Listen, Drop Your Nets, and Go

Sermon for St. Andrew's Sunday, Nov. 21, 2021

Matthew 4:18-22

This week, a parishioner asked me whether I ever literally heard the voice of God.  It led to a great conversation among the group around the table about where and how that might happen – how we hear God in Scripture, in worship, in the experience of nature, and especially in the voices of the people God puts in our lives.

Well, when Jesus came and spoke to Andrew and Peter there by the Sea of Galilee, don’t you wonder whether they understood it was the voice of God calling them?  We know the end of the story, but it was just the beginning for them.  Plus, this was no comforting message of divine love and affirmation; instead, it was pretty confrontational.  Jesus was calling them away from their lives and their livelihoods, asking them to see themselves not as members of their family or cogs in the wheel of the Roman Empire, but instead to see themselves as members of a new community living out God’s reign and rule and inviting other people into it.  Whether they knew Jesus was speaking literally with God’s voice, I don’t know; but they certainly got the message that God wanted them to follow along.

What about us?  How do we hear Jesus calling us to follow him?

I think most often, the call comes with subtlety, in whispers and nudges, rather than the direct approach Jesus used with Andrew.  During the process toward ordination, I remember being part of a “vocations conference,” which was a polite term for a weekend of interviews.  There were probably 10 of us in a circle in a hotel meeting room, along with members of the diocesan Commission on Ministry; and the evening began with the inevitable:  “Share the story of your call.”  One of the aspirants told a dramatic tale about standing on a balcony in a storm and hearing God calling out to him, in the thunder and lightning, that he was supposed to be a priest.  My story was much less interesting, and for a long time I wished I had a dramatic tale to tell.  But it is what it is, as they say.  God’s been walking alongside me for decades now, whispering and nudging and correcting and affirming; but rarely is there thunder and lightning involved.

Of course, however Jesus raises the question with us, we don’t know what saying “yes” to a call will entail.  For example … a woman named Mary Sanders came to work in our office 15 years ago, filling in for a staff member on maternity leave.  Today, we honor Mary as she prepares to retire.  Now, I don’t know what Mary thought about the offer to come and work here, but I doubt it felt like a call from the Almighty.  And I wonder … if Mary had known then what was awaiting her – 15 years of service to clergy and staff, and members of the community, and so many of you; pouring herself out for the well-being of us all – if Mary had known then where the road would lead, would she have said, “Yes”?  Maybe it’s like parenthood: If you knew in advance what it would cost, would you sign up for it?  It’s the hardest job you’ll ever have but also the best one, because it’s not a job but a holy calling.

So, back to Andrew, our patron saint.  What makes his story special?  What made him willing to be a disciple, to follow Jesus when he called, and then to serve as an apostle, going where the Holy Spirit sent him?  Looking at his story, I can see some attributes of sainthood that I’d say we’ve also seen in Mary Sanders, in her time among us.

First, Andrew was open to God’s presence, activity, and direction in his life.  The stories of Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell us precisely nothing about Andrew before his call.  But John’s Gospel tells us Andrew had been a follower of John the Baptist and that he’d paid attention when John pointed to Jesus and said, “There’s the one you should be following.”  Just that detail about Andrew, that he was a follower of John the Baptist first – that tells me Andrew at least had his spiritual ears on, so to speak.  In today’s Gospel reading, it seems kind of crazy that Andrew and Peter would hear a wandering preacher call their names and just follow along like zombies.  Surely not; that doesn’t ring true.  I think, instead, God had already been working on them.  As part of John the Baptist’s renewal movement, Andrew was primed for what the Holy Spirit might do next.  John the Baptist had been calling people to turn away from their sins and turn toward the reign and rule of God instead.  John had told folks that faithfulness isn’t about being on the right team or having the right affiliation; it’s about turning your life in a new direction and bearing fruit worthy of that repentance.  And, John had said, someone is coming who is greater than I am, someone who won’t just wash you with water as you turn from your sins but who will set your heart on fire with the Holy Spirit.  I imagine Andrew and Peter had talked a lot about all this while they were out there for hours on their fishing boat.  So, when Jesus walked by, they were ready.

Of course, being ready and actually taking the step are not the same things.  A second attribute of sainthood Andrew showed was that he was willing to drop his nets and walk away from the boat.  That only merits a short sentence in Matthew’s Gospel, but it’s huge.  Everything Andrew knew would have told him to stay in the boat.  It was his job, of course, but it also was his family business.  His father was depending on Andrew and Peter as “his workforce and his retirement plan.”  Plus, the family business was on the hook to the Romans, too, who required them to turn over part of the catch.¹  Walking away was a huge risk for Andrew and the people he loved.  But still, he dropped his nets and followed. 

Then there are the stories of Andrew that come to us from church tradition – how he made the move from disciple to apostle, taking the hope and promise of life with Christ on the road.  Andrew found new kingdom-oriented ways to use his gifts.  This fearless fisherman turned to fishing for people instead, dropping his nets again and heading off for parts unknown.  Some traditions tell of him going to Ethiopia.  Others have him traveling to what’s now Ukraine and Russia – and Andrew is the patron saint of Russia for that reason, as well as being the patron saint of Scotland.  Most traditions say he eventually ministered in what’s now Greece.  There, his tenacity landed him in trouble with the authorities, and he was crucified on an X-shaped cross.  He gave everything he had because he knew that what he was pointing toward was so much more valuable than just getting by in the here and now.  I’m sure being an apostle was much harder than being a fisherman … but it was also the hardest work you’ll ever love.

So, there’s the story of St. Andrew.  And at the risk of canonization that I have no authority to confer, I’d say it’s also the story of Mary Sanders in her life among us.  I know her to be someone who listens closely for God’s voice – in the places you’d expect to hear it, like Scripture, but also in the voices of unexpected prophets who speak for God without realizing it.  I also know Mary to be someone who’s willing to drop her nets and step into territory that isn’t necessarily familiar or safe, and that might even be risky, when she hears God asking her to grow, or change, or say something her boss may not want to hear.  And I know Mary to be someone who’s willing to step out in faith, taking the gifts and skills that God’s given her and using them in new ways to keep blessing one child of God after another.  It will be a joy to see where her journey of apostleship takes her next … in addition to her grandchildren’s house.

So, to what extent is the story of Andrew the story of each of us?  Do we have our spiritual ears on?  Are we willing drop the nets that bind us and step out of the boat?  Are we willing to explore what Jesus might have in mind for us next and take God’s love on the road?  Today, we look forward to what’s next for Mary Sanders.  But what’s next for you?  The Word is very near you – on your lips, and in your heart, and in Scripture, and in Bread and Wine, and in the person sitting next to you.  Open your ears to hear the call, drop the nets that bind you, and set out on the path God’s asking you to take.

1.      Carter, Warren. Notes for the Gospel According to Matthew. The New Interpreter’s Study Bible. Nashville: Abington, 2003. 1753 (note).

Witnessing Hope in a Dark Time

Sermon for Nov. 14, 2021

Mark 13:1-8

We might be forgiven these days for feeling a bit like the end is near.  I think that tends to happen when faithful people face very stressful times.  For us, the stress list includes a global pandemic, months of isolation, deep divisions politically and interpersonally, even fires and floods of “Biblical proportions.”  The hits just keep on coming.  I think it’s hard for us to know both what God has in mind in the midst of all this and what we’re supposed to do to make any of it better.

Well, if we think we’ve got it bad, I wonder how Jesus’ disciples felt in their day.  Their lives were much more challenging than ours.  They scratched out a living with no safety net to catch them.  Women were less than second-class citizens.  Regular folks had no political rights and were powerless against the Roman Empire.  So, they were hoping and praying for a liberator to rescue them and lead them as God’s king.  And, as the crowds marched into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, they thought Jesus was the one. 

Well, in today’s Gospel reading, Jesus drops a bomb into the disciples’ dark world – or, more accurately, shines a light into it.  He and his followers are leaving the Temple for the last time as it turns out, and one of them notes in amazement just how impressive the structure was.  The Jewish people had rebuilt the Temple when they came back from exile 500 years earlier.  More recently, King Herod the Great – the one who’d tried to kill the baby Jesus – had refurbished the Temple as a monument to his own power.  The Temple and its grounds would have dominated the ancient skyline of Jerusalem as, literally, God’s house – the dwelling place for Yahweh and the locus of power for the Messiah who was coming to set the people free.

But, Jesus says, … actually that’s not how the future is going to play out, at least not immediately.  He tells his followers, “Do you see these great buildings?  Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” (Mark 13:2).  It’s his final pronouncement that the Temple, supposedly God’s own dwelling place, is disqualified as “the focal point of the Kingdom” on earth.¹

OK – now fast-forward 35 or 40 years, and put yourself in the shoes not of the 12 disciples but of the people who were following Jesus a couple of generations later.  They were compiling a record about Jesus – his life, his death, and his true identity as “the Son of God” (Mark 1:1), the divine king.  And they were preserving these stories while their own lives were on fire.  Starting in the year 66, Jewish revolutionaries had risen up against the Romans and started a war for independence.  Not surprisingly, the revolutionaries were no match for the power of Caesar’s armies; and in the year 70, the Romans reduced Jerusalem and the Temple to rubble, sending the remaining Jewish population underground or fleeing for their lives.  For the people following the way of Jesus, including those compiling what would come to be known as the Gospel of Mark, they remembered how he’d looked at the Temple and its power structure and said, “Not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”  They looked around and saw Jesus’ prediction coming true at the hands of the Roman army.

But here’s what else they remembered Jesus saying, just days before his crucifixion.  Even though you see destruction all around you, even though the stability you treasure is crumbling along with the Temple walls, “Beware that no one leads you astray,” Jesus had said (13:5).  Supposed leaders will rise up, claiming political or religious authority – but don’t follow them.  Yes, things will be very tough – earthquakes, famines, fires, floods, “wars and rumors of wars” – but “do not be alarmed” (13:7).  This is not what you think, Jesus says.  It's not the end.  Instead, it’s the dawning of a new age, “the beginning of the birth pangs” (Mark 13:8).  The Son of Man who’s also Son of God will be coming to bring the creation to its fulfillment, to unify heaven and earth under God’s righteous rule.  This is what the compilers of Mark’s Gospel were remembering: Jesus’ promise of hope even in the darkest days.  Even when you see the Temple burned to the ground, Jesus had said, hang on; don’t give up.  It’s only a sign of new life struggling to be born.

OK.  But in this in-between time, as faithful people still waiting for the Son of God to unify heaven and earth and bring creation to its fulfillment – what are we supposed to do now?  Maybe the answer is both as simple and as grand as this: Keep the faith by living the faith.  Seek the kingdom by being the kingdom.

Just two weeks ago, we heard Jesus and the wise scribe agreeing about first principles: First, love God with everything you’ve got.  Second, love your neighbor in the same way as you love yourself, recognizing that both of you are dearly beloved, made in God’s image and likeness.  The world may feel like it’s crashing down around you, but that doesn’t change the directive: Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.  And – despite how long and as hard the road seems to be – trust that God is there with you, empowering you as a bearer of light, an instrument of love.

In a hard time, bringing God’s kingdom into being can take the shape of choosing to witness against the darkness around us.  Here’s an example happening right now.  A group of people from St. Andrew’s are partnering with people from St. Anne’s Episcopal Church in Lee’s Summit, as well as St. Paul’s Episcopal Church and Day School in Kansas City, to welcome a refugee family from Afghanistan.  You may have seen the story on Channel 41 on Wednesday night, featuring our own Susan Paynter.  Well, a family has now arrived: a mom, a dad, and four children ranging in age from 9 to 20.  Just that would be good enough, but I also love the kingdom witness of how this family is being cared for.  These Christian congregations came together to prepare the family’s house.  The resettlement partner in this process is Jewish Vocational Services, which brought the family here and will get them ready for jobs and independent living.  And when the family arrived in Kansas City, a local Muslim group had a meal waiting for them and will walk alongside them as they make their way in a drastically different culture.  So, as Susan Paynter said in the story on Channel 41, “Christians, Jews, and Muslims working together to help a family – it’s America at its best.”²  In a dark time, there you see the light of God’s love breaking through as faithful people pass the peace.

But passing the peace doesn’t have to be dramatic to be powerful.  You can see examples on the cover of the bulletin this morning and on the walls in the entryway.  One person leads a study group here.  Another works with a 12-step program.  Another buys groceries for a neighbor who can’t drive.  Another volunteers in a feeding ministry.  Another cares for a spouse at home.  And each of us has the chance to pass the peace through our financial pledges to the church because those gifts make possible the kingdom work that happens here every day through the ministry of St. Andrew’s amazing staff.  Whether it’s coordinating pastoral care, or ministering with kids and youth, or leading classes, or serving people in the community, or serving you when you come into the office – in a hundred ways, our gifted staff members make God’s love come alive here.  And your pledges of financial support make that work possible.

But passing the peace also happens very quietly sometimes, very personally – a small point of light shining into a dark corner.  It may not last long, and no one may see it but you.  But those small, personal acts of passing the peace are empowered by the same promise Jesus made to his followers: that God will set the world to rights.  We’re here to point toward it, to prepare the way for the Love that will come among us in power and great glory – and sometimes, we do that just one cup of coffee at a time.  For that, here’s parishioner Christina Santiago Turner.

1.      Mark, Interpretation, 236.

2.      https://www.kshb.com/news/local-news/local-churches-organizations-turn-office-space-into-home-for-afghan-refugees

Being Blind

 Sermon for Oct. 24, 2021

As we start thinking about this Gospel reading, I’d like you to consider a tough question:  In what ways might you be blind? 

For Bartimaeus, the answer was pretty clear, and he cries out to Jesus to help him.  Jesus asks him, “What do you want me to do for you?”  Of course, Jesus probably realizes the man is blind, but Jesus wants Bartimaeus to identify the problem for himself.  Bartimaeus answers, “Let me see again.”  So, Jesus heals him, saying, “Go; your faith has made you well.”

But it’s interesting – Bartimaeus doesn’t go.  Instead, he follows Jesus “on the way.”  What’s up with that?  You know, if Jesus tells you directly to do something, it might be a good idea to do it.  But, on the other hand, I guess if I’d known that kind of healing, I’d want to learn more about the healer, too….

When we call out to God, I think Jesus asks us to name our need, just as he did with Bartimaeus:  “What do you want me to do for you?”  We often don’t know our needs very well, especially if the problem is blindness – after all, you can’t see what you can’t see.  So, it would be great if we could recognize the various ways we’re spiritually blind.

Well, what should we watch for?  What might be signs and symptoms of spiritual blindness?  Here are some possibilities:  Maybe our anger when someone points out a truth that stings.  Maybe our exhaustion when we find our calendars ridiculously full.  Maybe our arrogance in believing no one else can do something as well as we can.

When we see these symptoms of what’s broken within us, we can offer them to God for healing.  After all, that’s how healing usually works:  You have to seek healing in order to receive it.  Bartimaeus did that, and healing came to him immediately.

But that wasn’t the only miracle in today’s reading.  The other is that Bartimaeus didn’t do what Jesus told him to do – go back to live a normal life.  Instead, Bartimaeus followed this person who’d healed him so he could learn about the healing God provides.  Before he took up a normal life, Bartimaeus learned to see the need for healing in others and how to pass on that gift he’d received.  

Jesus wants the same for us – to heal our blindness.  Part of that’s because he loves us and wants us each to be made whole.  But I think it’s also because he wants us to learn to be healers ourselves.

Jesus is inviting each one of us to look for the blindness in our relationship with God and offer it up for healing.  Maybe our relationship with God is reflexive – we pray only when something hurts badly enough.  Maybe our relationship with God is obligatory – we pray as part of our routine and check the box when we’re done.  Maybe our relationship with God is absent – we know God loves us, but we don’t really reach out.  None of this means we’re bad people.  It means that, on our own, we can’t see what we can’t see.

So, what might those findings tell us?  Maybe that our primary spiritual blindness lies in how we see God.  If prayer is a reflex, maybe we see God as a spiritual first responder in times of crisis.  If prayer is an obligation, maybe we see God as a boss or taskmaster assigning us more work.  If prayer is absent, maybe we see God as a divine clockmaker who just sits back to watch.  We need to ask God to show us who God is before we can trust God to heal us.  And then, like Bartimaeus, we’ve got to get up and follow where God’s road leads.

When our vision is healed, it lets us see God more clearly, but it also helps us see ourselves more clearly.  We’re not made to be rugged individualists, seeking God only when life hurts badly enough.  We’re not made to be worker bees, killing ourselves day after day trying to earn God’s favor.  And we’re certainly not made to be alone, a cog in the wheel of a creation that spins around us but doesn’t care about us.  No – we’re made in God’s image and likeness, so we’re designed to live the way God lives – in relationship and for relationship, empowered to bring love alive in all we do.

God heals our blindness so we can bring healing to others.  God blesses us to be a blessing.  You know, we pray each week, maybe each day, that the kingdom would come on earth as it is in heaven.  That doesn’t happen by magic.  It happens through people like Bartimaeus, people like you, people like me – people who offer God our blindness, receive the gift of sight, follow Jesus, and pass the peace.

In fact, here’s one of those people now:  Liz Olson, to offer our stewardship witness this week.

Pass the Peace -- Just One Blessed Time

Sermon for Oct. 17, 2021

Mark 10:35-45

This is one of those Gospel readings that make more sense if you know what’s come just before it.  In this case, Jesus has just told his friends, for the third time, what’s waiting for him in Jerusalem at the hands of the religious leaders:  “[T]hey will condemn him to death; then they will mock him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him.”  There’s no subtlety to the message.  But, Jesus says, after three days, “he will rise again” (8:34).

Apparently, James and John only heard the last part of that – the rising-again part – because, in the next breath, they ask Jesus for positions of supreme honor once he’s come into his glory.  Jesus can’t believe it.  “Really?  That’s what you took away from what I said?”  Listen, he tells them: Power and glory are not where this road is heading.  Not even Jesus is angling for accolades.  In fact, he’s been doing everything he can so show his friends that the heart of God gives itself away.  The way things work in our world, the “great ones” act like tyrants, conflating power with self-interest (10:42).  The reign and rule of God goes the other way.  “[W]hoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant,” Jesus says, “and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all” (10:44)  For, as we heard from St. Francis a few weeks ago, the way of Christ is not to be served but to serve.

If we look into our own hearts, some of us may find ourselves there with James and John, following Jesus for the glory it promises – maybe heavenly glory, maybe the glory of recognition and praise for our good works in the here and now.  If that’s what your self-examination reveals, you may need a little foot-washing therapy, the chance to serve someone with no one watching and offer it to God, as a token of a changed heart. 

But my guess is that most of us err on the other side.  Many of us do a fair amount of serving, in the public and private facets of our lives.  Maybe you take care of kids.  Maybe you care for a spouse or a family member.  Maybe you pray for people who need healing; or maybe you serve in worship; or maybe you call people on their birthdays.  Maybe you serve the community in a free clinic, or a food pantry, or a boardroom.  You’re not seeking glory or even accolades; in fact, attention is the last thing you want.  You’re just trying to do what Jesus asks.

For servants like these, I think the past 20 months have been especially tough.  COVID hasn’t been easy for anyone; but for those wired to give of themselves, the pandemic has meant sacrifice on top of service.  We were asked to keep our distance from each other.  We’re asked to wear masks to protect others.  For some of us, our work takes us out on the front lines and put us at risk.  In a community like the church, there are fewer people around in person, so the people who are already busy end up getting asked to do “one more thing.”  Pretty quickly, it can become one thing too many. 

Then there’s the stress of living in a time when civility and respect seem like quaint memories from a bygone age.  Disrespect knows no political or cultural boundaries, but I was struck by a story a parishioner told me last week.  He was out walking, and a runner came toward him wearing a t-shirt proclaiming, “If you’re a Republican, you’re an idiot.”  Even the most open-hearted among us might find it challenging to love neighbors like that.

And still, Jesus comes to us in today’s reading and tells us that, in his kingdom, we find greatness in humility and blessing in service.  Really, Lord?  You want me to love one more jerk?  You want me to take on one more thing?

Today, we’re beginning our annual season of stewardship.  And frankly, in a time of divisiveness and pandemic, the call to stewardship could be a tough sell.  After all, for many of us, when we hear the word “stewardship,” and certainly when we hear “pledge campaign,” we hear the word “give.”  And maybe we’re worn a bit too slick to hear that well.  But I want to give you three reasons not to tune out just yet.

The first reason is captured in the theme of this year’s stewardship season – “Pass the Peace.” We’re highlighting ways that members of this church family step outside themselves to serve others and share God’s love.  It happens in church ministries and in day-to-day life. We pass the peace when we pray for each other.  We pass the peace when we make a joyful noise unto the Lord.  We pass the peace when we serve someone a snack after church.  We pass the peace when we shop with a family at Banneker Elementary.  We pass the peace when we serve hungry people downtown.  We pass the peace when we pray for healing in our city or sponsor a refugee family.  We pass the peace when we listen and learn from someone with whom we disagree. 

And I hope you’ll share how you do it.  This stewardship season, we’re asking you to share photos or videos representing how you pass God’s peace to others.  You can post them on social media, or send them to us by email, or send them by text – see the bulletin for more information about how to do that – and then we’ll share examples with you as the stewardship season goes on.  Plus, as part of the pledge campaign this year, we’ll be inviting you to make a pledge of just one way you’ll pass God’s peace in the coming year. 

Why are we doing this?  Because passing the peace is how we help God’s kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven.  It’s how we heal this world God asks us to love.  It’s how we live no longer for ourselves alone but for him who died for us and rose again (2 Cor 5:15; BCP 379)

Here's the second reason not to tune out this call to pass the peace:  It’s really not about doing more.  It’s about presenting what you do – even a single act – as a thank offering to God – as an act of prayer.  Like I said, for most of us, serving is not a foreign concept.  But we may not have much experience with sanctifying our service in prayer.  When you hear the church asking you to serve, it may seem like the message is that the more you do, the more stars you’ll earn in your heavenly crown.  I had a seminary professor who warned about church becoming “the helping Olympics,” where we give gold medals to the superstars of altruism.  But we don’t earn our way into eternal life; instead, that’s God’s gift to us when we give our hearts to God.  So, instead of asking you to do one more thing, I’m asking you to consecrate what you do.  Raise up even one act for others as a gift you’ll offer to the One who’s given you everything you have.  Don’t worry about doing more.  Make what you do sacred.

And here’s the third reason to take seriously this call to pass the peace:  The person you’ll bless most through your sacred service is yourself.  The way God has designed us, our spiritual DNA comes with a counterintuitive bit of wiring that brings us the greatest joy when we give ourselves away.  When we follow Jesus’ call and pass the peace to others, the love we give returns to us tenfold. 

But don’t just take it from me.  Over the next six Sundays, you’ll hear members of our parish family tell their own stories of how they’ve been blessed by serving others. First up is parishioner Bruce Long – and I hope you’ll keep coming back for more.

The Blessing of the Leash

 Sermon for Oct. 3, 2021

Matthew 11:25-30

As many of you know, Ann and I moved last week – from north Overland Park to the middle of Overland Park.  I should say, it was four of us who moved last week – Ann and me, but also our cat, Maisy, and our dog, Petey.  I’m sure the move is as disruptive for the two of them as it is for the two of us.  But at least they don’t have boxes to unpack.

Among the bittersweet moments with this move was taking my last walk with Petey around our old block.  We’ve taken the same walk for years now.  We saw the same houses, day after day.  There were certain trees and light poles where we simply have to stop.  Petey was on his leash, of course; but after all these years, he and I were just walking the same route together.  Sometimes I wanted to walk faster, sometimes he did.  But really, unless he saw another dog, we were just walking the same path with very little straining at the leash.

Now, we have to get used to a new route. I think he’ll like it – there’s a short trail along a creek by the house and fewer cars whizzing by him.  It will take some adjustment, but I’ll bet before long, he’ll be making turns right along with me, without having to look up at me to check on the next one. But even so, even once we find our new route and rhythm, I still wouldn’t dare walk him without the collar and the leash.

So, today we’re celebrating St. Francis of Assisi. We remember Francis for being in deep communion with nature, seeing every aspect of the created order as his brother or his sister.  That’s why we’re blessing our pets today: They’re outward and visible signs of the loving relationship Francis leads us to cultivate with every aspect of God’s creation.  But Francis was much more than a holy Dr. Doolittle, talking to the animals.  Francis teaches us about the value of the things we value least and the gift of holy limitation.  Francis teaches us about the blessing of the leash.

He was born around 1180 in Assisi in Italy, the son of a wealthy silk merchant.  He was a young man of leisure – a party animal, a spoiled brat.  He became a soldier, longing for military adventure; but that soon gave way to a conversion process:  He abandoned his old life and took to caring for lepers near Assisi and giving money to the poor.  In a run-down chapel one day, he had a vision of Jesus asking him to “repair my house.”  He took the message literally, sold off some of his father’s inventory of expensive silk, and gave the money to the church to repair the building.  Enraged, his father disowned him.  So, Francis repudiated his father’s life and wealth, took off his clothes in the public square, threw them at his father’s feet, and became a beggar.  He devoted himself to voluntary poverty and houselessness; and he wandered from village to village, serving the poor and proclaiming God’s power and authority over the powers of the world.  He preached always, using words when necessary – calling us to see ourselves in relationship with the people and creatures we may see as less important than ourselves and our concerns.  Legends began to grow that his connection with creation was so deep that he could converse with animals, and he wrote poetry about our connection to Brother Sun and Sister Moon, even seeing “gentle death” as his brother.¹

So, houselessness, poverty, wandering from village to village, serving lepers – you wouldn’t think this way of life would catch on.  And Francis never intended to start a movement.  But he attracted quite a following to this life of giving yourself away for people the world would rather forget.  His community of poverty, proclamation, and service grew large enough that the pope recognized it as a religious order.  Eventually, Francis journeyed to Egypt, determined to share his faith with the Muslim sultan against whom the European Crusader armies were battling.  Francis didn’t convert the sultan, but he did establish a relationship; and the sultan let Francis’ religious order steward Christian sites in the Holy Land.  Francis died in 1226, his body broken by a life of service and poverty, but his spirit united with Christ as an instrument of God’s peace.  Francis understood the deepest of Christian truths: that it’s in giving that we receive and in dying that we’re born to eternal life.

More often than not, following Jesus takes us in the last direction our own wisdom would have taken us.  Frankly, Jesus asks a lot of us.  After all, this is the Son of God who came among us in poverty and powerlessness, who washed his friends’ feet and told them to do the same.  This is the king of all creation who stooped down to our level, emptying himself, taking the form of a slave, humbling himself and becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross (Philippians 2:6-8).  Honestly, this way of being might make better sense to those at the bottom of the social scale than it does to many of us.  In the Gospel reading today, Jesus is ironically thanking God that at least someone understands what he’s trying to say – not “the wise and the intelligent” but the “infants” (Matthew 11:25), the folks of lesser status whom Jesus has been talking about in the readings from the past two Sundays.  And continuing the irony, Jesus says that this path of emptying ourselves, of stooping down to serve people and creation – it doesn’t just honor God and bless the world.  Unbelievably, it also blesses us. 

So, Jesus starts talking to “all who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens” (11:28).  Can you relate?  Weary, burdened?  Yup, that’s me.  OK, Jesus says, here’s the relief you’re looking for:  “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matt 11:29-30)

“Take my yoke upon you”?  What does that mean?  Well, think about oxen yoked together to pull a plow or a cart.  They’re doing hard work, but they’re not doing it alone.  They’re walking in step, a team much stronger than either one by itself.  Now, it may not feel very comfortable to think of yourself as an ox.  Talk about low status.  But maybe this helps a bit.  Imagine the other ox to which you’re yoked is God – divinity in the flesh, Jesus himself.  Divinity that emptied itself in service to those unimaginably lowlier.  Divinity willing to die to demonstrate the power of love.  Divinity that washed dirty feet.

Francis is maybe our greatest example of what it means to take on that yoke Jesus was describing – holding our attachments lightly, giving up what possesses us, serving those who need it most.  This is not a path of weakness that Jesus is calling us to follow.  This is the paradoxical power of God, the power of relationship that puts the other ahead of oneself.  When we yoke ourselves to Jesus, we find, counterintuitively, that the way is easier and the burden is lighter than the ways we choose for ourselves.  We aren’t trying to prove ourselves all the time, and we aren’t judging ourselves for our failures.  We’re simply walking alongside our master, both of us knowing the route.  And when we walk that path daily, we come to know it as second nature.  We walk it easily and with joy, rather than straining at the leash.

1.      Background on the life of St. Francis available from Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_of_Assisi) and the Catholic Encyclopedia (http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/06221a.htm).  Accessed Sept. 30, 2021

Finding the Kingdom of God

Sermon for Oct. 31, 2021

Mark 12:28-34

In late August, I preached about being “doers of the Word,” as the Letter of James puts it, and the importance of our words and our actions aligning.  As an example, I noted that St. Andrew’s had offered a table at Kansas City’s Pridefest, and I talked about the effect of that act of welcome on a man who’d been hurt by his experience of churches.

A couple of weeks after that sermon, one of the members of our Thursday-morning men’s Bible study asked me if I would come visit with the group about what he described as “LGBTQ, Pridefest, and St. Andrew’s.”  I said yes, absolutely, and we got together a couple of weeks ago. 

Now, I really didn’t know what to expect.  I didn’t know who would be there or whether to expect a confrontational conversation.  By the same token, of course, the group didn’t know what approach I would take either.  These days, there’s a lot of concern about being “cancelled” by those who disagree with you.  So, we got our cups of coffee, passed the donuts, and started talking.

Keep that setting in mind as we look at today’s Gospel reading.  It comes after several stories of public disagreement between Jesus and the religious authorities about issues of their day – like whether good Jews should pay taxes to the Roman emperor, and whether resurrection is real, by whose authority Jesus is teaching … and, of course, the real conflict, which was that Jesus had entered Jerusalem surrounded by adoring crowds and then threw the merchants and money changers out of the Temple.  So, amid all this conflict, one of the scribes has had about as much arguing as he can take.  So, he comes up to Jesus with a direct question:  “Which commandment is the first of all?” (Mark 12:28).  Come on, Jesus.  What are you really about?  Give me your bottom line.

I wonder what the two of them were thinking in that moment.  Was the scribe thinking Jesus would rant at him?  Was Jesus thinking the scribe would try to show him up, like all the other self-righteous religious leaders?  Were they each expecting conflict?  Probably so, given the previous 60 verses of Mark’s story.

So, what happened?  Well, the scribe asks Jesus for his elevator speech.  What’s your agenda, anyway?  What’s the mark of true faithfulness, from your perspective?  And Jesus answers him directly, even though he probably expects self-righteousness or one-upmanship back from the scribe.  Jesus says, I’ll tell you which commandment is first:  “The first commandment is, ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.’  The second is this,” Jesus continues: “‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’  There is no other commandment greater than these.” (12:29-31)  Ha!  Take that, scribe.

Then it’s the scribe’s turn, and I think his response kind of blows Jesus away.  The scribe says, basically, “Yeah.  You’re right.”  In fact, the scribe says, taking Jesus’ own point one step further, loving God and loving your neighbor as yourself “is much more important than all … burnt offerings and sacrifices” (12:33) – in other words, much more important than the activities and regulations the scribe’s work was all about.  And Jesus smiles and says, Hmmm.  “You are not far from the kingdom of God” after all (12:34).  Turns out, once they got down to what mattered most, Jesus and the scribe were basically on the same page.

 Now, what do you suppose would have happened if they’d started off discussing a particular point of law instead: divorce, or sabbath keeping, or giving to the Temple treasury, or paying taxes to the empire?  The scribe and Jesus might well have had very different opinions on any of those questions, and their differences would have been the focus of, you guessed it, another argument.  But they didn’t start there.  They started at core principles.  And instead of another argument, they found the kingdom of God.

So, what happened back in that conversation I had with the men’s Bible study?  Well, there were certainly points of disagreement – especially whether it’s right for the Church to be represented at Pridefest.  The guys in the group didn’t all agree with each other on that question.  They asked what I thought, and I said the Church has a call to show up especially among people who’ve felt themselves hurt by churches or excluded from churches in the past.  Some of the guys focused on how they heard Scripture condemning homosexual practice.  I said why I interpret it differently, and we left it that way.  Our minds weren’t changed, which is OK.  But we found that, when you get down to first principles, there’s a lot we agree on, rooted in the calls we heard today: to love God with everything we’ve got; and to love others the same way as we love ourselves. 

And, most important, that call to love was fleshed out by what was happening right then, around that table.  One of the guys noted that, in our current culture, we seem unable to disagree without things getting ugly.  As he said, “We’ve got to be able to have a fair fight.”  It seems to me that’s exactly what was happening over coffee and donuts that morning, though I might not have characterized it as a fight.  It was also what we learned about in our civil-discourse class this spring and in the discussion series on “What Should Be the Role of the Church In” a variety of hot-button issues.  Over coffee and donuts, we were loving God and loving one another as we love ourselves.

It may be that one of God’s most important calls to the Church right now is to be a place where we learn to live the way we yearn for our society to live – to be a place where we can come together standing on the first principle, which is love.  As people who follow the way of Jesus, we commit ourselves to practice love toward all three objects of that verb in today’s reading – to love God, to love neighbor, and to love ourselves.  I would say those relationships of love are the first and most important things God asks us to steward.  And if those relationships of love are balanced the way God intends, then they reinforce and empower each other.  First, give yourself to God fully – in heart, in mind, in every part of your life.  Then, see your neighbor and yourself in the light of the divinity God shares with each one of us.  We are made in God’s image and likeness, after all; so, every person – people with whom we disagree, people we don’t know at all, even that person you see in the mirror – every person merits the regard we would show to Jesus himself if he were sitting at the table, having coffee and donuts with us.  Which, of course, he is.

If you see Jesus in the faces of the people around you, you don’t look for difference nearly as much as you look for common ground.  If you see Jesus in the faces of the people around you, you don’t ascribe selfish motive nearly as much as you try to see the other’s heart.  In fact, if you see Jesus in the faces of the people around you, you don’t so much want to win the argument as you want to pass the peace.  And in the process, you find that “you are not far from the kingdom of God.”

Well, like I said a couple of weeks ago, don’t just take it from me.  Here's another story of finding Jesus in unexpected people and places, and, in the process, finding the kingdom coming among us – this week, from parishioner Tom Murray.

The Cross at Ground Zero

Sermon for Sunday, Sept. 12, 2021

Mark 8:27-38

As we’ve been hearing all week, yesterday was the 20^th anniversary of 9/11.  I’m sure many of us remember that day vividly, perhaps more vividly than we’d like.  I can see where I was when I got the news, who I was with.  Ann and I were in seminary, and the whole seminary community was gathered in the auditorium that morning for the beginning of the fall term.  Someone in the back of the room got a phone call with the news that the towers had been hit, and she cried out to stop the presentation and turn on the TVs.  We all sat there, watching for hours, until we went to the chapel to pray the ancient words of the Supplication from the prayer book – “From our enemies defend us, O Christ” (BCP 154).

I imagine many of us have a story about how daily life simply stopped on 9/11 as we watched and prayed.  We were afraid.  Intellectually, we all knew that we live in a dangerous world, susceptible to evil acts.  But it’s different to watch it on TV as terror happens.

Later, the story of the day’s terror would come to be filtered through stories of the day’s heroism.  When we remembered, what came to mind were firefighters, EMTs, and police running into buildings others were fleeing.  What came to mind were 40 people on a plane over Pennsylvania who got phone calls about the attacks in New York and Washington, and realized they were the fourth missile, and chose to die saving lives instead.

Terrorism and heroism stood side by side on 9/11.  As we know, heroes don’t always make it.  Terror and chaos can seem to carry the day.  Even 20 years later, watching the chaos at the airport in Kabul, Afghanistan – with hearts aching, infuriated for those left behind at the end of a war intended to plant hope in place of terror – even 20 years later, we fear chaos might triumph after all.

With images from 20 years ago and images from just weeks ago fresh in our hearts and minds, we might well ask:  Where’s God in all this? 

Today’s Gospel reading opens the door to an answer.  As always, the disciples aren’t all that different from you and me, despite thousands of miles and thousands of years of distance.  Peter gets it, at least intellectually, that Jesus is God’s anointed king, the Messiah … whatever that meant.  It probably meant something to Peter – maybe that Jesus would defeat the Romans and rule in power and glory.  Whatever Peter had in mind, it clearly wasn’t what Jesus had in mind.  For the first time, he tells his friends what’s coming – that “the Son of man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the [authorities] …, and be killed, and after three days rise again” (Mark 8:31). 

Many of us have heard this reading before.  As it is when we watch video of the planes hitting the towers, we know where this anguishing story is going.  But Peter doesn’t know the story; he tries to make it stop, tries to get Jesus to change the narrative.  Instead, Jesus looks terror in the eye and confronts it with love that won’t back down.  In fact, it’s the love that grows and flows from him to us.  He looks at his baffled friends and says, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, and take up their cross, and follow me.  For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” (Mark 8:34-35) 

Now, the disciples and the crowd are thinking, “Wait, what?  What’s this about taking up a cross?”  They knew what crosses were for; they saw the Romans crucifying revolutionaries all the time.  But they hadn’t put that together with Jesus’ story.  This is the first time in Mark’s gospel that the word “cross” appears.  For Jesus’ followers, stuff just got real.

So, where’s God when stuff gets real?  Where was God on 9/11?  Where’s God in COVID, or in a Haitian earthquake, or in a devastating hurricane, or in more than 200 shootings in Chicago last weekend?  Where’s God in the suffering we each know, the hardships that make us say, “Really, Lord?  This is what a life of blessing looks like?”

            Well, here’s where I think God is.  God’s in the Cross at Ground Zero. When the towers fell, structures and lives disintegrating in an instant, amidst the rubble and ash and twisted steel of World Trade Center 6 stood this cross.  It was found two days after the collapse by a construction worker, a man named Frank Silecchia.  He and his team were working in the pit of Ground Zero looking for survivors.  And they were beyond discouraged because they’d only found three bodies and no survivors in those two days.  Instead, what Frank Silecchia found was this cross.  The workers preserved it, and it stood at Ground Zero for about 5 years.  From there, it was taken to a nearby church and eventually, in 2011, moved to become part of the 9/11 Memorial & Museum.¹

To me, this cross speaks volumes about God and human suffering, the theology of the cross.  Here’s what I mean.  Jesus faced the evil of the Roman Empire, a system that oppressed people, taxing them beyond their means and abusing them if they resisted – and he chose to walk into conflict with Rome.  Jesus faced the evil of religious leaders who put their own power and prestige ahead of the well-being of their people – and he chose to walk into conflict with those authorities.  Jesus wasn’t looking to die.  He was looking to stand for and stand with people who needed the power of God’s love to overcome the powers that beat them down.  He was looking to show the depth and breadth and height of that love, love so powerful that battling evil and death only made it stronger.  God didn’t send in the heavenly armies to vanquish Rome or unseat the religious authorities.  Could have – but didn’t.  Instead, God walked into the suffering as one of us, experiencing every loss and sustaining every blow to show that death is not the end. 

And 2,000 years later, God was there in the pit of Ground Zero. God showed up to comfort us when we were broken, to embrace us with the healing peace that surpasses understanding, and to empower us so that we might stand against evil – both the evil that surrounds us and the evil that stews in our hearts.

And in that power, God sends us out from the cross, too, because the cross is not the end of the story.  The cross is the arrow that points us to the empty tomb, to the love that defeats the power of sin and death and makes the whole creation new.  That’s a cosmic truth we’ll know in all its fullness later, when Christ restores the unity between heaven and earth that God intended in the beginning – and I can’t wait for it.  But for now, we experience this truth of love defeating sin and death when we follow the cross to the empty tomb ourselves, in our own lives, in this slice of eternity God’s sharing with us now. 

What does that look like, to live in resurrection?  St. Francis named it centuries ago.  When we’re tempted to hate, love instead.  When we’re tempted to seek vengeance, pardon instead.  When we’re tempted to divide, unify instead.  When we’re tempted to doubt, trust instead.  When we’re tempted to despair, hope instead.²  Taking up our cross and following Jesus means following him into the places others run from.  It means putting ourselves out there to love when love seems senseless.  It means showing up as God’s presence for others, pointing them toward love, too.

OK.  Maybe it’s just a coincidence that two steel beams were standing like this in the midst of the devastation.  But construction worker Frank Silecchia didn’t think so.  In fact, showing a deep understanding of the power of the cross to point to new life, Frank Silecchia spray-painted arrows on the debris at Ground Zero directing the responders there to find this cross, calling its location in the wreckage “Gods House” (sic).¹  And because I have no better words than his, I will leave you with Frank Silecchia’s description of his experience finding the Ground Zero Cross and the meaning he takes from it.

[That cross] brought such overwhelming feelings to me that it dropped me to my knees in tears. …  The cross means, to me, healing, comfort – something to look toward … to comfort your sorrow, to help revitalize you.  You’ve got to remember – on that day, our faith was crushed.  And that cross, it helps rebuild our faith.  Terrorism took down the towers, but faith rebuilds our hearts.³

1.       Hampson, Rick. “Ground Zero cross a powerful symbol for 9/11 museum.” USA Today, May 13, 2014. Available at: https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2014/05/13/911-ground-zero-museum-cross-world-trade-center/8907003/. Accessed Sept. 10, 2021.

2.       Book of Common Prayer, 833.

3.       “Remembering 9/11: The Ground Zero Cross.” From Remembering 9/11. History.com. Available at: https://www.history.com/topics/21st-century/remembering-911-the-ground-zero-cross-video. Accessed Sept. 10, 2021.