Tag: Episcopal

Sermons

How far is it to Bethlehem?

The Eve of the Nativity of Our Lord  – December 24, 2018 – Luke 2:1-20 – Trinity Church, Winchester

Last year a group from my home parish journeyed to the Holy Land to see many of the storied sites of the Bible: Jerusalem, Galilee, Nazareth, Jericho, and of course, Bethlehem. 

Bethlehem is one of the most famous cities in the region because of its place in the gospel story we just heard. The Church of the Nativity there boasts the traditional site of Jesus’ birth. I remember the day we took the short bus ride from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. My friend Collin shouted from the back of the bus, “How far is it to Bethlehem?”

I’ve been thinking about that question a lot lately. “How far is it to Bethlehem?” Collin was surely not the first person to ask this question. Think about the biblical Christmas narratives. 

It’s census time. Caesar has spoken and Joseph has to get Bethlehem. Imagine a very pregnant Mary turning to him to ask with weary eyes, “How far is it to Bethlehem?” 

While watching their sheep on a Judean hillside, a group of shepherds hear a heavenly noise. It’s like nothing they have ever experienced before. The angel tells them good news of great joy. “Go to Bethlehem and see.” After the angels depart, imagine a group of startled shepherds looking at each other and asking, “How far is it to Bethlehem?”

The magi observe a star in the east and make their way to Jerusalem asking, “Where is the child who has been born?” “In Bethlehem of Judea,” the prophets have written. Imagine the three tired travelers meeting eyes and simultaneously asking, “How far is it to Bethlehem? 

It’s a question older than even the birth narratives.

The Book of Ruth tells us that Naomi moves with her family from Bethlehem to Moab. Soon tragedy befalls her. Her husband and sons die, and she prepares to move back to her hometown with her daughters-in-law. Imagine her gathering what’s left of her life and trying to remember, “How far is it to Bethlehem?”

The question is still alive and well in the present age. 

Frances Chesterton wrote a poem entitled, “How far is it to Bethlehem?” It became a well-known English carol, set to various musical arrangements. You can hear both St. Patrick’s Cathedral Choir in Dublin and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing it on YouTube. 

“How far is it to Bethlehem? / Not very far. / Shall we find the stable-room / Lit by a star?”

Others have phrased the question slightly differently. There is a children’s book with the title, “How Many Miles to Bethlehem?” (There’s also a sing-along song and a stage play with the same name.)

The question has been on the minds of those past and present. It’s no surprise then that tonight we still come wondering, “How far is it to Bethlehem?”

As Christians of the twenty-first century we are well-versed in the Christmas story. We ask, “How far is it to Bethlehem?” knowing well what we will find there—Jesus Christ. God made man. 

At Christmas we celebrate the incarnation. God made flesh. The incarnation tells us that God came to dwell with God’s people as one of them. Once and for all God became flesh to tell us that flesh matters. People matter. You matter. 

Through Advent we heard tell of the one who is coming. Now he is here. Jesus breaks into a world of fear, of uncertainty, and of division and offers us saving grace. It’s a good thing, too, because we need him now more than ever. 

This world needs Jesus. What else can we count on? The government? No, it’s shut down. Our political parties? All they do is argue. The stock market? I wouldn’t bet on it. 

We need the one who promises to deliver us from this unpredictable and divisive world. We need Jesus. The good news is, Jesus is here. In our brokenness, grief, sadness, stress, anxiety, loneliness, and anger God is with us. Emmanuel. 

Wherever you are in your humanity, the incarnation promises you that Jesus is right there with you. Bethlehem is right here among us and in us: holy people, fed with holy food, made in God’s holy image. 

So, how far is it to Bethlehem? 

Last year my friend Collin asked a simple question on a bus in Palestine, but what I remember better now is the reply yelled back from the front. “Not very far!”  

No, it’s not very far at all.

Sermons

Trust and see

23rd Sunday after Pentecost – October 28, 2018 – Psalm 34:8 – Trinity Church, Winchester, TN

Psalm 34 verse eight says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are they who trust in him.” 

These are comforting words, but they are also hard words to hear after recent events. After yesterday’s shooting at a synagogue in Pittsburg, PA the only thing I can taste is our country’s steady diet of hate speech and blood.

The King James Version puts it like this, “O taste and see how gracious the Lord is: blest is the man that trusteth in him.” Ralph Vaughn Williams wrote a choral anthem using this version. It’s often sung at churches during communion.

I’ve had that anthem stuck in my head all week. That’s the good thing about preparing sermons, sometimes the good stuff gets stuck in your head, and you can’t let it go. I’m not talking about an errant Billy Joel tune or a Cranberries single from 1993; I mean the really good stuff, the stuff that makes you ask, “Where is God in all of this?” The stuff like, “O taste and see…”

It makes me wonder: how do we taste God’s goodness? What does grace taste like? 

The eucharist is the one part of our common life when tasting seems the most relevant metaphor for our relationship with God. We put the bread and the wine in our mouths, literally tasting the body and blood of our Lord. But can you really taste God’s grace via wafer and port wine? And can you taste the grace even better if instead of a wafer you use homemade communion bread, the kind with honey mixed in the batter? 

For that matter, is God’s graciousness found in bread alone? Or is it also in grandma’s homemade cookies? The ones we look forward to when we spend the weekend with her, the ones many of us will never taste again? Maybe. 

Or perhaps divine goodness is the taste of street tacos made by a Mexican vender who you’re not quite sure is in this country illegally, but he has that look. Nonetheless he sells you food because he needs to feed his family. I do wonder.

Maybe God’s goodness is like eating an orange. When you peel it, it releases that fresh scent that lingers under your fingernails for hours, even days, reminding you that God is always near. It could be. 

The second half of this verse gives us a clue about what it means to taste God’s goodness. It says, “happy are they that trust in him.” “Taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are they that trust in him.” 

This verse implies that you really have to trust in something before you taste it. That’s true, isn’t it? Taste and trust are certainly related. You do have to trust something in order to taste it, even if it’s implicit trust.

When I was growing up and one of my older sisters took a bite of something that didn’t taste so good, often she would recoil in disgust and then look at me, smile, and say, “Hey Warren, try this.” Heck no! I wasn’t going to try something she thought was disgusting. I wasn’t going to taste it because I no longer trusted that it would be good. If you don’t trust that something is going to taste good, you don’t eat it. 

When you buy a bag of salad at the grocery store you blindly trust that it doesn’t contain dangerous bacteria like E. coli. Maybe trusting God is like the trust you place in a bag of lettuce. You don’t see the faceless company that packed it; you don’t know exactly where it came from, but you take it home and eat it anyway. You assume that it’s purpose it to provide nourishment for your body. You don’t often consider what might be wrong with it. You just trust it, so you taste it. 

There is beauty in that trust. There is beauty in the trust that allows you to taste the lettuce, the trust that allows you to nourish your body, the trust that keeps you from becoming a paranoid mess. That trust is beautiful, and it’s not unlike the trust that allows us to taste God’s goodness. 

Sometimes we go around worrying so much about the possibility of the bad, that we never experience the good. If you live in fear, you’ll never be able to recognize all the ways that God’s grace is already working in your life and in the world around you. When you live in fear–and not trust–everything tastes bitter. 

I’m afraid. I’m afraid for the welfare of our nation. As the military marches to meet thousands of peaceful immigrants, I’m afraid of what will happen.

I’m afraid when terrorists send pipe bombs through the mail to kill the people they disagree with. I’m afraid of what that will lead to.

I’m afraid in an era when politicians say they would rather put their opponents in jail than have reasonable debates with them.

Yes, I’m am filled with fear, and the only taste that fear leaves in my mouth is bitterness.

Over lunch on Friday a friend (who is much older than me) said, “This is the worst I’ve ever seen this country. I thought all that Nixon stuff was bad. It was nothing like this.” That left a sour taste in my mouth, so I took another bite of my food, but it was bland and unsatisfying. Nothing could get the bitter taste of fear out of my mouth. 

When I get a bad taste in my mouth I want to rinse it out immediately. When I swallowed cough syrup as a kid I always wanted to chase it with Sprite or fruit juice to overpower that gross cherry flavor, but I find it hard these days to get the disgusting taste out of my mouth. Day after day I look for something to eliminate the bitterness, but I don’t succeed. There are of course cheeseburgers and large pizzas, but those only help temporarily. They only quell the taste of fear for a few hours. I need sometime more permanent than that. 

When news comes that eleven Jewish worshipers were gunned down in their temple, all I can taste is fear, and I need something really strong to wash that taste away. 

I need that beautiful trust that allows me to experience God, and I think that late yesterday afternoon, I just may have found it. I was listening to Bishop Gene Robinson’s sermon at the internment of Matthew Shepard’s physical remains in the Washington National Cathedral. Bishop Robinson gave me a powerful reminder. He gave us all a powerful reminder: we are not alone. And Matt, said Bishop Robinson, was never alone. Even on the night he lay dying, tied to a fence post, his God was with him. It’s too easy to forget in days like these that God is with us. 

Bishop Robinson told the story of the first police officer to arrive at the scene of Matt’s death. The police offer reports that as she approached Matt’s body she didn’t notice it at first, but there was a deer laying beside him, and it looked as though the deer had been there all night long. When the deer noticed her, it looked her straight in eyes before running away. Recounting the event the officer said, “That was the good Lord, no doubt in my mind.” 

Matt was never alone. Even amidst the horrible tragedy of his own death, God was with him. God is with us always. That’s something we can trust. We can trust that even on a freezing-cold Wyoming prairie, tied to a fence post, God was there. Even on the floor of a synagogue, amidst blood and dead bodies, God was there. 

Nothing can separate us from the love of God. God will always be right beside you, even if it’s to welcome you home. You can trust that.

If you live like you believe that God is always with you, and if you let yourself trust God, then you will get a taste of God’s goodness; you will experience God’s grace. And that grace will wash the taste of fear right out of your mouth. 

Really. You’ll see. 

Sermons

… and be grateful

42309044_235514037130229_6190254780821012480_nEmber Day – September 22, 2018 – Exodus 19:3-8; 1 Peter 4:7-11; Matthew 16:24-27 – St. Mary’s Convent

I was delighted to preside at the Eucharist at St. Mary’s Convent in Sewanee this morning. Below is my sermon. To learn more about the Community of Saint Mary visit their website here. 

Today’s lessons come with a lot of instructions. In each of them God tells his people what they should do. 

In Exodus, God gives Moses a message for the Israelites. “Tell my people that if they obey my voice and keep my covenant, then they shall be my treasured possession out of all the peoples. The whole earth is mine, but you shall be for me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation.” If you obey me then you will be my people. 

The author of 1 Peter gives us some suggestions about community living. “Therefore be serious and discipline yourselves for the sake of your prayers. Maintain constant love for one another. Be hospitable to one another (without complaining). Use your God-given gifts to serve one another.” 

And in Matthew’s account Jesus himself tells his disciples, “If any want to become my followers, take up your cross and follow me.” 

It’s a lot to take in on a Saturday morning. Obey me. Keep my covenant. Love each other. Be hospitable. Serve. Pray. Take up your cross. Follow me. 

These things can read like a to-do list, and that makes me a little uncomfortable.  We are Episcopalians, products—whether we like it or not—of a blessed reformation. A reformation that told us, it’s not about what we do; it’s about what is done for us on the cross and the promise of resurrection. 

So why all these instructions? Can God just not help himself? 

Maybe God, like my own father, in an effort to show me how much he cares about me, and how much he loves me ends up…sometimes…kinda sorta…telling me how to live my life. 

Sometimes it feels like my father’s well-intentioned advice, is his way of piling on to my work load. “You might consider calling your mother more.” “When was the last time you talked to you grandfather.” “Have you mailed those insurance papers yet?”

My husband does it, too. “That was really nice of them; you should write a thank-you note.” “Have you considered inviting her for coffee.”

OK. Whatever. Great. Wonderful. All good ideas, but I’m a little busy here.  

“Well, I’m not trying to make your more difficult,” they say,  “I’m just trying to help!”

And then it dawns on me! Obey my commandments. See my covenant for instructions. Love each other. Be hospitable. Serve each other. Pray. Take up your cross. God’s just trying to help. 

God doesn’t make lists of tasks for us because God needs us to prove something. God provides examples so we don’t have to figure it out all by ourselves. God knows exactly what he’s doing. I’m the one turning it into a to-do list. 

All of these things: love, service, hospitality, scripture reading, and prayer are appropriate ways not to earn our salvation, but to respond to it with gratitude. 

Isn’t that liberating? You don’t have to do anything to earn God’s favor. So cross it all off your to-do list, and be grateful.

Sermons

A different kind of song

15th Sunday after Pentecost – September 2, 2018 – Song of Solomon 2:8-13 – Trinity Episcopal Church, Winchester, TN

I regret not recording this sermon in some way. As a relatively new preacher, I’m still learning how sermons take shape in the unique moments of their unfolding. This one was prone to several additions and adaptations. As the living word of God, a sermon is meant to be absorbed by the ear. It is an event in time and not–as it appears here as text on a page–an object in space. Alas, this is what remains.

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The voice of my beloved! Look, he comes, leaping upon the mountains bounding over the hills. My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag. Look, there he stand behind our wall gazing in at the windows, looking through the lattice. My beloved speaks and says to me: “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.”

I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but I’m going to preach on the Song of Solomon today. I’m not sure it’s a good idea because some of the content here is kind of . . . sensitive. It’s about. . . passionate love. You know—sex. 

I don’t know if we’ve reached the point in our relationship where we can talk about such things. In fact, I’m not even sure what the proper stage is in the relationship between a pastor and his congregation when such talk is acceptable. Technically, I’m not even a priest yet, and I won’t be for a couple more weeks. 

But, here it goes . . . 

Today’s passage from the Song of Solomon is one of the only excerpts we get from this entire book in the three-year rotation of the Revised Common Lectionary. It appears today, in Proper 17B, but it also lands a second-string role in Proper 9A. 

If it sounded familiar to you it might be because the second half of this passage is often read during weddings. That makes sense. It is about two loving companions. Or, more explicitly, two lovers. 

We often use metaphors to define our relationship with God, but they don’t typically involve young lovers. The metaphor of a parent and child  is probably the most common. God is father or a mother hen gathering her brood. 

The Bible also speaks of the relationship between Christ and the Church as a marriage between husband and wife. A familiar hymn says, “From heaven He came and sought her to be His holy bride.” These are images of family, comfort, protection, and warmth.

These metaphors depict a God who wants to be in relationship with us, like a parent or a spouse. But other relationships in our lives may prove to be useful metaphors for our relationship with God.

Lucky for us the Song of Solomon does tend to stretch us out of our comfort zone in this regard. 

On his blog this week my priest-friend Evan wrote that a member of his parish staff, who grew up in the Baptist tradition, said that as a young person he was not allowed to read the Song of Solomon. The book was simply off-limits to children and young adults. “As an adolescent, I was told not to read it,” he said.

Some Christians think it should be off limits to adults, too. It is just too out there. It contains stories involving giving in to one’s passions which some see as much too erotic: sex before marriage; hiding from people during outdoor escapades. 

The author’s images are certainly beautiful and poetic. While they may not be too terribly explicit, what they represent definitely is. 

They can make us uncomfortable. Hands being thrust into cracks, channels blossoming with orchids and pomegranates, one’s beloved pasturing his flock among the lilies.

I bet just hearing that made some of you uncomfortable. Our discomfort with this topic and these images is precisely that—ours. The problem is not with the biblical text; it’s with us.

We are not comfortable talking about physical intimacy between two people, so why should we be comfortable talking about God that way? Even if it is a metaphor.  

We are created to be passionate, loving, sexual beings. Intimacy is part of our very identity. But for some reason we forget that God is a part of that. And we don’t talk about it, especially not in church. 

Instead we stick to what’s comfortable. We talk about God as a parent because Jesus did. We also know what it means to have, or need, a relationship with a mother and father. 

Even if we don’t have a spouse, most of us have probably at least been to a wedding so we talk about God as a spouse because we are familiar with the concept of marriage and the mutual support that comes with it. 

We even talk about God as sustenance, the very food and drink of life, because we need nourishment. 

But we don’t talk about God as a passionate companion or a lover. But when you think about it, it’s really quite apt. God will stop at nothing to be in a relationship with us. 

We’ve been there. And it goes far beyond our first kiss–a peck on the cheek in grade school. 

Most of us can remember that first time we really fell for someone. The way it felt to be around them. Butterflies in our stomach. Nervous babbling, sweaty palms, and shaking knees when we asked them to dance. In the afternoon we tried to study but we couldn’t. All we could think of was our love. 

Can remember your first love? Or the day you first met your spouse? You didn’t want your first date to end. You spent countless hours on the phone. You would have “leapt upon the mountains and bounded over the hills” just to see them. 

My sister Leslie was introduced to her husband Andrew on a trip to Austin, TX with some college friends. She met him at a New Year’s Eve and didn’t leave his side for rest of the trip. She was just a poor college student, but she later confessed to me that she would have gladly drained her entire bank account just to push her flight back one more day. 

That’s the way it is sometimes. We are so captivated with another person that nothing else matters. It is enough to stare into their eyes for hours. 

The author of Solomon’s song is reminding us that that’s also the way it is with God. No matter how uncomfortable certain subject matter makes us, God is a part of even our most intimate moments. 

In fact, God is the source of them. 

Perhaps it’s not so out of bounds for us to read today’s narrative and think of God. The narrator hears her beloved and she stirs. There he is, peeking through the lattice, beckoning her to come out. 

What if God came to us like that? What if our relationship with God was as special as a relationship with a new love? What if our relationship with God made our insides tingle and our stomach sink. 

Could we ever allow that? I think so. 

God does not just comfort us like a parent or love us like a spouse. God also pursues us with the voracity of young love.

God tells you, “You are mine.” I think of you all the time. God is so captivated with you that nothing is a distraction. Not all the money in your bank account. 

“I always want to be with you,” God says. And he will be.