Feast of Mary the Virgin, August 15th, 2021

 The readings for this Feast Day can be found here

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Hail Mary

In preparation for today, I thought about self sacrifice and what we’ve given up these many months. I thought about our building and what it means to return to the more familiar rhythm of our 10:30 service in person and indoors. I thought about pelicans, really, pelicans because there is one on our font, exemplifying the sacrifice of Christ but also embodying that sacrifice in the female form—albeit a female bird. 

 

But, that all proved to be the chaff. The wheat that remained in my pursuit of a word to share was ultimately born of the Hail Mary I learned in my childhood; the way that prayer has proven a comfort to me; and the pain of the world in the here and the now. 

 

A pain that is not new. A pain that is not irredeemable. 

 

During the reign of Queen Elizabeth in the 16^th century an edict was issued and clergy were instructed to “take away, utterly extinct and destroy all shrines, covering of shrines, all tables, candlesticks, trindals, and rolls of wax, pictures, paintings, and all other monuments of feigned miracles, pilgrimages, idolatry, and superstition.” 

 

And, in obedience, many clergy did just that—joining in with the mobs that had desecrated sanctuaries throughout Europe, destroying religious art and iconography in response to the perceived abuses of the Roman Catholic Church. If these saints are so powerful, why then do they not defend themselves? If you are infallible, why then do these icons not rise in vindication of you? 

 

And so, stained glass windows were smashed, statues were mutilated, icons were burned. 

 

This inconoclasty was not unique to the time. And, the destruction of sacred monuments has long been weaponized—humiliating the observant and destroying the souls of nations. The symbolic heft of the taken city. The triumphant shout as statues fall. The salted fields and the burning of forests. We know what desecration looks like and as a community that treasurers art and beauty many of us see this kind of desecration as an attack not just on an object but upon the creative impulse that has been gifted to us by God. 

 

The destruction of art, with all of its cultural, religious, and historical significance, is a sin—marking our separation from the creator God through the rejection of our calling to serve as co-creator and our destruction of the created form.  

 

Co-creator. 

 

This word catches me, because today we are marking the feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary. A young woman whose “yes” to God was an act of courage through which she became a co-creator of the Son of God. Without her ability to carry and birth Jesus, there could be no Christ. And, as I consider this, I consider how rarely in our tradition we are given cause to stop and consider the central role of a woman to the existence of not just Christ, but our entire faith. Without the women, there would be no Christ. Without the women, there would be no good news. 

 

And so part of what compounds the tragedy of 16^th century iconoclasty was that it left the churches devoid of women. Images of Mary, the Magdalene, saints of the church desecrated, defaced, destroyed. By mobs of the righteous who saw in the female form the potential for danger. If this body stands, we may fall—for, from their perspective, the female body was inherently dangerous—and the removal of these bodies from religious spaces made them safer for the worshipper.

 

Which causes me to wonder, who do we cast out so that we can feel “safe” in our religious spaces? What bodies have been destroyed so that our body can feel comfortable?

 

Hail Mary, full of grace…Haiti.

 

These questions pain me and I had no intent, today, to cause pain. In fact, I tried to avoid it. But, the news. Oh, my heart. The news.

 

Holy Mary, Mother of God…Afghanistan.

 

We need you in the Church. We need to remember that you are present, fully and wholly, within the communion of Saints. We need you to remind us that you would not be silenced and could not be removed. 

 

Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death…field hospitals in our Southern cities.

 

Oh God. Oh beloved saints. Oh my heart. 

 

Mary knew fully the risk of love. She knew all too well the suffering of those left behind. She knew, as a woman, a prophet and a mother, the power we have to create and the power we have to destroy. Mary, whose proclamation is such that it cannot be ignored because it is through her words that we know to hope for what might be. To hope for what has been promised. 

 

She reminds us that the poor will not be forgotten. She confronts us with the truth of our own biases and bigotries. She holds us to account. And no inconoclast has been able to render her irrelevant to our faith. Whether it was the literal “defacing” of statues of the virgin or the military junta of Argentina’s ban on any public display’s of this Gospel passage…she has not been silenced and we do well to listen to her words. 

 

Words written and remembered in spite of us…as The Reverend Doctor Wil Gafney writes, “In spite of the biases of Israel’s story-tellers and scripture-writers, the God of Israel visits and blesses women and children and slaves and foreigners. A peculiarly pregnant girl-child and her post-menopausal cousin with her own pregnancy may be beyond the notice of Rome, but not God. And it is enough.”

 

God works wonders in this world in spite of us. God welcomes all in spite of us. God loves all in spite of us. 

 

And so, in the midst of what feels like despair. We must, for the hope of the world, trust in what God will do in spite of us. Trust, that God’s promise to the lowly and the vulnerable is a sacred promise that the powers of this world cannot tear down. 

 

And this, this  is the hope I find today. That the Magnificat, in its fierce advocacy of God’s promise to the lowly, reminds us that it is not up to us. That no matter the damage we cause, we cannot cast out or tear down the love of God. 

Hail Mary, Mother of God, 

 

Amen. 

 

Link to sermon playlist on YouTube and Sermon Manuscript from July 25th

 https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL4mWoiYK9M0uL0okuHquLGcZKmw-J48X2

I know, it’s not the same as having manuscripts to review. But, I have been neglectful in posting full manuscripts. As I, slowly, catch up please note that this sermon playlist on youtube is updated weekly. 

In the meanwhile, here’s the sermon from July 25th, proper 12B…with the appointed readings available here https://www.lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Pentecost/BProp12_RCL.html 

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Satisfaction, a Connect the Dots Sermon

There is a story within the story within the story within the story…

 

Which is, to say, that there is also a hole in the bottom of the sea. 

 

And in that hole, there is a…

 

Log. 

 

Which causes me to think, of the log in our eye.

 

And the ears of our heart.

 

And how, our individual associations call to mind layers of interpretation.

 

Layers, not unlike an onion. Each sufficient in itself for flavor, but a part and not the whole. 

 

Having referenced the onion, the DreamWorks version of Shrek comes to mind. Hmmm, may I have a volunteer?

 

Okay, do you want to be the donkey or the ogre? Okay, then I’ll be…

 

Shrek: Ogres are like onions.
Donkey: They stink?
Shrek: Yes. No.
Donkey: Oh, they make you cry.
Shrek: No.
Donkey: Oh, you leave em out in the sun, they get all brown, start sproutin’ little white hairs.
Shrek: No. Layers. Onions have layers. Ogres have layers. Onions have layers. You get it? We both have layers.
Donkey: Oh, you both have layers. Oh. You know, not everybody like onions.

 

Take a bow.

 

Because, the story within the story leads to a truth, that inside the metaphorical ogre and mythic villain resides a wholeheartedness the surface would belie. 

 

The singular story may be lovely but it is the resonant stories that enrich the text. 

 

Take our Gospel for today. 

 

Bread. Bread. Bread.

 

The manna in the desert.

 

The wonder bread, margarine, and sugar sandwiches of my childhood.

 

The wafer thin and bread baked by hand.

 

Which brings me to pandemic sourdough and time enough to tend it.

 

The daily bread for which we plead.

 

Just bread. The prayer that Jesus taught us asks for just bread.

 

Not, more, not less.

 

We pray for justice. A justice where everyone has enough bread to be satisfied. 

 

Which brings me to Angelica Schuyler’s pointed observation of Alexander Hamilton.

 

“You will never be satisfied.”

 

And the story of Hamilton, as interpreted by Lin Manuel Miranda, expands 5 words into a musical. 5 words.

 

5 loaves, 2 fish and they were satisfied. 

 

Will we ever be satisfied?

 

Is the bread enough? Are my words enough? Is our community enough?

 

What will be enough for you? What do you want?

Which brings to mind a song…

“Tell me what you want, what you really, really want”

 

Which is, perhaps, the WRONG question. 

 

Because, it’s not about what we want, but what we need. 

 

What we want is a king to rule us, what we need is the bread that will liberate us. 

David was a king…and murdered Uriah with his intent. 

Bathsheeba was a woman whose king did not get consent.

 

God gave us the kings we wanted. God sent us the bread we needed.

 

The bread of heaven, the body of Christ. 

 

So stop looking for a king, eat the bread, and figure out what’s next. 

 

What’s next. For you. For us. For our community. For our world.

 

Because after the bid for daily bread we plead for forgiveness. 

 

Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our offenses. 

 

The bread we eat, the confession we make, 

 

And, then, the action we take.

 

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

 

From a log in a hole, an onion of an ogre, the question of satisfaction, and the words and images that form the story within the story within the story. 

 

So let’s continue the stories…

 

Bread requires water and wheat. Wheat requires land upon which to grow and hands to thresh the grain. The grain requires insects to pollinate, birds to disperse the seed, and humans to collect and sow. Humans charged to steward  the earth. And, here we arrive at creation itself…

 

 “God began to create the heavens and the earth— ² the earth was without shape or form, it was dark over the deep sea, and God’s wind swept over the waters— ³ God said, “Let there be light.” And so light appeared.”

 

The wind was over the waters and the water grew rough. The water tossed the boat and the light appeared.

 

Or was it light? Because, it was in fact evening. 

 

But light it was, because life it was and the life was the light for all people. 

 

And the beginning of John in which creation comes through a Word. The singular Word. Jesus the Word made flesh…

 

² The Word was with God in the beginning.
³ Everything came into being through the Word,
    and without the Word
    nothing came into being.
What came into being
⁴     through the Word was life, 
    and the life was the light for all people.

 

Wind over the waters. Jesus walking upon the waves. A new creation. 

 

Wind is to Word as Christ is to life.

 

Do you follow? Perhaps the flights of fancy are too much and you are still humming along to Hamilton? And, isn’t that the point? To have a vocabulary to enrich our understanding? To go deeper and deeper and deeper into the story until it encompasses all of our being and, once encompassed, we find ourselves?

 

We find ourselves and remember who we are and to whom we belong.

 

Who we are, beloved children of God, we belong to God. 

 

But, in belonging to God, we belong to each other. 

 

Queen Esther saved the Jews.

 

Elijah and the widow’s oil.

 

Come you who thirst. 

 

Eat this bread, drink this cup. 

 

From 5 loaves and 2 fish, leftovers enough for 12 baskets.

 

12 baskets for the 12 tribes of Israel. 

 

“So that nothing may be lost”. So that none shall be lost. 

 

Stories within stories within stories. 

 

And, “God said to Moses, “I Am Who I Am. So say to the Israelites, ‘I Am has sent me to you.’”

 

Jesus said to them, “I Am. Don’t be afraid.”

 

I Am. I am not a king. I am not a prophet. I am not what you wish I would be. Instead, I Am.

 

God said, “I Am” and that is name enough. 

 

Jesus said, “I Am” and that is name enough.

 

Name enough for life. Name enough for creation. 

 

I Am.

 

The bread. 

 

The light.

 

The life.

 

And, in these, the world entire. 

 

When will we be satisfied?

 

Amen. 

Lent 1B, And Now You Protest?

 Lent 1B, the appointed readings can be found here

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On Ash Wednesday, I told y’all about how we, as children, were assigned the task of watering down the driveway in order to tamp down the dust. The incessant, insistent, dust that would get everywhere—and the water that would drip, run, and puddle. The dust contained, for a moment.

 

A moment, that in my mother’s opinion was not long enough. For soon enough, the dust would return. Coating everything. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…all over everything. 

 

I spoke to this, and I spoke to how the cloud of dust that announced the impending arrival of someone come home—how that cloud served as a happy harbinger of return. A physical reminder of home and the truth of enduring love. 

 

What I didn’t speak to, was how, a good chunk of the time…we weren’t happy about the return so much as desperate to plead our case. Because, like many siblings, when my parents left the house, chaos reigned and fists would fly. My brother, would tack fire crackers to door frames so that when an unsuspecting little sister ran through the door, she’d be cowered by the noise and smoke. My sister, coming at me, clawing like a wild cat in response to some arrogance or insult. And, me. I was no innocent. I could fling words like daggers while remaining infuriatingly calm, and I was relatively secure in my position as the “good one”. 

 

So, when that cloud of dust rolled up—we would run. 

 

Run, to plead our personal case. Pretty sure, that whomever got to the door of the truck first, whomever, managed to corner a bewildered parent and plead their case first, whomever presented the most compelling accusations…that they, they alone, would escape unscathed from parental judgement. 

 

I can still picture my Dad’s look of exhaustion as he was confronted, yet again, by wailing self righteousness…

 

I say all this because, once again, I find myself troubled by the “rainbows make it all better” conclusion of the Flood narrative. I know I’ve spoken of this before, and perhaps you’ve tired of my critique—not specifically of our narrative, but of our neglect to mention that God just destroyed everything and we’re fine with that because Noah and his family were okay and since they were OUR ancestors, yeah, we’re cool with that…

 

I suspect I’ve now officially ruined any fond childhood memories you may have had about your Tupperware Ark floating about the bathtub and you will never again hear the song, “The Lord said to Noah there is going to be a floody floody” the same way again.

 

Because, seriously?! We’ve sanitized the flood narrative, just as we’ve sanitized the story of the first Thanksgiving, the pilgrim’s landing, the overthrow of the Hawai’ian monarchy and the spread of colonial Anglicanism. The triumph of our ancestors silencing the voices of the devastated remnant left behind in the mud. 

 

It’s tempting, isn’t it? It’s tempting to tune out from the hard truths and clean up the story to make it palatable to our sensibilities and our siblings. Siblings who may not wish to hear, or remember, the parts of our story that were about our cruelties. Sorry sibs, the truth of who we were wasn’t just about joyful returns heralded by a cloud of dust—it was also about impending vengeance, rubber slippers thwacked against our backsides, and slamming doors. 

 

To note—because these services and sermons are recorded, I may be hearing from a couple of my siblings later. So, Sara, Michael, William, we were AWFUL to each other and adult me is horrified. That said, I forgive you. I hope that each of you can forgive me as well…

 

Not, so that we can tell some happily ever after and make light of what was. Rather, so that we can continue to do better. Do better to each other, our children, and our children’s children (because, ahem, some of y’all have children’s children). 

 

We need to tell the ugly parts of the story, the hard parts of the story, the muddy, devastating, and wilderness parts of the story. These parts of the story matter and when we dig into our painful pasts we can find meaning. When we look around us and confront the suffering in this world we are gifted the opportunity to change the future’s stories. And, in this, the hard parts of the story and evils we renounce when we look beyond our own narratives, can help us grow into the full stature of Christ—not in spite of these stories but BECAUSE of these stories. 

 

So, lets go back to the ark and rewind the tape. 

 

Rewind to that moment when Noah is informed of the impending flood.

 

And, God said, “I am going to put an end to all people, for the earth is filled with violence because of them…

Go into the ark, you and your whole family, because I have found you righteous in this generation.”

 

And, Noah said, “okay.”

 

[pause]

 

Okay, so that’s not really what Noah said. The Bible simply says that Noah did everything the Lord commanded him. Noah doesn’t say anything! 

 

Moses pleads with God on behalf of his people. Abraham, pleads with God on behalf of his people. Noah?

 

Noah doesn’t say anything.

 

And, that’s the problem.

 

The wandering rabbis of the 13^th century who brought us the Zohar, a book of interpretations of biblical stories in the Jewish tradition, focus not on God’s destruction but rather, on Noah’s failure in pleading the case for creation. In the Zohar, before the rainbow there is a reckoning,

 

I lingered with you spoke to you at length so that you would ask for mercy for the world!  But as soon as you heard that you would be safe in the ark, the evil of the world did not touch your heart.  You built the ark and saved yourself.  Now that the world has been destroyed you open your mouth to utter questions and pleas? (with thanks to the Rev. Suzanne Guthrie for her work at Edge of the Enclosure)

 

Now that the word has been destroyed you open your mouth to utter questions and pleas. Now that you see the work that lies ahead. The work to restore all that you failed to intercede for. Now you are angry? 

 

Noah failed. He failed to plead the case for creation. Noah failed to intervene. Noah never asked God to cease and desist. Instead, Noah built the ark for his own family, loaded it with what was needed for their survival, and escaped the flood. Which leaves me to wonder, was God’s covenant with us made not because of God’s regret but because of God’s awareness that, left to our own devices, we will fail to keep covenant with each other? 

 

Because arguably, it is when we are comfortable and secure that it is easiest to acquiesce to evil. We say nothing because we are unwilling to risk our own security. As for me and my house…as if, me and my house are all that matters. Meanwhile, somewhere else, there are, quite literally, folks who face rising waters, freezing temperatures, collapsing infrastructure, and the destruction of all they have created for themselves and for their neighbors. 

 

As for me and my house…

 

And, this is our temptation—to plead only for ourselves, to care only for ourselves and to present our case for personal salvation to God. Our personal salvation without care for the salvation of the world entire. 

 

Let us learn from Noah, let us learn from the dusty road, let us learn from our stories—the beautiful and the terrible. Let us learn in this Lenten season, how to plead for the world. 

 

Amen.  

Ash Wednesday Sermon—Dust Everywhere

This year, an inadvertent ashes everywhere snafu was just what the Holy Spirit ordered!

Last Sunday after the Epiphany

 The appointed readings can be found here

That Tabor Light

Long ago and far away, at the beginning of the pandemic, we distributed lawn signs to the families with children in our community. 

 

“Cling to what is good.” A reference to Romans 12:9, meant as an encouragement to remember. To remember what is good in this world. To remember, that it is worth pursuing the good. To remember that, even now, the good is present.

 

As we have traversed this long wilderness and as we summit the mountain only to find more wilderness beyond, I am finding this encouragement to be absolutely essential as both joy and consolation. 

 

For as psychologists have pointed out that it in the course of this pandemic we are in a fragile time. The way has been long, we have worked so hard to cling to the good and work for the better, and now better presents itself—but, it’s not the better for which we hoped and pandemic fatigue sets it. And, at this point, exhausted by the cautions and limitations, we begin to take risks that endanger ourselves and our communities. 

 

This fragile place, reminds me of the cautions given to those of us who face mental health challenges or love those who do—it is when the lethargy of despair begins to lift that people are most likely to become actively suicidal. This is a dangerous place where despair is empowered and it is a time when we need to invest deeply in care for each other. We need to reach out, connect, and encourage each other in this fragile place. 

 

This fragile place, where the summit’s consolation give rise to our recognition that beyond this mountain, there are more mountains. The momentary joy of the summit’s pure light, dimmed by the prospect of the valley below and the mountains which remain. At this point in the journey, the resonance of the Haitian Proverb, “beyond the mountains, there are more mountains”, cannot be ignored.

 

So, is it any wonder that Jesus’ friends wanted to stay at the summit? Exhausted by the prospect of what lies ahead, they yearn to luxuriate in what Orthodox Christians call, “the Tabor light”. The Tabor light, drawing it’s name from Mount Tabor—the mountain assigned by  as the place of the Transfiguration. 

 

From the Reverend Suzanne Guthrie’s reflection on this light: 

 

“A high mountain. The cloud of Presence. The voice of the Most High. The disciples fall into ecstasy. They see time disassemble. They see Jesus, Moses, and Elijah - outside of time - talking about something that will happen in time, that is, Jesus' “exodus”. And the light! Orthodox Christians call it “Tabor Light.” This is the kind of light that transfigured Moses so that he had to wear a veil. It is this kind of light which blinded Paul on his way to Damascus. It is the light at the boundary of the soul, alluring us in meditation to continue deepening, and the remembrance of it helps us remain faithful when prayer is dark.”

 

Outside of time, talking about what will happen in time. A moment in which we step out of the stream of time and observe the stream itself. Like a historian who steps outside of the stream of this time, in order to view all things through the patterns, stories, rhythms, and reflections of the past—and in so doing, shines light upon the present and the breadth of the future possible. Stepping out of time. Stepping out of time in order to place the now within the context of all creation. The Tabor light illuminates the present with the meaning of the Creator.

 

The tabor light is a light that puts all things within the context of God’s pure light. It is “all the light we cannot see” experienced all at once. It is the light that takes the mirror through which we peer dimly and illuminates it with the beauty of seeing God face to face. It is the light we remember in the dark night of the soul. It is the light that leads us through the wilderness. It is the light that  brings peace out of our lamentation. The Tabor light at the boundary of the soul. 

 

Experienced once, this radiant light offers us unabashed joy. Joy that, remembered, will be a consolation in present sorrows.

 

Cling to what is good.

 

So that when peril and plight overwhelm us, we can remember the goodness that is real. The goodness that is intended. The goodness we know to be true—even now, especially now. 

 

I wonder if, in the days to come, the disciples, Peter, James and John turned to their memory of the light to make the present time bearable. If the recollection of that momentary joy allowed them to endure the suffering that was to come. If the echo of the timeless declaration of beloved-ness would fend off their fear on the dark nights to come. 

 

I wonder if in the days come, the disciples, each and every one of us, followers of Christ will be able to lean into that moment of fleeting glory. That moment of Tabor light. That moment, when an all encompassing joy filled us—a joy that proves sufficient for our sustenance in the wilderness.

 

For, it is not for the present sorrow that we live. We are instead to live in preparation for a greater glory to come.  A glory made manifest at Jordan’s stream, manifest in moments of healing that exceed any reasonable expectation, manifest in moments of celebration, manifest when evil is overcome by good. 

 

Manifest, incarnate in the real world of this present time, a light that perseveres. A light that promises more. A light that has the power to illuminate even the dark night of our soul. 

 

Think on this. Pray on this. And remember some moment, perhaps known to you alone, in which the Tabor light shone into your life and the glory of God was revealed. A glory that is enough to sustain you through this present time.