Sermon; Proper 12A; Matt. 13:31-33, 44-52

In Matthew's gospel, Jesus is born, his family flees to Egypt, he returns to Nazareth, is baptized by John, spends 40 days in the wilderness, moves to Capernaum, and then begins his public ministry. The first words of his ministry are the same words that John proclaimed: Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near. Now, hold onto that for a bit.

We are still in Chapter 13, which means we continue to get kingdom parables from Jesus. Today we get five of them in quick succession – the mustard seed, yeast mixed with flour, a treasure found, a pearl of great value, and a catch of fish. Now . . . I could break down each parable with explanations and meanings, but none of us want an hour-long sermon.

As I mentioned, both Jesus and John say that the kingdom of heaven is near. And this idea of the nearness of the kingdom of heaven is prominent in Matthew. In a number of ways and contexts, the word “kingdom” appears in Matthew more than any other gospel. And in a quick, very unscientific look through Matthew, I counted about 16 times that Jesus was specifically talking about the kingdom of heaven. For Matthew's Jesus, the kingdom of heaven isn't some pie-in-the-sky dream or post-death fantasy. For Matthew's Jesus, the kingdom of heaven is near NOW. It is within our grasp NOW. It is something to be worked for and expected NOW. Luke is the other gospel that has a lot of kingdom references, and between the two there are almost 100 references to the kingdom. Not coincidentally, it's in these two gospels where we find the Lord's Prayer in which we pray, “Your kingdom come.”

We all know the two versions are not identical, and Matthew adds, “Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” That's another reference for working toward the establishment of the kingdom of heaven in the here and now, not in some distant, future fantasy world.

These five kingdom parables, and the ones from the previous two weeks, aren't about a future kingdom, but are designed to get us thinking about the kingdom in the here and now. They are designed to get us to look for and help usher in the kingdom of heaven NOW. And in looking for the kingdom in the here and now, these five parables point to something big – the kingdom of heaven – coming from something small.

The small mustard seed represents the small beginnings of the kingdom that grows into something so large that many birds (i.e., people) make nests in its branches. Think about Abraham and Sarah, two people who were the mustard seed of all the people of Israel. Think about the twelve apostles, that small group of men who, when mixed with the flour of Israel, made a change so profound that it became the Church. Think about St. Francis whose search for meaning and inner peace led him to find the pearl of great price that was monastic orders and leading the restoration of both Church and chapels.

The kingdom of heaven is like something that begins small but disrupts the world as we know it. That's the way God always works. God doesn't do big, grandiose things to prove his existence or to make people believe. I remember reading a story years ago where God got tired of being ignored, so started doing very public things to get people to pay attention – like lowering Australia 20 feet for five minutes. But that's not how God works, as much as we may want that.

God calls Abraham to follow. Jesus calls twelve men to follow. People are sent out to proclaim the kingdom of heaven has come near. That small thing that is planted in here – in each of us and in this congregation – has the potential to do great things one person at a time.

It's like the old Faberge shampoo commercial where a woman tells two friends and she tells two friends and so on and so on and so on. We aren't here to conquer the world, despite what some Christians think. We are here to make the kingdom of heaven known and present in the here and now, one person at a time. We are here to plant that small seed in hopes it will grow into something grand and/or make a lasting change.

I leave for clergy conference next week and the bishop has us reading a book by Richard Rohr, a Roman Catholic priest and Franciscan friar. In that book Rohr writes, “The best criticism of the bad is the practice of the good.” This gets at what Jesus is saying in these parables. The kingdom of heaven is a good, small practice that will ultimately overthrow the bad.

It was Gandhi who said, “Every revolution begins with a single act of defiance.” Whether that is Rosa Parks not moving, a church feeding the hungry, a member of the dominant class speaking up for minorities – respecting the dignity of every human being begins with you. And that tiny seed or bit of yeast has the power to change lives and help usher in the kingdom of heaven in the here and now.

And speaking of revolutions, these parables remind me of the old Star Trek episode Mirror, Mirror. In that episode, Kirk, McCoy, Scotty, and Uhura are transported to a mirror universe where diplomacy is replaced by war, everything is done for a price, and promotions are attained by murdering your superior. At the end of the episode, just before they are transported back to their own universe, Kirk tells mirror Spock that he can change the trajectory of the empire. Spock says, “One man cannot summon the future.” And Kirk replies, “But one man can change the present. Be that man, Spock.”

These are the small seeds of loving your neighbor. This is the yeast that disrupts systems of oppression and inequality helping to create the bread of heaven for all to eat. This is the pearl of great price that we search for in every person. These are the small acts of the kingdom that make it known in the here and now.

I began by reminding you of Jesus' first words in his public ministry: Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.

Sin, remember, is the seeking of our own will instead of the will of God. To repent means to turn from our selfish ways and desires back to God. Our repentance, if it is honest and done with a true desire to change paths and get right with God, will sow the seeds of change. That change in us can lead to sowing seeds of the kingdom in others, which can lead to God's kingdom arriving on earth as it is in heaven.

In all of these parables we are shown that if we expect the kingdom of heaven to appear with power suddenly overthrowing “the bad people,” we will miss it. Instead, the kingdom of heaven appears in very small ways that will eventually grow and disrupt the world for the better.

Be the seed that starts something big. Be the yeast that disrupts the status quo in favor of God's ways. Search for the pearl of great price in others. Start small and then watch how it grows into the magnificent kingdom of heaven in the here and now.

Amen.

Sermon; Proper 11A; Matt. 13:24-30, 36-43

Can anyone tell me what the definition of a weed is? A weed, by definition, is a plant that grows where it is not wanted. So, if I told you there was a plant that is full of vitamins, antioxidants and minerals, may fight inflammation, may lower cholesterol and reduce blood pressure, and possibly help prevent cancer, would that be a plant you would want to grow? I see some skeptical looks like, “What is he trying to pull?”

In today's gospel Jesus gives us the parable of the wheat and weeds. We have good seed that is planted in good soil, that then gets mixed with bad seed planted by an enemy. In this parable nobody knows what has happened until the plants grow up. So the landowner decides to let the two plants, weeds and wheat, grow up and live side by side until the harvest.

There are a lot of ways to go with this parable, and none of them are easy.

One way to view this parable is with a completely hands-off approach. This recognizes that there are weeds and evil ones among us, but there is nothing to be done until the final judgment at the end of the age. It is not for us to judge, therefore we rely on and trust that God will take care of everything eventually. The logical conclusion to this line of thinking is a fatalistic belief that we can do nothing to improve things in the here and now, and we end up living like the people of Israel at the end of Judges: “all the people did what was right in their own eyes.” In other words, it's anarchy on earth until the final judgment.

Another way to think about this parable is to understand that weeds are plants that grow where they aren't wanted. If, as I suggested last week, we are a place that provides good soil where people can develop deep roots and be productive for the kingdom of heaven, then we must also ask ourselves, “Who are the ones we don't want?”

Are they people who sit in our pews? The ones who ask too many questions? Sing too loudly and/or off key? First in line at potlucks but never bring anything? Or any number of other things we don't like or don't approve.

The trick here is to understand that even weeds have some value. How then do we live with them? How do we help them be useful and productive? How do we help them find dignity as a creation of God in a way that they add value to us, to themselves, and to God rather than simply existing and draining our resources? This might be the hardest thing for us to do with a weed – find its usefulness and cultivate it.

A third way to look at this parable is to understand that we all have the potential for good and evil within us. None of us are pure weed or pure wheat. We carry the seeds of both, and both grow side by side. We can choose which one to cultivate. And we can understand that if we focus on the bad seed, that will lower what the good seed within us can produce.

But having both inside us isn't a simple matter of identifying weeds and wheat. Both of those things are tangled up inside us. We are constantly entangled in roots of good and evil. We will say good things while acting on evil things. We will talk about “all God's children,” but support cutting programs to help those in need. The list of entanglements is long, and cultivating wheat takes both hard work and self-awareness.

At the end of today's gospel passage Jesus talks about collecting all sinful things and evildoers and throwing them into the furnace of fire, and then the righteous will shine like the sun. This can lead, and has led, people down a slippery path thinking that, because we are God's chosen, we will get to spend eternity watching and gloating over other sinful people burn in hell. But we need to remember that we are not the final judges and that if both weeds and wheat grow in us, we might be surprised to find ourselves on the wrong side of that chasm.

One thing in Jesus' description of the end of the age that gives me hope is this: they will collect out of his kingdom all causes of sin.

I think there are both external and internal causes of sin, but that most causes of sin are internal. Things like jealousy, gluttony, covetousness, lust, and others bubble up inside us and lead us to sinful acts. If those causes of sin are collected and burned, then the part of me that succumbs to sin, the part of me that is weed, is burned away. That is probably not the easiest thing to experience, but it is for the best.

This parable today gives us a few things to think about. We can give up until the end of the age, but that seems like it does more harm than good. We can work to find value in those whom we consider weeds and look for ways to help cultivate them. We can understand that we ourselves are a tangle of weeds and wheat and work to cultivate that which is good within us. And we can understand that causes of evil are within us and Christ will burn that away so that we may shine like the sun in the kingdom of heaven.

Weeds are simply plants that grow where we don't want them. Knowing what we know now about a certain plant, are you willing to allow dandelions to grow in your yard? Are you willing to work with those whom others might consider weeds to help them produce for the kingdom of heaven?

Amen.

Sermon; Proper 10A; Matt. 13:1-9, 18-23

First, I need to get something off my chest . . . I'm a little annoyed with the lectionary committee this week. They decided that, after four weeks of following Jesus through Chapters 10 and 11 we should completely jump over Chapter 12. Here's why this is important, and here's some homework for you. Last week we heard Jesus say, “Take my yoke upon you, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Then with that in mind, read Chapter 12 of Matthew and pay attention to the interactions between Jesus and the Pharisees and notice the yoke and burden of Jesus vs. the yoke and burden of the Pharisees.

Okay . . . now that that's done, let's look at today's gospel.

Chapter 13 ushers in a series of what are known as “kingdom parables” – parables focused on the nearness of the kingdom of heaven. And while today's parable doesn't explicitly state that, Jesus could have very easily begun by saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like a sower who went out to sow.”

We've probably all heard this parable many times and we have all probably heard just as many sermons on it. So I won't try to explain it – Jesus does that himself. Instead, let me see if I can give you something new to think about.

One popular interpretation, and the one that Jesus himself gives, is that we are the seeds that land in various spots. Maybe we're sown on the path, don't understand the message of the kingdom, and get snatched away. Or maybe we're the ones who get choked by the lure of wealth and worldly concerns. Or maybe we're the ones who fall away when following Christ becomes difficult. Or maybe we're the ones who produce an abundance of fruit for the kingdom. Over the years I've noticed that we are rarely just one of those, but that we can be good one day and fickle or non-existent the next.

We don't like to admit that, but it's true. We all think we're the seed in good soil bearing an abundance of fruit for the kingdom. But how many of us, when given the opportunity to serve or participate in church life or any number of spiritual disciplines have opted to pursue our own desires instead? Or how many of us have been enticed by things we know are not holy or life-giving, or by things we assume give us a certain status in the community? It happens and we need to be honest about it.

What seeds people are with respect to the kingdom is one way to look at this parable. But I was recently shown another way to look at it.

I was talking with Mtr. Ann (from that other Buffalo) last week as we prepared for the Wednesday Night BBQ when she asked, “What kind of soil are we?” That's an excellent question I hadn't ever considered before, and is a better question than, “What seeds are we (or am I)?”

What kind of seed am I focuses only on ourselves. Am I the kind of person who gets seduced by worldly promises? Am I the kind of person who is lured away from the faith by wealth and power? Am I the kind of person who hears what Jesus is saying but does nothing to understand it? Regardless of what kind of seed any of us are, it's all about me.

However, “What kind of soil am I?” is the better question because it asks us to consider how we allow/encourage/nurture others to grow in the faith.

Are we the “soil” of the path, proclaiming the good news to others but offering no resources to help them understand? Are we the rocky soil who proclaim only good and joyful messages (like the Prosperity Gospel) that ultimately provide no depth and allow people to fall away when things get difficult? Are we the soil that allows a shallow faith to get choked away by worldly wealth and power? Are we the good soil, providing resources to understand, helping to make God a priority, and providing a place to weather storms and deepen faith so the kingdom of heaven can grown by hundreds, sixties, and thirties?

Seeing ourselves as soil for the kingdom of heaven, and asking what kind of soil we are, will allow us to, hopefully, cultivate ourselves and this place into fertile ground for the kingdom of heaven.

Finally, let's talk about the sower. The sower is out there scattering seed willy-nilly without a care as to where it lands. What's up with that? If it were me, I'd be making sure the seed I scattered was aimed at good soil. It's almost like this person doesn't even care where it lands. And that's the difference between a theology of scarcity and a theology of abundance.

A theology of scarcity tells us to sparingly share what we have. Scarcity tells us look for only the right people to whom we will proclaim the good news. Scarcity tells us to talk about our faith and God only to those who will benefit this place or only to those whom we think will become good pledgers.

A theology of abundance, however, tells us to generously share what we have. Abundance in proclaiming the good news tells us to share our faith with everyone, regardless of where it lands. Abundance tells us to be foolishly generous by recognizing that everyone needs to hear the good news, regardless of whether or not we deem them to be good soil. And a theology of abundance ultimately asks us to trust God.

Scarcity makes us question our resources. It makes us hold tightly to our gifts because we might lose them. It makes our default mode, “We can't because . . . not enough money, not enough people, not enough resources, not enough time . . . not enough.”

Abundance, though, sees God working in and through everything. Abundance allows and encourages us to pledge to the kingdom of God as represented by this parish. Abundance encourages us to spread the good news randomly and joyfully without regard to who hears it. Abundance makes our default mode, “We can because God is with us.”

I'll come back to the hygiene collection here. Abundance tells us that we can all add at least ONE HYGIENE ITEM to our grocery cart and bring it on Sunday. Abundance tells us that when we ALL do that, the patrons of the Food Pantry will have an abundance of hygiene items.

This first kingdom parable reminds us to be abundant and generous because that's how the kingdom of heaven operates. It reminds us that we don't always produce good fruit for the kingdom. And it can also remind us that we are the soil in which seeds of faith are planted. So let us make this place a place of good, fertile soil in which people grow to produce good fruit for the kingdom while finding depth and strength.

Amen.

Sermon; Proper 9A; Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

Today's gospel reading needs a bit of context. Unlike the last three weeks that were focused on travel instructions to the apostles before they went out to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise, today's passage jumps into the middle of a story we don't understand. So some background.

The beginning of Chapter 11 opens with John the Baptist in prison. He's heard about Jesus so he sends some of his disciples to find out if Jesus is the Messiah or if they are to wait for another. Jesus says, “Go and tell John what you hear and see . . .” basically saying that, yes, he's the one. After John's disciples leave he begins talking to the crowd about John. He asks them what drew them to John, he gets in a dig at Herod, and he says how John embodies the return of Elijah. And it's in this context that today's gospel passage is based.

If Jesus seems a little cranky here, he might be. He's thinking about John and himself and their two roles. “We played the flute and you did not dance, we wailed and you did not mourn” represent two ways of looking at John and Jesus. On the one hand, the joyful flute players represent Jesus and his joyful announcement of the coming kingdom, while the wailers represent John and his dour foretelling of coming judgment. On the other hand, the flute players in the story can represent those who wanted John to be more joyful while those who wailed want to see Jesus stop preaching good news and mourn. Either way, both are attacked – John because he didn't eat or drink and therefore had a demon, and Jesus because he ate, drank, and mixed with the wrong people and was therefore a glutton and drunkard. With this hypocrisy and double standard, it's no wonder Jesus was a tad cranky.

The lectionary starts there with Jesus calling out the people for their double standards, and then it skips over several verses. In the omitted portion, cranky Jesus berates the people of a few towns. He says, “Woe to you Bethsaida and Capernaum. If the deeds of power done there had been done in Tyre, Sidon, or even Sodom, they would have repented. As it is, it will be worse for you on the day of judgment than for those cities.”

The lectionary reading then picks up with Jesus giving thanks for those who choose to follow him and for those whom Jesus chooses to reveal himself to. And it's here where we get to the heart of today's passage: “Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you . . . for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” This, along with the 23^rd Psalm, has to be one of the most comforting passages in all of scripture – my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

But is it?

Because for the last three weeks we've heard Jesus tell the apostles things like: I am sending you out like sheep among wolves; you will be handed over to councils and flogged in their synagogues; you will be dragged before governors and kings; brother will betray brother to death; children will rise against parents and have them put to death; you will be hated by all; and a variety of other dire and deadly predictions. This doesn't sound like his yoke is easy and his burden light. On the contrary, this very much sounds hard and heavy.

But context is everything.

Whereas those dire and deadly predictions of Chapter 10 were addressed to the apostles about what they would face as they headed out into the world, today's comforting words are addressed to listeners after Jesus goes off about John, how the two of them are treated, and a lack of repentance by the people of Israel. They could also foreshadow his upcoming conflicts with the Pharisees over issues about the Law in Chapter 12.

As cranky as Jesus seems to be in Chapter 11, he's putting forth the idea that by following him in word and deed, by taking his yoke upon you, he has a way of making your burdens lighter – not non-existent, but lighter.

Take, for instance, the yoke of worship. A yoke, as you all know, is a harness connecting animals together and to a load. In a broad context, it represents servitude or duty. The Catechism states that the duty of all Christians is to come together week by week for corporate worship. The Baptismal Covenant asks, “Will you continue in the apostles' teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?” In other words, “Will you be faithful in worship?” Worship is a duty, a yoke, that we take upon us.

The burden of that worship is relatively light: one day a week for 90 minutes. Yet some people see it as so burdensome they choose not to attend. But isn't it in worship where we feel relief, uplifted, and recharged? Isn't it in worship where the world falls away and we can reconnect with God in a way we don't get to during the week? It's in worship where we share the burdens of our life with Christ and each other.

Or take what Jesus addressed earlier, the role of repentance. We all have sins that we carry through the days, weeks, months, or years. Those sins can have a way of eating away at us and weighing us down. The yoke of repentance allows us to honestly admit our errors, to make a right beginning, and (if necessary) make restitution or reparations. In doing these things the yoke of repentance allows Christ to lighten our burdens so we can live more fully in him and with others.

One thing in all of this we need to remember: Jesus never says he will remove our burdens. He never says his path will be easy. We are still asked to take up our cross. We are still asked to sacrifice our selves for him. We are still asked to prioritize our life with God at the head. But Jesus reminds us here that his yoke – the yoke of worship, the yoke of discipleship, the yoke of servanthood – is easy because we do these things in his name. There are plenty of things in my life that have not been easy and have been difficult, but because I've done them with Jesus as the priority they have been easier than otherwise.

And as for burdens being light, Jesus never asks us to do this alone. And that, I think, is the key. Someone once told me, with regard to the death of a spouse, “I don't know how anyone without a faith community does this.” Jesus called twelve men, not one. He sent them out in pairs, not as individuals. He knew the value of community and the support it offered. And yes, families – biological or otherwise – and communities can be weird and difficult. But they also offer a level of support that allows us to share our burdens, thereby making them lighter for each of us.

Chapter 11 is the “cranky Jesus” chapter; apparently even Jesus had a bad day. But maybe that's what makes these words of comfort even more comforting: that even in the midst of being cranky we can find a place of lightened burdens. And maybe it can remind us to turn to Jesus and his community of believers when things get rough. And maybe we will remember that, no matter what we are going through, the Church that Jesus established, the Church we are yoked to, will always be here to help lighten our burdens.

Amen.

Sermon; Proper 8A; Matt. 10:40-42

Today we get the final set of instructions from Jesus to the apostles – to us – before they (we) go out on their (our) mission to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. These instructions started two weeks ago when Jesus said to take no gold or silver or two tunics. They go on to warn about being dragged before authorities and to not be afraid of all that happens because of your proclamations. Those instructions end on a relatively happy note today with Jesus talking about welcome and rewards.

On the one hand, Jesus is talking about those who welcome the apostles – “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me . . .” He's basically saying that anyone who welcomes the apostles is opening themselves up to receiving the presence of God. But also embedded in this statement is that Christ can be found in all people – welcoming people means welcoming Christ. And that has implications for not only how we are welcomed by others, but by how others are welcomed by us.

“Then God said, 'Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness'.”

Humans were made in the likeness of God. That means every human – black, brown, white, male, female, native, foreigner, old, young, and everything in-between – bears the imago dei, the image of God. For us, that means we need to remember that when we welcome someone into our midst we are welcoming Christ into our midst. More than anyone else, we should remember this and welcome people as if we would welcome Christ himself.

Jesus closes out these travel instructions by saying whoever gives a cup of cold water to one of these little ones will not lose their reward. There's a long tradition in the Church that Jesus isn't talking about children, but that “little ones” refers to those who are new to the faith. That could be new converts or people exploring and testing. The cup of cold water symbolizes the very least of what a person can give to someone in need. The implication isn't to give the absolute minimum, but that everyone can at least give something small. Kind of like our collection baskets for the Food Pantry. None of us are being asked to supply vast amounts of hygiene products, but you are being reminded that everyone can supply at least one hygiene item every time you go grocery shopping.

This bit about giving cold water also foreshadows Chapter 25 where Jesus separates the sheep from the goats. In that final judgment the verdict from Christ rests on whatever you did or did not do the the least of these you did or did not do to Christ himself. Despite what some people may say and preach, we will not lose our reward by showing hospitality and welcome to people – even those whom society identifies as being outside the bounds of receiving hospitality.

All of this welcoming, however, is only the middle point of something much larger. It's also the easiest thing we can do. After all, how hard is it to welcome someone new to Saint Luke's? How hard is it to smile, say, “We're glad you're here,” help them find their way through the red book, blue book, and black book, and when to stand up, sit down, fight fight fight? That's the least we can do. That's a cup of cold water given to a little one. It's more difficult to do the other things.

We are apostles of Christ. We are called to proclaim, cleanse, cure, and raise. As I've been saying, we do those things through invitation. We aren't here to berate people or hit them over the head with our big, floppy prayer books. We aren't here to tell them what sorts of miserable sinners they are and they had better get their lives straightened out with Jesus.

We are here to invite them into a new way of being. We are here to eat and be with those whom society dubs sinners. We are here to share our story and invite them to join us on this journey. Doing that requires that we know our stories. We need to know our story of how we got here and why we stay. We need to be ready to show people a new way of being. And that new way is first proclaimed through invitation.

After the invitation comes the welcome. We invite people into our midst and then we welcome them when they accept that invitation. That welcome is honest, heartfelt, and not tied to drafting them to teach Sunday school or serve on the Reception Committee for ever and ever amen.

The last part of this scenario is connection. How do we connect with people in such a way as to make them part of this place? Because it's connection that will lead to people staying. Opportunities to learn about the parish, the Church, scripture, and the faith are critical. Not only must those opportunities exist, but those already part of this must be willing to participate. Having an outreach which the parish supports is also important because “church” is more than about us. Jesus didn't only eat with his twelve disciples, he ate with outsiders in an attempt to connect with them.

Connecting with people also entails learning about them – their likes, dislikes, history, and the rest. And then inviting them to participate more deeply or inviting them to be part of a team.

Using our time together to connect with each other helps bind us together. Last week I asked you to begin sharing stories of your faith. This was to help you develop your TED Talk so when the opportunity presents itself you'll be ready. It's also to help you feel comfortable in both asking and answering questions about faith. These stories are the glue that binds us together.

Finally, how do we connect with others already here Monday through Friday? Do we call on people if they've missed a Sunday or two? Do we invite church people to personal events? Connecting might be the most difficult of these three aspects because connecting with people, even people we know, asks us to open up, be vulnerable, and take risks.

We are apostles of Christ. We have been called to proclaim, cleanse, cure, and raise. We have been called to invite people into a new way of being. We have been called to welcome people into our midst as if we were welcoming Christ himself. And we have been called to connect with people in ways that bind all of us together just as our individual body parts are bound together in one body.

To borrow a famous quote, “Nothing worth having comes easy.” If this place and this faith is worth having, then we need to work at it. We need to do the work of inviting, welcoming, and connecting. We need to remember that we are apostles of Christ and we have been sent to proclaim, cleanse, cure, and raise. And we need to not be afraid.

So go forth from here, knowing you have been sent out by Christ to offer cups of water to a thirsty world that desperately needs a drink.

Amen.

Sermon; Proper 7A; Matt. 10:24-39

Last week we had Jesus commissioning the twelve apostles to go and proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. After their commissioning Jesus gives a set of instructions which began in last week's gospel passage, continues today, and will conclude next week. These instructions include what they are to do as well as what they can expect in opposition to their message.

This sending now applies to us. The word “apostle,” remember, essentially means, “one who is sent.” As the apostles were sent out to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise, we – you and I – are being sent out to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. We are Christ's apostles in the here and now.

That sending is based on invitation, not on coercion. Remember that whole thing of Jesus eating with sinners? That is our blueprint. We are to meet people where they are, share our stories, and invite them into a new way of being. If they don't accept the invitation, we keep it open without berating them.

These instruction of Jesus also come with warnings and some dire predictions. You will be handed over to the authorities. Family members will betray each other. You will be hated because of my name. If they attack the master, they will attack you. And more.

There are at least two negative outcomes to all this. One is that Christians will find excuses to claim they are being persecuted. This is almost always false, especially in the context which we live. Some Christians will claim they are being persecuted for their beliefs about women, minorities, lgbtq people, etc. They aren't being persecuted, they're simply being called out for mistreating those people. It falls under the, “I'm being persecuted because I'm not allowed to persecute people I don't like.” So claims of false persecution is one outcome.

A second outcome is that we hear this stuff about actual persecution, being dragged before the authorities, families turning on each other, and whatever else Jesus says and we might decide we want no part of that. We might decide it's safer to keep our mouth shut. So we decide not to say anything out of fear.

First of all, being called to account for persecuting and mistreating others doesn't mean you are being persecuted. Another way of thinking about it is that you aren't losing rights if others are allowed to have the same rights as you.

And second, with all of Jesus' talk about persecution and fights and whatnot, notice that three times Jesus says to not be afraid. No matter what opposition you encounter, do not be afraid to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise.

If I were to guess, most of us probably don't believe we are being persecuted. But most of us are probably afraid to proclaim the good news, not for fear of being persecuted, but out of fear of being obnoxious, or rude, or not knowing what to say. We've all probably experienced an . . . over zealous . . . person who wanted to make sure we had found Jesus. Or we've answered the door to greet two people trying earnestly to give us religious tracts. These images or memories come up and we decide we don't want to be that person. So we don't say anything.

But saying nothing isn't an option. We have been called by Jesus to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise.

In thinking about proclaiming the good news, there are two things to keep in mind. The first is to know your story.

Who was instrumental in your faith formation? What attracted you to, or keeps you engaged, in the faith, in Church, and in this parish? If you know, when did you know this was the place for you? How do you continue to be shaped by your faith? Know the Who, What, When, and How of your story.

These are the basics of your elevator speech or TED Talk that you can develop and use when talking about faith and proclaiming the good news. These are the things that you should know and be comfortable in sharing. The more familiar you are with your story, the more confident you will be in sharing it. And it's through sharing your story that invitations can be made.

But that's only half of it. The second part is to listen.

People get defensive or they shut down if you start pitching religion to them. When I go visit bars, I never start a conversation by saying, “Do you know Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?” Nor do I open with, “Have you tried hanging out at Saint Luke's instead of the bar?” Neither of those will get me anywhere.

But what I DO do is listen. I listen for the question. Things like, “Why are you here?” “What church are you from?” Where's Saint Luke's?” “Is that Catholic?” “What's an Episcopalian?”

Those questions, and others, are an opening to tell my story. They are an opening to invite the other person to explore faith questions with me. They are an opening to invite them to consider Saint Luke's. And sometimes the question comes in the form of a statement. Such as, “I spend time with God when I'm up in the mountains.” You have to listen well enough to know when a person is open to talking about faith. And then you have to know your story to both answer their questions and peak their interest.

Jesus sent the apostles out to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. Having Jesus as their example this mission revolved around invitation. We are now the apostles of Christ. We are now the ones being sent out to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. We are the ones to invite people into a new way of being.

To do that, though, we must know our own stories. We must be comfortable enough with those stories that we are willing to share them with others. And we must know how to listen for the questions that indicate they want to hear more. That can be uncomfortable. It can make us nervous. So we're going to start practicing. At coffee hour, or with your breakfast bunch, ask someone a question about Saint Luke's, Church in general, or faith. And then answer the question asked of you. So one time you'll ask, another time you'll answer. This is how we will learn to not be afraid of proclaiming the good news. After all, if you can't share it here among people with whom you worship together, where will you share it?

You are apostles. You are being sent out in the name of Christ to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. So know your story. Know how to listen for the question. And be not afraid.

Amen.

Sermon; Proper 6A; Matt. 9:35 - 10:23

Last week's gospel gave us the call of Matthew the tax collector and Jesus getting in trouble for eating with sinners and tax collectors. In response, he told the Pharisees, “I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.”

In looking at that statement, we first have to define sin. One over-arching definition is, “the purposeful disobedience to the known will of God.” Our Catechism defines sin as “seeking our own will instead of the will of God.” The Catechism goes on to say that by doing this (seeking our own will) we distort our relationship with God, other people, and all of creation. In the Confession we pray for forgiveness of what we have done and left undone. And in one version (the form attached to Prayers of the People VI), we also ask for forgiveness of sins “known and unknown.”

Second, we need to really pay attention to how Jesus interacted with people labeled as sinners. He eats with them. He speaks with them. He heals them. Nowhere does he outright condemn them. In fact, notice that his harshest criticisms and condemnations are reserved for the religious leaders, the wealthy, and those systems that abuse and take advantage of people. It's the people who see themselves as above reproach whom Jesus reproaches.

So as we think about sin there are three things to keep in mind. First, sin is those things known and unknown, done and left undone, that focus on our will rather than the will of God. Second, Jesus doesn't condemn those who have been identified as sinners. And third, Jesus' condemnation is most often reserved for those who hold themselves blameless while labeling others as sinners.

We are all sinners. We all think, say, and do things that seek our will over the will of God. We all do things that distort our relationship with God, others, and creation. We also all participate in sinful systems whether we know it or not, and whether we acknowledge it or not. I say this because we have a tendency to accuse others of being sinners, sometimes terrible sinners, more often than we are willing to look at and correct (repent) our own sins.

Think about people accused of being possessed by demons. Women accused of being witches. Women who are uppity. People who have different values or lifestyles. We tend to accuse people of sins we ourselves don't commit in order to make us feel better. Such as anything the Puritans detested, Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, or attacking lgbtq people on religious grounds. Like the Pharisees in today's gospel, we might want to ask, “What are THOSE people doing here?”

Why all this talk about sin? Because Jesus came to call sinners. Notice that he didn't say, “I have come to convert sinners,” but, “I have come to call sinners.”

Issuing a call is what Jesus originally did to the twelve disciples. From Peter to Judas and everyone in-between, Jesus called them. He invited them to turn from their selfish wills and follow God's will. How did he do that? By showing them a better way. By spending time with them. By teaching them. By eating with them. By building a community with them. This is also how Jesus deals with sinners – by doing all of those things.

Which brings us to today.

Jesus is traveling about the country proclaiming the good news, teaching, and healing. The text says, “When he saw the crowds he had compassion for them.” I am fairly confident that within those crowds there were any number of people whom the Pharisees would label as sinners. These crowds weren't made up of Perfect People who met with the Pharisees' approval. They were those whom Jesus wanted to draw back into a right relationship with God.

He eventually realizes he can't do everything himself, so he does what any good leader should do and he delegates responsibility. He calls the twelve apostles and sends them out on a mission to visit the towns and people of Israel with a very specific mandate: they are to proclaim the good news, cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, and cast out demons.

He doesn't tell them to criticize or condemn people. He doesn't tell them to shun or excommunicate sinners. He tells them to proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. He tells them to invite (call) the people into a new, right relationship with God. And he tells them that if anyone will not welcome them or listen to them, leave. Don't berate them. Don't condemn them. Just let them live with their decision and move on.

Unfortunately things haven't changed much in 2000 years. The harvest is still plentiful. Missionaries are still sent out. And people still accuse others of being sinners and abominations.

I began by looking back at last week when Jesus rebuffed the Pharisees by saying, “I have come to call sinners.” I want to end by looking forward.

One of the things Jesus did was to instruct his disciples on what a right relationship with God looked like. This instruction wasn't just for the benefit of the individual disciples but to prepare them to become leaders in this new community. It was to help ensure that what he began would continue into the future. The sending of the twelve was the first step when he commissioned them to go and proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise. This commission now falls to us.

The term “apostle” is generally taken to mean “one who is sent.” As the twelve disciples were sent, thereby becoming apostles, so now we are sent. You are being sent. We are all being sent to proclaim the good news, cure, cleanse, and raise. We are all called to invite people into a new way of being and into a right relationship with God, with ourselves, and with others.

Thinking back to the Listening Session from two weeks ago and the group who wanted to see a hundred people in church, remember this: we can't increase to a hundred if we don't first increase by one.

So rather than focusing on the sin of others, as the Pharisees did and as certain religious leaders/people do today, let's focus on simply inviting people into a new way of being as we proclaim, cure, cleanse, and raise.

Amen.

Sermon; 2 Pentecost/Proper 5A; Hosea 5:15 - 6:6; Matthew 9:7-13, 18-26

Today we officially begin the long, green Season after Pentecost. Because Easter moves every year we don't always begin this season in the same place. Most of the time this season begins a little later; but this year, with Easter being early, we begin the season early. This is a good thing because it gives a good starting point with these readings from Hosea and Matthew.

On the Day of Pentecost Peter stood up and quoted the prophet Joel when he said, “In the last days God's Spirit will come upon all people, your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, and your old men will dream dreams.” And in my Pentecost sermon I talked about the futility of trying to control God, of playing with spiritual TNT, and of dreaming dreams. I also talked about our desire to do all things “decently and in order,” and how that sometimes comes up against the Spirit of God.

These two things, decently and in order and dreaming dreams are at the heart of the readings from Hosea and Matthew.

The reading from Hosea has a long, complicated back story. In short, Israel is at war with Judah, or Judah attacked Israel, and alliances are being made with Assyria by one of them (I forget the exact details). God's people have turned away from the Lord in favor of worldly powers and systems. And these systems ultimately abuse, crush, and mistreat widows, orphans, foreigners, and the marginalized of all sorts. In the midst of this mistreatment, though, religious life still goes through the motions of worship.

God, however, is calling the people to return to him. God reminds them that religion without mercy is pointless. It's not that religious activity isn't necessary, but that it must be grounded in steadfast love and knowing the loving, caring, merciful heart of God.

“I desire steadfast love,” says God, which is reflected in caring for and loving widows, orphans, foreigners, and the marginalized.

The first half of today's gospel gets at the same thing.

Jesus calls Matthew, the tax collector, to follow him, just like he called the fishermen Peter, Andrew, James, and John. Later that evening Jesus is eating dinner with tax collectors and sinners. We don't know who these sinners were, but one commentator posits that they were those who didn't follow the letter of the Law. They were those who didn't do things “decently and in order.”

When the Pharisees saw this they critically asked the disciples, “Why does he eat with THOSE people?” Jesus responds in much the same way as God did through Hosea: Go and learn what this means, 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.'

The point of religion isn't to create a barrier between “good” and “bad” people. Doing all things “decently and in order” isn't the be-all and end-all of religious obligation. Yes, it's important to do these things well so that we can focus on God, but if that's all we do, we're missing the point. The Church (religion) isn't a resort for good people, but a hospital for sinners.

This is why Jesus says, “Go and learn what this means, 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice'.” He's quoting Hosea here. Mercy and steadfast love have the same root meaning in Hebrew. If our religious practice doesn't care for widows, orphans, foreigners, the marginalized, and those whom society oppresses, we are doing it wrong. Our faith and our religious practices should make it mandatory to be with and care for “sinners.” And if we don't, no amount of decent and orderly worship will save us.

Mercy and steadfast love must be foundational to our faith and religious practices.

One we we show mercy is through our involvement in the Food Pantry. Having it attached to our building though is not enough. This past Lent the Youth Group advocated for a hygiene drive involving not only Saint Luke's but other churches and grocery stores, and a good amount of products were collected. The hope was to keep this up and make it a regular part of our support for the Pantry. Yet collections have dropped to a trickle? Why?

We all go grocery shopping. We can all pick up one extra bar of soap, one extra bottle of shampoo, one extra thing of deodorant, or one extra hygiene product without stressing our own budget. One extra item per weekly grocery trip. If we all did that, the Pantry would be in good shape. One extra item of personal care to show a form of mercy to those in need. One extra item a week is the bare minimum we can do to say, “I love you as I love myself.”

And then there's that whole business of eating with sinners and tax collectors. Last week as we were going through the Listening Session to help develop the new profile for the bishop search I walked by one group who wrote that they would like to see a hundred people in church on Sunday. That's a nice number to strive for, and I'll admit it would be great to see a full house every Sunday.

But it got me thinking . . . what hundred people? Are we wanting a hundred people, or are we wanting a hundred of the RIGHT people? Are we willing to sit and eat with people from the Century Club and Food Pantry every Sunday? Are we okay with unknown people sitting in our pews? If we become inundated with “sinners and tax collectors,” will we remember that this place is a hospital for the sick?

We have a particular way of worshiping God. That's okay. We appreciate beauty and ritual and liturgy. I personally strive to do all things “decently and in order” because it means that you can worship without fearing surprises and with certain expectations. It means the service isn't about me or our emotions. But as Hosea and Jesus both remind us, this all must be balanced and grounded with mercy and steadfast love. These two things must be why we do what we do.

As this green, growing season of Pentecost moves forward, let us be filled with the Spirit of God and dream dreams. And let those dreams be based in mercy and steadfast love – even as we do all things decently and in order.

Amen.

Sermon; Trinity Sunday A

We close out the liturgical season (Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Pentecost) with a day dedicated to, and specifically honoring, the Holy Trinity – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The Trinity, a word that is found nowhere in scripture, is a central doctrine of the Church. Various denominations have a variety of things they hold to as necessary for the faith, but when it comes right down to it, there are only a few things that are absolutely necessary.

Christ's death, resurrection, and ascension are obvious ones. Christ the Son was from the beginning, therefore begotten, not made. Jesus was fully human and fully divine. And God exists in the Trinitarian form of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

That said, the Trinitarian Godhead only specifically appears twice in scripture. It's alluded to at Jesus' baptism, but it shows up specifically in today's gospel reading when Jesus commissions his disciples to “baptize in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” It's also attested to in Paul's Trinitarian blessing that we heard from Second Corinthians – “the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you.” But other than that, it's just not there.

So how did Christians develop a Trinitarian theology and understanding of God?

As Christians read scripture, they began to ponder these two readings and wondered how these references to a 3-person Godhead were important. After all, Jesus and Paul just didn't make stuff up willy-nilly, so there had to be something to it. And then they began to look for references to it throughout scripture. It was in looking back to the Old Testament where they found two primary places where the Trinity could be found.

The first came from the story of creation which we heard this morning: “In the beginning when God created the heavens and earth, and a wind from God swept over the face of the waters, God said, 'Let there be light'.” In that story we are given an image of God creating, the wind (Spirit) of God hovering, and the logos (Word) speaking. Using the Gospel of John where Jesus is referred to as the Son of God and that he was going to send the Advocate, the Spirit, to the disciples after he returned to the Father, Genesis began to be seen as the first hint, or revelation, of the Godhead being Trinitarian.

Another allusion to the Trinity comes in Genesis 18 when the Lord (singular) appeared to Abraham by the oaks of Mamre in the form of three men.

These scriptural references were the basis for the development of Trinitarian theology and doctrine. But, as you well know, describing the Trinity is difficult.

Things like modalism (one God who acted in three separate ways but never in unity), subordinationism (the Son and the Holy Spirit are seen as secondary, subordinate gods), and Arianism (a time when the Son was not, therefore a created being) developed as the Church struggled to define the Trinity. It was eventually defined and codified at the Councils of Nicaea and Constantinople that the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are one, co-equal, and co-eternal God manifested in three distinct but equal persons. One God in Trinity and three Persons in Unity. God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit; not three Gods but one God. Neither is one greater than the other or less than the other, but all three are co-eternal and co-equal.

This is a hard concept to grasp. Oh, we easily close our prayers and Collects “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen,” but we really don't pay too much attention to that. That's probably because the more we think about the Trinity, the more our head hurts. And the more we talk about the Trinity, the more apt we are to descend into heresy. And then we need to burn someone at the stake, and there's paperwork to be filed, and it's just easier if we don't.

But if we do try to imagine it, we might think about the chemical compound H2O. That compound comes in the form of ice, liquid, and steam. Each one in its form is still H2O, so we can see how we can have three in one. But that's the heresy of modalism because while we can see the three distinct forms of H2O, we can never see liquid at the same time as ice or steam. So the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are distinct from each other, but they are also united as one God at the same time.

Another way to think about the Trinity is within a loving relationship. As John says, God is love. Love binds everything together. Love is the driving force behind creation. And I use this image in my one and only wedding sermon which goes something like this:

Knowing nobody will remember anything I say today, I want you to remember this one thing. What is 1+1? One plus one isn't two, but three – there's the bride, the groom, and the marriage. You need to pay attention to all three for this to work. Love yourself. Love your spouse. Love your marriage.

But as good as that is, it really doesn't work as a complete explanation for the Trinity. You still have three parts without the three parts being one thing at the same time – I am not my wife.

So, if the Trinity isn't explicitly found in scripture, and if theologians had to work to develop this doctrine, and if we tend to fall into heresy when describing the Trinity, then why is it so important? Why do we dedicate this Sunday to focus specifically on the Trinity?

The answer to both those questions is because it helps us recognize the presence of mystery. We live with the presence of mystery every Sunday when we participate in Holy Communion. How is it that bread and wine become the real presence of Christ's Body and Blood? That is one of the great mysteries of the faith. Another great mystery, of course, is the Trinity. We can't really explain it, all we can do is describe it as three-in-one and one-in-three, or as “Trinity of Persons existing in complete Unity with each other.”

But that inability to comprehend completely isn't a failure on our part, it's the recognition that we are caught up in the mystery of God.

We don't need to have concrete explanations for everything. Our faith should be strong enough to accept doubts, to ask questions, and to welcome mystery. That's why today is so important – because it reminds us that God is so much bigger than we can ever comprehend. It reminds us that mystery isn't to be avoided, but to be appreciated and lived into.

Amen.

Sermon; Easter 7A; Acts 1:6-14, John 17:1-11

Today is the Seventh Sunday of Easter, the beginning of the last week of the Season, and the Sunday after the Ascension (which always falls on the Thursday before this Sunday because that's 40 days after Easter). I recently learned that some cultures celebrate the Feast of the Ascension by eating birds (can we get a KFC in Buffalo?) or feasting on flaky puff pastries, both things that symbolize rising up. Given the choice, I'd go with puff pastries.

All that aside, the Feast of the Ascension is when we celebrate that day when Jesus was lifted up to heaven in the sight of the apostles. We get some of that celebration today as we heard the Ascension story from Luke and hear Jesus praying for his disciples as he knows his time of departure is near.

On its surface, the Ascension might be the strangest event in Christianity. Luke mentions that Jesus ascended to heaven in his gospel, and gives specific details in Acts. The Gospel of John alludes to it when Jesus says that he is returning to the Father. And later additions to Mark were made when people attached stories from the other gospels in order to give it a more harmonized and satisfactory ending than it originally had.

Pentecost, which we celebrate next week (with one service at 9:00 am, by the way), has often been called, “the birthday of the Church,” because it was on that day when the Holy Spirit descended on the apostles and baptized them with the power of the Spirit. From there the apostles began to preach and spread the good news to Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.

But I contend that the arrival of the Church on earth – not its birthday, because the Church has been from the beginning – occurred on Ascension, not Pentecost. It was on Ascension when Jesus commissioned the apostles to continue his work, to be his witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria, and to the ends of the earth. It was on Ascension when the apostles stood staring up to heaven when two angels appeared and asked, “Why are you just standing around?” And it was on Ascension when the apostles first began to live into the Catechismal duty to work, pray, and give for the spread of the kingdom of God – proving once again that Jesus and the apostles were Episcopalians.

Anyway . . .

So Ascension is the day we commemorate Jesus returning to the Father. But this Feast has more meaning than simply watching Jesus rise up to heaven and disappearing in a cloud. Ascension marks the day when followers of Christ are left to accomplish what Jesus set out to do from the beginning. This is partly why Jesus prays, “Protect them in your name so that they may be one as we are one.”

For three years Jesus taught and preached. He healed and restored. He showed what it was to live in unity with God. He lived a life of sacrificial love and service. He opened the door of peace, offering an alternative way of living that was in direct contrast to how the world asks us to live. And for doing those things he was executed.

Everything about how Jesus lived was one, long training event. He was training his disciples, and us, in how to live in unity with God and in communion with others. And when the time was right, he left this world of his own accord, leaving us to follow his example. In looking at the Ascension, we only need to change our perception of that event to see any number of ascension events in our own lives.

In February of 2004 I was in my final four months of seminary. I had been in school getting my AA, BA, and M.Div for the past seven years. One day I woke up and realized that once I graduated in June, I was going to need a job. So I contacted my bishop to find out where we went from here, and he said I was free to search for a position wherever I could find it. And that's how I ended up in Montana.

In a sense, I was in the same position as the apostles: I had been learning and growing and had been guided along a particular path. Eventually I had gotten to a point where, like the apostles, I was left to carry on without direct supervision. I was being entrusted to carry on and proclaim the faith received, just as the apostles had been entrusted to carry on and proclaim the faith received.

Another Ascension story came in the late summer of 2012. Joelene and I took our daughter to college, like thousands of other parents do every year, and like Mike and Kari will do this year. We got her settled into her dorm and then, trusting that we had done all we could to prepare her, we left her in the middle of the road as she watched us drive away. For us, we experienced Ascension from the point of view of Jesus – leaving those whom you love behind and hoping that what you taught them would be good enough to face the world.

Some people might confuse the Ascension with abandonment. It's important to know that, in the language of today, we haven't been ghosted. It's not like Jesus told us he's going out to buy milk and then never came back. On the contrary, Jesus continues to look out for our well-being. In the lead up to his departure he says he will not leave us orphaned. That he will send the Holy Spirit to be with us. And he prays for our protection.

Jesus has left us, but not orphaned us. If we have been paying attention, we have been instructed in how to live in unity with God. We have been given an example of sacrificial living. And now we have been entrusted to live as Christ taught us. We have been given the keys to the kingdom and it is now our job to carry on and proclaim the faith received.

The Ascension is a major event for the Church that doesn't get its proper recognition, maybe because it just seems a little strange to our ears. It marks the time when Jesus leaves but does not orphan. It recognizes it is now our job to carry on the mission of Christ. And it asks us to find everyday moments in our lives where we have felt like both the apostles and Jesus – times we've been left on our own and times we've had to trust those whom we have left.

May we see the Ascension not as some strange event with Jesus flying up into heaven, but as the moment God entrusts us with the carrying out and fulfilling of Christ's holy mission.

Amen.

Sermon; Easter 4A; John 10:1-10

The fourth Sunday of Easter is called Good Shepherd Sunday because we get readings from John depicting Jesus as the Good Shepherd as well as the 23^rd Psalm.

The first half of Chapter 10 in John is the Good Shepherd chapter. One of the reasons Jesus describes himself as a shepherd is because that metaphor is used for God in Hebrew scriptures. Ezekiel, Isaiah, and several psalms portray God as a shepherd caring for the flock. Jesus does the same here, which adds to John's overall agenda that Jesus and the Father are one. The shepherd metaphor makes sense in a society where sheep and shepherds were prevalent. And maybe it makes sense here in Wyoming where sheep and shepherds are part of the history.

Adding to the readings that reference sheep and shepherds, our sequence hymn throughout Easter is, “Savior, like a shepherd lead us.” The blessing I use at the end of Rite Two begins, “The God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, the great shepherd of the sheep . . .” All of these things, the readings, hymns, and blessing, point to Jesus caring for and protecting his sheep.

With all this talk about sheep, pastures, and shepherds, we might be tempted to be lulled into a sense of safety, security, and complacency. But we really need to take a look at the bigger picture.

First, remember that when looking at biblical passages, context matters. It's unfortunate that the lectionary for today's gospel only covers vv. 1-10.

Part of the problem is that by stopping at v. 10 this passage can lead itself to Christian exceptionalism. People hear, “I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved,” and think that Jesus is the ONLY way to the Father. What that does is to create, possibly, a belief where we install ourselves as the gatekeeper. It then becomes us, not Jesus, who allow entry or keep people out.

A side effect of putting ourselves as the gatekeepers is the very human tendency to allow only those whom we approve to enter, while keeping those whom we dislike or disapprove on the outside.

But if we look at the wider context and expand our reading, we see that this thing about Jesus being the shepherd and gate may not be as comforting as we had originally thought.

Reading on in John we see that Jesus not only proclaims himself as the Good Shepherd, but also says, “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also.” In his original context Jesus was most likely speaking of Jews and Gentiles. This chapter follows immediately after Jesus gave sight to the blind man (who was driven out of the temple for proclaiming that Jesus was from God) and was talking with the Pharisees connected with that synagogue. So when Jesus says, “I have other sheep,” it most likely refers to Gentiles and those Jews who followed him.

But if we hold that scripture is the living word of God able to speak to people in all times and all places, then this passage also speaks to us today. Those other sheep could easily refer to non-Episcopalians, as much as I hate to admit that, and/or people of other faiths. Maybe even people of no faith.

And if we pull in Psalm 23, things really get uncomfortable. This is probably the most beloved of all the psalms. We hear it at funerals. We hear people recite it in difficult times. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters. He revives my soul. I shall fear no evil.

But in the middle of all this peaceful assurance is this: You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me. Some translations say, “in the presence of my enemies.”

What does it mean for us that in the midst of this calming, protective, refreshing scenario, God spreads a table for us in the midst of our enemies or those who cause trouble? I don't know exactly what that means, but I do know that, if it were up to me, I'd rather not.

Jesus calling people who don't look like me, think like me, or believe like me to be part of his flock can set me on edge. Add to that the inclusion of those who trouble me at God's banquet and, well . . . this is probably why I'm not God.

Context matters. It's easy to find passages that confirm our biases. It's easy to find passages that condemn those whom we condemn. It's easy to find places in scripture that hold us up as better than others or more deserving than others or as part of God's exclusive group. But that doesn't account for the generosity or inclusive nature of God. We need to be willing to look beyond what comforts us to realize that God also challenges us to see with God's eyes, not just our own. And if that means that we share space with outsiders and eat with troublemakers, so be it.

Because after all, Jesus is the one in charge of who comes in and goes out from the gate. Not us.

Amen.

Sermon; Easter 3A; Luke 24:13-35

Today, like last week, we have another well-known and beloved gospel passage – the road to Emmaus. In the post-resurrection timeline, this story takes place on Easter, giving Jesus a very full schedule if you start to think about everything he does that day. As with all resurrection stories there is a lot to ponder, so I just want to focus on a couple of things.

We have two disciples heading to Emmaus and trying to make sense of Holy Week – Jesus' betrayal, arrest, sham trial, crucifixion, death, and burial. Like we saw with Mary on Easter Day, we know that resurrection creates a fundamental change in appearance to the extent that these two disciples didn't recognize Jesus any better than Mary did at the tomb. So this unrecognizable Jesus joins them, listens to their story, and then fills in the blanks by interpreting scripture. As the conversation winds down and they approach Emmaus, Jesus walks on ahead as if he's going farther, but the disciples ask him to stay with them.

As far as I can find, and I could be wrong about this, but there are four instances/stories of people inviting God/Jesus/messengers to stay with them, or God/Jesus/messengers who intend to pass by.

First we have Abraham by the oaks of Mamre when three men/angels appeared. As you read further they are ultimately on their way to Sodom to render judgment; but when Abraham sees them he shows great hospitality by inviting them to stay for a meal.

Second we have two of those angels arriving in Sodom in the evening and meeting Lot, whereupon he invites them to spend the night at his house. They initially refuse saying they'll spend the night in the town square; but Lot is persistent, they relent, and they go with Lot to spend the night at his house.

Third is when the disciples are in a boat in the middle of a storm. Jesus comes to them walking on the water intending to pass them by. Believing he's a ghost, however, they cry out in fear and he gets into the boat with them.

And fourth is today when the resurrected Jesus intends to go on past Emmaus but the two disciples urge him to spend the night.

Granted . . . these four stories are not exactly thematically identical: the three men visiting Abraham don't intend to pass by and the disciples in the boat don't invite Jesus to join them because they are terrified. But there is a common theme of hospitality and turning aside. What I hear in these stories is that God/Jesus waits for us to invite them into our lives. God/Jesus will not force themselves on us but waits for us to welcome them in.

The corollary here is that we don't always know it's God. The angels who appeared to Lot did not present themselves as heavenly messengers and Lot only saw them as traveling strangers in need of shelter. The two disciples in today's gospel did not invite Jesus to stay with them because he was Jesus, but because it was almost evening and the stranger was in need of shelter. This aligns with Matthew 25:31-46 when Jesus tells both the righteous and unrighteous, “Whatever you did or did not do to the least of these, you did or did not do to me.”

Our invitation and hospitality doesn't wait for the arrival of the Jesus we think we know – it should be extended to all, and in that extension we will be entertaining angels or Christ unawares.

The other thing I want to address is when it was the disciples recognized Christ.

Cleopas and his companion met the risen Christ on the road to Emmaus but did not recognize him. They began a conversation about recent events and then Jesus, for lack of a better term, preached a homily beginning with Moses and all the prophets and interpreted to them the things about him in all the scriptures. Through all this they still did not recognize him. And after he vanished from their sight they said, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking?”

What got the disciples to recognize Christ? It was the act of taking, blessing, breaking, and giving bread. We see this in all four gospels when Jesus took five loaves of bread, blessed, broke, and gave to 5000 people. We see it in Matthew, Mark, and Luke when Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to the twelve disciples at the Last Super. It is in this sacrament of blessing, breaking, and giving where Christ is made known. In that moment of blessing, breaking, and giving, their eyes were opened to the presence of Christ.

The meal at Emmaus continued what Jesus did in life and ties it to the presence of the post-resurrection Christ. The meal at Emmaus began the Easter sacramental celebration in which Christ continues to be known to us in the breaking of the bread.

Here are two takeaways from today's gospel passage.

First, hospitality and invitation are important. Christ doesn't force himself on us, he both invites us to follow him and waits for us to invite him into our lives. Likewise, we are not called to force our faith on others. Instead, we should be Christ-like and invite others to join us and then allow them to invite us into their lives. And this is all done through the act of hospitality.

And second, coming to know Christ happens through BOTH Word and Sacrament. We can hear the Word through scripture and through preaching, but that's only part of it. We need the Holy Sacrament of Body and Blood to come to know Christ fully. Just like you might have an idea of who I am by reading my sermons or the Wednesday Word, you won't truly come to know me until you spend time with me. In the same way we come to know Christ more deeply in the breaking and sharing of the bread.

May we invite people to join the Body of Christ as we understand it here in this place through unconditional hospitality. And may we work to know Christ in Word and Sacrament as we join together to learn and participate in the life of Christ through the breaking of the bread.

Amen.

Sermon; Easter 2A; John 20:19-31

I was telling someone last week that I will have been ordained for 22 years this year, and this Second Sunday of Easter will be the 22^nd time I've preached on this passage because we always get the story of Thomas on this Sunday.

This is one of the best known gospel stories. On the evening of Easter Day a bunch of unnamed disciples have gathered together in a house behind locked doors. Thomas isn't with them that night because he had been out at the bank all day filling out the new signatory paperwork to get Judas' name off the account. While those disciples are gathered together, Jesus suddenly appears. From there the disciples tell Thomas what he missed, he won't believe it, and then Jesus appears again a week later and tells Thomas to put his fingers in the nail wounds and his hand in the spear wound.

Twenty-two years I've preached on this passage and, for most of you here, you've heard sermons on this passage for more than 22 years. You may have heard sermons admonishing you to not be a Doubting Thomas and believe. Maybe you've heard sermons saying Thomas gets a bad rap and that it was his doubt that brought him to a place of great faith. Maybe you've heard sermons on the dual nature of post-resurrection Jesus as being able to inhabit both the spiritual and physical realm. Or maybe you've heard sermons focusing on the Collect of the Day where we pray that we “may show forth in our lives what we profess by faith.”

So today I just want to throw out a few observations that might get you to think about this passage in a way, or ways, you maybe haven't thought of before and then feel free to talk to me afterward.

First, notice that John doesn't define or name which disciples are locked away in the house. John uses the word “disciple” or “disciples” more than any other gospel, but he only ever names seven: Andrew, Peter, Philip, Nathaniel, Thomas, and two Judases (he names eight if you include Mary Magdalene). So we don't know if those gathered in the house are the remaining ten disciples or if they include others.

Second, when Jesus appears to the disciples in that room he says, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” This is John's version of the Great Commission that we have over in Matthew. Like Jesus commanded the disciples to make disciples of all nations, baptize them, and teach them to obey what Jesus has commanded, here in John he sends the disciples as he has been sent.

In the Gospel of John Jesus makes clear that he was sent to do the will of the Father. Over and over again Jesus makes clear that he and the Father are unified in purpose. It follows that if Jesus is sending the disciples out as he was sent, then we are sent with the same purpose and with the same obedience that Jesus had. This means, among other things, that we don't pursue our will, but the will of God and Christ. THY will be done.

As a side note, I read something last week that went along the lines of this: Most people in church don't want to follow Christ – they want a Christ who follows them in their biases, desires, and fears.

And third, John never uses the word apostle or apostles, only disciple or disciples. In the other three gospels there's a clear distinction between disciples and apostles: disciples are anyone who follows Jesus; whereas apostles refer specifically to the twelve who are sent out on specific missionary activities. We can make the leap then that, unlike in Matthew where the original mission/commission was given to the eleven, Jesus' sending of the disciples in John refers to ALL disciples – those gathered, those dispersed, those then, and those now. As the Father sent Jesus, so now we are being sent.

To recap:

1) The disciples in the house behind locked doors could be any number of disciples besides the eleven we normally think of. What this means for us is that, as disciples of Christ, there may come a time when we are afraid of what is happening in the world around us and we might prefer to hide out in a room somewhere. This story reminds us that, no matter the times, Jesus will be with us.

2) We are disciples of Christ. Therefore we have been sent out into the world just as the Father has sent Jesus. We are to follow that commandment with love and in obedience to serve the will of the Father, not of us.

3) John apparently doesn't make a distinction between an apostle and a disciple. We cannot, therefore, claim that we have not been sent because we are not apostles. We can't hide behind semantic distinctions. So if there is no distinction, we are all sent to proclaim the Good News of God in Christ.

Doubt is an okay thing. Living our lives in ways that match the faith we profess is an important thing. Not having all the answers is an okay thing. Facing our fears is important. Living our lives in ways of love and obedience is important. And knowing that we are all called to proclaim the Gospel is important.

In the end, today's gospel passage speaks to us no matter where we are on our journey. And isn't that what scripture is supposed to do?

Amen.

Sermon; Easter Day 2026; John 20:1-18

We can't always trust our eyes.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw the stone had been removed.

It's been said that the only things certain in this world are death and taxes. We can probably also add that dead people don't up and leave their tombs. So it must be that someone, or someones, took the body of Jesus out of the tomb and hid it. That's what Mary's eyes tell here – an empty tomb must mean the body was taken away.

After telling Peter and the other disciple, she goes back to the tomb. Who knows? Maybe the grave robbers will bring him back. At the tomb she meets two angels, and then she meets Jesus. All three of them, the angels and Jesus, ask her why she's weeping. The question is honest. The angels and Jesus understand the scope of the story. They understand that in a garden, life was created. And now, in a garden, life is resurrected. They understand that through Christ, death has been defeated. They understand all this; but as yet, Mary does not, so she weeps.

As a disciple, Mary heard Jesus teach about sacrifice, death, and life. She heard Jesus talk about being lifted up so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life. She heard Jesus talk about he and the Father being one and preparing a place for his followers. She heard all this, and more, but hearing and seeing can sometimes be two different things.

So Mary cries at the loss of her friend and teacher, and she cries over the audacious cruelty of someone who would steal away the body of Jesus. She cries because, as of yet, she has not made the connection between what she has been told and what she sees.

And then, while trying to hide her tears and with her back to Jesus, she hears his voice. She hears the voice of the one who raised Jairus' daughter, a widow's son, and Lazarus from the dead. She hears the voice of the one who healed the blind, the deaf, and the leprous. She hears the voice of the one who fed 5000 people and who said, “Do not be afraid.” In the morning silence of the the garden, like Elijah in the sheer silence of the mountain, she hears the voice of God: Mary.

Mary hears the voice of God in a way her eyes couldn't comprehend.

She hears the voice calling her through the silence. She hears the voice that calls us through our grief. She hears the voice that calls us over the tumult of life's wild, restless seas. She hears the voice that cut through her despair to open her eyes to the promised hope of resurrection. She hears the voice that turns her deep sorrow into deep joy.

We can't always trust our eyes, but we can trust the voice that calls us into a new life. We need to look not only with our eyes, but listen with our ears and look with our heart.

On this Day of Resurrection, what do you see? People gathered to worship. Friends and family joining together in a holy place. You see and hear hymns being sung, processions made, and lessons read. You may see or smell the faint haze of incense hanging in the air from the first service. You see people greet each other in the name of the risen Christ, and you will see the priest perform manual acts over bread and wine in which the real presence of Christ infuses those earthly creatures to become the holy food of Body and Blood for the holy people of God.

We see all this and maybe, like Mary at the empty tomb, we can't quite trust our eyes.

But maybe, also like Mary on this Day of Resurrection, we will hear the voice of Christ. Maybe we will hear the voice of Christ speaking through Saint Paul asking us to set our minds on things heavenly. Maybe we will hear the voice of Christ speaking through Saint Peter proclaiming a vision of unity. Maybe we will feel the presence of Christ flow through us as we partake of this holy meal of the most blessed Body and Blood.

And that's the thing. This faith of ours isn't a faith of what we see, it's a faith we experience. Ours is a faith of connections. Ours is a faith of actions. It's a faith of many, small, cumulative words and interactions, visible and invisible, that gently calls your name and says you belong here. You belong with Christ.

On this Day of Resurrection you may not want to trust your eyes. On this Day of Resurrection you may wonder how a dead man walked out of a tomb. But on this Day of Resurrection I encourage you to listen for that small voice calling your name. Listen for the voice that says, “I am here with you, and I want you here with me.”

And when you hear that voice, may you, like Mary, be filled with joy and proclaim the Good News of the Resurrection.

We can't always trust our eyes, but we can always trust in the presence of Christ.

Happy Easter.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Amen.

Sermon; Maundy Thursday 2026

Sometimes we can't believe what we are seeing.

Tonight we gather as friends to share a simple meal. We share good food with good friends in a special place. But there's a heaviness to this night.

Earlier this week Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem and was hailed as King of Israel. But then Jesus talks about wheat needing to die in the ground in order to bear fruit. He talks about the arrival of “his hour.” He talks about the judgment of the world. He talks about being lifted up from the earth in order to draw all people to him.

John tells us that Jesus knew he had come from God and was going to God. We are told that he knew who was going to betray him, and yet Jesus still tenderly washed Judas' feet and shared a meal with him. We hear that Jesus is troubled in spirit and hear his words to love one another as he has loved us. And Jesus will tell the disciples, “In a little while you will no longer see me, and again in a little while you will see me.”

There's a heaviness to this night and we can't quite believe what we are seeing.

Tonight we share this meal here, and we also will share the meal of Holy Communion. That is a meal we have shared many times over the course of our lives. But tonight is different. Tonight, instead of being a foretaste of the heavenly banquet, it is the final meal of a condemned man. Tonight we know Jesus will never again share in this meal with us until he comes into the kingdom, and we will never again share in this meal until the Day of Resurrection. We can't quite believe we are seeing the service of Holy Communion for the last time.

There's a heaviness to this night and we can't quite believe what we are seeing.

After this meal here, and after the meal of Holy Communion in there, we will watch as we remove Jesus from our presence. Jesus doesn't walk out on us . . . we desert him. We force him out of our lives. We remove all symbols reminding us of him from our presence. We remove his body from the house of the Lord. We are the ones who want this place empty. And, like witnessing a traumatic event, we can't stop watching.

We watch as the pulpit and lectern are left bare. We watch as crosses and flags are removed. We watch as Communion vessels, candles, and palms are taken away. We watch as the altar is stripped bare and the consecrated elements are taken away. We watch as we remove everything of meaning from this holy space. We watch as we remove Jesus from our presence. And as we do this, we have the audacity to say, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

We can't quite believe what we just saw. But believe it we must, for it wasn't Jesus or God who forsook us; it was we who forsook God. It is we who will remove God from our life.

Sometimes we just can't believe what we are seeing.

Sermon; Lent 5A; John 11:1-45

Unbind him and let him go.

Lazarus has died. He died four days ago due to some unknown illness. After he died he was wrapped in sheets of linen as was the burial custom and placed in a tomb that was then sealed with a large stone. And then Jesus shows up and commands Lazarus to come out of the tomb.

Within this story we have Jesus delaying in coming to Bethany, a typical misunderstanding between Jesus and the disciples, a discussion about resurrection, a recognition of bodily decomposition, and the recalling to life of Lazarus. But the most important part of this gospel story is Jesus saying, “Unbind him and let him go.”

Unbind him and let him go.

We are bound by many things in our lives. We bind ourselves by roles and careers. Our roles of husband, wife, mother, father, friend, bind us to living and acting certain ways. We are bound by images – either self-invented or placed on us by others. Sometimes marriages fail because one spouse, or both, binds the other spouse to unrealistic expectations, or can't change over time because they are bound to the past.

Clergy are often bound by expectations of parishioners and others. For instance, I never wore jeans to the office in my last parish because that's not how a priest was supposed to look. People who see me in a bar are surprised I'm allowed to be there. There are a variety of expectations clergy need to navigate.

A young boy died last week when he shot himself in the family bathroom. He was bound by pressures and demons that eventually drove him to take that action. His parents, sister, grandparents, and friends will be bound by the memory of this event for the rest of their lives.

At last week's BBQ we were discussing this passage and the issue of shame came up. We talked about people who use the Food Pantry for the first time and how they almost always feel ashamed to be there. Maybe they're bound by feelings of judgment or inadequacy or failure or whatever.

We get bound by a great many things which are dangerous and unhelpful.

Unbind him and let him go.

How might we help unbind people?

Maybe we start by relieving them of unrealistic expectations. Who are the people in our lives whom we've put on a pedestal, binding them to our expectations to such an extent that if they fail or don't live up to those expectations we make sure to knock them down?

Are there people in our lives bound by pressures and demons? Taking time to check in on them or help find resources can go a long way to help unbind someone. Bullying binds people in very painful ways. Recognizing that and constantly working to put an end to it can help unbind people.

Continuing to think about the Food Pantry and those people who are bound by shame, I've seen how Cindy and the volunteers work hard to treat people with dignity and respect, as if this were no different than showing up at the library to check out a book. The attitude displayed by the people working at the Pantry goes a long way to unbind people from shame.

Unbind him and let him go.

But there's another aspect to this freedom in unbinding, and that is freedom in being bound.

Jesus tells us to take his yoke upon us, for it's easy and his burden is light. Paul talks about clothing ourselves in love, which binds everything together. Hymn 370 says, “I bind unto myself today the strong Name of the Trinity,” and goes on to talk about being bound to the faith, the angels, the virtues, and God. Clergy bind themselves to the Church, Spouses bind themselves to each other.

Being bound is not always a bad thing.

For instance, binding ourselves to the Church gives us a different perspective and rhythm. The rhythm of the year moves us from expectation to joy to revelation to sacrifice to resurrection to discipleship. Each season allows us to focus on a particular aspect of our lives and how we are joined with Christ. The Church also has ways to bind us daily through Morning and Evening Prayer.

Lazarus was bound by outside forces to death and the grave. That binding rotted his body. In Christ, though, he's unbound from that and set free. It was this binding to Christ that led him to life and freedom.

There are good bindings and there are bad bindings. Let's make sure we loose the bonds of things that take us away from Christ or isolate us from others, and begin to put on that which binds us to Christ and others in love.

Amen.