Three Words when the Heavens Open

I want to begin this morning’s sermon by giving you a few seconds to ponder a question: 

Think about the roles you play in life.  Who are you?  Or maybe better, who are you trying to be?  What are three different words you would use to describe who you are?  I am not asking you to identify qualities like “loyal”, “happy,” or “caring.”  I am asking you to think about roles you play in life; roles you embrace.  Something like “caregiver” or “patriot” or “professional bowler.”  Take a moment to formulate an answer.  You may want to scribble down some words on a blank part of the bulletin.

I put out this question on Facebook earlier in the week and here are some of the responses people posted:

A clergy colleague wrote: collaborator, proclaimer, bridge builder.

Another colleague wrote: companion, advocate, teacher.

A parent wrote: nurturer, peacemaker, calm.

Holly McNeal wrote: survivor, maternal, leader. 

Brian McNeal wrote: awesome, adaptable, amazing.

Melissa Dudney wrote: wife, daughter, sister.

Beverly Judkins wrote: mother, aging, traveler.

Candy LeDoyen wrote: mother, teacher, singer.

And finally, another colleague wrote: partner, traveler, friend.

I have you pondering this question because today, the day we celebrate the Baptism of Jesus, is a day that is all about identity.  For Jesus, it is a day to take on a new identity, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”  It is a day when he receives a new power – the power of the Holy Spirit – to live into role of “Son” and “Beloved.” 

It is also a day for us to ponder our own identity because through our baptism we too have taken on a new life.  In Jesus’ day, when a convert to the Jewish faith was baptized, the priest traced on his/her forehead the letter Taw (the last letter in the Hebrew alphabet), which is shaped very much like a capital ‘T’).  Accompanying this act was the proclamation that the newly baptized person was branded as God’s “sheep, slave, and soldier.”  Think about those three roles for a moment.

Sheep: a creature that is cared for and guided through life by a shepherd.

Slave: a person who is owned by another and instructed to do certain things and to behave in a certain way.

Soldier: a person who has taken up a cause and whose life is dedicated to protecting and advancing that cause.

I am curious if in describing yourself any of you came up with sheep, slave, or soldier.  Probably not. 

I have mentioned before that in his autobiography, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, the Swiss psychologist Carl Jung comments that the world will always ask you who you are, and if you do not have an answer the world will give you one.  I think it is fair to say that Western culture is a battleground where individual identity is a prize for which many different entities vie.  Who are you?  The world encourages you to answer this question by asking you the following:

Where are you from?

What do you do?

Who are you with?

What do you own?

For us Christians, the foundation of our identity is this: “I am sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.”  It is the one thing we here this morning have in common and it is the most important thing we can say about ourselves.  It informs and directs all the other roles we play in life: parent, partner, traveler, singer, etc.

I’ve had a week to reflect on how I would answer the question I put to you this morning, so my response better be good, or at least thoughtful.  Here are my three words:

Child of God – for me this picks up something of the notion of sheep in Jewish baptism.  It suggests that am a part of a family and that someone is watching over me and caring for me.

Disciple – a better word than slave I think.  It suggests that I have signed on to follow, to learn from, and to emulate another.

Priest – Here I am thinking of something much more elemental than my vocation.  At my ordination I took a vow to be both a priest and a pastor.  I have come to see the priestly function as taking the things people bring to me and offering them to God: bread and wine, water for baptism, vows and promises made at weddings, prayers at a time of need, our spirit and earthly remains at the time of death.  I understand my role as a pastor to be the reverse: taking what God gives (love, forgiveness, reconciliation, healing, guidance, instruction) and offering it to God’s people. 

Everything I have in life and everything I do is (or should be) informed by these three words: child of God, disciple, and priest.

So take another moment and revisit my initial question.  What are three words that describe who you are in life?

In his book Mark for Everyone, N.T. Wright reflects on what it means that after Jesus was baptized he saw the Heavens open.  He writes:

It does not mean that Jesus saw a little door ajar miles up in the sky.  Heaven in the Bible often means God’s dimension behind ordinary reality.  It’s more as though an invisible curtain, right in front of us, was suddenly pulled back, so that instead of the trees and flowers and buildings, or in Jesus’ case the river, the sandy desert and the crowds, we are standing in the presence of a different reality altogether.  A good deal of Christian faith is a matter of learning to live by this different reality even when we can’t see it.

I am inviting you to ponder who you are when the Heavens open, to declare your identity that comes from God, and to live each and every day from this point of self-understanding so that when the world asks you who you are, you will have an answer.

Welcome Home!

972 Hereford Dr. 

I did not know it at the time, but Christmas 1986 turned out to be one of the most important transitional points in my life.  I was at home on break before the beginning of my final semester of seminary.  It was six years after my father passed away and my mother was newly remarried.  That Christmas, she and her husband were preparing to sell the house where I had grown up.  I graduated in May, was ordained, accepted a job offer, and found a place to rent.  There was one problem.  It was the 15^th of May and I could not move in until the beginning of June.  My boyhood home had been sold and my mother had moved out of the area.  I realized at that moment that I was “homeless”, not in the sense that I had to live on the street, but in the sense that I had nowhere to be.  There was no longer a home to which I could return.  I spent the next two weeks sleeping on a buddy’s couch.

Home is concept loaded with deep emotional meaning.  It is a place that is close to the heart and for most of us serves as the backdrop to our childhood memories.  It is where our artwork was displayed on the refrigerator and where pencil lines with accompanying dates charted our height as we grew taller and taller.  My friend with the couch, his parents also sold his childhood home.  Years later it came on the market and my friend took a tour.  While much had changed, much had not.  He was taken aback by a pattern of squeaking as he walked up the stairs to the second floor.  It was a sound he neither had heard nor thought about in years, but then there it was as if nothing had changed.  Susan Clayton, a psychologist, says that for many the childhood home maintains an iconic status. 

Pliny the Elder, a Roman author who lived in the time of Jesus, famously observed that home is where the heart is.  A stanza in John Howard Payne’s poem is almost universally accepted as true:

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

We all know what George Washington meant when he stated he would rather be on his farm than be emperor of the world.

The theme of home weaves itself through today’s scripture readings.  We hear Jeremiah, the prophet of the Exile, proclaim the good news that God will lead home the Jews displaced to Babylon.  After two generations in exile, these people had made a living in a foreign land.  They had found new ways to celebrate their identity and to perpetuate their culture.  For some, Babylon was the only home they had known, but for none of them was Babylon home.  They longed for Jerusalem, the place where they belonged.

In the Gospel we hear the story of the Magi who are exemplars of something George Bernard Shaw once said: “Home life is no more natural to us than a cage is natural to a cockatoo!”  There was a time when I lived out this sentiment; a time when I wanted to be free, to explore, to follow a shining star.  I know the impulse to see new things, to do new things, to learn new things; all of which are things you cannot do unless you leave home. 

There is in us something of the baby bird perched on the edge of its mother’s nest gazing out at a vast unknown world.  The urge to fly and fear of failure beat in its chest as it begins to beat its wings for the first time.  We are born to leave home and there is no better model of this than the exotic stargazers who appear in the holy land.  And yet even after all their adventures, even after being entertained by royalty, even after meeting the child promised by the sages of old, what do they most desire?  They desire to return to their own country, to go home.   They found out to be true something that John Ed Pearce once said: “Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.”

And did you notice a little detail from Matthew’s Gospel regarding where the Magi found Jesus?  He was not an infant wrapped in swaddling cloth, he was not lying in a manger, and he was not surrounded by shepherds and angelic hosts.  These are all details from Luke’s Gospel.  The Magi find Jesus and his mother in a house and Jesus himself is described as being a child.  Some time has passed since his birth, maybe as much as two years.  Perhaps Matthew calls it a house because it did not belong to Mary and Joseph, but I’d like to think it reflects a deeper truth that Jesus’ home is in heaven.  It is like what St. Paul wrote to the church in Corinth, that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from our ultimate home with the Lord.  And yet we do live here, don’t we. 

A couple of years ago, archeologists uncovered a circular structure in North Yorkshire that dates back to 8,500 BC.  It is the oldest known house in Europe.  It had a platform made of hewn and split timbers, which are the earliest evidence of this type of carpentry in that part of the world.  Prior to this, human beings were nomads who moved with the seasons and the herds.  Eons of evolutionary history have hard-wired human beings with any number of traits, some of which don’t quite seem to fit in contemporary society, but one thing is sure: in a relatively short period of time, human beings have adapted to having a place to live and to the notion of home.

Someone once said that it takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home.  The great poet Maya Angelou says, “the ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”  According to Vernon Baker, “Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness.  Home is where the heart’s tears can dry at their own pace.”  We all need a place like this, don’t we. 

Most of us will move multiple times over the course of our lives.  It may be from one house to another and then another within the confines of the same community, or it may involve moving great distances from one state to another or even to a different country.  More and more, the old saying that you can never go home holds true because there is no home to which you can return.  Like the Jewish exiles, home may be a place for which we long, but unlike them it is a place that no longer exists, at least as a physical location.  We must make home where we are.

Susan Clayton, who I mentioned earlier, also points out that our homes become a part of our self-definition.  They tell us who we are and shape how we think about ourselves.  They become an extension of our public face by letting others know what matters to us. 

In my house I display my grandfather’s tools and a workbench he built.  As a child I used them to construct and deconstruct all manner of things.  My parents’ wedding china graces my dining room.  My childhood dressers, beautiful pieces of wood furniture that belonged to my father, are in my bedroom.  One of my most prized possessions is a family bible handed down through five generations.  I sense and see in the environment in which I live cherished artifacts of home.  They are for me what Oliver Wendell Holmes said: “Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”

The 84^th Psalm, from which we read this morning, is one of my favorites.  A pilgrim has made the journey to Jerusalem and has entered the temple.  It is the place where he or she longs to be.  The Psalmist notices how various birds have made their nests within the confines of its walls and wishes to be able to do the same:

How dear to me is your dwelling, O Lord of hosts!

    My soul has a desire and longing for the courts of the Lord;
         my heart and flesh rejoice in the living God.

The Psalmist has come into the temple and feels at home.

I think most of us here this morning would describe St. Paul’s Church as being our spiritual home.  For some it is the only church we have ever known.  For a few it is the first church we have joined.  For others, this is one of many churches we have attended over the different shifts and changes of our lives.  Other faith communities may still hold a warm spot in our hearts, but we are here week in and week out because we feel like we belong.  Right now, it is here that we feel at home. 

More and more I think this is one of the most important roles a church plays in life.  In our mobile society, many of us live, work, and even raise a family in a community where, perhaps like the Hebrews in Babylon, we feel like we are in exile from the home we knew as a child.  Many of us, like the wise men, do extraordinary things with our lives.  We may have jobs that thrill us and coworkers whose companionship is a joy.  But when it is all said and done, what we need most is to return to our own country, a desire we find best fulfilled when we come to church.

The readings during this season of Christmas emphasize that Jesus came to earth so that we might receive power to become children of God.  Think about that image: children of God.  From this theological perspective, church becomes for us that iconic emotional home.  It is the place of baptisms, weddings, and burials.  It is the place where we watch our children mature.  It is a place where special relationships deepen over the years as we grow into being bound to one another.  And through it all, it is a place where we are keenly aware how none of this happens apart from God’s comforting presence.  No matter who you are, no matter where you are from, no matter how far you have travelled, no matter what you have done, in this place we hear the Holy One’s voice say to us, “Welcome home!”

A Moment of Memory & Imagination

Christmas memories.

Let me tell you a story and every word of it is completely true (wink, wink).  When I was a little boy I wanted a new bicycle for Christmas, but my mother, knowing that I had been a terrible brat and trouble maker all year, said I didn’t deserved it.  She told me I was going to need to take a long, hard look at my behavior and make some changes.  My mom told me to write a letter to Jesus, confess my sins, and petition the Savior for the bike I wanted.

Well, after I threw a temper tantrum and got sent to my room, I settled down and sat down to write a letter.

Dear Jesus,

  I’ve been a good boy this year and would appreciate a new bicycle.
  Your friend,
  Keith

Now I knew that Jesus knew this wasn’t true, so I ripped up the letter and gave it another try.

Dear Jesus,

  I’ve tried to be a good boy and I really want a new bike.
  Yours truly,
  Keith

Again, I realized this wasn’t true, so I crumpled up the letter, threw it in the trash can, went running out of the house, and headed straight to our neighborhood church.  I knelt down in a pew and told Jesus all the bad things I’d had done.  Finally, after an hour of unloading my burdened soul, I stood up to leave.  Just then I happened to notice the crèche figures in a nearby display.  I walked over and took in the beautiful sight.  Impulsively I grabbed the figure of Mary and ran out the door.

When I got back to my room, I sat down and wrote a final letter:

Jesus,

  I’ve got your mother.  If you ever want to see her again, you’d better get me a new a bike for Christmas.
  You know who!

Christmas memories.  This story is true.  Tonight, as every Christmas Eve, my mind drifts back to this day in 1995 when I was serving a church in a small town in Iowa.  The doorbell rang at the Rectory, which was located on the parish grounds.  It was early afternoon on a day when the temperatures were in the teens and a biting cold wind was howling out of the north.  Before me stood a man who introduced himself as Michael Araba from the Anglican Church of Nigeria who was in America hoping to study at a The Virginia Theological Seminary.  He was having immigration problems because his visa had expired and his only hope for renewal was to be at a meeting with officials in Rochester, MN the day after Christmas.  Michael was traveling with his wife and infant daughter.  Their car, in which they had slept the two previous nights, had broken down several times and their money was exhausted.  They had no way to continue on with their journey and nowhere to turn.

Michael came to the Rectory because it was the nearest Episcopal Church and he was desperate.  I gave him $150 dollars from the discretionary fund and, because he had only a sweater, I gave him one of my coats.  His wife and child were adequately clothed so we gave them a handful of diapers and wipes, some warm blankets, food, and a few of the girls’ toys for their baby.  They said they didn’t need anything else so, after I said a prayer with them, they were on their way.  There is not a Christmas Eve that goes by that I don’t think of that visit.  It was almost like the Holy Family had come to our door. 

Do you ever wonder why so many divergent thoughts flood your mind during a worship service, especially this service on Christmas Eve?  Far from being distractions to what we are really supposed to be doing, memories like these are vital and necessary ingredients in the complex recipe that makes for meaningful worship.  Something wonderful happens as we connect our story to God’s Story.  Something powerful happens when we are able to hear the sacred stories of the people of the Bible and through God’s Spirit find a way to see how our own experience is in communion with theirs.

A Roman Catholic theologian by the name of Johann Metz once said, “Without memory, the Church would cease to exist.”  No other time of the year is as pregnant with rich memories as Christmas time.  What memories of yours are coming alive tonight?  For those of you who grew up here at St. Paul’s, I wonder what you remember and who you are thinking about.  For those of you who have moved around, as I have, I wonder what memories you bring with you from other places. 

I have specific memories of Christmas Eve at every parish where I have served.  I think what I will remember most about St. Paul’s is the view I have of the Altar Cross from where I sit as we sing the carol “Silent Night.”  From my vantage point, it is backlight by the candles that are nestled in red poinsettia.  Dark on the front when the lights are turned off, the outline of the Cross radiates with a golden glow as it is illuminated by the candles’ flames.  It is a sight I have come to cherish and will always carry with me.

Metz distinguishes between two kinds of remembering.  First he says there is nostalgia.  This kind of remembering is merely a trip down memory lane, perhaps with the wish that we could live in the past, in the good old days.  While nostalgia has its place, it is not the aim of this evening’s worship. 

In addition to this, there is something Metz calls “dangerous memories” that have the ability to provoke us into some future activity that challenges the status quo of life.  I prefer to call it “creative remembrance.”  It differs from nostalgia in that it takes the memories of the past and, as Metz suggests, calls us to some kind of action in the future.  This happens most keenly when our stories fold together with The Story.  So, for example, when our memories of family gatherings, festive celebrations, and delicious meals mesh with the story of the Inn Keeper in Bethlehem, we find ourselves breaking through the clutter of the Christmas season to reach out to those in need of friendship, hospitality, and a helping hand. 

Creative memory might encourage you to make contact with a long lost friend or to reach out to someone in order to right a wrong of long ago.  Tonight, creative memory might inspire you to deeper ministry in our community or greater engagement with our parish.  There is no telling where creative memory might take you, but make no mistake, it is a vital part of what makes worship meaningful.

My German is not so good, but the expression “gabe und aufgabe” says that worship services like ours tonight consist of both gift and task.  The gift of worship is God’s self – revealed in word, in sacrament, and in our faithful gathering as the Body of Christ.  The task of worship comes to us through creative memory.  It is what we hear God’s Spirit calling us to do.  And we hear this calling by being attentive both to this present moment and to the remembrances that come to us.

You see, if it is true that Christianity is a story that is made real to us through remembrance, it is equally true that Christianity is also a dream.  It is a dream of the future that becomes a part of the present through our imagination and hope.  In this sense, worship is a moment that invites us to look both backwards and forwards. 

We are invited to bring the future to the present; to dream of a time when our endeavors to share the rich blessings God has bestowed upon us will usher in the elimination of need and want in this world; to dream of a time when our efforts at reconciliation will become a part of the foundation of Peace on Earth; to dream of the time when we will be reunited with those we love but see no longer.  We are invited through hope to imagine the joy of such a future and to make it real (at least partly) in this present moment.

So tonight we hear again The Story of the birth of God’s only begotten Child; a story reverently recorded and faithfully handed on for two millennia.  Our remembrance makes us contemporaries of the Holy Family and invites us to journey with the shepherds to the manger.  As we go backwards, the events of that night so long ago become a part of our present experience.  Through imagination and hope we begin to dream of the future where these events realize their perfect fulfillment.  That future too becomes a part of our present experience. 

Without memory the Church would cease to be.  Without imagination the Church would be ineffectual, gathering only for the vain purpose of nostalgia.  So tonight I call on us to be people who remember and to be people who imagine.  And in so doing our worship takes on a deep, rich meaning where God draws close and becomes known in a life-filling way.

The Lily and the Rose

On this fourth Sunday of Advent we take a welcome turn away from the themes of apocalyptic endings and wild looking wilderness prophets and focus on what finally feels like an appropriate figure as Christmas nears: Mary, the mother of our Lord.  She is a wonderful devotional figure who, down through the centuries, has inspired and fueled the arts: painting, sculpture, poetry, writing, music, and hymnody.  In this one humble young woman we find so much worthy to ponder.

And speaking of pondering, many of you know of my love of Christmas music.  Last year I came across a carol called “The Lily and the Rose”.  The lyrics come from an anonymous 16^th century poem that is set to music by Bob Chilcott, who is described as being “a contemporary hero of British choral music”.  As a special treat, our own Al Reese is going to play this beautiful carol for us this morning.  I want you to follow the words (and you may want to watch a video of the carol on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8rYOl_GcUU) and ponder what the lyrics are all about.

  The maidens came when I was in my mother’s bower.
  I had all that I would.

     The bailey beareth the bell away.

       The lily, the rose, the rose I lay

The silver is white, red is the gold.

  The robes they lay in fold.

     The bailey beareth the bell away.

       The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.

And through the glass window shines the sun

  How could I love and I so young.

     The bailey beareth the bell away.

       The lily, the rose, the rose I lay

Well, as you can tell, the music is beautiful, but the poem itself is, as one critic described, “elusive and layered.” 

At one level, it appears to be a poem about a young girl who has been given in marriage to an older man.  The maidens come for her on her wedding day and find her in her mother’s private room (the bower).  The ‘bailey’ may be slang for bailiff.  What he is taking away is not certain.  It could be the girl’s virginity (the white) – ‘the lily and the rose’ she lays down for her new husband.  Well, all of this is well and good, but it does not strike one as a Christmas carol.

Another interpretation has to do with an on-going war between England (the Rose) and France (the Lily).  The husband, or perhaps a more true love, is the victim of war whose dead body is carried away by the bailey.  Still, not much of a carol.

Chilcott himself says that the poem describes the Virgin Mary mourning the death of her son.  Bells are rung over the body of a corpse as it is carried away to a ‘Keep’ known as a ‘bailey’.  Another interpretation revolves around the French word ‘Belle’ – ‘the beautiful one’.  Jesus, the beautiful one, is born away to heaven by the bailiff – God.  In this interpretation, the white silver refers to Mary’s gift of her virginity to bear God’s son.  While it is a marvelous offering, it pales in comparison to the red gold of Christ’s blood shed for all humanity. 

So, why is this a carol? 

Most contemporary inspirational writing (both poems and lyrics) tends to downplay an ancient tradition of Mary contemplating her son’s death as she cradles his infant body.  Chilcott’s carol invites us to imagine Mary in her mid-forties holding the beaten and bloodied body of her lifeless thirty-year-old son.  In that moment every moment she had with him comes flooding back into her memory.  Pondering the angel’s announcement we heard today and reflecting back to events of his birth, the poem places these words on Mary’s lips:

How could I love and I so young.

In her grief, Mary is able to sense the greater good of her offering, along with the offering of her son.  In that dark moment the sun shines through the window – an image of hope – and Mary reflects back to her son’s birth in wonderment of her ability to love and care and bear all she has from such a young age.

There are three great scriptural images of Mary: when she hears Gabriel’s announcement and embraces God’s will, when she gives birth to Jesus, and when she waits at the foot of Cross.   There are other stories of course, but these three are the most central.  Chilcott’s carol binds together these moments by reflecting on innocence, wonder, and sorrow.  While being elusive and layered, it invites us to ponder levels of deeper meaning. 

What I like most about the carol is its beautiful melody.  But I also like that it challenges the notion that Christmas and all the events around it are static; that they are and have been described, quantified, and understood.  There is a temptation to wrap up the meaning of Christmas into a box as nice and tidy as any present under a tree and think, “there, that is it.”  But at its heart, the Incarnation is an event wonderful and complex beyond knowing and beyond description. 

Al and I spent forty-five minutes one afternoon pondering the meaning of this carol.  While I don’t know that we found ‘the’ answer, I believe we are richer for the experience.  It has reminded me that the Incarnation is a luminous moment radiating the mysterious glory of God’s infinite Being as it is cradled in the arms of a young mother.  It is something you experience more than you understand, something you feel more than you describe, something that moves and molds you more as you try less to make sense of it.

Advent, Michael Brown, and Eric Garner

In 1981 I had two season tickets to the Cleveland Browns home games.  Eight seats in the row just behind mine where also occupied by season ticket holders, but the two seats next to mine were not and, as a result, were filled by different fans each game.  On a cold, December day, two black men bought tickets to those seats.  The eight men behind me were white.  Just before halftime a confrontation erupted that nearly broke out into a fight.  The eight men had been kneeing the two black men and making racially provocative statements.  Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and everyone settled down.  I don’t know what happened just after the beginning of the third quarter, but one of the black men had had enough.  He stood up, turned around, and swung his heavy metal thermos at a man seated behind him, knocking him upside the head.  With that, all hell broke loose.  Eventually security came and took away the two black men and three of the white men seated behind me.  Midway through the fourth quarter those three men reappeared and called for the cheers of many seated in our section.  As they sat down, one of their friends asked them what happened.  One of the three now released fans replied, “We showed them our badges and they believed us.”  I was twenty-one years old at the time and that is when I learned first-hand that off-duty, suburban police officers could and did instigate a violent confrontation for reasons grounded only in race.

In almost forty years of driving I have been ticketed by a police officer maybe five times.  I recognize these as times to be calm, respectful, and compliant.  One incident stays with me to this day.  I was on a date with a striking blond-haired young woman, when I was pulled over for going 39 MPH in a 35 MPH zone.  The officer, a man in his late 20’s, did his best to intimidate and embarrass me.  It occurred to me that the only reason he pulled me over and the only reason he was treating me this way was to humiliate me in front of my attractive passenger.  Every person of color I know has at least one story like this, the only difference being they were pulled over because of the color of their skin and the intimidation was much more severe than my tame experience. 

The season of Advent is a season of longing; longing for a healing of the ills that infect our world and our common life; longing for a Savior who will deliver us from sin and evil.  This morning we hear our God speak through the words of the prophet Isaiah:

For I the LORD love justice,

I hate robbery and wrongdoing.

Our nation is founded on the idea that all people are endowed by the Creator with certain inalienable rights and our history as a people is marked by the difficult struggle to make this a reality for all people.  We have made tremendous progress over the centuries to live more fully into the implications of the values we hold, but events in Ferguson, MO and Staten Island highlight the painful truth that we have more work to do.

I am sure we here this morning hold many different views on the legal questions surrounding the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner.  I am confident that we all condemn looting, vandalism, and violent protesting.  We may have questions or concerns about the role the media and social media play in fueling discontent.  But surely we can agree these incidents have brought to the surface deep divisions in our society created by ongoing inequality that leads to anger, brokenness, and mistrust.

In a letter to the Episcopal Church, Katharine Jefferts Schori, our Presiding Bishop, wrote that our first response to this tragic reality is deep lament.  She also called on Episcopalians to work for reconciliation so that each person will live in “the justice for which we were all created.”  It is this vision we hold up as the reign of God in our world.  What specifically is lacking at this point, as I see it, is that people of color have experienced incidents of police misconduct and brutality on the basis of race alone and believe that the legal system is tilted against them in terms of receiving justice.

I in no part believe those eight white police officers at the football game are representative of the majority of law enforcement officials in our country.  They are a small minority among those who courageously and selflessly do a very difficult and demanding job.  But there are police officers who abuse their authority because, as I said before, every African-American I know can tell at least one first-hand story of being mistreated for no reason other than the color of his/her skin.  This simply should not be.

I was told a story about our own Jim Moore, a judge here in Suffolk.  One day a white police officer brought before his bench a courtroom filled exclusively with black people cited for traffic violations.  Judge Moore dismissed every single case with one motion.  We need the system to hold those in authority to the highest possible standard if we are going to have faith and trust in our judicial system.  That it works well for me is not reason for me to turn a blind eye on those for whom it does not.

This is not just a timely topic for a sermon.  It is an implication of living into Advent.  In this season we long for light, for truth, for reawakening, for the dawn of a new day.  On the second Sunday of Advent we read from the 85^th Psalm:

Mercy and truth have met together; *

  righteousness and peace have kissed each other.

Truth shall spring up from the earth, *

  and righteousness shall look down from heaven.

“Truth shall spring up from the earth.”  What a beautiful image depicting the necessity for us as a society (and us in the church) to be honest about our collective shortcomings.  “Righteousness shall look down from heaven.”  There is a link between the truth-telling we do in this world and the blessing of righteousness that God pours upon us.

A resource put out by the Episcopal Church made this observation:

Christ was born in the midst of a divided and violent society.  The Word was made flesh among a people who faced bias from their neighbors and persecution from the occupying Romans.

Jesus modeled a different kind of community.  Jesus broke bread with outcasts and sinners, with religious authorities and Roman officials.  Jesus pointed to a vision of the new community, and invites us to the difficult work of reconciliation.

I was just a child during the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s and most of what I know about it comes to me as history rather than actual experience.  Those protests saw their share of looting and violence to be sure.  But as a whole, it was deeply rooted in something spiritual; in the Judeo-Christian tradition of biblical justice.  Many of its leaders were religious figures who instructed the oppressed to act as Jesus taught us; turning the other cheek, walking the extra mile, forgiving others in order to be forgiven.  And those who protested and paid a great price for their witness received from their faith patience, strength, comfort, hope, and joy. 

I wonder about the connection between faith and our current protests.  There are clergy that are involved, local churches that very much are present and engaged, and leaders from various denominations who are speaking out.  But this is a different country than it was in Civil Rights era and religion is not central in the lives of many people.  It seems to me that our voice and witness is on the periphery at best.  We are voice crying out in the wilderness, but few, I fear, are listening. 

I set out this fall to do something that I still have not done.  I wanted to get together with some of my African-American clergy colleagues here in town in order to learn what they think about all of this.  I am curious about their congregations and what their members’ experiences have been like here in Suffolk.  I wonder how far it is from Suffolk to Ferguson – not in terms of miles, but in terms of experience.  I wondered if our congregations could come together to listen and to learn from one another.  Maybe, with a little encouragement from all of you, I will take that step to reach out.

I was very moved by John McCain’s speech on the Senate floor after the release of the report on torture.  You may or may not agree with his position, but his foundational understanding of America is spot on.

When we fight to defend our security we fight also for an idea… that all men are endowed by the Creator with inalienable rights.  How much safer the world would be if all nations believed the same.  How much more dangerous it can become when we forget it ourselves even momentarily.

I feel the same way about the issues and concerns raised by the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner.  How much better would our society be if everyone was treated equally by the law and had confidence in the judicial system?  How much poorer we are when some people are targeted for abuse because of race and the system appears titled against them!

In Advent we wait and hope for a Savior.  When our Savior comes, the easiest place for me to welcome the Holy One is in my own heart; to allow God’s Incarnate Word to change me, to fill me, and work through me.  I suppose from there the Savior can begin to do the same in my family, among my friends, in my neighborhood, in our church, in our community, in our society, and eventually in our world.  But the Kingdom of God, if it is going to start anywhere, is going to have to start with me and with you.  O come thou long expected one.  Our hearts and minds are open.  We long for your reign of peace and goodwill.

 

Meeting John-the-Baptist on the Jesus Bus

On a July afternoon this past summer I was behind the wheel of black Chevy Camaro convertible driving down the Pacific Coast Highway in the beautiful state of Oregon.  Like many days in that region of the country, the morning’s fog and drizzle had given way to sunshine and a gentle breeze; providing a perfect opportunity to put down the top on my rental car.  With the magnificent scenery, the spectacular coastline views, and the fascinating small towns dotting the highway, I was in a state of perfect bliss and contentment.  This was exactly what I envisioned my vacation to be.

It came to pass (a wonderful sounding biblical phrase, isn’t it) that I happened to spy an old school bus parked along the side of the road.  It was impossible to miss because the vehicle had been painted in a wide array of bright colors.  Hand lettered messages and signs covered almost every available exterior inch.  4x8 sheets of plywood lined the side of the bus facing the road.  They had just been painted purple with large pink letters spelling out “NO WAR  YES JESUS”.  How did I know it was freshly painted?  Because the bucket and brushes were sitting out and paint was dripping from the signs onto the dirt and gravel pull off area where the bus was parked. 

Now, when I go on vacation I feel a certain obligation to my many, many fans to post on Facebook interesting and (if possible) humorous pictures of what I am doing.  I my mind’s eye I could imagine a picture of my black Camaro convertible parked alongside this crazy bus with its billboard-sized message and I knew it would make all of my followers howl with glee.  By the time I made the decision to do it I was several miles down the road, so I turned around and headed back to the bus.  I had just enough time to “think” (and I use this word here rather loosely) through my imminent encounter.  It occurred to me that I could not just pull up next to the bus and tell the owner I wanted to take a picture to make fun of it.  I realized I would need to fain an interest in the owner and what he was doing. 

So I pulled up, parked, and got out of the car.  I heard a dog barking in the bus as I began to survey all of its signs and messages.  A hand-written note taped inside a window caught my attention: “NO PICTURES.”  This mission was going to require some of my best, most shrewd work.  The owner appeared looking, well, exactly as you would expect – disheveled, unshaved, poorly dressed, and in need of a less than gentle scrubbing.  “This is some bus,” I said.  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”  “Haven’t you heard of Jesus people?” he replied.  “Well, yes.  They were around in the 70’s,” I said and then I threw out my trump card: “I am an Episcopal priest from Virginia.  I’m out here on vacation.”  “Oh,” he said, unimpressed.  “Your bus caught my attention.  Tell me about this sign,” I said, referring to the “NO WAR” message.  “Jesus put it on my heart last night to write it.  There is just too much war.  We’ve got to stop it.  That’s what Jesus told me to tell people.”

He took me to the other side of the bus where he had painted Jesus’ name in something like thirteen different languages.  I used my every charm to keep the conversation going, all the while trying to figure out how I was going to snap my coveted picture.  He described how he had been kicked out of a state park the night before for soliciting contributions.  That was when I noticed several old milk jugs affixed to the bus that asked for donations and I thought I had my chance.

I asked if I could make a donation and he said sure.  I took out my wallet, found a dollar bill, and put it in a jug.  “That church must not pay you very well,” he said to me.  “They treat me alright,” I replied.  “Why would you say that?”  “Well, all you can afford to give me is a dollar.”  I had a sudden, screaming sense that the tables were turned and I was in real trouble here.  “The other day a homeless family gave me a $20 bag of food for my dog.  Why is it that the poorest people are always the most generous while rich people don’t do much at all to help others?”  I stammered to make even a feeble response.  “Do you mind if I take a picture of your bus?” I asked.  “Help yourself he said,” as we came back around to the front side.  “Is that your car?” he asked, gesturing toward the Camaro.  “It’s a rental,” I said rather defensively, as a snapped a picture and hustled away.

I spent the rest of the day’s drive angry and defensive.  Who is he to say I’m not generous?  He has no idea all the good things I do to help others.  How dare he ruin my picture-taking fun by making me feel bad.  Heck, I don’t even believe in his ‘painted sign school bus ministry’, so why would I give money to support it?

At some point the thought crossed my mind that I had encountered a John-the-Baptist like figure in the wilderness.  His appearance, like his method and manners, was just a little bit odd.  I went to stare at him, as many people did with John.  And like John used to do to his gawking audience, I got told off in an ever so pointed yet polite way.  I wonder how many of the people who sojourned down to the Jordon River made the trip back home with their tail tucked between their legs.  How many of them were had by a wild man who saw right through them? 

As I drove south on the 101 the words of today’s collect rattled around in my brain:

Merciful God, who sent your messengers to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our redeemer.

Had God ‘sent’ the bus owner as a messenger, and, if so, what warning was I supposed to heed? 

In my pondering I came to understand what you probably already see.  This issue was not one of generosity.  It would not have been different if I had given him $5 or $10 or $20 or even $100.  The real point was I had failed to recognize and respect his humanity.  I saw him as nothing more than a means to get a laugh; a joke waiting to be told.  It dawned on me that I am one of many, many people who have approached him over the years from the same posture and perspective.  It occurred to me that he saw me through from a mile away and I got exactly what I deserved.

 

Believe it or not, the bus and its owner have a Facebook page.  I looked at it the other day and discovered that the painting process is an on-going work.  There is a picture of the bus parked in sandy area surrounded by other cars and enclosed by dunes.  The ocean is off in the distance.  The picture was taken from some distance away on a vista overlooking the setting.  There in the middle of it all, looking quite at home, is a mostly purple school bus with a brightly colored message written in large, swirling letters “Jesus YYY U.”  You can read it easily from half a mile away. 

I am sure he continues to draw in the scornful and contemptuous, folks just like me.  And I hope he has the opportunity to send them on their way wondering just how they got put in their places.  But, in this age when so many have turned away from religion altogether, at a time when an Arizona pastor makes headlines by suggesting we could eradicate aids by Christmas if we killed all the homosexuals, I hope that good and decent folks who rarely darken a church door approach the bus and encounter a strange man to be sure, but also a person who strives to live out God’s love as best he can.  I think the world could use a few more people like him. 

If I take an honest look at myself, I know that God is going to need to send a lot more prophets and messengers my way if I am ever going to be the kind of person God calls me to be.  And nothing personal, but I pray that God sends a messenger or two to each one of you.  Every now and again it does the soul good to get shaken up by a wild person in the wilderness.