Scattering Seeds

PROPERS:          BURIAL OF THE DEAD, RITE 2   

TEXT:                JOHN 12:24                 

PREACHED AT THE FUNERAL FOR ELLEN FRANKS NEWSOM AT CHURCH OF THE RESURRECTION, STARKVILLE, ON TUESDAY, JANUARY 25, 2022.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        The many seeds which Ellen cast in her life will bear fruit for years to come.         

 

            At the outset, I want us to be clear about the undeniable.  We have all sustained a significant loss.  We have lost someone that we all loved. We cannot dismiss those emotions.

 

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            During the eight years we lived here in Starkville, we could count on one thing:  On the morning of May 1 – May Day – there would be an assortment of fresh flowers at our doorstep.  We knew who had been by:  Ellen.

 

            The flowers of various types, colors, and fragrances had been lovingly snipped from Walt’s garden behind their home of 47 years on Grand Ridge. The seeds for those flowers had been planted in that expansive, lush garden.

 

            It was a simple gesture, but it was so emblematic of Ellen. So emblematic of her whole life.

 

            The 12^th Chapter of John’s gospel tells us of Jesus’ visit to Mary and Martha’s home in Bethany – during the last week of his earthly life.  He goes from there into Jerusalem for what has become known as Palm Sunday – his triumphant entry into the Holy City.  While there, a group of Greeks wish to see him.  His words to them speak a truth to us about Jesus, and a truth to which we cling today. Hear his words:

 

^24 “Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

 

            We understand, of course, that Jesus is speaking of his approaching crucifixion and death.  It is from that death and resurrection that we, as his followers, will find that mysterious, elusive concept of eternal life.

 

            Her life bears witness to that truth – and so much more.

 

            When it comes to spreading seed, Ellen put Johnny Appleseed in the shade.

 

            If we think of the sweep of her life and the many touchstones and lives she encountered, our breath is taken away.

 

            To name a few…

 

            Her family… Walt, her husband of 57 years… her children, Matt and Emily… her grandchildren, Tyler, Tanner, Jack and Will… her father, Wendell, and mother, Alice… her delightful nieces and nephews.  

 

Oh, yes… Ellen has two brothers, Dan and Mart.

 

And I am always astounded by Ellen’s stories of her Arkansas aunts (whom I never met) who lived more than 100 years each – touching on three centuries and two millennia.  It is a remarkable family.

 

            I have long said that Alice was my favorite parishioner of all time.  That may now be held by two people.

 

            And there was her many-faceted nursing career – ranging from her care of sick babies… helping and encouraging prospective mothers… and comforting homesick children at camp.

 

            There was the worldwide travel with Walt – 50 states visited, touching the ground of 101 countries, and stepping foot on seven continents. At each stop along the way… whether it was the Serengeti, parasailing in the Alps, or kayaking the waters of Alaska… she saw and touched people – people she would likely never see again.  But that once, she did.

 

            And who could count the number of people she introduced to Bulldog baseball? I count Nora and myself among those so blessed. We proudly noted our reserved seats in Section and row K-9. She organized the feasting on Super Bulldog weekend.  Several Easter Sundays we consumed her Jello Eggs at Dudy Noble.

 

            Those people with whom she planted seeds were dozens of Bulldog baseball players she helped adjust to college life.

 

            I am incredibly grateful that she lived to see the Dawgs win a College World Series.

 

            Ellen was the irresistible force in the church.  I, for one, valued her friendship, her guidance, and her wisdom.  Many were the times when her always joyous presence affected the trajectory and, therefore, the future of this parish.

 

            The bottom line is this: Ellen touched lives… she spread seeds wherever she went. Across Starkville… around the state… in all fifty states… and spanning the globe. She scattered seeds of hope, seeds of joy, seeds of friendship.  No one could come into contact with Ellen without being affected for the better.  We are all better people for having known her.

 

            As the New Testament missionary Barnabas’ name meant son of encouragement, Ellen would be known as daughter of encouragement. She found the diamond in the lump of coal.

 

            The truth of Jesus’ words applies in that short-term sense.  She has spread seeds across her world – with family, friends, and an expansive universe of casual contacts.  Those seeds have been cast throughout lands far and near.

 

            But now we see the eternal truth: The seeds are taking root and will bear fruit for decades to come.  That is true whether it is among her family, her friends, or the countless souls she touched during her nearly four-score years.

            Her seed has fallen to the ground and died. But the fruits of the harvest will be bountiful. 

Overcoming the Curse of Youth

PROPERS:          3 EPIPHANY, YEAR C

TEXT:                LUKE 4:14-21              

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S CHAPEL, MAGNOLIA SPRINGS, ON SUNDAY, JANUARY 23, 2022.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        A relationship with Jesus allows us to leave our past behind.              

 

            I have somewhat clear and somewhat cloudy memories of my youthful days.

 

            People frequently pine for a return to their days in high school. I respond with the perspective that all the money in the world could not get me to return to those days.

 

            The word awkward was invented to discover how I felt. Perhaps you did, too.  Or maybe not.

 

            Each year in high school was recorded for posterity in a yearbook.  The pictures are like a fly in amber – a permanent recording of what awkward looked like. My tenth grade picture looks as if Alfred E. Neumann sat for the photo.

 

            The following five decades have been a relentless effort to leave those days behind me.  The fact that I am standing before you today is evidence of two things: (1) The success of those efforts; and (2) The mercy of God.

 

            Memories of those days occasionally come to mind like an unwelcome visitor from out of a dense fog.  Some are funny and are embraced. Others make me cringe. I recall telling my friends one Saturday morning in those days that I felt like I should go on the local radio station and apologize for the night before.

 

            I truly hope our young people, such as Gracie and Emory, are having an easier and happier time. They deserve our love and tenderness – and understanding.

 

            But, as for me, I am thankful those days are in the rearview mirror.  As some famous person said, I have lived all my life to get to this age.  I’m not going back. When I drive through my hometown, I accelerate.

 

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            That perspective helps me sympathize with Jesus today – not that his experience was anything like mine.

 

            Jesus was born in Bethlehem – a tiny village a few miles south of Jerusalem.  Other than a brief sojourn into Egypt, he was reared in Nazareth – a rural, Galilean hill town 100 miles or so to the north.

 

            He was a child and a teenager there.  Other than some apocryphal writings that are not part of our scriptures, we know very little about those days.

 

            As a young adult, he worked with his father as a carpenter.  I am told by Israeli guides that that likely meant that Jesus was a stonemason in that era.  He may have helped build the Roman city of Sephoris a few miles away.  Those ruins are being excavated.

 

            Sometime in his late 20s, after years of studying his faith and the scripture, he perceived a call to teach and preach.  His call drew him toward other areas of the Galilee, such as the fishing villages of Magdala, Capernaum, and Bethsaida.  There his message gained traction and he accumulated some followers.  That small group of disciples which hung on his every word were like a Jewish group known as a yeshiba – an academy.

 

            And ultimately, he would go home.  He returned to where he was known as Jesus, the young man who had grown up in Nazareth.  He was the son of Mary and Joseph.  He had helped build nearby villages. And this is worth noting: Not a single one of his disciples came from his hometown. The people who had known him best chose not to be among his intimates.

 

            I find his willingness to return to his roots breathtaking.  I cannot imagine doing the same. These were the people who had known him in his childhood, in his teen years – in the days when everyone feels awkward, unusual, uncomfortable. And he boldly began proclaiming a message which will elicit a strong response in next week’s gospel.

 

            Jesus’ message was formed among ordinary people in an ordinary world.  His message was for those same people – and you and me.

 

            It is a message that transcends our personal discomforts, our flaws, our errors, our awkwardness and allows us to put our past, our mistakes, our errors behind us.  All this is because in him we are made new beings, in which we leave the previous lives behind us.

Voices of the Past

PROPERS:          2 EPIPHANY, YEAR C

TEXT:                JOHN 2:1-11                

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S CHAPEL, MAGNOLIA SPRINGS, ON SUNDAY, JANUARY 16, 2022.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        The words of modern-day prophets bear truth – and those truths are still hard to hear.

 

            Preaching today has caused me more internal struggle than I have encountered in years. I have actually written two sermons but have discarded one.  The Spirit wouldn’t let me rest.

 

            It might be because this sermon is confessional in nature. I am laying my struggles out.

 

            Garrison Keillor, the host of Prairie Home Companion for many years, quoted his longtime character, Lutheran Pastor Inqvest, as saying that when a preacher says he has a confession to make, his congregation immediately wonders “Who is he having an affair with, and for how long?”

 

            I want to assure you all, it is not like that. My confession is the difficulty of this sermon.

 

            You may or may not know I like to please people.  That has been one of my growing edges over my years in ordained ministry.  Sometimes, I would pull punches in the pulpit.

 

            I am torn on occasion because there are people in this congregation – and in every congregation I have served – that I love deeply.  I care for them. I do not wish to alienate them.  But I differ with them profoundly.  Nevertheless, they deserve my care, my affections.

 

            As a result, I have developed a style of preaching that is indirect – it is suggestive.  I describe it as P-Stylepreaching, based on the Myers-Briggs Type Inventory. It means my messages are frequently open-ended, suggestive, and leave the lesson for the individual to apply to his or her life. Seldom do I say, that’s the way it is, and that settles it. I think there is too much of that, anyway.

 

            One of the truths I have known is that I could be wrong.  I bear that in mind. It keeps my views from being too strident… and hopefully keeps me humble.

 

            Which brings me to today, and my current struggles.

 

            I have an approach to preaching that dictates that I always preach from the lectionary – the lessons assigned for today.  What I call Hallmark Holidays, such as Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and the like seldom get much mention. Such dates may be worthy and laudable. However, if the date and lesson are not in the church calendar, I do not preach on it. The Word of God is more important to me.

 

            So, what do I do today?

 

            The gospel lesson is one of the most notable we hear in our three-year cycle.  It is the story of Jesus changing the water to wine at the wedding in Cana of Galilee.  It is found only in the Gospel according to John, so it bears notice.

 

            But this day is more complicated than that.  We are in what I call a feast sandwich. We are betwixt and between the official Feast Day of Martin Luther King and the federal observance of the holiday named for him.  Yesterday was the official feast day.  Tomorrow is the holiday.

 

            Some people still have very mixed feelings about those observances.  Those mixed feelings come from cultural perspectives that have become ingrained in them. I hear those echoes.

 

            Trust me, I know.  I grew up in Mississippi, the ground zero for much of the civil rights struggle of the 1950s and 1960s. Much of my youth was spent in Meridian, Mississippi, where a lot of the violence against civil rights workers originated. It is a tough, blue collar, railroad town known for its hard-knuckled history.

 

            I was formed in a society which clearly had levels of existence.  My grandmother’s house had a separate bathroom set aside for the maid.  My parents paid our full-time housekeeper two dollars a week. My great-grandfather, who I adore and for whom our son is named, was in the cotton business. Need I say more?

 

            I was greatly influenced by our culture.  I remember an outdoor spend-the-night party in a friend’s backyard. In the dark and with close friends, I spewed racial venom that makes me cringe today.  A short time later, the father of my friend who hosted that party was run out of town because the father, an Episcopal priest, had comforted the families of the three civil rights workers slain outside of Philadelphia, Mississippi.

 

            Those tragic killings of those three young men began to change my views.  My father’s courage at that time also affected me. He had decided to travel a different path from some of those around him. We were targeted by the Ku Klux Klan for a short time.  On election night 1968, I had a verbal fight with the man who was later convicted for killing two of the three civil rights workers. 

 

            Over the years, I became more aware – more aware of the power of culture, and more aware of the gospel’s call to me.  It became clearer and clearer.  But it was not easy – and it is never complete.  I hear the words of St. Paul in my head, “Wretched man that I am!  Who will save me from this body of death?” I still struggle with the voices from my past.

 

            I am keenly aware of the Latin saying attributed to the 16^th century protestant leader, Martin Luther: simul Justus et peccator.  I am simultaneously justified and a sinner.

 

            By the grace of God, my bitter water was being transformed into sweet wine. I pray that conversion continues.

 

            The theology of love and non-violence found in the words of Martin Luther King speak to us, maybe even more clearly after the gunshot rang out in Memphis. As you see in reading about the prophets in the Old Testament, they were always rejected and despised.  And the same happened to our Lord. Culture – whatever it may be – has an overriding inertia that can crush a voice crying in the wilderness. It was years later – and through the eyes of faith history – that we could see God’s hand in those trying times.

 

            As I prepared this sermon, I read the lessons for Martin Luther King’s feast day yesterday.  They are as true and instructive today as they were when Jesus spoke them more than 2,000 years ago:

 

²⁷ ‘But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, ²⁸bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. ²⁹If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. ³⁰Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. ³¹Do to others as you would have them do to you.

 

³² ‘If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. ³³If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. ³⁴If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to receive as much again. ³⁵But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return. Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High; for he is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked. ³⁶Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.

  

The Pearl without Price

PROPERS:          1 EPIPHANY, YEAR C

TEXT:                LUKE 3:15-17, 21-22             

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S CHAPEL, MAGNOLIA SPRINGS, ON SUNDAY, JANUARY 9, 2022.

Preached at 8:30 a.m. only. The Blessing of a Civil Marriage

was done at 10:30 a.m.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        Baptism is a gift, lying nascent in one’s life until it flowers into the gift of faith later in life.

 

            What is your reaction when you receive a completely unexpected gift?

 

            That was the question that was raised by the Golden Age of television’s CBS series named The Millionaire.  Some of you will recall it.  I am told it is available even today in syndication.

 

            The storyline revolved around an ultra-wealthy recluse named J. Beresford Tipton. The wealthy man would secretly dispatch his special assistant, Michael Anthony, to deliver an anonymous tax-free gift of $1 million to an unsuspecting, random person each week.  In today’s dollars, that would have been a tax-free gift of $9.2 million.

 

            The only requirement was that the beneficiary had to agree never try to identify the giver, and to never contact him.

 

            The dramatic tension in the series was how the gift was received (or not), and the impact of the gift on the life of the recipient.  And the recipient was always someone who could benefit from such a generous, anonymous gift.

 

            The consistent theme in The Millionaire was the utter surprise the recipients felt at the gift.  The gift of $1 million, tax-free, was astounding to all of them – some even to the point of disbelief.  That sum transformed many lives… except those who would not accept it.

 

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            It’s not a precise analogy, but it’s close enough.

 

            Today is the First Sunday after the Epiphany, also known as the Baptism of Jesus.  This is one of the greatest and most appropriate days for baptism.  We are acknowledging that fact with the Renewal of our baptismal vows in just a few moments.

 

            But baptism can be like that cashier’s check from J. Beresford Tipton.  In a very real sense, the magnitude of the grace and love which we receive at our baptisms is breathtaking.  In gospel language, it is a pearl without price.

 

            But many of us do not know how to receive it. We are not aware of its value.  And even when we are old enough to understand – on some level – the gift we have received, we do not accept it.  Life goes on unchanged.  The riches of the gift are there, but we allow them to lay nascent in the recesses of our spirit.

 

            Here’s the good news.

 

            Just like the Prodigal Son, we may wander to figurative foreign lands.  We may squander the riches we have inherited. We may reach the point where we yearn for home and for stability – and to be embraced by something greater than ourselves.

 

            That’s the point at which we can “cash the check.” The riches which have laid nascent for so long… the gift that we did not know how to receive… becomes available to us. And like the theologian Paul Tillich wrote many years ago, we hear the grace-filled words, “You are accepted.”

 

            Like the prodigal son, the wealth of baptism and our joining with the saints, comes cascading down on us and we come to grasp the wonderful gift we have received.

 

            We don’t have to await the arrival of J. Beresford Tipton’s agent at our door. The riches are awaiting you now. 

Lost to the Mists of Time

PROPERS:          2 CHRISTMAS, YEAR C      

TEXT:                MATTHEW 2:1-12                

PREACHED AT ST. PAUL’S CHAPEL, MAGNOLIA SPRINGS, ON SUNDAY, JANUARY 2, 2022.

 

ONE SENTENCE:        Unlike human nature, people, and movements, the Holy transcends time and space. 

 

            It is tempting for political leaders to think they control the outcomes of history.  Such hubris ultimately fails and leads to a different era. The desire to kill the thrust of events finally leads to oblivion.

 

            Today’s gospel lesson gives us a perfect example.

 

            Herod the Great was King of Judea, so named by the Roman Senate, a position he held when Jesus was born. His realm, of course, included the tiny village of Bethlehem, a few miles south his royal seat in Jerusalem.

 

            Herod was no neophyte when it came to political games. He had been born, it appears, to an Idumean mother and father, making him an Arab by descent.  His father had ruled various portions of what we know as the Holy Land and had been engaged with various political strategies with the Romans.

 

            One’s personal favor with the Roman emperor could have dramatic ramifications.

 

            Herod plotted his ascent to the throne of Judea, and it was realized in about 40 B.C. But he wanted more. So, bit-by-bit, he consolidated his power over smaller, nearby realms.  After those conquests, he turned toward building an empire which would stand the test of time.

 

            Even though an Arab, Herod saw himself as Jew.  He yearned for the acceptance and approval of the Jewish people.  But he was brutal and would enforce his will in polarizing ways.  He flaunted the Jewish law and lived a decadent lifestyle.

 

            Yet, his greatest gift is evident even today.  Herod was an amazing engineer, and his colossal building projects are still seen today – that is, the remains of those projects.  They bear silent witness to millions of visitors each year, even though they have crumbled from their original grandeur.

 

            Herod’s engineering skills molded the Second Temple in Jerusalem – the Temple where Jesus walked and taught – the grandest of all building in the world at that time.  The remains of the port facility he built as gift to Caesar at Caesarea-Maritima on the Mediterranean Coast still testify to his complex skills, even in underwater construction.  And, of course, Masada, the symbol of Jewish resistance 70 years after Herod’s death, was the desert fortress to which Herod planned to escape, if needed.

 

            But ultimately it was all for naught.  His power, influence, and brutality could not bring immortality.  Like all political movements and leaders, he passed from the scene.  Herod died in Jericho shortly after Jesus’ birth. Some historians say he died of syphilitic insanity.  Others say he died an excruciating, putrefying death, now known as Herod’s Evil.  His massive tomb was his last engineering marvel, known as Herodian, just outside of Bethlehem.

 

            Today’s gospel lesson tells us of Herod’s feeble effort to halt the march of providence.  Hearing of the Wise Men – likely from Persia, modern-day Iran – coming to worship a new-born king in Bethlehem, he concocts a scheme to discover the child’s whereabouts.  But like his other manipulations, it is grounded in hubris and has little lasting impact.

 

            In the verses just after today’s gospel, Joseph is warned in a dream of approaching danger and takes the baby and Mary into safety in Egypt.

 

            Shortly thereafter, Herod dies a mortal’s death.  Jesus lives on today.  All that Herod leaves are echoes of ancient history, this story and crumbling buildings.

 

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            The consistent theme is that hubris ultimately fails.  It has been shown throughout history. The Greeks. The Romans. Babylon. The Ottoman Empire. The Third Reich. The Soviet Union.

 

            The same may be said about men. Caesar. Alexander the Great. Napoleon. Henry VIII.

 

            In some form, empires, fads, trends, give way to time, events, and other forces of history – and to the hand of God.

 

            We are truly wise if we do not place our deep and abiding faith in a person or movement which finally dissipates like a morning fog. It is folly to presume, as Herod may have, that a man or a movement can guide the course of creation. Empires which aspire to last a thousand years lack the eternal staying power.

 

            It’s true for us. As human beings, each of us will go the way of all flesh.  As the saying goes, none of us gets out of this alive.

 

            But as Christians, we see something special, even eternal, in that child that fled to Egypt… and returned later to the Galilean hill town of Nazareth.  We see something remarkable – looking forward –through the prism of time. We see hope.

            At the graveside, we say, “All of us go down to the dust, yet even at the grave we make our song, ‘Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.’”