5 Easter

May 10, 2020

Acts 7.55-60; John 14.1-14

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

I am weird.

And I just don’t care.

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

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

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

For others, "it's not enough."

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

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

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

Now, it shouldn't work.  This weird, liberal Anglo-Catholic, very Episcopal  way of worship and ministry.

But you know? It does.

Why?  

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

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

Christianity Gets Weird

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

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

Here’s a bit from the article:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But to others, this does  seems weird.

Anglo-Catholic liturgy, even on social media?

Livestreamed Mass twice a week?

Incense, even through “nebulous, digital space?”

It sure seems weird, doesn’t it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

See, what I mean: weird.

It’s all weird.

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

And it’s uncomfortably weird.

Which is all right.

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

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

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

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

But let us not live in fear.

For this too, we know, will pass.

Let us fear nothing in this world.

But let us be confident.

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

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

Let us be confident even in our weirdness.

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

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

It awaits us.

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

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

4 Easter

Good Shepherd Sunday

May 3, 2020

John 10.11-18

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

But…

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

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

I didn’t like to be told what to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We human beings are a social animal, after all.

We like to “fit in.”

We like to be a part of crowd.

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

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

Which also brings us to our Gospel reading for today:

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

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

What does he say he is?

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

It’s an unusual image.

But…it is beautiful.

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

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

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

F0r the sheep, there is really no difference.

The gate and the shepherd are synonymous to the sheep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The good shepherd cared for the flock.

He loved them.

He even went one step further.

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

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

And how do we know this Good Shepherd?

How do we know who to trust?

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

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

It is a beautiful image.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we most definitely should!

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

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

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

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

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

That is not the God we want coming to us. 

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

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

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

Our God knows us.

Each and every one of us.

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

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

That’s what a good shepherd wants.

That’s what a good mother wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are all called to be shepherds.

Certainly we are shepherds to someone.

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

Jesus sets quite an example for us.

The Good Shepherd not  only protects the flock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All we need to do is look toward the Gate.

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

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

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

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

3 Easter

Apres l'apparition by Jean Louis Forain 

April 26, 2020

Luke 24.13-35

+ As we continue on in our quarantine, as we still try to figure out who we are as a Church outside the walls of our building, one area that I think is a challenge for us in these seemingly unending days of social isolation is a ministry that we hold very dear here at St. Stephen’s

This incredibly VITAL ministry is the ministry of hospitality.

RADICAL Hospitality.

And if you want to know what real ministry is about, then this is IT.

Real ministry, as we have all discovered, is not about the almighty ME—the individual.

It is about US—all of us, the children of God.

Radical Hospitality, as well know, is not easy.

Ministry is not easy.

And it’s especially hard when we are isolated in our homes.

Sharing our time, our energy, our physical building, is definitely not easy right now.

How do we practice hospitality in this time of Covid?

We do so in any way we can.

We do so with those we live with.

We do so with those we actually encounter, either in person or on social media, or when we actually have to go out and do necessarily errands.

And some of us, of course, are still working.

Some of us are still out there doing work in work places.

Being radically welcoming means treating all those people we encounter in our lives, in any way, with respect and dignity.

Now, in today’s Gospel, we find hospitality as well.

And in this story, there is a kind of social isolation happening as well.

We find this beautiful story of Cleopas and the other unnamed disciple encountering Jesus on the road to Emmaus.

Cleopas and the other disciple are, essentially, already in a strange time in their life in following Jesus.

The long week of Jesus’ betrayal, torture and murder are behind them.

 The resurrection has happened, although, it’s clear from their words, they don’t quite comprehend what’s happened.

Of course, who could?

We still, two thousand years later, are grappling with the events of Jesus’ resurrection.

And they are isolated to some extent because they are afraid of the persecutions that are happening towards followers of Jesus following his death.

As these two walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus, they are kept from recognizing their friend, the person they saw as the Messiah, until finally he breaks the bread with them.

Only then—only when he breaks that bread open to share with them—do they recognize him.

It’s one of my personal favorite stories in scripture, as many of you know.

In fact when I was installed as Rector of St. Stephen’s last December, some parishioners here, who know my love for this scripture,  gave me a beautiful piece of art, illustration.

It is a drawing by the French artist Jean Louis Forain called “Apres l’Apparition” or “After the Apparition.”

In it, we see the two disciples on one side of a table, one seated, one kneeling in awe. On the table is a broken loaf of bread. And across from them is an empty chair. One of the disciples looks in amazement at the empty chair, a glow on his faces, both of them realizing who is was that had just been sitting and breaking bread with them.  

I love that piece of art (I look at it every day), and I love what it represents.

Because, it’s a wonderful story and one that has many, many layers of meaning for each of us individually, no doubt.

But for us Episcopalians, for us who “gather” together every Sunday and every Wednesday to virtually break bread together even in this time of pandemic, this story takes on special meaning.

In a sense. we are the disciples in this reading.

We are Cleopas and the unnamed disciple, walking on the road—walking, as they are, in that place on the other side of the cross.

They are walking away from Jerusalem, where all these events happened—the betrayal, the torture the murder and the eventual resurrection of Jesus from the tomb—back to Emmaus, to their homes.

Like them, we go around in our lives on the other side of the cross, trying to understand what it means to be followers of Jesus on this side of the cross.

What this story teaches us is that, even when we don’t recognize Jesus in our midst, we should always be cautious.

He might not make himself known to us as he did to Cleopas and the other disciple.

Rather, he might remain cloaked in that stranger who comes to us.

And as a result, it’s just so much better to realize that everyone we encounter, everyone we greet, everyone we welcome, everyone we make room for, in whatever we way we encounter them in our quarantines,  truly is Jesus disguised.

This belief of welcoming all people—of treating all people—as though they are Christ is essential for those of us who are following Jesus.

Because it’s most definitely what we do here at St. Stephen’s., even we are not gathering within these walls.

But, for a moment, just imagine what an incredible world this would be if everyone could do this—if everyone could practice radical hospitality right now, even separated as we are physically.

What an amazing Christian Church we would have if we could do the same, if we could welcome every stranger—and every regular parishioner as well—as Christ in our online relationships, in the relations we have within our confinement, in all we do and say to others.  

Imagine if we welcomed even our very enemies as Christ.

I think many Christians forget this.

We are called to welcome all people as Christ, because we do not know when we will encounter him, in whatever guise he might choose to come to us.

Now, of course, that’s not easy.

In fact, sometimes it’s downright impossible.

Without God’s help, we can’t do it.

Without God’s help—without the Holy Spirit—we first of all can’t even begin to recognize Christ in our midst.

And without God’s help, we can’t seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves.

And, let’s face, it’s just easier to choose not to.

It’s much easier to grumble and mumble and complain.

It’s much easier to backbite.

It’s easy not to see Christ in those people who drive us crazy, who irritate us, who say things to us we don’t want to hear.

It’s much, much easier for us to see the devil in people, rather than Christ.

But for us who “gather” at least online,  together every Sunday at this table—at this altar—we can’t use that excuse of being unable to recognize Jesus in our midst.

Jesus IS in our midst.

In our liturgy, we find Jesus in a multitude of ways.

Jesus speaks to us in the scripture readings we hear in the Liturgy of the Word.

The voice we hear in these sacred words is truly Jesus’ voice, speaking to each of us in our own particular circumstances, and to all of us as whole.

Jesus is present with us—in ALL of us—as we gather wherever we might be to worship on line here.  

We, all of us together, are the presence of Jesus in this world as well.

And when we break this bread at the altar, we find whatever spiritual blindness we come here with is lifted at that time.

We see Christ truly present with us—in the bread and the wine,  and in one another.

Radical hospitality DOES make a difference.

Greeting people as though Jesus were present in each person who comes through that door has incredible results—not in only in our collective life here at St. Stephen’s, but in the lives of each of those people coming among us.

We are showing them that, despite the occasionally somewhat ugly reputation the Church has at times—and sometimes deservedly so—we, as the Body of Christ in this world, can do much good as well.

We can truly love.

We can truly be accepting—of all people, no matter who or what they are.

We can truly see clearly that Jesus does still walk beside us.

We can see that he is with us here as we listen to the scriptures and he is here with us that this table in the breaking of the bread.

So, today, let us hear—truly hear—his words in the scriptures we have just shared and in the scriptures we will read this week.

Let us allow Jesus to speak to us with words that are familiar, with a voice that is familiar.

Let us allow him to take away whatever spiritual blindness we might have so that we can truly and completely see him in those people who share our life with us.

Let us allow him to take away that spiritual blindness that causes so much harm in the world so that we can fully experience him and show love and respect to everyone we come in contact with.

And when we break this bread this morning, let our hearts sing, as it no doubt did for Cleopas and the other disciple,

“Be known to me, Lord Jesus, in the breaking of bread.”

And recognizing him here, as we come forward to be nourished in body and spirit by his Body, Blood and Spirit. may we also go out into the world, able to recognize Jesus as he walks alongside us on our journey.

We are living, in this moment, on the other side of the cross.

We are living here, with Jesus in our very midst.

It is truly a glorious place to be.