“Jesus Wept” - A Sermon

On November 1, we had a guest preacher at St. James'.  Luanne Panarotti, an aspirant to the ministry in the Presbyterian Church, preached on the raising of Lazarus.

My name is Luanne, and I am a weeper.  I come by it honestly, perhaps genetically; my mother was a weeper, too.  She was, in all other ways, a pretty feisty bird; but, she had a sentimental streak that ran deep and wide, and that caused her to well up at some of the most unusual things. 

I can remember an evening long ago, sitting in our living room, watching the Miss America Pageant.  I was curled up in the armchair, my mother was on the couch, and Bert Parks was singing, as the winning beauty, be-sashed and tiara-ed, began her tearful teeter down the runway.  I looked over at my mother and saw her – face puffy, lips quivering, eyes brimming over – trying to hide behind a throw pillow, and I thought, “What on earth is the matter with her?”   Now, some forty years later, I cry over happy movies, old songs, Hallmark commercials, Project Runway dismissals, mailings from colleges, every time I watch Cedric Diggory die in Harry Potter IV, bunny rabbits, tiny shoes, certain shades of pink – well, you get the idea: it doesn't take much.

 

Jesus was not a weeper.  He was often deeply moved.  He was sometimes greatly troubled.  He, on occasion, cried out.  But he rarely wept.  In fact, Jesus weeps on only two occasions in the gospels.  In the 19th chapter of Luke, upon his triumphant arrival at Jerusalem, Jesus weeps over the city that would welcome him that day, and turn on him the next.  He weeps again in today's passage from the gospel of John, the well-known story of the resurrection of Lazarus.  In the King James Version and other translations, it is the shortest verse in the bible – just two words, “Jesus wept.” – and yet it is so incredibly laden with meaning. 

For one thing, it makes a potent theological point.  This gospel was most likely written at the end of the first century, when the whole notion of Christianity was still in a state of definition and flux.  There were heresies afoot, unorthodox ways of thinking that threatened to tear apart the fledgling community of Christ; one such doctrine, was Docetism.  Now, Docetists believed in Jesus' divinity, but not necessarily in his humanity.  They thought that spirit was good and matter was bad, and it wasn't particularly becoming for God to get all tangled up in the messiness of the flesh.  They suggested that perhaps Jesus only seemed to have a real human body, but was more of a phantom; that his suffering and his crucifixion were merely appearance.  Needless to say, this way of thinking undermined the idea of Christ's physical sacrifice on our behalf, and the ability of fleshy humanity to share in his resurrection.   So, this simple statement – Jesus wept –  is really quite profound.  Through it, the author of the gospel is saying no, Jesus was a real man; he ate and drank and shed real blood – and see, he cried real tears.

But I can't help but wonder, why cry now?  Jesus certainly had ample opportunity for sadness and frustration in his lifetime.  Starving in the desert.  Misunderstood and rejected by his own people.  Tortured.  More than enough to bring any of us to our knees, let alone to tears.  Why cry now, over a man he knew he was about to bring back to life?  

Compassion is often given as the answer: Jesus wept at the sight of the others mourning.  Of course, it's our understanding that Jesus was regularly faced with a procession of lepers, paralytics, the blind, the possessed, the sick, the dying; surely he would have been moved to tears by their plight, but the gospels never state that he lost his composure.  Other Bible commentators suggest that Jesus wept from sorrow over the lack of belief of those closest to him: even his friends and followers didn't appreciate the full extent of his power, didn't believe that he could raise Lazarus from the dead.  Well, if that were the case, Jesus would have been weeping all the time because he was rarely appreciated for whom he really was, by anyone – friends, family, religious leaders, the entire Hebrew people who had been waiting for him for generations.  In fact, the only ones who seem to consistently recognize Jesus in the gospels were the demons he cast out of the possessed. 

So it seems Jesus did not weep over his own hunger, his lack of social stature, the fact that he was so misunderstood.  He did not weep at his own physical suffering, nor even at that of those around him – though in his compassion he did heal them.  What is it then that moved him in this instance?  What does this passage tell us about what makes Jesus tick? 

I think it says something about what Jesus values – and it's not personal comfort or gain or notoriety, all the things that usually define success in our society.  No, above all, Jesus values relationship.  He was built for it.  It was knit into his bones when he was made man, and it infused his very soul as a member of the blessed Trinity.  He comes from community, he is community: relationship is what makes him complete.  And he left that heavenly love-fest to invite us to join it, to seek that same completion in communion with God, and to do it in communion with one another.  So when we do not, like Jerusalem turning her back on relationship with Christ, and when we cannot, because death has come between us and those we love, Jesus weeps.  For our loss, and for his. 

So, what can we discern from this passage, for our own lives?  The first thing that comes to mind is that it tells us something about how to be in relationship with those who are mourning.  Humans are so uncomfortable with death; we often don't know what to do or what to say in the face of it. Unfortunately, I think our Christianity can even get in the way of our humanity when dealing with those who are mourning.  Sometimes in our effort to affirm our belief in the life to come, we can find ourselves diminishing the significance of lives lived here.  

We try to comfort the bereaved by saying things like “He's in heaven now”, “She's in a better place” or my favorite, the one someone recently told friends of mine who were mourning a miscarriage, “God knew that the baby would not be viable, so it's a blessing that He took him.”  Those things may all be true, and those of us who believe in the promises made to us by Christ can live in hope that our stories will end well.  But, if this passage about Jesus weeping over Lazarus tells us anything, it is that we must also allow the experience of grief.  It is part of our human existence, to feel pain when relationships are severed, not something to be ashamed of or gotten over because it makes those around us uncomfortable.  There is blessedness and purpose in mourning. 

I had the opportunity to interview for the Clinical Pastoral Education program at Vassar Brothers Medical Center, a training program for hospital chaplains.  The supervisor of the program, a Buddhist, posed a scenario for discussion: you are meeting with a family that has just lost a child, and they ask you “Why would God do this to us?”.  I admit, my first inclination was to rush to God's defense: “These unthinkable tragedies of life are not visited upon us by God.  God is there to offer strength and solace when we are facing such unimaginable pain, he mourns with us.”  And she  said to me “You can't answer their question; you're not there to provide answers.  You are there just to be with them for a while, and hold their screams.”  When you find yourself faced with someone in mourning, resist the impulse to defend God, or to offer platitudes.  You may wish to share your most heartfelt belief in Christ's promise to us in the resurrection, but in the end, just be with them, and perhaps weep with them, as Jesus did with Martha and Mary. 

After Jesus wept, he brought Lazarus back to life.  Perhaps, on this All Saints Day, we might also consider following Christ's example in doing some resurrecting.  Now, as much as we might yearn to, we cannot bring back those who have gone on to eternity before us; if that were the case, I would have my mother back on that couch in an instant, even if I did have to watch the Miss America pageant again.  No, we need to leave those saints to enjoy their heavenly feast, until we can join them there. 

But perhaps there are relationships that were once a part of our lives, that have died an untimely death.  Marriages that have wasted away due to neglect or malnourishment.  Family bonds broken by the sickness of addiction.  Friendships that were dealt a death blow by deceit or greed or jealousy. Maybe it has been so long that you can't even remember the cause of death, yet you still are mourning the loss.  Is it possible for you to try and push away that stone?  Can you stand before that tomb and call out to that once-beloved one and try to bring them into relationship with you once again? Do you have the courage to unwrap the cloths of denial and anger and mistrust that have hidden the face of that one from your clear view?  I'm not saying it is an easy thing to do, or even always possible; if that relationship has been mouldering for a while, there may be quite a stench to get past. 

But we have been called by Christ to imitate and participate in the loving community of heaven, and for now, this is the stage upon which we do it.  

On All Saints Day, we remember and celebrate those who have gone before us, and look forward to the time when, as the author of Revelation writes, “God will be with us, and he will wipe every tear from our eyes.  Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more.”  Until then, let us seek relationship with one another, and with Christ.  Anything less would be a crying shame. 

God, Life and Everything - Scooterized

I write a biweekly column called "God, Life, and Everything" for theHudson Valley News. The title reflects the broad scope I want to take. Everything in life falls under the eye of God, and if we watch carefully, we can catch a glimpse of God in it all.

With the first flakes of snow this Fall -- yes, I saw flakes of snow! -- it’s time for me to put the scooter up for the season.

Now, when I say scooter I mean a motorscooter, like a motorcycle with a misplaced engine, undersized wheels and a shield up front to keep the feet clean.

I used to ride a motorcycle, ’78 Honda Hawk, but after a few years of not being able to get it started and letting it rot in the shed, I sold it to a guy who had it working in a week. That’s okay, somehow a priest riding a motorcycle always seemed like a strange image.

Still, I enjoy riding.

Then one day the idea hit me: get a scooter. Not for riding the highways, mind you, not for cruising but for inexpensive, efficient, practical transportation. I did not want someone pointing at me saying, “Well, that guy’s going through a midlife crisis.”

So I did my research, fully expecting to be putting around on a classic Vespa, little realizing the vast array of scooter companies out there. Soon the scope of my search widened to include Piagio, Eton, Genuine Scooter, Aprilia, Lambretta, Kymco, and of course Honda and Yamaha. Who knew?

I settled on Kymco 150 cc Super 8. It’s a cute red bike that looks like it really wants to be a motorcycle. Not just a motorcycle but hotshot bikes. Until you look at it sideways. Then you know it’s a pretender. But I love it. Powerful enough to take me on my local pastoral visits, it never tempts me to see what it can do. Just getting down from the church to the library takes a full open throttle.

One of the surprises I encountered with my scooter is the motorcycle wave. You might not know it, but motorcyclists wave to each other when they pass. Not an up-in-the-air “how ya doing?” kind of wave, but a finger pointed to the ground, very cool wave that let’s the other know they are part of a fellowship.

The surprise is that they wave at me and my scooter. You would never think of someone on a Harley or a Triumph or BMW deigning to acknowledge a scooter. Perhaps it’s merely because from the front, my Kymco does look a lot like a real motorcycle. I imagine some guy on a bit Suzuki waving to me, then giving himself a dope slap as passed and realized that, “Doh, I just waved to a scooter!”

But perhaps it’s because the two-wheeled fellowship has room for all shapes and sizes, and the fact that we’re out there is enough. It feels good to be waved at, to be acknowledged, to be accorded the respect of someone with a much bigger, much more impressive machine.

And maybe that’s the point of my scooter. It’s little, weak and insignificant -- like so many of us -- yet it does its job and brings a little joy to life, again like so many of us.

Isn’t it good to know that we who are small and of no real account matter enough to get acknowledged, too? By our families (we hope), by loved ones and friends, and most of all by God. We may not be splashy or famous or even all that well-known locally. But to receive a kind nod, or smile, or handshake -- it all matters.

It matters that we acknowledge each other in a cold and hard world. So give a wave, let someone know they’re part of an exclusive fellowship called humanity. And do so even if they are small, insignificant and just possibly a pretender. It’ll do us all some good.

Vain Expectations - A Sermon

I may have made a mistake naming this sermon. When I phoned the title into our secretary, she asked me, “Is that Vane Expectations, Vein Expectations or Vain Expectations?” All sorts of images popped into my head. For V-A-N-E, I envisioned a weatherman staring at a barn’s weather vane saying, “Move! Move! I gotta report something!” For V-E-I-N, I saw a vampire in his coffin dreaming dreams of fat, luscious arteries. Unfortunately, for V-A-I-N -- a word that means to have an excessively high opinion of oneself but als means and to have little meaning or likelihood of fulfillment, the picture in my mind was my ordination.

I was ordained with, I think, 10 other priests down at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, there was a moment during the rite when, according to my parents, all of us ordinands just disappeared. My mom and dad looked at each other and said, “Where did they go?”

Where we went was down on the floor lying on our stomachs, spread eagle. This was supposed to be a sign of our humility as well as our obedience.

As a class, we had had the option of kneeling instead of prostrating ourselves, and I had voted for kneeling. I figured it was so showy that this supposed act of humility was in fact designed to draw attention to us and our holiness. I lost the vote, so there I was looking at the cathedral’s floor from a new perspective thinking, “First they don’t let us get ordained individually in our own churches, as is tradition, and now we have to embarrass ourselves in front of all these people. This is not what I expected for my ordination!”

Then I remembered something Dear Abby had written to a young bride upset about her mom messing up what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Abby said, “My dear, I hope it’s NOT the happiest day of your life because then, what would the future hold for your marriage? Remember, the marriage is important, not the ceremony.” And I remembered that the ministry was important, not the ceremony.

Keep that in mind. We have all sorts of expectations, like James and John who want to sit at Jesus’ right and left. They feel they deserve this honor because they are the sons of thunder, loud brash, undoubtedly brave. They’re the enforcers of the disciples, and if Jesus has something tough to do, as he’s been hinting, they’re his guys. They expect Jesus to look at them and say, “Well, of course, you’re the best. Come on up!”

Of course, it looks like what they really want isn’t the work of ministry at all but an impressive position. They want people to admire them. They like the idea of being up on the podium with Jesus looking impressive -- but they haven’t grasped that it’s the ministry that’s important to Jesus, not the ceremony. That to be with Jesus means to suffer -- to empty oneself.

The writer of Hebrews gets it. Even speaking to a Jewish audience, even using the example of a Jewish High Priest, the writer understands that the job of the priest is to be gentle and humble, to know his own faults and lift them up to God for mercy as well as those of the people. The irony of this touching picture is that a lot of high priests saw their office as a gravy train. Great income, flashy clothes, respect from the little people -- and little responsibility or care for anyone else.

James and John apparently have that ironic image in their minds when they approach Jesus. Jesus reminds them of the truer high priestly ministry.

I don’t want to be too hard on James and John, however. They’re a lot like us. We look to God or the church or life in general and we have our expectations, too. How do I know? Because I hear people all the time saying “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.” Or “I did all the right things and look where it got me.” Or “If God really loved us, he wouldn’t let all these bad things happen.” And so on.

Because we think like James and John -- and Job. Job thinks that if you do only good things like him -- even praying for his children in case their prayers aren’t up to snuff -- then things will go right because God will make them right. And right, he just knows, means that you’re wealthy and healthy.

When God fails to meet his expectations, Job takes God to court. That’s what we see in our passage today. God is now answering Job’s charges. Job has essentially said, “You aren’t keeping your part of the bargain. I behaved, and you didn’t deliver.”

God’s response? “Did you make the world? Do you understand everything? Are you God? Who said you got what you wanted because you did good? Who said that was even the point?” Not the response Job is looking for -- he’s so sure of his case because it’s what everyone believed back then. Good things happen to good people. God said “NO.”

So, if James and John are wrong to expect a strong response from Jesus based on their own strong personalities, and Job is wrong to expect sympathy from God based on his exemplary behavior, what CAN we expect from God?

Not justice in this world. Not fairness. Not proper liturgy or a position based on what we deserve. Not even a meal. Not even life itself. No, what we can fairly expect from God is only one thing.

God loves us.

All else is vanity.

But that love is enough. It is enough to make sense of this strange life. It is enough to give us hope for life eternal with God. It is enough to infect our small lives so that it flows through us. It is enough to drive you and me and all of St. James’ and the whole church to seek out Christ in others. Serving, rejoicing with, caring for, breaking down barriers.

God’s love, ever flowing, never ceasing is the only thing we can expect, but that expectation is not vanity. It is everything we can ever hope for. Amen.

God, Life and Everything - Walkway Illuminated

I write a biweekly column called "God, Life, and Everything" for the Hudson Valley News. The title reflects the broad scope I want to take. Everything in life falls under the eye of God, and if we watch carefully, we can catch a glimpse of God in it all.

Woo hoo! The Walkway Over The Hudson opened this weekend!

I had been waiting for this moment for a long time, one of those nutty folks who thought the idea of an elevated pedestrian park was brilliant and could not wait to get out onto it.

My chance came Friday night when my family got to be lantern carriers in what they called the “Illumination.” This required a certain amount of planning for us because lantern carriers were supposed to gather at 5:30 pm, but I had a 4:00 pm wedding. Thankfully, with the aid of a wonderfully understanding and cooperative bridal couple, we got to the meeting area with seconds to spare.

There we took a bus to another gathering area -- the walkway’s new parking lot -- and received our Japanese lanterns to assemble. They said there were a thousand people gathering on our side of the bridge, and I believe it. People everywhere, young, old, physically able and in wheelchairs, all smiling and chatting. The picture taking was incredible -- we all took pictures for each other so we could show our loved ones that we were there.

Then we walk out onto the bridge. It seemed as if almost everybody stopped at the actual entrance and had another picture taken. This was a big moment.

And then we were there, first looking down at houses and cars, not all that far below. As we walked, they got smaller and the mood became more festive. The giddiness was palpable, and it grew with laughter and giggles and more camera flashes. At first, the lanterns we held were merely pretty; as it became dark, as we stepped out over the water, they became magical.

They also blew around a lot because on an October evening with projections of rain, it was windy! But who cared? Parents pushing strollers bundled more blankets around the kids, and the rest of us put hats on and kept walking. Someone shouted, “There’s the Clearwater!” and hundreds of cameras clicked again.

My favorite part of the evening came when the “lantern masters” did their work. All across the bridge, teams set up giant paper balloons -- three or four feet tall -- and ignited a little furnace dangling at the bottom. When they got hot enough, the heat lifted the balloons off the bridge and into the air where the strong wind swept them away. Hundreds of these lanterns flew of the bridge, some diving nearly into the river before beginning a slow climb, others rocketing into the dark sky like reverse shooting stars.

My camera clicked over and over trying to capture those yellow stars as they swept into the night. I doubt anyone looking at the pictures will be able to grasp the feeling.

For much of our two-and-a-half hours on the Walkway Over The Hudson, we simply looked out over the river, first in the evening light, then into the darkness that is never dark. Lights around us outlined streets, houses, even another bridge to the south with and endless stream of cars illuminating each lane.

There were fireworks to end the evening, and they were wonderful. Wonderfully loud, wonderfully bright and wonderfully close. Maybe it was the wind, but if you weren’t careful, you could even feel some of the residue hit your face. My family smelled like sulpher at the end. We’ve been to countless fireworks displays before, so as beautiful as it was, for me it did not quite match the quiet magic of the balloons. Which did not stop us from taking innumerable photographs of them.

You may ask why anyone should get so worked up about an old bridge being turned into a park -- a park, by the way, that many people are afraid to go on because it’s so high up. Well, I’ve asked myself that question, too.

First, I love the idea of something old and forgotten being given new life. The old being made new, the cast down being raised up again -- for a pastor, this all resonates with my sense of what life is all about.

Second, get out there on the walkway and look over the river. There’s such beauty. It was what I thought it would be, and it inspires. We were just at the Grand Canyon taking in its grandure this summer. I am thrilled to have our own wonder right here.

Third, though I don’t have a fear of heights, at least one person I know who does still went out there Friday evening. He said it did not bother him in the least. No promises, but that’s the testimony.

Sadly, I had to miss Saturday’s festivities because I had to be out of town for a meeting, but Friday night will live on in my memory. It was, well, illuminating.

You can learn more about the Walkway Over The Hudson at www.walkway.org

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do - A Sermon

I would like you to take a pen, take out your bulletin, and draw a line through the sermon title. But remember it - that’s next week’s sermon. We do clergy bible study a week in advance, on Thursday, which is usually when I give Dyan the sermon title. Well, I came out of bible study thinking about next week’s sermon - and gave her that title. If you want to have a title for this week’s sermon, let’s call it: “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do”

In Mosaic law, the woman had little power. All you had to do was write a certificate of divorce. In some mideastern cultures, the man still only has to say, “I divorce you” three times to the woman and send her away. (There is the story going around about the man who tried to divorce his wife by sending her an e-mail with the message, “I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you.” She contested it, and the judge upheld her complaint, insisting that one must tell the woman face to face. I believe the man gave up on the divorce because he was afraid to face her.

Well, to be honest, I can understand that. If you’ve ever been divorced -- and most of you know that I was divorced in my 20s -- you know it is painful and messy and affects you for the rest of your life. Many peole prefer to simply run away - or have affairs - than deal with the firestorm of ending a relationship.

Of course, if you were a woman in Jesus’ or Moses’ day, it was easier -- you were property and could not send a man away. Property has no rights -- and property has no relationships.

Here is the spirit of what Jesus was getting at. The divorce law perverted the idea of relationship. God created us male and female -- God created us to be in relationship -- and when we turn that relationship into a commodity, we destroy its purpose. We also make it disoposable.

Rather than invest ourselves fully into the relationship -- which makes getting out very hard -- we keep it on the surface level. “She’s property to get rid of when she becomes inconvenient or irritable. I can get a replacement.” That’s hardness of heart.

But if you invest yourself into a relationship -- put your whole self into it -- you know that it’s ending is painful, hard, too much to bear alone. That is as it should be in marriage and in life.

You can skim along with superficial relationships, saying hello and goodbye with relative ease -- with the simplicity in fact of writing a certificate of dismissal. But they will remain forever superficial, disposable acquaintances who cannot help you grow in your heart. You remain cold and sterile.

When you commit to another person, something new appears. Jesus calls it two becoming one. Whatever you want to call it, the bond is strong and does not break easily because to break the bond is to break a part of yourself.

This is how our relationship with God, can be too. Remember old Job? God lets Satan torment him, kill his children, destroy his business and ravage his body with sores. Lot’s wife says, “Why don’t you just curse God and die?” Not that she really wanted to get rid of him -- I think -- but she figured he was done for. She believed God had abandoned Job, so Job should do the same.

Only Job could not. He did not understand the abuse God was putting him through, but he knew that they had been together a very long time. He knew that his relationship with God had been real and committed. He could not and would not let go so easily. Not until he heard directly from God that it was over. For him, the greatest tragedy would have been to be without God even in the midst of the pain and suffering.

Now, I should point out that the message of Job’s story is not that God likes to play with us like a cat with a mouse. The main point of the story was meant to be that bad things happen to ALL people, not just those who deserve them, which was a prevailing thought at the time. You know, “if you’re sick or poor or blind, you deserve it, so we don’t have to help you.” The story was told to remind us that your circumstances are not a reflection of your goodness, so don’t judge the poor.

But it is the depth of relationship that comes through. It is more important to Job than riches or health or even posterity. And that is what we seek in our relationship with God -- and if we’re smart -- with each other.

Remember the words from the marriage ceremony? For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till we are parted by death. This is not only good for marriage, but for all of us. For it is in Christ that we are not many but one, and what God has joined, let no one separate. Amen.

God, Life and Everything - “Virtual Church of the Blind Chihuahua”

I write a biweekly column called "God, Life, and Everything" for theHudson Valley News. The title reflects the broad scope I want to take. Everything in life falls under the eye of God, and if we watch carefully, we can catch a glimpse of God in it all.

How can you go wrong with a name like “The Virtual Church of the Blind Chihuahua?” When I first read about this website, I rolled my eyes. You could tell from the start that it was supposed to be a cutting edge, ironic and sassy site for the ultra-hip. Something like “The Onion” or “Ship of Fools.”

I could also tell it was put together by people significantly younger than I am because who else would come up with something so random as a blind chihuahua for a church figure?

But, because I found it on the stuffy Church of England’s website, I thought I would at least take a peek. There it was at www.dogchurch.org, a chihuahua with dark shades panting at the viewer. Trendy, but was there anything to this Taco Bell wannabe?

First, the name of this decidedly religious website: It is called virtual because it is an entirely online community. The blind chihuahua (I’m trying to see how many times I can write that word - it’s a fun word to type) part came from a real chihuahua that had cataracts and tended to bark at people sideways because it couldn’t quite tell where its target stood.

The nameless (as far as I could tell) moderator concluded: “We humans relate to God in the same way, making a more or less joyful noise in God's general direction, and expecting a reward for doing so.”

So from the beginning, this website is dedicated to those who are not so sure they have got God right. It is intended to be for people of all or no faiths, for those who may be firm in their beliefs but also want a respectful and probing conversation with others who do not necessarily believe the same things.

That’s why I bookmarked it.

As a minister of the Gospel, I have a fairly firm grasp of what I believe and who God is. But only fairly firm. As a Baptist minister once pointed out, all that can be known is so much more vast than any one human can ever know, that none of us should be fool enough to claim we understand it all, let alone that we understand God.

I liked the tone of this website even if the chihuahua initially put me off. It’s of discovery and sharing. It’s of respect and acceptance of others for who they are. It’s a tone that says, “even if we do not see God the same, I will not try to convince you that you’re wrong but will see God at work in you in the way you love.”

One of the interesting prayers on this site takes portions (or the entirety) of prayers from the three Abrahamic traditions and melds them into one prayer. The Jewish lines sound very much like the Christian lines which sound very much like the Muslim lines. The point, of course, is that at our heart, we all seek to love God. At our cores, we are all God’s children.

It’s a serious religious community. In fact, I’d almost say too serious. It’s still a good website to visit, but I think they need to lighten up a bit. On the other hand, maybe the site’s moderators believe that, if you’re going to have a chihuahua for your mascot, you’d better have more bite than your bark might hint.

Turf Wars - A Sermon

I have to tell you something rather distressing. I spent an unfruitful hour recently searching for Altar Guild Humor. The internet, with all its vast resources, found nothing humorous about the Altar Guild. Instead, I found this:

I’m afraid she looks like she’s saying, “Touch my vestments, and you will pay! And don’t even think of moving that chalice!” You and I know that this is unfair to OUR altar guild - people who are humble and kind and who DO share a sense of humor. But perhaps it speaks to the subtile temptation and danger of all positions of authority in church. TURF.

We take on a postion, and pretty soon, WE are in charge, and you had better not get in my way. In fact, now that I’m in charge, it’s my way or the high way. We start to guard our turf at church so much that sometimes we make a mess. I remember the senior warden of St. Peter’s, Peekskill - Ron Ashton. A great guy who loved being involved in everything. But two weeks before my boss was to go on a 6-month sabbatical in South Africa, Ron died. Well, we had a junior warden, so my boss went. On Sunday morning a month later, in January’s subzero temperatures, the boiler blew.

As it turned out, Ron had been taking care of the boiler, bleeding it with a method he did not even let the new sexton know about. He had guarded his turf so jealously that he took his knowledge to the grave, and it cost the church dearly.

Guarding our turf seems to be a time-honored tradition in the church. Even before it was the church, we people seemed to think that “Once I get a position, it is MINE. And woe betide anyone who sets foot in my domain.”

In today’s old Testament reading in Numbers, Eldad and Medad did what was not their turf. They had not been set aside as one of the 70, yet they prophesied. Joshua was outraged. But Moses knew they had the spirit and did the work God wanted. Which doesn’t necessarily mean that they had authority - only that Moses saw what others couldn’t. He saw that there is something more than just authorized leadership. Perhaps that ALL can take their share of leadership - and that all have a role in the community.

We see the same thing in today’s Gospel. The disciples were outraged that a guy was casting demons out in Jesus’ name -- even though he was not part of the official entourage. He was stepping all over their turf! But Jesus said, “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us.”

Now, I don’t want anyone to get the idea that we shouldn’t have some order in the church. It’s good to know who to go to when we need to set up for a baptism or when we need to have a potluck or teach a class. But perhaps it means that more of us can take a leadership role than we dare think possible.

Did you note that part in the Gospel about causing anyone to stumble, about parts of your body causing you to sin? Too often, perhaps, the church has done that -- causing people to stumble, by making the Body of Christ impotent - by teaching that only the special folks can preach, teach, evangelize. That is not “official” teaching - officially, as we talked about last week at baptism - we are all ministers. The priesthood of all believers. Perhaps we don’t stress that because we like our special status - our turf.

Of course, there is danger is marking out your turf. Aside from practicalities, like passing on knowledge when it’s time to move on or in case of emergency, (Ron and the boiler), there is the spiritual danger of arrogance.

When I was in seminary, one of our professors beat into our heads that it is a sin not to take a day off or not to take a vacation. First, because we need it, but just as importantly, he said, because priests tend to think the church will fall apart without them. The church needs ME. The world needs me.

No, the world needs God, but God has placed all of us here. Both clergy and the church need reminders of that. We need to remember that it's time for all of us to pick up our mantles and prophesy or heal or evangelize.

Yes, there are specialized ministries - but they are subsets of the main ministry, and they are not unique. There are lots of priests and deacons, lots of organists, lots of people capable of being altar guild and Sunday school and acolytes and lay readers and lectors. None of us owns the position. The church will not cease without us.

And yet, the church IS us. And it does need all of us in order to fulfill its mission. We are -- ALL OF US -- here to work together to make the Kingdom of God reality. We are here -- all of us -- to make Christ known. As a community, we can do this by serving on the Altar Guild (and I bet our leaders would LOVE to have you join), the choir, the Vestry, the Youth Group -- you name it. And we can do it by sharing God’s love at all times everywhere.

The point is, if you are part of the church, YOU are one of the ministers. Don’t let anyone make you think you don’t have a piece of the ministry of Christ. The world is your turf - let’s get out there and share it. Amen.