Advent II

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, December 6, 2009. The lectionary readings are Baruch 5:1-9, Canticle 4, Philippians 1:3-11, and Luke 3:1-6.


Today’s scriptures ask us to prepare ourselves for the coming of God. They invite us to make ready, to “take off sorrow and affliction,” and to “put on righteousness.” We are invited to a way of “repentance for the forgiveness of sins.”

"Repent so that sins are forgiven.” Those are words that sound familiar for church, but what do they mean, really?

At some level, it’s all clear enough, probably. Just like when we were children, if we took something that didn’t belong to us, or hit a sibling or playmate, or acted out in some way, our parents taught us what it is like to say we’re sorry. The saying of “sorry” opened up a door to forgiveness, and restoring the relationship. We could play again with our friend, we could feel again the closeness and warmth of the love of the parent. But as we grow older, sin becomes a little more confusing sometimes.

How do we repent when we’re not even sure if we have sinned? How do we know if something is our fault, or the fault of someone or something beyond us? How do we know God is listening, when we say we’re sorry? What does forgiveness feel like?

Especially in our culture, I think we’ve inherited a combination of attitudes around sin. Some would simply dismiss any talk of “sin” as something outdated and leftover from a time when the church used superstition and power to rule over the lives of the faithful. While most people probably wouldn’t articulate it quite that way, it’s part of how they feel. And so, not much time would be given to thinking about sin, or about doing anything about it.

But for people who are at some level involved with God, people who seek to be in relationship with God, people who want to follow the way of Jesus Christ, one of two attitudes toward sin often prevails.

The first attitude toward sin is one that is intensely personal. The belief is that God has shown us what God expects of us, through the 10 Commandments and other laws, through the life of Jesus Christ, through the preaching of the apostles, and through the teaching of the Church. So, when we break a rule, it’s our fault, it’s the fault of the individual. It’s that person, (my responsibility, then) to approach God and ask for forgiveness. This can happen through silent confession (me and God), or might happen through the church’s sacrament of reconciliation (whether using an old fashioned confessional, or sitting aside a priest in the chapel). Much has been made in our country, especially, about personal religion, personal faith, personal responsibility.
And yet, some have pointed out that there is no such thing as an individual Christian. To be a Christian is to be a person of faith in community, and so everything about the living out of our faith involves other people.

An extreme approach to this is in a second attitude toward sin, and that’s to view sin as primarily communal or social. When we see a tragedy on the news of a person who goes on a shooting rampage, there’s much of our culture that pushes us to begin to think about the societal forces that might have moved the person to do such an awful thing. We don’t say “that person has a demon,” but rather, “that person must have grown up in a bad family, or not had good options, or must have been driven to do such evil.”

When we begin to think about sin, and about repenting from sin, and turning toward God, how do we balance these two dynamics, the personal and the communal?
John the Baptist quoted Isaiah by saying,

'Prepare the way of the Lord,
make his paths straight.
Every valley shall be filled,
and every mountain and hill shall be made low,
and the crooked shall be made straight,
and the rough ways made smooth;
and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.'"

Sin is, indeed, personal, but it has communal effects. In the name way, when I repent and am restored to new fellowship with God, that also brings with it a restoration to right relationship with other people. It makes the way not only for justice, but it also makes the way for peace.

One of the best images for dealing with sin, for me, comes from the 14th century holy woman, Julian of Norwich (1342-1416). When she was 30 years old, Julian almost died from a fever or some other ailment, and while she was sick, she received a vision from God. She wrote down her vision, but continued to pray to God for more insight. Twenty years later, she wrote down an extended version of the vision.

In her vision of the Lord and Servant Julian sees a great Lord who has a devoted servant. The Lord sends the servant off on some errand, and the servant is excited to do it. But then the servant falls into a ditch. And the servant “is greatly injured” as Julian writes. [The servant] groans and moans and tosses about and writhes, but cannot rise to help himself in any way . . . And all this time his loving lord looks on him most tenderly . . .with great compassion and joy.”

She explains that the servant “was diverted from looking on his lord, but his will was preserved in God’s sight. I saw the lord commend and approve him for his will, but he himself was blinded and hindered from knowing this will. And this is a great sorrow and a cruel suffering to him, for he neither sees clearly his loving lord, who is so meek and mild to him, nor does he truly see what he himself is in the sight of his loving lord.”

Sin can be painful. When we’ve fallen into the ditch and we can’t see out, and we feel cut off and alone, it can feel like death… but if we remember that God is watching, God is smiling at us, encouraging us to get out of the ditch. Sometimes we need a boost, and we ask for others to help us. Sometimes, we simply need to do some climbing, get dirty, use our spiritual and physical muscles and simply get up and out. It is the work of spiritual discernment for us to learn to know what is needed to get out of the ditch. God gives us the church for help, the Bible for help, the saints and tradition, and God gives us one another.

The Collect for the Second Sunday of Advent has us ask God that we might be given the grace to heed the warnings of the prophets “and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer.”

May that be our prayer this season and always.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Cooking & Relationships

A sermon preached at a wedding on December 5, 2009 at All Souls.


In my spare time, I try to cook. By reading, by watching other people, and by experimenting, I’ve learned a lot about cooking. And by cooking, I’ve learned a lot about life.

I’ve learned that sometimes the magic is in the mixture.

I’ve learned that sometimes one has to adjust the ingredients, the amount put in of this or that, depending on all kinds of other variables.

And I’ve learned that when I’ve cooked something that’s good—there’s no such thing as too much, because there are always people to share with.

Life, and love have some similarities with those three areas of learning that I just mentioned.

I learned a trick for base in cooking, especially if the dish is something vaguely Italian. You melt some anchovy fillets in olive oil with some garlic, chili flakes and pepper. What results is a smokey-tasting base that is difficult to describe. No individual taste stands out, just a mysterious tastiness deep down in the dish.

Relationships are like that sometimes. When we bring our differences into relationships, there is a richness and a flavor that can’t always be described. Masato and Katie are like that—we could name a whole list of things that are good about their being together, but what word or phrase really captures the energy, the spirit, the love that we feel when we’re in their midst? It is a mystery, but it is a gift from God.

Sometimes when I cook, I have to vary the ingredients because of the humidity, or the kind of flour, or sometimes because the other ingredients simply seem to want to act up. In relationships, in love, sometimes we need to change what we normally bring to the mixture. Those who call a marriage a partnership are wrong if they are thinking a 50/50 kind of partnership, because some days, Katie may only have 10 per cent to give, so Masato will need to supply 90. And other days, it will be just the opposite. The good cook, the good lover, learns to read the situation, to read the day, to read the person they have promised to spend their life with, and to adjust when necessary.

There have been a few times when I’ve tried a new recipe and vastly overestimated the quantities. A three-pound pork roast, turned into Filipino pork adobo could have easily fed a village. And so we shared. We sent people home with take-out bags, with left-overs, and still nibbled on the adobo for lunch all the next week.

Love is like that—it overflows, like in our readings from scriptures today. Song of Solomon, Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians, John’s Gospel—all sing of an overflowing love, a love that begins with God, flourishes in the life of Jesus Christ, and then extends into everyone.

There may well be left-overs from the reception later, but I can guarantee there will be left-overs from this ceremony, and the love that is gathered in this room among friends and family, a love that begins with God, and in our experience, radiates out of Masato and Katie. And so we feast in the abundance of God’s love.

Psalm 34 says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good, happy are those who trust in the Lord.”

It could just as well say, “Taste and see that the Love of God is good, happy are all who join in God’s feast.”

Katie and Masato, may God continue to bless you. May you explore and expand the mixture of your relationship. May you mature into discerning partners who adjust to one another, challenge one another and compliment one another. And finally, may you continue to allow God to increase your love so that it continues to include, to expand, and to overflow.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Advent I

Christ in Glory, illumination on parchment, c. 1200, British Museum

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, November 29, 2009. The lectionary readings are Jeremiah 33:14-16, Psalm 25:1-9, 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13, and Luke 21:25-36.


A few weeks ago I was in a gift shop and saw a number of really nice painted tiles. Some had religious images on them, interspersed with secular images. The one I bought, as a gift, had on it the Virgin of Guadalupe, along with a map of Los Angeles, and a number of other odd and various images. I loved it, and thought the people who would receive it, might like it also.

As I approached the checkout counter, the man behind the counter was excited that I had chosen the tile. He told me about the artist, and about the other images in the series. He went on to explain that he had bought three of them on the first day. Each of the ones he had bought had had a skeleton on it, as well as other images. He put them up on a wall, all together in one room, he explained.

“Memento mori,” I said. He looked at me, surprised. “Exactly,” he said, “remember your death, remember that you’re going to die. How do you know that, he said?”

“Well,” I said, “It’s sort of what I do,” I said. “I’m an Episcopal priest.”

That phrase, “memento mori,” as many of you know, also refers to a whole genre of art, art that remind people of their mortality, and encourage folks to live a good life, as defined by their culture or religion.

I told that man in the gift shop that “memento mori” was “what I do,” but, in fact, that was an exaggeration. I SHOULD do more to remind the people I know, the people I love, the people I serve, that one day, death will greet us, and we should be prepared.

Our faith encourages us to prepare for life, of course. We are encouraged to prepare for life and life eternal, but we’re also called to prepare for our death.

The Book of Common Prayer even reminds us of this. On Page 445 Episcopal priests are directed “to instruct the people, from time to time, about the duty of Christian parents to make prudent provision for the well-being of their families, and of all persons to make wills, while they are in health, arranging for the disposal of their temporal goods, not neglecting, if they are able, to leave bequests for religious and charitable uses.”

Get ready, Jesus says, because the kingdom may be coming soon. But especially, and perhaps even more importantly, if the kingdom is delayed, if the return of Christ comes much more slowly than anticipated, then we will need to be prepared, all the more. We need to be prepared for life. Memento mori, remember your death, so that you can live life all the more fully.

In teaching his disciples, Jesus uses the fig tree as a reminder. “Look at the fig tree and all the trees,” Jesus says. You can tell what season it is by looking. During Advent, we’re invited to look closely at the world around us, look closely at ourselves, look closely for God. What might God have us see? What have we been walking by, and not noticing? How have we perhaps been too busy, and missed something about to bloom close-by?

Sometimes the church thinks of Advent almost like Lent, and makes it into a penitential season. But that’s not quite the idea, if you notice the movement of the scriptures. The scriptures invite us to take an inventory of our lives, to look closely in the mirror, but to do so in an effort to trim away all that needs to be left behind.

Getting ready can look like a lot of things. Perhaps we do need to get rid of some habits or customs that have been bogging us down spiritually. If that’s the case, then Advent can be a good time for developing a new practice—whether it’s lighting an Advent wreath, opening a different window in an Advent calendar, putting some money aside for a special cause. It might be that you’re feeling called to get reacquainted with scripture this season, to re-read the old stories, to re-visit the prophets, to re-imagine God’s plan for salvation, and incarnation. Or maybe God is calling you to deeper prayer.

Whether we go to God, or God comes to us, Jesus warns (and announces with joy) that the kingdom is near. We can live with a mindfulness about the shortness of life—not in a morbid sense, not in a worried or anxious, or foreboding way—but naturally, joyfully, giving thanks for each breath we’re given, and praying that God would show us how to live to the fullest.

I close with the words of Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury in the 12th Century:

Escape from your everyday business for a short while, hide for a moment from your restless thoughts. Break off from your cares and troubles and be less concerned about your tasks and labors. Make a little time for God and rest a while in him.

Enter into your mind’s inner chamber. Shut out everything but God and whatever helps you to seek him; and when you have shut the door, look for him. Speak now to God and say with your whole heart: “I seek your face; your face, Lord, I desire.”

May God’s blessing be upon us as we begin this new season together. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Christ the King

A sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King, November 22, 2009. The lectionary readings are Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14, Psalm 93 , Revelation 1:4b-8, and John 18:33-37.

Ron Ross has been taking a lot of pictures. Since sometime this summer, he has spent a lot of his spare time, his spare creativity, his spare money— taking pictures of our stained glass windows. And they are phenomenal. Once he takes the picture, he uses three different computer programs to adjust them, to balance the light, to crop the edges, and to allow the window to tell its story. By watching him watching the windows, I’ve learned to look a little differently. I’ve begun to look up high and notice some of the hidden treasures there. I’ve just recently noticed in our resurrection window, there is a sun and a moon. By looking closely, we’ve learned that the strange window over the altar in the Mary Chapel is an almost exact copy of a fresco by Fra Angelico in the San Marco Convent in Florence. But one of the most interesting things I’ve learned from Ron is about the light that comes through the windows.

I used to think that the best days for taking pictures of stained glass were those days when the sun was strong, light streaming into the window, making the colors dance like jeweled necklaces. But I was wrong. The best days for shooting the windows, are when it’s overcast, when the light outdoors is subtle and indirect. It’s then that the window shows up more evenly. It glows more than it burns. It reveals its message slowly rather than all at once.

That we can sometimes see better in the dark than in the light, is a mystery of life. But it’s also a mystery of faith.

Today’s feast of Christ the King is bathed in light. White vestments, a procession, extra chanting and prayers—it’s all somewhat loud and direct. But underneath the noise, there are contradictions. It’s a little like Palm Sunday, the extent to which we are saying “something IS,” only to be able to understand that “something is NOT.” Christ was not a king, in any normal sense of the word. And yet Christ is King. He was powerless over mid-level officials and suffered the death of a criminal, and yet, “To him was given dominion and glory and kingship.” He is a Jewish carpenter from Galilee, and yet he is Alpha and Omega, “who is, and who was, and who is to come.”

The light of day shows us clearly enough what a king or queen looks like. We know what a president is. We know what the Queen of England looks like. In Daniel’s day (Daniel, the author of our first reading from scripture), the King was Nebuchadnezzar, the ruler of Babylon, as the people of Israel languished in exile. Daniel’s apocalyptic visions look for the coming of a king, while commenting upon the evil kings of his day and of those to come for many generations. Daniel writes down his “night visions,” because it is in the dark that he can see most clearly.

A similar dynamic is found in our epistle reading from the Revelation to John. John writes to encourage the faithful who are undergoing trying times. He writes in such a way that he is commenting on the kings of his day using veiled language (perhaps the emperor Nero or Domitian). He fills his prophecies with so many images and beasts, with so much “light” that the truth of his words can best been seen in the dark.

While I don’t want to be accused of having become a Gnostic, with all this talk of light and dark, of good and evil, opposed to one another, I do think even Jesus uses images to tease and fool, while inviting his hearers to look more deeply and carefully and see the truth. Pontius Pilate seems to be in on the joke when he pushes Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus shifts the light a little and dodges the question. Jesus says, “my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate falls for it and asks again, “So you are a king?” Pilate can’t see the truth, for the sun (Son?) in his eyes.

Today’s lessons invite us to adjust our vision. Enjoy the light. Bask in it, even. But next week, as we move into the season of Advent, the light changes. It is turned down a few notches, as we’re invited to notice the darkness of our world, notice the darkness in our lives, notice the contours of God in (and because of) the darkness, with us, beside us, holding us by the hand. As we move through the season of Advent, the light grows, but it’s the true light, as John the Baptist says, “The light [that] shines in the darkness, [that] the darkness never overcomes. “The true light that enlightens” every [single] soul.

Our faith calls us to live among the bright lights of this world, but not to be fooled by them. All that glisters is not gold. All that provides heat does not necessarily warm. We know this, but (being human) we still sometimes chase the false light, we get caught up in stuff, and we reach for crowns.

We worship a king whose crown is made of thorns, whose throne is nothing more than the shoulders of his friends and family, but whose holy realm is open to all who would live (and die) for love’s sake.

A few years ago Cooper Edens wrote and illustrated a wonderful book for children [If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow]. Though I don’t think he intended it to be a lesson in Christian faith, his juxtaposition of silliness and solemnity says something about how truth can be found through tricks of light and dark.

If tomorrow morning the sky falls..[the book begins] .. have clouds for breakfast. . .
If night falls... use stars for streetlights. . .
If the light goes out... wear it around your neck and go dancing. . .
If the sun never shines again... hold fireflies in your hands to keep warm. . .
If you're afraid of the dark... remember the night rainbow.

In a world that is often falsely illumined, fluorescent and bright, faith sometimes calls us into the shadows. There we can pause to discern what is true light, and what is false. Today, let us bask in the light of Christ: who is light and dark, who is king and pauper, who is Alpha and Omega. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

When worlds end

A sermon for the Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost, November 15, 2009. The lectionary readings are Daniel 12:1-3, Psalm 16, Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25, and Mark 13:1-8.

Both the reading from Daniel and the selection we have from Mark fall into that category of scripture known as apocalyptic. In popular culture, people talk about the apocalyptic as having to do with the ending of the world. Apocalypse comes from a Greek word meaning to uncover or to disclose. In the Old Testament reading, Daniel uncovers to the people of Israel about some present day political realities, but he also uncovers the vision of God’s final victory.

Our Gospel today is from a section of Mark’s Gospel in which Jesus speaks with apocalyptic vision. In the very beginning of chapter 13, Jesus and his disciples walk out of the temple in Jerusalem—this huge, strong, beautiful building. One of the disciples says to him, “Look, Teacher, what wonderful stones and what wonderful buildings!” But Jesus responds, “Do you see these great buildings? The day will come when there will not be here one stone upon another that will not come down.” Eventually, Jesus and the disciples leave the Temple Mount, cross the Kidron Valley and reach the Mount of Olives, just directly across from the Temple. Jesus predicts the destruction of the temple, something that, in fact would eventually happen. But we also know that Jesus used the temple as a symbol for his own body. The temple of stones would be destroyed, but a new living temple of the Body of Christ would arise in its place. A world would end, but another world would begin.

As often is the case when he talks about the kingdom of God, Jesus warns his disciples to be alert, but not to pay too much attention to the clock. “Take heed,” Jesus says. Be alert, be on the lookout, stay awake.

Jesus says this to his friends just before he is taken from them. Just before he is put to death. Just before the world basically ends for those who loved him.

Worlds do end. Of course we know our world could end any moment with our own death. Not only with our own death, but sometimes it feels like the world ends when someone close to us dies. Scientists interpret the signs for us—overpopulation, global warming, hunger, AIDS—they tell us the world is ending.

But other situations also can bring about what feels like the end of the world. The world of work can sometimes come to an end for us. The world of a relationship can end—sometimes we have a hand in hastening the end, and sometimes not. A world of ideas or a world of opinion can end, when someone challenges us and makes us think. The job that seemed safe, but vanishes. The person we had planned to spend our life with, dies. The home that seemed permanent, but is taken away—worlds can, and sadly do, end.

Jesus warned that there would be times when it would feel like the world was ending. There would be signs. There would be trials. Notice, but don’t obsess, he seems to say. Don’t hold on too tightly to the things of the world, he says.

When Jesus described to the disciples what the Temple would look like just before it would collapse, he said to them, “when you see sacrilege set up where it should not be, flee to the mountains, let him who is on the housetop not go down, nor enter his house to take anything away; and let him who is in the field not turn back to take his mantle.” The language is familiar. Elsewhere, when Jesus invites someone to follow him into the kingdom of God he warns, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” There’s no time for holding on too tightly. There’s no time for looking back.

If that language sounds familiar, it’s because it echoes another time when God told his people to be ready to move. Eat up what you have, gather your family close in, and don’t even wait for the bread to rise. It will be the Passover of the Lord.

In the Passover, the people of Israel saw the ending of the world as they knew it. Granted it was a world of slavery and oppression, but it had it had been their world. It was predictable. There was limited responsibility for life. But in the love of God, the people of Israel passed over from Egypt into the promised land, from death to life, and from the end of the world to the world’s new beginning.

The signs could already be seen for Jesus and his disciples. The foundation of the mighty Temple itself was beginning to groan under its own strain. And so Jesus observed the Passover with his friends. As he took the bread, blessed it, and broke it, the world was ending. As he took the cup, blessed it and offered it, the world was ending. But as they received that bread and wine, to become that body and blood, the disciples became a part of a new world.

In the new world, things are different. Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the firmament, and those who turn many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever.” A new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth will have passed away, and the sea no more. But God himself will be with us and he will wipe away every tear from our eye and death shall be no more.

May we be alert to the power of God to make all things new until our world is filled with his presence, his laughter, and his love.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sacrifices

A sermon for the Twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost, November 8, 2009. The lectionary readings are 1 Kings 17:8-16, Psalm 146,Hebrews 9:24-28 , and Mark 12:38-44.

Yesterday at the National Cathedral, Rachel got slapped in the face by Bishop Dixon. Actually a whole lot of people got slapped in the face by Bishop Dixon, and a few other bishops. What’s more is that people saw it coming, and seemed happy about it. Maybe I should explain.

Just before the confirmations yesterday, Bishop Dixon came down to the Bethlehem Chapel, where confirmands, priests, and sponsors were gathered. There she offered a little history about confirmation. She reminded everyone that in the very early church, one became a Christian at great risk. Just like in some parts of the world today, to be a person of belief could bring persecution, harassment, prejudice, imprisonment, and even death. By the fourth century, Cyril of Jerusalem writes about this slap: “The bishop would lay hands upon the person, anoint with oil as reminder of the Holy Spirit, and then strike the person lightly on the cheek reminding them to be strong and brave in spreading the faith.” And so, Rachel and others got slapped. It was meant as a reminder that they may be called to do hard things. They may be called upon to make hard decisions. By taking on the Christian faith, by trying to live as a disciple of Jesus, religion becomes much more than a mere hobby. It is more than a weekly respite from the world in which one can admire pretty windows and nice music. It is more (even) than the support and love and nurture that comes from Christian community. Christianity might bring us face to face with injustice, with poverty, with violence, and it, at some point, will probably require from us some form of sacrifice.

Our scriptures today tell various stories of sacrifice. In the first reading, the widow at Zarephath, whose name we don’t know, is just about to give up. She’s just about to sacrifice her life for the worst of all reasons—out of despair, out of a sense of not knowing what to do next, out of a lack of hope. When Elijah sees her and asks her for something to eat, she responds (perhaps sarcastically? perhaps despairingly?) “As the Lord lives, I have nothing baked, only a handful of dough and a tiny bit of oil, and so I’m just going to get a couple of sticks to keep me and my son warm while we starve.” But Elijah, with faith in his heart, with that kind of hopeful persistence that can be irritating when we’re at our wit’s end, Elijah pushes on, “Don’t be afraid. Go ahead and make some bread for me and you and your son, and you’ll find that God will provide.” The widow puts it all on the line. But her sacrifice out of despair is turned into a sacrifice on behalf of someone else—at least here, it involves Elijah, and perhaps Elijah’s hunger reminds her of here responsibility to her son—and so she sacrifices a little self pity, but goes and gets about her task. And God does provide. God makes a miracle out of very little and they all are fed. They stay warm. And they grow in their belief and reliance upon God.

In some ways, the second part of today’s Gospel parallels this story of the widow at Zarephath. In the first part of the story, Jesus has been teaching and pointing out the hypocrisy and show of the Serious Faithful, in this case, the scribes. The long robes meant to be a means of modesty, were being used as a means of pride. Instead of doing their important work – keeping the written documents of the temple, preserving sacred texts, working as lawyers, judges, helping to convey the law of God to the people of God—these scribes were taking advantage. Jesus uses the scribes as an example how NOT to be. And then he points out the poor widow across the way.

Jesus notices how she appears to be poor, but puts in a few coins as an offering. She uses her little bit to help others who may be less fortunate than she is. I bet she sees the indifference and hypocrisy of the scribes, just as clearly as anyone else. And yet, she lets God deal with them, while she does what she thinks is the right thing to do.

I don’t know about you, but I know that for myself, there are times when I’ve not always been able to keep to my own business like that widow at the temple. There are times when I’ve been to churches or cathedrals and I admire the beautiful music and liturgical vestments, the nice buildings, and all the seemingly thriving programs. And when the collection plate comes around, I would rather not give anything, saying to myself, “Well, they clearly have plenty of money. Just look around.” Or perhaps I think my money won’t be spent correctly, or I don’t like the person in charge. There are any number of reasons for me to be stingy. And yet, when I’m most faithful, I realize that giving on behalf of others is not so much about those churches, or cathedrals, or programs. Giving has to do with my own faithfulness. Am I willing to sacrifice for others? Am I willing at least to begin to put my body and soul in a place where I can be used by God for greater good? If I remain stingy and judgmental in every situation, I close myself off not only to those who could be helped through me, but I also close myself off to God.

God invites us to put ourselves in the habit of sacrifice. Sometimes that might mean going without particular things, while we put our money aside for someone else. It might mean fasting—giving up food—while we use that money to help the hungry, or try to listen to our soul and notice our own hunger, opening ourselves up to God more fully. Living and working in community, especially Christian community, we’re sometimes called upon to sacrifice our ideas or our solutions or our desires for a particular direction or ministry—it might be that the Holy Spirit is putting energy behind someone else’s idea for now, and it’s my turn to wait, to trust, and to pray sacrificially.

As is apparent from the reading about the widow at Zarephath and the widow outside the temple with just a few coins for an offering, we are given images of what it looks like to sacrifice. But these are simply reminders for what we already know about ourselves. We do know what it means to be ready to give on behalf of others. We do know that feeling in the pit of our stomach when we sometimes choose not to help someone else, and then we regret it later. We do know what following Jesus can mean and look like.

And yet, as strong as these images of scripture are about our own learning to live sacrificially, the main point in today’s scriptures is not the goodness of widows, or our needing to protect the poor. It’s not even about the blessings that come when we begin to live sacrificially. The key to today’s scriptures, and indeed, to any understanding of sacrifice, comes from the Epistle reading, the Letter to the Hebrews.

There, we’re reminded of a sacrifice for which we can only be grateful. It is a sacrifice made not out of human striving or working or trying to be good. Rather, it’s the very sacrifice of God. The sacrifice of Jesus on the cross has worked to take away the power of sin in our lives and in our world. His sacrifice makes the way for us to see God. It makes the way in which God reaches out for us.

In the life of Jesus Christ, God gives us himself. In the death of Jesus on the cross, God gives us himself. In the resurrection from the dead, the full life of God is given to a dying world, in order to show us the power of sacrifice, the power of God to bring us “out of error into truth, out of sin into righteousness, out of death into life.”

Even though life itself (much less a bishop) may slap us in the face, we have the power of God on our side, to withstand any sacrifice we may be called to make, and to respond to God with love, with gratitude, and with joy.

In the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

All Souls

The Resurrection Window from All Souls Memorial Episcopal Church

A sermon for All Souls Day, November 2, 2009. The scripture readings are Wisdom 3:1-9, Psalm 130, 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 , and John 5:24-27.

There are several versions of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. But especially during the American Civil War, Whitman visited the battle front and wrote about the wounded. At one point he searched the various hospitals, looking for his brother. And eventually, Whitman made his way to Washington, working in various capacities and volunteering as a nurse, visiting the wounded and dying.

In one section of Whitman’s Song of Myself, his experience informs his poetry and a question arises. The question comes from a little child, a child who (in the poem) has fingers-full of fresh, new, green grass.

A child asks, “What is the grass?” And Whitman meditates upon the answer. “How could I answer the child?” Whitman reflects. “I do not know what it is any more than he.” But he continues wondering,

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. [. . . . ]

And then the poet imagines who might be buried in such graves.

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps. [. . . . ]

And then the great question comes, the question that seems so right for this night of All Souls, a question we each must have asked before,

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

What becomes of those we love, when they die? What happens to us, when we die?

There are, of course, as many ways of answering the question as there are of asking. Some would suggest that when death occurs, that is it. The body, the mind, the soul… of of it, simply dies. Some religious might suggest that a part of the persons remains and perhaps returns in a different form. Those who continue to be influenced by Greek philosophy might imagine that while the body dies, the soul continues on to be reunited to its source. The Christian belief is that there is no splitting of the soul and body. Both die completely, but because of faith in Jesus Christ and the miracle of his resurrection, we too are raised with new spiritual bodies, again the body and soul are not separated. We call this new state of being “heaven,” understanding that it is not a geographic place, but a spiritual one.

The Church, through the ages, has also spoken of an in-between place, some have called purgatory. Especially in the Middle Ages, the idea of purgatory could seem literal and physical. The picture of a fiery purgatory in which people are perfected before being admitted into heaven was good for the business of getting people to behave, not to mention of raising vast sums of money, as offerings were made on behalf of the dead.


But if God’s grace is truly unending, if God is always working on us, drawing us to himself, why should we think for a second that God’s grace ends just because our bodies may die.

What becomes of us, when we die? Our scriptures tonight give us some answers.

The Wisdom of Solomon assures us that the “souls of the righteous are in the hands of God, an no torment will ever touch them.” Those who have died in faith are in the hands of God, and remember what those hands look like—they are hands that bear the scars of nails, hands that have withstood death on a cross, hands that offer peace, and extend love, and wipe away all tears.

In the Epistle, Saint Paul writes to a church that believes that Jesus is going to return soon and raise up everyone together. And so part of the community is worried about those who have already died, worried that they might not be raised along with those who are still living. Paul assures the church that time and sequence are overcome, and we will meet one another again, in the presence of God.

And in the Gospel, Jesus puts it plainly that whoever hears and believes has eternal life. It’s that simple. The judgment of Christ is judgment only in that calls the name of the those who have loved him, and in that calling, we recognize his voice through faith, and we respond. There is life, and there is life eternal.

When Walt Whitman asks the question about the people who have died, when he asks, “What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?” He then goes on to answer (in his way)

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Whatever our own particular belief about life after death, I do believe that “to die [will be] different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”

Especially on this day, we offer our prayers for the faithful departed. It is not a matter so much of their needing our prayers. After all, if we strain our ears, we just might hear them praying for us. But we add our prayers to theirs, to join in the unending song of God’s love and purpose of love unending. May we be strengthened by the communion of Saints. May we feel their presence and know their love, even as we live and move and have our being in the eternal love of God.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

All Saints

Christ Glorified in the Court of Heaven, by Fra Angelico, 1428-30 Tempera on wood, 32 x 63,5 cm National Gallery, London

A sermon for All Saints' Day, November 1, 2009. The lectionary readings are Wisdom of Solomon 3:1-9, Psalm 24, Revelation 21:1-6a, and John 11:32-44. (The sermon is unusually brief because of a baptism and the reading of the names of the Faithful Departed.)


The great food writer, MFK Fisher once said that an appetizer is like an “overture to an opera.” It is a small amount of food that whets the appetite for what is to come. It alerts the palate, it readies the stomach, it wakes up the soul as if to say, “something really wonderful is about to come your way.”

All Saints’ Day is like an appetizer to a great meal. We have in the liturgy, in the music, in the readings from scripture, in the sharing of sacraments small signs of what is to come. Today is like an overture to a whole, grand, eternal life lived in the love of God.

The Gospel gives us a foretaste of the Resurrection. Lazarus has died. He has been Jesus’ friend; he is Mary and Martha’s brother, and he has died. Though the story is a rich one, and one that often comes up again for us in Lent, just before Easter, its placement on All Saints’ Day works with the rest of the liturgy to give us a foretaste of what is to come. Lazarus was resuscitated from death, but presumably he would still undergo a physical death at some point, hopefully as an old man, having lived a rich, long life. But the raising of Lazarus sets the stage for the raising of Jesus Christ. And his resurrection opens the heavens to us all.

When we baptize Jude in just a few minutes, we are reminded of our baptisms, but as we recall the salvation imagery in the baptismal prayers and as we receive holy water, we get a little bit of what is to come. The baptism we are about to celebrate gives us a sign of God’s promise to cleanse us from all sin, and to raise us into new life, clean, renewed and glistening with God’s love.

In Holy Communion we share bread and wine, transformed by prayer and mystery into the Real Presence of Christ, the gifts of God for the people of God. They are holy appetizers, whetting our appetite for that heavenly banquet where everyone gets enough to eat and there’s always more room at the table.

When I was in high school I played the bassoon and the saxophone, and each year would end up being a part of the pit orchestra for whatever musical our high school had decided to put on. I loved learning and playing the overture, because it gave creative musical snapshots of all that was to come. Maybe that’s one reason I love Sundays—because each Sunday as we say our prayers, as we use our minds to try to understand God through scripture, as we open our hearts more to follow Jesus, as we allow the Holy Spirit to perfect us… we rehearse for the big number where we are joined with a cast of thousands, of millions, really—with us are all the saints, martyrs, angels and archangels, matriarchs, patriarchs, friends, enemies, aunts, uncles, mothers, fathers, everyone-- all of us together in one joyful, unending song of praise and joy in God.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” For now, it’s only a taste, but it is the taste of things to come.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Between seeing and believing

A sermon for the Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, October 25, 2009. The lectionary readings are Jeremiah 31:7-9, Psalm 126 , Hebrews 7:23-28, and Mark 10:46-52.


The old phrase has it that “seeing is believing,” and in the real world where we live, that’s often the way we go about things. As politicians spin and promise, we might say “well, seeing is believing.” When a friend says she’s going to give up caffeine (and we know her to be a six-cup-a-day person), we might say something encouraging to her but think to ourselves, “well, seeing is believing.”

Sometimes we feel like we have to see the result, the promised end, the activity completed, before we can believe what has been promised. But today’s Gospel challenges us to do something else—to believe, first. It encourages us to step out, to move forward with belief, and then to trust that our belief will take us to a new place of seeing.

The story we heard a few minutes ago about Bartimaeus takes place as Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. It is near the end of Jesus’ earthly ministry. All this time, Jesus has offered his disciples an extended lesson on seeing and believing, telling them that the kingdom of God is in their midst, if they will only see it. He tells them about God’s love for all people, if they will just see it. Jesus tells them that they (and we) will all see God, one day. But the disciples keep scratching their heads, trying to understand, trying to make it all fit together, trying to make sense out of what Jesus is doing in their midst. The disciples are like the person who sees a rainbow, but then runs inside to get the camera. By the time they’ve returned, the rainbow is gone. Over and over again the disciples miss the miracle because they’re reasoning, or arguing, or trying to predict Jesus’ next move. While Jesus talks about taking up one’s cross, and Jesus shows them a little child as the example of what it means to serve others, the disciples are wondering who will be the greatest when Jesus comes into his power.

There is some biblical irony when the disciples (who often are blinded by their own arrogance, their own egos, their own hopes, even), encounter this Bartimaeus, who is really blind. And yet, even with his blindness, Bartimaeus sees Jesus for who he is. Bartimaeus lets his faith take him forward, lead him into the presence of Jesus, and risk by asking Jesus for the thing he wants.

He hears Jesus approaching and yells, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.” His words must have played right into the disciples’ highest hopes for Jesus, hopes that Jesus would be recognized as the Messiah, the rightful heir to the kingdom of David, and that by popular demand, the Romans occupation would be overthrown and Jesus would be chosen as king, Son of David. Mark the evangelist, when he wrote down this story, plays with the various kinds of blindness, of seeing and not seeing, of understanding and not understanding. Here Bartimaeus gets it partially right: Jesus will be crowned king, but it will look far different from what anyone expects. Even though Bartimaeus is blind, even though he only partially understands who Jesus in, nothing keeps him from calling out.

Jesus hears the faith in Bartimaeus’s voice. Jesus hears his desperation and his suffering. Jesus asks, “What do you want me to do for you?” And Bartimaeus says, “let me see again.” Jesus says that the man’s faith has made him well, and so sends the man off. Bartimaeus regains his sight, but instead of going off, he begins to follow Jesus, instead.

But healing in our world doesn’t always come that quickly or easily, does it? Too many of us, too many we know, have wrestled with illness or grief or addiction for too long, and perhaps have asked for help with just as faithful prayers as Bartimaeus. And yet, the healing hasn’t happened yet.

The people who heard Jeremiah’s words so long ago, words we heard in our first reading this morning, must have been a little cynical. What evidence did they have that God was truly going to help them return home? Uprooted, robbed of home and livelihood, a people turned into refugees, how should they hear these happy words of Jeremiah?

I think they were able to hear them with faith. There is a place—a holy place, in fact—that exists somewhere between seeing and believing. That middle place is the place of faith. With faith we wrestle, we listen for God, we cry, we might yell and scream at God. But we also notice, and we begin to hear, little by little, the whisper of God’s voice. We feel the nudge of God’s hand reaching for our own, to pull us into some new place.

For Bartimaeus, faith made him well. For us, faith can keep us alive in God especially when we can’t quite believe, and especially when we can’t quite see what God would have us see. Faith makes us well.

The Letter to the Hebrews (not in today’s Epistle, but in chapter 11) reminds us that, “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

Of all the things that help us with faith, laughter is one of the most important. Frederic Buechner brings laughter into the idea of faith. He remembers the old story of Abraham and Sarah, when the three angels tell Sarah that she’ll have a child, at the age of ninety. Abraham “falls on his face and laughs.” And Sarah laughs too. And so, when she gives birth to a son, it’s no wonder that she names the child “Isaac” or, “laughter” in Hebrew.

Buechner says that faith is surely the “assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” but faith is also about laughter at the outrageousness of God’s work in our world.

When people hear some of my hopes for this parish, their first response laughter. Where will we get the money? Where will we get the leadership? When we begin to dream not only of an elevator and universally accessible bathrooms, but begin to imagine a building that is updated, energy efficient, and fully open to the community, then laughter comes. Sometime the laughter is followed quickly by tears, as we acknowledge the meager resources around us. But that’s where the faith comes in. I have tremendous faith that God wants us to be good stewards of being a church with a parking lot, near a Metro stop, in Washington, DC. With laughter, and with faith, our belief in God’s goodness and love for all people will help us get to a place of seeing change and growth.

And so we live between seeing and believing, in the place of faith, grateful that it is also a place of laughter. It is filled with laughter because God is doing amazing things among us, and if we allow our faith to move us forward, we will come to that place where we laugh together, we laugh loudly, and we laugh with God into eternity.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Which cup?

A sermon for the Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost, October 18, 2009. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 53:4-12, Psalm 91:9-16, Hebrews 5:1-10, and Mark 10:35-45.

At yesterday’s wedding the smallest of the flower girls looked like she was going to make it. Though at her first entrance, there was a slight detour as she circled the baptismal font and almost headed off down the other aisle, she was turned around and directed toward the altar. She made it down the aisle, tugging at her dress, fussing with the bow, carrying her little bouquet of flowers, and also carrying a bright pink “sippy cup.” Who knows what she had in her sippy cup, but whatever it was, it was prized stuff. Once she got to the front of the church, she spoke to her mother, who was a bridesmaid, and then she was collected by her father. And then the screaming began. At first it seemed like she was upset not to be up front, or upset to be separated from her mother. But then in the middle of the bawling and howling, two words could be made out: “sippy cup.” It turned out that somehow the valued cup was with mom, and little Jossilyn didn’t care so much about the pretty dress she was wearing, the flowers that were hers, or even the attention she was getting. She wanted her cup. (As you might imagine, she got her cup, and things sort of settled down.)

In many office kitchens, most church kitchens, and just about every religious retreat house you can find, if you want a cup of coffee or tea, you’re faced with a question: Which cup do you choose? Different colors, different sizes, and most having on them the name of a product, mission, a school, or a church. Most people, whether consciously or unconsciously, tend to choose a cup they want to be identified with. If you’ve chosen it with care, your coffee cup says something about who you are, where you’re from, or what you’re interested in. Not long ago I was in such a place, and we all chose our cups. One person found a cup with angels on it. Another picked one advertising his alma mater. I found one from the church where, years ago on a cold and rainy All Saints’ Day, I heard Duruflé’s Requiem for the first time, live. I was happy to be identified with that church and happy to drink from that cup.

In today’s gospel Jesus asks James and John if they are sure they’ve chosen the right cup. They have left their former lives; they’ve begun to follow Jesus. But he asks them, “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink?” “Are you able to be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?” These brothers, who Jesus nicknamed “sons of thunder,” thunder forth and respond, “Yes. We are able.”

In today’s Gospel and in several other places, Jesus uses the cup as a symbol, as an image that holds within it a number of different things. The cup from which Jesus drinks holds suffering. It is layered with service and sacrifice. But finally, it is a cup that overflows with joy.

In the Garden of Gethsemane we see the cup of suffering. Jesus prays in agony. His friends fall asleep. The authorities are coming. And he prays to the Father, “if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.” Through his acceptance, through his prayer and through the love that he continues to show others, Jesus begins to transform the cup of suffering into a cup of redemption.

We need to say one thing for certain: and that is, that suffering is not always changed into redemption. Suffering, itself, is not to be glorified. Children who die of AIDS, women who die from abuse, the elderly who die alone and forgotten—this kind of suffering is pointless. There is no redemption in it and we blaspheme if we in any way suggest that it might be a part of God’s will. Rather, it is the will of God to redeem, to bring to life, to restore and we are most faithful when we do everything we can to lift one another out of such suffering.


But there is another kind of suffering. Suffering that is on behalf of others is of a different quality. It is a different cup altogether. In today’s first reading Isaiah sings of a Suffering Servant. In words we also read on Good Friday, we typically see Jesus as the one who has “borne our infirmities and carried our diseases. . . by whose bruises we are healed.” But the interpretation of Isaiah by faithful Jews before Jesus (and after) is also relevant. Israel understood itself as the suffering servant. As the nation suffered but remained faithful, others would be see and would be brought to God. Through the suffering of a remnant, the whole world might be saved. The idea that redemptive suffering is communal rather than individual may sound odd in a culture as self-focused as ours. But I think about it for a minute, it invites me to worry less about what I, alone, might accomplish. It encourages me to think and pray about what we might all be called to do together. In what ways might we be called to suffer so that others might know redemption and life? (Not a popular question, and not a question easily answered.)

When Jesus asks James and John if they are able, he is asking if they are able to endure suffering. He is also asking if they are willing to live a life of service. Jesus makes it clear that the kingdom of God is not built on power or greatness, but on serving one another.

A few years ago Richard Meier wrote a little book called, “one anothering.” He reminds us of how often Jesus uses that term: “love one another,” “bear one another’s burdens,” “submit to one another,” and “encourage one another.” Our faith comes alive when we are able to serve one another—not just in volunteering or being busy or performing tasks—but really letting down our guard, allowing the other person closer, and even being open to being changed by the other. The cup of service is one the disciples drink from. They share this cup and they pass it on.
We continue to pass it on. After every Eucharist we pray that we might be sent into the world to love and serve God. Well, we accomplish that “loving and serving” not in the abstract, but by loving and serving those made in God’s image.

Jesus drinks and shares a cup of suffering and a cup of service, but the cup he lifts highest and offers to all is, in the end, filled with joy and celebration. It is, for lack of a better term, a victory cup. It is beyond any hope of a Holy Grail because as we share this cup of the blood of Christ, we really drink in everlasting life, here, together and everywhere the Mass is celebrated.

In this Gospel where Jesus explains that greatness comes through service, and honor comes through sacrifice, he also asks if the disciples are truly able to undergo a baptism like his. Just as Moses led people through the water from slavery to freedom, baptism with Jesus submerges us in death. It is a death to sin. A death to the power of the world. A death to the demands of the devil. It is a death to self and a dying to selfishness. But we are brought out of death into new life. Baptism changes us, it changes everything and we are made new. We are born again and enabled through confession and forgiveness to be born again and again and again. If we choose it, that is.

We have many choices, of course. Too often we begin trying to live a good life, giving occasional attention to God, but gradually drinking more and more of this world. Before we know it we are satiated with ourselves, with work, with relationships, with success, with our goals and plans and schedules. We loose our sense of taste for things holy. And so, to sip of religion can at first seem bitter and strange.

Austin Farrer describes this taste as “God’s goodness” on our palates, a taste with a “new and unthought-of flavor”. “God’s goodness,” Farrer writes, “which we taste in wine and in bread, in friendship and in every blessed thing, is the love that died in agony for our salvation. That is where the taste of it comes out; yet it is not a bitter taste; it is the wine of everlasting joy.” (The Brink of Mystery, p. 67)

And so, the suffering, the service, and the sacrifice, are all poured into one cup, one cup that overruns with everlasting joy. Which cup will we choose? Strengthened by the risen Christ, may we choose wisely, with faith and with love.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Who can be saved?

Detail from the All Souls Window, All Souls Memorial Episcopal Church, Washington, DC

A sermon for the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost, October 11, 2009. The lectionary readings are Amos 5:6-7, 10-15, Psalm 90:12-17, Hebrews 4:12-16, and Mark 10:17-31.


“Who can be saved?” the disciples ask.

Who, indeed, can be saved?

Though we may not always use that kind of language, and though we may even be a little embarrassed by the vocabulary of “the saved,” and the “not saved,” we should be also be honest, I think. We do want to be saved. Salvation is the goal. That’s why we’re here.

Salvation looks like many different things, depending on our perspective.
For some, salvation looks like eternal life;
for others, it looks like healthy children.
For one or two, salvation might be like a day without pain, given a chronic condition that seems not to respond to medicine, or careful living, or even prayer.

For others, salvation has more communal characteristics, it is saving on a more global scale. Salvation may look like equal rights, regardless of race, or gender, or sexual orientation, or income, or physical or intellectual ability, or anything else.

And for still yet others, “being saved” might be as simple as moment or two that are worry and burden-free—not worried (for the minute) about the aging parent, no longer worried about the child who can’t quite fit in, no longer worried about the spouse who is looking for work, just no longer anxious, or preoccupied, but alive.

We do want salvation. And so, there’s a part of us that perhaps can relate to person in today’s gospel. He runs up to Jesus, excited, asking, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” And Jesus has him reflect on the commandments, the basics. The man says, “oh yes, well, I’m pretty good with all of those.” “I haven’t killed anyone, I honor my parents, I don’t steal.” But then, Jesus says to the man, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” The man hears this and is shocked. He goes away, grieving.

But that’s not the real point of the story. The story continues.

The disciples see this and they’re confused. Here is this very good guy, who keeps all the commandments. He does exactly what the whole tradition has taught. He keeps the Sabbath day, he doesn’t lie, he certainly doesn’t murder. But then Jesus seems to reinterpret everything. He changes the rules. He broadens the perspective. In some ways he blows apart the whole idea of what it meant to follow God.

It’s almost like another story in scripture, the story of the Prodigal Son. You remember it’s where there’s an older brother who has done all the right things, followed all the rules, stayed at home and worked hard, dedicated his life to the father and the farm, and then there’s this younger brother. The younger brother is the cut-up who goes out, plays hard, and squanders his inheritance. He returns home humble, like a beggar. But it’s for the younger brother that the father throws the big party, gives all the attention, and makes the special feast. The older brother feels like the rules have been changed on him. He’s angry, he’s bitter, and (I bet) he’s more than a little bit jealous.

Both the older brother in the Prodigal Son story and the rich man in today’s story hear what should be good news from Jesus: that one cannot buy or earn the love of God. And they, these characters are so invested (and I use that word on purpose)—they are invested in all that they have imagined they are doing for and giving to God, and so they want their return. Jesus shows that the economics of God’s love work very differently.

The disciples ask Jesus, “Ok, then, who can be saved?” But as someone has pointed out, Jesus doesn’t answer this question. Instead, he poses the real question: Not, “who can be saved,” but “Who can do the saving.” And that question, Jesus answers.

It is God and God alone who does the saving. In God’s own way, in God’s own time, in God’s lavish self-giving, self-offering, overflowing love.

God saves us. God saves us from ourselves. God saves us from becoming too attached to our possessions, to our ideas, to our friends, to our family, even to our own sense of ourselves.

In both our reading from the Prophet Amos and our Gospel, there’s an aspect of the reading that follows an expected pattern, but then there’s some ambiguity at the end. There’s some room within what some might see as a forgone conclusion. There’s room for us to move toward God. There’s room for God’s grace to move in us.

Amos thunders about injustice and oppression. His words often indict the people, and he predicts the culture’s crumbling in, upon itself, because of its greed, because of its selfishness, because it ignores the way of God. But then Amos has these words,

Seek good and not evil, that you may live;
and so the LORD, the God of hosts, will be with you, just as you have said.
Hate evil and love good, and establish justice in the gate;[and] it may be that the LORD, the God of hosts, will be gracious to the remnant of Joseph.

“It may be,” says Amos. In other words, the future of those who seek God is not set in stone. It is open for change, for growth, for repentance, for (dare I say it) salvation.

Likewise, in the Gospel, one reading can have story of the rich man and Jesus end in a pretty sad way. Jesus says to the man, “You lack one thing, go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven, and follow me.” And we’re told that “when [the man] heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” It’s not that he was rich, that was the problem. The rich are not better nor worse than the poor. What is the problem is that this man is reluctant to follow Jesus, to let loose of the things that weigh him down, and to move toward salvation. He went away grieving. But I don’t think the story really ends.

We don’t know if the man turned around and met up with Jesus the next day. We don’t know if later, after hearing about the amazing events in Jerusalem: Jesus’ crucifixion, his death on the cross, his rising again in glory… that the man may have yet had a change of heart and decided to follow Jesus. The story leaves room for us to imagine. It leaves room for grace, just as our own lives—no matter where we might be in our own calling to follow Jesus, no matter what might currently stand in the way of our being more faithful disciples of Jesus, not matter what might seem to be in our way of living freely--- there is room for us to respond to God. There is room for God’s justice to smash the barriers, God’s mercy to forget all sin, and God’s grace to break through and bring us closer.

From time to time, in train stations and in public places, we may meet those earnest believers who look at us and ask, “Have you been saved?” I have a friend who has a great answer. He looks these people dead in the eye, smiles, and says, “Every day, friend. Every day, I’m saved.”

The good news of Jesus Christ is that God is eager to take away whatever burdens us, whatever makes us sluggish to follow him, whatever keeps us from love. God offers to empty our hands, to take whatever we cling to, and gently lay it aside, so that our hands may be empty—our hands and our hearts, so that we might receive the love of God for this live and the next.

With God, all things are possible. Who can be saved? Every single one of us.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.