sermon on Habakkuk 1-2



Let me tell you about the prophet Habakkuk.
First, awesome name. Tried and failed to name my youngest that.
Second, his book is very violent
—apparently using up 10% of all the uses
of the actual word “violence” in the Bible.
There are other books arguably more violent,
but Habakkuk’s book is short
and has little comfort to balance it.
His basic point is that invading armies are a punishment from God,
but for what?
He doesn’t say clearly.
And in the end, the good news
is that God will destroy those invading armies.
It’s not bad news, to be sure,
but how many of us find a bloody battle to be good news?
It’s even less clear on what it is God or even Habakkuk
wants us to do with it all.
It’s more the Cliff’s Notes of biblical prophecy
—y’all are terrible sinners for keeping your wealth to yourselves
so imma gonna smitcha.
Let’s talk then about biblical prophecy.
Lots of people both inside and outside the church
think prophets are like Nostradamus, seeing the future,
prognosticating events through the veil of time.
Lots of folks then think they can correctly interpret various prophets
or apocalyptic scripture to tell them
when the Antichrist is coming or the Rapture or whathaveyou.
But that’s not the point of prophecy.
The point of biblical prophecy is this: WAKE UP.

When Hosea writes that God commanded him to take a prostitute as his wife
and to name his kids Punishment,
No Pity,
and You Are Not My People,
(I didn’t try to name my youngest any of those)
whether or not he actually did it is beside the point.
Hosea is saying to the people of Israel WAKE UP,
you’re asleep, you’re comfortable in your nice houses
and you’re missing it.
When Ezekiel cuts off his hair and burns some and cuts some up with a sword
and releases some to the wind and binds some in the hem of his robe,
he’s not just being weird.
He’s saying WAKE UP, people, you’ve fallen asleep.
People are dying.
You are obsessing about reality TV or what color the drapes are
or which school to send your kids to
and you don’t even know you’re asleep.
They say that no one translates Ezekiel accurately
because he had such a foul mouth.
Consider what it would be like if I stood up here
and released a flood of swear words about you,
your mom, and everything you hold dear.
And don’t even get me started on Ezekiel’s poems
about Israel as God’s lover—puts Miley Cyrus to shame. A lot.
The prophets use extreme, violent, sexual, bizarre language
to talk about God, about what God wants from us,
about what it’s like for God to draw near,
about what will happen when we don’t pay attention
—because that’s how to get through our thick heads.
You think we’re inured to violence in the media now;
it was the same back then.
—they talk about rape and human excrement
and widespread destruction of cities
to jolt us out of thinking everything’s fine.
Because everything’s not fine.
It’s meant to be a slap in the face.
“You can’t talk about rape in church!”
And suddenly, just for a second, you’re awake to the world,
to the women in India who live in fear of rape on the commute to work,
to the men and women here in America who fear their spouses,
to the violence we perpetrate on one another
from something that big to something small like a lie.
For a moment, the prophets insult your sense of what’s proper
and you’re awake.
Here’s what a 20th century prophet said about that.
His name was Anthony de Mello, a Jesuit priest who died in 1987.
He says,
“Spirituality means waking up. Most people, even though they don’t know it, are asleep. They’re born asleep, they live asleep, they marry in their sleep, they breed children in their sleep, they die in their sleep without ever waking up. They never understand the loveliness and the beauty of this thing that we call human existence…Most people tell you they want to get out of kindergarten, but don’t believe them. Don’t believe them! All they want you to do is to mend their broken toys. ‘Give me back my wife. Give me back my job. Give me back my money. Give me back my reputation, my success.’ This is what they want; they want their toys replaced. That’s all. Even the best psychologist will tell you that, that people don’t really want to be cured. [advance slide] What they want is relief; a cure is painful.”[1]

Ain’t that the truth.
Two of the Edge House students who are in addiction recovery programs
would be nodding vigorously right now
—their addictions were their minds trying to create relief.
Being cured of their addictions is much more difficult
and much more painful.
What are you addicted to? What do you need to wake up from?
I’ve started a morning practice of the Ignatian examen
—it’s a form of prayer where you slowly consider
the day that has gone before,
what you did, who you talked to,
and notice when you felt particularly grateful or loving.
You also notice the other side, when you were not grateful,
when you were not loving.
You spend some time confessing those last ones
as well as time dwelling in the more positive ones.
The more I practice it, the more I notice these things during the day
—being more present to what I’m saying and doing
when it’s happening.
It feels like I’ve been asleep and I’m groggily looking around
after a late night.
It’s a calming yet uncomfortable feeling.
“Why did I say that?” I think.
Reread Jesus’ words and you’ll find that
we Christians are not called to be comfortable.
God calls us to be faithful not successful,
to be fruitful, not productive.
These are the language of the world
—success, productivity, prosperity—
not the language of the spirit.
Jesus tells us in his every word and every action
up to and including the empty tomb
to wake up from the nightmare of things being comfortable.
Did you see the video that was going around recently
of comedian Louis CK on Conan O’Brian?
It was brilliantly truthful but too much swearing for church
—ponder that for a moment…
Louis CK spoke about how addicted we are to our cell phones,
though I imagine there are other things in your lives
which might follow this same function.
He said, when he’s feeling sad, he immediately texts a bunch of people
and suddenly he doesn’t feel sad anymore.
But that’s the problem.
Everything’s not fine.
We don’t feel sadness in any deep way.
 We run away from it, refuse to allow grief
for the ordinary bits of our day to be real.
When there’s a big tragedy, there’s a bit of an emotional relief
because it’s okay to be sad about that.
But just existence being sad—nope.
And he says we go through our lives just being comfortable,
but not really experiencing what’s really happening.
Don’t get too excited about things because they could fail.
Don’t get too sad about things because no one wants to see you cry.
We’re asleep.
The lives we’ve been given by our Maker are terrifying and invigorating
and we’re standing on a ledge
struggling to maintain balance.
This [I used slides throughout and here I put up some of his photos.] is photographer KerrySkarbakka who photographs himself
in perilous situations.
He calls the series “Struggle to Right Oneself”
and this sense of being entirely off-balance,
being about to crash
is exactly what we hide from ourselves.
Everything’s not fine.
We construct elaborate facades
so as not to let anyone in to the messy, empty, angry, unattractive
real self.
We set up safety nets so we don’t have to see
the depth of the pain of the world.
Maybe you’re one who feels that pain deeply much of the time.
Good. And yet not good.
That sadness might itself be a façade
to keep you from seeing the great joy of the world.
I still haven’t seen any images
from the earthquake in Haiti several years ago
—I couldn’t bring myself to.
It was too overwhelming.
And did I respond to that situation at all? Nope.
I mean, I cried. And we sent a little money to the Red Cross.
And then I went back to my life. Went grocerying.
Do you see? Do you do that as well?
We’re all teetering
on the edge but we convince ourselves
that it’s a comfy armchair. Wake. Up.
Who calls to you now?
Who makes you uncomfortable when they talk about what you hold dear?
Liberal comedian John Stewart?
Conservative columnist Mark Steyn?
Atheist Christopher Hitchens?
Activist Dorothy Day?
Or is it that much easier now to just change the channel
and not listen to someone with whom we don’t agree?
What is God calling you to do or be?
How do you tell that’s what’s happening?
What have you loved for years but never did?
What have you noticed coming up in conversation or on the radio a lot
that has gotten you thinking?
What do you avoid thinking about?
Maybe that’s God calling you.
This is your 8am wake-up call, friends.
This is your 2013 wake-up call.
Wake up from our partisan political assumptions that we have the answers.
Wake up from resentments
Wake up from our need to be liked and do what is right rather than what is easy.
God’s calling, what are you going to do about it?






[1] De Mello, Anthony. Awareness: The Perils and Opportunities of Reality. Doubleday, NY:1990. pp. 5-6.

special bonus sermon on Ecclesiastes 1-2


I've been going through old sermons and this one spoke to me this weekend when I felt out of sorts and out of control.
*          *          *
There is nothing new under the sun.
Can I get an “amen”?
[sigh] There is nothing new under the sun.
I’m going to be honest with y’all,
I don’t know what to do about Bennie.
Bennie’s a homeless guy who hangs out on the porch
at the Edge campus ministry house where I work.
He sits on a chair, watches folks pass by,
tells us the same story ten times in as many minutes,
eats a sandwich when we offer it
—he’s clearly unbalanced, but he always seemed harmless.
But he’s been sleeping on the porch, too, sleeping off a drunk.
And he’s been leaving garbage.
And peeing on the porch.
And just two days ago, he kicked one of my ministry partners
when she told him he needed to leave.
According to the public defender’s office,
he’s the current record-holder for arrests in Hamilton County
with more than 470
and has more than three warrants out right now.
And he’s a violent, mean drunk
who has walked away from or been kicked out
of every social service agency in town.
So, what to do, eh?
         As a person of faith, what do I do?
He can’t sleep and pee on the porch, that much is clear.
And I can’t have someone who could turn violent in a moment
around my students—that’s not fair to anyone.
So, we have set up a no trespassing order and,
after the kicking incident, have filled out an arrest warrant
—so we’re one of the three.
The behavior cannot go on
—and I think Jesus would be with us on that, at least.
Jesus was no doormat
and challenged to the people he met both in word and action.
But what’s the hospitality side of this?
How can we actually help Bennie in any meaningful way?
Can we, even?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
And this might lead some folk to despair.
Some of ya’ll might be thinking “all is vanity and a chasing after wind”. Maybe.
“There is nothing new under the sun” you might be thinking,
and you’d be right.
We’re not the only ones to deal with friends or relatives
who have mental illness or alcoholism or even poor table manners.
We’re not the first people to feel overwhelmed by poverty
or to struggle with evangelism.
On the deeply spiritual TV show Battlestar Galactica,
a line which gets repeated often is
“All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again.” [Seriously, it’s a great show. And darkly appropriate to Ecclesiastes.]
Y’all might know Ecclesiastes better by another passage:
“For everything there is a season,
and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted…”
That’s chapter three,
almost directly after this reading we heard from ______________.
Ecclesiastes might have been a crotchety old man
or maybe he was just a realist.
Either way, his book is filled with a kind of heaviness.
He seeks after and finds wisdom,
yet it doesn’t last
and only shows him the futility of human endeavors.
He seeks after pleasure, yet it doesn‘t last and dies with the person.
He builds and plants and creates and,
though he enjoys the building and planting and creating themselves,
the results do not last but crumble
and cannot be taken past the grave.
“All is vanity and a chasing after wind.”
And who among us has not had a similar experience?
At the very least, many of us have watched toddlers play.
Or, rather, destroy.
Typical of preachers, I’m talking about my own family
         —my daughter Abby is a year and a half
and she loves building towers.
Or my building towers for her.
She loves admiring them for a moment,
then destroying them like Godzilla.
And I could take the depressing route and say,
“Why should I toil in vain
and build towers that my daughter knocks down?
It is vanity and a chasing after wind”
No, I build it again, because I see her delight.
Maybe you know more viscerally
that experience of “chasing after wind”
—maybe you have built a business only to see it fail
or to succeed better for another owner,
maybe you poured your heart and soul into someone beloved
who was suffering only to see her die.
Many folks think Ecclesiastes is depressing,
but some of us find it comforting.
Perhaps it’s the Lutherans I work with rubbing off on me,
but it suggests to me that it’s not our works
—good or evil—that save us.
God does that.
What we do or create is important,
         but that ultimately, it’s all in God’s hands.
That I don’t have responsibility
         for making everything turn out okay. Phew.
I wonder if we have a hard time with evangelism
because maybe we really believe the story ends with “this is vanity”
rather than how it actually ends.
The assigned lesson for today ends with
“all their days are full of pain, and their work is a vexation;
even at night their minds do not rest. This also is vanity.”
Did you find yourself wondering what you’re supposed to do with that?
A bit like my quandary about Bennie,
you had something complicated and heavy dropped on you
and now what?
I’m not sure why this is,
but the compilers of the lectionary often cut off the reading
before it is ripe.
Remember that more famous bit of Ecclesiastes that I mentioned
comes almost directly after our reading?
Yeah, Here’s part of what we missed:
“There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink,
and find enjoyment in their toil.
This also, I saw, is from the hand of God;
for apart from him,
who can eat or who can have enjoyment?”
This changes everything.
I think we sometimes dislike Ecclesiastes because he is us.
         He writes what we all think
                  —that we have a hope, but it’s pretty tissue thin
and what does what we do amount to anyway?
Particularly when it comes to spirituality?
We think, if we shared our stories with friends, neighbors, strangers,
no one would listen to us,
and even if they did, what would we say in the first place?
It’s pointless and a chasing after wind.
We think we have to have all the answers
—about how salvation works,
about who’s in and who’s out,
about the church’s problematic history,
about the Trinity or the two natures of Christ or whatever—but we don’t.
That’s not the story!
That’s not the good news that God offered
in Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.
Evangelism only asks us to be honest with one another
about our lives and our experiences of God.
Evangelism is sharing part of your story with someone else,
it’s building relationships with folks you meet,
from friends to aggressive homeless guys
who pee on your porch.
It’s certainly not easy,
and I don’t yet know how to build relationship
with Bennie.
It’s not easy, but it is freeing.
The good news is that we don’t have to shoulder the responsibility
of fixing everything.
The good news is that eating, drinking, and enjoying our toil
—whether it’s our paying job,
whether it’s putting storm windows on someone’s house,
whether it’s writing a song or running a marathon,
or being rejected in our attempts to connect
—the good news is there is nothing better for us
than to try
and all of it comes from God.
The good news is
“there is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink
and find enjoyment in their toil”
because, as brother Paul of Tarsus wrote,
“If we live, we live to the Lord,
and if we die, we die to the Lord;
so then, whether we live or whether we die,
we are the Lord’s.”[1]
Hallelujah.




[1] Romans 14:8

sermon on Genesis 18:20-32


This story from Genesis is hilarious. 
“That’s great, God, and pardon me for saying so, your Mightiness, 
but what if we only find 35 of the 40 righteous people?” 
Abraham as negotiator. 
Or Abraham as a toddler wheedling his dad into giving him more candy…
But it doesn’t stay hilarious long. 
Because Abraham is trying to head off a firebombing, 
he’s trying to avoid Hiroshima and Nagasaki 
in the neighboring town of Sodom. 
Abraham is negotiating not for his life 
but for the lives of all the people who populate those towns. 
We’re told in the story that Sodom and Gomorrah were rotten to the core, 
evil with a capital E, a black-hat, and a twirling mustache, 
so why shouldn’t God destroy them? 
In the language of myth and story, it makes complete sense. 
Yet we have Abraham here talking God down, 
desperately trying to save these towns. 
Maybe they were evil people, 
but we know from our own experience
that even our enemies have some humanity. 
Even the worst people we can think of 
can be kind to their elderly parents 
and take care of their dogs. 
There’s something worth saving…

This silly story shows Abraham to be a person who speaks up, 
who, in the face of the awesome, destructive power of God, 
speaks the truth. 
He is persistent to the point of absurdity because someone needs to be. And it shows God to be one who listens.
There have been Abrahams throughout history 
speaking out for the vulnerable people, 
even for the horrible people, 
to avoid destruction and misery. 
Just recently, Malala Yousafzai, a female Pakistani student, 
was shot in the head by the Taliban 
after speaking out for education rights for girls. 
She didn’t die and after that experience, 
after she’d already taken her life into her hands 
to speak truth to power, 
she spoke to the United Nations Youth Assembly 
saying that every person in the world deserves an education. She’s 16. 
You can watch the video of her speech 
on the Good Shepherd Facebook page.

How often do you speak up in your daily life? How often do you need to?

I want to be honest with you for a moment. 
I want to say some things that we don’t say in church much. 
And why not?
I’ve been reading noted atheist 
Christopher Hitchens’ book God is Not Great
And I’ve found myself agreeing with him. 
Not that God is a fiction, 
but that religious people have frequently been and continue to be awful. 
This is what we don’t talk about. 
He’s been describing countless atrocities 
that Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and others 
have perpetrated on one another 
in the many names of our God. 
Genocide is all too common. 
The acculturation Americans committed against native peoples, 
taking children from their families, 
forcibly suppressing their culture and history, 
because we Christians knew better. 
Clergy sexual abuse in the Roman Catholic Church 
as well as many other denominations including our own 
is an intolerable sin. 
People of various religious professions 
have rejected inoculations and health precautions 
that have resulted in hundreds of thousands of deaths. 
Most of us in middle America 
either don’t know about the terrible things going on 
or don’t know what to do and shield ourselves from it, 
going about our lives in constructed ignorance.
This is not what the church of Jesus Christ is supposed to do. 
We dress up on Sundays and come to our beautiful meeting house 
and sing about hope and smile 
all the while our hearts are breaking 
for our brothers and sisters suffering from alcoholism 
or our parents dying of cancer 
or our friends or ourselves whose marriages are falling apart. 
All the while, our hearts are breaking 
for the victims of the earthquake in Haiti 
or the gays and lesbians being murdered in Uganda, Russia, Iran.
All the while, we cover over those broken hearts with duct tape 
and leave here to go about our daily lives 
much the way we always do because we can’t possibly do anything,
can we?
This is not what the church of Jesus Christ is supposed to do. 

I heard a story on the radio about a high school in Chicago in dire straits. 
Harper High had something like 32 students shot in a year. 
Not all of them died, but consider the trauma of that statistic alone. Additionally, most of their students are on some sort of assistance 
and all of them know more than one person in prison. 
Most of them carry or have access to guns. 
And more than a few of them are hungry. 
The reporter spoke of walking down the hall with an administrator, 
And running into a student who should have been in class
who was obviously upset. 
He was embarrassed. He said that in his classroom 
the teacher had set up a reward for students who were on time. 
You got a cookie. 
He had not been able to go home the night before 
and hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day. 
When he went up to get his cookie, he took two. 
And when the teacher told him to put one back, he refused. 
Because he was so hungry. 
Which got him kicked out of the classroom.
This is not uncommon. 
In Cincinnati, the Freestore/Foodbank has volunteers 
make up what they call PowerPacks—
a small bag of food items that do not 
need to be refrigerated, 
do not need to be heated up, 
and don’t require tools to open. 
They’re for kids whose parents can’t or don’t feed them 
over the weekend. 
Freestore/Foodbank says they know 
they’re not covering all the kids in this situation, 
but they pack and distribute 4,000 a week. 
4000. 
The Freestore is speaking up for them, but who else?

We have a voice to speak up.
Martin Luther King, Jr preached at Riverside Church, NY in 1967,
“On the one hand we are called to play the Good Samaritan on life’s roadside; but that will be only an initial act. One day we must come to see that the whole Jericho road must be transformed so that men and women will not be constantly beaten and robbed as they make their journey on life’s highway. True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it is not haphazard and superficial. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring. A true revolution of values will soon look uneasily on the glaring contrast of poverty and wealth.”

Sometimes we’ve done it well. 
Christopher Hitchens is wrong not to mention 
any of the brave, beautiful, sacrificial things 
Christians have done over 2000 years. 
The nun Constance and her companions 
who stayed in Memphis to give comfort to those dying 
of yellow fever and then died themselves. 
St. Alban who dressed as a Christian and allowed himself 
to be killed so that a guest in his house could escape. 
Corrie ten Boom and her family who hid away many Jews 
from the horror of the Holocaust 
and were themselves imprisoned in a concentration camp.
Beautiful. Brave. Sacrificial.
And yet…the Jericho road is still a dangerous road to walk. 

We can continue to walk it like nothing has happened. 
Or we can walk the Jericho road paying attention to the people around us, 
whether we know them or not, 
looking for signs of abuse, 
listening for problems in the community that we can respond to. 
Do kids in your neighborhood school receive PowerPacks? Why? 
What else is going on there that you could get involved in? 
Is someone at work a bit of a bully? 
How often do you stand up to him or her? 
Are you moved by a story on TV about families with no clean water? 
Get involved with a water charity.

We have the power to speak. 
We can speak to our broken hearts and remove the walls we’ve set up 
because we don’t know what to do. 
We can speak to someone who is hurting and find out why. 
And we can speak up for the injustice we see.
“We have the power to speak, to penetrate the shadows and the fog. 
Our lives begin to end on the day that we are silent about things that matter.  Why are we so silent?”

Jesus’ disciples, perhaps seeing all this pain and their own small voices, 
asked Jesus to teach them to pray. 
They were saying, “How do we speak to God like Abraham did? 
How do we cry out for justice? How do we find our voices?”
And maybe when Jesus gave them what we call the Lord’s Prayer, 
he meant it as a prayer to be memorized and recited 
to remind us of whose we are. 
Or maybe he meant it as a list of petitions for us to add to, 
to take into our own lives. 
Maybe he meant for us to use the Lord’s Prayer as a revolutionary chant, 
to give us courage to change the Jericho road.

Maybe Jesus knew about folks like Christopher Hitchens 
and about folks like us who are only a hairsbreadth away from violence and condemnation. 
Maybe Jesus knew about all of us and gave us the Lord’s Prayer 
to remind us of our purpose, 
to shift our brains away from “me, me, me” and on to “us, us, us.”

I want to teach you a version of the Lord’s Prayer by the band the Psalters 
in the hopes that it becomes an earworm, 
that you can’t stop singing it, 
that it changes how you think when you sing it.
[teach “The Lord’s Prayer” by the Psalters]

Friends, let’s all wake up and stand up and speak up.
Amen.

sermon on endings and beginnings: Revelation 22:10-21


[slide: "Dear lectionary, when you leave out single verses, I am compelled to read and then preach on them. Love, me."]
[black slide]
And so we come to the end of the story. 
The Revelation to John is the last book of our Bible
And we heard the last chapter of the last book—truly the end of the story. 
It’s the end of the great story that began 
“Once upon a time, God decided to make a world.” 
And it ends with “God’s grace is present with us, so say we all.”
This is the end, my only friends, the end.
And God is present even here, at the end of all things. 
John the Revelator says God is the Alpha and the Omega, 
the beginning and the end, 
not just of the alphabet but of everything there ever was. 
God is the beginning and the end.
And God is the end and the beginning.
Because the book of Revelation isn’t only an ending, it is also a beginning.

We are in transition here at Good Shepherd
Our beloved senior pastor Larry has retired
—an end and a beginning for him, to be sure—
and we are embarking on the next miles of our journey together. 
Who will lead us? 
What will he or she be like? 
It’s a little scary—new beginnings always are—and it’s a lot exciting. 
What’s next, God?
And we just ended our stewardship season, 
only to begin actually being stewards—an end and a beginning.
At UC, the school year has ended, 
eight of our committed students have graduated or moved 
in the past month. 
Eight. 
They go off to jobs or internships or a season of discernment 
(that’s a churchy way to say 
“help me figure out what I’m doing with my life”)
At the Edge campus ministry house, we’re grieving that ending. 
And we’re anticipating the new beginning we see on the horizon
—who will join us this year? 
How will God be present in a new way? 
An end and a beginning.
You’ve been following the news, 
you know about the three women rescued 
from what amounts to suburban slavery in Cleveland. 
In a house where no one had any idea they were captives. 
What a wonderful ending for them
—no grief at the passing of an era but relief. 
And maybe some anxiety mixed in with the jubilation at being free. 
What’s next? 
We can live our lives now…but what toll will the last decade take? 
An ending and a beginning.
Our whole world is in transition
—the way wars are fought, 
shifting from pre-internet to internet being the water we swim in, 
questions of the relevance of churches—
ends and beginnings happening almost faster 
than we can comprehend them. 
One theologian says that generations aren’t defined 
by birth year anymore but by technological product. 
Children born this year will be a different generation 
than the ones born next year. 
It’s like all we have is the shift between end and beginning and end again.
And here in the church, we have a sacrament 
which names as holy this transition between end and beginning, 
between death and life.
Baptism is the death of one self and birth of another.
As well, Confirmation is our confirming that death and rebirth years later
first communion is food for the journey between death and life
weddings, ordinations, moving from one city to another, 
simply waking up in the morning
—all in the space between one story ending and another beginning. 
And God is present in every one of these stories. 
“The Grace of our Lord Jesus be with all of us,” says John the Revelator
—in the Greek, not “may the grace be with us” 
but the declaration “God’s grace is with all of us.”
Whatever ending and beginning you’re experiencing, 
it is hard and painful and full of grief. 
And it is exciting and strangely easy and full of delight.
And we have a hard time holding all of that in our heads at the same time. 
So we often don’t.  
We make it simpler, easier, nicer.
The lectionary writers cut out some of the more difficult bits 
of today’s reading from Revelation
—Rather than beasts and battles, it’s about blessing and invitation. 
Which I guess is nice here in the Easter season. 
But being a follower of Jesus is not about being nice. 
Here’s one of the parts you missed:
The ones who wash their robes in the blood of the Lamb 
are blessed
—these are the ones who believe in Jesus as the son of God 
and who show that belief in their actions. 
And then it says, 
“Outside are the dogs and sorcerers and fornicators 
and murderers and idolaters, 
and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.”
That’s not so nice.
Revelation is about clear distinctions between insiders and outsiders 
and doesn’t take the time to recognize 
the complex nature of humanity as do the gospels. 
What are we to make of John the Revelator’s 
calling those outside the Christian fold dogs? 
Remember when the Syrophonecian woman
—that is, non Jewish woman—
asked Jesus to heal her daughter 
and he said he didn’t come to the dogs but to the children of Israel? 
And she said even the dogs eat the crumbs under the master’s table? 
And then Jesus healed her daughter?
And what about Jesus’ statement that all sins except blasphemy 
will be forgiven? 
Leaving aside the question of what blasphemy is
—that’s another sermon altogether—
why are the sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters 
and liars not offered the chance at eternal life? 
Scripture is full of stories of God upending human expectations 
about who is worthy and forgiven. 
One commentator I read this week said: 
“Please God let it be that the evil within and around us 
will in the End be defeated and put to death!
I certainly hope that God leaves outside the holy city everything in me that would:”
  • [slide: adultery] Regard sex as a tool for manipulation or consider it disconnected from lifelong intimacy
  • [slide: murder] everything in me that commits violence against another person whether I want to kill them or not
  • [slide: sorcery] everything in me that thinks God can’t be trusted but that God can be manipulated by the right words and actions
  • [slide: idolatry] everything in me that puts money or status or objects or even people between me and God
  • [slide: falsehood] everything in me that lies to get what I want.
I certainly hope that these parts of ourselves 
will not have a place in the coming Kingdom, 
but I also hope that it is not entire persons who are excluded. [hope slide]
and that’s rather the point of the book of Revelation
—apocalyptic literature is weird because it’s in code 
and it’s difficult because it’s written by and to people oppressed 
and miserable.
If you were a slave to another culture who killed you for your faith
or for no reason at all, you might long for their destruction as well. 
You might long for vindication for yourself and your families as well. 
Apocalyptic literature is difficult 
and doesn’t have what many Christians call “plain meaning”.
But is a literature of hope. 
For people living in pain and loneliness and despair 
and for people who cause those things 
and for people who have no idea what’s going on under their noses, 
apocalyptic literature pulls back the curtain to reveal a different world, 
a world where God is in charge, 
where the story doesn’t end with your pain 
or even with your reveling in being the top of your game. 
The story isn’t over. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end. 
The story ends when God says it ends 
and, from our perspective anyway, 
the story is constantly ending and beginning. [black slide]
 “behold, I saw a new heaven and a new earth” John says.
“…[God] will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.’ 
And the one who was seated on the throne said, 
‘See, I am making all things new.’ 
John the Revelator is writing a new Creation story, 
a new Genesis, 
for this new world that God’s making.
And so we come to the end of the sermon.
And the beginning of your response. [slide: open door]
What’s next? [black slide]

spring break 2013, using a word I rarely do


Epic.

The plan was to spend 2.5 days in Cincinnati volunteering with the Freestore/Foodbank and Gabriel's Place, socializing and sleeping in the evening at the Edge House, then trek to the Good Earth Farm in Athens for the remainder. The plan worked and became so much more.

Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights, our small band was joined by 3-5 other students who weren't able to work with us during the day but who were still in town. We cooked together, painted together, and played board games together (oh, the boardgames we played...). But knowing those activities doesn't tell even half the story. In the crucible of spending 24/7 together, our conversations over paint and coffee turned towards discernment, vocation, difficult friendships, and the presence/absence of God. We laughed about the absurd and hugged about the heartbreaking. The paintings we worked on are imbued with our prayerful conversation.

Wednesday morning a handful of us left Cincinnati for the farm, bringing the others with us in spirit and still others via text. Pulling into the driveway of Good Earth, we released breaths we didn't know we were holding and dove into intentional community life. We processed honey from the comb, helped with feeding and milking, planted seeds, baked pies, filled earth bags for the chapel, and mucked out the pig stall. We talked more of discernment, of simplicity, of our struggles with addiction and sin.

Saturday, we worked more on the chapel with our friends from the Floral House. The day ended with lunch and Eucharist under the trees. Our connection to one another has never been stronger and it is the Holy Spirit who gave us this unexpected and, yes, epic week.

sermon on John 12:1-8


"Getting it Right, Getting it Wrong"

Once upon a time, this guy Jesus raised his friend Lazarus from the dead.
It wasn’t something you saw every day, kind of stuck in your memory.
And later on, this guy Jesus went back to his friends’ house,
the home of Lazarus, and his sisters Mary and Martha, for dinner.
Martha cooked and served the dinner like she always did
and Lazarus sat at the table and ate with him which he’d always done.
And which just underscored the point that not only was he alive again,
but he was Really Alive, eating and spilling the condiments
and everything.

And then Mary did an odd thing, which was what she always did
—she had bought a beautiful jar of what amounts to Chanel #5
or maybe some amazing perfume that’s so rare and hip
that none of us have ever heard of it.
Back then, it was Spikenard.
Mary sat at Jesus’ feet where she was used to sitting
to listen to his wisdom and his jokes.
She sat at his feet and she opened this jar of Spikenard
and poured it all out on Jesus’ feet to clean and scent them
and then she wiped away the excess oil with her hair.
What a bizarre and intimate and tender and extravagant gesture.
What could it mean?

And it seems Judas was there—
Judas Iscariot who would betray Jesus,
Judas who the Gospel writer cannot help but comment on
every time he comes onscreen—
Judas says “wait, that Nard cost a lot of money, shouldn’t we have sold it
and given the money to the local soup kitchen or something?”

And I the reader think,
“yeah, Judas, right on!
Jesus is all about the marginalized and poor and all. You got it, brother!”

John, the gospel writer says,
“well, actually, Judas the Very Very Evil had hoped to skim off the top
of the group’s money which he kept account of,
so, really, he’s not being so generous or wise after all.”

And I the reader think,
“seriously, John? Matthew, Mark, and Luke didn’t say that.
Are you letting the fact that you know the ending of Judas’ story
color your understanding of the past?
Was Judas really so bad as to need parenthetical reminders
of his evilness after every single appearance?
Couldn’t he have had some good in his heart?”

Meanwhile, the story has continued with Jesus replying to Judas saying,
“Dude, leave her alone.
Mary bought that perfume with her own money
because she is the only one who gets what I’ve been laying down.
She gets that I’m going to die soon for all y’all
and she wants to honor that death appropriately.
Judas, brother, the poor are always here, but I’m about to die.
Focus on this.”

And I the reader think,
“the poor are always with us, true. But what?
We’re supposed to be okay with that state of affairs?
Particularly now in the 21st century
—what are we supposed to do with Jesus’ statement—
since we don’t, in fact, have Jesus with us
in the same way that Lazarus and Mary and Martha and Judas did.”

[pause for reflection]

I think it’s fair to say that I struggled with this text this week. A lot.
Maybe you know what I mean.
It would seem that Judas got it right in this story
in ways that Peter never did.
Maybe I’m unhealthily obsessed with Judas Iscariot—
I find John’s parenthetical commentary not just excessive
but verging on the ridiculous.
Read further in the Passion story to see what I mean—
when it comes to the actual betrayal, Judas seems to be simply a puppet,
a slave of destiny who MUST betray Jesus.
He is a black-hat villain, baddy-bad-bad.
Scripture says Satan entered into him and he ran out to do his evil deed.

But at the beginning of the story,
he was called to be a disciple just like the rest of them.
Judas was in the circle, intimate with Peter and John and James and Jesus
and because he was close to them,
he was able to betray them so powerfully.
Betrayal requires intimacy—
a stranger cannot betray you but your sister or spouse can.
Judas is a man we all revile—
his name, like Adolf, is not one we’ll be naming our kids anytime soon.
And his betrayal of Jesus was very real.
But was he a one-dimensional villain?
And was he, in essence, wrong about helping the poor?
And what are we supposed to make of Jesus’ statement
that the poor will always be with us?

This past week, I had an extensive Facebook discussion
with a couple of my friends about this.
One friend is what you call Very Catholic—
she teaches catechism to adults
and knows orthodox theology back to front.
The other friend was on my discernment committee
when I was dreaming of seminary
and now she, too, is dreaming of seminary—
she loves the church with an unmatched passion
and is as liberal as they come.
And both of them, when I shared with them
my frustrations with Jesus and Judas in this passage
said, “you missed it.”

I, like Peter, like Judas, have missed the point. Again.
Are you there with me?
Jesus is stealthy like that, maybe you’ve noticed.
He tends to be about the surprising answer, the unexpected plot twist.
Just when we think we’ve got a handle on things,
just when we’re comfortable with how the world works,
Jesus pops in and says, “you missed it.”

In this Gospel lesson, Jesus is calling Judas
and, by extension all of us, to being present.
He’s calling us to pay attention to what’s happening here and now,
to being aware of the depth of the moment.
We are so busy in our lives and in our heads,
worrying about what might happen,
and wallowing in all the things on our to do lists,
and assuming we know what the mission is
that we miss what’s actually happening in the moment.
For many of us in 2013, that’s because we have our noses
in our smartphones all the time.
But we don’t need devices to keep us from paying attention
to the world and people around us.
We were just as good at escapism and self-interest
back in the 1950s as we are today.

Look, of course we should be concerned for the poor and downtrodden,
whether they are us or someone far away.
Of course we should question how we spend our money.
Of course we should examine our motives when we offer to do something nice.
My friends, we are Judas,
we betray Jesus every day.
Every time we betray a confidence or profit from someone else’s pain,
every time we ignore the Christ shining in another’s eyes
we turn Jesus over to death.
The story we tell with our lives is that of Judas trying and failing,
of the disciples not understanding.
And Jesus says gently,
“Dude, leave it alone. I’m here right now. Focus on this.”

This coming week, some of the Edge House students and I
are hoping to do just that.
We are heading out to the Good Earth Farm in Athens, Ohio—
it’s a 5-acre organic farm run by an intentional Christian community.
Their days begin and end with prayer and, while the work is hard, it is focused.
The work is simply the work—
whether chopping vegetables to can or weeding
or helping build a firewood shed,
distractions are minimal.
Each time I have worked at the farm,
I have come away refreshed and centered.
The students this week are longing for that sense of presence.

Practicing presence is, of course,
one of the most difficult things we can attempt.
I want to invite you to try it for a moment.
Close your eyes or simply look down.
Put your feet flat on the floor and uncross your arms.
Breathe in deeply. Breathe out deeply.
Breathe in the breath of God, breathe out the struggles and joys of your week.
Notice the temperature in the room, the feel of the pew beneath you.
Notice your boredom or your brain refusing to slow down.
Breathe in the breath of God. Breathe out your anxiety about next week or the next five minutes.
Notice why you’re here this morning, notice who you’re here for this morning.
Breathe in deeply. Breathe out deeply.
[silence]
May we recognize God’s presence in the ordinary and extraordinary moments of our days.
May we pause and experience God’s Creation.
May we begin to see clearly our own wrongness, our own rightness, and God’s call in every moment.
Amen.

sermon on Exodus 3:1-15


Preached at Prince of Peace in Loveland March 2-3. Also, I revised it when I preached--replaced some of the bits about me with stories from Edge House students, their ongoing stories of conversion.
*     *     *
Today we get the calling of Moses to be God’s messenger.
God calls to Moses through
a burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed.
An amazing, impossible, can’t-miss-it kind of sign
that something’s happening right?
but The burning bush is not about the burning bush.
It’s about God calling. And it’s about Moses answering.
Or, maybe it’s about Moses expecting a call.
But it’s not about the bush.
See, I work at UC as a campus missioner
and I hear from college students a lot the question,
“how come we don’t see burning bushes anymore?”
or “how come God doesn’t talk to us anymore?”
Wrong questions.
Moses saw the burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed
because he was looking for it.
Or because he was willing to see it.
Exodus says Moses looked at the bush,
then decided to turn aside and get a closer look.
He chose to see God’s presence there rather than just moving on.
We don’t practice seeing God very well and so when God shows up,
we often don’t notice, or we attribute it to something else—
a natural phenomenon
like the gradation of blue in a cloudless sky
or rain that keeps us from an appointment
(what’s more natural than God?),
or thoughts in our brains
(since we’re so busy-busy,
why wouldn’t God nudge us that way?).
And most of us don’t think that we could be called by God
because we can’t imagine God wanting to call us.
But God does call us. All of us, individually and as a group.
Paul talks about how all of us are part of the body of Christ,
all parts necessary for healthy functioning, no part unnecessary
all of us called to the healthy functioning of the church & the world. God is constantly speaking to us, constantly trying to get us to look at him
like a young woman crushing on a boy…“Just look at me…”
And the big things we read about in scripture,
those are signs that God’s trying to get our attention.
They’re not the messages.
Think about it this way: First, there’s The Story,
God’s story of Creation, Fall, Redemption, and Restoration,
a portion of which is told us in scripture.
The Story which we revere
and which describes for us what the world often looks like,
which suggests to us how we might make that world function better,
         more compassionately.
The Story which includes big crazy stories
like the burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed
and Elijah speaking to God directly
and hearing God the whirlwind, God the thunderstorm, and God the silence.
The Story which we love and struggle with
but which we don’t often practice connecting with our own stories.
Part the second, is our stories:
your life is a story, has a plot you don’t yet know the end of,
characters who come and stay for a time,
pain and triumph, boring bits and exciting bits.
Our stories shed light on where we are now.
I have a lot of compassion for folks on the margins
—prisoners, the working poor, the gay community—
because I was on the margins for much of my life.
I was a weird kid—who knew?—
and was teased mercilessly in elementary and junior high.
I felt…feel like an outcast and so identify with others in a similar category.
I am where I am now because of that experience.
Our stories show us how we got to where we are
and sometimes a bit of where we’re going.
And last, there’s a dynamic, creative space where these two stories connect,
where The Story/God’s Story connects with our own stories.
The stories of scripture aren’t just a rule book
and they aren’t just bizarre stories about miracles.
They’re our own stories, our own lives writ large.
C. S. Lewis once said,
"Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see."
The Story of Moses and the burning-bush-that-was-burning-but-not-consumed
is about God calling to this guy Moses, this shepherd,
this guy who stutters and who, it turns out,
can’t keep control of the people he’s been entrusted to care for.
He’s just this guy, you know?
And God calls to him, and Moses chooses to turn aside and look and listen.
And, before you think that’s the end,
in this and every call story in the Bible,
the person being called objects to the call. Sometimes strenuously. Moses doesn’t think he can do it.
Sound familiar?
And God says, “yes, you can and I’ll help. Pay attention.”
So, how to tell when God calls?
Often, it’s not just one time, not just in a single heated moment.
A lot of the time, it takes us some time to see and turn aside to look.
I am personally rather thick and so I need a lot of prodding.
So, at the risk of being self-involved,
I thought I’d share a little of my own spiritual autobiography.
What signs did I see along the way that suggested God wanted me to do something?
When I was in first grade, around the time my father went to seminary,
I was vaguely aware of religion and God,
but I didn’t really think about it much. 
I do remember I was terribly afraid of the dark for years,
I would panic when entering a dark room
and fumble wildly for the light switch. 
I would run up a flight of stairs from a dark hallway to a light one,
afraid that a monster was chasing me. 
It was at Easter each year that I began slowly to lose that fear. 
At the university, the seminarians and faculty go all out
for the Easter vigil, beginning very early on Sunday morning
in complete darkness. 
They light a blazing fire to symbolize the light of Christ
which pierces the darkness,
but which to me only put up a thin, weak wall
between us and the surrounding darkness. 
Slowly we processed into the chapel and began the vigil. 
Most of us kids would fall asleep in the chairs,
awoken later by the rising sun streaming
through the surrounding tall, thin windows
when we came to the Resurrection. 
It was magical. 
That the service could be timed so well,
that the sun was so glorious streaming through the windows,
that the music was so jubilant…
I was overcome with joy and renewal
and felt that something very good had pushed away
the literal and figurative dark.
In high school, I sometimes went with my priest father
to the local women’s prison.
On Wednesday nights, he would go and celebrate Eucharist
for a small group of women.
It didn’t occur to me to be afraid of the people we visited
until I walked through the first set of metal doors.
Their clanging shut sounded so final and I woke up a little.
The second set  told me I wasn’t getting out of here easily,
and neither were these women.
Even then, I was not afraid but curious.
At the point in the Euch. after the long, beautiful, boring prayer is over,
the priest invites the assembly forward saying something like
“These are the gifts of God for the people of God.”
My father always added, “holy things for holy people.”
That was when I realized what was happening.
These women whose pasts I didn’t know and could only guess
were indeed holy people.
This bread and wine was theirs as God’s beloved.
Prisons have struck me as holy ground ever since,
rather like the ground Moses removed his shoes to walk on.
Around this time, I also read a book called The Mirror of Her Dreams
which, honestly, may not be very good, but it affected me profoundly.
One supporting character, one of the daughters of the king
who is rather dreamy and idealistic and thought to be weak-willed,
says to the main character,
“problems should be solved by those who see them.”
Later, she finds her courage and risks her life for a wounded stranger.
Problems should be solved by those who see them.
Yes, they should. If not you, who? If not now, when?
Yes, I thought, yes, I felt in my bones.
And the fire in my heart began to burn in earnest.
Many years later, after rejecting the feeling that I was called
to ordained ministry several times, I ended up in seminary.
To make ends meet, my husband and I worked at Barnes and Noble
and, at this time, the number one bestseller on every list there was
was The Da Vinci Code.
To be honest, I didn’t care for it, but many did
and I found myself in daily conversations
with coworkers and customers about issues the book brought up.
And those conversations expanded into more personal ones
about folks’ faith and desires.
I became the informal chaplain to the store.
It was a weird spiritual place,
but one which helped explain the burning in my heart
to care for those hurt by the church, those seeking,
those wandering lost in the wilderness.
All of these experiences were my burning-bush-that-was-not-consumed.
It wasn’t a sudden moment.
And, while I’m still figuring out what it means to be a priest,
and what it means to be a campus missioner
 I have turned off the main path to look at what God is calling me to.
Sometimes the overlap between God’s story and our story
is sudden and easily seen like Moses’ story
or like Paul on the Damascus Road.
More often, it takes time, is a cycle, seems rather ordinary.
And that is precisely where God is working all the time.
God doesn’t need the big moments to tell us something,
to call us into deeper relationship or risky giving
or radical inclusion.
God calls to us in every moment of every day.
Steve Jobs agrees with me, in a way…
in 2005, he spoke at Stanford University’s commencement and spoke
         of the calligraphy class he took before he dropped out of college
         he said he learned what makes letters and words,
typography interesting and beautiful
and subtle and fascinating
He said, “None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it's likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.
He said, “Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.[1]

This week, I’m giving you homework. I want you to try to connect the dots.
Take a little time each day this week to consider your life story.
What are your strongest memories?
What were your favorite books or most influential people?
How are they related to who you are now?
Do you see any similarities among those stories?
Threads which continue through your life
but that you hadn’t noticed before?
Then spend some time in prayer
—not the intercessory prayer we often do for others,
but in silence, asking God to help you see what God’s trying to show you.
Consider what God might be saying to you
in the most ordinary moments of your life,
in the birthday parties and the deaths,
in the Habitat houses you’ve built or the papers you’ve written,
the things you’ve gotten excited about
and the things you wish you didn’t remember.
Ask God to help you see more clearly
the thread of the sacred running through your life.
Ask God where that thread might be leading.
Write this stuff down if that’s helpful,
or talk about it with your family or a trusted friend.
Be honest.
Be open to a burning bush-that-is-burning-but-not-consumed,
because it’s been burning all your life,
off to the side, in the corner of your eye.
Turn aside from the path you think you have to be on
and look at what God is doing.
Choose to see your story connected to God’s story. And catch fire.






[1] From Steve Jobs’ commencement address at Stanford in 2005: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424053111903596904576520690515394766.html?mod=googlenews_wsj accessed 8.27.11 12:26pm EST