6 Easter

Rogation Sunday

May 17, 2020

John 14.15-21

+ I know this might seem like some other time—some innocent, more normal time—but in 2014 we did something special at our Rogation Blessing.

On that Sunday six years ago—before there were things like Corona Virus and quarantines—we dedicated our Memorial Garden.

Now, I remember when I first introduced this idea at St. Stephen’s about a memorial garden about a year before that.

There was a bit of frowning.

There was a sense of, “Lord, what is he thinking of doing now?”

There was a groan of “Really? A cemetery? Seriously?”

But, look what a blessing that memorial garden has had in our life here at St. Stephen’s.

Thanks to Sandy Holbrook and the gardening committee and all the people who have worked for that garden and all that beautiful landscaping that was done there, it has become a place of beauty.

And in these six years, our memorial garden has become a place of rest for six people—a new stone was just placed there this past week—and a place of consolation for countless others.

Now I don’t think I’m overestimating it when I say it has also become a place of mercy.

We of course have laid people to rest there who had no other place to rest, who were rejected or forgotten.

Why? Why do we do that?

Because that is what we do as Christians.

In our Christian tradition, mercy plays heavily into what we do.

And as a result, there have been, since the early Church, a series of what have been called corporal acts of mercy.

I’ve talked about this many times before.

These corporal acts of mercy are:

• To feed the hungry;
• To give drink to the thirsty;
• To clothe the naked;
• To harbor the harborless;
• To visit the sick;
• To ransom the captive;
• To bury the dead.

We at St. Stephen’s, in the ministry we do as followers of Jesus, have done most of those well.

Including that last one. 

Burying the dead is a corporate act of mercy.

And it is something we have do with our services of burial and in our memorial garden. 

And, it’s appropriate we are doing on this Sunday, Rogation Sunday, the Sunday before the Ascension of Jesus.

In our Gospel reading for today we find Jesus explaining that although he is about to depart from his followers—this coming Thursday we celebrate the feast of Jesus’ Ascension to heaven—he will not leave them alone.

They will be left with the Advocate—the Spirit of Truth.

The Holy Spirit.

He prefaces all of this with those words that quickly get swallowed up by the comments on the Spirit, “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.”

And just to remind everyone, that command is, of course, “to love.”

To love God.

And to love our neighbors as ourselves.

This is what it means to be the Church.

To love.

To serve. 

To be merciful.

To be Christ to those who need Christ.

To be a Christ of love and compassion and acceptance.

Without boundaries.

Without discrimination.

Because that is who Christ is to us.

When we forget to be Christ to others, when we fail to do this, we fail to do mercy.

We are doing so this morning.

We are living into our ministry of mercy to others.

Today is, as I’ve said, Rogation Sunday.

Rogation comes from the Latin word “Rogare” which means “to ask.”

Traditionally, on this Sunday, we heard the Gospel in which Jesus said,

"Whatever you ask the Father in my name, he will give to you".

Today, with our current lectionary of scripture readings, we actually find him saying, “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate…”

From a very simple perspective, the thing we are asking today, on this Rogation Sunday, is to be faithful followers of Jesus, thorough our works and acts of mercy.

Now for some of us, this whole idea of Rogation Sunday and the procession that we will soon be making outside at the conclusion of our Eucharist this morning might seem a bit too much.

 The fact is, it is something, very much like burying the dead on the church grounds.

It is very much a part of our Anglican Tradition.

In the 1630s one of heroes (you hear me quote him and reference him often), Anglican priest and poet, George Herbert, commended these rogation processions.

He said that processions should be encouraged for four reasons:

1. A Blessing of God for the fruits of the field.

2. Justice in the preservation of boundaries of those fields and properties.

3. Charity in loving, walking and neighborly accompanying one another with reconciling of differences at the time if there be any.

And 4 (hold on to your seats). Mercie (yes, mercy) , in relieving the poor by a liberal distribution of the resources, which at the time is or ought to be used.

In so many ways, that is what we do here and what we continue to do here.

Our memorial garden—this visible sign of the final corporal act of mercy—is a part of this Rogation celebration.

This is where we do our blessing.

We process there and bless the earth and the land there.

We ask God’s blessings on the growth not only of crops and fields.

And we do something also very important there: We thank God today for the growth of our congregation.

We are thanking God for the acts of mercy done to each of us.

And we are asking God to continue to make us Christ to those who need Christ.

As you can see, the rallying themes of this Rogation time are hope and justice and mercy.

As George Herbert reminds us there is always room for charity.

As we process out at the end of the Eucharist today, I ask you to look around the memorial garden.

I ask you to look at the names there.

We know some of them.

Others of them we will never know on this side of veil.

I ask you as you walk about to thank God for them.

I ask you today to thank God for the growth God has granted us at St. Stephen’s

And I ask that you remember Jesus’ call to us, to love him and to keep his commandment of love and mercy.

It is more than just sweet, religious talk.

It is a challenge and a true calling to live out this love in radical ways.

It is a challenge to be merciful.

As we process, as we walk together, let us pay attention to this world around us.

Let us ponder the causes and the effects of what it means to be inter-related—to be dependent upon on each to some extent, as we are on this earth.

We do need each other.

And we do need each other’s love.

And mercy.

We do need that radical love that Jesus commands us to have.

With that love, we will truly love our neighbors as ourselves.

We will show mercy to them.

Our neighbors, of course, are more than just those people who live next door to us.

Our neighbors are all of us, those we do in fact love and those we have difficulty loving.

And our neighbors also include this earth and all the inhabitants of it.

That command of Jesus is to love—to respect—those with whom we live and share this place.

Let this procession today truly be a "living walking" as George Herbert put it.

But let our whole lives as Christians be also a “living walk,” a mindful walk, a walk in which we see the world around with eyes of love and respect and justice and care.

And, most importantly, with eyes of mercy.

Amen.

5 Easter

May 10, 2020

Acts 7.55-60; John 14.1-14

+ One of my favorite words is "weird."  I like it because, well…I am.

I am weird.

And I just don’t care.

I long ago embraced that word because I realize that "weird" in our society simply means "outside the norm."  And that's me to a T.

It also, in many ways, describes this congregation I serve and the way we do worship.

For some, what we do here is "too much."

For others, "it's not enough."

To a few, it's just "weird."

But for us, I think, "weird" works for us.  And embracing it for all it's worth is a very liberating experience.

I am grateful for St. Stephen's for letting this weird priest do weird things that (in normal times i.e. outside the pandemic) seems to bring new people in the door almost every Sunday.

Now, it shouldn't work.  This weird, liberal High Church, very Episcopal  way of worship and ministry.

But you know? It does.

Why?  

Because that's how the Holy Spirit works. The Holy Spirit works in oftentimes weird ways that just shouldn’t work. But somehow does.

There was a great opinion piece published in the New York Times on Friday (https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/08/opinion/sunday/weird-christians.html?fbclid=IwAR1y9OxNzybxTXTnSvNtyMb4Xt--WGVp3DEPEwCnIe7bxd71MtBHBQmjSRU) entitled

Christianity Gets Weird

Modern life is ugly, brutal and barren. Maybe you should try a Latin Mass.

It’s one of the best pieces of writing about the Church I’ve read recently.  Actually, to be honest, there were a few things in the article I didn’t agree with. But, for the most part, the article really nailed on the head much of what we’ve been doing here for the last 12 years or so, and certainly what many of us are dealing with right now in the midst of this pandemic.

Here’s a bit from the article:

“More and more young Christians, disillusioned by the political binaries, economic uncertainties and spiritual emptiness that have come to define modern America, are finding solace in a decidedly anti-modern vision of faith. As the coronavirus and the subsequent lockdowns throw the failures of the current social order into stark relief, old forms of religiosity offer a glimpse of the transcendent beyond the present.

“Many of us call ourselves ‘Weird Christians,’ albeit partly in jest. What we have in common is that we see a return to old-school forms of worship as a way of escaping from the crisis of modernity…”

A bit later in the article, Tara Isabella Burton, the author of the piece, who is a member of the Episcopal Church of St. Ignatius of Antioch in Manhattan, (one of my dream churches),  writes,

“In the age of lockdown, when so much of life exists in a nebulous digital space, a return to the Christianity of the Middle Ages — albeit one mediated through our screens — feels welcome.”

She then goes on to describe watching the Rector of St. Ignatius livestreaming Evening Prayer, an opportunity in which she writes  “we were not only taking the time to greet our fellow parish members, but also to experience solidarity with a church that transcended time itself. Holed up in an apartment we have hardly left for weeks, we were experiencing both communal connection and a sense that this ghastly, earthly present is not all there is.”

But one of the best points of the article was this. One young man Burton interviewed says, “The pandemic…has made all too clear that both liberal and conservative visions of American life, based on ‘self-fulfillment via liberation to pursue one’s desires’ is not enough. ‘It turns out we need each other,” he said, “and need each other dearly.’

“What Christianity offers, he added, is ‘a version of our common life more robust than individual pursuit of desire-fulfillment or profit.’ In the light of that vision, the current pandemic can ‘be both a cross to bear and an opportunity to reflect the love that was first shown us in Christ.’”

Now, for us at St. Stephen’s, that doesn’t seem weird at all. This is what each of are bearing and wrestling with during this time of pandemic.

But to others, this does  seems weird.

High Church liturgy, even on social media?

Livestreamed Mass twice a week?

Incense, even through “nebulous, digital space?”

It sure seems weird, doesn’t it?

But, as we have discovered, weirdness is not something to fight. It is not something to avoid. It is something to embrace.  It something that can help not only define our faith, but deepen it as well.

After all, there is something weirdly liberating in being countercultural—even among other Christians.

And as someone who is inadvertently countercultural, I can tell you, being “weird” is not always easy.

It’s not easy being a weird + progressively-minded +  High Church+ celibate + vegan +  teetotaling + priest AND poet in our society. 

Let me tell you!! None of those things fit into our society very well.  Everything in that statement which describes me runs counter to literally everything our society is and stands for, even in the midst of a pandemic.

I’m the poster child for Christian weirdness! And proudly so!

But, as I said, there is also something very liberating in being “weird.”

The expectations that so many people are slaves to are just not issues with us who are “weird.” This weirdness affects every aspect of our faith, of our relationships, of our very lives. And, yes, even, of our deaths.

Because, as most of you also know, one of the things that makes me ‘weird” is that I talk and preach pretty regular about death.  The reason I do so is because, although society is so uncomfortable about death, our Christian faith is not uncomfortable with it. In fact, it forces us to confront death on a very regular basis.  After all, for us, death is not what death is for the rest of society.  All we, as followers of Jesus,  know of dying is this: we know only that he promises us something greater than this.

And we catch a glimpse of that greater something in our Gospel reading for this morning.

The Gospel we heard this morning is a familiar one for most of us.  This is one of the Gospel readings recommended by the Book of Common Prayer for funerals.  In fact, it is, by far, one of the most popular Gospel readings chosen for funerals.  There’s little doubt why it is.  It is wonderfully appropriate.

The reason it is so popular is because it truly does give us a wonderful glimpse into what awaits us following our death.

This really is the BIG issue in our lives. We might not give it a lot of conscious thought, but no doubt most of us have pondered at some time in our lives, what awaits us following our death.  

The part we no doubt concentrate on in today’s Gospel, outside of Jesus telling us that he is “the Way, the Truth and the Life,” are his words

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places.”

I think what he conveys is that God will provide something beautiful and wonderful for us.

And in our reading from Acts this morning, we get to catch an even clearer view of that beautiful and wonderful something that awaits us.  In Acts we find our own dear, patron saint, St. Stephen, being dragged out by an angry mob and stoned to death.  It’s certainly not pretty. But in the midst of that violence and anger, we find St. Stephen having a glorious vision.  He looks up into heaven and is allowed a vision, in which he sees Jesus at the right hand of the glory of God. And with his last words, he prays to Jesus,

“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

(A prayer we have memorialized in our St. Stephen window)

This is the first post-Ascension prayer to Jesus in the scriptures.

And it is the most beautiful and most honest prayer St. Stephen could’ve prayed.

So this, morning, in both our Gospel reading and our reading from Acts, we are confronted with glorious visions. Now neither of them are as stupendous as the Rapture. But there is something wonderful in being able to look ahead and see what awaits us.  It is wonderful to be able to see the joys and beauty of our place with God in heaven.

Still, knowing full well what awaits us, having been given glimpses into that glorious place that lies just beyond our vision, we still find ourselves digging in our heels when we have to face the fact of our own dying. We are uncomfortable with this mystery that is death.

In our Book of Common Prayer, we have a beautiful prayer that is prayed for someone near death. It can be found on page 462.  There we find this prayer,

“Almighty God, look on your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort ‘this person’, with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord.”

“Comfort ‘this person’ with the promise of life everlasting”

This promise of eternal life, as we have seen in the Resurrection, should truly be a comfort to us, especially in those moments when we fear death.  Thinking about our own deaths isn’t necessarily morbid or unpleasant.  It simply reminds us that we are mortal.  We will all die one day.

But rather than despairing over that fact, we should use it as an opportunity to draw closer to God, to Jesus who is the Way, the Truth and the Life. We should use it as an opportunity to live a more holy life.  And hopefully, living a more holy life, we can pray at that last moment—that holy moment—with true conviction, that wonderful prayer of St. Stephen, the first martyr:

“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

Although it’s probably not the most pleasant thought to have that we are going to die, I think it is important to think about occasionally.

The reason we should think about it—and the reason we shouldn’t despair in thinking about it—is because, for a Christian, dying is not a horrible thought.

Dying is not a reason to fear.  Because, by dying, we do come to life everlasting—life with end.

And although we, at this moment, can’t imagine it as being a “happy” or “holy” moment, the fact is, it will be.  It will be the holiest moment of our life and it will be the happiest moment of our life.

For Stephen, who died abused, in pain, bleeding from those sharp stones that fell upon him, it was a happy and holy moment when he looked up and saw Jesus waiting for him.  He was happy because he knew he would soon be received by Jesus and it was holy because, at that moment, his faith was fulfilled. That place toward which we are headed—that place in God’s house—we will find our true home. Heaven—is truly our happy home, the place toward which we are wandering around, searching.

And we will not find our rest until we rest there, and we will not be fully and completely happy until we are surrounded by the happiness there.

See, what I mean: weird.

It’s all weird.

It’s all so countercultural to our society and the world.

And it’s uncomfortably weird.

Which is all right.

Because, let’s face it: almost everything Jesus did and said were considered uncomfortably weird to those who encountered him in his day.

“I am the Way, the Truth and the Life??” I bet someone who was there to firstt hear those words, thought they were a bit weird.

So, let us, the weird, countercultural Christians that we are, not fear. We live in a frightening time. There is a deadly pandemic raging about us.

But in the face of that pandemic, let us not fear it. (Let us also be safe and not do stupid things like not protecting ourselves).

But let us not live in fear.

For this too, we know, will pass.

Let us fear nothing in this world.

But let us be confident.

Let us be confident in our faith in God and in God’s Christ, the Way, the Truth and the Life

Let us be confident in who we are and what we are.

Let us be confident even in our weirdness.

Let us live our weird, countercultural Christian live with confidence.

And, in doing so, let us look forward to that place in which Jesus has prepared a place for us.

It awaits us.

It there, right at this moment, just beyond our vision.

Let us look to it with joy and let us live in joy until we are there together. Amen.

4 Easter

Good Shepherd Sunday

May 3, 2020

John 10.11-18

+If any of you have every worked with me for any period, especially if you have served as Senior Warden, Junior Warden, this following statement will not come as much of a surprise to you.

But…

when I was a child, I was, to say the least, a very independently minded child.

Even when I was very young, I liked to do things my way.

I didn’t like to be told what to do.

I hated having to eat what anyone told me to eat, to go where I was told to go, and I wasn’t good at taking orders. 

I wasn’t spoiled (though people thought I was).

I didn’t whine. I didn’t complain. I wasn’t mean or coercive in my independence.

I simply…didn’t do it if I was being told to do it.

When I joined the Cub Scouts—out of curiosity and the appeal of wearing a uniform than anything else—I didn’t last long.

The first order I was given, I refused to do.

When I was told that I had to dress a certain way in a talent show, I refused and when I was told that I HAD to do it, I responded by informing my parents that I was dropping out of the Cub Scouts (I was maybe 8 at this time).

That independent streak has been a difficult one in my life, now especially in my life as a priest.

The reason I say it is difficult is because sometimes, when one is independent, when one is out on the edges, it can be a dangerous place.

We human beings are a social animal, after all.

We like to “fit in.”

We like to be a part of crowd.

And too much independence can be scary because it means we have to rely on our own devices all the time.

Which makes all the talk in the scriptures about sheep and flocks difficult for someone like me.

Which also brings us to our Gospel reading for today:

In today’s Gospel, we find Jesus saying something that is a bit unusual.

In our reading for today, you’ll notice, he does say HE is the Good Shepherd.

What does he say he is?

He says he is the gate through which the Good Shepherd enters.

It’s an unusual image.

But…it is beautiful.

And with it, we get a glimpse into the Divine view of God’s relationship with us.

This image of Jesus as the gate through which the sheep and the Good Shepherd enters is very good.

In this case, he really is both the gate and the Shepherd.

F0r the sheep, there is really no difference.

The gate and the shepherd are synonymous to the sheep.

Which makes the image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd is a vital one.

It is a popular image because it is an image of God we strive for.

We want a God who will hold us in arms of love and protect from danger.

And I’m happy that is the image most of us have of God.

“I am the Gate for the sheep,” Jesus says. And by saying it, he says, “I am also the Shepherd who enters the gate.”

The story we just heard in the Gospel reading, like most of Jesus’ stories, has of course a deeper meaning.

When Jesus talks about the good shepherd who enters by way of the gate and the thieves who enter to steal, the meaning is clear.

Livestock in Jesus’ day—much like in our own—were valuable.

When the thief and the bandit, the flock needed a wise, caring and strong shepherd to defend them.

The Good Shepherd was the one who, when those nefarious beings began started lurking too close for comfort in the dark, never left even one of the flock to be taken.

The Good Shepherd tried to save each and every single one of them.

He even looked after that one independent sheep who strayed away from the rest of the herd and lived out on the edges.

Even the 8-year-old-Jamie-the-Cub-Scout sheep.

The good shepherd cared for the flock.

He loved them.

He even went one step further.

When the predators came near, the Shepherd put himself between the predator and the sheep, thus endangering himself.

He was willing to lay down his life to protect even the smallest of the sheep.

And how do we know this Good Shepherd?

How do we know who to trust?

The Good Shepherd does not climb over the fence—he does not sneak in.

The Good Shepherd enters boldly into our lives, through the gate.

It is a beautiful image.

Our God is a God who enters our lives boldly as times.

Our God is a God who will not let one of us be lost—no matter how weak or slow we might be.  

Our God is willing to step between us and those dark forces that come into our lives.

Our God even looks out for those of us who are independent and who walk the edges of this life.

And even more than that, our God is willing to die for us.

Over the years, I have encountered many people—whether parishioners or students or people spiritually journeying toward God—who have not always had such comforting images of God in their lives.

Some people have images of a God who is stern and mean and judgmental.

Their vision of God is of a despot who is off in some far-off heaven, watching every little thing we do, waiting for us to trip up or fail in some way so we can be punished.

In many ways, some of us who have experienced God in this way, find ourselves rebelling against that image of God.

And we most definitely should!

I am going to tell you in no uncertain terms—rebel!!

Rebel against any image of God that presents God as anything less than God really is!

Rebel against any image of God that says God is cruel or mean or close-minded or racist or sexists or homophobic.

Rebel against any image of God that makes God anything less than fully loving, fully accepting, fully sheepherding. 

If God is anything other than loving, accepting or caring, that is not the God we believe in as Christians.

That is not the God we want coming to us. 

That is not the God who even allows us to be independent and even rebellious, while still loving us and protecting us.

So, I am thankful for a Sunday like today—this Good Shepherd Sunday—in which we can celebrate and reestablish the relationship we have with a loving and compassionate God—a God who comes to us as a kind and caring Shepherd of us.

As Jesus the Good Shpeherd says today in our Gospel reading, “I came so that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

Our God knows us.

Each and every one of us.

Even those independent ones of us who are out there on the edges of life.

And our God wants us to live, and live abundantly.

That’s what a good shepherd wants.

That’s what a good mother wants.

Our God even knows that we are out there and is watching out for us too.

And we know God. In Jesus, we most certainly know God.

When we look into the face of our Good Shepherd, we see the Face of our Jesus—the Face of someone who loves and cares for us and knows us like a mother.

But I think Jesus is calling all of us to something more than just meets the eye in this morning’s Gospel.

Jesus is not simply saying that we are sheep to be shepherded.

I think Jesus is also calling us to be good shepherds in our own lives as well.

And this is not only a message for those of us who are ordained to be shepherds.

We are all called to be shepherds.

Certainly we are shepherds to someone.

Whether we are mother, or father or teacher or older sibling, we all have plenty of opportunities to be shepherds of those entrusted to us.

Jesus sets quite an example for us.

The Good Shepherd not  only protects the flock.

The Good Shepherd is even willing to lay down his life for the flock.

Few of us are willing to go that far, but when worse comes to worse, we might surprise ourselves.

We might actually be willing to protect someone with our very lives.

So, throughout this coming week and next Sunday—on Mother’s Day—let us remember all that God  has done for us.

Let us remember how God, like a mother, had guided us, protected us and continues to loves us.

Let us listen to the voice of God—a voice we know and heed in our lives/

Let us remember how God knows us—knows the real us—the one no one else knows.

And remember how—in our lives each of us is called to be a good shepherd to those entrusted to us as well.

Let us fear not when the thieves and bandits come sneaking around in our lives or in our world.

Let us not be afraid when the darkness closes in on us.

All we need to do is look toward the Gate.

We are taken care of by the One who knows us and the One we also know.

We, like the lamb in popular art, are cradled in the arms of our Good Shepherd.

We are being held at this moment, and, in that safe place, no danger can ever come too close again.

And in that safe place, we do have life—a glorious, hope-filled life—and we have it abundantly!