Speaking to Dry Bones

Sermon for March 29, 2020
Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11:1-45

Here we are, in an even more stripped-down version of Sunday-morning worship than last week.  I miss the vocal music as much as you do; and believe me, it’s very strange to be here leading worship with no one else in the room (other than Tom at 10:15).  We’re all trying to be as careful as we can, taking self-quarantine and stay-at-home orders seriously, even as we find virtual ways to come together for prayer and worship.      

So, I guess I could have just gone live from my kitchen on Facebook, but I’m here in this space primarily because of the technology: Many of you are accustomed to livestreaming worship from our website, and it seems good not to monkey around with something that’s working, especially given Facebook’s challenges in handling the digital load.  Plus, being here has the advantage of a setting that matters.  It’s seems right to be able to worship, even virtually, here in our spiritual home, this good and sacred space.  I think it gives us some peace.

Peace is a scarce commodity these days.  In fact, I’ll tell you a secret: I’ve been afraid.  I think that’s a healthy thing to say out loud, because I imagine it’s true for many of us.  For me, it hit home when my wife, Ann, started showing symptoms consistent with COVID-19, coughing and running a fever.  As you know, we’re breathing easier now, having received a negative test result on Friday.  But for a few days, I thought maybe the conceptual had become real.  You know, Ann’s lupus always lurks at the edges of our lives, always able to roar back for no apparent reason and take her down, because it’s her heart and lungs the disease usually involves.  I’ve made some peace with that – the fact that, most likely, she will die before I do – but you never make peace with that.  And for a few days, I thought that time was now.

I say all that not because my situation is unique but precisely because – in these strange days – my situation is not unique at all.  Anyone – in a sense, everyone – is at risk.  And everywhere we look, we’re reminded of it.  On the news or social media, it seems every report is about cases spiking up while the economy plunges down.  And we’re hearing all this as we’re stuck at home, of course; so, even our places of refuge have become reminders of isolation.  All that makes us scared. 

And fear is a feeling we’re conditioned to dismiss, we rugged individualists who can overcome anything on our path to self-actualization.  In our culture, it’s really not OK to be afraid.  But here’s the thing:  We are anyway.  Fear is a normal response to abnormal situations.

Here’s another feeling that doesn’t really seem to be OK, especially for people like us, for people of faith; and that’s being angry with God.  Come on, Lord.  Why aren’t you stopping all this?  Have we done something to deserve this pandemic?  Are you testing us?

I don’t believe so.  I don’t believe this virus is from God any more than any other threat in the natural order is from God.  Whether it’s tornadoes, or earthquakes, or poisonous snakes, God lets the creation be the creation, beautiful and threatening, too, sometimes.  It’s the price of putting into place a natural order that creates both my wife’s beautiful eyes and her broken immune system. 

In our two readings this morning, I hear fear, and I hear anger.  The prophet Ezekiel is speaking to people ravaged by decades foreign invasion.  At this point in the story, the people of Israel and Judah have been subject to massive deportations, dragged off to Babylon with only what they could carry.  They’ve got to be afraid, right?  If you think we’re experiencing disruption and dislocation, imagine being conquered and then hauled off to the conquerors’ land.  I’m sure Ezekiel carried plenty of that fear himself, too, as he was led away. 

But there, in enemy territory, he has this vision.  God comes to Ezekiel and shows him a desolate landscape, the stuff of nightmares.  All around him is death and destruction, hopelessness in the flesh – or, actually, hopelessness with no flesh at all.  God asks if Ezekiel thinks these bones can live, and Ezekiel sighs that only God knows.  So, God tells him to prophesy to these bones, to speak for God into this desolation, and bring these bones to life.  Ezekiel looks around; and he must be thinking, “There’s no way, Lord.”  When we’re bound in fear, new life seems about as likely as bones coming together and breathing on their own.

Then we have our reading from John’s Gospel, the latest in our hit parade of the longest Gospel readings ever over the past few weeks.  The story begins with Jesus allowing his friend Lazarus to die.  And once he finally makes his way to be with Lazarus’ family, what he hears is anger, pure and simple.  Martha and Mary – two of Jesus’ closest friends, people who understand his power – they’ve watched their brother die of an illness they had no power to control.  They’ve buried him, and they’re mourning just as we mourn when we lose someone so close it feels like a part of you has been cut off.  Finally, four days late, Jesus shows up, and Martha runs down the road to rage at him:  “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (11:21).  She can’t imagine why he failed to come and save her brother, and she loves Jesus enough to be completely honest about it: How dare you?  But with her anger out there, Jesus can move her forward, toward new life.

So, in this upside-down time for us – as we seem to be losing our freedom, our connection with each other, and our sense of what’s “normal” – I want to say, first, it’s OK to be angry, and it’s OK to be afraid.  God gets that.  In fact, God got that very directly, coming to inhabit our broken life as one of us – angry enough to turn over tables in the Temple, frightened enough to cry in the Garden of Gethsemane.  It’s OK to join Jesus in being human.

But what we can’t do with our anger and fear is stop there.

Let me share a quick story about a friend of mine.  As you know, six of us from my seminary class have stayed close over the years.  We get together each fall, and talk once a month, because the friendship matters that much.  One of us, Kathy, is in the process of being with her husband as he dies.  He’s making his exit because of long-term health issues, not because of coronavirus.  Kathy is watching her husband go even as she leads a parish and completes her final project for a doctor of ministry degree.  If anybody has a right to be fearful and angry, Kathy does.  Yet, when we talked earlier this week, Kathy was making a different choice.  Here’s what she said: “Death should never change the way we live, other than making us live more fully and more completely.” 

Here’s what my friend Kathy could see – which is the same truth that God showed Ezekiel, the same truth that Jesus showed his friends there at the tomb:  Kathy was reminding us that death never gets the last word.  It’s perfectly OK to be afraid of a journey we’ve never taken before.  And it’s perfectly OK to be angry over the losses we suffer, on all sorts of levels.  But we have the Holy Spirit empowering us to make a choice.  We can remain in fear and anger; God gives us that freedom.  Or, we can choose hope and life instead.  As Jesus said to Martha, after hearing her rage, “I am the resurrection and the life” (11:25) – standing before you, right here, right now.  Death will do what it does, because death is part of the beautiful freedom of God’s creation, seeds falling into the ground and springing up to new and more abundant life.  Death will do what it does, Jesus says, but that’s not the end of the story.  “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live; and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die” (11:25-26).  Lazarus lies in the tomb but not for long, Jesus says.  And like him, we will be unbound, and we will be set free.

We can choose that story.  We can claim that truth.  And when we do, God uses us as present-day Ezekiels.  In a time of disconnection and fear, in a time when our social lives lie dormant, in a time when we see scattered around us the dry bones of present connections and future plans, the Spirit of the Lord whispers to us – even such as us – and says, Mortal, “prophesy to these bones, and say to them … the Lord God … will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live” (37:4-5)  .

That’s what the church is here for.  That’s our witness in this disjointed time: to say to the dry bones of life around us that connection and hope are God’s promise even to people in bondage, even to people entombed.  We are here to proclaim a contrast reality – not denying the hardship of this time, not denying our anger and our fear, but proclaiming the truth that this story has an ending that God’s already writing.  And we are God’s instruments in bringing that story to life.

How?  Well, here’s my grand call to action.  Or, rather, here’s my call to a small but still-grand action, perhaps the most lifegiving witness we can make in a time of dry bones.  Here you go:  Once a day, every day, call someone to check in.  Or write a note to say you care.  Or send a text to someone whose house might feel like a tomb.  Speak the Spirit’s love into the dryness and disconnection of these days, and you will help knit dry bones together.  God will use you to roll away the stone and raise the dead to life.

Being the Church, No Matter What

Sermon from March 15, 2020
Exodus 17:1-7; John 4:5-42

If you’re looking for a word from Scripture to describe what it’s like to live in the midst of the coronavirus outbreak, we heard it in the first reading this morning:  Making their way through the wilderness, “the Israelites journeyed by stages, as the Lord commanded” (Exodus 17:1); and they wondered, “Is the Lord among us, or not?” (Exodus 17:7).  Maybe we can forgive them for a little complaining, as well as for faltering trust.  They’ve been freed from slavery in Egypt, and they’ve celebrated the new life God’s given them … only to find themselves wandering in the desert with food and water scarce.  Just before today’s reading, they’re starving; and God provides manna, bread from heaven, to carry them through.  Then today, they can’t find enough water, and God empowers Moses to strike a rock at Mt. Sinai to bring living water that flows from barren stone. 

Wandering in the wilderness might be an overused metaphor for the confusing times of our lives, but it certainly seems to apply right now.  Answers are not coming easily these days.  I’ve sent you two letters in two weeks to explain how we’re working to manage the risk of infection here at church.  That’s not because I think you like getting mail but because the situation is so fluid. 

As of now, these are the most important ways we’re protecting you when you come to church: We’re greeting each other without touching, and it would be smart to keep a six-foot distance as much as possible.  We’ve stopped serving the common cup.  We’ve stopped passing the collection plates and the sign-in folders.  We’re not handling prayer books or hymnals.  We’re sanitizing surfaces more intensely.  We’ve removed the holy water from the font.  We’re serving individually wrapped snacks at coffee hour and serving meals without shared utensils. 

So, I’d like to end this list by saying, “There’s our response plan, and I think we’re good.”  But I have a strong feeling that we aren’t done yet, though I don’t know what this week will bring.  In the past week, just in the small world of The Episcopal Church, we’ve learned of six rectors of large congregations who’ve been diagnosed with coronavirus infection, effectively closing their churches for a time.  And, even more drastic, at least three dioceses – Virginia; Washington, DC; and Lexington in Kentucky – have shut the doors to all their congregations for at least two weeks, closing more than 300 churches.  Plus, as you know, many Kansas City churches, including Church of the Resurrection and Village Presbyterian, are worshiping only online today, and our bishop may move us that way for next Sunday.  Worship online is great, and thank God for it, in this moment.  Yet, it is deeply sad that churches are having to ask people not to come at a time when we’d most want churches open, a time when people are uncertain and afraid.

So, as we’re thinking about what happens next, the guiding principle is this:  We are the church, the Body of Jesus Christ in this place and time; and we will keep being the church, no matter what.  As individuals and as a congregation, we’ll continue to live faithfully even in uncertain times; and we’ll live trusting that God is with us and will bring us through this.  In your day-to-day lives, wherever you are, you’ll continue to love God and love the person in front of you – even when that means staying away from the person in front of you.  As you make your way through this coronavirus wilderness, you can keep going on your Lenten journey, reading your Bible and saying your prayers. 

And, it’s our intention that you’ll be able to “come” to worship, too, even if we can’t all come together to worship in this room.  I know worshiping at home is not ideal.  Just as you miss receiving the Body of Christ when you can’t be here, you miss physically gathering as the Body of Christ, getting to talk with people you love and being energized for this life God gives us Monday through Saturday.  I get that.  But we’re blessed that we can still be the church as we gather virtually.

In fact, we’re starting that on a daily basis, as of tomorrow morning.  Several of you saw our Facebook posts offering the service of Compline over the past couple of nights.  Beginning tomorrow, we’ll offer live prayer on Facebook three times a day.  It’s easy to remember:  8-1-8.  We’ll be on Facebook Live at 8 a.m., 1 p.m., and 8 p.m. each day, gathering with you for beautiful prayers from our Anglican tradition.  We’ll use the framework of the Daily Devotions for Individuals and Families in the Book of Common Prayer, though you won’t need a prayer book to take part.  All you’ll need is your phone or computer and a few minutes out of your day to stop, and breathe, and remember that God is God, no matter what.  And you’ll be able to be part of the experience in real time, too, typing in your prayers in the moments of silence.  Through that brief witness, three times a day, we can pray for ourselves, our friends, our family, and our world, commending our common life in this difficult moment to Jesus’ healing touch.

And then, we have the question of Sunday mornings.  Although our bishop hasn’t stopped in-person worship yet, I wouldn’t be surprised if that happens in the next few days.  And if it does, we will still have worship, and you can still be part of it through the livestream on our website.  It wouldn’t really make sense for us to celebrate Holy Communion if no one’s in the pews.  But, as some of you will remember from an earlier day, we have the beauty of Morning Prayer available to us.  We’ll bring together Dr. Tom and our singers and some blowhard to stand up here and preach.  And worship will happen, because we are the church.  We are God’s people, and we will praise him.

You’ve probably also wondered about classes, meetings, and other gatherings.  That, too, is a fluid situation.  For today, the Satterlee family cancelled Lois’ funeral, which was set for this afternoon.  Tonight, we’re cancelling our Third Sunday offering of Irish Pub Night, sadly.  But our Discovery class and our Sunday-night class, the Way of Love in Lent, will go on because we can offer them on Facebook Live, too.  So, tonight, people can come, and keep their distance; or they can “come” and be with us online.  Visit the St. Andrew’s Facebook page, or watch your feed, at 6 p.m. tonight.

We’re also having to think about major events to come.  It’s way to early to know how the coronavirus situation will look by Easter, but … Easter is four weeks away.  And a week after that, we’re planning to debut our new service at HJ’s, Trailside.  We may need to approach those events differently, so stay tuned as the weeks go on.

Obviously, there’s a lot that’s uncertain right now.  But there’s far more that is certain, now and always.  The living water of God’s love is there for us, even if we have trouble seeing it and touching it ourselves.  Think about the Gospel reading today, this meandering, disjointed conversation Jesus has with the woman at the well. 

You know, for most of their conversation, Jesus and the woman just aren’t connecting.  Actually, they’re not even supposed to be talking to each other.  Men and women who were strangers didn’t engage each other in public.  And in this case, they really shouldn’t have, because Jesus was a Jew and the woman was a Samaritan, and Jews and Samaritans were supposed to hate each other.  Plus, this woman had no social standing for a conversation with a strange man because she wasn’t married. 

Now, we hear Jesus say this woman has had five husbands and isn’t married to the man she’s with now, and we may think that implies loose morals.  Instead, most likely Jesus was recognizing her as somebody completely on the margin, completely powerless.  In that time and place, only a man could initiate divorce, and the divorced woman was left with virtually nothing financially or socially.  This woman had been through that multiple times and had no standing … but here she is, talking with Jesus, trying to understand why he’s so different, what he means about living water “gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:14). 

So, she keeps at it.  She hangs in there and doesn’t let her confusion, or the violation of social norms, stop her.  She knows he has power she’s never seen or heard or felt before; and she’s going to keep asking, keep pushing, keep digging until she finds it.  And eventually, she pushes through the confusion and the uncertainty and the fear about “we’ve never done it this way before,” and she taps into that living water.  “I know [the] Messiah is coming,” she says, holding out hope that maybe she’s got it right (John 4:25).  There you go: “I am he,” Jesus says (John 4:26).  The wandering, the digging, the interrogating, the breaking of the rules – it’s all paid off.  And at the end, despite everything, even the Samaritans around her can say, “We know that this is truly the Savior of the world” (John 4:42).

Sometimes, faithfulness looks very different than we’d expect.  In challenging times – when we’re wandering in the wilderness, when we find ourselves in enemy territory, when we’re afflicted by threatening forces – in challenging times, faithfulness means keeping on when you can’t see where the path leads. 

You know, maybe the coronavirus threat will pass quickly; and in a few weeks, maybe we’ll all look at each other and smile and wonder what all the fuss was about.  Or, maybe not.  But whatever happens this week, and in the weeks ahead, we will be OK, because we are the church.  We are the Body of Christ.  We are God’s people in this place, however life looks in the moment.  And we will keep on the journey even though it’s complicated, even though it’s rough, because we know what awaits us at the end:  Bread from heaven.  Water from the rock.  The Savior of the world, walking among us.  And living water “gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:14).

Painting in the Dark

Sermon from March 8, 2020
Genesis 12:1-4a; Romans 4:1-5,13-17; John 3:1-17

I don’t know about you, but I struggle sometimes with the implications of having faith in God.  It’s not that I doubt whether God loves me, or whether Jesus is the ultimate revelation of God for humanity – those ideas rest pretty well in my head and my heart.  Where I have trouble is with the next step: making it real.  If I have faith in God, what am I called to do?  How do I follow faithfully?

We find one answer in the reading this morning from Genesis, one of the most remarkable demonstrations of faith in all of Scripture.  We’re told almost nothing about Abram before this reading, other than his origin story.  He and his extended family were living in Ur of the Chaldees in lower Mesopotamia, present-day southern Iraq.  Abrah’s father, Terah, took Abram and his wife, Sarai, and their nephew, Lot, to go to Canaan, modern-day Israel, though we’re not told why.  But the extended family stopped their journey early and settled in Haran, in upper Mesopotamia, somewhere in northern Iraq or Syria. 

So, his father dies, and Abram apparently is minding his own business when he hears the voice of God calling him to complete the journey his father began.  God tells him to take the family and all their herds and possessions and go … somewhere – “the land that I will show you,” God says (12:1).  God promises Abram land, and worldly success, and descendants – that God will make of Abram “a great nation,” one so important that “in you, all the families of the earth shall be blessed” (12:2-3).  And then comes the all-important next line, which is simply this:  “So, Abram went, as the Lord had told him” (12:4).  Really?  No questions?  No clarifications?  He just went.  And because of that, and because of Abram later formalizing his covenant, he became for us the paragon of right relationship with God, as Paul explains in the reading today from Romans.  “Abraham believed God, and it was reckoned to him as righteousness” (4:3).

I love the Abraham story.  And, I struggle with it – because it might imply that if we really have true faith, then the directions for our actions are crystal are clear.  For me, at least, discerning what to do with our faith is a lot more complicated than that.  I think it’s like raising kids.  My mother has a great metaphor for raising kids, something that’s stuck with me for years.  She says, “Raising kids is like painting in the dark.”  You do the best you can; but in the moment, you really can’t see what the outcome is going to be.

Well, I do think God gives us some guidance in how to paint in the dark, how to follow the calls we hear faithfully.  For me, three suggestions, or maybe three “best practices,” come to mind, and I think we can see each of them playing out in our church family’s life right now.

Here’s the first best practice for following God faithfully:  Listen together.  Maybe, like Abram, some people get a direct order from the Almighty that’s so clear, there’s no need for questions.  But for most of us, and especially when the stakes are high, I think we do best when we take the risk to share our calls with each other and listen with more than two ears. 

There’s a great example of that happening among us here.  At this moment, we have four people from our congregation who are following a call toward ordination as deacons or priests – Rita Kendagor, Jean Long, Ryan Zavacky, and Adam James – and others are at an earlier stage in the listening process.  I think that’s amazing.  It’s a testimony to these individuals’ faithfulness in responding to God’s claim on their lives – and, it’s a testimony to the power of having others walking with you as you listen to discern what God’s calling you into.  They’ve each talked with me, or Fr. Jeff, or Mtr. Anne, or Deacon Bruce – or, more likely, all of us.  And they’ve each spent hours talking and listening with the members of our Discernment Commission, a group of powerfully faithful souls committed to helping others hear God’s call.  That community of listening hearts is essential, because I think when God asks something significant of us, God comes to us in the people around us, helping us hear what the next step should be.  So, when you’re trying to act faithfully, when you’re trying to paint in the dark, find other faithful folks; and listen to God, together.

Here’s another best practice, I think:  Act first in love.  As our presiding bishop, Michael Curry likes to say, “If it’s not about love, it’s not about God.”  And often, that means acting in ways that are going to cost us something.  We follow a God who came among us, as the Gospel reading today says, ready to “be lifted up” on a cross in order to lift all of us up into eternal life (John 3:14).  So, we shouldn’t be surprised that following that model of love is costly.

This morning, we’re experiencing an example of that kind of faithful action, of giving something up for the sake of others.  As you all know, our nation and our world are trying to manage the risks of infection with coronavirus as new cases appear in new places daily.  We know we can take important steps to keep ourselves and others safe, things like washing hands well and frequently, staying home when we’re sick, and coughing into tissues, not our hands.  But here in a church community, we have to discern how to act faithfully given the reality that some significant parts of our common life revolve around physical intimacy.  We hug a lot here.  We shake hands a lot here.  And every week, we share this deeply intimate meal of Holy Communion, where the sacramental mystery involves receiving God’s own self in our own hands, taking Jesus’ body into our bodies, and all from a common plate and cup. 

There’s always some risk of infection in that, despite the steps we take to use hand sanitizer before Communion, and to wipe the chalice carefully – and, for you, trying not to dip your fingers in the wine when you intinct.  So, we’ve had to discern how to act first in love as we respond to the risk of coronavirus infection.  We’ve decided – for now – to stop touching each other in the Peace and other greetings, to stop passing the collection plates, and to stop serving the consecrated wine during Communion.  I particularly don’t like that last one; and I’m guessing for many of you, it will be upsetting not to receive the cup of salvation.  But we’re taking this step in order to act first in love.  Here’s what I mean:  Honestly, many of us are at pretty low risk of infection.  But many of us – because of age or compromised immune status – many of us are at higher risk.  And we need to protect those at risk, even if it means giving something up.  That’s the loving action to take.

OK, here’s the third best practice for following God’s call faithfully, the third tip for how to paint in the dark:  Take the step.  Listening together is essential, and choosing the path of sacrificial love is key.  And then, we have to go, even though we can’t quite see where we’re going.  “You must be born from above,” Jesus tells Nicodemus.  What?  “How can these things be?” Nicodemus asks. (John 3:3,9)  I’m not sure how to do that, or where it will take me, if I step out and follow you, Nicodemus is thinking.  I’m a religious leader, and it might cost me a lot to follow this rebel who turns over tables in the Temple and claims to come directly from God.  I get it, Jesus tells him.  Take the step anyway.

If you want to see that kind of faith in action, you can look right across the street.  Six weeks from today, we’ll kick off a new worship opportunity at HJ’s called “Trailside,” a chance for people who probably wouldn’t be here otherwise to find their path with God.  The service there will start at 10:45 a.m., and the worship will involve most of the same things that happen in worship here: praising God in song, reading the Bible, hearing a sermon or a kids’ sermon, proclaiming our ancient faith, praying for ourselves and our world, and sharing Holy Communion.  But the music will be more accessible and familiar to modern ears, with keyboard and guitar rather than organ.  And the person leading all this won’t be an ordained person, at least not yet.  Jean Long, our minister for children, youth, young adults, and families – one of the four people I mentioned on the path to ordination – she’ll be the worship leader.  And the preacher here at 10:15 will go across the street after the sermon to preach at Trailside … with just notes, not a text, trusting the Spirit to blow hard enough to keep him from falling on his face.  

Now, if you know me at all, you can probably figure this is not exactly in my comfort zone.  Dr. Tom has done worship like this in several places, thank God.  But not me.  And certainly not Jean Long.  And not the people who will be serving as hosts for this experience that we’ve never done before.  We’ve heard a clear call, that now’s the time to create a new way to draw people into the loving family that is St. Andrew’s, to open a new door in a new facility into a new experience of praise and refreshment and thanksgiving.  Everything tells me the time is right … but … Jesus, how can these things be?  I get it, Jesus says.  Take the step anyway.

The direction God asks us to take is not always clear.  As Jesus tells Nicodemus, God’s call is like the wind: powerfully present but invisible, and impossible for us to control.  We don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going, any more than we can see the future that lies ahead for us, any more than we can see the picture we’re painting in the dark.  But, like Abram, we go ahead and take the next step.  We listen together, we choose the path of love, and we go.  We go without guarantees that each step is right.  But we go with the guarantee that the purpose is right, because the purpose is God’s and not our own.  And we go with the guarantee that what awaits us at the end of the journey is right and a good and joyful thing– in fact the very best thing: God’s embrace and God’s empowerment, forever.  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have everlasting life” (John 3:16).  With that as our promise, we can rest assured that, if the steps we take are faithful, the trail will take us there.

Is God There? And Does God Care?

Sermon for Feb. 23, 2020
Exodus 24:12-18; Matthew 17:1-9

Something has brought you here this morning.  Maybe it’s habit, in the sense of a holy and blessed practice.  Maybe it’s habit in the sense that this is just what I do on Sunday mornings.  Maybe it’s curiosity or a desire to find a spiritual community.  Or maybe something has happened to you or to someone you love, and you’re looking for answers to questions you can’t even quite form.

We may have many different reasons for being here, but I’ll bet there’s at least one thing every one of us shares.  At some point, and maybe it’s right now, I’ll bet you’ve asked two questions: Is God really there?  And if so, does God really care that I’m here?

I don’t think there’s any shame in asking those questions, given the cost that comes with being alive.  Now, don’t get me wrong; I think life is full of blessing, overflowing with blessing, actually.  And at the same time….  I talked with a woman this week who’s the primary support for her mother.  Her mom lives alone, in an apartment, but she’s having a harder and harder time managing her own needs.  And those needs tend to land in the daughter’s lap, with the daughter finding herself on the receiving end of frightened phone calls about bills or medications.  After a while, that load gets heavy – both for the older mom and for the daughter.  It’s a story many of us might recognize, which is the point.  Just dealing with what life throws at us can make us wonder sometimes whether God’s there and whether God cares that we’re here.

And then come those moments when the stakes get higher.  A vibrant young woman, from a family that’s been part of St. Andrew’s for decades – she died two weeks ago with no warning.  We celebrated her life here yesterday.  I can imagine Allison Benson’s family and friends might well find themselves, in the weeks ahead, asking whether God is there and whether God cares we’re here.

Listening to the Scripture readings this morning, you may not have heard much that relates to situations like these.  Instead, on this last Sunday before the beginning of the season of Lent, we always hear the story of the Transfiguration – this weird, out-of-body experience that comes to three of Jesus’ followers when out of the blue, the guy they’ve known as their rabbi and leader shines with God’s own light.  But hang with me a minute, because I think there may be more in this story than meets the eye about whether God cares that we’re suffering, whether God’s even there at all. 

So, about whether God’s there … we need to go back to the Old Testament reading about Moses.  We pick up Moses’ story in the middle of the action, so we’ve got to know a little bit about what’s brought him to this moment of going up the mountain – and I do mean the mountain – to meet with God.  You probably remember Moses as the leader who brought God’s people out of their oppression and slavery in Egypt.  In today’s reading, those liberated people are now traveling through the Sinai peninsula, between Egypt and what’s now Israel, because God has brought them there, leading them in a pillar of dark, swirling cloud in which raged the fire of God’s presence – certainly scary enough to keep the Egyptians at bay.  But before that, before leading the people out of slavery, Moses was an outlaw, hiding out and tending sheep in the Sinai wilderness, when God brought him to this very same mountain we heard about in today’s reading – Mt. Sinai.  There, God also showed up in fire, burning in a bush but not consuming it; and God spoke directly to Moses, commissioning him to lead deeply suffering people out of their bondage and into freedom.  

Now, as we pick up today’s story, God is in the process of giving these liberated people a set of instructions for how to live in harmony with God and each other, and God invites Moses to come back up the mountain to bring more of that law back to the people.  And again, the divine presence storms and rages and flames on the mountain, scaring the living daylights out of the people waiting down below as Moses enters into the cloud and the fire, experiencing God up close and personal for 40 days.

So, with this story in our minds, go back to the question: Is God there?  You bet – a stunning, majestic presence leading the people into the blessing of a new, promised land.  In fact, that divine presence doesn’t just show up from time to time; the Hebrew word says God’s glory “settled” there on the mountain, in the sense of dwelling there for a time, taking up residence with these people God had freed.  So yes, God’s absolutely there – and everyone cringing at the sight of the swirling cloud and the raging fire would attest to it.  And yes, God cares deeply that these people have been suffering – caring enough to liberate them, defeat Pharaoh’s army, and show them the path of shalom, God’s own peace.  It may be a little terrifying, but after all – this is the sovereign of the universe who’s shown up to take care of them, so a little awe may be in order.

Well, we need that story about God and Moses on the mountain for today’s Gospel reading to make any sense at all.  Just as God invited Moses to come up the mountain and experience the divine presence, so Jesus invites his leadership team – Peter, James, and John – to come up “a high mountain with him” (Matthew 17:1). 

We also need to know what’s come just before this point in the Gospel story to help today’s reading make sense.  What’s come before is Peter blurting out the deep mystery that their friend and teacher is actually the messiah, God’s anointed king, whom the people of Israel have been waiting for through one foreign oppressor after another.  The oppressor du jour is Rome, and God’s people are waiting for someone to be the new Moses and bring them freedom and self-rule once again.  So, Peter names Jesus as this anointed king – and he’s right.  Then Jesus quickly says, “Yes, but….”  Being messiah doesn’t mean glory in the way you’re thinking of it.  It doesn’t mean freedom in the way you’re thinking of it.  It means suffering and death for God’s anointed king, but a death that leads to life – resurrected life, eternal life, the freedom of God’s reign and rule on earth as it is in heaven. 

So, that’s what comes just before the story we heard today, as Jesus invites his deputies up the mountain.  I don’t know what Peter, James, and John were expecting, but whatever it was, they found something else.  On the mountain, Jesus is “transfigured before them,” the story says (17:2).  It’s the glory of God shining forth from him, the same divine glory that took up residence on Mt. Sinai but dwelling very differently this time.  Now, it’s embodied in Jesus himself, not blazing in fire but shining as heavenly light. 

And there with Jesus is Moses himself, dropping in for a visit from God’s time outside time.  He’s there with Elijah, Israel’s greatest prophet who also encountered God’s terrifying glory on Mt. Sinai.  Peter sees the trio together and thinks he gets it – the messiah he recognized the other day is on the same level as these two all-stars, Moses and Elijah!  Well, no, not exactly, as it turns out.  God intervenes to clarify the situation, swirling up the clouds and thick darkness to remind the disciples of their spiritual history.  This Jesus is not just up there with the big boys.  He’s God’s own Son, divine glory itself but manifested very differently than anyone’s ever seen before. 

Here’s the thing:  In this story of the Transfiguration, God is saying to these beloved people, God’s chosen people still aching under bondage, that God is choosing a new way of showing up to liberate them.  No more blazing fire but embodied glory instead.  God has taken flesh.  And here he is, Peter, James, and John – he’s right in front of you.  So, you might want to listen to him, even when he tells you the last thing you’d want to hear: that this time, God’s going to suffer and die in order to save you. 

And once the voice of God goes quiet and the scary cloud lifts off the mountain, the disciples get back up off the ground to find only Jesus there with them, because he’s all the God they need.  And he touches them – their friend and God in the flesh – he touches them and quietly reassures them, “Get up, and do not be afraid” (17:7).

Yes, Jesus told them a few days earlier, there will be times along this journey when things won’t go well.  There will be times along this journey when you’ll look at life and wonder how you’ll be able to get out of bed the next morning.  There will even be times along this journey when things will go worse than you could ever have imagined.  Still – “Get up,” Jesus says, “and do not be afraid.” 

God loves us enough to come to us in our bondage and our suffering.  God loves us enough to come and inhabit that pain right alongside us.  God loves us enough to sit with us and cry when lamenting is all we can do.  God loves us enough to endure the same death that comes to all of us, whether our ending is brief or long.  And, God loves us enough to use this journey through the valley of the shadow of death to defeat death and free us from it, forever.  That’s how much each life matters.  That’s how much you matter.  And that’s how much God’s willing to be there with you, through it all.

The World is Watching

Sermon for Feb. 9, 2010 -- Scout Sunday
Isaiah 58:1-9a; Matthew 5:13-20

The sermon began with a reflection from Eagle Scout James McCarson.

Thanks very much, James, for sharing that as we celebrate Scout Sunday and the 98-year history of Troop 16 here at St. Andrew’s.  For those of us who never made it past Cub Scouts, it’s great to hear what the experience of Scouting means for those who make it all the way along the path to Eagle. 

Other than the fact that the church sponsors Troop 16, you might wonder what exactly is the intersection of Scouting and Christian faith?  After all, the Scouts aren’t an outside group that uses our space; Troop and Pack 16 are part of our youth ministries.  So presumably, the trail toward Eagle, and, for that matter, the path toward the Girl Scouts’ Gold Award, and the journey of following Jesus – they must overlap on the map of our lives, right? 

I was talking with parishioner Dave Banks last week about Scout Sunday.  You may remember Dave for the amazing movie trailer he put together for Trivia Night and the Annual Parish Meeting, but Dave is also deeply involved in Scouts.  An Eagle Scout himself and the father of an Eagle, Dave was our Scoutmaster for several years and now is the unit committee chair.  He was reflecting on what it means to be an Eagle – the hard work, commitment, and perseverance it requires, as well as the virtues it teaches.  He noted that one step in the Eagle process is that the Scout has to go before a board of review, adult leaders who expect to hear about the Scout’s progress and why the work merits advancement.  That review happens at each rank, but the stakes are especially high at the Eagle review; and sometimes, they’re turned down.  Dave said, “The process helps to hone their character and ability.” 

Honing our character – I think that’s a good way of seeing our path of discipleship as well as the path of Scouting.  And I think a big part of that process is learning where to look as we make our journey.  Where should our attention lie?

You don’t have to be a theologian or an expert in human behavior to know that, left to our own devices, we’ll often head down our path with blinders on.  It’s not necessarily about selfishness or ugliness of character; even people with noble motives can be so focused on their own priorities or their own issues that the journey ends up being mostly about them.  I think one of the important intersections of the way of Scouting the way of Jesus is the call to take off our blinders – to get past our own agendas enough to see our fellow travelers along the road.  The Scout Oath puts it like this: “I will do my best, to do my duty, to God and my country, to help other people at all times….”  The Great Commandment frames it this way:  “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and you shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Matthew 22:37,39).  They’re not precisely the same, of course, but they both call us to open our eyes and mold our hearts to see and serve those we might be tempted to pass by.

That’s what I hear in the Old Testament reading today.  The prophet Isaiah is talking about being righteous, which means living in the right kind of relationship with God.  Back in the day, people often thought about that in terms of their up-and-down relationship with God – whether they said their prayers, and offered sacrifices, and observed God’s commands.  All that is important, Isaiah would say, but don’t forget that a big part of being in a right relationship with God is about how your care for the person in front of you.  If you want to get closer to God, Isaiah says, get closer to someone who’s suffering.  Get closer to someone who doesn’t have enough to eat or a place to live.  Respect the dignity of someone off to the side of your path by showing up for them.  That’s when we’ll find God showing up for us when we cry out in our own troubles.  That’s when we’ll hear God saying to us, yes, “Here I am,” for you (Isaiah 58:9).

So maybe righteousness, that right relationship with God – maybe it happens when we love God by loving the people it would be easiest to forget.  Maybe even by loving the people most different from us.  Maybe even by loving the people we like the least.  Maybe even by loving the people who don’t much like us, either.

Scouts get that, right?  Being righteous may not be easy, but it’s also not complicated.  Every time the Scouts say their Oath and Law, they name their take on what it looks like to live in right relationship with God:  I’ll help other people at all times.  I’ll be trustworthy, loyal, and helpful.  I’ll be friendly, courteous, and kind.  I’ll be obedient, cheerful, and thrifty.  I’ll be brave, clean, and reverent.  In all these ways, I’ll respect the dignity of the people around me as a way of honoring the God who made us both.  In a day when we watch our leaders refusing to shake their opponents’ hands and ripping up their opponents’ speeches, I’d like to suggest some Scout meetings might be just the thing to teach respect for the dignity of the person in front of you, whether you like that person or not.

When we make a different choice, we change the world.  When we honor each other, Jesus says, we shine God’s light for all to see.  Though we may be tempted to see ourselves as just one person whose choices don’t make much difference, Jesus says no: That’s letting yourself off the hook, allowing yourself to play too small.  Yes, you are just one person.  And – “You are the light of the world,” Jesus says.  You are a city built on a hill, and “a city built on a hill cannot be hid.”  I don’t want you to follow me just in your own head and your own heart, Jesus says.  Instead, “let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14,16)

Because, after all, the world is watching – especially when you’re wearing a Scout uniform, or wearing a cross around your neck. 

Row Out With Jesus, and Fill the Boat

State-of-the-Parish Address
Luke 5:1-11
Jan. 26, 2020

Welcome to annual-meeting Sunday – a time of celebration and hope.  In fact, our annual meeting’s already begun because this sermon is the state-of-the-parish address.  You can thank me for that downstairs, when the meeting ends 18 minutes earlier than it would have otherwise.

I want to begin with the Gospel reading we just heard – Luke’s version of Jesus calling his first disciples.  Now, this story should sound familiar because, just a few months ago, it gave us the theme for our fall stewardship season, which was about discovering joy in the journey with Jesus and one another.  That season included our pledge campaign for 2020, as well as the chance to take our temperature by assessing the congregation’s spiritual vitality.  Today, we’ll hear about results from both; we’ll look at some other important indicators from 2019; and we’ll see what God has in mind for us in the months to come.  But before we do – let’s look at the story.

In addition to Jesus, the main character here is Simon, also known as Peter.  Now, this is not the first time Jesus meets Simon.  In Luke’s Gospel, Simon comes into the picture just before this reading, when Jesus comes to his house and heals his mother-in-law.  It’s a good start for a relationship, at least enough to bring us to today’s reading.  

Now, you could forgive Simon for being frustrated.  He’s just finished his fishing for the night, sitting on the bank with other guys, washing their nets, when Jesus asks him to put out into the water a little way so he can speak to the crowd on the shore.  Simon goes along, but he still has clean-up work to do before he can head home to rest after his night shift.  But then Jesus asks Simon to go out into deeper water and let down his “nets for a catch” (5:4).  Simon complains that he’s already spent hours doing just that and hasn’t caught a thing.  Trust me, Jesus says.  Well, this time, the catch of fish is so great that the nets almost break, and Simon’s partners – James and John – have to come help haul it in. 

When Simon sees this, he kneels before Jesus saying, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (5:8).  I could see myself saying something like that.  Maybe that’s what many of us think when we hear someone stand up and talk about how much God loves us, and wants to be with us, and wants to come alongside us on our journey:  “Yeah, right.  If you really knew me, you’d know God would never spend time on my boat.”  That’s what Simon Peter is thinking, but Jesus tells him otherwise.  I don’t just want a ride in your boat, Simon.  I want your heart and your head and your hands.  I want you.  In fact, Jesus tells him, upping the ante, “Do not be afraid; from now on, you will be catching people” (5:10).  And Simon, James, and John leave everything to follow him.

What’s the key here?  Well, even though Simon knows how to do his work – he’s a professional fisherman – things just aren’t panning out for him.  But then Jesus comes into his boat, uninvited even, and asks Simon to head out again, taking him along.  And with Jesus as his partner on the journey, everything is different.  Simon can’t explain it; he can’t even haul in the bounty Jesus brings him.  But even more, he’s wrestling with the bigger question:  Why me?  Simon’s sure he’s not good enough, that Jesus has no business being in the boat with a sinful guy like him.  But Jesus says, not only do I belong in your boat, alongside you, I’ll empower you to bring others in, too.  We’re going to help people see that God’s actually the one in charge, that God’s reign and rule is the true power in our lives.  Come on, Jesus says to Simon, and see for yourself just how powerful that good news really is.

It’s traveling with Jesus that makes all the difference.

For us at St. Andrew’s, traveling with Jesus has brought us to a good place as we begin 2020.  More people are hearing God’s Word and receiving the sacraments; our Sunday attendance is up 11 percent from a year ago – and, I would bet, so is Coffee Hour, which one Vestry member described as “must-see TV.”  To some degree, the increase in attendance is about more people being in this room on Sunday mornings, but it’s also about five other factors: people watching the livestream at home (a number we can count), people coming to Java & Jesus across the street, people coming to our Third Sunday worship events, people coming to Evensong the first Sunday of the month, and more families with children coming to church.  Anymore, on a given Sunday, we have about 40 kids and volunteers in the nursery and children’s chapel, and that is a tremendous blessing. 

We also see participation in kids’ and youth ministry increasing generally (not just on Sunday mornings), with kids’ participation up by 40 percent and youth participation up by 18 percent.  Just as heartening, and a foretaste of things to come, is participation in adult classes, discussion groups, and Bible studies.  That’s increased 30 percent in the past year.  More on that trend in a minute.

In terms of the stewardship season, we also saw great progress in our journey last year.  We asked you to increase pledging by 10 percent, a big ask, to continue our ministry of engaging with people and to meet our rising facility costs.  And you did, with 159 households increasing their pledges.  We asked you to consider pledging if you’re someone who hadn’t been doing that.  And you did, with 62 households making new pledges.  We asked our younger adults especially to consider pledging.  And a number did, with pledges from people under 45 doubling.  We asked you to increase your pledge so we could decrease our reliance on special gifts to fund staff positions.  And you did, allowing us not to spend almost $100,000 this year from the Gather & Grow account and other special donations.  We asked you to consider a Christmas gift to replace the sidewalks and parking lot.  And you did, enabling us to begin that work early this summer.  You’ll hear more about the budget downstairs, but – with that kind of commitment, we can fund our engagement ministry fully, and address our facility needs, and increase our outreach giving from the operating budget to $55,000 this year.  For all of that, I truly thank you.

And … all this is a good start.  We have a lot more distance to travel in balancing the demographics of our congregation and our giving.  People 70 and over make up about a quarter of the St. Andrew’s family, and they provide more than half of our financial support.  Now, I took the non-math option in seminary, but even I know that’s not going to work for the long term.  Those are imbalances we’ve begun to address … but only just begun to address.

The other component of our stewardship season was the inventory we took this fall, RenewalWorks, to help us build our spiritual vitality.  Lora Kokjer and I have more to share about this downstairs, and the Vestry will be spending time with the results at its retreat next weekend.  But at a high level, I can tell you this:  St. Andrew’s came out very positively compared with the baseline of Episcopal congregations.  We saw strength in how deeply people feel involved, how positively people regard worship and other activities, how people see the church’s ministries empowering them to grow and serve, and how people view their leaders as spiritually authentic.  We also saw opportunities for improvement in areas that make a priest’s heart glad.  We now have data to prove that you want to learn more about the Bible.  You want to understand our core beliefs.  You want to build your spiritual practice.  You want to go deeper in your journey with Christ.  That’s about the best news I could have asked to hear from the RenewalWorks study.

So – where do we go from here?  Well, go back to today’s Gospel, because we heard it there.  Our call is this:  Row out with Jesus, and fill the boat.

What does that look like?  Well, let me share one of the most important and far-reaching recommendations that the RenewalWorks team is making to the Vestry.  It’s pretty radical, so get ready.  That core recommendation is that we be intentional about bringing the Bible and prayer into meetings and activities here – even when no ordained person is in the room.  Yes, shocking though it may be, we’re recommending that, in our groups and gatherings, we read some Scripture and we pray.  Perhaps your reaction is, “Duh….” 

But I think it represents an important cultural shift.  We all know this family of St. Andrew’s is not the same as a civic group, like the Rotary Club.  We aren’t the same as a secular nonprofit, like our outreach partners in the community.  We might share common values and goals.  But we are the Church, the body of Jesus Christ in this particular place and time.  We are his disciples – rowing out onto the water with him, walking alongside him in our journeys.  Finding simple, authentic, unobtrusive ways to embed the Bible in our life together and to pray – that helps us remember who we are and why we’re here.

Here's another way to row out with Jesus, another recommendation from the RenewalWorks team: We need to create a St. Andrew’s Discipleship Curriculum.  You’ve made it clear that you want to learn more about the Bible, and our core beliefs, and our Episcopal identity.  You want to know how to pray, and you want spiritual resources from people you trust to help you connect with God and go deeper.  Bottom line: You want to own your faith.  That’s good stuff, and we’ll be working this year to create a roadmap for the journey to get you there – from exploring a life with God in Christ, to growing that life, to deepening that life, to centering your life in that relationship.

When we own our faith, we can tell our stories – the stories of our church family and the stories of our hearts.  When we know God’s deep desire to walk with us forever; and when we come alongside God in prayer and worship – that equips us to open our hearts and tell this story we’ve come to know, this story of Jesus making the journey with us. 

That’s the key to the second part of the plan for 2020, which is filling the boat – not with fish, not with a resource for us to use; but with people who are searching for the same kind of relationship we’re searching for.  St. Andrew’s has become a truly welcoming family.  Not that that work is done at all, but our focus now has to be on the other two steps of filling the boat, which are inviting people and connecting them into this family’s life – asking someone to a backpack blessing, or a service project, or a gathering around the firepit at HJ’s.  That someone may be a friend who has no church, or it may be someone already here at St. Andrew’s who’s trying to find where she fits in.  But in either case, the invitation – the engagement – makes all the difference.  For you are a conduit of blessing for that beloved child of God.  The journey from exploring to growing to deepening to centering in a relationship with God – that journey empowers us to bring others along.

And to help us bring others along, I believe the time has come to create a new worship opportunity, one to which we can invite people who aren’t likely to check out our traditional 8:00 or 10:15 offerings.  It’s been a good and instructive journey for us over the past few years – from Take 5, to Ascend, to Java & Jesus, to our Third Sunday offerings, each one helping us learn what an authentic fresh expression of worship might look like at St. Andrew’s.  So, now, here’s what we’re planning: a live service at HJ’s, alongside the existing 10:15 service, with Java & Jesus happening in the Jewell Room.  We’ll design that new service at HJ’s to reach people we wouldn’t reach with our other offerings, people looking for a more casual and intimate atmosphere, with music more like what they’d hear in a bar than what they’d hear on an organ – more prayer and praise, less formal liturgy.  Now, it’s important to say:  This is not a new flavor for us eight o’clockers and ten-fifteeners to try.  It’s actually not for us.  It’s worship for people who aren’t here, the people we’re called to bring into the boat.  You’ll hear more in the weeks ahead, but the first service at HJ’s will be Easter morning.  Please, and I mean this sincerely, keep this undertaking in your prayers.

We have such rich potential for growth in the year ahead – growth in so many ways.  Some of that will demand a lot from us, especially creating a new worship opportunity and continuing to make pledging a standard of being part of this church family.  But the most important growth begins more easily.  We can come alongside Jesus with just a few simple steps toward the boat, where he’s already waiting.  I said this a few weeks ago, and I’ll say it again.  Beginning, or renewing, a journey with Jesus Christ really just asks this much of us:  Read the Bible.  Say your prayers.  Come to worship.  Then, building from there, you’ll find the power to cast out your own net, the power to offer an invitation when the time is right.  And when you do, I can’t wait to see who God brings into the boat next.

Resolve This

Sermon for the Feast of the Epiphany, transferred
Jan. 5, 2020
Matthew 2:1-12

You know, there are so many things about this church family for which I’m grateful, and among them are those three kings.  I just love them.  I guess more precisely, I just love the hands and hearts that created those kings for us.  Their names are in the bulletin this morning, the team that, last year, brought these new kings to life.  It’s amazing to see what God does with the talent God creates – and it’s just as amazing to see how many people are blessed by it.  The first set of kings here lasted 20 years and blessed thousands of people who came to see them.  These three will certainly bless thousands more.

Seeing these works of art makes me wonder about the kings themselves – these guys who trekked across distant lands to find the true King signaled by a star.  We call them “the three kings,” but the Gospel story tells us they were “wise men.”  The Greek word is magi, taken from the Persian name of a class of priests and astrologers.  So, they weren’t kings themselves but proto-scientists serving kings – the members of the Royal Society of their day.  To our modern, bifurcated minds, they were the people we’d least expect to be looking for the messiah, guys who today would be spending the night at the telescope, searching for quarks and black holes.  But back in the day, people could hold more gently side by side the search for God and the wonder of natural observation.

Anyway, we’re told these magi came looking for the one born to be king of the Jewish people, Yahweh’s people.  Their plans are almost foiled by King Herod, the Jewish anti-messiah, the little man playing with power like a spoiled child.  Herod cozies up to the magi trying to protect his position and planning to kill the child they find.  Thankfully, the magi listen to God speaking in their dreams instead, and they go home by another way.

But before they do, the story tells us, they play the role for which we remember them.  As we just heard in that great Epiphany carol,¹ they bring Jesus gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  Now, these gifts each have meaning, as the song tells us.  But let’s hit the pause button a minute and wonder:  Do you think the magi knew the deep, theological meaning of the gifts they brought?  Those gifts were all valuable commodities back in the day, riches from the royal palaces where they served.  But do you think the magi knew the future?  Could they see what was coming?  Or was God using their story to help tell a story bigger than their own?

Anyway, the gifts they brought tell Jesus’ story.  First, the magi brought gold, truly the gift fit for a king, symbolizing earthly power and majesty.  This is the gift you might expect for a baby born to be a king. 

They also brought frankincense.  It is what it sounds like – incense.  Now, this gift’s not so obvious for royalty, but it had deep meaning for this king, God’s own king anointed to rule God’s own people.  For centuries, the kings of Israel were seen not merely as political authorities but as God’s viceroys, stand-ins for the true king, Yahweh.  In fact, at coronation, the king of Israel officially became the son of God, as the psalms say – Yahweh’s adopted child and ruler on earth (e.g., 2:7; 89:26-27).  To honor that, incense would be offered, just as it was offered in Temple worship and just as we offer it here – fragrant smoke rising both to delight the deity and to carry the prayers of the people heavenward.  So, frankincense honors not just a king but a god – or, in Jesus’ case, both king and God.

And then there’s myrrh.  Again, there’s a huge double meaning here.  The kings of Israel were anointed with this fragrant resin in oil as a symbol of their royal authority, being set aside not just in power but in holiness.  But myrrh was also used to embalm bodies for burial, practically coping with the smell and symbolically setting the person aside for a holy journey into the afterlife.  It’s no accident that it’s myrrh that’s used to anoint Jesus’ body once he’s taken down from the cross (John 19:39).  So, as the song says, this little child is “king, and God, and sacrifice” for us.

But back to the question:  How much of all this did the magi know?  I suppose there’s some comfort in thinking they got the full picture up front, maybe seeing visions of Jesus’ miracles, his crucifixion, and Easter morning.  That could be.  But each of their gifts also made sense as a token of fealty for merely a new king of the Jewish people.  So, what if the magi were living into the story as they went, beginning a journey they’d be making for the rest of their lives?  What if they were giving the best they had to offer in the moment, living as faithfully as they knew how to live, right then and there?

In other words, what if they were like us – doing the best they could with the life they had?

As most of you know, we’ve had a tough couple of weeks around here.  Alongside the joy of Christmas has come nine funerals between Dec. 19 and yesterday.  We’ve bidden farewell to these children of God: Robert Helmstetter, Bryant Barnes, Bill Meeker, Sid McKnight Jr., a child of Cate and Stephen Duerst lost during pregnancy, Todd Johnson, Harry Jordan, Becky Benson, and Louise Schloerb.  In the nine funerals celebrating these lives, we’ve noted their unique stories, the ways each not just brought joy to the people around them but changed people’s lives as they revealed God’s love in ways large and small. 

And I wonder:  How much of the narrative of their funerals would have been news to the people whose lives we were celebrating?  I really hope that, when we die, we get the chance to listen in to our funerals, either in person or through some cosmic livestream.  I really hope we get the chance to hear how people remember us, the difference we ended up making, the ways we brought love to others.  Because my hunch is that none of the people I just listed would have recognized the huge difference they were making as they just did the best they could in life as it unfolded.  So, I hope they got to hear not just the remembrances and homilies but the conversations at the receptions afterward.  Because, as these people gave the best they had to offer in the moment, they were revealing God in the world, putting flesh and bones on God’s love – even though they likely had no idea, most of the time, just how much their lives mattered.

So, what about you? 

It seems to me there are at least a couple of important questions for each of us here.  First: How do you think you’ll be remembered at your funeral?  It might be worth some assessment, as we begin a new year with resolutions about making fresh starts.  I would encourage you to be lovingly honest with yourself in asking and answering that question: How do you think you’ll be remembered at your funeral?  Just as some of us maybe think a little more highly of ourselves than we ought, many of us err the other way, blind to the blessings we are to those around us.  If you take a lovingly honest look in the mirror this new year and see that you’ve been a little too pleased with yourself, fair enough.  But take just as long a look to see how you, yourself, are an agent of God’s love – how you, yourself, give people a window into heaven. 

Here’s the thing.  If all these funerals have shown us nothing else, they’ve made clear that every life matters – including yours.  Your existence points to realities way beyond the mornings when you’ve measured out your life with coffee spoons.²  Every day, as you give the best you have to offer in the moment, God uses your own life to make divine love real and change the world.

So, now you might expect a grand call to action: Go out and save the planet, or reform our politics, or end poverty, or stop gun violence.  Now, if you can see a way to do any of those things, by all means, go get busy.  But for the rest of us, here’s both a lesser and a greater call.  In this new year, amid your resolutions to exercise and eat better, resolve this:  Read the Bible.  Say your prayers.  Come to worship.  Forming your heart for good is really no harder than that.  We’ve even got a great way to start – taking part in the Good Book Club, a chance to read the Gospel of John as a congregation over the next couple of months.  But the point isn’t checking a box on your list of resolutions.  The point is forming your heart to make your life a blessing to the people you touch.  So, I’ll say it again, because it’s simple enough to remember:  Read the Bible.  Say your prayers.  Come to worship.

Maybe that seems like a cop-out in a world of problems, but I don’t think so.  In fact, I think it’s God’s solution to a world of problems.  God came into this world as one person.  God touched the hearts of individual magi and fishermen, merchants and tax collectors, asking each one of them to live differently, to love more, and to share what they found with others.  Your life matters just as much as theirs because God uses us – uses you – to put flesh and bones on love.  And your capacity to love grows with every choice you make, every action you take, to form your heart more and more like Jesus’ heart. 

So, in this new year, make the time to read the Bible, say your prayers, and come to worship.  Follow the star – and just see what happens next.

1.      Hopkins, John Henry Jr.  “We three kings of Orient are.”  The Hymnal 1982, 128.

2.      Eliot., T.S.  “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”  Available at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock.  Accessed Jan. 3, 2020.