The
Radical Center: where God feeds us with the
Bread of Life
The Rev. Canon Bill Lewellis
August 10, 2003, Church of the Mediator, Allentown
Pent 19B.Prop 14 (RCL) - 2 Samuel 18: 5-9, 15, 31-33; Psalm 130;
Eph. 4: 25 - 5: 2; John 6:35, 41-51
[I tried in this sermon to say gently that the radical center
where we are sustained is not an institution or a church, nor
any decisions of any institution or church, nor any long-held
personal certitude. The radical center where we meet God - even
when we feel we are in some nowhere land - is wherever and whenever
we can acknowledge in our lives - with mind and heart and soul
- that Jesus Christ is Lord: trust in God as known through Jesus
Christ - trust not ever to be given over to any institution, nor
to any conviction, nor to any long-held certitude. Thanks. -Bill]
The world was watching We've had quite a week, haven't we? It
seemed as though the world was watching what our church was doing
at General Convention. And, I think, the world continues to watch.
I know some of you are here today with heavy, heavy hearts. You
have told me so. You may identity with the first verse of today's
psalm: Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord. You may
be struggling with Paul's words to the Ephesians from today's
second reading: We are members of one another. Put away from you
all bitterness and wrath. and wrangling and slander. Be imitators
of God and live in love, as Christ loved us. You are here because
you know where to find the bread of life. I am the bread of life,
Jesus claimed in John's gospel. No institution, no church, no
long-held certitude can be your bread of life. Jesus is the bread
of life.
I want to say something about what some of us may be experiencing
after General Convention, without lecturing - in the context of
today's gospel and my own life experience, hoping there may be
a helpful word somewhere during these few minutes for someone,
some bread for life to draw us into deeper relationship with God
through Jesus Christ and into deeper relationship with one another.
Please excuse the brief autobiographical excursion. It provides
some needed context for where I want to go.
This neighborhood When I find myself in this neighborhood, for
whatever reason, my head and my heart take in many mixed memories
- anxious to wonderful. They are centered around a place nearby,
just up the street, where I worked for some 14 years as a Roman
Catholic priest: on the staff of the bishop of the Diocese of
Allentown. I resigned from that ministry some 22 years ago. I
am now happily married. I love my wife, my three sons and my new
life in the Episcopal Church.
Memories I served up the street as communication director and
diocesan spokesperson, dealing with the media during some anxious
times, including years of political, social, legal and media wrangling
and posturing that became known later as the Hospital Wars.
I served also as the bishop's vicar for vocations, interviewing
and making a judgment about every young man from the diocese's
150 parishes who applied to a seminary to study for the priesthood.
(They were usually young, in those days, and, of course, all men.)
I continued then to follow their progress, about 100 of them,
to interact with them and make annual recommendations to the bishop
on their progress and what I thought about their suitability for
priesthood. I shudder even today when I think of how my recommendation
may have crushed or adversely affected some.
I served also as the bishop's representative to the Pennsylvania
Catholic Conference, the public affairs and lobbying unit in Harrisburg
of PA's Roman Catholic bishops.
The last thing I'll mention is that I served also as pro-life
coordinator for the diocese. In those years, that meant being
the diocese's anti-abortion spokesperson and rallying grassroots
support around the issue.
There's more, but this is enough for where I want to go.
Shattered convictions and beliefs During those years, my religious
convictions and beliefs were formed in my head (from the teaching
and tradition of the church) rather than also in conjunction with
my heart and my experience. I frequently wrote logically flawless
letters to the editor on the abortion issue. Once during a public
debate on the issue at a local college, a young woman retorted,
"You're only saying that because you're a priest." I
can still remember how insulted I was and how hurt I felt. I was
saying it as a person of integrity who had it all worked out in
my head.
One morning, someone I knew who lived about an hour away showed
up for a weekday morning Mass I was about to celebrate in an Allentown
RC church. "What's up?" I asked before Mass. He told
me he had driven his wife to Allentown Hospital earlier that morning
and, as we were speaking, her medically dangerous pregnancy was
being terminated.
He came for Mass and communion because he presumed that, after
all the serious praying and agonizing and family discussion and
counseling they had been through and the potentially life-threatening
situation she was in, he would find acceptance, comfort and strength
in his church. Though this was something that, because of my religious
beliefs and convictions, I could not get my head around, I prayed
with him at Mass and gave him communion.
It was a time also that I was agonizing and praying about something
else that would forever change my life: I had fallen in love.
At times, I felt God was leading me to a place where my head said
God was not allowed to lead me. At the same time, my certain convictions
told me this was something I could not do.
Not wanting to turn this sermon into a total melodrama, I'll say
only that you had to once have been Roman Catholic - perhaps half
of you were - to understand the turmoil that set off in me. Obviously,
I lived to tell the story - and now, even with three boys in college
at the same time, I thank God that I allowed God to draw me out
of my comfort zone, across my own Red Sea, to a place I did not
know.
During that traumatic life transition, the Roman Catholic Church
would not give me or my wife communion because I was a priest
who dared to marry and I did not want communion with any Protestant
community because my head was still filled with convictions and
certitude (and guilt) telling me that you Protestants, though
sincere, were in error about the Christian faith and tradition
and that Jesus Christ could not really be present in your eucharists.
Drawn by God In that nowhere land, I began to discover where the
radical center of faith was: it was wherever and whenever I could
acknowledge in my life - with mind and heart and soul - that Jesus
Christ is Lord. The radical center of faith for me became trust
in God as known through Jesus Christ - trust not to be given over
so totally to any institution or to any so-called conviction or
long held certitude in my head.
How can I now look back on that and not say that I was being drawn
by God who sent Jesus Christ to be for me the bread of life, the
bread that came down from heaven so one may eat of it and not
die. I would die, perhaps, to something but never to life in God.
I began to let go of idols I had fashioned: long held convictions
and certitudes which had never really drawn me closer to Jesus
Christ but served only as a prison of my own mind's making. I'm
66 now. I was in my early 40s then. Perhaps the best way I can
say it is that, over the past 22 years, I have come to believe
less, more.
The little that is precious A French Jesuit professor in Rome,
where I did four years of theology during the early 60's, once
began his course on the theology of revelation by turning his
back on some 300 students in a large lecture hall and walking
back and forth along the length of his raised platform while staring
at a blackboard that took up practically the entire wall. Gently,
without a sound, he made one dot on the blackboard with a piece
of chalk.
He looked at his students and said: "The white dot is what
we know about God. The blackboard is what we don't know. What
we know about God is little - but the little we know is precious."
He went on to explain that what little we know about God's inner
being is that God created us out of love, that God's love was
so intense that he sent Jesus Christ, that God remains with us
today in the Holy Spirit of the Father and the Son. He then concluded,
through tears, saying that what makes what God told us especially
precious is that the only reason we know it is because God told
us - just as we sometimes tell inner secrets to people we love.
The radical center where God feeds us The Bible is full of people
- and I don't doubt that in this church there are people like
those people of the book - who in a very different time and place
and culture set out into the unknown - and not because of logic
or long held certitudes -- to a place unknown and perhaps somewhat
threatening where we experience God's inner being, to the radical
center of our faith where we are fed with the bread of life that
came down from heaven.
Come to the table. The Word of God proclaims that all are invited
and called to join in humble need around his table and be fed
into new life. The Word of God proclaims that none will be driven
away. The Word of God proclaims that God gave us this bread for
the life of the world and that whoever eats of this bread will
live forever.
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Prop
14B03 - August 10, 2003
All Saints Church, Frederick, MD
The Rev. Everett W. Francis
[This sermon was preached today at All Saints Church,
Frederick, MD, by one of our retired priests, Ev Francis, former
rector of St. Luke's, Scranton, who lives with his wife, Gale,
in Adamstown, MD. Thanks. Ev. -Bill]
Jesus said to the people, "Everything
that the Father gives me will come to me, and everyone who comes
to me I will never drive away." Or "will not cast out."
A woman made this text come alive for me. Her name is Charlotte
Elliott. Charlotte lived two centuries ago and her life was like
a character out of a Charles Dickens novel or a modern soap opera.
She was the daughter of relatively well off parents who died when
she was a young girl. Charlotte went from one relative to another
as
misfortune would strike the household and she would have to move.
This artistic and musical young woman became an invalid at 32.
She then moved in with her brother. He was parish priest in Brighton.
He was an active, busy, exciting person in a vibrant outgoing
parish. Now, that positive and provocative climate, rather than
have her feel better, increased her depression and disgust at
being the way she was. She was hard to live with.
One night before a bazaar to raise funds for St. Mary's School
for poor girls, Charlotte lay awake all night fretting over herself,
her dependence, her inability to contribute, her lack of inner
peace and self acceptance. The next day it was worse. The conflict,
doubts, fears, self hatred, and confusion stayed with her. She
held on. She fought to overcome her despair, her lack of self-acceptance.
Finally she took pen in hand and remembering the great love of
God for us in Christ, she began to write. At the top of the page
she wrote: "John 6.37." Remember how it goes? "All
that the Father gives to me will come to me; and him who comes
to me I will not cast out." She continued: (I don't know
whether it took her ten minutes or ten hours, all I know is that
her words came out of her living experience)
Just as I am, without one plea, But that thy Blood was shed for
me, And that Thou bidst me come to thee, O Lamb of God, I come.
Hymn 693 Knowing the circumstances of Charlotte's life, we can
well understand the literal truth of the verses:
Just as I am, though tossed about, With many a conflict, many
a doubt; Fightings and fears, within, without, O Lamb of God,
I come. Just as I am, poor, wretch-ed, blind; Sight, riches, healing
of the mind, Yea, all I need in thee to find, O Lamb of God, I
come.
Charlotte's life and John 6.37 came together: "All that the
Father gives to me will come to me; and him that comes to me I
will not cast out." God welcomes us. The love of God is broader
than the measure of man's mind. We are invited to come as we are.
With doubts, sins, spiritual blindness, confusion, conflicts,
scared - just as we are we may come to him and not be turned out.
No matter how difficult or hard to live with we may come to Christ
just as we are.
With the debate and decision at General Convention, I remember
a man in the first parish I served. I will call him Sam. The parish
was a new start. We had old C of E folk accustomed to the 1662
PB. We had high church, low church, and no church. There were
all kinds of Baptists, Methodists, and charismatics. We had people
who were disgruntled with their former parish and people who wanted
to duplicate their former parish. It was a lively congregation.
Sam was one person all factions admired and listened to. He was
a calm person, very fair in his judgements. He was an highly skilled
man who repaired the vats used in making steel. He was married
and had a high school aged daughter. Actually the woman he was
married to was the widow of a former friend who had committed
suicide when the daughter was very young. Year after tear we tried
to get him to serve on the Vestry, but he wouldn't.
One time Sam made an appointment with me. He told me about a friend
whom he would like to invite to Church. The only problem was that
the man liked other men. Sam told me that the man was a good living
man. He didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't gamble, and didn't
run around. Actually, I don't remember the entire conversation.
He had an answer to every Scripture I quoted and to every argument
I made. He was persistent. I was insistent that the man was a
sinner and would have to give up those ways.
Fast-forward 25 years when the issue of gays came to the fore.
I heard a man tell a group of us what it was like being a gay
person attending church. He told what it was like trying to participate
in the life of a congregation, and trying to be honest with others,
with himself, and above all with God. As that man spoke, there
came to my memory that conversation years ago. Oh, my God, Bob
was trying to tell me that he was gay, and I told him that being
gay, he was not welcome.
How should I have responded? No question in my mind - then or
now - that Bob accepted Christ as his Lord and Savior as much
as I had. I remember with shame that I didn't say, come, just
as you are without one plea, but that Christ's blood was shed
for thee and make it possible for him to admit at least to me
just who he was.
Now to the present. I wonder how that Church would have developed
if he had been on the Vestry, and if he had been in a position
of leadership? There are many answers. I will respect yours. As
for me, I believe, as difficult as it might have been, that congregation
would have been more faithful, Spirit filled and effective if
Bob had been welcomed by me and the congregation as he was by
Christ - just as he was.
Christ does not drive anyone away. He welcomes all. Percentage
wise very few of us are gay. We have other personal characteristics,
concerns and behaviors we may bring to Christ. The text applies
to all of us. Come, just as you are. If we wait until we are perfect,
without problems, until we are worthy, it will be a cold day in
hell. We are the poor, wretched, blind.........in coming to Christ
just as we are we find all we need in him: sight, riches, healing
of the mind.
And so we come to this morning. Come to him, just as you are.
Many of us have done this time and time again, for some this may
be a new experience. The gospel proclaims that all are invited
and called by Christ to join in humble need around His table and
be fed into new life.
His love, his promises, his power is for all of us today and every
day. It is for the invalid and loser, the confused and conflicted,
the seeker and the searcher, the deliberate and the doubter, the
gay and the straight, the advocates and the antis; it is for us
and for all: just as we are we may come to Christ and offer ourselves
for his great purposes of drawing all things together in peaceful
fulfillment.
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Sermon
by The Rev. Elizabeth W. Myers
Proper 14B 8/10/03
Grace Church, Honesdale and Christ Church, Indian Orchard
As I remember the story, Charlotte Elliott, who lived from 1789-1871,
had a very troubled and pain filled life. She was the daughter
of relatively well off parents who died when she was a young girl.
After they died Charlotte was moved from one relative to another.
It seemed that as soon as she got settled in one home, and began
to feel secure, some misfortune would strike that family and Charlotte
would have to move on to another who could take her. By the time
that she was 32 she was an invalid and went to live with her brother
who was a priest in the Church of England.
Though artistic and musical she stayed at home unable to contribute
to the life of the household or parish, filled with depression
and unhappiness, and empty of purpose and peace. One day, as she
sat by an open window in her bedroom, she listened while her brother
read today's gospel lesson from the adjoining church. Then she
picked up her pen and tablet from the nearby table and began to
write.
First, across the top of the page, she wrote:
John 6:37
"All that the Father gives me will come to me; and him who
comes to me I will not cast out."
Then she wrote the words of our hymn 693 through which so many
have been helped to take a forward step on their Christian journeys.
Charlotte Elliott's hymn has long been one of the church's favorites.
It is a meditation on and interpretation of parts of the sixth
chapter of John which, as we discussed last week, is itself a
meditation on and interpretation of the story of the feeding of
the 5000 and the Eucharist to which it points. In it she affirms
and responds to Christ's invitation to bring all of who we are
just as we are; often with many a conflict and many a doubt; fightings
and fears within without; in need of sight, riches and healing
of the mind; to be fed by him trusting in his promise to receive,
welcome, pardon, cleanse and relieve because his love has broken
every barrier down and it is his will to envelope and redeem all
of who we are and all of who we can be with his love and raise
us up on the last day.
It helps us understand today's Gospel lesson if we keep in mind
two important things about the Jesus and the community of and
to which it speaks.
First, it is often said that the reason that Jesus was crucified
was that he didn't care who he ate with. Over and over again we
see in the gospels the statement "He even eats with tax collectors
and sinners" The Judaism of Jesus' day had many rules about
what you could eat and with whom you could eat it and some, especially
among the Pharisees, demanded a very strict adherence to these
rules. Jesus was happy to eat with anybody who invited him to
be his or her guest and when he hosted a meal everybody was welcome.
Everybody was invited to join him and everyone was urged to receive
all that he had to offer.
The story of the feeding of the 5000, on which today's gospel
lesson is based, suggests that the only requirement for sharing
in that great picnic was a willingness to be taught by Jesus.
There was no guest list and there were no bouncers. It didn't
make any difference who you were or where you came from. If you
were there you were welcome to join in the party, just as you
were, and to enjoy all you needed of the bread which was being
shared.
The second important thing to keep in mind is that it would seem
that the gospel of John was written to and for a Christian community
which had recently been expelled from, forbidden participation
in, the life of the synagogue.
To make a long and somewhat complicated story very short, and
I hope simple, the Palestinian Judaism of the early first century
had many different groups and traditions within it; kind of like
the current Christian Church with its many different denominations
and its tremendous variety of ways of thinking and believing and
acting.
Among these many different groups and traditions within early
first century Palestinian Judaism were those called "The
Jesus People". These "Jesus People" , these early
Palestinian Christians, were considered ,by themselves and others,
as one of these groups within Judaism.
After the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 AD there was an effort
to define more restrictively what was and what was not acceptable
within the Jewish community. The tradition of the Pharisees, with
its emphasis on ritual purity and obedience to the letter of the
law, as that tradition understood the law, won out. Those who
believed that Jesus was the true revelation of the nature of God
and who shared table fellowship with those who lived outside of
the strict obedience to the law were expelled from the life and
worship of the synagogue community.
To this exiled, Christian community the Jesus of John's gospel
says:
All that the Father gives to me will come to me; and him who comes
to me I will not cast out. .
This is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing
of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day.
.
This is the will of my Father, that every one who sees the Son
and believes in him should have eternal life
It is belief and trust in who Jesus is and what Jesus is about
that makes the difference and not any particular interpretation
of any particular law or tradition.
And what the Jesus of John's gospel says to that Christian community
he says to his church for all time: All that the Father gives
to me will come to me; and him who comes to me I will not cast
out. . It is belief and trust in who Jesus is and what Jesus is
about that makes the difference and not any particular interpretation
of any particular law or tradition.
We in the Episcopal Church enjoyed a tremendous amount of free
publicity this week as the national and international media invited
the world to watch with us the process by which Gene Robinson's
election as Bishop of New Hampshire was confirmed by our General
Convention. Many among us would say that this week the world saw
the Episcopal Church at its best; many others among us would say
that this week the world it saw the Episcopal Church at its worst
. We are a church deeply divided in our beliefs and feelings about
what happened there.
Much about this convention took me back to the convention in 1976
where I, an ordained deacon, sat with some 80 of my sister deacons
and watched and waited while our church made its decision about
whether or not we could be ordained priests.
When the affirming vote came in a priest sitting next to me put
his head in his hands and sobbed as if his heart would break.
We had talked earlier in the day and I knew what evoked the tears.
The church he knew and loved would never be the same again. It
had turned its back on a tradition he believed came from Jesus
Christ and he was devastated.
I can still feel his pain today along with the pain I experienced
knowing that it was the conviction I and others held that this
was God's will for his church and the step into priesthood that
I was seeking to take that were causing him such anguish.
I left that convention to fly back to Lancaster, PA to take the
funeral of a parishioner whose 85 year old house bound sister,
Ethel, I had come to know very well. When I arrived at Ethel's
house to plan her sister's service with her she began bouncing
up and down in her chair, clapping her hands enthusiastically
and saying: "It's so wonderful. I can hardly believe the
fact that at long last, and before I die, I as a woman am a first
class member of my church." She went on about this for several
minutes before we got around to planning her sister's service
and I continue to smile every time I remember her joy filled face.
No two people could have felt more differently about the action
our church had taken. I expect that this range of feelings is
present in this congregation here this morning about the action
our church took this last Wednesday. It is not appropriate for
a visiting supply priest to deal with the issues involved in this
decision from the pulpit. That is your rector's privilege when
he is able to return to you.
What is appropriate for anyone preaching on today's Gospel lesson
on this Sunday in our church's history is to say that we are what
this lesson is all about. As our former Presiding Bishop Ed Browning
used to say, "We are a church with no outcasts"
Each of us, whatever our understandings of homosexuality; whatever
our beliefs about appropriate sexual behavior within any sexual
orientation; whatever our beliefs about the tradition of the church
vis a vie its ordained ministry; whatever our beliefs about God's
call to his Episcopal Church and what it means to be faithful
to it; we are all called to faith in Jesus Christ.
We are all called to his table knowing that no one who comes will
ever be turned away. The only requirements are: an openness to
receive all that Jesus would do in us and through us and a willingness
to share this meal with people with whom we cannot agree about
this and probably a host of other issues.
We come just as we are to a Living Lord whose will it is to welcome
each and every one of us and to raise us up on the last day.
Amen.
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Sermon by R. Jane
Williams
Priest Associate, Christ Church, Reading
August 10, 2003
Proper 14B.RCL
This past week has been an incredibly intense time in our national
church, hasn't it? It seems, the whole world has been watching
-- judging by the number of times NPR, CNN, CBS and all the rest
mentioned our national Convention and the issues before it. (And
while I think of it, don't believe everything you read under my
picture in the paper.)
I am incredibly moved by the genius of our Anglican heritage in
the Episcopal Church. Episcopalians always welcome people into
a big tent -- a tent that includes and honors many opposing viewpoints.
It is a genius found in the works of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin
Luther King -- that welcoming attitude recognizes that through
our baptism our connection to one another in the body of Christ
transcends any and all of our passionately held differences on
social ethics, politics, and all else.
What we saw on the floor of the House of Deputies and the House
of Bishops this week was a model, however imperfect, of heart
to heart, spirit to Spirit dialogue which concentrated not on
name-calling and anger, but rather on the knowledge that as children
of God and brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ, we all eat at
the same table in this world, and will again be together around
Christ's banquet table in the world to come. We value and love
each other in spite of our differences because we will live in
the same household of faith forever. It is mighty difficult to
haughtily and arrogantly pronounce a brother or sister to be damned
and out of the grace of God when you must sit beside that same
brother and sister around the Lord's table at Eucharist.
We are taught from baptism onward that we are all knitted together
in the body of Christ (the lection from Ephesians told us that
last week) and that because we are members of one another (this
week's lection from Ephesians tells us that), connected intimately
with each other in this world and in the next, we are to live
and relate to each other in ways that build community.
It has been a hard week -- and a joyful week. Hard because the
issues before the General Convention required risks of trust and
grace on all sides. And hard because, in the discernment of the
delegates to allow the election of Canon Gene Robinson by his
New Hampshire diocese to proceed unimpeded, some are left fearful,
some deeply troubled, and some angered.
It has been joyful because despite threats by a small (a very
small) number of congregations, our community of Christ in the
Episcopal Church has not only held together but has been strengthened
by the experience of compassion and respect afforded all persons
regardless of opinions. And joyful also because the circle of
those at God's table has been widened to include gay and lesbian
persons previously expected to hide who they were in order to
answer God's call as Christians.
This week's passage from Ephesians addresses the issues of daily
life that we saw were necessary to allow God's transforming love
to change even the most passionate debate and disagreement into
a community of mutual respect and compassion.
"So then, putting away falsehood, let all of us speak the
truth to our neighbors . . ." says Paul. Let's not lie or
even embellish the truth about our neighbor -- let's not allege
harassment where there was none -- let's not insinuate less than
honest motives of another to win our argument -- let's not embroider
what we claim as true so as to appear better or smarter or more
moral or more righteous than our neighbor. Why not?
Because, says Paul, "we are members of one another."
We are part of one body, one community, and wounding another person
wounds us all.
"Be angry, but do not sin" says Paul. For all of you
out there who think God has somehow told us that anger is a sin,
listen up.
"Be angry, but do not sin." Anger is something that
we have little control over feeling. But we can choose what we
do with anger, and, says Paul, we can and must choose not to behave
sinfully. Be angry, but don't plot revenge. Be angry, but don't
try to hurt the other. Be angry, but don't hold onto it and allow
it to poison you and the relationship.
"Work honestly . . . " says Paul. Don't cover up corporate
wrongs, don't gain advantage over others by cheating them, don't
try to become wealthy while your workers struggle to maintain
their way of life. Work honestly.
Why?
Because, says Paul, it is our obligation to share something with
those who need it. Have you read about the Governor in Arkansas
who is finding himself the center of controversy in that state
and across the US? He is a conservative and a Republican, not
the usual description of someone who would consider raising taxes,
and especially not raising them on wealthier citizens and corporations.
This man, however, says that in reading his Bible closely, he
has had a change of heart and believes that he is called to increase
the taxes of those who can most afford to pay in order to lessen
the burden on the poorest of Arkansas' citizens (who currently
pay taxes if they have income of $5000 and up).
"Work honestly . . . so as to have something
to share with the needy."
Then, says Paul, "Let no evil talk come out of your mouths,
but only what is useful for building up." How hard can that
be?
Well, think over the past several days. Is there anything you
might have said that was critical of someone? Anything that might
have pointed out their shortcomings? Anything that wasn't true,
that alleged something negative about someone? Anything said in
anger and intended to hurt?
No? Wow! You are definitely ahead of me in Paul's book. I think
I'm rather average, but this is one standard of Christian life
that I really have to struggle with now and then. I wouldn't exactly
call it "speaking evil", but sometimes when I look over
my day, I wince at something I said that definitely would not
be in the category of building and enriching community. No, I'm
not slandering or criticizing any of you, but I can get mighty
negative when it comes to folks I disagree with in the local and
national political scene.
Are we asked to be goody-goodies and say something nice about
everyone no matter how negative their behavior? No, of course
not. But we ARE asked to build community, not to criticize and
catastrophize about situations such that we begin to feel there
is no hope for the future, no hope for change. And we all know
people that seem to get on a roll when they start to talk -- and
there is nothing positive that comes out of their mouths. We feel
depressed around them, and often end up avoiding them. And perhaps
we are one of them on occasion.
Certainly some of Jesus' boyhood friends were all too ready to
speak evil of him -- as he preached in the synagogue, some of
them complained. "Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose
father and mother we know? What gives him the right to say he
has come down from heaven?"
"[Speak] only what is useful for building up," Paul
says.
Why?
"So that your words may give grace to those who hear."
It is so easy to be cynical and critical. Paul tells us that as
children of God, baptized into a new life, we are to strive to
live differently, so that we may offer not depression and hopelessness
but hope . . . Hope because we are forgiven all by God in Christ
. . . Hope that we can make a difference in the world (however
small) by living as Christ's heart and hands . . . Hope that in
Christian community we may find those who are also baptized into
a new life and who want to encourage us and themselves to live
lives of tenderheartedness, forgiveness for each other, and kindness
in all things.
There is no way we can do this on our own. Lone Rangers are heroes
only on television. We can only live as people of hope when we
are reminded over and over in community that there is reason for
hope.
Our hope is in the Lord . . . in God, however we understand God
. . . as Spirit, Higher Power, Creator, Healer, the One, Yahweh,
Wisdom . . .
Our hope is in the God who loves us enough to make us family,
the God whom Jesus called Abba, "Dad", the God who protects
us like a mother hen, the God who is beyond gender and beyond
all names but who calls us by name and who once lived with us
as one of us.
Our hope comes from this God whose love for us was embodied in
human form in Jesus, and who allowed Jesus Christ to be sentenced
to death as a result of human hatred and evil talk and sin and
dishonesty.
In his dying, Christ showed us the infinite depth and breadth
and height of God's love, that God would not allow even the finality
and hopelessness of death to prevail. Love prevailed. In Christ's
resurrection, we know that our deaths will only be a transition
into a new reality where we will be welcomed to one large family
where there are no divisions -- not of color or gender or age
or citizenship or wealth or anything that may divide us in this
life.
We will be nourished then by heavenly bread, shared with all around
the table.
And today, as a hint of that heavenly banquet, we break bread
around our table -- together, with no divisions. And as we bless
and break the bread and bless and share the wine, Jesus is here
with us.
"I am the bread of life," he whispers to us. "Whoever
comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will
never be thirsty."
He gives himself to us without asking who we are or whether we
deserve him. All he asks of us is to offer ourselves to the world.
People of hope.
Amen
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Croutons,
I have used this LONG stretch of John 6 to
do four "teaching sermons" on the Holy Eucharist as
it pertains to us as Episcopalians---this being said--I also felt
that I had to address the goings-on of the last two weeks as well.
What I did is below--
Scott+
Alive and Well in Schnecksville
Proper 15B RCL
August 10, 2003
In the name of the Christ whose Body is food and
whose blood is drink. AMEN
Today is the third installment of John 6 and our
further exploration of the meaning–both spiritual and ecclesial
of the sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood. But today Jesus
takes it up a notch—those who eat this ritual meal become
mystically connected to the death and resurrection of Christ.
It is because of faithful receiving that people somehow develop
a predisposition of eternal life.
How is this? How can this be if it's not a head
trip—if it's not entirely up to the recipient?
I am reading a book called "Practicing Resurrection"
by Nora Gallagher—some of you read her first book–"Seen
and Unseen–a year lived in faith". In her second book
she explores her life in an Episcopal parish in California and
her own discernment to become a priest herself. She speaks a lot
about the Eucharist and she quotes from St. Augustine when she
quotes a sermon he preached to some newly baptized Christians
"You are the Body of Christ and its members...It is your
own mystery that is placed on the Lord’s Table. And it is
to what you are that you reply Amen."
With these profound words I would invite you into
this passage from John as it is not nly God’s mystery we
place on the table at the offertory—but our own mystery
as well—all of it—all of our wonderful complexity,
our unanswered questions, our God-image, in which we were created,
reaching and touching its origins. Unless you eat the flesh of
the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life within you".
What do we acknowledge when we do this? How does
life come to us in this sacrament?
First I believe that life comes to us when we truly
understand that we consume Jesus–that is that we somehow
have a first part in his persecution, crucifixion and death. And
that he did not return violence for violence.
We also have his resurrection—although we
consume, God is not consumed. In fact he irony is that God starts
to consume us when we move to that place beyond words as we partake
of this sacrament.
It is a mystery that is only comprehended by the
heart and spirit. Somehow as we try and explain this sacrament
in great detail we start to lose its mysterious power to change
our lives (read some Thomas Aquinas sometime). It is not a head
or intellectual exercise. It’s a spirit/soul/intuition exercise.
We are invited and allow ourselves to just enter into it.
For many years the Episcopal Church only allowed
confirmed adults to take communion—this was a departure
from the Early Church which allowed all baptized persons to take
it. And we turned it into an activity that needed to be understood
completely—like bridge, or word processing, or a club. I
had many parishioners come up to me after we started communing
baptized children and say they were offended because 1) THEY had
to wait until after Confirmation Class and 2) They DIDN’T
understand it.
My first reaction to both of these is that the Eucharist
is a gracious gift from God–not a reward for suffering through
Confirmation Class--we have no real right (except for notorious
sin and scandal) to withhold it from anyone who is baptized and
2) Do you understand it? I certainly don’t and I consecrate
it! All I know is that somehow, some way I am graced by its taking,
that somehow God is present in it in a way that nothing else in
my life is. It is a handle or point of contact with the whole
mystery of why the Omnipotent God who dwells in inaccessible light
could take on human flesh and dwell among and submit to a criminal’s
execution and rise again on the third day—destroying death
and grafting me forever into that God’s eternal life.
Just how Christ becomes bread and wine is a mystery
to me. And I think if I ever approach understanding it I will
be dangerously close to missing its whole point. It is given in
grace and I receive in faith–that’s about all. Its
Christ’s Body and Blood REALLY and how that is, how its
made that way and what effect it has on me is a total mystery.
A word about mystery–we need it in our lives,
we have it in our lives—in love we enter into a mystery–how
and why I love someone is not totally understood by me. Something
larger than ourselves draws us into contemplation and meditation,
it makes us less self-centered and more able to see ourselves
in a realistic way. Mystery inspires us to walk in places in which
we couldn’t walk before—it gives rise to art and literature
and poetry and creative thought and actions.
But this is not held by everyone in the Church,
unfortunately. Many see Church as a set of rules and prescribed
behaviors, not based on love alone, but on understood norms formed
over the centuries. Now this makes God and religion much more
palatable, much more understood but not more mysterious. To relegate
God and God’s Holy Spirit to a series of predictable formulas
is to do harm to who God can be in our lives. It doesn’t
leave room for our continual conversion to the Gospel. It doesn’t
leave room for the revelation of who God is to continually unfold
for us. Some of this is demonstrated in the actions and responses
to our recently held General Convention.
Just a word about that. I have intentionally not
said much as I have an axe to grind in that matter–as you
all know. And I can’t stand the "bully pulpit"
as a way for preachers to promote their own agenda—I hope
that I stick to the Gospel agenda in most cases.
Those who predict gloom and doom have always done
so–when we ordained women to the priesthood most recently.
The consecration of Barbara Harris as the first female bishop
of the Church was met with rejection by many in our Episcopal
Church and around the world in our larger Anglican Communion.
The inclusion of gay and lesbian persons in the
life of the leadership in our Church is not new—what’s
new is that people can now be honest. And that’s the point—we
can reveal ourselves to one another, we no longer have withhold
secrets which destroy and weaken community. We can learn to love
in deeper and more meaningful ways.
|Walter Bruggeman, an Old Testament scholar, once
described the books of the Old Testament as a struggle—a
struggle between the Law and the Prophets. The Law serves Israel
as a guideline, but the Prophets challenge certain interpretations
of the Law –predicting the end to its harsher edges, predicting
the Covenant may not be for Israel alone and that Gentiles will
see the salvation of Yahweh. That God will break open in unexpected
ways upon all people.
That struggle he hypothesizes continues to this
day -- Christianity came by it honestly. The Law says some things
are forbidden, the Prophets say the Spirit will do what it will
and can change the Law as the community comes to a majority understanding
of the Law’s true intent. Those who hold to Law will resist
and reject change, those who are inspired by the witness of the
prophets will welcome new revelation, embrace it, find the discomfort
it offers a witness to a God who remains mysterious and wild.
The Episcopal Church will weather this storm, we
will be better for it–although some pain will occur. My
quote in last Monday’s Morning Call was part of a larger
statement which said that it is unfortunate that many in our Episcopal
Church and larger Anglican Communion are perplexed and angry right
now. And because they are my brothers and sisters I am obligated
to feel that pain with them, to try understand their sorrow and
loss and to love them as our Lord would have us do.
But that needs to be held in tension with the untold
suffering of faithful gay and lesbian Christians over the centuries.
The inability to change an orientation and feeling self-hate and
loathing while loving God and knowing that God loved them, but
had no way to live that out. Many killed themselves or entered
into heterosexual marriages that were neither wholesome or meeting
the objectives of marriage.
One suffering is not better than the other. One
brother or sister in pain is no less cause for us to be more loving,
more challenged by the Spirit of the Gospels.
It is the same blood of Christ we are all under,
it is the same redemption we share in the Incarnation and Resurrection.
It is the same Body and Blood we consume. A "traditionalist"
Christ is not at Whitehall today and "progressive" Christ
in Schnecksville. Christ is simply present to his people in the
Eucharist, whatever their emotions at any given time. Christ is
present–healing, loving, making whole that which was broken,
strengthening the Body to be the Body in the world—to continue
his work of redemption and grace—mending the creation broken
by sin and alienation.
It is to this Eucharist (this sacrifice Thanksgiving)
we are called, it is to this Christ we must always submit. It
is the mystery of God who gives eternal life to sinners like us
only and solely because he loves us. It is the way we live in
Jesus. This is our life, this is our destiny, this is our future.
AMEN
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