It has been a long time...this is for tomorrow but also for today...

 In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord!

In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord!

And, the Lord was not Uzziah. The Lord was not Solomon.  The Lord was not David. 

The Lord was not.

For the Lord WAS. The Lord of hosts, the King. And the WHOLE earth was full of his glory!

And, the seraphs shout, 

Holy, holy, holy!

And, the prophet writes, 

Holy, holy, holy! 

And, the people say, 

Holy, holy, holy! 

Even now, especially now, holy, holy, holy! 

For God remains true. 

Christ remains true. 

The Spirit remains true. 

And, we are reminded, by the people and prophets of long ago, of the supremacy of God. 

Above kings, above presidents, above billionaires and oligarchs, fascist, and petty prince, there is and will always be our God. 

And God is no servant of the state or the status quo.  

And God is not subject to our sin.

God is not subject--to our sin or our shame, our failings or our fears. 

God is not swayed by wealth or any show of power. 

Thank God. 

God, in Christ, who brings good news to the poor, the captives, and the oppressed. (Luke 4:14-21). God, in Christ, whose way is one of liberation. God, in Christ, whose limitless compassion extends salvation beyond the boundaries of our own, limited, imaginations. 

This God, this God we proclaim as “holy, holy, holy”, calls people of all genders, social classes, and creeds.  Which I say not because I’m some progressive, lefty, liberal—but, because I have studied the scriptures, I have immersed myself in our tradition, and I have experienced, for myself, what it is to be broken. 

Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner. 

This is a prayer. This, often enough, is my prayer. A prayer that is a product of trust. Trust in the teaching that it is God’s nature to ever have mercy, and that I am reliant upon that generous compassion.  Humility, in this, becomes thanksgiving and the act of contrition an expression of trust. 

Will you renounce evil?

Will you turn towards Christ?

Will you put your trust in God?

Be careful what you pray and be mindful of your promises--for Christ’s mercy is from everlasting, and responding to that mercy, with devotion, leads us beyond the now and into the unknown.  

In “The Chronicles of Narnia” --Edmund, the betrayer becomes Edmund the just. In “A Christmas Carol”, Scrooge himself brings the feast. There is the turn, there is the choice…

“I am lost”, and now I’m found.  

Isaiah, Paul, Peter.

“I am lost, woe is me, here I am, the least of the apostles, unfit, but by grace, a sinful man, you will be catching people”  

Isaiah, Paul, Peter, you and me. If we turn, if we follow, if we repent…

Repent, not that we will be made perfect but that we may be set free. Repent, not that our lives might be easy, but that we might live. 

This is what I hope for. Hope beyond hope. That kings will become kind; the presidents might give pause; that oppressor’s hearts will open; that emperor and empathy would not be an anathema. And yet, even while I hope, I recognize the distance between this and that, between freedom and reality, between the kingdom of God and the country we inhabit. 

So, what then? What do we do then? What do we do now? When we face a crisis of world view and self-understanding. When apocalypse is not hyperbole. When we are unwilling participants in those “evils done on our behalf”. When…what then? What now?   

James, John, and Simon Peter. What now?  The old ways no longer make sense. The practices you have observed since your youth have failed you. What now?

“from now on you will be catching people”

And, this, this for me, is a new hope and a new way of being. It matters, to me, that the Gospel is not about kings, or princes, or oligarchs, or presidents—it is about Christ. And, because it is about Christ, it is about ALL OF US. About all of us who abide in Christ and in whom Christ abides. The Gospel cannot be bought or sold. The good word of God is for all of creation. And, oh, this is what catches me. 

This is what draws me in—not that I will somehow cast the net or even draw it in, but that I will be IN the net. I will be in it, with all of you and in this and in that we will be drawn towards God and this is good and this is hope and this is what it means to be be and have a community that recognizes our shared humanity. Neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female. Just us. Us, brought together by the Christ who draws us in.  

Holy, holy, holy! 

Amen. 

 

For Maui, 14A, 2023, written while the fires still burn

A sermon written for love of this fragile earth, our island home. August 13th, 2023 

Propers 14A, https://lectionarypage.net/YearA_RCL/Pentecost/AProp14_RCL.html  

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Thousands of miles away, at Trinity by the Sea in Kihei, on Maui, a friend is proclaiming the same Gospel we heard proclaimed at St. Clement’s today--the small boat, the rough sea, the fear...and I can only began to grasp the challenge of preaching on this text in his context, an island on fire, a people devastated. My island, my people. 

 

Even so, I am not on Maui, and the experience of devastation and trauma is not mine to share—there is enough of in the news for you to know as much as I could tell you. The fires have devastated the people of Maui, and the aftermath has every potential for further devastation. I cannot speak to that from here. What I can share is what this is to me, as I stand here, with all of you... 

The first time I heard Eucharistic Prayer C ,from the Book of Common Prayer, I thought the phrase, “this fragile earth, our island home,” was referencing my own, island, home. The island of Maui, born and raised, a keiki o ka ‘aina, a child of the land.  

From the koa paneled, upper room, of Cooper House--the place that housed the fledgling St. Paul’s Episcopal Mission--you could look mauka, towards the mountain, and makai, towards the ocean. The prayer seemed intimate and exact. Was this not my island home? I could see, from church, where the land ended, and the ocean began—that place where my own, known, world ended.  

I could look towards the ocean, but not beyond. For from my vantage point, the world beyond the horizon was a veritable “none shall pass”. In my experience, of saying goodbye, those who left did not return. Or if they did, they were changed, no longer part but apart. No longer home, but yearning for what was. What was, once upon a time: before that subdivision; before direct flights to Maui; before cruise ships docked in tiny, Kahului harbor and flooded the city with thousands;  before the highway; before the acres of pineapple and sugar cane were sold; before the Dairy closed; before books, marketed to tourists from “the mainland”, that would expose the private and fragile places of our island home to outsiders who would exploit the land and trample the sacred. And now? There is a new “before”...

Before the fire.  

Which exposes in stark relief the fragility of this fragile earth, our island home. All too swift to change, unbidden and unseen, until a return demonstrates what has been lost. The before of my memory, that for which I yearn, is gone.  

The song, Wanting Memories, sung by Keali’i Reichel presses upon me--its sentimental yearning speaks to those of us who long for the cradle of creation to be as it was made to be and for whom a return, to what was and who we were then, is impossible.  

I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me, 
to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes. 

You used to rock me in the cradle of your arms, 
You said you'd hold me till the pains of life were gone. 
You said you'd comfort me in times like these and now I need you, 

Now I need you, and you are gone. 

 

Who among us does not long to be rocked, to be held and soothed, amid this reality? Who among us does not feel, like Elijah, abandoned and alone? Who among us does not feel, like the disciples, afraid? Who among us does not need, like Peter, the outstretched hand of a Savior? 

We look up to heaven, we long for the dead—and in that moment of looking and longing, we feel so, so alone. And yet, we live. And yet, we strive. And yet, we cannot utter a word from our lips before you O god know it altogether...for the Word is near us, on our lips and in our hearts.  

I weave in the scripture, not as proof text but as the text of my heart when my own words fail. I look to the anguish of our ancestors for proof that God remains even amid suffering. I find comfort knowing that they too struggled to understand the “why” of their own tragedies. And, looking for grace, I find it. 

With the eyes of my heart, I can see the grace in the outpouring of Aloha. 

Aloha, love and so much more than love... 

And, I am beyond grateful for the Aloha towards those of us, however far away, who have watched our island burn.   

I typed and deleted the word “our” a half dozen times in the writing of this sermon. Is it mine? Is it ours? Do I dare call this island home, my home? What is the world to the expatriate of the cradle of creation? What right do I have to mourn a tree and its story? What right, when so many are dead...and I live?  

I chose to leave, and Minnesota is my home now. I have made it such and the comforts of my life and the possibilities for my children are greater for it. But, in doing so, I have made the wilderness a home. A comfortable home, with gardens and clovers, soft beneath my bare feet. For, undeniably, I am still the child who ran barefoot amongst the jacaranda blooms; still the child who went to sleep, adrift still, upon the waves. A child, who yearns to be rocked until the pains of life are gone.  

I am hesitant to share these words, my story, I am not the center of this, and this tragedy is not mine to be exploited. But, I have chosen these words, this message, because I suspect that many of us share this yearning. A yearning to be held in times like these--times when this fragile earth, our island home, is exposed in its fragility.  

Silence. 

It is all too much, isn’t it? Too much for any one of us to dwell in the wilderness alone. Too much for any one of us to step into the waves regardless of where our feet fall. But that is exactly it. It is too much for any one of us. We were not made to save the entire world on our own.  

However, I do believe that we were made for THIS--for this time, for this body, for this purpose, for this life. It is not ours to save the world apart from God, it is ours to be a part of this world which God has made. And, in being a part instead of apart, we cannot help but be humble. We cannot exist without each other. We cannot exist without the land. We cannot exist apart from this fragile earth, our island home.   

So, reach out your hands and entrust yourself to Christ. Christ made manifest in one another. Christ, reaching out to the frightened and broken hearted. Christ, upon the waves. Christ before, behind, within and without. Hand extended, breathing deep, and trusting in the Word made flesh.  

Christ within us, Christ beneath us, Christ beside us.

No one is alone.  

We are not alone.  

They are not alone. 

You are not alone.  

And this wilderness? It becomes our home. The wind-swept sea? Our cradle. The arms of God? To hold us. To hold the weary and comfort the broken hearted. Now I need you...

And you, O God, are here.  

The first time I heard Hawai’i’s state motto it was sung, Ua mau ke ea o ka aina i ka pono, o Hawai’i, the life of the land is perpetuated in righteousness. Ua mau ke ea o ka aina i ka pono--this is a Christian kind of hope. A hope that the righteousness of a people, united in Christ, reaching out AS CHRIST, will save this fragile earth, our island home.  

Amen.  

Top photo: A childhood photo of my Mom, me and my sister, beneath the banyan tree.

Bottom photo: A depiction of Maui, showing where the fires are, the red circle is roughly Makawao/Pukalani--where I grew up. That area is not on fire.