5 Easter

 

April 28, 2024

 

Acts 8.26-40; 1 John 4.7-21; John 15.1-8

 

+ As I near the 20^th anniversary of my ordination to the Priesthood on June 11—we’ll be celebrating here at St. Stephen’s on June 9—I have found myself somewhat introspective, but kind of retrospective, fi you know what I mean.

 I’ve been looking inward

 And I’ve been looking back.

 Looking back over my 20 years as a priest.

 I will go into more depth about all of this on June 9^th in my sermon, but I have been thinking long and hard about some of the stances I have made that have put me, shall we say, outside the norm for priests, especially in this diocese.

 One situation in particular rose to the forefront this past week as I pondered our scripture reading today from the Book of Acts.

 Way back, in the beginning days of my priestly ministry, I was asked by some wonderful parishioners at the congregation I served to do a baptism for these parishioner’s twin granddaughters.

 I was close to this family—I loved them dearly—and I was honored to do so.

 The family requested however that the baptism be done in the chapel of the church.

 In that chapel was a columbarium, in which the ashes of people were interred.

 And the great-grandfather of these twins was interred there.

 They wanted it there so that we could include the great-grandfather’s memory in baptism.

 I thought it was a beautiful sentiment, and so I said sure, why not?

 We planned the service between Sunday morning Masses, so that we could include anyone who wanted to come to be present, but so there wasn’t a disruption of the liturgy with a procession to the chapel rather to the regular baptismal font in the church.

 Well, as sweet and nice and beautiful as this all sounded, it did not sit well with the clergy in charge.

 I don’t know if they were offended by what they viewed as a unilateral decision by this upstart assisting priest who served in their parish.

 And, to be fair to them, I will give them that.

 I SHOULD have received their OK to do these things before I gave an OK to the family.

 But I did not think it would be an issue.

 Well, it most certainly WAS an issue.

 And after being reprimanded by them, I was then summarily summoned to the Bishop’s office, who also reprimanded me for this situation, at the behest of these clergy.

 Before you start thinking less of me, if you  believe that I just humbly and sweetly took these reprimands quietly, let me assure you, I did not!

 I sat through the clergy reprimand biting the inside of my lips until they bled.

 I tried to defend myself, but it was two against one.

 And you all know how I LOVE to be ganged up on….

 But when I was summoned to the Bishop’s office, reprimanded and then told to make a formal apology to the clergy, I protested.

 And I protested loudly.

 Now, if I had violated the relationship with the clergy, I considered it resolved after they reprimanded me and I then apologized them to them in that meeting.

 But to have the Bishop reprimand me after the clergy and then demand that I make a public formal apology was a bit much.

 And his reason for reprimanding me had nothing to do with my overreaching my role as an assisting clergyperson.

 It had to do with the rubrics.

 The rubrics are those italicized instructions we find in the Book of Common Prayer---the stage directions, so to speak.

 So, let’s turn in our Prayer Books to those rubrics for Holy Baptism

 On page 298.

 The argument was that the rubrics say on page 298, second paragraph, that “Holy Baptism is appropriately administered within the Eucharist at the chief service on a Sunday or other feast.”

 I, of course, as well as every single clergy person in the Episcopal Church, am bound by my ordination vows to conform to the “doctrine, discipline and worship of the Episcopal Church,” which means those rubrics.

 And I do so, “with God’s help.”

 But if you want to see my hackles rise, just bring me into contact with so-called “rubric Nazis.”

 I argued my case, saying that rubrics are not emphatic on that whole principal service, and that the Prayer Book actually does give us an opportunity to baptize at other times other than the primary liturgy of Sunday morning.

 We went round and round about this until I finally realized I was going to lose.

 After all, what did some newly ordained poet-priest know about such things language?

 But I did get one last shot in before I conceded.

 I picked up a Bible and placed it before the Bishop and I said, “please tell me where, in the Book of Acts, is says that Philip baptized the Ethiopian Eunuch during the “chief service on a Sunday.”

 I didn’t get an answer, other than “don’t be difficult, Jamie.”

 And sadly, that did not win my case.

 I lost.

 And yes, those babies were baptized.

By another assisting priest at that parish.

 Between services.

 On a Sunday.

 In the chapel.

 Just as it was originally requested and planned.

 *Sigh.*

 But. . . .I have thought a lot about that reading from Acts over my years as a priest.

 This has been a very important scripture to me for some time, and not just because of that baptism way back then.

 The introduction of the Ethiopian Eunuch is vital for us—especially those of us who are a sexual minority in the Church.

 The Ethiopian Eunuch is a marginalized person—a person who is not allowed to be included in the Jewish fellowship because of the castration that was done to them.

 But for Philip to accept this person--who by Jewish Law could not be considered fertile, who would by some be seen as a barren branch, someone who could not live out the commandment to be fruitful and multiply--and baptize them and include them in the fellowship of Christ is a story of radical acceptance and inclusion.

 Of course, the Ethiopian eunuch is important to Transgender people, who relate to the Eunuch.

 But the Eunuch is important to people like me who are asexual, who also definitely relate to the Ethiopian Eunuch.  

 In the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, the eunuch is actually named and seen as a saint.

 They are given the name St. Bachos and in the Easter Orthodox Church St. Simeon (sometimes referred to together as St. Simeon Bachos).

 In this story we see how radically inclusive and revolutionary the act of Baptism can be.

 And should be.

 As baptized followers of Jesus, as Christians and Episcopalians who are striving to live out the Baptismal Covenant in our lives, we know that to be relevant, to be vital, we must be truly fruitful.

 In today’s Gospel, we find Jesus giving us a glimpse of what this means

 “I am the vine, you are the branches,” Jesus tells us.

 The effective branch bears fruit.

 Our job as Christians is do just that.

 It is to bear fruit.

 Now, this takes on a very different meaning when we consider St. Simeon Bachos, the Ethiopian Eunuch, or trans people or asexual people.

 Being fruitful in this sense means being spiritual fruitful, being fruitful in bringing about the Kingdom of God abundantly.

 Bearing fruit means, growing and changing and flourishing and being open minded.

 We do it here at St. Stephen’s by doing something that might not seem trendy.

 We do it with our ancient form of worship.

 We do it with the Eucharist.

 We do it with taking what we do here, breaking bread and sharing bread with each other, on Sundays, and then going out doing just that in the world.

 And in doing that, we make a difference in the world.

 That is what it means to is to be effective as Christians.

 Being a Christian means living out our faith—fully and completely, in every aspect of our lives.

 And living out our faith as followers of Jesus means that we must be pliable to some extent.

 And we must be fertile.

 We must go with change as it comes along.

 We must remain relevant.

 Now that doesn’t mean we throw the baby out with the bathwater.

 In fact it means embracing and holding tightly to what we have do well.

 We respect and honor and celebrate our tradition, our history, our past.

 But we aren’t bound to it by some kind of noose.

 We are not called to serve rubrics.

 Rubrics are meant to serve us, to make our worship meaningful and beautiful, to keep things in line so that our liturgies don’t become circuses.

 Being a Christian, following Jesus means that we will following him by being fruitful and growing and flourishing, by making a difference in the world.

 We are doing positive and effective things in the world.

 We are transforming the world, bit by bit, increment by increment, baby step by baby step.

As we are told in our Epistle reading today, "God is love."

 We are being the conduits through which God who is love works in our lives and in the lives of those around us.

 This is what it means to follow Jesus.

 That is what it means to be reflectors of God’s Love on those around us.

 This is what means to be a positive Christian example in the world.

 And when we do this, we realize that we are really doing is evangelizing.

 We are sharing our faith, not only with what we say, but in what we do.

 That is what it means to be a Christian—to be a true follower of Jesus in this constantly changing world.

 That is what it means to bear good fruit.

 So, let us do just that.

 Let us bear fruit.

 Let us flourish and grow and be vital fruit to those who need this fruit.

 Let us be nourished by that Vine—by the One we follow—so that we can nourish others.

 Amen.

 

4 Easter

 Good Shepherd Sunday

April 20, 2024

 

Psalm 23; John 10.1-10

 

+ Since the last time I stood here and preached, I have traveled quite a few miles, flown on quite a few planes and talked to a wide variety of people.

 

And I have seen some truly beautiful things.

 

Invariably, whenever I talked with someone, whether they be seated beside me on the plane or at a luau or just in regular conversation, when they invariably asked me what I do, I pause a bit.

 

Saying I’m an Episcopal priest elicits a variety of responses.

 

One of the responses I get is from people who have been hurt by the Church or religion as a whole.

 

And there’s a lot of those people out there.

 

As I talk with hose people and share that I too have had an often difficult relationship with the Church, they are surprised.

 

They would not think that priests have bad relationships with religion or the Church.

 

But we do.

 

And when they found me agreeing with them on many topics, rather than being  defensive on them, they are surprised.

 

They were surprised at some of the things I have to say, or how I say it.

 

They were surprised that often what drove them away from religion is the reason I stay and fight and speak out in some maybe foolheartedly attempt at saving what I love and cherish about the Church.

 

But, sadly, there is a price for making the stand, for speaking out, for refusing to conform, as you all know.

 

There is a big price for living out a faith that oftentimes the rest of the Church does not quite agree with.

 

This past week I found this piece making the rounds on social media.

 

It’s by Chuck Kratzer. And it spoke loudly to me.

 

It goes like this:

 

 What the hell did you expect me to do?

You told me to love my neighbors, to model the life of Jesus. To be kind and considerate, and to stand up for the bullied.

You told me to love people, consider others as more important than myself. "Red and yellow, black and , they are precious in His sight." We sang it together, pressing the volume pedal and leaning our hearts into the chorus.

You told me to love my enemies, to even do good to those who wish for bad things. You told me to never "hate" anyone and to always find ways to encourage people.

You told me it's better to give than receive, to be last instead of first. You told me that money doesn't bring happiness and can even lead to evil, but taking care of the needs of others brings great joy and life to the soul.

You told me that Jesus looks at what I do for the least-of-these as the true depth of my faith. You told me to focus on my own sin instead of trying to police it in others. You told me to be accepting and forgiving.

I paid attention.

I took every lesson.

And I did what you told me.

But now, you call me a libtard. A queer-lover.

You call me "woke." A backslider.

You call me a heretic. A child of the devil.

You call me a false prophet. A reprobate leading people to gates of hell.

You call me soft. A snowflake. A socialist.

What the hell did you expect me to do?

You passed out the "WWJD" bracelets.

I took it to heart.

I thought you were serious, apparently not.

We were once friends. But now, the lines have been drawn. You hate nearly all the people I love. You stand against nearly all the things I stand for. I'm trying to see a way forward, but it's hard when I survey all the hurt, harm, and darkness that comes in the wake of your beliefs and presence.

What the hell did you expect me to do?

I believed it all the way.

I'm still believing it all the way.

Which leaves me wondering, what happened to you?

 

Today is, of course, Good Shepherd Sunday—the Sunday in which we encounter this wonderful reading about Jesus being the Good Shepherd.

 

And we love this Sunday because we love the image of the Good Shepherd.

 

But, as someone who in my life as a priest has been called by people in authority or by others—because of the stances I make, or the position I have taken on matter as we heard from Chuck Kratzer---I have been called a “bad shepherd.”

 

Or one person, the spouse of a clergy person at another congregation once called me: “the devil in priest’s garb.”

 

And for someone like me, despite my thick skin and my calloused view, those words still hurt

 

I think the key here is what we may definite as “good.”

 

Does “good” in this sense mean being perfectly orthodox and correct theologically and scripturally?

 

Does good in this sense mean being polite and nice and sweet all the time?

 

Or does “good” really mean striving for justice, for speaking out against injustice, for calling hypocrites to their faces and overturning tables in the golden temples filled with misbegotten money and the blood of slaughtered animals?

 

For me, I think all these images of the sweet, gentle Good Shepherd are misguided.

 

I think the real Good Shepherd doesn’t only just sweetly hug the sheep to their chest and glow celestially like a candle.

 

I think the real Good Shepherd fights and fights hard.

 

The real Good Shepherds shouts at those forces that threaten their sheep.

 

I think the real Good Shepherd stomps the ground and wields that staff and defends their sheep at any price.

 

We, each of us, not just me, are called to be those kind of shepherds in this world.

 

We too—all of us—are called to speak out, to shout, to stomp the ground, when danger threatens.

 

We are not called to be complacent shepherds with no backbone.

 

We are called to actually “know” the people we are called to serve.

 

The God Jesus shows us is not some vague, distant God.

 

We don’t have a God who lets us fend for ourselves.

 

We instead have a God who leads us and guides us, a God who knows us each by name, a God who despairs over the loss of even one of the flock.

 

We have a God who, in Psalm 23, that very familiar psalm we have all hear so many times in our lives, is a God who knows us and loves us and cares for us.

 

We see this first in Jesus, who embodies God and who shows us how to be a Good Shepherd.

 

We, by being good shepherds, allow God to be the ultimate Good Shepherd.

 

We were commissioned to be good shepherds by our very baptisms.

 

On that day we were baptized, we were called to be a Good Shepherds to others.

 

Anyone can be a good shepherd.

 

But in being a real good shepherd, we run the risk of being seen as bad shepherds for what we say and do and believe.

 

We run the risk of being called heretics or disruptors or agitators.

 

 

Real bad shepherds sometimes appear and are touted as Good Shepherds by those in authority.

 

Real bad shepherds actually undermine and, chip by chip, destroy the work of Christ in this world.

 

But, today, we don’t have to worry about those real bad shepherds.

 

We know that the actual bad shepherds, and those who allow them to be bad shepherds, in the end, get their due.

 

The chickens always come home to roost.

 

Today, we celebrate the Good Shepherd—the Good Shepherd that is showing us the way forward to being good shepherds in our own lives.

 

Because in celebrating the Good Shepherd, we celebrate goodness.

 

We celebrate being good and doing good and embodying goodness in our lives.

 

And we do so realizing that “good” sometimes is seen as “bad” by others.

 

Good sometimes means we run the risk of being called “libtard,” or “queer-lover,” or woke.”

 

It sometimes means we are being called a “backslider,” or a “heretic,” or a “child of the devil.”

 

Being good sometimes means we are viewed as “False prophet,” or a “reprobate,” or “soft.”

 

It sometimes means we are called a “snowflake,” or a socialist,” or…a “devil in priest’s garb.”

 

If that’s what “good” means, than so be it.

 

Because, if Jesus the true Good Shepherd were living his earthly life right here, right now in our own time, let me tell you, he most certainly would be called every single one of those terms.

 

And if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for us.

 

So, on this day in which we celebrate the Good Shepherd, let us be what he is.

 

Let us live out our vocation to be good shepherds to those around us.

 

Let us truly “see” and know those people who share this life with us.

 

And let us know that being a good shepherd does make a difference in this world.

 

Let us make a difference.

 

Emboldened by our baptism, strengthened by a God who knows us and love us, let us in turn know and love others as we are called to do.

 

Amen.

2 Easter

April 6, 2024

John 20.19-31

+ There’s a book I reference quite regularly, if you’ve heard me preach for any period of time.

 It’s Outlaw Christian by a friend of mine, Jacqueline Bussie.

 There was a quote in that book that has stuck with me for several years

 Bussie quotes the great German theologian Dorothea Soelle (one of my favorite theologians):

 Bussie writes:

 “Though a devout, Jesus-loving Christian, [Soelle} once oddly described herself as a believing atheist.”

 I don’t know why, but that description of Soelle really stuck with me.

 I “got” it in ways I don’t always get something.

 But, if you ask me why I “got” it, I would have trouble articulating it.

 I am not an atheist.

 I, like Soelle, am a Jesus-loving Christian.

 But, you have to admit.

 I’m probably one of the few priests you know who mentions atheism regularly in my sermons.

 And mention it not in a negative way.

 I know.

 It’s unusual.

 But, I really find it frustrating when I hear Christians disparage atheists.

 I always say that we, as the Church, have to accept the fact that we have probably produced more atheists by our not-so-wonderful behavior, our self-righteousness, our hypocrisy than anything else.

 The Church has done a good job of driving people way, of nudging others toward atheism.

 As for me personally, as you know, I actually read a lot of atheist theology.

 OK. Maybe those words “atheist theology” sound somewhat oxymoronic, but you get what I’m saying…

 And I have read most of it.

 From Richard Dawkins to Sam Harris, from Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre to H.L. Mencken and Madelyn Murray O’Hare, the notorious founder of American Atheists—I think I’ve read them all.

 I enjoy reading atheist theology because it’s often, surprisingly enough, quite insightful.

 It challenges me.

 It helps me develop a critical eye about the Church, about theology in general and about my own personal faith in particular.

 And none of us should live in a vacuum, certainly not priests.

 It’s good for all of us to step outside our comfort zone and explore other areas.

 What disturbs me about atheist theology isn’t its anger, its rebellion, its single-mindedness about how wrong religion is.

 What disturbs me about atheism is how simple it is—how beautifully uncomplicated it is.

 And I think in many ways it would be so easy for me to be an atheist.

 Which is maybe why I ‘clicked” with Soelle’s quote.  

 Let’s face it—it’s just so easy to not see God anywhere.

 It’s easy to look up into the sky and say, I see no God.

 It’s easy to believe that science has the only answers and that everything is provable and rational.

 (And just to be clear, I am fully 100%  pro-science, by the way)

 Atheism in a very uncomplicated way to look at life.

 And I don’t mean that to sound condescending.

 For atheists, there are no ghosts, no demons, no angels.

 There are no hidden secrets.

 There are no frightening unanswered questions about existence.

 No one is watching us, looking over us, observing us.

 There’s no all-seeing, all knowing “Eye in the sky” for them.

 For atheists, there are no surprises awaiting them when they shed this mortal coil and head into the darkness of death.

 There is no hell, and no heaven.

 There’s no unending existence following death.

 I get that.

 I almost—ALMOST—envy that.

 And when I hear any of my many atheist friends state their disbelief in the white-bearded male god who sits on a throne in heaven, I realize: if that is what they don’t believe in, then…I guess I’m also an atheist.

 And maybe that is really what Soelle is saying when she called herself an atheist who believes.

 Any God that I can observe by looking at the sky, or into the cosmos is definitely a God in which I don’t believe.

 I don’t want a God so easily provable, so easily observed and examined and quantified and…materially real.  

 I don’t believe in a God that is so made in our image.

 I don’t believe in a God that is simply a projection of our own image and self.

 Who would want that God?

 For us, however, as Christians, it isn’t as easy.

 Being a Christian is actually quite hard.

 I hate to break that news to you.

 Believing is actually hard.

 Yes, we do believe in the existence of God.

 And by doing so, we are essentially taking the word of a pre-scientific (dare we say “primitive”) group of people who lived at least two thousand years ago.

 We are now in the season of Easter—a season in which we celebrate and live into the reality of the Resurrection of Jesus,

 But event that is based on some incredible evidence.

 We are believing what a group of pre-Enlightenment, Pre-rational, superstitious Jewish people from what was considered at the time to be a backwater country are telling us they saw.

 But we believe because we know, in our hearts, that this is somehow true.

 We know these things really did happen and that because they did, life is different—life is better, despite everything that happens 

 We believe these things in true faith.

 We didn’t see Jesus while he was alive and walking about.

 We didn’t see him after he rose from the tomb.

 We don’t get the opportunities that Thomas had in this morning’s Gospel.

 Doubting Thomas, as we’ve come to know him, refused to believe that Jesus was resurrected until he had put his fingers in the wounds of Jesus.

 It wasn’t enough that Jesus actually appeared to him in the flesh—how many of us would only jump at that chance?

 For Thomas, Jesus stood there before him, in the flesh—wounds and all.

 And only when he had placed his finger in the wounds, would he believe.

 It’s interesting to see and it’s interesting to hear this story of Doubting Thomas.

 But, the fact is, for the rest of us, we don’t get it so easy.

 Jesus is probably not going to appear before us—in the flesh.

 At least, not on this side of the Veil—not while we are still alive.

 And if he does, you need to have a little talk with your priest.

 We are not going to have the opportunity to touch the wounds of Jesus, as Thomas did.

 Let’s face it, to believe without seeing, is not easy.

 It takes work and discipline.

 A strong relationship with God—this invisible being we might sense, we might feel emotionally or spiritually, but we can’t pin-point—takes work—just as any other relationship in our life takes work.

 It takes discipline.

 It takes concentrated effort.

 Being a Christian does not just involve being good and ethical all the time.

 Atheists do that too.

 Atheists are ethical, upright, good people too.

 Atheists are committed the same ideals most of us are committed to here this morning.

 And they are sometimes even better at it all than I am, I’ll admit

 But, being a Christian doesn’t mean just being ethical and “good.”

 (Though we should all still be ethical and “good”)

 Being a Christian means living one’s faith life fully and completely as a Christian.

 It means being a reflection of God’s love, God’s Presence, God’s joy and goodness in the world.

 It means that we might not touch the wounds of Jesus as Thomas did, but we do touch the wounds of Jesus when we reach out in love to help those who need our love.

 Remember last week, when I talked about us being “another Jesus?”

 Well, we make Jesus real when we embody him.

 When we act like Jesus, and think like Jesus and love like Jesus.

 By embodying Jesus, we embody the God of Jesus and make that God real in this world.

 And by being an Alleluia from head to toe, we must be an Alleluia to others too.

 “Blessed are those who believe but don’t see,” Jesus says this morning.

 We are those blessed ones.

 We are the ones Jesus is speaking of in this morning’s Gospel.

 Blessed are you all.

 You  believe, but don’t see.

 We are the ones who, despite what our rational mind might tell us at times, we still have faith.

 We, in the face of doubt and fear, can still say, with all conviction, “Alleluia!”

 “Praise God!”

 We can’t objectively make sense of it.

 Sometimes all we can do is live and experience the joy of this resurrection and somehow, like sunlight shining in us and sinking deep into us, we simply bask in its glory. 

 Seen or unseen, we know God is there.

 And our faith is not based on seeing God here in front of us in the flesh or proving the existence of God, or finding scientific proof for the Resurrection.

 Because we actually have known God, right here, right now.

 God has been embodied in us.

 We know God through love—love of God and love of one another.

 Blessed are we who believe but don’t see now.

 The Kingdom of Heaven is truly ours.

 Alleluia!