8th Sunday after Pentecost--Proper 10C

8th Sunday after Pentecost-Proper 10C July 10, 2016 In her book-length study of Jesus's parables (Short Stories by Jesus, 2014), Amy-Jill Levine, a Jewish scholar who studies and writes about Jesus, suggests that religion is meant "to comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable." She goes on to argue that we would do well to think of the parables of Jesus as doing this afflicting. "Therefore, if we hear a parable and think, 'I really like that' or, worse, fail to take any challenge, we are not listening well enough." I’ve been wrestling with that this week. It’s difficult to hear this comfortable parable and feel challenged or afflicted. Then, a few days ago, a news story came across my Facebook newsfeed. It’s a story that is set near Jerusalem about a Palestinian doctor named Dr. Ali Shroukh. Dr. Shroukh, who is 45, was traveling with his brother to Jerusalem to join in Ramadan prayers, when he came across a horrible accident on the side of the road. Another Palestinian greeted him and told him that there was an injured girl in his car. Dr. Shrouk and his brother stopped to see how they could help, and he began to treat the injured girl. Soon, the medics arrived on the scene, and a Palestinian medic warned Dr. Shroukh that he needed to leave. He explained to Dr. Shroukh that the car had crashed after a Palestinian gunman fired on it, killing the driver, Rabbi Michael Mark, 46, a father of 10. His wife was critically injured, and one of the two children in the car, a teenage girl, was seriously wounded. The family was on its way to Jerusalem to visit Rabbi Mark’s mother. Dr. Shroukh had stopped to help a family of Jewish settlers who had been the target of a terrorist attack by a fellow Palestinian. But Dr. Shroukh would not leave until he was certain that the girl he had treated was being properly cared for by the medics. This modern day version of Jesus’s parable of the Good Samaritan helps us begin to understand a little of the discomfort that his original listeners might have experienced. It tells the story of long-time enemies, and how one overcame prejudice to help a person in need, regardless of nationality. If we are to be truly afflicted by this parable, then we must ask ourselves, who do I consider to be my enemy? Of whom am I most afraid? And then imagine that we are passing that person or group injured on the side of the road. Or even more afflicting is to imagine that we ourselves are injured and that one we consider to be our enemy is the one who stops to offer us kindness and aid. Amy-Jill Levine writes of this, “To hear this parable in contemporary terms, we should think of ourselves as the person in the ditch, and then ask, ‘Is there anyone, from any group, about whom we’d rather die than acknowledge, ‘She offered help’ or ‘He showed compassion’? More is there any group whose members might rather die than help us? If so, then we know how to find the modern equivalent for the Samaritan.” What does it look like for us, in our everyday lives, to show mercy or kindness to one we consider our enemy? It means really and truly seeing them in their weakness and vulnerability, drawing close to them, and then acting with compassion toward them. What does it look like for us, in our every day lives, to receive mercy or kindness from our enemy? It means allowing them to get close enough to us in a time of vulnerability so that they may offer compassion. I think it is safe to say that we have all been shocked and aggrieved by the events of this week—the killings of Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, and the 5 police officers in Dallas. We are afflicted with the truth of this parable even more, but it is not an easy or comfortable truth. We certainly are invited to reimagine who is our neighbor, to offer all people mercy (or kindness—as one translation puts it—literally making the stranger our kin, or our family). But there is a part of being a good neighbor that requires a certain degree of inward focus, a certain degree of self-awareness. And here is where it truly gets afflicting, my friends. Several years ago, while I still worked at Stewpot, we had a staff training day. The staff there was very racially diverse and we had a sort of camaraderie that is often formed when people are working “in the trenches” together. I will never forget this particular exercise, which had us all line up across the middle of the room together. The facilitator told us that she was going to ask us some questions, and if we agreed, we took a step forward and if we disagreed, we took a step back. The goal was to try to get to the front of the room. She started with the questions, and I was thrilled as I got to move steadily, step by step, toward the front of the room (y’all know how I like to win!). But then the facilitator made those of us out in front stop and turn around, and I realized with horror what was happening. The questions that I had never even thought twice about which were sending me to the front of the room in blissful naivete, were sending my black friends and colleagues, step by step to the back of the room. Questions such as: if you have never had to think twice about calling the police; if you have never had someone look at you in a suspicious way in a store; if your parents did not have to work two jobs and/or nights or weekends to support you; if your parents and grandparents could live in any part of town that they wanted. And I will never forget the look on my friends faces. It was not surprise or shock or horror. It was resignation. My friends, we cannot truly be a good neighbor unless we truly see the other and truly see ourselves in relationship to them. We cannot truly be a good neighbor when we go about our lives oblivious to the power structure that undergirds our entire society. We cannot be a good neighbor if we cannot stop being defensive and admit that it’s not always about how hard a person works or what they earn for themselves, but that we live in a world where our skin color affords us a privilege that others do not experience. Just today, an African-American woman named Natasha Howell shared a personal experience on her Facebook page and it has gone viral. She wrote, “So this morning, I went into a convenience store to get a protein bar. As I walked through the door, I noticed that there were two white police officers…talking to the clerk…about the shootings that have gone on in the past few days. They all looked at me and fell silent. I went about my business to get what I was looking for, and as I turned back up the aisle to pay, the older officer was standing at the top of the aisle watching me. As I got closer he asked me, “How are you doing?” I replied, “OK, and you?” He looked at me with a strange look and asked me, ‘How are you really doing?” I looked at him and said, ‘I’m tired!’ His reply was ‘me too’. Then he said I guess it’s not easy being either of us right now, is it.’ I said ‘no it’s not.’ Then he hugged me and I cried. I had never seen that man before in my life. I have no idea why he was moved to talk to me. What I do know is that he and I shared a moment this morning, that was absolutely beautiful. No judgements, no justifications, just two people sharing a moment. #foundamomentofclarity. Being a good neighbor means knowing who we are, and being open to see the other and be vulnerable in that encounter. This week, if we are truly going to be afflicted or transformed by this oh, so familiar story, then we must go and do likewise.

7th Sunday after Pentecost- Proper 9C

7th Sunday after Pentecost--Proper 9C July 3, 2016 I have spent a great number of hours this week on a project for the diocese. Through my work with the Commission on Ministry, I have been working with a small group to revise and overhaul the discernment policies of the diocese. So we’ve been working with the process that the local churches and the whole diocese uses when an individual wants to discern or test a call to ordained ministry. This document spends a great deal of time and energy explaining that for Anglicans, (that means us!), individuals don’t just hear a call on their own, head off to seminary and then get ordained. Rather, we do our discernment work in community. A group from the person’s local parish or mission is formed to help listen and discern, and then there are others in the process, the bishop, a diocesan committee, even mental health therapists, that also do this work of listening for call in an individual’s life. I think so much time and energy is spent in the document in explaining this work of discernment in community because it is foreign to us, even in the church. As Americans we value our independence; we value the fact that people can be self-made, not having to rely on their families or tribes in order to be successful. We value the fact that a person can decide what he or she wants to do and then go and do it. But our church is telling us that we hear call in Christian community, and our system is set up to honor and promote that. I’ve really been struggling this week with how and what to preach today, so I’m just going to lay my dilemma out there for you. All over the country folks are celebrating the 4th of July—our Independence Day. And yet, our readings for this Sunday give us a dramatically different picture. In fact, our readings for today seem to promote interdependence in the way of faith, in discipleship, and in the Christian life as opposed to independence. In the Old Testament reading, we see the very powerful Namaan trying to find a way to heal his own leprosy. But healing leprosy is something that is beyond his power. Finally, he takes counsel from one of the most powerless and dependent—his wife’s servant girl, and he heads to see the prophet Elisha. But when Elisha gives him the treatment, Namaan thinks it is all beneath him and prepares to go away angry and insulted, until some more powerless, dependent servants once again intervene and ask, “What’s it going to hurt to try it?” Namaan is healed, and he gets converted to following Yaweh in the lines just beyond today’s passage. In the reading from Galatians, Paul makes it very clear that the Christian community must rely on one another, offering hospitality and pastoral care to each other, “bearing one anothers’ burdens”. And in the gospel, we have the sending out of the 70 to spread the good news. Jesus commissions them, giving them very specific instructions. Go out in pairs. Don’t take anything extra with you. Stay with whomever offers you hospitality on your way; don’t move from place to place. If someone rejects you, don’t react in anger or force. Just move on. And spread the good news of the kingdom of God. This is a picture of discipleship that is very uncomfortable to us. It is a picture of vulnerability. It is a picture of non-retaliation against enemies. It is a picture of reliance upon the hospitality and generosity of strangers. It is a picture of interdependence and dependence. So you see my dilemma this week, and I’m afraid that I have more questions for you than answers. We value the freedom that we have as citizens of this country. But how do we faithfully practice independence, when Jesus clearly calls us to interdependence? How do we live out this tension between being a person of faith who is called to this interdependence when our country continues to grow more and more polarized and invulnerable to strangers and folks who hold “the opposing view”? How do we live and move within this society and culture that practically worships independence, while practicing the faithful discipleship that is rooted in vulnerability and interdependence?

Pentecost Year C

Pentecost Year C 2016 May 15, 2016 Today is the Feast Day of Pentecost. One of 7 major feasts in the life of the church, on this day we mark and remember the birth of the Christian church through the gift of the Holy Spirit. We see this in our reading from the Acts of the Apostles for today. The disciples are gathered in Jerusalem all together for the Jewish feast of Pentecost—a celebration of the giving of the Torah and a sort of homecoming when people all came back to Jerusalem. As they are gathered together, Acts tells us that suddenly there comes from heaven the sound like the rush of a violent wind which filled the entire house. And then divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages…” And thus the church was born. Pentecost is a day that is also especially appropriate for baptisms, and when we don’t have any baptisms (like today—it seems that everyone is saving up their baptisms for the bishop’s visit in a few weeks!), then we renew our baptismal covenant and are sprinkled with holy water to help us reconnect and remember. We reconnect with and remember the promises that we made (or were made for us) at our baptism, and we reconnect with and remember God’s gift of the Holy Spirit to us at our baptisms. But here’s the thing about Pentecost that I never realized until someone else showed me this. On Pentecost, we aren’t just celebrating the birth of the church in a once long-ago-event. On Pentecost we remember and celebrate the fact that Pentecost has happened over and over and over again throughout the life of the church! Think about all those stories in the Acts of the Apostles that we have heard this Easter season, when the apostles are converted (both Peter and Paul) through the power and presence of the Holy Spirit. Think of all the amazing things that they are able to do—miraculous healings, bringing Tabitha back from the dead, freedom from imprisonment, and all the people that they converted to following the gospel—all in fulfillment of Jesus’s promise that we hear today that through the gift of the Holy Spirit they will be able to do all that he has done and even greater things! But these Pentecosts are not limited to the stories in scripture. As we mark the 75th anniversary of the founding of St. Columb’s (which we will celebrate at the Bishop’s visit on June 5th when we also celebrate the Feast of St. Columba), think about all the Pentecosts that we at St. Columb’s have experienced. The times when the Holy Spirit has shown up and inspired us with new vision, creating and re-creating, empowering and emboldening us to go where we otherwise might not go; the inexplicable peace which often comes; and the passion and new life and new energy that the Spirit gives birth to. In 1941- when 9 women and 3 men from St. Andrew’s had a vision of an Episcopal church to be planted in the thriving neighborhood of West Jackson—that was Pentecost. In 1994, when that community had a vision of hope that they might be a thriving faith community once again and decided to move and bought 9 acres of land in Ridgeland—that was Pentecost. In 2009 with the building of the new nave and yet another vision of hope and vitality—that was Pentecost. And those are just the ones recorded in our history. There’s just no telling how many millions of Pentecosts this community and the individuals who belong to it have experienced since we were founded 75 years ago. And the Holy Spirit is not done with us yet! Now is a Pentecost time in the life of this church. The Holy Spirit is among us energizing us, inspiring us to creativity, strengthening the bonds of affection, and giving us courage and vision for the future. Your vestry has just made the decision to hire a brand new consultant to do a feasibility study for a new capital campaign. His name is JR Lander, and he is from Jackson. His parents worship at the Cathedral, and he is a seminary classmate of mine. JR has a great deal of experience in stewardship (which you will hear more about later), and he is brand new at capital campaign consulting, so he brings a new wind and a new creativity with him to this work with us. And even though we do have significant debt to pay off on this building, the feasibility study will also be investigating new options, new possibilities for mission and ministry that we might commit to together. My dear friends, do you feel the winds of the Holy Spirit blowing among us? Can you trust that the Holy Spirit is lighting a fire in our hearts to recreate, re-energize, and renew us? We have so much good news and hope and kindness to offer to a needy and hungry world! And together, we will. For Pentecost is now!

4th Sunday after Pentecost--Proper 6C

4th Sunday after Pentecost--Proper 6C June 12, 2016 I was watching the season finale of a popular network tv medical drama this past week. And I was struck when the main character complained of another, more emotive character that she let all her feelings just come pouring out of her everywhere. When the two characters had an encounter later in the show, the less emotive one said to the other, “Just stuff your feelings down! Just stuff them down deep so they don’t come pouring out onto everyone!” At the time, I thought, “what a horrible and dysfunctional way to live—to stuff your feelings down so deep that no one really knows what you are feeling”. But I will confess that when I read the gospel reading for this Sunday, that was my initial reaction for the woman who washes Jesus’s feet. Good grief, woman! You are in the middle of the dinner party. I get that you are grateful to Jesus, but really, stuff your feelings down, stop making a spectacle and let’s get on with the meal! That also seems to be the reaction that others at the dinner party are having, including Jesus’s host—Simon the Pharisee who is one of the faithful religious folk to the day—not so different from us. And so Jesus asks Simon a question in the form of a parable. He talks about two different debtors, one of whom owes 500 and the other 50. Both find that their debts are forgiven, but the one who owed more is the more grateful one. Then Jesus brings it back to the current scenario with the enigmatic statement: “Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.” Jesus, it seems, is not in favor of the “stuffing your feelings down” school of behavior. So what does this mean for us? Where is the good news in this? I suspect that there are some of us here today who identify with the woman. We have done something in your life that for which we carry a great deal of regret and maybe even shame; we know that this something separates us in relationship with God and with other people. In some way, we have had an encounter with Jesus, like this woman must have had prior to the dinner party, when Jesus looks at her, knows her, loves her, and assures her that her sins are forgiven. Then she is so grateful, she is overbrimming with love, and she shows up at the dinner party to offer her thanks to Jesus. (If you have not had this experience and you long for it, we have a sacrament called Reconciliation of a Penitent that can help you with this. Call me, and I’ll tell you more about it.) But others of us are more like Simon the Pharisee. Our sinfulness is not something that is always hanging over us, ever present with us. It affects our relationships with God and others, but we’re not really aware of it. We don’t think of ourselves as sinful people; we might think of others as sinful people, but not ourselves… For us, the debt that has been forgiven is the smaller one, and we are those who “having been forgiven little, we love little.” We are the ones at the dinner party who want the woman to quit making a spectacle and stuff her feelings down deep inside, so we can get on with our nice dinner. This past week, I said something that was uncharitable and judgmental about someone else in passing-just some small, nasty remark. My husband looked at me and said, “You don’t like very many people, do you?” I was struck, because that is not the way that I see myself. So I asked myself, “Huh, I wonder what is going on with me now?” As I began to delve deeper, I discovered that I had spent very little time in reflection or introspection over the last month, and I definitely needed to delve a little bit deeper in my own soul. This past week, Parker Palmer posted a poem that I had read before (and maybe even preached on), and one part in particular struck me anew. The poem is titled Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye, and it is a powerful and gritty reflection on how suffering can be transformed. In the last two stanzas, Nye speaks about how we know kindness after we have also known loss: Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend. Perhaps what Nye and the gospel reading tells us this week is that for those of us who do “stuff our feelings down,” then perhaps we need to spend some time dipping down into that well, where our losses and our failures dwell. Gradually, draw them upward into the light and offer them to God and ask for redemption, for healing, for forgiveness. Then we will know the power of forgiveness in our own lives; we will become reacquainted with the love of God for each and everyone of us; and we will be able to offer kindness out of our own experiences. Does this make you uncomfortable? My dear ones, that is actually the good news, the love and forgiveness of God already at work in you. And that is where we begin.

The Third Sunday of Easter Year C

Third Sunday of Easter Year C April 10, 2016 Do we really still believe in transformation, in conversion? Our stories from Acts and John for today are stories of transformation and conversion, but they almost seem like fairy tales in the light of current events—an acrimonious national political landscape, Christians arguing in this state over religious discrimination versus the rights of business owners, all sorts of negative national media attention and boycotts for our beloved state. I will confess that this week, it has been hard for me to believe in transformation, in conversion. In the reading from Acts, we see a pivotal moment in the life of the Christian church. Saul of Tarsus, who is responsible for leading the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr, is “still breathing threats and murder” against the followers of the Way, and he sets out to go find more Christians in Damascus that he can bring to justice. But on the way to Damascus, something happens. Saul is knocked to the ground by a flash of blinding light and he hears the voice of the Resurrected Jesus asking Saul why he is persecuting Jesus. Saul never really answers the question, but he does what the Lord instructs and heads to Damascus where he blindly waits for three days. Now, I don’t know anybody who reads this lesson and identifies with Saul of Tarsus. He’s the bad guy of the story at this point, the one breathing threats and murder against our forefathers and mothers. We all would much rather identify with the persecuted followers of Jesus who are faithfully following the Way and doing what they are supposed to be doing. But, my dear friends, what we must remember today is that each of us, at one time or another in our lives, we have each been Saul. In fact, deep down in our hearts even now, each and every one of us is Saul! Each of us has been so convinced of our own righteous behavior that we have been unable to see what is right in front of us. Each of us has been so intent on “breathing threats and murder” against our opponents that we forget that they too are God’s children, our brothers and sisters. Each of us have zealously followed wrong paths blindly in a way that was injurious to those around us—driven by our ambition, our self-destructive habits, our selfish ways, our self-righteousness. Every one of us is Saul. But there is another conversion in this story. The Resurrected Jesus also appears to Annaias, a faithful disciple who is living in Damascus, and he tells Annaias to go seek out Saul and lay hands on him so he would regain his sight. But Annaias says to the Lord, “Look Lord, I know you may not know this, but I’ve heard about this Saul guy, and he’s a real jerk! I don’t really think that I should get tangled up with him—he’s really messed up a lot of our people already.” But Jesus tells him to go, that Saul will become an instrument for the Lord’s purposes. So Annaias is converted, and he goes and does what the Lord tells him, even though Saul is the enemy, even though he puts himself at great personal risk by going. So too, each one of us is Annaias, being converted to the way of the Lord despite our own judgements and pre-conceived notions, reaching out to our neighbors who are dangerous and threatening on the basis of sheer faith. Each and every one of us is Annaias. And then there’s Peter. Peter who in the midst of hope and confusion and shame (from his previous denial) at Jesus’s resurrection decides that he is going to go fishing to try to clear his head, and the other disciples go with him. But when Peter sees that the Lord is present, he jumps into the water and makes a mad dash toward him. And then he sits across the fire from Jesus, in a scene that is poignantly reminiscent of the story of the feeding of the five thousand with nothing but a few loaves and some fish, and Jesus offers him forgiveness, and purpose and belonging by a three-fold wiping of the slate from Peter’s previous denial by his invitation to a three-fold annunciation. Yes, Lord, I do love you, even though I forsake you before! Each one of us has been like Peter—longing for belonging and affirmation in a community, longing for forgiveness for our wrongs, and then receiving it all at the hands of Jesus while breaking bread and eating with him. Each and every one of us is Peter. What these almost fairy-tale like stories give us this week is a reminder that we are all in need of transformation, of conversion. They remind us that when we are open to the dream of God, then amazing things happen in lives and in our world. They remind us that with God all things are possible, and that God does not give up on any one of us—not Peter, not Annaias, not even Saul. This past week I read a poem and a true story posted by my mentor Parker Palmer on his Onbeing blog. The poem is Loaves and Fishes by David Whyte and it reads: Loaves and Fishes by David Whyte, from The House of Belonging This is not the age of information. This is NOT the age of information. Forget the news and the radio and the blurred screen. This is the time of loaves and fishes. People are hungry and one good word is bread for a thousand. After sharing this poem, Palmer writes about a recent experience he had in air travel. He boarded a 6 am flight that was delayed because the coffee service was also delayed. Eventually, the flight crew decided to go ahead and make the flight without the coffee, newspapers, or other food and beverages. As Parker sat at the front of the plane with the other “road warriors”—he notices that this already somewhat surly tribe began to get more and more disgruntled at the prospect of the early morning flight without their accustomed amenities. When the flight attendant came on the intercom, she gave her prepared spiel which was accompanied by much griping, eye rolling, and scorn from the road warriors, but then she did something unexpected. She said, “ ‘Now that I have your attention... I know you're upset about the coffee. Well, get over it! Start sharing stuff with your seatmates. That bag of five peanuts you got on your last flight and put in your pocket? Tear it open and pass them around! Got gum or mints? Share them! You can't read all the sections of your paper at once. Offer them to each other! Show off the pictures of kids and grandkids you have in your wallets!’" As she went on in that vein, people began laughing and doing what she had told them to do. A surly scene turned into summer camp!” An hour later, when Parker thanked her for her words, she “leaned down and whispered, ‘The loaves and fishes are not dead.’" Do we really still believe in transformation, in conversion? My dear ones, do not lose heart. "People are hungry / and one good word is bread / for a thousand." http://www.onbeing.org/blog/parker-palmer-loaves-and-fishes-are-not-dead/8574

The Day of Resurrection 2016

Easter Day 2016 I suspect that many of you have come here today with the secret hope of understanding or getting proof of the resurrection. Well, are you in luck! Because I am prepared to tell you the singular truth of this day, the most true thing about Jesus’s resurrection from the dead, why we celebrate today and every Sunday the Feast of the Lord’s resurrection. Are you ready to hear it? “Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit.” And that’s all I really need to say today. Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit. I guess I can go sit down now and we can continue on with our service. What’s that you say? You don’t know Latin? Oh, well in that case… “Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit” was a statement that was first coined by the philosopher Erasmus, but it was claimed and made popular by psychologist Carl Jung. He had it inscribed over the door of his home, and he had it inscribed on his tombstone. It means: Bidden or not bidden, God is present. (Or for those of you who were here for Good Friday, we might even say “Bidden or not bidden, God abides.) It is the deep truth of this day that shines in our gospel. In the darkness of a new day, In the shadows of the empty tomb, In the sad bewilderment of Mary, In the frantic running of his disciples, In the mysterious recognition when Jesus calls her by name, In the fulfillment of what could never even be hoped for: Bidden or not bidden, God is present. It is the deep truth that shines throughout God’s creation. In the gentleness of spring. In the rain and in the weeds. In the blossoms and in the pollen. Bidden or not bidden, God is present. It is the deep truth that shines in our world. In extraordinary acts of human kindness. In horrible acts of terror. In the loudness of politics. In the beauty of love which doesn’t count the cost. Bidden or not bidden, God is present. It is the deep truth that shines in our relationships. In our waking and in our sleeping. In our watching and our working. In our play and in our study. In our rejoicing and our mourning. Bidden or not bidden, God is present. It is the deep truth of all our meals. At the celebratory banquet. At the church potluck. At the intimate dinner. At the family dinner table. In the microwave meal for one. At the funeral meal and the last supper. At this table when we make thanksgiving. In that first bite of Easter’s first deviled egg. Bidden or not bidden, God is present. It is the deep truth that shines in our lives. In the scars from our failures. And in the joy of our triumphs. In our many loves and in our heartbreaks. In our gratitudes and in our sorrows. In our abiding and in our abandonment. In our life and in our death. Bidden or not bidden, God is present. So, when the echoing of the bells has ceased. When the Easter lilies have wilted and died. When our Alleluias become a little tired, a little less convicted. When you get frustrated with all the crazy political posts from your friends on Facebook or your elderly parent is failing or your kid has gotten into trouble at school again or you just can’t seem to catch up on that never-ending laundry, or your loneliness just seems to overwhelm you: May you remember the truth of this day. The truth of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead. “Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit” Bidden or not bidden, God is present.

Good Friday 2016

Good Friday 2016 I recently read a theological book that stated that God truly abandoned Jesus on the cross on Good Friday. But because of that abandonment, God never truly abandons us. While this is a valid theological perspective, I respectfully disagree. Now, there are plenty others who abandon Jesus. Judas is the first, leaving the Last Supper to betray Jesus to the authorities who want him dead. Peter abandons him by deny him thrice. Pretty much all his disciples besides John and the women abandon him as he is being crucified. Certainly each and every one of us has abandoned Jesus at one time or another and for most of us, it is not even a life-or-death kind of situation. It is usually through apathy, laziness, self-conceit. But abandonment is not the only story that is being told this day. There is also the story of abiding. Abiding is the exact opposite of abandoning. It is accepting or bearing, dwelling with, remaining and continuing. The gospel of John, out of all the gospels, lifts up this notion of abiding. We see it in the well-known verses of John 15:4-7: “Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. 5 I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. 6 Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. 7 If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.” Jesus shows us, today and always, that abiding is the very nature of God. And we are most fully God’s children, when we abide too. Perhaps this is part of why we gather here today. Because today, we choose not to abandon; we choose to abide—watching and remaining, bearing with and dwelling in pain, abiding even when it is “breathless and it’s empty”. In closing, I’ll share with you a Good Friday blessing by artist and United Methodist elder Jan Richardson. It is titled What Abides For Good Friday You will know this blessing by how it does not stay still, by the way it refuses to rest in one place. You will recognize it by how it takes first one form, then another: now running down the face of the mother who watches the breaking of the child she had borne, now in the stance of the woman who followed him here and will not leave him bereft. Now it twists in anguish on the mouth of the friend whom he loved; now it bares itself in the wound, the cry, the finishing and final breath. This blessing is not in any one of these alone. It is what binds them together. It is what dwells in the space between them, though it be torn and gaping. It is what abides in the tear the rending makes.