Posterous theme by Cory Watilo

SERMON--Giving as Repentance: Luke 3:7-18

Today we hear a gospel with John the Baptist exhorting the people of God to repent.  When asked “what shall we do?” John the Baptist says, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.”  This reads to me as a confusing answer.  And why, exactly, are we talking about this for the third week of Advent? 

First, if we’re going to talk about repentance, let us first think together about sin.  The book that I tend to go to when I need to think about sin and what it means in my personal life, and in the communal life of the church, is called Speaking of Sin by Barbara Brown-Taylor.  She goes through the three Hebrew words that get translated into “sin” in the Bible, and finally notes that “what links all three of these Hebrew words together is their common theme of going against God’s will.  Whether people are missing the mark, acting wrongly, or engaging in outright rebellion, they are out of sync with God.”  Being out of sync with God would suggest a separation between God and humans, and if sin is separation between us and God, then repentance must bring us unity. 

Barbara Brown-Taylor mentions that when the Hebrew words were translated into Greek, the definition of sin being “missing the mark” wins out, such that in the New Testament that is commonly what the word means.  She says that sin is a “state of power of darkness that separates human beings from God.”  When she speaks about her own issues with the language of sin, she recognizes one of the biggest problems being that “no one ever taught me to name sin for myself.  Instead, they spent their time naming it for me, as it related to their lives, not mine.”  It is for that reason that I won’t name sin for you, but that I will offer you a suggestion—silence. 

To truly repent I believe we need silence.  Our society is loud.  We need the silence so that we can listen to the innermost words of our souls and hear, from God, who we are and what it is that we have become, and are becoming.  In this silence, if we listen, we will be able to name sin for ourselves.  If we can name sins for ourselves, we can repent, because we will know what our sins are. When we know our sins we can ask God to help us order our lives such that we move closer to God, and achieve the unity that is the opposite of the sin that separates.

This past semester, I studied a book called The Illumined Heart by Frederica Mathewes-Green with my college students, and she says that, “Repentance is the doorway to the spiritual life, the only way to begin. It is also the path itself, the only way to continue. Anything else is foolishness and self- delusion. Only repentance is brute-honest enough, and joyous enough, to bring us all the way home."  Friends, repentance is the beginning that gives us sustenance.  It doesn't just help us begin-- it helps us continue-- and it gives us our end, because our end is in God, and our repentance leads us to that unity. 

Green clearly speaks about repentance with the passion and import that John the Baptist shows.  John the Baptist believes that the kingdom of God has entered the world in the form of Jesus, to the point that he has dedicated his life and ministry to preparing the way for that kingdom to be made manifest through Christ.  Again, let us remember—he calls the people of God to repent, and when they ask what they shall do, he says what?  “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.”  He links the importance of repentance with giving.  Because of that, after all this talk of sin and repentance that I have laid out, I come to my real point:  I want to challenge you to try to see—with me—giving as an act of repentance… and an act necessary for us as we prepare for the birth of the Lord.

When I talk about repentance, I’m talking about the Greek term metanoia, which is translated as “a change of mind.”  And what is more of a changing and transforming of the minds in our culture than GIVING?  We live in a culture that has brought us things like television shows called Hoarders.  We live in a culture that couldn’t settle for the day after Thanksgiving anymore, and had to overcome Thanksgiving too with gluttonous shopping.  I saw on Facebook someone posted a picture on Black Friday that read, “Let’s get our minds off America’s debt crisis by maxing out our credit cards on a reckless shopping binge.”  We are not a culture that holds giving as a priority or a virtue.  We are a culture that keeps, while John the Baptist calls us to repent, and give.
In our corporate confession, we pray not only for what we have done, but for what we have left undone.  I know that when we have the pause between “Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor” and “Most merciful God,” I often see faces.  Faces of the people that I pass as I drive to work, who have obvious needs that I ignore, as I turn the music up a little louder to try to drown out the convicting silence with popular noise.  I sometimes see the logos of organizations that I keep promising myself I’ll volunteer at, yet keep putting off with empty justifications.  If you ask me, these areas of my life in which I neglect to give to others are areas of sin in my life.  They are sinful, because these justifications keep me from unifying with the people in the world who are the face of Christ in my daily life.  And if I’m not unifying with those people, then I’m separate from them.  And that’s separation from God.  And separation from God is the presence of sin.  It’s not only what I’ve done—it is what I have left undone.  That’s repentance in my every day life.

But what about faith, repentance, giving, and God in times of tragedy?  Friday a man opened fire on an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut.  18 children were killed, along with many teachers.  This is truly devastating, and I spent all day Friday thinking about the children that I love, the parents I know, St. Paul’s Day School, and my own innocent memories of being in elementary school.  Friday, I heard innocence shatter in the face of sin.  The kind of sin that leaves 18 children dead in its wake.  Sin that steals our hope.

Times like these, times of immense evil occurring in the world, are calls to repentance for us as a people.  And giving can be that act of repentance.

Giving our time to teachers who wonder about their own safety, and the safety of the children they teach, in their daily life and work.

Giving time to cherishing our children and teaching them about the perfect love of Christ that casts out all fear, and changes the world.

Giving time to God in prayer, faithfully asking God our real, true, and honest questions about the evil in the world, and the sins of our own lives.

Giving our time to the study of Holy Scripture, that tells us that God is love… that hope does not disappoint… and that the God of flesh that we worship has given us abundant life.

This is the beginning of the third week of Advent.  We are in a time of preparation.  We are cleaning our houses, to have guests. We are taking down boxes from the attic, to make our home more welcoming.  I do not intend to guilt you for sending cards to people that say “Merry Christmas” on them.  I do, however, encourage you to spend time in silence.  There is a lot to do to prepare for the birth of the Lord—and repentance is one of those things.  What better way to prepare ourselves than repentance for the coming of the Christ-child?  Can you think of a finer coat to wear than that of absolution?  Can you imagine a finer adornment than the blessing of God's forgiveness?  Because there is none. 

Yes, prepare your home for the birth of Christ.  The best way to prepare—is to ask God to break in. To ask God to be born in our lives.  To ask God to heal our pain.  Do so with repentance and a giving heart.  The fruits of repentance, ripe in our lives, will draw the presence of Christ into our homes and sacred spaces.  Christ will show up and fill the void left by evil and tragedy, and offer us a new world.

Amen.

 

SERMON--Hannah's Prayer: Shame, Vulnerability, and Connection

Today’s Old Testament lesson introduces us to a world of complicated relationships. There is the relationship between Hannah, the main character of the story, to her husband: Elkanah. There’s also the relationship between Elkanah and one of his other wives, Peninnah. There’s the relationship between Hannah and Peninnah, and the pastoral relationship between Hannah and the priest Eli.

Hannah is barren in a cultural world that seems to think a woman’s only offering is the fruit of her womb, while Elkanah’s other wife has given him children. Scholars believe Hannah was the first wife, and that when she was found to be barren, Elkanah sought out Peninnah so that he might have heirs.

In this part of the story of Hannah, we are introduced to a reality in her life that would seem to lead her into the desperate prayer we hear later: that reality is her shame. We are told that Peninnah shames and irritates her, because she is barren, to the point that Hannah wept and would not eat. When she finally brings herself to God in fervent prayer, the priest Eli shames her by assuming her actions to be that of a drunkard rather than a faithful woman.

Recently I have been immersed in the world of books and lectures by Brené Brown. Brené Brown is a research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work. She has spent the past ten years studying vulnerability, courage, authenticity, and shame. She became famous through a talk she did in Houston on vulnerability, and she spoke at this year’s Diocese of Texas clergy conference.

She might say she teaches, I would say she preaches, about shame, vulnerability, and connection. She writes, “There are a couple of very helpful ways to think about shame. First, shame is the fear of disconnection. We are psychologically, emotionally, cognitively, and spiritually hardwired for connection, love, and belonging. Connection, along with love and belonging is why we are here, and it is what gives purpose and meaning to our lives. Shame is the fear of disconnection - it’s the fear that something we’ve done or failed to do, an ideal that we’ve not lived up to, or a goal that we’ve not accomplished makes us unworthy of connection.”

Think, if you will, of shame under this definition, and how it may be present in the life of Hannah. She fears she is disconnected from her husband, because she is barren. She is disconnected from his other wife, as Peninnah offends and taunts her. She is disconnected from the priest Eli, as he recognizes her most heartfelt prayer as a drunken stupor. If there is any connection, it is connection to God.

Brene continues, "In shame-prone cultures, where parents, leaders, and administrators consciously or unconsciously encourage people to connect their self-worth to what they produce, I see disengagement, blame, gossip, stagnation, favoritism, and a total death of creativity and innovation.” If we’re looking at the life of Hannah, I think it is fair to assume that her barrenness and her self-worth may be intertwined, as she finds herself unable to produce the one thing her society seems to think she can make of worth: a child. This dynamic in her home life is certainly apparent, as Peninnah lords her fertile womb over Hannah. This also changes her home life as her husband seems to struggle to understand her depression, saying “Hannah, why do you weep? Why do you not eat? Why is your heart sad? Am I not more to you than ten sons?”

According to Brene, there is, however, a secret weapon in light of shame: and that is vulnerability. Brene writes, “Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path. Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage.”

Hannah overcomes her shame through the vulnerability that she shows in her heartfelt vow to God. “O Lord of hosts, if only you will look on the misery of your servant, and remember me, and not forget your servant, but will give to your servant a male child, then I will set him before you as a nazirite until the day of his death.” A nazirite was a man fully and completely devoted to the Lord. In essence, Hannah prays: if you would but give me a son, I vow to give him back.

Brene says that, “Trust is a product of vulnerability that grows over time and requires work, attention, and full engagement.” Hannah certainly trusts God, and shows in her turning to God the attention and engagement with which she approaches the Lord. While she may fear disconnection and disengagement in her relationships with other people, she vows not only to set her son as a nazirite before the Lord, but through her faithfulness to essentially set herself as a nazirite before the Lord in a spiritual sense. She seems to say, Lord give me a son, and I will give him back, and in all of this I will give myself and be vulnerable to your word and will.

Also, another startling reality is her confidence in how she reacts to the priest, Eli. Eli approaches her full of assumptions and says, “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine.” And Hannah, at the lowest place of society and unable to offer what her culture may call her only sense of worth says something profound. She says “No.” She says “No, let me tell you the truth.” Brene talks in her lecture about courage, and how it comes from the root word cour which means “heart.” She defines courage as telling the story of who you are with your whole heart.

Hannah stops Eli and says: “Let me tell you the story of who I am with my whole heart. I am courageous. I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord. Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman, for I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation all this time. Do not regard your servant as a worthless woman. Do not shame me. I have entered this temple in a moment of holy vulnerability, to lay myself bare to the God that already knows who I am when I am laid bare. I have entered this temple in a moment of holy vulnerability to connect with God and to hear from God the story of who I am, with my whole heart.”

There is another secret weapon in light of shame: and that is naming it. Brene writes that “Shame derives its power from being unspeakable..... If we cultivate enough awareness about shame to name it and speak to it, we’ve basically cut it off at the knees. Shame hates having words wrapped around it. If we speak to shame, it begins to wither.” Hannah speaking to shame has this effect. She enters the temple and prays to God. She names her shame. She leaves the temple with a vacant womb: still struggling with that reality, YET her countenance has changed. “Then the woman went to her quarters, ate and drank with her husband, and her countenance was sad no longer." 

Her vulnerable act of prayer to God has named her shame and reconnected her with her husband, and changed her self-worth. I am led to believe that even if she had never conceived, her heart still would have been lightened and her self-worth restored through the act of naming shame and taking it to God in that moment of holy vulnerability. I’m not naïve enough to believe that she prayed one prayer and poof—her sadness and shame was gone. I hope you don’t hear me saying that. What I mean to say is that shame is the fear of disconnection—and that her naming of shame and her vulnerability offered connection to herself, her husband, and God.

I believe that we, as a people of the Lord, are called to offer ourselves to God in moments of holy vulnerability.

I believe that we are called to recognize that God asks us to show compassion to creation, and that we are part of that creation and must show compassion to ourselves.

I believe that we are called to offer empathy to other people as they battle with shame, knowing that in doing so we love God through loving our neighbor.

I believe that we are called to honor other people such that we do not perpetuate the cycles of shame in our world that drive others to despair.

I believe that we are called to share with the world the story of who we are, with our whole heart.

I ask this all for the glory of God: Father, son, and holy spirit – who has brought us from barrenness to new life. Amen.

SERMON--Song of Solomon 2:8-13

Today’s Old Testament reading from the Song of Solomon is one of the only scripture readings in the lectionary that makes me swoon. 

The voice of my beloved!
Look, he comes, leaping upon the mountains…
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away…

I picture two lovers sitting together in a field by a pond, one leaning up against a tree, and the other lying on a blanket beside, sure to be covered by the shade.  They take turns reading sonnets to one another, and for every 14 lines they say to one another through perfectly written verse: I love you, and I thank God for you.

This scripture conjures up in me the deep desire that comes from having meaningful relationships with other people.  But mostly the deepest desire of my being which is to know and love God.  This love song calls the people of God to awaken, to arise, to come to the voice of the living God. 

The poem brings us into the playful life of God, ripe with the fruit of delight…
And as we delight in the world that God has made, God is delighted in our joy.

We are placed not only in the garden of lovers who are alive with flirtation, but also in the garden of creation which is alive with the love of God.  Just as it was at the time of creation, so it is now. 

God—unable to be contained by the heavens—overflowed from the heavens to create the earth, making the earth as a Garden. 

And still, unable to be contained in the lush riches of the ground, trees, earth, and sea… God made all the animals that would walk the earth, from the gazelle to the turtledove, and others—more than we can count. 

Yet, there was still more love in God to send to earth.  Breathing out, God let man and woman in… into the world created for love, delight, and joy.  He placed them in a Garden and walked with them… All the while simply dwelling in and giving voice to the very creation that was an overflowing of God’s own being, and goodness. 

The overflowing love in this poetic song is both the creator of all things, and part of our creation.  The love shared between the couple is not only human.  The world around them takes part in their joy.

The flowers bloom. 
The turtledove sings. 
The fig tree bears fruit. 
The vines give their fragrance. 
The love of the man and woman is contagious. 
It spreads across the hills and the valleys. 
It sends winter and rain running,
and makes for creation the most fertile ground of joy. 

Love cannot be contained. 
It overflows into the grass, sky, and earth. 
It can be seen in the blossom of flowers,
tasted in the flesh of the figs,
felt in the lover’s embrace,
heard in the song of the turtledove,
and smelled in the fragrance of the vine. 

God’s redemptive love takes place in creation, not apart from it.

There is a playfulness here, a sense of two people frolicking in a world that is pure gift.  There is a gracefulness in this play, and a playfulness in God’s grace.  This pure gift is boundless, as uncontrollable as the shifting of the seasons. We watch it unfold before us like the turning of a tree, which happens in its own time.  We must wait in joyous anticipation as it gives its fruit, and thank God that we might taste it.  We do not command the turtledove to sing, or tame the wild gazelle… Instead we listen to the voice of the beloved, who invites us to notice the manifestations of love that happen in God’s time. 

This love song is free of any form of subordination—there is no ground to plow, no woman who is told to be silent, no snake to be trampled underfoot.  This love song does not call us to think about the earthly structures that harden us as human beings. 

This love song is playful, and it calls us to love one another, and to take our relationships with each other so seriously that we bathe them in the gentleness of graceful love. 

This love song presents us with God as loving gift.  While this gift is not controlled by us, it is still among us.  This is not a disembodied gift—this isn’t a theory. 

This is hands in hands,
kisses from bride to husband,
flowers blossoming,
and a tree showering the grass with fruit. 

And what good is fruit if it is not tasted? 
How fragrant is a flower if it is never smelled? 
What love is shown between lovers if they never kiss? 

This love is among us, and the voice of the beloved calls us to participate.  To see, touch, hear, smell, and taste.

The goodness of God that has overflowed into creation comes to us not only in the fruit of the vine, but also in the Son of the Father.  God’s love could not be contained in the heavens, so God entered earth… Born of a woman, God was clothed in flesh to remove the limits of flesh.  God’s love is not a disembodied gift—it isn’t a theory.  It’s a person. 

He is using spit and mud to bring sight,
He is pouring living water into the well of human existence,
He is wearing a cloak that, with one touch, can change a life. 

God’s love could not be contained in the Heavens, nor could it be contained on the earth.  Jesus entered the world to leave it, and loved creation from within.  Standing in the garden of Gethsemane, Jesus knew his role in the outpouring of the overflowing love of God.  So, through his death he responded to the voice of that Goodness that dwelled within him.  The beloved had spoken to him and said:

Arise, my love, my fair one… And come away;
it is time for winter to pass, and for rain to leave this land.
Let the flowers appear on the earth;
the time for singing has come,
and the voice of the turtledove must be heard in our land.
The fig tree must put forth its figs,
and the vines must blossom;
and give forth fragrance.
Arise, my love, my fair one… And come away.

And, Jesus did. 
Jesus ascended into the heavens from which he came. 
And in his leaving the earth,
our resurrection was showered upon us,
and we were welcomed into not the winter of death,
but the springtime of life.   

 

Life on this side of the veil

Monday I found out that a woman I felt very close to from my church in Austin died of lung cancer.  In the time that I was at the parish, I knew nothing of her cancer, as it had gone into remission when I was there. 

For one of my classes, we had to interview lay leaders within our field ed churches about what their definition of the Church was, what their ministry meant, etc.  I interviewed her and she shared about her ministry with Loaves & Fishes, where she grew up, her beliefs about God, and how thankful she was to be at All Saints.  This was within the first month of me doing field ed, and I immediately knew I looked up to her, and that she would help form me into being a priest.

As the weeks went on in field ed, I would see her every Sunday, and every Wednesday when I led Evening Prayer (she was quite dedicated to Evening Prayer).  I walked in to do my first Evening Prayer service terrified, because I just wasn’t quite sure how things worked yet.  I remember she and I sitting in silence in the choir area waiting to see if anyone else would come.  We finally chatted, our small talk seeming even smaller in the large empty church.  I did the service, stumbling over words and feeling sorry for the regulars who had to deal with someone so new and ill equipped.  When the service ended, she walked up to me, put an arm around me and said, “That was beautiful.  I’m glad you’re here.”

When I wanted to go to England, she left a check and a simple note: “Enjoy your travels!”

I absolutely love what I feel called to do.  I feel like every week, gosh—everyday—something happens that reminds me that this is perfect for me.  Something happens that affirms why I’m here, and that this is a very holy place in my life.

But what I didn’t know is how much holiness could hurt.  It is my greatest joy to know that someone who formed me into being a better priest is free from physical pain.  It is my greatest joy that I knew her at all.  But that joy doesn’t always feel good. 

When people I care about die and experience holiness in its fullness, I have to continue to live on this side of the veil.  And it hurts in the kind of way that leaves a lump in my throat, a knot in my stomach, and anger in my tears.

I live a life of being invited into the most personal and intimate areas of people’s lives, and when I know people on those levels, it’s hard to ever let them go, even when letting go is the only option.  It’s the most beautiful thing in the world, and it hurts.

General Convention: Temporary, Yet Eternal

The General Convention experience is one I cannot easily put into words. That said, I'm clearly going to try. We are living in a General Convention world- temporary, yet eternal.  My days are filled with passing hundreds of people in the halls of the Indianapolis convention center that have badges explaining that we're here for the same church. My days are filled with visiting dozens of booths filled with organizations I didn't know existed.  My day are filled with meeting new people, knowing that I have yet to know how much their lives will impact mine.   It can be easy to get caught up in the buttons, free pens, hotel bars, etc. I know this because I've been fighting that tendency. What keeps me away from assessing this as just a convention is my recognition that what is happening here is holy work done by holy people for a holy Church. The decisions we make will not fade into the background.  Earlier today I posted a tweet that basically said, I love General Convention because it offers us the opportunity to meet tons of new people who we can build relationships with, such that we will have one another as we struggle through the inevitable growing pains.  That's why I'm blessed to be here.  I'm blessed to be here because I have the opportunity to meet other people that will care for me when I have growing pains, and because I have the opportunity to meet other people that I will care about when they feel the first pangs of the beautiful unknown. 

My first full day of General Convention

The General Convention experience is without question fantastic. I can't tell you how thankful I am to be here representing the Seminary of the Southwest. Every day I've met new people and those people have really changed me in positive ways. I'm enjoying interviewing people and asking about their definition of what kind of leadership we need me a Episcopal Church today. In addition to meeting new people I'm enjoying meeting new people specifically from the diocese of Texas. This is a new diocese for me and I don't know many people. In meeting new people, I share with them who I am and tell them about my new position. In addition I'm learning the life of the diocese, I'm being truly incorporated into this new diocese. That said I'm still highly involved in the diocese of the Central Gulf Coast. In the grand scheme of things everything is great.  I'm looking forward to meeting new people but I'm also looking forward to tomorrow when I get to spend more time in committees learning about different resolutions and whether or not they'll be sent to the floor. In closing I have to share that it is incredibly neat to meet people in real life that I've known through social media for so long. Multiple people came up to me and knew my face and name because of social media. It's exciting to meet these people and have conversations with them knowing that I know them so very well. This was especially important tonight at the tweetup that was organized by Scott Gunn and Joseph Matthews. In closing this is a really beautiful place. I'm thankful for the opening words of the presiding Bishop. I'm also thankful for the new people that have made time to get to know me. And lastly without question I'm thankful for the Seminary of the Southwest for letting me be here and for letting me represent the seminary.

General Convention is soon!!

I'm less than a week away from General Convention and all I can think of is how thankful I am. I distinctly remember the summer before seminary, tracking GC 2009 in Troy, AL with Joseph and Father Jeff.  Now, in a strange turn of events, I'm GOING to GC and am going as an ORDAINED person. Even more so than that, my priest at the church that I WORK AT (because I have a JOB) has asked me to get all my ordinations plans set, WHICH I HAVE, for a literal ordination to the PRIESTHOOD on August 3.  It is a strangely beautiful world that I live in and I can't stop thanking God for it. I feel like every day something happens that reminds me that I have picked the right vocation, AKA that obedience to God is just as good as people say it is. People literally let me into the reality of their lives and it is treacherous and breathtaking.   One of my favorite priests-- a phenomenal man with a wonderful heart-- once said that he has been a priest for a very long time, and that he has never stopped loving it... Because he was paid to give a damn about other people, and he should have been doing that anyway. So that's it.  I give a damn about people.  And God consistently reminds me that that doesn't make me special, it just makes me obedient... And I should have been that anyway.

Warning: A sentimental Easter meditation.

Right before Easter, our seminary started selling Easter lilies to be placed on the altar in memory of people we loved who were now enjoying eternity.  I kept thinking how much I'd love to buy two, one for my grandmother (Grandmere), and one for my grandfather (PawPaw), but in the hustle and bustle of senior year I never did.  I mentioned this regret during Easter Vigil to my close friend Jessie, because I kept smelling them and the scent brought the greatest joy.

Sunday, I walked home from church, knowing I could only stop by the apartment quickly, because I needed to be somewhere soon.  I wanted to run by the apartment and drop some things off, and as I approached my door I saw nothing but my recycling bin.  As I got closer, I could see lilies in front of my door.  Two Easter lily plants in front of my door! 

My friend Jessie retrieved them from her field ed parish and brought them to me.  My hope for buying them in the first place (honestly) was not to simply place them on the altar, but to bring that altar into my home, and have two Easter lily plants in my home/apartment/whatever as a continual remembrance of my PawPaw and Grandmere.  You see, they grew lilies, and I'll never tire of the smell and sight of lilies, because they're one of the best memories of my childhood.  I would run around in the backyard while my grandfather gardened.  I can still remember lilies being taller than me, and something that I could at least try to hide behind.  I miss my PawPaw dearly.  He is still the greatest man I've ever known.  Grandmere equals in greatest woman I've ever known with my own mother, her daughter, or as she is to me, "Mama."

Now, these lilies sit in my apartment.  Last night, as I couldn't sleep, I would get frustrated and try to slow my breathing into a meditative way, so that maybe it would lull me to sleep.  In the very moment that I sought my own inner peace, I was able to smell the Easter lilies in my home.  My apartment--filled with dirty laundry, all the messiness of a cat, a few dirty dishes, etc-- smelled of nothing other than my PawPaw's garden and both my PawPaw and Grandmere's eternal love. 

With such a vivid recollection of a place that I felt safe, I was able to sleep. 

I can remember my PawPaw and Grandmere who have died with the lilies that continue to live.  Even though a lily dies, lilies themselves do not.  Even though the people we love die, they themselves do not.  When Christ enters the tomb, even though he dies, he does not.  I'm blessed by the shattering of death that brings me new life everyday.  I pray that I can live it in a way that honors my PawPaw, Grandmere, and Mama, while also showing love to others and thus living into the ultimate call I have from God.

Thoughts before General Convention... Read: ramblings.

Recently Seminary of the Southwest had a discussion regarding the upcoming General Convention, and what this will mean for the Episcopal Church as votes come in either for or against the Episcopal Church blessing same sex marriages.  Two professors (Dr. Scott Bader-Saye and The Rev. Dr. Nathan Jennings) delivered presentations regarding various perspectives on same sex blessings in the Episcopal Church.  The conversation, in a nutshell, was about how people can minister to other people about sexuality, regardless of what our own feelings are on the matter.  After the presentations, we had a very honest Q&A time, followed by breaking up in small groups to talk about our own thoughts/hopes/fears going into this General Convention and as people being formed to be priests.  It was a refreshing conversation for me, and it caused me to confront some of my fears going into my ministry in a parish and student center.  I'm honored that I'm able to go to General Convention, but I can't now know how heavy my heart will be as I board my return flight from Indianapolis to Waco.

I struggle with the fact that I believe that the Episcopal Church should bless same sex marriages, but that I don't want to be exclusive to those who are struggling with that.  (I also struggle with the fact that I don't want one belief of mine to define the entirety of my ministry.  Not everything about my ministry has to do with the sexual orientation of other people.)  All people should be shown love by the Church, regardless of their belief on the matter.  God's love isn't intended to be divisive, it is intended to call the kingdom of God into unity.  Still, the way we interpret God's love and blessing leaves us with sides, and as clergy I feel like I have to figure out how to minister to the "other side" of where I stand even though I hate that there are sides.

I recognize that, as clergy, we minister to people, not ideologies.  This must mean that we minister to people without asking first what their opinion is on the blessings of same sex marriages.  I can say that fairly easily, but I think I have to clarify that this isn't a plea for us to diminish this concern or act like it isn't important.  It is important!  It needs to be talked about.  We need to recognize as an institution any hatefulness that has been shown to people in same sex partnerships.  It is that very need to talk about this that is why I care so much.  Unfortunately, "we minister to people, not ideologies," forgets that this is, in fact, ALL about people.  There are people who want same sex marriages, there are people who do not, and they are all people.  We cannot pretend that this will ever simply be an ideology.

How can the Episcopal Church be prophetic, without excluding the beliefs of some Christians?  I wonder if being truly prophetic is not taking a side so much, as it is recognizing a reality and claiming it.  I don't know if that can be done without it seemingly being a choice of two sides, but I certainly believe claiming a reality is healthier than giving into choosing one side of a binary.

I think the solace I find comes from the recognition that ministry in light of the decisions made by General Convention is still just that: ministry.  It means being a non-anxious presence.  It means not projecting my issues onto anyone else.  It means loving people before and after I know their opinions.  It means listening closely.  It means praying for and with them.  It means recognizing that there isn't anyone God hates.  It means worshipping God.

My biggest desire is this: I want the Episcopal Church to bless same sex marriages, and I want people who are uncomfortable with that to know that the Episcopal Church should still be a place they can worship.  I do not want one issue to define the Church, unless that issue is the grace, love, and gift of God.  I do not want there to be a scarcity of love.  I want the decisions of General Convention to show love, encourage love, and send us back to our congregations to love people -- ALL the people -- not the opinions and ideologies that bring us to division rather than unity.

Sermon--If I am not doing the works of my Father, then do not believe me (John 10:31–42)

If I am not doing the works of my Father, then do not believe me.

This begs the question, what am I doing?

Calling attention to our actions can feel treacherous.  It is easy to think, “Well sure Jesus, of course YOU want everyone to look at your actions—you’ve been lauded by the Church as THE moral exemplar!”

Still, Jesus heals on the Sabbath, an action that was rebuked….
He spoke with people that he wasn’t supposed to speak to…
He lost his temper at the temple…
And he struggled with his calling at Gethsemane. 

He may be our moral exemplar, but he calls us to look at his actions, even though his actions were controversial, and put him at odds with society’s norms.

I’ve often thought about how seminary communities are basically a sociological phenomena.  How on earth do we end up coexisting even semi peacefully when almost everyone here wants to be a leader?  How do we balance power and authority, identity, and zealous belief in God without consistently losing it on each other?

I ask this because in today’s Gospel, when Jesus proclaims his true identity, he is almost stoned for blasphemy, as if his identity is a lie.  Talk about having a hard time claiming your pastoral identity.  I can’t imagine who I would be right now if every time I started to tell my call story, I looked up and all my classmates were holding stones. 

Jesus had to proclaim his authority amongst people who only seem to care about power.  And power and authority are set at odds with one another.  I’d go so far as to say that we live in a power hungry society, and that our calling as disciples is to show that there is power in weakness, because our weakness is redeemed.

Very truly I tell you, the hardest thing I’ve done in seminary is claim my identity as a deacon and future priest.  It isn’t a huge a secret anymore that my GOE scores devastated me.  As a person who has been in school since five, I’ve spent most of my life placing my identity in letter grades and percentages.

I felt defined, and the definition wasn’t anything I was happy with.

The day after finding out my scores, I received a call from my field ed parish.  All the clergy were gone, except me.  A parishioner’s mother was very ill, near death, and the family wanted communion.  Dragging myself out of the hole of bad grades and pity that only I had dug for myself, I set out to the hospital, with my communion kit.

And that’s when I REALLY became a deacon.  I may not be able to always write a perfect essay, but God has given me the strength to go into a hospital and love a family and pray for the dying and deliver the body and blood of Christ. 

And in reality, that’s actually what I want to do.  What I REALLY want to do is serve Christ.  And what I really want to feel bad about is when I serve myself rather than God.  Because my identity isn’t so much tied up into my words anymore—the words in my essays. 

My identity is wrapped up in what I’m doing. 

My identity is wrapped up in my worship,
my prayer,
my relationships with all of you,
my relationship with the Episcopal Church,
the people in hospitals who need communion,
the programs in the Church that I’m called to give my time to,
the people on the street that need food,
the people on the street that need company,
and the time I set aside for getting to know myself better as I’m formed.

This is all warm and fuzzy to me, until I look up and picture people with stones in their hands.  Because that’s what Jesus faced when he claimed his identity, and his relationship with God. 

In proclaiming our own identity, we are called out of ourselves.  To know ourselves, we must enter the world.  Jesus could not be God’s Son in Heaven alone.  Jesus was sent, such that by entering the world, he could know himself and know God.

Stephen Colbert, of The Colbert Report, is a Roman Catholic and one of his quotes has been going around, and I can’t stop thinking about it. 

He says, “If this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn't help the poor, either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are, or we've got to acknowledge that He commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition and then admit that we just don't want to do it.”

I love this quote, because it gives us a choice.  It doesn’t say: “Go do this.”  Instead it says, look at your actions and recognize their implications.  It says—What are you doing?  What are your concerns?  Are you willing to make Jesus into someone like you, rather than making yourself into someone like Jesus?  What is your identity? 

Part of understanding our own identity, is exiting ourselves long enough to let the rest of world in.  We’ve either got to DO the things we profess, or we’ve got to admit that we don’t want to do it.  The Jews weren’t going to stone Jesus for his good works.  His good works were fine.  It was the power and authority that caused concern.

“If I am not doing the works of my Father, then do not believe me. But if I do them, even though you do not believe me, believe the works, so that you may know and understand that the Father is in me and I am in the Father.” 

“If this is going to be a Christian nation that doesn't help the poor, either we have to pretend that Jesus was just as selfish as we are, or we've got to acknowledge that He commanded us to love the poor and serve the needy without condition and then admit that we just don't want to do it.”

If we’re not living into the Gospel, then I don’t know if we offer the world the sort of truth that anyone will ever believe in. 

But if we do live into the Gospel, even though we struggle with the “stuff” of the Church—infant baptism, gay marriage, universal healthcare, immaculate conception, works righteousness, and many more—

Even though we struggle with the “stuff” of the church, the actions of living into the Gospel are something to believe in.  And in seeing us, doing the works of the Father, others may know and understand that Christ is in us, and we are in Christ.

So claim your identity as a child of God. 
Let your works be holy. 
Pray. 
Love one another. 
Feed the hungry, whatever their hunger might be. 
Don’t pick up stones. 
Love yourself. 
Do the works of God, so that others may believe.

Amen.

My final sermon in Christ Chapel, as a seminarian.  From now on, any sermons there will be as a visitor... :)