Sermons

One of my frequent sayings is, “Never pass up an opportunity to preach on the Prologue to John’s Gospel,” but I did just that this year. I’ve gotten used to preaching this gospel lesson on Christmas Day and again on the First Sunday after Christmas Day (Thank you, lectionary.), but I decided not to do a service on Christmas morning this year due to all the legitimate reasons to cancel things in 2020.

Anyway, at least I got to preach about the Word Made Flesh once this year.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ

24 December 2020

Here is this year’s Christmas sermon taken from our live stream of the Liturgy of the Word on the Feast of the Nativity of Our Lord at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville. The church was necessarily quiet this year and the Christmas Eve service was stripped down to bare essentials which gave us space to ponder the mystery of the incarnation without distraction.

Still, my prayer is that 2021 will allow us to worship together in person consistently and without fear.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Fourth Sunday of Advent

20 December 2020

We returned to virtual only worship this morning due to the rise in COVID-19 rates, so I didn’t share the same physical space as the gathered community which is a weird way to proclaim the Good News. Oddly enough though, virtual worship actually feels like worship to me. I suppose that I acclimated during our five month suspension of public gathering earlier in the year. The parish community feels connected even though we’re not all in the same place. We are indeed in communion even when we don’t share Communion.

Anyway, here’s the sermon video taken from our live stream of the Liturgy of the Word this morning at St. Stephen’s Huntsville. It’s always fun to preach the Magnificat.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Third Sunday of Advent

13 December 2020

Here is this morning’s sermon taken from our live stream of the Holy Eucharist at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Second Sunday of Advent

6 December 2020

The Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 28a)

15 November 2020

A minor key sermon on a difficult text.

Jeff+

The Twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 27a)

8 November 2020

Here is this morning’s homily taken from our live stream of the Holy Eucharist at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Feast of All Saints

1 November 2020

Here is this morning’s sermon for All Saints’ Day taken from our celebration of the Holy Eucharist at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

And by way of correction, the “Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future” quote is actually Oscar Wilde not St. Augustine. I really need to stop trusting the accuracy of memes. 🙂

Peace,

Jeff+

The Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23a)

11 October 2020

Here is this morning’s sermon taken from our live stream of the Holy Eucharist at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

I dance right up to the notion of universal salvation in the sermon, but I really don’t know how else to interpret the words of Isaiah 25. When I read that “the LORD of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich foods, a feast of well-aged wines” (Isaiah 25:6 NRSV), it makes me think that the gospel is far better news than we usually make it. It gives me hope that salvation is more than individual. It looks like God’s plan is the redemption of the whole created order.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 22a)

4 October 2020

Yesterday was one of those “I’d really rather not preach this” Sundays. The thing about parables, though, is that they’re supposed to make us uncomfortable. The problem with “The Parable of the Wicked Tenants” is that it is so easily misused to excuse an anti-Jewish bias or to support the notion of supersessionism neither of which is the point of Jesus’s provocative story. The point seems to be the very human desire to hold on to power and control at any cost. The same group who would have sentenced the wicked tenants to “a miserable death” wanted to have Jesus arrested for speaking parables against them.

The lesson for us is that we have far more in common with the chief priests and Pharisees in this story than we do with Jesus. What are we willing to do to maintain the illusion of power and control?

Peace,

Jeff+

The Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 21a)

27 September 2020

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” may be the most difficult and challenging sentence in scripture mostly because I think Paul meant it at face value. This is a place where the literal reading gets us closest to the truth. This isn’t a figure of speech or mere possibility for Paul but the reality we experience when we are raised to new life in Christ. It’s a process, certainly. None of us simply wakes up in the morning and decides to have “the same mind that was in Christ Jesus,” but God works within us, transforms us, and inspires us so that we are able to “work out our own salvation with fear and trembling.”

This is my sermon from this morning taken from our live stream of the Holy Eucharist at St. Stephen\’s in Huntsville.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 20a)

20 September 2020

This is my sermon for the 16th Sunday after Pentecost taken from our live stream of the Holy Eucharist at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

Jeff+

The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19a)

13 September 2020

I have to admit that it’s been good to have more that just three or four people in church the past two Sundays. It’s been really weird preaching to the camera on my iPhone the past five and a half months. We returned to indoor, public worship with increased safety protocols last week. Part of me worries that safety is still an issue despite all our precautions. The liturgist in me is shocked at only offering the Bread during Communion. It’s too medieval a practice, but it seems necessary given the times.

“The Unforgiving Servant” is one of my favorite parables to preach. It’s always fun to work math problems into a sermon.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 18a)

6 September 2020

We returned to public, indoor worship this morning for the first time in five and a half months. We also returned to the Holy Eucharist. It was good to have the community gathered for worship though I know that the community hasn’t really ever been apart. We’ve remained connected during difficult times. The Daily Office has been the glue that the Spirit used to hold us together. The community is more than a building. Church transcends the institution. Christ pulls us together and makes us one despite all our efforts to resist.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 17a)

30 August 2020

This is my sermon from this morning taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville. Something weird happened with the sound, and I’m not sure what caused it. I cleaned it up as much as I could.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 16a)

23 August 2020

This is my homily from this morning taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

I have to admit that it was fun preaching Peter (bless his heart) and Paul in the same sermon.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 15a)

16 August 2020

Here is this morning’s sermon taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14a)

9 August 2020

This is my homily for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14a) taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville. For those who like to keep track of music references in my sermons, the Violent Femmes got a shout out today.

Peace,

Jeff+

The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 13a)

2 August 2020

It felt good to preach again this morning. Our Commission on Ministry intern preached last Sunday, and our Bishop Co-adjutor preached the Sunday before. Both their sermons were really good; I enjoy hearing other preachers. I’ll admit to being a homiletics geek (and a liturgy geek and a music geek and so on and so on), and it always feels good to return to preaching after a week or two away. Anyway, I thought I’d share this morning’s sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 13a) taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville.

Peace, Jeff+

The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 10a)

12 July 2020

This is my sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville. If anyone is wondering, I did realize that I hadn’t put my tippet on this morning but not until after the service when I got back to the sacristy.

Peace, Jeff+

The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 9a)

5 July 2020

This is my homily for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 9a) taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s Huntsville.

Peace, Jeff+

The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 8a)

28 June 2020

This is my homily from this morning taken from St. Stephen’s live stream of Morning Prayer. The weirdest thing about it is that I preached for sixteen minutes (What?!)

Peace, Jeff+

The Second Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 6a)

14 June 2020

This is my homily from today’s live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s. Default settings for Christians have become one of the more consistent themes of my preaching, but I am convinced that we spend a great deal of time complicating what is a profoundly simple message. God loves us no matter what, and that love transforms us into the people we were always meant to be. Peace, Jeff+

The Day of Pentecost 31 May 2020

This is my sermon for the Day of Pentecost taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville. These days, it’s helpful to remember that, “I will with God’s help,” is a really good answer to many questions.
Peace,
Jeff+

The Seventh Sunday of Easter 24 May 2020

We’re still worshipping via live stream.
I’m not complaining.
The suspension of face to face services is a good thing; it is one way that we show Christ’s love to each other and to the surrounding community. The Church hasn’t closed. We are simply learning a new way of being in the world which is, of course, the Easter message. We are experiencing the resurrection in an unanticipated way. I’m not grateful for the pandemic, but I am grateful that the Holy Spirit works especially hard during difficult times to show us that we really are one in Christ. We really are knit together in the mystical communion of saints. And that doesn’t change just because we can’t be together in the same physical space.
Peace,
Jeff+

The Fifth Sunday of Easter 10 May 2020

This is my homily for the Fifth Sunday of Easter taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s Huntsville. Forgetting the words to the hymn text I quote to begin the sermon is exactly the sort of goofy thing I’ve been doing for years, so it’s good to know that some things never change.
Peace,
Jeff+

The Fourth Sunday of Easter 3 May 2020

This is my homily for the Fourth Sunday of Easter taken from our live stream of Morning Prayer at St. Stephen’s in Huntsville. The lessons for the day are Psalm 23, Acts 2:42-47, 1 Peter 2:19-25, and John 10:1-10 (4th Sunday of Easter, Year A, RCL).

Peace, Jeff+

The Third Sunday of Easter 26 April 2020

https://youtu.be/1Z9W47uwoIM

The Second Sunday of Easter 19 April 2020

Preaching in a Pandemic 13 April 2020

The weirdest thing to me about worshipping via live stream during this time of physical distancing due to the COVID-19 pandemic is that worship still feels like worship even without the community gathered together in the same space. The feeling that we are still bound together in Christ is palpable. That can only be the work of the Holy Spirit, and I am grateful for it. Nevertheless, I miss the gathered community most when I’m preaching, and I never want to acclimate to offering homilies in empty (or nearly empty) spaces. Still, we\’re called to proclaim the Good News especially during difficult times and in strange situations, and I suspect that this pandemic is teaching us all a new way to be the Church. So I’ve decided to share a meditation and a homily from this past weekend. The meditation is taken from a live stream of the Proper Liturgy for Holy Saturday which I officiated from my home office on April 11.

And the homily is taken from our service of Morning Prayer on Easter Sunday which Isabel and I streamed from church.

I hope we’ll all be able to worship face-to-face again soon.
Peace,
Jeff+

The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 20a)

24 September 2017

This morning’s sermon focused on the upside down nature of the Kingdom of Heaven. I referred to artist and songwriter Terry Allen‘s song “Arizonia Spiritual” which I really do think manages, intentionally or not, to convey profound spiritual truths through its satire.

The Revised Common Lectionary lessons for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 20, Year A, Track Two are Jonah 3:10-4:11, Psalm 145:1-8, Philippians 1:21-30, Matthew 20:1-16, and they may be found here: The Lectionary Page, Proper 20 Year A.

The audio file for the sermon is here: Sermon Proper 20a.

In Christ’s Peace,
Jeff+

PS. Here is a bonus sermon link: Sermon Proper 18a. The lessons for that day (the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost) were Ezekiel 33:7-11, Psalm 119:33-40, Romans 13:8-14, and Matthew 18:15-20, and they may be found at The Lectionary Page, Proper 18 Year A. jke+

The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 16a)

27 August 2017

The Confession of Peter is one of my favorite pericopes in the Gospels. Peter (bless his heart) always seems to rush in without a clue and still manage to say exactly the right thing. Preaching yesterday was fun.

The lessons for Proper 16 Year A are Isaiah 51:1-6, Psalm 138 (We use Track 2 of the lectionary at St. Timothy’s Athens), Romans 12:1-8, and Matthew 16:13-20.

The audio file is here: Sermon Proper 16a.

In Christ’s Peace,
Jeff+

The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 10a)

16 July 2017

I got the voice recorder fixed and recorded the sermon for Sunday, 16 July.

It is the first of a three sermon series on Romans chapter eight which is high on my list of most favorite scripture passages.

The lessons for the day are here: Proper 10.

And the sermon audio is here: Proper 10a sermon audio.

In Christ’s Peace,
Jeff+

The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 9a)

9 July 2017

The text of this morning’s sermon follows. I’ve been preaching without notes since Pentecost Day and have also been having trouble with the voice recorder, so there are no audio files for any sermons from the past five Sundays I’ll try to record next week’s sermon.

Today’s lessons may be found here: Proper 9.

In Christ’s Peace,

Jeff+

RCL Year A (Track 2): Zechariah 9:9-12, Psalm 145:8-15, Romans 7:15-25a, Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

In the name of God, the Holy and Undivided Trinity. Amen.

I have become known for certain catch phrases which I use frequently in sermons. “The Gospel is simple, but it’s not easy,” is one of them. I say that often because I believe it’s true (kind of in the same way that I often quote Dame Julian of Norwich that “All shall be well” because I believe that’s true, too).

The basic message of Christianity is fairly simple whether we consider it in terms of the Creed—Christ “came down from heaven” “[f]or us and for our salvation” (BCP 358)—or in terms of the Gospels— “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son…” (John 3:16 NRSV)—or in terms of Paul’s Epistles—“I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me” (Galatians 2:19b-20a NRSV).

The basic message is simple, and even unbelievers can explain it. It isn’t necessary to accept the faith claims of Christianity in order to understand Christianity in the same way that we can understand Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, or Hinduism without converting. That’s why I say that the Gospel is simple.

We trust that Christ came into the world to establish the Kingdom of Heaven among us and within us. We trust that through Jesus’s death and resurrection we are being reconciled to God and each other. We trust that Jesus is calling us together to live in loving Christian community.

As Christians, we recognize that change isn’t something to fear but something to embrace as part of our call as disciples of Jesus. We commit ourselves body, mind, and spirit to Jesus Christ. Our relationship with Jesus is more important than anything else in life. Any and everything else. And that’s why I say the Gospel isn’t easy. It never has been, and it never will be. As G.K. Chesterton writes in What’s Wrong with the World, “The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried.”

So the problem isn’t with the Good News. Jesus’s message is Jesus’s message whether we embrace it or ignore it. The problem, I suspect, lies with us—-with human beings. We don’t mind encountering the Divine; we just want to do it on our own terms. We don’t want to be challenged. We don’t want to be made uncomfortable. We don’t want to accept the necessity of change. But we can’t repent without change. We can’t be transformed without change. We can’t be made into a loving, Christian community, the Body of Christ, without change.

Too often, we attack the messenger because we don’t like the message, or the message may be challenging or difficult, so we dismiss it without considering the fact that it may be true despite its seeming impossibility.

We say or think things like, “Look at the way she’s dressed. She can’t have anything worthwhile to say.”

Maybe we say, “Listen to that crazy talk,” or “That may sound good for the sweet by and by, but we live in the real world. Take that Kingdom of Heaven nonsense somewhere down the road.”

We don’t want to be challenged or made uncomfortable or told that change is a necessary part of Christian discipleship. We want to be in control. And too often, our desire for control is fatal.

In parishes, it’s fatal to growth—-both spiritual and numerical.

It’s fatal to stewardship because it’s our money not God’s and we’ll do with it as we please.

And, all to often, it’s just plain fatal because it’s easier for us to kill the prophets than to accept their message.

Just ask John the Baptist.

Or Jesus.

“To what will I compare this generation?” Jesus asks in today’s gospel lesson (Matthew 11:16a NRSV). He’s not just talking about his own generation. Or about the generation that read about him in Matthew’s gospel. He’s talking about our generation, too. (And suddenly I find myself with a song by The Who running through my head.) When prophets come to us with a Divine message, human beings, regardless of where or when they live, are “like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling to one another” (Matthew 11:16b NRSV).

“‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; We wailed, and you did not mourn’” (Matthew 11:17 NRSV).

When it comes to the messengers God chooses, we just can’t be satisfied. (Now I have a Muddy Waters song running through my head.)

Jesus elaborates on the phenomenon of the human tendency to reject the prophets by comparing John the Baptist’s reception to his own. John was an ascetic. He fasted. He prayed. He preached a message of repentance. He “came neither eating nor drinking,” and the people “say, ‘He has a demon’” (Matthew 11:18 NRSV). When Jesus, the Son of Man, comes “eating and drinking,” the same crowds reject him and “say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’” (Matthew 11:19 NRSV).

When it comes to the messengers God chooses, we just can’t be satisfied.

There are five verses missing from the passage from Matthew assigned for today. I think it is wise to be curious, if not downright suspicious, whenever the Revised Common Lectionary leaves verses out of a lesson. Today the RCL omits Jesus’s reproach of three Galilean cities (Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum) “where most of his deeds of power had been done” (Matthew 11:20 NRSV). Jesus says that Tyre and Sidon “would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes” if they had witnessed the deeds that Chorazin and Bethsaida had (Matthew 11:21 NRSV). The news for Capernaum is even worse. Jesus says that Sodom will fair better than Capernaum “on the day of judgement” (Matthew 11:24 NRSV).

Now, I don’t imagine that Jesus is sitting in heaven with his finger on a red button ready to rain down fire on us or anyone else who refuses to repent. I trust that the Good News is, at it’s most basic level, all about God’s grace, God’s forgiveness, and God’s love for us which doesn’t change no matter what. However, I do imagine that our rejection of the Divine message and our rejection of those God chooses to deliver that message has self-imposed consequences.

We separate ourselves from community.

We choose alienation from God and from each other whenever we insist on accepting the Good News of the Kingdom on our terms and not God’s.

We invite our own private, little judgement day when we refuse to repent, when we refuse to embrace our call to discipleship, or when we refuse to give up control so that we can be made new in Christ Jesus.

It all comes down to our desire for control. We’re addicted to it. The message is remarkably simple, but we tend to complicate it. We overthink it. We believe that the Good News is a puzzle that we have to figure out. We make it about a search for the right answer because if we find the right answer we’re in control, but Jesus says that God has “hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and…revealed them to infants” (Matthew 11:25 NRSV).

Following Jesus is not about knowing the right answer. It’s not about how smart we are or how strong we are or how much money we have. It’s not about pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps. Following Jesus defies cultural expectations. It cuts against the grain. It upends the status quo. Following Jesus is nothing less than a new way of life.

It’s simple, but it’s not easy because embracing a new way of life involves letting go of the old way of life. It requires learning a new way of being in the world, and we do that by becoming disciples. Students. We have to admit that we don’t know everything. We don’t have all the answers, and we need a teacher. We learn a new way of being in the world from Jesus. And that new way of living is the point of Christianity.

Not having all the right answers.

Not believing all the right things.

Not doing all the right things.

Letting go of our expectations, our hopes, our dreams, our agendas and putting Jesus first is the point.

Giving up our desire for control is the point.

Embracing the necessity for change is the point.

That is why G.K. Chesterton says that the way of Jesus “has been found difficult; and not tried.”

That’s why I always say that the Gospel is simple but not easy.

The problem is not with Jesus’s message; the problem lies in our unwillingness to let go. The problem lies in our refusal to submit to a way other than our own. The problem lies in our failure to acknowledge our addiction to control.

Our sisters and brothers in Twelve Step Programs can offer us wisdom if we’re willing to listen. They might remind us that step one of the twelve is for us to admit that we are powerless over our desire for control and that our lives have become unmanageable.

Step One.

We begin at the beginning and acknowledge that we have no power to fix ourselves. We need help from someone bigger than we are. Step One is extraordinarily difficult, but if we make that step, everything begins to change. We find Jesus waiting for us to teach us the way. To make us new. To make us whole. To remind us that we are never alone.

And since G.K. Chesterton and I could always use a reminder that maybe, just maybe, following Jesus isn’t as hard as we think it is, I’ll let Jesus have the last words in this sermon:

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30).

Let it be so, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

The Day of Pentecost

4 June 2017

I decided to write another manuscript sermon for Pentecost. I have to say that I am enjoying working in a different medium (to borrow a phrase from the visual arts). The preparation is different. The delivery is different. Sometimes it is a good thing to approach something we love (and preaching is one of my favorite things to do) from a new perspective. Peace,Jeff+

The lessons of the day are here: Day of Pentecost Whitsunday.

And there is an audio file of the sermon here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwTO_eAu3pCObVNQclU3Uy1BWVE/view?usp=sharing

RCL Year A: Acts 2:1-21, 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13, John 20:19-23, Psalm 104:25-35, 37

In the name of God, the Holy and Undivided Trinity. Amen.

“No one can say ‘Jesus is Lord’ except by the Holy Spirit” (1 Corinthians 12:3b NRSV).

For the Apostle Paul, that simple statement can serve as the Pentecost message. Frankly, that simple statement is the whole Christian message. Jesus is Lord. Good News whispered by the Holy Spirit and proclaimed through the Holy Spirit. The Good News that Jesus is Lord. The Good News that Christ came down from heaven and became one of us. The Good News that Christ lived among us, died for us, and rose from the dead. The Good News that Christ ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. The Good News that Jesus Christ is making a place for us with the Father and is bringing us home—back where we were always meant to be.

All of that, and infinitely more, is contained within the simple statement “Jesus is Lord.” And the Holy Spirit teaches us that Good News. And though the message is simple, it’s not always easy. (I know. I say that all the time.) But think about Paul who before his encounter with the Risen Christ was “violently persecuting the church of God and was trying to destroy it” (Galatians 1:13 NRSV). He wasn’t looking for a change of attitude or for a new way of life. He wasn’t seeking conversion or renewal or transformation. Paul thought he was just fine exactly the way he was.

And then according to the Book of Acts one day as Paul was headed to Damascus to round up followers of Jesus—-followers of the Way—-so that he could take them bound in chains back to Jerusalem, our Risen Lord showed up personally. And everything changed for Paul. Right then. Right there. Forever. But Paul had to be knocked down and struck blind before he was able to see.

Before he was able to let the Holy Spirit in.

Before he was able to hear the Spirit proclaiming that Jesus is Lord.

Before he was able to say along with the Spirit that Jesus is Lord.

Before he was able to share the Good News through the Spirit that Jesus is Lord.

“No one can say ‘Jesus is Lord’ except by the Holy Spirit.”

Simple, but not easy.

But we’re not all as stubborn as Paul. (Thanks be to God.) We don’t all have to be struck blind before we are able to see, so the Holy Spirit works within each of us in just the way we need. For some the Spirit is able to whisper like a gentle breeze. Others won’t hear the message unless the Spirit rushes in like “a violent wind” (Acts 2:2 NRSV). A still small voice works for some; others need tongues of fire. But however the Spirit speaks, the message is available to all of us. No one is excluded. The whole point of the coming of the Holy Spirit is to bring the Good News to all creation.

In the first lesson for today, Peter quotes the prophet Joel: “‘In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my spirit on all flesh….’” By quoting that passage on that Pentecost Day long ago, Peter implies that “the last days” that the prophet Joel refers to have already begun. We don’t have to wait for some far away time and place.

Just before his Ascension into Heaven, Jesus promises that the Apostles will receive power from the Holy Spirit so that they may be Jesus’s witnesses “to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8 NRSV). Ten days later, the Spirit comes upon them “like the rush of a violent wind” and with “tongues of fire” (Acts 2:2-3 NRSV). And the Apostles began to proclaim the Good News that Jesus is Lord, and everyone gathered there in Jerusalem that day heard that Good News in their own native tongue because the Spirit’s message is not exclusive. It’s not intended only for certain people living in certain times or certain places. The Spirit’s message is intended for everyone everywhere.

Jesus sent the Apostles to proclaim the message to the ends of the earth not just down to the corner. God has poured out the Spirit on all flesh. In other words, the presence of the Holy Spirit is not limited to Peter and the other Apostles. It’s not just some ancient story from the New Testament. The work of the Holy Spirit is more than something we talk about in church once a year on Pentecost Day then forget about before we’re done with lunch.

The Holy Spirit is present with all of us right now.

The work of the Spirit continues today.

The Spirit wants to loose our tongues in the same way that the Apostles tongues were loosed.

The Spirit wants to give us courage to to proclaim the Good News, too. The Spirit wants to send us out, too. The Spirit wants to inspire us and enlighten us. To open our ears and our eyes and our hearts and our imaginations to the ongoing work of redemption, renewal, and reconciliation that God is doing all around us through Christ Jesus.

The Holy Spirit wants to be sure that we don’t miss the presence of God’s Kingdom right here and right now.

The Holy Spirit wants to nudge us out of our comfort zones, to teach us to sing with joy and dance with abandon.

The Spirit smiles when we live out our faith outrageously, unselfconsciously, and without worrying about what the neighbors think. If we’re living the gospel the way the Spirit intends, we are bound to be met with raised eyebrows from others. There will be sneers. There will be jeers. There will be disapproval. There may be accusations of being “filled with new wine” (Acts 2:13 NRSV). And if we have the courage to listen to the Spirit, we will realize that none of that matters.

What matters is that we live our lives in Christ everyday.

What matters is that we find the courage to let the Holy Spirit transform us.

Change us.

Renew us.

What matters is that we open our arms to receive the gifts of the Spirit—wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, the working of miracles, prophecy, the discernment of spirits, maybe even the gift of tongues and the interpretation of tongues (1 Corinthians 12:8-10). But these days, we have computer software for those last two.

The Holy Spirit has given us every gift we need in order to do the work God has given us to do. We have received those gifts not because we are “oh so special” as the Corinthians seemed to think but because the gifts of the Spirit are intended for the good of the whole community as Paul reminds us (1 Corinthians 12:7). Every gift the Spirit gives us calls us out of the isolation of pathological individualism into the community of Christ’s body. There we find that each of us is an essential piece of the whole not the center of our own little universe. The Holy Spirit forges loving, Christian community. There is nothing “personal” or “private” about our faith. It brings us together as one. We are accountable to each other because we are all “baptized into one body…and we were all made to drink of one Spirit” (1 Corinthians 12:13 NRSV).

The work of the Holy Spirit is a scary, beautiful thing. It’s a dangerous thing to invoke the Holy Spirit because it invites change, renewal, coloring outside the lines, and other outlandish behavior, but we’re about to do it anyway just like we’ve got good sense.

The Prayer Book teaches us that “Holy Baptism is full initiation by water and the Holy Spirit into Christ’s Body the Church” (The Book of Common Prayer, 298). The Spirit is one of the essential ingredients (so to speak) whenever anyone is baptized. Water is essential, but it isn’t enough. Dangerous as it is, we always invoke the Holy Spirit at baptism. We call down the Spirit and get out of the way, so the Spirit can do its work.

And that’s exactly what we’ll do in a few minutes when Patton comes forward for baptism. He will be initiated by water and the Holy Spirit. He will become a full member of Christ’s Body. He will be made a part of the whole. He will be “sealed by the Holy Spirit…and marked as Christ’s own forever” (The Book of Common Prayer, 308).

“Marked as Christ’s own forever.”

It’s a big deal.

We believe that the seal of the Holy Spirit which binds us to Christ and to each other forever is “indissoluble” (The Book of Common Prayer, 298).

I love that word indissoluble. It’s a good Prayer Book word.

Unbreakable.

Indestructible.

Not merely long-lasting, but eternally lasting.

The Holy Spirit continues to work through our baptism long after the actual, liturgical event is over. It brings us together. It keeps us together.

The Spirit forges us into a loving, Christian community, Christ’s Body the Church, where we support each other and bear each other’s burdens and where we learn through the Spirit to let the whole world see the light of Christ shining within us.

It is in loving, Christian community that we come together in worship continuing “in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers” (The Book of Common Prayer, 304).

We find strength and support in loving, Christian community “to persevere in resisting evil” and “to repent and return to the Lord” when we stray into sin (The Book of Common Prayer, 304).

Guided by the Holy Spirit, even Episcopalians can learn to “proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ” (The Book of Common Prayer, 305) in loving Christian community.

We learn to “seek and serve Christ in all persons” and to love our neighbors as ourselves (The Book of Common Prayer, 305) by coming together in community. By drinking of the one Spirit as one Body.

And it is only when we become a loving, Christian community through the Holy Spirit that we are able to “strive for justice and peace among all people” and to “respect the dignity of every human being” (The Book of Common Prayer, 305).

It all begins with Holy Baptism when we invoke the Holy Spirit and begin to learn through the Spirit that Jesus is, indeed, our Lord.

Amen.

The Sixth Sunday of Easter

21 May 2017

I decided to write a manuscript sermon this week for the first time in a long time. Preaching for me is rooted in a particular time and place, and I don’t think that sermons make much sense outside the context of the liturgy. This thinking has tended to push me into an extemporaneous preaching style. I preach almost every Sunday from the aisle and without notes. Every once in a while, though, it is fun to compose a sermon and preach from the pulpit. I may try it one or two Sundays a month.Jeff+

There is an audio file here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwTO_eAu3pCOOUdPblRhTlhzYzA/view?usp=sharing

The lessons are here:Sixth Sunday of Easter.

All scripture references and references to notes are from:The New Oxford Annotated Bible, Fourth Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2010.

RCL Year A: Acts 17:22-31, 1 Peter 3:13-22, John 14:15-21, Psalm 66:7-18

In the name of the Holy and Undivided Trinity. One God. Amen.

A while back. Probably twenty or so years ago. Maybe less. A friend and I joked that the Creed would be much shorter if we had written it and that it would probably read something like, “We believe in one God (or less).”

I have since revised that (for myself) to reflect the on-going conversion that has come to define my life. Now I say that if I had written the Creed it would read, “I believe in one God, and it ain’t me.”

The idea that there is only one God and that God is distinct from the creation strikes me as one of the most profound developments of human thought. “Revelation” or “epiphany” might be a more appropriate term since monotheism expresses (I believe) our true experience of the Divine. Perhaps, the Holy Spirit revealed the notion of one and only one God over time as human capacity to imagine its truth developed. As our understanding grew, we traded animism for polytheism. Later, we began to worship one God from among the many possibilities of polytheism, yet we still didn’t deny the possibility that the other gods existed.

Sometime during the Exile in Babylon, Jewish thinkers began to affirm that their God was, in fact, the only God. One God. And we still proclaim our faith in that one God today: “The Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.”

One God in an eternal community of three persons.

Paradoxically transcendent and immanent.

Even more distant than the stars yet as near as our own breath.

It is beautifully simple.

In the verses which precede today’s first lesson from the Acts of the Apostles, we find Paul waiting in Athens for his companions Silas and Timothy to rejoin him. They had been chased out of both Thessalonica and Beroea for proclaiming the Gospel. As Paul waited in Athens, “he was deeply distressed to see that the city was full of idols” (Acts 17:16 NRSV). Paul believed in one God, and he began to argue (as was his custom) with anyone who would listen about all those idols.

He argued in the synagogue.

He argued in the marketplace.

He argued with the Jews.

He argued with the devout persons.

He argued with the Epicurean philosophers.

He argued with the Stoic philosophers.

What else was he supposed to do?

He was Paul; he was “deeply distressed;” and he liked to argue.

Some of the Epicurean and Stoic philosophers call Paul a “babbler,” (I can’t imagine why) and asked, “What does he want to say?” Others point out that Paul “seems to be a proclaimer of foreign divinities”(Acts 17:18 NRSV). There are worse accusations, in my opinion. Paul boldly proclaimed the Gospel as he had experienced it. He wasn’t afraid to tell his faith story. As the book of Acts points out, “[H]e was telling the good news about Jesus and the resurrection” (Acts 17:18 NRSV), and something about Paul’s story intrigues the philosophers. They bring him to the Areopagus and ask him, “May we know what this new teaching is that you are presenting? It sounds rather strange to us, so we would like to know what it means” (Acts 17:19-20 NRSV).

I’m sure we can relate to those Athenian philosophers. The good news is always something new (thats why we still call it “news” even after 2,000 years). The good news still “sounds rather strange” even to those of us who claim the name “Easter People.” Even to people of the resurrection who proclaim faith in a God who became flesh and lived among us. A God who was crucified, died, and was buried. And rose again on the third day. It still sounds new. It always “sounds rather strange.”

And yet the good news resonates in our very being. Our souls cry out, “Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.” Even when we’re not exactly sure why. Sometimes we hear someone telling their faith story—-boldly, passionately, without fear or even tentatively, thoughtfully, and with fear and trembling—-and the Spirit moves within us. And we find ourselves overwhelmed with curiosity. We find ourselves asking, “Could you tell us more, please? It sounds new and rather strange, and we would like to know what it means.”

And that’s when the Holy Spirit whispers, “Ah ha! I got you!”

And so we find ourselves with those Athenian philosophers listening to Paul as he proclaims the good news about Jesus and the resurrection at the Areopagus. The Areopagus is a rocky hill northwest of the Acropolis in Athens. (That’s Greece, not Alabama.) In ancient times, it was used as a court for the trials of murder suspects. This is where Paul told his story, or perhaps, stated his case. It is striking that Paul’s speech isn’t particularly confrontational. He meets the Athenians where they are which is a good lesson in evangelism.

The author of Luke-Acts has Paul begin with a compliment, maybe a left-handed compliment given his distress at the number of idols in the city.

Paul says, “I see how extremely religious you are in every way” (Acts 17:22 NRSV).

The Athenians were religious to the point of superstition which is why Paul found “an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god’” (Acts 17:23 NRSV). According to Luke-Acts, the Athenians are so religious (fearfully so) that they erected an altar, “To an unknown god,” just in case they missed somebody and incurred divine wrath because of the slight.

Let me pause to point out that the Stoics and Epicureans in the 1st Century CE may have offered a critique of pagan superstition similar to the one that the author of Luke-Acts makes. The Epicureans taught that the gods were distant and not involved in the affairs of mortals (kind of like our own Founding Fathers and their Deistic notions), and the Stoics were pantheists who taught that the universe and everything in it is God. It is unlikely that either group would have worried too much about offering sacrifices to “an unknown god” just to be on the safe side. But…. Let’s return to the regularly scheduled sermon.

Paul equates the unknown god of the inscription with the One God of scripture. The God of Israel. The God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. I have to admit that I like that equal sign there.

The unknown god equals our God. That’ll preach.

Paul tells the Athenians that the god that they “worship as unknown” is, in fact, “[t]he God who made the world and everything in it.” The God “who is Lord of heaven and earth.” The God who “does not live in shrines made by human hands.” The God who is not “served by human hands…since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things” (Acts 17:23-25 NRSV). Paul proclaims the God “who made all nations” (all nations) “to inhabit the whole earth” (Acts 17:26 NRSV).

God put us all here in diverse times and places so that we all might “search for God and perhaps grope for him and find him…” (Acts 17:27 NRSV). And even when God seems to be as distant as the stars, our search is not in vain. Even when we feel that our search for the Divine amounts to fruitless groping in the dark, it is no accident that we find God because God seeks us out wherever we may be. Because God “is not far from each one of us” (Acts 17:27 NRSV) as Paul and the Stoics themselves would remind us, God is as near to us as our own breath, but not in the way that the Stoics would have imagined. They were pantheists. They taught that the universe and everything in it (including us) was God.

In Paul’s Areopagus speech according to Acts, Paul quotes two Stoic “sayings.” First, God is as near to us as our own breath because it is in God that “we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28 NRSV). That’s probably from Posidonius via Plato according the the notes in the New Oxford Annotated Bible. This is another instance of Paul meeting his audience where they are. But Paul understands living and moving and having our being in God differently than the Stoics. Paul is not a pantheist.

Paul doesn’t believe that the universe and everything in it (including us) is God.

God is separate from the creation.

God transcends the created order.

God is beyond anything we can observe.

God is beyond anything we can imagine.

God seems even more distant than the stars, but God is as near to us as our own breath because all that is, all that ever has been, and all that ever will be lives and moves and has its being within God. All that we have and all that we are and all that we hope to become are gifts from God. People we love and people we hate exist within God which begs the question, “If we call ourselves God’s children, how can we hate anyone (or anything) God has made?” If we all exist within God, then there is no room for our hate. Only God’s love for us and for the Creation matter. All that is, seen and unseen, lives and moves and has its being in God.

The second Stoic quote Paul uses is from the poet Aratus (again according to the notes in The New Oxford Annotated Bible): “For we too are his offspring.” We are God’s offspring. We are made in God’s image. And according to Paul’s argument in Acts, that fact should expand our notion of the nature of God.

The fact that we are God’s offspring should push our imagination to the extreme. God isn’t like gold; gold exists within God.

God isn’t like silver; silver exists within God.

God isn’t like stone; stone exists within God.

God isn’t like anything “formed by the art and imagination of mortals” (Acts 17:29 NRSV) because everything formed by the art and imagination of mortals exists within God. God isn’t like me; I exist within God.

I believe in one God, and it ain’t me.

We live and move and have our being within God. That’s the sort of good news that can (and will) change the world. If we believe (even just a little bit) that everyone and everything exists within God, everything changes. We begin to love ourselves as God loves us.

We begin to love our neighbors as God loves them.

We begin to love even our worst and bitterest enemies as God loves them.

We begin to love the creation as God loves the creation.

Nothing is disposable.

No one is disposable

Because everything and everyone is God’s beloved offspring.

Everything and everyone exists within God.

There is no outside.

We have come to know the one true and living God through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who teaches us everything we need to know about love and about God. In Christ, we learn to live the paradoxical truth that God is more distant than the stars and yet as near as our own breath. The unknown God becomes known to us in Jesus. It is beautifully simple.

Amen.

The Fifth Sunday of Easter

14 May 2017

The theme of this morning’s sermon ranged from my short time as a Southern Baptist as a teenager, my love of English Literature, and my lingering (unapologetic) Universalist tendencies.

The Revised Common Lectionary lessons for the Fifth Sunday of Easter, Year A may be found here: Fifth Sunday of Easter.

Acts 7:55-60
1 Peter 2:2-10
John 14:1-14
Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

The text of the hymn I reference is here: Oremus Hymnal: Come, my Way, my Truth, my Life.

The hymn itself is number 487 in The Hymnal 1982.

The extended Amy-Jill Levine quote is from The Misunderstood Jew: The Church and the Scandal of the Jewish Jesus (New York: Harper One. 2006.)

The sermon audio is here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwTO_eAu3pCOMU5PajlSS2hJeTQ/view?usp=sharing

In Christ’s Peace,
Jeff+

The Third Sunday of Easter

30 April 2017

I’ve decided to start uploading recordings of my sermons to the blog since I don’t write them down anymore.
The lessons for the Third Sunday of Easter, Year A are here: http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearA_RCL/Easter/AEaster3_RCL.html

Acts 2:14a, 36-41
1 Peter 1:17-23
Luke 24:13-35
Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17

And the audio for the sermon is here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwTO_eAu3pCOMUVaZVdWc0ppNVk/view?usp=sharing

Peace,
Jeff+

The Seventh Sunday of Easter

12 May 2013

This is my sermon from the Seventh Sunday of Easter, RCL, Year C, 12 May 2013. The lessons are here.

Acts 16:16-34
Psalm 97
Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21
John 17:20-26

In the name of God. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

The Lectionary doesn’t do preachers any favors on Mother’s Day. It doesn’t give us any lessons suitable for the occasion. So before I begin, let me just say to those of you to whom this applies, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

And now on with the sermon. I love this story from Acts. I have as long as I can remember. Part of it may have something to do with the old song recorded by the Stanley Brothers.

Paul and Silas bound in jail all night long.

But it’s mostly just because it’s a good story. Acts of the Apostles is full of good stories, and good stories have always been how we’ve shared the Good News. This is the first of four passages in Acts (We heard the first part of this one last week.) which shifts into the first person plural. They’re called the “We Passages.”

“We were going to the place of prayer.”

“We met a slave-girl.”

“She followed Paul and us.”

These passages pull us right into the narrative, and they “bring additional vividness to the story” to quote the notes in The New Oxford Annotated Bible.

So again, this is quite a story. Paul and his companions are in Philippi to share the Gospel, and this slave girl keeps following them around. She had a spirit of divination, and her owners made quite a profit off her “skill.” So day after day, she’s following them around shouting out, “These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.” This happens over and over again till finally, Paul, completely in character and “very much annoyed,” casts out the spirit.

He says, “I order you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her.”

Now when I read things like this, I think that it must have been a trial to get along with Paul even on his best days. After all, he casts out this spirit not because of any love or compassion for the slave girl but because he’s annoyed.

Anyway, that’s where Paul (and his companions) begin to have trouble. The girl’s owners are angry because they can’t make any more money from her “gift.” So they drag Paul and Silas into the marketplace before the authorities who order them to be flogged and thrown in prison. The jailer, who takes his job very seriously, puts them in the innermost cell with their feet in the stocks. And then, things start to get interesting. About midnight, Paul and Silas are praying and singing hymns just like in the old Stanley Brothers song.

Paul and Silas prayed to God all night long….

There’s an earthquake.

The foundations of the jail are shaken.

The doors of the cells burst open.

The prisoners’ chains come unfastened.

Now that’s something to sing about.

The jailer thinks all the prisoners have escaped, and he’s just about to commit suicide like any good Roman soldier would who had failed in his duty. But just as he’s about to fall on his sword, Paul calls out to him, “Don’t harm yourself. We’re all here. Nobody’s escaped.” And the jailer falls trembling before Paul and Silas. He asks, “Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”

Now, this is one of those places where the answer to that question would be different if I had written the New Testament (or if it were Jeff-Acts instead of Luke-Acts) because the answer I want to hear whenever anyone asks a question like the jailer’s—“What must I do to be saved?”—is something like, “Nothing. Jesus has everything under control.”

But the answer that Paul and Silas give is “Believe on the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you and all your household.”

Now we all know that in the wrong hands that answer can seem more like a club than an invitation into community. Believe. Believe. Believe.

But it’s not always that easy. “What must I do to be saved?”

If we asked ten Christians of various denominations to answer that question, we’d get ten different answers.

If we asked ten Episcopalians, we’d get ten more answers.

Even though we’d all agree that Jesus is the answer to our question, there would still be different nuances. Different emphases. Sometimes it seems that Christians just can’t agree about anything.

Now is the point in the sermon when I share with you what I’ve been reading lately. Dee Brown‘s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee is a history of the American West told from the Native American perspective. It had been on my radar for years, but I had never read it. I bought it after I read the quote I’m about to share with you in Brian McLaren‘s A Generous Orthodoxy. So when I read this yesterday, I thought it would be a particularly appropriate example to illustrate the Christian inability to agree on anything.

Dee Brown tells the story of the U.S. government establishing a reservation for the Nez Perce’ in the Wallowa Valley in what is now Washington State. When the commissioners arrive to plan the logistics, one of them mentions establishing schools on the reservation. Joseph, who was chief of the Nez Perce’, refused to allow schools there.

The commissioner asked him why he didn’t want schools. Joseph replied that schools would teach his people to have churches.

The commissioner then asked why Joseph didn’t want churches. The chief replied that churches would teach his people to “quarrel about God.” (318).

“We do not want to learn that,” Joseph said. “We may quarrel with men sometimes about things on this earth, but we never quarrel about God. We do not want to learn that.” (Brown, 318).

Chief Joseph makes an excellent point. We could learn a lot from his answer.

“What must I do to be saved?”

The Episcopal Church tends to focus less on individual salvation than other denominations do. I knew a priest several years ago who was the interim rector at St. Andrew’s Birmingham who said that none of us is saved until we all are. I think he was on to something. My best answer is that the work of salvation is already done. So if anyone wants to know when I was saved, I’d say two thousand years ago through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Grace has come into the world.

God’s unconditional love has come into the world.

Renewal, restoration, and reconciliation have all come into the world through Christ.

The work of salvation is done.

Grace abounds.

We are all united in the love of Christ. We are called into the unity that Jesus brings. We are called to be one.

Jesus describes that unity in his prayer in this morning’s gospel lesson. “As you, Father are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me.” (John 17:21 NRSV)

That’s the Good News.

That’s salvation.

That’s our reality.

We are called out of “the World” which doesn’t know God into new life in Christ so that God’s love may be in us. And so we can share that love with the world.

That’s how we’re saved.

Amen.

Works Cited Brown, Dee. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West. NewYork: Picador, 1970. Print.

Coogan, Michael D. Editor. The New Oxford Annotated Bible. 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Print.

The Fifth Sunday in Lent

17 March 2013

This is my sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent. The lessons are here. The conclusion refers to a book by Robert Schnase called Five Practices of Fruitful Congregations. It’s a pretty good book, and I commend it to your attention.

In the name of God. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. (Amen)

Last year on the Fifth Sunday of Lent I preached at Church of the Good Shepherd in Decatur. Some of you came down to hear that sermon live. It was an audition of sorts. Part of the interview process which led to the Vestry calling me here. And the rest, as they say, is history. Or, perhaps, the rest is future.

I joked at the beginning of that sermon that I’d be ignoring the unspoken rule that says never preach on the Old Testament lesson. It was Jeremiah 31:31-34. And I couldn’t resist preaching on the idea of God putting the Law within the people. Writing the New Covenant on their hearts. The more things change; the more they stay the same.

Today’s Old Testament lesson from Isaiah is just as irresistible from a preacher’s point of view. “I am about to do a new thing,” God says. “Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” The Good News doesn’t get much better than that. Because that is what God always does. A New Thing. God breaks into our reality and brings us back to the Divine Reality. Brings us back into relationship with God and with our neighbor.

Prophetic passages like this which refer to the time of the Exile in Babylon are quite powerful. The people had no hope that God would help them. They thought they were getting exactly what they deserved for breaking the Covenant. They were living in exile in Babylon, and they didn’t believe they would ever see Jerusalem again.

They thought they had it coming.

It was just.

It was right.

And that’s just the way it was.

Like the Prodigal Son in last week’s gospel lesson, the Exiles thought they were too broken, too sinful, and too unlovable to ever go home. I’m sure we all feel that way sometimes. But that doesn’t change the fact that God is always there waiting for us. God is always ready to run out to meet us and welcome us home. To heal our brokenness. To forgive our sinfulness. And to love us no matter what. This lesson from Isaiah shows us that God is even willing to break into our reality and arrange for our return home. God doesn’t necessarily wait for us to come home. Sometimes God comes and gets us.

“I am about to do a new thing; Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

Today’s passage from Isaiah is kind of funny, in a way. It begins with God reminding the people how he brought them out of Egypt. How he made “a way in the sea.” “A path in the mighty waters.” The Old Testament is full of images like that. God controls the sea. He rules over the fearful, the uncontrollable, and the chaotic. And brings the Peace of God into places where mere mortals can’t imagine it. Pharaoh’s army “cannot rise, they are extinguished, quenched like a wick.” God says, “Don’t lose hope. Remember what I’ve done for you in the past.”

And as soon as those words are out, God says, “Don’t remember the former things.” Don’t “consider the things of old.” God is “about to do a new thing.” It’s happening right now.

Do you see it?

Are we aware of it?

Can we perceive it?

The danger in looking to the past to see what God has done is that we will miss what God is doing now. Today. Here in the present. God’s work isn’t confined to the pages of the Bible. For the Exiles in Babylon, it wasn’t confined to the days of Moses when God defeated Pharaoh’s army and led the people out of Egypt. God broke into their reality and changed everything. “Look at what I’m doing now,” God says.

Making a way in the wilderness.

Making rivers in the desert.

Even the jackals and the ostriches honor God because God “gives water in the wilderness” and makes rivers in the desert.

Look at what God is doing now.

Making a way for his children to go home.

Providing safe passage out of exile in Babylon and back to Jerusalem.

God isn’t going to let his people—his chosen people that he formed for himself—die of thirst in the wilderness. God will do as many “new things” as it takes to get the Exiles home. Home where they will join with the jackals and ostriches to declare God’s praise. And that’s what God does for us—whatever it takes. A new thing. As many new things as we need to get us home and out of whatever wilderness we may be in—whatever it takes to bring us back into God’s loving embrace.

And it doesn’t matter how broken we feel.

It doesn’t matter how sinful we are.

It doesn’t matter how unlovable we think we are.

God loves us anyway.

God forgives our sinfulness.

God heals our brokenness.

God calls us home anyway.

And if we don’t go home like the prodigal did in last week’s gospel, God sometimes comes and gets us.

Ask the Exiles in Babylon.

Ask the jackals.

Ask the ostriches.

Ask the Apostle Paul.

(Nice segue, huh?)

In today’s passage from the Letter to the Philippians, Paul mentions all the things that used to make him proud. All the things that made him a success in his old life. He was “circumcised on the eighth day.” He was “a member of the people of Israel.” He was “of the tribe of Benjamin.” He was “a Hebrew born of Hebrews.” He was a Pharisee, a persecutor of the church, and he considered himself blameless under the Law. As far as Paul was concerned, everything was okay. He didn’t even recognize that he was, in fact, homeless. In the wilderness. An exile. But Jesus came and got him, and brought him home. He met him on the road to Damascus, and everything changed. Because that’s what happens when we encounter the Risen Christ. Everything changes.

All the things Paul once took such pride in became meaningless. He regarded the old gains as loss because of Christ. For Paul (and for us too, really), everything pales in comparison to “the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus (as) Lord.” All the things that used to be so important—all the things that once defined our “success”—become “rubbish” alongside new life in Christ. Being “found” in Christ Jesus is all that matters. It makes all the difference. It changes everything.

Jesus invites us to come home.

He invites us to come to the table.

He invites us to new life in him because of his love for us.

Because he will do as many “new things” as it takes to bring us home.

And all the excuses we use not to come home—all the reasons we have to stay in the wilderness—are meaningless.

Because it doesn’t matter how broken we are. Jesus can heal that.

It doesn’t matter how sinful we are. Jesus will forgive that.

It doesn’t matter how unlovable we feel. Jesus loves us anyway.

And that love is unconditional and limitless. Jesus invites us to a “come as you are” party. Just showing up is the important thing. The rest will be well in time. Once we realize that Christ’s love heals our brokenness, our brokenness doesn’t matter as much as it used to. We can learn to use even that brokenness in God’s service.

Once we realize that Jesus forgives all sin (ours and everyone else’s), we can learn to forgive ourselves and each other. We become less willing to point fingers and pass judgment because we know that we’re all marred by sin.

And once we realize that Christ’s love for us and for the world is unconditional and limitless, we can begin to love ourselves (and our neighbors) no matter how unlovable we feel. We learn compassion.

God’s love is a dangerous thing. It breaks down walls. It heals all wounds. It forgives all wrongs. And it changes the world.

It inspires extravagant gestures like Mary of Bethany’s. She loved Jesus so much that she “took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair.” That’s the sort of devotion that divine love brings out.

God’s love inspires “radical hospitality.” Because once we realize that there are no “outsiders” in God’s house, we want to invite everybody in to God’s community no matter who they are.

God’s love inspires “passionate worship.” Because when you’ve been called out of the wilderness and offered a place at God’s table, that’s something you just can’t help singing about.

God’s love invites us deeper into relationship with Christ and each other which raises the danger that we’ll join Bible studies or prayer groups or actually start believing the stuff we say in church on Sunday.

I know. It sounds crazy, but it happened to me.

We start doing risky things like “outreach” and “mission” and “service” without expecting any gain or reward but because we love all God’s people everywhere.

And, finally, the most dangerous thing about God’s love is its “extravagant generosity.” It might just make us do something crazy like become extravagantly generous ourselves.

God’s love is like that. It’s dangerous. God is always doing a “new thing” to bring us through the wilderness and lead us home. But don’t look to the past for examples. Look at what God is doing right here, right now, today.

“I am about to do a new thing,” God says. “Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

Amen.

The Third Sunday in Lent

3 March 2013

This is yesterday’s sermon (as accurately as I can remember it). I preach extemporaneously from minimal notes, so this is not exactly what I said in the pulpit. It’s close though. The texts of the lessons are here.Exodus 3:1-15Psalm 63:1-81 Corinthians 10:1-13Luke 13:1-9

In the name of God. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

In their own way, this week’s lessons are just as challenging for a preacher as last week’s. The challenge this week is figuring out where to begin because there’s just so much going on. So much to choose from. So it seems reasonable to begin at the beginning. Or as near the beginning as possible.

ehyeh asher ehyeh

I AM who I AM.

God’s words to Moses when he asks God’s name. During my sermon prep, I got down one of my favorite books, A History of God by Karen Armstrong. She points out that “[e]hyeh asher ehyeh is a Hebrew idiom to express deliberate vagueness” (21). Phrases in the Bible like “they went where they went” mean “I haven’t the faintest idea where they went” (22). According to Armstrong, God is essentially telling Moses to mind his own business (22). God doesn’t want to reveal his name.

Ancient people believed that names were powerful. Knowing someone’s name could be used to control them. Cast spells against them. God didn’t want Moses to conjure with the divine name. Karen Armstrong writes that God did not want any “attempt to manipulate him as pagans sometimes did when they recited the names of their gods” (22). She calls God “the Unconditioned One” and writes that God “will be exactly as he chooses and will make no guarantees” (22). The promise he does make is “that he would participate in the history of his people” (Armstrong, 22). Moses and the Israelites won’t be alone.

One of the things that struck me about this passage this morning is Moses’s fear. God calls. Moses answers, “Here I am.” Which is what every prophet says when God calls (Armstrong, 21). God says, “Take off your shoes because you’re standing on holy ground.” We wondered in Sunday School this morning why we don’t just go around barefooted all the time. After all, we are always standing on holy ground. And that is a frightening thing in itself.

But what is so scary to Moses (and us too, I think) is that when God shows up, he doesn’t just say, “Hey, how’s it going? Everything’s great. Don’t change a thing.” There is always a call. God always calls us to action. God tells Moses to go to Pharaoh and lead his people out of Egypt. God always calls us to action. To change. To disrupt the status quo. And that is a frightening call.

That’s why in the New Testament, the book of Hebrews says that it’s “a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” It’s why Paul writes in Philippians “work out your salvation with fear and trembling.” It is not surprising that Moses is afraid. It’s not surprising that we’re afraid. But that’s the other thing that strikes me about the passage from Exodus. God says to Moses, “I will be with you.” God will “participate in the history of his people” as Karen Armstrong writes (22). We aren’t alone. God is with us. We can rely on each other. We don’t have to go through life without help. We are never alone.

But it’s still hard. It’s never easy. We’re called to new ways of life. New ways of looking at the world. God calls us out of our comfort zone. And, again, that’s a frightening thing. I’ve been reading Christianity for the Rest of Us by Diana Butler Bass. It’s really pretty good. She tells a story about taking a trip with her husband and getting stuck in a construction traffic in Baltimore because they relied on MapQuest directions. They ended up getting off the Interstate and going through Baltimore on the surface streets and saving a lot of time (Butler Bass, 71-2).

She tells this story to make the point that when we call Jesus “The Way,” we don’t mean that he is like MapQuest providing directions straight from point A to point B. Diana Butler Bass writes that “Jesus is not the way we get somewhere. Jesus is the Christian journey itself, a pilgrimage that culminates in the wayfarer’s arrival in God” (72). She argues that when we follow Jesus, we “have to exit the highway, risk getting lost, and follow the signposts on the ground (73). And we don’t go alone.

Today’s gospel speaks to another kind of fear of God. Fearing God for the wrong reason, perhaps. The people wonder about the Galileans that Pilate killed mixing their blood with sacrifices to the Emperor. They wonder about the eighteen people killed when to tower of Siloam fell. They see God’s judgment in these events, but Jesus asks if these people were worse sinners than anyone else. He seems to be saying that we’re all on the same moral ground. That we’ll all suffer the same fate unless we repent.

Jesus undermines the argument that God allowed these horrible events to punish the ones who died. Do we really want to say those things about God? We hear that sort of argument today.

Did God allow the children at Sandy Hook Elementary School to be killed as punishment?

Was Hurricane Sandy evidence of God’s wrath?

Were the people of New York and New Jersey worse sinners than anyone else?

What about the tornadoes on April 27, 2011 here in Alabama?

What about the World Trade Center attack?

Do we really want to imagine God sitting in heaven, pushing a button, and causing disasters to punish us?

Do we really think God pushed over the tower of Siloam to make a point?

I think Jesus would answer, “NO!” to all those questions.

I gained a new appreciation for the Parable of the Fig Tree as I prepared this sermon. It hinges on whether the owner of the vineyard or the gardener is more like God. Which one is more like Christ? I think it’s pretty obvious that it’s the gardener who wants to wait a year and dig around the fig tree and put manure on it.

Try to nurture it back to health.

See if it will bear fruit.

We are certainly all equally subject to God’s judgment, but the good news is that God’s judgment is a judgment of mercy not “justice.”

I imagine that after a year the gardener will persuade to owner of the vineyard not to cut down the fig tree again. He’ll say something like, “These things take time. Let’s wait another year before we cut down the fig tree.”

Then in the third year if the tree still doesn’t bear fruit, he’ll argue for patience again.

Five years later, I imagine the conversation will be the same. “The fig tree looks healthier every year. Let’s keep nurturing it to see what happens next year.”

That gardener will keep working with that fig tree for as long as it takes to get it to bear fruit. Someone told me in Sunday School this morning that it took ten years for the fig tree in her yard to bear fruit. That’s how Jesus brings out fruit in our lives. He patiently works with us year after year for as long as it takes.

The Good News is actually way better than we usually preach it. We are never alone.

And that’s worth sharing. Amen.

Works Cited

Armstrong, Karen. A History of God: The 4,000 Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. New York: Ballantine, 1993. Print.

Bass, Diana Butler. Christianity for the Rest of Us: How the Neighborhood Church Is Transforming the Faith. New York: Harper Collins, 2006. Print.