Proper 8A • 29 June 2020
The lectionary almost begs by length of the morning’s readings that I tackle the sacrifice of Sarah (aka Abraham and the binding of Isaac, akedia yitzak; no one ever thinks about Sarah, who also is being asked to sacrifice her son), but instead, I am going with the gospel, which once again teaches the nascent-disciples how to engage with those whom they meet along the way as they speak to them about Jesus’ Way. It all boils down to hospitality. What we hear this morning is the last of Jesus’ teachings before he goes on his way to preach in other cities.
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Hospitality.
One of my mentors once said, at the end of a long day, when I was her last appointment on the book—and coming in forty-five minutes late because of other unscheduled people needing her counsel—that no matter how tired she was, she always looked for the next person, because she never knew if that person would be Christ.
The sisters at Saint Helena’s, along with so many monastic communities, see as their mission, beyond their life of prayer, as one of providing hospitality to whomever comes along. Over the thirty years I have known the order, and where I used to take retreats until they closed their Vails Gate, NY house, I have seen people with broken egos, like birds with injured wings, come to the convent to seek shelter, healing and refuge as they piece themselves back together. I have wondered how the sisters manage over the years. They have seen and heard everything. That I know; I have witnessed some pretty wrought people while on retreat. Yet the sisters understand that hospitality is a form of worship, as the Jewish proverb goes.
How far do we truly go in our hospitality? These days of pandemic it is a bit hard to think about hospitality at all. I confess to getting anxious now that the state is opening up more and more and I see more and more license plates from other states. I struggle with my lack of hospitality.
How far do we receive the unknown Christ amongst us? Extending true hospitality is lot tougher sometimes than we want to think, but at the same time, it can be life-giving. Hospitality is discipleship.
And how does extending hospitality fit into mission? Therein lies the larger question. And, if we extend hospitality, won’t we be surprised to find that the person to whom we opened our doors was Christ? We receive angels unawares. That is mission.
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Someone once asked me, what is so important about Matthew? (That’s a good coffee hour question!) She was wanting more to know why her sister had named her child Matthew than what is in the gospel, but I answered: ‘Well, I don’t think she named the baby after the tax collector.’ Then, as I went on, I said: Primarily, the gospel is known for its emphasis on mission—at the very end of the gospel, Jesus commissions the disciples to go and spread the good news, baptising in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. The gospel is also known for its rendition of the Beatitudes, the ‘blessed-be’s—Luke’s gospel has them but the more well-known version is in the gospel of Matthew (5.1-12). These two themes frame the entire content of the gospel—one that has tough demands and teachings.
It seems to me that Jesus’ discourse on mission along with the first mention of the cross from Chapter 10, which we have heard these past two weeks, flow from the Beatitudes. In this particular case, perhaps Matthew was thinking of the lines: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.’
Hospitality starts off as something utterly simple—no Martha Stewart lavish spreads here. Hospitality is as basic as giving a someone a glass of water. Water, that element that unites us all…not only because we need it to survive, but because we were drenched in it at the moment of our baptism. At our baptism we promised to find Christ in one another, loving our neighbour as ourselves, seeking and serving. That means extending water to even the most unlikely people we meet.
Jesus always welcomed the poor and abandoned of his day and made them feel important in the Reign of God. He welcomed all kinds of sinners, adulterers, crooked tax collectors, even a prostitute. He welcomed the Gentile ‘dogs’. He welcomed the forbidden Samaritan woman. He embraced the leper. He offered gentle care to the stranger. He welcomed, despite his harsh words of shaking the dust from one’s feet if one was not received.
Those who are blessed, therefore, are not only those who will receive the hospitality, but also those who extend it. Remember the Latin root of hospitality, hospes, meaning ‘host’, ‘guest’, or ‘stranger’. In both cases, they are hungry—hungry for God’s love and welcome. In both cases, they are pilgrims—searching for sense and meaning in their lives.
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What about the way we welcome or exclude? In 1963, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, ‘It is appalling that the most segregated hour of Christian America is 11 o’clock on Sunday morning’ and, according to experts, that assertion remains true today. 1
In Vermont, the demographics work against us because we are such a ‘white’ state. Even in states with great diversity, The Episcopal Church in the US still is a tough place for people of colour. Yes, we have a presiding bishop, Michael Curry, who is African-American. The Bishop of Vermont, Shannon MacVean-Brown is African-American. I am so grateful for their leadership.
Over the past 145 years there have been 44 Black bishops consecrated in The Episcopal Church and that is out of 1133 bishops. We have a long way to go. These bishops hail from the African Diaspora, as well as Africa. (The African Diaspora includes those people of African descent living throughout the world in the United States, the Caribbean, Central America and other countries.) Bishop James Theodore Holly was the first Black Episcopal Bishop consecrated November 8, 1874, first Bishop of Haiti. 2
Beyond bishops, though, we need to look at the people who populate the commissions, the boards and agencies of The Episcopal Church. Then look at the percentage of people of colour who are ordained and see how many are in charge of the largest congregations. They are few and far between. I was asked to ‘run’ for a position on a ‘national’ level, and have decided not to because the board does not need another middle-aged (am I still?), white woman.
Yes, I am talking about the weeds of the governance of TEC, but I have to start somewhere. We need to do a better job in welcoming; no, in celebrating the gifts and talents of our sisters and brothers of colour.
On the more local level (drawing upon the thought that each one of us can make a difference), as followers of the one who welcomed all, do we still make our selections, and decide who is welcome, who is not? It is hard to welcome when we live in a day and age that would rather close doors than open them. We, however, as followers of Jesus, must err on the side of trust and keep our doors open to the spiritual wayfarer.
The hard thing, the challenge of the Gospel this morning, is the call to offer holy hospitality to everyone, no matter what. That is what Jesus did, and his welcome gave new life even to the most difficult persons.
I think that instinctively we know that if we open the door, if we welcome the person or persons we most fear, or by whom are most troubled, that we won’t go away untouched. Hospitality involves solidarity, the bearing of one another’s burdens and joys. We will be touched, transformed, challenged. And, yes, sometimes we will get involved in ways we hadn’t predicted. Every welcome opens the door to new reconciliation, with self, with others, with God. There is no possibility of offering hospitality from a safe distance.
If we dare to get close, we may be surprised. The Celtic rune states:
We saw a stranger yesterday,
We put food in the eating place,
Drink in the drinking place,
Music in the listening place,
And, with the sacred name of the triune God,
He blessed us and our house,
Our cattle and our dear ones.
As the lark says in her song:
Often, often, often, goes Christ in the stranger’s guise.
Whom will you feed? Whom will you welcome today? You never know; you could be feeding angels unawares or even Christ.
END NOTES
1 c.f. New York Times article, 2 August 1964: 'As racial violence and the white backlash increase in the United States, one question arises sharply: Why doesn’t the church do something about the racial problem? The question is compounded by the Christian church's long involvement in and contribution to the problem, by the current struggle within the church between racists on the one hand and integrationists on the other, by a misunderstanding of the power of the clergy and by a confusing definition of the nature of the church.'
https://www.nytimes.com/1964/08/02/archives/11-a-m-sunday-is-our-most-segregated-hour-in-the-light-of-the.html
2 https://episcopalchurch.org/gallery/black-bishops-episcopal-church-1874-present
Sunday, June 28, 2020
Sunday, June 21, 2020
Feast of Saint Alban (transferred), 21 June 2020
Sunday of Saint Alban’s Day • 21 June 2020
A sermon preached ‘at’ Saint Alban’s Episcopal Church,
Albany, Oregon
Psalms 92 & 93 • Job 5:8-21 • Acts 4:5-13 • Luke 12:1-12
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Take my lips and speak through them;
take our minds and think through them;
take our hearts and set them on fire.
Greetings from Plymouth, Vermont, birthplace of the 30th President of the United States, Calvin Coolidge. Silent Cal, incredibly laconic, is said to have responded to someone who bet him he could not say something in just two words, ‘You lose.’ Knowing that I speak to you from the other side of the country, I wanted to say that at least we are roughly at the same latitude, just one degree off. On the other hand, Saint Albans, Vermont, is practically the same latitude as Albany OR.(1) By the way, the northernmost engagement of the Civil War, known as the Saint Albans Raid, occurred there on October 19, 1864.
And here we are, joined by Zoom.
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The gospel reading for this morning, appointed for the Feast of Saint Alban, whose feast day is tomorrow, teaches us about speaking out and speaking the truth. I am going to focus on the gospel because it not only applies to the story of Saint Alban, but it also speaks to our current situation of protests.
Jesus’ words from the gospel reading seem almost the counterpoint to the theme of arguing and listening, as seen in the Book of Job (who engages in a long debate with his so-called friends about suffering and only hears from God, who really does not answer his questions, when Job finally shuts up). Jesus has just denounced the scribes and Pharisees, and has returned to teaching his followers. He exhorts them to trust and fear God, who has authority over the soul, and confess Jesus before people, so that Jesus will confess them before the angels. If one trusts God, the Spirit will aid in speaking before authorities.
Jesus first tells them, ‘Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.’ He knows, and we know, ultimately the secrets of people’s hearts will come to light. God knows what one does, good or bad, done with or without hypocrisy. So, too, will speech be evaluated. What is said in private will become public; what is whispered will be shouted from the rooftops. So, disciples, speak from the heart with pure motives. These days, there is a lot of uncensored speaking, not from the heart, but from a place of hatred and fear. We have to do better than that.
Jesus then says, ‘Do not fear (the Greek is phobethete, as in phobia) those who kill the body, and after that, can do nothing more. But I will warn you whom to fear: fear him who, after he has killed, has authority to cast into hell.’ God can cast them down to Gehenna (here is the only place where Luke uses this word) should God choose to do so.
Oddly, for the third time a bit later, when speaking of the sparrow (the cheapest purchase in the market) Jesus tells the disciples not to fear God because God will care for them in the life to come. Perhaps this promise mitigates the words he has said about God’s judgement just prior.
Since the teaching here probably is a string of sayings, the seeming contradictions in the use of the verb, to ‘fear,’ which appears three times in short order, can be perhaps better understood.
Finally, Jesus calls the disciples to confess Jesus and trust that the Holy Spirit will help them in what they are to say. (2) These words reflect the prophets, who often complained about not wanting to speak because they did not feel up to the task. Think of Moses, Elijah, Isaiah and Jeremiah. God usually answered that God would give them the necessary words when needed.
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Saint Alban, whom we commemorate today and after whom your congregation is named, exemplifies the disciple who did not fear death and who found the right words to confess Jesus before the authorities. As a soldier, he gave shelter to a Christian priest who was fleeing from persecution and was converted by him. When officers came to Alban’s house, he put on the priest’s clothing and gave himself up. He was tortured and martyred in place of the priest. The Venerable Bede said of Alban’s trial: ‘When Alban was brought in, the judge happened to be standing before an altar, offering sacrifice to devils… “What is your family and race?” demanded the judge. “How does my family concern you?” replied Alban; “If you wish to know the truth about my religion, know that I am a Christian and am ready to do a Christian’s duty.” “I demand to know your name,” insisted the judge. “Tell me at once.” “My parents named me Alban,” he answered, “and I worship and adore the living and true God, who created all things.”’ (3)
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What about us in this day and age? When words carry so much weight, when we see on a daily basis the underbelly of the history of this country, when we receive the message from our culture to be afraid of the Other, when we see citizens not take the pandemic seriously (something of which we should be afraid), how do we speak from the heart without fear and speak the truth? How do we speak out from our faith, based in Jesus’ teachings that everyone is precious in God’s sight and we should love our neighbour as ourselves? How do we know when to speak out and when to shut up and listen?
Both Oregon and Vermont have their ugly histories of racism, histories which we are finally discussing, histories that have been there all along, but we chose not to acknowledge or teach. The KKK had a strong presence in Vermont back in the 1920s. The town of Northfield, 12 miles south of Montpelier, site of Norwich University, the oldest private military university in the nation, used to host KKK rallies.
Vermont is one of the least diverse states in the nation. As of July last year, whites made up 94.1% of the population; Black or African American alone, 1.4%; Hispanic or Latino, 2.00%; First Nations, 0.4%; and foreign-born persons, 4.6%. My state is not at all diverse. There still is racial profiling in Vermont. The Vermont House of Representatives Friday passed a bill to commemorate Juneteenth (Vermont recognised the day in 2008), in which it condemns a recent act of racism against a Black family in Vermont, as well as George Floyd’s death. We are trying here, but change is happening too slowly.
One of the lessons I am learning during this time of protests is the need to educate myself and not expect my sisters and brothers of colour to do that work for me. A Facebook friend constantly calls us whites to task and minces no words. Even last night, this person did. I squirm, but I need to hear their words of pain, anger and frustration. Along with many other Caucasian people, I am reading Robin Diangelo’s White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism. I’m also reading the award-winning book, The Hate U Give, by Angie Thomas. Its story-line could be that of George Floyd or any of the other young black men killed by police. Thomas says, ‘Names have power.’ Say their names. I must educate myself and expand my horizons even as I speak out. That work is internal and life-long.
At the same time, there is knowing when to listen. Bishop Mariann Budde, of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, recently provided a humbling example of realising that she needed to sit down and listen to the Black Lives Matter protestors and not try to take over their protest by objecting to the clearing out of the space in front of Saint John’s Episcopal Church, Lafayette Square.
For those of us who have benefited for four centuries by the colour of our skin, it is time for us to change the systemic racism that infects our daily lives. It doesn’t matter in which state you live, the majority of fatalities to COVID-19 are people of colour. So many of them are ‘essential’ workers, who have no choice but to take public transport and go to work every day. I am so blessed to be able to shelter in place in rural Vermont. So many of them don’t have that luxury. We need to raise these questions and then work to change the system.
Most of all, I think of our language. It is so easy to slip from labelling someone, which then objectifies them and makes it easier to call them the Other. This objectification runs counter to Jesus’ telling his followers that God knows how many hairs are on our heads and that each of us is precious in God’s sight. Each one of us is God’s beloved; each one of us has God-given dignity that no one should take away. Instead of labels, we should use, as James McBride says, ‘the language of healing.’ For those of us who have undeserved power through white privilege, we should use this language of healing when we speak.
Every congregation has its own theology. Church of Our Saviour, Killington, Vermont, from where I have just retired, has in its DNA a ministry of hospitality and welcome to the stranger. Brian Wren’s words to Hymn 603, one of COS’s favourites, express well a language of healing and an example of how we might speak in this fragile time. May they guide us as we think and, then, speak.
When Christ was lifted from the earth,
his arms stretched out far above
through every culture, every birth,
to draw an answering love.
Still east and west his love extends
and always, near or far,
he calls and claims us as his friends
and loves us as we are.
Where generation, class, or race
divide us to our shame,
he sees not labels but a face,
a person, and a name.
Thus freely loved, though fully known,
may I in Christ be free
to welcome and accept his own
as Christ accepted me.
Indeed, take our lips and speak through them; take our minds and think through them; take our hearts and set them on fire to change this world to be a place where all are equal, all are safe and all are free.
END NOTES
1 Plymouth, Vermont is at 43°31′54″N 72°43′18″W; Saint Alban’s, Vermont is at 44°48′35″N 73°5′14″W and Albany, Oregon is at 44°37′49″N 123°5′46″W.
2 Darrell L. Bock, Luke 9:51-24:53 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1996), 1129-46.
3 Holy Women, Holy Men: Celebrating the Saints (New York, NY: Church Publishing, 2010), 434.
A sermon preached ‘at’ Saint Alban’s Episcopal Church,
Albany, Oregon
Psalms 92 & 93 • Job 5:8-21 • Acts 4:5-13 • Luke 12:1-12
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Take my lips and speak through them;
take our minds and think through them;
take our hearts and set them on fire.
Greetings from Plymouth, Vermont, birthplace of the 30th President of the United States, Calvin Coolidge. Silent Cal, incredibly laconic, is said to have responded to someone who bet him he could not say something in just two words, ‘You lose.’ Knowing that I speak to you from the other side of the country, I wanted to say that at least we are roughly at the same latitude, just one degree off. On the other hand, Saint Albans, Vermont, is practically the same latitude as Albany OR.(1) By the way, the northernmost engagement of the Civil War, known as the Saint Albans Raid, occurred there on October 19, 1864.
And here we are, joined by Zoom.
+
The gospel reading for this morning, appointed for the Feast of Saint Alban, whose feast day is tomorrow, teaches us about speaking out and speaking the truth. I am going to focus on the gospel because it not only applies to the story of Saint Alban, but it also speaks to our current situation of protests.
Jesus’ words from the gospel reading seem almost the counterpoint to the theme of arguing and listening, as seen in the Book of Job (who engages in a long debate with his so-called friends about suffering and only hears from God, who really does not answer his questions, when Job finally shuts up). Jesus has just denounced the scribes and Pharisees, and has returned to teaching his followers. He exhorts them to trust and fear God, who has authority over the soul, and confess Jesus before people, so that Jesus will confess them before the angels. If one trusts God, the Spirit will aid in speaking before authorities.
Jesus first tells them, ‘Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.’ He knows, and we know, ultimately the secrets of people’s hearts will come to light. God knows what one does, good or bad, done with or without hypocrisy. So, too, will speech be evaluated. What is said in private will become public; what is whispered will be shouted from the rooftops. So, disciples, speak from the heart with pure motives. These days, there is a lot of uncensored speaking, not from the heart, but from a place of hatred and fear. We have to do better than that.
Jesus then says, ‘Do not fear (the Greek is phobethete, as in phobia) those who kill the body, and after that, can do nothing more. But I will warn you whom to fear: fear him who, after he has killed, has authority to cast into hell.’ God can cast them down to Gehenna (here is the only place where Luke uses this word) should God choose to do so.
Oddly, for the third time a bit later, when speaking of the sparrow (the cheapest purchase in the market) Jesus tells the disciples not to fear God because God will care for them in the life to come. Perhaps this promise mitigates the words he has said about God’s judgement just prior.
Since the teaching here probably is a string of sayings, the seeming contradictions in the use of the verb, to ‘fear,’ which appears three times in short order, can be perhaps better understood.
Finally, Jesus calls the disciples to confess Jesus and trust that the Holy Spirit will help them in what they are to say. (2) These words reflect the prophets, who often complained about not wanting to speak because they did not feel up to the task. Think of Moses, Elijah, Isaiah and Jeremiah. God usually answered that God would give them the necessary words when needed.
+
Saint Alban, whom we commemorate today and after whom your congregation is named, exemplifies the disciple who did not fear death and who found the right words to confess Jesus before the authorities. As a soldier, he gave shelter to a Christian priest who was fleeing from persecution and was converted by him. When officers came to Alban’s house, he put on the priest’s clothing and gave himself up. He was tortured and martyred in place of the priest. The Venerable Bede said of Alban’s trial: ‘When Alban was brought in, the judge happened to be standing before an altar, offering sacrifice to devils… “What is your family and race?” demanded the judge. “How does my family concern you?” replied Alban; “If you wish to know the truth about my religion, know that I am a Christian and am ready to do a Christian’s duty.” “I demand to know your name,” insisted the judge. “Tell me at once.” “My parents named me Alban,” he answered, “and I worship and adore the living and true God, who created all things.”’ (3)
+
What about us in this day and age? When words carry so much weight, when we see on a daily basis the underbelly of the history of this country, when we receive the message from our culture to be afraid of the Other, when we see citizens not take the pandemic seriously (something of which we should be afraid), how do we speak from the heart without fear and speak the truth? How do we speak out from our faith, based in Jesus’ teachings that everyone is precious in God’s sight and we should love our neighbour as ourselves? How do we know when to speak out and when to shut up and listen?
Both Oregon and Vermont have their ugly histories of racism, histories which we are finally discussing, histories that have been there all along, but we chose not to acknowledge or teach. The KKK had a strong presence in Vermont back in the 1920s. The town of Northfield, 12 miles south of Montpelier, site of Norwich University, the oldest private military university in the nation, used to host KKK rallies.
Vermont is one of the least diverse states in the nation. As of July last year, whites made up 94.1% of the population; Black or African American alone, 1.4%; Hispanic or Latino, 2.00%; First Nations, 0.4%; and foreign-born persons, 4.6%. My state is not at all diverse. There still is racial profiling in Vermont. The Vermont House of Representatives Friday passed a bill to commemorate Juneteenth (Vermont recognised the day in 2008), in which it condemns a recent act of racism against a Black family in Vermont, as well as George Floyd’s death. We are trying here, but change is happening too slowly.
One of the lessons I am learning during this time of protests is the need to educate myself and not expect my sisters and brothers of colour to do that work for me. A Facebook friend constantly calls us whites to task and minces no words. Even last night, this person did. I squirm, but I need to hear their words of pain, anger and frustration. Along with many other Caucasian people, I am reading Robin Diangelo’s White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism. I’m also reading the award-winning book, The Hate U Give, by Angie Thomas. Its story-line could be that of George Floyd or any of the other young black men killed by police. Thomas says, ‘Names have power.’ Say their names. I must educate myself and expand my horizons even as I speak out. That work is internal and life-long.
At the same time, there is knowing when to listen. Bishop Mariann Budde, of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, recently provided a humbling example of realising that she needed to sit down and listen to the Black Lives Matter protestors and not try to take over their protest by objecting to the clearing out of the space in front of Saint John’s Episcopal Church, Lafayette Square.
For those of us who have benefited for four centuries by the colour of our skin, it is time for us to change the systemic racism that infects our daily lives. It doesn’t matter in which state you live, the majority of fatalities to COVID-19 are people of colour. So many of them are ‘essential’ workers, who have no choice but to take public transport and go to work every day. I am so blessed to be able to shelter in place in rural Vermont. So many of them don’t have that luxury. We need to raise these questions and then work to change the system.
Most of all, I think of our language. It is so easy to slip from labelling someone, which then objectifies them and makes it easier to call them the Other. This objectification runs counter to Jesus’ telling his followers that God knows how many hairs are on our heads and that each of us is precious in God’s sight. Each one of us is God’s beloved; each one of us has God-given dignity that no one should take away. Instead of labels, we should use, as James McBride says, ‘the language of healing.’ For those of us who have undeserved power through white privilege, we should use this language of healing when we speak.
Every congregation has its own theology. Church of Our Saviour, Killington, Vermont, from where I have just retired, has in its DNA a ministry of hospitality and welcome to the stranger. Brian Wren’s words to Hymn 603, one of COS’s favourites, express well a language of healing and an example of how we might speak in this fragile time. May they guide us as we think and, then, speak.
When Christ was lifted from the earth,
his arms stretched out far above
through every culture, every birth,
to draw an answering love.
Still east and west his love extends
and always, near or far,
he calls and claims us as his friends
and loves us as we are.
Where generation, class, or race
divide us to our shame,
he sees not labels but a face,
a person, and a name.
Thus freely loved, though fully known,
may I in Christ be free
to welcome and accept his own
as Christ accepted me.
Indeed, take our lips and speak through them; take our minds and think through them; take our hearts and set them on fire to change this world to be a place where all are equal, all are safe and all are free.
END NOTES
1 Plymouth, Vermont is at 43°31′54″N 72°43′18″W; Saint Alban’s, Vermont is at 44°48′35″N 73°5′14″W and Albany, Oregon is at 44°37′49″N 123°5′46″W.
2 Darrell L. Bock, Luke 9:51-24:53 (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books, 1996), 1129-46.
3 Holy Women, Holy Men: Celebrating the Saints (New York, NY: Church Publishing, 2010), 434.
Sunday, May 31, 2020
Feast of Pentecost 31 May 2020
Fire… One of the four elements that unites us all.
Breath… all sentient creatures breathe. Even Hippocrates, of the 4th century BCE, said, ‘There is one common flow, one common breathing; all things are in sympathy.’
These two elements are fundamental to the story of Pentecost, as they are fundamental to where we find ourselves this morning in a nation wracked by a pandemic and protests.
In archetypes, fire is at the beginning of all transformation, purification, and manifestation. Nearly every spiritual lineage honours the flame. Fire, the dancing flames associated with Pentecost. Fire, cleansing. Fire… Moses and the burning bush. Fire… the symbol of the feast which we celebrate today.
Breath… the breath of God at the moment of creation. Breath… God breathes life into the bones of Israel, as recounted by Ezekiel. Breath… Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit onto the disciples when he returns to the Upper Room after his crucifixion and resurrection. Breath… we cannot exist without it. Eternity enters into that space between one’s last breath and death. The molecules of the universe jump.
Fire and breath are so much on our minds now.
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The positive flames of Pentecost stand in stark contrast to the flames of burning stores and cars and police stations in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, and across the nation. As Friday’s news conference with the mayors of both cities and governor of Minnesota revealed, those responsible for the fires, the looting, are not local people but anarchists from away. Almost all the people arrested on Friday night were not residents of either city or the state. And things escalated last night.
Forty years ago, Kate Bush released the mesmirising, but chilling, song ‘Breathing’ as the world careened to an escalation of nuclear weaponry. The in-out, in-out rhythm of the refrain mimics our breath, while the lyrics describe the moment of explosion as seen from the point-of-view of a fetus. As I learned of George Floyd’s murder, this song came to mind:
Out in, out in, out in, out in
Out in, out in, out in, out
(Out, out, out)
Ooh please!
(What are we going to do without)
Let me breathe!
(What are we going to do without)
Ooh, breathe in
(We are all going to die without)
Leave me something to breathe!
(What are we going to do without)
Oh, leave me something to breathe!
(We are all going to die without)
Oh, God, please leave us something to breathe!
(What are we going to do without)
Oh, life is 1
The mere fact that we take for granted the zillions of breaths we take over our lifetimes means that we cannot unhear or erase Eric Garner’s or George Floyd’s last words, ‘I can’t breathe,’ as their lives were snuffed out by police officers, murdering them for petty accusations (selling cigarettes on a sidewalk or perhaps passing a counterfeit $20 bill). They and so many other black people have died, have been murdered by excessive force and sought out because they were black.
A prayer that I posted on my computer monitor years ago and used to see all day long every day expresses the thanksgiving of daily breath:
The breath of my life will bless,
the cells of my being sing,
in gratitude, reawakening.
Breath. How do we move from these horrific images to a way forward?
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The reading from Acts, probably the one we know the most well, depicts the Holy Spirit as a violent wind that fills the house where the disciples are sitting. The outward visible sign of the Holy Spirit’s arrival is the appearance of flames, divided tongues. The outward aural sign of the Holy Spirit’s arrival is the capacity given to each disciple to speak the native language of all the devout Jews who were present in Jerusalem. Indeed, their surprise is understandable: Aren’t they all Galileans? How can it be that they speak my language? Where do we need to find new language to cross our barriers?
The reading from the Gospel of John depicts a much calmer, though just as miraculous, scene, one that we always hear the Second Sunday of Easter—then its focus is on Thomas and his doubts; now the gospel focuses on how Jesus bestows the Holy Spirit on the disciples. Jesus arrives the evening of the resurrection. He finds his disciples cowering, locked up in a room, afraid of the world outside their doors. Their world has been turned upside-down, much in the same way that the Book of Acts describes on the day of Pentecost. He breathes on them and says, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’
The Greek verb, to breathe, is the same form that is used in the Greek translation of the creation story in the book of Genesis when God breathes life into the human being. Jesus’ act of ‘blowing in’ spirit is directly evocative of God’s first breath of infusion: ‘And God… breathed in his face the breath of life, and the person became a living soul’ (Gen 2.7). Jesus’ act is linked with this initial creation of humanity. The fearful community, hiding in the dust of its shame, is infused with ‘holy spirit’ from the mouth of Jesus.
It is important to note that the text does not suggest that Jesus is giving them an entity, ‘the holy spirit,’ but rather a share in his relationship with God that flows and blows like the wind. Certainly the later Christian understanding of what Jesus has given the disciples here is identical with that given to the first human, the presence of God that allows life to come into being. Each of us, and each and every other part of the body as well, owes our existence, breath by breath as we inhale, to God. We ‘live and move and have our being’ in God (Acts 17.28). Indeed we do. That is, perhaps the most basic confession that can be made: I owe my existence at its most fundamental level—the gift of my next breath—to God. God is my creator and my recreator, the One who gives and renews my life, moment by moment, at its most basic, physical level. And so does everything else in creation also live, moment by moment, by the breath of God… 2
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Meister Eckhart wrote that ‘Fire transforms all things it touches into its own nature…. In the same way we are transformed into God so that we may know God as God is.’
For those of us who benefit from white privilege, we need to get our act together, do the work of educating ourselves and not expect that our brothers and sisters of colour do that work for us. Just as one would do a self-examination before a confession, we need to look deeply into our lives to see how much we and societal structures have benefited, for the simple reason that we are white.
We need to examine and then work against the systemic racism that infects our nation’s current-day life and permeates its 400-year history.
We need to make the words of the Pledge of Allegiance, ‘with liberty and justice for all,’ a reality, not just a dream, part of our mythology.
Check out this link to ’75 Things White People Can Do For Racial Justice. 3 Choose one thing for starters.
If anyone says that these suggestions are ‘too political,’ remember the baptismal vow that, under normal circumstances, we would be saying shortly upon the conclusion of this sermon, ‘Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?’
Donna Hicks maintains that dignity is a God-given gift, and not something for which people need to work. We need, whites, however, to work to assure that everyone’s dignity is maintained.
On this Feast of Pentecost, read the Baptismal Covenant (304-305). Make your vows and pray to God that these words be more than words, and that God give you the Spirit of Jesus. Amen.
END NOTES
1https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzlofSthVwc
2 Sallie McFague, The Body of God: An Ecological Theology (Minneopolis: Fortress Press, 1993) 141-49.
3 https://medium.com/equality-includes-you/what-white-people-can-do-for-racial-justice-f2d18b0e0234
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