Christ the King, standing on the edge

The readings can be found here

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Today is complicated. 

It’s the last Sunday of our annual pledge campaign—the campaign we rely on to equip us with what we need to sustain our faith community. 

 

It’s also the Sunday before Thanksgiving. 

 

It’s also the Feast Day of St. Clement and Christ the King Sunday.

 

Oh and, lest we forget, all of the above is happening during a pandemic surge and in the midst of major political turmoil that has real implications for each and everyone of us.

 

So…it’s complicated. 

 

And the temptation emerges to spend the next 15 minutes unpacking Jesus’ thoughts about livestock. 

 

That seems safe enough.

 

But, I suspect that you’re not here because you want safe. You are here, because you are called to something better than safety—you are called to live into the fullness of the loving, liberating, and life giving, Christ. 

 

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So, let’s begin by going back to the historical context into which Christ entered the world.  

 

Roughly the year I think of as zero—the pivot point between life before Jesus’ birth and life after, the pivot point of time that changed the trajectory of creation. In the year zero, in the midst of Roman occupation, everyone was looking for a messiah. 

 

There were those who anticipated a prophetic messiah. Someone, perhaps, like John the Baptist who would castigate the proud and cast down the mighty. Whose words would inspire and whose judgments would be clear. 

 

There were others who anticipated a priestly messiah, someone whose religious life was exemplar and whose edicts were as law. Someone who would bring Israel to God and embodies the glory of God. The priestly messiah, in this, would be an object of worship. 

 

Then, of course, their were those anticipating a kingly messiah. A governmental leader able to force out imposters to the throne and who will lead the people of Israel to victory over their oppressors. 

 

Prophet, priest, king or some combination of the three. Everyone was waiting—waiting in hope for the fulfillment of God’s promise. 

 

Everyone.

 

Well, perhaps not everyone…

 

Those who were comfortable with the status quo. They were not waiting.

 

Those who were satisfied with their economic security. They were not waiting.

 

Those who benefited from the current systems’ inequities. They were not waiting. 

 

So who was waiting in hope?

 

The poor, they were waiting.

 

The exiled, they were waiting.

 

The prisoners, they were waiting. 

 

They were waiting because the messianic hopes of the Jewish people were born of the collective, historic, trauma of exile. They were hopes formed by the contemporary experience of an oppressive Roman regime. They were hopes informed by Jewish scripture’s articulation of God’s purpose, “I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep, and I will make them lie down, says the Lord God. I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice.” (Ezekiel)

 

So prophet, king, or priest, the messiah’s purpose is the feast of justice! 

 

And as far as proclamations go, this is a powerful one. 

 

The prophet Ezekiel was writing during the Babylonian captivity and his words were to a people who had experienced years of exile and war. These were people who knew what it was to be hungry. To be hungry, not just for food, but for justice. They were experiencing a spiritual hunger, a cultural and collective yearning for a righting of wrongs and a correction to the inequality of wealth and power in their world. The metaphor of the shepherd who prioritizes the health of the weak and assures their access to “good pasture” would have been a comforting one to those whose pastures were quite literally being occupied by people who’d grown fat through the hoarding of good land—good land with fertile pastures and access to water. 

 

Over the past month, my ten year old has been studying the history of Minnesota in his social studies class. Because he is distance learning, I’ve been privy to learning about aspects of Minnesota history that I had not learned in my own schooling—such as the treaties the United States Federal Government brokered with the Dakota peoples in the mid-1800s. And while I had no intention of making this sermon about how so many of us have benefited from historic injustices that disadvantaged our countries original inhabitants, the juxtaposition of this text and my kid’s Minnesota history textbook has been striking.

 

So, I’ve written myself into this corner and I cannot help but see the parallels—westward expansion fueled by the story of inexpensive, or even free, access to “unoccupied” land. Depictions of fertile land with access to water—good grazing for the cattle and even sheep that were herded west for pasturage.  Cattle and sheep. Sheep who would grow fat at the expense of the sheep who would be, quite literally corralled into places like the Pike Island Internment camp where 1600 Dakota women, children, and old men were held from 1862-1863. I am mixing metaphor with history here, so lest we devalue ourselves and our brethren as literal sheep—let us remember that these were 1600 women, children, and old men. As many as 300 of whom would die during the internment. 

 

I don’t have any easy answer to how we might rectify these historic evils and truly reckon with the reality that many of us have benefitted from the legacy of these acts. One thing I do know, is that a critical part of the work of reconciliation is telling the truth. Truths unvarnished, inconvenient, and told with love. Truth juxtaposed with the good news of the Gospel as provided to us through the texts assigned for Christ the King. The truth of our history in jarring contrast to the good news we proclaim

 

[pause]

 

It’s complicated. 

 

And, so it’s tempting to allow ourselves to be distracted by thoughts of literal sheep and goats. To spend our time caught up in the question of what Jesus has against goats. But, that’s not the point of the metaphor. We no longer live in an agrarian society and westward expansion is a subject of history text books. But, the metaphor of sheep grown fat at the expense of the rest of the herd? It still applies in a world filled with disparities between rich and poor, haves and have nots. 

 

It is undeniable that far too many people in the year of our Lord 2020 are still waiting for justice to be served. And regardless of where any of us stand on the political, partisan, spectrum—objectively there are far too many people who are hungry. Far too many who are poor. Far too many who have been denied a fair and equitable education. Far too many who can’t access health care. Far too many in prison. Far too many without shelter. Far too many. 

 

The metaphor still applies. 

 

Sheep and goats. Blessed and cursed. Reparation, reconciliation, righting of wrongs…

 

So, these words today—do you hear them as hope or indictment? Are they a precursor to the end of the world or an invitation to new life? Are we filled with eager expectation or dread at what might come? 

 

For me, the answer to these questions is, “yes”. Yes, hope because it pains me to see the suffering in the world around us. Yes, indictment because I know that I’ve not been as generous as I could be. Yes, end of the world because I know that the system, which has benefitted many of us, must change. Yes, new life because in the change there is liberation. Yes, eager anticipation because I trust God’s every will for us is love.  Yes, dread, because it feels scary to consider letting go of my own worldly security. 

 

It’s complicated. 

 

It’s complicated because the Gospel wasn’t written for our security, it was written for our liberation. 

 

So let us wait in hope. And, in our waiting, act with love. Because, my God and king, we need liberation and this world needs our love.

 

Amen.

 

 

 

 

28A, Good luck with that

The readings can be found here

Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

 

Every single time, the collect for the day tells us to read, mark, and inwardly digest…I know what’s coming. 

 

Seriously, when I begin my review of the propers, the readings assigned for each Sunday, I begin with the Collect of the day.

 

It’s the prayer that sets our hearts and collects our thoughts in anticipation of the readings to come. So, when all the collect gives us is “read, mark, and inwardly digest”…

 

What I hear is, “good luck with that.”

 

And…

 

I laugh. I laugh because here we are, and this all feels so unbelievably impossible and awful. We are in the middle of a pandemic, case rates are increasing, deaths, likewise, increasing, we are all trying to figure out how to be thankful at Thanksgiving without killing anyone we love, Christmas is around the corner, and we still don’t have scientifically grounded federal guidelines on best practices for mitigating the spread of Covid-19. Sort of like laughing at a funeral, not because you’re not sad but because it’s all so much and your brain can’t quite handle the scope of it all and how heartbroken you are…I laugh. 

 

This is so awful it feels, honestly, absurd. 

 

So, ‘bout those scriptures.

 

Yeah. 

 

Read, mark, and inwardly digest that suckers!          

 

You should see the discussions about these texts in clergy social media groups…the VanGogh themed emoji of “the scream” comes into play…often.

 

But, behind the humor there is real concern. Real concern that, in the midst of our communities’ crisis (yes, that’s the plural) these texts will do more harm then good. Real concern, in the midst of our pain, that these passages may do damage to our souls. Real concern, for how and where to find God’s grace, even now—ESPECIALLY NOW.

 

You may remember, from sermons I’ve preached here in the past, how important it is for us to remember who we are and to whom we belong as beloved children of God. Not as some form of self-serving, self-help, psycho babble, but as a means by which we can withstand temptation and find the strength we need to face the challenges that confront us in life. 

 

So, today I offer, from the Gospel of Matthew some reminders...

 

From chapter 5 of the Gospel of Matthew, “Blessed are the poor, those who mourn, those who are meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the persecuted, and the reviled” 

 

Then there is this, from chapter 9, “Go and learn what this means, “I desire mercy not sacrifice” for I have come to call not the righteous but sinners” 

 

And, in chapter 10, “whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me...whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple--truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward” 

 

Finally, words of comfort in chapter 11, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” 

 

Ummm, set against this backdrop, the Gospel we hear today seems incongruous. So, what happens? Why was this particular parable important to the community out of which it emerged? Where did they, and where might we find grace in the midst of a passage that concludes with the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth? 

 

To begin to unpack this parable we need to take a look at the context in which it was written. Biblical scholar and theologian, John Dominic Crossan in “The Power of Parable: How Fiction by Jesus Became Fiction About Jesus”, writes that the escalation of violence in Matthew stems from a conflict in Judaism between Christian-Jewish scribes and Pharaisaic Jewish Scribes.  

 

Crossan holds that Matthew crafts these “attack parables” in response to this conflict, and that the authentic voice of Christ is twisted to Matthew’s purpose. Crossan validates his theory by cross referencing the material in the Gospel of Matthew with that in the Gospel of Mark. Mark, which was the first Gospel to be composed, does not include this style of attack parable. (193-194) 

 

Using this interpretation, we can describe this parable as a product of conflict and not of Christ. 

 

A product of conflict and not of Christ. Hmmm, I want to sit with that for a minute. 

 

This feels important. 

 

What if we understand part of our inherited tradition to be that of people using scripture as a means to their own ends, instead of God’s ends? What if we recognize, in our sacred text, that it is our own desires being expressed instead of God’s desires? What if, we turn a critical eye to what we “think” we know, and listen to what the Spirit is trying to tell us? What if we stop seeing every single angry, old, man in scripture as somehow analogous to the God of love and liberation? What if this parable isn’t about the reign of God but rather, is about our assumptions about the reign of God?

 

What is scripture saying about us, and what is scripture saying about God?

 

I know I am treading into tender places here. Many of us were raised and formed to accept scripture as the inherited word of God, as infallible and unquestionable—and when we start to question what feel like inconsistencies or hypocrisies in the text, many of us tend to do one of two things: double down on scriptural infallibility OR throw the whole thing out.  

 

But, there is another way. The middle way of textual study which challenges and questions the text. Challenges and questions not to prove our own, already decided upon and conclusive, point—but to learn, grow, and discern where God’s grace is being made manifest in the text and how we are called to participate, in the here and the now, in the manifestation of that grace to the world.  

 

Knowing this, where is the grace in the passage we heard proclaimed today? 

 

In seminary, we were encouraged to consider scripture from the perspective of the oppressed rather then the powerful. The peasant class amongst Matthew’s audience would have seen in this description of the master, a description of systems where wealthy landowners benefit from the labor of the poor. They also would have seen, in the first two men, a depiction of those who had “sold out” to the proverbial “man” and participated in the exploitation of their own people. This parable depicts a human fiefdom in which a wealthy and capricious ruler accumulates wealth by sowing conflict and division within a context of punishment and fear.

 

Does any of this resonate with our own reality? I hazard that the answer is, “yes”. Because human kingdoms, however they are defined, have a tendency to centralize wealth in the hands of the few. Those in positions of power have created and maintained laws and systems which, all too often, favor the few over the many. We have tax codes which have advantaged the extremely wealthy, and we have systems and institutions that perpetuate poverty from generation to generation. We are very familiar with governmental systems which allow those in positions of power to reap what they did not sow and gathering what they did not winnow. We are also familiar with how tempting it can be to participate in our own exploitation when our participation gives us the benefits of the master’s largesse. We are familiar with how fear is levied to divide us and distract us from our calling.

 

So, as I unpack this text, as I study and pray, it becomes clearer to me that this parable does not describe God or God’s kingdom—it describes us and the systems we have created and maintained. And, in this the threat is not some outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, the threat is us. The threat is our greed. The threat is our fear. The threat is our despair. This parable is not a description of God or God’s kingdom—it is a warning about our own kingdoms and an encouragement to find a better way.

 

A way that serves the purpose of our loving God. Next week, we will be celebrating the Feast of St. Clement’s on Christ the King Sunday. The Gospel appointed for next week, contains the verses which immediately follow those verses we heard proclaimed today, 

 

Listen,

 

“Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’”

 

So what if today’s Gospel is the what is—and next week’s is the what could be?

 

Read, mark, inwardly digest—and remember that the context of this parable within the text seats it in the midst of reminders of God’s mercy, compassion, and love and the encouragement to participate in the life giving and salvific work of God in the world. 

 

Read, mark and inwardly digest this text—so that we may embrace and hold fast the blessed promise of everlasting life. 

 

Amen.

 

25A, If you can’t love yourself...

The readings can be found here

 

Last March, at the beginning of the pandemic, at the behest of Lona’s confirmation mentee, Lona and I decided to catch up on ten-years’ worth of a show that for some, has been culturally formative. 

 

RuPaul’s Drag Race.

 

Yes. I have watched 10 years worth of RuPaul’s Drag Race over the past 8 months, immersing myself in the fantastical world of reality television, in which a cohort of drag queens compete for the crown. Early on in my viewing, I was somewhat embarrassed to have gone so “low brow” in my viewing choices—I’m usually an animal and cooking documentary kind of gal and the Great British Bake Off has been my literal and metaphorical “bread and butter” over the past few years. That said, it slowly began to occur to me (actually, it was my wife who pointed this out) that the structure of the show was not unlike that of church. The opening procession, the music, the emphasis upon traditions and exploration of how those traditions have evolved, commentary on what the clothing or the form have communicated, and a closing charge. 

 

Just like church! Okay, well, maybe not exactly like church…

 

Feel free to laugh…because, I’m pretty confident that this is the only proper 25A sermon being preached today that relies heavily upon what I can only describe as, “the Gospel according to RuPaul.”

 

The Gospel, the good news of God’s love, according to a 60-something, black, drag queen, who has built an empire out of sequins, false eyelashes, and the deep and abiding need we all have to be loved and accepted for who God has made us to be. DragRace is not JUST a competition, it is an opportunity for people—many of whom have been scorned, derided, bullied, and cast out—to be celebrated for the very reasons that many of them have been denigrated. Like Jesus, RuPaul flips the societal norms around honor and shame in order to affirm and heal. 

 

In order to affirm and heal. By watching ten years worth of DragRace in 9 months, I’ve had the opportunity to see the evolution of not just an art form, but our cultural understanding and increasing acceptance of individuals in the LGBTQ+ community. By getting to know the stories of the “stars” of this show, we are invited to empathize with their personal joys and sorrows. We are invited to a deeper understanding of how far we’ve come and how far we have left to go. We are invited, to see ourselves—our own hurts and celebrations—within the context of those whose lives may look very different then our own. As the “stars” of the show share their vulnerabilities, RuPaul meets them with compassion and connection. Compassion and connection that instill pride and offer healing. 

 

In this, each season of RuPaul’s DragRace becomes an exercise in the restoration of dignity, of families, and of communities—goals that are easily translatable to the ministry of the church. 

 

The church, where we commit at our baptism to, “seek and serve Christ in all persons, love our neighbor as ourselves, and honor the dignity of every human being.” 

 

This is our commitment. If we are to call ourselves Christians, seeking and serving Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves and honoring the dignity of every human being, are not optional. We don’t get to pick and choose to whom we will extend love. We don’t get to pick who is worthy of dignity. We don’t get to decide that only people who look like us and act like us can partake in the presence of the abiding Christ. 

 

All means ALL. And, this is expressly laid out in both our traditions and in our scriptures. 

 

Our scriptures, which are emphatic in expressing the radical notion of God’s expansive love as a basic premise for our lives as people of faith. Not many of us have learned to look to Leviticus for this kind of expansive understanding of God’s love but it is, in fact, Leviticus in which this seminal understanding is unpacked as law for the early Israelites. 

 

“You shall not hate in your heart anyone of your kin; you shall reprove your neighbor, or you will incur guilt yourself. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.”

 

To paraphrase, Leviticus commands us to the work of reconciliation. Leviticus asks us to intervene when our neighbor engages in hateful behavior. Leviticus charges us to forgive. Leviticus demands that we love our neighbor as ourselves and it is through this foundational command of love, that we are to view the entirety of the body of law. For, as our own Presiding Bishop ascertains, “if it does not speak of love, it does not speak of God” and “If it doesn’t look like love, if it doesn’t look like Jesus of Nazareth” (twitter, June 26, 2018). 

 

Now, don’t just take it from me, or RuPaul, or Leviticus—take it from the one who came to love us all, [Jesus] said to him, “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

 

We are commanded to love God with everything, EVERYTHING, we have. We are commanded to love our neighbor as ourselves. These commands are a-priori to everything else we read in scripture, experience in our tradition, or discern through our reason. 

 

In this it is, honestly, baffling to me that so many of us, as Christian’s, have strayed so far from this fundamental teaching of our faith. That in our legalism and failures of forgiveness, we have twisted the scripture and used it as a means of exclusion and expulsion. That, in picking and choosing, throughout our holy texts, we have found the means to confirm our biases, hatred, greed, and malcontent. 

 

So, why? Why are so many Christians known by their hate and not by their love?

 

One night, after the kids were in bed, while we were watching DragRace, I had an epiphany. At the end of each episode, RuPaul offers what I’ve come to recognize a sending prayer. A sending prayer before the music that accompanies the final recession. 

 

“If you can’t love yourself, how the heck are you going to love anybody else!?”

 

From season to season, the sending has stayed the same—the only variation being the congregational style response as the gathered community complete’s the formula, shouting, “how the heck are you going to love anybody else!”

 

“If you can’t love yourself…”

 

Perhaps, that’s it. Perhaps those 5 words are exactly what has gone wrong in our interpretation of this passage from the Gospel. “If you can’t love yourself.” 

 

Because, if you can’t love yourself, how are you going to love your neighbor? 

 

Hate your neighbor as yourself?

Despise your neighbor as yourself?

Shame your neighbor as yourself?

Distrust your neighbor as yourself?

Scorn your neighbor as yourself?

 

I wonder, if this is, indeed what has gone so horribly wrong for all of us. I wonder, if we have set the bar for how we are to treat our neighbor too low. Set it too low, because we, in fact, so often fail in loving ourselves. Which is why, over the past 9 months or so, I’ve started to lean more heavily into the Gospel of John when it comes to this mandate to love. The Gospel of John, in which a new commandment is given, “love one another. Just as I [Jesus] have loved you…” (John 13:34). 

 

So, dear friends, consider this reframing of the great command, as an invitation to see your neighbor AND yourselves through the lens of Christ’s love. 

 

Love one another, as Christ loves you.

Love your neighbor, as Christ loves you.

Love yourself, as Christ loves you.

 

Because, the bar for love is not set by our failures, but by Christ’s perfection in love. 

 

So, walk in love as Christ loved us.

 

Amen. 

 

 

23A, the parable of the vineyard, a horror story.

 23A, the texts can be found here

 

The Gospel last week was the parable of the vineyard where the workers kill the owner’s son. A violent text, the parable we heard last week served the purpose of foretelling Jesus’ own murder. Because I was not the preacher and had no formation responsibilities that day, I was off the hook and instead got to watch Bryan and George squirm! But, the Holy Spirit clearly has a sense of humor, and here I am today.

 

And now it’s my turn to squirm, because today we are confronted by yet another uncomfortable Gospel. A king has a wedding banquet prepared, the wealthy decide not to attend, the commoners are invited instead. The commoners accept the invitation, but one of them is not dressed appropriately and the king casts him out into the outer darkness. Confounded and conflicted—my turn to squirm indeed! 

 

But, as I considered today’s Gospel, I realized that what is so hard about this particular text is that we have been acculturated to assume that any male authoritative figure in scripture is somehow a stand in for God. And, in this text, the male stand in is a king who does not behave like the God we have come to know as the God of our salvation. So, I wondered, what’s up with that? And, in my wondering, I turned to Greek scholars and found myself reflecting on the use of the passive voice in the parable, “the kingdom of heaven was likened to”.https://leftbehindandlovingit.blogspot.com/2014/10/the-kingdom-of-heavens-v-kingdom-of.html?m=1

 

Could this mean that it was likened to but was not like?  Is Jesus pointing out that the traditional depictions of the kingdom of heaven fall short of what God intends? Then there is the king. The Greek text uses the phrase, “man king” where the NRSV simply says, “king”. Is Jesus pointing out the difference between a human king whose actions are inconsistent with God’s nature? God, who is slow to anger, merciful and of great kindness. God who blesses the poor, the meek, and the hungry. God who will sacrifice a son rather than another. 

 

Perhaps my instincts, that cruelty is not of God, and thus this king cannot be God are right. Perhaps, I knew all along, that this Gospel is good news because that king is not our God! 

 

Which brings me back to last week. Last week, I didn’t understand what Bryan was doing in children’s chapel when he set up the Gospel by asking the children to describe God in one word. But, now I understand. I understand that if we remind ourselves of what we know of God’s love and THEN are confronted with something that challenges our understanding, we can use our knowledge as an anchor to keep us grounded when the world would unmoored us. 

 

“If you had to describe God in one word, what word would it be?” 

 

The children paused and then hands began to wave, 

 

Kind. Powerful. Loving. 

 

The words tumbled out. And, as our community’s children described God in a word they were reminding themselves of what they know in their very bones. They are reminding themselves of what they’ve been taught. They are reminding themselves of the love they know. The love that you all have given them, given them as a guidepost for what is true, just, and good. 

 

Strong work, all of you, upholding our youngest members in their faith and helping them to see beyond themselves and into the love that made all things. The love that is true. The love that will prevail. The love that will endure all things.

 

The love that will guide them, will guide all of us, home.

 

Will guide us home, past the ugly and the profane. Past the scary and the foreboding. Through the night and into morning. 

 

The rod and staff, not for beating, but for nudging and guiding. The still waters. The green pastures. We are nourished, tended, and guided—even as we walk through the death dealing places and towards the life which God intends for us. 

 

A couple of months ago, I was chatting on the phone with one of our parishioners, Helen Leslie. And, as we spoke, we discussed our mutual love of Madeleine L’engle—noted author, poet, and (lest you’ve forgotten since that last time I spoke of her) Episcopalian. Sparked by my conversation with Helen, I decided to revisit the Wrinkle in Time series—a series I know well and that reads like an old friend. But, like time spent with an old friend, I learned new things because I am new since last we met. Which brings me to the fourth book in the series, one that I’d never paid much mind to before, “Many Waters”.

 

In this book, Dennys and Sandy, the teenaged twins of the Murray family have accidentally traveled through space and time and into the lives of Noah and his family. As they are tended and cared for by Noah’s family, they gradually realize that they have entered the primordial, biblical landscape, before the flood, before the ark even, and then to their great distress, they realize that some of those they have grown to love will not survive this moment. 

 

In a moment of desperation, young Dennys find himself pacing in the night, and as often happens in L’engle’s landscapes, the stars offer a kind of heavenly counsel,  

 

“Do not seek to comprehend. All shall be well. Wait. Patience. Wait. You do not always have to do something. Wait.” 

 

Earlier this week, I shared that I’m feeling overwhelmed by this moment we are in, that my anxiety and fear had gotten the best of me, and that I wasn’t sure how I was going to approach the task of preaching this week. Which global, national, personal, crisis ought to be addressed? How to take the text and offer guidance, purpose, and hope? How? I keenly felt both the pressure and the responsibility to somehow find words that would break open this moment and reveal to us how we are going to FIX EVERYTHING!!!!!

 

No pressure or anything!

 

But then, in the midst of my struggle and confusion, I read those words, “Do not seek to comprehend. All shall be well. Wait. Patience. Wait. You do not always have to do something. Wait.” (318)

 

And, I remembered that I do not always have to do something. That it is not I alone, or St. Clement’s alone, or the church alone, or any one human structure or institution alone, that will heal this moment—because this moment is quite simply beyond any one of us. This does not mean that we are to despair and to cease to hope. It means that we are to continue in hope, to stand firm in the Lord, and through our dogged commitment to what is true, honorable, just, pleasing, and good, we will find our way through this moment. 

 

And, what I hope for us all today, is that the reassurance of the peace of God which passes all understanding, will be enough to keep us moving forward. Moving forward, even when the way ahead requires walking through the valley of the shadow of death. 

 

Dennys, follows the counsel of the stars, and returns to Noah’s tent where he continues in his labors. “Work on the ark progressed slowly. In the heat of the sun, his body glistening with sweat, Dennys found it hard to remember his vision of understanding and hope. But it was still there, waiting for him…” (319)

 

Have you ever had a vision of understanding and hope? Have you ever seen beyond this moment into the love that endures all things? Have you kept going, beyond your strength, and beyond any reason? 

 

Have you?

 

Silence.

 

I have. I have seen the sun rise as often as I’ve seen it set. I have seen birth and death. I have felt the bass notes calling for freedom from Egypt’s land and the sweet descant of verity unseen. I have felt my hand bound to another and received the blessing of God. I’ve had friends willing to walk me to safety and known folk willing to take the risk of love. I’ve seen a calf stumble upright for the first time and held a fragile chick in my cupped hand. I have seen that sweet chariot swing low and shouted alleluia. 

 

Silence.

 

And, I have kept going. And, all of you, have kept going. Kept going. because it was hope that brought you here and grace which will lead you home and there is nothing to do now. Nothing to do but, “Keep on doing”, “keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.”

 

Amen.