Author: Rosemary Lovelace

19th Sunday after Pentecost – Bill Harkins

Proper 21, Year B

The Collect of the Day

O God, you declare your almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity: Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, running to obtain your promises, may become partakers of your heavenly treasure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Mark 9:38-50

John said to Jesus, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” But Jesus said, “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.

“If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea. If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire. And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life lame than to have two feet and to be thrown into hell. And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into hell, where their worm never dies, and the fire is never quenched. “For everyone will be salted with fire. Salt is good; but if salt has lost its saltiness, how can you season it? Have salt in yourselves, and be at peace with one another.”

“Water from a deeper well”

In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to this service of Holy Eucharist on this 19^th Sunday after Pentecost. It’s getting cooler now—that real down-home southern heat and humidity is mostly past—and the lovely days of fall are just ahead us. It’s been dry the past few weeks, but this weekend brought blessed relief in the form of a tropical depression, and we are reminded in Mark’s Gospel that when we give a drink of water in the Name of Jesus we do so on behalf of Him, and this is followed by at bit of homiletic hyperbole reminding us that we cannot be perfect, and that only in humility before children, and one another, are we whole in Christ. Moreover, the theme of water is a powerful metaphor, and there are many, many ways to give that cup of water to others, in compassionate response to suffering. This may take surprising forms if we are open to the possibilities for grace.

Even though fall is here, and the heat doesn’t have the same authority it does in summer, it’s been quite warm of late, and we runners will continue to hear the well-known refrain…stay hydrated, drink plenty of water, and when you think you’ve had enough, drink some more. Water is both essential to life, and is a powerful symbol in our faith, and that of many other belief systems. Water is so very precious in so many ways. Three-quarters of the Earth’s surface is covered with water, yet 98 percent is salt water and not fit for consumption. The human body is more than 60 percent water. Blood is 92 percent water, and our DNA contains a combination of stardust and the water of the oceans from which we came. The brain and muscles are 75 percent water, and bones are about 22 percent water. Water is mentioned some 350 times in the King James Bible, and it is from the waters of our Baptisms that we rise, like Jesus from the Jordan, transformed by the Spirit. Each year during the Peachtree Road Race we runners drink a lot of water, and we are blessed by Holy Water right outside the walls of the Cathedral where I served for 18 years and where I was ordained to the priesthood many years ago.

So for these reasons among others, I try to follow this good advice, and strive to drink plenty of water, and often carry it with me on the trails where I run. On a hot Saturday back a while back, I was on my familiar trail at Kennesaw Park, and it was one of those days of 90% humidity and 90 degrees. It is not unusual, once the school year has begun, for local high school cross—country teams to train there. I typically hear them coming up behind me, and they are generally very polite, and the lead runner will shout “On your left,” letting me know to move to the right to let them pass. On this day, I heard them coming, and, still running, I moved over, and heard the respectful request, and I was a bit chagrined to find that they passed me as if I were standing still. 12 or 15 runners flew by me in a colorful, rapidly departing blur, and left me in a cloud of Kennesaw Mountain dust. I stopped, and grabbed my water bottle, and took several big swallows, watching the runners disappear into the deep, Pentecost green woods. As I stood there, I had two thoughts. The first was, “When did middle-school girls get so fast?” And the second was, “This water is really good, but it cannot quench the thirst I’m really feeling now. For that, I need water from a deeper well,” water, that is, something like the God-given grace to accept that the days when I could, just maybe, have stayed with those fast runners is long gone, and will never return. I needed the water of grace, and resilience, and the wisdom to accept that things were changing in relation to a sport to which I’ve given much of my life.

I wonder, at times, when miracles occur in scripture, how these stories relate to our own life of faith. This is especially true when we are vulnerable—walking in darkness through harrowing times—when we are lost, and do not know where to turn, and we look for Jesus to provide the great miracle that will deliver us or those from whom we care, out of despair. Times, perhaps, when we do not know where we are going. Sometimes we get the deeply longed-for result when we pray—the mother of two young children whose cancer, against all odds, simply disappears; the father whose heart stops on the operating table is brought back from the brink of death; the relationship that seemed on the rocks is restored…and so on.  And then there are times when one’s best friend, a fiercely gifted runner, dies of melanoma at age 38, despite the prayers of so many. Or the young man whom one mentored for years dies in an accident his freshman year in college. And like the Psalms of lamentation, one wonders out loud where one might find water, and calm, in those stormy narratives. I get it. I’ve been there. I suspect many of you have, too. And yet, in proscribing the forms that miracles may take, we risk missing those moments when miracles may occur on a smaller scale. Moments, that is, when God’s compassion enters our most profound moments of vulnerability, and gives us glimpses of resurrection, and resilience, and hope. And hope is a good thing. It may be the very best of things. And water may be one of the forms these minor miracles of hope may take.   Liston Mills, my mentor and primary professor who taught faithfully at Vanderbilt for 40 years, once said to me, “William, over the course of your time with us you have studied a lot of psychological theory, and theology, and the integration of the two. But remember that sometimes the most and best we have to offer is being present, and creating hospitality. It’s like giving someone a cup of cold water on a hot day.” I thought about that often in the years that have since passed, and I have asked myself over and over what he was trying to tell me. I think it was something about grace, and humility, and compassion. Buddy Miller, a wonderful alt-country singer/songwriter in Nashville, wrote a fine tune in which he says:

I need a drink of something like water

I need a taste of love divine

Sometimes you just gotta do what you oughtta

Sometimes you bring up the water when the well is dry.

I think that my professor/mentor, and the author of Mark’s gospel, understood this. Small miracles can happen, even with a cup of cold water. Small acts of hospitality and compassion can make a difference far beyond what we imagine. With the help of the Holy Spirit they can transcend the limits of our spiritual imaginations. And when this happens, all are transformed. And this need not come from our positions of greatest strength. Rather, as the social science researcher Brene’ Brown has noted, it paradoxically comes from our own places of vulnerability. She writes;

“When I ask people what is vulnerability, the answers were things like sitting with my wife who has Stage III breast cancer and trying to make plans for our children, or my first date after my divorce, saying I love you first, asking for a raise, sending my child to school being enthusiastic and supportive of him and knowing how excited he is about orchestra tryouts and how much he wants to make first chair and encouraging him and supporting him and knowing that’s not going to happen. To me, vulnerability is courage. It’s about the willingness to show up and be seen in our lives. And in those moments when we show up, I think those are the most powerful meaning-making moments of our lives even if they don’t go well. I think they define who we are.”

Truth told, I’m not sure what to make of the hyperbolic references to Hell in today’s text. To me, Hell is simply to be oneself apart from God’s grace and in isolation from others in beloved community. Hell is that self-chosen condition in which, in opposition to God’s unconditional love and the call to a life of mutual friendship and service, individuals barricade themselves from others. It is the hellish weariness and boredom of a life focused entirely on itself. Hell is not an arbitrary divine punishment at the end of history. It is not the final retaliation of a vindictive deity. As one theologian I admire has said (Daniel Migliore) hell is the self-destructive resistance to the eternal love of God. It symbolizes the truth that the meaning and intention of life can be missed. Repentance is urgent. Our choices and actions are important. God ever seeks to lead us out of our hell of self-absorption, but neither in time nor in eternity is God’s love coercive. Jesus uses hell as a fear tactic- perhaps hyperbolic – to be inclusive of the least of these and those who wish to follow Jesus. A number of years ago I was the priest on call at the Cathedral and received an emergency call in the middle of the night from the NICU at Northside Hospital. The nurse said a couple from the Cathedral was there, and the mother had just given birth to a stillborn daughter late in the third trimester. I drove to the hospital and arrived @3am, and I was met by the charge nurse, who was herself in tears, and led back to the room where the parents and their daughter were waiting. The mother was lying with her daughter on her chest in a lovely cloth basket and the father standing on the other side of the bed. I stood silently next to the bed, and took the mother’s hand in mine. Both parents were crying. I did not know them. After a few moments of silence the father asked tearfully, “Does she need to be baptized.” I was quiet for a minute, one of those Holy Saturday times when one is tempted to grasp for easy solutions and quick fixes, and I prayed, silently, for the right words. Saying nothing, I reached up and gathered the tears from the faces of both parents, already blessing their daughter, and with those tears I offered a blessing for this lovely child of God, and a prayer that God would welcome their daughter home, which I am sure in fact had already happened. After a time, the nurse came back in, and we all prayed together, and I promised to follow up with the parents. I saw them more often at church after that, and about a year later, they asked if we could talk. They let me know that they had adopted a daughter from China, and she would be having surgery for a repair of a cleft palate the next month. Would I mind coming to be with them for the surgery and I said of course I would be there, and I was. The surgery went well, and then—well, miracle of miracles—they asked me to baptize their daughter in Mikell Chapel. And so we did. The water of baptism was mixed with all of our tears—tears of joy—water from a deeper well. Amen.

18th Sunday after Pentecost – Bill Harkins

Proper 20, Year B

The Collect of the Day

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: Mark 9:30-37 Jesus and his disciples passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him. Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all…Amen.

Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this 18^th Sunday after Pentecost. We are so very glad you are here, and if you are visiting with us today a heartfelt and warm Holy Family welcome to you! Today, we hear more predictions from Jesus—the second week in a row—and the Disciples’ responses based on fear. Then, Mark 9:31 reminds us that they disciples remain confused and in denial about the paradigm shifts to which he lovingly, transparently tried to alert them; “He was teaching his disciples, telling them again that he will be delivered into human hands and killed. Again they were afraid to ask him more about this, because they were afraid, and we know by now that fear is a common theme in Mark. And so their arguing among themselves about “Who is greatest” gets two responses from Jesus. The first is that “whoever wants to be first must be least of all and the servant of all.” Servant leadership is pathway to ‘greatness,’ but a greatness they could not fully understand based on their contextual understanding of power, and kingdom, both viewed from the perspective of the Roman Empire. The Kingdom of God as Jesus represented it, turns this understanding of Empire upside down. Instead of striving for the top and being in a position of power, one must seek first to serve. Or, as the rock group The Police said so well, “when you find your servant, there’s your master.”

The second answer is that whoever welcomes one of these children in Jesus’ name welcomes him. It is surprising and somewhat ironic, isn’t it, that in a power struggle in the midst of which the disciples are behaving like children, Jesus unmasks their aspiration to power by putting a real child in among them as a lesson. This is not a romantic, idealized version of children, who, as any parent or grandparent or teacher or childcare worker can tell you can be a handful sometimes! Rather, the child in this story is a representation of “the least of these.” The Kingdom of God assesses and assigns value differently than the human realm. God will receive those who receive the child. This will give access to true power, the power of the one who sent Jesus.” The disciples don’t get it…This is a common theme in Mark, repeated now twice. But out of compassion, it is a failure to understand that does not bring about rebuke from Jesus, at least not here, but deeper teaching in rabbinical role. Jesus does not abandon the Twelve in their ignorance. Eventually it all makes sense, but not until after the resurrection. And just one chapter later, the disciples try to shoo children away. Because it was and continues to be so countercultural – Jesus’ ministry is hard to understand. The Disciples’ continually fear what is going to happen, and in the midst of their fear, they are arguing about who would be greatest. Perhaps they believed that if they achieved “greatness,” then they would also have security. Jesus points to another way of seeking certainty amid ambiguity and change.

In her fine book, Daring Greatly, social researcher Brené Brown tells a story about an experience she had in graduate school that surprised her. Called to a meeting with a professor, she expected to be intimidated and rebuked. Instead, her teacher was an ally. The professor pulled up a chair, sat down beside her, and offered Brené Brown adjustments in a thoughtful and compassionate way. This is shaky ground for a lot of us: moments when our work, our ideas, our deeply held convictions, and our actions are open to feedback. We are in the midst of such a season here at Holy Family. Every semester, for some 30 years as a professor, I was evaluated by my students, and it is a process I both welcomed and found anxiety producing. What if my methodology and pedagogy are found lacking? What if my clinical convictions have proven inaccurate and my doctoral students find this misleading in their clinical work? What if my theological positions have not stood the test of time—and of the classroom, and heaven forbid, what if I am unable or unwilling to change and grow?

This is a place of immense vulnerability. But it’s also the place where we are the most open and receptive. And, it is where we may find growth, and resilience, and a flourishing, growing personhood. If we’re nurtured well, this is how ideas evolve, broken systems detach, and innovation emerges. As one who spent most of my career with seminary and doctoral students, and now with patients, and here among you all, I can say that my most meaningful moments are—well—those “teachable moments” when I saw the light of imagination coming into the eyes of my students, and clients, and those whom I serve for a brief time here…and perhaps, in my own eyes as well. So, let me tell you what I see…

This past week as I attended meetings of our pastoral care, finance, and hospitality committees, and last week a gathering of our vestry and nominating committee, and before that, of a vestry retreat, I was so proud of this parish. On Wednesday evening, at our wonderful Wednesday gathering, I paused by the lakeside and shared with Howell and several nearby the lovely autumnal light, illuminating the far shore, the slowly changing leaves, their reflections in the clear water giving us a bountiful double dose of color… the light of hope and imagination that I see in each of you, working so hard in this time of transition, and the enabling of the priesthood of all believers in this beloved parish, are for me the light of Christ in the world and my reason for doing what I do. The focus is not on the professor, or the priest, but on the light she or he helps illumine along the way. Jesus, in his rabbinical role with the disciples, never sought to be the center of attention. He gave himself away on love. So often our flourishing is a result of someone making a choice to sit beside or even to gently challenge us. That person carries a huge responsibility, and it is a sacred one.

Nearly every day, my friends, we are capable of being that person, with that responsibility. Whether we are offering feedback to a colleague, telling a child it’s bedtime, offering our own vulnerability to another, teaching or mentoring, or gently extending a contrary opinion when two perspectives are in conflict. Grace in disagreement — saying this could be different, and how — is an essential part of the human experience. We evolve through disagreement. Ideas subjected to criticism grow stronger than ideas left unchallenged. It’s not disagreement, but graceful disagreement that makes the world go round. And it is rediscovering that grace that Brené Brown articulates so well in her guidelines for engaged feedback, and that Jesus is suggesting in today’s Gospel. Brown believes that we know we are ready to give feedback when we are ready to sit next to another rather than across from them; when we are willing to put the problem in front of us rather than between us; when we are ready to listen, to ask questions, and accept that we may not fully understand the issue; when we acknowledge what another does well, instead of picking apart mistakes; when we recognize another’s strengths and how they can use them to address challenges; when we can hold another accountable without shaming or blaming; when we are willing to own our part and can genuinely thank another for their efforts rather than criticize them for their failings; when we can model the vulnerability and openness that we expect to see from others. When we do not waste our energy arguing about who it is among us that is the greatest…. Of course a great many teachers already do this, especially teachers of young children. Funny, isn’t it, how Jesus uses the image of a childlike sense of wonder, and of welcoming the child, as a guide to gracious hospitality. The art of guiding and adjusting with compassion is common practice in classrooms around the world. When we grow older, we sometimes forget that offering and hearing feedback can be a place of mutuality and growth. Disharmony and discomfort can be grounds for transformation once grace and compassion are in the mix. What we need now more than ever is the capacity to both hear and speak honestly together. We need to seek not the hollow shells of half-ideas but the fullness of two thoughts, even when — especially if — they are in conflict. It is these antitheses, as Hegel wrote, that produce the most vibrant synthesis. It has been, in many ways, a difficult summer, marked by violence, and racial and religious tension, and deepening cultural and religious polarities the likes of which have not been seen in many years. I sometimes wonder if the art of graceful disagreement has disappeared altogether from the public square. The older I get, the more I value the kind of childlike sense of wonder—a curiosity as opposed to judgment—that Jesus talks about in today’s Gospel text. The Gospel calls us to a place of hospitality, and joy, because joy and compassion amidst hospitality are at the heart of table fellowship. Table fellowship reveals the boundaries of human relationships. Even during times of sadness and anger, we are commanded by God to discover the path of forgiveness for those who perpetrate evil against us. And we are called to recognize our own shadow side, which may blind us to the ways we do not and perhaps cannot listen to our sisters and brothers. We are called to transcend the urge to argue about who is the greatest. We are called to remember that it is often more important to be in right relationship, than to be right. We may even need to be willing to embrace our own failures, our own limited vision, and to let go of old agendas and embrace with wonder the new. Wendell Berry, our American treasure of a poet, essayist, and novelist, said this:  

I go by a field where once

I cultivated a few poor crops.

It is now covered with young trees,

for the forest that belongs here

has come back and reclaimed its own.

And I think of all the effort

I have wasted and all the time,

and of how much joy I took

in that failed work and how much

it taught me. For in so failing

I learned something of my place,

something of myself, and now

I welcome back the trees.

Our Baptismal Covenant, dear one’s, calls us to hold onto the vision of a God who is present with us, even in our uncertainty, incredulity, vulnerability, and at times, our anguish at the world around us. This is a God full of mercy and grace, present with those who are lost, abounding in steadfast love, even in the face of uncertainty. Rumi, the Sufi mystic and poet, once said, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” That field, as in the childlike table fellowship to which Jesus invites us, awaits us all when we say “yes” to compassion, and grace—and perhaps especially, grace-full disagreement. And Sometimes we let our fears keep us from trying new things…even if we hear the whispers of the Holy Spirit giving us courage. Now more than ever Holy Family needs risk takers, curiosity seekers, lovers of souls who are among those willing to find the pearl of great price…their own place in the field of dreams that is this beloved parish. Let’s be in this together, shall we?

17th Sunday after Pentecost – Bill Harkins

Proper 19, Year B

The Collect of the Day

O God, because without you we are not able to please you, mercifully grant that your Holy Spirit may in all things direct and rule our hearts; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.Amen.

The Gospel: Mark 8:27-38 Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” And they answered him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him…Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.” He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.”

In the Name of the God of Creation, who loves us all….Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this 17^th Sunday after Pentecost. We are glad you are here, and if you are visiting this morning please do let us know so we can get to know you. Today we hear a challenging Gospel text from Mark who reminds us, through Peter, of the ups and downs and vicissitudes of discipleship, and the courage that is required of us all, especially when we are not sure where we are, or where we are going. On this long sojourn into Pentecost, we’ve heard about the emerging ministry of Jesus; the miracles, the healing, the feeding of thousands, the calling of the disciples. Mid-way on the journey is Peter’s remarkable declaration, “You are the Messiah,” the first time anyone has stated exactly who Jesus is. It is a journey of trust, and contains all of the challenges of being steadfast amidst uncertainty. As we heard today, this declaration results in some unexpected consequences, especially for Peter. I find myself identifying with him, however, and this may say more about me than Peter, but I certainly have no trouble thinking of times when I took a journey that ended up quite differently than I had intended. The mantra of my trail running group is “Conditions may vary.” Perhaps you, too, have found yourself lost at times, uncertain which way to go. I can only imagine what the disciples must have felt before Peter’s declaration, “You are the Christ.” There must have been a good deal of uncertainty and speculation about exactly who this man Jesus might be, and of course, following Jesus often took the disciples into new territory. Perhaps there were times when they thought, “This is not exactly what I signed up for on this trip,” and, “What was I thinking?” When Jesus told them that he was to be rejected, abused, and even murdered, Peter, perhaps fearing for his own life, rebuked Jesus. He could not imagine such a thing happening to his Messiah. Maybe Peter envisioned the great and powerful things that Jesus would do when his “Messiah-ship” came to its fruition. Perhaps he even imagined himself standing beside Jesus as a trusted assistant, sharing the glory of the throne. Surely suffering was not a part of Peter’s dream for Jesus, or for himself or the others. And that humanity is, I suspect, one of the reasons we are drawn to Peter throughout the Gospel accounts. We can easily see ourselves acting likewise. We know that taking up one’s cross is no easy task. Some of them went into hiding. Peter denied Jesus… his head denying what his heart knew was true. They were all weary, and afraid, and uncertain. And come to that, none of us can know what lies before us, or what will be asked of us in the days or years ahead. But we can reflect on the nature of our discipleship. We can make choices on our journey by trusting not so much our sense of “reason,” but rather Jesus, who calls us to be in discipleship and promises we will not be alone. 

Incidentally, those English scholars among us will recognize that in the passage from Mark Jesus says, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” The “deny yourself” in this passage has no direct object. We often believe we need to deny ourselves “something.” Yet, I wonder if this is necessary. This passage does not refer to a denial of anything. Paradoxically, this denial of one thing or another actually has the opposite effect of causing us to focus on too much on ourselves. Perhaps the best way to deny ourselves is by getting ourselves off our hands, doing the work we have to do, so that when we are called to do God’s work, our issues do not get in the way. Maybe this is what Jesus means when he says we must “lose ourselves in order to find ourselves.”

I want to tell you a story about the small mountain parish I served many years ago, as a Postulant. The rector, my boss at the time, gave me an assignment to create a new lay ministry for the parish. Since I was at the time a professor of pastoral care, I developed and taught a course on “Lay Pastoral Care,” designed to equip lay persons with theory and skills in pastoral care, and to empower them to use these skills in the community—both in the church, and beyond. We began carefully with the theological summons of our Baptismal Covenant. In that Covenant we promise “…to seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself…to strive for justice and peace among all people, and to respect the dignity of every human being.”[1]

Over the course of the next few months the enthusiasm for the class was palpable and inspiring. Together we began to imagine the possibilities for the harvest that might follow our seasons of learning about grief counseling, visitation in hospitals, continuous care facilities and care for the chronically ill, as well as elder care, a “casserole patrol” as a form of crisis ministry, Lay Eucharistic visitation, and other forms of pastoral care. By summer, we proposed to the Vestry the parameters of a new ministry of Lay Pastoral Care. This was subsequently approved. New life in community suddenly existed where none had previously been in the service of “bearing one another’s burdens,” to use Paul’s language. We were delighted.

Soon, however, problems began to emerge. Some became worried about best practices and methodology, others about who among them had the best and most appropriate gifts and graces for particular forms of ministry, and why. This was typically born of fears of inadequacy, not unusual when we are learning new skills of course. Opinions about overlapping forms of care and responsibility threatened to overshadow the reasons the ministry was created in the first place. Even the clergy staff began to disagree about what the laity should, and should not be “allowed” to do. In some instances these debates took on a personal tone, and feelings were hurt. Persons were becoming preoccupied with the letter of the “law” rather than the spirit of compassionate life in community we sought to embody. Our communal efforts at bearing one another’s burdens were becoming a burden to us all.

In his interaction with Peter, Jesus is reminding us that one thing is needed—the focus on the “so what” of our sojourns as Christian. And we recall that in the midst of the crisis of the young church seeking to become established, Paul encourages the giving of oneself in faithful service, gratitude, and humility rather than arrogance, hubris, and emphasis on differences based on one’s particular spiritual gifts and graces. For Paul, life in community should be governed by faithful stewardship of all resources, a stewardship marked by “sowing to the spirit.” 

Well, a while after the formation of the Lay Pastoral Care Ministry, one of the “founding” members was unexpectedly stricken ill. En route to London on a plane high over the Atlantic, this parishioner had a life-threatening heart attack, was resuscitated, and kept alive by CPR until the plane returned to New York. She was stabilized in hospital there and eventually returned to a lengthy convalescence at home in the mountains. Somehow, this crisis in the community provided the occasion for all the hopes and expectations originally envisioned for the Lay Pastoral Care ministry to emerge and coalesce around her care. The various committees sprang into action without rancor or emphasis on whom should do what, or why. The gifts and abilities inherent in the committee seemed to sort themselves out, emerge, and come to life. Tasks were delegated, carried out, and engaged with enthusiasm and faithfulness. A spirit of grace prevailed. Lay ministers devotedly brought her the Eucharist, and all of their ministry skills blossomed.

Our experience with the Lay Pastoral Care ministry—a ministry thriving in that parish to this day—called us back to our Baptismal Covenant. We were reminded that compassion is a practical pastoral virtue that transcends law, and invokes grace in action, joy in the spirit. It respects the dignity of all human beings. Yes, and compassion, born of grace, is the virtue that sustains, no matter what our reception in the towns and villages to which we may be sent. One of my favorite quotes is that Transformation happens at the cellular level.” This is true when we exercise, and when we engage in small acts of compassion—the small, daily acts and expressions of transformation that have the power to change the world, and ourselves in it. As Richard Rohr says, “Sooner or later, if you are on any classic “spiritual schedule,” some event, person, death, idea, or relationship will enter your life with which you simply cannot cope using your present skill set, acquired knowledge, or willpower. Spiritually speaking, you will be led to the edge of your own private resources.” This is in part what Peter faced in today’s Gospel…he was bumping up against his own limitations. And like Peter, one must “lose” at something, and then begin to develop the art of losing.This is the only way that Life/Fate/God/Grace/Mystery can get us to change, let go of our egocentric preoccupations—deny ourselves, to use today’s Gospel language—and go on the further and larger journey. We must stumble and fall. Because, until we are led to the limits of our present game plan and find it to be insufficient, we will not search out or find our real Source. Alcoholics Anonymous calls it the Higher Power. Jesus calls this Ultimate Source the “living water” at the bottom of the well (see John 4:10-14). Oh, and that mountain parish I served so many years ago was our own beloved Holy Family. And already, in this season of transition, new ministries are being born and new forms of stewardship—those gifts of time, talent, and giving in so many ways so important to the life of this parish—are being created. So please give prayerful consideration to how you might contribute. In the next few weeks we will be sharing stories of grace, and hospitality, and opportunities for serving. This is not so much an old school stewardship narrative as it is an imaginative, generative invitation to give of ourselves—and in so doing—being transformed. So many good things are happening here my friends, and perhaps you have gifts for music, or leadership, or hospitality…or even pastoral care, that even you may not have been aware you had! Listen to the words of the poet David Whyte, a poem about thoughtful, incarnational stewardship, about denying oneself, and finding oneself becoming fully alive:

Our great mistake is to act the drama

as if we were alone. As if life

were a progressive and cunning crime

with no witness to the tiny hidden

transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny

the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,

even you, at times, have felt the grand array;

the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding

out your solo voice. You must note

the way the soap dish enables you,

or the window latch grants you freedom.

Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.

The stairs are your mentor of things

to come, the doors have always been there

to frighten you and invite you,

and the tiny speaker in the phone

is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the

conversation. The kettle is singing

even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots

have left their arrogant aloofness and

seen the good in you at last. All the birds

and creatures of the world are unutterably

themselves. Everything is waiting for you.

Amen. [1] The Book of Common Prayer, The Episcopal Church, (1979) Church Publishing Incorporated, New York, New York, pp. 304-305. 

16th Sunday after Pentecost – Bill Harkins

Proper 18, Year B

The Collect of the Day Grant us, O Lord, to trust in you with all our hearts; for, as you always resist the proud who confide in their own strength, so you never forsake those who make their boast of your mercy; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.  

The Gospel: Mark 7:24-37 Jesus set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” Then he said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.” So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone…    

Dear Sister in Christ:  

It must seem strange to be getting a letter some 2000 years after your courageous encounter with Jesus of Nazareth. I write to you out of deep admiration for your story. I confess that I am also writing because this is what I tell others to do when they are confused about how they feel, or in need of clarity about a way forward in the midst of a messy, uncomfortable situation. The story of your effort to get help for your daughter that day is still told by many, and it may please you to know that it is written in a book called the Holy Bible—and in a chapter in that book called the Gospel of Mark. I had not read your story in quite a while, and for some reason, this time as I read, it made me sad, and uncomfortable. I should probably mention that I am a teacher, and a priest—though not the kind of priest you would have been familiar with—and a counselor. So part of my discomfort comes from feeling that I should know just the right thing to say, or feel, or think to explain away my discomfort. Yet, I do not. In reading your story again I was struck not only by how uncomfortable it made me, but how much I admired you, and how many questions I had about your encounter with Jesus. In fact, I had so many different feelings and questions that I found myself not wanting to think about your story at all. This made me even more uncomfortable, but it also made me curious. You see this, too, is part of my training—to be willing to ask tough questions in relation to things that make us want to look the other way, things we would rather ignore, or deny, and pretend will go away if we do so. I imagined different ways of understanding and “interpreting” your encounter with Jesus so that this might take away my discomfort. Yet, I could not. And, come to that, I wonder if perhaps we are called by the Gospel to feel uncomfortable at times. So, the only way to proceed seemed to be that of being as transparent as possible, and let your story stand on its own, even if it meant being scared, and angry, and uncertain, and even if it meant that those with whom I share this had some of these feelings as well… so, I decided to write you a letter. I should also confess that I am a person of privilege in my country. Unlike you I do not really know what it is like to be overlooked because of race, or gender, or skin color. I have not known real hunger—and I have never had to wonder where my next meal was coming from. I have not been passed over for a job because of the color of my skin, or because of my gender. I have not been discriminated against or overlooked in spite of the content of my character—and yet I imagine this was a way of life for you. In fact, it occurs to me as I write to you that although I have told you my name, I do not even know yours. You are often referred to as “a Canaanite woman,” or “a certain woman.” In what we call Mark’s Gospel—another version of your story—you are referred to as the “Syro-Phoenician woman.” In my country, if you have to say you are African American or Native American or Latino American, you already know you are often more subject to being overlooked, on the margins, ignored. I suspect you knew this feeling quite well. I don’t ever recall feeling the need to refer to myself as White American, or Euro American. In Matthew’s version of your story, in which you are referred to as “a Canaanite woman,” this meant that you were marginalized in the world of Judaism—both as a Canaanite and as a woman. You would have been considered the property of your husband or your father. And in spite of this—in spite of the fact that race, gender, class, and nationalism were all working against you, you approached a group of men—also taboo, and you kept doing so; and why? Perhaps you were a single mother—why else would you have made the journey on your own—why would your husband or some other male advocate not speak for you as custom demanded? And being a single mother, your position would have been even more tenuous—with virtually no status or material resources. It must have been embarrassing and uncomfortable for everyone concerned, including you, and clearly the disciples in the story are aggravated by your persistence—in Matthews version of your story, they even warned Jesus to ignore you—“Send her away,” they said, “for she keeps shouting after us.” They turned their backs on you, and yet you persisted. We are different in all these and so many more ways, you and I, but I do know what it is like to be a parent—I am the father of two sons. That part of your story got my attention as well. I know what t it is like to sit up all night with a sick child, and to huddle in a hospital emergency room scared, and desperate for the healing of a child. I know what it is like to suffer with and for my children. I also understand why you approached Jesus and why you sought him out in your time of need. You did this for the very same reason that so many over the past 2000 years have done so—for healing, for strength, for sustenance, for release from the powers of darkness, and for wholeness of mind, body, and spirit—for community….for embrace—rather than exclusion. In fact it is for these reasons that we gather this morning, in my community of worship, and it is for this reason I am sharing my letter with those whom I serve. No doubt you heard of Jesus by word of mouth. Again and again he was moved by compassion to take action, do justice, work miracles. Surely this is what you heard, too. You expected compassion, and justice, and kindness. And not for you, but for your daughter who was suffering. So, against all odds and all that was working against you, you persisted. Even as I admire and respect you, I am troubled by Jesus’ behavior. “Have mercy on me O Lord, son of David,” you cried, and he tried to ignore you altogether, and yet you persisted. I wonder how he could ignore you and then dismiss you? There is no way to clean up this story, no way to sanitize it or explain it away. I’ve heard some very learned people try to do so, and it cannot be done, it always has a hollow sound. And your willingness to be vulnerable allows me to see and hear what I too would rather ignore. “I have come only for the lost sheep of Israel,” Jesus finally said—I am here to help only those who are like me. Still you persisted, kneeling before him, and in what is at one and the same time incredible humility and vulnerability, and remarkable courage, you say “Lord, help me.” And then, this unbelievable statement from our Christ—“It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” For a brief moment you were turned away, and my heart sinks. Just as those with whom I am sharing this letter feel in coming to church, you expected the experience of the sacred grace of God in coming to Jesus. Just as we feel wounded or hurt if we are dismissed and overlooked by brothers and sisters in Christ, you would have by all rights felt crushed, devastated, defeated. How could Jesus compare anyone to a dog? How could he say, in effect, some don’t belong at the table, or even beneath it—some don’t deserve the bread—some are outside the circle of care and compassion—his love is only for those within the circle? How could he do this when so often he told us that all are welcome at the table? And still you persisted. Kneeling before him, even more vulnerable, you spoke up and said to him in a remarkably witty and articulate response—“Yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table.” You should know if you do not already, that many have followed in your footsteps. Your courage and determination echo down through the halls of history for all women and men whose opportunities were denied by virtue of gender, race, or social status.  A woman named Sojourner Truth, born a slave, once said “That man there, he says women can’t have as much rights as men, because Christ wasn’t a woman. Where did Christ come from? From God and a woman…and ain’t I a Woman? I have born 13 children and seen most all sold into slavery, and when I cried out none but Jesus heard me.” Others followed—women such as Rosa Parks, and Ruby Bridges, and so many other “certain women” who took up your cause. And finally, blessedly, Jesus heard you. He came to himself and in so doing extended his ministry beyond the Jews to include us all. He had behaved as he had because he could—because in his culture he had power and status and it pains me to think how often I have unthinkingly done the same. But at last he exclaimed “Woman, great is your faith. Let it be done as you desire.” And your daughter was healed as you must have known she would be. Do you know that I cannot recall another place in the Gospels where someone won a theological argument with Jesus? Do you know that you were the bearer of Good News to the One who gave Good News to us? In that instant his soul was enlarged, his compassion deepened, the love at the center of His message bloomed ever brighter. By his willingness to learn, to change his mind, He taught us that we are here to grow, to learn, and to be open to the grace-filled movement of the Holy Spirit in our lives. You, with humility and confidence, deference and boldness, and a deep abiding belief that God’s love will transcend the obstacles that would keep us in bondage—taught him, and by extension all of us. Well, it is almost time for me to close this letter. In the church I serve, the center of all that we do is called the Eucharist. We gather at the table and celebrate with bread and wine what you helped me see in a new way through your story. We come to that table, each of us, as God’s children, with an advocate in Christ Jesus much as you advocated for your daughter. And we receive the bread from the top of the table, not the crumbs from beneath. In so doing we, like you, receive the gift of grace, of God’s love—an ever present reminder that we are not excluded by God… no, not one of us, by virtue of gender, or race, or sexual orientation, or political affiliation or any other boundary that would alienate, divide, or separate us from the love of God. I give thanks in gratitude that in your story, I now see more clearly that this is a good practice in relation to all that we do: especially all that we do in the service of doing justice, loving kindness, walking humbly with our God—and respecting the dignity of every human being. Thank you.   Your brother in Christ, Bill