7 Pentecost

July 19, 2020

Matthew 13.24-30;36-43

+ Annette Morrow is attending Mass this morning.

And I know she wouldn’t mind me telling people that she, on a very regular basis, utilizes the Sacrament of Confession  with me, usually at our regular confessional, HoDo downtown.

She will also tell you that I’m bound by this wonderful thing called the “seal of confession.”

It’s good thing.

It means that anything anyone confesses to me stays “under the stole.”

It stays with me.

I can’t tell anyone what has been confessed to me.

But, someone—a parishioner—recently confessed something to me recently that truly shocked me.

And I am going to share it with you.

Don’t worry. I’m not a horrible priest standing before you.

I asked this parishioner if I could share this shocking confession with all of you.

This parishioner, for some bizarre reason I will never understand, confessed me to me that she---sigh—did not “get” my poetry.

Did not “get” my poetry!

She actually said, “It’s so Zen!”

What does that mean?!?

Is Zen a bad thing?

Ok, yes, it might be a bit esoteric, shall we say?

But, if this parishioner thought I was being esoteric, I wonder what she thought of Jesus’s parables.

Let’s talk about esoteric.

That word esoteric mean belonging to an inner circle

In other words, it means that only a  small number of people get it.

Because, in our Gospel readings at this time of the year, we’re getting a good many parables.

Oh no, you’re probably thinking to yourself.

More  parables from Jesus!

Some of us really enjoy the parables.

I enjoy the parables!

But, let’s face it, most people feel a certain level of frustration when they come across them.

After all, we, as a society, aren’t comfortable with such things.

Yes, we love our “typical” stories.

We love to hear a good story that really captures our imagination—a story we can retell to others.

But, for the most part, we like them for purely entertainment reasons.

We like stories that are straightforward.

A story with a beginning, a middle and an end.

We don’t want to think too deeply about these stories.

We want something simple and clear.

“Why couldn’t Jesus just tell us what he was thinking?” we might say to ourselves. “Why did he have to tell us these difficult riddles that don’t have anything to do with us?”

Of course, even by saying that we  miss the point completely.

The fact is, when we start talking about God and God’s work among us, we are dealing with issues that are never simple or clear.

 To put it bluntly, there is no simple and clear way to convey the truth of the Gospel.

That is why Jesus spoke in Parables.

The word parable comes from the word “parabola,” which can be defined as “comparison” or “reflection.”

“Relationship” is probably the better definition of the word.

When we look at Jesus’ parables with that definition—reflection, comparison, relationship—they start to make even more sense to us.

These stories Jesus told then—and which we hear now—are all about comparison.

For example, the Kingdom of God.

This Kingdom is difficult for us to wrap our minds around—are we talking about heaven, some otherworldly place? or are we talking about the kingdom of God in our midst?

(Jesus talks about both actually)

The parables help explain all of that in a way those first hearers could understand.

Jesus spoke in parables simply because the people he was speaking to would not have understood any type deep theological explanations.

Jesus used the images they would have known.

He met the people where they were, and accepted them for who they were.

He didn’t try to change them.

He didn’t force them to adopt something they couldn’t comprehend.

He just met them where they were and spoke to them in ways they would understand.

When he talked that day of a mustard seed, for example, and what it grows into, when he talks of yeast being mixed into dough, when he speaks of a treasure hidden in a field or of a merchant looking for fine pearls, those people understood these images.

They could actually wrap their minds around the fact that something as massive as a bush of mustard can come from such a small seed.

They understood that something as simple as a small amount of yeast worked into dough will make something large and substantial.

Yes, they could say, even with the smallest amount of faith in our lives, glorious thing can happen.

That is the message they were able to take away from Jesus that day.

So, these parables worked for those people who were listening to Jesus, but—we need to ask ourselves—does it work for us, here and now?

Does this comparison of the kingdom of heaven being like someone sowing good seed in a field  seed make sense to us?

Do we fully appreciate these images?

First of all, we need to establish what is the kingdom of God?

Is it that place that is awaiting us in the next world?

Is it heaven?

Is it the place we will go to when we die?

Or is it something right here, right now.

Certainly, Jesus believed it was all of those things and certainly believed it was something we could actually experience here and now.

Or, at least, we experience a glimpse of it here and now.

Over and over again, Jesus tells us that the kingdom of God can be found within each of us.

We carry inside us the capability to bring God’s kingdom into being.

We do it through what we do and what we say.

We do it planting good seed, as we hear in today’s Gospel.

We can bring the kingdom about when we strive to do good, to act justly, to bring God into the world in some small way.

The kingdom of God is here—alive and present among us—when we love God and love our neighbor as ourselves.

Yes, the good seed represents our faith, but it also represents in some way, those small actions we make to further the Kingdom.

Those little things we do in our lives will make all the difference.

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

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 of God’s Kingdom.

Our smallest bad actions, can destroy the kingdom in our midst and drive us further away from God and each other.

See, bad seeds.

I think we all have experienced what bad seeds do to people and to the Church and to our world.  

When we act arrogantly or presumptuously, when we act in a conceited manner, or even when we intend to be helpful and end up riding roughshod over others also trying to do good, we show bad seeds.

When we are racist or when we promote fear or division we are bad seeds.

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

So, it is true.

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

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.

We forget about how important the small things in life are—or 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.

And in that way WE become the good seeds, that Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel.

We may not seem like much.

But when we do good, we do much good, and when we do bad, we do much bad.

This is what Jesus is telling us in the parable of the good and bad seeds.

So let us take notice of the small things.

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

And when we do, we will truly shine like the sun in the kingdom of our God. 

It is in those small places that God’s kingdom flourishes in our lives.

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

Let us remind ourselves that sometimes what we 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 further the kingdom of God’s love in whatever seemingly small way we can.

And then let it flower and flourish and become a great treasure in our life before God.

Let us pray.

Holy and loving God, you are the giver of life and you sustain us throughout all our days; we ask you to let us sow the seeds of goodness and righteous—the seeds of your holy kingdom—in this world, through all we do and say, and as we do, let us find you, the living God; we ask this in the name of Jesus our Lord. Amen.

The funeral for Jennifer Johnson

The Funerals for

Jennifer Johnson

(July 1, 1971-July 11, 2020)

10:00 a.m. - The Fargo Dome, Fargo

2:00 p.m. – Karvonen’s Funeral Home, Wadena, MN

July 18, 2020

Revelation 7.9-17

+ As I said at the beginning of our service, it is real honor for me to officiate at this service for Jennifer.

I am especially happy to say that I was Jennifer’s priest.

My role in her life was actually a short one.

I was only her priest for a little over a month.

But in that time, Jennifer and I definitely bonded.

We became close in that time.

And it is a friendship and a bond that I will always cherish.

As we all know Jennifer really fought hard with this battle with cancer.

And she was able to show us all real courage in the face of the hard things of this life.

And as grateful as I am today that Jennifer is not suffering, as grateful as I am that she not in pain anymore, that she is not having to fight anymore, I have something to admit.

I am also angry today.

There should’ve been more time.

Her life was cut short entirely too soon.

She had so much life, so much living ahead of her.

There should’ve been another 30 or 40 years to her life.

She should’ve grown old with Mark.

There should’ve have been more time at the lake, more time to travel, more time to just live and enjoy life.

There was so much life ahead of her.

And I can say that there was maybe a moment or two over these last weeks when my most common prayer for Jennifer was a fist shaken at the sky.

Now, mind you I love God.

I love being a priest, even when I have accompany wonderful young people like Jennifer on their last journey.

Anyone who knows me knows I love God.

I really do.

But sometimes I get angry at God.

And that’s all right.

(We know we can be angry at someone we love).

And it’s all right to be angry about this.

Now, maybe I’m not really angry at God.

But I really am angry at death, and I’m angry at cancer, and I am angry at the unfairness of this all.

It is unfair.

This should not have happened to someone like Jennifer.

This should not have happened to Mark or to Jennifer’s parents  Ann or Jerry or to her siblings or to her nieces and nephews or any of the family.

Or to us, who loved her and knew her and cared for her.  

Jennifer did not deserve this.

And that makes me very angry!

I’m really angry that there wasn’t more time.

But, for those of us who have faith—faith like Jennifer—and let me tell you, Jennifer had faith—a fierce, strong faith in God—for us, even in the face of this gut-wrenching pain we feel today, even in the face of our frustration and anger and sadness, we know…

We know that the God of love in which Jennifer believed so strongly, really was with her.

I saw it with my own eyes.

Early last Saturday morning, Mark texted me and told me that Jennifer was nearing the end.

I went over to the house, as we gathered around her bed, we prayed, I laid hands on her. And just as we finished the prayers, she went.

It was a holy moment.

It was truly one of those “God moments.”

Even the Hospice nurse was amazed by it all.

There was a palpable, holy energy in that room.

She left this world surrounded by those who loved her.

She left here knowing she was loved and cherished.

She left here hearing all those wonderful, amazing comments from people were calling and  texting and leaving messages on social media for her.

She heard them.

And, for those of us who have faith, we know:

This is not the end.

In that beautiful reading we just heard from Revelation, we heard:

"These are they who have come out of the great ordeal…
They will hunger no more, and thirst no more;
   the sun will not strike them,
   nor any scorching heat; 
for the Lamb at the centre of the throne will be their shepherd,
   and he will guide them to springs of the water of life,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."

For Jennifer, her great ordeal is over.

She never hungry or thirst again.

And God has wiped away every tear from Jennifer’s eyes.

She will never cry another tear.

We…well, we are not so lucky.

At least right now.

We have not yet emerged from our great ordeal.

But we know that, one day, our tears too will be wiped away for good.

These tears we cry today will be wiped away.

And, when that day comes, it will be a great day.

All this reminds us that our goodbye today is only a temporary goodbye.

All that we knew and loved about Jennifer is not gone for good.

It is not lost forever from us.

All we loved, all that was good and gracious and beautiful in Jennifer—all that was fierce and strong and amazing in her—all of that dwells now in a place of light and beauty and life unending.

And we will see that smiling face again.

We will see her again.

And it will be beautiful.

Jennifer showed us all true courage, true strength, true determination.

She showed us what real courage was in the face of death.

And we should be grateful for that.

We will all miss her so much.

But I can tell you we will not forget her.

Jennifer Johnson is not someone who will be easily forgotten.

She is not someone who passes quietly into the mists.

Her strength, her dignity, her love lives on in all of us who knew her and loved her.

Today, we are sad, yes.

But for those of us who have faith today, we are also confident.

The Alleuia that say today is a defiant word.

That alleluia in the face of death is a defiant alleluia.

It is fist shaken not at God, but it is a fist shaken at death.

It is the fist Jennifer shook at death.

Jennifer, whose faith was so strong, was able to say, Not even you, death, not even you will defeat me.

I will not fear you. (and she did not fear death!)

And I will not let you win.

And, let me tell you, death has not defeated Jennifer Johnson.

So let us be defiant.

Let us shake our fists at death today.

Let face this day and the days to come with gratitude for this incredible person God let us know.

Let us be grateful.

Let us be sad, yes.

But let’s remind ourselves: death has not defeated her.

Or us.

Let us, like Jennifer, be defiant to death.

Let us sing loudly.

Let us live boldly.

Let us stand up defiantly.

Let us live fully and completely.

That is what Jennifer would want us to do today, and in the future.

Into paradise may the angels lead you, Jennifer.

At your coming may the martyrs receive you.

And may they bring you with joy and gladness into the holy city Jerusalem.

Amen.

6 Pentecost

July 12, 2020

Matthew 13.1-9, 18-23

+ Well, today is of course, our first public in-house Mass since March 15.

March 15! Four months!

And it feels good.

It’s so good to see people in the pews

Very good.

But, I do want to stress—and I know this easy to forget:

Worship here at St. Stephen’s was not “on pause” during these four months.

We still continued to celebrate two masses a week, every week during that time.

We still worshipped together.

And I would like to thank all those who worked hard to make sure that worship continued here at St. Stephen’s during the worst days of this pandemic.

Our wardens, Jean and Jessica, our new deacon John, James and the music he faithfully provided for us. Michelle and the cantoring she did for us and Matt Patnode, who provided such beautiful pieces by Bach each Wednesday night (and which he continues to do).

It is important to remember that just because we didn’t meet together as we did before, the Church was not closed.

St. Stephen’s was never closed.

We still were together, at least virtually.

And, in fact, through that little camera in the middle of the nave, we had people join us for worship at St. Stephen’s who would not normally worship with us.

People from all over the country and the world.

We even had a person join us for worship all the way from Kenya.

And because of that, we will continue to livestream these masses.

Look at that tripod in the middle of aisle as about 75 people attending our service.

But, I gotta say, it feels good to have the people who are here in the pews, even though this is so different than before.

But baby steps.

Baby steps in the right direction.

During these last four months, those of us who were in the church building for Mass did the best we could.

The fact is, we were all travelling in uncharted territory during this time.

And for those of us who kept things going, who kept things together, who kept everything “here” on task, we did the best we could under the circumstances.

And, dare I say, we did a pretty darn good job.

I certainly didn’t know anything about livestreaming anything before this.

Now I have an extra hour and ½ in my schedule each week to download and upload videos to various social media.

And there were many time when we first tried to do it when I felt like we were being those Holy Fools of Jesus that I preach about on a regular basis.

You know, those “Holy Fools” in the Eastern Orthodox tradition who just kind of goof things up just to keep all the “proper” Christians on their toes.

And many times, especially during the absurd moments of the pandemic, I thought of those Holy Fools for Christ.

Just as a reminder: for the Holy Fools, our job as Christians is not to be perfect Christians or even “successful” Christians.

Our job as followers of Jesus is to follow—to follow in our imperfection, as fractured, imperfect human beings. Not the best, but the least.

And let me tell you, nothing shows our imperfect nature better than trying to navigate social media.

Thank God none of you saw me trying to download and then upload videos for the first time onto our Youtube Channel.

That was not a pleasant day!

Or when our livestream feeds cut out on us in the middle of Mass.

This pandemic, like the Holy Fools for Christ, has taught us some important lessons.

The pandemic has challenged us on how to be the Church in the hard times.

Remember all those sermons I preached over the years from this pulpit about how the Church was changing and we should be ready for that change.

Remember how I preached about how we should think about “doing church” in a new way.

Well, this is it!  

Call me the prophet! (Actually don’t!)

The reality is that, we were prepared in many ways.

Despite the flub-ups, despite the frustrations an the extra work, we really prepared for the most part for this change in the way of doing church.

And we went with the flow.

We adapted.

And the Masses went on.

Holy Week went on.

Two masses a week went on.

I don’t know how successful we were during this time.

But then, the fact is, nowhere does Jesus expect us to be successful in our faith, or perfect.

Now, today’s Gospel, at first glance you would think would not be a reminder to us of this fact.

But…but…it actually is.

If you notice at the beginning of our Gospel reading, as Jesus sits in the boat from which he preaches sort of like from a pulpit, we are told that there is a large crowd coming forward to listen to him.

To this large crowd, Jesus then proceeds to preach about seed that fails and seed that flourishes.

And for this moment, it seems as though the seed of the Gospel as it comes from Jesus’ mouth is truly falling on the good soil.

But…. when we look at it from the wider perspective of the story of Jesus, what we realize is that what he is preaching is, in fact, falling on rocky ground and among thorns.

Let’s face it: on the surface, from a completely objective viewpoint, Jesus’ ministry is ultimately a failure (or seems to be anyway).

Let’s look very hard at just this instant in Jesus’ ministry.

On this particular day, he is surrounded by twelve men—people he himself chose—who just, let’s face it, just don’t get what he’s saying.

And they won’t for a very long time.

In fact, they won’t get it until after he’s dead.

These men will, eventually, turn away from him and abandon him when he needed them the most.

One of them, will betray him in a particularly cruel way: one of them will betray him to people he knows will murder Jesus.

By the time Jesus is nailed to the cross, it’s as though everything Jesus said or did up to that point had been for nothing.

Not one of the people Jesus helped, not one of the people he gave sight to, helped to walk, healed of illness, came forward to defend him.

Not even one person he raised from the dead came forward to help him in his time of need.

And certainly, not one person from this large crowd of people that we encounter in today’s Gospel, comes forth to defend him, to vouch for him or even to comfort him as he is tortured and murdered.

Everyone left him except his dear mother and a few of his female friends.

And maybe his beloved apostle John.

As far as his life of ministry was concerned, it seemed very much like a total failure.

It seems, in that moment, as though the seed he sowed had all been sown on rocky ground and among thorns.

It seemed as though the seed he sowed had died.

For any of us, frustration would be an understatement for what we would be feeling at that moment.

We would be feeling that not only our friends have abandoned us, but God too.

And if this was the end of the story, if it ended there, on that cross, on that Friday afternoon, then it would be truly one of the greatest failures.

But this is one of the cunning, remarkable things about Christianity—one of the things that has baffled people for thousands of years.

In the midst of failure, in the midst of frustration, even in the midst of a pandemic, God somehow works.

In that place of broken dreams, of shattered ambitions, (and we experienced broken dreams and shattered ambitions several times during he pandemic) God somehow uses them and turns them toward good.

Somehow, in a moment of abject loneliness and isolation, of excruciating physical pain, of an agonizing murder upon a cross, God somehow brings forth hope and joy and life unending.

And what seems to be sown on rocky ground and among thorns does, in fact, flourish and produces a crop that we are still reaping this morning.

God truly can use our flawed and fractured selves for good and turn our failures and our frustrations into something meaningful.

Look at all those people who are worshipping with us by our various social media this morning (or who will be watching this later during this next week), many of whom have never stepped inside this church building!

We wouldn’t have had the opportunity to reach to any of them if the pandemic hadn’t happened.

See, even in the midst of something awful, can come much good.

What we can take away from our Gospel reading today is that our job is not always to worry about where or how we are sowing the seed.

Our job is to simply do the sowing.

And God will produce the crop.

It is not our job to produce the crop.

What I have realized in my many years of ordained ministry is that I simply need to let God do what God is going to do.

Our job, as Christians, is simply to sow.

And God will bring forth the yield.

And when God does, then we will find crops flourishing even in rocky soil and amidst thorns.

So, all you who have ears, listen.

The pandemic is not over.

We still have a long way to go before it is.

There is still going to be frustration ahead for us.

There is still rocky ground and thorns ahead of us.

But for those of us who hope in God and who sow the seed of God’s Word in this world simply cannot allow frustration to triumph.

Frustration and despair are the thorns and rocky soil of our lives.

Rather, let us heed the message of the Holy Fools for Christ.

Let us be Holy Fools for Christ.

God loves us our weirdness, our eccentricity.

God loves us when we are the misfits, the fools.

God uses and works through our imperfections.

God blesses us even when we’re bumbling along in the middle of pandemic, trying to do church in a new and unique way.

And in our weirdness, in our imperfection, even in a pandemic, we become the rich soil in which that seed flourishes.

When we do that, the crops God brings forth in us and through us will truly be one hundred times more than whatever we sowed.

Let us pray.

Lord, God, in your goodness, you somehow are able to bring abundant fruit even in the midst of thorns; help us to sow the seeds of your Kingdom so that your Word may flourish and you may triumph. We ask this in the Name of Jesus. Amen.

Amen.