The Daily Office: 1st Week of Lent

Mon. – Mark 1:1-13
Tue. – Mark 1:14-28
Wed. – Mark 1:29-45
Thurs. – Mark 2:1-12
Fri. – Mark 2:13-22
Sat. – Mark 2:23-3:6

This week we begin the Gospel of Mark, which we're also studying in more depth in our Sunday Lenten series. And we'll continue through Mark throughout the five weeks of Lent before Holy Week.

As I said last night, there are two themes in tension in the first few chapters of Mark's Gospel: the building of community and response to opposition. Jesus begins his ministry by calling a community, starting with the two sets of brothers, Simon and Andrew, and James and John. He invites anybody, tax collectors and others dismissed as "sinners" into his community. He welcomes them as they are, warts and all. And only after he has provided that welcoming place does he begin to teach (1:21-22). The irony of building a welcoming community is that in trying to create community, Jesus encounters opposition "immediately." (Note the almost monotonous use of that word, along with "at once" in the Gospel. Why do you suppose Jesus is so urgent? What should we be more urgent about?)

Jesus definitely has opponents among the religious establishment. They question his authority (2:6-7). They accuse him of guilt by association (2:16-17). Finally they protest that he's breaking all the rules that have made life predictable and orderly (2:23-3:6). And of course, Jesus has an even bigger enemy: "And he was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan" (1:13). The Hebrew word, "Satan," means "accuser." And what Jesus encounters from the very beginning of this Gospel is accusation.

It seems a little contradictory to speak of community and welcome and inclusion while simultaneously gearing up for a fight. But Jesus did, and so do we. Is there a difference between disagreement and accusation? Can we honestly disagree with each other without accusing each other? If we are headed for a fight, what is it that you will fight for? Are you perhaps picking too many fights in your life and work? Lots of questions to think about. Perhaps the surest guide to navigating this tension is to ask the Marines' question: is this the hill I want to die on? Not fight on, but die on. Remember that by the world's standard of might making right, Jesus lost his battle. What battle are you willing to lose for the sake of love?

[The image, "Jesus in the Wilderness" is by Stanley Spencer]

Sermon, 1st Sunday of Lent

The book of Deuteronomy is actually an interesting example of time travel in the Bible. In its possible origin and discovery of this book that the past and the present come together to form a hopeful future.

Its possible discovery is written about in the Old Testament book of 2nd Kings. Second Kings reports on events that would have taken place hundreds of years after Deuteronomy. In Deuteronomy, Moses is making his last will and testament to the Israelites before they move into the land of Canaan that God first promised to their father, that "wandering Aramean" called Abraham. In 2nd Kings, the land has belonged to the descendants of Deuteronomy for centuries. But by now, the 12 tribes of Israel have divided into 2 kingdoms, Israel in the north, Judah to the south. Israel has been conquered, wiped off the map and the few survivors scattered by the conquering Assyrians. In the southern kingdom, King Josiah oversees the renovation of the Temple in Jerusalem. It is during this renovation that this "Book of the Law" is found in a dusty corner somewhere, apparently forgotten for many years.

Some scholars identify this "Book of the Law" with Deuteronomy. But other scholars don't believe that something as significant as Moses' last will and testament would have been forgotten for centuries. Their theory is that some survivors from the destroyed 10 tribes made their way south to Jerusalem and brought this book, which reflected their particular understanding of Moses and the Israelites' experience of being delivered from Egyptian slavery, and their 40 years of wandering before they were ready to conquer the land of Canaan.

Forgive this historical digression when I tell you that it really doesn't matter how the Book of Deuteronomy came to be written, or how it came to be discovered. Because no matter which theory is accurate, the people of Jerusalem under the reign of King Josiah would have heard this book read for the first time. To them, it was fresh. To them it was new. To them it was a bolt of lightning from the distant past, connecting them to events that had taken place centuries ago.

In the text of Deuteronomy, Moses is commanding the Israelites to make an offering to God, to acknowledge that the land they are entering is not anything they have earned, but is God's gift, unearned and undeserved. They are to acknowledge that they are not the children of privilege, but that their father was a wandering Aramean with no place to call home. Of course, hundreds of years had passed between the time of Abraham and that generation of Israelites about to invade Canaan. No one hearing Moses speak could literally be the child of Abraham. But in the moment of that holy offering received by the priest, it seemed that time melted away. There was no longer any past. In the moment of that offering, the Israelites declared that they would never be conquerors seizing land to exploit for their selfish purposes. They, their fathers before them, and their children after them, would always be children of God, utterly dependant on the loving grace of God.

And so, for the Jews of Josiah's kingship hearing this book for the first time, would these words melt away the years and centuries separating their past from their present. They too were to "declare today to the LORD your God that I have come into the land that the LORD swore to our fathers to give us." Nearly 2,000 years may have passed between Abraham the man who wandered from Aram in the north down south to Canaan. But the Jews of Josiah's time were to declare, "A wandering Aramean was my father." They were to acknowledge their smallness and weakness in this violent, stormy world. And they were to declare their trust in a God who would lead them to a future of unimaginable joy.

4,000 years later, we too declare that our father was a wandering Aramean, and in that declaration, the millennia just melt away. The miracle of time travel occurs every Sunday in this most Holy Eucharist. When we offer ourselves, and the bread and wine, just as Jesus offered them 2,000 years ago. Jesus Christ is right here, in the bread and the wine, and in the hearts of his faithful people who accept the gift of his very being, his very self. Those who serve with me in the service of the Lord's holy table and altar know my favorite prayer: "Be present, be present, O Jesus, our great High Priest, as you were present with your disciples, and be known to us in the breaking of bread."

More often than not, I suspect, time is our enemy. The Past floods our hearts with the memories of those no longer with us; the regrets of things done and undone; which cannot be put back, not be made right again, in the words of the author Cormac McCarthy. Before us the future looms; with tasks too Herculean for us to imagine how we'll even start them, much less complete them; destinies so heavy that we can't imagine how we will bear them. Whatever lurks in the closet of your heart, it is a puny thing compared to the grace of God which travels across time. That grace links us to the wandering Aramean who entrusted his future to God. Jesus the Son of God, who was who is and who is to come, redeems our past, makes new beginnings from it. And he who has borne the worst of human suffering will help us bear whatever we fear of the future.

In all our worship and discipleship, in our fellowship with each other and our ministry to each other, may you catch a glimpse of the eternity that melts away the regrets of the past and fears of the future. May that glimpse make this a most holy Lent for each of you.

Ash Wednesday

"Pam Stout has not always lived in fear of her government. She remembers her years working in federal housing programs, watching government lift struggling families with job training and education. She beams at the memory of helping a Vietnamese woman get into junior college.

"But all that was before the Great Recession and the bank bailouts, before her son lost his job and his house. Mrs. Stout said she awoke to see Washington as a threat, a place where crisis is manipulated — even manufactured — by both parties to grab power." (The New York Times, Feb. 16, 2010)

There is said that one of the more interesting Chinese curses is, "May you live in interesting times." One look at the News on the TV or Internet; one phone call from a worried friend or relative who has lost their job, or who has given up finding a job after months of unemployment; and we can all agree that we live in interesting times. And part of that curse is to look for somebody, anybody to blame. If somebody can be held responsible, then we can build ourselves a map of how we get here. And then all we have to do is to turn around, and walk back in the direction of where we came.

Having somebody to blame is more comforting than the truth: That disasters of this magnitude were years in the making, spanning administrations of both parties. It is more comforting to construct a single chain of cause and effect, rather than confront the truth that if success has a thousand fathers, so in fact does failure. But to find a simple explanation, and a single villain, is easier for us to wrap our heads around, to gain control over, and to find comfort in.

That need for control and comfort lies behind our Old Testament reading. The people of Judah had returned to their country and holy city, Jerusalem, after decades of exile. But their joy proved all too brief. Nature abhors a vacuum. And their native land hadn't been empty for the past 70 years. Neighboring tribes and nations had moved to fill that vacuum. And they had no interest in making room for the returning Jews. In the years after their return, the people of Judah faced constant harassment from the other tribes in the area. Their holy city, Jerusalem, had been burned to the ground. And any efforts to rebuild its walls faced attacks from their enemies.

So they practiced self-denial, constantly. When we hear in tonight's reading, "we have fasted," it might be more accurate to say, "we have starved ourselves." They have starved, and borne the abrasive sackcloth. And yet they said, God has not seen them starving. God has taken no notice of their self-humbling. Isn't God supposed to respond when people fast, and beat their breasts and wear scratchy sackcloth?

God's response, through the prophet, responds that the only reason they starve themselves is to serve their own self-interest. What good is their fasting is they one day they fast, and another day they quarrel and point the accusing finger? The word for "point" in Hebrew comes from the word for "shoot." They fasted one day and shot accusing fingers at each other the next. Their self-denial was just another way to control God, to manipulate the Almighty into giving them what they wanted.

Yes, they were scared, vulnerable, beset by enemies, and unsure of their future in that land. So what were they to do while their fortress walls remained broken? Each of them were to be repairers of the breach. When one army besieged a city, they tried to create breaches in those walls through which they could flood into the city and destroy the inhabitants. At times like that, only the bravest and strongest could stand in the breach and hold off the invaders long enough for the defenders to prepare their defenses, or their counter-attacks. Those who stood in the breach were to give their lives for their people. Before the breach could be repaired, it had to be defended. So, those who died defending the breach were also repairers of the breach.

Jesus Christ stood in the breach between us and God. On days like this, we are reminded that the breach between us and God is more like a gulf. But Jesus Christ stood in that immense breach. He knew no sin, so he could stand with the God whom we rebel against and are alienated from. In Paul's words, he became sin so that he could stand with us on this side of the breach. He himself did not commit sin, but he identified with us sinners in every way imaginable, even unto the ultimate loss of control that is physical death. He did not try to manipulate his way out of death. He became as we are, in our fear and our powerlessness. He who knew no sin became sin, and so reconciled the sinners and the sinless One.

Jesus is always in the breach, always ready to repair it after we have tried to widen it. And he invites us to join him in that breach, as an agent of reconciliation. The breach is not a safe place to be. It is a place of uncertainty. It is a place of conflict and opposition, even death. But it is the only place where we also find eternal life.

I invite you this Lent to self-denial. I also invite you into the breach. Do not just give up soft drinks, or certain foods. Give up the search for easy answers. Give up the frantic attempt to change what you have no power to change. Give up the search for enemies to blame for our problems. Don't starve yourself this Lent. Instead, look for the places of conflict and oppression. For some of us, that place is going to be the St. Clair prison in March as we go in for a Kairos weekend. Pray that through us, Jesus will repair the breaches in the souls of those who God is leading to that special time. Seek out the breaches of the soul, yours and others'. Seek out the breaches on Sand Mountain, in Alabama, the United States, in Haiti.

I heard today that our Presiding Bishop and Haiti's Bishop agreed that there should no Lenten season in Haiti this year. Haiti has already experienced the terrible breach of Good Friday. Now we must help her people experience something of Resurrection. Lent is a time for stepping into the breach. But Lent is not about the breach. Lent is about stepping beyond that breach, into the joy and hope of Resurrection. I invite you into that breach.

Sermon, Last Sunday of Epiphany

Moses and Elijah appeared with Jesus, and spoke of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem (Luke 9:31)

Here we go again. One last Sunday of alleluias. One last Sunday of flowers. One last Sunday to respond to "The Lord be with you" with "and also with you." And as always, on this last Sunday before Ash Wednesday and Lent, the Transfiguration. One last Sunday to see Jesus for who he fully was; the Word who was with God at the beginning of the universe, and who is God now and always. Would that we could always shout, "Alleluia!" Would that our liturgy could always be an expression of our joy and happiness with God and our communion, our oneness with Jesus Christ. Would that we could stay with the transfigured Jesus on the holy mountain and bask in the warmth of the Light of the world.

But not even Jesus can stay on that mountain. For as Moses and Elijah said to him, Jesus has a departure to accomplish in Jerusalem. In all three Gospels where the Transfiguration is reported, it comes after Jesus has first told his disciples that when he gets to Jerusalem, he will be killed. But no gospeller makes the connection between transfiguration and crucifixion as explicitly as does Luke. For only Luke has Moses and Elijah speaking to Jesus of his "departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem." Jesus was about to die.

Just a few verses after this story, at the end of chapter 9, Luke writes that Jesus "set his face toward Jerusalem." And so the rest of Luke's Gospel is an account of Jesus's journey to Jerusalem and the cross, his "departure." That is why the Church in her ancient wisdom gives us this Gospel reading just before we begin our own Lenten journey with Jesus toward Jerusalem, toward the cross, toward his departure. It is a long journey. We need to hear that he who was crucified was also the Word, who was with God at the beginning of the universe, who was the power behind the mind-boggling big bang with which the universe began. But we also need to hear that this almighty Word also walked the same road that each of us must walk, the road to our departure.

I suspect that we need to hear that even more today, as we mourn and wonder at the devastating shooting at The University of Alabama in Huntsville. We saw Evil do its worst on Friday: three people dead, and many more in grief and anger and mystification. Why? We ask that question of God in sadness, perhaps even anger. If the Transfiguration teaches us anything, it is the awesome power springing forth from the light of Jesus Christ. So where was God at about 3:30, Friday afternoon in the Shelby Center at UAH? God was getting shot. As Jesus the Son of God was nailed to a cross and pierced in his side, so Jesus was with those who were pierced on Friday. At the moment of their departure, Jesus the Crucified One shared that experience with them, for it is an experience with which He is already familiar.

God does not overwhelm evil with an almighty show of force. Nor does God pull the puppet strings of the people he made, and to whom he gave the freedom to choose good or evil. Our God is so powerful that He can take the very worst that human beings do to each other, and pass through it into the never failing light of Resurrection. And as Jesus Christ shared the experience of death, so do those who die share the experience of Jesus's risen life. We get a taste of that risen life when we eat the bread and drink the wine, which Jesus promises is his very self, his very being.

For now, we here are still on the journey toward Jerusalem, the journey toward our departure. Many in this area now walk that road with a heavy heart. Jesus walks that road with us. Whatever else you may hear from this inadequate attempt to communicate the Good News of Jesus Christ, hear this. Jesus walks with you, and wants nothing more than for you to open your heavy heart to Him. If you open your heart with tears, Jesus will cry with you. If you open your heart, and find it full of anger, let it go and fling it at Jesus. He has taken far worse from us, and he will take your anger. Jesus walked with Peter and James and John. In today's story, we have their testimony about this man who knowingly walked to his death, because He knew that there are worse things than death.

Death comes for all of us, sooner or later. That is unavoidable. What is avoidable is loneliness, and all the more tragic when we suffer alone. To die is not the worst thing in this world. To be alone is. So let us walk together, hand in hand, sharing our hearts. Let us walk together, as we move, step by step, toward our departure. Let us walk together, and together, we will know a power far greater than the sum of our combined strength. And that power, that love, is Jesus Christ himself, as close to you as the bread and wine on your lips, and as close to you as the hands of your brother and your sister beside you.

The Business of Conventions and Family Reunions

This week is the 179th Convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Alabama, which is always held the weekend before Ash Wednesday. I'll be there in Florence, as will our lay delegates, Mark Hyatt, Debby Simmons and Odes Wilemon. Please keep us in your prayers on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.

Coming from the "mega" Diocese of Virginia, I was used to seeing hundreds of Episcopalians taking over a major hotel. What surprised me about my first Alabama convention last year was that there were almost as many people here as there are at the Virginia Diocese's "Council" (Council, convention, same difference). In Virginia, a parish of our size would only have one lay delegate, instead of the three we actually have. That makes the convention a large scale affair, very much a family reunion.

I've heard some argue how much Haiti could be helped if we took all the money being spent on printing, hotels, and food this weekend in Florence and sent it to the people of Haiti. That is true. But remember the "new commandment" that Jesus gives us? "Love each other as I have loved you." Who is Jesus speaking to here? The Roman governor, the Sanhedrin Jewish council, the people of Jerusalem? No, Jesus is speaking to his disciples, who are now one in him as he and his Father are one (Jn 17:21).

Yes, we are called to love and serve the world that God made, and loves. But that service must be based in the love and service we give to each other in the Church. Otherwise, our claims of love for the world are a sham, an empty pretense. That's why I love our diocesan convention. It is truly a family reunion of those Christians calling themselves Episcopalians.

With that in mind, Bishop Henry Parsley has asked convention delegates to come reflecting on the following question: What are the gifts that the Episcopal Church has to offer the world? Please reflect on that question a little bit. Think of what God has given you through the Episcopal Church, then think of what we as Episcopalians can give to the world around us. Feel free to comment on this blog, and we'll be happy to bring your reflections to the rest of the family in Florence this weekend.