23 Pentecost

Pledge Sunday
November 8, 2009

1 Kings 17.8-16; Mark 12. 38-44

Today is, of course, Pledge Sunday. It is one of those Sundays I think many of us kind of dread. We sort roll our eyes and think—great, it’s time for the priest to get up and talk about money again.

Yes, sadly, it is time for me to get up and talk about that issue of money. But not just money and pledging our money to the church. It is also a time to talk about stewardship and giving in general. And although we might not want to hear these things, sometimes it is good to be reminded of how important stewardship and giving is.

Last week our Senior Warden, Laura Nylander and I met to discuss some of the details of this Pledge Sunday. I commended her, at that time, for the wonderful comments she made during Announcements last week about the difference between Stewardship and Pledging—how Stewardship is an issue of our Time and Talents and Pledging is an issue of money (she discussed it so much better in her teacher voice). But her sharing last week inspired me, and I hope inspired all of us, to consider these issues Stewardship and Pledging. And on this Pledge Sunday, we do need to at least address it.

Our time in church, as all of us know, is not just a time for us to receive. It is also a time to give. And we all have plenty to give. We all have certain talents and it is good when we can give back to the church form our talents. And many of us have, even in these uncertain financial times, a certain level of monetary sustenance from which to give. And we know that in giving of ourselves and from what we have, we are doing good. But I think, on this Pledge Sunday, it is good for us to remind ourselves once again WHY we give.

I have been reading a wonderful book called Gifts of the Desert by a wonderful writer, Kyriacos Markides. Markides is an Eastern Orthodox Christian from Maine who has written extensively about his relationship with Father Maximos, a Greek Orthodox priest from Mount Athos in Greece who is currently the Orthodox Bishop of Cyprus. This is one of those books that I have had to read slowly and reflectively because when I read it too quickly I find myself backtracking and, in doing so, finding a little spiritual gem I missed. In this book, Father Maximos explains that in the church there are three levels of spiritual growth:

The first stage he calls “the “Slaves of God.” He says that this is the stage where people are very devout, very holy, go to church, but they do all of these things out of fear of God. They are afraid of God. They are afraid of God’s perceived anger. They are afraid that they will be punished for any thing wrong they might do. And they fear hell.

The second stage he called the “Employees of God.” At this stage, people have moved beyond their fear, but they now feel that are to be rewarded for all the good things they do. If they give to the poor, they do so believing they are stocking up “treasures in heaven.”

As Father Maximos puts it: “In exchange for good works a person expects to be rewarded by God in this life and in the life to come.”

The third stage Father Maximos shares is “the Children of God” or the “Lovers of God.” This stage, according to Father Maximos, is the highest stage—the one to which we all should be working. Father Maximos says: “They act and do what they do not because they are afraid that God might send them to hell or because they want to gain a ticket to paradise but because they love God.” He then shared a very sobering story that he heard from one of the monks on Mount Athos by the name of Paisios.

Paisios told Maximos to imagine the second coming Christ. Now in the second coming, some miscalculations were made and as more and more people entered paradise, there was no more room for some of those who were waiting. Christ then came and told the people that were waiting, “I’m sorry but unfortunately paradise has filled up. Find somewhere else to accommodate yourselves.” Some people began to wail and complain.

“Why didn’t you tell us before? Isn’t there a chance that we can go back so that we can do all the things we wanted to do? We sacrificed the pleasures of the world for the sake of heaven and yet we lost paradise as well.”

But the others—the Children and Lovers of God—said, ”It’s all right that paradise is full. Don’t feel bad, dear God. It is good that paradise is full and you are happy. We will find a way to take care of ourselves.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but I find this story very disturbing. I do so because I am not certain I wouldn’t be one of those people mourning and complaining, at least a bit, outside paradise. Which shows that maybe I haven’t made it to that third level yet in my life (though I am trying).

I think this story is an especially important one for us on Pledge Sunday. It challenges all of us to ask ourselves very important questions about why we do what we do as Christians. It is important for us to ask ourselves occasionally what motivates us to serve others and to serve God. And when we are challenged in such a way, then how do we continue to do what we do?

The message for us is this: we do what we do out of love. We do what we do because we love God, and we love one another. That is why we do what we do. We don’t give of ourselves and from our monetary means because we want to gain heaven. Of course, we want to gain heaven. But we don’t do these things simply because we think that in doing so we will gain paradise.

Rather, we do the things we do—we give, of ourselves and of our money—because we know that doing so improves all of us, as Christians. What we give helps each other. It helps to maintain and keep vital what we hold dear. It helps us here at St. Stephen’s. And here, at St. Stephen’s, there are many great reasons to be giving of our talents and from our material wealth.

Good and wonderful things are happening here. As one of person form another Episcopal congregation in town told me recently: “Things are popping at St. Stephen’s!” And they are. There is a vitality here that many people are noticing and rejoicing in. Things are popping at St. Stephen’s because of us. They are happening because we all give from what we have. These things that are happening are not happening just because of the priest (as much as I’d like to take credit for it), or even because of one or two leaders in the church. St. Stephen’s is definitely not a place for top-down management.

The great things happening at St. Stephens are happening because we love God and we love one another. And when we love God and love one another, God’s Spirit moves among us. When that Spirits moves, we find ourselves wanting to serve God and one another. When we look around, we see the fruits of this kind of love. We see a vital congregation full of people who are giving of themselves and their means so that this church can continue to “pop”—so that it can continue to do what it does.

We find people giving of their musical talents and in doing so, enriching all of us. We find people giving of their artistic talents, and all of us are better off for it. We find people giving of their practical knowledge and we all benefit from that shared knowledge. We find people giving of their basic know-how in maintenance and the physical church building in which we gather is improved. We find people volunteering of their time and energy to serve at Churches United, or the Salvation Army, or on Medical Missions to Guatemala, or to help build schools in East Africa. And we find people who give from the gifts they have been given so that the grass is mowed, or the snow is removed or the windows are replaced, or the trees are trimmed. And we find people who give from what they have so that day-today-maintenance can be continued.

It is all of us working together and giving from our own places, from our own blessings and talents, out of love for God and of one another. That is what is so wonderful about St. Stephen’s. We do these things very well here. It’s important, occasionally, to recognize ourselves and each others for these contributions and to be thankful for them.

Pledge Sunday is not just a time to ask. It is also a time to give thanks. It is a time to thank each other for what we do for each other and for God.

As most of you have probably figured out by this time, liturgy is one of my favorite aspects of the Church. And what I love about our liturgy is that, in so many ways we might not even fully appreciate, it gives voice to what we believe. Certainly, that is what we believe as Episcopalians.

Over the years, I have heard some very strange views regarding liturgy. One was the strangest I’ve heard is an apprehension of some clergy about placing money on the altar at the offertory. Some felt that by placing money in the altar we are worshipping money, or taking something ritually unclean like money and profaning the altar with it. But, although you might not have noticed it, in our prayer book, the rubrics—those italicized instructions, are quite emphatic about issues like this. On page 361 in the Prayer Book, the rubric for the Offertory is this:

Representatives of the congregation bring the people’s offering of bread and wine, and money or other gifts, to…the celebrant. The people stand while the offerings are presented and placed on the Altar.

Charles Price and Louis Weil wrote a definitive book on our Liturgy for the Church’s teaching Series back in 1979 called Liturgy for Living. In it, they explained this action this way:

“In placing on the altar money and bread and wine, the congregation offers itself and its world. Money represents the work of the congregation. As in every sacrificial act from time immemorial, a part stands for the whole. We give part of what we make. That part stands for ‘ourselves, our souls and bodies’…the underlying reality of the action is that we offer our lives, individually and corporately, to become [Christ’s] body in this world. We acknowledge that what we offer to God is, in a certain sense, not ours but [God’s] all along, given to us in trust as [God’s] stewards of creation.”

We are Christ’s body in this world. And, as Christ’s body, we do what we do out of love. We give, as the widow we encounter in today’s Gospel gave. We give not because we have a lot to give. We give because we know that in giving, we are enriched by our giving. We give because we know that in giving, God and each other have been served. We give from what we have because in doing so we give ourselves. This is why we give. And this is why we need to be reminded on days like Pledge Sunday.

On this Pledge Sunday, we are reminded of how important giving is, as the widow who gives in our reading from First Kings gives to the prophet Elijah. And today we offer thanks for those who do give from what they have. Most vitally, we know that, as we give, like that widow in First Kings, what we give will never be emptied, nor will it ever fail.

All Saints Sunday

November 1, 2009

Wisdom 3.1-9

Today, as we all know, is the feast of All Saints. However, you might not know that tomorrow—November 2—is a little know feast called the Feast of All Souls, or the feast of All Faithful Departed. I know it might seem a bit confusing,. However, the difference between these feasts can be explained this way:

All Saints Day celebrated those of “heroic sanctity.” In other words, they were those who went above and beyond the call of duty in their service to God. The feast of the Faithful Departed—or rather “All Souls” day—represented all of those have departed this life but weren’t particularly holy while here. In other words, All Saints was the day we remembered those who thought a lot about God, who probably went to church a lot and did extraordinary deeds for God, such as being martyred for the faith. All Souls day was that day we thought about everyone else who died.

I like these feasts of All Saints and All Souls because, during this season, we are gently reminded to think not only of those who have gone before us, but to also think about our own destination. In our collect today, for example, we are commended “to follow [God’s] blessed saint in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those ineffable joys that have been prepared for those who truly love [God].” And in our reading from Wisdom, we given a beautiful glimpse of that place that awaits all the “souls of the righteous.”

So today, we are being asked to do quite a few things. Today we remember all those specially faithful people who have died and tomorrow we are to remember all who, for the most part, are forgotten, or who simply kept their faith to themselves. And we are reminded that we too are saints as well, working and striving for that place in which we will be like gold tried in the furnace, where we too will “shine forth, and will run like sparks through stubble.”

This last part might be especially hard for most of us to wrap our minds around. We too are called to be saints. Now, I know this might be a bit hard to grasp. Because as we look around among ourselves this morning, there might be some whoa re easy to recognize as saints in our midst. But the majority of us don’t see ourselves that way. We don’t look in the mirrors in the morning and become blinded by the halo that surrounds us. And I don’t think we see others, for the most part as, saints very often unless they are exceptional in their holiness and example.

When we think of either All Saints or All Souls day, we might lean a bit more toward All Souls Day for ourselves than All Saints. Certainly we have known—or maybe we might describe ourselves as—“good” people, but not particularly “religious” people. There are some for whom churches should be named, maybe and there are those for whom no churches will ever be named. No one will write books about them and few people will remember them a hundred years from now. But despite our accomplishments or our shortcomings, all of us as baptized Christians are still able to witness to each other and others about what it means to be a follower of Jesus.

Both all the saints and all the souls have taught us in someway how to live a righteous life. Or maybe in some ways they taught us how not to live a righteous life. Maybe these were the people from whose mistakes we learned what not to do with our lives in Christ. And I believe that those people are just as important to our Christian growth as the righteous ones have been. We sometimes need people to lead the way in what not do for us to realize that is not the way to go in our following after Jesus.

Today and tomorrow we commemorate all those people and realize that maybe God even works through those people we might not expect God to work through. God works through the saints, yes, but I think God also works through the lives of those who were not saints, as well. God rewards the works of the saints of course, but God also rewards the good works and beliefs of those who had no intention of receiving any blessing from God for what they did or believed.

So, in some ways, All Souls Day—All the Faithful Departed—is a time to commemorate the “hidden saints” among us—the people we might not readily identify as saints. And maybe that’s what the feast of November 2 should really be called. Maybe it should be called the Feast of the “Hidden Saints.”

One of my favorite stories about “hidden saints” is the story of St. Simeon the Holy Fool. I’m going to share a bit from a great website (one of my favorites) called The Ship of Fools and the description they give of St. Simon, who is their patron saint:

The Desert Saints of the early centuries were a wild and strange breed – and none were bred wilder or stranger than the saints of Syria. Some of them stood and prayed for years on end without sitting down. Others lived on top of pillars in the desert where they preached, wrote epistles and drew crowds of pilgrims. Numbered among these maverick saints is our patron, St Simeon the Holy Fool.

Simeon's saintly career started out quite normally. It was the usual story: 29 years living on lentils in an isolated cave next to the Dead Sea, at first struggling against temptation and then advancing to an alarming degree of holiness. But Simeon's story took a dramatic turn when he left his cave one day and set out for the city of Emesa in Syria. Arriving at the city gate, he found a dead dog on a dungheap, tied its leg to the rope around his waist, and entered the city dragging the comatose canine behind him.

This was only the beginning. For Simeon had decided to play the fool in order to mock the idiocy of the world and also to conceal his own identity as a saint. His behaviour was eccentric and, of course, scandalous... During the church services, he threw nuts at the clergy and blew out the candles. In the circus, he wrapped his arms around the dancing-girls and went skipping and dancing across the arena. In the streets, he tripped people up, developed a theatrical limp, and dragged himself around on his buttocks.

In the bath-house, he ran naked into the crowded women's section. On solemn fasting days he feasted riotously, consuming vast amounts of beans – with predictable and hilarious results. In his lifetime, Simeon was regarded as a madman, as an unholy scandal.

It was only after his death that the secret life of Simeon came to light. People started to talk about his acts of kindness – and about his strange and powerful miracles. There was the poor mule driver whose vinegar Simeon turned into wine so that he could start a successful tavern. There was the rich man who was saved from death when Simeon threw a lucky triple six at dice. And there was the young man Simeon punched on the jaw to save him from an affair with a married woman.

St Simeon the Holy Fool was a secret saint, his story was a holy farce, and his life shows how God chooses “the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; the weak things of the world to shame the strong” (1 Corinthians 1:27).

The story of Simeon helps remind us that there are hidden saints in our midst all the time. They are the ones we probably don’t think of as saints. But, as Simeon shows us, saints don’t have to be perfect people. Simeon and the hidden saints in our midst show us that God blesses and uses us even when are fractured and imperfect. God uses our shortcomings and our eccentricities as well.

So, today—this feast of all saints and tomorrow on the feast of all souls—the feast of the hidden saints in our midst—let us remember both those we know are saints and those hidden saints we have known. And more importantly, let us look for those hidden saints that are either right here beside us or staring back at us from our very own mirrors.

Anglo-Catholicism

A great essay from EpiscopalCafe:


Anglo-Catholicism: what the heck is it?
By Derek Olsen

Thinking and arguing about Anglican identity is new territory for some. Not me. Every since I’ve become an Anglican almost a decade ago, the question of identity has been intertwined with my Anglicanism. And with good reason—I identify with the most fractious and tribal of the great Anglican traditions, Anglo-Catholicism.

Since the beginning of the Twentieth century, Anglicanism has been described as a threefold cord consisting of three distinct parties, the Evangelicals, the Broad-Church, and the Anglo-Catholics. As if negotiating these positions weren’t difficult enough, Anglo-Catholicism has been in a tough spot since the ‘60s. The theological and liturgical changes of Vatican II combined with the movement for women’s ordination were a one-two punch that rocked the movement. The emergence of women’s ordination brought the matter to a head in the early 70’s in the Episcopal Church, calving the movement into several major branches, some remaining within the Episcopal Church, others leaving for the Anglican Continuum consisting of other Anglican entities not in The Episcopal Church.

At the root of the problem is identity: what does it mean to be a catholic Anglican? For some outside the movement or on its fringes the answer seems simple, it’s about liturgical ceremonial. If you wear a chasuble, know what a cope is, swing around incense, and chant, you must be Anglo-Catholic.

Trust me, it’s not that simple.

As any Anglo-Catholic in good standing will tell you, it’s not about the externals. Or, rather, the externals are driven by the internals. As I’ve said before, we don’t do a solemn high mass or use incense because we like it (though we do, of course…) but because of what it communicates about who and what God is and who we are in light of that reality. It’s about theology. And our theological commitments come with liturgical implications. Defining that theology is what drives us crazy.

One simplistic definition is that catholic Anglicans hold the doctrine of the Undivided Church (those things that the Orthodox East and the Catholic West agree about) but hold different discipline. That is, our faith is the same but our principles of church order are different. But defining what is doctrine and what is discipline, and deciding who gets to be the final arbiter is what’s been giving us fits since the ‘60s.

I’ve said in jest that the true definition of an Anglo-Catholic is a person who knows three other people who think they’re catholic Anglicans but who aren’t because they’re either not “catholic” or not “Anglican” enough.

The most obvious and polarizing argument is over women’s ordination—is it doctrine or discipline? The major divisions in the party have been over this issue, but a host of others complicate even agreements on that point. Which way to lean in matters of faith and morals: towards the Orthodoxen or towards Rome? What liturgy to use: the ’28 BCP, the ’79 BCP, or the (Anglican or American or English) Missal? What ceremonial to use: pre- or post-Vatican II? And so I say, matters of Anglican identity have never been far from my mind lo these years.As I survey the current squabbling and bickering amongst the worldwide Anglican Communion and especially here in the Episcopal Church, I find myself in familiar territory. Out of that familiarity, I return to one of the positions that I’ve found the most helpful. It’s not strictly about doctrine or about discipline but about practice. The most succinct expression that I’ve found comes not from a committee or report, but a book on spirituality written by the English Anglo-Catholic Martin Thornton. In writing about the monastic father St. Benedict and his impact upon English spirituality he says:

The greatest Benedictine achievement (from this point of view) is the final consolidation of the threefold Rule of prayer which is absolutely fundamental to all Catholic spirituality: the common Office (opus dei) supporting private prayer (orationes peculiares) both of which are allied to, and consummated by, the Mass. . . . Here is the basic Rule of the Church which, varying in detail, is common to East and West, monastic and secular, to all the individual schools without exception, and which forms the over-all structure of the Book of Common Prayer. Amongst all the tests of Catholicity or orthodoxy, it is curious that this infallible and living test is so seldom applied. We write and argue endlessly about the apostolic tradition, about episcopacy, sacramentalism, creeds, doctrine, the Bible—all very important things—yet we fail to see that no group of Christians is true to orthodoxy if it fails to live by this Rule of trinity-in-unity: Mass-Office-devotion. (Martin Thornton, English Spirituality, 76)

It’s a position that certainly doesn’t answer all problems or arguments—and Thornton admits as much—but in this statement, I find the heart of the matter expressed more simply and clearly than in any bishops’ statement.

At the end of the day the question isn’t whether we are “authentic” Anglo-Catholics or Anglicans. The question is whether we are authentic Christians seeking to pattern our lives according to an Anglican shape that proceeds from catholic and orthodox roots. Yes, we do need to argue whether women are valid sacramental matter for the priesthood (and I argue they are); yes, we need to argue whether queer folk in relationships are appropriate leaders for our church communities (and I argue that it’s about the relationships not the folk and applies equally to us straight people…); yes, we need to argue about how to interpret and apply the Scriptures (and I argue without a formal or de facto magisterium). More fundamental than these, however, we need to agree and be united in a common Anglican way of life.

It used to be said—and I’ve heard it many times both before and after my move to the Episcopal Church—that rather than confessional documents we have the Book of Common Prayer. Despite the history and legacy of colonialism and its aftermath, the one thing that all Anglicans hold is a Book of Common Prayer—none identical across the provinces, but all rooted in common precedents, all embodying the fundamental principles of Eucharist, the Daily Office, and personal prayer.

Can we live up to, is there any point in, a new Anglican Covenant if we don’t bother to live up to or have regard for the more basic Anglican covenant that sits in our pews? On the other hand, it’s terrific to call ourselves Anglicans or Episcopalians, but do our daily and weekly habits reflect that reality—or display some other truth?

Yes, let’s navel-gaze. But more important, let’s pray. And let’s live our praying. Don’t just argue about being an Anglican; act like one.

Derek Olsen is in the final stretch of completing a Ph.D. in New Testament at Emory University. He has taught seminary courses in biblical studies, preaching, and liturgics; he currently resides in Maryland. His reflections on life, liturgical spirituality, and being a Gen-X/Y dad appear at Haligweorc.

21 Pentecost

October 25, 2009

Mark 10.46-52


This morning, in our Gospel, we find a little gem. This story at first seems to be leading us in one direction. We find Jesus at Jericho, which reminds us, of course, of the story from Joshua of the crumbling walls. We then find this strangely detailed story of Barthemaeus. It’s detailed in the sense that we not only have his name, but also the fact that he was the sons of Timaeus. And that he is blind. We know where this story is going. We know he’s going to be healed. We know he is going to see.

But the real gem of this story doesn’t have to do with Jericho, or the fact that we will never again hear about Bartimeus son of Timaeus. The real gem of this story is that little prayer Bartimaeus prays. There it is, huddled down within the Gospel like a wonderful little treasure.

“Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”

At first, it doesn’t seem like much. It’s so deceptively simple. But, obviously, according to the story, the prayer is important. Jesus does what he is asked. He has mercy on the man and heals him.

So why is this prayer so important? Well, for one thing, we get a glimpse of how to pray in this wonderfully simple little prayer. Jesus occasionally gives us advice in the gospels on how we should pray. The first one that probably comes to mind probably is the Lord’s Prayer. But here we find a prayer very different than the Lord’s Prayer. The Lord’s Prayer is very structured. It covers all the bases. We acknowledge and adore God, we acknowledge and ask forgiveness not only for our sins, but for the sins committed against us by others. And so on. You know the prayer.

The prayer we heard this morning cuts right to very heart not only of the Lord’s prayer but to every prayer we pray. It is a prayer that rises from within—from our very core. From our heart of hearts. The words of this prayer are the words of all those nameless, formless prayers we pray all the time—those prayers that we find ourselves longing to pray. Here it is, summed up for us. Here are the words we long to use in those prayers without words.

“Jesus, have mercy on me!”

Now this prayer sounds very familiar especially to those of who have prayed what is commonly called the “Jesus prayer.”

“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Or whatever other variations of that prayer one might use.

The prayer we heard this morning is essentially the same. The “Jesus Prayer” it is also called “the prayer of the heart.” That’s a perfect description of the prayer we heard in today’s Gospel. It is a prayer of the heart. If our lips could no longer pray, our heart would go on and this prayer would be the words of our heart. The fact that it is so simple is what makes the Jesus prayer so popular. Anyone can memorize it and anyone pray it with true meaning. It is a prayer we can repeat to ourselves over and over again. In fact, it is a prayer that demands to be repeated. It’s almost impossible not to repeat it.

When I was telling a friend of mine about this prayer once, she said to me, “Doesn’t Jesus say in Matthew that one shouldn’t be vainly repeating a prayer over and over again like the heathen do?”

Emily Gardner Neal, one of my favorite Episcopal writers, explains why this kind of prayer is all right to pray over and over again.

“The answer to this must be that the repetition in this prayer is not in vain,”[1] she says. The prayer of the heathen is a meaningless prayer and it is prayed simply to “wrack up points,” so to speak. Neal says that for the Christian, repeating this prayer is not meaningless, but rather by the repeating the prayer one “evokes and expresses the faith in [one’s] heart.”[2]

She goes on to say, “In each such repetition, the words may be the same, but never twice identical, for their meaning is inexhaustible. Your intent and your emphases shift and change.”[3]

So, no matter how many times we pray this prayer, we will never pray the same prayer twice. If it truly comes from our heart, then the prayer will be meaningful to us in that one moment.

Emily Gardner Neal goes on to say, “Perhaps because it contains the spirit and hence the power of all prayer, it not only limitless in its scope, but infinite in its use.”

What I find so interesting about that statement is that, limitless as this prayer might be, infinite in its use as it might be, it comes from and addresses our very own limitations. It is the prayer of absolute humility.

“Have mercy on me.”

We are humans, with all the limitations and shortcomings that entails. But rather than groaning about it and bewailing our misfortune, in this prayer we are able to acknowledge it and to simply offer it up. Like Bartimeaus, we can simply bring it before Jesus, release it, and then walk away healed. There is no room for haughtiness when praying this prayer. The person we are when we pray it is who we really are. When all our masks and all our defenses are gone, that is when this prayer comes in and takes over for us. This is the prayer we pray when, echoing Thomas Merton, we “present ourselves naked before our God.”

That’s what makes the prayer of the heart—the Jesus prayer—such a popular prayer for so many. There is a wonderful book from the Russian Orthodox tradition called The Way of the Pilgrim. It is the story of a man who travels about Russia, visiting churches and holy places. As he goes, he prays the Jesus prayer repeatedly and meets others who are also praying the prayer. As he travels, he observes how this kind of praying has transformed the lives of these people. When all else fails in their lives, they were able to remain steadfast in their faith by reciting the prayer. He also discovers that the prayer is especially useful in those dry moments in our spiritual lives. When it seems that God is absent or simply not listening, being faithful in the praying of the Jesus prayer somehow gets us through. Certainly, I find this kind of praying helpful in my own life. When I have suffered with various illnesses, both physical and otherwise, in those moments when I just can’t quite articulate exactly what to pray for, I have found a huge comfort in praying the Jesus prayer. While the rest of my life sometimes seems to crumble into chaos, I am often able to find a calm oasis in the middle of it all by praying the Jesus prayer quietly to myself. To be honest, sometimes it all that I can pray. All I am sometimes capable of in some of those difficult moments is repeating to myself, Lord Jesus, have mercy on me.

I have heard other stories as well of people for whom the Jesus prayer has made all the difference in the world. It has also been helpful in praying for others as well. How easy it is to simply pray:

Jesus, have mercy on her, or him, or them.

It’s wonderful isn’t how those simple words can pack such a wallop. We don’t have to be profound or eloquent in the words we address to God. We don’t need to go on and on beseeching and petitioning God. We simply need to open our hearts to God and the words will come. No doubt those words will be very similar to the words of the Jesus prayer.

So, like Bartemeaus, let us pray what is in our heart—let us open ourselves completely and humbly to Jesus. And when we do we will find the blindness’s of our own lives—that spiritual blindness that causes us to grope about aimlessly—taken from us and, with a clear spiritual vision granted to us, we too will follow him on the way.







[1] Neal, Emily Gardner. In the Midst of Life. 1963. Morehouse-Barlow. New York.
[2] ibid
[3] ibid.

20 Pentecost

Jubilee Sunday
October 18, 2009

Mark 10:35-45


We’ve all known people like them, haven’t we? We have all had our own Jameses and Johns. We’ve all had them as co-workers, or fellow students, or simply fellow parishioners. They are the ones who—while we quietly labor, quietly do our duties—they sort of weasel their way up the ladder. They are the ones who try to get a better place in line. They are the ones who drive us—who work and sacrifice and try to do the good thing—they drive us crazy.

Or maybe…and maybe none of us want to admit it …maybe, they are the ones that we relate to the most in this morning’s Gospel. Maybe we are ourselves at times are the James and the Johns. Maybe we ourselves are the Sons or Daughters of Thunder.

Whatever the case may be, the fact is James and John are really missing out. Like some of the other apostles, they just don’t get it. They don’t quite understand what Jesus is getting at when he is talking about the last being first. They don’t understand him when he says that we are called to serve and not be served. They just don’t understand that simple virtue of humility. Their view of Christianity—their view of where they stand in relation to Jesus—is a constant jockeying for position. And many of us to this day feel the same way in our own lives, in our work and in our faith lives.

But what today’s Gospel shows us is that Jesus is calling us to something much bigger than we probably fully understand. I think a lot of us—even those of us who come to church every Sunday—sometimes look at Christianity as a somewhat quaint, peace-loving religion. We dress up, we come to church on Sunday, we sing hymns, we hear about God’s love, and then we go home and…and we don’t think about it again until the next week.

But the Christianity of Jesus is not just a whitewashed, quaint religion. The Christianity of Jesus, as we hopefully have all figured out here at St. Stephen’s, is a radical faith. It is a faith that challenges—that makes us uncomfortable when we get comfortable, that riles us when we have become complacent. It is a faith that works well here in church, on Sunday morning, but also should motivate us to get up from these pews and go out into the world and live out the faith we have learned here.

And it is this fact that many of us might find a bit frightening. Like James and John, we all want to gain heaven. We want a nice place beside Jesus in that world-to-come. But few of us want to live out our faith in all that do and say. And even fewer of us are ready to be servants—to be slaves for others.

We don’t always want to serve the lowliest among us. We don’t want to suffer like Jesus suffered. We don’t want to taste from the same cup of anguish that Jesus drank from on the night before he was murdered. And we sure don’t want to be humble sometimes.

I will admit, I am in this boat sometimes. I sometimes don’t want to be a servant or slave to others. I don’t want to suffer like Jesus suffered. And although I might try—and not always that hard—I am not so good at being humble sometimes. But we all, I think, at least here at St. Stephen’s, are trying. We all making the effort in some way.

Today of course is Jubilee Sunday. On this Sunday we are reminded that we as Christians are called truly to be servants to each other and especially tot hose who need to be served. We are asked on this Sunday to do something uncomfortable. We are to asked to take a long, hard look at the world around us and to recognize the fact that there are people living in poverty in our midst.

That’s not easy to do. Most of us are comfortable in our lives. We have worked long and hard to build up financial security for ourselves and our families. Which is a very good thing to do. But in our comfortable lives, it is important that we look around us and realize not everyone has had the same breaks we have had. Not everyone has had the privilege of being born in a country where we have what we have. Not everyone lives in the same comfortable ways we do. But to remain silent in the face of that reality is say we are not followers of Jesus.

Now I’ll be honest: I don’t want to think about the outstanding poverty that exists in this world. When I do, I realize how overwhelming it is. I realize how frightening it is. And, probably most importantly, I realize how powerless I am in the face of that poverty. When I ignore those in need, when I don’t serve, when I don’t stand up against injustice—I am made very aware that in that moment, I am not following Jesus. If I don’t do those things, but I still stand up here and call myself a Christian, then I have truly become a “Son of Thunder.”

And, for most of us, that is exactly what it sounds like when we want the benefits of our faith, without making the sacrifices of our faith.

In those instances, we truly do sound like a low, distant thunder. We cannot bulldoze our way into heaven by riding roughshod over those we should be serving along the way. We seem to have forgotten this virtue of humility in our Church and in our society. We rarely hear anyone preaching about it. Certainly we don’t hear humility mentioned in the mass media, nor do we see our movie stars, our politicians or our church leaders speaking of it, much less living it out in their own lives.

But Jesus, especially in today’s Gospel, pays much attention to it. After all, who could give a better example of humility than Jesus? In a very clear way, he was the purest example of humility. When we call him the Lamb of God, we are not using this title as a sweet, comforting symbol nor are using it as victorious symbol of triumph. Jesus as Lamb of God is a symbol of absolute humility—one who willingly came to us and laid down his life—like a quiet humble lamb—as a sacrifice.

Now, of course, when we talk about humility, we need to be clear: we are not talking about humiliation. Jesus is not expecting us to be humiliated or to humiliate ourselves. We don’t have to beat ourselves raw if we fail or do something wrong.

He is simply saying to us, love God and love your neighbor as yourself—and when we do, in our lives, in our work, in the way we perceive the world around us, then a natural humility will come over us. In those moments, we will recognize that God is in control. Not us. What is more humbling than that realization in our lives?

Again, here is another example of this radical Christianity. It carries through in how we serve each other. Christians are not expected to bring anyone to Christ through an arrogant attitude. We are not expected to come charging into people’s lives, making them tremble before us in fear. We are not expected to thump our Bibles and wave the Words of Jesus before people in a desperate attempt to win souls for Christ. We aren’t forcing Christ on anyone, nor should we. In doing so, we dominate people. We coerce them into believing.

But if we simply serve those Christ calls us to serve, with love and charity and humility, sometimes that says more than any Sunday sermon or curbside rant. Think of the words Jesus could use. He could use, “power” to mean “dominance,” or “oppression” or “force.” But he doesn’t. Rather, Jesus uses the words “serve” and “servant”

Certainly we are given plenty of “power” as Christians. In our baptism, we are given power—but this power we are given is the power to die in Christ and to be raised into a new life with Christ. That is what we celebrate every time we renew our baptismal vows. That is what we celebrate when we think back to what happened at our own baptisms. We celebrate and we live out in our lives this power—this power that we are dead to our former selves and alive—alive in a powerful and amazing way—with Christ. Baptism empowers us—it makes us something more than we were before—but not in the way we think of empowering. It empowers us by making us true servants to each other.

We who share in the Body and Blood of Christ here at this altar are given a strength unlike any other in the world. But it not a strength that overpowers others. It is a strength rather that empowers us to serve each other and God. The cup and the bread we share here at the altar strengthens us to be true servants in the world. It strengthens us to bear the anguish and despair of this life. It strengthens us to persevere and to live our lives fully in Christ.

In all of this, Jesus is telling us that we are to be servants—servants not only to God, but to each other as well. I, as a priest, who stands here at this altar at each celebration of the Eucharist —I am not the only called to be a minister of God. We are all called to be ministers of God. By our very baptism, by the Eucharist we share at this altar each Sunday, we are called by God to serve each other.

We are not here on Sunday morning to be served—to be waited upon, to be lavished with gifts. We are here to serve. And it is this sense of service that we must take with us out of here into the world.

James and John eventually figured this out. They went on from that day and served Christ in the world. Eventually , they would both die for Christ as martyrs—as very witnesses to Christ by their deaths.

So, for those of us who get angry at the sons of thunder in our lives—be patient. For those of who recognize ourselves as a son or daughter of thunder—relax. Christ finds a way to break through our barriers. It is this breaking through, after all, that makes our Christianity so radical. So, serve God. Serve each other in whatever ways God leads you to serve.

Today, after this Eucharist, at coffee hour, Stand up. Take a stand against poverty. And in doing so, remember that you are empowered in ways in which you might not even have been fully aware. By the very fact that you are baptized and fed with Christ’s Body and Blood, live out your service in the world. And when you do, you just may find that the thunder you hear is the thunder not of arrogance or pride, but rather the thunder of the kingdom of God breaking through into our midst.

19 Pentecost

Oct0ber 11, 2009

Mark 10.17-31

Did you listen closely to this morning’s Gospel? Were you as uncomfortable as I was hearing it? You should be uncomfortable. We all should be uncomfortable when we hear it. Because Jesus is, quite plainly, pulling out the stops for all of us. Jesus is, quite simply, telling it like it is. It is a disturbing message—at least, on the surface. I stress that: on the surface. He makes three hard-hitting points.

First, he tells the rich man who calls Jesus “good” to sell everything he has and give the money to the poor. Second, he compares wealthy people getting into heaven to a camel going through the eye of a needle—a great image really when you think about it. Finally, he tells his disciples that only those who give up their families and their possessions will gain heaven, summarizing it in that all-too-famous maxim: “the first will be last and the last will be first.”

For those who have—who have possessions, who have loved ones, who have nice cars and houses and bank accounts and investments,--these words of Jesus should disturb us and should make us look long and hard at what we have and,
more importantly, why we have them. But what does it mean? Does it mean that we should rid ourselves of those things? Should we really sell our cars and our houses, empty out our bank accounts and our savings and give all of that money to the poor? Does it mean, we should turn our backs on our families, on our spouses and partners, on our children and our parents? If it does, it gives a whole new meaning to “Christian Family Values” does it? Does it mean that we should go poor and naked into the world?

The fact is, I don’t think Jesus is telling us to do any of that. What Jesus is talking about here is attachment. Or more specifically, unhealthy attachments. Having “things” in and of themselves are, for the most part, fine, as long as we are not attached to them in an unhealthy way. Jesus knew full well that we need certain things to help us live our lives. But being attached to those “things” is a problem. It is our attachments in this life that bind us—that tie us down and prevent us from growing, from moving closer to God. Unhealthy attachments are what Jesus is getting at here. And this is why we should be disturbed. Let’s face, at times, we’re all attached to those things we have. We are attached to our cars and our homes. We are attached to our televisions and computers and our telephones.

And, even in our relationships, we have formed unhealthy attachments as well. We often hear about co-dependence in relationships—that unhealthy kind of attachment that develops between people. We see co-dependent in relationships that are violent or abusive. People, in a sense, become attached to each other and simply cannot see what life can be like outside of that relationship. And as much as we love our children, we all know that there comes a point when we have to let them go.

We have to break whatever attachments we have to them so they can live their lives fully. It is seems to be part of our nature to form unhealthy relationships with others at times. Especially in this day and age, we hear so often of people who are afraid to be alone. So many people are out there looking for that “the right one”—as though this one person is going to bring unending happiness and contentment to one’s life. Some people might even be attached to the idea of a relationship, rather than the relationship itself. We’ve all known people like that—people who are afraid because they are getting too old to settle down and still haven’t found that right person in their lives.

It seems almost as though their lives revolve around finding this ideal person when, in fact, no one can live up that ideal. See, attachments start taking on the feeling of a heavy baggage after so long. They do get in the way. They weigh us down and they ultimately make our life a burden.

For several years in my twenties, I studied Zen Buddhism. It was a fascinating religion to study because in many ways, it is very similar to our own. What was especially interesting was how closely related some of the sayings by the Zen Masters were to the sayings of Jesus. One of the most important aspects of Zen Buddhism is its emphasis on ridding oneself of attachments—of cutting ties in one’s life. Attachments in Zen are viewed as one of the roots of unhappiness. After all, attachments bind us and, in some ways, control us. In Zen, the image one should use is that of a cloud—floating around without any attachments. That image is the ideal for Zen Buddhism, because it is the image of true freedom—freedom to practice Zen mediation and freedom, when the times comes, to die without attachments. As wonderful as that may sound to some of us, it isn’t very plausible.

The question we need to ask ourselves in response to this morning’s Gospel is this: if Jesus came to us today and told us to abandon everything we have right here and right now, and follow him, would we? If Jesus asked us to abandon our families, our friends, our cars, our bank accounts, the way of life we have become accustomed to—would we? Or more importantly, could we?

The fact is, Jesus isn’t going to call us in such a way. But what the Gospel for today hopefully shows us that we need to be aware of our attachments. We need to be aware that, one day, Jesus, will in fact, call us to himself.

One day, Jesus will take us to himself. And on that day, we will ultimately break all of our unhealthy attachments, whether we want to or not. And this is what Jesus, I think, is preparing us for. Jesus is preparing us for the Kingdom of Heaven, for that place in which everything we hold dear here on earth—along with all our sorrows and fears and frustrations—simply pass away.

The message is clear—don’t allow your unhealthy attachments to come between God and you. Don’t allow anything to come between God and you. If Jesus came to us here and now and asked us to give away everything and follow him, most of us couldn’t to do it. I don’t think I could do it. And when we realize that, we suddenly realize how hard it is to gain heaven. It truly is like a camel passing through the eye of the needle. But the day will come when everything we have will pass from us.

We all know the old saying, “we can’t take it with us.” And we can’t. That money we saved over the years isn’t coming with us when Jesus calls us. That car, that house, that bank account is staying here when we finally shed everything and moved into the nearer presence of God. Even these bodies that we obsess over, that we stress over, that we despair over when they start growing old and start aching—even the attachment we have to this body will be broken.

For us, in this moment, this might be a reason to despair. But the fact is, how else can we come before God? How else can we truly and wholly appear before God, except naked and poor, trusting completely in the God who gave us all that we had in the first place. When we get to where we’re going, we go with a trust like we have never known before. We go with that trust that God will give us more than we could even ask for in that new life with God.

This is what Jesus is getting at in today’s Gospel. So, enjoy those “things” you have. Take pleasure in them. But recognize them for what they are. They are only temporary joys. They come into in your life and they will go out of your life, sort of like that Zen cloud. All those things you hold dear, will pass away from you. Cling instead, to God and to the healthy bonds that you’ve formed with God and with your loved ones—with your spouse or partner, your children, your family and your friends. Make the attempt to see that what you have is temporary. Be prepared to shed every attachment you have if you need to. And when the day comes when Jesus calls you by your name, you can simply run to him and follow him wherever he leads you.

17 Pentecost

September 27, 2009

Mark 9:38-50

This coming Thursday marks a big day in my life. October 1st is my one year anniversary as the Priest-in-Charge of St. Stephen’s. And I can say that, for me anyway, it has been a GREAT year! And since my contract is being renewed, I think most of you are all right with me as well. But for me, this year at St. Stephen’s has been a exciting. And as I’ve gotten to know this wonderfully eclectic congregation called St. Stephen’s, I realize I am very lucky to be serving such a congregation. I have personally have learned much in my time here—namely, what it means to service fully and completely in Jesus’ Name.

In this morning’s Gospel, we find the followers of Jesus coming to him and complaining about someone—an outsider, not one of the inner circle of Jesus’ followers—who is casting out demons in Jesus’ name. We don’t know who this person was—we never hear anything more about him. Possibly it was one of those many multitudes of people who were following him around, observing all that he had done. Possibly it was someone who was trying to be like Jesus. More likely it was a genuine follower of Jesus who simply had not—for whatever reasons—made it into the inner circle of Jesus’ followers. However, the apostles do not like it. They are threatened by this person—this outsider. And because he is an outsider, they want it stopped. So, thinking he will put an end to it, they go to Jesus. You can almost hear them as they whine and complain to him about this supposedly pretentious person.

But Jesus—once again—does not do what they think he will do. Jesus tells them two things: first “for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me.” And the big one—the most obvious one (you would think)—
“Whoever is not against us is for us.”
You would think that we—the Church—would have learned from this story. You think we would have been able to have heard this story and realized that, if we are all working together for the same goal—for the furthering of the Kingdom of God in our midst—then, we are all working together in Jesus’ name.

But the fact is, we have not quite “got it.” Over the recent history of the church, we have seen that the Church has at times acted like the disciples in today’s Gospel. Now, when I’m talking about the Church—capital C—I am talking about the human-run organization of the Church. As such, let’s face it, it is an imperfect structure. It has the same faults and failings of all human-run organizations—no matter how blessed it claims to be by God.
I will admit one thing to you—and for those of you who have come to know me in this last year at St. Stephen’s, this comes as no great surprise—but, I have a love-hate relationship with the organized Church.

I truly love the Church. I love serving God’s people within the structure of the Episcopal Church and I love serving here at St. Stephen’s. I also love serving the Diocese of North Dakota as the Bishop’s Executive Assistant. I love the Church’s traditions. I love its liturgy. As I’ve mentioned many times here before you, I love being a priest. And, on really good days, I am so keenly aware that the Church truly is a family. We are a family that might not always get along with each other, but when it comes right down to it, we do love each other . And I have never seen that more keenly than here at St. Stephen’s. Certainly, we here, at St. Stephen’s, are very much a family.

Now I know St. Stephen’s has a reputation. It has a reputation, rightly so, of being the first on many issues. It has been the first in women serving fully and completely. And it has been a first in gay and lesbian serving fully and completely. And I love to be serving in a church that has been the first in both of these issues.

But even so, I will be just as honest that there are many days in which I find being a member of the Church—capital C— a burden. The Church—as most of us know—can be a fickle place to be at times. It can be a place where people are more interested in rules and dogmas than a place that furthers the love of God and of each other. It can be a place where people are so caught up in doing right, that they run rough-shod over people who truly need the Church and who truly long for God.

When I was ordained a deacon, I remember a colleague of mine—someone who knew about my love-hate relationship with the Church—saying to me that they found it amazing that I—of all people—was putting on the “uniform” of the organized Church. I remember being shocked by that statement. For some reason I hadn’t even considered the fact that I would now be a representative of something that I wasn’t certain I wanted to represent.

In the years since my ordinations, I have found that, yes, I am a representative of the Church in ways others might not be. The collar I wear instantly labels me and there have been many people who have come up to me, because of the collar I wear, and have made assumptions about where I must stand on certain issues in the Church. Sometimes, they are shocked to find that I don’t hold the opinions they think I should. And sometimes, people are downright offended that I don’t. Sometimes people are especially shocked to hear that I—an ordained priest—would even dare profess the hate side of my love-hate relationship with the Church. But not being honest about it only helps perpetuate the hypocrisy the Church so often is accused of.

When I look at the Church as it is right now—with all its wrangling and arguing—I can honestly and clearly hear the voices of those disciples of Jesus in this morning’s Gospel. I can hear their statement as one of anger and one of frustration and one of jealousy. People in the Church on all sides of the issues are condemning each other, bashing each other and demeaning each other in the name of the Church as we speak. People—because of their differences—are not acting like they love each other. They are not acting like a family.

I see the Church, at times, as making a real solid effort to be what Jesus wanted it to be. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here in the Church. One aspect of the Church that I have always loved is the belief—and the fact— that there is room here for everyone in the Church—no matter who they are. I feel there is room for people who have differing views in the Church. Not everyone has to agree. But we all do have to make room for each other here. The Church however doesn’t always see itself in such a way.

Like the disciples in today’s Gospel, the governments of the Church like to claim that only they know who can and who cannot do God’s work in the world. When an upstart—when a person marginalized by society—comes along and tries to do God’s work in Jesus’ name, the Church very often tries to put an end to it.

Look at our recent history in the church. Thirty years ago, the issue was women. Can women be priests? A lot of people said, “absolutely not.” And people on both sides of the issue were ugly and mean and vicious and hateful to each other about it. One side said, “if we ordain women, the Church will fall apart.” The other side said, “If we don’t ordain women the church will fall apart.” Well, the Church hasn’t fallen apart. We’re still here and, I personally can’t help but believe we’re a much better place for allowing women to serve us as priests. When I think of what the church would be like without women priests, or gay and lesbian priests, I think it is a bleak and ugly place.

As Anglicans, I have loved the fact that there has always been room for everyone. But we also have to make for room for people we might label as “conservative.” There is also room for people we might not agree with 100%. There is room for people who challenge us and provoke us and jar us out of what can very easily devolve into self-righteous complacency.

As Scot McKnight says in his delightful book, Embraced by Grace:

“In God’s equality, difference is maintained and loved.”

Who are we to judge who God calls to serve? God decides these things. Our job as Christians is simply this: we must love in Jesus’ Name.

As Jesus says in today’s in Gospel, “Whoever is not against us is for us.” For those people who throw up their hands and say, “This doesn’t have anything to do with me.” I say, “Yes, it does.” We are all family. We are all in this together. And we need to love each other, in Jesus’ name. This Church that I love is a wonderful place to be at times. And I think it is a place from which everyone can benefit. Like those disciples, none of us is perfect. All of us are fractured, sinful people at times. Because we are fractured sinful people, isn’t it wonderful that we have a place to come to even when we’re fractured and sinful, a place where we are not judged, a place where we are welcomed for who and what we are. This is the ideal of the Church. This is the place Jesus intended it be.

The Name of Jesus puts all of us on common ground. The Name of Jesus makes us all equal. The Name of Jesus eliminates those fringes of society, those marginalized places and makes us all part of the inner circle. We—all of us—are the inner circle of Jesus’ followers, no matter who we are.

So remember, the Church is not an exclusive club. It is not a club for everyone who believes exactly the same thing. Following Jesus means making room for the person we might not agree with. Following Jesus means walking alongside someone whom no one else loves or cares for. Following Jesus means, as he tells us this morning, being at peace with each other. Following Jesus means loving each other—no matter who or what we are.

This is what, I think we are doing here at St. Stephen’s. All of us, in our own ways, are attempting to follow Jesus here. That is why I am very happy to be here, with you. Together, here, we are serving each other, we are serving those who need to be served, we are reaching out in love, in Jesus Name. So, let us, together, continue to do just that. In Jesus’ Name. Amen.