For me, prayer is a surge of the heart; it is a simple look turned toward heaven, it is a cry of recognition and of love, embracing both trial and joy.
-Thérèse of Lisieux 1873-1897
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I have been a priest, now, for almost 15 years. Tempered, by death, by life, by hope, by joy, by grief. Striving, through it all, to create a space where others can feel safe.
Navigating, sometimes at personal cost, the extremes of belief and sentiment. Quietly serving next to those who think I’m not fit to serve. Offering bread into every open hand, even as some have turned away. Not my priest. Not my church.
I have stretched myself between sides, holding tight within my embrace, within my heart, within my prayers, anyone willing to step into this sacred circle—I will not meet hate with hate. I am your priest, until you tell me otherwise. This is your church until you tell me otherwise. You may turn your back, but I will not turn on you. I will not renounce you.
I will serve beside you. I will break the bread and share it with you.
Proffering the very blessings that I was once denied. Standing before you in the fullness of my being—a priest of the Church, a woman, a mama, a wife, a lesbian. Standing before you. Just as you stand before me. Together, in this imperfect, human space. Hoping for a word. Hoping for some truth. Hoping for some comfort. Hoping…
That someday, we can live into the fullness of God’s dream for us.
The fullness of the truth of belovedness.
Beloved.
As I looked through sermons past, I was struck that what these texts have inspired me to is love. Love beyond the self, love that defies hate, love that is stubborn in standing fast, love that can see behind the rage and into the pain. Love.
Love. That has been there at first breath and last. Loving with the hope of what might be and all the grief of what’s been lost. I cannot hate the created without learning to hate the creator and so I cannot hate. I cannot hate the baby at its birth nor the dying at their death. And, I know, I know that this can be infuriating…hate what I hate, fear what I fear, love what I love. There is evil enough in the world to hate, there are people aplenty who have succumbed to the devil’s invitations. And, so I hate the evil and the devils’ works.
Works which stand apart from the infant’s first breath and the dyings last gasp. I will renounce evil. I will never renounce you.
And, so as I watched the mob and saw the rage…I turned deep into my own faith. Deep into the truth that has defined my life.
The truth that death is not the end of the story, that destruction is not our calling and that, who we are? Who we are was made to be good.
Dying you destroyed our death, rising you restored our life, Christ Jesus come in glory!!
Restore us.
Restore us to who we were made to be, so that we might become what you intended.
In the beginning, every aspect of creation was declared good. In the beginning, the day and the night, the sun and the moon, the fish and the fowl, you and me, declared good.
Made good.
And, ever since our making, we’ve fallen from what was intended and have striven to make sense of the evil that surrounds us. From the first blood shed to the last, we’ve wrestled with the question of what has happened to us.
What happened? How did our ideals give way to the desecration of secular and sacred sanctuaries? How did parents, elders, kin and kindred, colleagues, and Christians, fall? How have WE fallen?
I say we, because this is all of us. I say we, because we must confront the truth that we are part of this world and those things done on our behalf, those times when we’ve stood by, the pains we’ve passively permitted…they are ours to confess, they are ours to renounce, they are ours for which to seek forgiveness. We know full well that when the histories will be written our descendants will wonder—why didn’t they see this coming? Why didn’t they root out evil before it took root? They is we. We are they. And we are in this, for better for worse, together.
As the crowd gathered, as the cross was raised, as cries of crucify rang out…the markets stalls were open, meals were being cooked, lives were being lived. How could they? How could we?
Father forgive us, for we know not what we do. We have forgotten who we were made to be. We do not know your love, even though it is your love that has brought us this far.
Father forgive us. Mothering God, forgive us. Generative breath, forgive us.
Forgive us. Forgive us.
Because this is who we are. This is what our nation has become. This is the ground we have spoiled, the rivers we’ve polluted, the creation we’ve destroyed. And yet, God stands fast. And yet, there is hope. And yet, there is love.
Because this is not all we are, nor is it who were were made to be. There is still time for salvation. There is still time to renounce evil. There is still time to turn.
Time to turn and follow you, O God.
Because, who we are today is not the beginning of our story—nor is it the end of our story. Who we are today, in all our sin and shame, in our hurt and our confusion, is not what God intended. And so, in the midst of our doom scrolling, nay saying, and our tears, and our fear, help us.
Help us.
This sermon is not a sermon. It is a prayer. It is a petition. It is hope for the living. It is hope for our future. It is love.
Love, that believes that even now, God declares us beloved.
Even now, as blood still stains and reconciliation awaits repentance. Even now, God declares us beloved.
This is who we are.
It is not who we were made to be.
Beloved. It is not who we were made to be.
And, so turning from this to what comes next, let us affirm not just our faith but our calling.
Our calling, as beloved children of God, through creed and covenant. Our calling
To return.
Dying you destroyed our death, rising you restored our life, Christ Jesus come in glory!
Return.
Return.
Again and again, return.
Amen.
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