God, Life and Everything - National Day of Prayer

I write a 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.

Last Thursday was the National Day of Prayer, and boy was it a doozey. Not that anything happened on the day itself outside of the usual. But the controversies swirling around it made this supposed day of unity into anything but.

In case you missed it, three big fights have been raging. First, there has been a rumor going on for a long time that President Obama cancelled the day of prayer. Second, the Rev. Franklin Graham was uninvited from speaking at the Pentagon’s prayer service because of disparaging remarks he made about Islam. Finally, a federal judge ruled that the National Day of Prayer violates the constitution’s separation of church and state.

So, should we have this National Day of Prayer? If so, what kind of prayer?

A little history might help. Before 1952, there was no National Day of Prayer. True, three times before, presidents had called on the nation’s people to dedicate a day to "humiliation, fasting and prayer," but each was during a time of war, and the president asked people to pray for peace. They established nothing.

It was only in 1952 that President Truman signed a bill proclaiming a National Day of Prayer should be declared each year. Perhaps not coincidentally, the “one nation under God,” was formally added to the Pledge of Allegiance just two years later.

In 1988, President Reagan established the first Thursday of May as the National Day of Prayer.

Originally, there was no particular ceremony or service attached to the National Day of Prayer. Each president was supposed to pick their own day for it (until 1988) and observe it in their own way, so long as they made the declaration. Most presidents have not participated in any prayer services on that day. Only Presidents Ronald Reagan, George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush have held services. President Obama’s choice to keep his observance private is in keeping with tradition.

With that bit of history in hand, we return to the question: should we have the day of prayer – at least as a formal law?

I say “No.”

“But wait!” you say. “You’re a priest! How can you be against prayer!” The answer is, of course, I am not against prayer. Prayer is the very basis of my life. As the apostle Paul says, I seek to pray without ceasing. Which means that designating a day for it is unnecessary. It’s like establishing a National Day of Breathing.

More ominously, however, is that I always worry when politicians start throwing around religion. My experience is that this rarely has anything to do with faith and always has a lot to do with politics. Remember the “under God” part in the Pledge? When did it get added? During what is now known as the Red Scare. Same with the National Day of Prayer. Call me cynical, but those moves sound an awful lot like a government trying to convince people that “God is on our side.”

Such crassness is a perfect example of a violation of the third commandment, making wrongful use of the Lord’s name. Whether it’s unconstitutional or not is up to the courts, but when the government makes laws about prayer – whether telling us not to pray or to pray - there’s something wrong. (By the way, the government has never made a law telling us not to pray – only that the government can’t make us pray. I assure you, I know quite a few kids who pray in school).

That leaves us with just one other bit of controversy: Franklin Graham being uninvited by the Pentagon. Should they have withdrawn his invitation just because he says Islam is a religion of violence? Well, if the National Day of Prayer is supposed to include all people of faith, it would seem that inviting a religious leader who knowingly excludes other religions would be a bad idea. That looks way too much like saying, “Only our religion is approved by the government.”

So, in the end, I would say we don’t need this National Day of Prayer. What for? Interfaith organizations have similar things already. We people of faith pray or don’t pray already, depending on our own spiritual journeys. And if it was supposed to unite us, it has shown itself to be a monumental failure.

Perhaps the words of George Washington would be helpful to remember. In 1792 he wrote a letter to Edward Newenham in which he said: "Religious controversies are always productive of more acrimony and irreconcilable hatreds than those which spring from any other cause.　 Of all the animosities which have existed among mankind, those which are caused by the difference of sentiments in religion appear to be the most inveterate and distressing, and ought most to be depreciated.　 I was in hopes that the enlightened and liberal policy, which has marked the present age, would at least have reconciled Christians of every denomination so far that we should never again see the religious disputes carried to such a pitch as to endanger the peace of society."

Looks like his hope has yet to be realized.

What is a Priest? - A Sermon

Happy Mother’s Day! In a way, this sermon would be easier if I were a woman because female priests in our church are called “Mother.” I tried to get my cousin Kristin, who is also a priest, to come, but she’s out in California, so that didn’t work. So, for the moment, pretend you’re looking at my cousin Kristin. Because instead of preaching on the lessons, I want to talk about the kind of Mother that is a priest. Which is to say, I want to talk about what a priest is.

Why? Well, I went to the annual priests conference this week and I admit, we had a great time. We sang along with Pete Seeger, we rode horses, we had great discussions on what it means to live in harmony with creation. All great.

But there’s something else you do at a priests conference. You talk about what it means to be a priest.

At the Tuesday Eucharist, Canon Andy Dietsche preached and told us about a friend of his who wrote mystery novels. His friend – I can’t remember his name – told him that while each novel was different, they all had something in common. The detective.

The detective didn’t have to be a cop or even a private eye. He or she could be anybody as long as they fulfilled one major criterion. He had to live between the two stories. There was the surface story – the story everyone saw. And then there was the deep story – what was really going on – the real killer, the real plot, the real reason for the crime. The detective was the one person in the story that everyone trusted to live between those two worlds. They could relate to the surface but also see at the deeper level what the others could not. In the end, the detective’s job was to help those on the surface level see and understand what was going on at the deep level. They solved the mystery.

Then Canon Dietsche said, “That’s what priests are. You’re like the detectives in a mystery novel.”

What he meant was that a priest has the job of living between two worlds. We live in the world as we all know it where we have bills to pay and kids to chase after, where we’re little league coaches and where we vote at the town hall and go shopping. But then, there is that deep level, the level of the soul, the level where we see and engage with God.

Now, I should say here that we are all priests in the sense of our baptismal vows. Remember, when people are baptized, we say, “share with us in his eternal priesthood.” To a degree, then we all spend time between the surface and the soul.

But every community needs someone to live there. The priest is that person designated by the community to dig deeper, to live between those two worlds. The priest’s job, like the detective, is to slowly reveal the clues that will help others grasp what’s going on at the level of the soul. Little by little, they reveal God at work.

When we talk about living between two worlds, it means that we walk around, we visit, we do chores – we live in every way on the surface. But we also are the person designated by the community to dwell in the place of the soul – we’re trusted to focus our lives studying God, reading scripture, praying and worshiping – all so we can bring what we’ve learned back to the community and help that deep place of the soul become a little clearer.

Now we should note that the job of priest does NOT include being an administrator – Thank You, Jesus! And St. James’ is thankful that parish administration does not fall solely into my hands, though at the surface level, even I have paperwork to do.

If you’ve heard that phrase, “living between two worlds” before, it might be when we talk about deacons. Their job is to live between the church and the world – to bring the world’s concerns to the church and, through their outreach ministries, the church’s good news to the world.

Priesthood isn’t that different. Only, our job is to live in a more vertical “in-between.” The surface to the soul.

Alas, there is a difference between detectives in mystery novels and priests. In every mystery novel I have ever read, the detective finds that bad guy down at the deep level and reveals him – mystery solved.

In priesthood, we don’t often solve anything. We just keep living there, exploring and reporting back as best we can. But it’s not in vain. Little by little, for each of us, hints and glimmers of the Kingdom of God come to the surface. We never get the whole picture, but we get enough clues to give us hope.

The detective’s story wraps up nicely – until the next novel. For priests, our story never ends. And although I don’t want to speak for other priests, I will – we wouldn’t have it any other way. Amen.

God, Life, and Everything - “The New Normal”

I write a 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.

You’ve heard it a lot lately. The New Normal.

We lower our voices and say it in the somber tones usually reserved for “death sentence,” or “cancer.” Of course, given that this phrase is almost always uttered in association with the economic crisis, the solemnity might be understandable. People will have less money from now on: it’s the New Normal. Joblessness is permanently high: it’s the New Normal. We’re doomed: it’s the New Normal.

Actually, the first time I remember hearing it was in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina when gas prices shot up over $3 a gallon. Some expert on the radio predicted that gas would never be cheap again: it’s the New Normal.

I heard it most recently at a meeting of church leaders who were discussing how the economy had changed how the national church will operate. Fewer funds, more needs to be met, congregations without clergy, grants drying up, that sort of thing. Someone sighed and said, “It’s the New Normal.”

Yes, I suppose so. The idea behind that phrase makes a certain amount of sense. Things as we have known them are no longer. We will have to find a new way. You can’t go back.

Taking the phrase in a healthy light, it could help us to move on with our lives in so many situations where the old life is no more. Think of new parents. No longer will they sleep the night through. No longer will going out be spontaneous. No longer will they ever rest easy when they can’t see their child.

Think of the new widow or widow. No longer will they hold hands with their love. No longer will they sleep together or look into each others’ eyes across the table. I remember when my grandfather died, and my grandmother told me about a meeting with a friend whose husband had also died. She said, “We had a good cry then decided we still had things we wanted to do.” The New Normal.

The New Normal has some real merit. But, new as the phrase is, the idea is as old as the hills. People have had to adjust to new situations for as long as there have been people. From ancient days, whole towns, even whole societies have destroyed and their inhabitants enslaved. From ancient times, fortunes have been made and lost in a stroke.

For Christians, The real New Normal took place with Jesus who changed everything at least in the way we relate with God. No sacrifices, no fear, no outsiders - just God loving us and commanding us to do the same. All it took was saying “Yes,” to God.

Of course, like all cases of this new normal, for Christians this new way of life means saying goodbye to the old way of life. Self interest has to go. Fear and self protection have to go. Pride has to go. So does indifference over the fate of the poor. The New Normal for a Christian is a life of joyful service to those who don’t deserve it and have no possible way of paying it back.

No wonder so many keep trying to go back to the old ways.

But like with the economy or death, the New Normal means you can’t go back. Even if you try, it’s not the same.

That’s the power of the New Normal – it burns bridges and forces you to look forward. The only thing we need to remember is, that’s not always a bad thing.

Tapestry - A Sermon by the Rev. Deacon David R. Bender

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen. Please be seated.

During the Easter season, this year, the Gospel lessons are from John, and several of those readings including today's are about love. Two weeks ago, Father Kramer talked about Jesus asking Peter “do you love me?” and Peter three times replying “yes, I love you”. However, Jesus did not use the English word love which is includes so many interpretations, but scripture uses the Greek word agape the first two times, which is the deep abiding selfless caring, and for Peter's response scripture uses the Greek work philia, which means loyal friendship, which can be deep but is not near agape. The third time, Jesus uses the word philia, perhaps because He realizes that Peter can not see clearly what agape is. And there is a third Greek word for love and that is eros, or romantic love.

So the Greeks have at least three words for love. Agape, selfless caring, eros, romantic, and philia, brotherly. How are we to know which of these are being referenced and how are we to fully understand them. For the obligatory country western song reference, Tim McGraw recently had a ballad titled “Nothin' to Die For” about a man who drank every night on the way home from work and has everything to live for. The chorus is:

You'd give your last breath to your wife

Take a bullet for your kids

Lay your life down for your country for your Jesus, for your friends

except for the last chorus, and part of the song is that he goes thru a guardrail and sees the light and hears a sweet voice, singing the chorus except it changes to:

You'd give your last breath to your wife

Take a bullet for your kids

Lay your life down for your country for me and all your friends

Yes, the last chorus is Jesus talking to the man.

So the way that I look at it is: I agape my wife, my children and grandchild, I eros my wife, and I philia everyone one here at this church, my friends, and all the patients and staff that I see at the hospital.

And there is that word love again in today's Gospel. Jesus is talking with his disciples and says "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." And which love is it, agape, eros or philia? Well not having access to a bible in Greek, nor understanding the language at all, I don't know. What I hope for is that the word is agape, but that remains to be seen.

I would like to show you something, but to explain, Carol does crafts, knitting, needlepoint, embroidery, and counted cross stitch. We have many of her pictures framed and hanging up at home. There is a bell pull that is crewel embroidery of a small bird, a chipmunk and a couple of other woodland creatures. Then there are the two counted cross stitch pictures, one of lions and tigers and the other of a kitty cat. My two favorite ones, however, are a floss embroidery map of the United States with each state outlined, and around the outside of the map are the state flowers in color. And if you wonder about why Carol and I have spring allergies, we lived in Lexington Kentucky for twelve years and the state flower for Kentucky is goldenrod, ie. ragweed. However my most favorite one is the one she did first, and we used it as a rug for a while before framing it, so it is faded, and has some stains in it, but I hung it on the wall in my office area for years. back of eagle picture>. This is a needlepoint eagle, as used in the American seal. You can, barely, see that head is pointed towards the olive branches and not the arrows, meaning that it is peace time. Oh wait a moment, this is the back of the picture. I showed it this way for a reason. One of the patients that I saw in the hospital, was a lovely woman, about my age who had cancer surgery, and then some other ailments set in. She was wonderful. Didn't complain, liked to talk and we had several conversations about where she was in her life journey and where she hoped to be. During one of the visits, she shared this story with me as it was her way of looking at the world and all that was occurring in her life:

Life is a tapestry. As we look up at it, we see thread ends, bare spots and knots. When we die and look down on it we see its true beauty.

This is what the picture really looks like. Like I said, a bit old and faded, but I still like it the best, and so appropriate to what the patient told me and to today's Gospel passage.

It is just like today's new commandment: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." Just like the eagle picture, we here on earth can only poorly see the complete tapestry of God's love. The loose ends, the knots and bare spots that we see are really not there, when we completely understand God's agape for us.

Oh, and I managed to finally find a Greek to English bible, and the Greek word for love in today's passage is agape.

Amen.

Jesus’ Sheep Period - A Sermon

Great news from the land of goats – friends have been celebrating the births of several goats this weekend. Yippee!

I know, goats aren’t exactly sheep, but they’re close enough to remind us how much we see Jesus using sheep today. In fact, the entire chapter in which we find today’s Gospel is all about sheep. You can’t look at today’s passage without looking at the whole chapter where Jesus repeatedly says he is the Good Shepherd, and his sheep know his voice. You might call Chapter 10 Jesus’ Sheep Period (you know, like Picasso’s Blue Period).

You might call the lectionary for today a Sheep Period, too, since John is the author of Revelation as well as the gospel. John loves sheep.

So, what’s up with all the ovine language? Why does Jesus refer to everyone as sheep and himself as the shepherd? Why – in Revelation – is Jesus called a Lamb?

Well, maybe the Lamb is easy. After all, Lambs are innocent and are at times used as sacrifice. Jesus was innocent and was certainly sacrificed for us, right? We are all washed in the blood of the lamb. It reminds us of that Passover where the lamb’s blood was painted over the doors of the Israelites, and they were saved. Yes, we are still in Easter, celebrating our Passover.

The thing is, not only is Jesus the innocent victim, but he’s also the Shepherd.

Think of the Irony of being both Lamb and Shepherd – not just any shepherd but the Good Shepherd.

That’s like the Irony of being fully human and fully God.

We’ll never understand how the smart shepherd can share the same place as the not-so-bright sheep, or the sheep can become a leader (but look at Peter all the sudden). After Jesus ascends, Peter and the other apostles take on the roles of leadership – they become the shepherds even though they themselves felt lost.

How could they do that?

By listening. And recognizing the voice of their shepherd. The voice of the shepherd for sheep is a touchstone. It guides and comforts, gives structure and direction. Sheep aren’t that bright, but they know whom to trust.

And that’s what the apostles did. They listened. More, I suspect than merely with their ears, they listened with their hearts. They learned to say, “That doesn’t sound like Jesus” when evaluating a situation. Or they might say, “Now THAT sounds like our master,” when they decided upon an action.

You know how it is when someone is accused of something and you say, “That doesn’t sound like them.” Perhaps that’s how we might want to approach our lives of faith. After all, none of us is really all that smart.

But we can recognize our master’s voice, our shepherd’s voice. Assuming, of course, we know what his voice sounds like. Some days, I have a hard time knowing for sure. But I know what he doesn’t sound like. He doesn’t sound like greed or anger or hatred or fear. He doesn’t sound like someone who is self-serving or suspicious.

The Lamb who is our shepherd may even sound naïve in its insistence on answering injury with pardon, hatred with love. But that’s the voice we follow. It is only in following that voice that we will be brought home to the cool waters.

Like little lambs who are just learning their shepherds’ voices, sometimes we don’t quite hear Jesus in our daily lives. But like them, we keep listening, keep learning that voice. And in time, we will with certainty know which voice to follow.

Third Time's The Charm - A Sermon for 3 Easter, 2010

This is a loaded story full of great images and great lines. That whole fishing story with Jesus telling the professional fishermen how to fish – and then feeding them? Awesome.

And there are tons of things in this little story you want to take note of. The fact that fishing didn’t work for the disciples. The fact that this story looks an awful lot like the story of when Jesus called his disciples for the first time saying, “I will make you fish for people.” The fact that while they were hauling all that miraculous fish onto the shore, Jesus had already cooked them some fish (with bread), and that this meal of fish and bread might remind the reader of the miracle of the loaves and fishes.

But there’s one little line the evangelist slips in that I want to look at: “This was now the third time Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead. “

Why is that important?

To start off, three is always an important number in scripture. So something important is going on here. Come to think of it, if you ever notice in literature, food is always important, too. Important things always happen around food, so this scene is doubly important.

What that third appearance might say to us is that twice was not enough. The first two times Jesus appeared to them it was inside behind locked doors – about a week apart. In those first two visits, Jesus commissioned them, but it wasn’t enough. They still did not understand their mission, so they went back to what they knew – fishing.

It’s that third appearance that convinces them Jesus is really and truly back, and more importantly that his resurrection means something for their lives. Maybe after the first two appearances, they felt something like: “Well, it’s great Jesus rose, but now he’s gone again, and it didn’t really have any lasting impact on our lives now.” Anyone ever feel like that before?

So, this third visit lets them know they can’t go back to what they were before because they are no longer fishers of fish. They are fishers of people. Jesus can provide his own fish. He needs them to go out to the people. This third visit lets them know that they are to feed the people as Jesus fed them, not with bread alone but with the word of Christ’s love.

Something else happens in that third visit, however, that makes an even bigger impact on them, especially on Peter. Jesus asks him three times, “Do you love me?” and Peter answers three times, “Yes.” Many have said this is Jesus’ way of reminding Peter of his triple denial of Jesus on the night of his arrest, as well as a way of telling him all is forgiven.

But with the help of a tiny bit of Greek, you might see that there’s even more here. The first two times Jesus asks, he uses the Greek word “agape,” which means a deep abiding, selfless caring. But when Peter answers, “Yes, Lord, you know I love you,” he uses the word, “philia,” which means a loyal friendship, though it can be deep, too.

It’s only the third time of asking that Jesus changes his words: He asks, “Do you philia me?” and Peter, upset, says “Yes, I philia you.”

Why the different words? And why, on the third time, does Jesus change from agape to philia?

Perhaps, Peter just might not have agape within him at this point. Perhaps that deep, selfless love is just too much for him at this point in his journey. He’s been through a lot lately, remember, and he is just a young man, barely in his twenties – we tend to forget this. It is Jesus who changes his expectations this time. He says, in essence, “Philia is enough for now.”

And maybe the lesson for us is, even if you can’t love selflessly and deeply yet, Jesus will meet you where you are. Friendship is a good place to start.

I know a lot of people who don’t believe in God, or aren’t sure what they believe, but they like what they see in Jesus, and they even like some things that they see the church do.

Maybe it took those three appearances and those three questions to find out just where Peter stood, and for Jesus to know that while Peter was hardly on firm ground with his faith, it was enough for now. Peter and the other disciples would get other chances to live out their Agape for Jesus. They would spend their entire lives living it out. Without this third visit and those three questions, however, they might have sunk back into their old lives for good.

For them, the third time was the charm. Amen.

God, Life and Everything - Feeling Their Pain

I write a 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.

Someone asked me recently if I would comment on the recent troubles in the Roman Catholic Church. The troubles I refer to are, of course, the scandals surrounding pedophile priests and alleged claims of cover-up –that could include the pope himself.

My response: How stupid do I look?

First of all, it’s not my denomination, and although this is more than merely a denominational tiff, it seems the discussion of how to reconcile things belongs within the denomination itself.

What’s more, the structure of the Roman Catholic Church is not the same as that of my church, so the mechanisms they use to deal with crimes and other misconduct are not known to me.

Am I covering my tail? Certainly. In a small town, you want to measure your words carefully.

And yet, I have enough Roman Catholic friends who have shared some of their pain with me that I feel I can at least reach out a hand of comfort and say, in the words of one of our past presidents, “I feel your pain.”

What I have heard mostly are words of disappointment and uncertainty. Some have wondered if they can trust their leaders or if the institution exists merely to perpetuate itself rather than share the love of Christ.

I’ve heard it all before – in my own denomination.

In fact, I would also bet nearly every denomination has experienced the shock and heartbreak of realizing that their chosen leaders have not always lived the life they so piously proclaimed. You don’t have to go too far back in church history to see other examples: Bureau of Indian Affair schools run by our church that took children away from their families and forced them to give up their cultural heritage spring to mind.

More currently, we see the fights over ordination of women and gays. Those are still raising hackles around the world.

And, of course, it’s a good bet that every denomination has had plenty of sexual scandals. Even if we can’t relate to what has been going on in the hierarchy of Rome, most of us can recognize the pain, frustration, and yes, embarrassment of the parishioners

I’ve been on the listening end of the line with my mother enough times when the church – our church – has upset her to know that when the leadership messes up, it’s often the laity who have to do all the explaining to their friends and colleagues. They also often have to sort out the difference between faith and institution – theology and misconduct.

Just so I’m clear on this, pedophilia is bad. Making excuses or covering it up is bad. They cannot be ignored, and I suspect Roman Catholic leaders understand they must address the past even as they review their current policies and practices.

But as I said, that’s between them and – to whatever degree is required – the legal system. And of course, it's always between them and God.

I think it’s important for everyone else to remember that in some way, shape or form, we’ve all been there, and it’s no fun. Maybe this is a good time to just be a friend with a willing ear to those who want to unload some of their pain. Actually, when you come to think of it, that’s not a bad way to approach life most of the time.

S’mikhah - A Sermon for April 11, 2010

You know how a word gets stuck in your head and you can’t get it out? You go around all day saying it to yourself, hoping nobody notices? The writer James Thurber wrote about getting the name “Perth Amboy” stuck in his head when he was a boy. He spent an entire night saying Perth Amboy until his parents came to his room wondering if he had a fever and was delirious.

For me this week, that word is “s’mikhah.” Earlier this week I was teaching a class for Marist College’s Center for Lifelong Studies, about Jesus as rabbi. So there I am talking about the history of rabbis when I realize half the class is Jewish.

When I get to the word s’mikhah one little old ladies says, “Dear, that’s not how you say it. It’s s’mikhah.”

“ S’mikhah,” I repeat.

“No, s’mikhah.” Back and forth we go till she’s satisfied I can say it right. So for the rest of the week, I’m saying s’mikhah to myself.

Now, you have probably already guessed that s’mikhah is Hebrew and has something to do with rabbis. But what does it mean? It means “authority.”

Not just any authority, mind you, but a divine authority. It’s a word used today that means the authority given to a rabbi to teach and preach. In Jesus’ day, it was a word given to those sages who had authority to interpret scriptures. They were the traveling rabbis who went out into the world and took on disciples. They were the cream of the religious crop as it were.

This is the sort of authority we see bestowed upon the disciples in today’s Gospel. While most of the disciples are gathered together, Jesus shows up and sends them out. Remember, he has been their rabbi, their traveling sage, and they have been his disciples following him around. He has not only been teaching them but, in the model of those traveling sages, has been molding them into his own likeness.

Now they are ready. He has risen from death and is now preparing them for the day he will leave for good. So he comes to them and says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” Then he breathes the Holy Spirit onto them – remember, in John, there is no day of Pentecost. THIS is when they receive the Holy Spirit, the power to do God’s will.

This is their authority, the s’mikhah. As a mark of that authority, Jesus says, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them. If you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” That’s power. That’s authority. The fact that Jesus repeats this action later – so that Thomas doesn’t miss it – shows just how important it is. None of them should be left out, and this authority comes directly from the risen Christ himself.

You see this authority at work later in the Acts of the Apostles. There they are preaching despite the orders of the Sanhedrin, the legal counsel. So, the Sanhedrin have them arrested and they demand to know why the apostles are still evangelizing. Peter, the bold one, stands up and says, “We must obey God rather than any human authority.”

It’s like that old Hebrew National hot dog commercial: We answer to a higher authority. The authority of the Sanhedrin is not s’mikhah. It’s governmental – human authority. They are filled with a purpose given directly by God, and no human authority will stop them.

This is all wonderful, but who cares? You do. You care because you have s’mikhah. Not the same kind that a modern rabbi has, but you have authority all the same. Remember when we baptized those kids last week? Remember, we said, “Confess the faith of Christ crucified, proclaim his resurrection, and share with us in his eternal priesthood.”

By virtue of your baptism, YOU have authority to confess the faith of Christ crucified, to proclaim his resurrection and to share in his eternal priesthood. You are the priests of Christ. No human authority can ever take that away from you.

The only question is, will you embrace your s’mikhah? My guess is, some days yes, and some days no.

But now the word is stuck in your mind, just as Christ’s s’mikhah is stuck in your soul. It’s going to be awfully hard to let go of it. Amen.

God, Life and Everything - Now What?

I write a 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.

Happy Easter! Find your eggs? Your chocolate? Your basket?

If you are one who For the faithful, did you go to church Easter morning and celebrate the resurrection? Alleluia! Christ is risen!

Now what?

Seriously, and forget about the eggs and chocolate – a little mayo and mustard makes lovely deviled eggs, and no chocolate lasts more than fifteen minutes in our house, so problem solved.

Now, what about the resurrection part? For many Christians, Easter is not just a day but a season, fifty days long. That’s the number of days Jesus walked the earth after rising from death. In those days, he taught the disciples his final lessons before sending them out to their respective destinies.

So in these fifty days of Easter, what instruction can we take? What destinies – or missions if you will – can we imagine for ourselves? What do we do with this risen Christ?

First of all, I think we can rest a little. Every pastor I know is breathing a collective sigh of relief that the manic pace of Holy Week and the hoopla of Easter morning are over. It’s kind of like the cast of a play after closing night. Job well done and rest well deserved.

Beyond that, rest in the risen Christ makes sense. As Christians, we rest in the knowledge that God really does love us, that nothing we do can make God stop loving us, and that Christ’s example shows us how death is merely a doorway through which we pass on our way to something more.

But you can’t just rest all your life. Aside from being boring, that would make a mockery of the gift. I used to play pickup hockey with some friends, and even though we kept score for most of the game, near the end someone would shout “All tied up!” – from that point on no score was kept, it was endless 0 - 0.

You might think that defeated the point of the game, but I think in those final minutes, players showed more creativity, used more energy and had more fun than in the rest of the game. Why? Because you weren’t penalized for messing up, so you could go out on a limb.

That’s how I see the resurrection. Now that we know the end of our story – we live, we die, we receive eternal life enjoying God’s love – we are free to experiment with that love. We can see what it’s like to forgive, to get out of our comfort zone and reach out to people who are not like us. We can play with new ways of healing broken relationships and broken justice systems. We can do it on a personal level and on a societal level.

That’s the gift of Easter – we can boldly go about trying to share God’s love knowing that if we screw up, nobody’s keeping score.

So, what do we do now that the resurrection has taken place? Rest, then Play!

　

　

The Egg - A Sermon for Easter

Note: This is more of a sermon outline. Sorry. Easter got kind of busy.

Did you go Easter egg hunting this morning? I did! See? I found one egg! See? It is a biggie, isn’t it?

The funny thing is, all it has for decoration is a big A. I figured, since I gave up chocolate for Lent, that A could stand for only one thing: Grade A Chocolate! I got so excited, I could hardly wait to open it, but I figured I’d save it to open it with you – you’d think an egg this big ought to have enough for us all, right? Let’s open. [opens]

It’s…empty.

You know. Not even a hint about what that A means. I come here expecting this thing to be full – and it’s empty. Have you ever heard of such a thing?

Oh. You have. And now that you mention it, so have I. Women, 2,000 years ago, came looking for something a lot bigger than an egg. And when they got there, they found it was empty, too.

But they weren’t disappointed. At first, they were terrified.

And I suppose you would be too if you were expecting to find a body and found it empty. Even more so if you then found a couple of angels (or at least guys in blazing white robes) standing before you.

Now, what did it mean that they found the tomb empty?

It means that Jesus is risen!

And that means several things:

a. Death did not defeat him

b. He is the Son of God

c. Everything he taught during his time on earth is true

d. His death shows God’s love for us as his resurrection shows its eternal quality

These are so big, so important, so wonderful that we greet them with a word that means …Praise the Lord! We haven’t said since Lent started – it begins with – A.

Wait a minute, this egg has an A – could it be? Maybe if we help it along, it’ll give us the rest of that word. Read? (open) Alleluia!

History Lesson - A Sermon for the Easter Vigil

If you’ve been following the news, then you’ve heard about the controversy over the Texas Board of Education’s changing history. They approved all sorts of changes that reflect their own political views rather than actual history.

I know, you’re shocked. On the other hand, is that really new? No. People have been doing that for eons. Why, look at the ancient Egyptian history columns called steles. They always manage to have a version of Egyptian history where the pharaoh is wonderful and strong and always victorious. Look at them, and you’ll see the pharaoh never loses a battle.

But history can be real – and true. The lessons you heard tonight -- our Salvation History for example. It was no less true before Jesus than it was after.

Look what we have.

Creation – God made the world maybe not exactly as it’s described here, but the point is that God made it and in doing so gave us everything we need to thrive.

Abraham/Isaac – If you know the story, you’ve got Abram who has no god suddenly called to be God’s guy – nothing asked of him at first, just faithfulness. I know this story, this test, sounds like a gruesome way to prove loyalty, but that’s not really what it was, is it? Here we have God showing how painful it can be to lose one’s child – especially when it means you are the one responsible for it. This is a precursor to God’s own sacrifice of his son. More than that, Abraham’s near sacrifice of Isaac makes it clear to the world that this sort of sacrifice is no longer necessary, that God provides all the sacrifice that is necessary.

Moses – brings his people into safety. Life is not easy, but at the right time, we are brought through the waters.

Dry Bones – When we think all is lost, God gives life.

These stories, our history, tell how God never makes it easy but never ever abandons us. That God’s love is the point of our being here in the first place, and that its reward is nothing less than God.

This is the same story we see and know in Jesus. In him, God is one of us. Loving us intensely. In him, we see that no sacrifice is ever necessary to earn God’s love – it is freely given and can never be taken away. In him, we are saved from the waters of despair and meaninglessness. IN him, we are given life – even as he rises again from death, so we are given new life when we feel we are lost.

The Salvation History tells us what we already know. God is love, we are loved. And that love is good.

The way the story is told may not be exact – but it is entirely true.

　

Passion - A Sermon for Good Friday

We read the Passion Gospel today. Every time I hear that phrase, “Passion Gospel,” my mind races to that Mel Gibson movie several years ago. You remember, “The Passion of the Christ.”

My recollection of it was that it was essentially a festival of violence by Romans against Jesus. If you saw it, all I can say is, there was very little in that movie that resembled the Passion Gospel.

If I can step away from that movie, however, then the word Passion holds all sorts of other images for me. Lovers. Crusaders. People who really love what they do – who have a passion for something.

That’s because for most of us, passion means a deep and abiding interest and even love for something. We think of being really into something. You’re passionate about it, whether it’s a hobby, a person or an idea. You give up a lot to do it.

There’s something else about passions. You will give up a lot in order to pursue that passion. You will give up money, comfort, even safety. That’s almost a prerequisite for passion – the willingness to suffer for your object of passion.

Good thing, too, because the Latin root for passion (and patience, by the way) means to endure or suffer. So passion connects two seemingly incompatible things – Love and suffering.

That’s why we call Jesus’ crucifixion his Passion. It is suffering, but it’s suffering for a reason, something God feels strongly about. That something is Us.

Let’s not pretend that Jesus did not know what he was getting in to. He understood the politics of the Romans and the Sanhedrin. He understood the powder keg that was Jerusalem during Passover. He understood what it meant to be the Passover Lamb.

But he also understood God’s great love for this imperfect group of people he calls his children. He understood the separation we had allowed to grow between us and God. And he understood that a selfless act of sacrificial love was pretty much the only way for us to grasp how much we mean to God – and how God hopes we will relate to him.

Jesus had – has – a passion for us. And for us, he was willing to give up a lot – comfort, safety, life itself.

Today we remember the passion. Let us remember that it is an abiding passion for us, and that we are invited to have it, too. It could conceivably cause us discomfort at times, but like every passion, we can put up with the sacrifices because what we love is so very worth it. And we know this because Jesus led the way. Amen.

The Yuck Factor - A Sermon for Maundy Thursday

As a young father, I found myself often repeating this little mantra: “I am not afraid of poop.” At that point in your life, there is nothing quite so real as a dirty diaper. It engages pretty much all your senses, especially if the diaper is still wrapped around a squirming, screaming baby.

If you’ve ever changed one, you know what I mean. You are going to smell, see, and probably hear, and yes, feel that poop. This is the Yuck Factor. I still have nightmares about it.

You might ask yourself, “Why do it if it’s so yucky?” Of course, you would only ask that if you never had children or perhaps if you were my father who grew up in a family where men did not do such things. All other people know why I would change that diaper: Because that is my child, and my child needs my help.

Seriously, am I going to let a little poop stop me from taking care of my child? No. Neither would you. We don’t because we love our children. When you have someone you love, you do whatever is necessary to keep them safe and healthy. When kids get older, sometimes that means letting them make horrendous messes so that they can learn how to do get along in the world.

The point is that the yuck factor does not rule us when we know what we have to do for those we love. Tonight’s lessons are about overcoming the yuck factor for real and big reasons.

Look at the Old Testament – the Passover. Slaughtering lambs, spreading their blood on the doorpost. That’s not normal even for back then. The first born sons all dying? Not normal? It’s beyond yuck – it’s disturbing. But Moses and the people of Israel do it because it is necessary to preserve the lives of their loved ones. They get beyond the grossness. And each year afterward, they reenacted that night, yucky as it might be, to remind them how much God loved them.

The same might be said of the washing of the feet. That’s a little more immediate because we will wash feet tonight. But even then on that night when Jesus wrapped that towel around his waist and washed his disciples’ feet – even then, they were appalled. That was the work of slaves – because it is yucky, gross work. Why should he, the master, do it?

His answer? Because he was showing them how they should live. They should get beyond the yuck factor so they can serve the children of God. They would have to learn to spend time with lepers and the poorest of the poor, to raise the dead and generally spend their lives with those who are looked at in polite society with one hand holding the nose.

Jesus was saying something very simple: You are here to serve. Get used to it. Don’t be squeamish – are you going to let a little dirt and smell stop you from caring for the people God puts in your path? No!

You might consider overcoming your yuck response tonight and have your feet washed. It’s not a soap-and-water thing – just a reminder that we are called to overcome our fears of yuck – and many other things – in order to serve.

There’s just one more thing in tonight’s lessons that can elicit that yuck response in some. While they were at table, Jesus took bread and broke it, and he took the cup and shared it. He said, “Take, Eat, this is my body and blood.” Body and blood? Yuck.

In fact, early Romans used to think Christians were disgusting because of the bread and wine. Today, the yuck factor usually comes from the idea of drinking out of the same cup. Eww. Germs!

But this is different. It is not something we are doing for others but God feeding us. Aside from the studies that show it’s safe, wouldn’t it be a shame to forego such food and drink, such a sign of God’s love for us?

The word for tonight, then, is Yuck. And overcoming. Because when we do, we can not only share God’s love but be fed by it. Amen.

　

God, Life and Everything - Holy Week

I write a 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.

Maybe it’s just me, but some of my best memories of Holy Week as a child have a lot to do with using palms (from Palm Sunday) as swords to whack my brothers. Sober piety? Not so much.

In my parents’ home, we went to all the services of Holy Week. Palm Sunday with our procession around the block – yes around the entire city block with the entire congregation – before re-entering the church. Maundy Thursday with that most embarrassing ritual called Washing the Feet. Good Friday with its boring readings.

We even went to the Easter Vigil which, at midnight, was too late for me to remember much of – only that once I poked my brother in the ribs and said, “Hey, look! It’s tomorrow!” I believe his response was a well placed dope slap.

For me, despite all that church, it was the palm sword fights and coloring Easter Eggs. I know, the eggs have nothing to do with Christ’s resurrection, but we had a large family, and it was a tradition so we, like many, mixed our Easter Message. We still do, and I don’t care. The eggs are fun, so there.

But I digress.

As I grew, one of the most powerful moments of my adolescence was the night I was allowed to sit vigil on Maundy Thursday. In our tradition, we watch in the church from just after the evening’s service through the night and up to the time of Jesus’ crucifixion the next day. People take it in turns to sit and pray in the church.

The year my parents allowed me to go with my brother, palm swords flew right out of my mind. In fact, that time nearly alone in the darkened church, with those few others sitting there in silence, may have been the time when Holy Week came alive for me. There was something terrible and beautiful about waiting there. Waiting for what we knew from Sunday School would come next. Jesus would be whipped and spit upon and killed in a horrifying manner.

But in that waiting, I felt a calmness, too. It was the sense that all was well despite the sadness of Good Friday and the chaos of the world around us (Vietnam was just ending). Sitting there with Jesus gave me the sense that entertained and safe all the time was just not so important anymore. There were things worth going out on a limb for.

I would not say my whole life changed in that darkened church that first time I sat vigil. Easter came, and we flowered the cross and hunted for eggs. My brothers and sisters were still alternately heroes and villains. I still got in trouble far more than I deserved (says I, not my parents). But I would say that Holy Week changed for me from Palm swords to a cross. And maybe, just a little, I began to understand God’s love.

I wish for you a similar Holy Week of mysterious moments where God’s love becomes real and powerful.

Most churches have services throughout Holy Week. Check your congregation’s schedules. And join the combined churches of Hyde Park on Good Friday at 10:30 AM as we walk the stations of the cross together. We start at Regina Coeli, walk throughout town and end up at Hyde Park Reformed Dutch Church.

Perfume and the Poor - a Sermon

A friend and I have been trading jokes on Facebook lately. Here’s his: A Viking goes away to discover the new world. After years he returns, only to discover that there is no record of his ever having existed. He can’t even vote in Viking elections. Indignant, his wife goes to the Viking in charge of records. He searches through everything and finally, embarrassed, says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I did this. I must have taken Leif off my census.”

My response. A Mystic at the monastery goes to his spiritual director one days and says he’s leaving the monastery to get a job at a garage. The spiritual director is stunned and says, “But why? You’re a mystic!” He replies, “I know. I want to have an auto body experience.”

Now, I’m not telling you this because I enjoy bad jokes, only because jokes are in the air this week.

Back in1980 on Palm Sunday, the novelist Kurt Vonnegut preached a sermon – as far as I know his only time in the pulpit – at St. Clement’s Episcopal Church in New York. But he didn’t like that day’s passage, so he preached on today’s.

Know what he said? He said it was a joke. He said Jesus was joking when he told Judas, “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

What kind of joke is that? Well, typical Vonnegut humor, gallows humor. The kind of joke you tell just before facing the executioner. It’s a joke because they have had all their lives to care for the poor, so why start now? But if he’s so interested in the poor, he can always start caring for them after Jesus is dead because there will be a rich supply of them.

Kurt Vonnegut was no theologian, but he was onto something here because humor tends to highlight the distinctions between opposites. Between logic and the absurd, beauty and ugliness, good and evil. And John’s gospel loves opposites. Just look at what he’s put into this little passage.

You’ve got the remarkable smell of this perfume versus the stench of death (both from her now resurrected brother Lazarus and in anticipation of Jesus’ death). You’ve got the extravagance of the perfume – if you judged by today’s minimum wage, it would cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $12,000 – versus both the poor and Judas’ stinginess. You’ve got Mary’s disturbingly intimate but true expression of love versus Judas’ seemingly appropriate but false love.

John loves those opposites because in the end, he’s going to lead us to a bigger one: an instrument of hate and death will become a sign of love and eternal life.

But I get ahead of myself.

This is happening shortly after Lazarus is raised from the dead and before Jesus makes his final entry into Jerusalem. He’s maybe a week from being crucified. And in this quiet house, Jesus finds rest before the agony.

It is apparently a rather lavish meal – Passover hasn’t started yet, so there’s no austerity in their meals, and you can imagine Mary, Martha and Lazarus might want to put on a nice spread, given what Lazarus has just experience. By the way, Judas does not seem to be complaining about the food.

But then Mary does something unusual and unseemly. She breaks the jar of perfume over Jesus’ feet and anoints his feet with it before drying his feet with her hair. Talk about engaging the senses! The aroma had to fill the house. The sight of her kneeling there had to evoke emotions. The soft touch of her hair against Jesus feet – how did that feel to him? This is extravagance in every sense, and I can imagine everyone there felt uncomfortable.

Which probably encouraged Judas with his pious outrage. After all, righteous indignation is easy, and it has the side benefit of riling up the crowd. There’s nothing like righteous anger to get people going – and that makes the agitators feel very powerful.

So he says, “How dare she do that?” Perhaps he felt uncomfortable mentioning the intimacy of her act, so he focuses on the only thing he can grasp (or think about?), the money. Either way, he intends to sound righteous and ends up sounding – to us at least – like a jerk. Even if John didn’t go overboard by saying he was really a thief, we would get it. Judas appears as someone who knows the right words but not the heart.

Even if he is being honest, he still mistakes discipline with discipleship. Because Jesus makes it clear that following him does not mean we stop being human. We have senses to use, to enjoy.

More importantly, when something big, something life-changing happens, we employ our extravagance to honor the moment. Could you imagine someone stopping a wedding and saying, “We could have spent this money on the poor!” Yes, there are lots of wedding jokes out there, but the point is, it’s a moment that celebrates life-changing love. So, it’s okay to go a bit overboard.

And if a wedding is an expression of love to celebrate, how much more is Jesus’ love for us, a love that will be put to the biggest test, a love that we are on the verge of seeing at its most powerful. This moment deserves lavish attention.

Besides, if we put ourselves in Judas’ place, we would realize that we probably spend lots of money on ourselves without anything monumental to recognize – just because we want something. A fancy new car, new phones with all the services and apps, a bigger house than necessary, dinner and a show. Not to make anyone feel guilty about it, just to help us see that we spend a lot without a big occasion, so why not let Mary do for Jesus such a beautiful thing?

After all, spending that money on the poor would not have stopped poverty. But it did signal this most crucial moment in humanity where life overcame death – and did so with the cruelest instrument of death.

John loves to contrast those opposites – which makes Jesus’ defense of Mary very serious, but also a pretty good joke. Amen.

God, Life and Everything - Break In

I write a 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.

This has been an interesting winter for the church. We had a break in last month. All the intruder got was some communion wine, but they broke an expensive window and damaged a wall in the process.

The worst part isn’t the physical damage; we have insurance to cover those sorts of things.

The worst part is the fear that such an attack instills, the feeling of violation. It’s hard not to fall prey to feelings of vulnerability and anger when someone damages you like that.

One of the immediate (and temporary, I hope) results is that we began locking the church all the time now. And the police patrol the area more often. And altar guild members are thinking twice about arriving early to set up the altar for worship. In other words, the damage is far greater than just a broken window and some missing wine.

But let us consider how else we might respond. As the church, we are intended to be an example of what it means to live in Christ. Living like Christ often doesn’t seem to make sense to the rest of the world. Jesus is the person, after all, who said love and pray for your enemies, turn the other cheek, give your shirt to the person who steals your coat. Not what your insurance company wants to hear.

What’s worse, one of Jesus’ favorite commands to us is, “Don’t be afraid.” For him, not being afraid doesn’t mean getting a bigger gun than your enemy, nor does it mean building an impenetrable fortress. Losing the fear means trusting that nothing that anyone does to us can ever separated from the Love of God.

It’s a crazy way to live, naïve in the eyes of many because it’s never based on getting even or even giving anyone what they deserve. It’s based on opening our hearts to God and each other – and not coincidentally, opening our arms to the same. This necessarily means sticking your neck out – but then, consider the turtle that never goes anywhere without sticking its neck out.

My point is, we are the church, commissioned to live fearlessly in a world where bad things happen. Churches have been targets of theft, vandalism and worse since the earliest days. The first church I served at in Peekskill recorded its first break-in before the American Revolution. To be the church means to make ourselves vulnerable if that serves the purposes of the Gospel.

So what do we do? Well, the first thing we did as a congregation (aside from calling the police) was to pray for the burglar. Our primary prayer was that he find a healthier way to get what he needs. Perhaps for a re-evaluation in his life of what he really needs, too.

Now we have to consider whether or not we will remain locked up all the time, or whether we will find a way to fulfill one part of our mission: to be a place of prayer and rest to those who come to us.

There are no easy answers and angles to consider. For everyone who experiences this sort of violation, they know it forces you to re-consider so many aspects of who you are. We will work on this for some time – and in the meantime, we will remember that nothing, not even a break-in, can separate us from the Love of God.

　

No Attaboys? - A Sermon

I learned a new word last week. It’s “Boastamonial.”

A Boastamonial is a the story that a speaker tells to an auditorium full of teenagers about how their life was so messed up that nobody could imagine. Sex, drugs, alcohol… They were on a one-way ticket to hell until – you guessed it – they found Jesus.

These stories used to be called testimonials, but my friend – a protestant pastor who’s been to quite a few of these – said that over time they all either sounded the same or sounded like they were trying to one-up each other. “Nobody was worse than me – No, I was the worse sinner, totally lost…” The farther down they went, the more excited the crowd gets, you see.

Boastamonials have been around for a long time. Remember the apostle Paul? “I am the chief among sinners.” They have power because you don’t know if a life can always be saved, so it’s good to hear that they can be.

Then my friend said something else. He said, “I’m really glad for these folks because they turned their lives around and seem happy, but then I look at my youth group kids and I think, I don’t want these kids to have to go through this stuff. I just want them to grow up with a strong faith and a quiet life. Even if it means never getting to stand up in front of an adoring audience.”

That’s the catch, isn’t it? The ones who live self-damaging lives get the attention, especially if they turn things around. And everyone else? We’re the audience.

It’s like that shepherd with his sheep: One sheep wanders off, gets itself lost, possibly injured, open game for the wolves – and the shepherd leaves everyone else alone to go search for it. Now the other sheep get to watch the shepherd rejoice when that dumb sheep is found. I’m not sure what emotions sheep feel, but I can’t imagine they’re all that excited by the slacker.

But if you go to the story of the son who left home – we call it the prodigal son – we see something going on that might strike close to home. We see the prodigal son – the younger son who is rude, he takes all his inheritance and wastes it on illicit living, then comes to his senses and comes home. It’s a boastamonial. He gets to tell his adoring father how bad he was, then the father gets to rejoice over his being saved.

So, why is the older son so ticked off? Why isn’t he part of that adoring crowd?

Perhaps because he’s asking that very legitimate question: Why does someone who does everything wrong get all the attention, and those of us who always do everything right don’t even get an “attaboy.” You know what attaboys are, don’t you. That pat on the back people get at the office for coming up with a new idea or a cost-saving plan. When you do something good.

What the older son is asking is, “Why doesn’t good behavior get rewarded?”

Why indeed?

Of course, you might also ask, why does it matter? Why do we live a “good” life? Why do most of us labor away in the fields like the older brother? Is it for attention? Is it for the reward of the party and adoration? Is it so everyone around us will say, “Oh, he’s so great!”?

Maybe a little. And to be fair, it’s nice to receive a little acknowledgement of doing a good job once in awhile. But if you want the angels to stand up and rejoice, well, living a quietly faithful life isn’t the way to do it.

When the father goes to the older son and implores him to join the party, he says, “Listen, your reward is that you’ve been with me all along.

“Attaboys” aren’t necessary because you know I love you. You’ve always known it. This younger brother of yours – he didn’t. He went through much of his life not knowing what it was like to be loved – not because the love wasn’t there but because he couldn’t see it. Now he can. And for this little moment in time, we’ll rejoice.

Celebration means marking a change in life – usually to something better. We don’t celebrate when it remains the same. We just live. And to be honest, just living is plenty.

Most of us may at most get the occasional “Attaboy,” but we’re not going to get adoring crowds praising how we brought ourselves back from the brink. How we were “saved.” That’s okay. Because to live quietly in the house of God knowing God’s love for us is joy and peace all by itself. All we have to do is open our eyes and see what we’ve got. Amen.

Chocolateness - God, Life, and Everything

I write a 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.

It’s day 21 of my chocolate withdrawal. So far, I’ve held strong, but I feel trapped. The wolves of Hershey and Mars are circling, circling, tempting me to come out for just a nibble. Their powers are strong, and if I venture toward them even a step, they will have me in their jaws.

So, I resist and wait throughout these cold, hard days and nights called Lent. Someday, relief will come. Either I the pangs of chocolate withdrawal will subside, or this season of chocolatelessness will pass. The only question is, will I survive until then?

Of course I will. Giving up chocolate for Lent is no big deal, when you think about it. It’s just something I tend to consume rather thoughtlessly far too much of the time, and I wanted to use this period of self-examination and self-denial to become a bit more intentional about what I consume.

I’ll bet there’s someone asking right now, “Do people still give things up for Lent? I thought that went out with Disco.” In fact, throughout much of my youth, it was fashionable to say, “Don’t give something up, take something on for Lent. It’s much more meaningful.”

While I won’t deny that taking on a spiritual discipline like bible reading, or extra prayer time, or service to others is valid and valuable, that is something that’s appropriate any time of year. Why wait for Lent to do that? Scripture reading, prayer, service, among a whole host of other positive actions are things we are even called upon to do all of the time. That’s the bulk of our lives as people of faith.

But to give something up? That’s Lent.

If it seems like I’ve spent the last few columns musing on the nature of Lent, it’s because I have. There’s a part of me that resists the speed with which we live our lives. Like Advent, this is a time to slow down despite the frantic pace of the world. Yet, here we are in Lent, packing on extra meetings, classes, retreats, planning for the summer. If there’s anything we need to do in Lent, it’s step back a bit and look at our lives.

To do that, I’ve given up chocolate, which is always around – at the grocery store, the convenience store, the hospital gift shop – as a little reminder of what I need and what I don’t. I thought about giving up meetings, but I realized that wouldn’t be a sacrifice at all. I thought about giving up my cell phone, too, but I’m not that strong.

The wolves of chocolate still circle but with help and a renewed sense of priorities, I’m sure I can hold out till that blessed day in April when the thing we’ll be reminding ourselves of isn’t self-denial but joyous life that knows no bounds.

Pesky Plants - A Sermon

Well, Spring is coming. I could tell not only by the melting snow but by the buds on the branches. Unfortunately, most of those branches were broken off their trees from the snow a couple of weeks ago. Even the forsythia was flattened and hasn’t bounced back.

All those plants are so much trouble. Well, they had pesky plants in the bible, too, but judging from today’s readings, it would seem there are two types of plants.

The first plant we encounter is a burning bush. Not something you see every day – and certainly not something Moses had ever seen before. Of course, if I had been him, I would have turned and run the other direction. If he had known what was coming, he probably would have, too.

What came was demands. This burning bush, awesome as it appeared, turned out to be the most demanding, powerful, persistent – and yet empowering thing he had ever seen. It told him to go back to Egypt – remember, that’s the place he ran away from because he had killed someone and was now wanted for murder – and not only that but go to Pharaoh and tell him to release hundreds, thousands, of his slaves. The bush has heard the cry of the people and has compassion.

Thanks, bush.

Moses, of course, said, “No, I can’t do that! I stutter! I’m weak. I’m just a shepherd. I’m wanted. I don’t even know who you are.” Every objection was met with an answer – this plant was not going to take No for an answer.

God said, “Yes you can – and I will empower you for this ministry.” And he did.

The second plant type we encounter in the Gospel. Jesus tells the parable of the fig that would not or could not produce fruit. The landowner wants to just get rid of the thing, but the gardener pleads to give it one last chance. He’ll prune, water and fertilize the tree for a year, and if after that time it still hasn’t produced fruit, then the master can chop it up.

Where the burning bush is fiery and powerful as well as compassionate, the fig tree is weak, prone to giving up, clueless how to survive – seemingly hopeless.

You might think the burning bush is an obvious symbol for God but might wonder about the fig. Are we really that bad?

Well, remember that just Jesus has dealt with two stories of people trying to find reasons to condemn others – victims of horrific tragedies. It would be like blaming innocent victims of an earthquake or hurricane.

Their motivation for this? Largely, it’s so they will feel superior to others. If someone else is really bad, then nobody will notice my faults. And in a world like first century Israel where bad things only happened to bad people, victims of horrific crimes were easy targets.

That’s what Jesus was dealing with, and he responded by saying: You are in the same boat. You all are.

Then to emphasize the point, he tells the parable of the tree. They may be no good, as good as dead, hopeless and worthy of impatience, but with Jesus as gardener, there’s always “one more time.” Always another chance.

That’s a pretty harsh picture of God – that is the land owner. And let’s face it, it’s not a very flattering picture of us, either. But the gardener gives us hope. With him, not only do we get a chance to live another year, but we get the best care that can nurture us to full health.

Actually, we get better than that. The gardener feeds this fig, feeds us, with his lifeblood so that we become part of him – and therefore part of the burning bush. In short, we are one with God.

Maybe we’ll never quite become a burning bush (but who knows?) – yet certainly a healthy, fruitful, empowered, compassionate and persistent plant that will make any farmer glad.

That is what is within us, potential that Jesus sees even if we don’t. All it takes is a heart filled with love – an infusion of God. Then we’ll see how much of the world we can feed, clothe, comfort, etc.

There are two types of plants, but there’s nothing that says we can’t graft one onto the other. It’s better than just manure anyway. Amen.

The Fox and the Hen -- A Sermon

You know, the Pharisees get a bad rap, always yelling at Jesus and complaining about him. But look how nice they are today. They go to him as he’s head to Jerusalem and say, “Stay away! Herod’s out to get you!”

Awfully nice behavior for people who hate Jesus, don’t you think? And they have made it abundantly clear that they hate him throughout Luke’s gospel. On the other hand, Herod is a baddy, so their warning is logical.

But is it sincere? More likely, this is an attempt on the Pharisee’s part to drive Jesus away NOT with arguments, which is their usual method, but with fear. “Run away!” they say. “You’ll get hurt!”

Jesus’ response? “Tell that fox I have work to do first.”

Jesus knows what awaits him in Jerusalem. Prophets die in Jerusalem. Of all the gospels, Luke makes it clearest that Jesus marches inexorably on to Jerusalem and death, because that is how he will accomplish his task.

Moreover, by calling Herod a fox, he has named their supposed concern for what it really is: fear mongering. He will not fall prey to their fear.

Then Jesus breaks into what I can only describe as a lament. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often I have longed to gather your children together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wing, but you were not willing.”

The Pharisees probably understood: Jesus has already made their attempt at fear into a FOX. Now he is calling himself the protective hen and the children of Jerusalem the hapless chicks.
Before we go on, I just want to make sure we all know how well foxes and hens get along. We all know what foxes can do, especially to panicked chicks who run loose unprotected? Good.

So now we have the Fox which is Herod but which is even more powerfully that big F-Word, Fear. The Fox equals Fear.

The Hen is Jesus, and by extension, God. The chicks are the Jerusalemites, and by extension the Israelites, and by further extension, us.

In Jesus’ lament, he is not afraid, as the Pharisees had hoped. He is sad. Sad because he knows that the fear which could NOT entrap him WILL catch many of his children.
It is fear of Herod, fear of shame, fear of the Romans, and maybe especially fear of God which will cause them to turn their backs on Jesus despite their initial excitement about him. He’s foreshadowing that day which we call Palm Sunday when he will enter Jerusalem to shouts of joy, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” only to have them shout for his death a few days later. He knows they will act out of fear more than anything else.
Fear is the Fox that kills. And the hen cannot protect her children from fear if they do not come to her protective wings.

Actually, that’s a pretty simple message, and one that rings true for us today. We live in an age where fear is more easily disseminated than ever before. We have television, radio, newspapers (for the moment), magazines and most powerfully of all, the internet.

Everywhere you turn, there are stories of robbery, murder, kidnapping, and so on – way out of proportion with reality. Whether they are true or not is irrelevant. How many of you have received forwarded e-mails warning about some dire virus that will instantly destroy your computer? Most of them are hoaxes or urban legends with just a bit of truth – and most of them are not there to provide useful information but to make you afraid.

This fear has two major effects. It paralyzes and it panics. Like little chicks, we simply freeze when we get frightened of life. Like with the internet, some people will simply never touch a computer, they’re so afraid. Or they go to the other extreme and buy every anti-virus program known to man. This is most harmful when that fear is of God himself. How many of us were told by earnest sounding Christians that God is to be feared, and sinning will get us condemned?

That’s the fox speaking. And our response? We freeze. We’re overwhelmed. We stay at home so we don’t have to hear it. We do nothing or maybe become obsessed with our own comfort.
Or we panic. Like chicks who run every which way except toward the hen’s wings, we scatter into endless activities that momentarily divert our attention but provide no help. Maybe we run from belief to belief or become fastidious about having the right sacraments, the right actions – always trying to achieve safety from an angry God. All the while, Jesus is calling out, “Come to me and I will help you live without fear.”

There is a third option. Fear can cause us to sink into great evil, to turn into foxes so that we have the illusion of power. Most of us stick to the first two., but it’s better to live without fear altogether, as Christ desires for us.

But here’s the catch. Living without fear does not mean living without pain or sadness or death. Those are part of life, things Jesus expresses so poignantly in this one little passage. The hen, in fact, often dies in her effort to protect her chicks from the fox. And we all know what happens to Jesus when he reaches Jerusalem.

But pain, sadness, death – they are not to be feared so much as to be approached with a deeper knowledge. They do not have the power to kill us. Jesus has seen to that. Only fear will kill us eternally because it will drive us away from God’s loving embrace.

In a world where fear is so readily available, so attractively presented, Jesus still reaches out to us and says “Come to me.” The question is, are we willing?

Amen.