9 Pentecost

2 Kings 4.42-44; John 6.1-21

+ This past week, I had several opportunities to talk about films. More specifically, my favorite films. For those of you who know me, few things get me more excited than talking about films. I love movies, and I love to re-watch my favorite movies. Every so often, someone will ask me to name my top five or ten favorite films. I can never do that. I have a very difficult time ever categorizing which films are my favorites. It often changes. And it often depends on what is happening in my life.

But…a film that is in my top ten list is a spooky, psychological horror film from 1995 called Se7en. The stars of the film, for those of you who might not have seen it, are Morgan Freeman, Brad Pitt and Kevin Spacey. It is about two detectives (Freeman and Pitt) who are pursuing a murderer (Spacey) who murders people according to the seven deadly sins. Now, I don’t expect good Episcopalians to know the seven deadly sins off the top of their heads. But I guarantee, after seeing this film, you will remember the seven deadly sins.

The seven deadly sins are:

Lust

Greed

Sloth

Wrath

Envy

Pride

Gluttony

Probably one of my most gruesome and memorable of the murders in this film is the one that is done for gluttony. Anyone who sees this film will never forget gluttony and what it is. In the movie a man is actually forced to eat himself to death. It’s a pretty horrible scene.

Now, it’s rare that I ever preach on sin. I don’t do it very often—and when I do, I usually do it during Lent. But today, I’m going to preach on a sin. Gluttony is a good sin to examine occasionally. We, in our society, don’t think about gluttony as a sin. We, after all, love to eat.

I love to eat. I love to go out and eat at a nice restaurant. More importantly, we HAVE to eat. There’s no getting around that fact. But gluttony is more than about eating. It is eating to excess. It is about eating—or drinking—to the point in which we are no longer fulfilled. Gluttony is eating without thinking about eating. It is about eating to fill the psychological and spiritual voids we feel within us rather than for sustenance.

Now, I have been guilty of gluttony in my life. I once weighed a considerably more than I do now. Some of you might remember how heavy I was at one time. And the reason I was so heavy was I ate not because I was hungry, but because I was filling some voids in my life.

When I lost that weight, I realized that more happened to me than just what happened to me physically by losing weight. I also noticed what happened to me spiritually as well. Mentally, I had to reexamine everything I understood about that simple, vital act of eating. I realized that most of us eat not when we’re hungry, but simply out of habit. Yes, we find that when have missed our habitual time to eat, our stomachs start to grumble and we find ourselves thinking inordinately about food, but that isn’t hunger necessarily.

In fact, few, if any, of us know what real hunger is. Few of us have actually ever starved. And that’s a good thing. I am happy about that fact.

The point I’m making, however, is that most of us simply eat because we are scheduled to eat at certain times. It’s sort of wired into us. But we very rarely eat just because we’re hungry. And we often eat more than we really need to. Eating feels good. Eating makes us feel sustained and comforted. And in those moments in our lives when we might need to feel sustained and comforted, food is a great replacement. I’ve learned, that most of us probably could survive very well and very healthily from less food than we actually consume.

The spiritual perspective I’ve gained from this different way of thinking about food has been even more enlightening. To be honest, I had never given much thought to the fact that eating is a spiritual act. For me, the best way to look at spiritual eating is in the light of that one event that holds us together here at St. Stephen’s, that sustains us and that, in many ways, defines us. I am, of course, speaking of the Holy Eucharist—Holy Communion.

You have heard me say it many times before and you will hear me say it many times again, no doubt, but I am very firm believer in the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist. I truly believe that Jesus is present in a very real and potent way in this Bread we eat and in this Wine we drink. Like any good Anglican, I am uncomfortable pinpointing exactly how this happens; I simply say that I believe it and that my belief sustains me. With this view of the Eucharist in mind, it does cast a new light on our view of spiritual eating.

Just as I said that we often eat food each day without thinking much about why we are eating, so too I think we often come to this table without much thought of what we are partaking of here at this altar. I have found, in my own spiritual life, that preparing for this meal we share is very helpful. It helps to remind me of the beauty and importance of this event we share.

One of the ways I find very helpful in preparing is that I fast before Holy Communion. Sometimes, especially before the Wednesday night Eucharist we celebrate at St. Stephen’s, I can’t fast all day before our 6:00 Mass, but in those instances, I do fast at least one hour beforehand. Even that one hour of fasting—of making sure that I don’t eat anything and don’t drink anything but water, really does help put me in mind of the importance of the Eucharist we share.

On Sundays, my fast begins the night before. I simply don’t eat anything after midnight the night before. For some of us, this wouldn’t be a wise thing to do, especially if you have health issues, but I think even keeping to a simplified fast of eating less in the morning before coming to the Eucharist is helpful for most. If nothing else, these fasts are great, intentional ways of making us more spiritually mindful of what we doing here at the altar. And it also gives us a very real way of being aware of those millions of people in the world who, at this moment, truly are starving, who are not able to eat, and for whom, fasting would be an extraordinary luxury.

Our scriptures give us some interesting perspectives on eating as well. In today’s reading from the Hebrew Scriptures, we find Elisha feeding the people. We hear this wonderful passage, “He set it before them, they ate and had some left, according to the word of the Lord.”

It’s a deceptively simple passage from scripture.

In our Gospel reading, we find almost the same event. Jesus—in a sense the new Elisha—is feeding miraculously the multitude. For us, these stories resonate in what we do here at the altar. What we partake of here at this altar is essentially the same event. Here Jesus feeds us as well. Here there is a miracle. Here, we find Jesus—the new Elisha—in our midst, feeding us. And we eat. And there is some left over.

The miracle, however, isn’t that there is some left over. The miracle for us is that what we eat is in fact Jesus himself. Jesus feeds us himself at this altar. In this meal we share, we are sustained. We our strengthened. We are upheld. We are fed in ways regular food does not feed us.

In these last few years, as I learned new ways to understand and appreciate food, I also found myself growing in my appreciation and devotion of the Holy Eucharist. This beautifully basic act—of eating and drinking—is so vital to us as humans and as Christians. But having Jesus sustain us in such a way is beyond beautiful or basic. It is miraculous. And as with any miracle, we find ourselves oftentimes either humbled or blind to its impact in our lives.

This simple act is not just a simple act. It is an act of coming forward, of eating and drinking, and then of turning around and going out into the world to feed others. To feed others on what we have learned by this Food that sustains us. Of serving others by example. Of being that living Bread of Jesus to others.

The Eucharist not simply a private devotion between us and Jesus. Yes, it is a wonderfully intimate experience. But it is more than that. The Eucharist is what we do together. And the Eucharist is something that doesn’t simply end when we get back to our pews or leave the Church building. The Eucharist is what we carry with us throughout our day-to-day lives as Christians. The Eucharist is being empowered to be agents of the incarnation. We are empowered by this Eucharist to be the Body of Christ to others. And that is where this whole act of the Eucharist comes together. It’s where the rubber meets the road, so to speak. When we see it from that perspective, we realize that this really is a miracle in our lives—just as miraculous as what Elisa did and certainly as miraculous as what Jesus did in our Gospel reading for today.

So, let us be aware of this beauty that comes so miraculously to us each time we gather together here at this altar. Let us embody the Christ we encounter here in this Bread and Wine. Let us, by being fed so miraculously, be the Body of Christ to others. Let us feed those who need to be fed. Let us sustain those who need to be sustained. And let us be mindful of the fact that this food of which we partake has the capabilities to feed more people and to change more lives than we can even begin to imagine.

7 Pentecost

July 15, 2012

Amos 7.7-15; Ephesians 1.3-14

+ Now, this is probably not the way I should begin my first sermon in being gone for almost three weeks. After all, I should begin, I suppose, with some profound thoughts on my car accident, of some spiritual insights that I may have learned while lying on my bed of pain. Actually, sadly enough, there weren’t many of those moments during my recovery. And I don’t think you really want to hear about those things.

Today, I am actually going to begin with something that, for those of who know me, I do not like to say,

“I told you so…”

I really don’t like saying it. But, I am going to say it today.

I told you so.

You remember that for several weeks before my car accident, I shared in my sermons—and Sandy shared in one of her sermons as well—about change. How essential change is to the larger Church, and how change is essential for us here at St. Stephen’s and for each of us as Christians.

Well, as you all know, during these past two weeks, the Episcopal Church’s General Convention met in Indianapolis. I don’t know how closely you kept on what was going on, but, as John Baird would tell you, a lot happened. Important things happened. And all of those important things happened in a way that will, eventually, lead to change. In some ways, some major changes. It seems like the Episcopal Church as a whole is going to do, to a large extent, what we at St. Stephen’s have been doing all along.

Change is happening. Change is in the air. It is happening around us. Now, I should be clear. This is isn’t new.

Nine years ago this summer—in 2003—the Episcopal Church’s General Convention met in Minneapolis. While there, the very controversial decision was made to approve the election of an openly gay Bishop, Gene Robinson, to the Diocese of New Hampshire. For those of us who lived through it, it was a contentious time. The Church divided up. People were either jubilant or angry over the decision.

Now, here’s another of my “I told you so” moment. Sometimes, I know, it’s hard to have a “prophet in your midst…” Dear Lord, let’s hope I’m not a prophet—that would just be sad.

But back then in 2003, I said—along with many other people who know a bit about the history and going’s-on of the Church—that in twenty years after Gene Robinson’s election, issues of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual or Transgender people being elected as Bishops and being ordained to ministry would not even be given a second thought in the Episcopal Church. I said then, that there will be a day when these issues will be non-issues.

Well, here we are almost at the half-way mark in that prediction, and it seems to be coming true. At this Convention, of course, there was the provisional approval of the blessing of Same-Sex Unions. There was some contention about it. But not much.

It was just sort of accepted. And those people who didn’t accept (including our own Bishop) made up a very noticeable minority.

This is a sign that those issues we were dealing with back in 2003 are far behind us. We are moving forward. We are working toward the goal we have been working toward all along—full inclusion of all people in the Church. All people, no matter who they are or what they are.

The change is happening. And it needs to happen. Because this change shows that to be a follower of Jesus in this world means that we have to be looking ahead. We have to be looking into the future. We have to be visionaries. And we have to prophets. We have to exploring new ways to be those followers of Jesus in this day and age.

Being a follower of Jesus means being people of change. Being a follower of Jesus means we are constantly looking for new ways to live out that radical following after Jesus. Being a follower of Jesus means that we are constantly looking for new ways to be radical in our acceptance of all people. Because that is exactly what Jesus did.

What we see happening in our Church following convention is a kind of fulfillment of what Paul talks about in his Epistle this morning to the Ephesians:

“With all wisdom and insight,” Paul writes, “[God] has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.”

Isn’t it amazing how that scripture speaks to us on this morning following the General Convention? And it’s true. God has made known to us the mystery of this incredible will of God, to gather up all things in Christ, thing here on this earth and things in heaven.

Later in on our reading today, Paul talks today about our inheritance as followers of Jesus and as Children of God. This Gospel of our salvation is, for Paul, “the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people…”

We, all of us, are inheritors because we, all of us, no matter who are, are Children of the same God. As a children of that God, we are co-inheritors.

Now, again, that’s not new to us here at St. Stephen’s We have been proclaiming this here at St. Stephen’s all along. And it is good to know that the larger Church is proclaiming this and is working toward the goal of being that kind of a Church—being a fulfillment of that scripture.

Of course, not everyone agrees in the same way about what being inheritors of the Kingdom is. But, that’s the way it is going to be sometime with prophets in our midst. Sometimes the prophecies are heeded and proclaimed and sometimes they are resisted. Our job as followers of Jesus is not vilify those who think differently than we do. Our job is continue to do what we have always done—to joyfully love and accept everyone in love, even those with whom we differ. Our job as followers of Jesus and inheritor’s of God’s Kingdom is to continue to welcome every person who comes to us as a loved and fully accepted Child of that same God. Our job is to be radical in our love and acceptance of others, no matter who they are. And our job as followers of Jesus is to see every person who comes to us as Jesus sees that person. And Jesus sees those people—and all of us—as loved. Loved by God.

This is not easy to do. It is not easy, as we all know, to be a follower of Jesus. It is not easy being a prophet—of proclaiming God’s Good News to others. Sometimes we might even find ourselves tempted to resist this weighty calling of ours.

Certainly, in our reading from the Hebrew Scriptures today, we find Amos resisting his call to be a prophet. Amos says, “I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees, and the Lord took me from following the flock, and the Lord said to me, “Go, prophesy to my people…”

That is who we are as well. Here we are, in our jobs, in our day-to-day lives. And God is calling each of us to prophesy to God’s people. To prophesy this radical love and acceptance. To prophesy the fact that we when we love each other and accept each other, the Kingdom of God that each of as children of God are inheritors of, will break through into our midst.

You have heard me say this again and again: I believe that an effective leader must first be an effective follower. And as Christians, who are followers of Jesus, we also must, in turn, be leaders to each other and to others. Each of us must be leaders and prophets to those we are called to serve.

We of course have a choice. We can be despotic leaders who use and abuse and mistreat the people we are called to serve. Or we can be humble leaders as Jesus himself was a humble leader—a leader who realizes that to be an effective leader one must serve.

In those moments it’s helpful to have coping skills to get us through the journey—and to do so without disrespecting or hurting those we encounter on the journey.

So, let us cling to this prophetic ideal of leadership. Let us be the prophet, the listener, the spiritual friend, the inheritor, the seeker, the includer, the loved child of God. Let us be the visionary to see that change is happening.

Change is in the air. Change for the better. Change for a revitalized Church built on love and respect for God and for each other. It’s almost too incredible to even imagine. I almost can’t wait for it…

5 Pentecost

July 1, 2012

4 Pentecost

June 24, 2012

Job 38.1-11; Mark 4.35-41


+ This past week, on Facebook, I posted this update:

“For the first time in almost two years, my life is finally starting to return to some kind of normalcy.”

Now, I know some of you are not on Facebook. And some of you are adamantly against Facebook. But it’s good sometimes to post things like this as a kind of proclamation, It’s kind of an affirmation for myself.

Of course, since it is Facebook, people respond, with comments, “What is normalcy?” A very good philosophical question.

But I do feel like my life is sort of tottering back to normalcy—whatever that might be. Because, as you know these almost two years for me have been chaotic to say the least. It was, of course, two years ago in September that my father died. I know you know about all of this, because you have walked with me through it. And I am thankful for knowing that you have walked with me this far.

Now, it feels good to be coming out that storm. And it was truly a storm. A maelstrom—a hurricane of emotions. I never thought a single event could literally turn one’s world upside down. But for me, emotionally, it did. I think because I wasn’t able to prepare for it, I had to take a longer time to process the very large absence of my father from my life.

Now, certainly I’ve had other storms in my life. My cancer diagnosis ten years ago was definitely a pretty major storm. And I’ve had a few others

But for some reason, beginning with my father’s death in 2010, I seem to have had one set-back after another these past two years. It has felt sort of like an uphill climb during a raging storm. I think those things sometimes just happen when one is somewhat emotionally weak and vulnerable.

Knowing that, it’s good to be on this side of it, looking back at it. My Facebook update is partly a deep belief that I am truly emerging from that time. And partly, it is hope that I am emerging from that time. I hope! I hope!

But, I can say this at this point (and I don’t think I could have said it earlier): I am somewhat thankful for the storm. That’s still a hard thing to say. But I am thankful because, at least in this moment, where I am right now, I can say that I am definitely not the same person I was before that storm. I am different. I have been transformed. And we need to do that in our lives at times. We need to transform.

Now, that doesn’t mean I have not emerged from this event in my life shaken. I am shaken. I am sort of weak-kneed and bleary-eyed after everything. But one thing I have discovered throughout the whole ordeal: God never left me. In the midst of it all, somewhere, I was able to find some kind of peace. And during it all, two of the scriptures I found myself returning to again and again were our Old Testament and Gospel readings for today.

This Job reading is wonderful in many way. What is God saying to us from the whirlwinds that coming rolling our lives? What do we do in the wind storms of our lives, when we feel battered and beaten and bashed?

For me, I found myself, in examining these scriptures, straining against the wind of the storm to hear the Voice of God. The fact is, if we do so, we will hear God’s voice, even then. Not literally God’s voice, of course. But if we turn our spiritual ears toward God, we will hear God.

For Job, the voice of God he hears in the whirlwind has no answers to the questions we find ourselves asking all the time. Why do bad things happen to those of us who are faithful God? Why do our lives get turned upside down? I certainly asked that of God more than once during my ordeal. The Voice that answers Job from the whirlwind answers a question with a question:

“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
[Where were you] when the morning stars sang together
and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy?”

Sometimes that’s exactly what we hear in the storms of our lives. We want answers when we shout our angry questions of unfairness into the storm. Sometimes, when we do, the Voice in the wind only throws it all back at us with more questions. Just when we want answers, we find more questions and we ourselves are forced to find the answers within ourselves.

Sometimes the Voice answering back from the wind with questions, is a voice more succinct. Sometimes it is a more potent questions—a question not filled with poetic and symbolic meaning, but a pointblank question to us. Sometimes the voice from the wind—as we shake with fear and hold on for dear life during those frightening storms—asks us bluntly: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

Why fear the whirlwinds and all that they unleash upon us? Have we no faith?

Again and again God commands us, in various voices throughout scripture, “do not be afraid.”

“Do not be afraid.”

And still we fear. But the message is that although the storms of our lives will rage around us, when we stop fearing, those storms are quieted. They lose their power. Because the other voice that comes out of the storms of our lives is not asking a question of us. The other voice that comes out of the storms of our lives commands, “Peace! Be Still!”

“Peace!”

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

“Be still!”

In that clam, stillness, we feel God’s Presence most fully and completely. As disoriented as we might be from being buffeted by the storm, that stillness can almost be disorienting. I felt it more than once during these past two years. Even in the midst of the stress and the chaos, somehow, there were these incredible peaceful moments in which God’s peace settled there, in the midst of it all.

And there were those even more wonderful moments when I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would be all right. Not perfect. Not the way it was before. Everything had changed, after all. But it would be…all right.

In that storm, we find Jesus, calm and collected, awaiting us to have faith, to shed our fears and to allow him to still the storms of our lives. This is the best news of all, I think. This is exactly what we want to hear from our God. We want to hear, “Do not fear!”

In our very cores, in the very centers of our being, we want our God to calm us and to tell us in no uncertain terms, “”Do not fear!”

So, in those moments when the whirlwind rages, when the storms come up, when the skies turn dark and ominous, when fear begins lurking at our doors, let us strain toward that Voice that asks us, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

And when the storms of our lives abate, when we find ourselves in that mind-boggling peace after the chaos and violence of the storm, we too will find ourselves filled with great awe and will say to one another, “Who is this then, that even the wind…obey[s] him?”

The Funeral for Florence Hagensen

The Funeral for
Florence Hagensen
(May 11, 1920-June 15, 2012)

Boulger Funeral Home
Fargo

June 20, 2012

+ As some of you might know, I am Florence’s great-nephew. My grandfather, John, was her brother. So, Florence, for me, was one of those presences that always seemed to be there in my life.


I always remember Florence as a hard worker, a loyal wife and mother, a very strong and determined presence in my life and the life of all of us in the family. And no doubt most of us who knew her remember her in just that way.

When I met with Florence this past March to plan this service, she gave me a bit of a glimpse into the secret of that strength and determination that really defined who she was. What a lot of people don’t know about Florence is that, as child, she grew up in great poverty. She talked last March of the little bit of food she and her nine other brothers and sisters had to live off, the very basic clothes they wore and how difficult it was, in those circumstances, to gain any respect from others. I can’t even imagine what that life must’ve been like—but let me tell you, from what she shared, it was tough. It was hard.

But Florence in her life, rose above those obstacles. She flourished and she made a name for herself and for her family, despite the sometimes overwhelming odds. I will remember that about her clearly. And I will tell you, I was inspired by her ability to do so.

But I also remember and was inspired by her deep and abiding faith. Florence, as everyone here no doubt knows, was a devout Catholic throughout her life. And her faith was important to her. She often shared with me how important her faith was. Her faith in God. Her following of Christ. The inspiration she drew from the Blessed Virgin Mary (which I also share) And her special devotion to St. Jude (a saint that has been very important to me as well).

I am not surprised that she loved St. Jude as much as she did. St. Jude is the patron saint of impossible or hopeless cases, and I have no doubt she turned to St. Jude many times in her live when a seemingly impossible or hopeless case arose. As she shared with me, St. Jude never failed her. This faith of hers was important to me years ago when I planned to convert to Roman Catholicism at the age of 15.

Back then, I was a nominal Lutheran and I received a little bit of a backlash from some of my family about making that jump. But not from Florence. She was glad for me and supported me in that change. In fact, on that day that I was received into the Catholic Church, she stood up for me as my sponsor. And she also on that day gave me the crucifix that is now lying on her casket.

Although I eventually left the Catholic Church and became an Episcopalian and eventually an Episcopal priest, Florence was one of those Catholics who did not have a problem with my leaving the Catholic Church. In fact, she supported me in whatever I did throughout my life. For her, it was more important that I believed and that I heeded God’s calling, wherever God might be calling me.

Now, for her, she had her own issues with the organized Church. But her faith in Christ and her devotion to Our Lady never wavered. For her, faith was more than just a church building or a set of creeds and dogmas. Faith, for her, was what got you up in the morning, was what sustained you through the hard times and what helped explain why sometimes bad things happened to good people. Faith, for her, was knowing that no matter how bad things might seem to get, Christ will show you the way through and, in the end, you will be taken care of.

Certainly, we know that, for her, in the end, she was taken care of. Christ came for her last Friday night in peace and, in peace, she left to join him.

For me, she was very much an example of faith-in-action. Now, I really have to be careful what I say at this point. Because I know that if Florence were here this morning—and she is here with us—she would take issue with me about talking too much how all good things about her. She would not like me standing me up and calling her a saint, let me tell you. In fact, I can just imagine her waving her finger at me and telling me, “Ok, change the subject now.” But, that’s all right.

I can say this, though. She knew that God works in God’s own way in each of our lives. Sometimes in ways we might not fully understand. Today is truly an example of that. Today, this day we say our goodbyes to her, is the twentieth anniversary of the passing of her husband, Gerald. It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years since Gerald left us. And it’s hard to believe that on this day, we are saying goodbye to Florence.

But for us, goodbyes are not times for despair. For those of us who, like Florence, call ourselves Christians, who follow the way of Jesus in our lives, this is not a time to feel hopeless. It is a time to be sad, yes, because she is not with us. But it is not a time to feel hopeless. Because we know where Florence is this morning, and we know that we too will be there with her one day. That is why we are not hopeless today. For those of us who have known the prayers of St. Jude, we know there is no such thing as a hopeless moment.

In a few moments, I will pray what is called the Commendation at her casket. It is that point in which we commend Florence to Christ’s loving care. In the Commendation you will hear me say those wonderful words,

“All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

Yes, we will all die one day. Florence knew that and she had no fear of that fact. But the real sign of spiritual strength that I know she would want to pass onto to us is the fact that not everybody, at the grave, can make a joyful sound like “Alleluia.”

Florence could. And we can as well today.

Today, we can, although we are saying goodbye to her, say Alleluia because we know she is in a place of light and glory. And we can say alleluia also because know we too will be in that place of light and glory one day.

So, as we say goodbye to this strong, wonderful woman, we do so with tears in our eyes, yes. We do so with sadness in our hearts that she is not here with as she was before. Yes. But we do so, as she would exepect us to do. We do so with that joyful “Alleluia” on our lips.

Even at the grave, we make our song, “Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Florence lived out this Alleluia in her life. St. Augustine once said that a Christian is an Allelluia from head to toe. Yes, she lived out this alleuia in her life And so should we. If we leave here with no other lesson, it should be that one.

See, she still continues to lead us by her exmaple. She still continues to be that strong presence in our lives.

So, let us go from here today with that alleluia ringing in our ears and burning in our hearts. And let us know that the joy Florence is experiencing right now in that glorious place awaits each of us as well.

3 Pentecost

June 17, 2012

Mark 4.26-34


+ A couple of weeks ago, on the Pentecost Sunday, I repeated a story about the priest who tried to describe the Holy Spirit as Casper the Friendly Ghost. I said then that that story has become kind of a Pentecost Sunday tradition. Well, today, I need to share something that I shared the last time I preached on the parable of the mustard seed—which we, of course, kind in our Gospel reading for today. Who knows? Maybe this will be a “Mustard Seed Sunday” tradition.

But the reason I share it is not that I want to repeat myself. I share it again because I am now at the point in my spiritual life when I can’t hear the parable of the mustard seed without thinking of this poem.

The poem is by one of my all-time favorite poets, (you’ve heard me reference him many times), the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. Neruda is not a typical poet you hear in churches on Sundays. He was a Communist and, for all practical purposes, an atheist. But we won’t hold either of those things against him. See how open and welcoming we are, here at St. Stephen’s!

I just love this poem of his. It is called “Oda al átamo” or “Ode to the Atom.” And it is perfect for this Mustard Seed Sunday:

Ode to the Atom

Infinitesimal
star,
you seemed
forever
buried
in metal, hidden,
your diabolic
fire.
One day
someone knocked
at your tiny
door:
it was man .
With one
explosion
he unchained you,
you saw the world,
you came out
into the daylight,
you traveled through
cities,
your great brilliance
illuminating lives,
you were a
terrible fruit
of electric beauty…
[Then] came
the warrior
and seduced you:
sleep,
he told you,
curl up,
atom, you resemble
a Greek god…
in springtime,
lie down here
on my fingernail,
climb into this little box,
and then the warrior
put you in his jacket
as if you were nothing but
a North American
pill,
and traveled through the world
and dropped you
on Hiroshima.

See what I mean! Beautiful! And this fragment of the poem we just heard just touches a bit on what something as small as an atom can do. An atom—this smallest of all things—can, when it is unleashed, do such horrendous damage. It truly can be, as Neruda said,

a
terrible fruit
of electric beauty…

An atom. That smallest of things. And look at what it could do.

If the people of Jesus’ day knew what atoms where, he would no doubt would’ve used the atom instead as a symbol of the Kingdom of God, Can you imagine that! The parable of the Atom as a Kingdom of God. The Kingdom of God is like an atom. It is the smallest of all things. And yet, it makes up everything. Without the atom, we wouldn’t be. And yet, there it is. And when we discover it and recognize it and realize its potential, we find it permeating every aspect of our existence. It’s wonderful!

In our Gospel reading is Jesus comparing the Kingdom of God to the smallest thing they could’ve understood. A mustard seed. A small, simple mustard seed. Something they no doubt knew. And something they no doubt gave little thought to. But it was with this simple image—this simple symbol—that Jesus makes clear to those listening that little things do matter.

And we, as followers of Jesus, need to take heed of that. Little things matter. Because little things can unleash BIG things. Even the smallest action on our part can bring forth the kingdom of God in our lives and in the lives of those we serve.

But those small actions—those little seeds that we sow in our lives—can also bring about not only God’s kingdom but the exact opposite. Our smallest bad actions, can, like that atom, destroy. Our actions can destroy the kingdom in our midst and drive us further away from God.

Any of us who do ministry on a regular basis know this keenly. You will hear me say this again and again to anyone who wants to do ministry: be careful about those small actions. Those small words or actions. Those little criticisms of people who are volunteering. Those little snips and moments of impatience. Those moments of frustration at someone who doesn’t quite “get it” or who simply can’t do it. I always tell people in ministry: “use velvet gloves all the time.”

I cannot tell you how many times I hear stories about clergy or church leaders who said or did one thing wrong and it literally destroyed a person’s faith. I’m sure almost everyone here this morning has either experienced a situation like this first hand with a priest or pastor or even a lay person in a leadership position in the church. Or if not you, you have known someone close who has. Now, possibly these remarks by ministers were innocent comments. There may have been no bad intention involved. But one wrong comment—one wrong action—a cold shoulder or an exhausted roll of the eyes or a scolding—the fact that a priest did not visit us when were in the hospital or said something that we took the wrong way—is all it takes when a person is in need to turn that person once and for all away from the church and from God.

Now I’m happy my mother isn’t here this morning. She doesn’t like me telling this story. But….

My mother is a prime example of one of these people. My mother was somewhat active in the little Lutheran church I grew up in for years. But one day, the pastor made plans to have a package delivered to my mother’s home. The package never came—it simply got lost in the mail—and the pastor jokingly made the comment that my mother probably still had it at home. Now, I know for a fact that the pastor never meant to accuse my mother of “stealing” the package. I actually talked to him about all of this and he was shocked to know that my mother felt this way and he really beat himself up about saying such a thing.

But my mother took his comment to heart as an accusation and, for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to go to church. In fact, she never went back to that church.

That mustard seed all of a sudden takes on a whole other meaning in a case like this. What grows from a small seed like this is a flowering tree of hurt and despair and anger and bitterness. So, it is true. Those seeds we sow do make a huge difference in the world. And I can tell you, I have done it as well. I have made some stupid comment in a joking manner that was taken out of context. We all have.

So, knowing that, we now realize how important those mustard seeds in our lives are. We get to make the choice. We can sow seeds of goodness and graciousness—seeds of the Gospel. We can sow the seeds of God’s kingdom. Or we can sow the seeds of discontent. We can, through our actions, sow the weeds and thistles that will kill off the harvest.

These past several weeks you have heard me preach ad nauseum about change in the church. Well, I am clear when I say that the most substantial changes we can make in the church are not always the BIG ones. Oftentimes, the most radical changes we can make are in the little things we do—the things we think are not important. We forget about how important the small things in life are—and more importantly we forget how important the small things in life are to God. God does take notice of the small things.

There a wonderful poem that the poet Daniel Ladinsky translated from the Sufi poet Kabir (you are getting poems like crazy this morning, aren’t you):

What
kind of God would [God] be
if [God] did not count the blinks
of your
eyes

and is in absolute awe of their movements?

We have often heard the term “the devil is in the details.” But I can’t help but believe that it is truly God who is in the details. God works just as mightily through the small things of life as through the large. This is what Jesus is telling us this morning in this parable. Take notice of those small things. It is there you will find your faith—your God. It from that small place—those tentative attempts at growth—that God’s kingdom flourishes in our lives.

So, let us be mindful of those smallest seeds we sow in our lives as followers of Jesus. Let us remind ourselves that sometimes what they produce can either be a wonderful and glorious tree or a painful, hurtful weed. Let us sow God’s love from the smallest ounce of faith. Let us further the kingdom of God’s love in whatever seemingly small way we can. Let that love be the positive atom which, when unleashed, creates an explosion of goodness and beauty and grace in this world.

The Closing of Blue Cloud Abbey

Today came the official announcement that Blue Cloud Abbey in Marvin, South Dakota is officially closing on August 5. It is a sad day indeed! It is a sad day for the monks who will now be dispersed among other monasteries. It is a sad day for the community around the monastery. It is a sad day for the larger Church and all those who have found comfort and solace and sanctuary at Blue Cloud over its 60+ years.


And it is a sad day for me (despite it also being the 8th anniversary of my ordination to the Priesthood today). I have been visiting the abbey since I was 14 years old and would have been oblate there for 20 years on Aug. 13. When I told a fellow Blue Cloud Oblate bout the closing, he said (after the initial shock wore off): “It’s like losing a parent.”

And it is. It is very much like the death of a loved one. In my own estimation, Blue Cloud always was and would always be. But, alas, like all things of this earth, nothing always was and nothing will always be. Except, of course, our assurance of what awaits us. After all, “here we have no lasting city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.” (Hebrews 13.14)

When I visited Blue Cloud last week, it was the first time I had visited since my father died in September 2010. Memories of flooded back to me of that first time I came to Blue Cloud with my parents and how even they, good Lutherans they were, loved this Catholic monastery in the rolling hills of eastern South Dakota. I remember like it was yesterday when I saw the bell tower rising over the trees as we made our way past Marvin toward the monastery.

As I walked around the monastery and grounds, memories of welled up of the times I came here, often just for some kind of spiritual centering, but also often in very bad times, when I seemed to have no where else to go.

And as I walked through the cemetery, I paused at the graves of those several monks I knew well who lie there, such as Brother Gene, who always had fresh roses in my room every time I came (and who was, in his own right, a very accomplished poet), or Father Stan, who always greeted me with a hearty smile and a pat on the back or Father Wilfred, who signed by Oblation certificate in 1992 (the Abbey being in between abbots at the time).

For me, as someone who has cherished and held dear my vocation as an Oblate, I will now look for another monastic community with which to associate. This is no easy task. Some fit. Others most definitely do not. Only with much prayer and with the guiding of the Spirit will the right community be found.
 

But I know that wherever I go, I go with those Benedictine ideals I learned at Blue Cloud ingrained deeply in my soul. And it is for that grace that I am truly grateful.