Getting Away to a Lonely Place

HOMILY, CHRIST CHURCH, BAY ST. LOUIS – PROPER 11, YEAR B

JULY 18, 2021

 

TEXT:                        MARK 6:30-34, 53-56

 

            There is a bumper sticker that many of you have probably seen.  It says simply, “Jesus is coming. Look busy.”

 

            That would apply to the disciples in today’s gospel lesson. Earlier in chapter six, Jesus had dispatched them two-by-two into the surrounding towns and villages.  His charge to them: Heal the sick, cast out demons, and proclaim the coming of the kingdom.

 

            Now, later in the chapter, they have returned – elated, victorious, having done what Jesus had asked them to do. They were pumped. What’s next?

 

            Jesus’ response: Come away with me to a lonely place.

 

            Thirty-six years ago I was doing my hospital chaplaincy training at University Hospital in Jackson.  It was my Sunday to conduct the interfaith chapel service.  The people who attended were the family members of patients in the hospital.  Ironically, the gospel lesson was the same as today.

 

            As I looked out on that gathered group of worshippers, I saw a harried lot of folks – people who were weary, people who had tended their loved ones, people who were running on empty and were at the point of exhaustion.

 

            Out of necessity, they had become human doings and not human beings. They had done so, as I said, out of necessity – not a simple choice to burn the candle at both ends.

 

            Jesus said to them, and he says to us, Come away to a lonely place.

 

            This may not be an issue for you.  You may be blessed with ample quiet time for reflection and going deep.  But the modern world puts all sorts of obstructions in our way.  We identify our worth with what we do rather than the quality and depth of our connection to the ground of our being.

 

            The prophet Nathan had a similar message for King David in the first lesson. David was striving to do more. God speaks to David through Nathan: “I have given you all you need. Do not try to build me a house. Be assured of my hand in your life.”

 

            I am not proposing that we rest on our laurels.  We are still encouraged, in the words of the prophet Micah, to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly before our God. But recognize the need for refreshment and to stay connected with that source of life which calls to us. 

A Response to Augustine

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – SECOND SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST, YEAR B

JUNE 6, 2021

 

TEXT:                        MY LAST SUNDAY AT ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY

 

            Early in the second semester of a seminarian’s senior year, we take a week of written comprehensive examinations.  Those exams are called GOEs – General Ordination Examinations. A student is expected to show proficiency in seven canonical areas of study.

Because of their comprehensiveness and importance, they are jokingly referred to as God’s Own Exam.

 

            The test comes in many forms, depending on the day. Open-book. Closed-book. Short answer. Multiple-choice. Essay.

 

            The year after I took mine (I passed), a friend took his at Virginia Seminary.  He had a classmate who gave one of the most creative – and wrong -- answers to a question.

 

            The student was stumped by a simple question: Who was the mother of St. Augustine of Hippo? It was not a difficult question; most seminarians would know the answer. Augustine’s mother was a prominent figure in church history.  Her name was Monica.

 

            Again, the question was Who was the mother of St. Augustine of Hippo? Stumped, the student wrote his creative answer: Mrs. Hippo.

 

+ + + 

 

            Augustine was remembered for so much more.  He was one of the great “doctors of the church” and perhaps its most influential theologian.

 

            He is remembered especially for his writings, such as The City of God, and his autobiographical work, which is entitled Confessions.  That work spans 13 books all of which were written between 397 and 400 A. D.

 

            My homily today on this my last Sunday with you, will be my Confession – though considerably shorter.  It will be my credo – Latin for I believe.

 

+ + + 

 

            A life of walking the faith, first in the Methodist Church and for the last fifty-one years in the Episcopal Church, and 34 years of ordained ministry have instilled certain essential points of faith in my heart.  

 

Those years of experience and traveling with some remarkable saints on this sojourn have taught me that we, as Christians, live ordinary lives.  We live lives that are not protected from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Those we love are subject to serious illness.  We sustain tragic losses. We encounter the bitterness of human existence. Our relationships fall apart. Our children and grandchildren are not immune to these circumstances.  And much more. Sadly, our faith is no magic fix or shield against the human condition.

 

But we have friends – fellow journeyers – who will walk with us on this path.  And we will walk with them.  We will share one another’s burdens.  We will embrace one another.  We will pray with one another.  We will love one another (as Jesus commanded) even though we may not utter those words.

 

We are called to this Holy Table – to confess our sins, to break bread, to hear the story of salvation – which is our story.  And we give thanks. As a bit of contemporary Roman Catholic music says, “We come to share our story.  We come to break the bread. We come to know our rising from the dead.”

 

And there’s more. Our faith gives us a different perspective than those who do not share that faith.  We see over a foggy, distant horizon. We see a majesty, a depth, a transcendence, a dimension to God’s existence that assures us of our eternal part in it.  We see the grave not as an end, but as a transition – a gateway to eternal life.  And though we may grieve the loss of a loved one, we know that this veil of tears will endure but the twinkling of an eye.  Our common lives continue in God’s kingdom.

 

And, still, there is more.  We are recipients of an abundance, an overflowing, a never-ending fountain of love from the source of our creation.  That love is given to us and is available to us no matter where we go and no matter what we do. As our prayer book says, “The bond established by God in baptism is indissoluble.”

 

As Roman Catholic mystic and contemplative Richard Rohr has said, the love of God is ultimately irresistible.  It will overcome all barriers.  It is relentless. It will prevail.  We may resist for a time, but the love of God is the essence of creation.  We cannot escape it. That love is the seminal characteristic of the Trinity, which we acknowledged last week on Trinity Sunday.  The relationship between the members of the Trinity – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – is perichoresis – the dance of love. Our mission is to emulate that dance with others.  That is our highest calling.

 

The hymn we just sang captures all of this.  It was written by a poet from Greenville, Mississippi and is probably my favorite hymn.  William Alexander Percy penned these words, “The peace of God, it is no peace, but strife closed in the sod. Yet let us pray for but one thing – the marvelous peace of God.” 

The Distilled Essence

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – PENTECOST, YEAR B

MAY 23, 2021

 

TEXT:                        SACRAMENT OF HOLY BAPTISM

 

            People may sometimes ask what Episcopalians actually believe.  What is our essential teaching?

 

            It’s, actually, quite simple. We say that praying shapes believing.  In other words, the way we pray describes our theology. Our prayers are based on our theology. Never is it truer than today.

 

            The Catechism, in the back of the Book of Common Prayer, describes Episcopal Church teaching. It says that a sacrament is an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.  In other words, that which we do here is a sign and symbol of a deeper, more profound reality.  It represents how God is moving in our lives.

 

            Today we see that truth at work in the life of Ian MyKah Stuart Hantz. His baptism is an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. It is a symbol of the essential rite of initiation into Christ’s body, the Church.

 

            Yes, he is being made a member of the Church.  But so much more. The preface to the baptismal service says that “Holy Baptism is the full initiation by water and the Holy Spirit into Christ’s body, the Church.  The bond established by God in baptism is indissoluble.”

 

            In other words, baptism is not a purely human action.  It is a response to something God has already done – loved MyKah. And by this action, we are recognizing that a bond is established between MyKah and God – and that it cannot be dissolved.

 

            There is more.  In the thanksgiving over the water (my favorite prayer in the prayer book), we recall the saving help of God throughout faith history.  We describe the spirit of God – the ruach, literally the breath of God – moving over the waters in creation. We identify with the wondrous deliverance of the Hebrew people in the rolling back of the Red Sea.

 

            Then we come to the life of Christ – and acknowledge that in baptism our old selves die with him, go down into the grave, and then rise with him as new beings, sharing in his resurrection victory.

 

            That is a lot of outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual graces in just a few moments.  But it has profound, eternal ramifications – for each of us, and for MyKah.

 

            Then we turn to the Holy Communion.  But that is a story for another time.

 

            Thanks be to God.

A Process Wrapped in Prayer

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 7 EASTER, YEAR B

MAY 16, 2021

 

TEXT:                        ACTS 1:15-17, 21-26

 

            In the first lesson today, we have the account of the first successor among the disciples.  Judas, of course, had betrayed Jesus – and followed his dastardly deed by committing suicide. So, the 12 disciples were left one-short, with just 11.  So, they began the first discernment process.

 

            Discernment processes have changed quite a bit over the years. Two centuries later, Fabian was chosen Bishop of Rome in 236 A. D. by having a dove land on his head as he stood outside the electing council of the church. It was Rome, so that dove was likely a pigeon.  At any rate, the crowd saw the bird – whether a dove or pigeon – as a sign that the Holy Spirit had chosen Fabian.

 

            The Diocese of Mississippi, from which I hail, has an 80-year tradition of electing priests named Duncan Montgomery Gray to be bishop.  In fact, over the years, we have elected three of them.  The first Bishop Gray, who served from 1942 until his death in 1965, once commented on the process of electing bishops: “Anyone who wants to be bishop deserves to be bishop.” You can guess what that meant.

 

            When I was much younger, I was pondering a possible call to the ordained ministry. Several priests had this advice for me: “If you can do anything else, do it.” Not the highest recommendation for a vocation.

 

            But, in the first lesson today, two men made themselves available – Barsabbas, called Justus, and Matthias.  When the eleven disciples narrowed the list of possible apostles, they prayed for those two.  And then they cast lots – trusting the Holy Spirit to speak through a game of chance.  And she did.  Matthias was chosen.

 

            It would not be too long before the disciples felt a need to discern again.  This time it would be the discernment of the first seven deacons.  That was when St. Stephen was chosen. They were tasked with connecting with the community and bringing the needs of the community to the church.

 

            Now a committee of this parish is charged with the task of recommending the next rector for St. Paul’s, Foley.  Their job is to make a recommendation to the Vestry.  It is the Vestry’s job to discern whether their recommended candidate should be called as rector.  And it is the responsibility of the recommended candidate to discern whether he or she is called to be the rector of St. Paul’s, Foley.

 

            Throughout two millennia of discernment, the job of calling someone to a sacred role has been wrapped in prayer.  Sometimes the determining process has been the casting of lots, the descent of a bird, or the choice of a familiar name.  But it has always been enveloped in prayer.

 

            If you have paid attention over the last nine months, we have included a prayer for our parish’s search committee and process in every worship service.  The prayer is more than words.  It is the invitation of the Holy Spirit to guide the work and hearts of the search committee and Vestry.

 

            The hope, the prayer is that the Spirit will speak clearly above the din and clamor of daily life and guide our leaders to the person who is called to be rector.

 

            It is Holy Work. 

The Imperative to Give as We Receive

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 6 EASTER, YEAR B

MAY 9, 2021

 

TEXT:                        JOHN 15:9-17; THE LORD’S PRAYER, BCP PAGE 364

 

            The most easily received gift is also the one that is hardest to give.

 

            Ponder that for a moment.

 

            It is readily-available to be received – which is why many of us are here – but there is profound difficulty in giving it to others.

 

            That gift follows close on the heels of Jesus’ words in the gospel lesson today:

“As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”

            These words – among Jesus’ final instructions to his disciples – follow his instruction’s last imperative:  That we love one another.

            The gift to which I am referring both precedes and follows this new commandment from Jesus.  It is both the proof of that love, and the fruit of that love.

            It is forgiveness.

            Each Sunday, as we prepare to approach the Holy Table, we pray these words: “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” We come to the altar rail recipients of that gracious gift of forgiveness of all that is past.  We are new beings.  The slate has been wiped clean.

            What do we do with the gift we have received?  How do we respond to the second phrase in that prayer: “as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

            This is core theology to Christian faith.  There is no faith without forgiveness – either being received or being given.

            We have all been hurt – by life, by our own deeds, or by others. The key is to forgive those hurts… those disappointments… those betrayals.  The more we hold onto them, the heavier they become.  The more they control us. The less free we are to become what God has created us to be.

            It is in forgiving that we let go of the burdens we carry.  Bitterness melts away. Anger dissipates.  Resentment dissolves.  We are free to live again. Profound healing occurs.

            And if your anger is against another person, you are freed even more.  You are freed to love that person – by which I do not mean acting like nothing ever happened, but to intend the best for him or her.

            You have been forgiven and have forgiven. You have both received and given.  You are free to be the person God calls you to be.

 

If It's Not About Love

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 5 EASTER, YEAR B

MAY 2, 2021

 

TEXT:                        1 JOHN 4:7-21                      

 

             The Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, Michael Curry, has a mantra that animates many of his public comments: “If it is not about love, it is not about God.” As we can see and hear clearly today, the author of the First Epistle of John would agree.

 

            We, in the church, have gotten lost in the weeds many times over the years.  But again, and again, we get called back to the core message.  The first lesson did that today, the Presiding Bishop does that on a regular basis, and Jesus did it on the original Maundy Thursday, as he was instituting the sacrament we know as the Holy Eucharist.

 

            Jesus said to the gathered disciples at their last supper together, “^13:34I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. ³⁵ By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

 

            There is no other standard by which we prove our transformative faith.  But how do we do so, especially when there are so many conflicts, disagreements, and ways of viewing certain situations?  How do we work through the situations when we feel so pulled between actions or feelings?

 

            Hillel the Elder was a much-respected Jewish rabbi who lived during the life of Jesus.  He was one of the most respected teachers of Jesus’ day.

 

            He was once asked by a questioner if he could summarize the Law while standing on one foot.  His response: "That which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn."

 

                  Jesus once faced a similar question. The Gospel according to Matthew tells us that story: “³⁴ When the Pharisees heard that he had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, ³⁵ and one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him. ³⁶ ‘Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?’ ³⁷ He said to him, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ ³⁸ This is the greatest and first commandment. ³⁹ And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ ⁴⁰ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

 

            Despite the slogan (and the way it is applied) that God said it, I believe, it, and that settles it, things are not so simple.  To know what is an act of love – in other words, what we would want done to us in a similar situation, reflecting the love of God – requires us to think, discern, and pray.

 

            To truly act out of love is not to act in some smarmy, simple, and sentimental way.  It means we are to truly reflect on the situation and discern our own motivations, feelings and interests – being certain to be mindful of what God calls us to see and do in such circumstances. And that call to act out of love may, indeed, go against our previous inclinations. Sometimes, our appropriate actions may require personal sacrifice.

 

For that, we as Christians have ample example.

Trusting the Good Shepherd

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 4 EASTER, YEAR B

APRIL 25, 2021

 

TEXT:                        JOHN 10:11-18                     

 

            Jesus spoke to his listeners using images that were familiar to them. Think of examples of his parables.  The mustard seed.  A grain of wheat. The vineyard. A wedding banquet.  A city on a hill.  A Samaritan.

 

            People could latch on to those images.  He used them as analogies – something familiar to point toward a deeper, more disclosive truth.  They were insights into the Kingdom of God.

 

            Today we have another example.  This is known as Good Shepherd Sunday – because of the psalm set aside for today – the 23^rd Psalm – and the gospel lesson.  Jesus is telling us that he is Good Shepherd – not literally, but he is likethe Good Shepherd.

 

            Keep in mind that Israel, in Jesus’ day, was very much an agrarian society.  People tilled the soil.  They planted vineyards. They raised wheat. And they tended herds.

 

            Even to this day, a traveler can venture down the Judean hills to Jericho and see Bedouins living on the hillsides – in their tents, with their rudimentary belongings, tending their flocks.  The shepherds move the sheep to the places where water and forage can be found.  They are tended even in the harshest of conditions – rain, snow, drought, heat, or cold.  The shepherd does not abandon his flock.

 

            The flock knows his voice.  They respond to his call.  Where he goes, they go.

 

            He will guide his flock.  He does what he can to protect them.  He will place himself between danger and the flock.

 

            And here’s an important point: When evil, sickness, calamity, or death befalls the flock, he does not leave.  He tends the wounds. He grieves the loss. He remains with the flock. He is ever-faithful – down to the last and least. 

 

            That imagery of the shepherd is the deep well of familiarity was what Jesus was sharing with his listeners.  It’s an image which translates well and we can embrace through the millennia. 

 

Challenged by Peace

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – 3 EASTER, YEAR B

APRIL 18, 2021

 

TEXT:                        LUKE 24:36B-48                  

 

            “Peace be with you.”

 

            With these words the resurrected Jesus has greeted his disciples last Sunday and this – in John’s gospel and today in Luke’s.

 

            “Peace be with you.” That peace which passes all understanding is a characteristic of true Christian community.  The sign that we are followers of Christ is defined by Jesus himself in the Gospel according to John: “By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

 

            But that really wasn’t Jesus’ path, and it isn’t ours, is it? Peace prevails on certain levels, but it is not a defining characteristic of our nation or world, is it?

 

            Isaiah, chapter 53, is known as The Suffering Servant, and it was key foundation stone for those who saw Jesus’ life described in the Old Testament:

 

⁴Surely he has borne our infirmities
    and carried our diseases;
yet we accounted him stricken,
    struck down by God, and afflicted.
⁵ But he was wounded for our transgressions,
    crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the punishment that made us whole,
    and by his bruises we are healed.
⁶ All we like sheep have gone astray;
    we have all turned to our own way,
and the Lord has laid on him
    the iniquity of us all.

 

            And the world in which he came to minister was not one of peace and love.  The prophet Jeremiah voiced God’s word in the sixth chapter of his book: “They have treated the wounds my people carelessly, saying, ‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace.” 

 

            I know that the vision Jesus had of the post-resurrection, fully-redeemed world would be different.  We see glimpses of it, in our personal relationships. Here and there, now and again, is a way we could describe it. When touched by those moments, we are able to express in a meaningful way the love that is an example of the path that Jesus calls us to travel.

 

            But, let’s be honest with one another:  The world around us – and the world far distant – is still much more characteristic of Isaiah’s vision and of Jeremiah’s prophecy.

 

            We may cry peace, peace and we may show love to one another – yet we are not yet fully people of peace, and our arms of love do not yet embrace all people. This is something I am saying about the larger, surrounding world, and not focusing on St. Paul’s alone.

 

            The fact is that the world is still broken, and we are part of that world.  The world around us is far short of God’s vision of what it should be.  Of necessity, we must engage with that world and, sometimes, we respond in-kind.  But we must recognize that, just as the world is falling short of Christ’s vision, we, too, are participating in the sin of a broken world. It is just a fact of human existence.  We call it the human condition. We are redeemed, but we still fall short.

 

            This does not mean we are bad people, but it does mean we (and the world) have a ways to go.  We are saved by the grace of God, and our calling is to grow into that role every day.     

 

The Darkness Will Not Overcome It

 HOMILY, ST. PAUL’S, FOLEY – EASTER DAY, YEAR B

APRIL 4, 2021

 

TEXT:                        JOHN 20:1-18

 

            The story is now complete.

 

            At least, John’s version of it.

 

            It is a story which begins 20 chapters earlier, with his famous prologue. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it,” he tells us.

 

            And now the story reaches a climax – unanticipated by Jesus’ followers. Mary Magdalene, Jesus’ close friend. comes to the tomb where the limp body of her Lord had been laid on Friday.  The light had been extinguished. Darkness ruled, as far as she knew. Darkness had overcome the light.

 

            `But she encountered a mystery – one she could not fathom.  The tomb was empty.  No body was to be found there.  She was dumbfounded.. confused. She went and told Peter and John – others who had seen the light.  They went and found the tomb empty, as Mary Magdalene had said.

 

            But Mary returned.  She wept. She says to the one she thinks is the gardener: “What have you done with body? Let me know, and I will get it.”

 

            Jesus said: “Mary.”

 

            The light returned. A stunning, overwhelming, beautiful light.  She did not know it at that point, but the light emanating from that tomb would be the light for all people, would shine in the darkness, and the darkness, indeed, would not overcome it.  Not even today.

 

            I wonder how many of us have dwelt in darkness at some point in our lives.  I suspect that if we are truthful with ourselves, we have all uttered the words St. Paul wrote in his Letter to the Romans: Broken as I am, who will save me from this Body of Death?

 

            Our reasons for and circumstances of brokenness are as many as there are of us – maybe more.  We have all had our feet placed on the bottom at some point.  It has been dark.  We felt like Mary at the tomb.

 

            Maybe it was not in an instant.  Maybe it was over some length of time.  But we saw the light.  In some way, Jesus called your name. The dark corners of our souls were illuminated.  “The light shined in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

 

            It was the same light that shone in that garden tomb – an empty tomb.  It testified to the power of God to redeem our losses, in some way we could not anticipate.

 

            On this day, John’s story reached full circle.  Ours will, too, now, in the past, or in the fullness of time.