Easter 3A_2020

3rd Sunday of Easter Year A April 26, 2020 Last Sunday, I began my homily by sharing with you that I had been thinking about grief and hope the week before, and I had realized that grief doesn’t always look like grief, and hope doesn’t always look like hope. I then proceeded to talk about grief and how that connected to Thomas in last week’s gospel and how that may connect to our lives in our current situation. Spurred on by a small phrase in this week’s gospel, I’ve been thinking about hope, and how it doesn’t always look like what we expect hope to look like. Our gospel story for today is, perhaps, my favorite story in all of scripture. Definitely in my top 5. The story picks up immediately after Luke’s telling of the resurrection. Two of Jesus’s followers are on the way to Emmaus, and they are discussing the recent events of Jesus’s death and resurrection. Jesus, himself, joins them on the road, but they don’t recognize him. He asks what they are talking about, and they tell him; and buried in the heart of their telling is the little phrase that has so caught my attention: “but we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel”. “But we had hoped…” The story goes on to tell about how Jesus interprets the scriptures for them around himself, and when they get to where they are going, they invite him to stay and join them. Together they eat, and as Jesus blesses and breaks the bread for them, their eyes become opened, and they recognize him. They race back to Jerusalem (the 2nd 7 mile walk in that day) to tell the others the good news, saying to each other, “were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road…” It’s a beautiful story about how we encounter the Risen Christ in unexpected ways and places and how he often makes his presence known to us both in ordinary ways, such as meals together, as well as in one of our most sacred acts, the celebration of the Eucharist together. But this week, I am stuck by the poignancy of those four words those two men utter: “but we had hoped…” “It is said that Ernest Hemmingway was once challenged to write a short story in 6 words. He replied by taking out a pen and writing on a napkin: “For sale: baby shoes, never used.” ‘It’s not just the tragedy of what happened that hurts, but the gaping hole of all that could have happened but won’t.’”i During this strange season, I’ve come to realize that much of what I often think of as hope is more about busy-ness or planning, or looking ahead to something fun. And I’ve been deprived of those endeavors of late. We can’t really plan our summer at this point, and we’d had some plans. But we had hoped… This type of hope is stymied or frustrated when our plans are disrupted or set awry, but there is a deeper type of hope that is available to us even now, in this strange liminal space. The scholar and theologian “Cynthia Bourgeault makes a powerful distinction between [these two different types of hope. There is] what she calls ordinary hope [this kind of hope that I’m talking about, the kind of hope we expect which is] “tied to outcome . . . . an optimistic feeling . . . because we sense that things will get better in the future” and [there is] mystical hope ‘that is a complete reversal of our usual way of looking at things. Beneath the ‘upbeat’ kind of hope that parts the seas and pulls rabbits out of hats, this other hope weaves its way as a quiet, even ironic counterpoint.’”ii She writes, “We might make the following observations about this other kind of hope, which we will call mystical hope. In contrast to our usual notions of hope: 1. Mystical hope is not tied to a good outcome, to the future. It lives a life of its own, seemingly without reference to external circumstances and conditions. 2. It has something to do with presence—not a future good outcome, but the immediate experience of being met, held in communion, by something intimately at hand. 3. It bears fruit within us at the psychological level in the sensations of strength, joy, and satisfaction: an “unbearable lightness of being.” But mysteriously, rather than deriving these gifts from outward expectations being met, it seems to produce them from within. . . [It] is all too easy to understate and miss that hope is not intended to be an extraordinary infusion, but an abiding state of being…. We ourselves are not the source of that hope; we do not manufacture it. But the source dwells deeply within us and flows to us with an unstinting abundance, so much so that in fact it might be more accurate to say we dwell within it. . . . It is no accident or coincidence that the Risen Christ shows up to join his two disciples on the road to Emmaus just when their ordinary hope has failed them. Their plans for the future have been laid waste, and suddenly, he is with them, and he provides them with access to that mystical hope, that abiding state of being. By engaging the scriptures with them, he reconnects them to the wellspring of hope, the source of all hope that dwells deep within them, and after they recognize the Risen Christ, only then are they able to recognize the mystical hope which he has reconnected them with: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”iii How much of this mystical kind of hope might we also be experiencing these days but not recognizing because it does not look like ordinary hope to us? Each one of us, in our creation, has been connected to this deep wellspring of hope in our souls. God’s goodness which produces this hope flows in us and through us, and it is always available to us. We don’t have to produce our hope; we just have to tap into that which is already there. Your invitation this week is to look beyond the disappointments that this season offers to your plans and your expectations, and to pay attention to the times when you experience an unbearable lightness of being or your heart burning strangely within you; listen, this week, for where the hope that wells from God bubbles up in your life. i.This portion is cited from my own Easter 3A sermon from 2014 (preached at St. Peter’s by-the-Sea in Gulfport, MS. The portion quoted in this passage is written by David Lose on Workingpreacher.org, but I can’t find more details on the original citation such as the year. ii. This is Richard Rohr’s introduction (with my voice in parentheses) introducing Bourgeault’s work in his daily meditation titled The Universal Pattern : Mystical Hope Thursday,  April 16, 2020. The Full text can be found here: https://cac.org/mystical-hope-2020-04-16/ iii. As quoted in the meditation listed above. Adapted from Cynthia Bourgeault, Mystical Hope: Trusting in the Mercy of God (Cowley Publications: 2001), 3, 5, 9-10, 17, 20, 42.

Easter 2A_2020

Easter 2A_2020 April 19, 2020 This week, our readings have had me thinking about grief, and the conclusion that I have come to is that grief doesn’t always look like grief. Every year, on this Second Sunday of Easter, we get the same gospel reading—the story that begins on the evening of the day of resurrection, that sees the disciples locked in together confused and afraid even after having heard Mary Magdalene’s proclamation of the resurrection: (“I have seen the Lord!”) Jesus appears to them—greeting them in peace, offering them reassurance and hope, and giving them the gift of the Holy Spirit. But Thomas isn’t there with them. When they tells Thomas what has happened, he still doesn’t believe them, telling them he will need to see some proof of this astounding event. And from that moment on, throughout all the intervening centuries, he has been called “Doubting Thomas.” But what if what we have always interpreted as doubt is actually grief. Would it change how we read the story, how we think about our faith, how we understand ourselves if, instead of thinking of him as “Doubting Thomas,” we think of him as “Grieving Thomas”? I listened to a podcast the other day; it was an interview conducted by Brene Brown (who I’ve talked about before). She’s a sociologist whose research focus is on shame. And a couple of weeks ago, she interviewed a man named David Kessler, who has worked in the field of grief for decades.i. Kessler co-authored books with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross who is famous for articulating a schema for the stages of grief, and Kessler has written a recent book that expands those original five stages to include an additional 6th stage, which is finding meaning. But not only has David Kessler worked with grieving people for at least 40 years, he has also experienced his own loss in the unexpected death of his 21 year old son in 2016. It was fascinating for me to listen in on this conversation about grief between these two wise people. And here are some of my take-aways from that. The 5 descriptive states of grief show that grief doesn’t always look like grief; sometimes grief looks like denial; sometimes grief looks like anger; sometimes grief looks like bargaining, sometimes like depression, and sometimes it can even look like acceptance. Grief isn’t neat or orderly; grief is messy, and it is unique to each one of us in how it manifests, even as there is a common pattern in how we grieve. David Kessler defines grief as “the death of something.” It can be the death of a person, a relationship, a job, a situation, a whole way of life. And one of the things that struck me most is when David Kessler said, “Right now, we are dealing with the collective loss of the world that we knew. The world we knew is now gone forever.” We are all grieving, even if we deny it, even if it doesn’t always look like what we think of as grief. He continues, “We’re in this together; it won’t last for forever. But we need to go through it and feel the feelings.” As a part of this process, David Kessler says that we can spend time creating and naming meaningful moments together. He says we can each ask ourselves, “What can I do of meaning right now? How can we all do meaningful moments in the midst of a pandemic?” And when you are in a meaningful moment, he suggests that you name it, and be grateful for it. I think part of how we find meaning in this is to tap into our compassion for each other and to recognize that grief doesn’t always look like grief in the way that we act. We are invited to look below the surface behaviors and actions of anger, denial, belligerence, fear to see what they cloak/hide, which is often grief. How might it change us if we assumed that every person we see, in real life, on social media, in the news is grieving and responded out of compassion for that grief? We are invited to sit with each other in our grief, not rushing to meaning, but being present with the loss, feeling the feelings and trusting the hope that meaning will come. Our gospel story for today is an important reminder for us right now because Jesus doesn’t leave Thomas alone in his grief. He comes back the next week, visiting the disciples again when Thomas is present. He offers Thomas the meaning that he craves, even as he invites him to touch his wounds, the heart of his own grief. This week, I invite you to try to be more present to your own grief and the grief of those around you, and I invite you to know that Jesus is present there with you as well. i. https://brenebrown.com/podcast/david-kessler-and-brene-on-grief-and-finding-meaning/

Easter Day 2020

The Day of Resurrection: Easter Day 2020 April 12, 2020 I’ve been having a weekly Zoom call with some of my closest friends and classmates from seminary. Every week, we gather virtually, and we talk about how we are doing and then we talk about the readings for the coming Sunday. (It has been one of many life-giving moments for me during this strange season.) A couple of weeks ago, I was shocked when one of our group told us that he was trying to convince his bishop to let him postpone Easter until his congregation could gather again and celebrate it together. As I’ve thought of this over the course of these past couple of weeks, I think about the song of his own longing that was revealed in that statement (which may find echoes in some of our own hearts). How can it really be Easter without….fill in the blank here. (New Easter clothes. Easter Egg hunts. The flowering of the cross. The Easter hymns. The Eucharist. The Easter brunch or lunch with extended family…) But the joyfully shocking truth of Easter is that resurrection will happen, whether we are ready for it or not. In fact, this year, we are probably more similar to those first followers of Jesus’ as they encountered the shock of the resurrection than we have ever been in any of our lifetimes. Still reeling from the shock and the sadness of Jesus’s sudden and violent death; afraid for their own lives, so they have locked themselves in their own homes for safety; they creep out out when it is still dark (with gloves and mask in place?) to discover that the tomb is empty (just like our churches today). The body of Jesus is nowhere to be found. And then they are more saddened; more shocked; more dismayed; more frightened. Just when they thought it couldn’t get any worse—the tomb is empty. So then they run. Mary Magdalene runs to get Peter and John. Peter and John race back, discovering for themselves that the tomb is, in fact empty. And then, they go back home. But Mary Magdalene stays. She stays to grieve some more outside the empty tomb, and she encounters two angels, and she encounters the Risen Christ (who tells her she’s got to maintain appropriate social distancing). And he sends her back to the other disciples with a message, and so she goes back and tells them, “I have seen the Lord.” And you know what happens? Nothing. A week later, they are still huddled behind the locked doors of their homes because of their fear, but the risen Christ doesn’t leave them there. He appears to them where they are and continues to help them to encounter the resurrection. In fact, it really isn’t until after Jesus’s ascension and the gift of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost that those scared, fragmented disciples become transformed into the resurrection community that will spread the good news to the ends of the earth and will transform the world around them from their day all the way to our own. Even without the normal trappings that we have come to expect and enjoy, resurrection still happens and will continue to happen. We need this day, now more than ever, to remember the power of the love of God; a love that is stronger than loneliness, than sickness; a love that is stronger than fear or the exhaustion that comes from too-much-togetherness. This day, we remember and celebrate the strange truth and the joy of the resurrection: that nothing that happens to us or that we do can separate us from the love of God, and that God’s love is stronger than absolutely anything. Even death. A couple of weeks ago, I came across a blessing I had shared on March 27, 2016: It is titled EASTER BLESSING by the Late Irish priest and poet John O’Donohue. It’s from his Dawn Mass Reflections at Corcomroe Abbey. "On this Easter morning, let us look again at the lives we have been so generously given and let us let fall away the useless baggage that we carry -- old pains, old habits, old ways of seeing and feeling -- and let us have the courage to begin again. Life is very short, and we are no sooner here than it is time to depart again, and we should use to the full the time that we still have. We don't realize all the good we can do. A kind, encouraging word or helping hand can bring many a person through dark valleys in their lives. We weren't put here to make money or to acquire status or reputation. We were sent here to search for the light of Easter in our hearts, and when we find it we are meant to give it away generously. The dawn that is rising this Easter morning is a gift to our hearts and we are meant to celebrate it and to carry away from this holy, ancient place the gifts of healing and light and the courage of a new beginning." How are you called to search for the light of Easter in your heart and then give that light away generously? What is the new beginning to which you may be called once you discover the resurrection gifts of healing and light and courage during this strange season?

Maundy Thursday 2020

Maundy Thursday 2020 April 9, 2020 This past week, Mary Margaret and I started watching a tv show that several people had recommended. It’s called Zoe’s Extraordinary Playlist. It’s about a young woman who experiences an accident while she is listening to music in the middle of an MRI, and as a result, she discovers that she can hear people’s deepest longings as if they are singing to her. She’ll be in the middle of a meeting or standing in line for coffee, and suddenly a person or a whole group of people break out into song. She learns that in order to stop hearing the song, she needs to talk to the person or people and help them reconcile with their longing or work to solve their problems. It has been an interesting thing for me to think about: what if we could hear the songs of the deepest longings of the people around us? How would that change us and how would that change our relationships with them? There are songs of longings woven through our readings for tonight. In Exodus, we see the institution of the Passover, which was originally a meal for people who were longing for deliverance. The children of Israel were oppressed and enslaved under the tyrant Pharaoh, and they longing for rescue from a God who proved to be stronger even than Pharaoh’s might. In First Corinthians, we see the apostle Paul writing to a divided and arguing community in Corinth, and he is longing to remind them of their unity in Christ, in the unity that is found in the Eucharist and in their common proclamation—proclaiming the Lord’s death until he comes. And in the reading from Luke, we see Jesus’s heart-song of longing to be with his disciples one last time, commemorating the feast of the Lord’s deliverance; one last meal; one last moment of normalcy. And we see the disciples, in their arguing about who is the greatest, longing for meaning, longing for understanding in the midst of Jesus’s unexplainable grief and the confusing and frightening events that have already begun unfolding around them. I have seen glimpses of your longing, too. Many of you wrote me last week asking for me to try to find a way for us to have Eucharist in some form or fashion for Easter, longing to be fed, to be united in this season of fragmentation. And I get it. I hunger and thirst, I long for the Eucharist, too. I grieve that we cannot break bread together on this holy night, or on our happiest and holiest of days this Easter Sunday. And I’ve realized that my hunger and thirst, my longing for the Eucharist is so much more than wanting the bread and the wine, the assurance of belonging to the Body of Christ, the infusion by the Holy Spirit of Christ into my very heart and body and soul. My longing for Eucharist is all of that. And it is also a longing for you, the beloved of God and the other members of Christ Body to which I belong. One of our parishioners told me this week that she misses church and that she especially misses the hugs from people. This made me think more specifically about my longing, and about the different ways that we make Eucharist, or thanksgiving, when we are together and when we are separate. And it is in and through reflecting on my longing that I can also find gratitude for the gifts of this life together. I miss the energy that you bring into this space when we are all together. I miss your smiles, your active listening. I miss your hands, held out for the bread and wine; hands that are small and large; hands that have known many years and hands that have known only a few. I miss your faces—some shining brightly up at me with glimmers of hope and longing held there and some bowed humbly before the mystery God lays before you. I miss all the ages—those of you who move slowly as you make your way carefully to the altar and those of you who, having received what you desire, leap down from the kneeler and race back to your pew, and I miss seeing the way you older folks cherish our younger ones. I miss seeing those things that are unique about each one of you and the gifts that you bring to all of us: Rick, clasping his rosary in his hand; Mary Hardee and Mary Hill’s floral arrangements; the Quaile family, filling a whole pew with people of all ages. I miss Giovanni calling for his sister across the altar rail and then offering me one of his goldfish when I give him communion. I miss teasing Bobby Minis in the announcements, and how he’s always such a good sport about it. I miss the line that forms when you leave communion and stop to light prayer candles; the married couples who walk down the aisle holding hands to receive an anniversary blessing. I miss making bad jokes during the announcements and the kindness of your laughter. I miss the holy handshake line, the hugs, the music we make together. On this Maundy Thursday, it is worth remembering and reflecting on what Maundy Thursday means. It comes from the Latin Mandatum Novum which means “new commandment,” and it refers to the instructions that Jesus gives his disciples in John 13:34-35: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” It occurs to me that the greatest act of love and service that we can do for each other right now is to fast; to fast from gathering; to fast from Eucharist. It is our love for one another that is the cause of our longing; and it is our love for one another that gives our fast, our hunger and our thirst meaning. One of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, has a poem titled Thirst (from a book of poetry from the same name). I’ve been reflecting on that poem as I have dwelled with my longing, so I’ll share it with you in closing and offer a question for you to ponder. Thirst by Mary Oliver Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have. I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy, a little more time. Love for the earth and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart. Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning. What does this thirst, this longing for Eucharist and this longing for gathering have to teach us about ourselves, about our gratitude, about God, and about the church?

Palm Sunday Year A 2020

Palm Sunday 2020 April 5, 2020 I mentioned last week that my spiritual practices lately have included a deeper dive into the Franciscan priest Richard Rohr’s daily meditations. This past week, he started a series based on his observations of cross-cultural male initiation rites and the 5 lessons that are consistent in all of them. I was at first struck by how negative these all seem to be, but as I kept reading, I saw that Rohr is writing about how these lessons can be helpful for us as we navigate through this new reality in which we find ourselves now. Rohr writes, “In this time of global disruption, these lessons can help us align to reality, our own belonging in it, and remain grounded in the infinitely trustworthy presence of God. These five essential messages of initiation are: 1. Life is hard. 2. You are not important. 3. Your life is not about you. 4. You are not in control. And 5. You are going to die.”i (How about that for a nice little ray of sunshine?) As we begin our slow walk through Holy Week, following Jesus through his last days of life, I’ve been especially contemplating #4: “You are not in control.” Out of the 5, reconciling with this reality has probably been my biggest struggle during this strange season. Which is why, today, and all of Holy Week presents a unique gift to me this year, if I can lean into this truth as opposed to hiding from it. Today, we watch as Jesus, who could very easily be in full control—more than any human ever could be—gives up control, gives himself over to the events as they are unfolding—the betrayal by a friend, the false accusations, the sham of a trial, the beatings, and the rush toward crucifixion. We resonate with the turmoil that is felt in the city at these events, even as we feel this turmoil within our own hearts. We say the ancient hymn of our faith along with Christians over the ages, a song about Jesus’s self-emptying love, a song about his humility, his service, his obedience. (A testament to lesson #3-your life is not about you—if I ever saw it.) During this most unusual Holy Week in this most unusual season, the Holy Spirit is offering us a most unusual opportunity. That is to spiritually walk the way of the cross with Jesus in new and unexpected ways, to deepen our faith, and to release these falsities that we tell ourselves to dwell more fully, more deeply in the providence of the God who loves us so much that he gives himself up to death, even death on a cross for us. A God who will not allow death-his own or others’ to have the last word. In closing, I’ll share with you a poem by the Anglican priest and poet Malcolm Guite titled Palm Sunday: Palm Sunday Now to the gate of my Jerusalem, The seething holy city of my heart, The Saviour comes. But will I welcome him? Oh crowds of easy feelings make a start; They raise their hands, get caught up in the singing, And think the battle won. Too soon they'll find The challenge, the reversal he is bringing Changes their tune. I know what lies behind The surface flourish that so quickly fades; Self-interest, and a fearful guardedness, The hardness of the heart, its barricades, And at the core, the dreadful emptiness Of a perverted temple. Jesus, come Break my resistance and make me your home.ii i. Adapted from Richard Rohr, Adam’s Return: The Five Promises of Male Initiation, (Crossroad Publishing Company: 2004), 29–30, 32–34.; https://cac.org/the-patterns-that-are-always-true-2020-03-29/ ii.From Sounding the Seasons, by Malcolm Guite, Canterbury Press 2012; https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2013/03/24/a-sonnet-for-palm-sunday/