6 Pentecost

 

Baptism of James William Stalboerger

June 30, 2024

Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-15; 2:23-24; Mark 5.21-43

+ I once had a Homiletics class in which the students were told not to make the pulpit into a confessional.

Meaning, don’t get up and tell people all your faults and failings.

I have failed miserably at that over the years.

I often bring up my vices, because it’s important for all of us to know that we’re in this thing called life together.

None of us are perfect, not even those of who are called and ordained.

Even we ordained people have vices.

Well, except maybe for Deacon Suzanne.

One of my biggest vices is. . . .wait for it.  . . . impatience.

I know. You’re all surprised by that one aren’t you?

Well, I admit it.

There are times when I want certain things—and I want them NOW.

Not tomorrow.

Not in some vague future.

NOW!

But for me I have never liked waiting.

Waiting is one of the worst things I can imagine.

For me, if there was a hell and I was sent there, it would be a place in which I would do nothing else but wait. Forever.  For all eternity.

Hell for me would a waiting room in which one waits and waits and waits.

And while I wait, my anxiety grows. And my anger grows. Andthere’s nothing I can do about nay of it. See…..hell.

Still, impatient as I am, ultimately I know that waiting and being patient is a good thing sometimes.

The fact is, we can’t rush these things.

Things happen in their due course.

Not OUR course.

Not MY course!

But the proper course.

God works in God’s own time.

And this is probably the most difficult thing for us. 

It certainly is for me.

Impatience is actually present in our Gospel reading for today, but in a more subtle way.

Our reading from the Gospel today also teaches us an important reflection on our own impatience and waiting.

We have two things going on.

We have Jairus, the leader of the synagogue, who has lost his daughter, even though he doesn’t know it yet.

While Jairus is pleading with Jesus to heal his daughter, we encounter this unnamed woman who has been suffering with a hemorrhage for twelve years—twelve years!—is desperate.

She wants healing.

I can tell you in all honesty that as I read and reflected and lived with this Gospel reading this past week,  I could relate.  

I can relate to Jairus, who is being touched with the darkness of death in his life.

And when I read of the woman with a hemorrhage grasping at the hem of Jesus’ garment, I could certainly empathize with her impatience and her grasping.

Many of us have known the anguish of Jairus.

We have known the anguish and pain of watching someone we love fade away and die.

And many of us know the pain of that woman.

We often find ourselves bleeding deeply inside with no possible hope for relief.

And can you imagine how long she must’ve lived with this?

For us, as we relate, that “bleeding” might not be an actual bleeding, but a bleeding of our spirit, of our hopes and dreams, of a deep emotional or spiritual wound that just won’t heal, or just our grief and sadness, which, let me tell you, can also “bleed” away at us.  

And when we’ve been desperate, when we find ourselves so impatient, so in need of a change, we find ourselves clutching at anything—at any little thing.

We clutch even for a fringe of the prayer shawl of the One whom God sends to us in those dark moments.

When we do, we find, strangely, God’s healing.

And in this story of Jarius’ daughter, I too felt that moment in which I felt separated from the loved ones in my life—by death, yes, of course.

But also when I felt that a distance was caused by estrangement or anger.

And when I have begged for healing for them and for myself, it has often come.

But it has come in God’s own time.

Not in mine.

It is a matter of simply,  sometimes waiting.

For Jairus, he didn’t have to wait long.

For the woman, it took twelve years.

But in both cases, it did come.

Still, I admit, I continue to be impatient.

But, resurrection comes in many forms in our lives and if we wait them out these moments will happen.

And not all impatience is bad.

It is all right to be impatient—righteously impatient—for justice, for the right thing to be done.

It is all right to be impatient for injustice and lying and deceit to be brought to light and be revealed.

And dealt with.

It is all right to be impatient for the right thing to be done in this world.

But we cannot let our impatience get in the way of seeing that  miracles continue to happen in our lives and in the lives of those around us.

I know, because I have seen it again and again and, not only in my own life, but in the lives of others.

We know that in God, we find our greatest consolation.

Our God of justice and compassion and love will provide and will win out ultimately over the forces of darkness that seem, at times, to prevail in our lives.  

Knowing that, reminding ourselves of all that we are able to be strengthened and sustained and rejuvenated.

We are able to face whatever life may throw at us with hope and, sometimes, even joy.

We are not in that weird, made-up hell I have imagined for myself.

At some point, the doors of what seems like that eternal waiting room will be opened.

And we will be called forward.

And all will be well.

That is what scripture and our faith in God tell us again and again.

That is how God works in this world and in our lives.

In our impatience, we sometimes see glimpses of God’s goodness and love.

We certainly see it today in sweet James as he is washed in the waters of baptism.

We see it in the amazing life he is about to enter into.

We see it in the joy we feel as we celebrate his new birth.

So, let us cling to this hope and find true strength in it.

True strength to get us through those impatient moments in our lives when we want darkness and death and injustice and pain behind us.  

Let us be truly patient for our God.  

Because, if we do, those words of Jesus to the woman today will be words directed to us as well:

“your faith has made you well;

go in peace;

be healed.”

 

5 Pentecost

 

June 23, 2024

 Job 38.1-11; Mark 4.35-41

  

+ I have always been fascinated by weather.

 Especially storms.

 Blizzards.

 Tornados.

 I even wrote a book about a tornado.

 As many of you know, I wrote a book, which published back in 2010, about the tornado that struck Fargo on June 20, 1957.

 The book is entitled Fargo, 1957.

 I struggled for along time as I was writing that book and afterward to make sense of this event.

 As a Christian, as a priest, I had to ask myself: why?

 Why did this happen?

 Why did this happen to these people?

 These people were people just like you and me.

 They woke up that morning—to a hot, June morning in Fargo, North Dakota—just like any other day.

 And then, a storm came and uprooted their entire lives in a matter of moments.

 Several years ago, I read a book called The New Christians by Tony Jones. 

 In this book, Jones has probably one of the best contemporary definitions of theology.

 He writes:

 “Theology…speaks directly of God. And anytime human beings talk of God, they’re necessarily also going to talk about their own experience of God.”

 Jones then goes on to define theology more succinctly.

 He writes, “theology is talk about the nexus of divine and human action.”

 I like that definition very much.

 (and I love that word “nexus”).

 “But theology isn’t just talk,” Jones adds. “When we paint scenes from the Bible or when we write songs about Jesus or when we compose poems about God or when we write novels about the human struggle with meaning, we are ‘doing theology.’”

 So, essentially, our entire lives are all about “doing theology.”

 All we do as followers of Jesus is essentially “doing theology.”

 As I pondered our reading today from the Gospel of Mark and that reading from Job in which God speaks from the whirlwind, , I found myself “doing theology” by re-examining the storms of my own life in the light of that scripture.

 We all have them.

 We all have our own storms in this life.

 We all have our own chaos.

 And they are disruptive.

 And they can be destructive.

 So, the question to ask of ourselves this morning is: What is God saying to us when the storms invade our lives?

 What do we do in the windstorms of our lives, when we feel battered and beaten and bashed?

 Well, as I have been “doing theology” on that Gospel reading and on that book I wrote all that times ago, one glaring, honest reality of my life came forth:

 Sometimes—not always—but sometimes, when the storms of my own life came, I was the one responsible for many of those storms.

 I’m not talking about tornados, or natural events that just happen.

 I’m talking about the storms that come into my life and just disrupt everything.

 Sometimes, there was no one to blame for some of these storms but myself.

 And more often than not, the storms of my own life were caused by own violent behavior.

 Now, yes, I know.

 I preach often about my non-violence.

 And I have worked hard, I have strived hard for non-violence in the world.

 But I have realized over the last several years that working for non-violence means ridding violence in all forms from one’s own life.

 One must have a firm foundation of non-violence in one’s own life before seeking it from the larger world (this is a major tenet of Gandhi’s non-violence).

 I was reminded of the violence in my own life by a book I read by the Buddhist teacher Noah Levine, called Refuge Recovery.

 Levine writes,

 “Harsh speech, dirty looks, obscene gestures and [angry and] offensive texts and e-mails are…subtle forms of violence. Our communications have power, the ability to cause harm or harmony.”

 He goes on,

 “we must strive to abstain from creating more negativity in this world” because by doing so we contribute to the negativity in this world.

 “Violent actions have violent…consequences., and that…could manifest as…guilt, [anger,] shame and self-hatred…”

 That passage from the book shook me to my core.

 I did not want to admit to violence in my life much less to the fact that I sometimes contributed to the violence of this world by my own negativity sometimes.

 And let me tell you I have definitely contributed to it from those seemingly small, knee-jerk reactions.

 The snide comments.

 The angry text or email or Facebook response.

 A mean-spirited eye-roll.

 The gesture in traffic.  

 But the ripple effects of these seemingly innocent gestures in my life were certainly chaotic not only in my life, but possible in the lives of others.

 These acts of small or simple violence more often than not were enough to add to the brewing storms of my own life—and possibly to other’s lives as well..

 I have, in fact, created storms in my life, then found myself blaming others for those storms.

 So, when we hear scriptures like this today, as we experience our own storms in our lives, what do we do?

 How do we respond?

 Do we let the winds blow, let the chaos rage?

 Or do we, in those moments, calm ourselves and listen?

 Do we strain against the wind of the storm and listen to hear the Voice of God?

 The fact is, if we do so, trust me: we will hear God’s voice.

 If we turn our spiritual ears toward God, we will hear God, even in those self-made storms in our lives.

 When bad things happen in our lives, we ask, Why do bad things happen to those of us who are faithful to God?

 Why do our lives get turned upside down?

 We want answers when we shout our angry questions of unfairness into the storm, our first raised.

 Sometimes, when we do, the Voice in the wind only throws it all back at us with more questions, just as God did in our reading today from Job.

  Just when we want answers, we find more questions and we ourselves are forced to find the answers within ourselves. 

 But, sometimes the Voice answering back from the wind with questions, is a voice more succinct.

 Sometimes it is a more potent question, a pointblank question to us.

 Sometimes the voice from the wind—as we shake with fear or anger (or both) and hold on for dear life during those frightening storms—asks us bluntly:

 “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

 Why fear the whirlwinds and all that they unleash upon us?

 Why even create them in the first place?

 Have we no faith?

 Again and again through the scriptures God commands us, in various voices, “do not be afraid.”

 “Do not be afraid.”

 And still we fear.

 And our fear causes anger.

 And our anger causes storms.

 But the message is that although the storms of our lives will rage around us, when we stop fearing, those storms are quieted.

 Because sometimes the voice that comes out of the storms of our lives is not asking a question of us.

 Sometimes the voice that comes out of the storms of our lives commands,

 “Peace! Be Still!”

 “Peace!”

 That wonderful, soothing word that truly does settle and soothe.

 “Be still!”

 In that calm stillness, we feel God’s Presence most fully and completely.

 As disoriented as we might be from being buffeted by the storm, that stillness can almost be as disorienting as the storms themselves.

 Still, in it, we find Jesus, calm and collected, awaiting us to have faith, to shed our fears and to allow him to still the storms of our lives.

 So, in those moments when we stir up the forces of our anger, when the whirlwinds rage, when the storms come up, when the skies turn dark and ominous, when fear begins lurking at our doors and anger jostles us around, let us strain toward that Voice that asks us,

 “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

 Do not fear.

 Have faith.

 God loves us.

 God will not leave alone even in the storms of our lives.

 In midst of even the worst whirlwinds of our lives, there is a stillness dwelling in its core.

 And while the storms rage, as violence goes on unleashed in the form of anger and fear, in the form of awful stories in the news and social media and people on the street or in our own lives, we can choose non-violence as our option.

 We can choose not to contribute to the storms.

 And we can live!

 And not just live.

 But flourish!

 

4 Pentecost

 

June 16, 2024

Ezekiel 17.22-24; 2 Corinthians 5.6-17; Mark 4.26-34

 + I try hard not to do this to you.

 I hate to start your Sunday out with, of all things, a poem.

 Actually, it’s only a fragment of a poem.

 But still….it’s a poem.

 And not just any poem either.

 No, this poem is a poem from, of all people, a Chilean Communist.

 But it is one of my favorite poems.

 It is called “Oda al átamo” or “Ode to the Atom.”

 

Infinitesimal

star,

you seemed

forever

buried

in metal, hidden,

your diabolic

fire.

One day

someone knocked

at your tiny

door:

it was man .

With one

explosion

he unchained you,

you saw the world,

you came out

into the daylight,

you traveled through

cities,

your great brilliance

illuminating lives,

you were a

terrible fruit

of electric beauty…

[Then] came

the warrior

and seduced you:

sleep,

he told you,

curl up,

atom, you resemble

a Greek god…

in springtime,

lie down here

on my fingernail,

climb into this little box,

and then the warrior

put you in his jacket

as if you were nothing but

a North American

pill,

and traveled through the world

and dropped you

on Hiroshima.

 

This poem was written by one of my all-time favorite poets—a poet no doubt you’ve heard me quote before and, trust me, you will hear me quote again and again—Pablo Neruda.

 And this fragment of the poem just touches a bit on what something as small as an atom can do.

 An atom—that smallest of all things—can, when it is unleashed, do such horrendous damage.

 It truly can be, as Neruda said, 

 a

terrible fruit

of electric beauty…

 

If the people of Jesus’ day knew what atoms where, he would no doubt would’ve used the atom instead as a symbol of the Kingdom of God,

 But rather, what we find today in our Gospel reading is Jesus comparing the Kingdom of God to the smallest thing they could’ve understood.

 A mustard seed.

 A small, simple mustard seed.

 Something they no doubt knew.

 And something they no doubt gave little thought to. But it was with this simple image—this simple symbol—that Jesus makes clear to those listening that little things do matter.

 And we, as followers of Jesus, need to take heed of that.

 Little things DO matter.

 Because little things can unleash BIG things.

 Even the smallest action on our part can bring forth the kingdom of God in our lives and in the lives of those we serve.

 But those small actions—those little seeds that we sow in our lives—can also bring about not only God’s kingdom but the exact opposite.

 Our smallest bad actions, can, destroy.

 Our actions can destroy the kingdom in our midst and drive us further away from God.

 Any of us who do ministry on a regular basis know this keenly.

 You will hear me say this again and again to anyone who wants to do ministry: be careful about those small actions.

 You’ve heard me say: when it comes to dealing with people in the church, use VELVET GLOVES.

 Be sensitive to others.

 Those small words or actions.

 Those little criticisms of people who are volunteering.

 Those little snips and moments of impatience.

 That impatient tone in a voice.

 Those moments of frustration at someone who doesn’t quite “get it” or who simply can’t do it.

 “Use velvet gloves all the time,” I say, and I mean it.

 None of us can afford to lose anyone from the church, no matter how big the church might be.

 Even one lost person is a huge loss to all of us.

 I cannot tell you how many times I hear stories about clergy or lay leaders who said or did one thing wrong and it literally destroyed a person’s faith.

 I’m sure almost everyone here this morning has either experienced a situation like this first hand with a priest or pastor or a fellow parishioner.

 Or if not you, you have known someone close who has.

 A good friend of mine who doesn’t attend church anymore shared this story with me once.

 This person was very active in her parish (NOT St. Stephen’s!), especially when her kids were young.

 She was active on the altar guild, in Sunday School, helped organize the annual parish rummage sale, but especially liked to help out in the kitchen.

 She and another parishioner decided one day to volunteer to thoroughly clean the church kitchen, from top to bottom.

 After a whole day of hard work, they stood back to survey the work they did and admire the “spic and span” kitchen.

 It was at that moment that one of the matriarchs of the parish happened to enter the kitchen.

 She proceeded to carefully examine the newly cleaned kitchen.

 Finally, she humphed and, as she exited the kitchen, she loudly proclaimed, “Well, your ‘spic and span’ kitchen isn’t very ‘spic and span!’”

 That was all it took.

 Within a year of that comment neither of those women, both of whom were invaluable workers in that parish, were attending church anymore.

 And not just them.

 But their children too.

 Luckily, I still have contact with them both.

 In fact, I’m still very close with them and their families.

 I have performed weddings and baptisms for those now-grown kids.

 I have done funerals for their parents.

 But those families are not attending church anywhere this morning.

 And probably never will again.

 Now, sometimes remarks by priests or parishioenrs are innocent comments.

 There may have been no bad intention involved.

 But one wrong comment—one wrong action—a cold shoulder or an exhausted roll of the eyes or a scolding or the tone of a voice—the fact that a priest did not visit us when were in the hospital or a parishioner said something that we took the wrong way—is all it takes when a person is in need to turn that person once and for all away from the church and, possibly, from God.

 That mustard seed all of a sudden takes on a whole other meaning in a case like this.

 What grows from a small seed like this is a flowering tree of hurt and despair and anger and bitterness.

 So, it is true.

 Those seeds we sow do make a huge difference in the world.

 Please, please, please, strive hard in your lives not to be the matriarch in that story.

 Strive hard not be that kind of Church to people.

 Strive hard to guard your actions and comments, to guard your tone and the way your respond to others.

 Because, I’ll be honest: I have done it as well.

 I have made some stupid comments in a joking manner that was taken out of context.

 You know me.

 I have a big mouth and a biting wit.

 And sometimes things I have said have been taken out of context and used against me.

 See, those mustard seeds in our lives are important.

 We get to make the choice.

 We can sow seeds of goodness and graciousness—seeds of the Gospel.

 We can sow the seeds of God’s kingdom.

 Or we can sow the seeds of discontent.

 We can, through our actions, sow the weeds and thistles that will kill off the harvest.

 These past several years you have heard me preach ad nauseum about change in the church.

 Well, I am clear when I say that the most substantial changes we can make in the church are not always the BIG ones.

 Oftentimes, the most radical changes we can make are in the little things we do—the things we think are not important.

 We forget about how important the small things in life are—and more importantly we forget how important the small things in life are to God.

 God does take notice of the small things.

 We have often heard the term “the devil is in the details.”

 But I can’t help but believe that it is truly God who is in the details.

 God works just as mightily through the small things of life as through the large.

 This is what Jesus is telling us this morning in this parable.

 So, let us take notice of those small things.

 It is there we will find our faith—our God.

 It from that small place—those tentative attempts at growth—that God’s kingdom flourishes in our lives.

 So, let us be mindful of those smallest seeds we sow in our lives as followers of Jesus.

 Let us remind ourselves that sometimes what they produce can either be a wonderful and glorious tree or a painful, hurtful weed.

 Let us sow God’s love from the smallest ounce of faith.

 Let us truly further the kingdom of God’s love in whatever seemingly small ways we can.

  Amen.   

 

 

3 Pentecost/the 20th Anniversary of my Ordination to the Priesthood.

 June 9, 2024

 

Mark 3.20-35

 

+ There is a great scene that I often quote from a little known film called Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle.

 

The movie is about the poet and humorist Dorothy Parker and her witty intellectual friends that formed the Algonquin Round Table in 1920s.

 

Parker was known for little humorous quips like,

 

“Men seldom makes passes at girls who wear glasses.”

 

“Women and elephants never forget.”

 

Or

 

“I requite only three things of a man. He must be handsome, ruthless and stupid.”

 

At the end of the film, Parker, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh is being given an award.

 

After she is introduced, Parker, now aged and alcoholic, slowly makes her way to the podium.

 

Everyone of course is expecting a witty, joke-filled speech. 

 

But as she reached the podium, she leans into the mike and says,

 

“I never thought I’d make it.”

 

She then turns and stumbles off the podium.

 

Well, today, as I celebrate the 20^th anniversary of my ordination to the Priesthood, I echo Dorothy Parker.

 

“I never thought I’d make it. “

 

Amen.

 

That’s my sermon for today.

 

Thank you all for coming.

 

Ok, just kidding.

 

No, there were many times when I wasn’t certain I would, in fact, “make it.”

 

Ordained ministry is—I hate to break this news to all of you—hard.

 

Really hard.

 

Sometimes excruciatingly hard.

 

And as I look back at the many people who have walked this path with me so far, as I look at other ordained people who have done so, there are many who did not in fact “make it.”

 

The statistics are bleak for ordained people.

 

90% of clergy work 55 to 75 hours a week.

 

84% felt that they are on-call 24/7

 

80% believe ministry has negatively affected their families.  Pastor’s kids very rarely if ever attend church once they have reached adulthood.

 

65% feel they live constantly in a so-called “glass house.”

 

78% feel that their vacation and personal time is interrupted with duties and expectations.

 

90% believe that parishioners think the pastor should be able to read their minds. (I can’t read your minds, btw)

 

Only 1 out of every 10 clergy will retire as a pastor.

 

 

But, guess what?

 

I knew that going into it.

 

The Gospel reading on the night I was ordained was Mark 10.7-16 

 

In that 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’ve said it before—I’ll sat it again—that could be my motto in life.

 

I can say that scripture has definitely been a prophecy fulfilled in my ministry.

 

When I heard those words twenty years ago, I had an idea of what Jesus meant.

 

Even ten years ago I would’ve said, I definitely knew what that meant.

 

Twenty years later, I can say I have lived that scripture thoroughly.

 

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

 

I have known those wolves well

 

Some of them even claimed to be friends.

 

And if I have had any gift granted to me by God, it has definitely been to be wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove.

 

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

 

But I’ve tried really hard to be wise and innocent.

 

Twenty years ago, I remember waiting in the vesting room of Gethsemane Cathedral in Fargo.

 

That hot night (and it WAS hot that night) I was impatient. I was biting at the bit. I was straining forward.

 

That ordination couldn’t happen fast enough.

 

And when it did, let me tell you: it was something!

 

It was incredible.

 

When the Bishop laid hands on my head, I FELT the Holy Spirit!

 

At moments, it seems like it was just yesterday.

 

And at other moments, it seems like it was 100 years ago.

 

Twenty years of priestly ministry.

 

If we were going to break the numbers down, they would fall into place like this:

 

2,026 Masses that I’ve celebrated.

 

That’s 2,500 sermons I have preached.

 

That’s over a hundred  baptisms

 

That’s over a hundred weddings ( just did two this past weekend).

 

And more than 250 funerals, including the burial services for my mother, two of my brothers, and many of my aunts, uncles and cousins.

 

You wonder why I may be tired.

 

You have heard me say it before. I will say it again a hundred times I’m sure.

 

I love being a priest.

 

I can say in all honesty that I was meant to be a priest.

 

As sure as a wolf is meant to hunt, or a fish to swim, I was meant to be a priest.

 

It was almost like it was programed into me.

 

From that first day, when I heard my calling to be a priest at age 13, I knew this was what I was meant to do.

 

Now saying that, I’m not saying I have been a perfect priest.

 

I was never called to be a perfect priest.

 

I have tripped.

 

I have stumbled.

 

I have made a mistake or two. Or 800.

 

But even then, even despite that, somehow it’s been so good.

 

No, it hasn’t been easy.

 

I’ve wrestled with Bishops, fellow clergy, a stalker or two and a few people who definitely did not appreciated my particular style of ministry.

 

I have been called (by the wife of a fellow clergy person), a “devil in priest’s garb.” (Considering that Jesus was called “Beelzebub” in today’s Gospel, I consider myself in good company with that insult).

 

I’ve been called “irreverent.”

 

I’ve been called a “heretic.”

 

I have been accused of hubris, of not knowing my place, or simply just being a jerk.

 

And those are just some of the nicer things.

 

But despite all of that, I have never once been called a bad priest.

 

Because I’m not.

 

The late great Kathy Hawken said to me again and again, “you’re one of the good ones.”

 

Coming from her, those words held truth and power.

 

And I have held them close to me over the years.

 

Still, I am not a priest who suffers fools lightly.

 

And, I hate to break the news to you, there are a fair number of fools in the Church.

 

Some priests have been able to fly under the radar.

 

Not me.

 

Which is not always a good thing.

 

Being a priest like me means being a target.

 

For better or for worse.

 

Twenty years ago, I thought I was prepared for the bad stuff.

 

I knew those things always existed in the church.

 

After all, I did not go into this as some doe-eyed, naïve PollyAnna.

 

I was prepared for all this vocation would give me—both good and bad.

 

When it was bad, it was really BAD!

 

But when it was good. . . it was SOOO good!

 

It has also been a truly glorious 20 years.

 

In these twenty years I’ve known the beauty of grace and friendship.

 

I’ve known what it was to be the priest in a parish of strong and caring people who truly care for their priest.

 

I’ve known the joys of being part of the celebrations of baptisms and weddings and the celebrations of the good things of life.

 

I’ve enjoyed the suppers and the parties and the births of new babies and all the other celebrations that go along with being a priest.

 

And in each of those moments, I was able to witness God breaking through in wonderful and incredible ways.

 

You—all of you—have become family to me.

 

I stand before you today, a scarred veteran priest.

 

But I stand before you as priest who can still hold my head up and say, without one qualm, without one doubt, without hesitation:

 

I am so happy to be a priest.

 

I am so happy to be your priest.

 

Of course, you all make it easier for me.

 

I am in a parish I love.

 

I am in a parish that I feel loves me.

 

Having said all of this, I just want to be clear: being ordained doesn’t make someone “special.”

 

Yes, there are perks.

 

But the fact is, we—all of us who are Christian, who are called to follow Jesus---are ministers.

 

We are ALL called to ministry, to do the work of furthering the Kingdom of God here and now.

 

We are striving together to do the will of God.  

 

In today’s Gospel, we hear Jesus saying,

 

“Whoever does the will of God is my brother and my sister and my mother.”

 

What does it mean to do the will of God?

 

We know what doing the will of God is.

 

Doing the will of God is living out Jesus’ commandment to love God and love one another.

 

Doing the will of God is loving—radically and fully and completely.

 

Doing the will of God is accepting all people radically and completely.

 

Doing the will of God is doing things that others say shouldn’t (or can’t) be done.

 

Essentially, it is being a family—the sisters and brothers of Jesus—to those who need families.

 

That is what the Church does best.

 

That is what we are all called to do in our own ministries.

 

Certainly, when we look around us here at St. Stephen’s, we do understand what a family is, and what Jesus is talking about in our Gospel reading for today.

 

Yes, we are an eclectic, eccentric bunch of people.

 

But, when we look around, we also realize we’re very much a family.

 

Now, by that I don’t mean we’re all happy and nice with each other all the times.

 

When we get this kind of variety together in one place, there are going to be differences.

 

There are going to be people (or priests, or deacons) who drive us crazy.

 

But, in the end, we always come together and do what we are called to do as followers of Jesus.

 

We are the ones who, on good days and bad, who in the face of life’s storms or in the sunshine of our youth, we are the ones who even at the grave, are able to rejoice and sing and say, with true conviction, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

 

This is what it means to do the will of God.

 

And by doing this, we are the brothers and sisters of Jesus.

 

And sisters and brothers to each other as well.

 

“Who are my mother and my brothers and my sisters?” we are being asked today.

 

We are!

 

We are being Jesus’ sisters and brothers in this world by doing what we are called to do as followers of Jesus. 

 

So, let us be the siblings of Jesus in this world.

 

And thank you especially for being my family—my siblings—in my life and ministry with you.

 

I do not know what the next or twenty years hold for me as a priest.

 

But I do hope and pray that God will always grant me people who love me and support and endure me as you all have over these years.

 

Thank you!