Tag Archives: Sermon

Dec 21 2014
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We are all called to be mothers of God

Preached at Trinity Wall Street the Fourth Sunday of Advent, the Annunciation seemed like an appropriate time to share with the parish that Jay and I are expecting our first child.
The night before I preached, two police officers in Brooklyn were murdered–I could not ignore it.
2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16; Luke 1:26-38
Watch it here.

Greetings, favored ones! The Lord is with you. Amen.

There’s a term church-types like to throw around. “Hermeneutics.” Perhaps you’ve heard it? It’s basically a fancy word for a “lens” or “perspective,” and it acknowledges the idea that we all bring something to the text when we read scripture. All of us have been shaped by life experiences that in turn shape our reading and hearing of scripture. And what a gift that is! Indeed, part of the reason scripture is living and active is because we come to it as living and active human beings who grow and change and learn constantly.

I find this helpful because as a preacher it is inevitable that you will preach on the same text many times in your life, but you never want to preach the same sermon. Even if the last sermon on said text was a hum dinger—you’re always looking for new or deeper insights to take in and then share.

Case in point—I preached this text two years ago. I was visiting my childhood parish in Lexington, Virginia, and I was so excited to be preaching on a text that was already so meaningful to me. I mean, I’ve had a framed print of Fra Angelico’s Annunciation hanging on my wall since college, always hoping to be inspired by Mary’s courageous statement: Let it be. This was my jam! And other than the fact that I had no voice and had to whisper into the microphone, that sermon was a great one.

In the two years since I preached this text, I have graduated from seminary, been ordained a deacon, started my first ordained call here at Trinity church, and discovered that Jay and I are due to have our first child this summer. These are the kinds of life events that can adjust your lens slightly this way or that, opening up the scriptures in new ways that keep our reading of them living and active. I can tell you it has made for an interesting Advent.

But here’s the thing. As much as I marvel at the miracle and weirdness of having a human being growing inside me—and how much more miraculous and weird for Mary to experience the same with the very Son of God… and sure I smile whenever we sing “My soul magnifies the Lord,” thinking of Mary’s magnified belly while touching my own slightly magnified version… at the end of the day, that Mary became as we call her in Greek theotokos, the container of God, really says more about God than about Mary.

What makes Mary remarkable is her response.

The actual gestation of God as a fetus, nursing of God as a baby, caring for God as a child—even when that child became a grown man, that really points to the remarkable mystery of God. The same God that laughed at David’s suggestion in our Old Testament reading today that God would want a proper house—that God chose a womb of a lowly unwed maiden. No wonder we call Jesus “Emmanuel”—God is with us—you can’t get much more “with” humanity than to take up residence inside a human being and grow there for nine months. And thus Gabriel says to Mary, “For nothing will be impossible with God.”

But lets get back to what makes Mary remarkable—because she’s today’s example of how to live as faithful disciples of Christ.

First, note that Mary’s gut response upon seeing Gabriel is to be perplexed. She’s wondering to herself, ‘What could this guy possibly want from me?’ Certainty is not a requirement of faithfulness. Mary teaches us that one can be perplexed and pondering and still be faithful to God’s call.

Second, after Gabriel explains that which is to come—which is really less of an explanation and more of an exultations of God’s love and power—Mary wrestles with what she has just heard, saying, “But how can this be?”

And after Gabriel speaks of the Holy Spirit’s presence with Mary, proclaiming “Nothing will be impossible with God,” Mary responds: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

Notice she doesn’t say, “Oh, now I get it—that makes perfect sense!” My guess is she’s still perplexed, pondering, and wrestling. But Mary doesn’t have to have all the answers to know that God is requiring something of her in this moment and in her lifetime. I say “requiring” because Gabriel doesn’t proclaim his message in the form of a question. He does not come to Mary saying, “God would like you to bear God’s son—the savior of the world. Are you cool with that?” Rather Gabriel speaks the truth of what is to come in a more definitive manner. Mary acknowledges this requirement when she says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.” And “servant” is really a soft translation of the Greek word doulos—Mary is calling herself a slave to God—which reinforces the fact that she has no choice in the matter. And yet—and this is what I LOVE about Mary—the young, lowly, unwed, perplexed servant or slave exercises courage and agency even in her obedience by saying, “Let it be with me according to your word.” Mary responds—and she responds as one who believes.

It is Mary’s response and faithfulness that is praised again and again in Luke’s gospel. The scripture immediately following today’s passage tells us of Mary’s journey to see her cousin Elizabeth, also pregnant despite her old age. As soon as Elizabeth sets eyes on Mary, she begins praising her: “Blessed are you among women—blessed is the fruit of your womb—blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.” Blessed is she who believed.

And how does Mary respond to Elizbeth’s blessing? By praising God with the very words we sang earlier, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my savior!” She receives the blessing by pointing to the one she is faithful to.

Later in Luke’s gospel, Jesus is a grown man preaching and teaching when his brothers and Mary try to reach him through the crowds. When Jesus is told they are waiting outside, he responds, “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it.” While some take this as a harsh response—it’s true! Mary is often referred to as the ideal disciple precisely because she heard God’s message and responded in faithful obedience.

And again when Jesus is teaching towards the end of Luke’s gospel, a woman in the crowd calls out to him and says, “Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you!” And Jesus corrects her: “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it!” Jesus does not deny Mary’s blessedness, but clarifies the nature of it.

That God lived in a womb and nursed as a babe tells us something about God and God’s longing to be with us.

That Mary believed in the face of perplexing truths and responded in faithful willingness, “Here am I—let it be,” tells us something about what is means to be blessed.

Meister Eckhart, a 13th Century German mystic once said, “We are all called to be mothers of God—for God is always waiting to be born.” I love that image. It’s one I can relate to. We are all called to be mothers of God—for God is always waiting to be born. But you don’t have to have a womb to be a mother of God. And you don’t even have to be certain of every aspect of God’s nature. You can be young or old, rich or poor, male or female, perplexed, pondering, wrestling—and yet hear God’s call on your life (crazy as it may seem at the time) and respond in faith and obedience: Here am I—let it be.

And when people see the fruits of God’s call manifest in your life, you—like Mary—can point to God and say, “Yeah—look at all God has done. Isn’t God amazing?”

That’s what’s remarkable about Mary. And it’s in that kind of response that each of us can be remarkable too.

Here am I. Let it be. My soul magnifies the Lord. My spirit rejoices in God my savior. Amen.

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Dec 04 2014
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God and hope are not dead

1 Corinthians 15:12-20, John 5:24-27
The Feast of John of Damascus

I preached the noonday service at Trinity Wall Street the day after a Staten Island grand jury decided not to charge a white New York City police officer, Daniel Pantaleo, in the chokehold death of Eric Garner, an African American, sparking protests over the lack of accountability for police behavior in communities of color. I had already planned to talk about how people are like icons, pointing to the resurrected Christ, and I brought one of my favorite icons with me to demonstrate that point. It turns out “Mary of Seven Sorrows” could not have been a more appropriate icon for the day. During the first minute of my sermon, the moment I mentioned the grand jury decision, a man stood up and walked out of the church. He did so respectfully, but he did so in protest–a new experience for me.

Watch it here.

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Sep 23 2014
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Generosity and Grumbling

9:00AM service at Trinity Wall Street, New York City
Jonah 3:10-4:11Matthew 20:1-6
Watch it here.

God is good—All the time/All the time—God is good–Amen.

Indeed both the readings we heard today speak not only to God’s goodness, but God’s opulent goodness. God’s over-the-top generosity.

First we hear the story of Jonah and the Ninevites. Jonah takes the prize for being the whiniest of the prophets. I mean here he tries to escape God’s instruction to go to Nineveh and warn the people of their coming destruction and doom, he’s thrown into the sea and swallowed by a giant fish who vomits him out onto dry land again, he begrudgingly makes his way to Nineveh and says simply, “Forty Days and God will smite you all,” and then he climbs up a hill and perches himself on the side of it to wait and watch the destruction. Kinda like the Grinch who stole Christmas waiting at the top of the mountain to hear all the Whos in Whoville cry boo-hoo-hoo.
Jonah
But low and behold, those pesky Ninevites—the people everyone loved to hate—the people who had enacted such evil atrocities on so many—the people no one could forgive—what do they do? They change their ways and turn to God. And God changes the divine mind and decides to spare the city.

Jonah is not happy. Perhaps he crosses his arms and pouts, or perhaps he shakes his fist up at the sky as he exclaims, “I knew it! This is precisely why I tried to flee in the first place. I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. I knew it.”

And God says, “Is it right for you to be angry?”

I think when we hear this story, we’re inclined to be like, “Yeah, Jonah! Give it a rest! How could anyone get upset over a merciful, gracious and loving God?!”

Ok, now picture a person, or a group of people, or a city or nation who have inflicted serious gut wrenching evils on us. Picture a modern-day Nineveh that you might wish were wiped from the Earth. Do you have that person or people in mind? Now imagine God forgiving them, and imagine your response.

Man, forgiveness is hard. Even when we’re not the ones doling it out, even just witnessing the immense love of a forgiving God can make us bristle.

And then we look at today’s gospel. A landowner goes to the market and hires some men to come work in his vineyard for a day’s wage. A few hours later he returns to the market and hires more men. And a few hours later he returns again, sees some men standing idly by, says “Why are you standing around doing nothing?” and when they respond, perhaps feeling destitute, that no one has hired them, the landowner brings who must have been the “least of these” back to work in his vineyard for the remaining hours of the day.

That evening he pays them all the same day’s wage, whether they worked 2 hours or 10. Of course the workers who had worked all day grumble at the landowner’s generosity. It’s not fair!! And like God’s response to Jonah, the landowner asks, “are you envious because I am generous?” And we might be inclined side with the landowner, because who could possibly begrudge his generosity?

But now imagine the implications on your life if minimum wage were to increase to better compensate the workers on the lowest end of our economic system. Or imagine how much more the food on your table might cost if the migrant farm workers who harvest it were entitled to basic workers’ rights, like one day off a week.

Sure it seems ridiculous to begrudge one’s generosity—until it demands something of us.

And lets face it. As easy as it is to laugh or scoff at the senseless anger of Jonah or the laborers, if we take these readings seriously and truly apply them to our own lives, we’re bound to squirm a little. Because if we worship a God who is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love—a God who acts out of generosity rather than fairness—a God who forgives way beyond our comfort zone—then are we not called to follow the one we worship and try our best to do likewise?

As you leave here today, think about which of these two stories makes you squirm the most, and then continue to reflect on it all week long. Think of God’s mercy on the Ninevites when you’re watching or reading the news. Think of the generous landowner when you’re going over your bank statement. Allow yourself to get uncomfortable. And then consider how you might practice more forgiveness and generosity in your own life so that your very lifestyle is an act of worship and a testament to the God of love we know in Christ Jesus.

Amen.

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Jul 24 2014
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#blessed

First weekday sermon at Trinity Wall Street, New York City
Ephesians 4:32-5:2 and Luke 6:17-23
Remembering Thomas A Kempis

Weekday services at Trinity are special because they are intimate gatherings of dedicated Christians mixed with a smattering of tourists from various faith traditions who happen to stop by.  On Thursdays the “New Beginnings” group of retired parishioners is always present, sitting in the front pews.  I was one lucky lady to preach on a Thursday with a group of strong women sending me love and encouragement!  While I did not preach from this script, it is what I wrote to prepare.

Since beginning my work at Trinity less than a month ago, my commute has quadrupled. I’ve gone from living, studying, eating and worshiping on the same small seminary campus—where forgetting my umbrella on a day like yesterday would might mean a few raindrops on my head walking from the classroom or chapel to my home—to forty minutes of walking and riding the train—where forgetting my umbrella means certain drenching.

With my new commute comes new routines. One of them is to read the New York Times—or the AM New York if I grab one—on the train.

I’ve always considered myself a fairly informed and aware person, but now that I’m really taking the time to read the news each day, I confess I feel like I’m watching the world fall apart.

Today’s Gospel echoes that same desperation.

Jesus is talking to people from Jerusalem, Judea, Tyre and Sidon. Did you know Jerusalem is about the same distance from Gaza as this church is from Croton Harmon or Mt. Kisco? That would be considered a normal commute for many New Yorkers. And Tyre and Sidon are coastal towns. The Gaza strip follows the same coast.

We hear in our reading that everyone is trying to get closer to Jesus—close enough to touch him. Pressing in on him, hoping for healing and change. Desperate.

And Jesus says: Blessed are the poor. Blessed are the hungry. Blessed are the weeping. Blessed are the marginalized.

Blessed.

Reading these words today with our colloquial notions of “blessed,” these words could sound trite.

Well, bless his heart—as I grew up hearing in the South.

Or an instagram pic of an ice cream cone on a hot day with the hashtag #blessed.

Hmm.

If Jesus’ words sound trite or empty, it’s because we have misused them.

It’s not about feeling blessed—but being blessed.

And so it’s when we feel the least blessed that Jesus reminds us that we ARE indeed blessed. And it’s the people who appear the least blessed that Jesus points to and says—THIS—this person is blessed.

When Jesus says, blessed are the poor, the hungry, the crying and marginalized—he’s not speaking words of consolation. These words are a call to action. This truth of not feeling—but being—blessed—it’s a truth that challenges us.

And we can look to today’s Epistle to understand just what it is Jesus is calling us to: kindness, forgiveness, love and sacrifice—a life that imitates Christ.

In a war-torn world such as ours—a world where civilians, children even, are victim to political, economic, religious and cultural conflict—these aren’t wimpy words—they are powerful. Kindness and forgiveness are not signs of weakness, but of strength. Love and sacrifice are not signs of compromise, but conviction.

If we listen to Jesus’ words and take them to heart—if we believe that the marginalized are blessed and live lives that proclaim this truth with the same love and sacrifice Jesus taught—we can be the change we want to see in the world. We can proclaim and embody the Gospel as imitators of Christ.

When Father Benjamin started today’s service in prayer, he mentioned a name—Thomas A Kempis. Thomas was a priest, monk and writer. He enjoyed solitude. But he used the quiet time he had to write one of the most published and widely read books in Christian literature: The Imitation of Christ. In it, Thomas talks about how to love God—by imitating the life of Christ with kindness, forgiveness, love and sacrifice.

How can you imitate Christ in your own life? Are you a quiet person like Thomas? Perhaps you can spend 30 minutes of your day praying for the needs of our community and for peace in the world. Are you a live-out-loud type? Maybe you can be like the woman I saw at the Fulton stop this morning singing, “What a friend we have in Jesus, take it to the Lord in prayer.” Are you a social person? Maybe you can help us pack brown-bag lunches on Sundays, or help us share the lunches with our neighbors on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Or maybe you like to keep to yourself, but have $17 to spare to share your compassion with the school children in our community by donating to our “Totes for Teachers” program.

I feel like the news these days brings out our differences more than anything. And it’s true that each of us is different, one from another. But we can, each in our own unique way, be imitators of Christ. We all have a capacity for kindness, forgiveness, love and sacrifice because we all are blessed.

It’s time to claim our blessedness and be a blessing.

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Jun 22 2014
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A Deacon’s First Sermon

On Saturday, I was ordained a deacon at the Church of The Good Shepherd in Raleigh.  It was good to be in my home diocese.  On Sunday, I “deaconed” and preached at Christ Church in Charlotte, with all the sweet smells, visions, faces, and sounds of my home parish.  While I had preached at Christ Church before, this was my first time preaching in “big church” with some extra pieces of clothing befitting a deacon.  So it was a touch foreign and abundantly homey at the same time.  I remain filled with gratitude.
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Proper 7, Christ Episcopal Church, Charlotte, North Carolina
Genesis 21:8-21, Matthew 10:24-39

In the name of the One, Holy and Everliving God, Amen.

Even the hairs of your head are all counted…
I have not come to bring peace, but a sword…
You are of more value than many sparrows…
I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother…

Goodness, today’s Gospel message is full of paradox. One moment we are told how special and cared for we are. The next we are told of certain struggle and pain. Three times we are told not to fear, and then we are given some scary predictions of what to expect as followers of Jesus.

This is not an easy passage to preach.

And our first reading from Genesis isn’t any easier. Abraham sends his slave and mistress Hagar along with his firstborn Ishmael into the wilderness with nothing but some bread and water. And he does so with God’s blessing!

What are we to make of God’s word to us today? What is the good news?

I have a friend. He could be your friend too. He’s a member of this parish and he’s a doctor and most of his patients happen to be children. This friend often has to give children shots. And when he does, parents will attempt to prepare a child saying, “Now don’t worry honey—this isn’t going to hurt.” At which point my friend must turn to the child and say, “Actually, this is going to hurt. But only for a moment. And you are going to be OK.”

Now which of these statements is most likely to engender trust in the child?

Truth can be hard to hear sometimes, but truth doesn’t let us down. Truth grounds us. Truth gives us the sure foundation we need so that we can weather whatever lies ahead.

This Gospel passage is a shorter snippet of a longer conversation Jesus is having with his disciples about what to expect as followers. Some scholars call it the “missionary discourse” because Jesus is preparing his friends for a mission. He has summoned the twelve apostles, he has commissioned them to go out into the world preaching and healing, and he has warned them of persecution. Then comes this bit of comfort… and of swords. And then Jesus finishes the conversation by telling them that those who welcome the disciples–these missionaries–welcomes Jesus himself and the God and Father of all.

Are you a follower of Jesus? Then you, too, are a missionary. Listen to these hopeful and hard truths—they are yours.

“It is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher.” In other words, remember Jesus? Always stirring up trouble with statements like, “love your enemy” and “it is better to give than to receive?”[1] The Jesus who came to “proclaim good news to the poor” and “freedom for the prisoners?”[2] Well, Jesus followers, if the disciple is like the teacher, we ought to expect more than a few raised eyebrows about our lives and actions.

And listen when Jesus says, “What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops.” As Jesus followers, we’re not just called to know that God is Love and rest in that truth. We have to be and do that truth. We can’t just sing at Christmas “Go tell it on the mountain,” rather we must live lives and make decisions that truly tell-it-on-the-mountain every day.

Think back to the Sermon on the Mount when Jesus tells us, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” Do you recall the very next sentence? “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”[3]

When peace is not the way of this world, peacemaking is not peaceful work.

And so Jesus, like the doctor about to give a child a shot, tells it to us straight: “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

Again and again in the Gospels we see Jesus portrayed as one who contradicts the social norms and introduces chaos. Indeed, Jesus can be divisive. So the life of a disciple, a Jesus follower, a missionary–of you and me–could and perhaps should demonstrate the same. When the Gospel proclaims a counter cultural message, and we are the voices that proclaim it, we are going to come up against traditional power structures and even against one another. We see evidence of this division in our homes and in our churches as we all seek truth and then live out the difficulties of the truth we seek.

And as a result of being truth seekers, truth proclaimers and truth doers, we may feel deserted. Like Hagar and Ishmael, we can count on wilderness moments of thirst for living water and hunger for the bread of life. And like Hagar and Ishmael we can count on God showing up, hearing our cries, staying with us—even in the wilderness.

Today’s Bible passages tell it like it is. They tell us, “This is going to hurt, and you are going to be OK.” Truth like this may be hard to swallow, but it’ll stick to your ribs.

It’ll stick to your ribs when you take a big risk to make what could be just a small change in a broken world. And you’ll remember: do not fear…even the hairs of your head are all counted.

It’ll stick to your ribs when you speak up for a cause or a person who has been beat down. And you’ll remember: have no fear…nothing is secret that will not become known.

It’ll stick to your ribs when you keep quiet at a time you’d really like to speak up – so that someone else can be heard. And you’ll remember: do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.

The truths that give us comfort and hope mean what they do and ground our faith because we’ve heard the hard truths too. Jesus’ statement, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword,” is uncomfortable to hear. It makes us squirm a little. We might want to gloss over these words to focus instead on words like, “I have come that they would have life and have it to the fullest.”[4] But Jesus’ promise of the Kingdom of God and life eternal and “life to the fullest” are promises we believe because Jesus tells the truth about all things—persecution and peace, division and reconciliation, oppression and salvation.

Jesus tells the disciples, “do not be afraid,” because Jesus knows how scary proclaiming the Gospel can be. Jesus anticipates us making unpopular decisions and speaking uncomfortable truths. AND Jesus tells the disciples, “do not be afraid,” because Jesus knows that God will show up and stay with us and sustain us until the fullness of the kingdom is known and the peace of God reigns supreme.

And so I’ll end with a prayer by William Sloan Coffin, taught to me by my dear mentor John Porter-Acee:

May God give you grace never to sell yourself short,
Grace to risk something big for something good,
Grace to remember that the world is too dangerous for anything but truth
And too small for anything but love.

Amen.

 

[1] Matthew 5:44 and Acts 20:35

[2] Luke 4:18

[3] Matthew 5:9-10

[4] John 10:10

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May 04 2014
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Christ is Risen—-SO WHAT?

Preached on the Third Sunday of Easter at St. Matthew & St. Timothy Church, New York City

For three Sundays now, we have been hearing stories of resurrection. Easter stories. Stories of Jesus’ friends responding to the mind-blowing reality of a resurrected Christ.

First we hear from the two Mary’s at the tomb. Together they go to the place where Jesus was buried, only to find the stone rolled away, the tomb empty, and an angel of the Lord indicating that Jesus has up and moved on to Galilee. Always going places, that Jesus. Can’t keep him down. The women are terrified! Not only is their friend missing from the place where they laid him, but their world is surely turned upside down and inside out, if what the angel says is true and Jesus has beat death after having been dead.

Then we hear from our doubting friend Thomas. I don’t know about you, but Thomas’ story always makes me feel a little better about myself. Like me on some days, Thomas has his doubts. And yet he is still counted among the faithful disciples of Jesus, and he even gets a whole story dedicated to his stubbornness as Jesus appears specifically to him saying, put your fingers in my wounds and your hand in my gaping side. And as Mother Carla reminded us last week, it is because Thomas doubts that he is later able to exclaim with confidence, “My Lord and my God!”

That brings us to this week. This week we’re on the road to Emmaus with Cleopas and his friend—both followers of Jesus. They seem to spend the whole day with an unrecognizable Jesus, who unpacks the scriptures for them and calls them “fools” just like in the good old days. It is not until Jesus breaks bread with them that they recognize him—and then he disappears. We sing about this at Eucharist sometimes: “The disciples knew the Lord Jesus/in the breaking of the bread.” And then they turn to each other and say, “Were not our hearts burning within us?” Aw, man! How could we be so dense!

Each of these vignettes speaks to our persistent and exuberant proclamation throughout the fifty days of Easter:

Alleluia! Christ has Risen!

The Lord is risen indeed, Alleluia!

Only, the responses of Mary, Thomas and Cleopas don’t really resonate with our weekly exclamations. If you were to say to any of these followers, “Alleluia! Christ is risen!” They would likely respond: “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you sure? Oh. My. God.”

And if we really take seriously Mother Carla’s weekly exclamations, “Alleluia! Christ is risen!” Perhaps before we can say, “The Lord is risen indeed,” we, like the disciples, need to ask: Wait… what?

What do our lives look like after Easter? And I don’t just mean, well now we have eternal life thanks to Jesus’ victory over death, though that truth clearly has massive implications of its own. No, I mean what is the impact of a risen Christ today. And tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow. What does Easter look like in my everyday life right now.

Christ is risen. So what?

Christ is risen. What now?

Like Mary and Mary at the empty tomb, we need to take a moment to realize, with trembling even, that our world has been turned upside down. Death doesn’t mean what it used to. The God we worship is more powerful than any “end” or “finality” death once represented. And nothing can separate us from the love of God, not even death. Jesus has changed the world and there’s no going back.

And like Thomas poking Jesus’ wounds, we need to spend some time contemplating just how crazy this idea is. Rather than just accept the resurrection as if it’s simply an event we remember every Easter, we need to grapple with the unbelievable implications of Jesus returning from the dead with wounded hands, feet and side. And then believe it. We have to name our doubts before we can proclaim the mystery of our faith.

And finally, like Cleopas on the way to Emmaus, we need to be continually schooled by Jesus while our hearts burn within us.

Only then can we begin to live into the everyday reality of life after Easter. Only then can we live our lives as people who begin to comprehend the significance of a resurrected Jesus.

Peter tells us that it’s through Jesus we come to trust in God. It’s through our fear, doubt, wonder and celebration of Christ’s resurrection from the dead that we find faith and set our hope on God.

And it’s in response to that truth that we have what Peter calls “genuine mutual love,” so that we can “love one another deeply from the heart.”

This is what the every day Easter life looks like. This is what it looks like to be “born anew,” having received the Holy Spirit after Christ’s death and resurrection. First comes the trust in God; then comes the genuine love. First comes the grappling with fear, doubt and wonder so that we can believe the unbelievable with courage and conviction; then comes a love that is equally courageous and life changing.

And you know what I’ve discovered here at St. Matthew and St. Timothy? That just as courageous faith makes for genuine love, so does genuine love make for courageous faith. I know this because the love you have shown me over the past two years here has given me a new boldness and courage in proclaiming my faith in Jesus—in English and Spanish. This post-resurrection-Easter-courageous-genuine-love is life changing stuff—and I know that because your love has changed my life.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

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Feb 09 2014
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Beware of Bushels

Preached on Epiphany 5 at St. Matthew & St. Timothy Church, New York

Isaiah 58:1-9; Psalm 112:1-9; 1 Corinthians 2:1-12; Matthew 5:13-20

After much encouragement from Mother Carla, this was my first “off the cuff” sermon in English and again in Spanish at SMST.  As such, I only have notes on points I wanted to cover, but no text.  Still, here’s the gist of what was preached that day–and I have to say that preaching without a text in Spanish was a hugely liberating and spirit-filled experience for me! 

I love this text and I’ve preached it before, focusing on salt and light.

It was my senior sermon, and some of you were there.

But today I’m going to focus on bushels.

Jesus says you ARE the light of the world. You ARE the salt of the earth. As in now.

Saltiness and light are not something to achieve, but what we are.

Unless we’re hiding our light.

Under a bushel.

What is a bushel anyway? It’s not a bushel of apples snuffing our light out.

A bushel is more like a basket—something that covers our light without extinguishing it.

So the light is still there—you are the light of the world.

The question is: Are you letting your light shine?

 

Take a look at the reading from Isaiah:

“Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin? Then your light shall break forth like the dawn…”

What does fasting have to do with shining?

Soon we’ll be in Lent—a season of fasting for many.

For the Israelites and maybe us too, fasting is about righteousness.

It’s about doing what is right before God.

But sometimes righteousness becomes self-righteousness.

Sometimes our spiritual life or our following the law gets focused on this inner life—cultivating our light to shine in our own life.

Jesus calls us the light of the world.

Keeping the law and working on our spiritual life isn’t about us, it’s about our neighbor.

It’s not just an inward journey, but an outward breaking forth of light.

The prophet Isaiah describes righteousness as what we do for others.

 

So this question of letting your light shine boils down to two things:

1. What is it you can do for others? (ie: name your light)

2. What keeps you from doing it? (ie: name your bushel)

 

Let’s start with the first question: what does it look like for your light to shine?

What can you do for others?

>Check in on people—call them or send them cards to let them know you care.

>Bake something or bring someone a meal.

>Invite people to church or events.

>Tutor or coach students or adults—what are you skills and how can you share them?

>Shovel out your neighbor’s car.

>Pray for someone—let them know you’re praying.

>Forgive someone if you’re holding a grudge.

>Stand up for someone being bullied.

>Be an advocate for the oppressed.

 

And the question that follows: what are the bushels that hide your light?

What keeps you from doing the things we named help our neighbor?

>Fear of rejection.

>Fear of failure.

>Fear of change or discomfort.

>Lack of concern, lack of awareness.

>Greed or pride.

>Lack of communication.

>Poor prioritizing.

>Comparing ourselves to others.

>Romanticizing the past and clinging to it.

>Unrealistic expectations—over or underestimating ourselves.

 

“No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

We come to church and to this table to light our lamps.

We come here week after week to keep our lamps lit.

What happens when we leave here?

Do we hide that lamp under a basket? Or put it on the lampstand?

The light of the world is not for itself.

The light of the world is to be shared.

You are the light of the world.

Discover what that light is—what it is you can do for others to shine.

 

It doesn’t have to be something huge.

You can start with something small and battle your bushels a bit at a time.

But let your light shine.

 

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

Hide it under a bushel, NO! I’m gonna let it shine.

Let it shine, let it sine, let it shine.

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Nov 17 2013
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Time to testify

Preached on Proper 28 at St. Matthew & St. Timothy Church, New York

2 Thessalonians 3:6-13; Luke 21:5-19

If you are at all familiar with the history of this church, St. Matthew & St. Timothy’s, you know the church building has been destroyed 4 times since its inception in 1797.  This very building that we are sitting in now was rebuilt in 1969 after being burnt to the ground in 1965.

If you have been around this church for the past 15 or 20 years, you know the neighborhood and the congregation have seen their fair share of change.  I’ve been here less than 2 years.  But I spent 5 weeks listening to the stories of people in this parish as we discussed Radical Welcome* in our October book study.

What I have learned from all of you is that this church was a safe harbor when the streets were too dangerous to walk down.  In a time when one could not walk from Columbus Avenue to Amsterdam unless first heading a few blocks North or South to circumvent drugs and violence, St. Matthew & St. Timothy was a haven of worship, learning, language and relationships.

The neighborhood is a safer place now than it once was.  But with increased safety comes increased rent, leaving many priced out of their homes—either forced to leave, or to stay but feel like outsiders.  And the changes have taken a toll on our Spiritual Home too.  We look around and feel anemic—nostalgic for the days when services were noisy with children and pews were full of friends.

We are not too different from the writer of Luke’s Gospel and the people who would have first heard it.  While the exact date of Luke’s Gospel is not known, many scholars believe that it was written after the destruction of the temple described in our reading today.  So while Jesus was predicting the destruction of the temple, Luke’s account is written in retrospect of it.

And if the destruction of the temple weren’t enough, the verses immediately following today’s reading talk about a serious neighborhood change—the rule of the gentiles in what was a Jewish land.

In short: this message is for us.  This Gospel is ours.

Jesus says the temple building will be thrown down, when not one stone will be left upon another.  This church has seen the same.

He says we’ll encounter false teachers to lead us astray.  Our world has known many.

He says nations and kingdoms will be at war with one another.  The Veterans we honored this week can speak to that truth.

He warns of natural disasters and epidemics.  We of course remember last year’s Hurricane Sandy even as we pray for the victims of this week’s Typhoon in the Philippines.

He warns of betrayal and hatred and death.  An every-day threat.

And in light of allllll that, Jesus says we will not perish.  We will endure.  And he tells us this is our opportunity to testify.

To give testimony.  To bear witness.  That’s not easy to do when your temple is in shambles and your community is a faithful remnant among strangers.

And I’m not trying to say that our church has fallen apart and our neighbors are our enemies.  This is not a perfect comparison—and thank God it isn’t.  But it is a chance for us to recognize the challenges of Jesus’ time and of our own time, and to hear Jesus’ call in the midst of it all to be the resurrection people who proclaim a resurrection story.

It’s easier to testify when things are going well—when we are feeling strong and sure of ourselves.  I tell people all the time that I intern at the best parish with the best mentor.  I tell people how wonderful the parishoners are and how welcome you all make me feel.  I tell them I actually get to do good work here—like working with the soup kitchen last year, preaching in two languages, leading a thought provoking book study.  For me, having only been here 18 months rather than 18 years, it’s easy to appreciate the thriving ministry that is St. Matthew & St. Timothy’s.

But we have to testify when we’re feeling down too, and I can understand how those who have experienced the transition in our community and church might find endurance and testimony to be hard work.

Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians is about hard work.  You would almost think he’s writing to employees at a business, but he’s really talking to Christians in the early church.

My favorite line is, “We hear that some of you are living in idleness, mere busybodies, not doing any work” (3:11).  Note that Paul does not equate busy-ness with work.  The Thessalonians were apparently quite busy even in their idleness.

New York is a very busy place—take it from someone clearly not from here.  My level of busy-ness has reached an all time high, and my guess is you feel pretty busy on most days too.  Sometimes I’m so busy I can’t seem to get any work done.

Here are some examples:

When I’m so busy worrying about an exam that I can’t focus on studying for it.

When I’m so busy writing a sermon that I forget to listen to the Holy Spirit.

When a seminary is so busy making ends meet that it forgets that it is an extension of the church first and a business second.

When we’re so busy preparing food for the soup kitchen that we forget to prepare our hearts to truly serve our neighbor with dignity and love.

When we’re so busy missing so-and-so who used to be here all the time that we either forget to check in on that person or forget to check in on the person who is actually here present with us.

Sometimes we’re so busy lamenting the destruction of the temple that we forget to testify to the promise of resurrection.

People occasionally ask me why I’m training to become a priest when churches everywhere are experiencing decline.  Where’s the job security in that?

The truth is I’m training to become a priest in a church that preaches resurrection—Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.  We practice resurrection every time we come to this table to receive the broken body of Christ, and we practice resurrection when we become what we receive—Christ alive in us, in our church, in the world.

And it’s true that we feel thrown down or betrayed at times.  But this is where we come for the spiritual food we need to endure.  Not enduring as busy-bodies, but as witnesses to a risen Christ.

In a few moments we’ll prepare this table for our Holy Communion—all of us, together.  And whether you’re robed at the altar or standing in a pew, you are integral in sharing Christ’s body.  Together we profess a bold faith and pray bold prayers.  Your testimony is just as important as mine, Deacon George’s or Mother Carla’s.  This is our work. But it’s not the end of our work.  We testify to a risen Christ in these walls with one another, and then we continue to bear witness when we “go forth into the world rejoicing.”

Jesus tells us: “This will give you an opportunity to testify.”  Lord, help us to see the opportunities here among us.  Help us to be your resurrected church.  Amen.

*Radical Welcome by Stephanie Spellers is an excellent read.

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Nov 17 2013
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Ser la resurrección

17 noviembre, 2013—Proper 28—Iglesia de San Mateo & San Timoteo, Nueva York

2 Tesalonicenses 3:6–13; San Lucas 21:5–19

Si están familiarizados con la historia de esta congregación, San Mateo & San Timoteo, conocen que el edificio de la iglesia ha sido destruido cuatro veces desde su incepción en 1797.  Este mismo edificio en el cual nos sentamos ahora fue reconstruido en 1969  después de haber sido quemado en 1965.

Si han estado aquí en los últimos 15 años, ya saben que el barrio y la congregación han visto mucho cambio.  Hace menos de 2 años que estoy aquí, pero las 5 semanas pasadas, he escuchado las historias de varias personas en esta iglesia durante nuestras reuniones hablando del libro “Radical Welcome.”

Lo que he aprendido de todos ustedes es que esta iglesia era un lugar seguro cuando había demasiado peligro en el barrio.  Que a un tiempo no se podía caminar desde Columbus Avenue hasta Amsterdam a menos que primero anda unas cuadras al norte o el sur para eludir las drogas y la violencia.  En este tiempo, San Mateo & San Timoteo era un refugio de celebración, adoración, estudios, lenguas y relaciones.

El barrio es un lugar más seguro ahora, pero con el aumento de seguridad viene el aumentado de rentas—hasta que algunos son obligados a irse, o a quedarse, pero se sienten como extranjeros.  Y los cambios han tenido graves consecuencias para nuestro hogar espiritual también.  Miramos alrededor y nos sentimos anémicos—nostálgicos de los días cuando los servicios eran ruidosos con niños y los bancos estaban llenos de amigas.

Nosotros no somos muy diferentes al escritor del Evangelio de San Lucas y la gente que lo habría oído primero.  No se conoce la fecha exacta de este Evangelio, pero muchos estudiosos creen que fue escrito después de la destrucción del templo descrito en nuestra lectura de hoy.  Así que, mientras que Jesús predice la destrucción del templo, la narración de San Lucas está escrito en forma retrospectiva.

Y si la destrucción del templo no era suficiente ya, los versículos inmediatamente después de la conversación de la lectura de hoy hablan de un cambio serio en el barrio—el imperio de los gentiles en lo que era una tierra judía.

El punto es: este mensaje es para nosotros.  Este evangelio es el nuestro.

Jesús dice que el edificio del templo será destruido, cuando no quedará ni una piedra sobre otra.  Esta iglesia ha visto lo mismo.

Dice que nos encontraremos con falso maestros que nos llevan por mal camino.  Nuestro mundo ha conocido muchos.

Dice que las naciones y reinos estarán en guerra, uno con el otro.  Los veteranos que honramos esta semana pueden hablar sobre esa verdad.

Advierte de las epidemias y los desastres naturales.  Recordamos el huracán Sandy el año pasado mientras que oramos por las víctimas de tifón de esta semana en las Filipinas.

Advierte de la traición  del odio y la muerte—una amenaza cada día.

Y aún todo esto, Jesús dice que no pereceremos.  Perduraremos.  Y nos dice que esta es nuestra oportunidad para testificar.

No es fácil dar testimonio cuando el templo está en ruinas y su comunidad es un remanente fiel entre extraños.

Y no estoy tratando de decir que nuestra iglesia ha caído y nuestros vecinos son enemigos.  Esta comparación no es perfecta—y gracias a Dios que no lo es.  Pero es una oportunidad para reconocer los desafíos del tiempo de Jesús y de nuestro propio tiempo, y a escuchar el llamado de Jesús en medio de todo, que nosotros somos la gente de resurrección que proclaman una historia de la resurrección.

Es más fácil testificar cuando las cosas van bien, cuando nos sentimos fuertes y seguros.  Digo a la gente todo el tiempo que yo trabajo en la mejor parroquia con la mejor mentora.  Digo a personas lo maravilloso que son todos ustedes y cómo bienvenida todos me hacen sentir.  Yo les digo que buen trabajo puedo hacer aquí—como trabajar en el “Soup Kitchen” el año pasado, predicar en dos idiomas, facilitar un estudio de libro.  Para mí, haber estado aquí sólo 18 meses en lugar de 18 años, es fácil apreciar el ministerio vibrante de San Mateo & San Timoteo.

Pero tenemos que testificar cuando nos sentimos débiles también, y puedo entender cómo aquellos que han experimentado la transición en nuestra comunidad y en nuestra iglesia pueden sentirse que el testimonio es un trabajo duro.

La carta de Pablo a los Tesalonicenses habla de trabajo duro.  Casi parece que está escribiendo a los empleados de un negocio, pero realmente está hablando a los cristianos en la iglesia primitiva.

Mi frase favorita es, “Pero hemos sabido que algunos de ustedes llevan una conducta indisciplinada, muy ocupados en no hacer nada.” Notan que Pablo no equiparar ser ocupado con trabajo.  Los Tesalonicenses aparentemente estaban muy ocupados en su ociosidad.

Nueve York es un lugar muy ocupado—te lo dice como alguien que claramente no es de aquí.  Mi nivel de actividad ha llegado a el punto más alto, y supongo que se deben sentir muy ocupados como yo.  A veces, estoy tan ocupada que no puedo hacer cualquier trabajo.

Estos son algunos ejemplos:

Cuando estoy tan ocupada preocupada por un examen que no me puedo concentrar en el estudio que debo hacer.

Cuando estoy tan ocupada escribiendo un sermón que olvido escuchar al Espíritu Santo.

Cuando un seminario está tan ocupado por la banca rota que se olvida que es una extensión de la iglesia primero y un negocio segundo.

Cuando estamos tan ocupados preparando la comida para “Soup Kitchen” los domingos que olvidamos de preparar nuestros corazones para servir al prójimo con dignidad y amor.

Cuando estamos tan ocupados extrañando a tal persona que no viene a la iglesia que olvidamos llamar a esta persona para saber como está, o olvidamos preguntar como está la persona que está aquí, presente con nosotros.

A veces estamos tan ocupados lamentando la destrucción del templo que olvidamos a testificar a la promesa de la resurrección.

A veces personas me preguntan por qué estoy entrenando para ser sacerdote cuando iglesias por todas partes están experimentando decaencia.  ¿Dónde está la seguridad del empleo en esto?

La verdad es que estoy entrenando para ser una sacerdote en una iglesia que predica la resurrección—Cristo ha muerto, Cristo ha resucitado, Cristo volverá.  Practicamos la resurrección cada vez que venimos a esta mesa para recibir el cuerpo roto de Cristo, y practicamos la resurrección cuando nos convertimos en lo que recibimos—Cristo vivo en nosotros, en nuestra iglesia, en el mundo.

Y es cierto que nos sentimos débiles a veces.  Pero aquí es donde venimos para la comida espiritual que necesitamos para resistir.  No para ser ocupados, pero para ser testigos de un Cristo resucitado.

En unos momentos preparamos esta mesa para nuestra comunión—todos juntos.  No importa si usted está el el altar o en un banco, eres integral en compartir el cuerpo de Cristo.  Juntos profesamos una fe audaz y rezamos oraciones audaces.  Su testimonio es tan importante como la mía, o de diácono George, o de Madre Carla.  Este es nuestro trabajo.  Pero no es el punto final de nuestro trabajo.  Testificamos a un Cristo resucitado en estas paredes juntas, y luego seguimos dando testimonio cuando vamos adelante en el mundo.

Jesús nos dice: “Esto le dará la oportunidad de testificar.”  Señor, ayúdanos ver las oportunidades aquí entre nosotros.  Ayúdanos a ser la iglesia resucitada.  Amén.

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Oct 15 2013
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Teresa, Salt & Light

Preached at the Chapel of the Good Shepherd at the General Theological Seminary on the feast of St. Teresa of Avila

Romans 8:22-27, Matthew 5:13-16

Have you ever met someone who really loved his or her faith?  Someone with such a passion for their God and their worship that it almost struck you as a little odd, but also made you hope for a taste of a love so personal and profound?  I have encountered several such people. 

My middle school friend Aaron was the first person I knew to wear a kippah and tallit with tzitzit (or fringes) to school.  Growing up in the foothills of Virginia, in a town without a synagogue, Aaron’s Jewish faith already made him a bit of an anomaly.  But his attention to prayer and spiritual practice as a teenager is what made him stand out to me.  He showed me how to tie the tefillin on my head and my arm according to the Shema: Sh’ma Yisra’eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad… These were not just words or motions or traditions or cultural practices—Aaron exhibited genuine piety, joy and palpable faith that I found both curious and inspiring.

And then there was my roommate in Baltimore who was born and raised in a Catholic home and in Catholic schools.  Despite her liberated theology that might make some turn from the church in frustration—my friend’s immense love for the sacraments kept her grounded and hopeful.  She once described to me the intense intimacy she experienced during the Mass, blushing as she described the climax she felt when receiving the Body and Blood of Christ.  Her depiction was so beautiful and vulnerable and bizarre to me—it left me wanting more—wanting a love for God that would make me blush.

Teresa of Avila was one such Saint.  A Carmelite Nun, a Mystic, a Reformer, and one of only two women declared a “Doctor of the Church,” Teresa’s love of God was one of ecstasy and joy.  A love as curious as it was inspiring.  She received visions, she conversed with Christ, she levitated during prayer, and the story of her heart being pierced by an angel with a golden spear is so sensual, only Bernini could capture her ecstasy in sculpture.[1] 

Teresa describes the encounter thus:

“In his hands I saw a great golden spear, and at the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire.  This he plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails.  When he pulled it out, I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of God.  The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans.  The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one’s soul then content with anything but God… So gentle is this wooing which takes place between God and the soul that if anyone thinks I am lying, I pray God, in His goodness, to grant him some experience of it.”[2]

All this talk of penetration, consummation, sweetness and wooing.  No wonder Teresa says, “When this pain of which I am now speaking begins, the Lord seems to transport the soul and throw it into an ecstasy.  So there is no opportunity for it to feel its pain or suffering, for the enjoyment comes immediately.”[3]

You can imagine that writings such as this raised quite a few eyebrows in the church.  Teresa’s unbridled passion for God meant she faced the inquisition and imprisonment, but it also led to the establishment of 17 convents of Reformed Carmelites.  She was a spirited troublemaker, a reformer and a true lover of God.  And I, for one, really like her. 

Teresa had what Matthew’s gospel describes as “salt” and “light.”  

Honestly, I can’t hear today’s gospel passage without breaking into song.  I often have a mental soundtrack for projects and papers and sermons I’m ruminating on.  Some of you have even seen me break into song over the refectory menu.  This week’s soundtrack has been a mixture of Godspell’s Broadway musical rendition of “Let your light so shine before men…” and the Spanish Taizé chant attributed to Teresa, “Nada te turbe, nada te espante…”

So lets start with the upbeat Broadway tune.  Jesus says, “You are the salt of the earth.”  But he says if salt has lost its saltiness, it might as well be thrown out and trampled on.  Jesus is telling us: be salty!  Be that which adds flavor to life.  Spice it up.  It’s amazing what a pinch of salt can do.  Rather than being a flavor all it’s own, salt is known for enhancing the flavors it is mixed with.  That’s why you can add salt to just about anything—even chocolate chip cookies.  Teresa clearly exhibited salt.  Her life and her visions added flavor to the convents she reformed and to the people who continue to seek out her teaching and writings on prayer and contemplation.

Jesus also tells us, “You are the light of the world,” and he compares us to a city on a hill.  You can’t hide if you’re on a hill, and neither should you hide your light.  Jesus is telling us: get out there and shine!  Don’t “hide it under a bushel, NO!”  We can’t hide our light in these chapel walls.  We can’t hide our light on The Close.  We’ve got to get outside those gates and get shining.  I mean that!  I know most of you well enough to say you are lights in this community and in my life.  And that’s great.  But Jesus says, “You are the light of the world.”  The world!  Teresa took her light on the road, and so should we.

What does all this salt and light have to do with Teresa’s prayer sung at Taizé?  “Let nothing disturb you; nothing frighten you.”  Well being salty and letting your light shine takes courage.  And Teresa would know.  To really let the earth get a taste of who you are and to really let the world see your light shine, you’ve got to be willing to put yourself out there. 

Do you sometimes feel like you need an extra dose of courage just to be yourself?  Do you feel like you’re under the microscope as you journey along this path of discernment and vocation?  I feel that.  I need that courage.   The call to be salt and light is a call to boldness, because it is a call to vulnerability.  And Lord knows vulnerability isn’t for the weak.

A dear friend and colleague here gave me this prayer card of St. Teresa just last week—not because I’d be preaching on Teresa this week, but because Teresa’s prayer is one I need to contemplate daily as a senior. 

In a moment we’ll sing a version of this same text, so pay attention to the words.  Perhaps it can be your prayer too:

Let nothing disturb you; nothing frighten you.

All things are passing.

God alone never changes.

Patience obtains all things.

Nothing is wanting to him who possesses God.

God alone suffices.

 

Amen. 

Take courage.

And get shining!

[1] See The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa by Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini (1598-1680), in the Cornaro Chapel, Rome.

[2] The Life of Saint Teresa of Avila by Herself, pg 210.

[3] The Life of Saint Teresa of Avila by Herself, pg 211.

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