Small Sacrifices, Simple Service: sermon for Year B, Proper 24

Preached on Sunday, October 21, 2012 at the Church of the Holy Trinity. The lectionary readings this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here.

On Tuesday, there was a short service of commendation at Nagel’s Funeral Home on 87th street for our beloved Lillian Bunth. It was very small, just her family and a friend or two; just a few prayers as her body was sent to be cremated. There will be a larger memorial service later in November when more of her family will have a chance to gather and we can all join them. And then we’ll lay Lillian to rest in our columbarium, next to the man who was the first resident of Holy Trinity’s columbarium, Lillian’s husband. 

Though I’ve only been among you a short time, I did know Lillian. She was with us at the 8:00 am service on my first Sunday here as preacher. She joined in breakfast as many of the worshippers at that service do, as they insisted that I do. And in the course of our walk to the diner for breakfast, Lillian posed a question or two or three of me. And she made sure I knew who she was. I will be eternally grateful for her forwardness, because it was almost the last chance I would have had to know her before she died.

There was a similar service last week for Elizabeth Eberhart, a long time member of this parish, and this past Thursday was her memorial service, here in this church where she was married and her children were baptized, and educated in the faith, and married. There was beautiful music, poignant memories, and solemn prayers for Elizabeth, as there will be for Lillian in a few weeks, as there always are for those of us who are called into the nearer presence of God.

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In today’s gospel reading from Mark’s gospel, two brothers, James and John, take center stage. It’s not the first time we have met James and John, the sons of Zebedee, nor will it be the last. James and John seem to be part of an inner circle within the larger group of the Twelve. In chapter 5, Jesus allows James and John, along with Peter, to witness the raising of Jairus’ daughter. In chapter 3, it is James and John, again with Peter who witness the Transfiguration, when upon a mountaintop Jesus is transformed into a brilliant being clothed in dazzling white conversing with Moses and Elijah, when a voice from heaven declares that Jesus is, in fact, the son of God.

James and John even have a special nickname given them by Jesus. He refers to them as Boanerges, which means Sons of Thunder. From that at least, and from their forwardness in today’s gospel, we can see how that James and John are a bit special, or might be forgiven for thinking that they are the greatest among equals at the least. And why shouldn’t they be? They are willing to take the hard knocks -- or so they say. They are willing to drink of the cup that Jesus will drink of, and to accept the baptism that Jesus will endure. And when it’s all said and done, they’d like their reward, they’d like a confirmation of the special status they feel they have, an acknowledgement of all they have given -- they feel they deserve it. 

In today’s gospel, James and John have cooked up a pretty good plan, and they run it up the Judean flagpole to see who they can get to salute it. They tell Jesus that they’ve got some seating arrangements to discuss with him, involving specifically the seat on his right hand and the seat on his left. Jesus defers on the issue of seating, but he tells them that everything that is coming his way will also come their way. We who know how the story ends, know just how bitter will be the cup that Jesus will drink and just how brutal the martyr’s baptism in blood will be.  

John disappears from the post-gospel narrative, but James, we know from the Acts of the Apostles, did indeed join Jesus in a martyr’s sacrifice, the only one of the Twelve who’s martyrdom is recorded in Scripture.

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The commendation for Lillian and the memorial for Elizabeth this past week put me in mind of another funeral and another time this text, the passage from Mark about James and John, has been preached on. It was on Sunday, February 4^th, 1968, and the preacher was the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The place was Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, Georgia. Dr. King spoke of James and John’s request of Jesus, and he spoke of the psychoanalyst Alfred Adler. Dr. King agreed with Adler that the quest for recognition, the desire for special attention, this desire for distinction is the basic impulse, the basic drive of human life. Dr. King named it “The Drum Major Instinct.” That impulse we all have to jump out in front of the crowd, to lead the great parade with the blaring band at our backs, under our direction.  

In that great Baptist style, Dr. King listed the many examples of the Drum Major Instinct run amok: living beyond one’s means, seeking out titles and honorifics, self-aggrandizement, narcissism.

Then towards the end of the sermon, Dr. King spoke of his own personal fame and glory. He said, 

“Every now and then I guess we all think realistically … (about) that something that we call death. We all think about it. And every now and then I think about my own death and I think about my own funeral. And I don't think of it in a morbid sense. And every now and then I ask myself, "What is it that I would want said?" 

If any of you are around when I have to meet my day, I don’t want a long funeral. And if you get somebody to deliver the eulogy, tell them not to talk too long… Tell them not to mention that I have a Nobel Peace Prize—that isn’t important. Tell them not to mention that I have three or four hundred other awards—that’s not important.

I'd like somebody to mention that day that Martin Luther King, Jr., tried to give his life serving others… I want you to be able to say that day that I did try to feed the hungry. And I want you to be able to say that day that I did try in my life to clothe those who were naked. I want you to say on that day that I did try in my life to visit those who were in prison. I want you to say that I tried to love and serve humanity. 

Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice. Say that I was a drum major for peace. I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter. I won't have any money to leave behind. I won't have the fine and luxurious things of life to leave behind. But I just want to leave a committed life behind. And that's all I want to say.” 

Two months later to the day, Martin Luther King, Jr. was felled by an assassin’s bullet at 6:01 pm on a Thursday evening in Memphis, Tennessee; just about 5 miles from where my family was sitting down to dinner. A recording of his sermon on James and John and the Drum Major Instinct was played at his funeral -- Dr. King proved to be his own eulogist.

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The words of Isaiah in our first reading today were written long ago, some 800 years before the time of Jesus, but the ancient words of the Hebrew prophet seem to predict exactly what befell Jesus, and what befell his disciple James. But then again, they can be said to fit the circumstances of someone like Dr. King, who was himself wounded for our transgressions of segregation and racism, and who was by a perversion of justice taken away. (cf. Isaiah 54:4-12)

There have been, and I fear will be again, those who lives too closely resemble the sacrifice made for us by Jesus. But the simple fact of the matter is that most of us will not have to make the sacrifices that Jesus made at 33 years old or that James made or that Martin Luther King, Jr. made at 39 years old. 

Some of us might even be so lucky as Elizabeth Eberhart and Lillian Bunth have been. Elizabeth was 92 years old at the time of her death; and though she hadn’t copped to her real age in some time, I don’t think she’ll mind if I now acknowledge that Lillian was in fact 97 years old when she died in the last days. She first came to the Church of the Holy Trinity at the age of 5, and was a parishioner here for 92 years. 92 years of pledging and prayer and praise, and 92 years of service, volunteering at the thrift store and as part of the altar guild. 

Chances are that the cup that you and I are called to drink will not be as bitter as the cup that Jesus and James and Martin Luther King drank from. Truth be told, we’re likely as not to live long lives, some of us maybe, like Elizabeth and Lillian, even into our nineties. But whether our lives are long or short, whether our deaths are violent and untimely or peaceful and quiet, we can answer the call of Christ to serve one another. We can give of our time and talent and treasure -- whatever amounts of those precious commodities that we can afford -- in service to God’s church, and to our ministries for the hungry, the homeless and the elderly. We may not be asked to suffer a martyr’s death, but we can suffer through a committee meeting or two, or give up an evening to volunteer at our shelter. We may not be asked to lead a march on Washington, but with some advice, we can probably manage to lead a Sunday School class or two. We may not be asked to give our very lives, but we can give of the bounty God has blessed us with. 

So when we are called to be of service to others, when we’re asked to pledge or volunteer or serve in whatever capacity – whether we are asked to give of our time, our patience, our other cheek, our money, our expertise, whatever the call may be, let us offer what we have to give unbegrudgingly, willingly and with a thankful heart. 

Chances are that you and I will be asked to make what are in fact small sacrifices; we will be called to engage in what are in fact simple, fairly straightforward services to others.  Such is likely to be the cup that we will be called to drink from, such is the baptism of sacrifice that we will undergo. Maybe not enough to be counted among the great, except in the opinions of our neighbors and friends whom we have loved, and who have loved us… If we’re lucky, maybe those whom we have worshipped and prayed with all these years might think well of us. 

But let us respond to those smaller calls to service with joy and with willingness, remembering the great sacrifices that others have made, and the great blessing that those sacrifices have granted unto all of us: the blessing of salvation, the blessing of a faith that endures, the blessing of a more just society. And may our smaller sacrifices be blessings also, to those in need, and to those we love, to those who we are blessed to call our brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus. +Amen

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

Out Of Love: Sermon for Year B, Proper 23

Preached on Sunday, October 14th at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. The Scripture readings this sermon is based on can by found by clicking here. 

Today is kind of a special day here at Holy Trinity. We have two important events taking place within our worship this morning. First of all, we have a baptism. But not just any baptism. This morning, we will receive into the household of God one young Timothy Weir. Timothy comes to us the morning with quite a pedigree. Young Timothy is the child of not one but two of our choristers. Both of his parents sing in our choir. But that’s not all. Young Timothy is the grandchild of not one, but two Episcopal priests -- both his grandfathers are priests and will be taking part in his baptism this morning. A very special moment that they will remember always, I’m sure. And that we are very proud to have happen in the midst of our community. And it’s a day that all of us should remember as well. Because, with a pedigree like that, I feel certain that one day, Timothy will be our Presiding Bishop probably, or maybe even Archbishop of Canterbury -- you never know! So remember this day. You’ll be able to say you were here when the storied churchman Timothy Weir was baptized!

Baptism is our rite of entry into Christianity. From our earliest days, this ritual, very closely linked to the practices of our Jewish forbearers, has been how we receive people, young and old, into our family, into the household of God. But as Timothy’s parents and Godparents and I discussed this morning, it’s just a beginning. It is the beginning of a dialogue, the start of a relationship, one that is central to our lives together. As his life continues, Timothy and his parents will participate in this dialogue, in this relationship. They will build upon the beginning that starts here today. And then Timothy himself will respond; he will take part in his own dialogue with God, and he will decide how best to respond to what we do here today, how to continue the good work that is begun in him today.

And that brings us to our gospel reading this morning. A man comes to Jesus to pose a question. He wants to know how to live. He wants to know what should be his next response to the message of God, to the gospel that Jesus has been proclaiming. The man is not unlike our Timothy, isn’t he? For he has been raised in the faith, and has kept the most important tenants of the faith since his youth. 

But something is in his way, isn’t it? Notice, Jesus is not taking the initiative here. It is the man who comes to Jesus, who poses the question. And notice Jesus’s response to him. He listens to him. He answers his question. He listens to the man’s response. And then, Mark tells us, Jesus looks at him, really sees him, and Jesus loves him. Don’t miss that moment there. Because all that comes after, comes out of that, out of that loving look, from Jesus into the eyes and into the heart of the one who has come seeking him.

Jesus sees what the man lacks -- and he tells him how to obtain what he lacks. And what Jesus says is quite shocking to those around him, and it is to some degree shocking or at least uncomfortable for us to hear today. 

And what Jesus has to say is much more about relationship than it is about riches. The rich man has a relationship with God, he has a relationship with the faith of his mother and father, the faith of his homeland, and he is drawn to a deeper relationship with Jesus. But notice that Jesus seems to spurn this focus upon him. He says, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone?” (Mark 10:18) The next step for the rich man is not a deeper relationship with God. That he already has. 

Jesus tells him to sell all that he has. Surprising to hear, both for the disciples then and for us today. It was believed then, as it often is today, that riches were sign of God’s favor. But Jesus seems to be saying that they are not a sign of favor, but perhaps an impediment to all the rewards that do truly come from God. Notice that Jesus doesn’t just tell the rich man just to give away his riches, he tells him specifically, “Sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.” (Mark 10: 21) 

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I met a young man not too long ago who worked as a youth minister here on the Upper East Side. As I’ve already learned in my time among you, there’s the Upper East Side, and then there’s the Upper East Side. Most of my friend’s young charges are quite privileged, and lead very circumscribed lives. They travel just a few blocks of our neighborhood, from very nice homes to very expensive schools, and come the weekend, they are mostly whisked off to Connecticut or other equally exclusive environs. My friend, the youth minister, had his kids out in Central Park playing Frisbee. A toss of the Frisbee went awry, and landed a ways off, near a homeless man in the park, who had his belongings arranged all around him, where the Frisbee had landed. The kid who missed the errant Frisbee then said, “Well, I guess that’s it. We’ll have to quite playing and go home now.” But his group leader said, “What do you mean?” And he went over to the homeless man, and said, “Hey, sorry. Can we get our Frisbee back?” To which the homeless man said, “Sure!” as he fished it out from among his bags and parcels and passed it along. My friend explained that most of the young people he ministers to never encounter the poor, never interact with them, in fact, probably aren’t allowed to. Their lives are conducted within exclusive environments, where they only meet others as privileged as themselves. They live lives completely cut off from those less fortunate than themselves and they have no clue how to react or interact with anyone but those like themselves. 

The problem for these kids, and the problem for the rich young man in our gospel reading today, is that their riches and their privileges separate them, not so much from God, but from God’s people. Their assets make them isolated from full communion with all those that comprise the household of God, all the beloved of God, rich and poor alike. And in their isolation, they fail to see that the poor are just as favored by God as are the rich; that material success is not the measure of God’s love, not by a very far stretch.

The household of God is not always a comfortable place. Here we meet not just our own family and friends, our own brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers. Here we meet all sorts and conditions of humanity, the poor, the oppressed, the sick, the despised, the stranger, the foreigner, the neurotic, the deranged and the destitute, as well as the wealthy, and the well, the sound and the successful. This isn’t a place for just our own brothers and sisters, our own kind, but it is a place where all whom we meet are as our own brothers and sisters.

The household we welcome Timothy into today is one in which everyone is welcomed. In this family, we are called into relationship with all who seek after the solace, succor and salvation of God, no matter who they are, or where they come from, or what they bring, or don’t bring, with them.

Though I haven’t been long in this place, I know that this gospel is one that we take to heart here at the Church of the Holy Trinity, because we live it out every day. We set the table in this place for those who hunger, and we provide beds to those who have nowhere else to lay their heads. Maybe it’s not so important for us to remember this day in expectation of what young Timothy Weir may one day become. Perhaps Timothy should remember this day and this place where he was welcomed into the household of God; because the relationship we call Timothy into is not just a relationship with God, though it is certainly that, and not just a relationship with us, but we call Timothy into relationship with all God’s children, all who are beloved of God, and that is all of humanity, rich and poor, straight and gay, old and young, white and black and Latino. 

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I said earlier that we have two important events taking place in our worship this morning. The second is the institution of the leaders of our upcoming Stewardship campaign. As the next few weeks unfold, I invite you to a period of discernment as you think upon and pray about the commitments you will make in the coming year to help us continue to grow into a community of welcome and loving service to all. In the pledge mailing this year, you’ll be asked to share of your time and talents as well as your treasure to further the work of the Church of the Holy Trinity. When you do so, remember today’s gospel, and remember the loving look that Jesus casts upon the rich man in our reading today. Whatever your decision about the support you will offer our parish in the year to come, know that the love God bears for you comes first, and it is out of that love that God calls you to service to his church and to his people. Don’t ever forget that. It is God’s love that comes first, and it is in response to that love that we are called to share of our time and talent and earthly treasures.

My brothers and sisters, this is the Good News of Christ Jesus, Our Lord and Savior, who lives and reigns, now and forever. +Amen.

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

How To Be Human: Homily for the Feast of Francis of Assisi

Preached on Sunday, October 7, 2012 at Church of the Holy Trinity. Scripture readings this sermon was based on can be found here.

One of the many great, and ponderous questions we deal with often here at the Church of the Holy Trinity is how is it that we are supposed to live? What goes into living a good life, being a good Christian, how best can we follow Christ in what we do everyday, in all that we do?

Some of us find answers in Scripture, some find them in contemplation, some find their answers in service to others. And some of us find the answers to these questions closer to home. Some of us find the way to live in the lives we share with our pets.

Because it is most certainly true that if you want to live a good life, if you want to be the kind of person that Jesus would want you to be, what you must do is to try as best you can to be the person that your dog already thinks you are…

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On this day we commemorate one of the great saints of the church, Francis of Assisi. Francis was renowned for many things. He was noted for his gentleness and his humility, and in his great regard for the beauty and bounty of God’s creation. But Francis was more than that. He was a rebel and a radical. He protested -- most vociferously -- the corruption of the church and the excesses of greed. He was known for wandering the city streets and through the countryside naked, preaching to any and all. Francis saw in the sufferings of the poor a reflection of the sufferings of Christ, and for him, the poor are the most beloved of God, and service to the poor is service to Christ himself.

Francis founded an order of monks and nuns devoted to these values -- kind of an early version of Occupy Assisi -- that survives to this day and continues Francis’s good works.  

Few of Francis’s writings survive. One rare one is the Canticle of the Sun. It says, 

Most High, Omnipotent, good Lord, 

Let creatures all give thanks to thee, 

And serve in great humility.

For those of us with pets, dogs and cats and birds and fish and ferrets, we know that they do, in fact, serve in great humility. Not the leastwise by teaching us -- with their steadfast love, and warmth and obedience and joy -- how to be the best humans we can be. 

+Amen

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

Saltiness: Sermon for Year B, Proper 21

Preached on Sunday, September 20, 2012 at the Church of the Holy Trinity in New York. Scripture readings that this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here.

I don’t know how many of you know who Heidi Klum is. Heidi Klum is a very tall, slim, very beautiful fashion supermodel, originally from Germany. More recently, she’s known for being the host of the reality competition show Project Runway. On Project Runway, several would-be fashion designers are given challenges to create clothing. Near the end of episode, the designers’ creations are paraded down a runway, and judges assess the creativity and skills of each effort. The episode concludes when the judges banish the lowest performing designer from the show, leaving a smaller, more competitive bunch to do it all again next week. But not before Heidi Klum reminds the assembled designers, in her German-inflected English, “As you know, in fashion, one day you’re in, and one day you’re out.”  

I’m fascinated with Project Runway. It seems to be a unique experience, because what you get to see on Project Runway that you rarely get to see elsewhere, is the process of artisitic creation. It’s intriguing to watch artists at work, conceiving of and then creating an artistic vision, bringing to fruition something that was only a dream to begin with.

In today’s gospel, we see a bit of Project Runway competition among the followers of Jesus. It appears that others have been working wonders by evoking Jesus’s name. But these miracle workers are not part of the Twelve, not part of the in crowd. And the in crowd is not happy about it. And it is John who gives voice to the concern. Interestingly, this is the only time the disciple John speaks in Matthew, Mark or Luke. And he speaks up to say, as if he were the Biblical Heidi Kulm, “In discipleship, some of us are in, and the rest of you are out!” 

Well, not quite. The Lutheran scholar Richard Jensen in his book “Preaching Mark’s Gospel” recounts the admonition of one of his theology professors who said, “Whenever you want to draw lines in order to (delineate) who is outside the kingdom and who is inside, always remember: Jesus is on the other side of the line!” (149). 

It’s as if the very act of drawing the boundary, setting up the fence, the process itself of parsing the flock separates us from God. Because whatever line we draw, we’ll find ourselves on the wrong side of it – and Jesus always on the other side, outside of the lines we draw, with the outcast and downtrodden, the mischaracterized and maligned.

Jesus makes the case for a very wide net, and very open door when he famously says, “Those who are not against us are for us.”

Then, Jesus takes the critical eye and turns it upon us. First of all, he says, Do not put “a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me.” In other words, don’t find fault with those just coming into the faith, and trying to find their way. Rather look to yourselves, your own shortcomings and sinfulness. Root out any impediments in yourselves, before, or really instead of, trying to root those who you might think don’t belong. 

In the South, where I grew up, we have a saying. Be careful when you point your finger, cause when you do, there are actually three other fingers pointing back at you!

This faith thing, this Christianity thing… It’s an inside job, it’s one that is conducted within the heart and mind. It’s not about separating the good people from the bad ones, or the in crowd from the outsiders, or at least it’s not about that for us. God is our only judge, none others need apply. But it is about separating out the parts of ourselves, parsing our own hearts and minds, our sinfulness, our shortcomings, our fear, our anxiety, our faithlessness, maybe even our desire to be judgmental. And separating those things out of our hearts, so that we can love more fully, and serve God and God’s people more humbly and more gracefully.

We don’t need to judge others, we don’t need to separate sheep from goats. We don’t need to spend our time finding fault with anyone but ourselves. 

What we do need, what we must have within us, is saltiness. That sense of flavor, and an absense of blandness; a sharpness, and a bit of bite. Some vibrance. Something that is definitive.

It is true, what Jesus says, that when the saltiness goes out of us, it’s hard to recapture. When it goes out of a community, it’s hard to rekindle.

Now, I’ve only been around Holy Trinity for about a week. But I don’t think I’m going too far out on a limb here to say, you’re a pretty salty bunch around here. There is something here, a certain flavor and taste and maybe even a little bit of bite to being a Holy Trinitarian.

This past week, I met with and talked with many folks and groups. And as a result, not many boxes in my office got unpacked, but that’s another issue. There are two meetings though, that really struck me. Last Sunday, the Liturgy and Music Committee met – for two hours! Not a long meeting really when you consider that the group meets only once a quarter. And the thing I couldn’t help but notice was, there was no room at the table. It was crowded with the leaders of the guilds and groups that make our worship happen and happen so beautifully. There were lots of experiences and opinions and ideas shared. Some differences of opinion, I’ll grant you. But the point is, the table was crowded with some opinionated, salty Holy Trinitarians, who care and care deeply about the worship of God in this place.

The next evening, the board of the Holy Trinity Neighborhood Center met. And once again, the table was crowded. There were hardly enough chairs for everyone. And again, there was some spirited conversation, and great ideas, and offers of support and help, and some opinions, some which differed with others. But gathered together were people who care deeply about serving God’s people, those who want to see the hungry fed, the homeless sheltered, and the elderly respected; people gathered together to ensure that at the Church of the Holy Trinity, everyone is in and no one is out.

There was much discussion and discernment among these groups, as you might imagine, that is their role. There was much self-examination directed toward making beautiful, inspiring worship more beautiful and fulfilling; and the determination to make joyful service to others more energetic and effective, and always joyful. 

You never really know what you’re going to find when you begin a ministry in a new place. Especially when that place is in the midst of change. I’m very grateful to God that you haven’t let the saltiness go out of you. You haven’t let your care and commitment and your willingness to lead and serve go stale.

Saltiness, there’s some of that here, for sure. And it gives flavor to the Church of the Holy Trinity. There is a distinctiveness to the way we follow Christ in this place that is palatable, and satisfying. 

And there is vision here, a dream that crowded tables of good Christian folk are trying to realize. Like the designers on Project Runway, a dream is being made a reality here. Around crowded tables of Christians who bring all their faith, and energy and saltiness to those tables, to help make the dream of a joyful, just kingdom of God a reality.

It is this… saltiness that, as today's psalm says, revives the soul, and gives joy to the heart, that is worth more than fine gold, that is in fact sweeter than honey in the comb. So, keep your saltiness… well, salty! And be at peace in your hearts and with one another. + Amen.

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

In Our Own Place and Time: Sermon for Year B, Proper 19

Preached on Sunday, September 16, 2012 at the Church of the Holy Trinity on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Scripture readings that this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here.

I’m going to take a bit of a risk here, at the beginning of my first sermon at the Church of the Holy Trinity. Probably a bad idea, considering, but then again, I was the kid who always ran with the scissors… So, I’m going to start my sermon this morning with a joke.

And I have a particular objective in beginning with a joke, by starting things off with a bit of laughter. In a few moments, Father Paul will remind us that what we do here today is a ‘right and good and joyful thing,’ and that last adjective ‘joyful’ is the one that is too often overlooked. Being part of the body of Christ is and should be a joyful thing. Church should be fun, and filled with smiles and laughter and praise. So, I’m going to kick off my time of service as your shepherd with a little bit of laughter.

So, here goes. When the family got home from church on Sunday, his mother asked little Billy Joe a question, “What did you learn in Sunday School today, Billy Joe?” Little Billy Joe said, “We learned a new song!” “Oh, really,” said his mom, “what was the song about?” Billy Joe said, “It was a song about a bear.” That confused his mother a bit and she asked Billy Joe, “Really? It wasn’t a song about Jesus or Moses or about ‘Peter, James and John going fishing out on the deep blue sea’?” “No, mom,” said Billy Joe, “it was a song about a bear. And the bear was crossed-eyed!” “Cross-eyed!” said his mom, “It’s not nice to call anyone, even a bear, cross-eyed, Billy Joe. I can’t believe you sang a song in Sunday School about a bear that was cross-eyed.” “We did too!” said Billy Joe, “And his name was Gladly!” “Gladly,” said his mother, “What kind of name is Gladly?” “I don’t know,” said Billy Joe, “But that was his name! And that was the name of the song, too! ‘Gladly, The Cross I’d Bear’

That joke was one my dad told me when I was younger, and it always made me laugh, as it still does. But there’s something worth noting about that joke. It’s genesis, or it’s underlying ethos, is what I would really like to talk to you about this morning. Because little Billy Joe’s lack of understanding is one that I think many of us can identify with.

What does it mean to take up our cross and follow Christ? 

As many of you will know, the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John were written some time after the death and resurrection of Jesus. Mark, the earliest gospel, was written sometime around the year 70, we believe. So, some 40-odd years after the execution of Jesus. And those 40-odd years were eventful ones. Many of the earliest followers of Jesus had, during those years, run afoul of the Roman authorities, as well as some of the Jewish authorities in Palestine and elsewhere. There was persecution, and there were executions. Later in Mark’s gospel, Jesus warns his followers that they will be handed over to the councils and synagogues, and will be questioned by governors and kings. (9:9) And even siblings would betray one another, and some of those betrayals almost certainly led to death. (9:13)

So in our gospel reading today, we see Mark describing a time that he and his community suffered through and knew all too well. Mark’s community took up their crosses, at times perhaps literally. Most of us have not and will not be asked to take up our cross in quite the same way. In our place, in our day and time, such is not likely to be our fate. So, the question remains, what does it mean for us to take up our cross?

One misunderstanding, one ‘cross-eyed bear’, that some people take up is to interpret this passage as somehow commending suffering for its own sake. Today’s gospel passage comes at roughly the midway point in the Gospel of Mark. Jesus has spent nearly half of Mark’s gospel alleviating needless suffering or oppression whenever he encounters it. Taking up one’s cross is not about seeking suffering or abuse for its own sake, as if suffering or abuse itself is redemptive or a mark of virtue. Christ’s sacrifice on the cross is redemptive; none other is necessary for our salvation, nor for the world’s salvation. To hear this passage, and to mistake it for instruction to seek out suffering is to take up a cross-eyed bear, not a cross to bear while following Christ. We need to take a longer view, we need to seek a wider vision and a deeper understanding to get at what this passage might mean for us today.

Earlier in our gospel reading today, Peter seems to be wrestling with a cross-eyed bear of his own. Like many of his fellow Jews, Peter was expecting a messiah who would restore Israel to its former glory. A messiah who would reign from a throne, not a cross, and that would conquer the Romans, not a messiah who would conquer death, whatever that might mean. When Jesus begins to speak about the suffering he would undergo, Peter rebukes him. And Jesus rebukes Peter in return. Peter’s aspirations for a messiah, and his hope for his people is not suffering and death, but rather security and triumph. Peter seeks a crown of glory, not a cross. But what Jesus offers Peter and his disciples – and us – is a cross, not a crown. Divine things, not human things. Jesus offers worldly service, not worldly power, not the easy life, but life everlasting.

So, crowns of glory are not meant for us, it seems. But then neither are crosses of undue suffering, though some of our ancestors in the faith did so suffer. What we are to do is to take up our own cross, not a crown, surely and not a cross of undue suffering.

But again we might ask, what is our cross to take up? How are we to follow Christ in our own day? How are we to serve God and God’s people in our own place and time? 

I’d like to share with you some words, a prayer, in fact, that say quite a bit about what it is to follow Christ, to serve God and God’s people in our own time. This prayer was written by a Roman Catholic bishop, Ken Untener of Sagniaw, Michigan. Bishop Untener’s prayer was originally written as part of an annual commemoration for priests who had died. But in one of those ‘cross-eyed bear’ misunderstandings, the prayer has become associated with Archbishop Oscar Romero, the martyr of San Salvador. And it certainly puts his sacrifice in perspective. And too, it helps us to find what is our cross, what is the work we have been given to do. The prayer goes like this:

“It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view. 

“The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision. We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work. Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.

“No statement says all that could be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession brings perfection. No pastoral visit brings wholeness. No program accomplishes the Church's mission. No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

“This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one day will grow. We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise. We lay foundations that will need further development. We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.

“We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.

“We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.”

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We plant seeds that will one day grow. We water seeds already planted. We lay foundations. 

That’s a good description of what following Christ, of taking up our cross, is all about. There’s self-denial there, in realizing that kingdoms and their crowns are beyond us. There’s humility in seeking to plant seeds that will bear fruit in years to come, in tending the seeds planted by others. It’s not about the results of our actions, but it is rather about the action of our duty.

There’s self-denial too in remembering that we are not the master builder, but we are the workers. We are the ministers, not the messiah. 

As we begin this journey together, and look to the work we have before us, as we discern God’s will for the Church of the Holy Trinity, this prayer is my prayer for all of us. I pray that we take the long view, that we plant the seeds given us to plant, and tend the seeds planted by others. I pray that we will open the door, and open our hearts, and allow God’s grace to come in, and do what we cannot. I pray that we will take up our cross, and do so humbly, with the knowledge that what we do we do for the glory of God, and not ourselves, and that we work for a kingdom to come, and a future not our own, but one that belongs to those who will look upon our work here and give thanks for our efforts, as we give thanks for those who have gone before us. 

Let us then avoid the cross-eyed bears, the conflating our own wants with God’s will, and our own security with God’s service. 

But rather let us take up our cross, and do it joyfully, let us do the work God has given us to do, to love and serve God and one another as faithful witnesses of Christ our Lord.

This is the Good News of Christ Jesus, our Lord. Amen+

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

The Words of Spirit and Life: a sermon for Year B, Proper 16

This sermon was preached on Sunday, August 26, 2012 at Christ & Saint Stephen's Church. The scripture readings this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. 

After the most recent General Convention of the Episcopal Church, a few articles began to appear about our church and its dire future. One article in The New York Times by Ross Douthat asked the question, “Can Liberal Christianity Be Saved?” 

Mr. Douthat’s answer seems to be ‘no’; that based on attendance and membership data, liberally minded religious denominations are now collapsing and will soon fade away. And, to be fair to him, Mr. Douthat thinks that’s a bad thing. He writes, “The defining idea of liberal Christianity — that faith should spur social reform as well as personal conversion — has been an immensely positive force in our national life. No one should wish for its extinction, or for a world where Christianity becomes the exclusive property of the political right.” 

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Many people seek many, many different things from religion, and Christianity is no exception. People come to the church to find God, or to find a good husband, or to be spiritually transformed or politically confirmed. Some come to be challenged, others come to be comforted. Some come as an expression of their deepest, most personal beliefs; others come as an expression of their cultural or ethnic identity. Some come to be sheltered in the solitary stillness of God, others come to embrace the entire, noisy, rambunctious body of Christ. Some come to church to hide out from life. Others come to ‘come out’ more fully into a life of the Spirit, a life lived in a crowded community of faith.

And after they come, some people leave.

In our reading from John’s gospel today, some of the people in the congregation of the synagogue at Capernaum, who have been following Jesus, find his most recent teaching too incredible, too unbelievable; and they leave. 

Jesus has been teaching and preaching that he is the bread from heaven, the one sent from the Father, and that we must eat of his flesh and drink of his blood so that he might abide in us and we in him. But the disciples point out to him that “this teaching is difficult, who can believe it?” (6:60) And Jesus counters them, “‘Does this offend you?” (6:61) 

Jesus is trying to make the point that it is the Spirit that inhabits the flesh, and not the flesh itself, that brings eternal life. Jesus says to the disciples, “It is the spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless. The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.” (6:63) To eat of the flesh and drink of the blood of Jesus is to accept the Holy Spirit that dwells within him, within the words he speaks. 

It’s not the flesh, but the spirit that dwells within the flesh, that is important. 

Seems a simple enough concept, but as we see in today’s reading, it is an idea that some people either just don’t get or won’t get, or can’t except. So they leave.

And that has proven to be the case not just in first century Galilee, but in our own day. In the Episcopal Church, in the last few decades, we’ve confronted issues of the spirit versus the flesh a few times. 

In the 1970s after long thought, and impassioned debate, we had come to believe that it was not the gender of priest, but the spirit that dwelt within her that makes her fit to serve as a priest in the church. Some of us just didn’t get it, or wouldn’t get it, and couldn’t accept it, so they left. 

In 2003 when Gene Robinson was elected bishop of New Hampshire, once again the people of God said it is not the gender of the person this priest loves, but rather the spirit that dwells within him that makes him fit to be consecrated a bishop, a worthy successor to the apostles. But some of us just didn’t get it, or wouldn’t get it, and couldn’t accept it, so they left.

It might happen again after our most recent General Convention which voted to authorize a liturgy to bless and hallow same sex commitments and marriages. Once again, the people of God said it is not the gender of the people involved, which is, after all, just a condition of the flesh that makes their relationship sacred, rather it is the spirit of love that exists between them that makes a true Christian marriage. Some of us just don’t get it, or won’t get it, and can’t accept it, so they may leave us too. 

The Rev. Winnie Varghese, rector of St. Mark’s in the Bowery here in Manhattan, wrote an article for the Huffington Post called The Glorious Episcopal Church. Responding to Mr. Douthat’s piece among others, Winnie wrote, 

"If our increased thoughtfulness in understanding the human condition causes us to be open minded in a way that offends your prejudices, yes, the Episcopal Church might not be for you..." 

Winnie goes on to comment on some of the actions of General Convention, the authorization of a same sex blessing liturgy, resolutions against discrimination against transgendered people, racial profiling, and random ‘stop and search’ policing methods. She continued,

"We believe that God cares more about the nature of your relationship than its biology, and we have a beautiful blessing to offer. We believe that God created you to express your gender the way you feel moved to express it. We believe that no one should be assumed to be breaking the law because of his or her appearance. 

"But mostly, we believe that we are received into the household of God in baptism and partake of the body of Christ in the Eucharist, and through the sacrament are given a glimpse of God's vision for a just world, and the courage to make it real, and we want you to join us."  (emphasis added)

It seems like that word is bearing fruit. Law Professor Mark Osler, who joined the Episcopal Church just over a year ago, recently wrote his own article for the Huffington Post entitled The New Episcopalian. Professor Osler writes,

"I am a new Episcopalian who embraces the love of God, the guidance of scripture and the beauty of worship. The Holy Spirit is not a leaden stillness but a wind, and I feel that deep truth when I worship in my new church. Yes, some have left, but I am coming in, unafraid and unashamed. The Episcopal Church is ready for me, and I am ready for it." 

And that from a law professor at a Catholic university, and a former Baptist! Take that, Ross Douthat!

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I imagine that it was a painful for Jesus and for the rest of his disciples that day in Capernaum when some of those who had been part of their community left them. It has been painful for many of us when those who could not follow us where we felt the Spirit leading left us. It’s not an easy thing to leave, and it’s not an easy thing to say good-bye to those we love, whom we have broken bread with.

We can’t know how many left that day in Capernaum. But the fledgling church was not overlarge at this point in our history. And it may have been that those who left represented a sizeable portion of those who had begun to follow Jesus in those early days. 

But the thing about Christianity is -- it’s not a numbers game. It’s not about which congregation has the most members, or which parish has the largest endowment, or which denomination is growing larger than any other. Christianity is not a numbers game. It’s a spirit game, it’s a life game. It’s not about today’s attendance. We’re in this for the long haul, the really long haul. We serve a God who promises us life everlasting. This isn’t about the overnight ratings, but about eternal redemption. 

I wonder if, on that day in Capernaum, when Peter and the others watched those who walked away, those who could not accept Jesus’s teaching... I wonder what they thought and felt. Did they worry about their future, their chances of success, or even of survival? Did they worry that their small sect might not prove efficacious, that their theology might not withstand the test of time?

Little did they know that so compelling would be the message of Jesus, so inspiring would be the stories that Peter and the others would tell about him and his works of mercy and healing and faith, so wondrous would be the good that they would do in his name, that someday nearly 7 billion people would call themselves followers of Christ, more than a third of a very crowded earth’s population. 

But as I’ve said, it’s not a numbers game, because the numbers are not about the spirit, the numbers are not about eternal life. 

Peter comes to understand this. After the departure of some of the followers in our gospel today, Jesus asks the twelve, “‘Do you also wish to go away?’” (6:67) Peter replies, "Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God." (6:68-69) 

And so might we say to those who challenge our interpretation of the gospel, the soundness of our theology or the efficacy of our church. ‘What else can we do? We have come to believe that Jesus Christ is the Holy One of God, and that this is his word to us in our own day, for our own time. ‘It is the spirit that gives life, not the flesh.’ We have come to believe that these words spoken to us are the words of spirit and life. We have come to believe that these are the words of eternal life.’ And we want you and everyone else to join us in following the risen Christ into a new, more just, more holy life to come. Amen+

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins

I One With Thee: a sermon for Year B, Proper 15

Preached on Sunday, August 19, 2012 at Christ & Saint Stephen's Church. Scripture readings this sermon is based on can be found by clicking here. 

I can remember very well the very first Eucharist I ever attended. For the sixth grade, I was transferred from public school to St. John’s, a Roman Catholic parochial grade school. The new school was very strange. I had to wear a uniform, which included at tie, rather than my usual blue jeans and Ked’s tennis shoes. And we went to church at school. A lot. 

At St. John’s, every student went to mass twice a week. On Mondays, the 8th and 1st grades went, on Tuesdays, the 7th and 2nd grades, on Wednesdays the 6th and 3rd grades, on Thursdays, the 5th and 4th grades, and on Fridays, all eight grades attended en masse.

Though Communion services in my Southern Baptist church were held periodically throughout the year, usually on Sunday nights, I had never attended one. Probably because, as far as my family was concerned, Sunday night was for the Wonderful World of Disney and Bonanza, not more church.

On that first Wednesday at St. John’s, Father St. Charles invited us up to surround the altar during the Eucharistic prayer. There was another non-catholic student who had entered the school that year (that’s what they called us, ‘non-catholic’, not Baptists or Methodists and never, ever Protestants); she was a little girl in the third grade, a Baptist like me, whose name I can’t remember, but whose face I can still plainly see in my mind’s eye. She had red hair, and was going to be spending some time in the orthodontist’s chair in the not too distant future. I knew she was a flummoxed as I was as we gathered around the freestanding altar as Father Saint Charles began the prayer of consecration.

Before much was said, I noticed that the little red haired girl had moved up to the corner of the altar on which a candle burned – and she was trying to blow it out. Like me and the rest of our co-religionists, candles were things that appeared on birthday cakes, not altars, never altars. So, in her unsophisticated, third-grade way, she thought she ought to blow it out, I guess. Being a much more sophisticated sixth grader, I knew this was unwise. Though I didn’t, at that age, know what an inquisition was, I think I sensed what these Roman Catholics were capable of. I knew that if that little red haired girl blew out the altar candle, it was not going to be good for the ‘non-catholics’ at St. John’s, myself included. I caught her eye, and gave her a stern look and a shake of my head and mouthed the words, “Quit it!” She screwed up her mouth in frustration, but she yielded to her older, wiser fellow non-catholic’s will and stopped blowing at the candle.

I could then concentrate on what was going on on the altar. There was a gold cup and a gold plate with small white wafers on it. The gold of the vessels seemed to match the thick gold band on Father Saint Charles hairy knuckle, which I wondered about since I knew he wasn’t married, couldn’t be married like Brother Owens, my Baptist preacher, was. Father Saint Charles lifted the plate of wafers at one point, and bells rang, and he lifted the cup at another point, and the bells rang again. The words he spoke were English by this point, but they were a rather elevated, fancier English than the plainer, purposely less elevated language that Brother Owens used when he preached. “Do this for the remembrance of me…” Bells and candles and gold plates and white wafers… These were all very strange and interesting and impressive to my sixth grade self.

The rite of Holy Eucharist, Holy Communion, the Lord’s Supper arises in the earliest days of Christianity. In some of the earliest Christian literature, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, contains a description of the last Passover meal, and the special emphasis it was given by Jesus. Matthew, Mark and Luke all narrate this scene using the almost identical language and terms. “This is my body… this is my blood… take and eat… do this for the remembrance of me…”

Interestingly, John’s gospel contains no Last Supper. What it does contain, in typical Johannine style, is a discourse. John’s chapter 6, from which our gospel reading is taken this morning, is an extended discourse on Jesus as the true son of God, as the Word made flesh who comes to feed us with his body and blood, so that we might join him in eternal life. After the feeding of the multitudes which begins the chapter, a series of discussions ensues about bread from heaven, about Jesus’s coming into the world, and about his body and blood, and its meaning for those who eat and drink of it. 

For those of us who participate in the Eucharist every Sunday, the basic idea behind it has become rather ordinary. But if you were me in the sixth grade, or the Galilean crowd listening to Jesus in the first century, they would have been maybe exciting and alluring, but also disturbing, unsettling and certainly unprecedented. And as we will see in our gospel reading next week, for some, they proved unbelievable. 

Though John’s gospel contains no Last Supper, no first Eucharist, this sixth chapter of John, takes the same shape and form as our Sunday Eucharist.  Jesus tells us to hear his declarations and to believe in him, then he tells us to eat of his flesh and drink of his blood. Similarly, this morning, we will hear the word of God in our Scripture readings, we will declare our belief in the recitation of the ancient creed, we will bless wine and break bread, and share it with one another. 

Throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus makes his relationship to the Father quite clear, quite explicit. Jesus is the one sent from the Father; he is the bread come down from heaven. Jesus makes clear his relationship to us in our gospel passage this morning. “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me… so whoever eats me will live because of me.” (6:56-57)

The word menein in Greek, which we translate here as "abides" appears dozens of times in the John’s gospel, more than in any of the other gospels. And it indicates a central point of John’s gospel. There is a mutual indwelling between Jesus and the Father, and that indwelling is shared by Jesus with his disciples, with all who eat of his body and drink of his blood. This is the Word made flesh becoming one with all flesh, all who eat and drink, all who share the body and blood. We are what we eat, and what we eat is the body of Christ himself. Nowhere in all of Scripture is the relationship between God and the children of God, the creator and the creation, the Son of God and those who follow him, described with greater intimacy.

A few years back, a popular historian wrote a book about medieval history called A World Lit Only By Fire. The title alone makes one of the book’s main points. The world was a treacherous place, dangerous, and when night descended, even more dangerous. The nighttime was filled with dangerous animals, pitfalls, uncertainty, destruction, death, annihilation. It was out of this world that the prescriptions for altar candles arose. Two candles on the altar to symbolize that something special takes place here, something that is certain, something that is sacred, something that preserves and restores life, something worth seeing, something worth hallowing. The candles burn to indicate that here is sustenance for this treacherous life, sustenance even unto the life eternal, the body and blood of Christ himself. Offered to us so that we might ever abide in him and he in us, not only now, but forever.

So, come to the altar of God, draw near. And whatever you do, don’t blow out the candles! 

Rather, taste and see that the Lord is good. And "make a melody to the Lord in your hearts." (Eph 5:19) Sing again in your heart the words of our sequence hymn: “I ever with thee and thou with me, Lord; thou my great Father; thine own may I be; thou in me dwelling, and I one with thee…” (#488, The Hymnal 1982).

© The Rev. Mark R. Collins