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About that exorcism in Philippi (7th Sunday of Easter, 6/1/2025)

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Readings

I like a good story as much as anyone, so, perhaps predictably, we’ll spend most of our time in Acts, in one of Luke’s more open-ended stories. At the same time, our lectionary invites us to notice connections. On the one hand, this proud Roman colony of Philippi, on the other our Psalm’s celebration of the Lord’s kingship, Revelation’s repeated invitation to “come,” our Lord’s prayer that we all be one: what happens when these two hands meet?

So, to our first reading. We’re still in Philippi, where in last Sunday’s reading we met Lydia, that dealer in exclusive high-end purple cloth, who believed and was baptized. And what gets the story started is a slave girl with a “spirit of divination” who over “many days” follows Paul and Silas, crying out “These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.”

Luke tells us “But Paul, very much annoyed, turned and said to the spirit, ‘I order you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her.’ And it came out that very hour.” What’s intriguing about the story is Luke’s decision to name Paul’s motivation, and it’s not flattering. Not “Paul, filled with compassion…” or “Paul, recognizing an evangelistic opportunity…” but “Paul, very much annoyed…” That could have been the end of the story, but the slave girl’s owners know how the city operates, and Paul and Silas end up beaten and jailed.

And here’s where Jesus’ prayer that his disciples all be “one,” comes in. In that prison it’s not hard to imagine Silas saying to Paul, “Well done, mate! What were you thinking?” It may have started there, but by about midnight we’re hearing echoes of Jesus’ prayer: Luke: “About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them.”

And whatever the Lord thought of Paul’s impromptu exorcism, the Lord at whose presence “the mountains melt like wax” (so today’s Psalm) is not above throwing in an earthquake. The effects of the earthquake are remarkably focused: it’s “so violent that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately all the doors were opened and everyone’s chains were unfastened.” That pretty much invites Paul and Silas to segue into that bit from Isaiah that Jesus read in the Nazareth synagogue: “he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners.” But no.

As Luke tells us, “When the jailer woke up and saw the prison doors wide open, he drew his sword and was about to kill himself, since he supposed that the prisoners had escaped. But Paul shouted in a loud voice, ‘Do not harm yourself, for we are all here’.”

It looks like Paul has learned from Peter’s experience, and maybe even from the events of the day. A while back Herod had had Peter imprisoned. At night an angel had sprung him, but in the morning, Herod had the guards “examined” and executed (Acts 12:1-19). Thankfully, that’s not repeated; Paul takes the more difficult path: ”Do not harm yourself, for we are all here.” The jailer also enters into Paul’s calculus, for the jailer is also a recipient of Revelation’s invitation to come and drink.

(Parenthetically, Paul’s response is echoed repeatedly in Martin Luther King Jr’s practice of non-violence. From various speeches: “the attack is directed against forces of evil rather than against persons who are caught in those forces… the nonviolent resister does not seek to humiliate or defeat the opponent but to win his friendship and understanding” [A Testament of Hope pp. 8, 12].)

So the story ends, as did last Sunday’s story, with a baptism. Last week, the baptism of Lydia, the dealer in purple cloth, and her household; this Sunday, the baptism of the jailer and his household. Folk near the opposite ends of the social spectrum: Revelation’s invitation to come and drink: Luke’s celebrating that that really is for everyone.

Luke chose to name Paul’s motive in exorcising the slave girl (“very much annoyed”) and that slave girl is the loose end in the story. Exorcised, she’s of less value to her owners, and we would not expect her story to end well. But we don’t know.

Paul’s role in her story is part of that loose end. I wonder about that, what Paul did with that. So I wonder whether, some time later, when Paul encountered the slave Onesimus, he did not recognize the opportunity to do it differently this time. He spent time with Onesimus, discipled him, took the trouble to write to his owner, Philemon, arguing—between the lines—that Philemon’s proper response was to receive Onesimus as a brother, not as a runaway slave.

“The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come’. And let everyone who hears say, ‘Come’. And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” That’s our message. Sometimes we do a decent job of sharing it; sometimes not so much. We, too, are quite capable of sharing our annoyance, quite capable of failing to distinguish between the forces of evil and those caught in those forces. So, in the words of the Eucharistic Prayer we’ve been using this Easter season, “Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.” Or, as the Revelation puts it, “And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.”

The God Who would be at Home with Us (6th Sunday of Easter, 5/25, 2025)

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Readings (Using the John 14 reading)

I hope you’ve not skimped on the coffee this morning, because we’re going to jump into the deep end, that reading from the Revelation. That, in turn, will set us up to think about what the Church is for—not a bad question since we’re only two weeks out from celebrating Pentecost.

Revelation likes images that shimmer, enigmatic images. John hears “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David,” but what John sees is “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered” (5:5-6). So here, toward the end of the book, John hears “the bride, the wife of the Lamb,” but what John sees is “the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God” (21:9-10). This is something like what we encounter in Physics 101. Is light a particle or a wave? Yes, depending on what you’re trying to explain.

The new Jerusalem. No need for a temple, or a sun, for that matter: “for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb.… for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb.”

“The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it.” Pull the camera back to include John’s Bible (our Old Testament) and it’s clear that this New Jerusalem is finally fulfilling the hopes for the original Jerusalem. Recall Isaiah:

In days to come
the mountain of the LORD’s house
shall be established as the highest of the mountains,
and shall be raised above the hills;
all the nations shall stream to it.
Many peoples shall come and say,
“Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD,
to the house of the God of Jacob;
that he may teach us his ways
and that we may walk in his paths.”
For out of Zion shall go forth instruction,
and the word of the LORD from Jerusalem. (2:2-3)

Something beautiful is happening, and the nations want in on it.

Then there’s that river the prophet Ezequiel saw flowing from God’s presence: “On either side of the river is the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, producing its fruit each month; and the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations.” So healing is needed—still! The city has gates, the classic means of controlling access, but the gates are never shut. A bit later we’ll hear “The Spirit and the bride say, ‘Come.’ And let everyone who hears say, ‘Come.’ And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift” (22:17). Jerusalem is finally fulfilling its role, being the place where God’s glory is visible and healing is freely available.

I mentioned enigmatic images a bit ago, and in its final chapters the Revelation takes these to a different level in the form of two juxtaposed stories. In the one, a decisive battle in which evil is destroyed and the great white throne before which everything is sorted out. On the other hand, open-gated Jerusalem offering glory, joy, and healing to all who would enter. Well, which is it? What the Revelation may want to show us is that within the limits of human language and human understanding our clearest picture is this pair of starkly contrasting images.

Perhaps this should not be surprising. Recall how our story starts. Genesis gives us not one, but two creation stories. In one everything is good from the start, the humans play no active role, the seven days are as much liturgy as anything. In the other God works by trial and error, Adam plays an important role, and the good emerges at the end of the process: “This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; this one shall be called Woman, for out of Man this one was taken” (2:23). To capture the reality of the beginning and ending of human history Scripture gives us pairs of stories.

What may be at stake in these pairs of stories is the challenge of doing justice to God’s sovereignty and human freedom. There’s a popular saying attributed to various folk (Augustine, Ignatius, etc.) “Pray as though everything depended on God. Work as though everything depended on you.” Maybe, but it could be heard as a call to run ourselves ragged. I like what the Ignatian author Jim Manney does with it:

“I prefer to reverse it: ‘pray as if everything depends on you, and work as if everything depends on God.’ This means that prayer has to be urgent: God has to do something dramatic if everything depends on me. It also puts our work in the right perspective: if it depends on God, we can let it go. We can work hard but leave the outcome up to him. If God is in charge we can tolerate mixed results and endure failure.”[1]

OK, what of the Church? In John’s vision there’s the New Jerusalem, finally doing its job. Sounds pretty good. What happens until then? Let’s circle back to the angel’s words: “Come, I will show you the bride, the wife of the Lamb.” “The bride, the wife of the Lamb:” that sounds like the language used elsewhere in the New Testament for Christ as bridegroom and the Church as bride. Or, to come at John’s vision from another angle, from 1st Corinthians: “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you (3:16)?” Or, more extensively in Ephesians, “So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God” (2:19-22).

Because God desires that all enter freely into joy, into God’s presence, God really needs a place where God can be at home, where God’s healing glory is visible, and that is the Church. That’s the dynamic in this morning’s psalm, God’s blessing here that ripples out to the corners of the earth. That’s at the core of today’s Gospel: “we will come to them and make our home with them.” This is why, by the way, the New Testament letters devote virtually no attention to evangelism and virtually all their attention to the elements in congregational life that make God’s healing glory easier or harder to see.

And this sweeping vision plays out in the decisions of specific women and men, folk like Lydia, that dealer in purple cloth from our first reading, folk like you and me.

We’re here, God knows, because we need to be here. And in the larger story that the Revelation brings into focus, we’re here because God needs places where God’s at home, where God’s healing glory can be visible in the common life of God’s people, whether gathered together or scattered through our communities during the week. A tall order, yes, which is why Jesus speaks of the Holy Spirit on approach, the flaps extending, wheels down.

[1] https://www.ignatianspirituality.com/work-as-if-everything-depends-on-god/ (accessed 5/16/2022).

Why The Revelation thinks we need courage (5th Sunday of Easter, 5/18/2025)

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Readings (The Revelation reading is extended to include vv.7-8: “Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children. But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the polluted, the murderers, the fornicators, the sorcerers, the idolaters, and all liars, their place will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”)

At Baptism there’s a prayer for the newly baptized, part of which runs “Sustain them, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give them an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works” (BCP 308). Today’s readings, with the baptism of the Gentile Cornelius with his family and friends in the background, can help us hear this prayer more clearly, particularly that ‘courage’ bit. Let’s dive in.

Our Revelation reading gives us John’s vision of a new heaven and a new earth. But in what sense ‘new’? Here—as in most of the book—John is playing off particular Old Testament texts, specifically the announcement of a new heaven and earth toward the end of Isaiah. Here’s a bit of it: “They shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build and another inhabit; they shall not plant and another eat; for like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be, and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their hands” (Isa. 65:21-22). That may sound underwhelming until we remember that for Isaiah’s audience, as for most people in most times and places, it’s revolutionary. The normal in most times and places is that you have your house or vineyard only until someone more powerful decides they want it. So the new heaven and new earth is this heaven and earth—with justice. And already we get a sense of why ‘courage’ might be relevant, because the powerful tend to be happy with things as they are.

Well, how do we get from here to there (pretty much the question that drives the whole Book of Revelation)? Revelation answers by rereading the Old Testament, thereby challenging popular misreadings. Last Sunday we noticed two of John’s rereadings: he hears “the Lion of the tribe of Judah” but sees “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” He hears of 144,000 Israelites being sealed (probably for violent battle) but sees “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.” The slaughtered Lamb wins the new heaven and new earth; that great multitude follows His lead.

So, in today’s text, “See, I am making all things new.” But lest we assume that we’re just passive beneficiaries, there are the last two verses that focus on our responses, conquering or not.

“Those who conquer will inherit these things, and I will be their God and they will be my children.” “Those who conquer” echoes the promises that end each of the messages to the seven churches in chapters 2 and 3. The first: “To everyone who conquers, I will give permission to eat from the tree of life that is in the paradise of God” (2:7). The last: “To the one who conquers I will give a place with me on my throne, just as I myself conquered and sat down with my Father on his throne” (3:21). “Those who conquer” is another one of John’s reinterpretations. It’s the language of holy war, but interpreted by the slaughtered Lamb: to conquer is to give faithful witness—as did the Lamb—despite the dangers. In a world too often enslaved by lies, witnessing to the truth can be liberating—and dangerous.

So “those who conquer” theme highlights the virtue of courage, “the cowardly” head John’s list of those excluded. That, of course, is a deeply troubling list, troubling enough that the Revised Common Lectionary ends the reading two verses earlier. But John’s been arguing throughout the book that our choices now matter, whether we accept God’s generosity matters, whether there are witnesses to the truth in the midst of lies matters, whether we’re finally about “Your will be done” or “My will be done” matters. As for that “lake that burns with fire and sulfur,” it’s an image within a vision; it would be pointless to look for it using Google Maps. Nor is Scripture sure that anyone actually ends up there. God, as Paul writes to Timothy “desires everyone to be saved” (1 Tim. 2:4). But John doesn’t want us to forget that our choices matter.

How do we get from here to there? There’s another dimension to that question that sets us up for our other readings. “See—John hears—the home of God is among mortals.” But since it’s the New Jerusalem that’s coming down, why isn’t it “the home of God is among the Jews?” Back toward the start of the story God had promised Abraham “You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations” (Gen. 17:4). But how that was going to work was never clear. Notice how today’s psalm ends: “He has raised up strength for his people / and praise for all his loyal servants, / the children of Israel, / a people who are near him. / Hallelujah!” It was easy to assume that the distinction between the children of Israel and everyone else was baked into creation itself, so that the only way to become part of God’s people is to become Jews. Which is why Peter got an earful in our first reading.

Peter had had a disquieting vision. Before he could digest it the messengers from the gentile centurion Cornelius showed up looking for him, and the Spirit said “Go!” Peter preached to Cornelius and his family and friends, and the Holy Spirit descended. These gentiles spoke in tongues, praised God; Peter had them baptized.

And, as our text tells us, the “circumcised believers” criticized him. Why? Well, following their reading of texts like Psalm 148, Peter should have first circumcised them, then discussed baptism. But the Spirit decided otherwise. Cornelius’ house is where the question of how Abraham becomes “the ancestor of a multitude of nations” got decided.

As you may recall, those favoring an exclusivist reading of texts like Psalm 148 did not give up easily. So Peter’s hearers’ conclusion “Then God has given even to the Gentiles the repentance that leads to life” is deeply problematic in what it doesn’t acknowledge. First, God gave both Peter and the Gentiles repentance. “By no means, Lord; for nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth.” Had Peter stayed stuck there, no story. Second, God gave to the Gentiles repentance as Gentiles: they didn’t need to become Jews first.

It’s hard to overestimate the importance of this story. Bishop Lesslie Newbigin uses this story to capture the difference between evangelism and proselytism: in proselytism only the hearers are supposed to change. Here it’s a Jewish problem, but it quickly becomes a Gentile problem, with the Gentile Christians saying to the Jewish Christians “If you don’t eat pork you’re not a real Christian.” And any group with a bit of power can play this game: “You’re not a real Christian until you’re like us. We decide what your repentance needs to look like.”

In terms of John’s vision, Peter is one who conquers, not by demanding that Cornelius with his family and friends become like him, but by courageously following the lead of the Spirit, despite the flak he knows he’s going to get from Jerusalem. He conquers because he understands that repentance is an ongoing project. Our brother Martin Luther nailed it in the first of his 95 theses: “When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, “Repent” (Mt 4:17), he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance.” (And recall that in the Episcopal tradition the core of repentance is not simply feeling sorry about what one’s done, but changing one’s behavior.)

Our Gospel text’s “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another” takes John’s “Those who conquer” in a related direction. We don’t need that commandment when we’re in agreement; it’s when we disagree seriously that “love one another” needs to kick in. “Those who conquer” are not those who’ve brought everyone else around to their way of thinking, but those whose love keeps the circle unbroken. Like the apostles did during Easter week. They were all “Alleluia” and Thomas “I really would like to see some, you know, evidence,” and they’re still together when Jesus appears again. That’s love, courageous love. That’s conquering.

So, picking up the baptismal prayer, “Sustain us, O Lord, in your Holy Spirit. Give us an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and to love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works.”

About that “valley of the shadow of death” (4th of Easter, 5/11/2025)

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Readings

“Listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.” Today’s texts keep us on our toes, zooming in on the individual, zooming out to capture the whole course of our history with God. Of the texts, Psalm 23 is the best known, so we’ll start there.

Formally, it’s an extended, an exuberant, affirmation of trust. It’s often set to soothing music. That’s not bad, but it doesn’t help us notice the drama. That line, “guides me along right pathways.” And we always follow the guidance we’re given?  So, toward the end: “Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me…” That’s a head-scratcher of a translation; normally we’d translate the verb ‘pursue.’ There are times when I’ve blown off the guidance and God’s goodness and mercy need to pursue me. In other words, that one sheep that goes astray in Jesus’ parable: that would be most of us from time to time.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, / I shall fear no evil; / for you are with me.” Just what is the psalmist trusting? That things will always be placid? This year our Great Vigil again included Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace: “for you are with me” indeed!

And here we’re at the border between the individual and the global perspectiver, because there’s that popular response to the psalmist’s words: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, / I shall fear no evil; / for I’m the baddest *** in the valley.” What does it mean to live smart, in full awareness of the world as it is?

Which brings us to our text from the Revelation, whose central question is—arguably—how God conquers evil. The Revelation answers that question by transforming popular religious symbols in the light of Christ. It contrasts what John hears and what John sees. We heard part of one of those contrasts last Sunday. John hears “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered.” And we expect that John will see a mighty warrior. But no: “Then I saw… a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” God conquering evil doesn’t play out as we expect.

Today’s reading gives us another contrast. Just before the verses we heard John hears the command to mark out twelve thousand from each of the twelve tribes, the “one hundred forty four thousand,” implying preparation for a holy war. What John sees (today’s reading): “a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages.”

Who are they? John’s told: “These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” The description suggests martyrdom, and that would make sense, because the Revelation is warning its hearers that the psalmist’s “right pathways” could result in martyrdom (recall Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego). But if martyrs, martyrs because they are first witnesses. In that, they follow Jesus, for ‘witness,’ as we heard two Sundays ago, is the first thing the Revelation needs to say about Jesus: “the faithful witness.”

How does God conquer evil? The Revelation’s answer: “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.” And we’re the witnesses, we who—in the words of the Great Vigil—“once renounced Satan and all his works, and promised to serve God faithfully in his holy Catholic Church” (BCP 292). Perfect witnesses? No, hence the pursuing goodness and mercy.

And in all this the Revelation slips in another transformation. Who does the shepherding? The Lamb. The Lamb is the Shepherd, and it is with that glad affirmation that we continue to use and put our weight on Psalm 23.

A couple comments on the other readings and I’ll close. The reading from John chapter 10 continues the theme of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, introduced at the beginning of that chapter. Verse 26 might awaken some Calvinistic anxiety: “but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.” So there are Jesus’ sheep and not Jesus’ sheep, forever divided? That would make nonsense of John’s Gospel, written, as we heard two Sundays ago, “so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” So we might better hear v.26 as “but you do not believe, because you do not [yet] belong to my sheep.”

Tabitha’s story in Acts does a number of things. First, it reminds us that the psalmist’s “right pathways” do not always lead to an interview with Nebuchadnezzar, Pilate, etc. Witness, whether borne by Jesus, that great multitude, or Tabitha, is life-giving, thus all the widows “weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them.” Her resurrection (that’s the verb behind the NRSV’s “get up”) witnesses that the psalmist’s trust was well-founded: “and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

And, perhaps most importantly, this shepherding role is not confined to Jesus. Tabitha, with her “good works and acts of charity” shepherded. “My sheep hear my voice…and they follow me” said Jesus. After stories like Tabitha’s we might paraphrase: “My sheep hear my voice, they follow me, they shepherd.” And so her story gives us one enfleshment of the Revelation’s vision: How does God conquer evil? One tunic at a time.

Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions (3rd Sunday of Easter, 5/4/2025)

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Readings

Our second lesson picks up in the middle of one of John’s visions: a scroll in God’s hand, sealed with seven seals, and the question “Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?” And whether in heaven or on earth or under the earth—the classic way of dividing up creation—no one was able, and John begins to weep bitterly.

So what’s in the scroll? John doesn’t tell us. Not, I think, because he doesn’t know, but because the scroll as a symbol can do more if it shimmers a little, if it points to a number of possibilities. That scroll might remind us of the collection of scrolls that was Holy Scripture. Who can open that, offer a trustworthy and authoritative interpretation? All the divergent voices, all the dead ends: what does it come to in the end? Or, to worry about more than the Jews, the scroll might remind us of our problem of getting our head around human history. History: “one damn thing after another”? Or, closer to home, that well-sealed scroll might remind us of the challenge of understanding our own selves, our own histories. Take it in any or all of those ways, and we don’t have much difficulty joining John as he weeps.

And then one of the elders says to John, “Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.” Those two titles, ‘Lion of the tribe of Judah’, and ‘Root of David’ had been used in the centuries leading up to Jesus’ birth for the Messiah, and both promised strength, victory, conquest. With that sort of introduction, what we expect John to see is something or someone like Schwarzenegger. But what John sees is “a Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered.”

The elder announces a Lion; what John sees is a Lamb. So what’s going on? A divine bait & switch? That’s perhaps what the crowd who cried “Crucify him!” thought. Or perhaps the most profound statement of what God’s power looks like: Jesus of Nazareth, the one who had every right to demand service, but who came to serve and to give his life—this is the slain Lamb part—a ransom for many.

And it is this Lion/Lamb who is worthy to take, open, and read that scroll in all the possible senses we noticed. Jesus, the one whose life and work is the fulfillment of that strange assortment of loose ends that we now call the Old Testament. Jesus, the one who has entered our history, and so given us the hope that it may end with something more than a bang or a whimper. As followers of the slaughtered Lamb, we live from the hope that God will bring good also out of the evils we encounter. Jesus, the one who can open the scroll that is my own life.

Jesus, the slaughtered Lamb, opening the scroll that is my life. Our other two readings give us some help imagining what this looks like, and in both cases it’s by asking questions. Jesus, of course, does more than ask questions. He gives commands (“love one another”, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations”), describes our world, tells very odd stories, weeps, laughs. But Jesus does ask questions, and that’s maybe when Jesus is most… dangerous.

Let me digress. My favorite poems are a collection of choruses T. S. Eliot wrote for a pageant play called “The Rock.” Friends in Berkeley introduced me to them; I found them in one of Berkeley’s many used bookstores in 1971. A few lines for the sheer joy of it:

We build in vain unless the Lord build with us.
Can you keep the City that the Lord keeps not with you?
A thousand policemen directing the traffic
Cannot tell you why you come or where you go.
A colony of cavies or a horde of active marmots
Build better than they that build without the Lord….
When the Stranger says: “What is the meaning of this city?
Do you huddle close together because you love each other?”
What will you answer? “We all dwell together
To make money from each other”? or “This is a community”?
And the Stranger will depart and return to the desert.
O my soul, be prepared for the coming of the Stranger,
Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions.
Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions.

So Saul, en route to Damascus, encounters a very bright light and a voice: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” And that question is the beginning of the transformation of his world.

And maybe only a couple of years earlier at the Sea of Galilee, the disciples after a fruitless night of fishing hear the voice of a stranger on the shore: “Children, you have no fish, have you?” They follow his instructions and end up with a net too full to bring into the boat.

Later, after breakfast:
—Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?
—Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.
—Feed my lambs.
—Simon son of John, do you love me?
—Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.
—Tend my sheep.
—Simon son of John, do you love me?
—Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.
—Feed my sheep.

Readers have long noticed that these three questions correspond to Peter’s three denials the night of Jesus’ arrest; the denials were in public, so too these affirmations. But there’s also something very intimate going on here. Peter’s responses matter to Jesus. Jesus loves Peter, and so Peter’s responses matter on a personal level. As do your responses, as do your responses, as do mine. That’s the sort of vulnerability that love brings, even and particularly to this slaughtered Lamb.

So, what questions is Jesus asking me? What questions is Jesus asking you? “Well, I don’t hear Jesus asking any questions!” Nor does someone who’s got the sound system cranked all the way up hear the call to dinner. Some noise we can’t control; some we can, and only after we’ve minimized the noise we can control are we in a position to complain “Well, I don’t hear Jesus asking any questions!”

The Lion of the tribe of Judah, the slaughtered Lamb, asking me, asking us, the questions that will open and render intelligible our lives, our world.

“Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!”

The Good Lord’s Decision (The 2nd Sunday of Easter, 4/27/2025)

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Readings

After a very full Holy Week in which it’s easy for the brain to go on overload, this Sunday, a.k.a. “Low Sunday,” is a welcome opportunity to catch our breath and ask what all that was about. That pretty much sets the agenda for this sermon.

In our first reading we heard Peter address the Jewish leadership in Jerusalem: “The God of our ancestors raised up Jesus… God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior that he might give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins.” That’s the core of Easter: the divine decision to raise Jesus, to vindicate Jesus.

At Jesus’ baptism Luke recounts: “And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’” Some time later, as some of Jesus’ disciples watched him talk with Moses and Elijah, that same heavenly voice: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” Wistful thinking? A trick of the wind? God’s raising Jesus from the dead: the exclamation point!

But why raise Jesus after three days rather than waiting to sort everything out at the Last Judgment? Because there’s work to be done on earth now, and it’s not only Jesus’ work. The poorneed good news now; the Pilates, Herods, Caiaphases of this world are—shall we say—underperforming. Recall Peter’s words: “that he might give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins.” It doesn’t take much unpacking of those words to see that they include the disciples, Peter’s audience, and us. That’s seconded by our second reading from Revelation: “To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father…”

Recall what we heard on Maundy Thursday: [Jesus:] “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” “This is my body that is for you… This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” Without Easter we wouldn’t be recalling those words, or at best recalling them as another example of crazy hopes cancelled by a Roman cross. With Easter: even that cross is part of their fulfillment (“and freed us from our sins by his blood”).

In other words, Easter is God’s decision regarding Jesus and God’s decision regarding us. Rather than fire and brimstone, going full momma bear, the offer of repentance and forgiveness. The Easter Vigil—one of the jewels of the 1979 prayer book revision—makes this clear in including the renewal of our baptismal vows “by which [as the BCP puts it] we once renounced Satan and all his works, and promised to serve God faithfully in his holy Catholic Church” (p.292). God raises Jesus and then turns to us: whose side are you on?

Back to our reading from Revelation: “To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion forever and ever.” That’s what the baptismal vows are about, not one more card among many (driver’s license, Social Security card, MasterCard, etc.) but as the guide for how we use all the rest.

Peter: “And we are witnesses to these things.” Witnesses. Not the judge, not the jury, not even the bailiff. Witnesses, who by definition are not expected to know anything beyond their own experience, and not even expected to understand that. “God raised Jesus from the dead, and this is what Jesus has been doing among us:” that’s more than enough to keep us focused.

Witness, of course, often happens as much by action as by word, and two examples from today’s readings are worth noticing.

Recall again Peter before the Council. He doesn’t mince words: “Jesus, whom you had killed.” But God exalted Jesus as Leader and Savior not for payback, but for repentance and forgiveness—precisely what Peter offers to the Council members. Bless him, Peter’d learned something from Jesus.

Then today’s Gospel reading. There are two surprises in that second encounter between Jesus and the disciples. The first is that Jesus shows up again. The second is that the other disciples were still willing to be in the same room as Thomas. For a whole week they’d been all “Alleluia!” and Thomas “I need some evidence.” The disciples witnessed to Jesus’ resurrection also by not writing Thomas off. Bless them, they’d learned something from Jesus. Given the Church’s history of splitting over much smaller issues, if we’re looking for a way of witnessing to Jesus’ resurrection this isn’t a bad place to start.

In these two examples Easter is an invitation to dial back our fear, whether of external enemies (Acts) or of potential internal enemies (the Gospel). It’s Jesus whom God has exalted as Leader and Savior, not whoever is currently claiming those titles. Even the State looks a little different when the Crucified doesn’t stay dead.

Easter: The Lord God’s decision: Jesus got it right. Jesus’ project is just getting started, and Jesus has no interest in doing it alone. “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.” We celebrated that at the Easter Vigil; as we hear the stories from Acts and approach Pentecost we have the opportunity to wonder afresh what else it might mean. Joyous Easter!

Bread, Wine, Feet (Maundy Thursday, 4/17/2025)

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Readings

Passover. Our first reading marks its beginning. It celebrates the Lord’s power to save, to make a way where there is no way. It celebrates this God as champion of liberty, enemy of slavery. And here we are tonight, remembering how Jesus observed Passover that night.

Jesus did at least two things. He reinterpreted two of Passover’s symbols, the bread and the wine, to point to his coming death. Liberty, passing from slavery into freedom, demands more than defeating the current human Pharaoh. The underlying problem: our ancestral rebellion and distrust of God, and Jesus’ death deals with that. So, at every Eucharist, “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.”

That, it turns out, is the easy part. The harder part: changing our behavior so that we stop acting like little Pharaohs at every opportunity. So Jesus starts washing their feet and caps it with “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”

“This is my body that is for you.… This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” “You also ought to wash one another’s feet.” Two sides of the same coin.

What’s going on here? Toward the end of the Gospel reading we heard “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Washing each other’s feet, leaving behind the endless competition for status: that’s finally about love. As is, for that matter, “This is my Body; this is my Blood.” As the Gospel of John says elsewhere “God so loved the world…”

Toward the end of the Song of Songs we hear “Set me as a seal upon your heart, / as a seal upon your arm; / for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave” (8:6a). Pharaoh’s kingdom is powered by death; only love will defeat it.

Jesus’ Freedom–and Ours (Palm Sunday, 4/13/2025)

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Readings

In today’s collect we prayed “Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection.” Wondering what that might look like, I’m drawn to what Harold Kushner says in his Forward to Viktor Frankl’s book Man’s Search for Meaning, the book based on Frankl’s experience in the Nazi concentration camps: “Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation.” And I’m struck by how Jesus uses that freedom in today’s Gospel.

Our Gospel reading starts with Jesus’ celebration of the Passover, and his reinterpretation of its symbols: “This is my body, which is given for you.… This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.” And Luke follows this immediately with “A dispute also arose among them as to which one of them was to be regarded as the greatest.” How tempting it might have been for Jesus to use his freedom to say “Enough. I’m going back to Galilee. You all sort it out on your own.” Instead, again, he tries to help them understand that God’s kingdom works differently than those to which they’re accustomed.

(Oddly, given the often discouraging state of the Church, I find Luke’s portrayal of the disciples encouraging. They argue about who’s the greatest. They fall asleep while Jesus prays in the garden. One of them betrays him. One of them lops off the high priest’s slave’s ear. Peter denies him not one, not two, but three times. Jesus knows the material he has to work with in this Church project, and somehow thinks it’s worth the effort.)

Praying in the garden: “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” There’s such a painful distance between the Father’s perspective and Jesus’ perspective. Nevertheless, let’s notice how Jesus uses his freedom: to forego second-guessing the Father. It dovetails with that line from our Isaiah reading: “I have set my face like flint.” There’s a time for considering multiple options; once the decision has been made it rarely helps to revisit it: being double-minded usually doesn’t end well.

During the arrest: “Then one of [the disciples] struck the slave of the high priest and cut off his right ear.” “I have set my face like flint” could easily translate into tunnel vision; Jesus uses his freedom even to attend to that wounded slave. Jesus uses his freedom—a freedom we all have—so that even on a bad day other people matter.

Those same alternatives, tunnel-vision vs responsiveness to the context, show up at the crucifixion. I am so grateful that I can’t imagine what it would have been like, but there it is: “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Harold Kushner again: “Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation.” Jesus’ use of that freedom is, frankly, breathtaking. May it nurture our imagination and courage when we find ourselves in situations where we have less control than we’d prefer. So, yes, with the Collect: “Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection.”

Ash Wednesday: “Ash”? (March 5, 2025)

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Readings

Well, here we are again at Ash Wednesday with its “Remember that you are dust.” As I wondered how we might enter Lent this year that dust image got my attention, an image Scripture uses in a variety of ways.

The words that accompany the ashes echo that text from Genesis’ Garden of Eden story: “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” But ‘dust’ is not always the best translation of Hebrew עָפָר, so the Common English Bible reads “until you return to the fertile land, since from it you were taken; you are soil, to the soil you will return.” Not good news, but it recognizes an ongoing relatedness: adam (humankind) from the adamah (the fertile land). That relatedness is good news—and easy to forget. So I’m grateful for the various initiatives our parish is taking.

Dust. From this evening’s psalm: “For he himself knows whereof we are made; / he remembers that we are but dust.” Hashtag ‘dust’ positions us for God’s mercy. And the prophet Isaiah recognizes that not even death can get in the way: “Your dead shall live, their corpses shall rise. / O dwellers in the dust, awake and sing for joy! / For your dew is a radiant dew, / and the earth will give birth to those long dead.”

So there’s an implicit promise in “Remember that you are dust…” The year I was in the middle of a hospital chaplaincy program I made the promise explicit: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return, and from the dust you shall be raised.” And every year I remember that.

The raised part isn’t automatic, of course, which is why imposing the ashes in the shape of the cross is as important as the ashes themselves. The cross: Jesus’ path, Jesus’ way, our way with Jesus through death into life.

Our faithfulness to Jesus’ way is usually—shall we say—ambiguous, which is why Paul regards being reconciled to God as an ongoing project, why the BCP’s invitation to a holy Lent emphasizes repentance. ‘Repentance’: a $50 word for changing course, for changing.

Back in 1957 they made a short movie featuring the cellist Pablo Casals. The director asked him why at age 80 he continued to practice for hours each day. Casals answered: “Because I think I am making progress.”

That’s a lovely model for repentance. We often assume that repentance is about what goes on in the head or heart. But recall our Isaiah reading: “to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke.” Repentance needs to move to Casal’s fingers, to our hands and feet, to have any lasting value. And in any case, as Jesus points out, the heart pretty much just tags along after the treasure.

“Because I think I am making progress.” OK. “Making progress on loving God and neighbor:” where does that fall among my priorities?

There’s probably an unavoidable element of altruism here. Rowan Williams talks about decentering, abandoning—as often as I need to—that oh-so-attractive idea that I’m the natural center of the universe. But altruism isn’t the point.

Recall these lines from the Song of Songs that didn’t (alas!) make it into tonight’s readings:

10 My beloved speaks and says to me:
“Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away;
11 for now the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.
12 The flowers appear on the earth;
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtledove
is heard in our land. (Cant. 2:10-12)

The noise and worries of the day-to-day can easily drown out that voice. Lent is our time to remember that for quite selfish reasons that’s the voice we want to hear, that hearing it more clearly, more often, might be worth some change.

Parenthetically, here’s one reason I want to hear that voice. Whether it’s Jesus’ “But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness” (Matt. 6:33) or the BCP’s “self-examination and repentance,” our responses often leave us overly serious and wound very tight. Jesus, in the midst of the Roman occupation and the multiple Jewish factions each claiming the Lord’s stamp of approval, responds with joy and generosity. There’s a lot I could learn from that voice.

Earlier I said that Scripture uses the dust image in a variety of ways. Here’s another, with which I’ll close. At one point the Lord said to Abram: “I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth; so that if one can count the dust of the earth, your offspring also can be counted” (Gen. 13:16). And in Scripture’s last book John gets a glimpse of the fulfillment of that promise: “After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in a loud voice, saying, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!’” (Rev. 7:9-10). May we be numbered with that dust.

“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” (Last Sunday after the Epiphany, 3/2/2025)

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Readings

The eyes and the ears: what happens if we attend to these while reading today’s lessons?

The eyes are the easy part: Moses’ face shining, Jesus’ face and clothing really shining, Paul’s promise that his hearers, having turned to Jesus, will themselves shine. Not hard to get a decent sermon out of that. And attention to the eyes can speak powerfully to us in two ways.

First within the text and—for that matter—the Church calendar. Three days from now is Ash Wednesday, when we’ll begin to walk with Jesus to his death. That’s an important walk. But as we do it, it’s easy to start thinking that Jesus went to his death because he didn’t have any choice: too many enemies, no place to hide. And that’s when we need to remember today’s reading. The Jesus whom we’ll join as he walks to his death is the same Jesus we saw dazzling white on the mountain. If he dies, it’s not because he’s run out of choices.

Second, so the light show’s over? No; here’s where we come in. St. Paul tells us that as we look to Jesus some of that light, some of that glory, starts to rub off: “all of us…are being transformed…from one degree of glory to another.” No. The light show’s not over. “The God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness’” will shine in and through us as we consent to it.

And Paul’s writing this to the Christians in Corinth. Corinth was a boisterous, rowdy seaport, and from Paul’s letters it looks like the Christians there fit right in. Paul repeatedly struggles to make himself understood. There are factions. It’s one body, but the eye is saying to the hand “I don’t need you” and the head to the foot “I don’t need you.” And precisely in that unpromising context Paul hopes for light, transformation, glory. And if Paul can hope for light, transformation and glory there, how much more can we hope for it even in our parishes in Wisconsin.

What about the ears? Let’s look at the Gospel again.

Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. 31 They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.

Jesus goes up the mountain to pray. Prayer: Luke emphasizes this practice, making it explicit where the other gospels don’t. So preparing this sermon I wondered what my devoting more time and energy to prayer might mean. (It’s a real nuisance when the text turns around and bites the preacher!)

Then there’s Luke’s summary of the conversation between Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, speaking of his departure (Greek ἔξοδος) “which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.” ‘Exodus’: while the Greek word is common enough, Luke’s using it here to point toward Jesus’ decision to time his passion with the Passover celebration, perhaps Jesus’ most important interpretation of his own death: an exodus, a liberation more radical than the one in Moses’ time.

How do you free Israel—or any nation, for that matter—from the various forms of interlocking economic, ideological, and political oppression? Flee to the wilderness like the Essenes? Continue to assassinate Romans and Roman stooges like the Zealots? Encourage meticulous observance of selected portions of the law and shun the non-observers like the Pharisees? Journey to Jerusalem for a new exodus like Jesus? Notice that the Essenes, the Zealots, the Pharisees, and Jesus are responding to the same question. It’s not a specifically religious question. It’s one of the most basic human questions: how do we maintain/create/regain (choose your verb) a way of living together that doesn’t self-destruct?

And here’s where the ears again become important. A few verses later, partly in response to Peter’s suggestion, the divine voice says “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” Listen to him. What might that mean?

Well, let’s recall what we’ve heard Jesus say. Back in the Nazareth synagogue: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.…” The Gospel writers thematize this as announcing the kingdom of God, the kingdom that this morning’s psalm celebrated (Ps 99). “O mighty King, lover of justice, / you have established equity; */ you have executed justice and righteousness in Jacob.” Magnificent. And then Jesus spoils it all with his examples: the widow at Zarephath in Sidon, Naaman the Syrian, warning us that God’s generosity extends to our enemies. Worse, Jesus’ conduct matches his words: sharing a table with tax collectors and sinners, healing the servant of a Roman centurion. That, Jesus would have us understand, is what God’s justice and righteousness look like: the Good Shepherd abandoning the ninety nine to seek out the one who’s strayed.

Perhaps you’ve seen the cartoon based on this story. Jesus shows up with the lost sheep on his shoulders and the rest of the sheep respond, “No, Lord. You don’t know how much effort it took to get rid of her!”

Turns out that while listening to Jesus is sometimes easy, it’s sometimes not so easy. How do we build a world that’s sustainable, that doesn’t self-destruct? That’s what Jesus is talking about. And we really need to hear Him, in the midst of so many voices that urge some form of identity politics. And anyone can play this game. We’re for inclusivity? Then we need to stand against those who don’t share our vision of inclusivity! (Thank goodness Lent is coming!) So, it’s not simply that Jesus came proclaiming the kingdom of God, but proclaiming that kingdom and a particular way in which He and His followers were to live on the threshold of that kingdom: forgiving, mirroring God’s generosity even to their enemies, abstaining from violence in word and deed. “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”