having to look closer at my life as a celibate. And is then, after perusing the internet, after reading too many online articles and forums and commentaries, and reading books that were sometimes more clinical than I cared for, I came to hard realization: I am not celibate after all; I am asexual.
Asexual.
According to the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network (or AVEN), asexuality is defined as such:
“An asexual person does not experience sexual attraction – they are not drawn to people sexually and do not desire to act upon attraction to others in a sexual way. Unlike celibacy, which is a choice to abstain from sexual activity, asexuality is an intrinsic part of who we are, just like other sexual orientations. Asexuality does not make our lives any worse or better; we just face a different set of needs and challenges than most sexual people do.”
(https://www.asexuality.org/?q=overview.html)
As simple as that definition might sound, it took a while for to grasp what exactly asexuality was. But once I did, I realized that this was definitely my orientation. This was who I was, and what I was. And it felt good. It felt very much like putting on a comfortable sweater that fits just right.
As I look around me, both in my personal life and in my place in the church, I do not know or see many Ace people, and certainly almost no asexual Episcopal priests.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if some of those celibate Anglo-Catholic priests I have so admired in my life were maybe actual asexual. Ultimately, I don’t suppose it matters too much. But personally it would’ve been helpful for me over the years to know of other asexual priests who experienced the same situations as I have. It always feels good knowing that someone has walked a path before me, though sometimes being the first to make the path is also an amazing feeling as well.
So, this is who I am. I am a weird combo: a vegan Liberal, Anglo-Catholic, Episcopal priest and poet, who is Asexual. More than anything, I am a loved child of my God. I am follower of Jesus, whom I follow as passionately as I am able. I am And I grateful to God for making me into this strange, weird mixture, for bringing me to this point in my journey, for helping me to see me as I really am, and for allowing me to serve God and God’s people just as I am.
I sometimes don’t know how to end commentaries or sermons, so I usually close with a prayer. I found this wonderful prayer on Tumblr, and I think it gives voice to what many of us Ace people feel in our relationship with God:
Prayer for Asexuals and Aromantics
God of Love in Diverse Forms,
You formed me differently from many others, and sometimes it is hard for me to accept that. When I try to be open about who I am, how I feel, and how I love, some people scoff in my face or even rebuke me for it. Help me pay them no mind, knowing that they can’t see into the human heart the way you can.
I want to grow into the person you made me to be, but sometimes I can’t help but feel lonely, isolated, or broken. Send me your Spirit in those times, Lord. Lend me your strength and courage, your wisdom and patience. Remind me of the words your Son Jesus spoke regarding people who do not marry, and which I may apply to my own asexuality/aromanticism:
“Some are born that way; some have been made that way by others; still others have made themselves that way for the sake of the kingdom from heaven. Let anyone accept this who can.” (Matthew 19:12)
My brother and savior Jesus Christ, you were like me while you lived on earth, focusing on other kinds of love than romance, on relationships based on things other than sex. When this world tries to convince me that sex and romance are necessary to being happy, help me see your Truth. If romantic love and/or sex are not for me, help me see how I can connect with people in countless other ways, cultivating friendships into deep, compassionate bonds that imitate your own gentle love.
Oh Holy Spirit, giver of diverse gifts, guide me into understanding how my orientation can be used to strengthen my relationship with you and with your creation. You have produced so many marvelous kinds of love, so many beautiful ways of connecting to others. No one way of experiencing life is universal, and yet, miraculously, we are all one in the Body of Christ. Let me celebrate myself as you made me, and let all Christians celebrate the wondrous diversity of your Church. All glory be to you.
Amen
Being an Asexual, Anglo-Catholic Priest
For most of my career as a Priest in the Episcopal Church, and more specifically as a solidly Anglo-CatholicEpiscopalian, I considered myself a very proud part of a long tradition in Anglo-Catholicism: the celibate priest.
Celibate Anglo-Catholic priests have a long and vital place in the Church. Many of my personal heroes in the Church were these single priests—both female and male—who lived life of selfless devotion to God and the Church, who prayed the Offices daily, who celebrated Mass with deep devotion, who cared passionately for those in their care, and who did so as single priests in the Anglican or Episcopal churches. I looked longingly to these priests as examples. But I also took comfort in the fact that I was not alone in my singleness. Others had also walked this same path I walked. And I felt somewhat justified in my celibacy by these brave priests who gave up everything for Jesus.
Now, before I go on I should be somewhat transparent about who I am as a Christian: despite the fact that I’m Anglo-Catholic, I am also a life-long, committed progressive. I’ll even be more blunt: I am a good, old-fashioned liberal. I have never shied away from that term. In fact, I have embraced it and held it dear to who I am. My being a liberal Christian means that I believe in the full-inclusion of all people in the Church, no matter who they are, regardless of sex or sexuality or race or whatever.
Having said that, I did go to a conservative Anglo-Catholic seminary, I served in a diocese that was, until recently, very conservative in regard to the issue of homosexuality and I have served alongside many clergy and have served many Christians who hold views very different from my own. I have certainly never been quiet about my views and opinions, even in those places where the conservative view definitely held precedence.
But to complicate the matter even more, I should be clear that at as “liberal” and progressive as I might be socially or politically, I strive to be fairly orthodox in my theology and spirituality, which is one of the main reasons I very proudly call myself an Anglo-Catholic. I truly do believe in the core Catholic beliefs. I believe in the transcendence and imminence of God, the Incarnation of Jesus as God’s Son and his Resurrection from the dead, the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist. I have a deep devotion to the saints, and most especially the Blessed Virgin Mary. At my core, I am solidly Catholic in my beliefs, and it is that faith that sustains me, that keeps me going, that hold me up in the difficulties of life. And it most certainly sustains me when fears about death come creeping into my head.
Still, my beliefs aside, among my liberal/progressive friends, I was always a kind of anomaly. Yes, I was liberal. Yes, I fully and vociferously supported the full-inclusion of all people in the Church. Yes, I married same-sex couples and spoke out and fought hard so that all people could participate in ALL the sacraments, I was still an odd duck. I was the celibate Anglo-Catholic. And I was proudly and gladly so. I was an oddity even among my progressive Anglo-Catholic clergy-friends. As LGBTQA+ people were fully welcomed into the Episcopal Church, many of my previously celibate clergy friends found partners and married. I remained single and celibate.
Only as time went by—only within the last few years in fact—did I realize that calling myself “celibate” might not be the right way to describe my single state. Celibacy, I realized, was a choice one made in one’s life, a committed decision to remain single and not engage in sex. For many of my celibate fellow-clergy, celibacy was often a heavy burden for them, something under which they struggled.
However, for me, the struggle was simply not there. “Celibacy,” as I previously understood it, certainly held no burden. It was natural. It was comfortable. It felt so very right. I didn’t have the temptations for companionship and sexual intimacy some of my celibate clergy friends had. Not even remotely.
And so, when asked by progressive friends why I still remained celibate when I could certainly date and get married, especially now that all the restrictions for doing so were gone for all people in the Episcopal Church, I found myself having to look closer at my life as a celibate. And is then, after perusing the internet, after reading too many online articles and forums and commentaries, and reading books that were sometimes more clinical than I cared for, I came to hard realization: I am not celibate after all; I am asexual.
Asexual.
According to the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network (or AVEN), asexuality is defined as such:
“An asexual person does not experience sexual attraction – they are not drawn to people sexually and do not desire to act upon attraction to others in a sexual way. Unlike celibacy, which is a choice to abstain from sexual activity, asexuality is an intrinsic part of who we are, just like other sexual orientations. Asexuality does not make our lives any worse or better; we just face a different set of needs and challenges than most sexual people do.”
(https://www.asexuality.org/?q=overview.html)
As simple as that definition might sound, it took a while for to grasp what exactly asexuality was. But once I did, I realized that this was definitely my orientation. This was who I was, and what I was. And it felt good. It felt very much like putting on a comfortable sweater that fits just right.
As I look around me, both in my personal life and in my place in the church, I do not know or see many Ace people, and certainly almost no asexual Episcopal priests.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if some of those celibate Anglo-Catholic priests I have so admired in my life were maybe actual asexual. Ultimately, I don’t suppose it matters too much. But personally it would’ve been helpful for me over the years to know of other asexual priests who experienced the same situations as I have. It always feels good knowing that someone has walked a path before me, though sometimes being the first to make the path is also an amazing feeling as well.
So, this is who I am. I am a weird combo: a vegan Liberal, Anglo-Catholic, Episcopal priest and poet, who is Asexual. More than anything, I am a loved child of my God. I am follower of Jesus, whom I follow as passionately as I am able. I am And I grateful to God for making me into this strange, weird mixture, for bringing me to this point in my journey, for helping me to see me as I really am, and for allowing me to serve God and God’s people just as I am.
I sometimes don’t know how to end commentaries or sermons, so I usually close with a prayer. I found this wonderful prayer on Tumblr, and I think it gives voice to what many of us Ace people feel in our relationship with God:
Prayer for Asexuals and Aromantics
God of Love in Diverse Forms,
You formed me differently from many others, and sometimes it is hard for me to accept that. When I try to be open about who I am, how I feel, and how I love, some people scoff in my face or even rebuke me for it. Help me pay them no mind, knowing that they can’t see into the human heart the way you can.
I want to grow into the person you made me to be, but sometimes I can’t help but feel lonely, isolated, or broken. Send me your Spirit in those times, Lord. Lend me your strength and courage, your wisdom and patience. Remind me of the words your Son Jesus spoke regarding people who do not marry, and which I may apply to my own asexuality/aromanticism:
“Some are born that way; some have been made that way by others; still others have made themselves that way for the sake of the kingdom from heaven. Let anyone accept this who can.” (Matthew 19:12)
My brother and savior Jesus Christ, you were like me while you lived on earth, focusing on other kinds of love than romance, on relationships based on things other than sex. When this world tries to convince me that sex and romance are necessary to being happy, help me see your Truth. If romantic love and/or sex are not for me, help me see how I can connect with people in countless other ways, cultivating friendships into deep, compassionate bonds that imitate your own gentle love.
Oh Holy Spirit, giver of diverse gifts, guide me into understanding how my orientation can be used to strengthen my relationship with you and with your creation. You have produced so many marvelous kinds of love, so many beautiful ways of connecting to others. No one way of experiencing life is universal, and yet, miraculously, we are all one in the Body of Christ. Let me celebrate myself as you made me, and let all Christians celebrate the wondrous diversity of your Church. All glory be to you.
Amen
June 20, 2021
4 Pentecost
June 20, 2021
Job 38.1-11; Mark 4.35-41
+ Well, today, June 20th, is a big anniversary for anyone who has lived in this area for any period of time.
It was on this day, 64 years ago on June 20, 1957, that a tornado struck Fargo and killed 12 people.
As many of you know, I wrote a book about that event, which published back in 2010.
The book is entitled Fargo, 1957.
It was just reprinted on Friday.
And later today I was supposed to read at Broadway Plaza for an anniversary event, but it was postponed due to the rain.
I wrote that book because my mother’s cousin and her husband died as a result of that tornado.
Don Titgen, my mother’s cousin’s husband, died in the actual tornado on that day in 1957
And Betty Titgen, my mom’s cousin, died in January 1960 after being in a coma from the time of the tornado until her death.
I ended up doing research on the lives of the twelve recognized victims of the tornado, as well as the life of Dick Shaw, who was the young man in the famous photo carrying the body of a six-year-old victim of the tornado, who ended up dying twelve years later tragically.
I also interviewed Mercedes Erickson.
She was the mother of the six children who died that day.
That day was also Mercedes’ 36 birthday.
Today would’ve been her 100th birthday.
The kids didn’t leave the house as the tornado was coming because they had just made a birthday cake for her and wanted to surprise her as she came home from work that day.
For Mercedes, she lived with a pain few of us know, for the rest of her life.
That book affected me for a long time.
I struggled for quite awhile both as I was writing that book and afterward to make sense of this event.
As a Christian, as a priest, I had to ask myself: why?
Why did this happen?
Why did this happen to these people?
These people were people just like you and me.
They woke up that morning—to a hot, June Thursday morning in Fargo, North Dakota—just like any other day.
And then, a storm came and uprooted their entire lives in a matter of moments.
As I pondered our reading from the Gospel of Mark, I found myself re-examining the events of June, 20, 1957 and thought about the storms in my own life in the light of that scripture.
We all have them.
We all have our own storms in this life.
We all have our own chaos.
And they are disruptive.
And they can be destructive.
Certainly our own Deacon John, whose first ordination anniversary we are celebrating today, can tell us about storms.
I remember very clearly the first time he visited St. Stephen’s 7 or 8 years ago.
H
e had been battered by some storms in his life—storms created by the Church and by life and in general.And he came here looking for a safe harbor from those storms.
And because he did, we are grateful today.
We all benefitted from being a safe haven from the storms of this life for John, and hopefully for many others.
So, the question to ask of ourselves this morning is: What is God saying to us when the storms invade our lives?
What do we do in the windstorms of our lives, when we feel battered and beaten and bashed?
Well, as I have been pondering on that Gospel reading and on that book I wrote all that times ago, one glaring, honest reality of my life came forth:
Although we can’t control the storms of our lives, we can control how we react to them.
We can’t control ill fortunes, or sickness, or old age or accident.
We can’t control tornados, and the loss of loved ones, or pandemics or the weather.
But we can control our reaction to those things.
So, when we hear scriptures like this today, as we experience our own storms in our lives, what do we do?
How do we respond?
Do we let the winds blow, let the chaos rage?
Or do we, in those moments, calm ourselves and listen?
Do we strain against the wind of the storm and listen to hear the Voice of God?
The fact is, if you do so, trust me: we will hear God’s voice.
If we turn our spiritual ears toward God, we will hear God, even in those storms in our lives.
When bad things happen in our lives, we ask, Why do bad things happen to those of us who are faithful to God?
We have all asked this question in life.
Why do bad things happen to good people, to people who are faithful and loving and good?
Why do bad things happen to us, who strive in our own ways to be good and loving and faithful?
Why do our lives get turned upside down sometimes?
We want answers when we shout our angry questions of unfairness into the storm, our fist raised.
But, sometimes the voice from the wind—as we shake with fear or anger (or both) and hold on for dear life during those frightening storms—asks us a question in return:
“Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”
That is the voice of Jesus, answering us in the storm.
Why fear the whirlwinds and all that they unleash upon us?
Have we no faith?
Again and again through the scriptures God commands us, in various voices, “do not be afraid.”
“Do not be afraid.”
And still we fear.
And our fear causes anger.
And our fear causes more storms, more chaos.
But the message is that although the storms of our lives will rage around us, when we stop fearing, those storms are quieted.
Because sometimes the voice that comes out of the storms of our lives is not asking a question of us.
Sometimes the voice that comes out of the storms of our lives commands,
“Peace! Be Still!”
“Peace!”
“Be still!”
In that calm stillness, we feel God’s Presence most fully and completely.
As disoriented as we might be from being buffeted by the storm, that stillness can almost be as disorienting as the storms themselves.
Still, in it, we find Jesus, calm and collected, awaiting us to have faith, to shed our fears and to allow the all-powerful and all-loving God of Jesus to still the storms of our lives.
So, in those moments when we stir up the forces of our anger, when the whirlwinds rage, when the storms come up, when the skies turn dark and ominous, when fear begins lurking at our doors and anger jostles us around, let us strain toward that Voice that asks us,
“Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”
Do not fear, God is saying to us again and again.
Do not fear what life or death or storms can throw at us.
Have faith.
God is more powerful than death or storms.
Our God is a God of life and peace.
God loves us.
God loves each us fully and completely.
God will not leave alone even in the storms of our lives.
And the storms will not prevail.
In the end, the storms don’t win.
The storms are only temporary.
But God’s love, the life we find with God, that is unending.
In midst of even the worst whirlwinds of our lives, there is a stillness dwelling in its core.
“In the time of my favor I heard you,” God says to us in our reading from Paul this morning. “And in the day of trouble I helped you.”
God always helps us in our trouble.
And knowing that we realize that above every storm, above every tornado, there is a Light that is about to shine through.
And is then than we can live!
And flourish!
See! we hear Paul saying today in his letter,
See, now is the acceptable time;
see, now is the day of [our] salvation!
June 13, 2021
3 Pentecost
June 13, 2021
Ezekiel 17.22-24; 2 Corinthians 5.6-17; Mark 4.26-34
+ One of the things we priests encounter on a regular basis are people who tell us about why they don’t attend church anymore.
In fact, that’s very common.
Invariably, whenever I do a wedding, as I did last night, or a funeral and sit with people afterward at the receptions, people get to feeling a bit guilty and start telling me why they don’t attend Church.
Or I’ve been getting a lot of people telling me in these post-pandemic months why their haven’t attended.
Which is all good.
I like hearing those stories.
For the most part.
They’re important for all of us to hear on occasion.
And one of the most common reasons, I’ve found, is that, oftentimes, it is not issues of their belief in God, or in anything spiritual that causes them to stop attending.
In fact, I very rarely ever hear someone say they stopped attending church because of God.
The number one reason?
The Church itself.
Capital C.
The oppressiveness of the Church.
The actions of the Church.
The close-mindedness and the restrictions of the Church and, more especially, those agents of the Church who feel that their duty is is to uphold he institutions of the Church over the care of those who attend the Church.
(Those agents are the same ones who, it seems, forgets that WE are the church).
And even then, it’s not big things that do.
It’s not giant things that drive people away from Church.
It’s sometimes small things.
A comment made at coffee hour.
A seemingly innocent critique.
A tsk of the tongue.
Or a tone in the voice.
A shake of a finger from a priest or a bishop from a pulpit.
I hope I haven’t been guilty of that.
I don’t have to tell anyone here this morning: small things do matter when it comes to the Church, to our faith in God.
Jesus definitely understood this.
In our Gospel reading is Jesus comparing the Kingdom of God to the smallest thing they could’ve understood.
A mustard seed.
A small, simple mustard seed.
Something they no doubt knew.
And something they no doubt gave little thought to. But it was with this simple image—this simple symbol—that Jesus makes clear to those listening that little things do matter.
And we, as followers of Jesus, need to take heed of that.
Little things DO matter.
Because little things can unleash BIG things.
Even the smallest action on our part can bring forth the kingdom of God in our lives and in the lives of those we serve.
But those small actions—those little seeds that we sow in our lives—can also bring about not only God’s kingdom but the exact opposite.
Our smallest bad actions, can, destroy.
Our actions can destroy the kingdom in our midst and drive us further away from God.
Any of us who do ministry on a regular basis know this keenly.
You will hear me say this again and again to anyone who wants to do ministry: be careful about those small actions.
You’ve heard me say: when it comes to dealing with people in the church, use VELVET GLOVES.
Be sensitive to others.
Those small words or actions.
Those little criticisms of people who are volunteering.
Those little snips and moments of impatience.
That impatient tone in a voice.
Those moments of frustration at someone who doesn’t quite “get it” or who simply can’t do it.
“Use velvet gloves all the time,” I say, and I mean it.
None of us can afford to lose anyone from the church, no matter how big the church might be.
Even one lost person is a huge loss to all of us.
I cannot tell you how many times I hear stories about clergy or lay leaders who said or did one thing wrong and it literally destroyed a person’s faith.
I’m sure almost everyone here this morning has either experienced a situation like this first hand with a priest or pastor or even a lay person in a leadership position in the church.
Or if not you, you have known someone close who has.
A good friend of mine who doesn’t attend church anymore shared this story with me once.
This person was very active in her parish (this wasn't St. Stephen's mind you), especially when her kids were young.
She was active on the altar guild, in Sunday School, helped organize the annual parish rummage sale, but especially liked to help out in the kitchen.
She and another parishioner decided one day to volunteer to thoroughly clean the church kitchen, from top to bottom.
After a whole day of hard work, they stood back t5o survey the work they did and admired the “spic and span” kitchen.
It was at that moment that one of the matriarchs of the parish happened to enter the kitchen.
She proceeded to carefully examine the newly cleaned kitchen.
Finally, she humphed and, as she exited the kitchen, she loudly proclaimed, “Well, your ‘spic and span’ kitchen isn’t very “spic and span!’”
That was all it took.
Within a year of that comment neither of those women, both of whom were invaluable workers in that parish, were attending church anymore.
And not just them.
But their children too.
Luckily, I still have contact with them both.
I have performed weddings and baptisms for those now-grown kids.
But those families are not attending church anywhere this morning.
And probably never will.
Now, sometimes remarks by priests or lay people are innocent comments.
There may have been no bad intention involved.
But one wrong comment—one wrong action—a cold shoulder or an exhausted roll of the eyes or a scolding or the tone of a voice—the fact that a priest did not visit us when were in the hospital or said something that we took the wrong way—is all it takes when a person is in need to turn that person once and for all away from the church and, possibly, from God.
That mustard seed all of a sudden takes on a whole other meaning in a case like this.
What grows from a small seed like this is a flowering tree of hurt and despair and anger and bitterness.
So, it is true.
Those seeds we sow do make a huge difference in the world.
Please, please, please, strive hard in your lives not to be the matriarch in that story.
Strive hard not be that kind of Church to people.
Strive hard to guard your actions and comments, to guard your tone and the way your respond to others.
Because, I’ll be honest: I have done it as well.
I have made some stupid comment in a joking manner that was taken out of context.
You know me.
I have a big mouth and a biting wit.
And sometimes things I have said have been taken out of context and used against me.
I remember one time, when I was a new priest, when I made a joking comment to a dear parishioner and she began to cry.
I apologized and felt truly terrible for even doing it.
Luckily, she stayed.
And we can joke about it to this day.
On another occasion, I remember an instance where one of our former Senior Warden and I were having an exchange by text.
I can’t remember the exact situation, but she took something I said as a severe criticism of her and was deeply hurt.
Again, luckily, I caught it quickly, and called her immediately and we realized that conveying things like tone and emotions through text messaging is often difficult.
And she is still here with us as well.
And we also can joke about it.
But, more often than not, people don’t stay.
And I regret those instances. Deeply.
The loss of any one of us is a HUGE loss.
The loss of any one of you is a HUGE loss.
And it would hurt me deeply to know that I have wronged any of you in any way.
See, those mustard seeds in our lives are important.
We get to make the choice.
We can sow seeds of goodness and graciousness—seeds of the Gospel.
We can sow the seeds of God’s kingdom.
Or we can sow the seeds of discontent.
We can, through our actions, sow the weeds and thistles that will kill off the harvest.
These past several years—and especially over this last pandemic year—you have heard me preach ad nauseum about change in the church.
Well, I am clear when I say that the most substantial changes we can make in the church are not always the BIG ones.
Oftentimes, the most radical changes we can make are in the little things we do—the things we think are not important.
We forget about how important the small things in life are—and more importantly we forget how important the small things in life are to God.
God does take notice of the small things.
We have often heard the term “the devil is in the details.”
But I can’t help but believe that it is truly God who is in the details.
God works just as mightily through the small things of life as through the large.
This is what Jesus is telling us this morning in this parable.
So, let us take notice of those small things.
It is there we will find our faith—our God.
It from that small place—those tentative attempts at growth—that God’s kingdom flourishes in our lives.
So, let us be mindful of those smallest seeds we sow in our lives as followers of Jesus.
Let us remind ourselves that sometimes what they produce can either be a wonderful and glorious tree or a painful, hurtful weed.
Let us sow God’s love from the smallest ounce of faith.
Let us truly further the kingdom of God’s love in whatever seemingly small ways we can.
Let us pray.
Loving God, help to truly see how important the small things are in our lives and in the lives of those who share this lie with us. Help to sow seeds of love and hope and goodness in this world, and by doing so, may those seeds bring forth your Kingdom of total and inclusive love in this world. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.
June 6, 2021
2 Pentecost/Corpus Christi Sunday
June 6, 2021 Mark 3.20-35
+ On June 18, I will commemorate the first anniversary of my brother, Jason’s death.
As many of you who know me well, know that I have been quite honest about the bizarre, not always pleasant relationship I had with my siblings. Actually half-siblings.
And of my siblings, my relationship with Jason was…complex to say the least.
We were the closest in age.
He was 10 years older than me.
So, as you can imagine, we had a complicated, often unpleasant, relationship with each other.
Still, the death of a sibling, even one you may not be close with, is a hard to thing to
Jason Gould with his half-brother, the future Fr. Jamie, 1970endure.
And Jason’s death, I will be honest, jarred me.
It was a hard one.
Now, something good came out of it.
My sister Michelle and I ended up reconciling after many years.
And I am very grateful for my relationship with my sister.
And, as I said, I will be remembering the first anniversary of my brother Jason’s death with deep sadness.
Sadness that we were not able to have a better relationship.
Sadness over the years were lost.
Sadness over the fact that there simply are situations in which reconciliation is not possible.
So, when I hear in today’s Gospel, Jesus saying,
“Whoever does the will of God is my brother and my sister and my mother.”
I really understand it.
It is a statement that resonates with me.
And I am able to fully understand it.
Now for Mary, his mother, and to his brothers and sisters, it was no doubt a jarring statement.
But, I’ve always loved that scripture for a probably not so nice of a reason.
Many of us know full-well that family is not always those who share our genetics with us.
Family is often those we chose as family.
The Church reminds us of this again and again.
Those of us who follow Jesus, who are the sisters and brothers of Jesus, we are also sisters and brothers to each other, are, hence, family.
It is true of our church and it is true of our own community here at St. Stephen’s.
What does it mean to do the will of God?
Do I honestly need to even ask this this morning?
We know what doing the will of God is.
It’s peached and lived out in this church every single day.
Doing the will of God is loving—radically and fully and completely.
Doing the will of God is accepting all people radically and completely.
Doing the will of God is being radically and fully inclusive.
Doing the will of God is doing things that others say shouldn’t (or can’t) be done.
Essentially, it is being a family to those who need families.
That is what the Church does best.
Certainly, when we look around us here at St. Stephen’s, we do understand what a family is, and what Jesus is talking about in our Gospel reading for today.
Yes, we are an eclectic, eccentric bunch of people.
That may truly be THE understatement of understatements.
But, when we look around, we also realize we’re very much a family.
Now, by that I don’t mean we’re all happy and nice with each other.
When we get this kind of variety together in one place, there are going to be differences.
There are going to be people (or priests, or deacons) who drive us crazy.
But, in the end, we always come together and do what we are called to do as followers of Jesus.
Of course, one of the things we endure in our lives is Christians are other Christians-Christians who delight in embracing a false Christianity==a Christianity that is at direct odds with all that the Jewish, Middle Easter Jesus taught and professed.
Jesus, I hate to break the news to you, was not white, was not American and would have major issues with almost everything people who claim he was hold dear.
We have to deal with Evangelical and Roman Catholic Christians who tell us we’re not “real” Christians because of the stances we make, because of the people we choose to include in our church.
Because we don’t exclude the people those denominations think Christians should exclude.
On this Corpus Christi Sunday, we remind ourselves that we don’t deny people the Body and blood of Jesus here just because they think differently, or believe differently than us.
After all, we are not the special “keepers” of the Body and Blood of Jesus.
And the Church is not some exclusive country club made up of only “good” people, who all follow the rules perfectly.
The Church is a hospital for all of us who fail, and sometimes fail miserably.
And the altar is a table to which ALL are invited, not just those who have followed all the rules and believe all the right things.
Often those same churches are committing some serious infractions themselves, they like to look for the slivers in others eyes without seeing the great big old log in their own as they bow down to the idolatrous Jesus they have formed in their own image and cow tailing to the insidious heresy of Nationalism.
Well, as I say quite often, the Jesus I follow is not that idolatrous Jesus.
I do not follow a white, blond, American Jesus.
The Jesus I follow was not a Christian.
The Jesus I follow was a kosher-keeping Jewish, Middle Eastern man who was murdered by a government that claimed it was the most powerful nation on the world and worshipped its leader as a god.
And that the people he included were the same people the religious authorities of his day said should be excluded.
We, here at St. Stephen’s, are the one who shrug our shoulders at those in authority who tell us we shouldn’t do what we have done here.
We are the ones who snub our noses at those other denominations who exclude people from their church, who exclude people from Jesus’ altar, who exclude people from the Church.
We are the ones who include everyone at this altar because we know it is not our exclusive altar, it is not MY exclusive altar—it Jesus’ altar, it is Jesus’ table.
And no one is excluded from that table.
No one is excluded from Jesus' Body and Blood.
We are the ones who, back in the early 1970s, gave women a place in leadership when others said that can’t be done.
We are the ones who say again and again that peace is always an option and that justice is a Christian obligation even while wars and rumors of wars raged around us.
We are the ones who welcome all people in these doors in the name of Christ, receiving them as Christ and including them as one of us.
We are the ones who enthusiastically welcomed gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, asexual queer people to this altar for decades.
We are the ones united under the overarching love and acceptance of God to include all people here, because we are a family under the overarching love of God.
We are the ones who stand up and say we cannot abide when those in authority tell us we cannot do this or that.
We are the ones who, on good days and bad, who in the face of life’s storms or in the sunshine of our youth, who even at the grave, are able to rejoice and sing and say, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
We are the ones who gather here, at this altar—at Jesus’ altar—again and again, to break bread with each other, to share the Body and Blood of Christ, and to then go out into the world to share Christ with others.
This is what it means to do the will of God.
And by doing this, we are the brothers and sisters of Jesus.
And sisters and brothers to each other as well.
As you hear me say, again and again, especially in the wake of this pandemic, the church is changing.
If you want to see the Church of the future, this is it!
It is a church filled with music and poetry and art, but it is a church centered squarely on God and God’s Christ.
It is a Church supported by the saints, both those who are alive and present right here, and those who, like my brother Jason, are singing their praises this morning in the Presence of the Lamb.
It is a Church that is radically different and yet radically the same.
“Who are my mother and my brothers and my sisters?” we are being asked today.
We are!
We are being Jesus’ sisters and brothers in this world by doing what we are called to do as followers of Jesus.
So, let us be the siblings of Jesus in this world.
Let us reflect God’s Light and Love to others.
Let us, as Jesus’ siblings, shine!
Shine in all we say and do.
Shine in conveying the Light of God’s love and acceptance to all.
Today and always, let us SHINE!
Let us pray.
Loving God, help us as we seek to do your will and be the sisters and brothers of mothers of Jesus to those who need sisters and brothers and mothers in this world. Help us love fully, welcome radically and shine brightly with your Light. In Jesus’s name, we pray. Amen.
