the sixth Sunday after Pentecost
July 12th, 2020

Today’s readings are:
Isaiah 55:10-13
Psalm 65:1-14
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

If you don’t have a Bible handy, click here to find these readings.

      Today, I want to offer you not a sermon but a meditation. I want you to sit and think about something with me. The readings this morning are pretty much all about God’s love and the abundance of that love, and the freedom of that abundance. God’s love for us humans is offered with an open hand, scattered around with a sower throwing out seed. And we, as followers of God, should do the same.

      But I want to ask you something else this morning, to come at these passages not from the rich, good soil in Jesus’ parable but from the hard and rocky ground. Now, I often ask you all to think of these beautiful, wonderful, holy times in your life – and it’s important to do so. It’s important to recognize God’s simple and daily acts of love, to turn our hearts to that outpouring not only in the tough times but in the normal times, too.

      But I want to talk about those tough times this morning. I want you to imagine when you were the rocky ground, or where you were choked with weeds, or where you felt that others were coming in and snatching up those good things that you longed for. Imagine for a moment, if you will, the really troubling parts of your life. It’s okay to go back to them in your memory. God’s with you as you remember. Take some time and sit with them and God for a little.

      Okay then, my next question is this: what changed? What changed for you to bring you out of these times? What scared away the birds, broke up the rocks, tilled the soil of your heart? The answer’s God, of course, but how did God work that change in you? Was it a change in circumstances? Was it another person? Was it a book you read or a sight you saw? What turned your hard and rocky heart into something fresh and new again? Think about that for a little.

      We Christians live in miracles. We live in daily miracles and we live in miracles that need years or even a whole lifetime to accomplish. We are present when God changes death into life. What an amazing gift to be able to witness that, to be a part of it.

      And I don’t know about you, but these miracles fill me with gratitude. I want to thank God for them. I want to thank the people who have been the bearers and the messengers of God’s love and forgiveness. I want to thank things that it sounds really weird to thank, like the Pacific Ocean, or the Black Hills in South Dakota and Wyoming, or the city of Kyoto in Japan – these things that for me have been messengers of God’s miracles. All these things have not just shown God’s love to me but have been the ways that God has reached down into the rockiest parts of my heart and broken those stones to pieces, then planted a seed I don’t think I deserve but have been given anyway. And all this births in me the deepest sense of gratitude. I hope that you have experienced this sense of gratitude as well.

      How do we live that gratitude? How do we live in thanks for all the goodness, all the abundance, or the joy and hope and life that we have been given by God? Well, I mean, there’s the service of the Church, the ministries to the poor, the lonely, the destitute. There’s the Sacraments, living our Baptismal Covenant, in Reconciliation (which is the fancy word for Confession of Sins), in the Holy Eucharist.

      But living a life of gratitude is not just doing these things, going through the motions, but in being within them, being moved by them and through them and with God in them. I mean, as a kid I learned pretty quick how to write a decent thank-you note to a relative for a birthday gift. I could write a bunch really quick without a second thought and without an ounce of gratitude. But when I really had to thank someone, I realized that there’s not really way to say thank you – there’s only living gratitude.

      This is where we connect with God. Or, to say it better, this is where God comes so close to us: in how we live the gratitude of our gifts. For myself, the way I have chosen to live the gratitude for all those who have helped me – the teachers who have opened my eyes to the depth of literature, those authors who have written books that have helped me see God, those places in the world where I felt that I was walking side-by-side with Jesus Christ – the way I’ve said thank you is to teach. I want to show others these good things, to show them the depth and beauty of the world, of art, of our Scripture, our liturgy, our tradition. How about you? How are you – how can you live a life of thankfulness?

      And this question isn’t just for you individually. Think about St. James, our church. We here have so much to be thankful for. We’re in a peaceful and beautiful part of the world. We’ve got this beautiful building here, this beautiful place to worship and be lifted to God’s presence. And, hey, we’ve got the natural world around us, from mountain to shore, where God is also present. And we have our traditions here, both those common to all Christians and those that are pretty particular to St. James. We have a healthy and honest community here that is St. James. How can we live all this that we have, how can we live our gifts thankfully? What does a church look like that lives, first and foremost, thankfully?

the fifth Sunday after Pentecost
July 5th, 2020

Today’s Readings are:
Zechariah 9:9-12
Psalm 145:8-15
Romans 7:15-25a
Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

If you don’t have a Bible handy, you can click here to find these readings.

I’ve got to say, these last words of Jesus in our gospel reading this morning are some of my favorite verses in the Bible. “Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” This is such a beautiful invitation to grace. It reminds me of Simeon, the old man at the beginning of St. Luke’s gospel, who, when seeing the child Jesus come, says, “Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised; for these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see.” These are words of deep, deep thanks for being rescued, for being set free, for our Savior coming in the tired, lonely, lost moments of life, gathering us up, and bringing us home.

“Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” Have you ever experienced rest for your soul? I mean, I’ve definitely felt rest for my body. I think we’ve all rested physically – after finishing up a day of work in the yard, after moving house, after traveling long hours in the car where your body is all stiff, and then you step out at your destination and streeeeeech out your tired body. That’s good rest, truly, and a gift from God.

But I don’t mean just physical rest – I mean spiritual rest down to your soul. Have you ever experienced that? I find it myself in the Sacraments, and especially in Confession and the Eucharist. There are beautiful times of rest and silence in our liturgy, times when we can just relax back into God, leave all for that most beloved embrace. I found that rest in Japan, while wandering between the rice patties of my town; I found it while traveling west in South Dakota and Wyoming, especially in the Black Hills and the Grand Tetons; and I find it while camping and looking up at the brilliant stars. But wherever I find it, I know that this rest is from God, for it is not just a rest for the body, nor for the mind or even the heart, but down to my very soul. Here God says, don’t worry, learn from my voice and presence in this moment, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls in me.

God calls us to a lot in this world. God calls us to be servants in a rough and tumble world. We’re called to be followers of Jesus – Jesus, who served the sick, the poor, the lonely, the outcast, and the downtrodden. We’re called to follow a man, who was more than a man, but even still was a man who went without a word to his death upon a cross. And we’re to take up our own crosses, deny ourselves, deny those parts of ourselves that might give us those creature comforts, that might make us feel easy and find and dandy, but to take up our cross, deny ourselves, and follow our Lord and Savior.

And I gotta say, that’s not easy work. It’s hard to deny yourself, right? It’s hard to look at money that I’ve earned with my hard work and say, ‘This doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to God’, then give it to those in need.It’s hard to say, sometime daily, with Jesus in the garden, “But not my will, but your will.” It’s hard to hope, it really is, while living in a world that seems so ready to anger, hatred, bigotry, violence. It’s hard, but that’s the life, and sometimes it seems all we can do in such a life is grin and bear it, have a stiff upper lip, grow our hearts harder so that we can bear that terrible burden of the cross.

And yet our Lord and Savior asked us to take up his yoke, for it is easy and his burden is light. And we can ask, angry and frustrated, ‘Is it really, God? Your yoke is the Cross. Your burden is Death” or we can open ourselves to God and remember that after the Cross came the Resurrection.

You see, we Christians need to understand all things – all things – in the light of the Resurrection. That God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, did not just die but rose again – that has ultimate meaning. That is the foundation on which we stand. It’s the lens through which we should view all things. The Resurrection is the yeast in our bread, it’s the manure for our garden. It’s the reason we should love our neighbor, even our enemies, for God died and rose for them just as God died and rose for us. God’s Resurrection is in the song of the birds, even the funny cawing of the crows; it’s in the laughter of children, the phases of the Moon, and both the winter and summer storms. And that Resurrection is in you, growing and thriving, giving you strength to do the good work of Jesus Christ and giving you rest, true, soulful rest, an image of our final rest in Heaven, our true home.

Remember these words of Jesus Christ. Read them often. Print them out and stick ‘em next to your mirror in your bathroom. Read them to your children and to your children’s children. Rest in them, rest in Jesus Christ. Rest in life, and love, and Resurrection.

the second Sunday after Pentecost
June 14th, 2020

Today’s readings are:
Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7
Psalm 116:1, 10-17
Romans 5:1-8
Matthew 9:35-10:23

If you don’t have a Bible handy, you can click here for these readings.

      Maybe it’s because I wrote this sermon right after breakfast, but I feel like the church year is kinda like waking up in the morning. Think about it. Our calendar begins in Advent, in December, when things are still dark and cold and you just want to pull the blankets over your head and go back to sleep. Then we wake with Christmas and hear the call of God in Epiphany to start a new day in the Good News of Jesus Christ. Then there’s that groggy time, Lent, when our bodies are waking up and we’re praying that God direct us to the new day.

      Then there’s Easter: breakfast, where we sit down with our loved ones, or sit down alone with a nice, quiet cup of coffee, and feel new life pour into us. And, finally, Pentecost, when we turn our eyes to the day at last and go to do the good work of God in the world. In other words, Ordinary Time.

      Now, I like this image because it reminds me of some really important things. Each morning – each morning – we hear the voice of God again. Each morning is an Epiphany, for each morning we wake again to God’s creation and God’s presence in our lives and in the lives of those we meet.

      It also reminds me that, just like we often skimp out on breakfast, we also skimp out on Easter. Easter in our calendar isn’t just a quick morning celebration but fifty whole days, just like breakfast should be (as much as possible) nice and drawn out, full of good cheer or quiet moments, whatever the Good Lord provides. Easter is part of a balanced diet.

      And this image also reminds me of that forgotten time between Pentecost and Advent: ordinary time. Green time. Ho hum time, as we kinda think of it. It’s the season of the church that we’re beginning just now. There’s nothing special about ordinary time. There are some high holy days in it, sure, but nothing like Easter, no Christmas, not even the feast of the Epiphany.

Well then, we often think, ordinary time is when we can rest and relax, maybe, it’s that seventh day of Creation where we rest with God, but instead of just doing it one out of seven we do it for half the year. Mmm, comfy, kind, summery and autumny ordinary time.

      But, if we remember the image of the church calendar, ordinary time isn’t when we slip back into bed after breakfast, or our afternoon siesta, or evening when we lay all our work, good or ill, at the feet of God. Ordinary time is the sunshine of the bright day, the driving to work, or continuing projects we were working on yesterday. It’s seeing folks in our lives, whether they’re folks we want to see or folks we really wanted to avoid. Ordinary time is getting stuck in traffic and having to find something to do while sitting in a hot car. Ordinary time is running across someone in need and having to decide, right then and there, what would Jesus do – and do I really feel like doing that today? Ordinary time is ordinary because it’s, well, ordinary.

      But Jesus calls us to the ordinary. Jesus calls us to the ho-hum parts of life and calls us from within the ho-hum parts of life. I’ve preached on this a lot, and for those watching today from Coquille, you’ve probably heard this all more than a few times. It’s the hobbit sermon: that God is in the good, simple things of the world. That digging in the garden and walking down the street, just in themselves, can be an act of faith and love and godliness. There are gardens in heaven, probably, vast gardens that need to be tended by folks who love the sun and dirt. There are early morning walks in heaven. Tea time in heaven is at 4:00, and God’s always there to sit down with you and breathe in the warm, fresh air.

      But I want to say something a little further this morning. Ordinary time is not only important because we find the presence of God in the ordinary but, also, because we find the call of God in the ordinary. The Christian life is rarely lived in high adventure and while doing important things. Some of us are called to that sort of work, but, even for folks like Michael Curry, our presiding bishop, whose words of love calm and guide literally millions, even for him, the fullest work of his Christianity is done while standing in the line at the supermarket, in walking down the street, in simple, honest, ordinary prayer.

      Jesus tells the disciples, “I’m gonna send you out into the world”, and, yeah, sometimes we’re called to heal the sick and even cast out demons, but often it’s to stand at the table at Senior Meals downtown, waiting for someone to come up so you can scoop some lasagna onto a paper plate. Not too glorious, but good, good work. Often it’s to sit at the food back at Holy Name, waiting for someone hungry enough to come by for a bag of food. With each bag you give you have changed someone’s life. Often following Jesus is in wishing someone else ‘peace’ and really mean it.

      What do we want our world to look like? What do we want our communities to look like? Whether it’s here in Coquille or wherever you’re listening from right now, or your state or your country – what do you want your community to look like? Another way to say this and get at the heart of what I’m asking is: how do you want your kids or your grandkids to see your community? Where do you want them to grow up?

      These are good questions to ponder, and it is here in ordinary time that we figure out ordinary ways to answer them. And to ground ourselves in our Scripture and the Life of the Spirit to have even the hope of answering them.

But Jesus asks a follow-up question. Jesus is good at that, right? Just when you’ve got it figured out, here he comes with something that just drives that question home. Jesus asks us, great, that’s your community that you want. Now, how do we make sure that everyone, everyone, can get the peace, joy, safety, and love that we want in our community? How do we make sure that ‘ordinary’ for everyone – no matter your age, race, color, identity, whatever – to make sure that ‘ordinary’ for everyone is not hatred, anger, and fear, but calm mornings and laughter with our neighbors? How do we welcome those who have never known peace into a world where love is normal?

      As my dad used to say, that’s the question of the day. That’s the question of the season. Because Jesus didn’t call us into this life so we could wipe our hands off and be done with it all. No, Jesus called us to join in his good work of searching out the lost sheep and bring them home. So let’s keep our ears open to that call and keep our hearts ready and willing to give ourselves, just as Jesus gave himself, to those in need.

the Seventh Sunday after Easter
May 24th, 2020

Today’s readings are:
Acts 1:6-14
Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36
1 Peter 4:12; 5:6-11
John 17:1-11

If you don’t have a Bible handy, you can click on this sentence to find these readings.

I brought a prop in today for my sermon. You all know I’m kinda a fan of Lord of the Rings and Tolkien, and this is the first book of Tolkien’s I ever read. It’s the Hobbit. It’s an old version of the Hobbit. You have to be real careful opening it. I’m not sure if you can hear online, but you can hear it cracking when I open the cover. And I’m not sure if you can see it, but the corners are all bumped up. The green of the cover has worn away, and you can see the cardboard underneath. And this is all a testament of years upon years upon years of reading this book.

I first read the Hobbit when I was in middle school. And I loved it. It was full of adventure, of dragons and dwarves and wizards. It excited me and moved me. I absolutely loved it.

Then I read it again in high school, and again in college, then again while traveling abroad, and each time, I learned something new about the book. It was still about dragons and dwarves and wizards, sure, but I saw that the journey of Bilbo Baggins was also about trust, about hope, about friendship and pushing on even when fear told us to run away. Bilbo’s journey spoke to my own fears, my own hope, my own life, just as all good literature does.

And then I read this story – this same story from this battered copy – to Gwendolyn. She was just born, and I had that aching parent-feeling that I wanted to share something with her that was meaningful to me. And you know what? This book that I had read time and time again, it still had room to grow. Reading it to my daughter, it became not just about me and about my hope, but spoke to the hope I had for my child, the fears and worries I had (and, if I’m honest, that I still have) as a father. It helped me understand those fears and face them.

I wonder if you’ve ever had a book like that? Some story that has followed you through your life, teaching you and guiding you. Or, maybe it’s not a book. Maybe it’s a recipe, something that your grandmother taught you to make, or that you made with your father on Saturday mornings. Or maybe it’s a sport. Maybe it’s football or baseball or soccer, this game that we as a country can come around, cheer for our team, and stick with that team through thick and thin. I remember my father-in-law’s devotion to the Mets, who lost so often but you know he tuned in to each game anyway, because they were his team since he was young. Whatever they are, these are things we grow with, that we learn to understand more and more fully, that seem to grow as we grow, even though they’re the same old game they were yesterday.

The world is deeper than we imagine. Beneath the surface of all things there are worlds to explore. This past Thursday, in our Greek and Latin Bible study, we read the Lord’s Prayer in Greek. Now, I know this prayer. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know this prayer. My parents taught it to me before my brain could start making memories. I could rattle the thing off in my sleep. But when we slowed down, when we read this prayer word for word, stopped and pondered over each and every part of speech, we found that this prayer, that we all know so well, was new and fresh and beautiful. “Hallowed be thy name”, what does that mean? What does it mean to ask – to truly ask – for God’s kingdom to come on earth just as it is in heaven? And that most simple and common thing, bread, that we slop mayonnaise on or cut the crusts off of, that simple, simple thing bread – what if it could be the gateway to eternal life? What does that say about other common things, like the smell of cut grass, or the rain falling in the evening, or our neighbor, for whom God has as much hope as God has for you?

Jesus tells us that eternal life is prepared for us. And just when we might be reveling in this, our hand to our brow, “Wow, I mean, wow, that’s amazing! How can this be?” Jesus comes right in and says, “Yeah, so this is eternal life: to know God. To know God.

But is “knowing”, is “knowing” just a one-time thing? If you were to ask me, “Do you know the book the Hobbit?” I’d be like, yeah, I know it, I’ve read it. But is just having read the book really knowing it? You might ask me, “You know what baseball is?” and I’d say, yeah, sure, the game with the bat and ball, right? But then if you were to ask someone like my dad, who has loved the game since Mickey Mantle played, who coached kids to not just play it but to love it, who could imagine the crack of a bat or the smell of the field just as easily as I could imagine Bilbo Baggins playing at riddles with a dragon – he knows baseball.

“Knowing” isn’t just a one-time thing. It’s a lifetime spent in love. It’s a lifetime of turning the pages of a book and reading those words we know again and again and again. It’s sitting down with someone who we’ve seen so often that we could draw their faces with the most intimate detail, but who continue to surprise and delight us, to frustrate and test us, and who love us with a love that reaches beyond this world and back.

Jesus tells us that eternal life is prepared for all. And that eternal life is this: to know God. To learn more and more about the love, the hope, and the life that is at the center of all reality. To continue to get to know the creator of all things; to hang out with the one who died for us, who was raised for us, and who lives, even now, praying with a never-giving-up heart that we’ll stick around; to bring that love to others, to become love ourselves – these are just some of the ways that we can know God better.

And God is there, saying, come on, let’s sit down and grab coffee together and talk. Let’s go out for a walk beneath the blue sky that I created, because the sun is warm and the air fresh, and there’s just so much to talk about and to learn about each other. And hey, I heard your neighbor’s not doing well; let’s go see if we can cheer them up. And this isn’t just some vague call, some voice that comes and goes like the wind; this is the lord of life, God Almighty, the creator of heaven and earth, inviting you, you, to turn yet again, yet again, to love.