Getting Comfortable with the Unknown: A Sermon for the Easter Vigil, Year B

 

Sometimes, it helps to double check the Gospel before you write your sermon. I was surprised as I listened to the Deacon telling us the story of the empty tomb in Mark to hear her continue past the ending of the women fleeing the tomb and saying nothing to anyone because they were afraid. This was the point on which I had planned this whole sermon. 

But the crafters of our Gospel book saw fit to add "The Shorter Ending of Mark," one which says that the women "told briefly" the news to Peter and the others and all lived happily ever after because Jesus sent them out to proclaim eternal salvation. The end. 

OK...that's some embellisment on my part. But that "shorter ending" which is at least a little better than the expanded "other" ending of Mark was something the church tacked on about the time of the 4th Century. Because.....they needed something better than where Mark left the story?? 

Anyway...I preached the sermon I had prepared. And I will continue to teach people to pay attention to a message of uncertainty...trepedation...and awe-struck fear that comes with those last words of Mark's Gospel. Because it helps to keep Mark's version a very real and relatable story of Jesus and those who were brave enough to follow his path. They had to go back to Galilee. They had to be reminded of Jesus' declaration that he made coming back from his time in the wilderness. They needed to change in order to move the story of Love forward.

Text: Mark 16:1-8

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I don’t watch a lot of T-V…or Netflix…or Hulu.

But one show that is my “junk food” of television is “The Equalizer” starring the hip hop artist and actress Queen Latifah.

Like every good cop show ever put on American T-V…the plots are pretty simple to follow:

Something bad has happened to someone.

The criminal is not readily apparent.

The injured party turns to the good guy…or gal in this case…Queen Latifah….to get to the bottom of the case and right the wrong done.

And after some plot twists and turns…a few commercial breaks to help pay the bills…the bad actors are caught…the victim has received justice…and everything is made right in the world…all in 52 minutes time.

No loose threads…unless they intend for you to come back next week for a part two.

We like things tidy…and unambiguous.

Which is why the ending of Mark’s Gospel…his story of the resurrection…is so unsettling.

Because there is NO resurrection:

We don’t see Jesus.

He’s gone.

Some young man…an angel we suppose…tells Mary Magdalene and the other Mary and Salome…that Jesus has been raised. Go tell the others, especially Peter…Jesus is going ahead of them to Galilee… the fulfillment of a promise he’d made right before all the chaos and trouble began at that critical hour of his arrest and crucifixion.

They hear this news.

But instead of rejoicing and running off to tell the disciples that Jesus has been raised from the dead…they flee the tomb.

They’re in awe. They’re terrified.

And they said nothing because they were afraid.

Not exactly the ending we want to hear.

No! This isn’t how it’s supposed to end!

These women are brave.

They go tell the men…

“He’s risen! Hallelujah!”

Isn’t that the end we prefer?

But Mark’s a realist.

And we need a dose of reality, too.

Because if this were us…wouldn’t we be terrified and amazed too?

They saw the death of Jesus.

These women watched Joseph put his dead body in the tomb.

They hadn’t been there to see the unnamed woman show up before the Last Supper to wash Jesus’ body with expensive nard from her alabaster jar…so they assumed somebody needed to bring spices and do the proper burial procedure.

Now something beyond their ability to understand has happened.

Jesus has been raised from the dead.

Say what?!

Lots of Biblical scholars have put their minds to why Mark ends his Gospel in this way…so abruptly and without the nice tight happy ending we want.

Some speculate that this is reflective of the mood in Mark’s community…the Jewish and Gentile followers of Jesus.

This… the earliest of the Gospels…is from the time when the Roman Empire destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem for a second time…leaving us today with only the remnant of the Western wall.

Perhaps these women represent the trauma of that period.

A time of trembling and fear of the Roman Empire.

Others think the purpose of this ending is to get us to remember that command to go back to Galilee.

Go back to the beginning of the story…to that first chapter of Mark’s Gospel…where it all began, and finally take in that one sentence sermon of Jesus’:

“The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God has drawn near; repent and believe in the Good News.” (1:15)

Suddenly…that line…in light of a missing and reportedly resurrected Jesus…might make a little more sense.

Repent is such a loaded word… especially for anyone whose been told the lie that they aren’t good enough for God.

But what “repent” really means here is to change your focus.

Because love has won, has beaten death.

See the world through new eyes…with a new heart.

Earlier…we heard the history of God’s people…and the many ways in which God has always been there from the start.

God was there…through escaping oppression in Egypt…all the way to escaping a tomb in the outskirts of Jerusalem…God has shown up over and over.

Look and see.

Even crazier? God is there often when we least expect it.

And maybe that’s the message of this peculiar…not-made-for-TV ending to this story.

While we go about doing those things…making those preparations…carefully putting together those plans for how to finish the multiple storylines flowing through our lives…God is working God’s purpose out in ways that are completely unseen…unknown… unexpected and will blow us away…when we finally pay attention.

God’s work is happening in ways and through people that we can’t comprehend.

Because…honestly…we don’t always see God’s incredible handiwork and can’t know how God has been molding and shaping someone until it smacks us in the face.

And then…once we’re done saying, “Ow!”…we have to just smile, and think, “Wow!”

This is why the words that are in the Letter to the Hebrews are so important to remember.

 “We must keep mutual love flowing and to show hospitality to strangers because we may be entertaining angels without knowing it.”

And angels come in all shapes, sizes, genders—binary or non-binary, immigrants, and natives.

Now we know that the women didn’t stay silent forever.

The story of the resurrection did get shared…when they were ready to share it.

Once that initial shock of the moment wore off and they were able to accept this profound change to their reality: they could say…Jesus had fulfilled the mission…and Love has burst out in technicolor.

And now…through these women…through us who believe…we can live and love freely in full color, too.

We have the ending we need…the one which brings us back to that beginning:

Open the eyes….see and treat those whom you meet with loving-kindness…and know and believe….

Hallelujah! Christ is risen.

The Lord is risen indeed! Hallelujah!

In the name of God…F/S/HS.

Choosing the Better Part

The tumult of last week seems to have carried over into this week. Globally, we have had another horrible attack in Nice, France on Bastille Day, with an angry man plowing a big rig truck through a crowded street. And there was an attempted coup in Turkey which also killed more than 200 people. And in this country, one of the two major political parties has released a platform that is fitting of the Taliban in Afghanistan with its stridently anti-LGBTQ+ positions and opposition to women's reproductive rights. As a former member of the Republican Party, I don't even recognize what part of the "Party of Lincoln" this remnant claims to be. I'm only happy my parents did not live to see this. It would have devastated them.

Closer to home, I have been engaged in a process of doing what I call "praying with my feet." I have laced up my sneakers and taken to the street marching with students on Tuesday night from the Florida State campus to the state Capitol. On Wednesday, I met another set of marchers, this time from the FAMU campus, who also converged on the Capitol to call out the names of the 559 black lives ended in altercations with the police in the United States. They also printed their names onto cards attached to plastic picks which we stuck in the ground around the memorial to the victims of the massacre at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. I have watched interviews and reports looking at the intersection of race and the police, listening to police officials who struggle with being both black and blue, who know that there are problems and yet their uniform becomes an obstacle. And there is their legitimate fear that, in America, everybody seems to not only have one gun, but many guns. What a world. What a world.

As hard, and as difficult, and as sobering as all of this has been, it has given me a chance to open my heart a little further. As I raised in an earlier post about Pulse, the true test of one's Christianity is the ability to enter into the woundedness and pain of the other and be truly present for that person. By walking, sitting, crying, chanting, linking arms, and hugging people at these demonstrations, it has been a way for me to listen with my ears and my body and be present with my black, brown, and white brothers and sisters in their place of feeling wounded by the world. I am, and have been, wounded by the world, too. And so I march. I hold hands. I show love.

And I read the Gospel! And the Gospel lesson assigned for this Sunday morning is from Luke where Jesus shows up at Martha and Mary's house. Martha invites him in and goes about doing all the things one does to welcome a guest into a Jewish home. Mary takes a seat at Jesus' feet to learn from him. Martha at some point gets irritated and asks Jesus to get her sister up off the floor and helping her. Instead, Jesus notes that Martha is distracted by many things but Mary is focused on one thing; hence Mary has chosen the better part.

Now, unbeknownst to me, this passage apparently has been used to show that study is good and a "manly" thing while housekeeping is lowly "women's work" and not as important. It's also apparently been used as a way of dividing women from each other (professional women vs. housekeepers, I guess?) I've never read the story that way, and I can't say I would approach this slice of Jesus' life and teachings with that in mind. Rather I can see some things here that relate to what we are seeing in the world, and the importance right now for us to look at what's happening to our sisters and brothers of color in America.

Nowhere in this Gospel lesson does Jesus say, "Martha, you aren't as valuable to me as Mary." Instead, what he notes is how Martha is "distracted by many 'things.'" And he's not just talking about the 'things' of being the perfect Jewish hostess with the mostess. Jesus' message transcends the immediate scene way, way, way back then in the First Century and hits us between the eyes today in the United States. See, we've allowed many 'things' to keep us distracted from THE thing: Love God with all your heart, with all your mind, with all your soul, and with all your strength and love your neighbor as yourself. Because we have allowed for the wound inflicted with the initial institution of slavery to go untreated, and have ignored how we have not kept promises to various populations that we have displaced or uprooted or deserted by white flight to suburbs, we have fallen short of fulfilling that commandment, and kept ourselves otherwise occupied. We have not heard the complaints of our neighbors that they aren't treated with the same respect and dignity as those of us who are white. Worse, we have heard their complaints, and we have chosen not to act. Perhaps, then, it's time to start going back to choosing the better part and living into those promises of our baptismal covenant "to strive for justice and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being."

And, as was pointed out in a sermon I heard last Sunday, that work must begin with an examination of our own heart, our own mind, our own soul, and of our own strength. If each of us made the commitment to become radicalized for Love, and choose the better part, we may be able to have a butterfly effect in our own families, and communities. With enough of us doing this, it could truly change the world. Here's the thing about Love: it is stronger than fear, more powerful than hate, will burn longer than rage, and will win in the end. ‪#‎BlackLivesMatter ‬has called for accountability and justice and an end to the brutality. That's not hate speech; that's Love talking. And it's a conversation we are all invited to join.

"Do This, And You Will Live"

FSU student Randall Smith addresses Black Lives Matter on the steps of the Old State Capitol

Tomorrow morning in Episcopal Churches, congregations will hear the familiar parable from Luke of the Good Samaritan. For those who don't know it, this is Jesus' teaching moment with a lawyer who wants to "justify" himself so that he may inherit eternal life. Jesus, ever the Jewish teacher, gives this lawyer a story of the man who fell into the hands of robbers who beat him, stripped him of his money and clothes, and left him in a ditch to die. Along comes a priest who sees the half-dead man, and hurries on his way. Then comes a Levite, who also moves along without stopping to help the victim. 

Finally, the Samaritan shows up, and not only does he stop to take care of the man, he gets him to a place where they can treat him, and agrees to pay for the care. The big catch here--as the lawyer knew, and we in the 21st century know--is that the Samaritans were the despised "others" of Jesus' Jewish contemporaries. Therefore, to have a Samaritan portrayed in such a positive light would have made the lawyer cringe. And if that fact didn't bother this lawyer, Jesus' follow up question...asking, "So, who was the neighbor to this dying man at his hour of need?"...certainly would have made this lawyer sweat and shift uneasily back and forth as he mumbled, "The one who showed mercy." Jesus says, "Go and do likewise." A deacon will proclaim this to be "The Gospel of the Lord." And the congregation will respond with "Praise to you, Lord Christ."

In light of the week that was in the United States, this lesson has so many moments, so many pieces that speak to multiple parts of the media drumbeat of the maddening world that as I attempt to address it here on this blog, I can see a few things I want to tackle. I'll start with a social media hashtag: #JesusIsSpecific.

If we pay attention to the story, Jesus didn't shy away from using an identifier for the three people who came upon the otherwise unspecified victim. We don't know the identity of the half-dead guy in the ditch, or even the ethnicity of his attackers. But we do know that a priest, a Levite, and a Samaritan all had the chance to show themselves to be the good neighbor to the man in need. Only the Samaritan followed through. Was the victim a Samaritan? We don't know, and it didn't seem to matter to this Good Samaritan because he was responding out of love for another human being in need. This is important in Jesus' parable because when our Gospel writer Luke tells us that the lawyer, "wanting to justify himself, asked Jesus 'who is my neighbor?' (Lk14:29) sounds a bit like someone saying, "But really, do I have to focus on any one specific neighbor? How wide does this have to be?" 

Or, to put it in the context of this week, "Do we really need to say 'Black Lives Matter'? Shouldn't it be 'All Lives Matter.'?"

In theory and in a perfect world, yes. In the reality of our broken world, no. Because we are still living in a time in this country where people who have darker skin than my own are suspected of guilt simply because they are black or brown. They are followed in stores, watched like hawks, and arrested or shot on routine traffic stops for no reason. Black families have to have "the talk" with their sons, and we're not speaking of the birds and the bees. We're talking about how to not scare white people, especially ones in police uniforms. They are not treated with same respect and dignity that I am. And, according to our Baptismal Covenant, which specifically directs me "to strive for justice and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being," that's not OK. So, until black lives matter I cannot believe that all lives matter.

That includes the lives of police officers. My heart was crushed again when the body count climbed Thursday night with the pointed killing of five Dallas police officers who were doing their sworn duty to keep the peace as people protested the shooting deaths of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile. But I couldn't help but notice how the television news media turned its attention swiftly to the murders of police officers which conveniently takes away from the whole reason they were in a public place where they could be targeted by an angry man with a high-powered military rifle. They were guarding people protesting the murders of two black men by police officers in Baton Rouge and a Minneapolis suburb which again raises the issue of rampant racism in America. However that part of the story seems to be "old news" and isn't being discussed or acknowledged. In fact, some TV anchors have wanted the surviving family members of Philando Castile to comment on what happened in Dallas, totally ignoring that they are people in grief and mourning who should not be asked to shoulder the burdens of people in a city several hundred miles away. Blue lives will matter when black lives also matter. 

In the Gospel story, Luke notes that the lawyer was attempting to test Jesus by asking him the question, "What do I have to do to inherit eternal life?" When Jesus asks the lawyer to quote what he knows, the lawyer gives the response of reciting the Shema: "Love God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself." Jesus praises him and says, "Do this, and you will live."  This should raise a number of questions for all of us. If we are truly loving God in every way possible, then we ought to be ascending into our better selves, not our basest instincts. If we our loving our neighbor as ourselves, we will quit begrudging them their hashtags that demand we pay attention to their lives when they are in an even deeper pain and grief than we are. We must also understand that a phrase like, "Do this, and you will live," might cause a sharp pain for those mothers and fathers who have been having "the talk" with their sons only to have them still dying needlessly.

This has been a very difficult week in the country, for sure. A week that began with a celebration of independence ends with shock, horror, and some painful reminders that we must commit ourselves to interdependence or we will collapse. Perhaps it is best to remember more words that are part of Jesus' Jewish tradition:

"Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly now. Love mercy now. Walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it."--The Talmud.

The Mighty Force of Love

There's been a lot said this week and a lot shared on social media about the horrible crime at Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Many of us in the LGBTQ+ community have struggled with staying focused at work in between bouts of sobbing and the mental fog that descends when you are in grief. Grief is like that. It suspends all time, manner, and place as it puts you in an other-worldly in-between space of neither here nor there.

I have appreciated the posts where gay people attempt to explain to the straight community why we who are LGBTQ+ feel this tragedy on a personal level. It is a rare person who comes out as gay, lesbian, bi, or transgender who has not been to a gay nightclub and considers such places to be a refuge from a harsh and hating world. Every one of us could see in the faces of the victims our own selves as well as seeing the individual young and joyful eyes of so many Latinx who were embracing life and celebrating Pride Week in America's theme park city. When we expressed "We are Orlando" that's what we meant.

I also have appreciated those expressions from straight friends struggling to find words and ways to express their profound sorrow about this hate crime. For some of them, it has come in the form of wanting to offer prayers, attend the vigils, give free hugs. For others it has been to express their outrage that we've had another mass shooting in America and the demand that we not ignore the carnage or worry that "now is not the time" to talk about the growing problem of gun violence. At long last, some of my friends who are gun enthusiasts are now raising the same questions I've had forever about the wide and easy availability of certain weapons and the lobby that blocks any study of gun violence from happening. I see in these responses that effort to channel into action feelings of "What can I do?" To not feel helpless in a helpless situation.

Still, there have been those whose response to the terribleness of this shooting was to do one of two other things: attempt to turn away from the real fact that this was a targeted killing of LGBTQ+ people of color and make it about terrorism (a claim that has now been refuted by our own intelligence sources) and to otherwise not speak the name of "gay" or "queer" or "LGBTQ+" but generically refer to the 49 dead as "victims" or "humans." The other was to want to do what I call "turning the spotlight" on themselves by insisting that (fill-in-the-name) minority group has, in fact, been killed in greater numbers than what happened at Pulse in one night, as if there was something to be gained in taking the prize for "worst mass shooting ever."

For me, the biggest hurt has been in how the church and Christians specifically have responded. A hate-filled pastor in California puts up a video saying that more of us should have died. That he claims the mantle of Christ is offensive to me. And then why anyone who professes a belief in Jesus Christ would feel the need to share videos or reports about these anti-gay remarks of an off-the-wall pastor was mind-boggling. Atheists, naturally, would share such a thing so as to highlight the hypocrites in their contention that all Christians are hypocrites.

In response to those irresponsible and hateful words, I shared this Facebook video by Fr. Jim Martin, a Jesuit Roman Catholic priest to show that face of Christianity that is not homophobic. His words are of far greater value, in my opinion, and deserve to be shared. Because the true test of one's faithfulness to Christ is the ability to enter into the pain and suffering of the injured, the despondent, the grieving and the hurting person without condition and without the need to shift the spotlight onto one's self or to keep one's self aloof and apart. The words of Jesus from the Gospel of Matthew, "Come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest," is the type of invitation that many of us would be happy to accept from those who profess to be followers of Christ. Shoulder this grief with us, give us the space to feel and breathe again. And above all else, refute the attempts to whitewash this tragedy by acknowledging this  was about hatred of gay people. Just like the shooting at this time last year inside Mother Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston was about the calculated killing of black people. It's all about hate and fear of those painted by some politicians and church leaders as "others."

I am more convinced than ever that the reason the LGBTQ+ population was a target in this crime and why we are trotted out every two-to-four years to be vilified and made into demons in the political spectrum is because we are a community built on love.

Because we love we are hated and feared.

Because we love those who dwell in darkness are always attempting to douse our light.

Because we love the peddlers of destruction and death project their own brokenness unto us and then scream, "A-ha!"

Jesus, who was the queerest person in every sense of the word in the whole Bible in my opinion, knows the odds that the LGBTQ+ community faces because he, too, was killed by a world that was too scared and threatened to accept that he loved and wanted everyone to love. Obviously, the world hasn't changed that much. And yet, it is the Christian narrative of Jesus' resurrection and his power to overcome death that serves as a source of strength for me in my commitment and belief that Love is going to win. Always. Even when it suffers punches and body blows, it will prevail.

Time to commit to love more deeply and strongly than ever before.

Maybe We Need to Do Things Differently

"The Miraculous Draught of Fish"by Rubens

The days of Easter Week are kind of like the old Ginsu knife commercials where with each subsequent amazing feature of this kitchen cutting implement, the announcer would say, "But wait: there's more!" Since the most amazing and miraculous event of the Resurrection last Sunday, we've been treated daily to more wonderful testimonies of Jesus appearing to the disciples, being known to them in the breaking of the bread, etc. At the 12:10 service this Friday, the scene was the moment when Peter and some of the disciples take off in a boat to go fishing, since this is what they know how to do. They keep trying to catch fish, but they're not successful. Jesus in the meantime has been watching them from the shore, and when they come in, empty-handed, he tells them to cast the net off the right side of the boat. So, off they go, and they give the right-side a try. And--holy mackerel, salmon, and tuna--they haul in 153 huge fish!

Our celebrant was most interested in the charcoal fire on the beach...which he noted the only other time there was a charcoal fire mentioned was when Peter denied Jesus, something that would be undone in the verses to follow in the 21st chapter of  John's Gospel. But I was more interested by a couple of other parts of today's Gospel. First, it hadn't struck me until today that the breakfast Jesus serves up on the beach is bread and fish, which for me recalls the miraculous feeding of the five thousand and is one of the few stories of Jesus which exists in all four Gospels. This breakfast is only going to feed a dozen, not thousands, and yet it is significant that the same food which fed all and all were satisfied is brought out again to feed those who will be charged with "feed my sheep."

Even more interesting is the idea of the 153 fish. I've looked, and I can't find anything that would be a clue about this number, but I am taking it as a sign of the diversity of sea life that found its way into their net and even with all of them squirming and their collected weight, the net didn't break. Cool, right? "But wait: there's more!"

I have to wonder if the significance of this catch could hold a lesson for us, the Church, today? I am curious about the idea that the apostles weren't able to fulfill their mission to "fish for people" until they dropped their net off the other side of the boat. As I consider this, it makes me think that for the church to grow, we need to be willing to cast our net into the waters that are not the usual ones. There are a lot of "fish" out there...just as there are a lot of "sheep" who need feeding and tending. But if we keep going to the same places, and using the same methods of attracting people, then we are missing an opportunity to reach those who are still swimming about in the great big sea called "the world." And the people we may encounter may not be "the usual suspects," which, in the case of Episcopalians, would be upper middle-class white people. Our population could stand to look a little more diverse and come from more walks of life.

Naturally, this requires people to step outside of their usual patterns and gathering places in order to meet those who are not just like us. That's risky, and nobody really likes to do what is risky. Face-to-face, person-to-person contact is always the best. And I sometimes wonder if it doesn't help to share freely and fully some of the good things happening at a particular church through this medium called "social networking." It may not seem as effective as the incarnated encounter with a happy Episcopalian. And yet, more and more people are dependent on their FB and other social networks to know what's happening in the world. A well-organized and planned strategy for sharing posts will raise a church's visibility. And once people find the church, a congregation trained in showing hospitality to a stranger is the net to encourage that visitor to become a more frequent participant. And once someone feels included, their willingness to take part in the life of the church takes off. And now--you have a net teeming with fish!

Are we ready for that?

Pilgrimage Lessons

There is no other way to describe the South in the summer but hot. Unrelenting, blazing, baking, humid hot. Climate change has probably added to the misery, but it was probably just as miserably hot in 1965 Alabama as it is in 2015 Alabama. And it was under those hot and sweaty conditions that Jonathan Myrick Daniels and others found themselves arrested and thrown in the Lowndes County jail in Hayneville fifty years ago.

Daniels, a seminarian at Episcopal Theological School (now EDS) and a native of New Hampshire, had responded to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s plea for people to join in the march at Selma. He and another seminarian, Judy Upham, stayed on in Selma to continue working in the civil rights movement. His crime that put him in jail was picketing businesses in nearby Fort Deposit. They were locked up on August 14th, crammed into cells with occasional running water, toilets that would clog and overflow, and no fans or air-conditioning. Daniels wrote the following letter home to his mother, dated August 17, 1965:

Dearest Mum,

An eminently peculiar birthday card, but....I have been in jail ever since Saturday--the Lowndes county jail in Hayneville, after being transferred from Fort Deposit, where a bunch of us were arrested for picketing. (As a gun toting Cracker said to me when I observed that we had a constitutional right to picket, "You don't have any rights in Fort Deposit.") We are not being bailed out because we are seeking an injunction and trying to get our cases transferred to a federal court. The food is vile and we aren't allowed to bathe (whew!), but otherwise we are okay. Should be out in 2-3 days and back to work. As you can imagine, I'll have a tale or two to swap over our next martini! (This damned pencil is about an inch and a quarter long.) Getting some reading, thinking, discussing, speculating (and sleeping) done--but cussed little else!
The card I bought and the present will have to wait, but I sure will be thinking of you with love and prayers! Have a martini for me and a birthday that is gay in some fun way.

With much, much love,
Jon

Three days later, Jon Daniels would be shot to death on the steps of Varner's Cash Store. The group had been released, and Daniels, a Catholic priest named Richard Morrisroe, and two African-American teenagers, Ruby Sales and Joyce Bailey, walked around the corner to the store with the inviting signs for Coca-cola and Pepsi. They were thirsty. As Daniels opened the screen door for Ruby, Tom Coleman, a special deputy sheriff, ordered them to leave or he'll shoot you "sons of bitches." Daniels pushed Ruby away, and demanded to know if this was a threat, and Coleman shot him at point-blank range in the right side of the chest. The shot was enough to kill Daniels instantly. The others fled, with Coleman shooting Morrisroe in the back, wounds that still haunt him today.

Daniels death still haunts us today. So do the deaths of other civil rights workers, gunned down or beaten to death on the streets of Alabama.

This was the first time I was able to make this trip for the Jonathan Myrick Daniels pilgrimage. This being the 50th anniversary, I knew this was the time I absolutely had to go. And as I stood in the place where this murder happened, I became overwhelmed with how we were making this place of a horrid death into a holy site and that his death has become one in a string of violent deaths involving guns aimed at unarmed people. It was telling to me that as we started a litany of dedication and blessing of the historical marker at that spot, a strong breeze blew to cool the sweat running down our backs. Silently, I made note of this, and thought perhaps this was the Spirit breathing the breath of courage in the face of such rage and fear that still is gripping the world. "In the name of Jonathan, we have come."

They had kneelers in the parking lot where the store had been if we so chose to kneel and pray. I could not bring myself to do that, but stood in the shade across the street. There I prayed, in silence with many tears, as I considered the battle of Love vs. Fear, Love vs. Hate, Love vs. Rage. I realized how quickly I can get sucked into that same place of Fear, Hate, and Rage even as I strive to remain with and in Love. "O God the Father of all whose Son taught us to love our enemies....deliver them and us from cruelty, hatred and revenge so that in your good time we may all stand reconciled before you..." How often have I prayed these words, and how true they are and how important they are to not be just words. I have known this and felt this prayer's power before, but standing there with tears streaming onto my glasses and sweat running down my back, I asked for this thorn to be removed from me in order to fill me up with more Love. I don't think this is a plea to allow me to make friends with oppression or oppressors. Quite the opposite! I need the strength and courage of Love to meet oppression with skills of a martial artist who can take the blow of an opponent and redirect it to the advantage of the artist.

There were many songs that the pilgrims sang as we moved from one place to another to recall Daniels' final days. But I had brought along our collection of Sweet Honey in the Rock for the three-and-a-half hour drive. The one that kept playing through my head as we walked was a freedom song, "No More Auction Block"

No more auction block for me....
And, oh, the one thing that we did wrong
No more, no more
Stayed in the wilderness a day too long
No more, no more

And, oh, the one thing we did right,
Oh yes, Oh yes, my Lord
Was the day that we began to fight
Oh yes, Oh yes, my Lord.

We who call ourselves Christian know how to fight with Love because we have been given that example in the life of Jesus, and the life of many who followed Jesus. That includes Jonathan Myrick Daniels. To paraphrase our Presiding-Bishop Elect Michael Curry, "Go!! Keep on Going!" Don't look to the left or the right, just go and be the light, the Love, the Life and that is The Way to affect change and defeat the fear, hatred, cruelty and revenge that is out there.

Getting Crazy With the Feeding

Sermon 9 Pentecost 7-26-2015

Year B, John 6:1-21 (Proper 12)

At the General Convention in 2012…the one before the meeting that just concluded earlier this month…our Presiding Bishop-elect, Michael Curry, preached a sermon in which he was calling on all of us to be “crazy Christians.” Not crazy in a bad way. Crazy in the Jesus way. The crazy “Jesus way” means doing the unexpected and the unprecedented, things that result in the building up of people and giving them that power that comes from the love of God.

The story of the feeding of the five thousand in today’s Gospel is definitely a crazy Jesus moment. In fact, this is crazy enough that it’s one of the few stories that is in all four Gospels in some form or fashion. Only Luke tells us of the Prodigal Son; Matthew and Mark have a Caananite or Syrophoenician woman depending on who is relating the story. But all four evangelists thought this feeding of the five thousand needed to be mentioned.

In John’s version…we know it’s close to Passover, which is the biggest Jewish holiday and remembers, with the unleavened bread and bitter herbs, how Moses helped to lead his people out of slavery in Egypt. Jesus and his disciples have crossed over to the Sea of Tiberius. And a large crowd has gathered to follow after him as he continues to minister and heal people. Jesus sees all these folks, turns to Philip and says:

“Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?”

And while John doesn’t give us this detail, you can almost get this visual of Philip looking back at Jesus, his head kind of cocked like that RCA Victor dog, staring at him and—in contemporary terms—saying, “Seriously?!?!”

“Six months wages’ would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.”

Even Andrew, who shows signs of some optimism when he notices the boy with the five loaves and two fish, is just as puzzled. “But what are they (these loaves and these fish) among so many people?” If you’ve seen the movie “Inside Out” you might see Andrew’s emotions at play here with the initial Joy at seeing the loaves and fish…only to become pessimistic when Sad gets ahold of the control panel as he surveys the large numbers before them.

Jesus, undaunted, has the crowd sit down on the grass. He takes the bread and the fish, raises it up to give thanks to God, breaks it, then he has his disciples distribute the food. And--lo and behold—everyone got as much as they wanted and they were satisfied. And when they collected the leftovers it filled twelve baskets, a reference to the twelve tribes of Israel. Even the gathered fragments get pulled together to feed the people.

That’s crazy!  At least by the standards applied in the world’s economy. In the world’s economy, somebody should have been hoarding and leaving others empty-handed. Or someone should have been complaining that by giving bread and fish to this group of one thousand would mean that these other four thousand were getting something less than their fill. There’s a finite number, and some will win and many will lose.

But this is the economy of God. And in the economy of God, five loaves of bread and two fish is more than enough and not only feeds those present on a mountainside but will feed all of those who come seeking. And nothing, and nobody, is lost.

This is the Eucharistic feast in John’s Gospel, the same Eucharist that we will remember and celebrate here in a short while. In the same way that the crowd was gathered, we will come to the table, shoulder to shoulder, people of all ages, all different backgrounds and all sorts of conditions, and we will each receive exactly what we need to sustain us and keep us in relationship with God and each other. No matter who you are or what you do or where you on your spiritual journey, you will be fed.

John will emphasize this point about the Eucharist later in this same Gospel chapter. If our lectionary diviners had wanted to go on (which would have meant poor Deacon Scott would have had to read an even longer passage), we’d hear Jesus say, “I am the bread of life,” which is even more satisfying than the loaves of barley bread this crowd had consumed. This is the same bread, that body of Christ, which we receive. And by bringing that body into ourselves, it nourishes the spirit within and empowers us to go share that power with others. Because there is plenty of God’s power and love to go around.

Jesus knows, and is telling everyone with ears to listen, that he too will be raised up, and broken in death, but he will overcome death in the resurrection and in this way…this crazy Jesus way…everyone will come to have eternal life because nothing, absolutely nothing, will defeat God and God’s love for all of creation. Not even death! This teaching, this type of discipleship that requires trusting that there’s enough Love for everyone and that Love is stronger than death, was a little too much for some to handle and they walked away. Some still do.

But there are many who don’t. There are still those of us who come to this table of God…a smaller scale version of what is the larger heavenly banquet...not for solace only, but for strength. We come not just for pardon only, but for renewal of our resources so that we can be the light of the world and the salt of the earth. As we look around in our communities, whether it’s in Thomasville, Cairo, Camilla, or even in Tallahassee, there are people who will be shocked and pleasantly surprised if they were to encounter Christians who exhibit the kind of generosity and willingness to help one another that makes five loaves and two fish into a feast. Too often, the people who we call “the unchurched” have felt, for whatever reason, that they weren’t invited in to discover they have a place at the table. Perhaps in their experience they were specifically told to stay away. Or maybe they’ve bought into that message that somehow you have to prove your worthiness, or wear the right clothes, or pass some other test of human design to gain acceptability in order to cross the threshold of the church door.

I once was providing massage therapy at a Wounded Warrior event organized by the diocese of Florida. This soldier was really talkative and had a little bit of that tough guy edge to him. He told me he wasn’t much into religion, but he appreciated being at this church camp. Then he looked at me in curiosity as I was working on his bicep:

“Are you part of the church?”

I smiled. “Yes, I am. I’m an Episcopalian.”

He laughed. “Well, I’ll be!”   

Even the massage therapist was a Christian. It gave this guy something to think about as he experienced receiving kindness and caring beyond his expectations. We were everywhere…pouring out that love of God that had been poured into us through the Eucharist, and offering it back to those suffering from the wounds of war.

As the modern day theologian Henri Nouwen says, the transformation that happens at the table makes us more than individuals but a community:

the living Christ, taken, blessed, broken, and given to the world.  As one body, we become a living witness of God's immense desire to bring all peoples and nations together as the one family of God.(Daily Meditation,“The Body of Community,” from “Bread for the Journey.”)

Having been fed, we end with praying that we have the strength and courage to love and serve God with gladness and singleness of heart through Christ our Lord. It’s not always easy, but it is our calling as members of this one Body into which we are baptized.

Don’t be afraid to be a little crazy with seeking to serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor…no matter who they are… as well as yourself. Show the world your craziness by striving for justice and peace, and respecting the dignity of every human being. Be crazy enough to live and love life in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

https://youtu.be/XnFBrFfHvZg

Casting Away Darkness at Advent One

A new church year begins this Sunday as we begin the season of Advent. It is a time where the people who are sitting in great darkness will begin to see the growing light each week with another candle lit on the Advent wreath, a symbol of the light Christians anticipate seeing return to the world.

Now would be a great time for there to be more light in the world!

This has been a particularly difficult time for many in the United States, and especially here in Leon County, Florida. The country has been tuned into the Ferguson case. And as things were exploding and protests were occurring all over the country in response to the non-indictment of Officer Darren Wilson, people in Tallahassee were lining the streets, in the rain, to pay respects to deputy Christopher Smith who, a week ago, was ambushed by a white man with a gun and anti-government streak. The gunman set fire to his house to lure the police and firefighters to the scene. Deputy Smith was the first to arrive, and he was the only one Curtis Wade Holley was able to shoot and kill before another off-duty cop, who lived in the neighborhood, responded and fatally shot him. All this after there had been a shooting at the library on FSU's campus only a few days earlier where a graduate of FSU, with a history of growing delusions and mental illness, shot three people and fired at the police when they ordered him to drop his gun. Six police officers vs. one guy with a gun. You know who lost that battle.

So much violence. So many shots fired. So little of what we might call justice in the world. It certainly all seems to fit in with the themes that emerge at the end of a church year. The daily office readings, and the Sunday lectionary, often reflect a sense of things falling apart, the eschaton or End Times. For some, the events in Tallahassee have made them cautious about saying what they feel about how things went this week in Ferguson. I can understand the reticence. Nobody here wants to appear to be trashing law enforcement when they've just been through more hell than usual in our relatively small city. But, as with so many things in life, this isn't a question of either/or; it's more a both/and. And so, I don't see raising questions about the Ferguson case as being a put down to law enforcement in Tallahassee or Leon County. And I think it is time, more than time, for people to recognize, and to listen to the cry of our black brothers and sisters and other people of color who do not feel they stand on equal ground. Can we have an honest conversation and open our ears and listen to each other? We must do this. People of color must express themselves without fear and that includes the people of my color, too. Those who are the peace makers, we have to make a commitment to work to change the system...even if that change isn't something we'll enjoy seeing in our lifetime. But we owe that to the generations of children that are growing up quickly. And it's the perfect discipline to begin for Advent.

If Advent is, at least for us Christians, the preparation for the dawning of a new day and the return of Christ into our world, then isn't Advent the time for us to see the brokenness that is in our world, and connect with others to change it? I'm talking about race relations, which will be the topic in some of the major cathedrals throughout the Episcopal Church in the United States this Advent. And that is a desperately important topic in all cities and towns in this country. Perhaps this division between people of color and whites is contributing to poverty. Maybe it is at play in child abduction and human trafficking. Maybe it is simply the starting point of a broader discussion about the many ways we have managed to break down our worldviews into a series of "us" vs. "them" arguments that go nowhere but toward more sin, or breaking from God.

Scripture indicates that God's dream for us is that we live as one with all that is One. How would it look if we could really function and live as if we are truly connected to one another and all those connections lead us to the Source that is Love? Crazy and radical as this may sound to some, I really believe that we are supposed to be living as one human race... made up of a canopy of lots of "otherness"... but at the end time of it all... we are really supposed to live as though each and every person we encounter is our brother and sister... and we are stewards, or caretakers, of all creatures great and small.

Maybe for this Advent the challenge put before us is to see brokenness as the darkness that needs our light and for us to be willing to bring our lights out of the safety of our own homes and into those places that need more light so they can see their way out of the darkness.

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of
darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of
this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit
us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come
again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the
dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives
and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and
for ever. Amen.

I Got To Hold Her Hand: Margaret C. Gage, the Anonymous Peggins

Standing by for a video shoot for the Faust Film, "The Weimar House"

The news this week has been dotted with nostalgic moments of the night when the Beatles made their first appearance on American television on the Ed Sullivan Show.  One of the songs they played was their classic early signature tune, "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." 

That would have made a good theme song for me at the end of January as my partner and I were attempting, in the face of unfriendly skies and constant flight cancellations, to get me home to New Hampshire.  All I wanted to do was hold the hand of my mother as she lay in Elliot Hospital with a ventilator in her throat.  I was lucky.  I got there in time.  I held her hand. I stroked her arm. I hummed the Episcopal hymnal to her.  I said good-bye.

My mother, known on her official documents as Margaret Bailey Clark Gage, but best known as "Hurricane Peg," passed away peacefully Friday morning at the Hyder Family Hospice House in Dover, NH.  She was 86, and more than ready to make her way home to God.  Heaven needs some organizing, and they've got the supreme force there to straighten them out.

My mom was definitely a force of nature, and that's been coming through as I receive messages from all the many people who were touched by her.  Jean-Marie Navetta, the Director of Diversity and Equality Partnerships with PFLAG National, recalled the impact "Hurricane Peg" had on the Republicans on Capitol Hill:

Nothing was like going to Lobby Day with (or without) Peg. On my first-ever PFLAG lobby day, she was not able to attend. There was not a single GOP office that I visited where at least one legislative aide or congressperson themselves looked around and said, "Well you're PFLAG. But where's Peg?" As a vet of more lobby days than I can count, I can say I'd never seen anything like that before.

A Republican, and a lobbyist for equal rights for the LGBT community.  Especially the "T" community. When my mom got involved in PFLAG (Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays), she found many friends in the transgender community.  Every time anyone wanted to jettison including "transgender" in an effort to get "something" passed in the way of equal rights for the rest of us, my mom would bristle.  PFLAG moms and dads are not inflexible people, unless you want them to bend away from justice for their LGBT children.  Then, you better hope the branch does not come back to smack you in the face, or split your head in two! 

Mom's journey into PFLAG began when I finally got tired of fielding her questions.  She had many because, well, she had had no reason to pay attention to anything related to the LGBT community until I came out.  Luckily, I remembered seeing an article in our hometown newspaper, The Exeter News-Letter, advertising that Nora Tuthill, the wife of the doctor who delivered me, had started a PFLAG chapter.  They met in the Stratham Community Church.  I told mom about it and suggested that maybe these folks could answer her questions.

"You know Nora, mom, so these folks won't be strangers."

She went.  She saw all the most liberal women and men from our area in the room.  She listened to their stories.  And she got angry. 

What do you mean my daughter could be fired or denied housing for loving women?
What do you mean she can't adopt children because she's gay?
Are you telling me that my daughter is worth less to this society than my sons?

As I've told people, directing my mom to that meeting was the beginning of the creation I call "The PFLAG Momster."  She would call her state and federal representatives, write to them, knock on their doors, point her finger at them, and give them what-for if they didn't start righting these egregious wrongs in the name of justice and equality.  Her stated belief about politicians is that "they put their pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us," and so she was never afraid to tell them what she thought.

One time, when Sen. Bob Dole was running for President, she and my dad were visiting us in Tallahassee.  Dole was having a campaign event at the Moon, an entertainment venue only a mile from our house. 

"I want to go talk to him.  He wasn't in Washington when I was there, and I want to know where he stands on equal rights for LGBT people." 

I was not that thrilled with this idea because I really didn't want to have to go spend time around the Florida Republican Party.  So I agreed I would drop her off and pick her up.  She apparently stayed in the area close to the entry way.  When Sen. Dole came in, he saw her and looked pleased and surprised.  Mom had worked on the Ford/Dole campaign in 1976 and was an alternate to the Republican National Convention in Kansas City.  Sen. Dole and his wife Libby had spent time on our front porch, in our living room, and mom used to joke that Bob Dole was once in her bedroom... making a phone call.  So, the Kansas Republican knew very well who my mom was.

"Well, look at that!" he exclaimed, amazed to see my mother in Florida. "It's Peggy Gage! One of my long-time supporters!"

Mom wasted no time.  She smiled warmly and then went straight to her point.

"Hi Bob! I was in Washington, D.C. lobbying on behalf of my lesbian daughter.  You weren't in your office and I want to know where you stand on equal rights for gays and lesbians."

The way mom told this story, and I have no doubt about her reporting of it, it was as if all the blood was draining out of Bob Dole's face as he stammered to answer her direct question.

"Well, um, y'know, Peggy, I, um, I don't have anything personally against gays and lesbians..."

"Well, that's reassuring!" she says.

He fumbled his way toward saying something about not being against the LGBT people of the country, recognizing that this was becoming an issue.

"And I hope you'll vote in favor of the Employment Non-Discrimination Act," she said, no doubt smiling the whole time.

For her, that felt like a fun and successful evening.  For me, it felt like my mom was my shield.

When my mom and dad moved to Florida to get my dad into an assisted living facility here, my mother's biggest concern was where was she going to go to church.  She was a cradle Episcopalian, and she raised her family in the Episcopal Church.  But sadly, 2006 was a time of great bitterness and wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Episcopal churches around here because of the bishop of New Hampshire, Rt. Rev. Gene Robinson being an openly-gay man.  I had to tell mom that there was no way she could attend the Episcopal church in Tallahassee.  I drove her past St. John's and showed her how their signage didn't include the trademark Episcopal phrase about welcome, and the shield was obscured by an enormous Third Reich-looking eagle.  She was crushed.  I told her to go to one of the Lutheran churches.  She did.  It bored her. 

"OK, I'll see if I can find you an Episcopal Church."

I called Holy Comforter and asked, I think three times, for the woman to tell me if they were part of ECUSA.  "Seriously, are you an Episcopal Church affiliated with the headquarters in New York?"

The woman repeated again, "Yes."  So, I took mom by there to see the church.  She was OK with that one, but it still wasn't her cup of tea.  And she scared the rector when she met with him and started her conversation with, "I'm a Republican.  I'm from New Hampshire. Gene Robinson is my bishop and I love him!"  The poor man didn't know what had hit him.  Let's start with the fact that this is the South.  And in the South, you don't speak in such direct ways, especially if you're a lady with gray hair who uses a cane.  But my mom is a Yankee.  And Yankees don't drink sweet tea, and they don't sugar coat their opinions.

On Rosh Hashanah, I had taken my mother with me to my partner's temple.  After the almost-three hour service, we went to Lucy Ho's Chinese Restaurant to have lunch.  That's when we saw the newspaper above-the-fold headline that the rector of St. John's, in a moment of high drama in the church service, announced he was leaving and taking most of the monied people and vestry with him to start a "No Gays and No Girls" Anglican church down the street. He'd been sowing the seeds of hatred and homophobia for years in the place, but when he realized he wasn't going to be able to steal the building, he just stole about 2/3rds of the congregation, labeling the left-behinds "unorthodox."

I let out a shriek of joy.  "Mom!! Look!!! He's gone!! You can go back to that church!!"

She was so thrilled and excited.  I had told her it was the closest to what she'd know as an Episcopal Church in Tallahassee.  I got her settled in to attending services, and she found many new friends that she loved, including my eventual mentor, Mtr. Lee Shafer, and others including Fr. Lee Graham, and Fr. Harry and Lianne Douglas.  And while she was there, she continued her advocacy for LGBT rights in the Christian setting.  Given the amount of homophobia that had been infused into that church, curing them of this cancer took persistence on my mom's part.  But this wasn't anything new to her.  It just made her shake her head that she was having to go back over much of the same ground she had already tilled to make her own church in New Hampshire more gay-friendly.  But she did it while she lived here.  And I know she was very happy when I had my awakening and returned to the church to sit with her in the pew at services.

My mom was the first person I told that I had started this blog.  I was very cautious and shy about it because I really was wondering, "Why the heck am I going to start writing about being a queer Christian?  Am I mad?"  But she encouraged me with her comments.  She started out identifying herself as "MCG."  Then, for some reason, she found the comment section frustrating and insisted that she was going to post using the anonymous setting. 

"OK, but please sign your name," was my compromise.

And so, she'd post under "Anonymous," and then sign with her childhood nickname, Peggins.  This is how I came to identify her as "The Anonymous Peggins."  I gave her a gift one year of my blog as a book.  She loved it.  She told me that she kept it on her bedside table and read it over and over for a couple of weeks.  She encouraged me to take what I've posted here and turn it into a book of spiritual writings especially for those who have felt betrayed and abandoned by the church because of their sexual orientation.  I have known that pain, and I have come to realize that the many misdeeds done in the name of Christ over the decades do not negate the true message of Christ: that I am loved, I always have been loved, and I always will be loved.

I found it quite fitting that the day my mother died was Friday, February 7th, the day the Episcopal Church commemorates Cornelius the Centurion, one of the many early Gentiles that the original apostles encounter and discover--much to their surprise--that even these supposedly "unclean" people are destined to be baptized with the Holy Spirit.  The reading from the Book of Acts is of the time when Peter, starving, dreams he sees a sheet come down with all kinds of "unclean" livestock.  He's instructed to kill and eat.  Peter protests, noting that these are not clean.  And God rebukes him, reminding him that "What God has made clean, you must not call 'profane.'"  He's then led to find Cornelius and baptize him.  That's when the eyes of Peter's heart open and he realizes that there is no distinction to be made between Jew and Gentile.  And we all say, "Thanks be to God," that he figured that one out!

These are the stories that also speak to us queer Christians about how deep, broad, wide, and unceasing God's love is for all of us; hence there is no real justification to leave us standing at the gate.  Mom enjoyed how I would articulate these messages, and she'd occasionally send them off to her clergy in New Hampshire with a "Look what my daughter wrote!" I simply articulated the message of Christ, which is the message of PFLAG, which is the message of my mom: Love.  Period.

May she rest in peace and rise in glory and may light perpetual shine upon her.

 

Margaret C. Gage, June 19, 1927-February 7, 2014

 

A Celebration of Life is scheduled for Saturday, February 15, 2014 at Christ Church, Exeter, NH, at 11am...followed by a luncheon reception in Harris House (the church parish hall)  Visiting hours will be the afternoon before at Brewitt Funeral Home.  Donations in the memory of Margaret "Peg" Gage may be made to PFLAG National (www.pflag.org) or NHSPCA (nhspca.org).