6 Pentecost

July 12, 2020

Matthew 13.1-9, 18-23

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

March 15! Four months!

And it feels good.

It’s so good to see people in the pews

Very good.

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

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

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

We still worshipped together.

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

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

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

St. Stephen’s was never closed.

We still were together, at least virtually.

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

People from all over the country and the world.

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

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

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

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

But baby steps.

Baby steps in the right direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was not a pleasant day!

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

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

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

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

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

Well, this is it!  

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

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

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

And we went with the flow.

We adapted.

And the Masses went on.

Holy Week went on.

Two masses a week went on.

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

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

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

But…but…it actually is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they won’t for a very long time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe his beloved apostle John.

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

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

It seemed as though the seed he sowed had died.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our job is to simply do the sowing.

And God will produce the crop.

It is not our job to produce the crop.

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

Our job, as Christians, is simply to sow.

And God will bring forth the yield.

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

So, all you who have ears, listen.

The pandemic is not over.

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

There is still going to be frustration ahead for us.

There is still rocky ground and thorns ahead of us.

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

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

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

Let us be Holy Fools for Christ.

God loves us our weirdness, our eccentricity.

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

God uses and works through our imperfections.

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

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

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

Let us pray.

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

Amen.

5 Pentecost

July 5, 2020

Matthew 11.16-19, 25-30

+ A lot of people seem to think there are secrets to the Priesthood.

I think people think it’s a secret society, like the Masons or something.

They think there are secrets prayers and rituals, etc.

I am asked on a regular basis what those secrets are.

And I guess I don’t help the situation, because my usual response is: “they’re between Jesus and me.”

Actually, there aren’t many secrets to a priests’ life.

But there are things you might not know about.

For example, what most of you might not know is that all these vestments…well, each one is put on with a prayer.

Each of these vestments a priest wears has a prayer that goes along with it.

As the priest puts on each articles of clothing, he or she can say a prayer to remind them that each article of clothing has symbolic meaning.

If you go into the undercroft, you’ll see on the wall there by the vestments the vesting prayers on the wall.

And I know that Deacon John prays some of these prayers when he’s vesting as well when he vests in his Deacon’s vestements.

The prayers are actually good things for someone like me.

I need such things in my life to help me get centered.

I like the fact that I am essentially being clothed in prayer when I pray those prayers while vesting.

And I really do love the symbolism of them.

The prayers are interesting in and of themselves.

For example, when I put on the alb, which is the white robe under these vestments, I pray,

“Make me clean as snow, O Lord, and cleanse my heart; that being made clean in the blood of the Lamb I may deserve an eternal reward.”

When I put on the stole, the scarf-like vestment I wear around my neck, I pray:

“Restore unto me, O Lord, the stole of immortality which I lost through the sins of my first parents and, although, unworthy to approach Thy sacred Mystery, may I nevertheless attain to joy eternal.”

And when I put on this chasuble, this green vestment I wear over it all, I pray a prayer that directly quotes our Gospel reading for today.

The prayer I pray when I put on the chasuble is,

“O Lord, who hast said, ‘My yoke is sweet and my burden light,’ grant that I may carry it to merit Thy grace.”

The chasuble, in this sense, really is symbolic of the yoke.

Now the word of the day today is a strange one.

Yoke

It’s one we  really don’t want to have to ponder, because, let’s face it, no one wants a yoke.

When we think of a yoke, we no doubt think of something that weighs heavily upon us.

We think of something a beast of burden carries on their backs.

We can’t imagine anything worse for us.

Why would we want an extra burden in our lives?

We have enough burdens as it is.

We’re still bearing the yoke of the pandemic.

And for some, they seem think wearing a mask or being asked to follow safety protocols is a yoke for them.

We are all truly “weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

And sometimes these heavy burdens truly affect our bodies.

As some of you know, I have very terrible back issues.

These came from fractured bones I received in car accidents over the years.

I can’t stand for long periods.

Or sit on a hard surface for prolonged periods.

Every time I go to my chiropractor about these issues, they say things to me like, “Father, you’ve been carrying some heavy burdens on your back, haven’t you?”

Well, we all do, don’t we?

We are all carrying around things we probably should have allowed ourselves to get rid of some time ago.

So, the last thing we want at this time in our lives is to take on another burden.

And not just a burden.

But a burden that is put on us to essentially control us.

Jesus shouldn’t be a burden in our lives.

Isn’t Jesus supposed to take some of the burdens from us?

The reality is:  taking on Christ is equivalent to taking on a very heavy burden.

The cross of Jesus is our yoke as Christians.

Being Christians means living with a burden.

It means we have a structure, a framework that directs our lives.

And sometimes it’s hard to live in such a way.

It’s hard to live by a set of standards that are different from the rest of the world.

Let me tell you as someone who lives with standards different than the rest of the world (vegan, celibate, teetotaler that I am).

Still, I think, most of us, even us Christians, still bristle when we describe our faith and many of those standards that go along with our faith as a yoke.

A yoke on our backs confines us.

It does not allow us freedom.

And we, as humans, and especially as Americans, love our freedom.

We love “elbow room.”

We don’t like anyone telling us what to do and forcing us to go places we don’t want to go.

But the fact is, when we take Christ as our yoke, we find all our notions of personal freedom and independence gone from us.

No longer do we have our own personal freedom

No longer do we have our own personal independence.

What we have is Christ’s independence.

What we have is Christ’s freedom.

Our lives are not our own.

As Christians, we don’t get to claim complete personal independence over our own lives.

Our lives are guided and directed by Christ.

Our lives are ruled over by Christ.

The yoke of Christ means that it is Christ who directs our yoke.

It Christ who directs us, if we need to, to go the places Christ wants us to go and do the things Christ wants us to do and live in certain ways that Christ wants us to live.

It is our duty to be a “beast of burden” for Christ and for what Christ teaches.

The great thing about that is that if we let Christ direct us, nothing wrong will happen to us.

Christ will always lead us along the right path.

Christ will direct us where we need to go.

Now I say all of this to you as though I am fine with all of this.

I say this to you as though I have completely surrendered myself to Christ as his beast of burden.

But, I’ll be brutally honest with you.

I find much of this very difficult to bear as well.

I have always been one of those independently-minded people myself. I know that’s not a surprise to any of you.  

I have never liked being told what to do or what to say by anyone.

I have always preferred doing things on my own.

And for years I struggled with this scripture in my own life.

I did not want to surrender my personal independence and my personal sense of freedom.

Which is why that prayer I pray when I put on my chasuble is not always a prayer I want to pray.

Certainly, in many ways this prayer defines for me what ministry is all about.

When I put on this garment, symbolic of my ministry as a priest, I am reminded of the yoke, of the burden, I carry every day.

In a sense, as a priest, my life is not my own.

I’m not complaining about that.

I knew the rules of the game when I entered the priesthood.

But the reality is that my life is fully and completely Christ’s.

As a priest, I don’t always get to do what I want, or go where I always want to go.

There are standards.

There are boundaries.

It’s not a free-for-all. 

And for those clergy who think it is—well, they’re the ones, we all know, who get in trouble.

I strive to do what Christ wants and I strive to go where Christ leads me.

The key word there is “strive.”

I try to do what Christ wants and try to go where Christ leads.

More often than not, my own arrogance gets in the way, my own fears and anxieties cause me to shrug off the yoke of Christ, and my own selfishness leads me to do only what I want to do.

All ministry is a yoke.

And ministry, as we all know, doesn’t just happen out of the blue.

 Our ministry that we do stems directly from our baptism.

It is a response to the promises that were made for us when we were baptized and which we re-affirm on a regular basis.

So, when I talk about my life not being my own, it is not confined to just me as an ordained priest in the Church.

Rather, through baptism, we are all called to ministry, to a priesthood of all believers.

We have all, through our baptism, taken on the yoke of Christ.

Because, through baptism, we have been marked as Christ’s own forever and we have been given a yoke that we cannot shrug off.

Our lives are not our own.

Through baptism, we are Christ’s—and our lives belong completely and fully to Christ.

Now all of this might seem confined and difficult to accept, but Jesus says, in no uncertain terms, that his yoke is not quite like the yoke put on a beast.

While that yoke is heavy and unwieldy—it is a tedious weight to bear for the animal—for us, he tells us, his yoke is light and the burden easy.

It is a burden that we should gladly take on because it leads us to a place of joy and gladness.

It is a yoke that directs us to a place to which we, without it, would not be able to find on our own.

We, in our arrogance, in our self-centeredness, in our selfishness, cannot find the Kingdom of God on our own.

Only through Christ’s direction can be we be truly led there.

The yoke of Christ is, in an outward sense, a simple one to bear.

The yoke of Christ consists of loving God and loving our neighbor as our selves.

It is these two commandments that have been laid on our backs and by allowing ourselves to be led by  them, they are what will bring us and those whom we encounter in this life to that place of joy.

So, let us gladly embrace the yoke Jesus laid upon us at baptism.

For taking on the burdens of Christ will not be just another burden to bear.

It won’t cause us any real pain.

It won’t give us aches and pains that will settle in our backs and necks, like the others burdens we carry around with us in this life.

But rather, the yoke of Christ is what frees us in a way we cannot even begin to understand.

It is a freedom that we find in Christ.

“Take my yoke upon you,” Jesus says to us, “and you will find rest for your souls.”

Let us take the yoke of Christ upon ourselves with graciousness, and, when we do, we too will find that rest for our souls as well.

Let us pray.

Holy and loving God, give us strength to bear what we must bear, and to go where we must go, so that in doing so, we may follow your Son, Jesus; in whose name we pray. Amen.

The memorial service for Jim Coffey

Jim Coffey

1929- 2020

June 27, 2020

+ Well, we gather today not really wanting to be here.

Yes, we knew this day was inevitably on the horizon somewhere.

But it still seems a bit too soon.

It was supposed to be different.

I guess imagined a time in which we could all say our goodbyes in person.

But, again, as Jim would tell us, this is the way it sometime happens.

And, in many ways, this might be better.

Whatever the case, all I do know for certain today is that I am very grateful.

I am grateful for Jim and for all he was.

I am grateful for the incredible and amazing life he lived.

I am grateful for the love he had for Joy (and the love she had for him).

I am grateful for all of you—his legacy in this world.

And you are all an amazing legacy to an amazing man!

And yes, as sad as today is, we are also able to rejoice.

We rejoice in Jim.

We rejoice in all that wonderful and beautiful and brilliant in Jim.

I am very honored to have been his priest.

I am very grateful to help commemorate him today and give thanks for his life today and to commend this truly wonderful man to God.

I say I am his priest, but I would say I was his friend.

And I am grateful for that too.

Today, is not the end of anything.

Yes, we are saying goodbye.

But we are not going to stop loving him, or remembering him, or sharing all these wonderful stories about him.

And as you all know, there will be many, many stories told about Jim Coffey in the years to come.

Many wonderful stories.

And his presence will certainly stay with us as long as we share those  stories.

I have no doubt that Jim is with us here this afternoon, celebrating this long and wonderful life with us.  

I am of the firm belief that what separates us who are alive and breathing here on earth from those who are now in the so-called “nearer presence of God” is actually a very thin division.

So, yes, right now, I think we can feel that that separation between us here and those who have passed on is, in this moment, a very thin one.

And because of that belief, I take a certain comfort in the fact Jim is close to us this morning. 

He is here, in our midst, celebrating his life with us.

And we should truly celebrate his life.

It was a good life.

It was a life full of meaning and purpose.

He made a real difference in this world.

And I’m not just meaning in the life of you, his wife, and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

He made a difference in the lives of so many others.

Those he touched and affected as a doctor.

Those he knew and cared for.

Those many people who called him a dear friend.

He was remarkable in so many ways.

He was a man of science.

But he was also a man of deep faith.

And I got to see that side of him on more than one occasion.

Now saying that, I’m not saying he was some deeply over-pious person.

He was not that.

And even with his faith, he could still caste a critical doctor’s eye.

I remember very clearly one Christmas Eve, after Mass, we were talking and he said, “A virgin birth? Impossible!”

But he did have a deep and abiding faith in God.

I saw it again and again in his life.

And, toward the end of his life, whenever I would come to visit him, he would mouth the prayers he knew so well and, when he was able, he would always faithful receive Holy Communion.

That faithful life made itself known in so many ways.

All of us were touched by all the kindness he showed to us.

I will never forget that strong and gentle presence.

I will never forget that that kindness and that goodness that he embodied.

I will always remember his care and his concern for others.

Of course, St. Stephen’s was an important place in his life.

This was his church home.

Beginning in 1964 Jim served as Senior Warden here seven times, and as Junior Warden four times.

I am so very happy that his ashes will rest here in our memorial garden.

This was a person who truly lived out in his life the great commandments to Love God and to love others as you love yourself.

It was that love—love of God, love of others, love of his family and friends—that truly defined Jim Coffey.

As Jesus said in our Gospel reading for reading.

“Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love…”

That is the perfect summary of Jim’s faith and life.

He kept those commands of love of God and love of others in the best we he knew how.

And we—all of us here today—are better for that love.

We all felt it.

We all were embraced in it.

We all knew how wonderful that love of Jim’s was.

As a faithful Episcopalian, Jim know that is that sometimes we can’t clearly define what it is we believe.

Nor should we.

We can’t pin it down and examine it too closely.

When we do, we find it loses its meaning. 

But when I am asked, “what do Episcopalians believe?” I say, “we believe what we pray.”

I think Jim would’ve appreciated that definition of our beliefs.

We’re not big on dogma and rules.

We’re not caught up in the letter of the law or preaching a literal interpretation of the Bible.

But we are big on liturgy—on the our worship services.  

Our Book of Common Prayer in many ways defines what we believe.

And so when I’m asked “What do Episcopalians believe about life after death?” I say, “look at our Book of Common Prayer.”

Look at what it says.

And that is what we believe.

This service is a testament to what we Episcopalians believe about what happens—this service of Resurrection, of life unending, of the fact that today is not ending, but is, in fact, a great and wonderful beginning.

This service is a testimony to what Jim himself believed.

Later in this service, as we commend Jim to God’s loving and merciful arms, we will pray,

You only are immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and to earth shall we return. For so did you ordain when you created me, saying, "You are dust, and to dust you shall return." All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Jim the poet would get those words.

Jim—who could recite “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service from memory (that always amazed me—and I’m a poet!)—would have “gotten” the poetry of that passage.

Jim—whose amazing and incredible photography reflected his keen poetic eye—would really “get” what was being said in those words.

He would understand that, yes, even now, even here, at the grave, what do we do?

We rejoice.

We sing our alleluias today.

Because we know.

We know that what we are rejoicing in today is Jim’s new life, his new beginning.

Where Jim is right now—in those loving, caring and able hands of his God—there is no pain or sorrow.  

There is only life there. Eternal life.

At this time of new beginning, even here at the grave, we—who are left behind—can make our song of alleluia.

Because we know that Jim and all our loved ones have been received into God’s arms of mercy, into the “blessed rest of everlasting peace.”

This is what we cling to on a day like today.

This is where we find our strength.

This what gets us through this temporary—and I do stress that it is temporary—this temporary separation from Jim.

We know that—despite the pain and the frustration, despite the sorrow we all feel—somehow, in the end, God is with us and Jim is with God and that makes all the difference.

For Jim, sorrow and pain are no more.

In those 91 years, Jim knew much love and wonder and beauty.

In those 91 years, he also gave much love and wonder and beauty.

All of that is not gone.

It still goes on.

Jim, in this holy moment, has gained life eternal.

And that is what awaits us as well.

We might not be able to say “Alleluia” with any real enthusiasm today.

But we can find a glimmer of light in the darkness of this day.

It is a glorious Light we find here.

Even if it is just a glimmer, it is a bright and wonderful Light.

And for that we can rejoice and be grateful.

And we can celebrate.   

May angels welcome you, Jim.

May all the saints come forward to greet you.

And may your rest today and always be one of unending joy.