8 Pentecost

February 27, 2011

Matthew 6.24-34

+ When I was about eight years old, I had a major problem. I was a chronic worrier. I worried about absolutely everything. I worried about my parents and my grand-parents and even my dog dying. I worried that my friends were going to be in accidents. I worried about nuclear war. I worried about homework and school and I even worried, for some bizzare and irrational reason, about going swimming at the local swimming pool. For the most part I kept my worrying to myself. It was a secret. No one else knew that I worried like I did. And I didn’t want anyone to know about it because, let’s face it, it was embarrassing.

I probably would have gone on worrying about everything in such an irrational way had I not started getting sick. I started having intense stomach problems around this time. At first the doctors suspected I might have appendicitis. But then, they finally started talking about an ulcer. Now imagine—an eight or nine year old kid having an ulcer. One very wise doctor saw through it all and point blank asked me if I was worried about anything. I wasn’t completely honest about the level of worrying I did, but I did admit to the fact that, yes, I worried. From that time on, with some help, I eventually overcame this chronic worrying I was doing. I still worried. I worried abnormally at least through the earlier part of junior high. And then, I just learned, at some point, to let go. I learned at some point that I really was worrying over things I didn’t need to worry about.

And our Gospel reading for today from Matthew was helpful at that time in my life as well.

“…can any of you by worrying add a single day to your span of life?” Jesus asks.

Which is a true level of wisdom that I don’t think we have fully fathomed in our lives. But the real message from our Gospel reading this morning is not just that wise maxim of Jesus. Rather, it is the command he makes, not once, but twice. Jesus commands us twice today, “Do not worry.”

“Do not worry!” Jesus says firmly to us.

What we find Jesus saying to us today is not some sweet, gentle suggestion to not worry. It is a point-blank command not worry. And it is a command that is placed within the context of his explanation that we cannot serve two masters. There is a connection here between the two masters and his command not to worry. In telling us that we cannot serve two masters, Jesus is making clear to us that service to any other master hinders our relationship to God. It muddies the waters, so to speak. It complicates our relationship with God. We cannot serve God and money. We cannot serve God and still have as a master something other than God.

In this case, God is being quite demanding God expects full service from us. God expects our full attention. Because, let’s face it, we can be easily distracted. Worrying works the same way in our lives. When we worry, the waters again become muddied. Worrying distracts us. It distracts us from God and from each other. Worrying becomes a barrier in our service to God.

But worrying is a hindrance in another way. Why do we worry? We worry because cannot control a situation. We worry because a situation is out of our control. And control is the key here. As someone who works in the church every day, I know a few things about this issue of control. I experience this issue of control constantly. I deal all the time with people—both clergy and lay—who constantly try to control situations, whether it be a parish, a diocese or the myriad situations that arise in this human organization called the Church. Controlling something can be all-consuming. It can be frustrating for a controlling person when things are not going your way. And when things are completely uncontrollably, a person who wants to control is at their wit’s end.

Yesterday I attended the funeral for my father’s former boss and good friend. My father bought the business he worked in for many years from this man and they remained good friends for many years after that. This man’s wife died after a long struggle with cancer in September, just a week before my father died. This friend of my dad’s was so distraught over her diagnosis, illness and death that he just couldn’t go on anymore and last week he committed suicide. At the funeral yesterday, the pastor spoke of this man’s hands.

The pastor said, “He had such big hands—hands that fixed everything—engines and all kinds of mechanical things. But when his wife was diagnosed with cancer, he would just look at his hands helplessly. In this situation, those hands could not fix her cancer and could not fix the outcome of that cancer.”

For those of us who like to control situations, things like cancer and illness and death—especially sudden death—strike us very, very hard. And when those things happen, we find ourselves worrying as though worrying somehow can control the situation. More often than not worrying is simply something to DO in the face of uncontrollable situations. But worrying doesn’t DO anything. Except make us sick and create added stress in our lives. And it muddies the clear, pure waters of our relationship with God. Worrying gets in the way of our relationship with God.

Last week you heard me say that holding grudges against others is not an option for Christians. This week I can say in all honesty that worrying also is not an option for Christians. Worrying is simply something we do to show that we have little or no faith in God. If God is in control and we have complete faith in God, then we really have no right to worry. By worrying we are showing that our allegiance is not with God. By worrying, we are following another master—ourselves. By worrying, we are trying to control situations that are not in our power to control. And all of it only leads to despair and depression and frustration, not to mention physical illness.

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned as a priest is just let it all go sometimes and not worry. I remember hearing once when I was studying to be a priest, that anyone who works in a parish should be prepared that 25% of your congregation is just not going to like you or anything you do. I was shocked by that comment and almost ready to despair ever actually finishing the process to be ordained. But I have learned since then that that’s sometimes just the way it is. Now, I hope that’s not true of me here at St. Stephen’s. I hope there are not 25% of you who dislike me. But there are moments when I do hear grumblings and complaints about things I do or say here.

Just this last week, for example, it came to my attention from one of our vestry members that one of or two people here at St. Stephen’s don’t like that I use the word “Mass” to the describe the Eucharist (which IS a perfectly Episcopalian term to use, by the way). Rather than letting things like that bring me down, rather than worrying about things like that or being frustrated by it—and I know many clergy who do, which is why we call nitpicky comments “clergy killers,”—I have learned to just let it go and not worry about it. I can’t control whether people are going to like me or not. All I can do is be myself and do what I have been called to do here at St. Stephen’s and hope that even in my imperfection as a priest and pastor, somehow God will use me in just the right to accomplish the work I have to do. That’s all any of us can do in our service to God and one another.

So, let us center our attention on the one master we have committed ourselves to follow. Let us heeds that master’s command of “do not worry.” Let us shake off all those attempts to control situations in which we do not need to control or are simple unable to control. Let us release those situations to God and allow ourselves, instead, to simply put our trust in that God. And in doing so, let us heed the other command Jesus makes to us in this morning’s Gospel. Freed of the murkiness and distraction worry causes in allegiance to God, let us truly “strive first for the kingdom of God” in our midst. Let us be the conduits of God’s righteousness to those in need around us. Being a conduit is a great remedy for this control issue. As a conduit all we have to do is simply be ourselves and let God work through us as we are.

Today, February 27, is usually celebrated as the feast of Blessed George Herbert, the great Anglican priest and poet. As most of you know, Herbert has been a very important influence in my professional and personal life. In the last twenty years or so, I don’t think I’ve ever traveled anywhere without a copy of Herbert’s poems accompanying me. Last Wednesday I commemorated George Herbert at our Wednesday night Mass. I shared that great image of Herbert’s from his poem, “Windows” in which he describes human beings as that “crazy, brittle glass.” The image in the poem is that essentially we are glass. We are glass window panes to God’s light. To reflect that light we don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to be pristine. God’s light shines even through crazy, brittle glass. It will shine through a dirty window, or a cracked window or a warped window. The window doesn’t have to do anything. It doesn’t even have to be perfect. It simply has to be. It simply has to reflect that light in any way it can. Certainly it doesn’t have to, nor can it, control that light. It certainly doesn’t have to worry about that light or about whether it is good enough to reflect that light. The window pane simply is.

We are the window panes through which God’s light shines. And all we have to do is be that conduit of God’s light. So let us shine with that light. Let us strive first and foremost for the Kingdom of God in our midst. And when we do, we will realize that any imperfection on our part—anything that may cause us to worry or fret—is simply lost in the flood of God’s light that shines through us.

7 Epiphany

February 20, 2011

Leviticus 19:1-2,9-18; Matthew 5:38-48

+ This past week I was giving a preview of this morning’s sermon to a friend of mine. I was talking specifically about Jesus’ command to love our enemies and how in Leviticus we are commanded to “not take vengeance or bear a grudge.”

As I was sharing this, my friend looked at me with absolute disbelief but, very politely, said nothing. I was curious about this whole look of disbelief, so I asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I don’t know,” my friend said. “I just can’t imagine you preaching about love and how one should not seek vengeance.”

“Why?” I asked. “I preach about love all the time. And I’m not a vengeful person.”

“Well, I know the kind of movies you love,” my friend said. “You love movies about revenge. Movies like Kill Bill. In fact, when that came out, you talked about that movie like it was God-inspired scripture.”

Now, I will admit, yes I love movies about revenge. Let’s face it, they’re entertaining. But they also speak to us at a very base level. We have all been wronged in some way or the other in our lives. There is some kind of pleasure we receive when someone who has wronged us is brought to justice and we have been vindicated—if in no one else’s eyes but our own. Secretly—or maybe not so secretly—we have all fantasized about getting revenge on people.

In that movie, Kill Bill, one of my favorite scenes is when, at the end of Kill Bill 2, we find Beatrix Kiddo (played by Uma Thurman), after she has killed Bill and the others who tried to kill her years earlier at her wedding, lying on a bed in a motel in Mexico while the daughter she thougth had died watches cartoons in th enext room, crying in great joy.

When I first saw that scene, I wanted to cry in joy with her. It is one of those scenes most of can relate to. When we think for a moment about all of our enemies being eliminated—about every person who has ever wronged us being brought to our own sense of justice—it is a wonderful fantasy.

The problem, for me is actually quite simple. As much as I love movies about revenge, I also am of the belief that revenge has no place in a Christian’s life. We, as Christians, simply do not have the option for revenge. There is no such thing as a Christian Beatrix Kiddo.

The love we find Jesus talking about today is not the kind of love that allows things like revenge or grudges. At the same time, the love he is talking about is not sweet. It is not lovely. It is certainly not romantic. The love Jesus is talking about is messy love. It is knock-down, drag-it-out-in-the-mud kind of love., It is love that is painful. It is not the kind of love we find ourselves craving. It is not the kind of love we find ourselves trying to express in poems and songs. It is not the love we celebrated last Monday on Valentine’s Day. Rather it is the kind of love that gnaws at us. It is the kind of love we fight against and rebel against. It is the kind of love we dig in our heels against. It is the kind of love that makes us do things we don’t want to do.

When anyone asks me “What do I have to do to be a Christian?” (and you have heard me say this a million times, I know), I always say, it is this, “Jesus said to be a Christian one must love God and love each other as ourselves.” That is not the answer most people want to hear, surprisingly enough. As much as people might vent and complain about rules and regulations and dogmas, deep down I think that is exactly what people expect out of the church. Deep down, whether we admit or not, sometimes we want to Church to tell us what to do or say about this issue or that issue. We sometimes do want specifics. We sometimes do want black and white. And Jesus’ command to love definitely does not fall into that category.

Yes, at first it seems to be amazingly simple. Love your neighbor. Love God. Love yourself. Simple. But it isn’t. And at first we think it’s so fluffy and “feel good” But when we really think about it, it isn’t. It’s actually hard and messy and difficult. And it is mind-blowingly radical.

Essentially this message of Jesus is this: even when everything is falling apart, even when your enemies outnumber your friends, even when people have purposely singled you out and are attacking you personally, love them. Love them all. Love them even when you feel the hatred boiling up within you. Love them even when hatred feels good and getting revenge feels like the only right thing to do. Love them until the hatred goes away and the bile dies. Because it is not our place as followers of Jesus to hate. No where have we ever been given permission to hate. The only time hate enters into our Christian vocabulary is as something we are commanded not to do .

Which does make me wonder where people like Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptists get their license to do and say what they do. Now, I am very happy that they’re not coming to Fargo. But they provide us with us a perfect opportunity to do what we are truly called to do as Christians. First, they teach us beautifully on what not to do as Christians. In a sense, any Christian who hates, who actually uses the word “hate” in their literature and on their signs, have essentially forfeited their right even be called Christians. But more importantly they give us that uncomfortable, frustrating opportunity to practice what we preach—to practice radical love. As much as they might hate us, we must love in return. And I’m not talking about outwardly loving them only. I’m not talking about standing up and saying it in public—which is hard enough. I am saying that we must believe it. We must feel it. We must say it before God in the quiet of our hearts.

It’s all right that we might not want to do it. It’s all right that even saying it causes bile to rise up in our mouths. It’s all right that saying it causes our skin to crawl and our blood to boil. Jesus no where, in today’s Gospel, tells us we must love with a smile on our face. All he says to us in today’s Gospel about this is. “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven…”

We must love them and we must let this love win out over their hatred. Because it will. Again and again, love will win out over hatred. But the only way it wins out is when we eliminate hatred entirely from our lives. The only way love can prevail is when love has full reign. Love does not have full reign in our lives when we carry around grudges and when we drudge up past hurts that have been done to us.

In our reading from Leviticus we find it stated as clearly as possible, “You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the LORD.”

Now, I’ll be the first to admit: I am one of the worst people in the world for carrying around past hurts and grudges. But I have discovered that grudges and anger over what people have done to me in the past really does hamper love from having full reign in my life. Those grudges and memories of things people have done to me prevent me again and again from that truly radical love Jesus commands us to strive toward. I have learned that Jesus isn’t telling us to ignore the past and to forget the wrongs that have been done to us. That is naïve and foolhardy and when we do so we find ourselves falling into unhealthy patterns of relationship with others. But I have taken a good long hard look at those situations in which I have been wronged and I have worked on them until I can come to a point when I can tell myself that, yes, I do love those people who have wronged me. I can say that I love them with all honesty. And I can even say that I love them even if I don’t particularly like them. And by loving them—honestly and for the sake of being a follower of Jesus—I realize I can’t carry those negative grudges with me anymore.

Those grudges only bring me down and make me into a bitter, angry person. And those grudges only lead to thoughts of revenge oftentimes. Grudges and revenge and all those dark negative things only fly in the face of what Jesus is talking about today. It is not easy to love our enemies. It is so much easier to hate them and bear grudges against them and seek revenge on them. As we find in movies like Kill Bill, it feels good to do those things.

Because when we do those things what we are really doing is regaining some sense of control over an uncontrollable situation. Hatred and revenge and grudges help us to believe that some sense of fairness has been brought about. But love is the only thing that makes it all, somehow, right. Love, even in the face of all that has been done to us, somehow always wins out, even when we ourselves might not ever see the results of that love. This is not sweet Pollyannaism fluffiness we’re talking about this morning. It is actually a very difficult, very challenging kind of love. It is a kind of love that changes everything—that transforms things, that challenges even our most rational way of thinking and processing. It is a dangerous love. It is dangerous because it forces us to step outside our insulated, self-protective cocoon and put us in an even more vulnerable place—a place in which we can be hurt again.

“Love your enemies,” Jesus tells us, “and pray for those who persecute you…”

So let us heed his command to us. Let us love our enemies. Let us love the Fred Phelps and all the others who peach hatred. Let us meet their hate, again and again, with love. Let us pray for those who hate us. Let us pray that our love may actually do some good in their lives and in the lives of all who witness our love. For when we do these things, as Jesus tells us, we are the children of our God. When we do so, we become more whole, more completely, more holy. And in doing, we are living out that that command of God from Leviticus, “You shall be holy, for I the LORD your God am holy.” Let love prevail in all we do and say and believe. And when it does, we and the world around becomes truly and completely transformed by that love.

Episcopal Journal article about Fargo, 1957

A priest-poet’s elegy
Lives lost in Fargo tragedy are commemorated

By Nan Cobbey

Episcopal Journal, February 2011. Vol 1 No. 1

Jamie Parsley grew up hearing stories of a tragedy that occurred 12 years before his birth. Two of his relatives were victims of a tornado that swept through Fargo, N.D., on June 20, 1957, killing 12 people and devastating the community. Parsley, a poet, teacher and Episcopal priest, has just finished a book about the event and responses to it. Fargo, 1957: An Elegy includes poems and pictures and a personal “processing” of a difficult history.

“I would hear the story when the weather would get bad,” Parsley, now 41, explained. “But there wasn’t a whole lot of detail. We don’t like to talk about our emotions too much in this part of the country. There was a mystery about the whole story.”

That mystery peaked Parsley’s interest. Author of nine previous books of poetry, he is associate poet laureate of North Dakota, named by the current laureate, Larry Woiwode. Parsley still lives in Fargo where he serves as executive assistant to the bishop for the Diocese of North Dakota and as priest-in-charge of St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church.

“Over the years I tried very hard to figure out how I was to process this story in some way. Two or three years ago, I started doing research…researching the lives of all 12 people who died. Out of this came the poems.” Parsley found a “freedom” in writing about the tragedy and the people who lost their lives by using poetry. “I couldn’t have found that with any other type of writing. I was able to sort of give a voice to these people, a voice they were not able to have after fifty-some years.”

Parsley hopes that readers will recognize “a commonality between all of us as human beings in these experiences—these things happen in various forms in all of our lives. You wake up one morning and you think ‘Well, it’s just going to be another day.’”

Fargo, 1957: An Elegy is available for $20 from The Institute for Regional Studies at North Dakota State University, www.ndsu.edu/ahss/ndirs/.

Nan Cobbey, former associate editor of Episcopal Life, lives in Belfast, Me.

4 Epiphany

January 30, 2011

Annual Meeting

1 Corinthians 1.18-31; Matthew 5.1-12

+ Someone in this church this morning was accused recently of the grievous sin of hubris. Now for those of you who might not be able to pinpoint an exact definition of hubris, let me share with you this definition: According to the World English Dictionary, hubris is defined as:

1. pride or arrogance

2. (in Greek tragedy) an excess of ambition, pride, etc, ultimately causing the transgressor's ruin

It comes from the Greek word hybris which means "wanton violence, insolence, outrage," originally "presumption toward the gods."

Now, with that definition in mind, it might not come as any surprise to you that the person who was accused of hubris was, of course, yours truly. A parishioner at another Episcopal congregation in this town accused me of it after I posted some comments recently extolling the growth and the renewal going on here at St. Stephen’s For some reason, those same comments caused me to be singled out in another way. For some reason—in all honesty and seriousness, it is completely beyond me how it even came about—those same comments caused people in that congregation to believe that I was somehow “campaigning” to be the next Dean of the Cathedral. In fact, I heard, it was even brought up at their most recent Chapter meeting.

As flattered as I probably should be that people think I’m so ambitious, self-assured and upwardly mobile—so full of hubris—when I was informed of that accusation, I wasted no time in writing and sending a response to the Chapter members of the Cathedral. My response was this, verbatim:

“I assure everyone that…I do not, under any circumstances, have any intention of even being considered as the next Dean of the Cathedral…”

I then added:

“I would further like to assure every one that I am very content at St. Stephen’s and am very pleased with the ministry they—and I—are doing there…”

And, I am.

Today, of course, is our Annual Meeting. And my sermon on Annual Meeting Sunday is a sort “State of the Union” address. I think it is particularly appropriate that we also hear Paul this morning. No doubt some people accused Paul once or twice of hubris.

This morning, Paul quotes the prophet Jeremiah. Paul’s quote, that we heard today, is, “Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.” The actual quote from Jeremiah is this,

“…let those who boast boast in this, that they understand and know me, that I am the Lord; I act with steadfast love, justice and righteousness in the earth, for in these things I take delight, says the Lord.” (Jeremiah 9.24).

Boasting for us, as good North Dakotans for the most part, is not something we like to do. Boasting for us means being prideful. But, certainly armed with these scriptures, holding them close, we realize we can boast. We can boast, because we are not boasting in ourselves. We are not boasting because we think we did any of these, nor that we are better than anyone else. We boast because God has done these things. We boast because we know that God does act with steadfast love, justice and righteousness in the earth and we boast because we are simply trying be the conduits through which God can continue to act in such a way. We boast in the fact that the work God has called us to do here at St. Stephen’s is the work of steadfast love, justice and righteousness. We boast because we are able to recognize the blessings of God in our midst.

In addition to all that I added in the annual report—for some reason, my statistics for the last four years didn’t make it into the report—we rejoice. And in those statistics, we see the blessing.

And as we rejoice in these "in house blessings” we rejoice too in ministries we do beyond these walls, as we strive to be conduits of God’s steadfast love, justice and righteousness in the community. We rejoice when we find ourselves added as a welcoming congregation on the FM Pride website. This of course ties in perfectly to our very proud designation as an Integrity partner congregation and in our identity as a welcome and loving place for all Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgendered people. We are now the only Episcopal congregation in Fargo who is designated as such and who proudly and unashamedly do so. And, from the comments I have heard and from the inquiries I have received, people are responding.

As the wider Anglican Communion rages over the issue of full-inclusion of GLBT people, as young gay people suffer all around the world, the like Ugandan Gay rights activist David Kato Kisule, who was brutally murdered this past week in Uganda, we here at St. Stephen’s are a place of peace and solace in the midst of that raging storm.

And certainly peace and justice also are our rallying cries. As more and more of us become members of the Episcopal Peace Fellowship, as our own Peace Pole in the churchyard proclaims to all, we are committed to the peace of Christ, in ourselves and toward each other.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Jesus tells us today in our Gospel reading, “for they will be called children of God.”

And we reach out.

In addition to helping out locally with the Salvation Army and Churches United for the Homeless, we are also helping young African students in the East African Missions or in helping provide medical care to Guatemala. We are at St. Stephen’s are reaching far beyond our seemingly small boundaries here on this quiet street in the north part of Fargo.

And we continue to be a place of spiritual renewal. Twice a week, we gather to celebrate the Eucharist—that unifying action in which we celebrate and share the Body and Blood of Jesus. We also gather regularly, either individually or collectively, during the week for prayer. And others too are drawn to us for the spiritual benefits they receive here. Whether it be Sunday morning Mass, the Wednesday night Mass or the labyrinth or any of the other spiritual opportunities we supply here, people are encountering God here at St. Stephen’s And God is drawing people here for that encounter.

This seemingly little congregation in north Fargo continues to be a force to be reckoned with—in our city, in our Diocese, in our country and in the world.

But like any State of the Union address, I have to say this as well. We do still have much more to do. We have not even begun to exhaust the resources we have here in this congregation. There is still much potential. There are still many opportunities for growth here. We still have much ministry to do.

And God is calling us. God is pushing us. God is moving us to proclaim the Good News of Jesus and to further the Kingdom of God in our very midst.

It is a great time to be here at St. Stephen’s. As you have heard me say many, many times, things are “popping.” And this outpouring of the Holy Spirit’s love and grace in our congregation should be bringing smiles to our faces and joy to our hearts.

But it should also be bringing a jolt of energy to our feet and hands. It is not the time to sit back complacently and revel in these blessings. It is time to share them. It is time to get up and make sure those channels of the Spirit of Jesus into our midst remain open and flowing. It is time to make sure that the flow of the Holy Spirit’s life and love through the conduit of this congregation to others remains unhindered and free. We proclaim things not because we are bragging. We are not rejoicing in the failure of any one else or any other congregation.

I personally am grieved deeply over the problems other congregations are dealing with at this moment and my heart goes out to them. And in my joking about the accusation of hubris, I do not mean to make light of the serious situations elsewhere. I share these things only because I celebrate them. I share these things because it long past due for us at St. Stephen’s to rejoice and celebrate in all that is happening here.

We, on this Annual Meeting Sunday, should be celebrating. We should be boasting, in the proper way of boasting, in all that we are doing for God. And we should be boasting in all that God is doing for us here at St. Stephen’s.

Despite the somewhat arrogant attitude people elsewhere seem to think I have, despite the pompous character others think I carry about within me, I certainly can not claim the credit for the successes, the renewal and the growth here at St. Stephen’s. The successes here at St. Stephen’s are not a result of anything any one single person here is doing. The successes here at St. Stephen’s are a result of we all are doing together.

We are all working hard. We are all stepping up to the plate and making this place a place of holiness, of renewal, of radical hospitality to those who needs radical hospitality. We together are making this a place in which God’s presence and love can dwell and from which it can emanate.

So, my fellow ministers here at St. Stephen’s, let us rejoice. Let us celebrate. And let us together give thanks to God who is present among us this morning. Let us give to thanks God, who has come to us as a Spirit of steadfast love. Let us rejoice in the God who is present with us in Jesus, whose Body and Blood we will share at this altar. And let us celebrate the God who is present in us as a Holy People, blessed and renewed and commissioned to go out to share this blessing and renewal.

See

by Jamie Parsley

See, how I wake
from sleep. See how I
am torn from the dream—
from the dream in which
you—
in that profile
and everything so blond—
looks off and turns
toward me only when
I turn away.

See how I am torn
in my dream
from the stones
of the wall
on which I have
been projected.
I move there—
a facsimile anyway—
lovely to you
in my dream.

Taste the metal
in my mouth
where the blood came.
See how I wake to this,
to blood,
to the torn-apart world
we live in
outside that dream.

Memorial service for my uncle, James Parsley

James M. Parsley
(August 30, 1929 – January 21, 2011)

Fredrikson Funeral Home
Kindred, North Dakota

January 24, 2011

+I’m just going to say a few words about my uncle Jim.For those of us who knew Jim, we knew him as giant force. There was no getting around Jim. Physically, he was a big guy. And physically, as we all know, he suffered greatly. He was quite candid with me about his frustration over the fact that his physical body betrayed him. And certainly, it seemed to me anyway, that within that failing body, that body that betrayed him and often caused him much suffering, there was a vibrant, alive soul.

I enjoyed my visits with my uncle Jim. I enjoyed driving out to Kindred and sharing Holy Communion with him. I even enjoyed the talks we had about the Bible. He certainly had a strong and very confident opinion and understanding of Scripture. And as he talked about these things—and especially as he talked about God—there was a confidence.

Occasionally I would frown in confusion at something he would. When he would just tell me, “Trust me. Some day you’ll see that I was right…” And as he would say things like that, there light in his eyes. That light was life—bright, vibrant, fiery life. And that’s how most of us are going to remember Jim. As someone who was full of life. And as someone who was full of a very deep and abiding faith. Because although we know he suffered, although he had really bad days, somehow he never lost that faith and he never lost that fire in his eyes.

Even when I went to see him last Thursday at Elim, although he wasn’t awake, although he wasn’t able to communicate at all, even lying there, asleep, he seemed so full of life, even though it was obvious the end was near.

It was difficult for me to see him over these months, following the very sudden death of my father in September. I don’t think either of them would’ve agreed with me about this, but they were similar in some ways and I only fully realized after my father was gone and I would see Jim.. It was difficult to see Jim, because there were moments when, at least physically, he reminded me of my father.

But it was also good to see him during this time as well, when I finally could. One of the prayers I always prayed with him was a prayer from The Anglican Prayer Book of New Zealand. And it was a prayer he liked. The prayer went like this,

God of the present moment,
God who in Jesus stills the storm and soothes the frantic heart;
bring hope and courage to your servant, Jim.
Make him the equal of whatever lies ahead for him.
For your will is wholeness and strength
You are God and we trust you.

Jim knew that what lay ahead for him was not easy. But God truly did answer this prayer in so many ways. God did make Jim the equal of what lay ahead for him. I know it because I saw it. He faced his death without fear and with deep faith in where he was going.

We talked a lot about God and about his faith in God. And he talked a lot about that place he was going. There was no doubt in his mind about that place.

And tonight, we can rejoice in the fact that he is there. Tonight, he is freed. Tonight, that life-filled, independent spirit has been freed from those physical constraints and is truly and, for all eternity, freed. Tonight, he is happy and complete and content and wholly himself. For us, who are left behind, tonight and these last few days haven’t been so great . But the fact is, we, who are Christian, don’t get to despair over the fact he’s gone.

Certainly Jim didn’t despair. He never lost hope. He didn’t throw up his hands and give up.

That just wasn’t the Parsley thing to do, after all.

He knew and he would be quick to remind us, that this life is just a short moment in the grander scheme of God’s plan for us.

In our Gospel reading for tonight, he heard Jesus say that in his father’s house there are many mansions. I don’t know how Jim would feel about being in a mansion. But I have no doubt that, that is exactly what Jesus provided him with. And we can take consolation that one day, we too will cross over and we too will have a place prepared for us. And Jim will be there. And I can just imagine him telling me as I come into that place, “See, I told you so… Everything I told you was true.” And he probably will be right. Because, by then, when we are all there, it will all—somehow—make sense. It will all be the way it should be.

So, tonight, although we might be tempted to despair, we really cannot. While this might be a difficult for us, for Jim, this has been one great and glorious day without end. He has been relieved of his pain and suffering. The cross he carried he carried in his life has been lifted from him for good. And he has now come home.

Yes, we are sad for this temporary separation. But we are not despairing.

It’s not the Parsley thing to do.

When I heard of Jim’s death on Friday morning, I prayed a prayer for him that gives me a lot of consolation.

“Into paradise may the angels lead you. At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city Jerusalem.”

On Friday morning, Jim was received into that paradise. On Friday, angels led him to that holy city Jerusalem. On Friday, the martyrs received him and brought him home. One day we too will be received there as well. One day, we too will experience that wonderful paradise. So this afternoon and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in that faith that Jim found such sustenance in. Let us take consolation in the fact that Jim is complete and whole at this very moment and for every moment to come from now on. Let us take consolation in that paradise to which he has been received by martyrs and angels. And let us be glad that one day we too will be there, clothed, like him, with a glory and a happiness and a joy that will never end.

Amen.

3 Epiphany

January 23, 2011

1 Corinthians 1.10-18; Matthew 4.12-23
+ I sent out an email this week to you, the member of St. Stephen’s, asking for the dates of your baptisms. And, man did I get the responses. This is one of those times people really enjoyed responding to me. I got emails from people telling me they dug through boxes and files to try to find their baptismal certificates. And it has been fun to compile a list of these dates of baptism so we can commemorate this important day in our lives here at St. Stephen’s

Of course, we’ve been talking a lot about baptism lately. The sermon I preached the week before last was all about baptism and Sandy Holbrook’s sermon last week also referred to baptism. And almost as an added bonus to all this “baptism talk,” today we get to celebrate the baptism of Gracelyn Miller.

You already know how I really do rejoice every time we baptize here at St. Stephen’s. As the saying goes, “a busy baptismal font means a healthy church.”

But what’s been fun too is all the discussion this baptism talk has generated. In my sermon from a few weeks ago, I preached about how truly important Baptism is.

A few days after that Sandy Holbrook and I had a very interesting discussion. One of the things both Sandy and I enjoy about preaching is receiving feedback. And Sandy always has some informative feedback.

On this particular occasion, it was not so much about the sermon so much as about how she felt it was an inconsistency that I could preach so strongly on the importance of Baptism being the basis of all ministry in the Church and still do what is popularly called, though I think inaccurately called, “private baptisms.” A “private baptism” in this sense is simply a baptism service done outside the regular Sunday morning Eucharist.
I think I may have made a sassy come-back to Sandy along the lines of: “Well, when I appear before the judgment seat and am judged for the grievous sin of ‘private baptisms,’ I, along with the apostle Philip, along with all the people we ‘privately’ baptized, including the Ethiopian eunuch, will take my judgment as needed.”

Not exactly conducive to an intelligent discussion.

But it is a valid point that Sandy made and one that I don’t think we have had chance to discuss fully here at St. Stephen’s. The point of this is: I actually agree with her wholeheartedly. Baptisms should never be “private.”

BUT…the true fact of the matter is, and this is actually my argument: no baptism is “private.” Whether the baptism is in the context of the Eucharist, during the main Sunday service, with all the faithful gathered—which truly is the ideal, and one in which I certainly work to maintain—or if it is, for pastoral or personal reasons, done outside that service, the Church is always gathered.

As you have heard me preach many, many times, the veil that separates us here on earth, from the larger church, is a thin one and that veil is often lifted, especially whenever we gather for the Eucharist or for baptism. And, in a sense, all of us were present at each others baptisms, whether we were actually there or not. Whenever the church has gathered or will gather, we, as the baptized members of this church, are there as well. In those moments when baptisms are held outside the regular Sunday Eucharist, the Church is still always gathered and present.

“Has Christ been divided?” Paul asks this morning his letter to the Corinthians. The answer, of course, is no. Christ cannot be divided. And that same thinking can be applied to Christ’s Church.

Yes, there may be denominational divisions, or political divisions or even physical divisions, but the fact remains that the Church continues to be the Church Undivided in even the midst of all the wrangling and fighting and misunderstanding. Even death does not divide us. When we gather together—even two or three of us—Christ himself and the whole Church, both here on earth and in the nearer Presence of God is present fully and completely. And the great reminder to us of this undivided Body of Christ is baptism.

And the baptism into which each of us were baptized is not dependent upon when it was done or how it was done (outside of the fact that is be done in the name of the Trinity).

Many of us, including myself, were baptized outside regular Sunday Eucharists.

Our baptisms were not suddenly made invalid when the 1979 edition of the Book of Common Prayer came out and strongly encouraged us (though, I stress, in no way commanded us) to restore Baptism to its proper place within the regular Sunday Eucharist.

The point I made in my sermon two Sundays ago was this: our individual baptisms are not the issue. What is the issue, again and again, is that, in these waters, all of us were made equal.

If you ever notice, at our funerals here at St. Stephen’s, the urn of ashes or the coffin is always covered with a pall. The use of the pall is not just one of those quant things we Episcopalians do. It is not simply some fancy cloth we place over our mortal remains to add a touch of class to the service (though it does do that). There is a very practical reason for placing the pall on the urn or coffin. We put the cloth on because, no matter how fancy and expensive or cheap and inexpensive an urn or casket may be, before the altar, at the funeral, no distinction is made, just as, in God, no distinction is made.

We are equally loved children of God. We are essentially on equal ground under that pall. We are all the same. And, in so many ways, that pall represents baptism as well.

Just as the pall is the great equalizer, baptism is the truly great equalizer. Our baptism—that singular event that made us Christians—whether done in a church on Sunday morning during a Eucharist, or on Saturday evening, or on in a river beside a chariot in the Holy Land, are all the starting out points of our lives as Christians and the common factor in those lives. And just as importantly, that holy moment in our lives was the first moment when we were all compelled to preach the Kingdom of God.

To a large extent, what happened at our baptisms was the first major step in our direction of being disciples of Jesus. It was the day in which we essentially were called by Jesus , as Jesus called the disciples in today’s Gospel, to be fishers of people. Baptism is the first of many steps in following Jesus. And when we see that—when we see our following of Jesus beginning at that very moment in our lives in which we were baptized—we realize how following Jesus is truly a life-long experience.

In our collect for today, we prayed

Give us grace, O Lord, to answer readily the call of our Savior Jesus Christ and proclaim to all people the Good News of his salvation, that we and the whole world may perceive the glory of his marvelous works…

That is what Baptism does. It compels us to answer the call of Jesus and to proclaim to all people the Good News of the Kingdom of God. And the first volley of that proclamation began at our baptism.

Today is the anniversary of the death in 1893 of the great Episcopal preacher and Bishop, Phillips Brooks. You can actually see his photo on the Episcopal News insert in your bulletins. Now, when I say Phillips Brooks was a “great preacher,” I mean “great preacher”. Phillips Brooks was probably one of the greatest preachers of the nineteenths century—often called the “Prince of the pulpit.” At Wednesday night Mass this past week, we commemorated him and I shared a few facts about him.

One of them was this: “Phillips stood at 6’4”, weighed over 300 pounds and spoke from the pulpit of Trinity Church, Boston, at a mesmerizing 200 words a minute.”

200 words a minute. And you thought I was a fast preacher….

“His sermons were like a freight train rolling downhill or a freighter plowing downriver with an ebbing tide. He was completely captivating and utterly spellbinding.”

I can just imagine what it must’ve been like to hear Phillips Brooks proclaiming his message from the pulpit. But it was Brook’s definition of preaching that I really like. Brooks described preaching as “communication of truth through personality.”

I’m going to repeat that.

Preaching is “communication of truth though personality.”

When we think about it that way, we realize that preaching should not just be relegated to what the priest and licensed lay preachers do on Sunday mornings from this pulpit. Rather, preaching might not even involve words at all, according to Brooks’ definition. Communication of truth through personality could mean almost anything.

So, in today’s Gospel, when we find Jesus and his first followers going through Galilee, “proclaiming the good news of the kingdom,” we realize that call to us to be “fishers of people” is not necessarily a call to preach wordy homilies to people. Possibly proclaiming the good news and being fishers of people might simply involve us communicating the truth of that reality through our individual personalities—through our demeanor, through the choices we make in our lives and the very way we live our lives. Our whole self then becomes a kind of walking sermon, even if we personally don’t say a word. And to a large extent that personality that we received God was formed in the waters of baptism.

This morning, as we baptize Gracelyn, we gather here together and with all the Church that has already been and that will be long after us. We gather to wash her in these waters. We come together to seal her with the Holy Spirit. We gather to mark her as Christ’s own for all eternity. And we set her on the path in which she too will proclaim the good news of Jesus with the personality that God will bless her with in her life. It is an incredible moment in her life, just as it was an incredible moment in our lives as well.

“Follow me and I will make you fishers for people,” Jesus said to those first followers. And he continues to say that Gracelyn and to all of us this morning.

So, let us follow him. Let us follow him from the waters in which we were washed to whatever place he leads us in our lives. And let us follow him with joy and gladness singing in our hearts.