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6 Pentecost (Proper
10) A certain traveler went on a journey down from Jerusalem to Jericho— a downhill journey all the way -- from Jerusalem to Jericho. Jerusalem—2,500 feet above the level of the Mediterranean Sea; Jericho -- 825 feet below it. Three thousand, three hundred and twenty-five feet down -- down to below the level of the sea. From Jerusalem down to Jericho— a trip into increasingly more and more depressing territory . . . downhill . . . all the way downhill from the splendors of Jerusalem to the hot, parched, lifeless climes of a valley where no green thing can grow—a steep and rapid decline into leastness, lastness, Paradise lostness. And if the downward journey were not bad enough, the traveler is set upon by thieves, robbed, stripped naked, and left for dead—road kill, a carrion feast for maggots and vultures well fed by those who fall by the wayside, victims of the way it's always been. And a Levite—a temple functionary—and a priest are on this same downhill road. Whaddya know— not even the religious elite are spared the journey downward into the lifeless valley of the dry bones. And even though the religious folk may think it not true, on this downhill slide there truly is no male nor female, Jew nor Greek, straight nor gay—all are truly sisters and brothers on the journey that leads to that desert where no hope blooms . . . no matter how much we work to make it not so. But see, the religious will not stop for this fellow traveler near dead. "Perhaps if we don't look, the wounded one will go away, perhaps if we pass by on the other side our hands will be clean, and death will not get us. Perhaps if we just pray hard enough . . . our road will change, and we'll find ourselves at the end of the day at a posh, tropical hotel sipping umbrella drinks at the poolside bar." And then at evening comes another traveler – a fellow traveler but far, far from home. A Samaritan from the looks of . . . him? her?—well we can't tell if it's a him or a her—but a slavish looking sort so it makes no difference. Samaritans—you know how they are—perhaps born in the green highlands – but a people much more fit for the region of the dead— people to be shunned—an irreligious lot if there ever was one —spiritually polluted—ncapable of doing anything right human or humane. But look, see, it is this Samaritan who stops. Silly being, doesn't the Samaritan know the traveler by the side of the road is as good as dead? Yes, the Samaritan stops, the Samaritan stoops, and the Samaritan bids breath, the breath of creation and all life come upon the lost-by-the-side-of-the-road and wounded one. Look now too, the despised, rejected Samaritan pours three hands-full of cool water upon the wounded one's forehead and anoints the wounded one's head with oil and bears that wounded one to an inn, to an inn in the city and upon a hill— safe house of life and breath for all people—and with costliest treasure the Samaritan pays for the wounded one's keep and bids the inn-keeper, the comforter, the tender of the tongues of fire to give this wounded traveler and all wounded ones bread and wine and a safe place until the day of the great returning. And the Samaritan departs Then, bit-by-bit the strangest things begin to happen—the traveler who lay wounded and as good as dead, the traveler . . . rises . . . as if . . . reborn—and then the traveler asks the inn-keeper for directions to that steep, dry road that leads downhill—and the reborn traveler takes along some water and some oil and a mule that perhaps the Samaritan one has left behind to carry the wounded who cannot walk. And the reborn one sets out upon the downward path searching, seeking, and calling the last, the least, the lost, and the unlovely, in order to pray the breath of life come upon all other travelers as good as dead. And with three hands-full of water and a bit of oil the reborn traveler proclaims other wounded travelers reborn and bears them to the house of the inn-keeper, the comforter, that they may be fed and nourished with the food of life, that they too may be kept safe until the day of the great returning. My fellow travelers, have this mind amongst yourselves— which IS YOURS in Christ Jesus, who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited—but emptied himself, taking on the form of a slave, being born in . . . Samaritan likeness. 5 Pentecost
(Proper 9) Click here for printable .PDF format Isaiah 66:10-14 It’s happened more times than I can begin to count. I’m in some sort of social or professional setting and somehow it comes up that I’m a Christian—and all of a sudden a heavy and embarrassed silence falls into the middle of the conversation. To further admit that I am an ordained member of the clergy is, in these settings, somewhat akin to announcing that I have a particularly noxious form of a highly contagious and perhaps lethal disease. The thing is, I understand this reaction. I’m also inclined to suspicion when I hear someone else identify her- or himself as a Christian. Nor am I alone in
this. My mom worked in Campus Ministry back in the days when state universities
distributed religious census cards. Among my mom’s tasks was sorting
these religious census cards by denomination or tradition. There were
piles for
Lutherans—then broken down according to LCA, ALC, WS, and LCMS.
And there were Baptist piles, Southern and American; a Roman Catholic
pile; an African Methodist Episcopal pile; Orthodox, Conservative, and
Reform Jewish piles; and so on and so forth. Then there were the cards
where students classified themselves generically as “Christian.”
“What do I do with the Christians?” Mom asked. “Be afraid,”
one of her bosses said, “be very afraid. They’re the ones
who will tell you that unless you behave and believe their way, you’re
going straight to hell, do not pass GO, do not collect $200.00.” It is of course sloppy thinking to make such a huge generalization about those who call themselves “Christian.” It is, however, a generalization that does have some grounding in both the past and present. It is, after all, so-called Christians that have made the lives of our Jewish brothers and sisters a living hell for the past two-thousand years. It was European Christians that terrified Muslims during the Crusades and burned at the stake free-thinkers of any sort during the Inquisition. And it was at the behest of the Christian rulers of the “old world” that the native inhabitants of the “new world” were baptized at the point of a sword —“be baptized, or off with your head.” Nor are Lutherans
off the hook by any means. There are those for whom the term Lutheran
means swastikas, goose-stepping soldiers, and the smell of incinerating
flesh. More than a few Lutherans found fuel for their anti-Semitism
in the bitter and senile rantings of the aged Martin Luther. This has
led the Lutheran World Federation to denounced all of Luther’s
anti-Jewish writings and to ask for the forgiveness of all who have
suffered as a result of Luther’s intemperate rants. And I must confess to God Almighty in the presence of you my brothers and sisters, that I too think vengeful, condemnatory thoughts about those children of God who do not conform to my particular understanding of the Christian faith—many of whom are headquartered an hour or so south of here. Yes, critical assessment of such groups is always in order, but hate and intolerance in the name of justice, mercy, and peace is nothing more or less than to stand judged by the very judgment one has cast upon another. And Jesus sent them out in pairs. He said to them, “Whatever place you enter, say, ‘Peace to this place.’ Those who are people of peace will receive your greeting of peace. But if that peace isn’t well-received, no matter—my peace is still with you. Wherever you go, care for the sick and the outcast and say to people that the reign of God—the God of unconditional love and forgiveness—is upon you. But if they do not receive you, your only protest is merely to shake the dust off your feet and move on.” There is in Jesus’ commissioning of disciples and apostles no room for condemnation, no room for intolerance, and no room for judging the faith of another. There is no room whatsoever for baptizing anyone at the point of the sword, for burning at the stake people who think different or unusual thoughts, and there is certainly no room for annihilating people of different races, creeds, colors—be they Jewish, Native American, or Muslim. Jesus speaks: “When you go out, say ‘Peace to this place.’ Cure the ills of society. Embrace the outcast. Bring the reign of God’s unconditional love and mercy near to others.” When Jesus says this, it is not a command, it is not a law, it is not a list of “shoulds.” Rather it is a description of who we are. It is a description of what every one of you became in God’s eyes when you were baptized. You are the disciples and apostles whom Jesus sends. You are people who spread peace, healing, grace, and mercy wherever you walk. And like Christ, in whose image you are reborn, we will not lift a hand in vengeance when your words of grace, mercy, and peace are rejected—like the Christ of God, we too would rather die than be known as a vengeful and rejecting people. The only thing to do when grace, mercy, and peace are rejected is to walk with Christ to the cross and pray there, “God, forgive them.” And so, I announce to you this day: The reign of God is here, now, in this very house—where Christ appears, giving to you his body and blood that you and the whole world may know that your sins and the sins of all humanity are now forgiven. The Seventh
Sunday of Easter Click here for printable .PDF format Grace, Mercy and
Peace………. The big problem with Jesus and Pope John the XXIII is that they gave the world a vision of love and unity and then left this earth without leaving a blue print. But some of us old fogies tried way back when. Thirty years ago this fall on Reformation Sunday I invited a Roman Catholic priest friend of mine by the name of Joe Girzone to come and preach for me. Joe makes several million dollars a year writing and selling Joshua Books. In fact he made me a bishop in one of them. Bishop Donald Marxhausen otherwise known as Big Bear. So, to nine million Roman Catholics I am a bishop. You can kiss my ring after the service. My first congregation was a church building about this size that sat 600. There were only about 180 at a service, but they were all stubborn Germans. Ed Liedkfeldt, a big pipe fitter for General Electric, was the lead usher that day. In a stage whisper that everyone could hear he said, “Was ist das Priest doing on the altar?” People started to tremble. They didn’t want to cross Big Ed. In those days the Hymn of the Day was sung before the sermon. During the hymn Father Girzone came over and asked for a blessing so that the people would hear him speak. His text was from John 17 using the lines “that we may be one.” After the sermon Big Ed said, again in a stage whisper, “I tink I take communion.” However during the Sursam Corde which is where the pastor says. “Lift up your hearts,” several people lifted up more than their hearts and walked out. The following Tuesday at the council meeting I was asked why I didn’t ask permission to bring in a Catholic Priest. I answered, “because you wouldn’t have given it.” We had about an hour of brouhaha when the one token women on the council (the secretary) broke in with tears and said, “ I wish it were this way thirty years ago when my husband and I got married. He is Catholic and we have never been able to have communion together.” There was silence, and it suddenly dawned on them what I was trying to do. Every other Tuesday I attend a prayer meeting in Brighton. It is mostly Evangelicals and Baptists. Two American Baptists come and one Presbyterian woman pastor so I am not totally alone. Other mainliners do not come. I am in charge of getting the next meeting at the Catholic Church where the priest is a pretty sharp guy. We already had some tension a few months ago when I asked that the Independent Baptists stop praying against the abomination of homosexuals. I announced that my pastor is one and so is probably my daughter. A lot of chill in the room, but some keep coming. The Presbyterian pastor grew up Missouri Synod. The two of us being scarred for life and were both insulted by Jake Preus. We kind of support each other. This last Tuesday she said, I am not comfortable here because I am afraid that we speak a different language. She had in her hand a copy of the book some of us studied here, “The Heart of Christianity.” That led to some interesting discussion with one of the pastors coming at me and saying “Don, you don’t believe us conservatives have any compassion.” And off we went. But everyone hung in there. Lots of work to do. I look at the nearly dead or dormant ecumenical dream and I look at the divisiveness within this state and country and I wonder if Jesus was off the mark on this issue. If John remembered these words correctly Jesus is saying them in less than 24 hours before He was going to be dead. Maybe he had drunk too much wine and was tripping out. Unity? In this world of sin? Maybe it is sin that can unite us. William Sloan Coffin said, “ If we are not as yet joined one to another in love, we most surely are in sin, and sin is a wonderful bond because it precludes the possibility of separation through judgment.” I preached and ran three worship services at the Jail yesterday. Two men’s services and one woman’s. There is for a brief minute unity among the inmates. They want to be free or home or with their loved ones or for some back out on the streets and into the game. But they are where they don’t want to be. They have lost houses, apartments, cars, family members and children along with years of freedom. Many of them leave jail with just the clothes on their back and not even identification. One man said to me on Tuesday, “I no longer need to be an Apache, which is tattooed on his stomach, but a person. I’m forty-two and have spent most of my life in jail.” Ever since the Tower of Babel, human kind has been known for its separateness rather than its unity. The cause of Christian unity at the present time and through history has been injured and hindered because men loved their own ecclesiastical organization, their own creeds, their own ritual, more than they loved each other. We seek to be an inclusive community here at St. Paul’s Lutheran. But the growing churches are often exclusive. They are either anti this or anti that. People still need to justify themselves by disliking somebody. I think of all the families of Nine/Eleven or the victims’ families of Columbine. They are people of great loss and their differences are overcome with the radical depth of their pain. The enemy of Nine/Eleven is our country and some unseen force. The enemy of Columbine is the big question why? There is a German concept called “Mitgefeld” or the fellowship of suffering. I believe that is negative unity. Good in that misery loves company. But I think we also come together in fellowship of being forgiven. You and I have been forgiven and on a good day we remember that we are also loved and on even a better day we remember that grace has intersected out lives more than once and we have a God who has brought us out of a miry bog and placed our feet upon a rock and therefore we now sing a new song unto the lord. ……An Easter song that god raises up and He or She has done that for us time and time again from depths from which we often thought we would never recover. As we wind down this Easter season and prepare for celebrating the birthday of the church we remember the shared experience of freedom as if we crossed the Red Sea ourselves. We remember that we have faced the truth of ourselves and love has found us and bound us together, not because we are somebody, but because we who have been lost have been found and because he first loved us we are able to love one another. I tell the inmates that if you are catholic you probably shouldn’t receive communion and if you are protestant you better check if you are the right protestant, but if you hear Jesus, the Jesus who bids us all to come, then all of you are invited to receive because Jesus ain’t got no checklist. And so are we invited here today as well. Or as Kevin says: My brother and sister, the Body of Christ for You. That is one heck of a unity. AMEN The Fifth Sunday
of Easter Click here for printable .PDF format [Intro: Diana talked about Antonia’s great-granddaughter who was fascinated with death in the movie Antonia’s Line and how Antonia helped prepare her before Antonia’s death.] Often when I hear
people talk about the death of someone they love Such is the case
with Jesus in the passage we read today. God’s love
is embodied in Jesus Christ On the surface,
I think, this is a lovely text: It’s challenging
for two reasons: The other challenging
aspect of Jesus’ demonstration of love Lately, I’ve
been reading The Inner Voice of Love by Henri Nouwen
For Nouwen, the
source of our love for one another is God The message to love
one another As Jesus’ was
preparing himself and his disciples for his death These were his final
instructions to those whom he loved. Amen The Fourth Sunday
of Easter Click here for printable .PDF format Acts 9:1-6 Now, imagine, if you will, the dry, open range. Imagine a watering hole there to which sheep from many flocks gather. You are a shepherd. Your sheep have drunk enough water, and it's time for you to gather your sheep together and lead them back out to pasture. But your sheep are so intermingled with sheep from other flocks that it is nearly hopeless to try to separate out your sheep – as soon as you've got one disentangled from the group around the water hole, the others that you had already separated have now wandered back into the fray – ready to drink themselves to death. What to do? You, the shepherd merely need to let the sheep hear the sound of your voice; the sheep of your flock will recognize your voice – even though they really can't see you – or much of anything -- well enough to save their very lives. But they do recognize your voice when you call out and they follow you. Jesus said to the
Judeans -- My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.
But just who are the sheep that Jesus knows? Who are these sheep that
follow him? Those who are religious are quite sure of who God or God's representative should know, be familiar with, should understand, and should be intimate with: nice people – religious people – spiritual people – people who obey the commandments – people who are pious – people who do what they are supposed to do. Yup, that's what the good religious folk would say. And it is certainly what any representative of God should say. If this Jesus of Nazareth really were Messiah he would know that. Rather than knowing the right people, however, Jesus has been hanging around with riff-raff from Galilee – irreligious folk from a most irreligious region. Even more horrifying is that this Jesus has been hanging around with women – and in particular he has been seen in the company of a notoriously loose and sinful Samaritan woman whom he seems to have seduced at the village well in Sychar. And one must wonder exactly how well Jesus got to know the little tart. And then Jesus presumes to try to heal a lame man on the Sabbath – and everyone knows that the only reason a person is lame – or disabled in any fashion -- is on account of their sin. And who can figure out that sick relationship between Jesus, Lazarus, Martha, and Mary – you have to wonder in what way this so-called Messiah knows them. If Jesus were the
Messiah we've been waiting for, Jesus would condemn the, would wipe
them off the earth and would instead know the religious – if Jesus
really were Messiah, he would be knowing the righteous, those who follow
the law, and it would be the godly who would hear and follow him. It
appears, however, that Jesus only perceives, understands the ungodly,
is familiar with the ungodly, is intimate with – the ungodly. The
ones hearing and following Jesus are about the most raggedy, hideous
bunch of losers you can imagine – a virtual army of freaks. But do we hear? Do we follow? The answer is – most assuredly – NO. On our own, we are those in the story who do not trust, who cannot hear the voice of the Good Shepherd. We are too busy listening to the voices of the world that tell us – yes – you can be perfect, you can be a winner, you can be beautiful, buff, brainy, and brawny. You can be number one. You can be anything you want to be. You can be . . . God. That's the voice we listen to better than any other. That, however, is why we have the church – where the word and sacraments are – that through the ministry of the word and sacraments the darkness of our will to perfection, our will to be god may be brought to light – that through the word and sacraments our ears may be opened that we may hear the voice of the Good Shepherd that says – yes, you are the ungodly, and it's precisely you I have come to save – it is you, the ungodly, I deliver from death. It is you, the ungodly, to whom I give true life – the kind of life that endures beyond every boundary of time and space. All we like sheep have gone astray, each of us to our own way. But know this: the Good Shepherd understands you intimately. And the Good Shepherd is continually opening your ears so that you might hear the voice of the Good Shepherd. And the Good Shepherd will lead you to your true home. And you will have life. The Third
Sunday of Easter Acts 9:1-6 Click here for printable .PDF format A couple of stories in today's First Readings and Gospel should go a long way toward putting the final nail into the coffin-lid of decision theology. And even if you haven't heard the term "decision theology" before you all know what it is. Decision theology is when and people say things like "since I found the Lord," or "after I took Jesus into my heart," or, in question form, "have you decided to accept Jesus as your personal Lord and savior?" Some of you have heard me do my rant about decision theology – but if you haven't yet had that opportunity . . . well sit tight. We can start with the disciples in this morning's Gospel. The only thing they're into deciding is how to get some fish to sell, and after all those frankly odd stories at Easter it was high past time for them to get back to humdrum daily routine of the fishing industry. Except the fishing isn't so hot. The former followers of the late, great Jesus of Nazareth have worked all night, but have hauled up only empty nets again and again. Then Jesus appears – but no one recognizes the Risen Lord. They don't recognize his voice, they don't recognize his face or his body. Being the same dense bunch they've always been, it seems they need a sign – they need some marvel – even though Jesus has repeatedly registered his disgust over people's need for the WOW factor. So Jesus gives them some WOW – he tells them to put their skepticism aside just for a minute and to let down their net one more time – and behold, fish; lots and lots of fish. In an instant, the disciple who was Jesus' beloved recognizes Jesus and exclaims to Peter, "It is the Lord!!" And after some of Peter's usual shenanigans, they come ashore and Jesus puts on a breakfast barbecue -- and in the meal, prepared by the Christ, with fish from Christ's command, it is revealed to all of the disciples that it is indeed the Christ who stands among them. This whole scene affirms that it's exactly like Jesus has been saying all along – it's not in our nature to see Jesus for who Jesus really is – it's only by the power of God's Spirit that such a revelation happens. We cannot on our own decide to find Jesus; rather it's always God in Christ who comes and finds us – it's God in Christ who takes us into God's heart and not the other way around. And if you really want to hear the antithesis of decision theology, then listen to the first reading for this morning. Poor Saul. He's used to thinking he knows the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth concerning what is the will of God. Convinced that he knows the mind of God, Saul breathes threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord. But then something happens (as it has or will for all of us). Saul gets knocked upside the head by God-only-knows-what, is struck blind, and is ORDERED by something or someone to get his butt up off the ground and to go to Damascus where he will be TOLD what he's supposed to do. I'm not hearing much room there for Saul to do much deciding or to put in his two cents of effort. It doesn't seem to have been up to Saul to give his life to Jesus or take Jesus into his heart. Unless I'm missing something, I don't hear anything in this story even resembling free will. And in the same story there's Ananias – a disciple of the Lord whom God tells to go to this misanthropic murderer named Saul. Ananias isn't any too happy about this. However, he doesn't seem to have much choice either, but old Ananais knows that arguing with God isn't going to get him anywhere. God has chosen a murderer to bring the name of God before the world and there's nothing Ananias can do to dissuade God. So off he goes to Saul – and can't you almost see the look on unwilling Ananias's face when he finally lays his hands on Saul-the-murderer's head and says (no doubt through gritted teath), "God sent me so you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit."? All the while thinking, "this isn't my hare-brained idea." Suddenly Saul isn't blind, he's baptized (apparently without going to catechism or answering an altar call), and with his new name, Paul – signifying his new birth, Paul finds himself proclaiming (of all things!!) that Jesus is the Son of God. It's all so . . . sudden – I wonder if Saul wasn't stunned himself at what he was saying. Seems to me all the deciding here has been one way – God has made all the decisions, God has done all the work. God's grace is, as Paul nee Saul has found out, irresistible. And so it is for us. God has searched and found us. God has decided to take us into the heart of God. Christ has chosen to be for us, our Lord and Savior. But be aware, God's choice for us, God's finding us, God's decision to accept us for who we are, as we are, doesn't make anything all that much easier for us. It does, in fact, make life a whole lot more difficult. The Risen Christ who searches Peter out, who forgives Peter's denial – calls Peter to come and die. The Risen Christ who overwhelms murderous Saul leads the newly baptized Paul through paths untrodden and perils unknown. And so it is for you. God has decided to have you and use you without you needing to do anything. Neither you nor I know what God has in store for you – but– you are God's own and nothing can or will ever change that. And with Peter and with Paul, you will be led where we do not necessarily wish to go. And your arms will be stretched out, for when God calls a person, God bids that person, come – and die. Lord
God, you have called us your servants to ventures of which we cannot
see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. The
Second Sunday of Easter Click here for printable .PDF format Acts 5:27-32 Don’t believe everything you hear. Seeing is believing. A picture is worth a thousand words. I see what you’re saying. It’s like the great Greek philosopher, Aristotle said, “[s]ight is the principal source of knowledge . . .” Indeed, in the Greek language, the verb to see in its past tense form means to know. What’s more, the Greek verb meaning to live is synonymous with the verb to see light. And Plato opined, “as the most spiritual sense, related to light, seeing give access to true being.” Thomas, aka, The Twin, obviously believed with Heraclitus, another ancient philosopher, that the “eyes are more accurate witnesses than ears.” For Thomas, truth was not to be found in the spoken word. Unless something was verifiable through sight and touch – well, it couldn’t be believed. That which couldn’t be seen, that which couldn’t be touched, need not, ought not, be trusted. With this strong emphasis on sight, you have to wonder if Thomas or any of the people on the eastern shores of the Mediterranean could have any faith or trust in the God of the Hebrews. After all, the God of Moses, the God of the Older Testament, the God of Jesus was the unseen God who had commanded that God remain unseen, that no image of God’s self ever be made. In certain times and places this was taken to mean that even the unutterable name of the Lord God was to remain unseen and therefore to not be written out. It was the unseen God of Abraham and Sarah who spoke the whole creation into being and declared it good. It was the God of the prophets and the ancestors who manifested God’s self in a still, small voice rather than in earthquake, wind, and fire. No mountains to be seen falling, no tree limbs to be seen flying before the wind, and no great balls of fire to marvel at – only a whispered message on the breeze of a summer day. And the Gospel of St. John from which this morning’s reading comes opens with a chant that proclaims for all creation to hear, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God – and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” This word, of course, is, was and evermore shall be none other than the Christ in whose resurrection Thomas could not trust unless he could see with his own eyes and touch. Think of voice, think of speech, think of the spoken Word. All of it comes out of nowhere and disappears into nowhere: speech rises up from silence and disappears into thin air the moment the word is uttered. And in the pre-technological world there was no way to tie voice down – it was as free as the wind – here and there and everywhere but not available to dissect, pin down, make captive. No, Thomas wasn’t about to trust the spoken word, all the talk that the crucified one had been raised from the dead – and he especially wasn’t going to trust a spoken word that had begun with the woman at the tomb – their spoken word bearing a message that was, at the very least, fantastic – and you know how those women are. And so we call him Doubting Thomas – feeling just a little bit superior because we of course didn’t have to see the crucified and risen Christ to believe. Blessed are we who have not seen and yet have come to believe. But not so fast. Christianity in at least the last couple of centuries has taken a direction that isn’t many degrees removed from the culture that trusted only that which could be verified by sight. When we talk about various events in scripture, one of our first questions is “did it really happen in the way the story says?”. Did it really happen is just another way of asking if something visible took place. If no one could ever have really seen the Red Sea part, we would say it didn’t really happen – that it was “just” a story – as if stories weren’t real. And if, at the death of Christ, one could not see the curtain of the temple torn in two, if one couldn’t see the sky darken and the earth shaking, we would say it didn’t really happen. How can anything be real, reliable, true and trustworthy if it isn’t or wasn’t visible to the eye? This is of course the pillar upon which American Protestant religion is based. Unless every word in scripture records events open to vision, events that “really happened,” then everything falls apart. But Scripture and
the God of Scripture have a different idea. We hear in today’s
gospel that the final gift Christ gives to the disciples is the gift
of the Holy Spirit. But the Holy Spirit isn’t visible – Spirit
means breath, invisible breath. Nothing to see. Scripture itself holds
that all Scripture is inspired by the Holy Spirit. Inspired – a
word that means breathed upon. All scripture is Holy Breath on a breeze
– nothing to be apprehended by sight or by touch – the essence
of Scripture my friend[s] is blowin’ in the wind. According to
Scripture, our faith itself is the hope of things unseen – and
that which is seen is not — faith. And faith – our trust and
hope in the invisible — comes through hearing, this from the mouth
of St. Paul. And no lesser light than Martin Luther declared, “das
Wort ist geschrien – [cried out, proclaimed!] nicht geschrieben
– [not written],” the Word is a story told and not the written
record of what was – or even is — seen. The ancient Greek, long-dead poet Pindar says, “Blessed is the one who has seen.” The Crucified and Risen Christ who lives says, “Blessed are those who have not seen yet believe, yet trust.” But we are by nature believers only in what can be seen; we cannot and will not believe in that which remains unseen. How then are we to obtain the blessing pronounced by Christ in this morning’s Gospel? For humans it is impossible. But for God all things are possible. So hear the Word of God – the very same Word that once caused and still causes all creation to come into being. Christ, the living Word on the wind says to you this day: Peace – relax – give up your striving – for I have given and I will continue to give to you the Holy Spirit. Forget your spiritual striving – faith is all a gift, and I give it freely. You shall have faith – you shall have trust – in me alone. I have promised, and my Word, born on the wind, endures forever. The Resurrection
of Our Lord Click here for printable .PDF format Acts 10:34-43 Last night as we gathered for the Vigil of Easter, we received two members into the community of faith through Holy Baptism – Lydia Cate, 10 months old, and an adult, Jill Marie. And sixteen more were received through Affirmation of Baptism; and everyone there was sprinkled – some would say thoroughly drenched – with water from the Baptismal font in remembrance of their Baptism. All who were gathered last night, here and throughout the world, heard that in Holy Baptism the power of sin is put to death – the old, sinful being in us dies with Christ – and we are all raised with Jesus Christ to new life. But how to talk about being raised with Christ without reducing resurrection to some sort of positive thinking technique, some sort of feel-good psychobabble, some new age spirituality, or some new form of works righteousness? The Church has tried now and again to find words with which to speak of resurrection – both Christ's resurrection and ours – by borrowing from nature. This starts already in the Gospel according to St. John. There, the Evangelist has Jesus foretelling the resurrection by saying that a grain of wheat must fall into the earth before it can spring up and bear much fruit. The Church has also used the butterfly as a metaphor for the resurrection – a caterpillar must be wrapped in a grave-like cocoon and lie dormant before it can emerge in its bright Spring finery. And then of course, we have the down-covered chicks breaking their way out of tomb-like eggs. All these ways of talking about the resurrection, of talking about Easter, are, at best, limited. All things being equal, grains of wheat naturally spring forth from the earth to produce many more grains of wheat. Caterpillars naturally turn into winged creatures. Baby chicks, ducks, geese, and various other creatures do emerge from eggs. What these nature matephors miss, however, is that the resurrection, Christ's and ours, is totally outside the natural. More important is that grains of wheat, caterpillars, and assorted things that emerge from eggs are not first betrayed, abandoned, and denied. And there is no death, no dying involved in these natural processes. These natural images cannot take into account what we call sin – they do not take into account the evil that we do, nor the all-pervasive, systemic evil that blankets our world with a force greater than anything we can hope to control. So, how to speak of the power of sin being put to death? How to speak of the resurrection from the dead that we celebrate at Easter and on every Lord's Day? How to speak of new life, given to us because of the sheer love of God? There is an old legend that after he hanged himself and died, Judas Iscariot, the disciple who betrayed Jesus, found himself at the bottom of a deep and slimy pit. For thousands of years he wept in self-pitying grief over what he had done. When the tears were finally spent, he looked up and saw way, way, way up a tiny, tiny glimmer of light. After he contemplated the light for another thousand years or so, he began to try to climb up toward it. The walls of the pit were dank and slimy and he kept slipping back down. Finally, after great effort he neared the top, and then . . . he slipped and fell . . . all the way back down. It took him many years to recover, all the time weeping bitter tears of anguish. After many more efforts and falls, he finally lay at the bottom of the pit and cried out, "I can't! I can't do this!" And then suddenly, Judas found himself in an upper room with twelve people sitting around an amply spread banquet table. "We've been waiting for you Judas," said the one at the head of the table, whom Judas immediately recognized as Jesus. "We've been waiting for you Judas. We couldn't begin till you came." Let the light that Judas saw be the promise of Easter, the promise of resurrection. Let the deep and slimy pit be the power of sin. Now Judas did the natural thing: he tried to climb out of the pit – he tried to reach for the light himself. Good for him, we want to say. That's the American way, right? -- to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps. But of course, Judas's attempts to climb out of the pit on his own failed miserably – and his despair became greater and greater until one day he said, "I can't . . . I can't." We call that in the Church, repentance. To say, "I can't," is the radical surrender of all our attempts to save ourselves. Repentance is to give up our natural inclinations to overcome the world by our own striving – and to turn to God and say, "I can't come to new life no matter how hard I try. No matter how hard I try to raise myself from the ways of death, I fall down into the slime again. Only you God can restore a right spirit within me. Only you God can make me whole. Only you God can raise me up from the dead. I can't There is something terribly offensive about the Legend of Judas, something that goes against what is "natural." How could the one who betrayed Christ ever be forgiven? The God of Easter, however, is no respecter of persons. God's promise of resurrection, of new life, is for all – for all. I know – the "for all" part doesn't seem fair – especially for those of us who've been hanging around the church all our lives trying to do the right thing. But God isn't fair! The promise of Easter is not just for a select few – hard to believe as that may be. Rather, God's love is completely promiscuous, God's love is even – or maybe especially – for the worst of the worst. The promise of Easter is for those of us who betray, who deny, who run away when things get scary. Yes, most unnaturally(!!), God's love is for the very worst of us – and even for the best of us. God has promised – and the promises of God are irrevocable. And so, sons and daughters of God I proclaim to you this Easter Morning: In Holy Baptism you were marked with the cross of Christ, the sign of God's promise to raise you up to new life – each and every day. And nothing – not even you – can do anything to screw that one up. The Sunday of the
Passion, Palm Sunday Click here for prinable .PDF format Isaiah 50:4-9a The nice thing about being Lutheran is that you really don’t have to go to all those extra liturgies at church during Holy Week. All that stuff is OK for the clergy, the vowed religious, and people who don’t have anything better to do. Yeah, there’s services scheduled for every day of the week, but let’s get practical, for normal people, it’s gonna be a busy week already. We need to get the house cleaned, and then there’s all the shopping we have to do to get ready for Easter. We’ve need to get some new spring clothes, we have to find some cards that say “Happy Spring” for all our friends that aren’t religious like we are, we need to get a ham, some sweet potatoes, and maybe some nice asparagus or Brussels sprouts. Have to make sure to stop at one of the upscale malls and get some Godiva chocolate eggs—they’re so much better than what you get at King Soopers or Safeway, and we need to go to the liquor store for some wine, and maybe some vodka and gin and bourbon and maybe a six-pack—better make that a case—holidays are stressful. And we really should get some Easter lilies somewhere along the way—they’re bound to be on sale by Friday. Sure wish this were a year to go on vacation for Holy Week and Easter. Anywhere in Mexico or the Carribean would be great right about now—but then again, if you do go there, you have to look at all those poor people, and who needs that. We see enough of them hanging around on Colfax every day of the week. And why should we have to spend any time during Holy Week in church? It’ll be bad enough to sit through Easter services what with all the extra music, with all those extra people who only go to church on Christmas and Easter going up for communion, and with whatever else they decide to throw in for a good show. You know, if they got rid of communion, some of the scripture readings, and a couple of prayers, we’d get out of there a whole lot sooner. If we’re gonna have to sit in church for almost an hour and a half on Easter Sunday, they should be thankful we’re even there then. Besides, they’ve changed Palm Sunday so that we have to hear about Jesus dying that day too. That really should be more than enough for one year.There’s too much emphasis on Jesus suffering and dying anyway. It’s almost as if they were trying to tell us that God chooses to be weak. It’s like they have some sort of hidden agenda—let they’re trying to tell us that God would choose to be passive, that God would choose to be a weakling, would choose to be—almost a pacifist and would suffer and die rather than use divine power to annihilate the axis of evil. It’s all a part of that liberal theology about God having a preference for the poor and leaving the rich to live lives of emptiness. We should be hearing more about God being how God is supposed to be—strong and powerful, punishing sinners and hating wrong-doers. Just think of what would happen if everybody was told that God unconditionally loves them and unconditionally forgives them. Next thing you know people would start saying that God loves criminals, drug addicts, welfare queens and people with sexually transmitted diseases. Next thing you know we’ll be hearing that God loves and blesses queers. And speaking of queer, where did all that footwashing business they do on Maundy Thursday come from? It’s not like that’s part of the story or anything—is it?? Even if it is, it’s—gross—and sort of—humiliating. I suppose it’s OK if the clergy types want to do that sort of thing—they get paid to do that stuff. But it’s a slippery slope and next thing you know they’ll be suggesting some year that we wash each other’s feet. That’ll be the last straw—time to find another church that doesn’t think that’s something lay people are supposed to do. And then there’s all that stuff on Friday. Who wants to come to church and get all...depressed? There’s absolutely nothing uplifting about all that crucifixion business. And you know, it almost seems nowadays that we’re supposed to think that we’re somehow responsible for Jesus suffering and dying. I suppose that’s the latest thing in political correctness—we’re not supposed to even think that the you-know-who’s-rhymes-with-shoes are the Christ killers. It’s a shame what those people are saying about Mel Gibson. Anyway, why do we
have to dwell on all this negative cross and suffering business in the
first place? You know, reality is bad enough. We already get our fair
share of depressing stuff watching the news on TV or reading the morning
papers. People should be able to come to church to feel better about
themselves and the world. That’s why we like Easter — it’s
all about triumph and victory. It’s about how things are supposed
to be. The good guys win, and everything’s upbeat. You know, the
churches that are growing are the ones that leave people refreshed,
optimistic, and proud to be an American living an upscale life in an
upscale neighborhood with people of our own kind. So forget Holy Week.
We have to get ready for Easter, and we don’t need all that other
stuff. The Second Sunday
in Lent Click here for printable .PDF format Genesis 15:1-12,
17-18 I'm going to make an assumption here, that most of us desire a loving god, a god who loves without any limits whatsoever. We desire a god who is infinitely merciful, a god who keeps on forgiving our sins, even the ones we willfully and knowingly enter into time and time and time again. We desire a gracious god, one who showers us with prosperity, with a good family, with numerous friends, with all the good things of life. And we desire an eternal god - one who will keep us safe even after life on this shore has ended. We desire a god who is comfortable, a god who conforms to our ideas of what a god should be. BUT we would prefer that this god confine giving all these good things to people who truly deserve them - to people who have lived upright lives, to people who try to be good neighbors, who try to be good citizens. Conversely, what we most assuredly do not want is a god who indiscriminately and promiscuously loves, forgives, and graces all those who do not deserve any good thing from anyone, let alone God. We do not want a god who loves, forgives, and graces the sleazy, the smarmy, the sinful, the bigoted, the racist, the homophobic, and the nasty next-door neighbor. Love me infinitely, forgive me unconditionally, grace my life with every good thing, and take me as your own. But boy oh boy - do not extend those things to others until you consult me first. Now let us consider Abram - or Abraham as God later renames him. What would you think of a husband who after his wife, Sarai, proved unable to bear children, went and shacked up with the cleaning lady so he could finally have a child? Think of Abram's poor wife Sarai, what she had to put up with -- her husband Abram, the wandering Aramean schmuck (and that's being rather nice). One time in his wanderings, he got himself in trouble with the locals and to save his own hide he offered his wife to the locals as a sex slave, telling them that this woman was really just his sister. Abram came out smelling like a rose - and got his wife/sister back, and made himself a rich man in the bargain. This whole gambit worked so well that he up and moved his wife, his riches, and himself to another foreign place and once more offered up his - ahem - "sister" as a sex slave. And again Abram walks away with even more riches, and again with his wife as well. Sleaze, schmuck, pimp, pervert, money-grubbing, wife-abusing jerk. So then - why does the one true God of all that is, seen and unseen, choose to come to Abram and promise him every good thing imaginable. I can maybe understand God giving Abram's barren and worked-over wife some sort of blessing for all she's had to put up with - but how can God promise Abram his own land and descendants as numerous as the stars? Surely God could have found someone, almost anyone, much, much, much more deserving than Abram. But no, God up and blesses a total jerk. But Abram, against his very nature, finds himself trusting the outrageous promise of this odd God. And so the story goes, God proclaims Abram and his wife Sarai as God's own beloved children - their adoption is symbolized by their new names -- Abraham and Sarah - and God seals the promise with a sacramental kiss. This, however, is most assuredly NOT how we want God to act. And you can damn well better bet that we don't want anyone around who advertises this sort of indiscriminate and promiscuous love for the undeserving and for the unworthy. We definitely and emphatically do not want a god who loves both the good and the bad and who the top it all off, works to reconcile them to one another. We do not want a god who loves both the bigot and those who are victims of bigotry - and who works to reconcile them to one another. We do not want a god who loves the rich and the poor - and who promises to reconcile them to one another. We do not want a god who loves equally the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people and the crowd at Focus on the Family - and who wills to reconcile these, her children, to one another. It's just not fair. It's just plain - just plain - unrealistic, naive, impractical - it's just plain - un-American, un-Christian, un-godly. As for me, you can bet I don't want to have anything to do with Marilyn Musgrave and her crowd. I wish God would give her what I think she deserves. I wish God would smite her with an iron rod. And I most certainly do not want any sort of reconciliation with her and her ilk. I would prefer to see that whole crowd removed to some other planet. And then the promiscuous,
indiscriminate God of sleazy Abraham and of Sarah, his long-suffering
wife, speaks. Listen, says Jesus Christ, God's Promise made flesh. Listen,
says God - it's your mother speaking. Like a mother hen, I wish to draw
all of you under my wings. It is my will to love all people - and I
want you especially to know that I love all those whom you look upon
with disdain. It is my will to take into my keeping all my children
- the pious frauds, the self-righteous, the truly saintly, and the unapologetically
crummy. I'm your mother and I love all of you - equally - not on account
of anything you do - but only because you are mine. And, I would appreciate
it if you would all try to get along with one another. Yes, I know it's
not in your nature. But it is in my nature - and that's how I see you
to be. from now on. From now on, I see you as having as having the heart
of a mother who regards all her offspring with infinite love, mercy,
grace, and keeping. The Confession of
St. Peter Acts 4:8–13 Click here for printable .PDF format Today the church throughout the world begins the Octave – or eight days – of Prayer for Christian Unity. These eight days of prayer for the unity of Christ's Church begin with the feast of "The Confession of St. Peter, and they end next Sunday with another feast, "The Conversion of St. Paul." I grew up in a denominationally mixed family. About half of my Christian relatives are Roman Catholic, and the other half is predominately Lutheran – with a stray Methodist thrown in for laughs. My family closely mirrors the religious makeup my home state of Minnesota, where a third of the population is Roman Catholic, a third Lutheran – and the last third is comprised of all the leftovers. Growing up in a family half Roman Catholic and half Lutheran, I got very confused when I heard kids from the Roman Catholic parochial school and kids from the Lutheran parochial school hurling insults against one another. The Roman kids told the Lutheran kids they were going to hell because they weren't Roman Catholic – and the Lutheran kids told the Roman kids that they were going to hell because they weren't Lutheran. I also heard from the neighborhood kids that it was a sin for a Roman Catholic to step foot in a church that wasn't Roman – and it was a sin for a Lutheran to go into a Roman Catholic church. This puzzled me because I never heard my Roman Catholic relatives talk this way to my Lutheran relatives or vice versa. In fact, we had all spent time in each other's churches – we'd taken communion in each other's churches. And having been raised in a Swedish Lutheran parish where many of the ancient customs of the church had been preserved – and where we heard Svensk Högmässe – Swedish High Mass – the Latin Mass seemed no more or less strange than what I heard in our Lutheran parish – nor were the actions of our Swedish Lutheran Präst much different from what Monsignor did during the Roman mass. Admittedly, there were a few differences – but even those began to disappear during the sixties. The cousins no longer had to stand in line Saturday evenings for confession, and once I had heard the liturgies of both my Lutheran church and my family's Roman church in English – well, it seemed even weirder than ever that we only went to each other's churches for baptisms, funerals, and weddings. When I was ordained, one of the promises I made was to preach and teach in accordance with The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church, and while many clergy honor that promise more in the breech than in the keeping, this book, in many, many ways holds the key to the Christian unity for which we pray this week. Beginning with the Augsburg Confession, the central tenet of this volume is that it is sufficient for the unity of the church that the Gospel – God's unconditional promise -- be preached and the sacraments of the church be administered in accord with the Gospel. The core of the this Gospel is found in the Confession of St. Peter – that Jesus is the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God -- and in the teaching of St. Paul – that we are made right with God, through God's gift, which is ours merely for trusting that it is so. That's all that's necessary for church unity. Again in the words of the Augsburg Confession: "It is not necessary that human traditions, rites, or ceremonies instituted by human beings be alike everywhere." But even having said that, the reformers take great pains, over and over in the Book of Concord, to make the point that, for the sake of order, the Lutherans keep the ancient ceremonies of the church – that they celebrate mass each Lord's Day and on other feast days as well – and that the people receive communion with greater frequency than ever. With regard to statues, vestments, music, stained glass windows, the placement of the altar, the church is to make no rules that say these things are necessary for salvation. Just as important – and this is the one we more need to hear these days – the church is also not to make any rules forbidding these traditions. You may kneel or stand to receive the Eucharist; mass may be sung or said; parts of the mass may be used or not; people may make the sign of the cross or not; people may genuflect, or bow, or do nothing when they enter their pews. You may hold your hands in any way you choose when you pray. The rule is: make no rules that say you must observe a certain ceremony or action; BUT make no rules that forbid ceremonies or actions. In fact, says the Book of Concord, many of the ancient ceremonies and traditions are very helpful in teaching the faith and should not be abolished. It has been a renewed attention to the Book of Concord that has allowed the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and its predecessors to come into full communion with the United Church of Christ; the Reformed Church in the United States; the Presbyterian Church in the USA; the Moravian Church in the USA; and the Episcopal Church in the USA. This means that we may commune in each other's churches, that our clergy may preach and preside in one another's churches, and that our clergy may serve in one another's churches. Further it is the prayer of the ELCA's Presiding Bishop, Mark Hanson, that the multiple theological agreements between the Church of Rome and the Lutheran Churches during the past 40 years will lead us to further accords that will allow us to commune in one another's churches by 2017, the 500th anniversary of the Reformation. Bishop Hanson has voiced this very hope to the Holy Father in Rome, that Lutherans and Roman Catholics will be well on their way to some form of unity by 2017. Our Lord Jesus Christ, on the night before his execution, prayed to God and said: "I ask not only on behalf of these [disciples], but also on behalf of those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one. As you, Father are in me and I am in you, may they also be one in us, so that the world may believe you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have them even as you have loved me." I don't know about you, but I hear absolutely no wiggle room in those words. Rather I hear that the divisions in the church and those things that foster divisions are not only counter to Christ's prayer for the church, but that they also make us less than credible in the eyes of the world. Our dogged clinging to the small things that keep the church divided are nothing more or less than our sinful insistence that the things we do or don't do, the customs we either mandate or forbid are more important to us than Christ's free gift of grace, mercy, and peace, are more important to us than Christ's prayer that our unity be a sign to the world of God's love. And we may not, we must not, point our accusing fingers only at the hierarchies of the various denominations for our disunity. Any and every time we pass judgement on the faith or piety of a brother or sister -- whether that person belongs to another tradition or is a part of one's own worshipping community – we are acting contrary to Christ's unambiguous will that the church be one. Each time we call someone a high church snob or a low church slob, we are committing a grave sin. Each time we pass judgement on how another prays – how that one's hands are or are not joined – whether that one prays with bowed head or not – whether the person next to us makes the sign of the cross or not – we ourselves stand judged. In a few moments we celebrate the sacrament of Holy Communion in which we all receive Christ's body and blood, given and shed for all people for the forgiveness of sin. Through Christ's Holy Supper may we and all who receive Christ into their bodies die to the things that divide the church and become alive to the unity that is ours, not by what we do or do not do – but because there is one Christ who has died, one Lord who is risen, one Savior who will come again that the whole creation shall know the unconditional love of the God Who Is One. Memorial
Eucharist Click here for printable .PDF format For the better part of the last eight months, most of my Thursday afternoons, with an occasional Tuesday or Wednesday thrown in for good measure, belonged to Carol. On those Thursday afternoons with Carol, she and I would talk about birth and death and nearly everything in between that you could imagine. One of the other things we did – well one of the things Carol did – was plan – for all sorts of things. On of those things for which we planned was what would happen here during her memorial Eucharist. Even more specifically, Carol did a great deal of planning regarding what I was to say during this homily. I had to remind her every now and then that her wish to keep this liturgy under an hour and a half might not compatible with all that she was planning for me to say. When I would tell her this, Carol would get this look of surprise on her face and then just crack up, laughing at herself and her self-confessed need to be in charge of all things -- even after her death. At any rate, "we" decided on three points that I was to share with you. The first point is the story of the Good Samaritan – the story the Assistant to Bishop Allan Bjornberg just read for today's Gospel. I want you to tell people, Carol said, that I'm not the Good Samaritan – that's for other people to do. I'm just the inn-keeper, the one who gets paid by the Samaritan to do the long-term care for the ones the Samaritan finds left for dead at the side of the road. Just the inn-keeper Carol? I think not. Yes Carol, you may have been the inn-keeper but you were also the one who diligently searched the sides of the road, looking for the wounded ones whom others had passed by. Carol -- searching, always searching for the lost, the last, the least, the unloved – and finding them, Carol would search for just the right innkeepers to care for the ones she found at the side of the road – even if that meant building the inn and becoming the inn keeper herself. And as if this weren't enough, Carol would find those who had passed the wounded by – people of privilege and power -- and she would help them to understand – by whatever means was necessary – that there were victims lying by the side of the road that they, the ones with power, needed to see and care for. What's more, she would let the ones with power know that there needed to be safe roads so people wouldn't become victims in the first place. And if the established types wouldn't listen or were unresponsive, she would get together a work crew and set about building that safe highway herself. And if Carol decided you were going to be on the work crew – well, heaven help you, you were going to be on the work crew. In all of this, Carol was never self-righteous or self-congratulatory about what she did. If anything she was self-deprecating – lamenting that she was not doing enough. What Carol did, she did because God had set these things before her to do. It was that simple – she said she really didn't have a choice. She said to me one cay, "If you see a child in the middle of the road about to be hit by a truck, you run out into the street to rescue him or her. You don't sit around and wonder if you should do something or not. You just do it. You have no choice." Carol spent a good deal of time during her dying days praying the 23rd Psalm, and she wanted me to tell you about the Valley of the Shadow of Death that is central to that psalm. The Valley of the Shadow of Death was real for Carol. It had steep sides – more like a canyon than a valley; it was dry, harsh, rugged – and there was no way to climb out of it. And at first, the Valley of the Shadow of Death terrified Carol. But when she stopped trying to climb out of this fearsome valley, Carol turned around and faced the shadow – and she took a good, long and hard look at the Shadow of Death – and then, quite suddenly a great peace came over her. Yes, the Shadow of Death was real – there was no doubt – but peace came when Carol realized that there can be no shadows if everything is dark. There can only be a shadow if a light, a strong light is shining on the other side of that thing which casts the shadow. Without the light, there is no shadow. And realizing there was a light shining behind the Shadow of Death, Carol came to another valley – this one gently sloping, green, cool, water-fed, peaceful and filled with the flowers and the creatures that Carol so loved. Even the weeds in this new valley were pretty ones. And all was well. And then Carol embraced with every fiber of her being the words of her beloved St. Francis of Assisi, "And you, most kind and gentle death/ Waiting to hush our final breath,/ Oh, praise him, Alleluia!/ You lead to heaven the child of God . . . " And last, Carol agreed that I would talk about St. Francis of Assisi whose song and whose prayer were a constant source of inspiration for her. The sun, the moon, the stars, the rocks and trees, and every living thing were to St. Francis, sisters and brothers with him, all children of God. So too for Carol. The sun her brother, the moon and the stars her sisters. Everything created good. This was why Carol was a vegetarian. "I can't eat anything that has a mother," she would frequently say. And so she ate fruits, seeds, and grains – because you didn't have to kill a plant to eat those things. And she was thrilled one day when reading one of the creation stories in Genesis to discover these words: "God said, ‘See, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree in its fruit; you shall have them for food. And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given every green plant for food.'" "See," Carol said. "We're not supposed to eat each other. I will not eat my brothers and sisters, the birds, the animals, the fish." Carol had not one, but two statues of St. Francis standing in her gardens amidst her sisters and brothers of the earth. Carol left both these statues to this faith community. One, she said, I could put anywhere . . . the other, however, was to find a place in this worship space – to remind all who come to pray here that all creatures and all living things are children of God – our sisters and our brothers, and that all living things join together in praising God with body, heart, soul, and mind – indeed with their very lives. Carol, since you have gone, Thursday afternoons are unsettlingly empty. I'm not sure that I did much of anything during our afternoons of laughing, crying, praying, gossiping (Carol loved gossip!), meditating, and you planning. But you did much more than I. Carol, on those Thursday afternoons, you taught me how to live in the midst of dying. You taught me the meaning those words from the hymn we began with: "And whether our tomorrows be filled with good or ill, we'll triumph through our sorrows and rise to bless God still, to marvel at God's beauty, and glory in God's ways." And Carol, you taught me how to die: you faced death, the end of all your striving, clinging only to the promise you believed with all your heart: that God is good. Carol, I think I know what I would like to do with my Thursday afternoons now. I should like to come up here, to this sacred space that you so treasured, to this sacred space that was for you a source of peace and strength – and I'll sit next to your St. Francis and I will wait to hear you, talking with the animals, joined now by Francis and all the saints – dancing and singing with every creature of God in that green, green valley where the Shadow of Death is no more, where there are no more victims, where there is no more suffering – where all is well for ever and ever. One more thing. Carol said I was to close this homily with a prayer – the prayer of St. Francis. And so to the blessed memory of our sister Carol – until she welcomes each of us in our turn to that green, green valley, until she takes each of us by hand and introduces us to her God. Let us pray.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen |
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