The Apocalypse

Year B

Proper 28

Daniel 12:1-3;

Hebrews 10:11-14, 19-25;

Mark 13:1-8

To really engage with today’s readings, there is a need to understand the type of literature they are, and more importantly to understand how this genre of literature was used during the time they were written.  You see, these are all apocalyptic literature.  To make sense of today’s readings, we must reclaim the definition and understanding of what apocalyptic literature is and how these passages were understood when they were written, to understand why they were even written.  Tragically these readings and many others along with the term have been high jacked and manipulated—they have been used and abused to breed fear; to teach about a God of judgment and vengeance; a God of exclusion.  These writings, however, were not meant to be that then and they are not meant to be understood that way now.  As difficult as it may be to get our heads around; apocalyptic writing was meant to be comforting, to be revelatory—to reveal an ever present, ever loving God who is working with and through us, who is intimately involved in our lives, in our suffering, and in our joys.  Yes, these writings and other apocalyptic literature are hard, they name hard things, but what they are trying to do is to give meaning to that which seems—meaningless--, to give voice to the anxiety and to remind us—to remind us that God has not abandoned us even when we feel abandoned.  They were written to be a witness to the people then and to us now --a witness of God’s presence in the face of loss and destruction; of anxiety and uncertainty.

          During this time, the people faced a great deal of oppression both from the political forces of the world as well as from division within the church—sounds kind of familiar doesn’t it?  These words were written to bring comfort—it sort of feels like “with friends like this who needs enemies”, but truly they were.  During this time there was a lot going on and the people were filled with anxiety, with dread and with fear.  Cherished institutions ceased to function in meaningful ways, it didn’t make sense—it was the end of the world as they knew it.  And instead of increasing fear as some people would like to do today, these words were written to bring hope—to bring hope in the new beginning that was coming and that we now know did come.

          Hope is another difficult word to fully grasp.  The kind of hope God speaks of is not wishful thinking; it’s not the kind of hope like “I hope I get a nap today.”  No this hope is belief—100% belief that things will be different; it is pure and total faith.  It is the kind of hope Martin Luther King Jr embodied and expressed when he said, “I have a dream”—he didn’t say I have a dream and I hope ya’ll are up to the challenge, I hope it will come true.  That’s the worldly view of hope.  If King had that kind of hope, I’m not sure he would have been able to continue in his fight for justice and equality; to continue to persevere when it seemed so immense and often futile.  But he did have hope.  The hope he had believed that the world could be and should be different even though all the evidence proved otherwise.  King then was the voice, the hope against the violence and oppression that existed then and we as the church can be the hope, the voice who declares another way now.  A way that seems impossible, but we know that with God all things are possible.  We can be the voice that shines the light on-that reveals a new way; a new world—the world that is and is still yet to come.  We can be and must be the voice of that hope; we must be the incarnate here and now pointing to the in breakings of the Kingdom of God—not focusing on the end of the world as some want us to do.  Not focusing on trying to figure out; to calculate when the world will end and who will be in and who will be out.  No, as the church we are called to focus on and to name not the what ifs but rather the what nows.  We are called to stand up and say there can be and is a new world that has arrived and is arriving—a world of mercy and righteousness and equality. 

          We are called to give voice to the voiceless and hope to those who feel hopeless even to and among ourselves.  We must proclaim a hope for and in the Kingdom of God—a time when justice and righteousness will reign completely—a time when disease, cancer, depression, grief and isolation, economic and environmental anxieties, oppression and destruction are no more.  This apocalyptic language is speaking to give us comfort and reminding us that God is faithful—it is not to minimize the truth of the times, but it is to maximize the understanding that God’s activity in the world has been, is and will continue to be present working with and through us.

          I’m going to let ya’ll in on a secret—and I know this will be hard for you to believe, but my children do not always get along.  Sometimes, they fuss and fight, and sometimes they even provoke each other purposefully.  One of my children can just look at the others and gently shake his head in a way that sends the others into orbit.  He knows how to get them, and it works.  I am not advocating sibling conflict, but there is something to be learned from it; how does this child of mine know exactly what will provoke his brother and sisters?  How does he know what will get them going; will get them heated up?  It is simply because he has paid attention; he has noticed that which will aggravate; that which will stir up a frenzy of emotion—that which will get the others actively involved.

          Our epistle today tells us to do just that—to provoke one another to love and good deeds.  Provoking one another does not have to be negative.  To provoke is defined as “stimulate or give rise to; stimulate or incite someone to feel or do something” and that is what we are meant to do as a community of faith.  As a community of faith that gathers; that must gather not only here on Sunday morning, but also throughout the week and throughout the world—the physical and the virtual world  (Giving you permission to access all of your social media),        in our world we are to provoke one another to love and good deeds.  To pay attention and to draw attention to those things in the world that are unjust, destructive, and tragic—our love and good deeds could be as simple as bringing a casserole to a someone facing a time of crisis; it could be handing out hundreds of turkeys, visiting the lonely, or it could be speaking out publically, marching in rallies, questioning the institutions.  But all that we do, that we provoke one another to do must point to the Kingdom of God here and now and the Kingdom yet to come.  It must point to the God of love and compassion and mercy and inclusion.  Our words and actions must say there is another way to live and to be and it is the way of Jesus Christ.  All these people trying to figure out when the world will end and judgment will come don’t seem to understand that through the life and death of Jesus that has already happened.  It has already been the end of the world as we know it, and gradually step by step, bit by bit, the new world is awakening.  Amen

Why I Love All Saints

I love All Saints Sunday although I must admit the love was not immediate--no my love for All Saints grew out of sheer terror.  See, 17 years ago my eldest, Sarah Katherine, was baptized on All Saints Sunday.  The day before, Chris and I sat in on an incredible baptismal preparation class, and I was already overwhelmed by the promises I was about to make on behalf of my child.  That compounded with the All Saints hymns, readings, and sermon about did me in.  Tears streamed down my face as I thought about the enormous responsibility of rearing a child in the faith.  I just wanted a full night's sleep and yet here I was making promises about how I was going to live my life and how I was going to help my child grow in faith.  Two months before when leaving the hospital, Chris and I were laughing that the hospital staff was actually letting us leave with a baby--that's how prepared we felt.  On that Sunday 17 years ago, I was not laughing.

What I missed that day, and what I have learned more and more since helps me to understand why we even celebrate All Saints.  Simply, I didn't need to live in fear that day because we are all a part of the community of saints  Yes I was making some profound promises, but I was making them surrounded by a witness of  many Saints who had gone before, and I was making them within a community of faith that would continue to nurture our family and be our present day saints.

That lesson first became apparent in Athens, GA.  Wednesday morning women's Bible study became my source of community, my place of hope and love.  All the women were wonderful, but two in particular nurtured me, challenged me and loved me through some of the most difficult days of rearing children and coming to grips with an alcoholic mother.  They loved me in spite of my flaws; they loved my children; they encouraged me by sharing their stories of pain and joy as they reared their own children; and they have not left me--both women are still very much a part of my life Saint Betsy and Saint Fran.

I left the womb of Athens and moved onto Pittsburgh where I was again surrounded by a community of saints.  One woman in particular cared for me and loved me again with all my flaws, my youthful arrogance, and my loneliness and pain.  She was rearing three fabulous children who became family to mine.  So many times in the years which have passed, when I was faced with a difficult situation with the children or with friends, I would think "What would Janie do?"  And I was blessed last spring to spend time with my Saint Janie.

Fast forward a few years, and a move to England.  I truly did love living there.  There were challenges (it's very cold); and there was loneliness, but I grew in ways I never imagined I could.  I began the discernment process in England and that process forced me to really look at myself, who I was not only as a wife and mother but as  person called by God into ministry.  There were (and still are) many times, I nostalgically crave those days of being home all day, baking and ironing and volunteering, but this saint never let me stay in the past.  She pushed me, challenged me, and sometimes straight out nagged me to "just get on with it."  When Chris was offered a job back in his hometown of Louisville, I was ready to give up on the process and return to a role I loved, but she wouldn't let me.  She sided with Chris and said that I was not to move back if my process was to stop.  Saint Helena saw me as a loving wife and mother, but more importantly she saw me and forced me to see myself as a child of God.

For these women and so many more, I give thanks.  And that is why I fell in love with All Saints Sunday--it is a day I remember them; I honor them, and I thank them.

Muscat Court

The beginning of my children's lives and the first formation of our family occurred on Muscat Court.  On this small court in a neighborhood on the outskirts of Athens sat four houses, make that homes.  Inside the walls of these homes lived 9 children all within a four year spread.  On this court these children learned to ride their bikes, learned to climb trees, learned to get along, and learned conflict resolution.  On this court these children learned what it meant to share--juice boxes for everyone from anyone's home.  On this court these children learned that to be a neighbor means answering the phone and picking up someone else's child because a parent is tied up at another child's doctor appointment.  On this court these children learned that to have a friend you have to be a friend.  On this court these children learned that sometimes you had to have the hard conversations, but they were done with love and respect, and the friendships continue.  On this court these children learned that the best dinners were those that included everyone contributing and grills in the center of the court.  On this court these children learned that Mommys shared their days and their dreams, reminded each other who they were before and encouraged each other to continue to grow.  On this court these children learned that Mommys and Daddys have good days and bad days but that they continue to live and laugh and love. On this court these children learned to celebrate each others successes and to be a shoulder and a friend for the disappointments that come to us all.  On this court these children learned that you have to be accountable not only to your own family but to those around you, and on this court these children learned that there are many people who will love you AND hold you accountable.  On this court these children learned that one more hour of being together outside was worth the late night bath or even going to bed dirty because you can't recapture this day or these times.  On this court these children learned what it means to respect themselves and others.  On this court these children learned that faith matters and that living your faith matters even more.  This court was empty on Sunday mornings as all four households left to attend four different churches but worshiping one God.  On this court these children learned that not everyone is blessed with the neighbors that become life long friends, and so they opened their hearts and doors to numerous other children who drove to become part of the Muscat Court gang.

From this court I have learned that foundations of faith and family and friendships matter and that even after being gone for 10 years, the lessons I learned on this court continue to resonate.  From this court I have learned that those early foundations of faith and family and friends never leave you; I have learned that these foundations are deep and lasting and that every person who lived and loved and laughed on this court helped to shape who I am and who my children are today.  Foundations matter, friendships matter, family matters, faith matters, and all this I learned from this court.

A Lesson in Living Your Faith

Caroline started a new school this year.  Because of our numerous moves as well as moving schools within Louisville, my children have been the "new kid" 12 times.  They are pretty savvy on how it plays out--in their words, "you're interesting for the first few weeks, and then people either decide they don't like you, they forget you're there and settle into the old and familiar, or they identify you with one group.  Basically it stinks."  So after 12 times, I have also become fairly adept at countering problems.  We host a lot of large get togethers--we've learned if you want to be included you have to stick your neck out there.  It's not easy. We have also tried to instill in our children that you don't exclude anyone; we'd rather have extra people than feelings hurt.  We've tried to instill it in our children, and we even try to live it; we definitely do believe it.  Sometimes I worry because it leaves them feeling confused when others don't respond in the same way.  They don't always understand what I term "playground politics" and I wonder if it leaves them vulnerable.  But we've made a choice, for better or worse.

Thursday Caroline came home from school and told me there were two parties this weekend and she hadn't been invited to either.  In a very matter-of-fact way she said she just didn't understand.  Her understanding (and I do realize she's 12) is that one of the parties included "everyone at the lunch table except her."  I first tried the, "maybe her parents put a limit on the number" angle.  (And of course this could be completely accurate.)  Caroline, "Why would you do that?  You always say if it's going to hurt someone's feelings, what's one more.  Remember when you added 3 people to Christopher's party because they found out? It's just not nice."  How do you explain to a 12 year old that not everyone operates the same way?  Not everyone believes the same thing, and quite possibly they just didn't think about it.  So instead, I sprang into fix it mode and told her to invite people over here.  Stick your neck out there; don't wallow--that's our motive.  Think about who you'd like to be friends with and invite them over; some friendships will stick and some won't, but at least you tried.

So Caroline made a list of girls to invite over, go to the mall and spend the night. Nine seventh grade girls.  I must say as the parent I held my breath as texts were sent out.  What if  no one will come?  What if no one responds?  But they did, and only one couldn't come because she was sick.  When we looked down the list I saw the name of the girl having a party (today actually).  I must have had a look on my face because Caroline said, "I like her even if she doesn't like me, and I don't want her to feel like I do about her party.  It'll be fine Mama."

And that's how I was reminded that living what you believe, living your faith, means doing it it even when it's counter-cultural; even when it means putting your hurt and pain aside to love and accept the other.  Thank you Caroline--

Knowing versus Experiencing

            Two years ago my eldest daughter started a new school—a very large school.  Throughout the year she talked about various people, and as a mother who was trying to be invested, I tried to keep everything straight.  One of these friends of SK’s was a young lady named Lauren.  Whenever SK would mention her I would go through the litany of who she was, the blonde soccer player who lives in Anchorage, parents are engineers, has an older brother—you get the drill, I was trying to place Lauren, but I didn’t really know Lauren.  And you can imagine that when I got something slightly wrong, I got the eye roll, but I kept trying.  Early  last year that Lauren began to spend more and more time at our house, and now I not only know all these things about Lauren, (and have corrected some of my mistaken identity terms) but I also know Lauren—I know what she sounds like when she laughs; I know what things make her sad; I know what things make her happy.   I know her; I love her, and now I claim her as half of my own.

            Nathaniel in today’s Gospel knew a lot of things about who the Messiah was supposed to be.  He uses multiple titles—Rabbi, Son of God, King of Israel, Son of Man.  You should know that just prior to today’s verses Nathaniel has scoffed at the idea that Jesus is the Messiah—he said, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”  Nathaniel had a preconceived idea of who the Messiah would be; he had a litany of descriptors—he had a head knowledge.  Nathaniel was probably a very good Jew; he knew what the Scriptures said about the coming Messiah.  He knew what the Jewish people were expecting and because of what he knew, or thought he knew—because of his preconceived ideas--he could not see the divine in front of him.  He could not see, that is, until he had an experience.  Nathaniel’s initiation—his first experience with Jesus was Jesus recognizing him—and Jesus tells Nathaniel there’s so much more.  And so Nathaniel joins in the following of Jesus.

            What we as the readers of the Gospel of John, of all the Gospels, know is that although these disciples follow Jesus, know that they experience the Divine, they still don’t always get it. (Bless their hearts) Throughout their time with Jesus, they are still learning, still experiencing.  They are front row observers; they learn; they experience who Jesus is over and over, and they build a relationship with him; they build  relationships with Jesus the man, the ordinary man; the son of Joseph and Mary who comes from Nazareth, and they build a relationship--they experience Jesus the Incarnate God.  They build a relationship with a Jesus who is not only the messenger of God, but is God.  It is through the relationship with  Jesus that there is a means by which disciples then and now can have a divine encounter.  Jesus is the means, the way.  As we deliberately and intentionally become disciples, we too can move into a relationship that begins to understand the titles, but that also moves beyond the titles into experience.  We don’t always get it, (really, how can we?  God is too big for any box we try to put Him in) but as we continue through life desiring to love and serve God, taking the time to study and worship and pray, more and more is unfolded.  As we move deeper, we see greater things than we could ever imagine.  Just as Jesus promised Nathaniel.

            The more we learn who Jesus is through our personal study and encounters, the more we learn what it means to follow Jesus—to be disciples of Jesus here and now in the 21^st century.  The more we know and experience God the more we begin to see the divine in our lives and in the lives of others.   As our relationships with God become more and more authentic, become more and more about knowledge combined with experience, we begin to see the divine in more places—in the ordinary and the extraordinary.  We can begin to see the divine working within the church and out in the ordinary world.  We understand that a simple carpenter’s son can be and is  the Messiah—is the Divine in the flesh, and so we learn to see the Divine in the simple, in the ordinary, in the priest celebrating the Eucharist, in the daughter sitting next to you, in the cashier at the grocery, and even in the homeless person you pass by day after day.

            As we seek to love and serve God, we are not only building our own relationships with God, but we are also helping to illuminate the Divine in the ordinary for others.  As we serve in the name of God, we are gently saying to those around us, “Come and see”  Come and move beyond what you think you know about God and instead experience the love of God—know God, love God, and claim God as your own.

            All of those titles for God, all those descriptors help us to know something about God.  They help us to identify, to classify, but to experience God, to have a personal relationship with God helps us to know—to know the God who loves us so much that he sent his son, in the flesh to live and work among us.  And those encounters did not end with the ascension of Christ.  No, Jesus’ coming opened the heavens and the path to and from heaven remains open, we just have to look and see, to notice.  As we move closer and closer in our relationship with God, we begin to have fewer sporadic, Aha moments of God and instead we live in a world full of the divine and those aha’s become AHH’s. 

            

Asking the Questions

Proper 20

Year B

          I am often hard on the disciples, and often when reading the Gospels I can hear, or at least I think I can hear, Jesus’ utter frustration with their lack of understanding, with their continual thickness—but today that’s not how I hear it.  This morning I can so easily identify with the disciples and their confusion and fear, and this morning I can also hear the love and compassion in Jesus’ words and voice.  I invite you to walk back through the Gospel with me and see if you hear it too.

          This passage of the Gospel in Mark immediately follows the transfiguration.  Peter, James, and John have been to the mountain top with Jesus, they’ve come down and were immediately surrounded by a large crowd—Jesus had thrown an evil spirit out of a demon possessed boy, and the crowds had surged.  This is from where and from what they have come, and even as a tremendous extrovert, I can feel their need for some down time, for some time to process and for some quiet.

          And so they are walking along and Jesus continues to teach them.  I can imagine they are in overload, but Jesus knows how important this teaching is, so he continues.  Jesus tells them again what is going to happen to him—that he is going to be killed and after three days he will rise.  Mark clearly tells us that they didn’t understand.  That doesn’t seem so ridiculous—what Jesus is telling them is so far stretched; so out there.  I imagine they can hear that he is going to be killed; they’ve been with him, they know there are people who hate him; they know he is turning the world as they know it upside down.  But this part about rising again?  That is outside of what they can imagine, and so they get quiet, and they don’t ask because they are afraid.

          That I can understand.  Their minds are swirling; their minds can probably not even put into words the questions they have, and so they say nothing.  Have you ever been so confused (think math class maybe), that you don’t even know where to begin asking the questions?  And here’s where I can also identify with the disciples.  They are so afraid of asking the hard questions maybe because by asking the hard questions they too are going to have to do something hard.  Maybe the answer they get is going to call them to a different life, a different way of being, a way of being that is not “normal”, not like the rest of the world—a way of being that will make them different.  For them, the answer may even require death.  When we ask the hard questions about our faith, the questions about what it means to live out what we profess here in church, the “answers” may call us up short.  And so they remain silent, and they do what I think a lot of us do when we’re nervous and scared of information—they change the subject.

          They change the subject and talk about who would be the greatest among them.  It bears pointing out that the Gospel today doesn’t say they were arguing.  It says they were discussing.  They’ve side stepped the real questions they have for Jesus and try to discuss something they can maybe wrap their minds around.  And they get “caught”; they get called out.  And I imagine they have understood Jesus enough to know that’s not what they should be talking about. 

          I suppose they are probably silent because they are ashamed—they don’t want to answer; they don’t want Jesus to know.  Here’s where I have a ton of compassion and empathy for the disciples, because I wonder what I would say to Jesus if he asked me the same question.  What if Jesus asked me, asked us to explain how what we say and do—with how we live outside these walls goes with what we profess?  (Pause)

          So this is what I hear this morning.  I hear God calling us to a way of life, a way of being right here and right now.  I hear God saying that the Kingdom of God is not only yet to come, but it is here now and it is about how we live here on earth—how we live here on earth God’s way. 

          Jesus answers the questions for them—the questions they are afraid to ask.  He tells them that they have to see the world differently; they have to love the world differently.  They have to live and love not worrying about what’s in it for them, not worrying about what they’ll get out of it.  Jesus tells them to love and care for the world like a child.  It’s not just about care for children as we know it; no, in this time, children were non-entities.  They were lower than servants because they could give nothing back; they couldn’t increase anyone’s social status, and in fact they sometimes were liabilities.  They were the lowest of the low, the unrecognized, and the ignored.  And yet, Jesus says that is how we are to be—we are to embrace and love the children, the non-entities.   We are to live differently.

          Asking the hard questions—we have to ask the hard questions.  We must ask them of ourselves; we must ask them within a community of faith; we must ask them here.  We must recognize that asking questions doesn’t threaten God—God wants to be in relationship with us; God wants us to draw near to him.  Asking questions can deepen that relationship; asking the questions says right from the start, “I want to live how you want me to live, but I don’t know how. Please help me.”  Asking and struggling with how our faith, how our professed faith, impacts and drives our way of living is in and of itself a profession of our desire to bring the Kingdom of God here; right here and right now.  God doesn’t want us to be ashamed, to be embarrassed, to be scared—God wants us—all of us; the whole of our being—our certainties and our questions.  God wants to make us whole.

          God is calling us to a way of life.  God is calling us to live out our profession of faith; our baptismal covenant—as we strive to do that as individuals and as a community of faith, we must ask the hard questions, struggle with the questions, pray about the questions—we can’t be silent; we can’t change the subject.  We must ask the questions, and then we must live the answers.  Amen.

Taste and See

Proper 17

September 2, 2012

James 1:16-27

          Reading today’s epistle could be viewed (and trust me is tempting to be viewed) as a how to manual—a mother’s wisdom book, a hallmark book of inspirational quotes, or a basic psychology handbook—“don’t say anything if you can’t say something nice,” “practice what you preach,” or “active listening means being fully engaged with the speaker and not thinking ahead to what you want to say.”  Very tempting to view it this way; and frankly, I’m certain we could all benefit from listening to that advice.  And yet this epistle, this epistle that at times has been scoffed at by astute theologians (think Martin Luther), I believe is indeed the core of our faith—this epistle speaks to not only how we as Christians ought to behave, but it places us on the stand and asks, “do you really and truly to your core believe the words you say each week in church? Does your Sunday morning faith in anyway connect to your Monday morning, Tuesday morning, Wednesday morning (you get the picture) life? Or, do you convince yourself, deceive yourself it says, that it’s important but these times require other ways of living in order to survive. Do we believe what we say here in church but leave and allow ourselves to be swept up by the views of the world and deceive ourselves into believing or falling back into the practices that the culture around us espouses?  I believe the heart of this could be boiled down to, do we live by, do I live by, do you live by the law of scarcity as the world does, or do you live by the law of abundance—the abundance of God’s grace, of God’s love, of God’s great gifts?  

          The passage begins today warning us not to be deceived, but rather to accept, and to live out the belief that all gifts come from God—why is that important?  Because if we truly believe that, and if we as Christians believe that we must embody our beliefs, then we must live as gifts to other people—we must be the first fruits, the blessings to others.  We must live not in the fear that we won’t have enough—enough of anything—and instead live bestowing upon others the same love and grace that God bestows upon us.

          The world operates very much on this law of scarcity, and the law of scarcity operates on making certain that we live in fear—the fear of not having enough, of being left out.  Ya’ll know I have two middle and two high school children (yes your prayers would be much appreciated)—and so I’ve had for several years a front row seat into the dynamics of pre-teens and teens, and this law of scarcity festers just below the surface in their relationships; it fosters fear, and that fear propels teens, propels all people, to behave in ways to assure that I have enough, that I’m not left out.    It is important to have a BEST friend, the triangulation that goes on making certain they’re in a group, they’re included—the true pain of feeling like if that person A invites person B over and not me, do I have no friends, no support, no one to love me?  And so they back stab, and they manipulate, and they do all the other things that we dread when we think about middle schoolers.  I wonder if any of us have ever truly left middle school?

          Our faith, however, teaches the opposite, it says that God has enough love and grace for All of us—each and every person in this building, in this city, and in this world. If we really believe that to our core, does that change how we treat others?  Should that not influence us, insist that we be loving and kind and inclusive, and graceful to all because there is enough?

          When we live in a world built around the law of scarcity, we live with an endless pit in our stomach; we live in constant fear.  I believe that fear is very often the root of our quick tongues and our anger.  That fear motivates us to always be thinking and doing one step ahead of everyone else—and that, my friends, is largely what prevents true honest listening—listening from the heart.  Listening to and living from the law of scarcity prevents us from not only passing on God’s grace and love, but even from experiencing it fully ourselves.

          I have another tale to tell on myself—when we moved to England, as excited as I was, I was also fearful.  I listened to all the stories about the “British commodities” and I at lightning speed acted to prevent myself and our family from not having enough.  I’m not going to go into what all I did, but to suffice it to say, that we have just finished using the cases of deodorant and toothpaste I bought to take over there.  And food—cases of peanut butter, canned pumpkin, and girl scout cookies.  The food did run out—oh horrors!  But you know what, it ran out, and we survived, and not only did we survive, but we experienced some of the most fabulous foods—the scarcity of one brand forced us to see the abundance of options, and to experience—to taste and see something different.

          This living is not easy.  Many weeks I listen to the words of the liturgy and I say to myself, “This week I’m going to live this way every day.  This week I’m going to treat every person I encounter as though they are as worthy of God’s love and grace as I am.”  And then I leave the building, and life slaps me in the face, fear attacks and often—far too often, I allow that fear, that cultural law of scarcity to motivate my words and my actions.

          One more quick personal story that I shouldn’t tell because it really shows my middle school insecurity, but I’m going to anyway—my eldest (who turned 17 yesterday) got her driver’s license in March.  She was so excited—she had a new found freedom, she was growing up, she was becoming more independent.  That week was one of the most horrible weeks of mothering for me; I was demanding, nit picking, finding fault with everything she did probably including the way she breathed—and we were both miserable.  One night after she left the dining room table in tears and I sat there alone in tears it hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was afraid—afraid not just because driving is dangerous and the what ifs of what might happen in an accident, but I was afraid that she was moving on and that she no longer needed me, and God forbid if she no longer needed me, would she still love me?  Would she still want to be around me?  I had completely lost sight that our love for one another was bigger than the physical surroundings of our home—our love for one another and our relationship could grow and expand as we both did physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  Living from a place of fear is paralyzing; it is demoralizing; it is de-humanizing; and it does not allow us to live as expressions, as first fruits of God’s love and grace.

          Today’s epistle reminds us of this, and it hammers home that we can be deceived, we can convince ourselves, justify our actions and beliefs and behaviors when we allow ourselves to live by the standards of the world.  The damage that can be and is inflicted when we live hoarding grace and forgiveness and love is immense.  We have been hurt by it, I have been hurt by it, you have been hurt by it.    When we don’t over and over allow ourselves to be implanted by the word, to refocus and recommit ourselves to the foundation of our faith, we are not living from the core of our faith.

          And so we return week after week to this building, and people return week after week to many places of faith to be reminded, to rededicate ourselves and our lives, to recommit ourselves to living a life which stems from the law of the abundance of God’s grace and love for all.  We come to the altar to taste and see the glory of God, to taste and see the goodness of God, to taste and see and be filled with God’s love and grace so that we can live as first fruits of his creatures. Amen.