This Sunday Christ Church will provide a free picnic to the surrounding community in the public park across the street from the church. It has been on the calendar for several months, but most of the planning has taken place within the last few weeks. The goal is to develop community within the church as well provide outreach to the people who live around us.
It also fits in particularly well with this Sunday’s readings. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,” the letter to the Hebrews states, “for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” I doubt that we will have three men wander by and tell one of our octogenarian couples that they will have a child (as happened to Abraham and Sarah, the couple the writer had in mind). But one never knows who will show up. At this point the outreach team is concerned that either no one will show up, or hundreds will show up. How to entertain angels is not high on the list of worries.
After attending a Sabbath meal given by a Pharisee, Jesus gives this caution: “Do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors…But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.” I can’t say that Christ Church has deliberately sought out all those whom Jesus lists, but we have certainly put the word out around town. The idea is to welcome all who come, whoever they are. In addition to food, there will be live music and face painting and games. It will indeed be a Sabbath banquet.
So what happens if someone at the picnic decides to come to church the next Sunday? That will be a true test of hospitality. I hope they will be as warmly greeted as if they were being given a plate of hot food. It’s true that we don’t paint faces during the service and wander around listening to a musician in the warm sunshine. We do have a pretty traditional service. But that first impression – will it be a smile? A “glad you’re here” look? Will each person passing through the church door be welcomed as a possible angel, or as St. Benedict put it, as Christ himself? I hope so. In fact, if we got in the habit of welcoming everyone as Christ himself, including the people we know, we might actually become the church God wants us to be.
Pentecost 14: Jeremiah 2:4-13; Psalm 81:1,10-16; Hebrews 13:1-8,15-16; Luke 14:1,7-14.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Only a Boy
My oldest sister turned seventy-one this week. She’s now the oldest sibling, although she didn’t start life that way; our oldest brother died six years ago. He was fourteen when I was born, the youngest of six children. It doesn’t take much math to figure out that I’m in my late fifties. But I’m still the youngest.
I’m also the only one in my family, and one of the few within my many cousins, to be an ordained minister. In a way that’s odd, because there were so many ministers among our ancestors – “a family of Levites,” a friend once said. It also seems odd to me that the youngest, rather than the oldest, is a cleric; on the other hand, the oldest was a gifted musician, using the graces God had given to him.
Maybe being youngest is why I resonate with Jeremiah’s call. It’s a bit frightening, in a way. God tells Jeremiah that he knew him even before he was in the womb, and consecrated him before he was born. God had him in mind all the time! All of the childhood peccadilloes and tantrums and arguments with his parents – God was watching. And still God chose him to be a prophet to the nations.
Taken aback, Jeremiah protests. “Ah, Lord God,” he says, “I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” The Hebrew word for “boy” is the standard one, although the lexicon indicates that there is a special stress on youthfulness here. Jeremiah may not have literally been a boy, but he was certainly young at the time. To convince him that this will work, the Lord touches his tongue and his mouth, putting his words there. (Unlike Isaiah, Jeremiah doesn’t have to deal with hot coals on the lips.) And from then on, Jeremiah prophesies.
When I was younger, I had a different calling from God, to teach the woods. But even then I suspected that someday I would be doing what I am doing now. I told my dad so, and got his imprimatur. I’m glad I did, because he died long before I was ordained. During those years as a botanist, God prepared me for this life in ways that I am only beginning to understand.
My oldest brother prepared me too, especially as he was dying. One of our last conversations, arranged to gather information for his obituary, became an almost sacramental confession of what had happened in his life. And by asking me to preach at his funeral, he gave me the courage to preach to anyone, anywhere, any time.
Only a boy. I’m hardly that now, but to my siblings I’ll always be the youngest, the last one. That’s okay. Yet it means that I’ll always be waiting for that touch on the mouth, the reassurance that what I do and say comes from God, that this work is God’s idea, not mine. Truthfully, that need is not a matter of age or place in a family. It’s a need that we all have, a need to know that God is really leading us, guiding us, loving us – a need for God with us, Emmanuel. That is the grace of Jesus Christ. May that grace and the love of God always be with us, in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 1:4-10.
I’m also the only one in my family, and one of the few within my many cousins, to be an ordained minister. In a way that’s odd, because there were so many ministers among our ancestors – “a family of Levites,” a friend once said. It also seems odd to me that the youngest, rather than the oldest, is a cleric; on the other hand, the oldest was a gifted musician, using the graces God had given to him.
Maybe being youngest is why I resonate with Jeremiah’s call. It’s a bit frightening, in a way. God tells Jeremiah that he knew him even before he was in the womb, and consecrated him before he was born. God had him in mind all the time! All of the childhood peccadilloes and tantrums and arguments with his parents – God was watching. And still God chose him to be a prophet to the nations.
Taken aback, Jeremiah protests. “Ah, Lord God,” he says, “I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” The Hebrew word for “boy” is the standard one, although the lexicon indicates that there is a special stress on youthfulness here. Jeremiah may not have literally been a boy, but he was certainly young at the time. To convince him that this will work, the Lord touches his tongue and his mouth, putting his words there. (Unlike Isaiah, Jeremiah doesn’t have to deal with hot coals on the lips.) And from then on, Jeremiah prophesies.
When I was younger, I had a different calling from God, to teach the woods. But even then I suspected that someday I would be doing what I am doing now. I told my dad so, and got his imprimatur. I’m glad I did, because he died long before I was ordained. During those years as a botanist, God prepared me for this life in ways that I am only beginning to understand.
My oldest brother prepared me too, especially as he was dying. One of our last conversations, arranged to gather information for his obituary, became an almost sacramental confession of what had happened in his life. And by asking me to preach at his funeral, he gave me the courage to preach to anyone, anywhere, any time.
Only a boy. I’m hardly that now, but to my siblings I’ll always be the youngest, the last one. That’s okay. Yet it means that I’ll always be waiting for that touch on the mouth, the reassurance that what I do and say comes from God, that this work is God’s idea, not mine. Truthfully, that need is not a matter of age or place in a family. It’s a need that we all have, a need to know that God is really leading us, guiding us, loving us – a need for God with us, Emmanuel. That is the grace of Jesus Christ. May that grace and the love of God always be with us, in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 1:4-10.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
So Great a Cloud of Witnesses
There are some Sundays when it’s hard to find good news in the lectionary readings. This Sunday is one of them. The parable of the vineyard in Isaiah starts out as a love-song between God and the people of Israel. The vineyard is lovingly built and tended, but fails to yield the expected choice fruit. When only wild grapes emerge, judgment is given: the vineyard will be torn down and turned into a wasteland. That condemnation must have been chilling to the people who heard it – God was no longer going to love them, and they would be destroyed.
The letter to the Hebrews isn’t much better. Yes, the heroes of the faith are held up for admiration, but when I hear what happened to them (being sawn in two and going about in the skins of sheep and goats are my favorites), I start looking for a place to hide. And Jesus seems almost to be drooling with anticipation as he talks about bringing fire and division to the earth, pitting members of families against one another. As one of my seminary professors used to say, “What’s that about?”
Well, for one thing, it means that true Christianity isn’t a happy clappy religion. Religious entertainment and a prosperity gospel and the “law of attraction” are nowhere in these readings. To truly be a Christian is hard work, and almost certainly will create conflict. That’s a difficult message to preach in a consumer culture, where people go to church to feel good and are ready to move on if they aren’t satisfied. Others avoid organized religion entirely because they already see too much conflict in the church.
Why is discipleship so hard? For one thing, it’s easy to mistake the form of religion for its content. That’s what the Israelites did; they followed all the rules for sacrifice and keeping kosher and observing the prescribed feasts. But they conveniently overlooked the fact that justice was part of the plan. They thought they could cheat the poor and ignore the needy and God would smell incense and not notice. They were wrong, and they didn’t like the prophets who told them so.
Jesus saw even more clearly where following him would lead. Given the opposition he created with the religious authorities, he knew that his death was certain and didn’t expect much better for his disciples. Everywhere Christianity is persecuted, Christian/non-Christian conflict still occurs. As those fleeing organized religion perceive, some of the more militant forms of Christianity create conflict even among fellow Christians.
So where is the good news in all of this? It’s found in that great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, those who have come before. They, too, sinned; they faltered, they suffered as we do. Yet they persevered. They saw the promises, and believed. They threw off the weight that held them down, and the sin that clings so closely. Of course we should cast those aside if we are to run! And run with perseverance, we are told. Run toward the goal of Jesus Christ, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. And the best part about this race is that even now Jesus is coming toward us from the future. As the cloud of witnesses cheers us on, we will not have as far to go. With that kind of promise, who wouldn’t keep running?
The letter to the Hebrews isn’t much better. Yes, the heroes of the faith are held up for admiration, but when I hear what happened to them (being sawn in two and going about in the skins of sheep and goats are my favorites), I start looking for a place to hide. And Jesus seems almost to be drooling with anticipation as he talks about bringing fire and division to the earth, pitting members of families against one another. As one of my seminary professors used to say, “What’s that about?”
Well, for one thing, it means that true Christianity isn’t a happy clappy religion. Religious entertainment and a prosperity gospel and the “law of attraction” are nowhere in these readings. To truly be a Christian is hard work, and almost certainly will create conflict. That’s a difficult message to preach in a consumer culture, where people go to church to feel good and are ready to move on if they aren’t satisfied. Others avoid organized religion entirely because they already see too much conflict in the church.
Why is discipleship so hard? For one thing, it’s easy to mistake the form of religion for its content. That’s what the Israelites did; they followed all the rules for sacrifice and keeping kosher and observing the prescribed feasts. But they conveniently overlooked the fact that justice was part of the plan. They thought they could cheat the poor and ignore the needy and God would smell incense and not notice. They were wrong, and they didn’t like the prophets who told them so.
Jesus saw even more clearly where following him would lead. Given the opposition he created with the religious authorities, he knew that his death was certain and didn’t expect much better for his disciples. Everywhere Christianity is persecuted, Christian/non-Christian conflict still occurs. As those fleeing organized religion perceive, some of the more militant forms of Christianity create conflict even among fellow Christians.
So where is the good news in all of this? It’s found in that great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, those who have come before. They, too, sinned; they faltered, they suffered as we do. Yet they persevered. They saw the promises, and believed. They threw off the weight that held them down, and the sin that clings so closely. Of course we should cast those aside if we are to run! And run with perseverance, we are told. Run toward the goal of Jesus Christ, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. And the best part about this race is that even now Jesus is coming toward us from the future. As the cloud of witnesses cheers us on, we will not have as far to go. With that kind of promise, who wouldn’t keep running?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Pulpit Swap
This Sunday R and I will swap pulpits: we will be at each others’ churches. We did it once before when I was at St. Peter’s, but this is the first time for my home parish of Christ Church. It’s a fun perk of being a clergy couple with parishes open to trying something new.
As I read through the lessons and considered the three services at R’s Trinity parish, I remembered something an uncle once told me. He had been the pastor for many years near Harvard Square at a big Lutheran church, which also had three Sunday services. He said he felt that each service had a different congregation, so he preached three different sermons each week. He told me this long after he retired, lamenting the fact that he had finally reached the point where he had to reuse a sermon!
I don’t have my uncle’s massive intellect, nor will I be speaking to congregants who are faculty at the Harvard Divinity School. Yet the idea of three somewhat different sermons intrigues me. “You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” will resonate with the older group at the earliest service I’ll do, because they know that their hour is not that far away. The contemporary service crowd needs to hear that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” amid the uncertainties of their world and their hopes for their children. And those at the late morning Choral Eucharist may need Isaiah’s reminder that exquisitely executed liturgy is not, after all, what puts one right with God.
Isaiah particularly intrigues me. After the opening verse establishing his identity and credentials, there is a long condemnation of Israel for its continued rebellion from God. That in itself is not unusual, but when God says “come now, let us argue it out,” one suddenly realizes that God is more interested in dialogue than harangue. Indeed, the next verses indicate that God is always willing to forgive us – as long as we are obedient rather than rebellious. Psalm 50 sets this same theme in the context of a heavenly courtroom, reminding us that there are consequences for rebellion.
That’s why the reassurance of the letter to the Hebrews is so important. The consequences of following or not following God are not always apparent. If we are to step out in faith, we need the assurance that God will follow through on what God has promised. Thus the letter’s eleventh chapter gives a long list of those who have “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.”
Jesus provides additional encouragement in Luke’s Gospel. “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” he says. So live as though you are already in the kingdom. Let your checkbook tell you what your priorities are (“where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”). Or as Isaiah writes, “Cease to do evil, learn to do good, seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour, and you’d best be ready.
And so the message for the day is the same for all: Live in faith and hope that Christ will come again, to make all things new – but in the meantime there’s work to be done. One message, yet each person will hear it somewhat differently. Thus it may well be that my part of this pulpit swap will need three different approaches, three different sermons. If so, not only will I experience R’s usual Sunday, but my uncle’s whole preaching life.
Pentecost 11: Isaiah 1:1,10-20; Psalm 50:1-8,23-24; Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16; Luke 12:32-40.
As I read through the lessons and considered the three services at R’s Trinity parish, I remembered something an uncle once told me. He had been the pastor for many years near Harvard Square at a big Lutheran church, which also had three Sunday services. He said he felt that each service had a different congregation, so he preached three different sermons each week. He told me this long after he retired, lamenting the fact that he had finally reached the point where he had to reuse a sermon!
I don’t have my uncle’s massive intellect, nor will I be speaking to congregants who are faculty at the Harvard Divinity School. Yet the idea of three somewhat different sermons intrigues me. “You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” will resonate with the older group at the earliest service I’ll do, because they know that their hour is not that far away. The contemporary service crowd needs to hear that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” amid the uncertainties of their world and their hopes for their children. And those at the late morning Choral Eucharist may need Isaiah’s reminder that exquisitely executed liturgy is not, after all, what puts one right with God.
Isaiah particularly intrigues me. After the opening verse establishing his identity and credentials, there is a long condemnation of Israel for its continued rebellion from God. That in itself is not unusual, but when God says “come now, let us argue it out,” one suddenly realizes that God is more interested in dialogue than harangue. Indeed, the next verses indicate that God is always willing to forgive us – as long as we are obedient rather than rebellious. Psalm 50 sets this same theme in the context of a heavenly courtroom, reminding us that there are consequences for rebellion.
That’s why the reassurance of the letter to the Hebrews is so important. The consequences of following or not following God are not always apparent. If we are to step out in faith, we need the assurance that God will follow through on what God has promised. Thus the letter’s eleventh chapter gives a long list of those who have “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.”
Jesus provides additional encouragement in Luke’s Gospel. “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” he says. So live as though you are already in the kingdom. Let your checkbook tell you what your priorities are (“where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”). Or as Isaiah writes, “Cease to do evil, learn to do good, seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour, and you’d best be ready.
And so the message for the day is the same for all: Live in faith and hope that Christ will come again, to make all things new – but in the meantime there’s work to be done. One message, yet each person will hear it somewhat differently. Thus it may well be that my part of this pulpit swap will need three different approaches, three different sermons. If so, not only will I experience R’s usual Sunday, but my uncle’s whole preaching life.
Pentecost 11: Isaiah 1:1,10-20; Psalm 50:1-8,23-24; Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16; Luke 12:32-40.
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