Maundy Thursday 2021

 Maundy Thursday • 1 April 2021

Almighty Father, whose dear Son, on the night before he suffered, instituted the Sacrament of his Body and Blood: Mercifully grant that we may receive it thankfully in remembrance of Jesus Christ our Lord, who in these holy mysteries gives us a pledge of eternal life; and who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Exodus 12.1-14a; Psalm 78.14-20, 23-25; 1 Corinthians 11.23-32; John 13.1-15; Luke 22.14-20

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Maundy Thursday solidifies the turning-point that we noted yesterday. There is no looking back, only going forward deeper and deeper into the journey to the cross and Easter Resurrection. We move from the betrayal of Jesus by Judas into the further confusion of the disciples, who are frantically trying to understand what is happening to them.

he readings and collect for this liturgy complicate matters because they focus on both foundational actions that become part of the church’s story: foot-washing with the new commandment to love one another (John) and the institution of the Lord’s Supper (1 Corinthians and Luke). The collect, when added to the reading from 1 Corinthians, would make the listener think the major focus of Maundy Thursday is the sacrament of Holy Eucharist. But then there is the gospel from John, that relates how Jesus washes the disciples’ feet, gives them the example of the teacher humbling himself before his disciples, prior to Judas’ betrayal, and teaches them the Great Commandment to love. The person preaching and the person preparing the liturgy always have to decide which reading to choose—the norm is the reading from John with the footwashing.

No wonder the Maundy Thursday liturgy itself has gotten so complicated over time. Which narrative do we emphasise? How do we enter into the three most holy days of the year, the Triduum, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday? How do we convey that once we start the liturgy on Maundy Thursday, it does not end until Easter? There are no blessings, the liturgies flow one to the next until, finally, we gather after sunset Saturday night or before dawn Easter morning for the Great Vigil and the first Eucharist of Easter.

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For most of us, today is the second year in a row where we are unable physically to gather and do all the rituals associated with this night. Accordingly, we have had to do a lot of rethinking about the physicality of the actions commemorated this evening, particularly the Holy Eucharist.

Last year, we had barely entered the pandemic with all its restrictions. In my neck of the woods, the bishop had already ordered the buildings closed, even to the clergy, so we did not have access to the usual symbols and spaces associated with Holy Week. Where I was serving, we did not even try for Communion on Easter; we just read Morning Prayer, the way it used to be back in the 1960s, before Communion became the norm for Sundays.
This year, we find ourselves still in a time of pandemic, Coronatide 54 and, in Vermont at least, is still worshipping remotely. All those actions of this night—foot washing, celebrating Holy Eucharist for the last time until Easter (only three days off but an eternity spiritually), reserving blessed bread and wine, Christ’s Body and Blood, that are lovingly placed in a separate space for an overnight vigil, in preparation for Good Friday; reading Psalm 22 while the congregation removes everything from the altar area, strips the altar and washes the altar with crosses of wine on the corners and in the middle and then cleans it with water—all these familiar actions once again won’t happen and all we are left with are words.

People are champing at the bit to get back into the buildings, back to having weekly communion, but it still is not safe to do so. Others have tied themselves up in theological knots over the expectation that on Good Friday, whatever bread and wine still remain, must be consumed so that there is no Jesus anywhere until the first Eucharist of Easter. Yet yesterday I picked up two tiny little plastic containers that hold wine and a minute piece of bread, which were blessed on Palm Sunday. I have placed them in a secure place and they shall wait for us to consume on Easter along with a remote congregation. There will be Jesus in my house tomorrow and Saturday morning and it will be OK. We adapt as we go along.

Weekly communion, which used to be the breath of my life, my being, now seems like a distant memory. Since last March, I have had communion just once, on Christmas Eve, in the same fashion. The next time I will be able to receive will be on Pentecost, off in May. Even though I could celebrate at home, I do not, as part of my vow to obey my bishop and remain in solidarity with my sister and brother priests who, likewise, have abstained from celebrating at home or privately. We fast. We wait. And we sometimes whine.

Nor can we wash each other’s feet this year. That, too, remains an impossibility, given the restrictions of the pandemic.

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So, again, we are back to the memories and the words. Like the people of Israel in exile, we remain in exile in this Holy Week. Maybe next year, we can return to some of these familiar actions, though I imagine after two years of virtual Holy Week, we may reimagine much of what we do. Some of our rituals may become sweet memories, no longer necessary for our worship.

On this Maundy Thursday, while still in exile, while still unable to celebrate the Lord’s Supper and wash people’s feet, while not yet able to imagine a future with physical worship, my heart turns to Psalm 126:

When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion,
then were we like those who dream.
Then was our mouth filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy.

Then they said among the nations,
‘The LORD has done great things for them.’
The LORD has done great things for us,
and we are glad indeed.

Restore our fortunes, O LORD,
like the water courses of the Negev.
Those who sowed with tears
will reap with songs of joy.

Those who go out weeping, carrying the seed,

will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves.

Whether we gather together physically or remotely, God is with us. And where God is, there is love. And where love is, there is God. That fundamentally is the message of tonight. Ubi caritas, Deus ibi est. May you carry this hope in your heart through the next three days.

Wednesday in Holy Week 2021

Wednesday in Holy Week   
31 March 2021

Lord God, whose blessed Son our Savior gave his body to be whipped and his face to be spit upon: Give us grace to accept joyfully the sufferings of the present time, confident of the glory that shall be revealed; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 69.7-15, 22-23; Hebrews 9.11-15, 24-28; Matthew 26.1-5, 14-25

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Wednesday in Holy Week always marks the point of no return in the narrative for me. The gospel reading on this night, whether from Matthew or John (as appointed), focuses on the betrayal of Jesus by Judas. 

Judas’s betrayal and the chain of events it will unleash reminds me of sitting at the bedside of someone who is dying. The person can linger sometimes for quite a while and then, suddenly or gradually, it becomes clear that the person has passed a point from which it is impossible to return to the land of the living, they can only move forward into eternity. I often think of this gospel reading in the same terms: Jesus can no longer look back; he can only look forward to what awaits him, his certain death. This knowledge, despite hearing it year-in and year-out, still kicks me in the stomach and heart.

This year, the words of the chief priests and elders of the people, who have conspired to arrest Jesus by stealth and kill him, and their deciding not to do so during the festival, lest there be a riot among the people, take me back to the incomprehensible hours of 6 January, with the attack on the US Capitol, when my mind just could not understand what my eyes and ears were witnessing. There, too, there were people who wanted to take someone, the vice president, and kill him.

And doesn’t it seem tragic that even back then, money would lie at the centre of this story? For thirty pieces of silver, Judas is bought to betray his teacher. 

Again, my mind does not grasp what it hears: Judas will betray his teacher during the Passover meal, an intimate gathering of Jesus and his disciples and his teacher already knows who will do so and what will happen:
The Jesus in the gospel of Matthew may not have the piercing clarity that Jesus in John’s gospel possesses, but he still knows ahead of time what is to happen to him. That he directs the disciples to find a certain man in the city of Jerusalem, to tell him that Jesus’ time is near, is stunning. That Jesus then knows who will betray him, though he does not identify Judas; rather, his conversation with Judas allows for Judas to fall into a verbal trap and identify himself, makes the heart ache. Jesus’s fate is a death foretold and makes one think of words that presage his death from other gospels—e.g., the gospel of Luke recounts how Simeon tells Mary at the time of the presentation of Jesus that he is ‘destined for the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed—and a sword will pierce your own soul, too.’

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What to do with the disparate emotions of grief, disbelief, horror, fear and despair that this reading evokes? At the most simple level, one cannot avoid them. It does little good to walk around them and pretend they are not there. One has to walk through them, through the valley of the shadow of death to come out the other side. This journey is precisely what Holy Week invites us to do, to go to the depths in order to arrive at the Easter promise of resurrection.

Perhaps grief is the strongest of the above emotions that people feel these days. We have spent a year out of time, in pandemic time, where the world as we knew it, has been turned upside-down. Last year, in my thinking, the country’s leadership betrayed our trust by not taking the pandemic seriously and by sending out a message that it would ‘miraculously go away.’ Instead, the death toll kept mounting and mounting. Even as we seem to be getting a handle on the pandemic with 1/3 of the country now vaccinated at least once, the pandemic still has the upper hand as it continues to mutate into more infectious strains. We are so close to the finish line and we seem on the verge of blowing it. We have some much to grieve.

In a strange way, we are the disciples huddled in that room at a Passover supper, not certain of what will happen next, or who will turn our lives further upside-down. We do not know in a crowd who has been vaccinated and who has not; who will spread the virus that will perhaps land one of us in hospital. We don’t know what systemic betrayals might still be out there. Like the confused disciples at that last supper, asking, ‘Surely not I, Lord?,’ we struggle to understand with what we know.

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Perhaps this year is not the year to delve deeply into our participation in betrayal and systemic evil. The pandemic is too present and sapping our energy.

Instead, on this Holy Wednesday, may the gospel text lead you to contemplate where your deep griefs lie, and how you can embrace them, rather than avoid them. If there is a loss close to your heart, acknowledge it and then give yourself permission to say: ‘It’s OK that you’re not OK’ (also the title of a very helpful book by Megan Devine). Perhaps you need to step back from the daily news and the pandemic (though get a vaccination because that is like resurrection emotionally). If making a confession prior to Easter will help clear up the soul, find a person who can hear it with compassion.

It may have been night when Judas left the upper room but, as we know well, the depths of the night, while awesome, can also be the hardest, yet the sun will always rise. So wait for the sun to rise because there, too, the Son will rise.

Tuesday in Holy Week

 Tuesday in Holy Week
30 March 2021

O God, by the passion of your blessed Son you made an instrument of shameful death to be for us the means of life: Grant us so to glory in the cross of Christ, that we may gladly suffer shame and loss for the sake of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Isaiah 49.1-7; Psalm 71.1-14; 1 Corinthians 1.18-31; Mark 11.15-19

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Perhaps it is where we are in week 54 of Coronatide, but today’s readings from Isaiah and the gospel today speak to me of weariness. 

The prophet sighs to God:

But I said, ‘I have labored in vain,
I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity;
yet surely my cause is with the Lord,
and my reward with my God.’

And Jesus’ wrath at the temple as he overturns the tables of the money-changers has to have come from a place of utter frustration and weariness that, after all the time he had been teaching, these injustices were still happening. 

We know too well how frustrated the prophets and sometimes Jesus could get. 

Isaiah speaks to his people during their exile in Babylon or Egypt or remaining as the poorest of the poor in their own land. This long period of alienation, brought on by a sense of betrayal of their God, who had established a covenant with David that was supposed to go on for ever, was bitter. Yet they could work and travel, as long as they were obedient to Babylon, so one might argue that it was not a period of extreme suffering. Nonetheless, the people did seek for a meaning of their faith. 

Toward the end of the exile, Isaiah appears with words of compassion: Comfort, comfort, you my people. The prophet, the Servant will restore the remnant of the people, those who have survived and those who have been faithful to Israel.

Yet, this particular moment, the prophet expresses an understood weariness.

Likewise with Jesus.

Prior to his riding into Jerusalem on a colt (as per the gospel of Mark) and overturning the tables in the temple, Jesus has cursed a fig tree that it bear no fruit. To imagine Jesus condemning a living thing to suffer seems bizarre and against what we would think of Jesus’ teachings. Likewise, his furor at the money changers  in the temple seems out of character. Some suggest that he is overturning the old in order to create space for the new. Certainly he was reacting to the injustice of the money system that prevented people from worshipping if they did not have money to change in order to purchase birds and animals for sacrifice. 

In this discussion, I am more interested in Jesus’ state of mind as portrayed in the gospel than the why—that is for another meditation. Jesus seems exceedingly cranky and weary of it all.

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And aren’t we also weary as a world right now? 

The soul is weary.

Weary of rising numbers of cases of COVID-19.
Weary of a possible fourth surge.
Weary of the uncertainty that still faces us.
Weary of having to wear a mask.
Weary of having to stay hunkered down.
Weary of…
The soul is weary.

On a personal front I am 

Weary (and angry to the point of wanting to overturn tables of injustice the way Jesus did at the temple) of the forthcoming legislative bills that will restrict the freedom of people to vote, and bills that want to prevent trans people from being fully themselves, and all the assaults on the common good. 

Like the people of Israel grousing and complaining about their time in the desert, we are weary of so much.

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In moments of despair, I always turn to the psalms because I know they express the breadth of emotions. The psalmist laments, despairs, but usually manages to work themself to a place of serene hope in God. Even Psalm 22, which in the old lectionary we read on Palm Sunday and still do at the end of the Maundy Thursday liturgy during the stripping of the altar and church and, again on Good Friday, ends on a hopeful note.

Psalm 71 today contains that same impulse: 

1 In you, O Lord, have I taken refuge; *
let me never be ashamed.
2 In your righteousness, deliver me and set me free; *
incline your ear to me and save me.
3 Be my strong rock, a castle to keep me safe; *
you are my crag and my stronghold.

These three verses echo Psalm 31, which is appointed in Compline and is a psalm of confidence. Whether you pray these three verses of the first three verses of Psalm 31, I find they always provide a gentle way to close out the day.

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On this Tuesday in Holy Week, perhaps your heart calls you to write a psalm of lament. 

Perhaps it calls you to read Psalm 71 or 31.

Perhaps it calls you to pray Compline—at 8.00 PM tonight, one can join the Green Mountain Abbey for Compline. (1)

Perhaps it calls you to listen to Simon and Garfunkels’ song, now 50 years old, ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water,’ that holds its roots in gospel song. (2)

Or perhaps your heart calls you to listen to the Taizé Chant, Nada te turbe. (3)

As the late Bishop Barbara Clementine Harris often said, ‘We are Easter people living in a Good Friday world.’ We are called to be people of hope, not optimism, but a radical, life-giving hope.

Wherever your heart leads you tonight, confide in God’s ever-present love and the knowledge that all shall be well.


NOTES
1 https://diovermont.org/2021/03/03/online-prayer-with-bishop-shannon/
2 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrcwRt6J32o
3 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=go1-BoDD7CI

 Monday in Holy Week
 • 29 March 2021

Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first he suffered pain, and entered not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Isaiah 41.1-9; Psalm 36.5-10; Hebrews 11.39-12.3;  Mark 14.3-9

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Last night, in a conversation with a friend, I commented that I would probably write a daily meditation during Holy Week because I could not imagine going through the week without the readings.  I said that Holy Week is  my annual get-together with old friends, with whom I have conversed for decades. To hear these texts is to refind these dear friends for our annual chat. To walk Holy Week day-by-day is to descend deeper and deeper into the mystery before arriving at Easter. I said that I once visited a coal mine in VA, where we went a mile into a mountain, so I have the image of going deeper and deeper into the earth as an analogy to walking the narrative of Holy Week. Without this annual descent into the mystery of the Passion, I cannot fully enter into the joys of the Resurrection.

My mind can picture 26 years of in-person Eucharists (last year was virtual and only the Triduum), with the stillness of the church building as I would set up for a simple, said half-hour service. The three buildings where I served were each over a century old and so they would creak with the changing inside temperature. The first church, made of out of wood, has a wonderful southern-facing stained glass window of the Road to Emmaus story with an inset pelican and her babies which, in the evening sun, turns the area by the side altar completely golden orange. Another church, facing due east/west, has three lancet windows at both ends and, again, in the evening sun, the light from the stained glass windows casts long rays of light on the aisle floor. The tranquility of these spaces contrasts with the brutal nature of the narrative of Holy Week that we follow year-in, year-out. So, I carry those spaces with me this year as I walk Holy Week alone from my upstairs study.

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The unknown/unnamed woman, who pours ointment of nard (which I have always imagined to smell like gardenias—overwhelmingly sweet) on Jesus’ head, in Jesus’ words, ‘has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’

How strange to hear these same words, ‘in remembrance of,’ not followed by the familiar, ‘me,’ as in Jesus’ command to break the bread and share the cup ‘in remembrance of me.’ Instead, Jesus chides the disciples’s lack of generosity of spirit by telling them that the action she has done for him is far more significant because, in essence, it is an action that only can be done once. The disciples will continue to have ample opportunity to ‘show kindness to the poor,’ but they will not always have Jesus with them. Unlike the disciples, who would want to avoid dealing with Jesus’ impending death, this presumably wealthy woman squarely faces Jesus’ death. Ched Myers in Binding The Strong Man goes as far as to say that she better understands the gospel message than do the disciples.1 Jesus’ rebuke of the disciples reflects, once again his frustration with them who, despite having listened to and travelled with him, still do not understand what Jesus has been teaching and proclaiming. In one small gesture, this woman shows clearly that she understands his message and him.

Back in my days of teaching, I can remember how, despite my best efforts to explain some arcane grammatical concept, a certain percentage of the class would not grasp what I was explaining, no matter how many different ways I tried. I can remember the mutual frustration they and I experienced. I can only imagine then Jesus’ frustration and perhaps underlying anxiety and a worry whether the disciples really were going to be able to carry on without him, as time drew nearer and nearer to his death . 

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What would Jesus (and the prophet Isaiah for that matter) say to us today as he looks at our world? 

I write this meditation on the first day of the trial against the police officer who knelt on George Floyd’s neck for almost 9 minutes. Other headlines are just as grim: There is a vaccination gap between Latina communities and other groups. State legislators want to pass bills that restrict trans girls from competing in girls sports at the same time they are trying to restrict voting rights in a way that would more affect communities of colour and Black communities than white ones. We continue to witness the mass killings by firearms of ordinary citizens going about their daily lives. And, finally, we still are stuck in this pandemic that has altered our lives in ways that we still do not understand.

What would Jesus say to us? Perhaps he would ask: When was the last time we did something that recognised the dignity of the person in front of us? The woman who anointed Jesus recognised his God-given dignity. The disciples, for all their wanting to support the poor, did not recognise the dignity of the woman.

All the above examples of current life demonstrate an individual or societal failure to respect the dignity of someone else. When we fail to respect someone else’s dignity or even our own, we fail to find God, who dwells in all of us. We may not have the occasion to anoint the feet of someone who is dying, but we have daily opportunities to find God in those whom we meet. 

On this Monday of Holy Week, may we look into our hearts to examine where and when we have not respected the dignity of our neighbour and ourselves and then may we explore how we might find that dignity going forward.

END NOTE
1 Ched Myers, Binding The Strong Man (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1988), 359.

Proper 8A • 28 June 2020

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

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.

Feast of Pentecost 31 May 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