What Does a Saint's Life Look Like?

Sermon for All Saints' Sunday, Nov. 4, 2018
Isaiah 25:6-9; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44

This morning, we celebrate All Saints’ Sunday, our annual remembrance of … well … quite a lot.  To me, if you cut to the chase about this holy day, here’s what we’re remembering: that in eternal life, there’s a lot more than meets the eye, both now and later – in this life, and when we die, and when we’re raised with Christ.  All Saints Sunday seems a good time to step back and at least glimpse the fullness of heavenly life – which is an impossible task, sort of like trying to take a picture of the Grand Canyon.  Once you’re far enough away to get the shot in view, you’re miles from the beauty of the detail you wanted to capture in the first place.

But even if we can’t take in eternal life all at once, I think it’s important to try.  And today is a good day for that work not just because it’s All Saints but because of what will happen here in a few minutes.  Three small people will come to this baptismal font – representing the living waters of creation, the cleansing waters that remove our sin, the liberating waters of the Red Sea through which the children of Israel passed from slavery to new life – three small people will come to this font and become followers of Jesus Christ. 

And when they do, they will, by definition, become saints.  That word comes from a Latin word meaning “set aside for holy use,” consecrated for holy commitment.  It doesn’t mean an all-star of the faith, though it includes the all-stars.  A saint is just someone set on God’s path, committed to doing his or her best to follow what Jesus asks us to believe and to do … which we can do only “with God’s help” (BCP 304-305).

So – for the families of those three small people, and all the rest of us pilgrims – we should know what we’ve signed on for, as saints.  What’s this path all about, especially the part we can’t yet see – what we typically call “heaven”?  When we say we hope to “go to heaven,” what does our faith tell us we might expect?

To guide us on the journey, I’d invite you to open your hymnal and take a look at that hymn we just sang – “For All the Saints,” number 287.¹  It’s a really long hymn, which is why we’re breaking it up into two sections this morning.  But it also captures nothing less than the Christian hope – not bad work for eight verses.

The first five verses talk about our experience of eternal life in the here and now.  You’ve heard me say this before, and I’ll say it again:  I believe eternal life falls into three stages, and you’re living in the first one now.  When we come to this font and join the company of saints, we start living forever.  As Jesus says in the verses just before today’s Gospel story about raising Lazarus, when Martha confronts him about not showing up and letting her brother die, Jesus says to her, “I am the resurrection and the life” – present tense.  “Everyone who lives and believes in me will never die” (John 11:25-26) – starting now.

So, these first five verses of “For All the Saints” tell us about the first stage of eternal life we’re in.  Verse 2 names trust in God as the saints’ foundation: “Thou wast their rock, their fortress, and their might.”  And it names Christ as their leader in a life that’s often not easy, as we well know – he is the saints’ “Captain in the well-fought fight” and “in the darkness drear, their one true light.”  The third verse prays that we might follow the saints’ example in this life and “win, with them, the victor’s crown of gold.”  It’s good stuff, strengthening us for the reality that this first stage of eternal life is no picnic.  In fact, as verse 5 puts it, “the strife is fierce, the warfare long.”  As every saint knows, deep down, eternal life is not for the faint of heart but for those “whose hearts are brave and arms are strong.”

Then, in the next three verses, the hymn teaches us truth that we often get flat wrong about what happens when we die.  We like to say we’re looking toward “life after death,” and that’s certainly true – but it’s also incomplete.  And this hymn helps us get it right.

If our life now is stage 1 of eternal life, stage 2 comes when we die.  At that point, we enter into what the tradition calls “paradise,” a time or state of perfect rest, complete healing, and surprising joy as we drink in God’s presence up close and personal.  It’s what Jesus promised to the thief dying at his side when he said, “This day, you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43).  In “For All the Saints,” paradise comes in verse 6:

The golden evening brightens in the west;

Soon, soon to faithful warriors cometh rest;

Sweet is the calm of paradise the blest.

And in our church building, we can see stage 2 of eternal life in the amazing window here in the columbarium.  The angel welcomes us into a garden of unimaginable beauty and bids us to “let the peace of God rule in your hearts, and be ye thankful.”  Absolutely.  There are days when I can hardly wait.

But the amazing thing is, stage 2 isn’t the end.  As the theologian N.T. Wright puts it, we still have ahead of us “life after life after death.”²  We still have an entirely new creation to witness and inhabit.  This is what the last two verses of the hymn are about.  It’s the promise foreshadowed by Jesus raising Lazarus.  It’s what Jesus meant when he talked about his second coming.  It’s what’s going on in that stunning reading we heard from Revelation.  It’s the end of the story that’s actually the beginning, again. 

In God’s good time, “there breaks a yet more glorious day,” as verse 7 of the hymn says, when “the saints triumphant rise in bright array.”  The Revelation reading describes it like this:  God speaks the divine Word, just like in Genesis, and unites heaven and earth again, making all creation new (21:3-5).

That new creation includes us.  And it includes the lives we live.  In stage 3 of eternal life, we saints come into the fullness of what God intended for us “in the beginning” (Genesis 1:1), with humankind truly, finally reflecting the image and likeness of God.  In the big picture, the last verse of the hymn tells us, that looks like “the countless host” coming “from earth’s wide bounds and ocean’s farthest coast,” streaming through gates of pearl and praising “Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” 

But for each of us individual saints – then what?  If all creation is made new, if “mourning and crying and pain will be no more” and if “the first things have passed away” (Revelation 21:4), what might that look like in terms of what I do when I get up in the morning?  What’s the life and the work of a saint eternally?

It won’t surprise you to hear me say it in one word:  Relationship.  I don’t know, precisely, how that will play out, but we get glimpses of it all through Scripture.  It’s no accident that the next scene with Jesus in John’s Gospel, after what we heard this morning, is a sumptuous dinner he shares with his closest friends – Mary, and Martha, and the disciples, and Lazarus, the no-longer-dead man.  Isaiah describes this life of eternal connection as “a feast of rich food, … a feast of well-aged wines strained clear” (25:6).  Revelation describes it as the “marriage supper of the Lamb” (19:9).  In eternal life, I think we celebrate together, healed – in peace, in joy, in love.

But you know, along with the party, I think there will be work to do.  I wouldn’t presume to know what that might look like, but love doesn’t just happen.  Love takes effort.  Relationships take work to build – especially those we’ve managed to break in this first stage of eternal life.  Plus, there will be an eternity of new relationships to build, as we “seek and serve Christ in all persons,” loving our neighbor as ourselves (BCP 305).  There will be a kingdom of justice and peace to flesh out, in which every human being respects the dignity of every other human being (BCP 305). 

It’s a kingdom we know even now, in our best moments.  It’s the kingdom we know even now, when we love and serve one another.  It’s the kingdom we know even now, when we comfort those who mourn, and feed those who hunger, and lift the lives of the oppressed, and show mercy to those who’ve harmed us, and make peace with those we oppose, and endure persecution for the choices we make, and live pure in heart (Matthew 5:3-11).  That’s the kingdom we pledge to build when we come through those baptismal waters and step into our own sainthood.  That’s the kingdom of heaven – our kingdom – now and forever.

1.       This look at “For All the Saints” is taken from Wright, N.T.  Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church.  New York: HarperCollins, 2008. 22-23.

2.       Wright, 169.

Save, O Lord, Your People

Sermon from Sunday, Oct. 28, 2018
Jeremiah 31:7-9

This morning, I had planned to follow up our stewardship witness with a lovely sermon tying that Gospel reading about faith (Mark 10:46-52) into our pledge campaign. Specifically, that sermon was about tithing, which is something we don’t talk about enough in the Episcopal Church.

Then yesterday morning happened, and 11 people were killed by a gunman in a synagogue in Pittsburgh. Specifically, they were killed because they were worshipping in a synagogue in Pittsburgh – worshipping the One God according to the tradition of their ancestors, who are also our ancestors, by the way. This shooting isn’t just “tragic” or “senseless” or any of the other weary adjectives we find ourselves using, over and over again, as scenes of death spread across our land. This is anti-Semitism in its fullest expression. This is terrorism. This is hate, incarnate.

And appallingly, this kind of violence is becoming routine, like bedsores on a body politic unwilling to move itself. Even here in our heartland, we’ve seen hate-based violence against innocent people because of their culture, or their skin color, or their faith. An Olathe man was shot in a bar simply for being South Asian. People were shot at our Jewish Community Center simply for being there. And of course, if you look further afield, the examples multiply. In Charleston, a white supremacist killed nine people during Bible study, simply for being black. And now, at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, life will never be the same. As worshippers gathered for Shabbat services – heartbreakingly, on a day of special joy as they celebrated the naming of babies – a man revealed the heart of hate by shooting innocents because of their faith.

As God’s family of St. Andrew’s, we join the rest of our nation as we grieve the presence of evil. Those feelings may also take their next steps, from grief to powerlessness to fear, as we come here this morning to worship the same God they were worshipping at Tree of Life Synagogue. Not very many years ago, no one could have imagined that coming to church in this country might feel like putting yourself at risk. And yet, I wonder how many of us heard the news yesterday, and watched the reports, and wondered whether we’d be safe in our own house of prayer for all people.

I want to remind you that St. Andrew’s has an armed security officer on site each Sunday morning. I say that in the hope of reassurance, but I also say it with tremendous grief. Almost exactly a year ago now we took that step, following the church shooting in Sutherland Springs, Texas. We discussed it in Vestry and heard passionate opposition, faithful church members saying that, because we are God’s people of hope and peace, we must witness hope and peace, rather than reflecting the fear and violence of the culture around us. In the end, we chose to use an armed security service, and I hope God understands why. Certainly, yesterday’s violence reminds us why we made that awful choice. So, know that the security officer will be with us in the weeks to come, too.

You should also know also that we’ve been developing an emergency plan for our congregation, including what to do in situations of imminent threat. We consulted with a local expert from another Episcopal congregation; and our operations manager, Michael Robinette, has experience with this from his service in the U.S. Navy Reserves. The emergency plan will go to the Facilities Commission very soon for review and full implementation.

But even as we grieve and feel powerless, we need to remember the power that reigns over and against the violent choices of a broken world. Millennia ago, the God who created the heavens and the earth chose a people to be a missionary presence of divine love to the world. God made a covenant with Abraham that all the nations would be blessed through his descendants. God called Moses, the unlikeliest of heroes, to lead God’s people out of slavery to a great empire and into their own land of promise. God united those people under Kings David and Solomon; and in its best moments, the nation revealed the blessing that comes when we walk in God’s ways. Over the generations, the people and their leaders erred and strayed like lost sheep, forgetting the Shepherd’s covenant. And eventually, they fell into exile – a consequence, the biblical writers say, of turning to their own ways, and the ways of the world around them, rather than holding fast to the commandments God had given them. “Choose life, that you and your descendants may live,” Moses had urged the people, “loving the Lord your God, obeying him, and holding fast to him” (Deuteronomy 30:19-20).

But even after military defeat and exile to a foreign land – even in the moment when faithlessness carried its greatest cost – the God who is Love promised to bring them home, to make a new covenant, commandments written on living hearts, not dead stone. We heard the promise this morning, in the Old Testament reading that just happens to be appointed for this Sunday. Hear again the powerful love of the Lord who redeemed a people and keeps doing so, over and over again.

Thus says the Lord: Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob … and say, “Save, O Lord, your people, the remnant of Israel.” See, I am going to … gather them from the farthest parts of the earth…; a great company, they shall return here. With weeping they shall come, and with consolations I will lead them back … for I have become a father to Israel. (Jeremiah 31:7-9)

Violence may threaten God’s people – in Pittsburgh, and in Charleston, and even here in Kansas City. But racism and anti-Semitism and hate will not have the last word. For our God reigns and will not keep silent. The God of Love reigns, and hate will not endure.

But in that inevitable trajectory, as Love completes its conquest of sin and death, we have a part to play. In God’s great drama, we have lines to speak; and we must not shy away from the truth when evil seeks to confound us. When we hear hate, we must name it. When we hear divisiveness, we must unify – even though that guarantees none of us gets just what we want. When we hear apologies for darkness, we must shine the light on it and chase evil back to its lair. For God gives us the power to be instruments of peace in a violent world. And God expects us to use it.

We may be grieving, and we may feel powerless, and we may even be afraid. But don’t forget the power we wield. In the face of evil, we can speak love. In the face of hate, we can pray for transformation. In a society that seems increasingly to run to the extremes, we can be people of calm and steadfast witness for the holiness of unity and common cause. As the weekend’s tragedy continues to unfold, and as voices then compete to control the narrative, I ask you to join me in prayer:

God of all peoples, faiths, and races, who calls us to love one another as you love us: Be present with those whose lives have been rent asunder in Pittsburgh. Bring holy rest to the dead. Bring your healing to the injured. Bring your peace and hope to their families and faith community. For those who justify hate and use prejudice to foster their own ends, turn and change their hearts. And for our nation, strengthen and encourage the millions of us who long for union to supplant our discord. Empower us to stand and speak as your witnesses, bringing civility to a culture of division and peace to a culture of violence. This we ask in the name of the Prince of Peace, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Come to the Table and Renew Your Vows

Sermon for Aug. 19, 2018
John 6:51-58

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships. Last Saturday, Ann and I celebrated our 28^th wedding anniversary.  It’s not a round number, so it’s not particularly noteworthy, I guess.  And it’s a drop in the bucket compared with the marriages of many of you, but still – 28 years is 28 years, as my wife likes to say.  Especially as the fall wedding season gets underway, and I meet with couples about to take the plunge, I feel especially grateful for the love of God that I’ve seen come to life in our marriage. 

A couple of weeks before our anniversary, Ann and I made the trek to Springfield for what’s become an annual family gathering at the church where my sisters and I grew up, Christ Episcopal.  We began these gatherings several years ago to celebrate my parents’ 60^th anniversary.  This year – in fact, just a few days ago – they celebrated 66 years of marriage.  I can’t even imagine what that’s like, but I can imagine what underlies it.  It’s love, of course; but by that, I don’t mean a feeling.  I mean a decision – a decision to live out a commitment to something beyond themselves, day in and day out. 

One of the things we always highlight in premarital counseling is what the theologians like to call the covenantal aspect of the sacrament of marriage.  At its core, here’s what I think that means:  Marriage is more than a contract, more than an agreement by two parties that benefits each one.  If I make a contract with someone to replace my driveway, I get a new driveway and the contractor gets my money.  If the terms are met, both parties win.  And the contract is there to ensure it, naming the parties’ obligations and protecting the interests of each.

Where a contract focuses on terms, a covenant focuses on a relationship, with each party pledging commitment to it.  And honoring that deep commitment to the relationship is what keeps the parties together through the tough times.  After all, as every married person knows, spouses always end up falling short; and if marriage were a contract, any sane person would simply note that the terms were broken and make a new agreement with someone else.  But in deep relationships, the commitment overrides the terms.  In fact, the commitment takes on a life of its own, forming you as the marriage goes on, shaping you into someone who gives yourself away rather than someone who meets obligations.  Ultimately, that commitment makes you into someone with the capacity to work a miracle – to live out the impossible vow to love another person with “all that I am and all that I have” and thereby be an outward and visible sign of God’s unconditional love.  Through that mutual commitment, the couple loves each other into submission – not submission to each other’s will but submission to God’s purposes for them. 

So, whether it’s been 66 years, or 28 years, or whatever, an anniversary is a moment to remember the sacramental nature of that covenant, making it real and tangible in a way it can’t be every day.  On an anniversary, we bring the marriage covenant into active and living memory; and in doing so, we bring it to life anew. 

So, you may wonder what all that has to do with our readings today.  Well, to me, the kind of deep relationship people enter into in marriage – that’s the kind of relationship that Jesus is asking us to make with God.  You might think of what Jesus has to say today as a divine proposal.

The Gospel reading today picks up where we left off last week, with Jesus trying to explain to the crowd what it means for him to be the “bread of life.”  He reminds them that, centuries ago, God gave the people of Israel manna to eat in the wilderness.  It kept them going as they journeyed to the Promised Land, but that was as far as their deliverance went.  Now, Jesus says, there’s a new promise, a new covenant of relationship between God and humanity.  And he is its sign.  “I am the living bread that came down from heaven,” Jesus says.  “Whoever eats of this bread will live forever.” (John 6:51)  And the crowd’s probably thinking, “OK, great – the rabbi is talking about spiritual nourishment.”  The symbolism of the bread begins to make sense. 

But then, Jesus takes it up a notch and confuses the crowd again.  “Whoever eats of this bread will live forever,” he says, “and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh….  For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink.” (6:51,55)  Ick.  Did he really say that?  Eat his flesh?  Yes, and not just that:  “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. …  Whoever eats me will live because of me.”  (6:53,57).  No wonder some of his followers started walking away afterwards.  There’s a pretty significant “yuck factor” to what Jesus has to say.

The people listening to him don’t get it because they can’t fathom the terms of God’s proposal.  This “bread of life” won’t just keep us alive as we wander from one day to the next.  This bread is literally God in the flesh; and through Jesus’ body and blood, God is offering us God’s own life, eternal life – right here, right now, and forever.  “Just as I live because of the Father,” Jesus explains, “so whoever eats me will live because of me” (6:57).  It’s so straightforward we think it must be more confusing than it seems.  He can’t really mean what he’s saying, right?  Well, yes.  Eat my flesh and drink my blood – take my life into your own life – and I’ll empower you with eternal life. 

OK.  There’s God’s part of this covenant.  What’s our part?  What are the vows we’re asked to make in this eternal relationship?  As the crowd asks Jesus earlier in John’s gospel, “What must we do to perform the works of God?” (John 6:28).

I think what God asks of us is both much simpler, and much more demanding, than we’d expect.  Again, it’s less like a business contract and more like a marriage covenant.  Our part of the commitment is to match Jesus’ commitment to us.  “[B]elieve in him whom [God] has sent” (6:29).  That’s it.  There’s no specific to-do list, no contract to check for compliance.  Instead, Jesus says, remember what you’ve seen the Father doing through me, and commit yourself to it.  Remember, and believe. 

That’s a lot easier said than done, in the midst of life that distracts us with constant input and overwhelms us with impossible expectations.  When all I can see is everything I have to do, how can I remember my covenant with God and actively believe in Jesus?  We need concrete reminders.  We need signs to help us remember who and where we are.  It’s why the crowd asks Jesus, “What sign are you going to give us then, that we may see it and believe you?” (John 6:30).  Now, the irony is that, 24 hours earlier, the same crowd had watched him feed thousands of people with five loaves and two fish.  What more do you need?  But that was then; this is now.  That day, they were full; but now they’re hungry again.  And when you’re hungry, in whatever sense, it’s hard to remember and believe.

That’s why we’re here today.  That’s why we’re here every Sunday.  That’s why we do basically the same thing here every week.  It’s what Eucharist is all about:  Remember, and believe.

Go back to what you heard in Confirmation class or newcomers’ class.  What happens in Eucharist is called anamnesis in Greek, and it means living memory.  It means remembering, but with flesh and bones on it.  It means bringing a past reality into the present reality as a foretaste of a future reality.  It means making Jesus present in your hands and on your lips, bringing you the power of divine life in the here and now.  It means making eternal life tangible so we can remember and believe.

And from that memory and belief will come the “works of God,” in the sense we’d typically understand that.  Filled with the bread of life, we become the conduits through which eternal life flows.  As Jesus gives himself to bring life to us, so we give ourselves to bring life to each other and to the world.  Nourished with the body of Christ, we become the Body of Christ – bread for a hungry world. 

Every Sunday, we gather to celebrate the anniversary of a marriage – the marriage of heaven and earth, the marriage of Christ and his Church, the marriage of God with each one of us.  So, consider every celebration of Eucharist an opportunity to renew your vows, a chance to remember and believe.  And then, in the power of that memory, recommit yourself as a partner with God in the project of loving the world into submission.

Tragic Love

Sermon for July 22, 2018
Psalm 23; Mark 6:30-34,53-56

Hearing the Old Testament reading, the psalm, and the Gospel this morning, you may have noticed a theme – that God cares for us like a shepherd cares for his sheep.  For many of us, that notion of Jesus as the Good Shepherd is a stock image, almost religious clip-art.  Picture Jesus, and there’s a good chance you’ll see him with a little lamb on his shoulders, having searched for the lost one and brought it back to join the flock.  It’s warm and fuzzy and comforting … and it’s true.  Jesus does just that, going out to find us when we’ve stumbled away, sure we can stand up to the wolves and the bears on our own. 

In Vacation Bible School last week, I told that parable of the shepherd who leaves the flock to save the one who’s lost.  It’s a great illustration of the theme the kids learned all through the week:  that when we’re lonely, when we worry, when we struggle, when we make mistakes, when we’re powerless – Jesus rescues us.

I would tell you that’s a true statement.  And I said so to the kids during the Bible story on Monday.  And then … something happened. 

It happened a couple of hundred miles away, but it strikes home for many of us who grew up, or who now vacation, down in the Ozarks.  You’ve seen the news stories:  Two duck sightseeing boats went out onto Table Rock Lake on Thursday evening, despite severe thunderstorm warnings.  Of course, the point of the duck boats is that they drive you along the highways and then drive you out onto the lake – amphibious vehicles that, like their namesakes, are equally at home on the land and the water, rain or shine.  I remember the “Ride the Ducks” signs along the highway near Branson when I was a little boy.  The ducks have been there forever, taking countless people safely onto Table Rock Lake … until Thursday.  Two duck boats and their passengers went out on the water, though a storm was brewing.  One boat made it back to shore.  The other went down, killing 17 people and injuring others.

And yet, there we were in VBS that week, telling stories of the Good Shepherd who saves lost sheep from the wolves and the bears.  We confidently assured the kids, “When we’re powerless, Jesus rescues.” 

Psychologists call a situation like this “cognitive dissonance.”  Others of us might simply be wondering how churches can dare to make such a claim in a world where tragedy leads the news every blessed night.

Now, the secularists would have an easy explanation.  They’d say that, since there is no God who intervenes in the world, the notion of Jesus rescuing us is bunk from the start.  That’s one way to make sense of tragedy, intellectually at least.

On the other hand, people from the church side would offer a variety of responses.  There are Christians who would imply, at least, that some deficiency on the part of the people involved helped lead to the tragedy.  This is the same line of thinking that led televangelists, after Hurricane Katrina, to argue that New Orleans had it coming because of the supposed sinfulness of its culture.  It’s also the same line of thinking that leads people in hospital rooms, searching frantically for explanations in the face of awful news, to imply that if people had just prayed harder, their loved one might have fought harder against that cancer.  So far, I haven’t heard anyone implying that the 17 souls on that duck boat died as a consequence of God’s judgment or their inadequacy.  But I’ll bet you that kind of drivel is coming out of some pastor’s mouth somewhere this morning.

Others of us from the church side would take a different perspective.  Here’s how I see it, at least.

First and foremost, I would never pretend to tell you I know how God intersects with tragedy, suffering, and death.  That’s because, first and foremost, God is beyond our knowing; and anyone who tells you they’ve got the inside track is someone you probably shouldn’t trust with your favorite pen, much less with your soul.  But to me, understanding God’s place in tragedy involves three sometimes unsatisfying facets of God’s heart, and here they are: freedom, compassion, and redemption.  And all three of those realities are part of the ultimate truth about God’s nature, which is that God is Love.  God is Love.  And that’s true even when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death – and even when that passage is long and brutal.

So, first, about freedom.  To me, living in the world seems to tell us pretty clearly that God allows bad things to happen, and Thursday’s tragedy is just one more example.  People have several drinks and then get behind the wheel.  People flick lit cigarettes into tinder-dry forests.  People go out onto a lake when the weather forecast makes it pretty clear they should just refund everybody’s ticket and send them home.  It’s tempting to look to God and ask, “Why did you let that happen, if you love us so much?”  And I imagine God – like a mother trying to explain why she didn’t stop her daughter from dating that worthless boyfriend – I imagine God saying something like this:  “A puppet can’t love its puppeteer.  I have made you in my image, gifted you with minds to think and hearts to love – and love is my bottom line.  But you must be free in order to love, or else it’s just manipulation.  So,” God might say, “to make you free enough to love, I’ve made you free enough to suffer.  If I turn off the car when the driver is drunk, or stop the boat about to venture into the storm, then you are not free.  And if you are not free, love disappears.”

So, the first facet of the Shepherd’s heart is freedom.  The second, I think, is compassion.  Remember what that word means, when you break it down: To practice compassion is to suffer with someone.  One of our most basic and craziest claims as Christians points to this part of God’s heart.  We believe that the creator and sovereign of the universe chose to enter into human life – being born in poverty, crying in the dirty straw, disobeying his parents, earning a living with his hands, being homeless, pouring out his healing heart (as we heard in today’s Gospel reading) when he badly needed rest instead, watching his friends desert him, being tortured by an oppressive government, and dying in a horrifying public execution.  When tragedy happens, the Shepherd’s heart breaks, with the force that comes only for people who’ve been there themselves.  God was there with those people on the duck boat as it sank.  God was there comforting those who died.  God was there strengthening those who survived.  God was there with the first responders and nurses and doctors and chaplains, treating the injured and comforting the families of the dead.  That kind of compassion is palpably healing – and if you’ve been there, you know it’s true.  I will never forget the presence of God I knew one afternoon, 17 years ago, waiting in a hospital consultation room as Ann was having emergency heart surgery.  I knew that God was “there,” in the abstract.  But my healing started when one of my best friends showed up, and hugged me, and wouldn’t let go.

So, that second facet of the Shepherd’s heart is compassion.  The last one, it seems to me, is redemption.  All that suffering Jesus endured was not suffering for its own sake.  It was suffering that led to victory over sin and death, suffering that opened the door to the fullness of life in God’s presence for each one of us.  Easter morning is the last act in passion week for a reason: because death is not the end.  Like spring buds at winter’s end, resurrection comes – and deep in our bones, we know it.  In Branson, the day after those people drowned, folks from the city and other vacationers started bringing flowers to the Ride the Ducks office, leaving them on the windshields of

cars whose owners weren’t coming back.  Before long, the flowers were overflowing.  Others gathered to pray, an act of remembrance not just for lives lost now but for lives continuing forever.  It’s an expression of solidarity – and that’s great on its own.  But it’s also a reminder that the God who comes to us always does so with new life in hand, transforming tragedy into love.  In God’s promise of life made new, suffering is turned inside out.  The journey through the valley of the shadow of death comes to its end at the table God has prepared specifically for you, the banquet of eternal life that begins even right now, at this Table, as goodness and mercy follow us all the days of our lives and we dwell in the house of the Lord – now and forever.
          So, at the end of even this week – in the cognitive dissonance of senseless tragedy alongside faith in a God we claim rescues us – I can still say, “Yes, it’s true.”  We don’t get to order up the details of our rescue.  Salvation doesn’t come from the a la carte menu.  In that hospital consultation room 17 years ago, after I’d watched Ann’s blood pressure plummet, the news just as easily could have come back differently.  And you know – we would have been OK.  Eventually, we would have been OK.  For I was borne up by the arms of the Shepherd, who came into that room with me and would not let go.

The War of Incivility and the Better Angels of Our Nature

Sermon for Independence Day (transferred)
July 1, 2018
Matthew 5:43-48; Hebrews 11:8-16

Sometimes, you hear people saying we’re living in America’s most divisive moment right now.  I’m certainly not happy with the way we’re talking to each other, but I don’t think today quite measures up to 1856.  In that year, the issue of the day was something literally very close to home for us here in Kansas City.

On the floor of the United States Senate, Charles Sumner, senator from Massachusetts and a

Rep. Preston Brooks caning Sen. Charles Sumner, 1856

leader of the abolition wing of the new Republican Party, rose to speak about the admission of Kansas to the Union and whether Kansas should be slave or free.  Arguing against his colleague, Senator Andrew Butler of South Carolina, who was present in the room, Sumner charged Butler with having taken a metaphorical mistress, and I quote: “a mistress . . . who, though ugly to others, is always lovely to him; [a mistress,] though polluted in the sight of the world, is chaste in his sight.  I mean,” said Sumner, “the harlot, Slavery.”¹  And we think today’s rhetoric is divisive.

But with Sumner’s speech, the dysfunctional drama had only just begun.  Congressman Preston Brooks, fellow South Carolinian and friend of Senator Butler, came into the Senate chamber at the end of business that day.  He walked up to Sumner, still sitting at his Senate desk, and Brooks began beating him over the head with his metal-topped cane.  Brooks beat him until Sumner bled profusely and had to be carried out.  His assault complete, Brooks himself simply walked calmly out of the Senate chamber.  Both men became celebrities and heroes to people on their respective sides.  Appallingly, a censure resolution against Brooks failed, and he won re-election.  Brooks died soon thereafter, at 37 years of age,² but the stage for Civil War was being set.

Onto that stage came Abraham Lincoln, a minority president whose election in 1860 triggered the secession of the Southern states, seven of which had already left before Lincoln took office.  As Lincoln came to Washington in early 1861 for his inauguration, he understood his work as being even greater than George Washington’s – not the work of creating, but the work of reconciling, his nation.  He was tasked with holding together the fabric the founders had stitched, even as it was actively rending.  Most of Lincoln’s inaugural address was an argument for calm deliberation rather than hasty action, appealing to the small remaining center and arguing for legislation to “adjust … all our present difficulty.”³ 

But for his ending, Lincoln offered hope for reconciliation even in the face of secession.  He tried to remind the 30,000 people gathered there⁴ how much greater were the forces unifying them than dividing them.  He said, “We are not enemies, but friends.  We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.  The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearth-stone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”⁵  Of course, Lincoln’s beautiful call fell on the deaf ears of both sides; and five weeks later, South Carolina fired on Fort Sumter.

Today, we’re not waging the Civil War.  Instead, we’re waging the War of Incivility.  Last week, a Democratic member of Congress called on people to harass cabinet members in public establishments and tell them they aren’t welcome.  A restaurant owner in Virginia told an administration official she wasn’t welcome to dine there.⁶  A billboard recently went up on a Texas highway telling liberals to leave the state.⁷  Really?  That’s what we’ve come to?

So, what do we hear from our Lord and Savior about all this, as we celebrate our nation’s birthday?  Let’s look at the Gospel reading for the feast of Independence Day.  This passage comes in the middle of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, part of a string of teachings where Jesus is redefining “what everybody knows” about how they’re supposed to live faithfully.  Over and over, Jesus says, “You have heard that it was said…,” and then he redefines the conventional wisdom on topics like violence, adultery, divorce, swearing oaths, and retribution.  Then, at the end of this section, Jesus takes the furthest step – redefining the conventional wisdom about how we’re supposed to treat our enemies.  

So, what would that conventional wisdom have been?  Probably not so different from our own.  Even Scripture can take us down the wrong path: Psalm 139 says, “O that you would kill the wicked, O God, and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me….  Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?  …  I hate them with a perfect hatred, I count them my enemies.” (139:19,21-22)  That may be Scripture, but it’s probably not great material for the next Youth Group t-shirt.  So, Jesus teaches, you’ve heard that this was said.  But I say to you, “Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). 

Pesky Savior.  That’s not what we wanted to hear.  Righteous indignation is so much more satisfying.

But wait – this teaching gets even harder when you dig into Jesus words.  First of all, love in this sense isn’t some warm and fuzzy feeling; love is action.  It’s about how we treat one another, regardless of how we feel.  And that’s not all.  Here’s our lesson in Greek for the day.  There are three different Greek words in the New Testament translated in English as “love.”  One of them is stergo.  It means to have a benevolent interest in someone, to wish someone well.  That’s not the word for love Jesus uses here.  The second is phileo, which means to like someone a lot, to consider someone a friend, a brother, a sister.  That’s not the word for love that Jesus uses here.  The third is agapao, whose noun form is agapé.  This is God’s love for us, the love Jesus shows in giving himself for us, the love of foot-washing and healing and sacrifice.  And yes, this is the word for love that Jesus uses here. 

It hardly seems fair.  I mean, on our own, maybe we could get to the point of treating our enemies with benevolent interest – and honestly, in our national discourse, that would be a huge improvement.  But agapé?  How do we do that? 

Well, we do it the hard way because that’s the only way.  We do it by being present with our enemy, relating to our enemy, knowing our enemy – not through someone else’s talking points but over a beer.  And then, we’re supposed to go even one step further, Jesus says.  Once we know our enemy, we pray for him.  And mean it.   

Now, I doubt that many of us here would consider someone else in this church an enemy.  But I’ll tell you: If you take it seriously, church life is pretty darned good training for the self-giving love Jesus is talking about here – especially when we do it intentionally.  Last Sunday, we began a discussion of Scripture, interpretation, and immigration, and there were a couple of moments when things got a little heated.  One person said one thing, and another person heard something slightly different, and some anger rose.  For those of us who don’t love conflict, those moments can make us stop short.  But we can’t let them make us stop talking.  So, we picked up the conversation again this Sunday.  People there certainly disagreed with each other, but I believe in our ability, led by the Holy Spirit, to disagree without dividing.  In fact, I believe in our ability, led by the Holy Spirit, to disagree and begin healing.  And that’s the work of reconciliation.  That’s the work of the better angels of our nature.

And I think we’re called to move that work forward.  So, this conversation about Scripture, interpretation, and immigration won’t be our last gathering like this.  I think we need something regularly, maybe monthly, where we can practice reconciliation by loving one another even as we disagree.  It’s a chance for us to build our muscles as reconcilers, and it’s a chance to offer a haven of sanity and blessing in a divided culture.  It’s a chance to let our better angels rise. 

What’s most important about this call we’ve heard is that neither Lincoln nor Jesus was talking just to the “good” people or the “important” people.  They were both talking to us all.  Lincoln may not have been a Christian exactly, but he understood the mystery that sin dwells alongside the beauty of being made in God’s image.  Lincoln knew we all wallow in depths of darkness, and we soar to heights of light.  He was calling on the better angels within each of us, and within the character of our nation.  He was calling on the senator from Massachusetts and the congressman from South Carolina; the small farmer in New York and the slave-holder in Missouri; the ironworker in Pennsylvania and the blacksmith in Mississippi.

Today, the same truth holds.  It’s not just the leaders of our political parties who’ve got to figure out how to listen to each other, in order to lift our nation out of the muck and into functional governance.  It’s us.  We’ve got to turn off the cable news and choose not to react to the daily outrages of social media.  We’ve got to love each other enough to speak with each other, and listen to each other, and pray with each other, and pray for each other – and mean it.  As it is for individuals, so it is for nations:  When we love, we thrive.  When we disdain, we suffer.  When we reject, we wither.  “A house divided against itself cannot stand,” as both Jesus (Mark 3:25) and Lincoln⁸ said.

“Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you.”  Living that way is how we’ll find what we seek, our “better country, that is, a heavenly one” (Hebrews 11:16).  It’s the holy choice to which the better angels of our nature still guide us.  So, as we head back out into our divided land, back out into our nation of indignation, ask yourself:  How can I change the conventional wisdom?  Whose voice do I need to hear?  For whom do I need to pray?  What enemy is Jesus calling me to love? 

1.       United States Senate.  “The Caning of Charles Sumner.”  Available at: https://www.senate.gov/artandhistory/history/minute/The_Caning_of_Senator_Charles_Sumner.htm.  Accessed June 29, 2018.

2.       United States Senate, “Caning.”

3.       Lincoln, Abraham.  “First Inaugural Address, March 4, 1861, Washington, D.C..”  Available at: http://www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/1inaug.htm.  Accessed June 29, 2018.

4.       Kaplan, Fred.  Lincoln: The Biography of a Writer.  New York: HarperCollins, 2008.  325.

5.       Lincoln, “First Inaugural.”

6.       Gomez, Luis.  “Zero tolerance? Maxine Waters says Trump cabinet ‘not welcome anymore, anywhere,’ sparking backlash.”  San Diego Union Tribune, June 25, 2018.  Available at: http://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/opinion/the-conversation/sd-democrats-republicans-balk-at-maxine-waters-remarks-about-trump-supporters-20180625-htmlstory.html.  Accessed June 29, 2018.

7.       Shannon, Joel.  “Texas billboard that tells ‘liberals’ to keep driving will come down.”  USA Today, June 20, 2018.  Available at: https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/politics/2018/06/20/texas-billboard-tells-liberals-keep-driving/716756002/.  Accessed June 29, 2018.

8.       Lincoln, Abraham.  “House Divided Speech, Springfield, Illinois, June 16, 1858.”  Available at: http://www.abrahamlincolnonline.org/lincoln/speeches/house.htm.  Accessed June 29, 2018.

Jesus to the Church: Show the World How It's Done

Sermon from June 24, 2018
Mark 4:35-41

I want to speak with you this morning about a topic that, in one sense, I know nothing about but that, in another sense, I live out a lot more than I’d like.  I want to speak with you about being in peril amidst the chaos of the raging sea.  I believe we find ourselves in a moment very much like the Gospel reading we heard this morning – that story of Jesus, and the disciples, and the storm on the Sea of Galilee that almost swamps their small boat.

Now, as I said, I have no experience navigating storms at sea.  I don’t even have any experience navigating storms on a lake or a river.  But I want to tell you about an experience from our vacation to New York that’s had me thinking about tempest-tossed seas a little more than usual.

One of the places Ann and I visited was Ellis Island, which is now a national monument

The Great Hall, Ellis Island

devoted to the history of the immigrant experience in the United States.  I walked up the stairs into that stunning great hall, which looks more like a church than a government building; and I could imagine it teeming with people seeking new life in this country – that huge, echoing space, with thousands of voices speaking scores of languages.  For the government officials trying to make sense of all those stories, it must have felt like complete chaos.  And yet, that chaos was nothing compared with the crossing each of those 12 million immigrants had experienced – most of them selling their possessions and coming in steerage, sharing cramped space and all kinds of diseases, to journey to a land where they saw hope and opportunity.  That’s chaos on the storm-tossed seas I can’t even fathom.  (And if that’s true, by the way, just try to imagine the chaos endured by people enslaved and brought across that same ocean, enduring the monstrous injustices of kidnapping, torture, and death.)

But what really struck me at Ellis Island was part of the facility most visitors don’t see.  We had arranged for a special tour of the hospital wards where sick immigrants were housed and treated before being admitted to this country or sent back home.  The hospital wards look very rough today because they haven’t been preserved.  But in the day, the hospital on Ellis Island provided arguably the world’s standard of care, particularly for infectious diseases like cholera and tuberculosis.  The immigrant hospital pioneered innovations like housing contagious patients separately, sterilizing instruments and bedding, designing wards to allow in light and fresh air, and studying disease both clinically, like a medical school, and epidemiologically, like a public health service. 

The Ellis Island hospital had a tremendous cure rate and remarkably low mortality.  And all this care was offered for people who weren’t even American citizens.  It was for people who had endured the stormy chaos of the Atlantic passage and were living in the frightening limbo of being citizens of nowhere.  Our government cared for these strangers with the best technology available, treating them as full human beings, full children of God.  Now, you can make a good argument that doing so was in the nation’s pragmatic interest, to bring in healthy people for jobs we didn’t have enough workers to fill.  True enough – and in the process, the individuals themselves were also blessed, and made well, and given new lives.  For them, the storm was stilled.  And because of the care they received, they became the ancestors of millions of us today, perhaps some of us sitting in this very room.

Today, in our historical moment, the metaphorical storm-tossed seas continue to rage and foam.  Immigration is among the issues dominating our news and dividing our loyalties.  How do we do what every nation has to do, establishing safe and secure borders?  We’ve had to figure that out across our history, whether the focus was on Ellis Island or, now, on the southern border.  Part of the challenge is that immigration is not just an issue of public policy but also as an issue of ethics because there are real, live people involved – which is also something we’ve struggled to figure out across our history.  How are we called to treat the stranger at our border and the stranger in our midst?  And for us as Christians, we are required to ask the question this way:  How would Jesus have us treat the stranger at our border and the stranger in our midst? 

Recently, the attorney general moved into that question of Christian ethics, too, quoting Paul’s letter to the Romans to back up administration policy.  This morning, between the services, we had a discussion about Scripture, interpretation, and the treatment of immigrants.  It was great, and you’re invited to come as we continue it next week, same time and same place.  We’re doing this because we can do this here.  We can have great discussions in this congregation.  We are a family of folks with wide-ranging points of view who can trust each other enough to share them, and learn from each other, and still come together around this table to be empowered as Christ’s body in the world.  This is a big-tent moment in our national life, and I believe Jesus is asking this parish family to lean into it – to be a contrast presence to the divisiveness of the culture around us.

Of course, immigration isn’t the only stormy sea that the Church and our nation have been navigating.  Other waves also beat against our boat, and, again, I want to be direct with you about one of them.  We’ve been interviewing candidates to be our new assistant rector, someone to take on Mother Anne’s formerly full-time duties in pastoral care, parish life, and worship management.  This search follows three other searches that have brought us three stellar people to serve as our minister for younger adults and families, our community coordinator, and our engagement coordinator.  And each of those new hires is doing a fabulous job, even in their first two or three months with us.  We had a gathering for younger adults last Friday, and even in the summer, with folks out of town, we had 25 people there.  HJ’s is seeing use every day by parishioners, community groups, local businesses, nonprofits, and people just wanting a cup of coffee – and paid bookings are over $7,000 already.  Newcomers are receiving not just an immediate welcome but solid follow-up; our greeter ministry is growing stronger; and parishioners are being contacted to get involved in new ways. 

Of the people we’ve called to serve in those three positions, two of them have spouses of the same gender.  The search committees didn’t recommend hiring any of our new staff members because of their sexual identities, and I didn’t hire any of them because of their sexual identities.  We called the three best people we could find for the work Jesus is asking us to do here.  And I believe we are richly blessed to be part of a Church that embraces the ministries of all people and allows us to consider any qualified candidate for a job. 

Now, at this point, we’re close to calling a priest to take on leadership of our ministries of pastoral care, parish life, and worship management.  And, as it happens, one of the two finalists for that job also has a spouse of the same gender.  If the Holy Spirit leads us to call that candidate, it will be another example of our seeking the very best person we can find for the work God gives us to do here.  I hope to have something to share about that search in the coming week.

Now, a lot of the people in our national boat have felt frightened by the storms we face.  There are immigrants who fear the prospect of detention and deportation – and there are Americans who fear what they see in other countries whose immigration systems have weakened their economies and changed their societies.  There are LGBT Christians who’ve felt marginalized and silenced for decades – and there are other Christians who tell me they don’t recognize the Church that, not so long ago, taught them homosexuality was a sin and who don’t want to feel left behind by a family they love.  This is a time of change and uncertainty on so many levels in our world and our Church, and rapid change is maybe the most frightening storm of all.

I will be honest with you.  As the captain of this ship of souls, I am afraid sometimes.  I find myself right there with the disciples in today’s reading, fearing that the wind and the waves will tip us over.  When the tension torques up – when harsh language or divisive actions hit the news – I struggle with what I can say, and what I should say, and what effect saying something will have on this church family, and yet how Jesus commands us to put loving God and loving neighbor ahead of anything the world tells us.  I sometimes worry about just how great a storm our nation and our Church can navigate without the boat becoming completely swamped.   

So, help me out here, Jesus.  Like all of us in this room, I’m trying to do the right thing.  Wake up, and give us a hand!  Do you not care that we’re taking on water?  Do you not care that we’re afraid?

And Jesus looks at me and says, “Really?  You fear that I don’t care, and you fear I’m not engaged?  Look,” Jesus says, “I’m right here in this ship of souls with you.  Now, I could silence all your worried arguments with a single word – and I will; that’s what the second coming’s all about.  I’ve already defeated sin and death, and given you eternal life,” he says, “and I’ve called you to represent me in the world.  You know who you are – the family of God; gathered under this big, beautiful tent; called to grow into the fullness of who I’ve created you to become.  Work it out, and show the world how it’s done.  Why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?”

In the hymn we’ll sing at the end of today’s worship,¹ we’ll pray for all those in peril on the sea.  We’ll remember our eternal Father, whose arm hath bound the restless wave.  We’ll remember Christ, whose voice the waters heard and hushed their raging at his word.  We’ll remember the Spirit, who didst brood upon the chaos dark and rude, and bid its angry tumult cease, and give, for wild confusion, peace.  And I pray – in the midst of the chaos of Church and state, when it feels like our boat is being swamped – I pray that we’ll remember who we are and whose we are:  that we have Jesus with us in the boat, that we can love each other through our differences and teach the world to do the same, and that we need never be afraid.

1.       Whiting, William.  “Eternal Father, strong to save.” In The Hymnal 1982.  New York: Church Pension Fund, 1985.  Hymn number 608.

The Greatest of All Shrubs

Sermon for June 17, 2018 (Father's Day)
Ezekiel 17:22-24; 2 Corinthians 5:6-10,14-17; Mark 4:26-34

I want to begin this morning by telling you what I’m not going to preach about, and why.  If you’ve followed the national news this weekend, you know we’ve come to a peculiar moment in which the interpretation of scripture has become newsworthy. It’s not every day the attorney general appeals to the Bible to defend public policy.¹ Now, it’s tempting for me to toss out the sermon I’d prepared for today and preach about using scripture to defend one’s position on immigration.  I’m not going to do that, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t going to address the question, because we are. 

For me to stand up here and tell you what I think would make some of you happy and infuriate others of you.  I’d get some supportive emails, and I’d have several angry coffees.  But the fact that a sermon is basically one-way communication means that we wouldn’t really have much conversation about scripture and public policy – and, worse, a number of you would just go away quietly upset, the disagreement distancing your relationship with the church. 

So, instead, I’d like to invite you to a conversation next Sunday, between the services.  We’ll use the presenting situation as a case study, looking at the scripture that the attorney general cited, as well as passages others would cite in disagreement.  I’ll have some things to say about those passages and about how to interpret scripture responsibly.  And then, God willing, you’ll share your minds and your hearts.  If we need to, we’ll extend the conversation to the following Sunday, as well.  I believe this congregation – and the Episcopal Church, at its best – can be a big tent, a contrast community to the divisiveness of our nation and the predictable outrage of social media.  If you agree, I hope you’ll come for the conversation.

So, instead of politics for now … Happy Father’s Day.  And thank you for honoring your heavenly parent as part of your Father’s Day celebration.  For me, leading up to Father’s Day, I’ve had baseball on my mind.  As many of you know, my father and I take a short trip to St. Louis each year to see a couple of Cardinals’ games.  You’ll have to forgive me for the destination; I grew up in Springfield, watching both the Royals and the Cardinals, never having to worry about issues of loyalty, at least not until 1985….  We still have a couple of months before my father and I head off for this year’s trip, with my son, Dan, but we’re looking forward to it already.

I’ve also had baseball on my mind because I was blessed to make a pilgrimage to Cooperstown, New York, when Ann and I were out there to visit our daughter, Kathryn.  I’ve always wanted to go to the Hall of Fame and see the holy relics of a game that, for me, captures our lives – and, if you’ll allow it, maybe even our path to God.  Baseball calls us into the green pastures of ball field to find our lives and our hearts in all their complexity, our virtues and our brokenness.  It’s a game we can easily see ourselves playing; even old short guys with spare tires can imagine ourselves blooping a single at Kauffman Stadium.  Because all could play, we know all should be welcomed to play, though our sinful tendencies made us slow to bring people of all colors and backgrounds onto the field.  And the game itself is a showcase of humankind’s potential for glory and brokenness, side by side: walk-off home runs and missed calls at first base in the World Series; chivalrous commitments to excellence and records tainted with steroids; the perfectly executed double play and the grounders that roll between our legs – and, despite all the ways we fall short, there’s always the hope of “next year.”²

Anyway, the visit to the Hall of Fame was one of the highlights of our vacation for me.  The only way to improve the visit would have been if my father had been there, too – to see the shrines of the players we watched together, people like Bob Gibson and George Brett, players whose passion and drive made them saints in the church of baseball.

My father would never say this, but he’s an all-star in his own right, in the world of collegiate debate.  As an undergraduate, he and his partner won the national debate tournament, not once but twice.  When he served as debate coach at what’s now Missouri State, he led teams to national titles often enough that they named the program after him.  But for my father, what mattered most – and what my sisters and I would hear about when former students told stories years later – was his consistent excellence as a teacher and mentor, as well as his investment in the lives and the well-being of his debaters.  For my father, his career wasn’t about making it to the hall of fame.  It was about helping his students figure out who they were and helping them make the most of what God had given them.  Not surprisingly, the same was true, to an even greater degree, for my sisters and me, as we grew up and for years thereafter.  Our father has been all about sowing seeds and nurturing their growth, year after year after year.

At its core, baseball is also about being the best you can be precisely where you find yourself, rather than achieving success in the world’s eyes.  A great example of that is the movie Bull Durham, about a minor-league catcher named Crash Davis.  He’s a very good ballplayer, excellent by minor-league standards.  In fact, through the movie, Crash Davis is flirting with the all-time home-run record for a minor-league player.  Now, that sounds great, at first – but being the best in the minor leagues isn’t exactly how a player wants to be remembered.  He wants to go to “the show” and play in the cathedrals of the majors.  But instead, Crash Davis ends his playing days mentoring a young, out-of-control pitching sensation, a kid who desperately needs to find both a father figure and the strike zone.  And in the end, Crash Davis sends the young man on to the majors, while Crash makes his exit as the minor-league home-run champ.  But the point is that redemption comes, too, as Crash finds love and purpose along the way.

You may be wondering what any of this has to do with our readings today.  But think about the parable Jesus tells about the mustard seed.  Now, we find this parable in Matthew and Luke, as well as the version we heard from Mark’s Gospel this morning.  But Mark’s version is the most interesting to me because it’s the most honest.  Jesus says the reign and rule of God is like a mustard seed:  It may be tiny and seemingly insignificant; but once it’s planted, “it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs” (Mark 4:32).  In Mark’s story, the mustard seed doesn’t grow into an impressive tree, as both Matthew and Luke say (Luke 13:18-19; Matthew 13:31-32).  Instead, that mustard seed grows into “the greatest of all shrubs.”  It’s like being the minor-league home-run champ – the king of the second tier.

But here’s where my father, and Crash Davis, and Jesus all come together.  A good father, or a good role model, doesn’t insist that those who follow him take precisely the same path he took.  (And thank God for that, because I’ll tell you, there was no way I was ever going to compete in debate.  I wouldn’t even take public speaking in college.)  Nor does a good father, or a good role model, insist that those who follow him must accomplish great worldly success in order to live a holy, purposeful, valuable life.  A good father inspires his children to become the greatest of all shrubs – to bloom where they’re planted, as the saying goes; to live into the fullness of whom God has created those children to be. 

I believe our heavenly Father takes the same pattern to the ultimate degree.  The kingdom of God isn’t about a powerful earthly nation, even though the ancient prophets saw it that way.  As we heard in the reading from Ezekiel, the prophets were waiting for Israel to become the greatest of all kingdoms in the ancient Near East, the earthly manifestation of God’s power and glory, with God’s own Son coming to rule as king.  But Jesus reveals God’s reign and rule coming in a different way:  It begins like one of the smallest of all the earth’s seeds, insignificant in appearance but stunning in potential.  And God’s kingdom requires someone or something to sow it, to take that stunning potential and place it in the good soil that God has provided and prepared.  Then, once it’s sown, that tiny, insignificant seed grows up and becomes “the greatest of all shrubs” – the minor-league home-run champ; the coach who wins but whose passion isn’t winning. 

That’s hope and success on God’s terms:  Learning to love the people around you and the life God has given you, learning to live into the fullness of whom you’ve been created to be, because that’s what brings God’s kingdom to life in the here and now – your life.  And I’ll tell you: When God gives us glimpses of what’s coming next, the heavenly kingdom in all its fullness, our later chapters of eternal life – those glimpses of heaven don’t come when we look at our trophies or our bank accounts or our cars or our houses – or even our plaques in the Hall of Fame.  We get glimpses of God’s kingdom when we live as new creations in Christ: making the most of whom God has made us to be, loving the world with the love that’s first transformed us, our lives offering branches of nurture and sustenance for the birds of the air around us.

So, it may not sound like much of a compliment, but – you are a mustard seed.  You bear greatness on God’s own scale.  So don’t miss your opportunity to be the greatest of all shrubs.

1.       Jacobs, Julia. “Sessions’s Use of Bible Passage to Defend Immigration Policy Draws Fire.” New York Times, June 15, 2018.  Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/15/us/sessions-bible-verse-romans.html. Accessed June 16, 2018,

2.       See Sexton, John, with Thomas Oliphant and Peter J. Schwartz. Baseball as a Road to God: Seeing Beyond the Game. New York: Gotham Books, 2013.