Author: Rosemary Lovelace

11th Sunday after PentecostProper 13, Year B – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Let your continual mercy, O Lord, cleanse and defend your Church; and, because it cannot continue in safety without your help, protect and govern it always by your goodness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: John 6:24-35

The next day, when the people who remained after the feeding of the five thousand saw that neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum looking for Jesus.

…Then Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.” They said to him, “Sir, give us this bread always.” Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

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

Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this 11^th Sunday after Pentecost. Thank you, to each of you, for being here this morning as we take another step together on the journey toward finding our next rector. We welcome Canon Sally Ulrey here this morning, and we are so grateful to her for helping to shepherd this process. Sally, we thank you so much for being here today, and for your ministry in the Diocese. We have two Hebrew Bible texts available in the Lectionary for today, one from Samuel, and one from Exodus. Both involve complicated men—David and Moses—who were perhaps paradoxically called to lead. David was a narcissist and misogynist who, against all odds repented, confessed to Nathan, and grew to become a leader, despite his horrific acts in relation to Uriah. In the reading from Exodus this morning we find a people in transition and a leader, in Moses, also in transition or, perhaps in a process of transformation as he faced the wrath of the whole congregation of the Israelites who complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness. “Why did you bring us here,” they lamented…saying it would have been better to die as slaves in Egypt rather than starve in the desert. Change is hard indeed. Walter Brueggemann, my erstwhile colleague from Columbia Seminary, teaches about three kinds of journeys: journeys of Orientation, Disorientation, and New or re-Orientation. And, we know this pattern well as Christians and Episcopalians in our journey during Holy Week from Palm Sunday to Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Easter… and on into this long, green season of Pentecost. This sequence is part of our liturgical DNA.

This familiar pattern is one about which Richard Rohr and other authors have written as part of—indeed essential to—our spiritual journey. It is also about our “salvation,” understood here as healing, because we are indeed “healed” by knowing and surrendering to this universal journey of reality. Knowing the full pattern allows us to let go of the first order, accept the disorder, and, sometimes hardest of all—to grieve our losses and trust the new reorder. In some ways during this season of our lives together at Holy Family, we are living out our own version of that Exodus journey.

St. Ignatius, one of our spiritual forefathers and mothers, wisely said that we must learn to practice what he called “Holy Indifference.” When we encounter those liminal, transitional seasons where we must let go of our illusion that we can order and control the world through whatever means we seek to do so. Release of control and giving control over to God will show itself as increased attention to compassion and generosity, and less attention to rules and regulations and “the way we’ve always done things.” This will normally be experienced, Rohr says, as a move toward humility and real community. It may also mean that we can find new and previously undiscovered leadership abilities in ourselves, and new ways of being in community; perhaps in ways that are surprising.

“Leadership” is a broad topic, and we may be tempted to think it doesn’t apply to us on a personal level. I want to challenge that notion, and invite us to think together about leadership, and about how we might lead ourselves and others on this Exodus journey during this season. The origin of the word “leader” means, simply, to guide. So let’s think together about how we might guide one another as we move out of disorientation, and on toward reorientation. As some of you have heard me say in other contexts, a growing paradigm in the Episcopal Church places increasing importance on lay leadership. Indeed, the new mission statement mantra in the Diocese of Colorado is “Lay led…clergy supported.” Now, there are many reasons for this change, realities shared by sister denominations in mainline Protestantism. But the basic reality is that we are in a profound paradigm shift in our corner of Christendom. More than half of our congregations cannot afford to pay for a full-time priest. It is simply not sustainable. And this is true in dioceses bigger than ours and smaller dioceses as well. Across the country we have a LOT less full-time jobs. And some of those that are “full-time” are the results of partnerships that mean the priest is serving two positions—two or more congregations, to make one full-time job. This helps to explain why young clergy are frustrated when they hear there is a “clergy shortage” and yet still can’t find a suitable call, and especially when the system we’ve inherited assumes that transitional deacons become curates. I hear people say that this means “we need more bi-vocational clergy.” That may be right. But the system we have inherited isn’t built that way and we still are relying on seminary-trained clergy. I know an associate rector who is a pharmacist and a pastor, and after three years of searching our sister parish in Clarkesville has now hired a part-time priest who is also a Licensed Counselor: it isn’t as simple as it sounds to manage those competing demands, but with lay leadership it may actually be enlivening and even prophetic. Regardless, these changes will take vision and purpose and time to make that shift. In the meantime, what seems clearest to me is that lay leadership is more important than ever. Along with many who study church history and read the tea leaves looking ahead, I think we are in the early stages of a reformation. I may be wrong, but the old model of a full-time seminary-trained priest in every congregation is not coming back. We are learning, growing, changing, adapting, hoping, trusting, and loving our way into a new reality. And always, as our Prayer Book reminds us, with God’s help. 

Now, you may see yourself as a leader, you may not…. But Quaker Educator Parker Palmer says that “Leadership” is a concept we often resist. It seems immodest, even self-aggrandizing, to think of ourselves as leaders. But if it is true that we are made for community, then leadership is everyone’s vocation, and it can be an evasion to insist that it is not. When we live in the close-knit ecosystem called community, everyone follows and everyone leads.” No matter who or where we are, we may be called to lead in this threshold season, and to practice resurrection in ways that may surprise us. Leadership is not an identity; rather, it is a role; leading is not who we are; leading is what we do – at least some of the time. 

And I don’t believe that leaders are born any more than great violinists or runners, or teachers, or surgeons or football players are born. I believe that leadership can be learned – primarily through practice and experience—and that it can take an infinite variety of forms. Indeed, it may be that when we bump up against our own limitations, and those things in relation to which we are afraid, we can discover in ourselves the capacity to lead in ways that may surprise us. And we have both the text from this week and last featuring David, and from Exodus, excellent examples, because both David, a flawed leader if ever there was on, and Moses with his own limitations, were leaders, sometimes in spite of themselves… So I want to invite us to think through some of the key elements of leadership; to do so, I’m going to invoke someone we all know: Moses, was both flawed and called. Moses reminds us we do not have to be heroic or have special charisma; he did not seek the job – there was no ad on Linked In saying “prophet needed to lead exodus – forever reshape relationship with YHWH”; Moses was attuned to the problem (they were slaves) and attuned to the sacred (he saw a burning bush); he was present and awake…he was willing to show up, and pay attention; he responded to the need and the opportunity; he did the job that had to be done, despite being flawed and called…He articulated a vision, and let’s remember that imagination and resilience emerge out of liminal, transitional times and spaces.

Moses mobilized the people, and persevered to realize/achieve that vision: Moses’ leadership… and ours, has a pastoral quality because leading helps others claim their own leadership. And let’s remember that Jesus always helps grow people up; does not infantilize them. Today’s Gospel is followed by a scene of anxious disciples uncertain what to do about more people coming to be fed…and he says to the disciples, “You give them something to eat!” thus empowering their ministry. Moses acted; he took next steps even with limited info and a willingness to experiment and take risks. He was willing to go through immediate discomfort for a greater good; the “acting” of leadership is hard, sometimes messy, and harrowing. Moses heard the lamentations of the people, and pushed on. And here’s a bit of wisdom based on my own hard-won experience…we must each be aware of our need to be liked and our need to make everyone happy; these will cripple us every time. There is no need to become a quivering mass of availability. My friends, leadership is messy work, spiritual work & creative and imaginatively prayerful work…Being a leader in this or any season asks of us that we be willing to go deep within; it is a spiritual journey on which we face our own shadows and light, our own gifts and graces, as well as our limitations. Leading can be hard, and it can be lonely; we need to take care of ourselves. It asks of us that we let go of control enough to trust God and improvise. The truth is that many of us will be called to lead the church into new territory; in a season of uncertainty and change. We are all priests of the church by virtue of our Baptism. We are all called to lead. And we never know how our efforts to lead, no matter how small, my touch the lives of others. Near the end of Deuteronomy, Moses is telling Joshua: Be strong. Be courageous. Do not be afraid. God is with you. He will not leave you. He will not forsake you. Do not be afraid! Mostly, Moses sees God choose people in ways finally about abundance, an abundance made manifest in today’s Gospel, which also refers to Moses and the Exodus journey. And so here is this heart-grabbing wisdom that Moses offers with open hands: Do not be afraid because we know that the God who guides us is the One who goes before us. Perhaps, in this season of change, even our smallest gestures of compassion and grace, reaching out, choosing to be in relationship, are all forms of leadership each of us can practice. This is leadership that requires only our willingness to take the first step…to reach out in faith.

The wonderful poet Seamus Heaney’s last words in this earthly life were written, not spoken. From his hospital bed he texted to his wife, Marie, two words: Noli timere. Don’t be afraid. These were words of courage for his beloved at a moment when God was about to do a profoundly new thing that she did not yet fully perceive. Noli timere. Fear not. Words of courage for us and for all of God’s beloved, uttered throughout Holy Scripture by prophets, poets, angels, and Jesus, himself, whenever God is about to do something new. We are to be unafraid, even in the face of that new thing we do not yet quite perceive; that new chapter that will inevitably draw us from the security of the familiar, that new thing that will undoubtedly change us in ways ultimately life giving, and flourishing, and hopeful.

In Paul’s letter to the Romans he says:

Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers.

I don’t know about you, but those are core values of leadership with which I can live, and upon which I can act, unafraid to lead. Please join me, won’t you? Leadership is best shared with grace, compassion, and hospitality. And that’s who we are, together.

Amen.

10th Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 12, Year B – Bill Harkins

The Collect

O God, the protector of all who trust in you, without whom nothing is strong, nothing is holy: Increase and multiply upon us your mercy; that, with you as our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things temporal, that we lose not the things eternal; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.Amen.

The Epistle: Ephesians 3:14-21

I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name. I pray that, according to the riches of his glory, he may grant that you may be strengthened in your inner being with power through his Spirit, and that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith, as you are being rooted and grounded in love. I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.

Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.

The Gospel: John 6:1-21

Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, also called the Sea of Tiberias. A large crowd kept following him, because they saw the signs that he was doing for the sick. Jesus went up the mountain and sat down there with his disciples. Now the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near. When he looked up and saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” …

When evening came, his disciples went down to the sea, got into a boat, and started across the sea to Capernaum. It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The sea became rough because a strong wind was blowing. When they had rowed about three or four miles, they saw Jesus walking on the sea and coming near the boat, and they were terrified. But he said to them, “It is I; do not be afraid.” Then they wanted to take him into the boat, and immediately the boat reached the land toward which they were going.

In the Name of the God of Creation who loves us all…Amen. Grace to you and peace, to each of you this morning, on this Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, and welcome to Holy Family. If you are visiting with us we are so very glad you are here. Welcome, and be sure to introduce yourselves to us!

Today we hear a heartfelt and deeply compelling prayer from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, and a lovely, well-known story about the feeding of the 5,000. Both are reminders that we can choose between scarcity and abundance, and the Gospel does call us to err on the side of abundance. This is especially true in a culture of scarcity, anxiety, and increasing polarization in which we measure ourselves and others by comparison, fear, and either/or ways of being in the world.

I suppose we each have moments in our lives that seem timeless—moments in relation to which we look back and say “From that time on…” as if we are simultaneously participating in and observing events as they unfold. Often such moments, though simple, contain bits of clarity and wisdom. Occasionally, they are moments of transcendence. We might even say of them that in relation to a particular issue, we see things in a way we had not before. I think this is what Paul is saying to us in his lovely prayer, to which we bear witness this morning. Begging the question, what might it be like to live as if we believe, in wholehearted ways, when Paul tells us that God’s power, working within us, is able to accomplish abundantly far more than we can imagine or ask? What if the story of the feeding of the 5,000 is really an invitation to practice abundance, and let go of our fears, as the Gospel text suggests? I am ashamed to say how often I let my own fears be at risk of taking over, and guiding my actions. This is why some version of “be not afraid” is the most frequent phrase in the New Testament. A few years ago I stumbled upon this poem by Truman Cooper, entitled “See Paris First”:

Suppose that what you fear

could be trapped,

and held in Paris.

Then you would have

the courage to go

everywhere in the world.

All the directions of the compass

open to you,

except the degrees east or west

of true north

that lead to Paris.

Still, you wouldn’t dare

put your toes

smack dab on the city limit line.

You’re not really willing

to stand on a mountainside

miles away

and watch the Paris lights

come up at night.

Just to be on the safe side

you decide to stay completely

out of France.

But then danger

seems too close

even to those boundaries,

and you feel

the timid part of you

covering the whole globe again.

You need the kind of friend

who learns your secret and says,

“See Paris first.”

I believe both Paul and John, in the Gospel for today, are like friends calling us to live lives not in bondage to fear, but creatively, imaginatively, and abundantly, trusting God’s faithful and abiding love—calling us to “see Paris first.”

When we are afraid, and living out of a theology of scarcity, we are kept in bondage to the past, to our anxious fears of not being enough, and in so doing we are at risk of repeating old narratives not necessarily our own. I recall just such a moment a number of years ago that seemed to bubble up from my own subconscious this week.

It has to do with baseball, a game, as former President of Yale and Commissioner of Baseball Bart Giamatti said, is “Designed to break our hearts.”[i] When our boys were younger, I coached their teams until they began to play for their high school programs. By the time younger son Andrew went off to college I had 30 plaques of teams I’d coached over the years, hung on the walls of my study. On this particular day, our oldest son Justin was 9 or 10. I was the coach of his team, ensconced in the third-base coaching box. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with baseball, the third-base coach is a key position. From that vantage point one has a view of the entire field, and a perspective on the game which includes sending the runner, when appropriate, to home plate. I love this about baseball; the ultimate goal is to make it safely back home, and baseball has no “clock” as it were. Time is so variable as to almost have no meaning…like the distinction between “chromos”—or clock time—and “Kairos”—or spirit time. Our son was the lead-off batter, a duty he maintained all through high school. He could hit to the opposite field with power, and he was very fast. He jumped on the first pitch and drove it into the gap in right center field. As he neared first base, his first-base coach waved him on to second, while the right and center fielders converged on the ball that had rolled against the fence. As my son neared second, he looked toward the third base coach—in this case his own father—who enthusiastically waved him to third. Meanwhile the outfielder—I cannot recall which one—picked up the ball and threw it to the second baseman, who effectively served as the cut-off man. As my son approached third, the little second baseman wheeled and threw a perfect strike to his teammate at third. It was a beautiful play. My son slid in a cloud summer dust, just as the third baseman laid down the tag. The umpire, positioned perfectly, yelled “you’re out.” And it was the right call. My son looked up at me and said “Dad, you told me to go.” And in an instant I thought of my own at times intensely competitive nature, my own father, who would have told me I had not run fast enough or that I took too wide a turn at second, and I thought of the run we needed, now out at third…all of this at once. And I said “I know, buddy, it’s OK. Go on back to the dugout.”

Well, the drive home was very quiet, and I was afraid, out to sea in stormy weather, fearful of a scarcity in my own soul. But then something in me spoke, out from the depths of my being, and I said, “You know, buddy, I am so very proud of you. You did exactly what we taught you to do… we run the bases aggressively to manufacture runs, we do, and we don’t apologize for it. Coach Alexander  told you to go to second. You did that perfectly. You looked down at the third base coach like we’ve taught you. He just happened to be your own dad, and I made the call. They made a great play, and we have to tip our caps to them. But the most important thing is…this is not the last time I will be wrong. As much as fathers wish we could be right all the time, we can’t. But even when I am wrong, even when I make mistakes, I want you to know how very much I love you and how very proud I am of you.” And suddenly, somehow, things between us seemed OK again. The time had come, if you will, for the image I had—maybe we both had—of me being the all-knowing, wise father who was never wrong—certainly not about baseball—to die. I had to decide what was more important: being right, in control, and winning all the time, or dying to my old image of myself, and the father I wanted to appear to be in my son’s eyes, in the service of a new relationship with my son. I had to lose myself, to find a new way of being a father. It is more important to be in relationship than it is to be right…and we can love ourselves and others completely, without complete understanding. I am still learning this, even today, with all of you.

The question put before us in today’s Gospel is this: are we willing to be vulnerable enough to be agents of God? Are we strong enough—not powerful enough or “never wrong enough”—strong enough, to be paradoxically vulnerable in love, and abundant in faith, and wholehearted in relation to fears that might keep us in bondage? Are we willing to become like that which we celebrate in the Eucharist, Christ’s Body broken for us? Are we willing to let our hearts be troubled by the harrowing experience of the suffering of others and ourselves, and yet to persevere nonetheless? Are we willing to trust God’s wisdom and grace without trying to control the outcome, even if it means losing who we thought we were in the process? These are the questions that lead us into the mystery of the Resurrection. And as we relive the suffering, death, and Resurrection of Jesus we experience one of the great ironies of our lives together in this community of faith; that it is not our weaknesses that inhibit the power of God’s love in our lives, but rather, it is our fears.  There, as Paul’s heartfelt prayer suggests, we are called “to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.”

Well, dear one’s, “From that time on,” my son and I were on a different kind of journey together. That day, we learned that a father can get his son called out at third, and together they can still make it safely home. That home may be a different place than the one they left that morning, but it is where Love lives, just down the third base line on a sunny Georgia baseball field. In the Gospel for today Jesus is reminding us that sometimes when we lose ourselves, our old lives, for his sake…when we are willing to die with and into him, there he is waiting for us, loving us, feeding us abundantly, with compassion for our weaknesses and limitations. And there we find our true selves and “by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine” we let go of our fears of not being enough…fears born of scarcity. And there, no matter what, we are safe at home. Amen.

9th Sunday after Pentecost – Proper 11, Year B – Bill Harkins

The Collect

Almighty God, the fountain of all wisdom, you know our necessities before we ask and our ignorance in asking: Have compassion on our weakness, and mercifully give us those things which for our unworthiness we dare not, and for our blindness we cannot ask; through the worthiness of your Son Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Grace to you and peace, good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this Ninth Sunday after Pentecost. If you are visiting with us this morning give us a chance to say howdy, and get to know you. This is a parish filled with grace and hospitality, and we are so glad you are here!

And speaking of hospitality, some of you may find the phrase “Come rest awhile” from today’s Gospel reading to be familiar. It was the name of the ministry offered for many years by Diane and Don Wells, who opened their home for rest, reflection, and recreation. When I was a full-time professor I taught a course called “Men in Ministry” which included a retreat at Chez Wells. Diane was a wonderful cook and together she and Don provided lovely meals for our cohort of seminarians. Their ministry was a perfect embodiment of what I hoped the class would instill in these young men—appropriate self-care, Sabbath time as a component of their ministries, and a willingness to seek out and sustain community in a vocation that often bred loneliness and isolation. Diane and Don hosted us for many years, always with gracious hospitality, good humor, and shared kitchen table wisdom. “Come rest awhile” indeed, like the Gospel of Mark demonstrates; they gave themselves away to those sojourners who arrived…the Body of Christ broken, and shared. In our human finitude and brokenness, we need to take a break, to take Sabbath time to recharge, to eat, to pray, to listen for the quiet voice of God and Spirit. We are invited to do this so that we do not become distracted by our busyness and over functioning, and the exhaustion of a world which is, as the poet Wordsworth said; “…too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—Little we see in Nature that is ours…” The work of compassion, to which each is called, takes a focus and energy that is made possible by times of rest, reflection, and prayer. 

In today’s Gospel, one theme is the need for leisure and solitude. Jesus and the Disciples were increasingly being followed by those in need of healing and, as we shall see next week, they were hungry…both spiritually and literally. And, so are we. Moreover, these are challenging times for us all. As I listen to patients, and to friends, family, and many of you, I am hearing fears, anxiety, lamentations about the future both of our country and of churches in mainline Protestantism, including our own denomination. I get it. These are challenging times and we all need opportunities to rest, restore, and focus on what is most important. Perhaps today’s Gospel provides a template for how this is done. And perhaps this season of Pentecost shepherded by Mark’s Gospel during these weeks can be of help to us. On Wednesday evening at our Wonderful Wednesday gathering hosted by Rosie and Cove Lake, a parishioner suggested that I include the pastoral care trail notes for this week in the homily for today. So I have, and I encourage us to think metaphorically and theologically about a very real lesson from nature.

It is deep summer, in this long, green season of Pentecost, and as we speak, in rivers and streams all along the Pacific coast, salmon are returning home to their native waters after journeys of up to 6 years—and thousands of miles—at sea. Some time back, I took a sea-kayaking trip to Alaska, just about this time of year. Our group journeyed to Tebenkof Bay, deep into the wilderness of southeast Alaska, for a week-long sojourn based on Buddhist mindfulness practice. Early one day, we set out in our boats across the bay. A gentle summer rain was falling. Ravens called out as seals and otters followed our flotilla of kayaks, diving playfully beneath our boats. Ducks and loons eyed us curiously framed by snow-capped mountain ranges, their glaciers emptying into the bay. We found ourselves in the delta of a small river. We paddled upriver protected from the rain by spruce forests. Beneath our boats was a river of salmon, coming home to spawn. Our guide gave us a streamside lecture on the ecology of salmon nation. Salmon are amazing members of God’s creation, and this is especially true of Pacific salmon. Leaving their fresh-water birthplaces they journey out to sea where they roam the oceans of the world, returning to spawn at the exact spot they were born years—and thousands of miles–earlier.

Most of you have seen scenes of Chinook and Sockeye salmon making their way up waterfalls to their native pools against tremendous odds. As many as 20 vertebrate species, including elk, deer, and bear, feed directly on salmon, re-cycling those ocean borne nutrients into the soil. Salmon born in Idaho will make their way 900 miles inland and climb 7,000 feet as they return to spawn. More than simply food for bear, ravens, eagles, or humans, salmon are in fact a parable of a complex, and life-giving set of relationships. DNA from Pacific salmon has been found in groves of Aspen at the top of the continental divide. The minerals from their ocean journeys feed salmonberry bushes miles inland. Every level of the food chain will reveal evidence of the gift of salmon.

Indeed, over 137 species of animals in the Northwest rely on salmon as part of their diet. When salmon die they generate the most biologically diverse forests on earth, honoring future generations with the gift the journey that is at the heart of all they are. “They leave branches of streams no larger than a broomstick,” the author Richard Manning has said, “and make their way to the ocean for years, returning weighing up to 60 pounds of biomass harvested from the sea. They bring this mass of nutrients back to the forest to feed it, and the generations to follow.”

I think of this as evidence of God delighting in God’s creation—a cosmic playfulness at the level of ecological communion. The grace in the story of the salmon is evidence of sacred connections of life-sustaining nourishment. As the poet Mary Oliver reminds us, “Let me keep company always with those who say “Look!” and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads.” On this morning in Alaska, we did just that. Cultures as diverse as Pacific Northwest Indians, especially the Tlingit, Norse, and Celtic mythologies have found in the story of the salmon symbolic and religious power. I see God watching all the permutations and combinations of salmon, and I imagine God laughing with joy. The gift of their living, and dying, and rebirth is moving, and powerful. A salmon is not simply a fish—but a metaphor of the deep ecological mystery of God’s creation—a timeless reminder that in the cycle of life and death lies the abiding connections of all living things…of transformation, and renewal.

It is fascinating to me, then, that on another shore, this time near the village of Capernaum, Jesus gives a sea-side homily on the nature of bread, and a metaphorical lesson on what nurtures and sustains our souls. On this day following the feeding of the 5,000, the impromptu picnic was over, and Jesus and the disciples were looking for a quiet place to rest, and recover. The people, however, had other ideas. They were not inclined to let him fade back into the Capernaum hills without finding out more about what he could do for them. They had been hungry, and they had been fed—more than enough—we are told, and yet they did not know the depth or sources of their hunger. He had given them bread, and they had their fill, but perhaps he could do more in the way of fulfilling basic needs of shelter, clothing, and the ambiguities and uncertainties of daily life. The possibilities were unlimited. And somewhat disingenuously, when they find him they say, in essence, “What a surprise! Imagine finding you here! When did you come here?” Jesus will have none of it. “You worked hard to find me, and I know why. But I am more than a free lunch, and moreover, that is not what you really need. You ate your fill, and now you want more, but you are missing the point. The bread you seek won’t last. I am the bread that endures, and addresses a deeper hunger. All you have to do is believe.” “Prove it,” they say, invoking Moses and the manna in the wilderness; “Give us a sign.” “You don’t get it,” Jesus says to them…”Remember where the bread Moses gave you came from.”

It is not always easy to see beneath the literal to the metaphorical and symbolic, especially when our basic needs and fears often determine what we see, and how. Jesus knows we are hungry on many levels, and we are often scared, and wilderness can take so many forms. The psychologist Carl Jung, deeply interested in religion, once said: “I have seen people remain unhappy when they content themselves with inadequate or wrong answers to the questions of life. They seek position, reputation, outward success, money, and remain unhappy even when they attain what they have been seeking. Such people are usually confined within too narrow a spiritual horizon.”

Our wise Alaskan guide said to us, “Broaden your horizons. Think creatively. The Salmon is much more than a fish—it is a sign of something mysterious, complex, and life-giving in the ways of the connectedness of God’s creation. They live their lives, and they give themselves away.” Jesus says to us, “Broaden your spiritual horizons. I want to be more than a provider of physical bread. I want to fill the hunger of your souls. I want to fill the emptiness you try to fill up with lesser things…to satisfy those Holy longings you often attempt to quiet with substances and material goods; to quiet the anxiety that finally comes to possess you, rather than allowing yourselves to be placed in God’s compassionate, outstretched, open arms. I want you to remember where that bread in the desert really comes from. And then I want you to feed one another, in love.”

Like the salmon that journey so far to come home to their native streams, Jesus is to be broken, blessed, and shared with the world. He gives himself away, each moment. Like the Eucharist we celebrate, Jesus is more than a provider of physical sustenance. Our river guide said, in essence, “Pay attention; see, and you will believe.” Conversely, Jesus says to us, “Seeing is not always the same as believing; sometimes you have to believe, in order to really see.” Both are correct. And both point to a similar truth: salmon may be a first principal of an ecological paradigm of gratitude and abundance. The only way to have a full life, and keep it, is to give it away. Jesus embodied this in his life, in which we are invited to be creatively, imaginatively compassionate, with gratitude. “Every day,” Wendell Berry says, “you have less reason not to give yourself away.” Jesus said, “I am the Bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry.” Come rest awhile, my friends, and let’s find healing, solace, hope, and restoration at the bountiful table prepared for us all. Amen.

8th Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 10, year B – Bill Harkins

The Collect O Lord, mercifully receive the prayers of your people who call upon you, and grant that they may know and understand what things they ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to accomplish them; 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 6:14-29 King Herod heard of Jesus and his disciples, for Jesus’ name had become known. Some were saying, “John the baptizer has been raised from the dead; and for this reason these powers are at work in him.” But others said, “It is Elijah.” And others said, “It is a prophet, like one of the prophets of old.” But when Herod heard of it, he said, “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised…”  

Grace to you and peace, and welcome to Holy Family on this Eighth Sunday after Pentecost. We are so glad you are here, and if you are visiting with us today, please introduce yourself to us and thank you so much for joining us this morning. Visitor or regular attendee, we hope you will find Holy Family to be a place of hospitality, compassion, and grace. And, in light of the difficult Gospel text for this morning, we hope we are a place of practicing humility as well, about which, more in a moment.  

First, let me confess that I spent several days trying to find an alternative to preaching on the Gospel text appointed for today. Truth told, it’s an awful story about the misuse of power and about the need for those in power to be aware of the temptation and remain in power at any and all costs. Once I greeted at the door of consciousness my own anxiety and opposition to this story of Herod and John, I became curious as to why I had such a strong reaction to the narrative, other than, of course, the horrific and graphic nature of the story. I realized that what lurked in my own shadow side was a deep fear of the misuse of power, and a profound distaste for narcissism in any form—an emotional reaction of anger, fear, and sadness in relation to narcissists that goes back many years. And to be sure, Herod was a narcissist, and this passage is an example of gas-lighting if ever there was one. I also recalled a time many years ago when I was tempted to let power and status cloud my own judgment…a sure sign of my own capacity for narcissism and control…I had to acknowledge the Herod that lurked in my own soul; but more about that in a moment.  

Let’s remember that Herod was actually drawn to John, had heard him speak and found him compelling, and yet as we heard today, when Herodias’ daughter came in and danced, she pleased Herod and his guests; and the king said to the young woman, “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it.” And he solemnly swore to her, “Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom.” She went out and said to her mother, “What should I ask for?” and she replied, “The head of John the baptizer.” The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her.  

Had Herod been able to find a place of humility and grace in his heart, and some healthy self-differentiation—that is to say, making his own decision in response to this horrible request rather than caving in…and cave he did, essentially saying “I’ll do what my girlfriend’s daughter and guests are requesting”—the outcome might have been different. As Hannah Arendt said so well, “All power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” This is one among many reasons that theocracies are so very dangerous. As Marcus Borg and Jon Dominic Crossan said so well, the kingdom—or “Kin-dom” of God that Jesus announced and embodied is what life would be like on earth, here and now, if God were ultimately in charge, and the rulers of this world were not. This is the challenge in relation to Empires of any kind. The political, economic, and social subversions would be almost endless — peace-making instead of war mongering, liberation not exploitation, sacrifice rather than subjugation, mercy not vengeance, care for the vulnerable instead of privileges for the powerful, generosity instead of greed, humility rather than hubris, embrace rather than exclusion. The ancient Hebrews had a marvelous word for this, shalom, or human well-being. Entrance into this kingdom requires a counter-cultural choice. John the Baptist, Jesus, and his first followers invite each one of us today: repent, confess, and believe that in Jesus God’s kingdom has arrived. That’s the narrow way to the good news. John urged his listeners to prove their spiritual intentions by concrete deeds of compassion rather than by claims of religious or political affiliation. Some among the crowds took John at his word, but neither the political powers in Rome nor the religious establishment in the temple did. To their credit, they understood that his message was not only deceptively simple; it was deeply subversive.  

As Borg and Crossan remind us, about six months after John emerged from the desert like some locust-eating version of Jerry Garcia and baptized Jesus, he was beheaded at the whim of Herod the tetrarch. At the dinner party that night, Herod capitulated to the sadistic demand of his girlfriend’s daughter. “John was a forerunner of Jesus, but he was also a truth-teller to Herod, having rebuked Herod for sleeping with his brother’s wife (Mark 6:14–29). But as with many perverse politicians, Herod reacted with violence to one who had spoken truth to power, so John was murdered. The prophetic word of God from John the Baptist, then, did not originate with the state powers or the religious establishment, nor did it find a receptive audience with them. The claim of God’s kingdom upon my life, John preached, is ultimate. That means that the claims of the state and religious establishments, of race, gender, culture, and money are, at best, penultimate. The earliest and most radical Christian confession was simple: “Jesus is Lord.” By direct implication, Caesar is not lord or god, and neither are all the other many false gods of religion, money, sex, power, politicians who would be theocrats, and so on.  

With his pronouncement and then martyrdom, John counsels us to turn away from anything and everything that might hinder ultimate allegiance to Jesus. As we hear during Advent, he invites us to make our crooked ways straight, to flatten all hilly terrain, and to prepare space for the birth of the Messiah into our own lives. When we do that, we’ll find ourselves in the truly Good News that subverts and transcends all politics and religion. Dear One’s let’s covenant to remember this week’s Gospel text as we consider the text for next week. This is a terrible story. It’s hard to say “Thanks be to God!” after a story like this one. As I thought about our time together this morning I thought that perhaps we should skip this story and read the next one instead…a much happier story about Jesus feeding 5,000 hungry people. In stark contrast, Herod’s horrible banquet runs right into the story where Jesus makes sure that everyone is fed and he empowers the disciples to do so…he invites compassion. Mark is a very careful writer. He wants us to hear these two stories together. Even though we didn’t hear that other story today, I hope we remember at least something about Jesus feeding the 5,000. It’s a story found in all four gospels. But the greatest contrast of all is between Jesus’ banquet of life and Herod’s banquet of death. Mark has placed these two stories side by side. He wants us to see the stark contrasts between two very different banquets. Hard as it is to listen, let’s go back to Herod’s story. This feast was not in a deserted place, but in a lavish palace. There wasn’t a large crowd, but a select guest list of important officials. Herod’s wife, Herodias, was there, even though she shouldn’t have been. Herod had stolen her from his brother. John the Baptist had condemned this unlawful liaison, and for that John landed in prison.  Though Herod was a Jew, Borg and Crossan remind us that the empire had replaced Torah for him. He tried not to think about it, especially at his own birthday dinner. Why, then, did he give in to this terrible request? Wasn’t it enough that John was in prison? One wonders, was there something inside Herod that remembered God’s word, some spark of God that drew him to John’s teaching? But he had promised Herodias’ daughter that he would give her anything she wanted. And this is precisely where Herod’s narcissism and need for power had tragic consequences.  

And here’s where my own troubling narrative reveals itself… I took AP English with Florence Crooke in the fall of my senior year in high school. Ms. Crooke was a formidable presence and did not suffer fools gladly. She was known to be a difficult grader with high expectations. I walked into the class wearing my football letter jacket. She invited me into the hall and suggested I keep it in my locker. “It won’t help you in here,” she said… “You decide.” Then she left me in the hall and closed the door. And truth told, my first response was to walk to the office and register for another class. Besides, I had not been a particularly good student. I was in over my head in an AP English class before the class even began. I suspect Ms. Crooke knew this. She also knew I loved to write. She saw something in me I did not see in myself. And, being a football player in that school in the early 70’s was a source of power I did not want to compromise. It was a terribly stratified culture where role expectations were codified in myriad ways Its really not too much of a stretch to say that football players in that time and place were demigods for whom the rules that applied to others did not apply. This is, of course, a recipe for narcissism—“I can do whatever I want, and the core values and principles that apply to others do not apply to me…and I will not be held accountable when I break those rules.” Ms. Crooke knew this well. She was presenting me with a choice. She was being John the Baptist to my own personal Herod. To this day I cannot explain why I went down the hall to my locker, turned the combination, and put the letter jacket in my locker. I walked back into that classroom and into what was in some ways the beginning of my own, authentic life.  

After my first paper (on Walt Whitman if memory serves) she suggested that I write for the Sentinel (our school newspaper), and I did so (though this was unusual for football players in the social stratification of those days) including serving as the sports reporter for the SSHS Panther basketball games and, in the spring, I covered the track meets though I was on the team. We set school records that year in the spring medley relay and mile relay. Ms. Crooke asked me where I wanted to go to college, and I told her the family script was for me to attend UGA. She asked me what my heart told me, and I said I would prefer a small, liberal arts college where I could continue to play ball in an academically rigorous context. She gave me the courage to do just that. I applied to a host of small D-III schools. My father was not pleased (to say the least) and told me that if I did not go to UGA I could pay for college myself. He wasn’t joking, and he thought I would back down, but we were both two stubborn Irishmen, and I got up the next morning and went to Atlantic Steel Company to ask for a job, where I worked at Atlantic Steel Company for 4 summers to pay for Rhodes College, a place that changed my life. Every time I taught a class, for many years, I thought of Ms. Crooke with gratitude. Oh, and one more thing; my high school hero was Roberto Clemente—who played for the Pittsburgh Pirates until his untimely death on New Year’s Eve of 1992, while delivering supplies to Nicaragua, a country ravaged by earthquakes and starvation. My football number—the number on that letter jacket hanging in my locker—was #21 in honor of Clemente. He could have rested on his many laurels as a baseball player and he chose instead a life of service—and died accordingly—extending compassion to those whom he did not know. My football teammates, in an area still much informed by Jim Crow, gave me grief about my affection for Clemente, a Black man, still relatively rare in baseball. But, you see, he had humility—a sure antidote to narcissism—and as a result he broke down the barriers Herod could not. He gave his power away to serve others. Theologian Miraslov Wolf has written that the Exclusion of the other, the stranger, happens wherever barriers are set up that prevent an authentic encounter with the other. We are called to respect the dignity of every human being, and sometimes our need for power, and control, can blind us to this truth. It is all too easy to assume that difference is to be avoided at all costs including, heaven help me, those who don’t walk the halls of their high school halls wearing their letter jackets. Humility leads to grace, which can save us, sometimes, from ourselves. Amen.  

7th Sunday After Pentecost

Proper 9 Year B – Bill Harkins

The Collect

O God, you have taught us to keep all your commandments by loving you and our neighbor: Grant us the grace of your Holy Spirit, that we may be devoted to you with our whole heart, and united to one another with pure affection; 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 6:1-13

Lord, Have Mercy on the Frozen Man

In the name of the God of Creation who loves us all, Amen. Good morning, and welcome to Holy Family on this Seventh Sunday after Pentecost. We are so glad you are here, and if you are visiting with us today please let us know.

In the Gospel reading for today, we find Jesus on what has been a long journey. It is about to get longer. We recall that during his exile of 40 days in the wilderness, and our own Lenten journey, Jesus was tempted by Satan, forced to face his own demons, by virtue of the very power he, and Satan, knew he possessed. When we encounter him in today’s reading he has journeyed to Nazareth, where he is teaching in the synagogue. 

And not just teaching, but teaching with authority, to the astonishment of the people there, who are suspicious of this hometown boy whom they knew as a carpenter, son, and sibling. They question the authority of one whom they knew before he became the prophet standing before them. So, today we continue our journey in Mark’s Gospel, in the long, green season of Pentecost and Jesus, has returned to his hometown of Nazareth, where his reception is less than enthusiastic. In a social system where status was understood as fixed (i.e., your status at birth defined who you would always be) and honor/shame considerations were important, did they simply regard it as impossible for Jesus to amount to anything? The people of Nazareth indicate this negative perception when they identify Jesus as a “carpenter” (i.e., a low-status manual laborer) and as the “son of Mary” (i.e., hinting at a questionable fatherhood). Because people think they know who Jesus is, they end up asking disdainfully, “Who does he think he is? The identity of Jesus is a consistent issue in Mark. In the gospel, we hear the opinions of rulers, religious authorities, crowds, disciples, and family members. For the author of Mark, the important question keeps coming around to “who do you — the reader — say that Jesus is?” And if you do honor Jesus as a prophet (or more than a prophet), who does that make you? Does it mean new allegiances that supersede traditional country and family values? As we answer those questions, Mark is leading us into a confession of faith.

As a former seminary professor, I can tell you that authority and astonishment are not easily achieved in the classroom. The root of the word authority comes from the same Latin root as our word “author,” and this is instructive, because an authority is, in the best sense of the word, someone who creates; one, that is, in relation to whom one finds a life-giving flourishing…a kind of increase in relation to which one feels enlivened. Or, as Irenaeus put it, “God fully glorified is a human being fully alive.” Jesus has that kind of authority—to help us become fully alive—in contrast to an authority which comes by virtue of an office or some kind of rank, such as a political post, or judgeship, or, Lord help me, that of a priest or rabbi. Indeed, the people were amazed by Jesus in part because he was not a member of the Sanhedrin—he held no formal authority of any kind. His authority came from within, and it was a gift from God—and so is our authority…which shares the etymology with the word “authentic” as well. In a real sense in this passage Jesus comes into his own –he comes home—in terms of his vocation as a teacher and healer. Howard Thurman has said “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs most is people who have come alive.”Perhaps as much as anything this passage is about Jesus coming alive that day, in new ways, and inviting us to do likewise.

I find myself curious, though, about the relationship between his authority—this excellence as a teacher as exhibited by Jesus—and the journey he had been on. I find myself wondering if there might be some connection between his exile in the wilderness, for example, and the suffering he encountered there, and his ability to teach with authority. Moreover, he is not just a teacher in this Gospel reading, he is one who casts out demons—a theme in much of Mark’s Gospel. He is in this sense a wounded healer who struggled with his own demons. Now, I don’t know about you, but discussions of demons don’t occur much in my line of work as a professor who often taught clinical courses, and as a psychotherapist. And I have no idea what Paul is referring to in the Epistle today about the “7^th heaven.” In the circles I run in, we are so thoroughly imbued with Western scientific rationalism that talk of demon possession and mystical references to heaven simply don’t occur in polite company. We talk instead of mental illness, and “diagnostic” categories, and neurological substrates contributing to neuro-plasticity, and so on. Is this a more appropriate way of looking at the encounters Jesus had in the synagogue—rejected as a prophet in his hometown—and in numerous encounters with unclean spirits? Were these souls suffering from what we would call a mental illness? I do not know. But I find myself curious about these encounters nonetheless. And what kind of journey had these possessed souls been on? We don’t hear from them at all. In none of the passages about demon possession do any of them speak in these passages, just as many of our homeless mentally ill persons are marginalized, and have no voice. Were we to talk with any one of these individuals, I imagine they were sojourners too…and clearly suffering. Today’s text describes the disciples, now empowered by Jesus, “casting out many demons and healing many who were sick. How did these souls find themselves there on this day? Were they there in the temple, ignored, day after day? Did they once have a family, a job, and a home? Or, were they rather life-long homeless persons whose life had taken a turn for the worse—like a veteran with PTSD, or those dual diagnosis souls compromised by mental illness and addicted in some way? Did these souls even want the kind of transformation Jesus offered? I see people in my clinical office who are ambivalent about the very changes in relation to which they are seeking help. And I get it. Change is hard, and sometimes scary.

Whatever we might say about these references to demon possession, I think we are safe to say they were a form of evil… that is to say, the spirits in those who are suffering are called “unclean” because, whatever the affliction, and however we understand it, it caused a separation from God, and others, and from the worship that was going on around them. It was a form of deprivation, of loss, of being cut off from the ability to be his true self and from full relationship with others, in community. I don’t mean to suggest that they are themselves evil, but that, for whatever reasons, their spirits had become frozen and hard…and perhaps those who questioned Jesus that day in Nazareth had become hardened too. And aren’t we seeing more of this in our time as well? Are we not somewhat jaded, and suspicious of authority? Perhaps those who are “possessed” have in some sense shut down; something alive in them has “gone away.” And this certainly happens in mental illness, including more serious, chronic mental illnesses such as schizophrenia—for which, by the way, there was no “diagnosis” back then—but also in cases of depression, and anxiety, and alcohol and drug addiction.  Gerald May, a colleague whose work, like mine, lived in the interdisciplinary spaces where listening to stories is essential, has said that “God’s grace through community involves something far greater than other people’s support and perspective. The power of grace is nowhere as mystical or brilliant as in communities of faith. Its power includes not just love that comes from people and through people, but love that pours forth among people, as if through the very spaces between one person and the next. Just to be in such an atmosphere is to be bathed in healing power.” How might the power of stories, and of communities of grace where those stories can be told, teach us about healing, and wholeness in our little corner of God’s creation? And it is precisely Irenaeus’ experience of being fully alive, manifest in each of us, which is threatened by evil. And this evil, however it was described back then, was a particular form of bondage; a binding, choking, life-suffocating bondage. I suspect that– whatever form evil takes– it has its own peculiar manifestation for each of us. The end result, however, is always the same: it threatens to separate us from the Creator, and from relationships with others whom God created to share this journey with us. And so our experience of life, though potentially one full of vitality and wonder, is, instead one of being in bondage. And isn’t this what Satan used to threaten Jesus in the Wilderness? “Use the power you know you have,” Satan told Jesus, “in order to have authority and control over all others, and to have everything you need”? Had Jesus consented to this, I suspect the end result have been the end of his true and fully- alive authority, based on authentic relationship with God, and come to that, with us.

It is Jesus’ own experience of suffering that allows him to act with compassion in the reading for today… compassion, from the Latin com-passio, to “suffer with,” means that one takes action in response to the encounter with suffering. Jesus encountered his own demons, faced them down, and by virtue of that suffering reached out to others, and healed their broken spirit. Most often what threatens to cut us off from God, and self, and other is the experience of our own finitude and vulnerability…those real human limitations our awareness of which put us most at risk for idolatry and bondage, to use these old-fashioned words, when we seek to secure our souls in ways destined to fail. Alternatively, we can experience the possibility of a summons, an invocation, a claim or call to commitment and relationship. It’s as if Jesus is saying to us “Remember me? Something has occurred between us… I know who you are…you are one who comes to take me to church… you are the one who worked at the food pantry… who helped build the Habitat House….you participated in Serve Pickens…you called me when I had not been around and you missed me… you cared for me when I was sick… you saw my face in the face of the stranger…you had compassion.”

Some time back the singer /songwriter James Taylor wrote a clever tune in response to the discovery of the very well-preserved, 5,000-year-old body of a hunter in found it the Tyrolean Alps. I’ve followed this story with interest since this man emerged from a glacier in 1991. The most recent article I saw was in National Geographic, and based on additional research we now have a rollicking good murder mystery to add to this narrative. But I digress… The refrain of Taylor’s song is “Lord, have mercy on the frozen man.” Yes, “Lord have mercy indeed,” because when faced with our demons, each of us—men and women alike—can become frozen in spirit. We face one of the vulnerabilities of being human—namely, that in reality authority and idolatry are intimately related. We must choose carefully, dear ones, when seeking to claim power and authority before gaining humility, and before wresting with the shadow side of who we are.

This is the gift Jesus offers. The Gospels imply that anyone who casts out demons cannot be a stranger to them. In today’s Gospel vignette, C.S. Lewis suggests, we see Jesus clearing out the emptiness and offering instead, a relationship with God. Jesus hears our suffering, and suffers with us, and offers the compassion of relationship and redemptive healing. And this takes place in community. Anything that would rob us of being fully alive, in life-giving ways, limits our ability to fully glorify God. “Wholehearted living is about engaging with our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion and connection to wake up in the morning and think, ‘No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough.’ It’s going to bed at night thinking, ‘Yes, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes afraid, but that doesn’t change the truth that I am also brave and worthy of love and belonging.” And so we recall the Collect for today… Grant us the grace of your Holy Spirit, that we may be devoted to you with our whole heart, and united to one another with pure affection; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. As Wendell Berry has written; The question before me, now that I am old, is not how to be dead, which I know from enough practice, but how to be alive, as these worn hills still tell, and some paintings of Paul Cezanne, and this mere singing wren, who thinks he’s alive forever, this instant, and may be. How to be alive, forever, this instant, in Christ…now that’s a casting out of demons I can understand, and for which I pray. Amen.