Buy Low, Sell High, Give Always

[Sermon from Sunday, Aug. 30, 2015.]

I have to tell you that I’m not a close follower of the stock market or financial news in general.  But last week, even I couldn’t help but pay attention to the economic instability in China and its effects on world markets, including ours.  I knew it was generating serious buzz when my 19-year-old son, who’s not exactly a heavy investor, came back from work at Milburn Country Club talking about China and the Dow and what it all might mean for us.

By Tuesday’s news cycle, the wild ride had led to an 11-percent drop in value on U.S. stock indices.  As I read about that on CNN’s website, I came across what I think may be a modern-day icon of American life – maybe an anti-icon, actually, if icons give us windows into heaven.  The article I was reading referenced CNN’s “Fear & Greed Index.”  Yes, that’s right, the Fear & Greed Index.  It’s a composite of indices reflecting market volatility, demand for junk bonds, stock-price strength and breadth, demand for safe havens, put and call options, and market momentum.  I don’t even know what most of those terms mean.  But put them all together, and apparently you get a metric of which emotion is driving the market at the moment – with fear at one end of the dial and greed at the other. 

So, if fear is at one end and greed is at the other, what’s in the middle?  Boredom and ennui?  I’m not sure where I’d want the needle on that dial to point, if these are our options for what drives our economics.  Neither fear nor greed seem like particularly inviting emotional spaces to inhabit.  All of this probably explains why I’m not a broker or a market analyst. 

I don’t mean to make fun of our collective reaction to last week.  A lot of people, and a lot of us in this room, have a lot riding on the success of the market, whether we really understand it or not.  And that’s no less true for the Church than for any other part of American society.  After all, where does the Church Pension Fund invest my pension contributions?  Not in organic berry farms.  And, by the way, where do your pledge payments come from?  Some come directly from stock transactions; others come from income that won’t be there if the stock market isn’t healthy.  So I don’t mean to minimize the fear we feel when the market takes a dive.

And … when that happens, as all the financial advisers said this week, it’s vital that we stop and take a deep breath.  Come on, let’s do it together.  Slowly.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Now, do it again.  Isn’t that better?  Nothing’s changed in the market, or in our personal lives, because we took those deep breaths, but I’ll bet most of our necks and shoulders are looser.

So, where’s the sermon, Fr. John?  What does all this have to do with the Good News of the kingdom of God?

Actually, everything.

Go back to the Old Testament reading we heard today.  Moses, by now a very old man, is standing before the people of God after they’ve wandered 40 years in the wilderness.  They’re about to cross over the Jordan, enter into the promised land, and create a society that was to be all about revealing God’s kingship, God’s authority.  That was God’s whole point in creating Israel – that other peoples around them, worshiping carvings and heavenly bodies, might see and know that this nation of Israel was “a wise and discerning people,” specially blessed with statutes and ordinances written by God’s own hand (Deuteronomy 4:6).  Do not let these things “slip from your mind,” Moses commands the people, but “make them known” – to your children, yes, but also to the rest of the people around you (4:9).  For God’s people are set aside, sanctified as a missionary presence among the nations of the world.

Well, we are the new Israel, God’s missionary people in this time and place.  And being that missionary presence doesn’t exactly jibe with fear and greed.  I don’t recall seeing a “Fear & Greed Index” anywhere in Scripture.  A “Hope & Mercy Index,” absolutely – that’s the index of God’s love, measured in board-feet of a cross.  But a “Fear & Greed Index”?  As followers of Jesus Christ, we’re specifically called to witness against fear and greed as dominant forces in our hearts and in our culture.  The phrase “fear not” appears 62 times in Scripture, and that doesn’t count similar things like “be strong” and “take courage.”¹  “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” Jesus says, “and do not let them be afraid” (John 14:27).  And greed?  Well, in addition to making the list of the seven deadly sins, greed comes up 36 times in Scripture.  If you add “avarice” to that search, you get one more – in Jesus’ vice list from today’s Gospel reading (Mark 7:21-22).  It’s one of the “evil things … that defile a person,” Jesus says (Mark 7:23).  So when it comes to fear and greed, I think we’d have to say Jesus is not a fan.

What would Jesus advocate instead?  Well, taking a deep breath is a good place to start.  But from there, I think he might tell us to remember – to remember who we are.  We are the baptized, and that means more than any other mark of identity that competes for our allegiance.  As baptized people, we are God’s own children.  As baptized people, we are born anew, freed from the bonds of sin and death.  As baptized people, we are the head and the heart and the hands of Jesus Christ today, his body blessed and broken and given for the world he redeemed.  As baptized people, we are inheritors of eternal life.  None of those realities appears on the evening news when the stock market tumbles.  But neither the Chinese economy nor the Fed’s Board of Governors can take these truths away.  Remember who you are.

And after we remember, maybe our next step is to take a small, simple, sacramental stand.  Let me offer you the last thing you came to church expecting this morning – a wealth-management tip from your priest.  You already know the conventional wisdom:  Buy low and sell high, right?  Well, here’s your heavenly wealth-management tip to go along with that:  Buy low, sell high, and give always – especially in times of fear and greed.  No matter which direction the dial is pointing on that Fear & Greed Index, it’s a sign to stop and give away a little something extra to remind ourselves where hope and mercy lie.

It’s a lesson we learned from our partners in Haiti a few years ago.  When we were about to replace the roof on our church, we shared that news in worship during a visit to Maniche.  The people of St. Augustin’s pledged to give us their profits from a day at the market, to help us out with our roof.  Not that they had it to give … but they found the faithfulness to offer it.

Giving something extra won’t solve the world’s problems.  But that small gift – the intentional practice of generosity when everything around you says, “Hold tight” – that “generous act of giving,” as the Letter of James calls it, is a sacrament (James 1:17).  It’s an outward and visible sign of the divine reality, the reign and rule of God, just beyond the sometimes toxic bubble of our worldly fears and sins.  Like dipping your fingers in holy water or taking the body and blood of Christ, your small “generous act of giving” is a way be a doer of the Word in real life.  That small, generous act will remind you who you are and whose you are.  In fact, it will heal your heart because it will remind you, when you’re bound by the world’s ground rules, that you’re actually sealed by the Holy Spirt in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever – that you are a citizen of the kingdom of heaven, not a prisoner in the kingdom of anxiety.  For we serve a God who leads faithful people to what seems like certain death at the water’s edge, only to pave their way to freedom in a promised land.  We serve a God whose prophets come out of fiery furnaces and lions’ dens, singing songs of victory.  We serve a God who is whipped and nailed to a cross but calmly stares his tormentors down, knowing the empty tomb awaits. 

If God is for us, what shall we fear?  And how much more security do we really think we need?

1.      Blacketer, Larry.  Musings of a Lifetime Bible Teacher.  WestBow Press, 2013.  203.

The High Dive

[Sermon from Sunday, Aug. 2, celebrating the Feast of the Transfiguration and baptizing three children.]

Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the kingdom of God” (Luke 9:27).  Now, if you were listening, you know that verse wasn’t in the Gospel reading we just heard.  Instead, it comes just before it in Luke’s story.  “Truly I tell you,” Jesus said, “there are some here who will not taste death before they see” what the kingship of God, the sovereignty of God, actually looks like.  Keep that thought in mind as we move along this morning. 

We’re celebrating the Feast of the Transfiguration today, and it’s one of those scriptural stories that sort of loses its punch with over-telling.  Many of us have heard it too many times; it’s become commonplace.  But if you happen to be someone who hasn’t heard this story very often – or maybe never heard it before today – I wonder how it strikes you?  

Let’s look at a few key words and phrases.  We’re told Jesus and his three closest disciples go “up on the mountain to pray” (Luke 9:28).  They go away to the place, in Scripture and still today, where people often go when they’re seeking a deep encounter with God – up on the mountaintop.  OK, there’s our setting. 

Then, there’s this phrase:  Jesus’ “face was changed, and his clothes became dazzling white” (9:29).  Clearly, something’s happened up on the mountain, something otherworldly and mysterious. 

Then we hear, “Suddenly … Moses and Elijah were talking to” Jesus, appearing in “glory” (9:30,31).  OK, so a strange situation has just gotten seriously weird, as long-dead religious heroes suddenly appear out of nowhere.  And what they talk about seems strange, too:  Jesus’ upcoming “departure” at Jerusalem – and, even stranger, the word for “departure” in Greek is exodus (9:31).  We’ve heard that before.

Meanwhile, the disciples are drifting in and out of sleep in their meditative state up on the mountain – not sure what’s real and what’s not, not sure whether they ought to do something to make this mystical moment last, like notes scribbled in a dream journal.  Soon enough, it becomes clear they’re not dreaming after all.  A dark cloud comes and overwhelms them, and the disciples are “terrified” as the cloud swallows them up (9:34).  Finally, to freak them out completely, the very voice of God booms from the dark cloud, thundering, “This is my Son, my Chosen, my Beloved; listen to him!” (9:35).  And suddenly, Jesus and the disciples are standing there alone.  I imagine the disciples are looking for somewhere to run. 

This is not a happy little Bible story.  This is a terrifying encounter with the sovereign Lord of the universe.  And it’s made even more terrifying for the disciples as they come to realize that the guy they hang out with, their leader, their teacher, their rabbi – he’s a whole lot more than that, sharing directly in God’s terrifying glory. 

And as they keep reflecting on all this, I imagine it becomes even more confusing still.  God’s voice had thundered, “Listen to him!”  But, you know, Jesus didn’t have anything to say in this story.  No grand proclamations.  Not a single word, actually.  So, Peter and James and John might have wondered, what were we supposed to listen to?

Well, rewind the story a bit.  The last thing Luke describes before this account of the Transfiguration is one of those moments – maybe the supreme moment – of Jesus tellin’ it like it is.  He asks his friends, “Who do the crowds say that I am?” (9:18).  And then he asks, “Who do you say that I am?” (9:20).  Peter gets the answer right, though he hasn’t really understood it yet.  He says, “You’re ‘the messiah of God’” (9:20) – which for them meant, “You’re the one God has anointed to be king of Israel, the one who will bring back God’s direct rule of our land, just like the good ol’ days of David and Solomon.”  Jesus basically says, “Yes … and no.”  He gives them the deep mystery of messiahship – that being God’s anointed king means he “will undergo great suffering, and be rejected by [the religious leaders], and be killed, and on the third day be raised” (9:22).  And then, he hits his friends in the gut with the mystery they’ll spend their lives trying to live into:  “If any want to become my followers,” Jesus says, “let them deny themselves, and take up their cross daily, and follow me.  For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it.” (9:23-24)  This truth comes directly from God’s beloved Son.  “Listen to him!” boomed the voice from the cloud.

So, if you’re hearing this story with fresh ears, let me ask:  Are you scared yet?

*    *    *   *

Well, it’s summertime.  These are supposed to be lazy days of relaxing and reading on the beach – or at least cooling off at the local pool.  So every summer, in my mind’s eye, I go back to Meador Park pool in Springfield, Missouri.  Meador Park was about 2 miles from my house growing up; and once I reached the age of emancipation for a kid in Springfield in the 1970s, which was about 10 years old, my parents let me ride my bike to the pool by myself.  It was a different day.  I had no fear, as a boy, going off to the swimming pool by myself – apparently neither did my parents.  So I’d go and swim, maybe meet friends that day, maybe not, but definitely revel in the freedom and relaxation of summer.

One day, I met up with some friends.  And as boys do, we started bragging about what we could do in the water – how long we could hold our breath, how deep we could dive, how far we could swim.  It moved quickly into dares, and the dares moved quickly to the last place I wanted to go: the high dive.

Now, I know this will shock you, but I wasn’t exactly an athlete as a kid.  Nor was I particularly coordinated.  And I hated getting water up my nose.  And I’d never jumped off the high dive.  Ever.  To me, the high dive at Meador Park pool was about 100 feet tall, like a circus scene from a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  Probably not, actually; but it sure felt that way.

So you know how this story goes.  After the obligatory posturing of 10-year-old boys negotiating a dare, I found myself climbing the ladder up the high dive.  I got to the top.  And I walked slowly out, feeling the board quiver harder and harder the farther out I stepped.  I walked to the end. 

And I stood there.  And I stood there.  And I stood there.  And the longer I stood there, the worse it got.  The longer I stood there, the higher the high dive became.

*    *    *    *

In a few minutes, three babies and their families are going to gather around this tiny pool here in the chancel.  It’s not a very imposing sight, really.  There’s not much water there.  But let me tell you, that water’s got power.  Because in that tiny pool is the water of life … and death … and new life in Christ. 

As newborns, we burst from the womb’s primordial waters, overcoming blood and pain before we even gasp our first breath.  So water is life … but it’s also death.  In these lazy, hazy days of summer, we always hear of boating accidents and drownings; and we know, even if we don’t like to admit it, that the difference between life and death in the water is razor-thin.  So water is death … but it’s also new life.  Soon these three young people, and the adults who’d give their lives for them, will be asked to jump off the high dive into this tiny pool.  The stakes are high because in that water, yes, we do die.  “In it, we are buried with Christ in his death,” as we’ll pray before the baptisms.  But just as surely, and so much more powerfully, “By it, we share in his resurrection.  [And] through it, we are reborn by the Holy Spirit.” (BCP 306)  Rising out of that pool, we are reborn as members of the family of God.  Rising out of that pool, we are washed clean of every stain.  Rising out of that pool, we are clothed in the garments of transcendent glory, like Jesus on the mountaintop; and we are sealed with the oil that’s anointed prophets and kings as we join Jesus as members of his royal priesthood. 

And as we rise from that water, born again, we hear the voice of the risen Lord whose company of disciples we join.  We hear him commission us for service in the reign and rule of God:  “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, and take up their cross daily, and follow me.  For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it.” 

As the songwriter Marcus Mumford sings:

In these bodies we will live; in these bodies we will die. 

Where you invest your love, you invest your life. 

Awake my soul –

For you were made to meet your maker.¹

As you stand at the end of the high dive, are you ready to take the plunge?  Come on in.  The water’s fine.

1.  Mumford & Sons.  “Awake My Soul.”  Sigh No More.  2009.

Out of Many, One

[Sermon from July 5, 2015]

This Independence Day weekend, our nation pauses to remember, to celebrate, and (at least for some of us) to pray for these United States.  We do so in a historic moment marked by both grief and hope.  Two and a half weeks ago, when nine children of God were gunned down in a Charleston church, it pulled open racism’s wound once again in our country.  We all know that; and we’ve heard voices from all sides mostly talking to people who already share their points of view.  It’s usually cast in terms of “our country needs to” do this or do that, as if we believed that, if we only gave people the right answer, the body politic would change. 

It’s harder than that.  Living into what Lincoln called “the better angels of our nature” is excruciatingly hard work.  From a Christian perspective, it’s the work of discipleship – loving God, loving neighbor, and loving each other the way Jesus loved.  Though it’s easy for us to say “those people” ought to change in this way or that, I believe healing our nation begins by healing hearts.  Let me tell you about a couple of those hearts – hearts afflicted with blindness.

The first is the heart of a South Carolina state representative, Doug Brannon.  Representative Brannon is a third-term Republican from a small South Carolina community, a lawyer, a white man.  Had he not run for office, he’d have probably never met state Senator Clementa Pinckney, the AME pastor and legislator who was killed in his Charleston church.  But in their time in the state house, Brannon and Pinckney had become friends.  Remembering his friend, Representative Brannon said, “When he walked into a room, the smile just lit the room up.  As big as he was, he was so inviting. … just a welcome sight.”¹ 

Soon after the shooting, as the calls came to take down the Confederate flag on the capitol grounds, Representative Brannon stopped short in the realization that he had a sin on his heart, a sin of omission, a sin that now weighed on him like an anvil.  He’d walked past that Confederate flag hundreds of times, but as he said, “I don’t look at it.  That may sound ridiculous, but I don’t look at it.  So it didn’t mean anything to me.”¹  But now, he said, “It’s time to do my job.”²  So Representative Brannon will introduce a bill to remove that flag, though it will likely cost him his job.  He said, “The switch that flipped was the death of my friend.  I’ve been in the House five years; I should have filed that bill five years ago.  But,” he said, “the time is now.”²  Two and a half weeks ago, Representative Brannon didn’t even see that flag.  His friend’s death opened his eyes and, for a moment, let him step into his friend’s world.  And with fresh eyes, he could see a wound to heal.

Here’s the second example of a heart afflicted with blindness: mine.  I grew up in Springfield, Missouri.  When I was a boy, Springfield was 98 percent white.³  At my school, there was no racial diversity.  Literally, I didn’t know an African American kid, or any other kid who wasn’t white.  The one black person I knew – as trite as it sounds, it’s true – the one black person I knew was the woman who cleaned our house. 

Most of Springfield’s small black population lived in the north-central part of town.  My friends and I played in a basketball league at the Boy’s Club there; and one day, we were in the game room, playing pool.  Three black kids came up to join us.  My friends and I had had so little interaction with black kids that we couldn’t understand the words they spoke.  We literally didn’t speak the same language. 

In an earlier day, Springfield’s population was about 10 percent African American.  Black people owned thriving businesses, served on the City Council, served on the school board, served in law enforcement.  But in 1906, on Holy Saturday, as Jesus lay in the tomb, three young black men were lynched and burned on the downtown square.  Understandably, many black people left Springfield for good the next morning, after Easter services.  The governor declared martial law and sent in the state militia.  But no one was ever convicted for the lynchings.  Eventually, the city’s black population shrank to less than half of what it had been.⁴ 

I knew about that lynching because my parents had told me, several times.  But I never heard about it in school.  In 12 years of public education in Springfield, we never talked about that lynching or any of the rest of the city’s black experience.  It’s not that Springfield’s racial history was denied.  It just wasn’t.

We are formed by the reality we inhabit, as I said last week.  And, growing up, the reality I inhabited was that African American people were “other.”  I knew they were there, but I didn’t know them.  I didn’t even see them.  And when we don’t see, we don’t change.

Of course, over the years, I’ve had the chance to see and hear a bit more.  I’ve learned from black conversation partners in college, at work, and in this congregation.  And then, this year, a relationship has been growing with a man some of you were blessed to meet in May – Pastor Mike Patton at United Missionary Baptist Church.  He’d contacted me about being part of an ecumenical Good Friday service.  I couldn’t do it because of our services here, but Pastor Mike and I kept talking.  And we decided we’d have a joint service – gathering at their church, with our choir singing, and with me preaching. 

It was a great experience; and afterward, we knew we needed to get together again.  But sadly, the next opportunity was an interfaith service the day after the Charleston shootings.  Pastor Mike, Mtr. Anne, Fr. Marcus, John Walker, Jim Bridgeford, and I – we all went to that service together, praying for healing in Charleston and for our nation.

After the service, the six of us went to lunch at M&M Deli at 31^st and Woodland.  In many ways, that meal was a foretaste of the banquet of the kingdom of heaven.  It was Eucharist with Ruebens and potato chips and Diet Coke.  We even started the feast by sharing a single, perfect doughnut, broken and given among us as we waited in line for our sandwiches.  The Body of Christ was truly present around the table as the six of us unwrapped our sandwiches and opened our hearts.  And the Body of Christ was present all around that room, too: black people, brown people, white people; folks from the neighborhood, workers on lunch breaks, cops on the beat.  Those diverse hearts and hands were united in the fellowship of our common humanity.  There was plenty for all, and all the hungry were fed. 

There in the church of M&M Deli, the six of us talked about what was next for our two congregations.  The worship we shared in May at United Missionary Baptist had been amazing, people from both congregations describing a sense of welcome and an ease of relationship they might not have expected.  As a next step, we talked about a couple of options.  Now, their congregation is small, 50 or 60 people on a Sunday.  And I didn’t want to presume that we’d trump their service by having all of us gather here on a Sunday morning.  So I suggested they come to the Feast of the First Tomato, which is this Wednesday – beautiful music and a great party afterward. 

Well, Pastor Mike put down his sandwich and said, “There’s nothing wrong with that.  But you know, for us, it would be important to sit down at the table with your family for Sunday dinner.”  I heard him.  What I had feared would seem dismissive – “You all shut down your little church one Sunday and come to our big, pretty church” – what I had feared would seem dismissive was gracious hospitality instead.  Who knew?

So on Sunday, Aug. 9, at our 10:15 service, we will welcome the people of United Missionary Baptist to gather with our family for Sunday dinner, here at Jesus Christ’s table.  When we went there in May, our choir provided the music and I preached.  When they come here in August, their praise band will provide the music, and Pastor Mike will preach.  And the kingdom of God will be revealed among us.

All this may seem an odd topic for a Fourth of July sermon.  But I heard something in the Old Testament reading this morning, a key to unlock the shackles of racism that bind us and keep us from true equality and freedom.  Here’s what I heard:  “The Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome … who loves the strangers. …  You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 10:17-19)  And then, in the Gospel reading today, I heard Jesus say this: “Love your enemies. …  If you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others?  Do not even the Gentiles do the same?” (Matthew 5:44,47) 

We will never grow into the full stature of the Body of Christ, and we will never grow into the fullness of blessing God intends America to be, if we do not love the stranger.  For when we love the stranger – around a deli table east of Troost and around the welcome table of Jesus Christ – when we love the stranger, we come to see that we need not be strangers.  We come to see, as Jesus wished, that we are one, as he and the Father are one (John 17:22-23).

All this may sound like pie-in-the-sky preaching from an out-of-touch priest.  Maybe.  But I’ll let the pragmatic politician in me tell you this:  The only way to dismantle the systemic racism that clings like slime to our national body politic is to change one heart at a time.  Those of us who never heard a black voice in school, those of us who don’t notice the Confederate flag – we will not change just because we’re told to, no matter how compelling the case.  But I have faith in the God who changes hearts every day.  I have faith that when we come to see the stranger, when we hear the stranger’s story, and when we share our story, too, then “we will all be changed – in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye” (1 Corinthians 15:51-52).  We will be transformed, made new by the Holy Spirit who longs for the Body of Christ, and the body of our nation, out of many to be one.

1.       “S.C. State Legislator Hopes To Remove Confederate Flag This Summer.”  All Things Considered, National Public Radio.  Transcript available at: http://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=416538096.  June 22, 2015.  Accessed July 3, 2015.

2.       “Calls for Confederate flag to come down after Charleston church shooting.”  CBS This Morning.  Available at: http://www.cbsnews.com/videos/calls-for-confederate-flag-to-come-down-after-charleston-church-shooting/.  June 22, 2015.  Accessed July 3, 2015.

3.       U.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of the Census.  “General Demographic Trends for Metropolitan Areas, 1960-1970.”  1970 Census of Population and Housing, PHC(2)-27 Missouri, Final Report.  1971.  Available at: http://www2.census.gov/prod2/decennial/documents/42189394n27-52ch1.pdf.  Accessed July 3, 2015.

4.       Fillmer, Jenny.  “1906 lynchings grew from tensions, racism.”  Springfield News-Leader, April 14, 2006.  Available at: http://archive.news-leader.com/article/20060414/NEWS01/604140328/1906-lynchings-grew-from-tensions-racism.  Accessed July 3, 2015.

The Physics of Faith

[Sermon from Sunday, June 28, 2015]

We’ve witnessed a couple of historic moments this week, for our nation and for our Church.  On Friday, we had the Supreme Court’s ruling that legalized same-gender marriage.  Though you may be expecting some commentary along those lines this morning, that was last Sunday’s sermon – and my article in the Messenger on Friday, too.  Until the Episcopal Church’s General Convention takes some actions, I can’t say anything more about how legal marriage and the Church’s blessing of marriages may be changing. 

Then, yesterday, we had the historic election of the Rt. Rev. Michael Curry as presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church, our first African American presiding bishop.  He is one of the best preachers in the Church; and his clear, bold, inspiring witness will help the Episcopal Church claim its voice in witness to God’s astonishing love.

So it’s been a big week.  And to help us keep our balance in this week of historic movement, I want to talk with you about something very mundane: what I do when I get up in the morning.  Pretty much every morning, unless it’s pouring rain, I walk and pray.  I take the same path every time, walking by the elementary school where I used to take Kathryn and Daniel every day.  As I walk, I see creation waking up: squirrels, birds, rabbits beginning their day, the occasional raccoon or possum.  And as I walk, rather than hearing the sounds of nature and traffic, I hear the sound of Morning Prayer, a daily podcast with the Scripture readings for that day and the collect appointed for that week.  The whole experience is predictable enough that I know, when I turn a particular corner, I’ll be hearing the Gospel reading; and when I turn another one, I’ll be saying the Lord’s Prayer.

Why do I do this?  Certainly not for the sake of variety.  Not necessarily even for the sake of rich experience.  Every now and then, I get a fabulous sunrise or some flash of revelation; but most times, it’s just morning, and I’m just saying my prayers.  Sometimes, in the ancient words of Scripture and the centuries-old rhythm of Morning Prayer, I hear just what I need that day; but sometimes, I really struggle to pay attention and keep my mind from the anxieties of the hours to come. 

So why do I do this?  Here’s why:  As I walk in the intersection of my very familiar neighborhood and the very Word of God, I’m choosing to inhabit God’s landscape rather than the world I’m tempted to create.  I’m choosing to define reality as the kingdom of God, the reign and rule of God, the purposes of God made manifest around me.  It will sound overblown, but in the rhythm of a morning walk and Morning Prayer, I’m trying to embrace the physics of faith. 

That’s what I hear in the Gospel reading this morning, this fascinating story of one healing embedded within another.  Both these stories – Jairus and his daughter, and the woman suffering from hemorrhage – both are stories about faith.  And by “faith,” I don’t mean piety or religious practice.  And I don’t mean signing on the dotted line of a confessional statement.  I mean choosing to inhabit the reign and rule of God as your operative reality.  That’s what’s going on in this story.

Jesus has come back to Galilee after the exciting boat ride we heard about last week.  Again, crowds have gathered around him – some seeking a smile, some listening for a lesson, some hoping for a show.  We don’t know what Jesus had in mind because, before he can say or do anything, a person of substance comes before him – Jairus, the leader of the synagogue.  This local mover and shaker humbles himself before Jesus, begging him to come heal his dying daughter.  So Jesus interrupts whatever else was on his list, and he goes home with Jairus, the crowd swarming around him.

In the midst of the swarm is a woman at the other end of the social scale.  The fact that she’s a woman is enough to put here there; but compounding the social division is the fact that she suffers from chronic menstrual bleeding, which made her always ritually impure.  That would have left her socially outcast, unable to take part in worship or other community life.  But this woman has heard about Jesus, and we get to overhear her faith:  She thinks, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well” (Mark 5:28).  She comes up behind him, touches his cloak, and immediately “she felt in her body that she was healed” (5:29).  Well, as we learned in school, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction:  Jesus also feels in his body that divine power has gone out of him, and he asks, “Who touched my clothes?” (5:30). To the disciples, it’s a silly question because the whole crowd is pushing in on him.  But the woman comes to him in awe, and she tells Jesus her story.  Jesus hears the choice she’s made, the choice to make God’s kingdom her reality.  “Your faith has made you well,” he says; “go in shalom” – go in the wholeness of body, the wholeness of spirit, and the wholeness of relationship that God intends for all of us.

Meanwhile, Jairus is waiting, maybe not so patiently, as Jesus delays the visit to his dying daughter.  And indeed, time runs out.  They receive word that it’s too late; but Jesus turns to Jairus and tells him, It’s all right.  Hope is not lost.  “Do not fear, only believe” (5:38).  So Jairus hangs in there, inhabiting God’s reality instead of his own.  And the girl lives.  Actually, the story leaves her physical state as an open question.  Was she really dead?  Was she in a coma?  Was this healing, or resuscitation, or resurrection?  For Jesus, I think, the deeper point wasn’t what kind of miracle he worked.  It was the miracle that Jairus, like the woman with the hemorrhage, hung in there with him, choosing the kingdom of God over the kingdom of anxiety.  Their faith made them well.

Now, it would be easy to see these stories in an individual, transactional way.  Here’s one track that line of thinking can take, putting the burden of proof on us:  If only you have enough faith, God will give you what you want.  You’ve heard people say things like that, right?  Just believe hard enough, and everything will be OK.  Believe hard enough, and God will make you rich.  Believe hard enough, and your sick or injured spouse will recover.  I hear people saying things like that, and I just want to strangle them.  How do you account for it if the miraculous cure doesn’t come?  Well, following that line of thinking, it must be your fault.  You didn’t believe hard enough.  Nice try; sorry that your loved one is dead; thank you for playing.  Yikes.

Here’s another way that line of thinking can work, and it’s not any better – putting the burden of proof on God:  Lord, if you’ll just connect with me deeply enough, then I’ll believe.  Give me a mountaintop moment, Lord, and then I’ll know you’re there and that you really do love me.  Put some spiritual gas in my tank, and then I’ll follow you anywhere.  This makes the accounting of blame easy:  God, you’ve got to show me; you’ve got to make me believe.  So, if I don’t believe, you must not have shown me enough.

The problem with both these approaches is that they’re based in individual experience.  That’s the way of knowing and believing that we do best in this culture, where reality is my reality and truth is the truth I know.  If you prove you love me, Lord, then I’ll believe as deeply as you want.  And if I prove my belief to you, Lord, then you’ll change reality for me – which is the very best proof that you love me.  It’s the circular physics of transactional faith.

I hear something different in these Gospel stories – and I think I see it in the world around me, too.  In this reading, the Greek word for faith, pistis, “is not a name for an inner experience, but describes primarily a committal of trust to God.”¹  It’s a noun that’s very nearly a verb.  It’s staking our lives on God, with God’s reign and rule as the fundamental definition of what is truly real.  When we inhabit that reality, we find that divine physics moves ever toward God’s shalom, the wellness and wholeness and relationship that heavenly life is, the peace that passes all understanding.  In the Gospel story, both Jairus and the woman give themselves over to Jesus’ world.  The woman with the hemorrhage doesn’t beg or plead, and Jesus doesn’t even mean to heal her.  With the little girl, Jesus says no magic words; he just proclaims the kingdom’s truth:  “She is not dead but sleeping.” The reality they inhabit is that Jesus’ presence and touch will bring wellness and wholeness and life.  Jairus and the woman aren’t working on the right prayers or signing on to certain truth claims, hoping to order up the outcome they want. 

By the same token, I don’t walk and pray in the morning as a bargain with God for a good day.  I walk and pray every morning because it sets the reality I inhabit.  The elements of Morning Prayer paint that holy landscape:  asking for forgiveness, offering God praise, remembering God’s love story and proclaiming our faith in it, asserting God’s kingship, loving others through prayer, acknowledging my own needfulness, and saying thank you.  That’s Morning Prayer in a nutshell.  Offering it is not a transaction.  It’s simply a way to step into the reality of God’s ordering of things. 

In that ordering of things, it’s a lot less about outcome and a lot more about orientation.  It’s a lot less about our perceived need and a lot more about our alignment with God’s desires, for us and for all creation.  It’s a choice to step into God’s realm of wellness, of wholeness, of fullness of life and relationship.  It’s a choice for the physics of faith:  For every action of belief, there is an equal and complementary reaction of life.

So, as we stand to affirm our faith by saying the Nicene Creed, let us do so with our eyes wide open to the reality we proclaim – not just giving intellectual assent, or glowing in the fire of a glimpse of the divine, but striding boldly into our heavenly country and claiming it as our home.

As you’re able, would you please stand?

1.  Mann, C.S.  Mark.  The Anchor Bible, Vol. 27.  New York: Doubleday, 1986.  286.

Today's Step in the Marriage Journey

With the Supreme Court’s ruling today legalizing same-gender marriage across the United States, some of us will be rejoicing, some of us will be grieving, and many of us will be wondering what comes next.  Myself, I believe it is good and just that both the legal rights and obligations of marriage extend to all Americans, irrespective of gender.  It’s another point along our long arc toward justice, the journey our nation has been traveling – sometimes with clumsy stumbles, sometimes with mighty strides – since European colonists first set foot on these shores.

About what comes next for the Episcopal Church and for St. Andrew’s, here’s the short answer:  We don’t know any more today than we knew on Sunday, when I preached on this topic (see text in the last blog post).  Our Church, gathered in its 78^th General Convention, is considering several germane resolutions: changes in church law governing the Sacrament of Marriage, authorization of the rite for blessing same-gender relationships that’s been in trial use for three years, and creation of a trial marriage rite for same-gender couples.  That trial rite was imagined for use in jurisdictions where same-gender marriage was legal.  As of today, that reach is potentially nationwide.

I say “potentially” very intentionally.  Even if (most likely, when) General Convention authorizes a trial marriage rite, the use of that rite will be determined by the bishop of each diocese.  That is true for all supplemental liturgical materials (i.e., those outside the Book of Common Prayer):  Each bishop sets the rules for how those rites will be used in his or her diocese.  Of course, Bishop Marty will not yet be able to say how such a rite might be authorized for use here, particularly since General Convention hasn’t acted on one yet. 

But I think it’s safe to say that the landscape of marriage will continue to change in the Episcopal Church and in the Diocese of West Missouri.  That would be nothing new.  The past several thousand years have seen a long arc of change in how the people of God have regarded marriage.  It was once a transaction between father and husband, in which the woman was basically sold.  Jesus and the apostle Paul sought to make it more mutual, with Jesus condemning divorce largely to protect women and Paul arguing for mutual submission following the model of Christ’s love (“Wives, be subject to your husbands … husbands, love your wives….” [Colossians 3:18-19]).  Today, women no longer must vow obedience to their husbands, and the Episcopal Church mediates God’s blessing to divorced people through remarriage and full participation in church life.  As is true for every couple, so it has been for the institution itself:  Marriage is a journey.

About this historical moment in that journey, some of us will rejoice while others will mourn.  If you’re rejoicing, I’d urge you to honor the grief of other brothers and sisters under this big tent.  If you’re mourning, I’d urge you not to give in to despair or judgment but continue faithfully to explore this question in a spirit of discernment.  Myself, I am proud of my Church for wrestling with this question of great promise and deep pain, faithfully standing in the gap and struggling to get this right in God’s eyes.  It is not easy work, and I hope you’ll keep the bishops and deputies of General Convention in your prayers.

And let me ask this, too.  As I said on Sunday, our best response to same-gender marriage, and every other issue that threatens to divide us, is to take a deep breath.  Trust that Jesus Christ, the sovereign Lord of the universe, will guide us on this issue as he does in all our common life.  Remember what he said to the disciples as their small boat was being slapped by wind and wave:  “Why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?” (Mark 4:41).  Help us, Lord Christ, to trust in your power to still the storm.  And make us your prophets of holy calm.

Prophetic Calm

[Sermon from Sunday, June 21, 2015]

First, a quick note about one of the musical selections this morning.  If you’ve looked ahead, you’ll see that we’re singing “Eternal Father, strong to save” as the final hymn – also famously known as the Navy Hymn.  That choice was made to honor our eternal and heavenly Father on this Father’s Day.  It is not a sign that all the rain has finally caught up with us and that we now believe we live at sea.

But on the other hand … let me play with that idea just a bit.  Maybe “at sea” is exactly where we live.  And maybe this grand church, the inverted ship that gives our nave its shape – maybe this is indeed our home on the storm-tossed sea of these deeply uncertain times.  Today, we grieve with the people of Charleston, South Carolina; with our brothers and sisters in the African Methodist Episcopal Church; and with the people here in our city who came together on Thursday for a vigil at Bethel AME Church.  Just as five of us from St. Andrew’s prayed there on Thursday, we pray here this morning for the healing of hatred, for the kingdom of the God of Love to break through the violence of racism that scars and disfigures our national life. 

This week, we may find ourselves tossed by another wave on our uncertain seas.  Any day now, we expect a ruling from the Supreme Court about nothing less than the legal definition of marriage.  And as the Episcopal Church’s General Convention meets this week and next, it will consider changes in the church law that governs the Sacrament of Marriage, too.  More on that in a minute.

So, listening to today’s Gospel reading, maybe we have more in common with the disciples than we might like.  Jesus invites them to “go across to the other side” of the Sea of Galilee (Mark 4:35) – a nice little boat ride to get away from the crowds.  But out on the water, the little boat meets raging winds, and the storm threatens to take them down.  If a bunch of fishermen are scared on the water, there’s probably good reason to be scared.  And, by the way, where is their Lord and master?  Asleep on a cushion, out of harm’s way.  Really?  Finally, the disciples can’t take it anymore; they wake Jesus up and yell at him, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re perishing?!” (Mark 4:38).  Jesus looks at them, and shakes his head, and commands the wind and the sea to be still.  It works.  The display of power is, literally, awesome.  But Jesus was proclaiming his real message as he slept on the cushion.  It may be the only instance in Scripture of prophetic napping.  “Why are you afraid?” he asks them.  “Have you still no faith?” (Mark 4:41)  Take a deep breath, he says.  Follow my lead.  Sometimes calm is a prophet’s best way to speak for God.

This morning, I want to focus on the storm of same-gender marriage.  When the Supreme Court issues its ruling, and as General Convention discusses same-gender marriage in the Church, the cable news networks will have a field day.  So we should get ready for the wind to blow. 

Of course, strong winds blow when high-pressure systems and low-pressure systems come together.  In the Church, the low-pressure system in which we’ve been living is a trial liturgy to bless the lifelong covenants of same-gender couples.  We haven’t had a request to use that liturgy here at St. Andrew’s – not yet – but we’ve had a long and holy conversation about it among the Vestry and with our bishop.  At this year’s General Convention, we were scheduled to evaluate that trial rite of blessing and determine whether and how to authorize it for ongoing use.

That’s the comparatively low-pressure system.  The higher-pressure system is the movement toward marriage equality in our nation.  As you know, state laws governing marriage are chaotic – generously described as a patchwork, though patchwork quilts are usually more beautiful than the mess in which we’re living.  A same-gender couple may be married in Iowa, but if they move to St. Louis, they’re … well, other than being deeply in love and committed to each other, their status is undefined because of a combination of Missouri law and two appellate-court rulings.  And that’s the problem.  Currently, 11 states have adopted marriage equality explicitly, and 26 others are under court rulings that make it the law there.  Thirteen states, including Missouri, have explicitly made same-gender marriage illegal.¹  Now we wait for a Supreme Court ruling on whether state laws restricting marriage to a man and a woman are constitutional. 

What does that have to do with the Church?  Well, marriage is the only remaining part of our social life in which the Church is directly enmeshed with the state.  When Mtr. Anne, or Fr. Marcus, or I stand up here and preside at couple’s wedding, we are acting simultaneously as officers of the state and as sacramental ministers of the Church.  I sign my name on the marriage license, for the moment an officer of county government; and I sign my name in the Church’s record book, a minister who’s helped mediate an outward and visible sign of the immense grace of God.  It’s one of the more schizophrenic moments in the life of a clergy person – at least an American clergy person.  If I were in England, where the Church is part of the state, I could make sense of it.  Here, I’ve always been told we value the separation of Church and state.  Except on wedding days.

So, amid the national conversation about marriage equality, the Episcopal Church’s General Convention will consider several resolutions about marriage.  One would change the Church’s laws about holy matrimony to make the language gender-neutral, removing references to “a man and a woman” and “husband and wife.”  Another resolution would approve the service text for the blessing of a lifelong covenant, which has been in trial use for the past three years.  And another would approve trial forms of a marriage rite applicable to same-gender couples, for use in those places where same-gender marriage is legal. 

At the level of policies and principles, I think we need to strive for consistency in the way we articulate the love of Jesus Christ and our call to live that love with every breath we take.  Although “foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” as Emerson said, I do think it’s really helpful for a Church’s governing documents not to be in direct disagreement with each other.  Our marriage rite in the Book of Common Prayer says about as clearly as possible that marriage is between a man and a woman.  So if we change the Church’s laws to say something different – even though it’s from a desire to embody love and justice – we’ll end up further confusing an already confused situation.  If we’re going to make the marriage canons gender-neutral, and if we want to be consistent in our theology and governance, we should begin the process of changing the marriage rite in the prayer book, too, so that its language isn’t bound to gender.  Perhaps we end up with a Rite I and a Rite II for marriage, as we have for Holy Communion.  Now, changing material in the prayer book is a storm of its own, and (like marriage itself) it “is something not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly” (BCP 423).  But it would be honest.

So there you have the level of principles and theology.  Most of us – we who aren’t bishops or convention deputies – most of us don’t live there, day to day.  We live at the level of loving the person in front of you.  That’s our common life, where theology and policy become loving pastoral care.  I can tell you this much:  We have had a request for a same-gender marriage, which I am not legally allowed to perform in Missouri (at least not this week).  Even if the Supreme Court rules in favor of marriage equality tomorrow, Bishop Marty would still have to determine whether and how West Missouri congregations might implement it.  So I can’t tell you yet what will come of that specific request.  But I can tell you that marriage is changing in our nation, and those changes will affect the life of the Episcopal Church here in West Missouri, sooner or later. 

Now, you don’t have to agree with me about this, but I want to say:  I believe that’s a good thing.  I’m proud to be part of a family of Christians that has been traveling along a path toward justice in how we practice love with the members of our household who are gay and lesbian.  And I’m proud that this family of Christians struggles authentically as it travels that path.  We move far too quickly for some and far too slowly for others.  For me, a member of the radical middle, that tells me we’re doing our best to honor the voices of all who gather under this big tent, faithfully discerning how to journey toward God’s love and justice.

So, as we move into General Convention, and as we see the reports on Fox News and MSNBC about how the Episcopalians are considering sea changes in the definition of marriage, what shall we do, here at our level?  Let me make three suggestions. 

First, don’t believe everything you hear.  To learn what’s happening at General Convention, I’d trust the reporting of the Episcopal News Service over the talking heads on either side of the politically charged debate.

Second, when people ask you what the heck you crazy Episcopalians are doing now, here’s a suggested response:  We’re wrestling, honestly and lovingly, with the fact that a major institution in our society is in a state of flux.  Some faith communities will meet that challenge by retrenching and wishing the conversation had never come.  Well, it has.  And this is not the first time.  The Church’s views on marriage, and the institution of marriage itself, are very different in 2015 than they were in 1915 or 1815 or 1715.  If you don’t believe me, ask a woman who no longer must vow to obey her husband.  Ask a woman who can now own property in her own right.  Ask a biracial couple who can now be legally married.  Or ask a divorced person who is now welcome to receive Communion and be remarried in this Church.  The Episcopal Church may be messy, but at least we’re trying to do honest theological reflection and create policies that, first and foremost, embody love and justice.  I think Jesus is on board with that.

And here’s a third suggestion:  Remember and reflect on Jesus’ question to his followers in the Gospel reading today:  “Why are you afraid?  Have you still no faith?” (Mark 4:40).  The issues that scream at us over cable news, the changes we see happening in our culture, the breaking down of barriers that once comforted us in happy isolation – these are, indeed, winds and waves battering our small boat.  But Jesus was “in the stern, asleep on the cushion” (Mark 4:39).  Jesus was engaged in an act of prophetic napping.  Jesus was literally the calm in the storm, and he calls us to follow his example.  We hear it throughout the Bible, this narrative of God’s loving sovereignty.  With the disciples, we’re tempted to ask, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” (Mark 4:38)  But as God said to Job, “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” (Job 38:4).  As our psalm today says, the Lord commands and raises the stormy wind but also brings us out from our distress.  Jesus’ silent reply to our fear is the Father’s reply, as well:  “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).   

Help us, Lord Christ, to trust in your power to still the storm.  And make us your prophets of holy calm.

1.       http://gaymarriage.procon.org/view.resource.php?resourceID=004857

Let's Dance

[Sermon from Trinity Sunday, May 31, 2015]

Today is Trinity Sunday, the only principal feast of the Church that’s devoted to a theological doctrine rather than the life of Jesus and his followers.  As your three priests talked about this coming feast day and how we would manage it homiletically, Fr. Marcus looked at me and said, “Don’t we have a seminarian somewhere we could make preach that Sunday?”  It’s a notoriously awful day to draw the short straw as the preacher because, frankly, you’re set up to fail from the start.  The whole point of the Trinity as a model for understanding God is that God can’t be understood in human terms.  So, Mr. Preacher, good luck with that.

Our readings this morning do a great job of illustrating God’s incomprehensible reality.  This God is the transcendent, majestic sovereign of the universe, attended by flying serpents and towering above the holy Temple, filling the whole place with just the outer hem of a regal robe.  This God’s voice thunders, breaking the cedar trees and making the giant oak trees writhe.  And – not “but,” but “and” – this God adopts us as beloved children, the Holy Spirit joining with our own spirits in an eternal bond, giving us the love of a parent from which nothing can separate us.  And, unbelievably, that love comes to dwell among us in Jesus, spending time with everyone from criminals to doctors of the law like Nicodemus in today’s Gospel reading.  In his interview with Jesus, we hear Nicodemus, a brilliant man, mystified by the paradox that we must be born not just once but twice, not just of human parents but of God – the God who loves us deeply enough to die that we may live, defeating death so that we “may not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16). 

Frankly, all this makes little sense from a human perspective.  Everything about God is paradoxical.  As the theologian and church pioneer Ian Mobsby says, we know “God through mystical encounter rather than knowing God as a set of objectified facts.”¹  A couple of weeks ago, Fr. Marcus was preaching about dogma and its tendency to undercut the mystery that is God; and he lamented that we often try to explain rather than encounter the divine, that we rely on prose rather than poetry to know God.  We face that temptation especially on this Sunday, when the doctrine of the Holy Trinity can quickly deteriorate into a nonsensical numbers game – “three in one and one in three” and all that.  It doesn’t usually work too well to say “I love you” with an equation.

Well, the ancient Greek theologians knew how to talk about the triune God in appropriately mysterious terms.  To describe how the three separate persons of the Trinity interrelate, they used the term perichoresis.  If you break that word down, it means distinguishable parts making up a whole, and relating to each other dynamically and in close proximity.²  OK, picture that: distinguishable parts making up a whole, and relating to each other dynamically and in close proximity. In other words, it means a dance.  As Ian Mobsby says, perichoresis tries to capture the reality that “the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer are interpenetrative, embracing and permeating each other” in a “profound sense of fellowship.”³ 

Well, if that doesn’t make things immediately clear for you, try this:  Experiencing the Trinity is sort of like watching an old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire movie.  You know you’re seeing something more than simply two individuals taking predetermined steps at a predetermined pace.  It isn’t just scripted movement; it’s dancing – partners knowing where each other plans to go but making the steps new each time.  By the same token, the Holy Trinity isn’t a mathematical formula for God, some complex equation to explain everything.  The doctrine of the Holy Trinity is a poem, a poem that narrates a dance. 

So, this morning, I want to preach you a poem.  You’ll find it in the bulletin this morning, and you can follow along if you’re someone who likes to see words on paper along with hearing words out loud.  Or just close your eyes and listen – whatever works best for you. 

Now, for those of you who think you don’t like poetry, please hang in there and at least give me a minute or two before you check out.  I used to think I didn’t like poetry either.  For those of us who are wired to be practically minded, people who like to get things done – we may see poetry at best as a nice diversion, or at worst as an incomprehensible jumble.  Maybe I’ll be guilty of a jumble, too, but at least hear me out.  If nothing else, it means the sermon is shorter than usual – two Sundays in a row!  That’s worth something.

Anyway, here you go, in honor of this Trinity Sunday. 

The Dance

God strode across time and space together

And said, “Let’s dance.”  Light and darkness

Split as Trinity cut a rug, planets spinning,

Cells dividing, fish swimming, bugs creeping,

Birds flying, cattle grazing.  Then God said,

“Let’s change the steps and make one more

Like Us.”  So dust and clay coalesced.  And

Whispering into Adam’s ear, God took his

Hand in theirs and said, “Dance with us.”

For no point but love, God then looked to

The lost and said, “Who will go for us?”

Maybe wandering and dancing aren’t so different

After all.  So Israel went forth on stumbling feet,

Learning steps as they took them, love on the

Hoof.  Some steps were true, God’s own;

Some they squandered, cheapened to

Base marches soaked in blood, or trampling

Those who’d fallen down, or traipsing off

In exile.  Shackles don’t allow much

Dancing; and far away, you forget the steps.

So God said, “Let’s go home, and try again.”

But the dance floor was no longer theirs, and

Foreign feet got tangled in the mix.  So

God said, “Let’s dance Redemption’s

Steps.  We’ll squirm cold in a manger,

Slice strong hands on chisels and knives,

Wander the countryside and drink with

Outcasts, high-tail it from the cops until

The time is right.  And all the while,” God said,

“We will hold you.  You have to hug a child

A hundred times for every tear she sheds.  So

We will sweep you up in open arms, even though

You nail them down.  No matter.  In morning’s

Light, we’ll dance again and welcome you

Back in our circle, too, trampling Satan down

With the Spirit’s soft shoe.”  So Redeeming God

Stepped aside as Sustainer took the lead.  This

Dance gets a little crazy sometimes – twists

And turns above the ground, fire juggling fire.

“Come on in,” Sustainer says, “the water’s

Fine” – and from baptism’s pool we emerge,

Born of water and of Spirit, bound in light embrace

That lets us improvise our steps yet never

Lets us go.  We are dancers, every one,

Called to trip the light fantastic with the

One and One and One who loves us best.

© John Spicer

1.  Mobsby, Ian.  God Unknown: The Trinity in Contemporary Spirituality and Mission.  London: Canterbury Press Norwich, 2012.  27.
2.  Mobsby, 26.
3.  Mobsby, 27.