July 15, 2018 The Rev. Dr. T. Richard Snyder
It all begins with an idea.
What is Truth?
T. Richard Snyder
40 Washington St. #301
Camden, ME 04843
trichardsnyder@gmail.com
O.T. Numbers 22: 21-35
N.T. John 18: 28-38
2000 years ago, Pilate asked a question for the ages. “What is Truth?”
In George Orwell’s classic novel, 1984 the ministry of Truth has carved over its door the following words: War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength.
When Orwell’s dystopian novel first came out, most of us correctly thought that it was a critique of the Soviet Union. Never in our wildest imagination did we think it might be applicable to the United States. But, tragically, it seems we were wrong. We are drowning in claims of fake news, fake facts, and fake truth. It is almost impossible to believe what we hear. We are living in a surrealistic nightmare of claims and counter-claims, hoping that when we awaken it will disappear. But each day the nightmare becomes more convoluted.
Lying has become the order of the day, the baseline of our culture. Of course, some lying has always been with us and we have grown accustomed to it. We’ve learned to take it with a grain of salt. We’ve been told that this cream will eliminate wrinkles and make us look 20 years younger. We’ve been told that the automobile with imperceptible changes is revolutionary. We’ve been promised that if we invest in this penny stock we will get rich. We have become anesthetized—knowing that we are living with lies.
It’s not only advertisers and huckster sales people. Politicians have been notorious for telling us what we want to hear, of spinning the story to serve their interests. But today things seem much worse. Lying has become a way of life. Everywhere we turn we are accosted by lies and accusations of lies.
Everyone is accusing everyone else of lying. The Washington Post is famous for its’s Pinocchios. Of the 98 claims made by President Trump at his recent rally in Montana, The Washington Post reported almost half were untrue. The President has claimed that the NY Times, Washington Post, CNN, and MSNBC consistently lie. Fox News has accused most main stream media of lying. We read about allegations of police brutality toward blacks, countered with denials, then refuted with cell phone photos.
The historian, Doris Kern Goodwin, not known as a radical left-winger, lamented about the lies we are living with. Speaking of the president she said, “What’s different today and what’s scarier today is these lies are pointed out, and there’s evidence that they’re wrong,” she said. “And yet because of the attacks on the media, there are a percentage of people in the country who are willing to say, ‘Maybe he is telling the truth.’”
But it’s not just the right or the president. Many on the left have derided those who voted for Trump or Scott Walker in Wisconsin or LePage as ignorant, bigoted, or racists. That may be true of some but to conclude that that is why they voted as they did is to miss an important point. The truth is that many of them are feeling marginalized, left behind, and facing an insecure future. They have good reason to want things to change. I’ve recently read The Politics of Resentment by Katherine Cramer and Arli Hochschild’s Strangers In Their Own Land. Cramer wanted to understand why people would vote against their own self-interest, so she interviewed hundreds of people who voted for Scott Walker in Wisconsin. Her conclusion is that they are not crazy or stupid. They correctly feel that the rural communities and people are being sacrificed for the sake of the urban areas. They have experienced downward mobility and are afraid of the future. In large measure their perceptions and fears are true. Hochschild came to a similar conclusion after years of talking with Tea Party supporters in southern Louisiana. To label all those who voted for Trump as ignorant or racist is a lie. We need to face the truth about our divisions.
But discovering the truth is becoming more difficult each day. Fareed Zakaria had a sobering segment about fake videos. Actors using artificial intelligence are now able to create fake videos that are so real it is almost impossible to notice the manipulations. According to him, “We are rapidly approaching the point where a public figure could be made to say anything…It will soon become so easy to make a fake video that there may always be some doubt on all videos… Therefore, the credibility of the media source matters.” In his comments last week, Senator Angus King echoed this potential and asked, how will we know if what we see and hear is truly what was said?
So, who do we believe? Where do we turn? There are so many claims and counter claims about truth and lies that one scarcely knows where to turn.
Pilate’s question to Jesus “What is Truth?” is especially pertinent now. We will never know Pilate’s motivation behind the question. Perhaps he really wanted to know. Or, he may have asked it out of frustration— “Look these religious leaders say you claim to be a king, what do you say? Who should I believe?” Or it may have been purely cynical. “With all these counter claims flying about, how can we ever get to the truth? Maybe there is no truth. So, tell me, Jesus, what is truth?”
My own reactions to what is going on today are similar. Sometimes I wonder who to believe. Sometimes I wonder if we will ever know what’s true.
But before we give in to our cynicism or throw up our hands in despair, I invite you to look at Jesus. —not because he is the only source of truth and certainly not because he addressed all the issues with which we are struggling today—but because I believe that his life and his words offer us a picture of what it means to speak and do the truth. As he said to Pilate— “I was born to testify to the truth.” His life was dedicated to the truth. He even claimed to be the truth—“I am the way the truth and the light.”—that is, watch me if you want to know what’s true. So, even though my understanding of Jesus is unorthodox, I am compelled to look at his life and words to see what he embodied—what he testified to. What was truth for Jesus?
Is it true that war is the answer, that “shock and awe” or “fire and fury” will bring peace? When Jesus was being taken into custody, one of his disciples tried to defend him by taking out his sword and cutting off the ear of one of the men who had come to arrest him—certainly an understandable response. But Jesus rebuked him and said, “those who live by the sword will die by the sword.”
Obviously, dealing with enemies is complex and there may be times when militaristic action is called for, but that is not the leaning of the Gospel. As historic Just War theory says, war should be the very last resort. Truth for Jesus was to turn the other cheek, to reject the sword.
Too many of the words that have led us to war have been lies—the gulf of Tonkin attack; Iraq’s possession of weapons of mass destruction; the axis of evil; the equation of Islam with terrorism. Too many of the words that have kept us at war have been lies, twisted truths, or euphemisms: during the Vietnam War, we were constantly told that we were winning, only to be driven out in defeat. Torture has been called enhanced interrogation. The killing of innocent women, children and other non-combatants has been euphemistically labeled collateral damage, etc., etc., etc. So whenever I hear words that try to make the case for war, I am suspicious that we are being fed lies that serve the interests of those in power rather than the truth. Victory at all costs is a lie. The truth is that peace should be our first and most lasting response to any enemy.
Or what about calling a spade a spade? Dare we call someone out for lying or do we simply say that they misspoke? Jesus’ words denouncing those who harmed the weak, the marginal and the oppressed were specific and unrelenting. When he entered the Temple, he found moneychangers taking advantage of the poor by selling doves at exorbitant prices to those who couldn’t afford to bring their own animal sacrifice. So, he drove them out and denounced them as having made God’s temple a den of thieves He did not equalize the blame for what was going on in the temple by saying that the poor should be smarter or better prepared. He did not say that the problem was caused by “all sides.” Nor did he wait for several days to be specific about who was to blame for the desecration of the temple. For him, truth involved confronting the evildoers there and then and calling them out for what they were doing.
And what is truth when it comes to the sick? Is healthcare a privilege to be enjoyed by those who can afford it or is it a right of every human being? Jesus constantly went out of his way to care for those who were sick. His life and ministry were characterized by his concern for the infirmed. In his day, to have an infirmity meant that one was cast to the margins of society—unwanted and even suspect. To be sick was considered to be a sign that one was to blame for their condition. We are facing the same question today with respect to opioid and heroin addiction. For years, drug addicts have been criminalized. Now, many understand drug addiction to be a disease rather than a crime. It’s too bad that this realization is late in coming—now that drugs are so much a white problem. Very few considered blacks who were crackheads to be anything but criminals.
Jesus understood the truth about sickness and disease. “Who sinned?” the disciples asked him when they came upon a man who was blind, “this man or his father?” They thought there must be a connection. The truth, Jesus said, was neither. In his day, people who were sick were forgotten and ignored. But Jesus did not forget or ignore the sick. For him everyone deserved healing care, no matter their status or their history. He reached out to the untouchables.
I ask you, how can Governor LePage’s veto of voter approved expansion of Medicaid –a veto supported by the House—the veto of an expansion that would provide coverage for 70,000 Mainers, how can it measure up to the care exhibited by Jesus? Our federal and state government are playing politics with the health of needy people. How can that be considered caring for the sick?
Efficiency and savings are worthy considerations. But for Jesus, the truth was to be found in the risk of compassion. He healed on the Sabbath, for which he was criticized. He touched the sick who were untouchable, for which he was criticized. There will always be problems with caring for the sick, always some things that can be criticized and need to be fixed. That is what being compassionate entails. Compassion runs those risks. It was compassion that compelled Jesus to reach out to the sick. The Affordable Care Act has problems that must be addressed but is based on compassion, a compassion that has added insurance coverage for many millions of formerly uninsured people. The truth is that compassion, while costly, is the way of the Gospel and it is the way to build a strong America for everyone.
And what is the truth when it comes to those who are different from us? Are they to be cast aside, ignored or excluded? Jesus did not draw a line between himself and others. When those invited to a banquet did not come, Jesus asked his disciples to go out to the highways and byways and invite whosoever will to come dine. He was accused of being indiscriminate in who he hung out with. He ate with publicans and sinners, welcomed women into his inner circle and embraced both tax collectors and those in prison. He did not build walls or ban people because of their affiliation or religion. He spent time with the Samaritan woman who was considered by the religious leaders to be a heretic. To lump all Muslims as terrorists, all Mexican immigrants as murderers and rapists, all blacks as wanting a free ride, all who voted differently as ignorant or racist is a lie. Building walls does not comport with the truth that Jesus stood for.
The truth is that what unites us is our common humanity. Everyone is created in the image of God. Saying that our differences are a cause for division is a lie. Whatever our differences, the truth is that we are essentially the same and the fundamental response to our differences should be to learn from them, to celebrate and embrace them whenever possible, and to challenge them strongly but respectfully when necessary.
Lest you’re wondering if I think that Jesus had all the answers, I don’t. We can’t fall back on the facile solution that asks, “What would Jesus do?” because we don’t know how he would respond to some of the contemporary issues facing our world. We can’t know what he would do. But we can know what he did. And in discovering what was truthful for him in his time, we can find some clues, some guidance for our journey. He did not draw lines and create walls. He spoke truth to power when injustice was being done. He opted for peace rather than the sword. He reached out in compassion to the sick and the needy. These things were truth for him.
The question, of course is, even with the guidance that the life of Jesus provides, how do we know what is true and what is false today? Where do we turn to find the truth?
I love the story of Balaam and his ass. Three times the ass tries to warn Balaam of the danger ahead, finally falling down and refusing to go forward. Three times Balaam beats the ass and threatens it, even wishing its death. Finally, the ass speaks. Why are you beating me? I’ve served you faithfully for these many years and have I ever done this before? Look at the danger in the road. With that, Balaam’s eyes were opened and he saw the danger ahead and was filled with remorse for his behavior, and with gratitude for the ass. In this case, you have to ask, who was the ass?
This story unveils a truth that runs throughout scripture. If you want to know the truth, do not look to those in power, to those in high places, to the gatekeepers. Look to the margins. Look to those who march to the beat of a different drummer. Look to those who are being affected by the way things are structured.
If you want to know the truth about childbirth, ask a mother. The physician can provide all the medical and technical data, but it is the mother who can share what childbirth is. If you want to know the truth about war don’t ask the generals, ask the grunts who are killing and seeing their comrades killed; ask the civilians whose families and homes have been destroyed. If you want to know what it is like to feel bypassed and insecure, don’t go to the privileged, go to Millinocket and Aroostook County, go to the trailer parks that dot our landscape and Prebble St. in Portland or the Midcoast Hospitality House, or the jails and prison. If you want to know the truth about migrants, don’t go to the government Immigration agents, go to those living in fear of deportation or the breaking up of their families.
Of course, ferreting out the truth is not that easy. We are all capable of being conned. So, it is tempting to simply lament our current state of affairs, the lies, the betrayals, and then go about our own little lives; to stay in our comfortable cocoons of privilege. But we dare not, for to do so guarantees the end of truth and the triumph of the lie. I leave you with two words. The first from Simon Schama “Indifference about the distinction between truth and lies is the precondition of fascism. When truth perishes so does freedom.” The second from Jesus. “You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.”
July 1, 2018 / The Rev. C. Waite Maclin
It all begins with an idea.
A Sermon
St. George Episcopal Church Tenants Harbor, Maine
Sixth Sunday After Pentecost
There is a wonderful, probably aprocryphal story of the family visiting the Maine coast from New York City for a summer. Their teenager was bored to tears. One day the boy went up to a fisherman preparing to go out on his boat. Asking him, “What do you people do for excitement around here?” The fisherman replied, “Don’t know, never been excited!”
Well, here is an account of folks who were most excited, From the Gospel of Mark: (our 2nd lesson) When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he entered, he said to them: “Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him.
This morning, I would like us to reflect on the “commotion” in our midst as a people, as a nation, as a world. There is a divisiveness, there is an anger, much is pitting friends and family against one another. So much is keeping us awake at night:. As W.B, Yeats wrote in his poem “The Second Coming” Turning and turning in the widening gyre. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things fall apart: the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”
You can supply the stuff that keeps you awake and I am happy to tell you of mine at any time. But if there a core to this sermon it is to be patient, Paraphrasing what Jesus said to that family in crisis, “We are not dead, but sleeping”.
Jesus, as it so often happened, had a crowd pressing in on him and a prominent man, leader of the synagogue implores the teacher to come to his house as his daughter was dying. I am sure many came to him for help, but he knew on some intuitive level that this was a situation that needed attention, not only for the distraught family, but as a rich opportunity to teach something important.
We all know that anguish in a house where there is grave illness and death.
Jesus presence wasn’t enough to still the commotion so he sent all outside but the immediate family, he goes to the child, takes her by the hand and says: Little Girl, get up. She does, all were amazed – and well might they be.
What did Jesus see, what did he know that all others could not know because of their fear and helplessness – the child was only sleeping.
-2-
This is all so human, this is all so true, this is what we all know. Stress, large or small clouds our thinking, our rationale our ability to see clearly what is immediately in front of us. Upon reflection, we might be able to understand the truth that was right in our midst, but in the moment we can be beside ourselves.
What I love about Jesus is what he did for those with whom he walked and talked and struggled, entering their frail humanity with them. AND what I love about Jesus is that he is present in our midst, entering into our own frail humanity.
As he once said to his friends: For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.
I love this quotation: “Jesus is the future bubbling up in the present!” Jesus shows us the clarity and truth of what is in our midst, where our own stress and commotion blinds us in seeing. He is our “Spell Check” as we go about with both consternation and joy in the writing of our own stories.
I once heard of a man who was hard at work in his vegetable garden. It came to him, How can you be planting a garden when the world is falling apart around you? He answered himself, Well, for this moment I cannot stop the chaos so I had best do what I can do which is to continue making this the most beautiful garden possible.
This says to me something quite remarkable. I do what I can do in the moment I have and in doing so I am calmed to see more clearly what is possible for me to do about whatever is tearing apart the fabric of our lives: A political system gone awry, a retrenchment in our sense of community and caring for others, homelessness and helplessness among many, many in our midst, withdrawal into the current buzz word being used, tribes, and an incredible violation of human rights in this country and beyond.
So what is Jesus telling us? that in fact we are only sleeping. That there are answers, that there are things you and I can do to respond effectively to those things that keep us awake. I just came across these words the author, Alex Haley lived by: Find the good and praise it! There is something so simple and yet so profound in this.
What is your good to praise? Let’s be silent for a moment and reflect within ourselves: (PAUSE) These are mine: Civility, Humor, Gratitude, Calm, Gardening, Community, A social consciousness, Diversity in all things, community, gender, race and religion, Love, Hope, Decency, Many loving friends, Holding On, Patience, My family, A Loving God, YOU, and finally gratitude for the rich life I have had and am having. I saw a license plate Wednesday that said “B-Gentle” I could not help but smile.
-3-
David Brooks wrote a fine column a few weeks ago in the New York Times, Personalism: The Philosophy We Need. “Despite what the achievement culture teaches . . . human dignity does not depend on what you do . . . Infinite worth is inherent in being human . . . Doing community service isn’t about saving the poor; it’s a meeting of absolute equals as both seek to change and grow.”
Could it be that what Jesus brought into this world was a “meeting of absolute equals” so that he and all those he met and lived with could seek to change and grow”?
Anis Nan wrote: Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage!
So I ask us, do we have the courage to be patient, do we have the courage to act where we can close to home and far away, do we have the courage to engage those with whom we disagree, do we have the courage to vote our conscience and our passions, do we have the courage to see every human being as no more nor no less a person than our own selves? Remembering, Archibald Macleish, “We have all the answers, it is the questions we do not know!”
Finally I want to close with the words from Mark with which we began:
When they came to the house of the leader on the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he entered, he said to them: “Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him.
And they laughed at him.
When we see through the fog of troubles, when we bring calmness in the midst of confusion, when we challenge others to become motivated, when we say figuratively “We are only sleeping” and we will awake one day. Others might laugh and I hope we can laugh at ourselves as well. But we know that the peace that Jesus brings, the peace that passes understanding will see us through and we will become whole.
AMEN.
August 20, 2017 / The Venerable Mimsy Jones
It all begins with an idea.
SERMON ST. GEORGE CHAPEL
PROPER 15A
GENESIS 45: 1-15; MATTHEW 15: 21-28
Paul Tillich, the great 20th century theologian, once wrote, "If I were asked to sum up the Christian message in two words, I would say it is the message of a New Creation."
Having fled from his native Germany to the United States after Hitler’s ascension to power, Tillich knew oppression and political turmoil first hand. But he did not lose heart. Instead, he passionately preached about the transformation of the Old into a hope-filled New Creation.
"Don’t think that we want to make you religious members of a very high religion, and of a very great denomination within it, namely our own", he said. "This would be of no avail. We want only to communicate to you an experience we have had – that here and there in the world and now and then in ourselves is a New Creation, usually hidden, but sometimes manifest and certainly manifest in Jesus who is called the Christ."
"Here and there in the world, and now and then in ourselves is a New Creation…" Think of that! Is it possible that now and then in today’s polarized, politicized, pressure-cooker world, there is a New Creation just waiting to spring forth? Or that now and then we ourselves can bring that about?
Yes. With two characters from today’s Bible stories as our guides, I propose that that is exactly what we can do.
In the story Alice read from Genesis, Joseph chooses life over death for the brothers who years before dumped him into a deep pit and left him for
dead. In the gospel, an unnamed loud-mouthed woman confronts and converts none other than the Son of God.
The Joseph saga spans eleven lusty chapters in Genesis and is filled with jealousy, sibling rivalry, sex, politics and palace intrigue. At the outset, Joseph is a spoiled brat, his father Jacob’s pet and cordially despised by his eleven brothers. Strutting around in his amazing technicolor dream coat, Joseph courts the disaster than soon befalls him.
Behind Jacob’s back, the brothers dump Joseph into a deep cistern along a trade route between Syria and Egypt, reporting to their father that his favorite son is dead.
Joseph is far from dead. Pulled from the pit by some traveling salesmen, he has flourished and prospered in Egypt, becoming Pharaoh’s right hand man. Until recently I would have compared his position to our president’s chief of staff. But under the present circumstances, suffice it to say that Joseph has great power.
In today’s story, the brothers have traveled to Egypt in search of grain during a famine in Palestine. They have no idea that the powerful official they are dealing with in Pharaoh’s court is Joseph. But Joseph recognizes them immediately, and is deeply moved. With a flick of his wrist, he could avenge their treachery and be done with them as they meant to be done with him. He does something different.
Calling his brothers to him, he says, "I am your bother Joseph, but do not be distressed or angry with yourselves…For God sent me before you to preserve life…It was not you who sent me here, but God. Now hurry and tell my father, that all of you, your children and your grandchildren, your flocks and herds, all that you have shall be near me; I will provide for you here; you will not come to poverty."
‘Here and there in the world, and now and then in ourselves, there is a New Creation.’ The former spoiled brat Joseph, of all people, becomes a model for reunion, and the catalyst for a New Creation.
If ever there was another character in the Bible, or in modern literature for that matter, who brought a New Creation into the world, it is the loud mouthed Canaanite woman we meet in today’s gospel according to Matthew.
This is one Bible story preachers would just as soon skip if it weren’t in our lectionary, because, at least in the beginning, Jesus comes across as a real jerk. Confronted with the Canaanite woman, one wry commentator quips, ‘Jesus is caught with his compassion down.’
The context of this incident is crucial. Day after day, time after time, mile after mile, Jesus has healed people, physically and emotionally. Crowds pursue him down dusty roads, across green fields, into the Sea of Galilee…whatever it takes to be near him.
My close friend, a priest named Buddy Stallings, describes Jesus’ healing this way: "Wherever Jesus went, people experienced healing. I have never known how that worked and still don’t. But I know that as time passed and people remembered Jesus’ life among them, stories got bigger and bigger about how amazingly healing it was just to be in his presence. I believe them.
"I don’t know how spots stopped being leprous or how bling people started seeing or the lame walking, but I think something about Jesus caused people who encountered him to live like they had never lived before. Miracles aside, it changed them for the better every time."
Buddy says that so well. Being in Jesus’ presence was amazingly healing. But it came at a terrible price for the healer – for Jesus. Our church proclaims a profound paradox: Jesus Christ was fully human and fully divine. Today we have the quintessential example of his full humanity.
At the gospel’s outset, Jesus is exhausted, badly in need of time off.
Bone-tired, longing for peace and quiet, he and his disciples escape, heading north to Tyre and Sidon, modern-day Lebanon, for some rest and relaxation by the sea…the way Frank and I head for Maine every summer.
But while Maine is a second home for us, the area of Tyre and Sidon, Inhabited by Canaanites and separated by ethnicity, heritage and religion, from the Jews, is foreign territory for Jews. Surely, Jesus must have thought, no one will make demands on me up here. Wrong!
No sooner has he crossed the border than Jesus runs into the last person on earth he wants to see: a shouting, distraught Canaanite woman who barges past the disciples, gets right into his face, crying, "Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David! My daughter is tormented by a demon."
Jesus walks on, staring straight ahead. The woman is not seeking help for herself, but for her beloved daughter, and will not be deterred, not by the disciples’ sharp rebukes, or Jesus’ aloofness. When she continues to plead, he pulls out the religion card: "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel," he says, meaning ‘I have no time for your kind.’
Deaf to his insults, she violates every boundary of gender, ethnicity, religion and culture that she has grown up with, throwing herself at his feet in a sign of deep reverence, and crying, "Lord, help me."
What is it about the word ‘no’ that this woman doesn’t understand? Jesus has had more than enough of her, and he explodes: ’It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs,’ which is to say, ‘I came to the people of Israel, not to dogs like you.’
His words must have cut her to the quick: in that ancient culture dogs were considered vicious scavengers, and to be referred to as a female dog has a modern equivalent which I choose not to use in the pulpit.
Stinging from the rebuke, she remains unflappable, and lifting her chin, she looks him full in the face,. "Yes, Lord." she says, "yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table."
Something in Jesus snaps; his anger vanishes, he becomes fully and lovingly present to the woman kneeling before him, "Woman," he says, "great is your faith. Let it be done for you as you wish."’
‘And,’ the author of Matthew’s gospel concludes, ‘Her daughter was healed instantly.’ I wonder: is it going too far to add that the Son of God was healed as well? That through her dogged persistence, Jesus himself is converted, understands his mission in a new, expanded light.
Here and there in the world, and now and then , even in ourselves there is a New Creation.
This spring Frank and I arrived at the Memphis airport for a flight to Phoenix,only to find the airport teeming with people, most of whom had missed their flights the night before due to weather. Tempers were flaring, stress was high.
Approaching the check-in counter, we met others on our flight, including an attractive young blond woman named Anne who was almost in tears; her flight the night before had been cancelled. We stood stock still for twenty minutes while the oblivious ticket agent talked to an angry couple who ended up leaving the airport altogether.
As Anne eagerly approached the counter, the agent said indifferently, but loud enough for all of us to hear: ‘Too late. No more boarding.’ Anne begged, to no avail. The agent was adamant, firm. "It’s too late to check bags so it’s too late to board the plane. Period."
I do not know what came over me, but suddenly I exploded, shouting,
"B. S.!" at the top of my voice. I did NOT use the initials; I said the two words loud, and clear. There was stunned silence around us. Anne said in amazement: ‘look at her; so nicely dressed, and talking like that.’ Frank
added, "She’s a minister! —But she’s an Episcopal minister, and they will say anything."
The ticket agent looked at me. "All right," she said, "I’m calling the manager."
The manager materialized, quickly assessed the situation, and said in no uncertain terms, "Nonsense. They are all going to board, with their bags, right now." Before sprinting away with our new friends, I turned to the agent, saying, ’I don’t know what came over me. I hope you can forgive me.’
The agent, looking as if she was trying to suppress a grin, paused and said, ‘Forgiven.’ I turned and hurried away.
That airport incident is trivial in light of the terror and chaos and deep division in our world today, but Tillich is right, Now and then in the world, and here and there, in you, even in me, there is a New Creation just waiting to spring forth. Never with violence, but with outstretched hands, open minds, and willing spirits, let us live out Tillich’s promise that Here and There in the world, and Now and Then in ourselves there is indeed a New Creation. AMEN.
August 13, 2017 / The Right Reverend Stephen Lane
It all begins with an idea.
Pentecost 10 8.13.17
1 Kings 19:9-18; Psalm 85: 8-13; Romans 10:5-15; Matthew 14:22-33
Our readings this morning illuminate the mystery of faith in God, and the characters involved are two paragons of faith: Elijah on the run and Peter on the water. Both of them struggle with faith, seeking something other than what God offers. Their struggles are, I suspect, struggles we all share.
I sometimes think that the biggest obstacle to faith is the word “faith” itself, a word which in English means trust, but with strong overtones of confidence and belief. We use “faith” and “belief” as synonyms, talking about “faith” and “THE faith,” meaning a system of belief, in the same breath. But scripture, it seems to me does, not use the words in quite the same way. Scripture almost never means a system of belief and does not always connote confidence. What scripture talks about is a relationship with God that fosters trust.
Elijah is on the run. His demonstrations of God’s power have killed the prophets of the Ba’al, the fertility gods, and have made him a persona non grata. Ahab and Jezebel, the king and queen of Israel, seek his life, and he is afraid. He’s hiding in a cave.
God’s first words to Elijah frame the issue. “What are you doing here?” The simple answer is that Elijah is running for his life. But the context is that he has just defeated God’s enemies with the power of God. Why is he afraid? Why does he not trust God?
God invites him out of the cave to stand on the mountain top, and then God again reveals God’s power. First there is a mighty wind, then an earthquake, and then sheets of fire. And God is in none of these. Why? Because these are acts​ of God, not God. God is not wind, not earthquake, not fire.
Then, in sheer silence, Elijah rediscovers God’s presence with him. And in that renewed trust, God sends him right back to Israel, right back into the firestorm.
The dynamics of Peter’s story are much the same. There is a storm on the Galilean lake. The disciples are terrified, fearing death. Then Jesus comes to them walking on the water. At first they think Jesus is a ghost, but he speaks to them. Peter, representing all of the disciples, impulsively asks to walk on the water, and Jesus says, “Come ahead.” Of course, immediately on stepping on the water, Peter again fears the storm, and he starts to sink. Jesus catches his hand and brings him to the boat, and chides him, with I think great affection, “Why didn’t you trust me?”
I think it is common for us to associate “faith” with “security” and to associate “security” with “power.” We want the confidence that comes from feeling safe from the forces that could harm us. We want to be protected, to be secured. We like those displays of power that cause our enemies, real or imagined, to step back. Faith becomes for us an investment in some sort of irresistible force, some overwhelming power.
God we know is capable of that. God created the universe. God parted the Red Sea. God, in Christ, overcame the power of death. THE faith attests that God is omnipotent.
Yet God’s power is chiefly revealed in an invitation, an invitation into relationship with God and an invitation to join God on a journey. God invites us to share with God in God’s care for the world.
That was God’s invitation to Elijah, to share the news that only the God of Israel is God. That was God’s invitation to the disciples, to share the good news of God’s love. It is not a guarantee of protection from the world, but a guarantee of companionship in the world. I will be with you always, until the end of the world.
As the Letter to the Romans puts it, “The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart.” The companionship of God is within us, in our very hearts, inseparable from our lives and from all that happens on our journey.
For me, this truth requires my constant attention. I’m easily distracted by the wind and the waves, by the busy-ness of my daily schedule, and by the needs of the clergy and people I care for. It’s very easy for me to rely on my own strength or to seek signs of power to keep me from sinking. I must remind myself everyday that God is already with me, right here, right now. God is walking this path with me – and I can trust that, I can rely on that. The hand to lift me up is already extended, already reaching for me, no matter how rough the water. I need only remember.
We all like the wonder of miracles. We all want miracles. And miracles do happen. But what God offers is a daily walk, God’s constant companionship, a reliable relationship to help us face life’s little murders. May today’s lessons invite us into a reflection of God’s silent presence within our hearts, God’s offer of a hand, God’s request for trust. And may we reach back…
Amen.
August 6, 2017 / Reverend Bob Hargreaves
It all begins with an idea.
TRANSFIGURATION
ST. GEORGE’S
Luke 9:28-36
Have you noticed how many people want us to
see them as more glorious than they really are?
Caesar and Herod just to name two from Jesus’ own Day.
And in our own day? How about more politicians
than I can name in a whole day,
let alone in one sermon.
I think most of us would name the current occupant
of the White House, but there are many, many more.
This syndrome is not limited to one man,
one party, or one nation.
Then there are business tycoons, TV and movie stars,
sports stars, etc., etc., etc.
At least in America, our whole culture is about being
The Best. Best in everything.
And every so often, the veneer gets peeled away
and we see the real truth about one of these
demi-gods, and the illusion vanishes for a
moment.
Now, along comes Jesus, who never said he was
anything more than an ordinary guy from Galilee,
who never wanted a palace,
never wore silk suits,
never got his face engraved on any money.
He told his friends that he could teach them about God
and about their own belovedness.
For a text he used the fish in their nets,
the sheep in their fields,
the seeds the farmers sowed,
the yeast in a woman’s hands.
And he added, as his own special seasoning
for the bread of their lives,
a few blind men,
some lepers,
a foreign woman with a sick child,
a Roman centurion in despair for his
dying daughter,
several prostitutes,
and a woman who had 5 husbands.
One day he took three friends with him
and climbed up a high mountain.
Up there, suddenly he started shining
like a bright floodlight.
He reminded them of the pillar of fire
that led the people of God, under Moses,
in the wilderness of Sinai.
And they heard the voice of God
calling him God’s own beloved Son.
But notice this: he never asked them to see his glory.
Instead, he asked them to see his willingness to suffer,
to see how he chose to hang out
with the lowliest of them
as his demonstration of where God
chooses to be found.
As for the glory they saw in him on the mountain,
he wanted them to keep quiet about that.
Unlike Caesar, Herod, and the Donald,
who just can’t get enough of the glory road,
who want gold on everything
and creature comforts all around them,
Jesus says “hush” to Peter and the others,
and says, “Let’s go back down
to the low places of this world.
Most of us want to rise in the world,
not lower ourselves.
It’s the American story—rags to riches,
not riches to rags.
We want to be celebrated,
and we admire those who get that wish.
So, what about Peter?
He wanted to preserve the glory moment
and stay in it forever. He said so.
But what about after it was over?
Nothing lasts forever in this world.
So many disciples—then and now—dream of
glory-to-come. But not Jesus.
And we believe that Jesus is God’s Word in the flesh,
come to show us what the real truth is.
So maybe the glory of God is not about the next election,
not about the size of the crowds,
not about basking in praise and adulation.
Not about building huge churches
and filling them with disciples of the preacher,
instead of disciples of Jesus.
The glory that radiated out from Jesus
may simply be truth and light,
and about complete devotion
to the same people that Moses and Elijah
cared about.
Moses, who grew up as a prince, and in the end
gave his life to a rag-tag bunch of people
who had nothing of value, not even hope.
Elijah, who confronted King Ahab and his Jezebel,
then hid in the brush at the side of a brook,
and then turned for help to a starving widow
and her son,
and then saved them as they saved him,
a crumb at a time.
In the tradition of Moses and Elijah,
Jesus brought his rag-tag group of followers
to an upper room,
fed them not much more than crumbs
and the ceremonial cup of Elijah,
and then went out to pray before he died.
And so it is, still and forever.
The glory of God does not look at all like the glory
of this world.
And all the prayer breakfasts and all the applause
and all the fame and all the power,
cannot turn fools’ gold
into the glory of God.
And the real glory of God was always in Jesus,
but those three disciples were given sight to see it,
their blinders were removed just for a moment.
But that was enough.
And they were changed forever.
The glory of God is right in front of you and me all the time,
Even right here, right now.
And if God removes the blindness from our eyes,
just for a moment, we also may see it,
and that will be enough,
and we will be changed forever, too.
May it be so!
Amen.
July 30, 2017 Reverend Susan Flanders
It all begins with an idea.
Sermon for St. George’s
July 30, 2017
Several of us are walking along the beach, a beautiful clear early summer day. Our conversation is inconsequential, but then on of us volunteers that he has recently visited an old college friend, a long time Republican. He has found it eye-opening to listen to this friend’s views about the president and why he and 50% of Americans support him. Our group grows tense as one of us hotly contends with the 50% figure, and the argument is on – back and forth about what percentage actually voted, whether 50% is accurate or a lie. And the person who began the conversation loses it – shouting and yelling and refusing to speak any further with us about "people who may view the world very differently than you do," claiming we have no real interest in what they think and only want to condemn them.
I walk faster, move ahead down the beach, dismayed to hear people I know and love actually screaming at each other – echoing the fractured conversations occurring so widely now – in our media, around dinner tables, at meetings and rallies. Or not – conversations not had, avoided, stuffed away to avoid conflict, to try to preserve harmony.
And I realize my friend on the beach was right – we often don’t want to really hear about a world view that clashes with ours; we are more comfortable assuming that the character flaws of an individual disqualify him or her from serious consideration, and that hence his supporters don’t need to be taken seriously either.
I don’t know about you, but ever since the election, and probably months before it, I have had an uneasy sense of how to BE in this chaotic chapter of our nation’s history. I read way too many op ed columns – mostly by folks I agree with. I walk my dog with a friend most days, and we spend at least half of our time ranting (fortunately the other half on food and restaurants). I fume as I read the morning paper; I provide a running, sneering commentary to the evening news hour, and Bill is quite tired of it.
And, I’m a minister – I’m supposed to be constructive, spiritually grounded, open, compassionate and forgiving – forgiving above all. I’m supposed to love my enemy and encourage others to do the same. And, at our best, that’s how all of us can be, and sometimes we are. But this season is not bringing out the best in us, not in most of our leaders, and not in the political swamp that is Washington, not in me.
And so I have been glad to be pushed, challenged to speak this morning, on the dilemmas we face in terms of what responsible leadership and citizenship look like. I think today’s appointed readings can help us here.
First, we have the poignant passage in which the newly crowned and very young King Solomon encounters God in a dream. Solomon acknowledges his inexperience, likening himself to a little child, barely knowing how to go out or go in. He also shows his awe in the face of governing a great people, and he asks for an understanding mind, able to discern between good and evil. Humility, respect for his task, understanding and a moral compass – this is Solomon as he embarks on his kingship. In the dream, God is pleased – especially because, unlike so many, Solomon has not asked for long life or riches or revenge on his enemies, and has sought to know 2
what is right. And so God grants him the wisdom he seeks and throws in long life and riches as well – even though Solomon did not ask for them.
So it’s just a dream, and it was thousands of years ago – but isn’t it still what we long for in our leaders? Doesn’t it remind us of how things might be, or ought to be? Don’t we feel that somehow leaders who can know their limits and strive for wisdom and the courage to do the right thing will be blessed – if not by some supernatural being like the one Solomon worshiped, then at least blessed with approval and support from those they govern and with a measure of success in their policies? Don’t we have the right to hope for this; don’t we have the responsibility to work for it?
But the working is so hard. I know very few people who hold profoundly different political views than I do, and although I say I’d love to be in conversation with these people, I’m not sure I’d be very good at it – I’m not sure I’d do any better than the blow-up on the beach. Can St. Paul’s message in Romans help here? Perhaps. I love it that he says "we do not know how to pray as we ought" – that would be me, and then "the Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words." Sighs too deep for words – this is, for Paul, how God works within us in troubled times.
And then Paul sails off into his wild, radical passage of assurance and hope, beginning with the dismayed question "What then are we to say about these things?" For him, nothing, nothing in all creation, now or later or in any way, is able to separate us from the love of God, and for him that love is shown in Jesus Christ.
I’d love to just let the beauty of the passage stand and simply accept Paul’s conviction, but some elaboration might help. One way Christians understand Jesus is as a human being embodying the love and presence of God. As such, Jesus shows us what it is to be fully human – that it is in each of us to embody in our own various and unique ways, God’s love and presence. When are able to do this, we are indeed not separated from God’s love – we’re part of it, we’re being God’s love in the world.
That’s our challenge, nothing less – to be God’s love in the world, and to discern, to be wise as to what love demands from each of us. Is it activism, is it informed criticism, is it giving money, is it shutting up and listening to others who hold different views, is it waiting patiently. Love certainly doesn’t just mean being polite, being nice – I think God’s love is both muscular and tender, compassionate and tough. And so are we, but our choices are hard, and good choices are necessary.
Here we have some help from the gospel passage, from Jesus’ own teachings. Matthew’s gospel gives us here a whole series of small things that become big things, hidden things whose value emerges, careful sorting of what is worthy and what is not. Jesus is gritty here, down to earth – he talks of seeds and yeast, buried treasure, nets full of good fish and trash fish. Reading this, to me, the question becomes then – what have we got? What do you have, what do I have with which we can start. What resources can we use – old ones or new, to grow ourselves and our body politic into the kind of country we long to be, the one our founders envisioned? 3
Blustering on the grand scale (as I confess I’m wont to do) doesn’t help. But volunteering in a free shower, laundry and lunch program does. It keeps me grounded to interact with the people our social safety net helps or ignores; it gives me a sense of making a teeny difference, even though I contribute only 3 hours a week. What about writing? Letters to politicians at all levels offering honest critiques, support or ideas. One small message in the sea – but not inflammatory, not hateful. What about talking with our children and grandchildren, not to tell them what we think, but to find out what they think and get a glimmer of what the world they will increasingly shape will be like.
I was struck by David Leonhardt’s op ed column in the New York Times on July 18. Like me, he has watched with dismay as political discussions just spiral into nastiness, and he offers what he calls "a quieter step, one that’s worth taking no matter your views". He suggests doing something he calls radical – that we change our minds, at least partially on one of the hotly contested issues our nation is so torn about. Leonhardt says "pick an issue you find complicated and grapple with it." Whether it’s immigration policy or health care, tax reform, many others – we might read up on both sides of it and perhaps come to some different conclusions. His point is that even small steps we can take to question our own beliefs and at least consider other positions can lead over time to a spirit of compromise, Leonhardt reminds me of a wonderful quote from the great commentator Eric Sevareid who said, years ago that is is important to "retain the courage of ones doubts as well as of one’s convictions in an age of dangerously passionate certainties." These suggestions are small steps, small ways of winnowing out what is worthy, what is trash. They are consistent with Jesus’s parables about great things from small beginnings, finding hidden treasures, new things out of old.
There is so much to worry about, and it is so easy to be overwhelmed. Coming here, to this rocky coast for a time, coming here to this small wooden chapel in the trees, these too are ways we can unearth treasures hidden away in our souls, these are ways we can empty our nets of what is rotten and of no use, ways we can gather up and hold closely the truths, values and wisdom of our years.
"What then are we to say about these things?" Our answers will be different, but may a spirit of love and discernment guide us as we make our way through this thicketed passage. Amen.
Psalm 73-to be read with Reverend Ralph Moore’s July 23, 2017 sermon
It all begins with an idea.
Psalm 73
(from the Iona Abbey Worship Book)
All God is good to the upright,
to those who are pure in heart
A My feet were close to slipping.
I almost lost my balance.
I had started to envy the arrogant
when I saw how the haughty flourish.
B They seem to avoid suffering
their bodies are healthy and sleek;
trouble appears to bypass them,
their lives are free of affliction.
A They talk of menace and malice,
breathing down people's necks.
They slander the kingdom of heaven
with tongues never silent on earth
B Many are taken in by them,
believing they do nothing wrong.
They say, "Does God really care?
Perhaps the Most High doesn't know."
A Have I kept myself pure for nothing,
Washing my hands in innocence?
For every new morning brings trouble,
and day after day I am punished.
B Had I thought to do as they do
I would have betrayed my people.
So I tried to make sense of this mess,
but found it too difficult for me.
A Once I entered God's sanctuary
then I began to understand.
In a moment they will be destroyed
on the slippery slope to ruin.
B My God, I am always with you;
you take me by the right hand.
Your wisdom continues to guide me
and you will receive me in glory.
A Because you fold me into your realm,
there is nothing I need upon earth.
Though flesh and blood may fail,
The Eternal is my strength forever.
All God is good to the upright,
to those who are pure in heart.
July 23, 2017 / Reverend Ralph Moore
It all begins with an idea.
St. George Chapel,
7-23-17
A bit of an unusual way of doing things, I concentrate on a psalm this morning.
First and foremost, psalms are poems, and, as happens to much poetry, they rarely are
honored for their deepest expression of living experiences. Psalms weren't composed by
professionals. They began as fragments of people's feelings, struggles, anxieties, griefs,
hopes, joys. Most of them existed orally long before they were picked up for chanting.
In Greek, "psalm" means "set to a stringed instrument." It came to be applied to texts
read and chanted in liturgy. But Greek and Latin labels hide the fact that a desert people
evolved and adapted over generations living these emotions. We don't know just how
some of these poems ended up in the early temple liturgy–nor how they eventually were
written down beginning as early as 3000 years ago. Some were beautifully composed,
and others were rough hewn in almost undecipherable Hebrew. The collection of 150
writings we call Psalms might not have come together and put onto scrolls until as late
as four centuries before Jesus' day. We have no originals, only copies of copies–such as
in the Dead Sea Scrolls and other archeological findings. But the point for us to bear in
mind is that first and foremost these were–and still are–poems that arose directly from
intense reactions of travail, triumph, anguish, and yearning, in the lives of real people,
rich and poor, urban and rural.
Here's something that helps me remember this. A few years ago I was at a concert
of the Philadelphia Orchestra. The work performed was a newly-composed oratorio for
large choir and full orchestra. The Finnish composer Magnus Lindberg was present. He
used as his text the Latin phrases carved into the walls of the ruins of Pompeii, the
Roman city destroyed by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in AD 79. It has been almost
totally excavated. There in plain sight all around are poetic scratchings of every kind.
We may be familiar with Carl Orff's "Carmina Burana," based on 11th century Latin
poems about life and love. Lindberg's oratorio is shaped that way, and simply entitled
"Graffiti." There are over thirty texts about common emotional experiences. "Profit is
happiness." "Good luck to whoever is in love." "Happiness dwells here." "Nothing can
last forever." "By despising the smallest wrong, it becomes the greatest." "A bronze pot
has gone missing from the shop. If anyone brings it back they will get 65 sesterces."
"Good people, welcome; thieves, be gone." "You are dead, you are nothing." There are
obsenities and violent outbursts and prayers to and praises of gods and emperors and
gladiators. A touching meditation appears: "I'm amazed, wall, that you haven't fallen
into ruins. You hold up so many writers' burdens." For me it's helpful–and authentic–to
read psalms as though they began that way–graffiti on the walls of people's hearts.
Psalm 73 is an outpouring of deep feeling by a person who has spiritual values but
writhes in pain because because the culture is dominated by privilege, wealth, and
coercion. Let's put it on as though it could come from each of us; let's read it
together…..Ps. 73 from the Iona Abbey Worship Book.
I can't help but reflect on the work of Quaker educator Parker Palmer. In his very
fine book, Healing the Heart of Democracy, he describes the reality of "living in the
tragic gap." On one hand, we hold dear strong values of honesty, decency, justice–the
ideals we strive to support in our thoughts and deed. On the other hand, we experience
the actual raw realities we experience in the society we live in, the worlds of conflict,
inhumanity, and injustice. Our task as people of conscience is to do what he calls, "soul
work," the daily exercise of applying our wisdom, our core values, our faith, to living in
terms of beloved community not drawn to either extreme–neither reverting totally to
past images of our ideals, nor falling into angry and unproductive ideologies about
perfect solutions. Maturity, in his view, is living with this tension, not denying it or
trying to avoid it, but rather receiving the inner strength of spirit that sustains us in
patience, courage, insight, and true compassion–dialogue rather than destructive
combat–all of which are the insights of this biblical tradition. Psalm 73 is a good
example.The beloved community (sometimes called church, other times called network,
or gathering, or movement) arises through the "soul work" of individuals.
In an obituary of Simone Veil, a Jewish French survivor of the Holocaust who
died at age 89, it is reported that she was 14 when she and her entire family were
arrested and dispersed to the camps and that she alone lived. She spent the rest of her life
in reconciliation activities–French-German, Christian-Jew, women-men of power–as a
magistrate, minister of health, leader of the European Parliament, mother of three sons.
"War is so unspeakable terrible," she would say. "The only possible option is to make
peace." That sounds like a psalm. That required "soul work."
Luke puts a psalm into the mouth of Mary as she ponders the child growing in her
who will pitch into doing "great things," scattering "the proud in their conceit," casting
down the mighty from their thrones," lifting "up the lowly," filling "the hungry with
good things," sending "the rich…away empty." What a radical "soul work" goes on in
this woman. "The whole creation," writes Paul, "has been groaning in labor pains….we
ourselves, who" have experienced a taste of new birth in ourselves, "groan inwardly
while we /expect/ adoption….in our bodies….we hope for what we don't yet see, we
expect it with patience." (A play on the same word: wait, expect, hope.) We've been
given the insight and we put it to work as best we can: "soul work." The tragic gap,
where, as Jesus explains, good grain and weeds grow together entangled, no simple
solution except to grow and let the toxic plants wither and be tossed out. Tragic gap,
soul work. Isaiah hears the Almighty saying, "Is there any other option than the creation
as we now live it? If there is, tell me about; I'm all ears." It's put well by the Persian
poet Rumi: " Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wiser,
so I am changing myself." Life forces for the good are in us as creatures. We're always
being prompted to live them in the beloved community of love, peace, justice.
And this is my take on Psalm 73.