Food for the Journey

We’re going to dive right into today’s Gospel; but let me back up just a minute to set the stage. Just prior to our reading, we have the well-known story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus who encounter the risen Lord. I want you to remember there were two disciples, but neither was one of the original 12. These two men broke bread with Jesus; their eyes were opened; Jesus disappeared, and they rushed to find the 11 who were holed up in a locked room. The 11 were grieving, but not only were they grieving, they were terrified. Remember Peter’s denial? They know they may be recognized despite their denial, and they have no idea what that might mean for them. And they’re scared about their future, they gave up three years to follow Jesus; they walked away from their families, their businesses, their lives, and now who they believed was the Son of God; the Messiah is gone. Let’s just say things didn’t turn out the way they planned.

I imagine they’re in the room sharing memories, trying to process—trying to figure out what happened, and trying to figure out what they do now. Do they stay together or all return to their previous lives? Are their businesses, their families, their communities still there and will they still accept them? Many of us can identify with these feelings. Many of us have had these same or similar conversations after the death of a loved one.

Well, into the midst of this, these two disciples run. We don’t know whether the disciples knew them or not. I suspect they did as they obviously unlocked the door and let them in. And can you hear it? Can you hear these two trying to tell the story of what happened on the road to Emmaus? I hear clamoring, interrupting, excitement—“and then” “and then” “no let me tell that part” They’re probably glowing with happiness—all this in a room that has been full of grief and fear. Perhaps one or two of the apostles are looking at each other, motioning to each other that these two are clearly crazy-- been in the sun too long or something. And right in the middle of this pandemonium Jesus appears and greets them with peace.

Jesus then asks “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?” Please tell me I’m not alone in thinking, “what a stupid question? Is that really the best you’ve got?” These men saw you die—die as in dead, not breathing, finished—even you said it, and “It is finished.” So I personally don’t think it’s that unreasonable to assume they’d be “startled and terrified.”

He shows the disciples his hands and his feet and says touch me; see that I’m not a ghost. Scripture doesn’t say that they actually reached out and touched him. They’re still trying to get their heads around this whole thing. They feel joy but they’re still somewhat disbelieving and wondering. I picture Buckwheat in the Little Rascals rubbing his eyes—some of ya’ll will remember that; the rubbing and shaking of his head to make sure he sees it right. “How can this be?” they think, “I want to believe it, but really this is beyond comprehension—this is beyond what is humanly possible to understand.” So they’re sitting their filled with all kinds of emotions, probably looking back and forth at each other, perhaps pushing each other forward so someone, anyone will touch him, and Jesus pipes up, “Have you anything here to eat?” This is the part that I have been stuck on all week—this HUGE thing has just happened, they’re trying to understand and he wants FOOD? Really—he’s acting like he just went on a weekend trip and now he’s hungry. So I’ve been mediating on food; trying to understand the ordinariness of his request. Why didn’t he let them process?

What is it about food, actually about food and people? It is ordinary, and it is so much more. Food speaks for us when we cannot; there is a death, a hospitalization, and we show up with food. There is a birth, a new neighbor, a loved one in for a visit, and we show up with food. Food not only sustains our bodies, but it brings us comfort, security, a sense of love and of home. I know when my children have been gone to camp, and I imagine I’ll do this when they come home from college, I’ll cook their favorite meal; whatever they want because that is a way I’ll show them I love them and I’m glad they’re home. And I know already that it brings them a sense of comfort, of normalcy, of security. I drove my mother in law crazy asking for the Texas straw hat recipe because my husband loved it and it reminded him of happy times growing up—made it once, (you know the adage, you’ll never do it as well as his mother? I learned that one); thankfully we now live here where she can make it for him.

We hunger for comfort, security, love, fellowship belonging, we are satisfied not only physically but emotionally when someone shares with us; invites us over, brings us a meal. We are already looking forward to St. Mark’s day with our potluck—everyone bringing their famous dish; the dish they most love to share. Food brings order to our lives. My children laugh at me, imitate me about my baking—get Caroline in particular to do it for you, but I bake when I’m stressed, when I’m sad, and when I need order and to feel control. One of my oldest and dearest friends, Jimmy, used to say, “I hate to see you sad, but on the other hand, I really like your chocolate chip cookies.”

Jesus asks for food, and they give him fish. While they’re eating he talks to them, teaches them. This is not new for Jesus—how many times did his ministry revolve around food—feeding the 5000, eating with tax collectors, and of course the Last Supper. Food, the ordinary, the physically necessary becomes more. It becomes extraordinary and holy.

Food is necessary; we have to have it. It is our bodies’ fuel. Jesus was resurrected in the body—at least that what we say we believe each week. In our creeds we say, “we believe in the resurrection of the body” Do you understand this resurrection? The disciples didn’t; theologians for thousands of years have been trying to figure it out; I cannot imagine the number of books which have been written on it. And I’ll admit, I don’t understand. But I do understand and believe that it is through our bodies that we can share Christ.

One of the things I think the resurrection is teaching us is that our bodies—our bodies that we criticize, that we often abuse, that others abuse; our bodies are good. Our normal everyday bodies with cellulite and stretch marks (speaking for myself here), our bodies are normal and holy. Just like food, the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

We cannot reach out and touch Jesus physically, but we can reach out and touch each other. We cannot feed Jesus physically, but we can feed each other, and we can feed the poor, the weak, the lonely, the scared, the grief stricken, the overwhelmed, those that are celebrating, and those filled with joy. It is through our bodies that the resurrected Christ continues to work in this world. This message of today’s Gospel is so powerful. It tells us that our bodies are good, that our bodies are holy and that our bodies can be transformed and can bring about transformation through the ordinary every day parts of life.

It is through our bodies that we can encounter the promise of salvation right here and now. Our present reality, our bodies live in the now and not yet. Heaven begins now; the journey begins now. The transformation begins now. Sometimes the transformation begins just in the showing up; the disciples were afraid, lonely, and Jesus showed up. Jesus showed up for the disciples, and Jesus shows up for us. He shows up through each other and he shows up each week in the Eucharist. We come before the table; all of us, and as the bread is broken; as we consume the bread and wine, we again and again encounter the risen Lord. We rise and return into the world taking that which we have encountered with us to share with the world. God isn’t necessarily asking us to give up three years, to leave our homes, our work and our families. No God is asking us to work right where we are in whatever we do. God is asking us to use our normal ordinary often boring everyday lives to show his love. To live as his disciples in all we do where ever we are and with whomever we find ourselves.

The Rev. John Thomas was a retired priest in our parish in Pittsburgh, an amazing man, a mentor and a friend. Each week he celebrated he invited us to the altar with these words “Food for the journey.” I invite you in the same way. Come eat, be nourished, be forgiven; be transformed, and joyously go forth to transform in all you do. Come and partake of the food for the journey.

A Needed Response

Two days ago I read a blog post on facebook, and I've been seething ever since. I have been creating and recreating a response in my head and getting myself more and more worked up--I even "argued" with my husband who tried to see the author's perspective and give a different view. (Keep in mind my last blog post which tells you the state of mind I've been in). Today running, I decided I was going to respond and put this author in her place, but first I was going to re-read her post so I had ammunition. And I did; and I realized that I had misread some points and that I had built it into something that it wasn't, and yet I'm still not satisfied just leaving it as it is.

The author is a guest blogger for Forbes blog, and a friend of a sorority sister. I should have known my friend wouldn't post something as absurd as I created it to be. Here is the link. http://www.forbes.com/sites/deborahljacobs/2012/04/15/a-working-mom-defends-the-lululemon-stay-at-home-mother/ I will admit, however, I still have some issues.

My first was being defensive, "I don't need anyone to defend my choice to be a stay-at-home mom" but really do I? Isn't the fact that I'm so defensive mean that somewhere inside me there is doubt, insecurity, need for validation? I think the part that I had the biggest problem with, and blew out of proportion was when the author said, "A lot of those moms may wish they were employed outside the home but can’t find a job, or can’t find one that would pay more than the childcare they would inevitably have to compensate someone else to perform. Or maybe they are in an abusive marriage with someone who controls them, won’t let them work, and belittles them if their body fat gets higher than that of a supermodel." This comes following her statement that we shouldn't judge people by how they look. So although, I now don't think she meant it as condescendingly as it originally seemed, I still feel the need to publicly (or at least for myself) give a response. And the best way for me to do that is to tell my story.

Sixteen and a half years ago I gave birth to the first of our four children. Throughout my pregnancy I vehemently stated that I was going to continue to work; I wanted to work, and frankly I made a larger salary and carried the benefits for our family. Less than three weeks after Sarah Katherine was born, I woke Chris in the middle of the night and tearfully told him that I just couldn't do it. I just didn't want to work anymore. Chris held me, soothed me, and told me it was fine. I didn't have to and we'd be fine. And I believed him, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Chris, I'm fairly certain, did not go back to sleep. But this man that I married, as opposed to an abusive controlling man, knew me better than I knew myself, and throughout my months of pregnancy while I shouted to anyone who would listen that I was going to work, he was quietly making plans for the day or night when I told him I didn't want to. So Chris changed jobs; he left a job that he was passionate about, that he loved, and that made a HUGE difference in people's lives. He quit his job as a teacher and coach and bought a business. He swears to this day he is still fulfilled and still loves his job and all the jobs he has had since, but there is a part of me that still grieves for the students who never had "Coach" coach them or teach them history. He was that good--

Fast forward three more children--not once did Chris complain about the overwhelming stress that he must have felt; not once did he complain about getting home from a 10 hour day and then bathing and playing with the children. Not once did he complain about my Sunday afternoon naps; no, he just continued to give. The author of the blog talks about the Lululemon moms who wear $85 exercise clothes. I couldn't be one of those, but when I was jealous about those who could, when I wanted to wear nice clothes like the working moms, and when I went and spent money we didn't have to make myself feel better by looking a certain way, he didn't insist I take the clothes back. No, my husband, told me that I was important in whatever I wore and if I needed it then he would find a way to pay for it. (Although I did have to promise not to or at least to try not to do it again). And he chided me for spending money on the children's clothes encouraging me to spend it on myself instead. But himself, no, he spent no money on himself. He convinced me he liked wearing the old comfortable khakis and really didn't need a new blazer--he said he didn't wear it enough. When we did have to buy one, it was only discount shopping for him.

I didn't stay home because I couldn't find a job, because we were rich, or because my husband controlled me. I stayed home because we decided that it was the right thing for our family. But the story doesn't end--

When our family heard the call for me to enter the ministry, again my husband said, "I'll do whatever you need." And for three long years he has done just that; we all have. We have adjusted, juggled, cried and rejoiced with the changes that have rapidly occurred. Was life easier for Chris when I was at home full time? In some ways yes--I did the grocery, the dry cleaning, the laundry, chores we now share. But have we grown as a family with the changes, absolutely! I wouldn't trade the fourteen years I was at home for the world; there are many days I still crave them, but now our lives have changed; we've taken on a new direction.

This morning I sat by the hospital bed of my parishioner's dying mother. She asked me how I came to be in the ministry. I came to this point because of a call and because of a husband and family who also heard and answered and because of a choice--to work or not.

The author was right; it's not about appearance and we do need to stop judging people based on what they wear. We need to just trust; trust that each of us is doing what is right for us at the time. I wish it were just all about choice, but there truly are those who don't have choices--instead of judging one another, perhaps we could all unite and support those who have no choice?

It's not about appearance. But yesterday for Chris' birthday, I gave him a long deserved new sports jacket. Doesn't he look handsome?

Doubt Expressed

It's been a hard few days. I left the beach which is always difficult for me; the beach and the south--my home. And I returned to the ordination question still pending--date set PENDING final approval by the Standing Commission. And while I try to be patient and to trust the process, it gets hard and there are many more moments of doubt than I would like. I begin to question whether I am good enough, worthy enough, intelligent enough, kind enough--really any "enoughs". The doubts creep in and begin to take hold creating a wind stream of my emotions. I move quickly and roughly between fear, sadness, joyful anticipation, and anger.

Also in these few days, I have set with a parishioner whose mother is dying, and she is so incredibly sad, angry, fearful, and occasionally at peace. She has asked me to eulogize her mother and to capture the inner beauty of her mother a person who is giving and kind, loving and accepting--a mother we all deserve but don't all get. My parishioner is scared; she knows she must let go of her mother, but she wonders who she is without her. She knows that her mother will be at peace, but she wonders if she will. As I think about these two things--my life of waiting filled with doubts and the death of a wonderful woman, I realize they are related. I wonder who I am or who I will be if I am not ordained. Over the years as I have answered the call, becoming ordained has become part of my identity, part of who I am, part of who I was created to be. And my parishioner wonders who she is without a living parent. And we both have doubt; fear and anxiety, and every once in awhile a complete sense of calm and peace.

On my run this morning, it struck me that doubt is a part of life. Doubt is not unbelief, but rather the deep desire to continue to believe no matter what. The desire to stay connected to God; to stay in conversation with God. Being able to express doubt--being able to question, to cry, to rage-- says that I trust that God is bigger than my doubt and my emotions, and I trust that no matter what God is with me, and God is with the dying and with those left behind. Embracing my doubt, acknowledging my doubt and my emotions, allows me to move into a deeper relationship with God. It allows me to be who I truly am, wherever I am, and it allows me to trust. Doubt expressed leads to a deep abiding trust.

Whose Will You Wash?

Maundy Thursday—Year B

Jesus knew that his hour had come—Jesus knew that the end was near—it’s the night before he is to die and what does he do? What would you do if you knew you had less than 24 hours left with those you love—would you be frantic? What last minute words would you say? What would you want to make certain those you loved; those you were responsible for—heard?
Tonight’s Gospel is Jesus’ last words of instruction—his last command. That is what Maundy means “command”, and this Gospel is directed to a specific community—the community of his disciples and to us the Christian community—this is our night if you will. Jesus is speaking about; is commanding us; about how we should live—about how we should treat each other.
I imagine Jesus felt an urgency—the disciples have a history of not quite getting it—a fact Peter quickly proves. So Jesus begins with an action—a tangible expression—foot washing. Go with me for a moment back to the 1st century and imagine the landscape. The dirt roads covered with filth, people just dumped their trash and other things right in the roads; they were muddy, dusty, and dirty, disgusting. If you had shoes they were more like flip flops or even less, so feet were, well they were just nasty. Washing feet in these days was done for two reasons. The first was a purification ritual before one entered the temple and the second was the practical; they needed to be cleaned. This duty in a home this practical duty, was usually performed by a very lowly servant. Yet Jesus, the Lord, the Master, the Teacher, he washes the feet; he washes the muck and the mud off of all the disciples. ALL the disciples—the Beloved disciple, the disciple who will deny him, the disciples who will run away, and even of the disciple who he already knows his planning to betray him. As he washes their feet clean, he is also deepening the connection, the intimacy, the relationship. The foot washing of Jesus is both a cleansing and a union with God. The foot washing of Jesus is both that of servant hood as well as a sign of the community becoming the Body of Christ.
After he finishes—after Jesus demonstrates love in action, he spells it out for them—he explains what they must do—they must “wash one another’s feet.” What does that mean? How does that signify love—he tells them he’s giving them a new commandment—it’s not that loving is new—the Mosaic law is based on loving—loving the widow, loving the orphan, loving the vulnerable, the weak, the alien, the stranger, but Jesus is turning this around. He is now speaking the them specifically telling them to love one another in community—which let’s face it is sometimes so much harder to do—have you ever thought about how respectfully, mannerly, kindly we speak to strangers and yet brusquely speak to those we love? It’s like when I’m fussing at my children—stop doing that, that’s awful, you’re being disrespectful—ring “Hello, fine and how are you?” repairman, neighbor, or even survey person who is on the phone.
Jesus doesn’t just tell them what to do—he tells them why—because people will be looking, people will notice—people will recognize you by how you act. When I first officially entered into the discernment process Chris and I had a long talk with the children talking about how things would and would not change. Explaining what it meant for me to be moving towards the priesthood. They seemed to understand and were definitely on board and supportive. I don’t remember how many weeks later this happened ( I hope a lot), and I really don’t remember the specifics, but I do know that one Sunday morning we were all scurrying around and I was fussing, okay yelling, at everyone about everything. As we were getting into the car to get to church so I could preach Caroline (at age 6) calmly asked, “Do you think the people in church know how you act at home?” (LONG PAUSE) If we’re honest, there are so many horrific things that have been done by Christians some even in the name of Christianity—that is what Jesus is warning against. He wants us to be identified by our love for one another by the way we treat each other equally and with respect not keeping score, not being tit for tat, but serving and loving everyone in our community and then extending it beyond.
It is important to recognize that Jesus is not commanding us to feel love—no one can make us feel—no, Jesus is commanding us to act in love; to behave in ways that are loving even when we don’t feel like it. Jesus commands us to love—not in words but in action; in selfless giving unconditionally and nonjudgmentally. Our behaviors can lead to our heart, but it is not easy. Studies show that on average to form a habit—to make something become automatic, you have to deliberately repeat it for at least 66 days, but there is a range of 18-254 days. Jesus commands us to love people in ordinary every day acts. He used a towel—a kitchen towel—but that towel spoke volumes. He washed feet; he performed an ordinary act with a towel-- practical, daily, ordinary work. Jesus surrendered his dignity; his power—he released competition and served without claims of authority. In doing so, along with his willingness to be crucified, we are united with God. He dwells in us and we in him. We can certainly perform great magnificent acts of love, but just as important, perhaps more so, are the simple everyday things. It’s the way we treat each other when we see each other—it’s not spreading out so no one else will sit with us in the pew or not supporting their ministry because they don’t support ours. It’s not gossiping and faultfinding; no it’s tangible simple things that build one another up and therefore build up the entire Body of Christ.
In the book This Odd and Wondrous Calling, Martin Copenhaver says about the Christian community and how we are to act, “Pastors (remember we are a priesthood of believers) are expected to care for those they did not choose and perhaps would never have chosen under any other circumstances. The church, like the family, is a place where we try to learn how to live with those we are stuck with. Of course, we are not always able to pull it off. But in those times when we are able to live with, and perhaps even love, those we are stuck with, the church can still give us glimmers of the love of the God who is stuck with us all.”
Tonight as you come forward and Father Charles and I wash your feet, remember that this act reminds us that we forgive and we are forgiven that it is a sign that we are the body of Christ. Remember that and also think about all the others here at St. Mark’s and around the world whose feet are being washed; who are being cleansed—children, adults, men, women, black, white, and every other color, gay, straight, democrats, republicans—and think to yourself, whose feet am I willing to wash; whose feet do I need to wash?

All Saints Sermons

Year A
All Saints Sunday 2011



Those of you who have been here on Easter Sunday know that Charles begins his sermon with, “I love this day!” That’s how I feel about today—All Saints. I love All Saints. I’m looking out seeing that many of you have bewildered expressions—love All Saints? Not necessarily the word many would choose to associate with All Saints—appreciates maybe, but not love. But no, love it is for me.
I fell in love with All Saints Sunday 16 years ago and not because it was the day my eldest was baptized; although that was certainly the catalyst. No, I fell in love with it because I embraced it; I reflected on it, and I allowed it to become a part of my life. I do have to admit to you, however, that it was not love at first sight. No, like love often is, the relationship began and developed full of fear and trembling, misunderstandings, and complete panic.
On that beautiful warm autumn day in Augusta Ga, we sat in St. Paul’s church—a historic 18th century church. I held my first born in my arms and listened to our rector talk about the saints, the community, and our responsibility as parents and godparents. I should be honest and tell you that perhaps I didn’t hear it all clearly and correctly—I was a little sidetracked thinking about at what point to take off her bonnet etc. But I distinctly remember this panic welling up inside of me as I heard him talking about all the saints and our responsibilities to produce more saints; the panic continued to mount as we stood and presented Sarah Katherine to be baptized. We made our promises, and for the first time the magnitude of what we were saying hit me like a ton of bricks. Two months before as we were leaving the hospital Chris and I were looking over our shoulders shocked that they were actually letting us walk out with this baby—that was scary enough, but now here we were promising what I thought was to turn her into a saint. Turn her into a saint? I just wanted her to sleep through the night, potty train and go to college. Tears welled in my eyes as she was baptized and I was filled with a mix of emotion—fear, joy and connectedness, and peace; the journey had begun.
All Saints is one of the 7 Principle feast days of the church and it is also one of the five occasions set aside for baptisms. But what exactly is it? What is a saint? Are saints the people that have special days of remembrance; are saints the people whose names we have before us? And doesn’t it seem a bit odd—a juxtaposition—to remember those who have died on the same day we recognize the newly baptized (or renew our baptismal vows).
There’s a good reason it’s confusing. The word “saint” has meant different things over the centuries. For the first 300 years or so of Christianity, saints were those killed for Christ, martyrs. When Christianity became the religion of the Roman Empire, that changed a bit, and saints became those who the church canonized—famous people who had chapels built in their honor and who it was believed became intercessors for us with God. The Reformation came and so too our understanding of saints changed. The Reformers, for a variety of reasons, didn’t like the idea of praying to saints, so saints became our loved ones who had died before us, our family and friends who have died and are now with God. That is the history that the church has given the definition of saints.
The Biblical definition of saints expands even further the definition. In Greek the word is agios and it is always plural and it translates into “God’s holy ones.” We the people gathered here are God’s holy ones—we are the saints. And that is the reason we connect All Saints day with baptism—on this day, we are reminded that in baptism we have died to the old self and are reborn with Christ into a new self and that self is a holy person—a saint. John Westeroff summarizes Baptism by saying, “in Baptism we are incorporated into Christ’s body, infused with Christ’s character, and empowered to be Christ’s reconciling presence in the world.” Empowered to be, but we have to be—to intentionally and deliberately be—to live into our baptism in whatever way we are called to do so. In our reading from the first letter of John we are reminded that we are God’s children, part of God’s holy family. It tells us we don’t know what we will be, but it assures us that we will be in Christ—we will be a holy people.
Baptism is the beginning, and our Christian life is a journey. It is a journey that we don’t take alone but rather in community. We are continually living into our baptism—living into our holiness. To be a saint is not to be perfect, but to be a saint is to be a holy person—a person who strives to live a faithful life and through whom the love of and the light of God shines no matter what it is you are doing.
Every year right after Christmas our family goes to the beach. Again last year we went, and the first morning we were there, Christopher and I went to the PIggly Wiggly. Our favorite cashier, Cathy, waited on us. I don’t remember the details, but somehow she asked about our holidays and I told her about the recent death of Chris’ grandfather. It was fresh and raw and I think she sensed that. Cathy stopped what she was doing and although there was a long line behind us, she stepped around and gave me a big hug and said, “You are all in my prayers.” Every time we have seen her since, she asks how we all are. Cathy is one of many saints among us whose lives inspire us and challenge us to be better people.
We don’t have any baptisms today, but we are going to renew our baptismal vows. Renewing vows reminds us that we are continually living into our baptism that being a Christian takes time and intention. And here’s some good news—we respond “I will with God’s help.” We are not alone, we are not perfect. We recognize that and we admit that calling on God to be with us and to help. I suspect that none of the people who were canonized as Saints when they were little said to themselves, “When I grow up I want to be a Saint.” At least not in the way they became saints; no I suspect that instead they lived their lives as faithfully as they could in all they did.
Do you see the connection between honoring the dead and baptism? All Saints reminds us of what we can be at our best. By remembering our loved ones, we remember how they lived their lives. We reflect upon the things they did that made them holy. The reality is that our loved ones were not perfect, the saints on the calendar of saints were not perfect, but in remembering them today we are reminded that God uses all of us the combination of ourselves—saints and sinners. We can all be vessels of God’s grace. As we renew our baptismal covenant, we are reminded who we are, what we believe, and what we can become. The connection reminds us that we are part of a fellowship that extends from the past into the present and long into the future. It reminds us that we are part of the great body of Christ. The connection recognizes the continuum, the process.
I invite you as we renew our baptismal covenant to really think about what you are promising to do, to commit or recommit yourself to a new way of life. Think about what you have done in the past to live into the covenant and what will you do today, tomorrow and in the days to come to be a saint—to be a person through whom the love of God shines. I invite you to bring yourselves, holy (saintly) living sacrifices to God and be nourished to be sent into the world to do the work we have each been given to do loving and serving as faithful witnesses of Christ our Lord.

Sermon Proper 25 Year A

Proper 25
Year A
Deuteronomy 34:1-12
Preached in New Albany, IN


Hearing the passage today from Deuteronomy is a little unsettling. Moses is taken to the land of Mount Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, where he gets to look at the Promised Land and then be told or reminded “you don’t get to go there.” It really does seem, well, just wrong. How can God, our loving, caring, faithful God do this to one of His most faithful and dependable servants?
Looking way back to the end of Exodus 2, remember that Moses defended a Hebrew who was being beaten by an Egyptian and all he got for that was the Hebrews turning on him. He fled from Egypt and settled in the land of Midian presumably to live out his life taking care of his father-in-laws flock. God, however, had other plans. God called Moses to deliver his people from the Egyptians (Exodus 3:9). Needless to say, Moses is less than an enthusiastic about this endeavor. Back and forth the two go, and Moses obeys and goes. Then for forty years he has to travel through the desert and put up with these grumbling, never satisfied, whiney Israelites. Not only does he put up with them, but he repeatedly defends them to God—over and over and over. Seems like he deserves a little more than just a view.
Commentators far more knowledgeable than I, have for years tried to figure out why Moses was not permitted into the Promised Land. There are two points of view. The first is that Moses is being punished for not showing God’s holiness. You can look this up in Numbers 20, but basically the Israelites were fussing at Moses and Aaron because they didn’t have water (just an aside—their sister Miriam had just died), but still despite their grief, Moses and Aaron intervened for the people. And here is where Moses messed up. God told Moses to hold the staff and command water to come from the rock. Instead, Moses struck the rock with the staff. (water did come out) But God said to Moses, “Because you did not trust in me, to show my holiness before the eyes of the Israelites, therefore you shall not bring this assembly into the land that I have given them.” That seems quite drastic in light of all the things Moses has done. Where is the grace? Where is the forgiveness? Where is the understanding? Where is the fairness—these people did things far worse for crying out loud!?!?
The second thought by commentators is that Moses takes the sins of the people on himself—he dies outside of the promised land in order that the Israelites may enter it. This still doesn’t sit really well, but we can understand it a little better. Frankly it fits a bit better into our cultural thinking. The leader is ultimately responsible, the buck stops here. Its part of being a leader—the risk of being a leader. Not only that, it actually elevates Moses’ character—he’s the suffering servant, he’s self giving, he’s loyal to the people. For those of you who would rather go with this thought process, look at Deuteronomy 1:37; 3:26; and 4:21.
The bottom line is that Moses doesn’t get to enter the Promised land. He doesn’t get to close the deal—and if we looked at this from the 21st century perspective, it looks a little like he failed. He was good, but not quite good enough. Moses must pass the reins onto Joshua who gets to lead the people into the Promised Land. Someone else will be remembered as finishing the job.
Some of you may remember the Iranian hostage crisis which lasted from 1979-Jan. 20 1981—444 days. I wasn’t yet at an age where I understood or even really cared about politics. I couldn’t have told you whether my parents were democrats or republicans, BUT I can remember thinking how unfair it was that 20 minutes after Reagan gave his Inauguration address, the hostages were released and everyone started talking about what a great president he was. Carter didn’t close the deal—, he’s not remembered for the months of effort he put into getting a release--today’s passage feels a little bit like that to me.
Let’s be honest with ourselves. We want to be, we value more, we remember more, we honor more, those who bring something to its successful completion. Look back to the beginnings of our country—George Washington, the greatly revered and honored general who closed the deal in the American Revolution was elected the first President. Look back even further in the beginnings of our own church. Thomas Cranmer was a leader in the English Reformation, he helped build a case for Henry VIII’s dissolution of marriage from Catherine of Aragon, and guess what he was named (with the help of Anne Boleyn’s family) the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Now I’m not denying these were great men or that they didn’t deserve the honors bestowed upon them—we have our prayer book because of Cranmer, but I am pointing out that we look for movers and shakers who make things happen. (Just don’t read ahead to what eventually happens to Cranmer).
Looking at the 21st century, don’t we still have these thoughts? Isn’t a common thought; a common goal to “make a name for yourself.” And you certainly don’t do that by coming in second—We tell our children participating in sports—work hard and maybe you’ll get named captain—our children in school—work hard—be valedictorian. Don’t give up until you’ve reached your goals—fulfilled your dreams. You can be anything you want to be if you just try hard enough. Well, that’s what we say to ourselves and to others, but I would venture to guess there is not a person here who doesn’t know the pain of disappointment or unfulfilled dreams. So, how do we live with that? Is God taking us to the top of the mountain and showing us what could have been and then saying, but not for you? Thanks for giving your best effort; I’ll let someone else take over from here.
Moses is taken to the top of Mount Nebo and shown the land that God swore to Abraham, Isaac, and to Jacob—God is keeping His promise. God shows this land to Moses, and Moses sees the beginning of the fulfillment of the promise. I think it’s worth noting that Moses doesn’t argue with God; he doesn’t plead his case. And we know he is perfectly capable of doing that. Just two weeks ago we heard how he pleaded for the Israelites when God wanted to punish them for the Golden calf incident. Moses in this moment is leaving between the now and the not yet. And Moses is choosing to live in this moment with acceptance. Moses has done the work God gave for him to do, and now he must step aside, gracefully and confidently knowing that he has been all he could be, that he has faithfully done what God has required of him. He accepts that God has remained faithful to him and he has lived his life faithfully to God in all that he has done. It can’t have been easy.
We too are living in the moment of the now and the not yet. The Kingdom of God is coming but it is not here yet. How do we as a faithful body live our lives in this moment—in this realization? How do we not lose hope, not lose trust, and not lose faithfulness?
Go back in your Bibles to Exodus 3 when God comes to Moses. God says, “Indeed, I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey, to the country of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites. The cry of the Israelites has now come to me; I have also seen how the Egyptians oppress them. So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.” And Moses did what God asked. Moses brought them out of Egypt, that’s all that he was asked to do.
Again, our culture says look at the big picture—get your head around that and then create the steps needed to reach the ultimate goal. I assure you I’m not advocating not setting goals, not trying to be the best you can be—not reaching for the stars. But when we don’t live up to our standards or culture’s standards, when we don’t believe we are making an impact, how do we stay the course? Who gets to define our success?
Our culture says it and even as a church we are caught up in that. When we talk about mission, our goals are out there big and huge, should we instead look in our own backyards. I know ya’ll do that here with your many community outreach programs including providing the Friday night meals. You are touching lives and often you don’t know what the final impact will be. You are an example of honest faithful living in the now and not yet.
And yet I know it’s still a struggle. It’s a struggle looking at all that needs to be done, all that we want to do. I wonder if we need to rewire our thought processes. Living as members of the Body of Christ, we are called to help bring the Kingdom of God into the world. We are called to bring honor to God in all that we do. It’s a heavy load, so perhaps we should leave the big picture to God and instead focus on what God is calling each of us to do in our lives each and every day.
As we come to the altar today, we glimpse for a brief moment the Kingdom of God on earth, for a brief moment we are not living in the in-between, no through the mystery of the Eucharist, we for a moment get a foretaste of the heavenly kingdom. John Westeroff says that at the Eucharist we “engage all our senses in a weekly dinner party in the reign of God after which we are prepared to go forth to love and serve God in our daily lives and work.” I add, in whatever that is. In whatever we are called to do, we are called to be Christ’s presence in the world.
How can you live today as faithfully as Moses remembering that God too is faithful? What is God calling you to do this morning, this day, this week?

You've Got to Stand for Something

Proper 23
Year A
Exodus 32:1-14


I wonder if I took a poll right now as to how many people really listened to every word of our OT reading what I would find. When we hear “familiar” stories from the Bible, it is so easy for our minds to wander because we “know” this story. We know who did what, who messed up, and how it turned out. Aaron and the Israelites really messed up and Moses has to come to their rescue—(it is interesting that Moses who claimed he couldn’t speak well and therefore couldn’t go up against Pharaoh is now imploring the Lord—but that’s a different sermon) Enough said right, sermon finished. Humor me, and let’s take another look at the passage, with fresh eyes and perhaps looking at it from another perspective—Why did Aaron do what he did? Why did he let the Israelites talk him into making a golden calf?—truthfully, it didn’t take much convincing. But what motivated him—what were his possible reasons, and how did he view what he was doing?
What do we know about Aaron? We know that he is Moses’ brother; we know that when Moses told God he couldn’t lead the Israelites out of Egypt because he didn’t speak well, God commanded Aaron to be Moses’ mouthpiece. Actually, what God said was this “he shall serve as a mouth for you, and you shall serve as a God for him.” (Exodus 4.16) Whoa—Talk about setting up sibling rivalry. Aaron was Moses’ mouthpiece, not his co-chair, not his vice-chair; Aaron had no authority. In fact, just prior to this incident, back in chapter 24, Moses, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu and 70 elders were called up the mountain by God, and allowed to worship at a distance. Moses alone shall come near the Lord (Exodus 24:2). Once again, a slight. And Aaron also had been wandering in the desert; he also had been hungry, thirsty, tired and hot. Could it be that in that moment he thought to himself, “Now’s my chance—now’s my opportunity to step into full leadership.” Let’s face it, the possibility of power and leadership is quite seductive. Maybe that’s it— maybe, but let’s look at another possibility.
Moses has gone up the mountain and for 40 days and 40 nights (whatever that meant back then), Moses has been gone. The Israelites have no idea when he’s coming back. They frankly don’t know what’s going on or if he’s coming back. They don’t know what he’s doing. There’s no texting to find out—they’re just waiting. What does it feel like to wait, and to wait with uncertainty? It feels scary; you’re vulnerable and you have a loss of control. You want something tangible to hold onto. Have you ever been in the waiting room of an ER or OR and noticed all the people clutching Bibles, rosaries, Korans? The Israelites didn’t have those things; but they remembered what they use to have and they asked for it. So, I wonder, was Aaron full of compassion and empathy for these people? Was he trying to give them something to hold onto, to fix something for them that we know couldn’t be fixed? I don’t know for sure, and I do know that humans motives are often complex and tightly tangled. We know that, ask a teenager, anyone for that matter why they did something that goes against their character, and often you will hear, “I don’t know.” The truth is, they may not. We have a whole industry that gets paid to figure out why people do the things they do. Nonetheless, I’d like to explore this possibility. One of the key reasons I have to believe this is a possibility is the conversation that happens between Aaron and the Israelites. This is where you can’t think you know the passage so well you can doze off for a moment. Really look at the words. The Israelites say to Aaron in verse 1 “Come make gods for us, who shall go before us; as for this Moses, the man who brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.” Aaron does not confirm their statement—he doesn’t say you’re right he simply asks them for their god and he formed it into an image of a calf, and then they change what they say and no longer give Moses credit for bringing them out of the land of Egypt, but rather these gods. And look how Aaron responds—he builds an altar and declares “tomorrow shall be a festival to the Lord.” In Hebrew to YHWH—he doesn’t use the plural, he skillfully or slipperly does not deny YHWH—he calls for a festival for YHWH. So the people and Aaron are speaking on two different planes—he’s manipulating words. He’s a people pleaser—he’s trying to make these people feel good and at the same time remain faithful to YHWH—what he really does is compromise his theology. He compromises his integrity. I wonder what this says to us?
We live in a complex world. And in this complex world, we are trying to discern what it means to be a Christian in the world. What does it mean to live our daily lives as Christ’s hands and feet to the world? The big buzz word that we hear over and over is “tolerance.” What does that mean? Does that mean anything goes? Does that mean any choice is okay? To what and to whom are we to be tolerant (once we define the term). We really don’t even have to exit the doors of the church building to struggle with this. We as an Episcopal church are what is called a broad church—we don’t have confessions that declare our beliefs. We hold in tension, or try to hold in tension the ancient faith and the dynamic changing world and our response to it. Frankly, we as a people are in process—our whole lives are a process of living into our faiths. And we are a welcoming church, “The Episcopal Church welcomes you.” You’ve all seen that sign. What does that mean? When we welcome someone does that mean no matter what? Do we accept any belief, any behavior or twist it so that it fits? Do we manipulate words and people?
I contend Aaron’s mistake was compromising his theology to make people feel better because he cared about them, because he wanted to be a comforter(maybe there was also a little bit of wanting power as well), but I think ultimately, he identified with their fear and he wanted to make it disappear. Each time I read this passage a country song kept coming to mind. The chorus says, “You have to stand for something or you’ll fall for anything. You have to be your own man not a puppet on a string. Never compromise what’s right and uphold your family name, you’ve got to stand for something or you’ll fall for anything.” Was Aaron a puppet, did he not know what he stood for, or did he just not have the courage to stand for himself?
So how do we not compromise our theology; how do we live a dynamic faith—let’s get to the heart of the matter, how do we define our core values. As my daddy used to ask me, “what will you die on the hill for?” I’ve begun to use a similar version with my children as they’re getting older and I’m having to trust them more. They know the mantra well as they get out of my car or leave the house because I say the same thing each time, “Have fun, remember who you are, be true to yourself.” In other words, don’t compromise your core values. This morning as I was running and thinking about tonight’s sermon and how I say these words to my children, it occurred to me that they may not know who they are or what they’re core values are. And as I thought further, I realized that maybe that goes for all of us as individuals and as a church, do we know what our die on the hill core values or beliefs are?
So, I turned to Scripture when I returned and today’s NT reading I

thought would give me the answer. Philippines 4:8-9 says Finally,

beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just,

whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if

there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think

about these things.

9 Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you. (Phi 4:8-9 NRS) Great but what is “whatever” and what are “these things”? I firmly believe these are fundamentals that we cannot ignore either as individuals or as a community of faith. We need to be able to identify our core beliefs and live our lives through that lens. How do we find these? It’s not easy, it takes time, and it takes deliberate attention and practice. As Episcopalians, a place to start is with the Lambeth Quadrilateral which you may or may not have heard of. It is known as the four point articulation of our Anglican identity.
1. The Holy Scriptures, as containing all things necessary to salvation;
2. The Creeds (specifically, the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds), as the sufficient statement of Christian faith;
3. The Sacraments of Baptism and Holy Communion;
4. The historic episcopate, locally adapted.
It is not enough to be able to list these, but we need to understand them
to understand what they mean—to pay attention to the words we say
each week.
It is a struggle—it’s a struggle we individually make and a struggle
we make as a community. In the letter to the Philippians, Paul writes
“work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.” He’s writing to
a community and telling the community to work out their faith –how
they live their faith—how they live their lives in response to God’s
grace, with reverence and respect to God. As individuals and as a
community we need to dialogue about these things. We cannot assume
everyone knows or agrees on these core fundamental values that lie at
the heart of our theology.
Moses did come down from the mountain, and if you read ahead,
you’ll see that there was some violent and horrific punishment for what
happened. Thousands died, but not Aaron. And then later, Aaron and
Moses again tussle—Aaron talks badly about Moses’ wife, and he
questions his leadership. These are all parts of the story, but they are
only parts. We know that ultimately Aaron was ordained the high priest
and from his descendents came all the other high priests. Aaron was not
identified by his one moment of disobedience, and neither are we. But
at the same time, who we are and the things we’ve done all are a part of
us. Rowan Williams says there is a “temptation to think you can always
reinvent yourself and that you are what you say you are or what you’d
like to be at any moment. It often takes a shock or a tragedy to remind
you that your life really is made up of the accumulated effects of choices
you may have forgotten, experiences you never registered or
understood.” Our faith and the faith of the world is a developing story
but one that must be taken seriously. Who we are and how we behave,
what choices we make, these all stem from these core fundamental
values that we need to identify.
Aaron wanted to be the comforter or the hero in that moment. In
another moment he was an obedient spokesperson, and in another
moment he was a challenger of Moses. When we strip away the
moments of appearance, what’s left? Winston Churchill says, “Inside
the image there appeared the man.” Inside our image as individual
Christians and inside our image as a community of faith, what stands?

As the family of God, what do we stand for?