4 Pentecost

June 25, 2023

 

Matthew 10.24-39

+ Probably the biggest pastoral duty I do is simply listening.

 

Listening to people who come to me, or call me or text or Facebook message me.

 

And I would say that the majority of people who are reaching are dealing with issues of deep and abiding fear.

 

Let’s face it, fear is a reality in our lives.

 

We just went through a major pandemic a few years ago.

 

There is a war in the Ukraine.

 

There was a very quick coup-attempt yesterday in Russia.

 

We ar enow entering into a very divisive political election season that, at moments, seems so absurd it could be from some parody.

 

But it most definitely is not.

 

It is a truly strange and uncertain time we are living in.

 

 

All of this reminds me very much of some of the petitions we find in a service in our Prayer Book we use only two time a year.

 

In our Prayer Book, beginning on page 148, we have something called “The Great Litany.”

 

I love the Great Litany!

 

I know some people do not like it.

 

It doesn’t quite encompass their own personal spirituality or theology.

But it does very much encompasses the Church’s theology, and gives voice to what generation after generation of Christians have actually prayed in their own lives.

 

The Great Litany, and especially the Supplication, which can be found on page 152 is a special prayer service which is often used “in times of war, or of national anxiety, or of disaster.”

 

It’s not a liturgy we, thankfully, use very often.

 

We use it on the first Sunday of Advent and the First Sunday of Lent here at St. Stephen’s.

 

And although some people find it ponderous or even theologically uncomfortable, it is meaningful, and let me tell you, it speaks volumes to us during difficult times.  

 

In times of anxiety, I have occasionally prayed the Great Litany privately here in church on an occasion or two in the past.

 

I prayed it following a very frightening election.

 

I actually prayed it a couple of times here in church during the pandemic.

 

And, going back, I prayed it following the 9/11 attacks in 2001.

 

Fear like that can be very crippling.

 

And, as you’ve heard me say many times, fear in this sense is not from God.

 

Fear is a reality and there’s no way around at it times, but it is not something we should allow to dominate our lives.

 

In a sense, that fear is possibly what Jesus is hinting at in our Gospel reading.

 

Well, there’s actually a lot going on in our Gospel reading for today.

 

There are layers and layers in our Gospel reading.

 

And some really fairly unpleasant things.

 

But essentially it is about our fear of doing the work of God—doing the ministry of Christ—and…about taking up our cross.

 

Certainly it seems all this is bound together.

 

Essentially, probably our greatest cross to bear is our fear.

 

A fear like I referred to at the beginning of my sermon.

 

A strange, overpowering fear that is hard to pinpoint.

 

A fear of the unknown.

 

A fear of the future.

 

A fear of all those things we can’t control in our lives.

 

Let’s take a moment this morning to actually think about the symbol of our fears—this thing to which Jesus refers today—the Cross.

 

And I say that because the Cross is a symbol of fear.

 

It certainly was to people of Jesus’ day.

 

It was an instrument of torture and pain and death.

 

It was the equivalent of a noose or a guillotine

 

There was nothing hopeful or life-affirming in it to them.

 

And yet, look at how deceptively simple it is.

 

It’s simply two pieces, bound together.

 

Or, as the our crucifix in the corner shows, it is a cross on which a  man actually died.

 

I love the symbol of the crucifix, especially.

 

I love it because, a bare cross can be sugar-coated.

 

We cover our crosses in gold and silver.

 

It become a quaint symbol that can be whitewashed and quickly become devoid of meaning.

 

And, in many cases now in our society, the cross is a symbol of small-mindedness, discrimination and oppression.

 

But the crucifix, as much as we cover it in gold or silver, it still is what it is.

 

It is a clear symbol that on that simple cross, some One died.

 

And died violently, painfully.

 

Someone suffered a pain none of us had ever experienced.

 

In it, gazing on the figure of Jesus who hangs there, we cannot deny what the cross is or what it represents to us.

 

For someone who knows nothing about Christianity, for someone who knows nothing about the story, it’s a symbol they might not think much about.

 

And yet, for us, on this side of Jesus’ crucifixion, the Cross is more than just another symbol in our lives.

 

It is a perfect example of how something that is a true symbol of death, destruction and fear can be transformed.

 

The story of the Cross is amazing in the sense that is as symbol of absolute terror and darkness can be transformed into a symbol of unending life, of victory over fear and death and despair. 

 

Jesus knew full well what the cross was all about, even before he was even nailed to it.

 

In our Gospel reading, he says,  “anyone who does not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.”

 

He knew it was a terrible dark thing.

 

He knew what is represented.

 

And by saying those words, he knew the people of his day did not want to hear those words either.

 

Taking up a cross? Are you serious? Why would anyone do that?

 

Taking up the Cross is frightening after all.

 

To take up a cross means to take up a burden—that thing we maybe fear the most in our lives.

 

To take it up—to face our greatest fear—is absolutely torturous.

 

It hurts.

 

When we think of that last journey Jesus took to the place of his crucifixion, carrying that heavy tree on which he is going to be murdered, it must’ve been more horrible than we can even begin to imagine.

 

 But the fact is, what Jesus is saying to us is: carry your cross now.

 

Carry it with dignity and inner strength.

 

But carry it without fear.

 

And this is the most important aspect of today’s Gospel reading.

 

Jesus commands us not once, but twice,

 

 “Do not be afraid.”

 

“Do not be afraid.”

 

He isn’t saying that in some nonchalant way.

 

He isn’t just saying it flippantly.

 

He is being blunt.

 

Do not be afraid.

 

Do not be afraid of what the world can throw at you.

 

Do not be afraid of what can be done to the body and the flesh.

 

Do not be afraid of pandemics or racism or violence or crooked, criminal, treasonous grifters who pose as politicians.

 

Taking our cross and bearing it bravely is a sure and certain way of not fearing.

 

It is a defiant act.

 

If we take the crosses we’ve been given to bear and embrace them, rather than running away from them, we find that fear has no control over us.

 

The Cross destroys fear.

 

The Cross shatters fear into a million pieces.

 

And when we do fear, because we will experience fear in our lives, we know we have a place to go to for shelter in moments of real fear.

 

When fear encroaches on our lives—when fear comes riding roughshod through our lives—all we have to do is face it head-on. 

 

And there, we will find our fears destroyed.

 

Because of the Cross, we are taken care of.

 

There is no reason to fear.

 

I know that sounds complacent.

 

But there is no reason to fear.

 

Yes, there will be moments of collective, spiritual fear we will go through.

 

Yes, there will be a palpable fear we can almost touch.

 

Yes, we will be confronted at times with real and horrible fear.

 

But, there is no reason to despair over it  because—guess what?—we are not in control.

 

God is in control.

 

“Even the hairs of your head are counted” by the God who loves us and cares for us.

 

This God knows us intimately.

 

So intimately than this God even knows how many hairs are on our head.

 

Why should we be afraid then?

 

Because each of us is so valuable to God.

 

We are valuable to God, who loves us.

 

When we stop fearing whatever crosses we must bear in our lives, the cross will stop being something terrible.

 

Like that cross on which Jesus died, it will be an ugly thing of death and pain and fear  turned into a symbol of strength and joy and unending eternal life.

 

Through it, we know, we must pass to find true and unending life.

 

Through the Cross, we must pass to find ourselves, once and for all time, face-to-face with our God.

 

So, I invite you: take notice of the crosses around you.

 

As you drive along, notice the crosses on the churches you pass.

 

Notice the crosses that surround you.

 

Do not sugarcoat your crosses.

 

See them for what they are.

 

When you see the Cross, remember what it means to you.

 

Look to it for what it is: a triumph over every single fear in our lives.

 

When we see the crosses in our lives, we can look at them and realize they are destroying fear in our own lives.

 

Let us truly look at those crucifixes and see the One who hangs nailed to the cross.

 

Let us bear those crosses of our lives patiently and, most importantly, without fear.

 

We are loved by our God.

 

Each of us is precious to our God.

 

Knowing that, rejoicing in that, how can we ever fear again?

 

Let us pray.

Holy God, we do live in fear. We do avoid taking up the cross Jesus tells us we must bear in our following of him. Dispel from our lives these crippling fears, these fears that prevents us from living into our own full potential, from the fears that separate us from you, and help us to live fully into this world without fear. We ask this in Jesus’ holy Name. Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

3 Pentecost

June 18, 2023

Matthew 9.35-38

 + Last week I talked about my ordination and how the Gospel we heard today was the Gospel used for my ordination.

 In that Gospel reading, we hear Jesus say, “I am sending you as sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”

 I love that scripture and have strived to live into it all of my life.

 But our reading from Matthew today, in addition to that phrase,  is full of some other important references.

 In it we also heard,

 “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

 It sounds kind of like eating out at restaurants right now.

 Or trying to use the check out at the grocery store.

 There’s lots of demand, but not a whole lot of workers.

 The problem here is that the Church should not be like a restaurant or a grocery store concerning who is able to do the ministry of the Church.

 The fact is, we are all called to ministry.

 We all should be doing ministry, right here, right now. 

 And each of us have our own ministries we’re called to.

 Certainly, in my case, I have been called to the ordained ministry—to the Priesthood.

 As I said last week on the 19^th anniversary of my ordination to the Priesthood, I love being a priest.

 I really do.

 But maybe it doesn’t hurt sometimes to ask why.

 Why am I called to be a priest?

 Why is Deacon John or Deacon Suzanne called to be deacons?

 Why are each of us called to do the particular ministries we do here at church?

 For me, and the answer to my own question, I think is answered in today’s Gospel. As well.

 We find Jesus feeling “compassion” for the people “because they were harassed and helpless like sheep without a shepherd.”

 I became a priest for people who are “harassed”  and “helpless, who need a shepherd.

 The reason I became a priest was so I could serve.

 I wanted to bless and consecrate.

 I wanted to celebrate Holy Eucharist and I wanted to baptize and bury and marry.

 I wanted to be a priest who truly loved and cared for the people I was called to serve.

 I wanted to be a priest a priest who practiced radical inclusion.

 And I also am somewhat skilled in administration.

 Which is why I am your Rector in addition to your priest.

 I know how Church—captial C—runs.

 And let me tell you, I also know how I sometimes doesn’t run as well.

 And I’m brutally honest about it all.

 Sometimes even when you don’t want to hear it.

 I know how to do a lot of those little jobs that no one else wants to do in the day-to-day functions of a parish.

 And there are lots of them!

 These are the things a priest—a Rector—does.

 And these are the things I think I was called to do.

 Am I successful at them?

 At times, yes.

 At others, I’m not so certain.

 There are people, after all,  who slip through the cracks.

 There are missed opportunities at helping and serving.

 And, more importantly, despite whatever compassion I might have for people, there are times when, yes, I have to admit I don’t always like some people.

 But the fact remains, I have been called to serve and that is exactly what I will do.

 One of the major things I learned after I was ordained was how people viewed me.

 No longer did people treat me the same way they did before.

 People put me up to a different standard than before I was ordained.

 I remember one time when someone took offense to the fact that I used a choice “four letter word.”

 Now it wasn’t the four letter word you might think it was—it was much more innocent than that.

 But people took exception not because Jamie used the word, but because Father Jamie used the word.

 I have learned very quickly that every word I say and every criticism I make is weighed very heavily by others.

 That also is a pitfall of ministry.

 This is why you hear me say this again and again: when it comes to people who volunteer and do ministry here at St. Stephen, please use a velvet glove with them.

 It is not the place for any one of us here to critique and criticize how others do ministry here.

 And none of our standards here are so high that we feel everyone else must do them to the same exact standard by THEIR standards

 I can tell you with all honesty: the main reason people stop doing ministry is the criticisms and the critiques they receive from other people trying to tell them how to do ministry.

 It has happened here at St. Stephen’s.

 And it has happened in other parishes I’ve served as well.

 I saw a great meme this week that said

 “STOP EXPECTING YOU FROM OTHER PEOPLE.”

 Trust me, not holding everyone else to your standards will make you so much happier, because no one will live up to our standard for ourselves.

 Not even ourselves.

 Velvet gloves are essential.

 Because, as we all know, the harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few.

 I think one of the best ways we see this illustrated here at St. Stephen’s is with our livestreaming.

 People want livestreaming.

 I get those emails and Facebook message requests from people, asking us about our livestreamed service.

 People join us by livestream.

 But there’s not many of us here who are called to actually do livestreaming.

 I certainly am not called to do it.

 But somehow it needs to be done.

 The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.

 We must remind ourselves again and again that we need to commend those laboring and not send them away, hurt by our scolding.

 Because when we do, I assure you:  they ain’t comin’ back again. . .

 I learned that ministry is not some ego trip.

 In fact, it can be very humbling.

 And, sometimes, it can be a burden.

 Partly it can be burden because, I’m not perfect.

 Nor is anyone.

 Certainly Jesus in our Gospel reading for this morning is not expecting perfection.

 He says,

 “…do not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you at that time; for it is not you who speak, but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.” 

 We don’t have to be perfect.

 All we have to do is open our selves to God’s Spirit and let that Spirit speak through us.

 But the message I think we all—ordained or not—can take away from this is that God uses our imperfections.

 God uses us as we are.

  God loves us for who are.

 We don’t have to be perfect and we don’t all have to be priests and deacons.

 We are all ministers.

 God calls each of us in our own ways—in our own fractured ways—to serve as we need to serve—to do as much good as we can here and now.

 So, let us not try to hide our imperfections.

 Instead, let us live out our ministry as we are.

 Let us strive to have compassion on the harassed and the helpless, on those who are sick and those who might not even know they’re sick, on the marginalized and on those who have little or no voice.

 Even if we fail, making the effort helps us to live out our ministry.

 If nothing else, it just makes the world a little better place than it was before.

  Let us pray.

 Lord of the Harvest, send us out. Help as we bring your Kingdom nearer. Let us strive, in our love of you and of one another, to do the work you have called us to do. There is much work to do. Let us do what we must do. We ask this in the holy Name of Jesus. Amen.

 

2 Pentecost

 June 11, 2023

 Matthew 9.9-13,18-16

+ Today is an important day for me.

 19 years ago today—actually this evening—I was ordained to the Priesthood.

 I am very grateful for these 19 years.

 And as most of you know, I truly love being a Priest.

 It is one of the most fulfilling aspects of my life.

 Sometimes, you just know you were meant to do a certain thing in life.

 And for me, this is it.

 Still, 19 years seems to me now like a long time.

 It is a long time.

 And next month, I will celebrate the 20th anniversary of my ordination as a deacon.

 A lot happens in almost two decades.

 A lot of joys.

 A whole lot of sadness.

 Some major disappointments.

 And some amazing accomplishments.

 The Gospel reading for my ordination was the reading for the feast day which falls on June 11^th, the feast of St. Barnabas.

 Those words were words that have been very prophetic in my own life as an ordained minister.

 In that Gospel reading, we hear Jesus say, “I am sending you as sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”

 I should have those words inscribed on my gravestone!!

 Because that is exactly what it’s like to be a Priest or a deacon or a minister, as you all are.

 Actually, that’s what it’s like just to be a Christian at times.

 At least, I hope we are all striving to be this kind of Christian in our lives.

 Most of us, in whatever ministries we might be doing in our lives, know this to be very true.

 We’ve been there, in the midst of those wolves.

 We have known those wolves very well.

 And yes, some of them really are wolves in sheep’s clothing, let me tell you!

 I could name a few…

 I won’t.

 But I could.

 And if I have had any gift granted to me by God to survive all these years of ordained ministry, I can say that, for me anyway, it has definitely been to be as wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove.

 Well, I don’t know how “innocent” I’ve been.

 Or, for that matter, “wise” either.

 Well, I’m kind of wise.

 Remember all those times over the last seven years or so when situations in our country seemed particularly dark.

 Remember what I said again and again?

 The chickens always come home to roost.

 Well. . .

 Welcome home, chickens. . .

 But I’ve tried really hard to be both wise and innocent, as a priest, as a deacon, as a follower of Jesus, a lover of God and a lover of others.

 Our Gospel reading for today is very appropriate to this discussion.

 In it, we find Jesus calling the apostle Matthew, saying to him, “Follow me.”

 That is a message to all of us, too.

 All of us who are called to ministry.

 All of us who serve.

 All of us who strive to follow Jesus and love God and one another.

 Doing any one of these things—following Jesus, loving God, loving others—is not easy.

 Because doing these things isn’t some insular thing we do.

 It isn’t just about “me and Jesus,” so to speak.

 It’s about all of us.

 Together.

 And doing all of this means that, occasionally, we must stand up and speak out.

 And that’s definitely not easy.

 It’s not easy taking a step out there and standing up for what we know is right.

 It is not easy to stand up and speak out.

 It is not easy to be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.

 Ministry is hard.

 Following Jesus is hard.

 Loving God is hard.

 Loving one another—let me tell you, that’s very hard sometimes.

 All of us who do it—and that is everyone here today—know that we all have to be wise as serpents and innocent as doves at times in our lives and in the work we do.

 Each of us has been called, by our very baptism, to follow Jesus.  

 We were called to serve.

 We have been called to shed our egos to a large extent.

 And that might be the hardest thing of all.

 I know that it is for me.

 Ministry is certainly not some ego trip.

 If one goes into ordained ministry for an ego trip, let me tell you, there will be a rude awakening.

 Because, ministry, any kind of ministry, is not about any one of us as an individual.

 It is not about the cult of personality.

 When we make it such, it is doomed to fail

 Trust me.

 I have seen it.

 Ministry is, in fact, humbling.

 Or, sometimes, downright humiliating.

 And, sometimes, it can be a burden.

 Partly it can be a burden because, none of us, not one of us, is perfect.

 And realizing our limitations can be sobering.

 It can be frightening.

 And it can be humbling.

 Of course, we must remember that no one is expecting any of us to be perfect.

 But the message I think we all—ordained or not—can take away from this is that God uses our imperfections.

 God uses us as we are.

 God loves us for who are.

 And this is our model in turn.

 We must love each other, as we are, for who we are.

 And when we realize that we don’t have to be perfect, that we don’t all have to ordained priests or deacons to do what God calls us to do, it can be a relief.

 God calls each of us in our own ways—in our own fractured ways—to serve as we need to serve—to do as much good as we can here and now.

 That is all we can do sometimes.

 We must strive hard just to do good, even in some small way, every day, in whatever way we can.

 But, once we start doing so, once we stop relying only ourselves and our egos, once we stop trying to be perfect all the time, and just trust God, and love others, and just follow Jesus where he is going, we do find our way.

 So, let us not try to hide our imperfections.

 Instead, let us live out our ministry, striving to have compassion on the harassed and the helpless, on those who are sick and those who might not even know they’re sick, on the marginalized and on those who have little or no voice.

 Even if we fail, making the effort helps us to live out our ministry and, if nothing else, it just makes the world a little better place than it was before.

 Let us truly be disciples of Jesus, like Matthew, like Barnabas, loving God, loving each other.

 And in all that may come upon—good or bad—let us be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.

 By doing so, we live in integrity.

 By doing so, we will make a difference in this world, even in some small way.

 By doing so, we will be bringing the Kingdom of God even closer.

 It is near because we are working and striving to make it near.

 We are making it present when we do what we do in love.