Category: Sermons

First Sunday of Advent – Year C – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Luke 21:25-36

Jesus said, “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.”

Then he told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

“Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this first Sunday of Advent, as we begin a new year in our liturgical calendar. Advent is a time of expectant waiting and preparation for the coming of Christ from two different, but related perspectives. It offers those gathered as the Body of Christ an opportunity to share in the anticipation of the nativity of Jesus, and to be alert for his Second Coming, as we hear in the lovely and prophetic words of Jeremiah, “The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.” And Luke, in today’s Gospel, writes of “the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory.” Today’s readings seem to take on heightened meaning given the uncertainty of our times, including our own season of transition between rectors at Holy Family. These changes and uncertainties can add to our anxiety about the present, and our wish to know what the future will bring. How can we be prepared? What are the signs of today that carry the seeds of what will be tomorrow? And perhaps at the heart of this for many of us, what is, and is not, under our control? Businesses, governments, and educational institutions, including the institution where I taught for many years—hire consultants to predict what is to come, and offer advice as to how best prepare for it. This desire to predict the future is what prompts horoscopes and palm readers, and I recently saw an ad for a brand of watch which read “connected to eternity.” I am not a Greek Scholar, but I do know that chronos—or sequential, chronological time—and Kairos—which is the appointed time in the purpose of God, or sacred time under the aspect of eternity—are not the same kind of time. It is the former with which we are often confronted in this busy, sometimes hectic season, and the latter with which our liturgical season of Advent is primarily concerned. Sometimes in our cultural, chronological anxiety we begin Christmas right after Halloween, and we confuse Advent with Christmas, which is, in a way, like skipping from Palm Sunday to Easter without observing Holy Week. We forget to wait, and pay attention, and we risk losing the only moment we have, which is this moment, here and now.

Amid our anxieties about the future, there’s probably no Christian teaching that’s caused more excitement and confusion than what is often called the “second coming of Christ.” And sometimes I wonder if we confuse that Advent with the beginning of Advent we observe today. They are related, but not the same. In one of my favorite Peanuts comic strips, Linus and Lucy are standing at the window looking out at the rain falling. Lucy says to Linus, “Boy, look at it rain…What if it floods the whole earth?” Linus, the resident biblical scholar for the Peanuts gang, answers, “It will never do that…in the ninth chapter of Genesis, God promised Noah that would never happen again, and the sign of the promise is the rainbow.” With a smile on her face, Lucy replies, “Linus, you’ve taken a great load off my mind.” To which Linus responds, “Sound theology has a way of doing that.” Yes, “sound theology,” the teachings of scripture and the Church, rightly understood, can help ease our anxieties about this doctrine. And sound theology can also be the occasion for us to think about hope, and waiting, and especially about what we can and cannot control. We need not worry unnecessarily, but we do have some responsibility to watch, and wait, and hope, and pray; and, to work for justice and peace. That’s the Advent we observe today.

Scholars call passages like this one from Luke 21 apocalyptic literature. It was a style of writing that used vivid, striking images to convey a message of hope and faith. It was used especially during times when God’s people were being severely oppressed. The Book of Revelation, for example, was written at a time around the end of the first century after Christ, when Christians were being persecuted by Rome. John, who wrote it, was on the isle of Patmos, exiled there by the Romans because he refused to deny his faith. So he writes to his suffering churches, using words and images he understood and his readers would understand but that the enemy would not understand. It’s a kind of code, really, and it can be confusing to us in our context. But when you put it all together, it’s saying, “No matter how bad it looks, don’t give up the faith. Hang in there, for God is in control. So watch and work and pray. God is with us now, is both here, now, and is coming again.” That’s Kairos time. That’s Advent time.

It’s so human to get confused in our anxiety about what the future will bring. In fact, many claim to know too much about it. I believe this is one of the problems at the heart of some religious views that claim to know, and have more control over those events, than is possible. It’s not a bit confusing or mysterious to some, when and how things will end, which impacts choices made here, and now. And yet of that day and hour, Jesus said in Mark 13, the angels do not know, nor the Son. And when he was asked in Acts 1 when the end times would take place, he tells them, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. Here’s what you are to know. You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come.” I don’t know about you, but I am wary of religious claims in our context that promise more than Jesus himself said he knew. The other mistake the church makes is in treating this teaching too lightly or dismissing it altogether. Some see it as an outdated doctrine that causes more trouble and confusion than it’s worth…suggesting that it’s no longer relevant for us. Both of these extremes make for questionable theology. As is often the case, there is a wonderfully inclusive both/and at work here, and it can assist in our observance of Advent.

The Grammy-award-winning singer Mary Chapin Carpenter recently suffered a health crisis. As she reported on NPR, she was admitted to the emergency room after experiencing chest pain. A scan revealed blood clots in her lungs. People told her that she should feel lucky because a pulmonary embolism can be fatal. But instead of feeling lucky, she fell into depression. In her essay, “The Learning Curve of Gratitude,” on NPR’s Weekend Edition, Carpenter said,

“Everything I had been looking forward to came to a screeching halt. I had to cancel my upcoming tour. I had to let my musicians and crewmembers go….I felt I had let everyone down. Burt there was nothing to do but get out of the hospital, go home and get well. I tried hard to see my unexpected time off as a gift, but I would open a novel and couldn’t concentrate. I would turn on the radio, and shut it off. Familiar clouds gathered above my head, and I couldn’t make them go away with a pill or a movie or a walk. This unexpected time was becoming a curse, filling me with anxiety, fear and self-loathing. All the ingredients of the darkness that is depression.”

For those of us who are members of Christ’s body in this place, dear one’s, the season of Advent affords the opportunity to begin again, with hope, the next leg of our journey as believers in faith, to see even challenging times as in their own way, a new beginning. It is an opportunity to think about the future by paying attention to what is here, and now, in this moment. In his Gospel, Luke writes of a time when nations are perplexed at the signs in nature and its awe-inspiring power, when men “faint with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.” The reading ends with the sprouting of the fig leaf as a sign of an upcoming summer—the season of growth and life that springs forth and is in stark contrast to the dead of winter. These days as I run in the woods, now almost winter-like in appearance, I am reminded that the tender green buds of the leaves that will adorn these same trees in spring are already there, just visible to the eye upon closer inspection. Indeed, it is the gentle push of these new leaves to come that causes the autumn leaves to let go.

Gratitude can participate in healing—the Latin root of which is salve—from which we get our word “salvation.” Gratitude can “save us” from ourselves and heal those things that keep us separated from each other, and from God. As it happened, Mary Chapin Carpenter found healing and restoration through gratitude, at the grocery store check-out line:

One morning, the young man who rang up my groceries and asked me if I wanted paper or plastic, also told me to enjoy the rest of my day. I looked at him, and knew he meant it. It stopped me in my tracks. I went out and sat in my car and cried. What I want, more than ever, is to appreciate that I have this day, and tomorrow and hopefully the days beyond that. I am experiencing the learning curve of gratitude. I don’t want to say “have a nice day” like a robot. I don’t want to get mad at the elderly driver in front of me. I don’t want to go crazy when my internet access is messed up. I don’t want to be jealous of someone else’s success. You could say that this litany of sins indicates that I don’t want to be human. The learning curve of gratitude, however, is showing me exactly how human I am.

What a lovely phrase this is—the learning curve of gratitude—and how deeply it resonates with the Good News. This earthly sojourn, dear friends in Christ, takes place between illness and health, Samaria and Galilee, Egypt and that land over Jordan, in campground. It is lived between those places where we live most of our lives and where we are all at home. We are, all of us, as the song says, sovereign wayfarers, “just going over Jordan, just going over home.” We suffer most from those things that would separate us from others, from ourselves, and from God. Yet Christ bids us draw near, makes us whole, and restores us to life with others and to God in reconciling us to all. Gratitude is one means by which this happens. Meister Eckhart, desert father and mystic, once said that “If the only prayer we ever pray is one of gratitude that will be enough.” Learning curves of gratitude indeed.

The prevailing cultural narrative in this season makes it so hard for us to wait, and we are so often in a hurry. I am among those who struggle with this. In Spanish, the verb esperar means both “to hope” and “to wait.” A gardener friend tells me that the Esperanza plant flourishes in harsh conditions, and blooms in gold and orange—hopeful waiting indeed. Waiting in silence and creating sacred space for hope to grow, and compassion to blossom, is a practice we can cultivate. As the old song goes, building upon a passage we heard in Luke’s Gospel just a few weeks ago, “Got my hand on the Gospel plow, won’t take nothing for my journey now. Keep your eyes on the prize…hold on, hold on.” Already and not yet, present moment, and the prize to come, Advent now, and Advent not yet arrived.… find a vantage point, somewhere in the midst of things, from which you might watch, and wait, and prepare. Advent, like its cousin Lent, is a time for reflection, preparation, and waiting—in anticipation of Emmanuel, God with us, here, now, already, always, alleluia. Amen.

Last Sunday after Pentecost – Bill Harkins

Proper 29, Year B

The Collect: Almighty and everlasting God, whose will it is to restore all things in your well-beloved Son, the King of kings and Lord of lords: Mercifully grant that the peoples of the earth, divided and enslaved by sin, may be freed and brought together under his most gracious rule; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.

The Gospel: John 18:33-37Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

In the name of the God of creation who loves us all… Amen. Good morning and welcome to Holy Family on this Last Sunday in Pentecost, also known as Christ the King Sunday. It is now late November, and the Winter Solstice is only a few weeks away, as the days get shorter, and the nights grow cooler. As we know, the Celts built great bonfires during this season to ward off the growing darkness and cold. It is in one sense “in-between” time…and yet has an air of Last Things about it… the last Sunday in the long season of Pentecost, the last Sunday of the church year and this year, the last Sunday of Year B, in our three-year liturgical cycle.

We are not quite sure what to do with this time…not quite fall any longer, and not yet winter, between All Saints, and Advent…As I run these days I see this uncertainty all around me: Halloween decorations remain on some lawns, scarecrows now looking very much in character as the first frost and cold Canadian winds have given them a tattered and forlorn appearance. Other homes already display their Christmas finery, lights blazing and Santa and his reindeer riding on a sea of swirling autumn leaves. Even the heavens themselves seem seasonally unsure, with the last of the late summer and autumn constellations visible in the early night sky. Cassiopeia and Andromeda are giving way to Pegasus and Pisces, even as the brilliant winter constellation Orion is spinning into the picture for his long winter visit to our hemisphere. It is a season about which Shakespeare wrote in one of my favorites of his sonnets:

“That time of year thou mayst in me behold… when yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold…bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.” The bard is saying to his beloved that at times he may display a side of his personality like the last days of autumn, “the twilight of such day as after sunset fadeth in the west…” but he reassures her not to be alarmed by this, for it is not the final word and, moreover, teaches them to have clarity about what matters most deeply between them… “this thou perceivs’t which makes thy love more strong… to love that well which thou must leave ere long.” 

The lovely Beech groves deep in the forests of our neighborhood, especially on longer runs where I reach the confluence of the trail leading up to Mt. Oglethorpe, are an opportunity to pause, and pay attention. And this in turn is an occasion to attempt what I’ve learned from many on my journey in Christian centering prayer and Buddhist mindfulness practice: show up; pay attention; speak my truth (and this can be a deepened, inner self-awareness); and let go of attachment to things I cannot control. The last step, as we know, can be in relation to an infinite variety of issues, including addictive behavior of various kinds, and is at the heart of any 12-step journey. It is at the heart of the Serenity Prayer.

Trail running in the woods near our mountain home continues to teach me to let go of attachment to things I cannot control, and this has in turn had application in many areas of life. These Beech trees, deep in the woods on the Womack Trail, hold on to their leaves until spring—a phenomenon known as “marcescence.” Usually, sometime in March, the leaves will fall, a kind of second autumn, and this is called “abscission.” Even the lectionary seems to reflect our uncertainty about this time… for it gives us two options for the Gospel reading for today. Jesus’ earthly ministry reaches its climax in the crucifixion, so a three-year cycle in any Gospel must bring us to an account of his suffering. Liturgically, such an account belongs at the end of Lent rather than on the Last Sunday after Pentecost. An alternative Gospel is permitted, therefore, that of Luke’s description of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Over the years today’s celebration has come to be known as “Christ the King” in many denominations, most notably Catholic, and Episcopalian, but also UCC, Methodist, Lutheran, and Presbyterian. There seems to be something about seeing Christ in this role as king that continues to be important to us Christians today, even across denominational boundaries. But this begs the question of what picture in our minds the word “king” evokes, and even though this is ambiguous. It is a very different picture for us than it was for the Jews of Jesus’ time or for the early Christians.

Our understanding of kingship today is somewhat romanticized, fascinated, as we are, with royalty. And let’s face it; for most of us these days, royalty is the stuff of tabloids and talk shows. And as we recall, George Washington was deeply suspicious of the monarchy, and hoped we would avoid any remnants of “kingship” in this country. We are uncertain, therefore, what to do with words such as king, kingship, kingdom, rule, and authority; words that often disturb us more than they comfort us. The associations are not hard to discern. A ruler, usually male, not elected by the masses, is removed from the day-to-day world by occupying a palace, living in opulence, wearing splendid clothing and having hordes of servants tending to his or her every need. They make the rules and enforce them at will. They are all-powerful and distant.

Such images can and do lead to what some theologians have called a “performance model” of Christianity. With God or Jesus understood as the ever-vigilant monarch ruling over his subjects as a distant, all powerful king, the Christian life boils down to “meeting requirements” or “measuring up.” Our eternal destiny hangs on how well we “perform.” The self, as a subject of the king, is continually on trial. Sin equals violating the edicts of the King, and propitiation for sin—seeking to appease the wrath of the angry monarch—becomes the focus of the Christian life. The emphasis on sin thus affects not only the way the whole Christian story is told but also confers an identity. It leads to the internal dynamic of thinking of oneself as primarily a sinner who needs to repent, and it defines repentance as feeling bad about oneself. It confuses God with the superego and the Christian life with life under the superego, that critical voice in our psyches that is the storehouse of “ought” and “should” most often heard punitively. We are never good enough. It reminds me of my high school football coach, endlessly replaying the tapes of the previous Friday night’s game, looking for mistakes I and my teammates made. Never good enough. No thanks. And thanks be to God, this is not the kingship of Christ. His is a total reversal of the roles usually assigned to royalty and servitude. His reign subverts our notion of kingship. He is the king who serves the other, dies for the other… is ridiculed, mocked and scorned. When we celebrate Christ the King, we hold up a king who is a redeemer, a reconciler, a servant. And we are linked in today’s gospel in both repentance and forgiveness, and God as king and lord becomes the subverter of systems of domination. Monarchical imagery subverts the monarchical model, as the God of compassion grieves with and takes the side of those who suffer under domination systems.

The theologian Paul Tillich once described God as the “Ground of Being” and “ultimate concern,” both images of radical dependence amidst radical freedom. In either/or, all/or/nothing cultures such paradoxes are difficult to tolerate, but this makes them no less true for their difficulty. Indeed, what we most deeply desire is relationship with God, and today we celebrate Jesus not as a distant potentate, but a loving parent in the fullest sense of that love manifested to us here on earth…as a God who is compassionate and who cares for all of God’s children and longs to be in relationship even when, or perhaps especially when, we stray.

I find Jesus’ words in this Gospel text deeply comforting, especially the part about listening to his voice. Think of those whom we love and trust the most, and of how meaningful it can be to hear their voices. This is a reminder of those deepest, early attachments at the heart of who we become, if those connections are safe, and dependable, and transcend our human mischief. I am reminded of the story of the eight-year-old boy who, angry with his parents, decided late one afternoon that he’d had it with them, and he was leaving home. The parents sympathized and watched him pack a few things into a bag. They told him how much they would miss him and bid him farewell. They watched discreetly from a window as their son walked away from the house and fell into playing in the cul-de-sac with some friends from the neighborhood. Before too long it was dusk, and dinnertime, and the boy’s friends headed off for home. The parents watched their son as he stood for a long while by himself, then for a long while by his little suitcase, and then slowly, dejectedly, began to walk back home. The parents were concerned about what would happen at their reunion. They saw shame on their son’s face, and they did not want to humiliate him further; and so they ended up making what is often a wise choice when one is not quite sure what to do. When their son returned, they remained seated, kept quiet, and offered the boy a compassionate, undemanding attention. They watched as he sat down in a chair opposite them, and then he, too, was quiet, pensive, self-absorbed. No one said anything. Finally, the family cat ran across the middle of the room. The boy looked up and said to his parents, “I see you still have that old cat.” Today we celebrate Jesus as pure Mother/Father love; as the patient, compassionate healer and transformer of life, who waits at home for us to return to relationship, remains steadfast in relation to us, with us, and who heals the sins of the world, for us and for our salvation. Amen.

The Collect: Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have given us in our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Mark 13:1-8

As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.” When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him privately, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, `I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.”

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. I bidGrace and peace to each of you, welcome, and good morning on this 26^th Sunday after Pentecost. With the holidays almost upon us, and the long green season of Pentecost ending, we hear this cautionary passage from the Gospel of Mark, and are given to wonder what it means, and how to place it in the context of Jesus’ ministry, and of our lives, especially with Advent just around the corner. This may seem to represent a paradox or an abrupt clash of seasonal messages, hearing this apocalyptic or eschatological language—which simply means prophetic talk of the end-times, common in both Christian and Hebrew scripture—just as we are turning the corner on the season of waiting and watching for the birth of Jesus.

And, yet I wonder. Is this simply an anomaly of the lectionary, or is there perhaps more in common with these themes than we might see at first glance?  Such language is not limited to religion, of course. Feeling that one is living in uncertain times and facing an ambiguous future is a theme found in literature from Lord of the Rings, to Harry Potter, to the Wizard of Oz. And we are in what some call the “postmodern age,” a time in which prevailing narratives such as science and religion, and even the truth, are contested and groaning beneath the weight of competing claims. Some have called this the “age of anxiety” for precisely this reason. As Jesus and the disciples leave the temple, the disciples gaze at the impressive stones and buildings, and suggest that they seem immovable. Jesus disrupts their worldview by saying that even the great stones that serve to create the temple will one day be thrown down, and this troubling vision understandably prompts questions. In our age, of course, we have seen the falling of the twin towers, super-storms of unprecedented ferocity, our neighbors in Western North Carolina experiencing a storm unlike any in history for that region, and other events, including political discord of epic proportions. What does one do in response to such events, and how might we hear Jesus’ response to the disciples’ anxious questions—and perhaps our own? To whom do we turn when the ground is shifting around us, and the times, as songwriter Bob Dylan said, ‘they are a changing’? To whom or what do we turn when we are lost, and do not know which way to go?

And these need not be events on a grand scale. Sometimes events that are harbingers of change happen on a much smaller, subtler, local level, and yet may profoundly affect the lives of those in their wake. For some 30 or more Thanksgiving mornings, for example, I ran the Atlanta half-marathon. The race-course changed a few years ago, however, and now makes a large and fascinating circle through the city, from Turner field to Georgia Tech, and from Atlantic Station to Piedmont Park ; to Sweet Auburn, and Oakland Cemetery. I always got a bit wistful, I confess, when we ran through Atlantic Station. When I was in college I worked each summer at the Atlantic Steel Company, located where shops, grand boulevards, homes, and gleaming office towers now stand. But for a season, this was a world unto itself, replete with a baseball team and field, a small hospital, company housing, and the fascinating, living creature that was a steel mill in full form, including the fire-breathing dragon at the heart of it all—the massive furnace. For a college kid, this was a wondrous place, filled with interesting men and women, and maybe best of all, excellent pay. It was my ticket to a wonderful liberal arts education after my father told me that if I did not attend UGA, I could pay for college myself. My job was that of a welder’s apprentice, assigned to the summer welding team, based in Warehouse #13, about where the Cirque du soleil tent is as we speak. The mill shut down incrementally in the summer, and we followed the steam cleaners and machinists as we worked through the mill repairing equipment and laying new beads of molten metal on miles of conveyers. I became attached to my co-workers, and to those men and women whom I respected, and admired. And, let me add here, welding is tough. The best welder on our team, far and away, was a Black woman who elevated welding to an art form and who adopted me as her friend.

She, and my supervisor, Gene Rainey, patiently tried to teach me the trade, but I never really caught on to it. During my third summer at the mill, as my junior year in college approached, Mr. Rainey lifted his welder’s visor one afternoon, paused, and said “William, you are not a very good welder.” “No sir,” I replied. “I am not.” “But you could be,” he said. “And it’s a good life. I see you reading these books all the time. Where will they get you? Do you know what you want to do with your life? Do you know where all this is heading?” I confessed that I did not. And what I knew, but did not say then, was that I, too, had questions about where college was taking me, and I had a home-town girlfriend, and things at home were, I knew, not on firm ground. I did not know where I was going, or where all that “book learning” as Mr. Rainey put it, was leading, and I was secretly thinking about staying home when school began…about taking some time off. “Stay here in September,” he said. “In 18 months, you can be a union member, and get your welding license, and I promise you’ll be making $60K a year. Think about it.” And I did. I thought about it a lot, and I prayed for some sense of direction, and I had to remind myself that, as a much wiser person than I once said, “All who wander are not lost.” In the end, in September, I went back to school. I still was not sure where all that book learning was leading, but I believed that I was somehow on the right course, and that if I focused on what was most important, I would find my way. I would find my vocation—my calling—my life. Several years later a Canadian company bought Atlantic Steel and moved the mill to Cartersville, and not too long after that, that gleaming new mill shut down. You can visit it today, a veritable ghost town, empty, its furnaces cold, and its men and women, most of who had too much seniority to find jobs elsewhere, out of work. I was not there the day they removed the last brick from Atlantic Steel, and I am glad I was not. But as a young man I could not imagine the wondrous place that had once been that mill would be gone, like the last, fading notes of a summer song.

And the economy that had built and sustained it was changing as well. The lives of those men and women were irrevocably altered, and some measure of my own youthful innocence, to borrow a phrase from Yeats, was gone with it. The steel mill had been thrown down, to use the language from today’s Gospel, and an era was passing away. Last November, at my 50^th high school reunion, a football teammate of mine who had joined the Marines out of high school and gone on to become a police officer referred to me as a “jock gone bad from too much education.” I told him that I had received a wonderful blue-collar education at Atlantic Steel on the way to a life-changing liberal arts education. He paused for a moment, took a sip of beer, and said “I’m sorry. I did not know.” These false dichotomies between blue collar workers and college graduates, and binary thinking, either/or thinking, are posing a tremendous threat to us all.  Perhaps it is the folly of humanity to seek permanence in the things of this world, and yet it seems to be our nature. The Roman Empire, responsible for killing Jesus because he was a threat to their agenda, lasted only 300 years. Perhaps it is our deep angst in knowing our own mortality that leads us to build structures of many kinds: buildings, ships, corporate businesses, political empires, steel mills, even families. When we half-marathoners enter Atlantic Station on the Northside Drive entrance there is one, lone reminder of Atlantic Steel Company in the form of a large steam engine turned sculpture, echoing the arch found a mile or so down 17^th avenue. I suspect that only a handful of runners know its history, or that of the steel mill now gone. God has placed in us a deep-seated need to create something that will transcend the finitude of our earthly lives. As the author David Brooks has written,

“About once a month I run across a person who radiates an inner light. These people can be in any walk of life. They seem deeply good. They listen well. They make you feel funny and valued. You often catch them looking after other people and as they do so their laugh is musical, and their manner is infused with gratitude. They are not thinking about what wonderful work they are doing. They are not thinking about themselves at all…When I meet such a person it brightens my whole day. But I confess I often have a sadder thought: It occurs to me that I’ve achieved a decent level of career success, but I have not achieved that. I have not achieved that generosity of spirit, or that depth of character…A few years ago I realized that I wanted to be a bit more like those people. I realized that if I wanted to do that I was going to have to work harder to save my own soul. I was going to have to have the sort of moral adventures that produce that kind of goodness. I was going to have to be better at balancing my life…It occurred to me that there were two sets of virtues, the résumé virtues and the eulogy virtues. The résumé virtues are the skills you bring to the marketplace. The eulogy virtues are the ones that are talked about at your funeral — whether you were kind, brave, honest or faithful. Were you capable of deep love?

Begging the question, what will it be, those core values that transform who we are? And so, within the broader context of this chapter of Mark’s gospel, Jesus reminds us that our work is to be faithful, patient and we are advised to keep awake, because God is working out the plan of salvation and has not abandoned us. All shall be well, as Julian of Norwich said, because God has promised that all shall be well. Christ promises us that things will be all right because when death on the cross appeared to be the end, God had the last word at an empty tomb.      

Throughout our lives, we will experience death and resurrection many times over as the neatly arranged structures of our lives are thrown down. These apocalyptic words of Jesus remind us to hang on, and to place our trust in something more than ourselves, our possessions, our stock portfolios, our relationships to the political agendas of the day, our health, our intellect. It is to place our ultimate trust in the One from whom all these things come. It is to accept our finitude and mortality in a radical trust of God’s unchangeable grace and goodness so that we might be freed from the captivity of anxious fear, and finally live fully and freely as God’s beloved children. Whether a natural disaster of unprecedented proportions, or a terrorist attack or wars and rumors of wars, or the loss of a young persons’ innocence and a radically shifting economy, our focus must be not on whatever signs may be evident, but on the one who is to come—and who reminds us amidst destruction that blessing is certain, and the center will indeed hold. And in the meantime, seek justice, do mercy, believe that the moral arc of the universe is long and bends toward justice. Who is leading us astray, to quote today’s Gospel, in our time? I leave that to each of you, and your own discernment based on your core values, to determine. Increasingly I am looking at the world through the eyes of my grandchildren. Who would I like to see them look up to, and emulate? How do I want my granddaughters to be treated as the young women they are becoming, and who in the public sphere is an example of this? Who is best approximating our Baptismal Covenant, especially the part about respecting the dignity of every human being? Who is speaking the truth? The best may lack all conviction, while the worst may be full of passionate intensity, as Yeats said, but those of us who watch, and wait, will still have good and faithful work to do. As Wendell Berry said;

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millennium.

Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant,

that you will not live to harvest….Practice resurrection.                       Amen.

The Collect:O God, whose blessed Son came into the world that he might destroy the works of the devil and make us children of God and heirs of eternal life: Grant that, having this hope, we may purify ourselves as he is pure; that, when he comes again with power and great glory, we may be made like him in his eternal and glorious kingdom; where he lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Mark 12:38-44

³⁸As he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces,³⁹and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets!⁴⁰They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”⁴¹He sat down opposite the treasury and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums.⁴²A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny.⁴³Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury.⁴⁴For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all…Amen. Good afternoon, and welcome to Holy Family on this 24th Sunday after Pentecost, in this Season of All Saints. The Gospel reading for today is the story of the Widow’s Mite, with which we are all familiar. By the time this text rolls around in the lectionary, many churches will have already completed their fall stewardship drives. In some ways, it may seem to be a fastball right down Peachtree for a stewardship homily. If you like baseball metaphors, which I do, this may be a pitch too tempting to refuse—simply give like this poor widow—and give freely—and leave it at that. But the more I thought about this passage, the more I wondered what we are about today. If I were to write a letter to the widow in this story, it might go something like this:

Grace and peace to you. I hope this finds you and finds you well. We do not know each other. In fact, I do not even know your name. I decided to write to you, someone I have never met, because we read out loud the story of how you put all that you had into the treasury plate. I have some questions, though, about what this gesture meant to you, and I thought it might help me answer them if I wrote to you. Sometimes when I write I can figure things out. Maybe in the process I can learn more about you, and the church, and what it means to give.    Your story is read often this time of year to inspire people to give to the church. Often, the point of the sermon is to suggest giving in the manner that you gave—not simply to give a little off the top to God—or perhaps more to the point, to the church—but to dig deep, and give freely, all that one has.

My scholar colleagues, however, note that this use of the text may go against the way Mark’s Gospel originally intended the story to be heard. Indeed, by pairing the story of Jesus observing your offering with his pronouncement against the religious leaders in the preceding verses (12:38-40), perhaps we are invited to hear this scene differently than most usually preach it. In denouncing the scribes, Jesus says they “devour widow’s houses” (v. 40). When Jesus comments that the widow “out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on” (v. 44), he is less praising the widow and more condemning a religious institution that would take a “poor widow’s” last penny. You were no doubt on the margins of your society, both by virtue of being a widow, and simply because you were a woman in a culture where the rights of women were often overlooked or devalued. Many in my own culture, by virtue of circumstance, are also on the margins and, indeed, we are living in a time when women’s rights are once again being challenged. Though you never say a word in this passage, your actions speak volumes. So, while your story may indeed call for a stewardship sermon, perhaps its focus should not be on the stewardship of those sitting in the pews. Rather, I wonder if the focus should be on the church’s stewardship of money given on behalf of those who, like you, are on the margins of society. As a biblical representative of the marginalized and powerless, your actions call the church not to take from the poor but to provide for them. I am often confused when I flip through channels and see one televangelist after another preaching the prosperity gospel. “If you pray right, live right, and send me money,” they often say, “God will bless you with success, happiness, and financial security.”  

The Christianity they proffer is nothing more than a lottery—you pay a dollar and take a chance on winning more. And like the lottery, this kind of “stewardship” preys on the most desperate, the most anxious. It is the psychological equivalent of taking hostage those who are most vulnerable. While most churches and preachers in my time do not distort faith in this way, in our materialistic society, and for some, this message may seem to be an offering of salvation. I am grateful that the congregation I currently serve is dedicated to giving back to the community. May it continue to be so, and perhaps in some way your story is a reminder of the importance of doing exactly that.

It may be that we need to “un-hear” the usual message preached from your story to hear a more theologically appropriate interpretation. I wonder, if you were to speak, whether you might offer a positive model for how the church should care of the “widows” of today, and those who are marginalized, and suffering. I wonder if we can only really give things that are really ours. In other words, we must own before we can give. Stewards are managers, and managers are not owners. Managers are people who handle resources on behalf of the owner. Managers act in the interest of the owner, who is in this case God. Even the wealth of our households is not ours in any permanent sense. It passes through us. I think you understood this. I think you knew that the money you gave—those two coins—were in some sense not even yours. And so, the question is, did Jesus point to your example as a model for giving in this way? What might you have really been saying to us? Many of the scribes whom Jesus condemns in this passage probably thought, like me, that they were doing what was honorable, and good. Perhaps Jesus is calling each of us who are at risk of benefitting from systems of oppression to consider specific and sustained action by engaging in spiritual practices that challenge oppression and marginalization whenever and wherever we find them, especially in our own backyard. Maybe when you put those coins in the plate you were asking us to explore what it really means to give all that you have, to live in faith. Perhaps you were investing, if you will, in a kind of Ignatian “Holy Indifference.” This does not mean one does not care, but rather means a total openness to the will of God in one’s life. In other words, I will strive to discern my will in relation to God’s for the world. And I will do so without being attached to the outcome in unhealthy ways. As the poet Dante expressed it: “In God’s will is our peace.” Or, as Augustine said, “Our hearts are restless until they find their rest in Thee.”

We are called to ministries of healing and reconciliation, ministering to the sick, the friendless, and the needy. We are called to respect the dignity of every human being.  I wonder if those two coins you gave represented these deep values. We are called to free people from anything that would separate them from God, from others, and from their most authentic, true selves. You are asking us to remember that the true meaning of sin is to “miss the mark.” Perhaps in pointing to your story, Jesus is not just celebrating your giving. Maybe he is also emphasizing that the giving was in the wrong direction.  Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. “Behold what you are…become what you receive,” St. Augustine said about the Eucharist. I think you understood that we do become what we receive, and what we give. In a sense those two coins symbolized who you had become, and who you were becoming. I remember Mildred, another widow who gave so much, and who was a resident on the Alzheimer’s Unit at Wesley Woods. She never said a word to me in the nine months I served as chaplain there, but she knew every word of every hymn we sang in worship. She had become the songs she sang in the little Methodist Church she attended all her life, and Alzheimer’s could not, would not ever rob her of this deepest core self. She sang with gratitude, and with joy. “Behold what you are…become what you receive.” Indeed, and what we give in gratitude, without thought of what we receive in turn, reminds us that through our participation in the sacraments of baptism and Eucharist we are transformed into the Body of Christ, to be taken, blessed, broken, and given for the world. Amen.

24th Sunday after Pentecost – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: John 11: 32-44

When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen.

Good morning and welcome to Holy Family on this 24^th Sunday after Pentecost, and a weekend when we observe the Feast of All Souls. Today we hear a Gospel passage about life abundant. We are called to consider the choices that may lead to a theology of scarcity, or abundance. And let’s remember that we will revisit the Lazarus story again during Lent, because the context of the passages for today eventually causes the council and the high priest to plot Jesus’ death. Indeed, in the Palm Sunday story we hear these words: “So the crowd that had been with him when he called Lazarus out of the tomb and raised him from the dead continued to testify…the Pharisees then said to one another, ‘You see, you can do nothing. Look, the world has gone after him!” It is precisely this feeling of powerlessness in the face of a charismatic, potentially dangerous figure that impels the Pharisees to seek Jesus’ death. Indeed, it is the resurrection of Lazarus that leads to Jesus being killed. So, we find a theme that runs throughout these passages and the passion narrative from today, to Holy Week: the theme of ego, hubris, and pride versus self-denial and the death of ego.

This is the paradox that runs throughout the drama that unfolds this week. “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.” This paradox is not limited to agricultural examples. In my work as a pastor and therapist I see this remarkable truth borne out again and again. Persons whose egoism, pride, and selfish desires so obscure their true selves that they are trapped in a cage of “I, me, and mine,”—and are thereby cut off from God and others. As my colleague Walter Brueggemann from Columbia Seminary has said, we tend to view the world from the perspective of a theology of scarcity—we live as if there is simply not enough of God’s abundant love to go around. And so, we grasp at those things at hand to secure us in our anxiety—to make us feel whole, to tell ourselves that we can do just fine without relationship to God and others. The ways we seek to do this can often take seemingly benign forms. Indeed, we can often use the very tools with which we are taught to construct our lives, even in wonderful educational institutions. Academic excellence, athletic glory, talents of one kind or another are all good things, to be sure. But it is precisely the nature of the human to be at risk for misusing them—for construing them as ultimate—as enough to ground us in sacred ways—when they cannot. We see this paradox at work in the narrative that unfolds this week. The world is fickle. As Walter Brueggemann has reminded us, the world is often an unreliable place, neither its hostility nor its adoration can be trusted. Those who shouted “Hosanna!” on Palm Sunday will shout, “crucify him” on Friday. Jesus’ opponents will succeed in killing him, but their apparent victory will turn to dust as Jesus emerges from the tomb and begins to “draw all people to himself.” Death, in this story, paradoxically ends in relationship. The seed must die if it is to bear fruit. Those who rely too much on the trappings of the ego, and forego the path of servant-hood, are at risk. The paradox is this: to die to ourselves is to live fully, in relationship, with compassion. Indeed, arguably, compassion—a radically relational idea, is the cardinal virtue of the pastoral tradition, and it has a rich heritage in our Judeo-Christian tradition.

In Judaism compassion, or rachamin, is the first of thirteen attributes of God listed in Exodus 34:6. The Hebrew rachamin links compassion to the idea that all human beings are related, and connects compassion with justice and obligation in such a way as to emphasize action, rather than feelings. From the Latin, com-passio, means to suffer with the other. Thus, we accept God’s love for humanity and the intrinsic worth of every individual as a child of God. “Drawing all to himself,” then, God calls us into relationship, and compassion occurs precisely in the context of relationship. But we must get ourselves out of the way for this to happen. I am reminded of a wonderful short story, by Garrison Keillor, in which he recalls a game he played as a teenager, with his beloved Aunt Lois. “My favorite game was strangers,” he said, “pretending that we didn’t know each other. I’d get up and walk to the back of the bus and turn around and come back to the seat and say, “Do you mind if I sit here?” And she said, “No, I don’t mind,” and I’d sit. And she’d say: “A very pleasant day, isn’t it?” We didn’t really speak that way in our family, but she and I were strangers, and so we could talk as we pleased. “Are you going all the way to Minneapolis, then?” “As a matter of fact, ma’am, I’m going to New York City. I’m in a very successful hit play on Broadway, and I came back out here to Minnesota because my sweet old aunt died, and I’m going back to Broadway now on the evening plane. Then next week I go to Paris, France, where I reside on the Champs-Elysees. My name is Tom Flambeau, perhaps you’ve read about me?” “No,” she said, “I’ve never heard of you in my life, but I’m very sorry to hear about your aunt. She must have been a wonderful person.” “Oh, she was pretty old. She was all right, I guess.” “Are you very close to your family, then?” “No, not really. I’m adopted you see. My real parents were Broadway actors—they sent me out to the farm thinking I’d get more to eat, but I don’t think that people out here understand sophisticated people like me.” She looked away from me. She looked out the window for a long time. I’d hurt her feelings. Minutes passed, but I didn’t know her. Then I said, “Talk to me, please.” She said “Sir, if you bother me anymore, I’ll have the driver throw you off this bus.” “Say that you know me. Please.” And then, when I couldn’t bear it one more second, she touched me and smiled, and I was myself again.” Indeed. We become our true selves in the context of relationship. The Gospel of John reminds us of this truth. We must die to the messages of success that we receive so often in our culture—that the path to freedom lies in our self-motivated ambitions and accomplishments and that we are justified in doing whatever is necessary in achieving our goals. And alienation from self, other and God can result in many different forms of death. Jesus was a master at recognizing that relationships have the power to heal what is broken, even when we do not recognize it ourselves.

The story is told of the response of some in Denmark to the Nazi invasion of that country. I first heard this story in a history class at Rhodes College, but it bears repeating here for many reasons. Seems that in 1940, German tanks rumbled across the borders of the peaceful country of Denmark. The Nazi’s, already possessing control of Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Poland, encountered little resistance from the small northern nation. Soon, other countries fell to the German forces as well: Norway, Holland, Belgium, and France. Vicky and I have recently returned from Paris, where many reminders of the occupation of that city by Nazi Germany remain. As part of their systematic method of intimidation and oppression, the Germans announced that every Dane of Jewish descent would be required to wear a yellow Star of David. They had done the same thing in Germany and other countries. Any Jew who failed to comply would be put to death. The Star of David, a proud symbol of the Jewish faith and culture, would be used to mark them as undesirable members of society—to rob them of their dignity, their possessions, and even their lives. The Danish government and its people were in no position to do battle against the powerful German army. But their leader, King Christian the 10^th, made a bold and courageous move. He called for all the Danish citizens to wear the Star of David, for every Danish household to stand in solidarity as partners with their Jewish neighbors. And remember, many leading theologians of the day used scripture to justify the Nazi persecution of the Jews. Tremendous fear must have gripped the hearts of those first Gentile citizens to venture forth from their homes the morning after the Kings’ announcement. Would they be the only ones to heed the Kings’ announcement? Would they be singled out, prosecuted and killed along with their Jewish brothers and sisters?  

What they saw was nothing short of a miracle. There were Stars of David everywhere. The Jews among them wept when they love and support of their fellow Danish citizens. And because the people stood together, the Nazi’s full plan of persecution of Jews in that country was never carried out. God calls us into relationship. And these relationships of accountability and transparency have the power to heal what is broken, to make whole our tendency amid a theology of scarcity that we alone have what we need to secure ourselves. And the great paradoxical truth is that to be fully in relationship, we must die to ourselves and give ourselves over to compassion. This is the great common denominator of the great religions of the Abrahamic tradition. There is plenty of God’s love to go around, and it is passed one to another in relationships like those I have described this morning. Drawing all to himself, Jesus asks that we die to self. In so doing we do not die to excellence in academics, athletics, art and drama—all the wonderful qualities that make this school the remarkable place that it is. Rather, we are asked to keep these goals in perspective, and remain vigilant, lest we lose sight of that which is most deeply human—that it is more important to be in relationship, than to be right—more important to die to self, than to live in the belief that the self is all we need. Yeats reminded us that without relationships of accountability and compassion “things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” Without dying to self, “the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” This season of All Souls reminds us that these categories are not mutually exclusive. We can be persons of conviction, embodying the Divine spark of compassion that is our God-given gift. God calls us into relationship, where we can become our truest, best selves—precisely when we lose ourselves in service and compassion. In this season of stewardship let us remember to give ourselves away, with gratitude, in relationship.  Amen.

23rd Sunday after Pentecost – Ted Hackett

Lessons 10: 6-27

Job and Evil

The last four Sunday’s Hebrew Bible readings have been from the Book of Job.

In those four readings we have pretty well covered the Book …

Hebrew Scriptures…our Old Testament…

Have four parts…

The Law…the first 5 books, the Prophets, and then pretty much everything else … called the “Wisdom Literature”…

Wisdom contains a lot of good sage advice about how to live….plus some stuff that doesn’t fit any particular category.

The Book of Job goes here.

You all know poor Job…and the saying : “The patience of Job”…and of course we have read selections from it over the past four weeks.

So basically…you know the story…

but let’s review…

It’s a very theological story!

Job is a good and righteous man…

He is generous…supporting widows and poor people…making civic gifts..

He is so well respected that when he goes to sit among the men of the community where they gather by the front gate of the city…that the other men do not speak…out of respect.

And Job was very prosperous…

Property, crops, livestock, Sons and Daughters

 And in his time and place…

According to orthodox theology…

Such success was proof of his righteousness…

A leader, a philanthropist…

Respected by all…

Job had everything…

And he deserved it!

Meanwhile…

In Heaven, God is sitting in his omnipotent majesty…

Looking down on Job with some pride!

Job is pretty much what God intended us to be…faithful and righteous.

But then…the plot complicates…

In comes Satan…

Satan….the “adversary”…the “accuser”.

Now, you may ask: what is Satan doing in Heaven… 

And how come he and God seem like pals?

Good question…

No one seems to have come up with a good answer as to why evil exists…

Why God allows it to exist…certainly I don’t!

But…there it is…

Evil is a reality!

Well…Satan has been, he says, patrolling earth…

Checking things out.

God asks if he has observed Job…

God is proud of him…he’s so good!

Satan says: “Of course he’s good…why shouldn’t he be…You’ve given him everything!” “But”, says conniving Satan… “take away his prosperity and he will curse you!”

God takes the bait…

He’ll strike him with all kinds of misfortune and bet Job will remain faithful.

And he does!

To make a long story short…

Job does not curse God in his misfortune…

Satan insists…hit him with more misfortune…

Take away everything except his life!

In this long agonizing process…Job’s friends and even his wife…give him advice…

The leading theory offered to Job is that he must be hiding some secret sin…

God knows about it and Job must confess! 

But Job is truthful…

He is not hiding a secret sin!

Even Job’s wife…who is tired of his misery…

Tells him: “Go ahead…Curse God and die!”

But Job has too much integrity to do that!

So, sitting on a dung-heap, in misery, scraping scabs off his body with a potsherd…

He dares God to meet face-to-face…

He asks God to explain his unjust suffering.

Now, Job is speaking for all humanity….

WHY IS THERE UNDESERVED SUFFERING? Why are innocent Palestinians and Jews dying?

Why are children starving?

Why do corrupt politicians get power and grind down the needy?…

For that matter…why are there natural disasters?

Earthquakes, forest fires, landslides, plagues…

Only part of this can be laid at the feet of such as humans misusing nature…

Job is wrestling with the problem Dostoevsky put this way: “The death of one innocent child refutes the goodness of God!”

So Job challenges God to a face-to-face meeting…

And surprise!…God agrees…which is unusual!

But when God appears…what happens?

God makes a power-play!

Who is Job… measly, powerless, just human, Job?

Did Job create the mighty seas?

The stars…sun, moon?

The vast array of animals and the

Other miracles of nature?

Next to God, Job is a puny moment.

Next to God…

Humans are like dust!

And of course, confronted with the infinite, omniscient power and majesty of God…

Confronted with glory of God…

Poor human Job cannot stand…

How does one argue with the omniscient creator and sustainer of all that is or ever will be?…

There is no way…

Job caves in and says:

“I see you and I repent in dust and ashes!”

God has pulled a power-play and simply overwhelmed poor Job…

But notice….Job has never retracted his complaint…

Job has submitted to power…

But he has not taken back his accusations…

He has been treated unjustly.

The final act of the Book of Job has God restoring him with even more goodies than he had before…more animals, more crops more children and more public esteem…

Seems it is “happily ever after”ending…

The idea is, God is fair and just after all…

Though I wonder about those dead innocent family members…

But probably a scribe added this ending to square with the theology of the time

Probably the original left things up in the air…or there may have been a less “Happy ever after” ending.

But the question in Job…which is our question too   is not answered…

How is it that bad things happen to good people?

That innocent children are bombed and their parents maimed or killed?

Job’s God has no personal experience of the plight of we little human beings…Of a mourning Jewish or Palestinian mother…

But Jesus was different…

God may have been moved by Job’s argument…and decided to share our human experience.    

We know he changed his mind and healed an unclean Gentile child.

Because he had compassion…

God changed God’s mind!

Think of it…

God changes the Divine Mind.

Of course in the Hebrew scriptures, God changes his mind all the time…

For instance when God is angry at Israel sometimes someone like Moses cleverly talks him out of destroying his people…

It happens several times…

God even repents…spares wicked Nineveh for instance…

But in most of the Old Testament God still acts like an all-powerful dictator.

But something happened around the time of later Judaism…

Around the time of Jesus…

God….who had been the omniotent ruler of all…

God…who conceived, created and sustains all that is or ever will be…

God who is infinite and above all the messiness of human life…

Decided…maybe after his encounter with Job…

Decided he really could not fully understand us…

Could not understand we humans…from the infinite distance of eternity…

So God….became incarnate from a human Mother…

For us humans and our salvation…

Became one of us….became human!

As Paul says:

“Emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born human…”

And then…He suffered and died…

Pinned to a criminal’s cross for hours of agony…

God knew…

God lived though human pain and doubt and fear…

And God…I dare say it.

God died our human death!  

So now there is nothing in our experience which God does not know from God’s own experience!

So…then…

Why doesn’t God “fix” it and get rid of sin and suffering and death?

I don’t know…

No one does I suspect…

But we do have a promise…

A promise from one who knows…personally…

What it is to suffer helplessly…

To die our death…                  

But then…to rise victorious…

God died a human…a human like you and me…

In order that we might become like Him…

And live forever in the fullness of love!

So now even in the face of death…

We can sing: “Alleluia! Alleluia….Alleluia!

22nd Sunday After Pentecost – Byron Tindall

They just didn’t get it, again for the umpteenth time.

Zebedee’s sons, James and John, indicate what kind of kingdom they are expecting when Jesus takes over the leadership of that kingdom. “…and they said to him, ‘Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.’”

The place of honor at a ruler’s court at that time was just to the right and left of where the ruler sat. It seems like James and John were expecting Jesus to come back as some type of political ruler or a leader who would be recognized as such by the way his court was organized.

“But Jesus said to them, ‘You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?’”

The brothers agreed that they were capable of following Jesus down that road and told him so.

About this time, the other 10 disciples got wind of the conversation that was going on between Jesus, James and John. They got a little miffed.

Jesus called the 12 to come to a meeting where he tried to explain to them that his kingdom was unlike any other kingdom ever seen on earth. They just didn’t get it.

Matthew and Luke report similar incidents in their Gospels. John makes no mention of this exchange between Jesus and his disciples. Interestingly enough, Matthew has the request to sit on either side of Jesus coming from James’s and John’s mother.

This exchange between Jesus and the 12 amounted to one of the passion announcements.

When we stop and think about it for a minute, James and John, along with Peter, are the most often mentioned of the disciples in all four of the Gospels.

We have another announcement of the Passion of Jesus earlier in Mark.

In Chapter 8, verses 30-38, Mark wrote: “Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, ‘Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’

“He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.’”

This time, the main character who was confused was Peter. Peter, just like the rest of them, just didn’t get it.

The so-called passion announcements are not the only time the followers of Jesus didn’t understand what he was attempting to tell and teach his followers.

On more than one occasion in the Gospels, Jesus had to take his disciples aside to explain to them what he was saying in one of his parables. Sometimes even then they just didn’t get it.

Misunderstanding Jesus is not limited to the 12 either.

In the Third Chapter of John’s Gospel, we find the exchange between Jesus and a Pharisee named Nicodemus who was also a member of the Jewish Council.

After hearing Jesus answer his question, Nicodemus replied, “How is this possible?” After the explanation of his answer, Nicodemus once again asked, “How is this possible?” He just didn’t get it.

Using parables to get a point across can be risky, as parables can be understood on many levels at the same time. The message may not necessarily come through the same way on the different levels. People hear the same message differently.

It’s a lot like the difference between a sign and a symbol.

For those of us with drivers’ licenses, when we come to an eight-sided sign with white lettering on a red background, we know we are supposed to come to a complete stop. I have to admit, however, there are those who respond to this sign by slowing down a bit and continuing on through the intersection. These signs are supposed to mean stop, not just slow down.

I have a collection of crosses I wear, mostly on Sundays. For me, they are a symbol of my belief and faith. For others, a cross is a pretty piece of jewelry with no indication of anything else. Either meaning is acceptable.

That eight-sided sign is supposed to have a universal meaning. A cross on a chain can be understood on many levels.

But I digress a little.

In the Baptismal Covenant in the Book of Common Prayer, the celebrant and people in the congregation engage in an exchange, which goes, in part:

Celebrant: Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers ?

People: I will, with God’s help.

Celebrant: Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?

People: I will, with God’s help.

Celebrant: Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?

People: I will, with God’s help.

Celebrant: Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?

People: I will, with God’s help.

Celebrant: Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?

People: I will, with God’s help.

The way I read and understand this, following Jesus does not just mean giving up an hour or so once a week to come together to worship him. It’s a 24/7 commitment, but sometimes we just don’t get it.

In a little over two weeks, we should exercise our right and responsibility to vote for the next President and Vice President of the United States. I’m not going to tell you for whom you should vote. I ask you to remember your commitment to follow Jesus when you mark your ballot.

The expression goes, “If you don’t vote on Tuesday, you don’t have the right to complain on Wednesday.” Sometimes, we just don’t get it.

21st Sunday after Pentecost – Ted Hackett

Today’s Gospel reading from Mark sounds pretty…

Well…pretty tough. Let’s look at it with some care.

As often happens…Jesus is about to hit the road…

He seems to have pretty much lived on the road with his disciples… stopping at villages along the way to preach and get food and sleep.

So today he and his gang are setting out…

And first thing…a devout young man appears, falls down on his knees in front of Jesus and beseeches him…

“Good Rabbi… “What do I have to do to have eternal life”…

Jesus scolds him:

“Don’t call me good…only God is good!”

Oops! Not a good start!

But then Jesus speaks to him in a kindly way…

“you know the ten commandments…”

And he recites three of them…

Interestingly…the three relate to how we treat each other and don’t mention God.

I’ve never known what to make of that…

But then, Jesus often baffles me…

But anyway…the young man says: “Rabbi…I have kept the Commandments all my life…”  

I doubt that anyone of us could make that claim…to have kept all ten commandments all our lives! How about never coveting a possession of a friend?

Even as a kid?

Boy! Did I ever covet Billy White’s new sled!

Wow!!!

And Jesus is impressed…

he looked at him…. and loved him…

There is something else to earn eternal life…

Sell all you have…and come follow me!

Oops!

That is a knockout punch…

The young man had many posessions…

There was no law against that…

The young man is devastated!

How would he live?

What would his friends think?

And his Father and mother?

Leave his life and his community?

It was too much to ask…

Jesus had gut-punched him…

First there was amazement…

And then an empty grief…

And he got up without looking at Jesus…

And with his head down…

He went away…

Grieving…           

And Jesus turned to his disciples and said:

“How hard it will be for those who have wealth   to enter the Kingdom of God.”                             

Throughout Christian history, lots of people have grappled with this text. Many, like St. Francis,   have taken it literally and lived lives of extreme poverty…

Others have decided to live frugally and gave away what they didn’t need for a comfortable life…

And many of us walk around with a secret guilt that we aren’t really living as Christians since we don’t sacrifice enough.

And Jesus seems to be saying that we are right…

It’s as hard for someone who has accumulated wealth and has kept it as it is for a camel to get through the eye of a needle…

In other words…not good odds.

The disciples are dumbfounded…

If that’s true…what are we doing out here on the road preaching the nearness of the Kingdom of God?

If this is true…who can make it into the Kingdom of God?   

Then Jesus adds something…

Something pretty important…

In fact…something crucially important….

“For mortals it is impossible; but not for  God. For God all things are possible.”

In other words…we cannot save ourselves…only God can do that!

So there was a reason that when Jesus quoted only certain parts of the 10 Commandments to this young man when he first showed up, kneeling at his feet.

The parts Jesus quoted were…

Don’t murder…

Don’t commit adultery…

Don’t steal…

Don’t bear false witness…

 Don’t defraud…

Honor your father and mother.

That seems to be it…that’s all he quotes…

But notice something…

Jesus has selected certain of the Commandments…

And every one that he selected is about…

How you treat other people!

Don’t murder, steal, commit adultery, bear false witness or defraud…And honor your father and mother.

And…furthermore ….Don’t make it a big deal to make yourself look good…or to take credit…

God has given you what you have so that you may enjoy God’s creation…

And so that you may love others and help them!

Remember just a little while ago..

Jesus said: “Don’t call me good…only God is good!”

What is important here is to remember that we are…after all…creatures among millions of other creatures of God…just on this earth…

And literally God only knows what other living beings there are in this incalculably large universe we inhabit.

So we live in a paradox…

We are both transient, insignificant creatures…and we are children of God.

Those are hard to keep in mind…

On one hand we are pretty helpless…

Like the disciples who suddenly realized they could not save themselves any more than they could get a camel through the eye of needle…

But then discovered that…it didn’t matter…God could…and would…save them…would open God’s kingdom to them anyway…

So much of Jesus’ teaching is about forgetting yourself and forgetting about the barriers society puts up between us…

About what we need to do to be saved…

Then asking: “What does my neighbor need”…

And then asking: “Who is my neighbor?”

When we come to that question…we have to go to some other accounts of Jesus… 

Accounts of him eating with hated tax-collectors and protecting prostitutes…

His stories about the shepherd who loves the rebellious lamb…or the rebellious Prodigal Son…

All this is to say…

The young man in our story…

Was not ready to accept a hard thing…

What we are called to do as Christians is to first understand that we are loved…

Loved in spite of….

Maybe even loved, in some strange way …

Because of our imperfections…they are part of who we are…

Loves us even in spite of our sins…

God loves us…

And knows even our sins are part of who we are…       

So God loves us…

Sins and all…

So God loves us…even when we lack…

Even when we lack a lot …

Notice…Jesus did not bring up the subject of what more the young man had to do…

But Jesus sensed the young man wanted to know the next step…

So Jesus said… “well…if and when you are ready…sell all you have and come with us…”

The young man didn’t see that he didn’t have to sell all he had,

He’d really done enough…

Jesus looked at him and loved him…

As he was!

Back in the day when I was teaching…Bishop Tutu came to teach on the Theology faculty…he was there about four years…his office was next to mine.

I stepped out into the hall to ask him a question and realized he was walking with a student…

The student was agitated…plainly upset.                              

The Bishop had been talking about poverty in the third world…and the young man was distressed that he couldn’t do anything.

The Bishop listened very sympathetically… Then smiled that miraculous smile he had, a smile that lit up the room… and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and said:

“Don’t worry my son…you have no idea how low God’s standards are!”

There standing before me was a small black man in a purple shirt…who was…for the moment…Jesus with the rich young man …

A young man who was told: “Do your best…and don’t worry about if it’s enough…it’s fine.”

The Bishop was saying God’s grace is enough to get you over the finish line!”

And that Tutu smile that said as words could not: 

“You are fine…

God loves you as you are… The Kingdom of God is here!”    

20th Sunday after Pentecost Proper 22, Year B – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Matthew 11:25-30 Jesus said, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. All things have been handed over to me by my Father; and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to each of you on this Feast of St. Francis a day on which we hear a surprisingly challenging Gospel text. And, we prepare for the blessing of the animals today we also give thanks in this season for All the Saints whose lives are intertwined with ours, often in ways we cannot see.

In today’s Gospel from Matthew we are reminded that some forms of wisdom cannot be obtained by working harder and harder for them. Knowledge of God, it seems, cannot be achieved through the ordinary means of excellence of effort or dent of perseverance as we typically understand both of these. I don’t know about you, but this perspective turns my normal ways of being and doing in the world upside down. Jesus has a way of doing that, of course, but it still catches me off guard. What might it mean if through hard work and my often “type A” behavior, I am sometimes missing the point Jesus is making and, perhaps, the main purpose of our lives as Christians? Can I really reconcile this part of me with the need to become more childlike in my faith?

And then in vs. 28-30 we find the lovely invitation to which these passages have been building, “Come to me all who are weary and carrying heavy burdens and I will give you rest… for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” It is a wonderful metaphor, really, although in our part of the world we don’t often see yokes. The principle, however, is that of bearing burdens more efficiently, to harness the power of the animal or, in some cases the person carrying the load, and work together as a team. The second century author Justin Martyr said that when Jesus worked as a carpenter, he likely made yokes as part of his daily work. I like to imagine this. It is comforting, somehow, to imagine him carefully measuring and fitting the yoke so that it would fit just right—not rub or scrape the animals—and help them bear the burden of the plow or whatever they may have been pulling. I can see him sanding the rough spots, carefully fitting the yoke, making it a perfect complement to the animal, and the task at hand. Metaphorically speaking, Jesus invites us to take a yoke just like this, made by his own labor and love, perfectly and completely for us. He knows each of us by name, knows our gifts and graces, our needs and broken places. He does not want us to be weighed down or so weary that we cannot bear what we have been called to do.

It is a beautiful, utterly simple invitation, and yet so hard to do. So often Vicky, my wife of almost 31 years, has said “Why didn’t you ask for help with this?” or, “Why didn’t you let us know what you needed?” Perhaps this is connected to the other part of this Gospel text—the part about letting go of trying so hard to do things alone, and relying solely on our own alleged wisdom and intelligence. Over-functioning, once we learn it, can be very hard to change. I confess that I do not turn things over to God, or others, easily. And, I have trouble remembering that there are others standing by ready to help. I struggle to realize that I am likely at my best, and my strongest, when I ask for God’s help. Some time ago, my ordination brother Thee and I were on the hill atop the Horseshoe Drive entrance to the Cathedral for the “drive by blessings,” after the 11:15 service. It was an unusually warm day, and at about 1:00pm we were preparing to head inside when a lone woman leading 4 dogs on leashes slowly made her way up the driveway. Thee was engaged in blessing the ashes of a dog named “Wags,” whose owner was still grieving. The woman arrived atop the Cathedral Close completely out of breath after the long climb. “I almost didn’t come today,” she said, her mascara running in the late October sun. “I live in Snellville….and it’s a long way to drive. But this is my home…this is my family,” she said, nodding to her dogs who were already greeting me effusively. I consider the Cathedral to be my home. I am so thankful for this place.” Then, introducing me to her dogs one by one, she said, “These are all rescue dogs,” patting each one in turn, lovingly, saying their names. One was blind, and mostly deaf, and another had been thrown out of a car on Hwy#78, and barely survived. “Each of these dogs has a sad story, and needed a home. It’s been a hard couple of years for me too,” she said, tearfully.” “I lost my husband, and my home. These dogs are all I have left, but we do have each other, and I am so very grateful for that. I guess the truth is we all needed a blessing today.” “Maybe,” she said, “we bless each other along the way, especially when we are grateful. Maybe those blessings are how God continues to be present in our lives. I have learned to live from a place of gratitude,” she said tearfully. “It’s the place where all of our blessings go to live.” I found the pastoral counselor in me responding with compassion for, and a bit of concern about her, and I said “It’s so warm out here. Would you like to come inside for a cold drink of water,” I asked? “No thank you,” she said. “I’m not ready to go inside yet. For now, I’ll just take my blessings where I find them. And they are right here, right now.” I had the good sense to let this be enough to say grace over, and so I did just that. I have thought about this many times since then—and in particular about blessing, and gratitude, and giving from that deep place where we are most at home. And, I have come to realize that this is one of the ways God’s Creation continues to unfold, right here, right now, every moment of our lives.

In her wonderful novel, “Gilead,” the author Marilynne Robinson tells the story of Rev. John Ames, a dying Presbyterian minister writing to his young son, so that he will remember his story long after he is gone[1]. The book takes the form of an extended letter, really, and is itself a blessing of gratitude, and the generosity borne of gratitude. In one passage he recalls blessing a cat in his early days as a young pastor. This memory leads to an especially lovely passage:

“I still remember how those warm little brows felt under the palm of my hand. Everyone has petted a cat, but to touch one like that, with the pure intention of blessing it, is a very different thing. It stays in the mind. For years we would wonder what, from a cosmic viewpoint, we had done to them. It still seems to me to be a real question. There is a reality in blessing, which I take baptism to be, primarily. It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it, and there is a power in that. I have felt it pass through me, so to speak. The sensation of really knowing a creature, I mean really feeling its mysterious life and your own mysterious life at the same time.”  

That day, in the process of giving and receiving blessings with my friend and colleague Thee, I lost myself in the process, and I found a new way of seeing the world—shaped by gratitude. As the wonderful poet Mary Oliver has said: “And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know? Love yourself. Then forget it. Then love the world.” “Practice Resurrection,” the poet Wendell Berry reminds us. Come to me all you that are weary and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Amen. [1] Robinson, Marilynne, “Gilead,” Picador Press, 2006.

19th Sunday after Pentecost – Bill Harkins

Proper 21, Year B

The Collect of the Day

O God, you declare your almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity: Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, running to obtain your promises, may become partakers of your heavenly treasure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Mark 9:38-50

John said to Jesus, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” But Jesus said, “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.

“If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea. If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire. And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life lame than to have two feet and to be thrown into hell. And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into hell, where their worm never dies, and the fire is never quenched. “For everyone will be salted with fire. Salt is good; but if salt has lost its saltiness, how can you season it? Have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one another.”

“Water from a deeper well”

In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to this service of Holy Eucharist on this 19^th Sunday after Pentecost. It’s getting cooler now—that real down-home southern heat and humidity is mostly past—and the lovely days of fall are just ahead us. It’s been dry the past few weeks, but this weekend brought blessed relief in the form of a tropical depression, and we are reminded in Mark’s Gospel that when we give a drink of water in the Name of Jesus we do so on behalf of Him, and this is followed by at bit of homiletic hyperbole reminding us that we cannot be perfect, and that only in humility before children, and one another, are we whole in Christ. Moreover, the theme of water is a powerful metaphor, and there are many, many ways to give that cup of water to others, in compassionate response to suffering. This may take surprising forms if we are open to the possibilities for grace.

Even though fall is here, and the heat doesn’t have the same authority it does in summer, it’s been quite warm of late, and we runners will continue to hear the well-known refrain…stay hydrated, drink plenty of water, and when you think you’ve had enough, drink some more. Water is both essential to life, and is a powerful symbol in our faith, and that of many other belief systems. Water is so very precious in so many ways. Three-quarters of the Earth’s surface is covered with water, yet 98 percent is salt water and not fit for consumption. The human body is more than 60 percent water. Blood is 92 percent water, and our DNA contains a combination of stardust and the water of the oceans from which we came. The brain and muscles are 75 percent water, and bones are about 22 percent water. Water is mentioned some 350 times in the King James Bible, and it is from the waters of our Baptisms that we rise, like Jesus from the Jordan, transformed by the Spirit. Each year during the Peachtree Road Race we runners drink a lot of water, and we are blessed by Holy Water right outside the walls of the Cathedral where I served for 18 years and where I was ordained to the priesthood many years ago.

So for these reasons among others, I try to follow this good advice, and strive to drink plenty of water, and often carry it with me on the trails where I run. On a hot Saturday back a while back, I was on my familiar trail at Kennesaw Park, and it was one of those days of 90% humidity and 90 degrees. It is not unusual, once the school year has begun, for local high school cross—country teams to train there. I typically hear them coming up behind me, and they are generally very polite, and the lead runner will shout “On your left,” letting me know to move to the right to let them pass. On this day, I heard them coming, and, still running, I moved over, and heard the respectful request, and I was a bit chagrined to find that they passed me as if I were standing still. 12 or 15 runners flew by me in a colorful, rapidly departing blur, and left me in a cloud of Kennesaw Mountain dust. I stopped, and grabbed my water bottle, and took several big swallows, watching the runners disappear into the deep, Pentecost green woods. As I stood there, I had two thoughts. The first was, “When did middle-school girls get so fast?” And the second was, “This water is really good, but it cannot quench the thirst I’m really feeling now. For that, I need water from a deeper well,” water, that is, something like the God-given grace to accept that the days when I could, just maybe, have stayed with those fast runners is long gone, and will never return. I needed the water of grace, and resilience, and the wisdom to accept that things were changing in relation to a sport to which I’ve given much of my life.

I wonder, at times, when miracles occur in scripture, how these stories relate to our own life of faith. This is especially true when we are vulnerable—walking in darkness through harrowing times—when we are lost, and do not know where to turn, and we look for Jesus to provide the great miracle that will deliver us or those from whom we care, out of despair. Times, perhaps, when we do not know where we are going. Sometimes we get the deeply longed-for result when we pray—the mother of two young children whose cancer, against all odds, simply disappears; the father whose heart stops on the operating table is brought back from the brink of death; the relationship that seemed on the rocks is restored…and so on.  And then there are times when one’s best friend, a fiercely gifted runner, dies of melanoma at age 38, despite the prayers of so many. Or the young man whom one mentored for years dies in an accident his freshman year in college. And like the Psalms of lamentation, one wonders out loud where one might find water, and calm, in those stormy narratives. I get it. I’ve been there. I suspect many of you have, too. And yet, in proscribing the forms that miracles may take, we risk missing those moments when miracles may occur on a smaller scale. Moments, that is, when God’s compassion enters our most profound moments of vulnerability, and gives us glimpses of resurrection, and resilience, and hope. And hope is a good thing. It may be the very best of things. And water may be one of the forms these minor miracles of hope may take.   Liston Mills, my mentor and primary professor who taught faithfully at Vanderbilt for 40 years, once said to me, “William, over the course of your time with us you have studied a lot of psychological theory, and theology, and the integration of the two. But remember that sometimes the most and best we have to offer is being present, and creating hospitality. It’s like giving someone a cup of cold water on a hot day.” I thought about that often in the years that have since passed, and I have asked myself over and over what he was trying to tell me. I think it was something about grace, and humility, and compassion. Buddy Miller, a wonderful alt-country singer/songwriter in Nashville, wrote a fine tune in which he says:

I need a drink of something like water

I need a taste of love divine

Sometimes you just gotta do what you oughtta

Sometimes you bring up the water when the well is dry.

I think that my professor/mentor, and the author of Mark’s gospel, understood this. Small miracles can happen, even with a cup of cold water. Small acts of hospitality and compassion can make a difference far beyond what we imagine. With the help of the Holy Spirit they can transcend the limits of our spiritual imaginations. And when this happens, all are transformed. And this need not come from our positions of greatest strength. Rather, as the social science researcher Brene’ Brown has noted, it paradoxically comes from our own places of vulnerability. She writes;

“When I ask people what is vulnerability, the answers were things like sitting with my wife who has Stage III breast cancer and trying to make plans for our children, or my first date after my divorce, saying I love you first, asking for a raise, sending my child to school being enthusiastic and supportive of him and knowing how excited he is about orchestra tryouts and how much he wants to make first chair and encouraging him and supporting him and knowing that’s not going to happen. To me, vulnerability is courage. It’s about the willingness to show up and be seen in our lives. And in those moments when we show up, I think those are the most powerful meaning-making moments of our lives even if they don’t go well. I think they define who we are.”

Truth told, I’m not sure what to make of the hyperbolic references to Hell in today’s text. To me, Hell is simply to be oneself apart from God’s grace and in isolation from others in beloved community. Hell is that self-chosen condition in which, in opposition to God’s unconditional love and the call to a life of mutual friendship and service, individuals barricade themselves from others. It is the hellish weariness and boredom of a life focused entirely on itself. Hell is not an arbitrary divine punishment at the end of history. It is not the final retaliation of a vindictive deity. As one theologian I admire has said (Daniel Migliore) hell is the self-destructive resistance to the eternal love of God. It symbolizes the truth that the meaning and intention of life can be missed. Repentance is urgent. Our choices and actions are important. God ever seeks to lead us out of our hell of self-absorption, but neither in time nor in eternity is God’s love coercive. Jesus uses hell as a fear tactic- perhaps hyperbolic – to be inclusive of the least of these and those who wish to follow Jesus. A number of years ago I was the priest on call at the Cathedral and received an emergency call in the middle of the night from the NICU at Northside Hospital. The nurse said a couple from the Cathedral was there, and the mother had just given birth to a stillborn daughter late in the third trimester. I drove to the hospital and arrived @3am, and I was met by the charge nurse, who was herself in tears, and led back to the room where the parents and their daughter were waiting. The mother was lying with her daughter on her chest in a lovely cloth basket and the father standing on the other side of the bed. I stood silently next to the bed, and took the mother’s hand in mine. Both parents were crying. I did not know them. After a few moments of silence the father asked tearfully, “Does she need to be baptized.” I was quiet for a minute, one of those Holy Saturday times when one is tempted to grasp for easy solutions and quick fixes, and I prayed, silently, for the right words. Saying nothing, I reached up and gathered the tears from the faces of both parents, already blessing their daughter, and with those tears I offered a blessing for this lovely child of God, and a prayer that God would welcome their daughter home, which I am sure in fact had already happened. After a time, the nurse came back in, and we all prayed together, and I promised to follow up with the parents. I saw them more often at church after that, and about a year later, they asked if we could talk. They let me know that they had adopted a daughter from China, and she would be having surgery for a repair of a cleft palate the next month. Would I mind coming to be with them for the surgery and I said of course I would be there, and I was. The surgery went well, and then—well, miracle of miracles—they asked me to baptize their daughter in Mikell Chapel. And so we did. The water of baptism was mixed with all of our tears—tears of joy—water from a deeper well. Amen.