Monday in Holy Week 2009

Today we march closer and closer to the Last Supper, Crucifixion and Resurrection. For the past few days the clergy around me have emphasized the mystery of Holy Week. What we're talking about is sacred story which invites us into something larger than we can comprehend. 

It's almost like the dark wonder in looking at the stars in a clear night sky: as much as we might understand the facts regarding stars, their motions, and their incredible distance from us and from each other, you can only "get" the night sky by letting your heart pound a little as you look at those marvelous lights. It's felt, but it's not a "warm fuzzy" feeling. It's a feeling that calls your whole body to wonder at the enormity of creation. 

This is like our experience of Holy Week; we might know the facts of the passion, but before it all we must be mute and throw our whole selves into the wonder of the final days of Christ on earth. 

Is it the truth, or is it a lie?

It's been an exciting week for me. On Sunday I preached at Church of the Resurrection (the text of which will be finding its way here shortly), and for the past few days I've been at a Benedictine monastery for a Lenten retreat. 

The monastery was the same place where we'd gone at the beginning of this internship, and it was actually nice to be back at the place. I've changed a lot since I was there; I'm a bit more confident in what I do, I've learned a lot about myself and have realized that I might actually be called to the priesthood. 

These times of retreat and quiet can be scary and dangerous. Sometimes we find out things about ourselves that are unpleasant and that we try to hide, but sometimes quiet can leave us alone with the Accuser, Satan. Now, I'm not going to get into a discussion about Satan, but suffice to say that what might seem to be the "dark truth" about us can be a distortion and a lie, too. Humility comes from learning the truth about ourselves, not from believing we are "a worm and no man." It's this facet of spirituality that we who struggle with guilt and shame need to accept. 

It's so easy to think that we are incredibly weak, flawed, wretched and just plain un-lovable human beings when we struggle with shame. We like to think that we know ourselves that well. People can be deluded about their greatness, we think, but people who know how horrible they are thinking the truth. 

For a long time I knew that others were to be loved and cared for. Everyone was a beloved child of God, and no one should hate themselves for their faults. The only problem was that I put a little asterisk (*) there like you see on packaging as a little disclaimer: "well, that refers to everyone but you." That little asterisk of unlovability enabled me to sit in judgment of myself. I was going to be strict with myself. Hating myself was OK, but I wouldn't allow someone else to hate themselves because I knew they were loved by God. When people would tell me that I was worthy of love, I would nod but reject it. That little asterisk seemed like I was being humble, being truthful to the Gospel. 

Humility requires being open to the truth. Humility is not at its heart about knowing how "bad" you are or how flawed you are. Humility is recognizing the truth about yourself and taking it to heart. Humility requires you to recognize your talents, skills, flaws and imperfections. You have to know how good you are and how bad you are; all of us do good things but we also all do bad things. We're not perfectly good, but we're not perfectly evil, either. 

If you've been struggling with self-hatred and despair, it's time to leave it here. That little voice that tells you you're a horrible person outside of God's love is not your conscience; it's the voice of Satan. The voice that tears you down and tears you apart and does not build you up into a child of God does not speak the truth; the truth may hurt when you hear it but it also helps you grow as a child of God. 

If you're like me, giving up that little asterisk of unlovability, giving up that idea of "I'm unlovable" is hard. There might be the fear that you will become arrogant or that you will stop listening to your conscience. It's a possibility, but it's doubtful. As long as you seek the truth and not the lies, then you're in good shape. 

On St. Joseph

Today is the feast of St. Joseph, my patron saint. I've come to find new levels of inspiration in his life and work.

"What life and what work?" you should be asking. The guy's only mentioned briefly in the Gospels, and he barely did, well, anything. He was righteous so he didn't expose Mary to condemnation because she was pregnant, and he made sure the Holy Family was safe in Egypt when a certain tyrant was trying to kill Jesus.

We get no real story about Joseph; he's there when they have to find Jesus in the Temple but is not there once Jesus starts his ministry. From tradition and non-canonical writings we get a few more glimpses of the person of Joseph, but not much more.

Why be devoted to someone we know so little about him? He didn't leave any writings for me to study furiously. He didn't die the death of a martyr. He wasn't a heroic example of the faith by conventional standards.

And that is why he is my patron. As someone who is so eager to study theology, to practice contemplation, to do great things for the faith, it's easy for me to forget what we're really called to do as Christians. Joseph was not some hero whose works I will never be able to imitate but the common Christian who was called to nurture others, to protect the weak, and to love all.

It's that simple. It's hard enough to live that kind of quiet life which always points to God, but it's something we must all strive towards.

A Sermon on the Wesleys

The usual disclaimers apply here. I didn't deliver this sermon word for word, so this isn't exactly what I preached on Tuesday, March 3.

"The Authority of the Apostles"

On this day we remember the lives and work of John and Charles Wesley. Charles we remember for his beautiful hymns which grace our worship with their musical and poetic power.

 

John, on the other hand, is remembered chiefly for his role in founding what would later become the Methodist church. His theology put him at odds with the Church of England which had ordained him, but he was completely devoted to preaching the word and serving God’s people. He was involved early in the abolitionist movement and orphanages and prison reform, and for his work we are grateful.

 

John also advocated the use of lay preachers, and for that I am grateful even as I lack a formal training in preaching. John Wesley’s view of ordained ministry is very, very different from what we in the Anglican tradition believe, but his work, I’m sure, left the seeds for the re-valuing of the laity in recent years. He knew that the Gospel could be taught not only by learned priests but also by laborers who knew Jesus in their lives.

 

While not everyone is suited to preach from the pulpit and not every person should, every person does have a ministry whether they wear a little white collar or not. Every one of us has been called to a life of service to God and our neighbor. This life of service is living out the Gospel; it is bringing the Jesus we meet here in word and Sacrament out into a world of injustice, confusion, and heartache.

 

In the Gospel reading, Jesus sends out the Twelve “to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal.” Not the smallest of tasks; the power of healing occupied so much of Jesus’ time, and then to add in the proclamation of the Kingdom? The apostles had a monumental task to fulfill.

 

But then Christ orders them to take nothing for their trip; no extra clothes, no food, not even money for these things. The apostles are supposed to find a place to stay, trust in the hospitality of strangers, and then go out into the city and preach the Gospel and heal the sick. Trusting in God and in the hospitality of strangers, they were to go out and proclaim the Good News to the neighboring towns.

 

How effective could the apostles be if they were supposed to take nothing for their journey? How could they focus on preaching and healing if they had to worry about what they were going to eat, where they were going to stay? This concern later led the apostles to ordain deacons to assist them; how could they focus on teaching if they had to wait on tables all day?

 

Today we would say that it would be irresponsible to send people out so ill-equipped. Won’t they need some supplies? Some money to get a room for the night? Some food? How can they be effective preachers and teachers if we don’t give them any supplies?

 

But Christ commanded them to take nothing for their journey. The apostles would have to live as vulnerable strangers in the land. They would have to hope that others would invite them in to stay the night and invite them to share in their food. In return, the apostles could give only the message of God’s kingdom and the healing of diseases. While healing diseases might be a very welcome gift, the proclamation of the kingdom which heals our hearts and minds and world might not be so welcome.

 

The apostles would have to live, then, as Christ lived. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came and lived among us as a vulnerable human being. The Son of God was sent to us by the authority of the Father in order to draw us back to God. Christ was sent as our Messiah so that we might be made whole, that we might love God with all our hearts and minds and strength and that we might love our neighbors as ourselves.

 

But Christ did not bring anything with him except the power to heal and to teach. When tempted by the devil in the desert to turn rocks into bread, Jesus refused. His power and authority was not to serve himself, to provide for his own needs but to provide for the needs of God’s people, for our needs. And his living out the Gospel is why people were amazed at his words, for he taught as someone with authority, as someone who heeded his own message and whose good fruits were evident!

 

So the apostles were sent out like Jesus. While it wasn’t read today, the Gospel reads that Jesus called together the apostles and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases. Their power to heal the sick came from God, and they were sent out to do so. Their power and authority was to be of service.

 

But Christ didn’t give them the power and authority to proclaim the Gospel, to preach the good news about the kingdom of God. This power and authority was not to be given but instead to be lived. If the Gospel could not be lived by those teaching it, then of what use was it? If the rightness of the teaching was not evident in the lives of its teachers, then how could it be right?

 

By living as vulnerable people, the apostles were given the chance to rely on God and to have faith in God and in God’s people. Their authority was in living out the freedom of the Gospel. They could not wander about, thinking that their job was to preach the Good News which others were then expected to follow. They had to be ready to serve and to accept help from others and to proclaim the Gospel of a God made flesh to save us. They had to live these things, and that is the root of their authority.

 

And so lay people, just as deacons, priests and bishops, are called to preach the Gospel. And they are called to preach it in living it out. Their authority to live the Gospel comes not from the ordination to Holy Orders but from baptism, as that is our call to the Christian life. Our baptism sends us out, and the Gospel becomes evident in our lives.

 

So you today may not feel eloquent, but do you live the Gospel? You may not give a brilliant sermon on the Scripture readings for the day but do you live the Gospel? Do you live as a witness to Christ Jesus who came to us that we might live a new life in God? Do you live as a servant to your neighbors around you, caring for the needs of those you love and the needs of those you do not or cannot love?

 

If you do, then you have the authority to proclaim the Good News because you’re living the Good News. The teaching that comes from the example of your life has authority because its rightness, its faithfulness to God is evident.

 

So go out there, and preach the Gospel by living it.

A Lenten practice of gratitude

Last night one of my fellow interns made the usual accusation of me being too close to Rome and unappreciative/disloyal/unfaithful to the Anglican tradition which I am a part of. At first I was annoyed; how many times must I bear that accusation? I came to this church as a convert, and I know why I'm here and why I'm not anywhere else. It gets frustrating and disheartening to be accused of spiritual infidelity. In essence, I was being accused of being a bad spouse because I seemed to be flirting all the time with another church instead of staying at home with the one I'm married to. 

Now, I'm not sure exactly whether he was serious or not, but it got me to thinking: Am I grateful for the Episcopal Church? Moreover, did I express that thanks? Was I one of those Anglicans who look to Rome for marching orders? 

My fellow intern has expressed to me before his concern that I'm excessively critical of the church and that I love Pope Benedict more than Presiding Bishop Katherine. Instead of defending myself, I think it might just be a sign from God to express my gratitude more. 

As a Lenten practice, I've started keeping a list of reasons why I'm Episcopalian. Louie Crew has already put together an exhaustive list from many, many Episcopalians (which can be found by clicking here). 

So as a Lenten exercise, be grateful and say it. Tell God how thankful you are for the blessings in your life and for the gift of grace in all your pain and suffering. Tell others how grateful you are for their gift of themselves in your life. Tell all of creation how grateful you are for its wildness and freedom. 

"If the only prayer you say in your life is "Thank you," it will be enough." -Meister Eckhart

PS and thank you for reading! 

The Holy Spirit strikes again

At first I was going to post the sermon I preached on Tuesday in honor of Archbishop Janani Luwum, but then I thought better of it. 

I had worked on it so hard over the weekend. I rewrote it twice, trying to fine tune it and get the language just right. I wanted it to be so easy for me to remember as I'd had problems the week before getting through my sermon without my notes. 

Because of some significant things in the last week and because of a death in the cathedral family on Tuesday, I didn't have the energy or the strength to preach what I'd written. It almost felt hollow, a little too academic or planned to be right. 

My heart pounding in my chest as I stepped outside the chapel altar rail, I stood before the few people gathered and preached. More specifically and more truthfully, the Spirit gave me the words and I was as much part of the audience as everyone else. 

My sermon focused on a different understanding of what is really at the heart of martyrdom; the image of the devout Christian being fed to the lions for confessing "Christ is Lord" is correct but misses the point. Martyrdom is rooted in being who we have been called to be. As Christians, it means never giving up our faith in the face of oppression, violence and injustice. 

"Christ has come that we might have life, and have it abundantly." The abundant life is in living out our call: our call to be humans who are created not for violence and abuse but for love and justice. When the world laughs at our belief that human beings were made for love and not brutality or when we're told to deny who God has called us to be, then we must be ready to live and die in the belief that God has called us to life in Christ and has created us for love. 

Given that in the past week I've been struggling with how to work my gay identity into my ministry and that I realized I'd been sort of hiding my gayness for fear of repercussions, I realized through the sermon that God was giving me the words that I myself needed to hear. I don't know what it meant to people hearing, but it was definitely powerful to hear those words and to know in my heart the truth of them. 

Today I received confirmation of the truth of the sermon God gave me:  the two most important thngs I said today were, "That's not how I roll," and "I'm a Christian." 

Let me put them in context. I went down to the local youth organization as I like to do and was asked to once again open the weight room. After doing some benchpresses at their request, I started closing down the weight room when one of them asked me, "Why doesn't your girlfriend tell you to work out more?" Yes, teenagers can be awkward. To this I responded, "I don't have a girlfriend." He asked why, and I responded, "That's not how I roll." I don't know why that phrase popped into my mind, but it did. He looked at me quizzically for a second then remarked that he understood what I meant. 

Just a minute or so later we were all in a discussion about college, and I remarked that I was a religion major in college. I was asked what religion I was, and I replied, "I'm a Christian." 

In those two sentences I uttered today I was bearing witness to the truth the Holy Spirit had revealed yesterday. I was being true to who God has called me to be, and being a gay Christian is exactly who God has called me to be!

The lesson of the story?

The Holy Spirit is wild and free, indeed, and do not be ashamed to be yourself. 

The Galaxies of Nebraska

Last night I was flying back to Omaha from a meeting in Berkeley, California. Strangely, the plane would hit a little bit of turbulence any time I opened my book, so I decided that looking out the window would be the better way to spend the flight. For the record, I'm not the biggest fan of flying. 

It's been almost a year since I've flown. Normally I'd fly home for Christmas break in college, and inevitably some part of the flight would be at night. Those flights were kind of pretty; the ground far, far below us would be inky black, unbroken save for a few random lights here and there. That is, unless the moon were full; then the moonlight would be reflected off of the snowy peaks and valleys of Idaho or Washington. Those were always beautiful flights. Seeing nature from high above, pristine and safe from human development, reminded me of the sheer grandeur and immensity of God's creation right in our own little world. 

Last night, though, I had expected yet more inky darkness, but that was not what I saw. I would see no mountains but towns all lit up. At first I was wondering what people below were doing that night while we were flying overhead. Then as we passed over more and more towns, I noticed how these little patches were like galaxies in the darkness. Little patches of light spaced far apart and connected by nearly invisible roads. 

Two different feelings welled up in me. On the one hand, I was fascinated to see these little towns, these little galaxies. Who doesn't feel a sense of awe and majesty in looking at pictures from space? To see bright colors surrouned by darkness, to know how vast and beautiful all creation is? I was amazed to see little clusters of people. I wondered what the names of each little town were. 

On the other hand, I wondered what it meant that these little galaxies were spread out like that. There wasn't a large stretch of darkness, a place where we have not extended our reach, a realm that lies under our stewardship but not our dominion. Real galaxies remind us how much we will never know, how many places that will never be explored, colonized and conquered by us. 

Is this the reason why we seem to have lost our sense of wonder? On the hand, there is a real sense of wonder at what we, the human animal, can accomplish, but then have we lost our sense of wonder for everything else?

Late at night when I was younger I would sometimes take a walk in our pasture and look up at the night sky. I would see the Milky Way, constellations I knew and constellations I didn't. Sometimes I would even be graced by a falling star. On those nights, I would be scared and awed by it all; the sheer size of all creation is beautiful and amazing, but then I would be scared by how small and fragile we really are. 

That feeling of limitation and fear, I think, is not wholly unwelcome. That reminder of just Whose creation this is can bring us to the knowledge of how much we rely on God to sustain us. 

I really loved seeing those little galaxies in the night, but I missed the inky blackness, too.