Thanks for Nothing

[Sermon from Sunday, July 29]

Two weeks ago, several of our youth, and about 75 others from the dioceses of West Missouri and Kansas, gathered in Kansas City for five days of urban mission work – the annual Missionpalooza.  The week included a cookout at Harmon Park in Prairie Village, which a number of you helped provide – thank you very much for that.  The kids also had time on Saturday to go to a movie or to an arcade for bowling, mini-golf, or laser tag.  But they spent most of their week hard at work in places like the Don Bosco Center, the Kansas City Community Kitchen, Operation Breakthrough, and Habitat for Humanity. 

So I want to tell you a story about one young person’s experience that week.  This high-school junior was sent to work at the Kansas City Community Kitchen, where he chopped vegetables, served hungry clients, swept the floor, and cleaned out the walk-in fridge.  But he also got to know the situation of the clients beyond an intellectual understanding that poverty and hunger exist.  By the time you serve lunch three days in a row, you begin to recognize faces. 

Well, on Thursday, the young man gathered up dirty towels and aprons to take upstairs to reStart, which is in the same building as the Kitchen, one floor up.  Among its other services, reStart offers washers and dryers for homeless people to use, and the agency also does laundry for the Kitchen.  But talking with the people at reStart, the young man learned they were out of laundry soap.  The reStart staff told him it would be at least a couple of days, maybe next week, before they got another shipment.

Well, coming to the Kitchen each day, the young man had noticed there was an Aldi across the street.  And he knew he had $25 in his pocket, money he’d brought for extra games of laser tag at the end of the week.  So the young man looked at this situation and thought, “I’ve got $25; I can do something about this.  I could play just one game of laser tag and still give people here the chance to wash their clothes.”  So he and a couple of adults went across the street to Aldi, and he bought five bottles of laundry soap.  

Of course, that left the young man with just a few dollars for laser tag on Saturday.  But after serving poor people all week, he’d decided he was grateful to have even a little money in his pocket.  In fact, strangely enough, in that moment, a small amount of money became more than a large amount of money – less really was more.  Homeless people got to wash their clothes when they wouldn’t have otherwise, and the youth was able to enjoy that far more than he would have enjoyed the extra games of laser tag.  Now, my guess is that if this young man had been told up front, “You only have $5 to spend on fun at Missionpalooza,” he wouldn’t have been very pleased.  But he had decided to be grateful – grateful for what he’d been given, grateful for the chance to make a difference for the people around him, grateful for the one game he did get to play.  And because he chose to be grateful, everything changed.

This story may not seem to have much to do with the familiar Gospel reading we just heard, the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and the fishes. You’ve probably heard it before.  In fact, you may have heard it so many times that you already had it in your head as Deacon Jim began to read.  That’s where I was earlier this week, when I began reading it:  Jesus draws a big crowd; the crowd gets hungry; he decides it’s time for a miracle; he turns a few loaves and fish into a feast; end of story.  But then, I stumbled across a small phrase in the middle of this long reading:  It says, “Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks...” (John 6:11).  Wait a minute.  What’s Jesus giving thanks for?  

Let’s rewind the story a little bit.  This crowd of 5,000 was following him, hoping for miraculous healings, and Jesus sees an obvious problem:  They’re in an isolated place, the day is getting long, and the crowd is getting hungry.  Jesus asks the disciples what they should do about it; and our spiritual ancestor, St. Andrew, swings into action.  Like many of us, Andrew is a problem-solver, so he goes to see what food he can find.  He comes back to Jesus reporting, “There’s a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish.  But what are they among so many people?” (John 6:9).  And it’s here that the story gets strange.  Jesus takes this completely inadequate supply of food, five loaves and two fish, and he does what never would have occurred to most of us:  He prays.  Now, in our anxiety, if we had thought to pray, here’s what we would have said:  “Dear God, give me more!”  But what Jesus says is, “Thank you.”  

Really?  Thank you for what?  Thank you for nowhere near enough food to solve the problem?  Thank you for putting me in an impossible position?  Thank you for giving me just enough to help a few people while having to say “no” to thousands of others?  Yeah, thanks for nothing.  

But strangely enough, something happens when Jesus makes the deliberate choice to be grateful.  Suddenly, there’s more than enough for everyone.  Giving thanks is the key that unlocks the miracle. 

Now, you can see this miracle at least a couple of ways.  The traditional, pious interpretation is what you’d imagine:  Jesus multiplies a small amount of food into a feast for thousands, a sign of the abundance of the reign and rule of God.  A less traditional, more historically focused, interpretation goes something like this:  Jesus’ teaching and healing, and his willingness to share what little he has, opens up the hearts of the crowd.  The individuals sitting on the grass reach into their own pockets and open up their own bags, and they bring out what they’d been hoarding for themselves.  They bring out their own bread and dried fish, or whatever else they’re carrying, and they share it with their neighbors.  From this perspective, the miracle is that the people choose to join the reign and rule of God by loving their neighbors as themselves.  No matter which way you interpret the story, the ending is the same: thousands of full bellies, and 12 baskets of leftovers, all from five loaves and two fish.

The important thing here isn’t the miracle’s mechanism of action.  The important thing is the miracle itself, and here it is:  Giving thanks changes everything.  The more we say “thank you,” the greater we understand our own blessings to be.  And the more our gratitude spurs us to give ourselves away, the richer we become.  Jesus takes a gift we would see as totally inadequate; he says, “Thank you”; and in that moment, scarcity is transformed into abundance.  Even the leftovers are overflowing. 

It’s no accident that in this reading the Greek word for “giving thanks” is the same word we use to describe our weekly transformation of scarcity into abundance.  That word is “eucharist.”  Eucharist means giving thanks.  Every week, you bring a few loaves of bread and a pitcher of wine up to this altar.  It’s not much of a meal for a couple of hundred people.  Surely it won’t be enough.  The folks in these pews are hungry, in all kinds of ways – emotionally, spiritually, some even physically.  How dare we respond to that level of need with such a meager meal.  But instead of bemoaning how little we think we have to offer, we offer it anyway – outward and visible signs of God’s provision and blessing.  And when we pray our “thank you,” when we offer Eucharist at this table, that’s when the miracle happens.  The bread and wine become Jesus fully present with us – allaying our fears, sustaining our souls, and empowering us to serve other hungry people.

This isn’t just a once-a-week thing.  God calls us to live in Eucharist every day because thankfulness is our key to the abundant life God longs for us to have.  In the stunning paradox of the Gospel, the way we find abundance is by giving ourselves away.  It’s why giving is such an essential part of following Jesus and why we’re called to give of our whole selves – time and talent and treasure.  In the giving of those gifts, miraculously, we receive far more in return.  When God tells us in Scripture to give back 10 percent of what we receive, it’s not for God’s benefit.  That money or talent or time was God’s in the first place, and God doesn’t need to receive more of it.  Instead, we need to give it.  For our own well-being, we need the miracle of thanksgiving, the miracle of Eucharist, to transform our less into more. 

And that can be scary.  Giving thanks can be scary.  If I give away my loaves and fishes, I may not have enough.  But the miracle is that we receive even more than we give away.  This is not some “Gospel of Prosperity,” where I stand here and promise that if you give a bunch of money to the church, then God will buy you a new car.  That’s bunk.  But it is true that God will take care of us, in mysterious ways that God gets to choose.  After the feeding of the 5,000, the disciples try to make their way back home, across the Sea of Galilee; and a storm starts blowing.  They row through several miles of rough water, and things aren’t looking good.  But Jesus continues his miracle by providing safe passage even when the waters are rough.  He comes to them when and how they least expect it, and he brings them safely back to shore.  Of course he does.  After all, not only does he love them, but there’s always more for a disciple to do – more thank-yous to say and more crowds to feed.  Or, depending on your situation, more laundry soap to buy and more homeless people’s clothes to wash.

So, to all the Andrews here this morning:  The next time you feel like what you have is never sufficient; the next time you look at your five loaves and two fish and think, “What are these among so many”; the next time you know you don’t have enough – choose to say “thank you” for it, and give some of it away.  Then see how much more those loaves and fishes become.

The Holy Messiness of Citizenship

[Sermon from Sunday, July 1, 2012.]

As we approach Independence Day this year, the Supreme Court has certainly given us a lot to think about in terms of American government and public policy – which is, ultimately, our concern, given that we’re the ones who govern this democratic republic. Last week, the Court first struck down some provisions of the controversial immigration law from Arizona while upholding other parts of it. Then, on Thursday, the Court upheld the constitutionality of the 2010 health-care reform law, much to the surprise of many. At least we can rest assured that American government isn’t boring.

Beyond these Court rulings, of course, this is also an election year – and a presidential election year at that. So when we go to the polls this November, we’ll have many decisions to make about who will lead us, at every level – from president to county clerk – not to mention ballot initiatives and local issues. So this morning, and again on Wednesday, as we lift up our nation in prayer and give thanks for the gifts of independence and self-government, we also remember the huge responsibility we bear as the inheritors of those gifts. As Jesus reminds us: To whom much is given, much is expected (Luke 12:48).

So what will inform those choices, come November? What democratic vision guides us as we elect those who will guide our nation? What kind of political consensus binds us together as Americans?

Anymore, it sometimes seems the only common measure of success in governing is whether your actions take you one step closer to victory in the next election and set up your opponents for defeat. Voters increasingly ignore moderate voices, the people doing the hard work of compromise, and respond to shrill and simple answers instead. We have a political culture that rewards intransigence, grandstanding, and a failure to govern. When Rep. Emanuel Cleaver II was with us one Sunday in the spring, the clergy were talking in the sacristy before the service; and one of us asked Rev. Cleaver how things “really are” in Washington. He stopped vesting, and looked intently at us, and said, “It’s even more broken than how it seems on TV. It’s worse than you could ever imagine.” Somehow, I don’t think this kind of political stewardship is what our nation’s founders had in mind.

For that matter, I don’t think it’s what God had in mind either in giving Americans the gracious gift of self-government. As Christian citizens of this nation, we bear responsibility not just to govern ourselves competently but to do so in a manner pleasing to God and in keeping with the lordship of Jesus Christ. That’s a delicate balancing act in a nation whose core principles include the separation of church and state. But we know God wants us to “use our liberty in accordance with [God’s] gracious will,” as the prayer book puts it (Collect for the Nation, BCP 258).

So how are we, as Episcopalians, called to live out American citizenship?

When we look around us, we see many different examples of how Christian identity might shape our decisions about policies and candidates. In some Roman Catholic and conservative Protestant churches, members get specific direction on what’s acceptable and what’s not – and sometimes pretty clear direction on which candidates are acceptable, too. The African-American churches have a long history of speaking the prophet’s voice about civil rights and the plight of the poor – and mobilizing their members for political action. For us, as Episcopalians, we’ve tended to see things a little differently. For a long time, we’ve recognized that, at our best, we’re a broad church, a big tent where people can disagree in love on nearly any issue and still come together to worship the God whose kingdom transcends our differences. But as members of that broad church, how are we Episcopalian Christians called to practice faithful citizenship?

Well, in all the stewardship that God asks of us, we’re called to live our gifts. And one of our greatest gifts as Episcopalians is the ability to deal with uncertainty. We don’t demand a lot of hard-and-fast answers or rigid requirements. We can handle it when things get messy. In fact, we do “messy” pretty darned well. So maybe our call as Episcopal Americans is to roll up our sleeves and practice the messiness of thoughtful citizenship as a contrast presence to the politics of polemics.

And you don’t have to look very far to see us answering that call. Right here, in the St. Andrew's parish family, we have people who’ve put themselves into the mess of government and politics because they’re passionate both about their nation and about the kingdom values they hear God calling them to reveal. We have parishioners who’ve worked on campaigns for Republican, Democratic, and Libertarian candidates. We have parishioners who’ve served as delegates to national party conventions. We have parishioners who serve as lobbyists and advisors to Congressmen. We have a former four-term Kansas state senator in our midst, Audrey Langworthy, recently honored as Johnson Countian of the year for her committed, caring, sacrificial, and self-effacing leadership. And now, continuing the tradition, we have another parishioner, Kyle Russell, who is making his own run for the Kansas Senate. Kyle has a passion for issues like taxation, schools, and highways. Some of that has to do with just wanting to make his state a better place. But he also sees public service as an opportunity to live out the values and priorities he hears in Jesus’ teachings about the kingdom of God. And, like the Langworthys did for many years, Kyle and Rhonda Russell are willing to make significant sacrifices of time, and money, and normal family life so that he can put himself into that messy world of American democracy in action.

I believe that, as people of faith, our vision of the kingdom of God must inform how we govern ourselves. That call is not unique to this denomination. But how we Episcopalians live it out is in recognizing that God gives us each different eyes to see that kingdom and different facets of it on which to focus. On most policy issues, we simply can’t read the mind of God clearly enough, on this side of eternity, to say “I’m right” and “you’re wrong” because the Bible tells me so. But the fact that we don’t issue a lot of policy statements as a church doesn’t mean our faith is silent about how we should govern ourselves. Even though we reject a view of Scripture and the Church that says we should always be on the same page, God does give us some pretty clear mandates; and we heard several of them in our readings this morning. As Deuteronomy puts it, we must be instruments of justice for those it’s easy to forget: the orphan, the widow, the stranger – those who lack the essentials of life and the standing in the community to obtain them. As Matthew puts it, we must love our enemies and pray for those who oppose us – even when our brokenness leads us to strike back. As Hebrews puts it, we must not cling too closely to our worldly identities and affiliations but always remember our true identity as citizens of God’s kingdom seeking our true homeland, a better country – that is, a heavenly one. With the gifts of our Scriptural witness, and our tradition, and our reason and experience, we’re called to govern ourselves prayerfully, in a way that builds the kingdom as God gives us to see it. We should follow the lead of members of our own parish family and practice public discipleship according to the passion and wisdom God gives to each of us. In our tradition, we have a particular giftedness for showing a broken and divided nation the holiness of the “old politics” – the politics of Episcopalians like Franklin Roosevelt, Gerald Ford, and John Danforth. It’s the politics we see in our own parishioners who put themselves into the holy messiness of government to transform it with civility and common purpose.

Of course we don’t agree about everything. But I’d say we do agree about the bottom line: to steward the gift of freedom in such a way as to build up God’s kingdom – one handshake, one compromise, one sacrifice at a time.

A poem from the Maundy Thursday service

[At the Maundy Thursday service last night, we used a loaf of wonderful homemade bread ... which had the unhappy consequence of being very attractive to an unwelcome visitor.]

The Fly’s Opportune Time

It’s Maundy Thursday. The
Giant fly eyes the bread
And glides in for a landing –
Right there, in front of
God and everybody.
This target’s too inviting to
Pass by. Sweet and yeasty,
Full of life, the bread sits
There, defenseless. Just as
This is no daily bread, this is
No small-time fly. Twice the
Size of a picnic pest, the fly
Bears an air that befits its
Stature. Even on the altar
Of sacrifice, unlike the bread,
The fly won’t be denied.
We small men flick fingers
And wave hands, boys
Playing at power. But
The fly knows better. It’s
Been working the long con,
Waiting for this very night,
And it’s not going anywhere.
On this night of willing
Sacrifice, Jesus there at table
With his friends, the fly
Takes its time and
Makes its move. The bread’s
Still there, of course, still
Whole and sweet and good.
But germs have now
Been spread, and only
Moments separate the
Lovely, holy now from
Creeping disease to come.

-- John Spicer

The Gospel According to the Centurion

[Sermon for Palm Sunday, April 1, 2012]

I’d like you to hear a little more from the last voice that spoke in the Passion Gospel – the Centurion. He was the commander of 100 soldiers stationed in Jerusalem, and his assignment was not easy. Jerusalem was always in a state of unrest because the Jewish people hated the Roman occupiers, and they longed for the return of a king of their own. In this constant unrest, the centurion’s job was to keep the peace – through sheer terror.

So I’d like to share with you a letter from this centurion, who has just witnessed the events of the first Holy Week. No, it’s not authentic history – just a fictional glimpse into a heart transformed by the Cross. He’s writing to his wife on the evening of Good Friday.

* * *

To the noble and beautiful Lydia –

I have to tell you what I have seen and heard over the past few days here in Jerusalem. I began this week as a soldier of Rome, a loyal subject of our divine Emperor, one who keeps people in line. But I end this week as someone else. I’m haunted by what I’ve seen and heard from a single man here, a Jew from the countryside. We thought he was leading a rebellion. Maybe he was, but it wasn’t like the other little rebellions we crush here.

This man was named Jesus, and earlier this week he came riding into Jerusalem on a colt, the way the Jews say their king will come to bring back their kingdom. We’d heard about Jesus, traveling through the countryside, proclaiming that their God’s kingdom was on its way. But then he came into Jerusalem with hundreds of his followers, hailing him as their king. We knew the crowd might get ugly, and I was ready to move on them.

But they went away peacefully, at least until the next day. Then this Jesus came to the temple of the Jews and started a riot, destroying property and screaming about how their leaders were profaning the holy place. Afterwards, when he was talking to the people, I’d never seen a crowd so spellbound – as if they were listening to their God himself. Again, I thought we’d have to break them up, because the crowd would have stormed the governor’s palace if Jesus had told them to. They would have done anything he told them to. But he left the city in peace. I couldn’t understand it. He had them just where he wanted them, but he wouldn’t let them make him king.

Then yesterday, everything turned upside down. The Jewish leaders arrested him and brought him to the governor’s palace this morning. I was there with my men because this is the Jews’ great festival, and you never know what will happen with so many of them in the city. The Jewish leaders brought Jesus to the governor, saying, “This man has proclaimed himself king. He’s a rebel against the Emperor.”

The governor has seen these rebel leaders come and go, and he’s quick to kill them off before they become a threat. So he asked Jesus who he was, sure that Jesus would incriminate himself. But he wouldn’t fight. He didn’t claim to be a king; he only said, “You say I’m king.” Then the Jewish leaders started accusing him of all kinds of actions against the Empire. But Jesus said nothing. I’ve never seen anything like it. No matter what they said about him, he just stood there, stronger and nobler than any Roman senator. He should have been defending himself; he should have been fighting back. There he was, standing before the leaders of his faith and the power of Rome itself. But in his silence, he held the power.

Even the governor was amazed. He didn’t know what to do. He tried to get rid of the problem by releasing Jesus to the crowd. But the crowd had turned on him. Who knows why? You never know how this mob will act. So the governor told us to take him out and do what we always do with traitors against the Emperor – torture, then crucify.

Lydia, I’ve been here so long it no longer seems strange to beat a man within an inch of his life, and humiliate him, and watch him wither in the sun on a cross. Making an example of these rebels is my job. But this one was different. We whipped him; then we took him back to the palace to continue the torture. They’d said he was a king, so we dressed him up in fine purple robes – and then beat him some more, just for sport. He could barely stand by this point. We made a crown out of branches with long thorns and jammed it into his head. Lydia, he should have been begging for mercy, like they always do. He should have been denying who he was and turning in his friends. But he just stared at me. Tears ran down his face, but he just stared at me. The whips and the thorns couldn’t touch what was inside this man. With his body broken and barely able to stand, he still held the power.

So we took him out and put the bar of the cross on his shoulders. But he couldn’t even stand under it, much less walk. So we dragged him to the hill while someone in the crowd carried the crossbar. Once we got there, I tried to give him wine with drugs in it – at least something for the new pain that was coming. But he wouldn’t take it. So we went ahead and nailed him to the wood. I took the sign that gave the charge, and I nailed that to the cross, too, like always. But this wasn’t the same as always. We were killing him because he was supposed to be a threat to the Empire. But this one wasn’t a threat, at least not the way the other rebels are. He didn’t want to take on my army or topple the governor. He wasn’t a revolutionary. He was something else.

I had to stay there at my post until it was over. I watched the people coming by, ridiculing him. He wouldn’t answer, not one of them. He just hung there. I could hear him moaning sometimes, trying to breathe, waiting for it to end. Sometimes, I’d turn around and look at him – and he gave me the strangest look I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even the pain I knew he felt. It was sadness – the deepest sadness, the sadness of one who has seen too much but knows his work is not yet done.

Then, Lydia, as his life slipped away, the day grew darker and darker. The wind began to blow, as if a storm were moving in. And suddenly, this man who had suffered so long in silence finally spoke, but not to any of us who were killing him. He cried out to his God. In all his suffering, he never cried out against us. He never showed any fear of us. His only fear was whether his God was still with him.

When he cried out, I turned to look at him. Then the power I’d seen before returned. His eyes fixed on mine with fierce strength in the midst of anguish. Then he closed his eyes and cried out in a language only he and his God could know. In the wind and the darkness, I thought I felt the earth shake. And, in that moment, I knew this was the son of God I had tortured and killed.

There I was, with my armor and my spear and my hundred soldiers, and I was powerless. I’ve never seen anything so strong as that broken man. I’d never understood just how weak we are, we who occupy this land. All the legions of the Emperor were like dust that afternoon. When that man died, I should have felt victory. He was a rebel, my enemy; and I had beaten him and broken him. But when he died, I knew he had won. He and his God had power that makes our brutality look like child’s play. But I wasn’t afraid of it. His strength drew me in. Those eyes invited me to come to him, even though I’d killed him.

I don’t know what to do now, my dear Lydia. I’ve come to believe in a man I’ve just nailed to a cross. I don’t know yet where that leaves me. I want to find his followers; maybe their whole movement isn’t dead. But what I do know is that this story isn’t finished. This God whose son just we just killed – this God will not stay silent for long. Perhaps he’ll strike us down, but somehow I don’t think so. I have a feeling the end of this story will shock us. I have a feeling this God will do something we can’t imagine. I have a feeling this God will take killers like me and vanquish us with love. This God conquers death with life. And not even an army can stop it.

Local Heroes

[Sermon preached Jan. 29, 2012.]

Our reading this morning from First Corinthians is one of those moments in Paul’s letters when you know you’re hearing just one side of a conversation, as if he were sitting next to you, talking on the phone. You know there’s got to be a backstory to this discourse on eating food that’s been sacrificed to idols. So let me try to fill it in a little.

As you know, in the Roman world, people worshipped many gods. The Roman religious system itself was polytheistic; plus, the Romans didn’t insist that conquered peoples convert, as long as their local religions didn’t threaten Rome’s power. So in a city like Corinth, there were temples everywhere, and much of temple worship included sacrificing animals. After the sacrifices, some of the meat was eaten in common meals, where lots of people from the local community would attend; and some of the meat was sold in city markets.(1)

So the new Christians, in Corinth and elsewhere, had to sort out how to relate to all this. Was it OK for them to join in a civic meal where meat sacrificed to idols was being eaten? Was it OK for them to go to the market and buy meat that might have been offered in the worship of a rival god? Apparently, the Corinthians had written to Paul, asking for a judge’s ruling. And in today’s reading, Paul basically says: You have the right to do it, but that doesn’t make it a good idea. Sure, those who understand that idols are meaningless are free to eat any food that God has provided. But what happens when those who aren’t as sophisticated as you are see you at a temple feast and think you buy into what they’re preaching? What if people who aren’t secure in their faith see you eating in the shrine of an idol and think you’re hedging your bets on which god is the real one? Is it worth it to shake someone else’s faith in order to get a great steak? If your example doesn’t build the church community, Paul says, change your example.

Today, we don’t worry much about eating meat sacrificed to idols. So what does all this have to do with us, 2,000 years later? I think it has a lot to do with something most of us treasure deeply, one of our fundamental values as Americans. That value is freedom, in all aspects of our lives –- political, economic, social, religious. One of our primary self-definitions is that we’re free to do what we want to do, as long as no one gets hurt in the process.

But sometimes our values bump up against each other in uncomfortable ways. In this case, of course, freedom isn’t our only value. Right up there with it are the values of family and community. Sure, we’re free to do whatever we want as long as no one gets hurt; but we also know that we’re part of things bigger than ourselves -– our nuclear families, our extended families, our church family, even the neighborhoods and cities where we live. We know we’re responsible to those around us, even though those responsibilities aren’t cut and dried. Especially as Christians, we know we’re bound together with the people in this room, the people of the Episcopal Church, and all the believers who comprise the Body of Christ in the world.

There’s a great movie from about 20 years ago that’s all about this tension between individual freedom and the well-being of the communities we’re part of. The movie is Local Hero. It’s the story of Mac, a high-powered deal-maker with a Texas oil company, who’s sent to this incredibly beautiful, picturesque village on the coast of northern Scotland named Ferness. Mac’s mission is to buy the entire village so his oil company can level everything, dredge out the bay, and put in a massive refinery. So Mac comes to Ferness looking for someone who can act as the community’s representative in this delicate deal. He finds Gordon, the unofficial community leader who ends up being the real deal-maker. Mac’s trying to account for the people’s feelings, the destruction of the beautiful village, the end of the community’s lifestyle. But Gordon is working behind the scenes with the residents to maximize the cash they’ll each get out of the deal. As the story moves along, Mac ends up being the one who wants to preserve the village with its quaint lifestyle, and Gordon and the villagers can barely keep a lid on their excitement about becoming “filthy rich.”

The crux of the story comes with the one hold-out in the deal, the one villager who doesn’t want to take the money and run. He’s Ben, a deeply eccentric old man who literally owns the beach and lives there in a shack whose only entrance is a window. As Mac says at one point, “How do you do business with someone who doesn’t have a door?” Ben’s job is to “work the beach,” as he puts it –- gathering up all the bizarre stuff from around the world that the Gulf Stream and the North Atlantic Drift bring to the Scottish shore. Mac and Gordon try to explain to Ben that with his new millions, he could buy any beach he wants, and they show him pictures from Hawaii and Australia and the South Seas. Ben says he doesn’t want any of those beaches. He explains, “This beach has been in the family for 400 years.… The thing is, I’m still working the place myself. It’s my living.… [The beach] has to be worked; think of the state the place would get into.”

What Ben sees is that he’s there not just for himself but for the good of the community. In fact, what he sees, which the other residents don’t, is that each individual in Ferness is there for the good of the community. And, ironically, that’s precisely what gives each individual his or her own well-being, too. If they all pursue their own self-interest, the community ceases to exist -– and then what would they have? I won’t spoil the movie’s ending, but just know that things work out, and the community endures.

Running throughout Local Hero is this question: Who is the local hero? Is it Mac, who changes from a self-centered deal-maker to someone who wants to save the village? Is it Gordon, who’s leading his people to get the most they can from a heartless oil company? Is it Ben, who reminds the community that they are a community, dependent on each other for the life they’ve known for centuries?

Like the villagers of Ferness, we have the freedom to get what we want out of our lives and our communities. Like the people of Corinth, we can choose to take what we want because we know we have the right to take it. That was certainly my temptation related to church, at a different time in my life. As a young adult, I went to church completely on my own terms. I liked to sing in the choir, so I went to church in order to sing there. Later, when I moved out on my own, I didn’t join a church at all because I didn’t want to get sucked into relationships or connection or commitment. But I did show up every now and then, when I wanted to get my time with God, and receive my Communion, and scoot out before I had to talk to anybody at coffee hour. It left me recharged until the next time I felt my battery running low. I was completely within my rights to go to church, enjoy the community they had built, and slip out again without upsetting anything. I had every freedom to do that -– but I wasn’t being a good steward of that freedom. I was looking for what was in it for me. It didn’t occur to me that my being there might have had the potential to benefit someone else.

The truth is, we need each other. Whether we’re talking about families, or parishes, or neighborhoods, or any circle of relationship, communities don’t work as collections of autonomous individuals working to ensure they each get their needs met. We have every right to do that. But the family bleeds a little with the loss of each potential contribution we could have made.

Last week, down in the undercroft, we honored some of our own local heroes by giving them the Priest-in-Charge’s Cross. These four parishioners share a commitment to be more than individuals in this church family. One hero is Randy Bredar, who’s helped guide some of the most expensive elements of the building’s restoration and helped save us hundreds of thousands of dollars in the process. Another hero is Howard Williams, who’s been one of the stalwarts of the BackSnack program and who singlehandedly created a ministry of ushers to serve people at funerals. Another hero is Pete Vogt, who mentors kids at Southwest High, manages funerals for us, serves on more committees than he doesn’t serve on, and offers his photographers’ eye for free. And another hero is Connie Smart, who’s been the St. Andrew’s “Church Lady” for decades, a presence of servant ministry, historical memory, and holy encouragement for everyone she meets.

Who are our local heroes? Not just these four parishioners; not just the 20 other people who could have received crosses last week; but also many, many, many of you. Our local heroes are all those who’ve learned the blessedness of putting the well-being of this faith family ahead of individual liberty. They use their freedom as Jesus used his: Though he was in the form of God -– though he had every right to do it -– he did not count equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant. (Philippians 2:6-7) That is the ministry -– that is the glory -– of our local heroes.

1. For more information, see Garland, David E. “The Dispute Over Food Sacrificed to Idols (1 Cor 8:1-11:1).” Available at: http://www.vanderbilt.edu/AnS/religious_studies/SNTS2002/garland.htm. Accesed Jan. 26, 2012.

Are You Talking to Me?

[Sermon from Sunday, Jan. 15, 2012]

Over the last few weeks at St. Andrew's, you may have noticed a theme emerging from the sermons you’ve heard –- a theme of discipleship, or following where you’re led. Two weeks ago, I talked about following the star of Bethlehem, with the magi, so that we, too, might follow Jesus and draw the world to him. Last week, Mtr. Anne preached about following Jesus into the waters of baptism and out into the world, as bearers of justice and peace. This morning, I want to tell you three stories about people who heard the voice of God and chose to follow where it led them -– and in so doing, helped change the world.

The first is about the prophet Samuel. As we meet him in the first reading today, Samuel is a boy who serves with the chief priest, Eli. One night, he’s awakened by a voice calling out, “Samuel, Samuel!” The boy runs into Eli’s room and says, “Here I am. What do you want?” And Eli, like many a tired parent, squints at the boy through the haze of sleep and says, “I didn’t call you; go back to bed.” Samuel obeys, but the voice returns; and Samuel and Eli go through this scene another time, with Eli (no doubt more than a little annoyed) firmly sending Samuel back to bed. When it happens a third time, Eli is awake enough to realize God’s up to something here, and he tells Samuel to stay in bed and pay attention if the voice comes again. It does, and Samuel dutifully offers the response God was looking for all along: “Speak, for your servant is listening” (1 Samuel 3:10).

I can only imagine what must have been going through Samuel’s mind. Who am I, that I hear the voice of the Almighty calling in the night? I’m just a boy, just an assistant at the altar. I’m not important enough to get a personal call from God. Why would the Lord of the universe waste precious, divine time on me?

Well, Samuel didn’t get just one personal call. This was the start of a career. Samuel became the last of the judges of Israel and the nation’s first major prophet, which means someone who speaks for God. As God’s spokesperson, Samuel was also God’s conduit for choosing Israel’s first two kings, Saul and David. From a boy who simply to listened to God calling in the night, Samuel became the political and spiritual leader of his people. Samuel listened, and he followed. And through him, God changed history.

The second story of people heeding God’s voice is the Gospel reading we just heard. Jesus has just begun calling his first disciples; and among them he finds Philip -– a normal, local guy. Philip then runs and finds his friend Nathanael, which is where the story gets interesting. Nathanael isn’t exactly one of the stars of the Gospels. In fact, he’s mentioned only in the Gospel of John, and he’s mentioned only twice in that book. But Nathanael makes a comment here that suddenly brings life to the story. Philip tells Nathanael that they’ve found the one “about whom Moses … and also the prophets wrote” (1:45), Jesus of Nazareth, who would bring to fulfillment the story of God’s relationship with humanity. But Nathanael isn’t impressed. Nazareth? “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (1:46). Nathanael sees himself as experienced and sophisticated; his fishing village of Bethsaida is much more impressive than Nazareth, that hill-country dump. But Philip isn’t taking the bait. “Come and see,” he says (1:46).

And then Nathanael finds himself face to face with the supposed hick from Nazareth. Jesus smiles and says, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!” (1:47) –- which is a nice way to say Nathanael’s been caught. Somehow, the country bumpkin overheard Nathanael’s wisecrack about Jesus’ home town. But wait -– Nathanael has never met Jesus before. “Where did you get to know me?” he asks (1:48). And Jesus captures him with a single sentence: “I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you” (1:48). With that, Nathanael is hooked. “Rabbi,” he says, suddenly deferential, “you are the Son of God! You are the king of Israel!” (1:49). Nathanael must be thinking, “Who am I, that the Son of God has been watching me? I’m just a guy from a fishing village. I’m not important enough to be on his mind. Why would God’s anointed king waste precious, divine time on me?

And Jesus’ answer is, basically, “Just wait -– you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Nathanael and Philip and Peter and Andrew and the rest will follow Jesus as disciples for the next three years. And in the process, they’ll see him turn water into wine, and make blind people see, and heal the sick, and feed thousands with a few loaves and fishes, and offer himself up to death, and destroy death with an empty tomb. Filled with the wonder of that story, even a wise guy like Nathanael will take the Good News out to the world and help create a movement. Nathanael listened, and he followed. And through him, God changed history.

The third person I want to tell you about is the one whose birthday we’ll remember tomorrow, Martin Luther King Jr. You know King’s story. You know about the Montgomery Bus Boycott, the “I Have a Dream” speech, and the march from Selma to Montgomery. You know about the Nobel Peace Prize and his refusal to embrace the violence that would eventually kill him. But like Samuel and Nathanael, Martin Luther King also had a moment of encounter with God when the Almighty spoke -– and the man of words listened.

It happened during the difficult days of the Montgomery Bus Boycott in 1956. It had been almost two months since Rosa Parks broke the law and sparked a movement by refusing to give up her seat on the bus. Her act of defiance galvanized local black leaders to organize a boycott. They came together in the basement of King’s church in Montgomery, and the young man found himself elected leader. The boycott dragged on; and in mid-January, King and the other leaders extended it indefinitely, refusing to be bullied back into the city’s racist policies.

Two weeks later, King was at home with his wife and two-month-old daughter.1 It was late, near midnight, when the phone rang. Late-night phone calls were nothing unusual, but this one put a chill in his heart. An evil voice on the other line called him the “N” word and said, “We’re tired of your mess. And if you aren’t out of this town in three days, we’re going to blow up your house and blow your brains out.”

It was more than he could take. Two months into the boycott, and two months into life with a new baby up at all hours of the night, King felt his resolve slipping away. Looking for a little extra strength, he made some coffee to get him through the long night, but he was at the end of his rope. He sat at his kitchen table, held his head in his hands, and offered the prayer of desperation. The gist of it was this: Lord, I’m trying to do what I know is right. I’m trying to lead these people. But now, I’m afraid. I’ve got nothing left, and I can’t do this on my own.

And in that moment, Martin Luther King experienced the presence and power of the living God. He felt a voice speaking within him, bearing him up and saying, “Martin: Stand up for truth. Stand up for justice. Stand up for righteousness. And I will be at your side.” King later described it as the most real and palpable experience of God’s presence he’d ever known -– enough to keep him following God through the boycott and throughout the next 12 years of the movement.

Now, Martin Luther King was not perfect, as history has clearly shown. Neither was Samuel or Nathanael; neither is any one of us. King was a broken man called to heal a broken situation; and he knew better than anyone else the poverty of his own power. I imagine him, in his kitchen that night, amazed that God had come to him so vividly. Who am I, that I hear the voice of the Almighty calling in the night? I’m just a young preacher at a small church in a small city. Why would the Lord of the universe waste precious, divine time on me?

Of course, filled with the power of that encounter, the broken young preacher would confront the racist powers of Montgomery, and the South, and the nation -– and defeat them without raising a hand in his own defense. God asked him to lead others to overcome evil through nonviolence –- and he created a movement. King listened, and he followed. And through him, God changed history.

So, who’s next? It could be any of us. It could be all of us. Jesus calls every last one of us to the path of discipleship. It’s sometimes a difficult path, hard to see, twisting in discomforting directions, full of stumbling blocks to trip us up. But the call is always to take a step and then trust that the next one will be revealed in God’s good time. For this path of discipleship, God doesn’t seek flawless people who have all the answers. Instead, God calls us -– even me, even you. We’ve all been given ears to hear that voice calling our names in the night. So, may we breathe deep and muster up the courage to say, “Speak Lord, your servant is listening.” And then, may we receive the strength to follow God’s path where it leads and change the world God gives us to change.

1. This account of King’s epiphany during the Montgomery Bus Boycott is told in his memoir Stride Toward Freedom: The Montgomery Story (1958). The book apparently is out of print, and I couldn’t obtain a copy in time for use with this sermon. Two blog posts recall the story of King’s midnight encounter with God: “Civil Rights Family Trip: Montgomery” (http://experimentaltheology.blogspot.com/2010/08/civil-rights-family-trip-montgomery.html) and “Martin Luther King’s Defining Moment: A Kitchen, in Montgomery, Alabama, Past Midnight” (http://americandetours.com/2010/01/18/martin-luther-king%E2%80%99s-defining-moment-a-kitchen-in-montgomery-alabama-past-midnight).

Invite an Exile Home

[Sermon from Sunday, Dec. 4, 2011]

Here’s today’s quiz: What’s the liturgical color for Advent? Is it purple, or is it blue? You’ve probably noticed that we’re not making it easy for you to get the answer right, given the way the four clergy are dressed this morning, with some of us in one color and some in the other.

If you’ve been in the Episcopal Church a long time, or if you’ve come here from Roman Catholicism, you’ll know that the “traditional” color for Advent is purple, though it’s a tradition that was only standardized in the 1800s. Purple is associated with penitence, which is why it’s also the traditional color for Lent, our penitential season leading up to Easter. And traditionally, Advent too has had a penitential flavor. Last week’s Gospel reading was about preparing ourselves for Jesus to return in power and judgment at the end of the age. This morning’s Gospel features John the Baptist calling the people to turn away from their sins and be forgiven. Sounds like a penitential time to me.

But there’s also a tradition of using blue as the liturgical color during Advent, especially in England, Sweden, and Spain. Blue is the color of hope and expectation –- the color of life-giving waters and the sky we look toward as we imagine heaven. It’s also the color associated with the Virgin Mary, the bearer of divine life and hope for all people. The Gospel on the last Sunday of Advent is always the angel’s astonishing news that Mary will conceive and bear the Son of God himself. So, with Mary, we count the days in watchful expectation, awaiting the coming of the one who will redeem us from sin and bring us eternal life. Sounds pretty hopeful to me.

So, purple or blue? Penitence or hope? Apparently, it depends on which week of Advent you’re talking about. And this week, you can make a case for either one. It all depends on which reading we want to focus on and how we hear the prophet’s message.

In both the readings from Isaiah and Mark, we hear about a voice crying in the wilderness. But what’s that prophetic voice actually saying? It’s not as straightforward as it might seem. In the Gospel, the voice belongs to John the Baptist. There he is, looking to us like a crazy person; but his attire would have reminded the people of his day of the prophet Elijah, who was also described as a shaggy guy with a leather belt around his waist (2 Kings 1:8). From Mark’s perspective, John the Baptist is fulfilling Isaiah’s prophetic words, serving as the messenger sent ahead of the messiah, preparing his way, getting the people ready for the salvation to come.

To get ready, John the Baptist tells us, we have some spiritual housecleaning to do, sweeping the dirt and cobwebs from the corners of our hearts. John the crazy prophet is here to look us in the eye and ask the question none of us really wants to hear: What do you need to turn away from in order to turn toward God? Very specifically, what’s keeping you from living in God’s image and accomplishing God’s purposes in your day-to-day life? We may find the question a little rude and intrusive, but John the Baptist asks us anyway: How are we separating ourselves from God and thereby falling short in our work of loving God and the people around us? All this may not sound very comforting, but it does seem straightforward enough. Apparently Advent is about penitence and preparation for the second coming of Jesus. So I guess we ought to be wearing purple and spending our time getting right with God.

Well, that may be true; but it’s also not the whole story we heard this morning. If we look back at our first reading, from Isaiah, we find that Mark is taking some interpretive liberties with the text he’s quoting. In fact, he’s reinterpreting God’s word for his own generation, just as theologians and preachers have been doing for centuries. If we really look at the Isaiah reading, we find it isn’t talking about the coming of the messiah. Instead, it’s an announcement of very practical good news to the people of Israel, who at that moment in history were sitting in exile. And the news is, they’re about to go home.

This part of Isaiah was written around 545 BC, when the Jewish people had been taken into captivity by invading armies and had been living as exiles in Babylon for about 60 years. The first generation of exiles had already died there, and their children didn’t have much reason to hope for a return to the homeland they had only heard about in the stories of their parents and grandparents. But here comes the prophet, inspired by God to proclaim an unexpected hope: Get ready, for God is about to act decisively and bring us home, back to Israel and Judah. So in that sense, when Isaiah wrote, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” it had a very practical meaning: that God would build a road so the people could return across the desert wilderness that separated Babylon and their homeland. The prophet says God is about the flatten out the mountains and raise up the valleys, like the state department of transportation preparing a highway’s roadbed.

And what’s the message the prophet wants his people to take away from all this? Rejoice, for your time in exile is about to end. You’ve paid your penalty. Here’s your “get out of jail free” card. Wait with holy hope and expectation, for God is about to rock your world. And, the prophet tells his people, take your joy one step beyond hopeful expectation: Shout it from the rooftops, too. Isaiah says, “Get you up on a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with strength, O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings, lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of Judah, ‘Here is your God!’” (Isaiah 40:9) Tell everybody you know the good news, that God is with us and soon will restore us. So, clearly, if we listen to the prophet Isaiah, the message of Advent is about hope and expectation.

Well, what do we do? Is it purple or blue? Penitence or expectation? And the answer is: Yes. Welcome to the Episcopal Church.

That may seem crazy, or at least like we can’t make up our minds. But I’d say this “both/and” approach to Advent is actually just what experience would teach us. We do need penitential self-examination to see where we’ve turned away from Jesus’ call. The reason John the Baptist feels like a Christmas party crasher is because he comes in and tells us the last thing we want to hear in the midst of our holiday revels: that we need to take stock and confess where we see that our lives are on fire. My guess is there’s not a soul here who could look in the mirror and say he or she doesn’t have anything to confess.

But we also need to live in the active hope and expectation that God saves us, even though we don’t exactly deserve it. When we open our eyes and our hearts, Jesus Christ enters decisively into our lives, and into the world around us, to deliver us from the exile of our own self-absorption. “See, the Lord God comes with might,” Isaiah says. “He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms.” (40:10,11) The mystery of Advent is that those who find themselves on the edge of redemption, those who think they know better than God how they should live (and that’s pretty much all of us) –- they have done their time in the wilderness, God says, and their penalty is paid (Isaiah 40:2).

So, the prophet says to us who are being freed, lift up your voice with strength, and tell this story of repentance and salvation. God calls us to repentance not just for our own benefit but for the benefit of the world around us, that others might get the point that reconciliation is God’s bottom line. This period leading up to Christmas is the perfect time for the world to hear the real message of the season: that God wants to bring everyone home. And the repentant are precisely the right messengers of that hope, because the repentant are those who have good news in their hearts to proclaim.

So this Advent, invite an exile home. Show someone that God is waiting for them with open arms, ready to gather them up in the divine embrace of reconciliation. Proclaim to someone that life as they know it isn’t as good as it gets.

There’s even an easy way to do it. As you leave this morning, take a yard sign from the narthex [advertising the Christmas Eve services], put it in your car, and plant it in your front yard. Invite the people who pass by your home to join you for Christmas Eve here at St. Andrew’s. Invite them to see that the holiday season is more than parties, and presents, and watching A Christmas Story ten times on TV –- and feeling alone. Invite them to turn in a different direction: toward the promise that hearts can be unburdened, that the slate can be wiped clean, and that the Shepherd longs to gather them in his arms. Plant a sign in your yard, and invite an exile to come home.