Advent 4A

Waiting for Fred

December 22, 2013

I grew up in the same town and the same house with the same friends until I left for college.  Upon returning back home during summer break, my best friend since playpen days and I caught up from months apart while away at college after years together, picking up where we’d left off.  Her new boyfriend was coming to visit her, and I sat vigil with her.  We sat in her bedroom, looking out the window, waiting for his big brown car to drive down the street.  We must have sat there for hours, playing games to keep us entertained.   “He’ll be here within 15 cars”.  “Five white cars will pass us in the next 30 minutes.”  We waited.   And her excitement was so contagious, we were both giddy, waiting for Fred to arrive.    Finally he arrived.   And the arrival was worth the wait.  

Today, we are a few days short of the arrival we’ve been waiting for, counting down.  We’re waiting for God’s arrival.   And yet, it’s hard to  have that same sense of expectation and anticipation, of sitting vigil.  I think part of the reason for that, is that God is so much bigger and harder to fathom than Fred.   We can imagine a college sweetheart driving.   It’s harder to imagine God knocking on the door.  If only we could have a way to understand God’s arrival, to bring to a human scale to the immensity of God entering our life.   Some way to understand this thing that’s about to happen.  

Of course, that’s the whole point of the nativity - God arriving in a tiny human newborn.  Through that very human experience, we catch a glimpse of something on our scale. 

I think it’s interesting that during advent we spend all this time talking about and preparing for this very long-awaited arrival.  Arrivals are something, as humans, we understand.  But honestly, I’m pretty sure God doesn’t need an arrival.  God’s always present, dwelling in is, all around us, before and after us.   If that  is true, why do we celebrate the arrival of God in Jesus every year? If God’s already with us, God certainly doesn’t need to make an “arrival”.   

But we do.

We don’t understand, can’t comprehend God.  So we need God to reenter our lives, like other people enter our lives, year after year.  We need to anticipate his arrival like humans.   Like waiting for Fred.    We’ve all experienced arriving, or waiting for someone we love to arrive.  And that helps us know a little more about God.  Waiting for God to arrive is hard.  Anticipating a birth or the arrival of a loved one is more understandable.  Experiencing the sheer joy after the arrival we know. 

The season of Advent is laden with anticipation of an arrival, and uses a lot of arrival or greeting language. And that’s all for our benefit - to help us understand this immense thing.  Many of our hymns today talk about arrivals or greetings.   Savior of the nations come, by Martin Luther.   Come thou long expected Jesus, from Charles Wesley.  Joy of heaven to earth come down.  Visit us.  Enter every trembling heart.   Also from Charles Wesley.  

God’s arrival through this tiny infant, helps us better understand.  Christ is God.  But Christ is also fully human, arriving like all other infants, with parents who experienced pain, worry, joy and relief.   Those are things we’ve experienced.  And as Christ grew up, learning, teaching, serving loving?   Christ experienced the same emotions and the same worries, pain, joy and relief.  

God entering our lives through Christ is a great step towards understanding this big thing.  But sometimes, even that’s somehow too big, too hard to wrap my head around.  God in a baby?  God, who created the galaxies, and counted the hairs on my head? That God, in a baby? In my head, I understand.  In my soul?  Sometimes I need more help.   

Sometimes I don’t need to understand.  I relish the holy mystery, without feeling any need to understand or be able to rationally explain the hows and whys. I sense God in the immense and in the majesty.  Sometimes, however I need more help.  I need more human, relational experiences to let me glimpse God. I need to understand the story in exceedingly mundane and human terms.    I need these things to help make the imminent arrival of the God child more real.  

Luckily, today’s readings tell of these things.  Today’s readings talk about greetings and tidings.   We all know about greeting each other, and sharing news.  Those are very normal things we all do.  And because of that, they provide more nuggets to understand this mystery.   

The Gospel tells the beginning of the birth story of Jesus.  The section today focuses on Joseph’s part in the story.   Joseph is engaged to be married.   He finds out Mary is pregnant and not by him.  While her perceived infidelity would certainly have disgraced her, it also would have disgraced him.  That’s why he was going to dismiss her.  I can imagine that both of them were confused, and scared, and uncertain what had happened, or what was going to happen. 

And Joseph was a carpenter.    You know the carpenter’s motto, right?  Measure twice, cut once.  Joseph was likely a careful realist.  If I can’t fathom God coming into my life as a baby, can you imagine what Joseph was going through?  He surely needed help making this news real to hear something on a scale he could understand.    
So God brought tidings or news to Joseph in a dream, some of the news pretty fantastical and hard to imagine, and for the practical carpenter, some concrete.   Mary has conceived a child from the Holy Spirit. What would you do with that sort of dream?  Hmm.    But the angel threw in some very practical logistical information for him too.   You are to name him Jesus.  That part is pretty practical, because as the father, it would have been Joseph’s job to name the child, and most commonly with a name steeped in family history.  With that naming counsel, the angel gave Joseph some useful, comprehendible news, in an otherwise larger than life story. 

So the news the angel brought Joseph included the mysterious, as well as the ordinary.  The ordinary may have helped Joseph grasp, or at least accept the mysterious.  God helps us all by speaking to us in ways we need to hear.  We just need to be listening for God, in the still small voice, in the dream, in the tear, in the words of a friend.  God brings tidings to us all the time.  

Continuing with the very ordinary things from today’s readings, let’s look at greetings, at what people say to each other when they meet.  My daughter’s high school Spanish teacher insists that the class responds to her greetings every day.  Good morning class. Good morning.  Fr. Court offers a good morning welcome every week, and we respond.  We know about greetings.   It’s what we people do. 
The second reading today is made up entirely of Paul’s greeting to his letter to the Romans.  Every one of Paul’s letters begins with a similar greeting.  It’s longer than we’d expect, but that’s what people did.   He’d write a letter to a particular community and in the introduction, include information about them, why he was writing them, perhaps something about what was happening in his world.  After this paragraph-long preface, He’d conclude his greeting with his standard opener:  “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.”  We’ve heard this greeting many times.  And don’t let its familiarity fool you.  This greeting is packed with great messages, and caused quite a stir in Paul’s time.  

During that time, the world as Paul knew it, was pretty divided, between Jew and Gentile.  People identified in one community or camp,  or the other.   And ne’er the two shall meet.  During his life, Jesus came through smashing boundaries and barriers, and asked his followers to do the same, and with this greeting Paul was doing the same.  

Grace to you was a greeting that was familiar to the Greeks and other Gentiles of the time.    Peace, or shalom, was the traditional greeting of the Jews.   In this one simple compound phrase, Paul’s greeting continued Christ’s imperative to take down the walls that divide.  Paul could have, and many would have expected him to have proffered greetings something more like, Grace to you gentiles, and Peace to you Jews, supporting their cultural and societal distinctions and barriers. Perhaps being seen as more culturally appropriate to each.    

Rather, Paul jumbles both greetings together in one phrase, that he repeats, letter after letter after letter.   Grace to you, and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.  With a simple greeting, Paul is speaking very familiar words to each distinct community who heard him.  And he was doing it a way that, like Jesus sounded familiar, and yet not quite.  He acknowledged and used the culturally appropriate and expected greeting for Jews and Gentiles, while also creating greeting that unites despite the differences.  Grace and Peace, from God.  Let’s acknowledge and honor the differences, while celebrating the unity in one God.   

Paul used the simple act of a greeting to support Christ’s values of love, unity, and respecting all.  All that in a greeting!

Like Paul, it’s through the ordinary things we do, through greetings and tidings, we can share Christ’s love.  And like Mary and Joseph, it is with arrivals and waiting that we learn about and experience Christ.  It’s through these ordinary things that we do that we have the chance to unite, and honor, and see Christ in others.   Through these ordinary things, we see mystery, and we experience the holy.

In the readings today, we learn of the ordinary and the mystery.  With God’s arrival in Christ, in a human newborn, the ordinary and mystery are all wrapped up together in that swaddling cloth.   It is through that child, God came to earth to experience our ordinary lives and emotions.  

Through Christ, God experiences the ordinary, and through the ordinary, if we look for it, we experience God.      A blessed and ordinary Christmas to you. Amen

Proper 28 C

Proper 28C
November 17, 2013

Have you ever seen the life-stressors chart?  It’s a chart that lists all those life events that result in increased stress in our lives, and includes things that you’d expect, like being arrested, trouble with your boss, or foreclosure.  Stressful, right?   But also on that list are good things that you wouldn’t think would be on the list like vacation, retirement, marriage.  These things are on the list because change is stressful.  Change is hard, even if it’s good change.

In two weeks, we enter Advent.  A time of new beginnings.  The new church year, the birth of an infant God.  The reading from Isaiah talks about creating a new heaven and a new earth, and that the old things will be forgotten.  This reading spells out the vision of a new, reborn, transformed world, where no one will die too early, not infants or not seniors.  Where people will not labor in vain. Where the wolf and the lamb shall feed together.

We hear this story today about things made new as we near Advent, and the connection between new things and the child God is apparent.  Christ makes all things renewed and restored.   This is a good change, God entering our life again.

But like all change, new things, even new restored things, change is hard.  
In my experience, there are two distinct ways new things are hard.  First, new things come out of chaos, out of hard places.  Some of the most beautiful wildflowers came up after the desolation caused by the Mt. St. Helen’s eruption.   And ancient oak groves were best maintained by burning the fast growing forest plants and trees that crowd the mighty oaks out of their air, water and sun.   Earthquakes create new mountains and new landscapes.  And on a human level, community tragedy can birth new commitment, compassion and forgiveness. Chaos and destruction happen, and new things spring forth.

The Gospel talks about this.  Jesus is telling the disciples that before the end times, there will be great chaos.  Wars and insurrections, nation rising against nation.  Famines and plagues.  Betrayal from family members. Pretty horrible chaos.  

The Thessalonians were sure that that the end was near, that cataclysmic end, not unlike the image portrayed in modern tv and popular book series.   Their world was in chaos, and because of the chaos, they knew the end was near.  Jesus said the end would come only after chaos, right?

Amidst the chaos, many of the faithful did,  what people often do in times like that.   They stopped in their tracks.  They stopped participating in the society and contributing to the work of the community.   Instead, they sat waiting, waiting and suffering, waiting for that moment when Christ returns.  Paul is asking the community to continue in community, contributing and participating.  Don’t be idle.  Don’t freeze like a deer in the headlights. Don’t sit and wait.  

This counsel is hard.  It’s hard to continue to forge ahead when the world is so chaotic and uncertain.  It is much easier to stop, and wait and see what will happen.  Or wait for the chaos to end.  Or to stick your head in the sand. If I don’t see trouble, trouble can’t see me.  

A problem with this perspective is that the end, as it’s talked about in these readings and in most of the readings between All Saints and Advent isn’t referring to a finish line, or a destination or a big cataclysmic melt down.  It isn’t as Webster’s first definition reads, “the point at which something no longer continues to happen or exist”.  Rather, the original language translation is closer to the third meaning in Websters, “an outcome worked towards”.  It’s more like the fulfillment or culmination.   More like we us the word “ends” as in “the ends justifies the means.”  In that context, ends is more like the a resolution.

We know that on this earth, we are Christ’s hands and feet and heart and actions. That creates problems with the Thessalonians’ idea of just waiting it out.   If the Thessalonians were just sitting around, who was loving, teaching, feeding, caring, sharing? Who was going to help bring about “thy kingdom come, on earth?” Paul urges the Thessalonians to forge ahead, even amidst chaos and their misguided idea that because there was chaos and turmoil, the world was going to just stop.
This is definitely not an easy proposition, to take a step when you don’t know what’s ahead at best, or when you know exactly what horrible things are ahead at worst.  And yet, that’s what Paul is urging them to do.  He concludes with the cheer,  ‘Do not be weary in doing what is right’.   Regardless of the turmoil, keep doing what’s right.

New and glorious things spring from chaos, and turmoil.  And we need to keep doing what is right in its midst.

The second hard thing about new things is highlighted in the Gospel reading.  New things often come at the cost of something old.  Jesus is telling the people that they will gain their soul.  And, it will come at the price of the destruction of the Temple, the temple that was the center of the Jews’ faith.  To tell them they were going to gain anything at the cost of their Temple would have been very stressful, and likely an unwelcome offer.

When we receive any new thing, even a glorious wonderful new thing, something  ends or ceases or is destroyed.  If you get a beautiful new gift, you’ve given up some storage space, a free shelf, or gotten rid of something you already had to make room.   If you have a new baby, you give up full restful nights of sleep.

Always something ceases, the space, the condition, your attitude.  You are not the same after having received or experienced something new, and  the world as it was, will never be again. True, the Temple, adorned with jewels, will come down.  But after that, something new will be born.

So here we sit.   At the end of the calendar year, on the edge of something new.  We’re on the verge of Christ making all things new, all over again.  And as I have experienced new things and change and as the Epistle and Gospel tell us today, new things come from chaos and result in something ceasing.  
I think that the change we’re staring down, the birth of Christ will be surrounded by those same challenges -  chaos before and the necessary destruction of something to make room for the change.

Advent is designed to be a time in the church year when we prepare for this new thing, the reentry of Christ into our world and our lives.  And given today’s readings, I think there are a couple of things that our Advent should do.

First, I think Advent is a time when I need to continue to do what is right, and not weary, amidst the chaos.   What IS the right action for me?  What should I do, or practice during Advent that would put me in a better place to fully experience the new thing that comes at Christmas?

Second, Advent gives me time to destroy my proverbial Temple.  What is it in my life that needs to go away or be taken down, in order to make room for God incarnate?  Has Christmas become too commercial, and I need to shed some long-held belief or practice that’s interfering with Christ’s arrival?

Advent is the time to make those changes because it’s our time to prepare.  To figure out what IS right, and continue doing right, And to dismantle or destroy the Temple that leaves no room for Christ.   The problem, as I see it, is that Advent is only 4 weeks long.  That’s not a lot of time to think through all of this chaos and destruction and imminent new things.  To set your course, and end up at Christmas prepared.   Instead of cramming that all into Advent, I’d propose that this is an excellent time to think about Christ coming into our lives again, and each of us laying out our individual Advent preparations.  We’ve got two weeks. And then we should be on the Advent Journey.

For me, the BEST part about a vacation is the planning.  I love thinking through the destination, the side trips, the transportation, and the accommodations.  That generally takes way longer, often months, than the final vacation, weeks.  
For the next two weeks, we have time to plan our trip.  We know where we’ll end up, at Christ’s entrance into this world all over again.  But what route should I take?  Is it important that I address the chaos, figuring out how to be unwearied, or to continue to do what’s right?  Maybe instead, I need to make plans to demolish the proverbial temple that’s in the way.

We have four short weeks in Advent to prepare for Christmas.   We can’t make the preparations or reserve our flights, until we plan our journey. Try to find a few quiet moments to plan your trip now.  As you know, it will be Christmas in no time.

All Saints C, November 1, 2013

All Saints
November 1, 2013



Today we celebrate All Saints’ Day, and the communion of saints. Through the stories of the saints, known and unknown, we get a vision of how things will be, of how things are in that heavenly place. The communion of saints is full of all of those people we’ve known and loved, and those we didn’t know but admired. Today, we pause in this world, to think about their lives and their stories. The part of their narrative that took place on Earth may have ended when they died. But their story didn’t end with death. It continues in the communion of saints. 

The collect tells us that God has knit the elect together in one communion and fellowship. One communion and fellowship. Imagine what that looks like, the communion of saints. Whether you’ve got the image of a classic icon with dozens of saints, or the more modern mural of the dancing saints from St. Gregory of Nyssa, or a less-distinct picture in your mind, it probably reflects harmony and unity. One communion. Holding together because the saints are knit together in the mystical body of Jesus Christ. 

The Gospel reading provides a vision of the way things will be in the age to come. Jesus is telling his disciples about the Kingdom of God, about who is blessed now because of what will happen in their future. As he often does, he portrays a new world order, where he sets the world right side up. He also provides a comforting vision for those who don’t feel blessed. And as happened with many of Jesus teachings, the key to being blessed wasn’t what people were expecting. At all. Blessings and better times will come if you’re poor. If you’re hungry. If you weep. If people hate you. 

Those aren’t good feelings or situations. I’ve felt all of those things at one point or another. And at that time, I didn’t feel particularly blessed. But there is some comfort in the midst of that kind of anguish, from this promise from Jesus of blessings and better times. Hunger will be filled, weeping will be turned in to laughter. Things will be made right. Maybe not in the way I think, or on my timeline, but on God’s. “Your reward will be great in heaven”. Jesus doesn’t stop with the blessings.

This story in Luke continues with parallel woes. Woe to you if you’re full, happy, wealthy. Those traits in the woe-to-you litany? They’re things that we all strive to achieve. Happiness, wealth, sufficient food, being well regarded. They’re things that I would think, and many in society would think reflect God’s blessings. But Jesus says fullness will turn to hunger, wealth to poverty, happiness to mourning. Taken the wrong way, this section could discourage us from ever striving for happiness, or being well regarded. I don’t think it’s is a warning against being happy, wealthy or full. Rather, I think it’s sort of like what All Saints teaches us about death. Death is not the end of the story. Death doesn’t define us. And there’s so much more to God’s kingdom that goes far beyond death. Likewise, wealth doesn’t define us. Being well regarded isn’t the end of the story. There is so much more to God’s kingdom than happiness or being well fed. If we act as if death is the ultimate ending, or that we have arrived at the final destination after achieving wealth or happiness, we’ve opted out of the rest of the glorious story, the part where we live in fellowship and communion with all of the elect, in the mystical body of Christ. 

And it’s more than just a future lost opportunity we miss. It’s here and now. The Prayer Book tells us that the communion of saints includes the whole family of God, the dead.. and the living. So everything we hear about the communion of saints? The vision Christ shares? That’s not just some point in the future. We’re part of the communion, and those words of Christ are for us too, here and now. Today, All Saints is about us. It is true that God will make all things right, future tense, as the Gospel tells us. In God’s kingdom, the playing field will be leveled. Those who hunger will be filled. Those who weep will laugh. The wrongs will be righted. 

But what about until then, until we come to that heavenly place? Are we supposed to simply wait because eventually we’ll be blessed if we’re hungry, sad and poor? Are we just supposed to wait for God, on God’s time, to make everything right at some distant point in the future? Since we are in the communion of saints, I don’t think that’s the plan for us now. I think here, we are the answer. We’re the ones who are to make things right, or at least righter. As Christ’s hands and feet and heart, we need to strive to make all things right here. We are how those bad things turn good here and now. How hunger is filled. Sadness turns to joy. If you have wealth, share it with someone who doesn’t. If you have happiness, share with someone who doesn’t. A quote that’s making its way through the internet applies, “Sometimes I want to ask God why God allows poverty, famine, and injustice in the world when he could do something about it. But I’m afraid he might ask me the same question”.

As a part of the communion of saints, with the vision portrayed by Jesus we know what we need to do now. We also don’t need to wait for the age to come for that sense of communion or unity. We need to do that here. But that’s not how we work. One of the challenging things about human nature that this passage highlights is that when we see a dichotomy or difference, we are too quick to pick sides, and judge. Some who hear today’s gospel will identify more with the poor and hungry and sad. Some will identify with the wealthy and well regarded. And while that’s ok, the problem I see is that once we do that – once we pick sides, we’re quick to jump into the role of adjudicator, and judge the other side. I am right. My position is right. You are not. Woe to you.

In the Eugene Springfield area more than anywhere else I’ve lived, it seems we are quick to take sides on any number of issues: hunger, poverty, homelessness, economic development, politics. Not only do we take sides, but we go right to “woe to you”. As a community, this place is full of a wide diverse, varied mix of perspectives, people and politics. And while that diversity is rich and fascinating, as a community, we are amazingly quick to judge and then dismiss the other guy, the perspective, the position that differs from ours. We do it as individuals. We do it as communities, and it even happens in and among our churches. We represent five distinct parishes in the Eugene Springfield area, with distinct and unique strengths, values and perspectives. It is far too easy for us to jump to Woe to you. 

But that’s not our call to make, and I think that’s one of the reason Jesus ends this story the way he does. As today’s Gospel story starts, Jesus is sharing the Blessed are you and woe to you, he’s talking in the future tense. “You will laugh. Your reward will be great”. I can imagine that he has a prophetic far-off look, as he’s talking about how things will be. Sharing this vision of the future. Then he realizes he’s among humans on earth, and after a little head shaking, realizes he needs to make this real for the people then, and for us now. He returns to the present tense, with advice that will help counter this natural tendency of ours to pick sides and judge. He lays down the blessings and woes, and then turns to the people gathered and clarifies that we are to love our enemies, and do good to those who curse us. So regardless of what the other guy, the other political party or the other position is doing or saying, we are to love, do good and pray. Present tense. Ours is not to judge. Ours is not to utter or even think, “woe to you”. Samuel Johnson, an 18th Century English writer said “God himself doesn't propose to judge man until the end of his days. So why should you and I?” 

About 10 years ago, we were foster parents. The 5 year old little girl with us was sad, because she’d learned that her father had died. She didn’t really know him. What she also didn’t really know was that he’d been killed some years before, in a drug deal gone bad, soon after having gotten out of prison. It was October, and we had an upcoming All Saints Service. My mom had recently died, and I really took comfort in the message and music of All Saints. Death is not the end of the story. So I explained to her, in my best 5 year old theology, about the Communion of Saints. We looked through the texts of some of the standard hymns, those we sing tonight. She was intrigued with the idea that she could be a saint, and her dad could too. I invited her to join me. We went. She sat there listening more intently than I would have imagined. 

On the way home in the car, I was busy thinking about what was for dinner, and she was still quiet. Finally she spoke. “I like that your mom and my dad are saints now. You know what I think they’re doing?” She asked. “I think they’re sitting together and talking and smiling. They’ve both happy that I’m living with you, because I’m safe.” 

What makes All Saints so spectacular is that we believe in one communion of saints, of a time when the divisions and judgments cease, where the hungry are filled, when all the saints are knit together as one communion before God. We can imagine that in the age to come. But we are in the communion of saints. We need to live it now. As the hymn we sing tonight says, “We feebly struggle, they in glory shine. Yet all are one in thee, for all are thine. Alleluia. Alleluia.”

Amen.

All Saints,  November 1, 2013

Today we celebrate All Saints’ Day, and the communion of saints.    Through the stories of the saints, known and unknown, we get a vision of how things will be, of how things are in that heavenly place.   The communion of saints is full of all of those people we’ve known and loved, and those we didn’t know but admired.  Today, we pause in this world, to think about their lives and their stories.  The part of their narrative that took place on Earth may have ended when they died.  But their story didn’t end with death.  It continues in the communion of saints. 

The collect tells us that God has knit the elect together in one communion and fellowship.  One communion and fellowship.  Imagine what that looks like, the communion of saints.   Whether you’ve got the image of a classic icon with dozens of saints, or the more modern mural of the dancing saints from St. Gregory of Nyssa, or a less-distinct picture in your mind, it probably reflects harmony and unity.  One communion.   Holding together because the saints are knit together in the mystical body of Jesus Christ.  

The Gospel reading provides a vision of the way things will be in the age to come.  Jesus is telling his disciples about the Kingdom of God, about who is blessed now because of what will happen in their future.  As he often does, he portrays a new world order, where he sets the world right side up.  He also provides a comforting vision for those who don’t feel blessed.   And as happened with many of Jesus teachings, the key to being blessed wasn’t what people were expecting.  At all.  

Blessings and better times will come if you’re poor. If you’re hungry. If you weep. If people hate you. Those aren’t good feelings or situations.    I’ve felt all of those things at one point or another.  And at that time, I didn’t feel particularly blessed.  But there is some comfort in the midst of that kind of anguish, from this promise from Jesus of blessings and better times.   Hunger will be filled, weeping will be turned in to laughter. Things will be made right. Maybe not in the way I think, or on my timeline, but on God’s.  “Your reward will be great in heaven”. 

Jesus doesn’t stop with the blessings. This story in Luke continues with parallel woes.  Woe to you if you’re full, happy, wealthy.  Those traits in the woe-to-you litany?  They’re things that we all strive to achieve.  Happiness, wealth, sufficient food, being well regarded.  They’re things that I would think, and many in society would think reflect God’s blessings.  But Jesus says fullness will turn to hunger, wealth to poverty, happiness to mourning.  Taken the wrong way, this section could discourage us from ever striving for happiness, or being well regarded.  I don’t think it’s is a warning against being happy, wealthy or full.  Rather, I think it’s sort of like what All Saints teaches us about death.  Death is not the end of the story.  Death doesn’t define us.   And there’s so much more to God’s kingdom that goes far beyond death.  Likewise, wealth doesn’t define us.   Being well regarded isn’t the end of the story.   There is so much more to God’s kingdom than happiness or being well fed.  If we act as if death is the ultimate ending, or that we have arrived at the final destination after achieving wealth or happiness, we’ve opted out of the rest of the glorious story, the part where we live in fellowship and communion with all of the elect, in the mystical body of Christ.    

And it’s more than just a future lost opportunity we miss.  It’s here and now.  The Prayer Book tells us that the communion of saints includes the whole family of God, the dead.. and the living.   So everything we hear about the communion of saints?  The vision Christ shares?  That’s not just some point in the future.  We’re part of the communion, and those words of Christ are for us too, here and now.  Today, All Saints is about us.    

It is true that God will make all things right, future tense, as the Gospel tells us.   In God’s kingdom, the playing field will be leveled.  Those who hunger will be filled.  Those who weep will laugh.  The wrongs will be righted.  

But what about until then, until we come to that heavenly place?   Are we supposed to simply wait because eventually we’ll be blessed if we’re hungry, sad and poor?  Are we just supposed to wait for God, on God’s time, to make everything right at some distant point in the future?  Since we are in the communion of saints, I don’t think that’s the plan for us now.  I think here, we are the answer.  We’re the ones who are to make things right, or at least righter.  As Christ’s hands and feet and heart, we need to strive to make all things right here.  We are how those bad things turn good here and now.  How hunger is filled.  Sadness turns to joy.  If you have wealth, share it with someone who doesn’t.  If you have happiness, share with someone who doesn’t.  A quote that’s making its way through the internet applies, “Sometimes I want to ask God why God allows poverty, famine, and injustice in the world when he could do something about it.      But I’m afraid he might ask me the same question”.   As a part of the communion of saints, with the vision portrayed by Jesus we know what we need to do now.   

We also don’t need to wait for the age to come for that sense of communion or unity.   We need to do that here.   But that’s not how we work.   One of the challenging things about human nature that this passage highlights is that when we see a dichotomy or difference, we are too quick to pick sides, and judge.  Some who hear today’s gospel will identify more with the poor and hungry and sad.  Some will identify with the wealthy and well regarded.  And while that’s ok, the problem I see is that once we do that – once we pick sides, we’re quick to jump into the role of adjudicator, and judge the other side.  I am right.  My position is right.  You are not.   Woe to you.   

In the Eugene Springfield area more than anywhere else I’ve lived, it seems we are quick to take sides on any number of issues:  hunger, poverty, homelessness, economic development, politics.  Not only do we take sides, but we go right to “woe to you”.   As a community, this place is full of a wide diverse, varied mix of perspectives, people and politics.  And while that diversity is rich and fascinating, as a community, we are amazingly quick to judge and then dismiss the other guy, the perspective, the position that differs from ours.  We do it as individuals.  We do it as communities, and it even happens in and among our churches. We represent five distinct parishes in the Eugene Springfield area, with distinct and unique strengths, values and perspectives.  It is far too easy for us to jump to   Woe to you. 

But that’s not our call to make, and I think that’s one of the reason Jesus ends this story the way he does.  As today’s Gospel story starts, Jesus is sharing the Blessed are you and woe to you, he’s talking in the future tense.  “You will laugh.  Your reward will be great”.  I can imagine that he has a prophetic far-off look, as he’s talking about how things will be.  Sharing this vision of the future.  Then he realizes he’s amongst humans on earth, and after a little head shaking, realizes he needs to make this real for the people then, and for us now.  He returns to the present tense, with advice that will help counter this natural tendency of ours to pick sides and judge.  He lays down the blessings and woes, and then turns to the people gathered and clarifies that we are to love our enemies, and do good to those who curse us.  So regardless of what the other guy, the other political party or the other position is doing or saying, we are to love, do good and pray.   Present tense.  Ours is not to judge.  Ours is not to utter or even think, “woe to you”.  Samuel Johnson, an 18th Century English writer said “God himself doesn't propose to judge man until the end of his days. So why should you and I?” 

About 10 years ago, we were foster parents.  The 5 year old little girl with us was sad, because she’d learned that her father had died.  She didn’t really know him, but I think was sad in principle.   What she also didn’t really know was that he’d been killed some years before, in a drug deal gone bad, soon after having gotten out of prison.  It was October, and we had an upcoming All Saints Service. My mom had recently died, and I really took comfort in the message and music of All Saints.  Death is not the end of the story.  So I explained to her, in my best 5 year old theology, about the Communion of Saints.  We looked through the texts of some of the standard hymns, those we sing tonight.  She was intrigued with the idea that she could be a saint, and her dad could too. I invited her to join me.  We went.  She sat there listening more intently than I would have imagined.   

On the way home in the car, I was busy thinking about what was for dinner, and she was still quiet.  Finally she spoke.   “I like that your mom and my dad are saints now.   You know what I think they’re doing?” She asked.  “I think they’re sitting together and talking and smiling.  They’ve both happy that I’m living with you, because I’m safe.” 

What makes All Saints so spectacular is that we believe in one communion of saints, of a time when the divisions and judgments cease, where the hungry are filled, when all the saints are knit together as one communion before God.    We can imagine that in the age to come.  

But we are in the communion of saints.   We need to live it now.  As the hymn we sing tonight says, “We feebly struggle, they in glory shine.  Yet all are one in thee, for all are thine. Alleluia.  Alleluia.”

Amen.

Proper 25 C

Proper 25 C

October 27, 2013

Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, `God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.' But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, `God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."  Luke 18: 9-14

In today’s reading from Luke, a Pharisee and tax collector are praying in the temple.  And after their prayers, one walks away justified, and the other does not.  Given the social structures and cultural norms of the time, people would have thought that the Pharisee would be the one walking away justified.  Pharisees after all, did what was “right”.  On the other hand, tax collectors were horrid, culturally and practically much worse than today’s tax collectors.  In that time, Jewish people thought it was wrong to pay taxes to a foreign occupying power like the Romans, and yet some Jews took the job of collecting that tax from their fellow Jews. Not only did tax collectors do the Roman’s dirty work, they also did it in a crooked nearly extorting way.  They could require payment far in excess of what was actually owed the Romans and pocket the difference.  The Romans didn’t care, as long as they got their due.  Tax collectors of that time were more like the old crooked government workers from places like Chicago, who took illegal and immoral liberties with their people for the government designed to protect and govern.  What tax collectors did was seen as a betrayal to the Jewish people, their culture and religious law. 

People hearing the set up for this parable would have known that the Pharisee walks away justified.  But again and again Jesus uses parables not so much tell us how the people how they should act, but to illustrate why their expectations and values were so very wrong.  How does that happen, and what if anything does this parable say to us now?

The way Jesus tells the story gives us some clues.  The Pharisee was offering a prayer of thanksgiving, sort of.  True, he was thanking God.  But embedded in the thanks was a good dose of judgment and condescension.  Thank you God.   Thank you that I’m not like those others - the thieves, rogues, adulterers. And certainly not like that tax collector.  True, the Pharisee was grateful, but it was a gratitude steeped in one-upmanship.  

In one simple prayer that sounds like a thanksgiving prayer, the Pharisee is setting himself above the others, who he deems below or worse off than him.  Thank you God, that I’m not like them.   I can imagine that the people hearing the parable were getting a little uncomfortable.  He’s not talking about us, is he?    

After making this sweeping and condemning judgment of the tax collector, the Pharisee makes his second error.  He points to all the things he’s been doing that should make him right with God.  He fasts and he tithes, giving 10% of his income.   While these are good things, those actions alone do not make him right with God.  And yet that’s what the Pharisee uses as his defense, as to why he’s better than the tax collector. 

So Jesus again uses a parable to smash the status quo myths about who’s justified and who’s not and turns things right side up.   It’s not the man who follows the rules, who has more social and cultural status.  It’s the very person the Pharisee had judged as unworthy, the betraying, cheating, socially ostracized tax collector   

Jesus tells the story and with his typical twists, we can all get to the unexpected conclusion that sounds so simple.  Of course the tax collector, who expresses humility, and understands he’s a sinner is the one who’s justified.  That’s simple.  Of course the Pharisee who’s judgmental and believes he is good because of his actions is not justified.  That’s simple.  Ahh.  Simple, but not easy.  We can understand the words, but applying it to our world? Not easy.  

But the place where I feel we can learn the most from today’s and probably any parable isn't so much from the simple truths Jesus illuminates.  It’s the place where the story is not easy.  The way we make it our story.  Simple but not easy.  

The not- easy part from today’s Gospel reading for me surrounds the Pharisees – who they were, what they stood for, and why they always seem to be in trouble with Jesus.  

If you look at the Pharisees, there’s actually much to be respected.  The term Pharisee stems from the Hebrew and Aramaic words for separatists.  The Pharisees were separating themselves from the other religious and cultural groups at the time because they saw themselves as being true keepers of the Jewish Law unlike other groups.  They held on dearly to their laws and traditions, and followed them even when the culture did not.  

Unlike other Jewish sects at the time, Pharisees believed that Jews did not need to go to the Temple to experience God.  God was not contained in the Temple.  So they brought the Jewish law out in the world, in an effort to sanctify the world similar to acts done in the Temple, to make holy the whole of people’s lives.  

Unlike other Jewish sects at the time, Pharisees believed in the resurrection of the dead.  

And Pharisees were strong advocates for justice, taking care of others.
  
These don’t sound like horrible traits. In fact, they sound familiar, close to home.    Think about our Anglican or Episcopal tradition.  Anglicans started as separatists, separating ourselves from both the Roman Catholic Church and the Protestant movement, and while there were some pesky divorce and social issues in play, there was also a fundamental concern with those faiths.  We absolutely were separatists. 

We believe that the Holy is all around in the world, not just in Church.  We believe in the resurrection of the dead.  We hold fast to our liturgy, our traditions, and our history, even when the culture and other religious traditions scoff.   And, as we commit in our baptismal covenant, we strive for justice and peace on the earth and we respect the dignity of every human being. 
  
What’s fascinating - and disconcerting - to me is how similar this basic description of Pharisee is to my faith tradition.  And yet, the Pharisees seem to be frequently criticized in the Gospels, or at least used as the model of what NOT to do.  Hmm. 

I do not believe that it was the mere fact that the Pharisee was a traditionalist, or a separatist, or a supporter of social justice, or a keeper of the law that doomed the Pharisee again and again.  Nor do I think any of those things are inherently bad. After all, that’s a lot like us. 

 But I do think that because we’re characteristically a lot like the Pharisees, we have some of the same risks and pitfalls that got the Pharisees in all kinds of trouble in Jesus’ time.  

Take our rites, rituals and liturgies.  We do and say certain things at certain times.  We kneel, we stand, we sit, we cross ourselves.  We hold on to these actions as a symbol of our faith, and each action is rooted in history and has significant meaning, or at least should.   Some people stand after the Sanctus   while others kneel.  This could be simply due to how you were raised.  The Cathedral in Seattle offered a note in the bulletin that provided extra direction and explanation about that time in the service.  It said that many people kneel, and that kneeling is a sign of contrition, so by kneeling, you’re showing some humility, sort of like the Tax Collector in today’s story.  The bulletin went on to explain that others stand, to express their assurance in a risen Lord that has redeemed and restored us to wholeness.  The bulletin left it to the discretion of the worshipper.   Some people always knelt, some always stood.  Some changed their position week by week, depending on their relationship with God at the time.    

Being liturgical and ritualistic and doing certain things at certain times isn’t a problem.  But we need to connect what we’re doing with why we’re doing it.  We shouldn’t do things either because 1) we’ve always done it that way or worse 2) because we think it will make us right with God.  Perform the rituals because they mean something to you.  They are an outward and physical expression of your faith and relationship with God.  If they are anything else, we risk becoming like the Pharisees.   The rituals and traditions in our faith are deep, and meaningful and moving.  Take time to think about what you’re doing, or read the rubrics in the prayer book, you know, the italic words preceding each section.  Sometimes they just provide stage directions, but often they offer some insight as to why we do what we do. But whatever you do, please do not act out of a misguided sense that those actions make us right with God, or better than people who don’t.    

The other, and I believe more dangerous pitfall for us is the one that resulted in the Pharisee’s ill-attempted prayer, being thankful that he was not like those other people.   Some of the characteristics of our Episcopal faith put us at risk for the same fault.  A 2007 report by the Pew Research Foundation showed the distribution of wealth among Americans by religious tradition.  Of the sample of nearly 23,000 people, 19% of all Christians had incomes greater than $100,000.  But nearly 35% of us Anglicans had incomes more than $100,000, more than any other Christian denomination.  Simply put, we as a denomination are richer than other Christians.  

Not only that, we’re better educated, with nearly 29% holding college degrees, nearly twice the number of college graduates of other Protestants or Roman Catholics. 

Finally, we are less racially diverse.  92% of Episcopalians are Caucasian, compared with 66% Catholics, and 74% other protestant denominations.  
Please do not misunderstand me.  I am NOT suggesting any of these things are bad.  I do not believe that Jesus inherently prefers or dislikes any one.  No one by characteristic is more or less loved and cherished by God.  The poor, the tax collector, the Pharisee, the rich.  It’s what we do with God’s gifts that is judged by God.   

Having said that, we are richer, whiter and better educated than all other Christians in the United States.  And while none of those things make us bad, it makes us different.  Like the Pharisees, it would be exceedingly easy, given our demographic place in society, to be thankful.  Thankful that we aren’t like those other people.   

Instead of reveling in our specialness, we need to thank God for who we are, and what we are and how we believe and the community we have.  We need to take stock of the great resources we have to help bring about the Kingdom of God, where all people are cherished and loved.  

So how can we use what we have and who we are?  We at St. Thomas already have great outreach efforts.  Through the great work of the Outreach Committee, we donate thousands of dollars each year.  The community garden contributed over 20,000 pounds of produce in the month of September alone. The Community Counseling Center sees hundreds of people, and we’ve got dozens of volunteers throughout the community feeding people, working at thrift shops, mentoring youth.  We rock.  We need to keep doing that, and always strive to do more.   Doing things in the community, being engaged with other people, seeking and serving Christ in all people  helps reduce those barriers that we put up, that they put up, that society thinks exist.  
If we don’t actively break those barriers through service and prayer, it’s easy to simply be grateful that we aren’t like them.  

I’m not sure what else we can do, or what we can do better, but I’m sure there’s something.  And more importantly, I’m certain you have ideas   Talk with your brothers and sisters in Christ at coffee hour sometime.  What are we doing that brings us closer to the others, the adulterers, rogues, tax collectors, homeless, hungry?   What else can or should we at St. Thomas be doing? How should we be sharing our wealth?   

When we share and serve we bridge the chasm between us and them.  When we share a cup of coffee, buy a blanket, or mentor a child,  we begin to see that we are sort of like them.  The rogues, adulterers, mentally ill.  
After all, in God’s eyes, we're exactly like them.   God’s just waiting for us to figure that out. 

Amen

Proper 20 C - The Shrewd Manager

Proper 20

September 22, 2013

Luke 16:1-13

The Shrewd Manager

Before we start talking about today’s tricky readings, I have a little test. There are three steps.  I’ll go slow, and there are no winners or losers.  Do this in your head, and don’t say anything out loud, lest you ruin the surprise.

First, think of a country that begins with the letter D.

Now, think of an animal that begins with the last letter of your country.

Finally, think of a color that begins with the last letter of your animal.

Now picture your animal, in your color, cheering at the Olympics for your county.

Got it?  OK.  Now realize how silly it is to think of an orange kangaroo cheering for Denmark.  There are no orange kangaroos!

I must be magic, right?  Nope, just trained on cultural bias and assumptions.  We all have bias that results in us making  choices.  And so much of that bias is based on things we don’t even see, things we don’t actively decide.  We get our bias in a pretty passive way – where we live, when we were born.  And these things change the way we see the world.  It changes what we assume about ourselves and about others, and determines our actions.

 See, we northern hemisphere, first world folks most frequently pick Denmark as our country that begins with D. In another hemisphere and culture, we might have picked Djibouti, or Democratic Republic of Congo.   Once most of us picked Denmark, there are other animals that begin with a K, but kangaroos are on all our ABC flash cards.  Orange is in our crayon pack, but serious artists in the bunch may have picked ocher.  And if we lived in Temple, Texas or Tacoma Washington, we may have jumped to the color olive, because of the significant amount we see at our community’s army bases.

The moral of this little exercise?  We are absolutely creatures of our culture.  So much so that we don’t even see our cultural bias, and yet the majority of us stood there envisioning an orange kangaroo from Denmark.  This cultural bias ends up firmly attaching to our psyche, and helps develop something that’s gaining national attention, our implicit bias –which is so inherit or implicit, we fail to see it.   It influences what we think about other people, other cultures, other countries, and even the colors, animals and countries you pick at a short little exercise at church.

There’s nothing to do about implicit bias, except understand it exists, and question it when you make judgments about others.   Just be aware of it.

I mention all of this about cultural and implicit bias in light of today’s Gospel reading.  This reading from Luke 16 is tough.   What we hear, or at least what I heard is the following: The manager isn’t doing a good job and gets fired.  Being conniving, he runs to the people who owed his employer and tells them to cut what they owe.  This accomplishes a few things.  It makes the debtors grateful, and ingratiates them to the manager.  The rich owner then does the unthinkable.  He commends the manager.   What?  That’s not fair.

From where we sit, in one of the most capitalistic and wealthy countries in the world, this cannot be right.  The manager swindles his boss out of his hard earned income, and the owner thanks him?   This goes against everything we entrepreneurial Americans to know to be true.  You work hard and are honest, and the system repays you.  If you are wronged, justice will be done.

But what if our understanding and our visceral reaction to this story is deeply affected by that implicit bias?     For a second, let’s step away from that orange kangaroo and try to see things as if we weren't as implicitly biased as we really are.

What if the manager had worked his whole life, was a great manager and had done everything expected of him by his rich owner.  Maybe the rich owner is a crook, and inappropriately fired the manager, leaving the manager to face pending doom without skills or resources.  Some scholars argue that the words used would indicate that the manager was in the right and the rich owner was mean, and inappropriately fired the manager, trying to destroy him.     That would make the story easier to swallow and understand.

Here’s another scenario that doesn't jump out at us because of our implicit bias.  What if what the people originally borrowed was significantly less than what they were asked to pay back?  There were laws on the books at the time prohibiting lending with any interest.  What if the rich owner not only lent with interest, but with significant interest, conducting what is now known as “predatory lending practices”?  What if they’d borrowed the equivalent of 2 jugs of oil, and now one year later, payment was being extracted for 100?  This may seem absurd, but that’s exactly what the annual rate would be for the predatory payday loans that are rampant in our society.  People borrow $100 for 2 weeks, and are required to pay $15 interest.  Carried out for a year, that’s nearly 4,000 percent interest.  People are crippled by exorbitant interest fees on these seemingly innocent short term loans.  As a result, they borrow more to pay the last debt, resulting in increasing debt.  This is a horrible problem in our country.   While banks are heavily regulated, payday loan establishments are not, and the people who use them are stuck with unregulated horrible predatory lending practices that cripple them.  If we were sitting in their shoes, maybe this story would sound different.

Maybe the wealthy owner was effectively a predatory lender, and he was jacking up the interest to the point that it was unbearable.  Perhaps the manager was just performing his own form of debt forgiveness, in a corrupt and unfair system.    Some scholars argue that the words used in this story would indicate that the manager was just making right on the original loan, and removing the excessive interest.  This too would make the story more understandable.

I’m not sure whether these scholarly justifications are correct, but they don’t ring true with me.  These explanations, predatory lender or mean boss, both help explain the story, but I think they let us off the hook, in thinking about the hard part of today’s Gospel reading.

At its core, today’s reading is about an authority figure, who has someone over which he has some authority.  The underling is trusted, and then messes up.  Badly.  And in the end, the underling returns and instead of being mad, the authority figure commends the subordinate.   Does that sound like any other stories familiar to us?  What about one of the most beloved, heart warming stories, the story of the prodigal son?

Authority figure – father.   Subordinate who messes up – son.  Son returns and instead of being mad, like the older brother is, the father welcomes him and celebrates.  Perhaps not coincidentally, the story of the prodigal son immediately precedes this story.   In the oral tradition, these stories would likely have been heard together.  So perhaps it’s not a coincidence.  Maybe the stories are related somehow, even though one story we love, and the other – we don’t.

Why are these stories received so very differently by us?  I think it’s because we live in a society where we implicitly value family.  Forgiveness and love are what we assume family is; it’s what family is supposed to do.  It’s justified.  I’m not suggesting that it always is exactly like that, but that’s our assumption or norm about family.  We want to be that forgiving father.  Work, on the other hand, is not that.  It is contractual, and we have no illusion of love or relationship.  If we’re the employee, it’s how we make money. If we’re the boss, it’s how we make more money.  The primary purpose is making money; it’s not primarily about the relationships.

Both stories involve power, bad decisions, relationships, and mercy, or at least, the lack of condemnation.  Because of their contexts and our implicit biases, in one we hear family, love, forgiveness, good master and good loving resolution.  In the other we hear money, cheat, bad master, and bad unfair resolution.

We can see how and why the father forgave and welcomed the son, why he chose love over justice.  That’s what fathers do.  It’s much more difficult to comprehend why the master commended the shrewd manager, why he welcomed him with a commendation, why he chose love over justice.

I believe that the three most frequently repeated words of mine as a child were, “that’s not fair”.  I was all about justice, defined in the worldly dictionary as action that is morally right and fair.    To a large degree, I still am.   I believe it’s critical to try to be just and fair.  But what I hear in today’s reading is that there is something more important than justice.  Love.

What I hear from the Gospel today is that at the end of the day, love needs to rule, not justice.   Love needs to rule when it’s an errant son returning, or a shrewd manager.

Love needs to rule when it’s my own kids, or my coworkers.  Love needs to rule when the other person steals our heart, our inheritance, our money.  Love needs to rule when there’s remorse, and when there isn’t.

In this story, the resolution was unjust.  And we have a great model for seeing what that choice looks like in action.   At the end of his life, as he was being tried and tortured, Christ did not choose fairness or justice.  He could have.   Everyone was goading him to save himself, to testify on his own behalf.  But he chose love.  He chose an incredibly unjust resolution to demonstrate what love looks like, to show what the choice of love over justice looks like.

The closing of today’s Gospel says you cannot serve God and wealth.  We hear that and we know that it means we can’t love money more than we love God.  But in light of today’s reading, I think it also is a warning about those implicit biases we don’t even know we have.  The one that makes the unforgivable actions of a child against a parent more forgivable than the unforgivable actions of an employee  against the money-making boss.  For some reason we feel it’s more egregious to wrong someone when the relationship is primarily about money, rather than when it’s family  That says something about the high value we place on that money making relationship.  To me, it says that we do serve two masters, and that the second master, the money master, is so embedded in our culture and our bias, we don’t even see it.  We hear the praise for the shrewd manager, and cannot fathom why, even though we all love the similar plot of the prodigal son.   We need to understand that we do have bias, particularly about wealth and capitalism, and the American Dream.  And knowing that, we need to struggle with today’s Gospel.  And we need to fight against the invisible urge to root for the orange kangaroo, or to decide that in this story, this story that involves money, love is too extravagant.

When I feel that urge to respond with my battle cry, “that’s not fair”, I need to catch myself and try to figure out if my implicit biases are making me serve that other master, the master that cares about retribution,  and my hard-earned money, or making sure things are fair.   I believe that it’s our cultural capitalistic implicit bias that makes this story so much harder to hear, harder to understand.

After all, Jesus didn't strive to be fair.  He didn't command everyone to be fair to one another, but rather to love one another.   Love needs to rule when we know it’s the right thing to do, like the prodigal son.  And Love needs to rule when it’s hard, and doesn't seem fair.  Particularly, when it doesn't seem fair.  When it’s hardest, it’s most important that we as Christians love. When we hold fast to love, when we serve love, not money and not justice, we are, as the collect says, holding fast to things that endure, and we can let those earthy things like money, like retribution pass away without anxiety.   We cannot serve God and wealth.  Our greatest challenge is to see and cease all of the ways our implicit bias about wealth and money and working hard and the American Dream result in actions that serve that other master.   Instead, we need to serve love.

Proper 14 C - August 11, 2013

Do you know what is the single most frequent thing Jesus said in the Bible? Repent? I am the truth?    Nope.  DO NOT BE AFRAID.     Because it’s so frequently repeated, including the opening of today’s Gospel reading, it’s worth considering why.  What is it we’re not supposed to be afraid of, exactly? 

The Gospel tells us to have your lamps lit and be dressed for action.   If you are, the master Jesus, will come, be glad and serve you.  But, if you are not ready – woe to you.   We should be afraid if we aren’t ready, with our lamps lit, and dressed for action.  Ok.  Just be ready.  Unfortunately, I’m not sure how to stand guard all the time.  I can’t be ready for the master to come all the time.  I’ve got things to do, places to be, people to see.  

As a culture, we’ve gotten to a place where we have too much stuff and too many events to worry about. We have so much to maintain and protect and store and plan.   Doing all that - with and for all that – seems to take a lot of our time and energy.   And it’s not just our culture.  It’s been a problem throughout history.

The reading from Isaiah today says that the Lord does not delight in the blood of bulls, does not seek offerings, cannot endure solemn assemblies with inequity.  It sounds to me like the Lord was telling the people that God did not enjoy the stuff and rituals and offerings on which humanity had learned to rely, which humanity thought was all it needed to DO to garner support and love from God.  Rather, the Lord says that meaningless celebrations, “Have become a burden to me”   Not just disliked, but burdensome.  

While we don’t perform sacrifices with the blood of bulls, we have our own share of meaningless celebrations, and useless offerings and we think going through the motions of meaningless ceremonies will make us right with God.  Sometimes, we even treasure those precious things.    And if that’s where our treasure is, according to today’s Gospel, that’s where our heart is.  

That is not where I want my heart to be, with all my worldly treasures or meaningless rituals.   It sounds so . . . shallow and materialistic.  Besides, my so-called treasures have become a burden to me too.  I worry about maintaining my stuff, planning my events, performing my rituals.   We all have something here and now over which we fret and stew.  While we’re fretting, we risk being found asleep when the master comes.  In that state of worry, it’s hard to be standing guard and dressed for action in case the master comes.  

We know that giving alms certainly benefits the people receiving alms. We absolutely should share our wealth. But the idea of selling your belongings is also hugely beneficial for us, the ones who are shedding and sharing our excess.  We benefit, because we can rid ourselves of some of those things over which we fret, and events about which we worry.  
  
I’m guessing everyone who has stuff or events crowding their life, has, at one time or another thought better of it, and realized the absurdity of having and doing too much.  To some degree, everyone has come to the same conclusion as Jesus, if perhaps not so extreme. We know we need to get rid of something.  Maybe I don’t need to sell all my belongings, but I could get rid of this pile of clutter.  Have a garage sale. Skip that event.  Not host the obligatory party.  And yet, we always come back for more.    So why do we continue to turn to those things?  

For me, I think it’s largely due to what I can see and know and experience in this world.  I go to the store, and I see things that are advertised as making me healthier, happier, wiser, stronger.  I want to be all those things.  I buy into the societal norms of popularity and acceptance. And while I may know, deep down that they won’t really solve anything, I can see them, and plan them, and buy them. They are known, tangible, and kinetically real.  It’s all too easy to place my faith in those things.  

Unfortunately, the pretty clear message from today’s readings is that that is not where I should put my faith, in those things God finds burdensome. 

 I am, rather, to put my faith in God.  

But God is so . . invisible and amorphous and intangible.  It’s so hard to put your faith in things unseen, even though that’s exactly what Hebrews says we’re supposed to do.  It’s so hard to actually have faith, to have “assurance of things hoped for but not seen”. 

This reminds me of a scene from John Irving’s book, A Prayer for Owen Meany. Two of the characters are walking home after dark and pass the local Catholic High School, just as they’re talking about faith. One character Owen, has faith, and the other, John, does not understand the concept.  There’s a statute of Mother Mary at the school that on this evening, the two cannot see because of the dark and the fog.  Owen asks John if the statue is there.  John says of course it is.  But how do you know?  You can’t see it.   Because it was there earlier.  Yes, but you don’t know that it’s there now.  This is how Owen described faith.  It’s a certainty in something unseen.  You just know, without really being able to know.  

Faith is a funny thing, and I’m still learning what it is, and what it is not.   For me, faith is not knowledge, or intelligence, or proof.    I don’t know about God like I know the sum of 2+2.   

Faith is also not the same as hope.  You know that team-building game where you stand with your back to someone and fall backwards blindly while your team catches you.  Whenever I’ve done that, I’ve held out hope that I’d be caught.  Like faith, I didn’t know and couldn’t know if I’d be caught.  Unlike faith, I wasn’t sure I’d be caught. I was hoping, although I knew there was a chance I’d land hard, despite my hopes.    Now if I had Faith that I’d be caught, I’d have assurance. I’d somehow KNOW.  

Lastly, faith is not easy.  Unlike the falling into the arms of your team-mate game, faith in God demands that we fall into the arms of an invisible God.  Tough.  We are asked to have the assurance that God will be there, even though we can see nothing, touch nothing, buy nothing, plan nothing, to serve as our insurance.  And in fact, all those things we try to buy, or do to insure God’s grace is precisely what God finds burdensome.  We are just supposed to have faith.  Not in those things, but in God.  

So how is it we can ever have faith, faith enough to get rid of those silly things we own, buy store, do. Those treasures on earth, often secured as our insurance for God’s grace.  

We can only have faith because it is a gift from God. We are continually asking God for faith.  And with that faith, we really can give up those things, because we learn to rely on God, without the insurance of any of the stuff we as humans are so wont to do and buy.  

Having faith really isn't ours to do.  It’s ours to ask God to do.  Then we just lean back, and fall into God.  

Henri Nouwen, a famous theologian had a great epiphany about faith at the circus, of all places.  One day, he was sitting with Rodleigh, the head of a trapeze troupe that performed in Germany.  Rodleigh said, 'As a flyer, I must have complete trust in my catcher. The public might think that I am the great star of the trapeze, but the real star is Joe, my catcher. He has to be there for me with split-second precision and grab me out of the air as I come to him in the long jump. The secret,' Rodleigh said, 'is that the flyer does nothing and the catcher does everything. When I fly to Joe, I have simply to stretch out my arms and hands and wait for him to catch me.  

Nouwen was surprised.  You do nothing? He asked. 

'Nothing,' Rodleigh repeated. 'The worst thing the flyer can do is to try to catch the catcher. I am not supposed to catch Joe. It's Joe's task to catch me. If I grabbed Joe's wrists, I might break them, or he might break mine, and that would be the end for both of us. A flyer must fly, and a catcher must catch, and the flyer must trust, with outstretched arms, that his catcher will be there for him.'

As it says in Hebrews, Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. We must ask God for that faith, day by day and week by week.  And with that faith, that assurance, we need to fall into God.  With outstretched arms, we can have the absolute  conviction that our unseen catcher will always be there to catch us when we fly.