Author: Rosemary Lovelace

21st Sunday after Pentecost – Ted Hackett

Today’s Gospel reading from Mark sounds pretty…

Well…pretty tough. Let’s look at it with some care.

As often happens…Jesus is about to hit the road…

He seems to have pretty much lived on the road with his disciples… stopping at villages along the way to preach and get food and sleep.

So today he and his gang are setting out…

And first thing…a devout young man appears, falls down on his knees in front of Jesus and beseeches him…

“Good Rabbi… “What do I have to do to have eternal life”…

Jesus scolds him:

“Don’t call me good…only God is good!”

Oops! Not a good start!

But then Jesus speaks to him in a kindly way…

“you know the ten commandments…”

And he recites three of them…

Interestingly…the three relate to how we treat each other and don’t mention God.

I’ve never known what to make of that…

But then, Jesus often baffles me…

But anyway…the young man says: “Rabbi…I have kept the Commandments all my life…”  

I doubt that anyone of us could make that claim…to have kept all ten commandments all our lives! How about never coveting a possession of a friend?

Even as a kid?

Boy! Did I ever covet Billy White’s new sled!

Wow!!!

And Jesus is impressed…

he looked at him…. and loved him…

There is something else to earn eternal life…

Sell all you have…and come follow me!

Oops!

That is a knockout punch…

The young man had many posessions…

There was no law against that…

The young man is devastated!

How would he live?

What would his friends think?

And his Father and mother?

Leave his life and his community?

It was too much to ask…

Jesus had gut-punched him…

First there was amazement…

And then an empty grief…

And he got up without looking at Jesus…

And with his head down…

He went away…

Grieving…           

And Jesus turned to his disciples and said:

“How hard it will be for those who have wealth   to enter the Kingdom of God.”                             

Throughout Christian history, lots of people have grappled with this text. Many, like St. Francis,   have taken it literally and lived lives of extreme poverty…

Others have decided to live frugally and gave away what they didn’t need for a comfortable life…

And many of us walk around with a secret guilt that we aren’t really living as Christians since we don’t sacrifice enough.

And Jesus seems to be saying that we are right…

It’s as hard for someone who has accumulated wealth and has kept it as it is for a camel to get through the eye of a needle…

In other words…not good odds.

The disciples are dumbfounded…

If that’s true…what are we doing out here on the road preaching the nearness of the Kingdom of God?

If this is true…who can make it into the Kingdom of God?   

Then Jesus adds something…

Something pretty important…

In fact…something crucially important….

“For mortals it is impossible; but not for  God. For God all things are possible.”

In other words…we cannot save ourselves…only God can do that!

So there was a reason that when Jesus quoted only certain parts of the 10 Commandments to this young man when he first showed up, kneeling at his feet.

The parts Jesus quoted were…

Don’t murder…

Don’t commit adultery…

Don’t steal…

Don’t bear false witness…

 Don’t defraud…

Honor your father and mother.

That seems to be it…that’s all he quotes…

But notice something…

Jesus has selected certain of the Commandments…

And every one that he selected is about…

How you treat other people!

Don’t murder, steal, commit adultery, bear false witness or defraud…And honor your father and mother.

And…furthermore ….Don’t make it a big deal to make yourself look good…or to take credit…

God has given you what you have so that you may enjoy God’s creation…

And so that you may love others and help them!

Remember just a little while ago..

Jesus said: “Don’t call me good…only God is good!”

What is important here is to remember that we are…after all…creatures among millions of other creatures of God…just on this earth…

And literally God only knows what other living beings there are in this incalculably large universe we inhabit.

So we live in a paradox…

We are both transient, insignificant creatures…and we are children of God.

Those are hard to keep in mind…

On one hand we are pretty helpless…

Like the disciples who suddenly realized they could not save themselves any more than they could get a camel through the eye of needle…

But then discovered that…it didn’t matter…God could…and would…save them…would open God’s kingdom to them anyway…

So much of Jesus’ teaching is about forgetting yourself and forgetting about the barriers society puts up between us…

About what we need to do to be saved…

Then asking: “What does my neighbor need”…

And then asking: “Who is my neighbor?”

When we come to that question…we have to go to some other accounts of Jesus… 

Accounts of him eating with hated tax-collectors and protecting prostitutes…

His stories about the shepherd who loves the rebellious lamb…or the rebellious Prodigal Son…

All this is to say…

The young man in our story…

Was not ready to accept a hard thing…

What we are called to do as Christians is to first understand that we are loved…

Loved in spite of….

Maybe even loved, in some strange way …

Because of our imperfections…they are part of who we are…

Loves us even in spite of our sins…

God loves us…

And knows even our sins are part of who we are…       

So God loves us…

Sins and all…

So God loves us…even when we lack…

Even when we lack a lot …

Notice…Jesus did not bring up the subject of what more the young man had to do…

But Jesus sensed the young man wanted to know the next step…

So Jesus said… “well…if and when you are ready…sell all you have and come with us…”

The young man didn’t see that he didn’t have to sell all he had,

He’d really done enough…

Jesus looked at him and loved him…

As he was!

Back in the day when I was teaching…Bishop Tutu came to teach on the Theology faculty…he was there about four years…his office was next to mine.

I stepped out into the hall to ask him a question and realized he was walking with a student…

The student was agitated…plainly upset.                              

The Bishop had been talking about poverty in the third world…and the young man was distressed that he couldn’t do anything.

The Bishop listened very sympathetically… Then smiled that miraculous smile he had, a smile that lit up the room… and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and said:

“Don’t worry my son…you have no idea how low God’s standards are!”

There standing before me was a small black man in a purple shirt…who was…for the moment…Jesus with the rich young man …

A young man who was told: “Do your best…and don’t worry about if it’s enough…it’s fine.”

The Bishop was saying God’s grace is enough to get you over the finish line!”

And that Tutu smile that said as words could not: 

“You are fine…

God loves you as you are… The Kingdom of God is here!”    

20th Sunday after Pentecost Proper 22, Year B – Bill Harkins

The Gospel: Matthew 11:25-30 Jesus said, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. All things have been handed over to me by my Father; and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. 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. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to each of you on this Feast of St. Francis a day on which we hear a surprisingly challenging Gospel text. And, we prepare for the blessing of the animals today we also give thanks in this season for All the Saints whose lives are intertwined with ours, often in ways we cannot see.

In today’s Gospel from Matthew we are reminded that some forms of wisdom cannot be obtained by working harder and harder for them. Knowledge of God, it seems, cannot be achieved through the ordinary means of excellence of effort or dent of perseverance as we typically understand both of these. I don’t know about you, but this perspective turns my normal ways of being and doing in the world upside down. Jesus has a way of doing that, of course, but it still catches me off guard. What might it mean if through hard work and my often “type A” behavior, I am sometimes missing the point Jesus is making and, perhaps, the main purpose of our lives as Christians? Can I really reconcile this part of me with the need to become more childlike in my faith?

And then in vs. 28-30 we find the lovely invitation to which these passages have been building, “Come to me all who are weary and carrying heavy burdens and I will give you rest… for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” It is a wonderful metaphor, really, although in our part of the world we don’t often see yokes. The principle, however, is that of bearing burdens more efficiently, to harness the power of the animal or, in some cases the person carrying the load, and work together as a team. The second century author Justin Martyr said that when Jesus worked as a carpenter, he likely made yokes as part of his daily work. I like to imagine this. It is comforting, somehow, to imagine him carefully measuring and fitting the yoke so that it would fit just right—not rub or scrape the animals—and help them bear the burden of the plow or whatever they may have been pulling. I can see him sanding the rough spots, carefully fitting the yoke, making it a perfect complement to the animal, and the task at hand. Metaphorically speaking, Jesus invites us to take a yoke just like this, made by his own labor and love, perfectly and completely for us. He knows each of us by name, knows our gifts and graces, our needs and broken places. He does not want us to be weighed down or so weary that we cannot bear what we have been called to do.

It is a beautiful, utterly simple invitation, and yet so hard to do. So often Vicky, my wife of almost 31 years, has said “Why didn’t you ask for help with this?” or, “Why didn’t you let us know what you needed?” Perhaps this is connected to the other part of this Gospel text—the part about letting go of trying so hard to do things alone, and relying solely on our own alleged wisdom and intelligence. Over-functioning, once we learn it, can be very hard to change. I confess that I do not turn things over to God, or others, easily. And, I have trouble remembering that there are others standing by ready to help. I struggle to realize that I am likely at my best, and my strongest, when I ask for God’s help. Some time ago, my ordination brother Thee and I were on the hill atop the Horseshoe Drive entrance to the Cathedral for the “drive by blessings,” after the 11:15 service. It was an unusually warm day, and at about 1:00pm we were preparing to head inside when a lone woman leading 4 dogs on leashes slowly made her way up the driveway. Thee was engaged in blessing the ashes of a dog named “Wags,” whose owner was still grieving. The woman arrived atop the Cathedral Close completely out of breath after the long climb. “I almost didn’t come today,” she said, her mascara running in the late October sun. “I live in Snellville….and it’s a long way to drive. But this is my home…this is my family,” she said, nodding to her dogs who were already greeting me effusively. I consider the Cathedral to be my home. I am so thankful for this place.” Then, introducing me to her dogs one by one, she said, “These are all rescue dogs,” patting each one in turn, lovingly, saying their names. One was blind, and mostly deaf, and another had been thrown out of a car on Hwy#78, and barely survived. “Each of these dogs has a sad story, and needed a home. It’s been a hard couple of years for me too,” she said, tearfully.” “I lost my husband, and my home. These dogs are all I have left, but we do have each other, and I am so very grateful for that. I guess the truth is we all needed a blessing today.” “Maybe,” she said, “we bless each other along the way, especially when we are grateful. Maybe those blessings are how God continues to be present in our lives. I have learned to live from a place of gratitude,” she said tearfully. “It’s the place where all of our blessings go to live.” I found the pastoral counselor in me responding with compassion for, and a bit of concern about her, and I said “It’s so warm out here. Would you like to come inside for a cold drink of water,” I asked? “No thank you,” she said. “I’m not ready to go inside yet. For now, I’ll just take my blessings where I find them. And they are right here, right now.” I had the good sense to let this be enough to say grace over, and so I did just that. I have thought about this many times since then—and in particular about blessing, and gratitude, and giving from that deep place where we are most at home. And, I have come to realize that this is one of the ways God’s Creation continues to unfold, right here, right now, every moment of our lives.

In her wonderful novel, “Gilead,” the author Marilynne Robinson tells the story of Rev. John Ames, a dying Presbyterian minister writing to his young son, so that he will remember his story long after he is gone[1]. The book takes the form of an extended letter, really, and is itself a blessing of gratitude, and the generosity borne of gratitude. In one passage he recalls blessing a cat in his early days as a young pastor. This memory leads to an especially lovely passage:

“I still remember how those warm little brows felt under the palm of my hand. Everyone has petted a cat, but to touch one like that, with the pure intention of blessing it, is a very different thing. It stays in the mind. For years we would wonder what, from a cosmic viewpoint, we had done to them. It still seems to me to be a real question. There is a reality in blessing, which I take baptism to be, primarily. It doesn’t enhance sacredness, but it acknowledges it, and there is a power in that. I have felt it pass through me, so to speak. The sensation of really knowing a creature, I mean really feeling its mysterious life and your own mysterious life at the same time.”  

That day, in the process of giving and receiving blessings with my friend and colleague Thee, I lost myself in the process, and I found a new way of seeing the world—shaped by gratitude. As the wonderful poet Mary Oliver has said: “And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know? Love yourself. Then forget it. Then love the world.” “Practice Resurrection,” the poet Wendell Berry reminds us. Come to me all you that are weary and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Amen. [1] Robinson, Marilynne, “Gilead,” Picador Press, 2006.

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.