Jan. 20, 2007 • Tribute to Bishop Croneberger at his last Diocesan Convention
Michael Francaviglia, Administrator of the Diocese of Newark, Secretary of Convention, and St. George's parishioner

June 15, 2008 • "The harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few"

Elaine Bennett

The bulletin says we're celebrating a lot here today at St. George's, including our Sunday School teachers and Juneteenth.

I'm not an authority on either subject, but I will say this: How we raise our children speaks volumes about who we are as a parish today, and what the world will be like tomorrow. I am always moved and amazed when I encounter the work going on in our Sunday school. So thank you.

And Juneteenth is a holiday I never heard about before I came to St. George's. It commemorates the day that slavery finally ended in the United States. Those of you who know your history will know that President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation in 1862 -- it went into effect on January 1st, 1863. But for obvious reasons, that particular law was not observed in the Confederate states.

And it wasn't until June 19th, 1865 that Union soldiers got to Galveston Texas and told the men, women and children who were enslaved there that they had been free for the last two and a half years.

They had always been free under God's law, of course. But I imagine it's hard to feel free when there's a guy with a shotgun who says he'll kill you if you leave the plantation.

So Juneteenth has a lot to teach us about freedom. And about how easily institutions can deny it. Especially if we allow them to.

And as a gay Christian, that is a subject I've spent a lot of time thinking about.

So Happy Gay Pride Month, everyone.

And Happy Father's Day, too. Since it is Father's Day I thought I'd start with a little story about my father, Charlie.

When I graduated from college, I moved back home with my parents. And that summer, I went to my first Gay Pride March.

I was excited about it but I was also a little nervous. See, I get sunburned really easily, and I knew if I was outside all day, marching from Greenwich Village to who knows where uptown, I was going to come home with a big sunburn and I needed a cover story. A friend of mine told me to say I was going on a picnic.

So when I left that morning, I said, "Bye! I'm going to a picnic in Central Park."

Little did I know that the Gay Pride March would be culminating in a huge rally in Central Park. And also little did I know that that the entire affair would receive massive coverage on the evening news.

When I came home that evening, my father made a big joke about it. He said, "How'd you like your picnic with the..." and then he used a crude word for gay men.

Well, that got my attention -- my father never used words like that. He was a pretty sharp guy in some ways and I felt he was trying to tell me that he knew about me. So the next day when we were alone, I came out to my father.

I said, "You're right, Dad. I was at the march. I'm gay."

I'm not sure quite what I was expecting him to say. But what he did say was, "You're our daughter and we love you.... Just don't tell your mother."

In case you're wondering, I did eventually come out to my mother, too. Buy me lunch sometime and I'll tell you about it. The bottom line is, I was able to tell both of my parents that I'm gay, but to the day they died, I was never able to tell either of them that I'm Episcopalian.

Hey, we were Roman Catholic. And I was very Roman Catholic.

You know how hard it is for most parents to get their teenagers to go to church? My parents had trouble getting me to come home. In fact, I regularly attended two masses every Sunday: I was the lead guitarist with the folk group at 9:30 and then played and sang as part of a duo at one of the two masses held at noon.

Growing up, just about every major event of my life revolved around church, including my first date and my first kiss. And in high school and college I went to weekend-long retreats designed to fill me full of the self-esteem teenagers so badly need. They gave us buttons and banners along the lines of "God Loves You."

My favorite one said -- quote -- "God Don't Make Junk." I was never able to figure out whether the bad grammar was an attempt to be hip or a subtle commentary on the nature of the Trinity. "God Don't Make Junk."

Well, a couple of years after I graduated from college -- I was living in the city -- and my parents decided that we should go to Christmas Eve midnight mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral. So we did.

Then the following June, the Gay Pride March rolled around again. Now, every year during the march, the gay Catholic Group -- Dignity -- used to stop at St. Patrick's and hold a brief prayer service on the Cathedral steps. But that year there was a new Cardinal in town, and Cardinal O'Connor said gay people praying on the Cathedral steps was "sacrilegious." Can you imagine -- telling anyone that praying is a sacrilege?

Cardinal O'Connor announced that he was going to block off the steps of the Cathedral. In fact, he didn't even want gay people walking on the street in front of the Cathedral. So the Archdiocese sued New York City, trying to get the entire Gay Pride March rerouted off Fifth Avenue.

He lost his lawsuit, but I got the message loud and clear: When the church -- my church -- didn't know who I was -- when I was just one of the nameless thousands at Christmas Eve mass, I was more than welcome. But when they did know who I was, they didn't want anything to do with me.

It was the ecclesiastical version of "You're our daughter and we love you, just don't tell your mother."

And that was the last day I considered myself a Catholic.

It took a long while for me to trust God -- and organized religion -- again. People told me I needed to learn to separate God's actions from man's. But it's hard to remember that you're equal and loved by God when "man" -- in the form of the Archbishop -- won't let you in the church door.

(One of the other actions Archbishop O'Connor took was to ban Dignity from meeting or celebrating mass in Catholic Churches. And that edict spread to other dioceses, which is why to this day, the local Dignity group meets here at St. George's. I came across their meeting by accident one day. They were playing Bingo.)

So I struggled with religion for a long time. But eventually I found the Episcopal Church at St. Ann's in Brooklyn. And when my partner and I were getting ready to move to Maplewood, we found St. George's.

The Gay Pride March played a role in that, too. Oasis -- the gay & lesbian fellowship of the Diocese of Newark - was marching in the parade. We went up to them and talked with some people and Cheryl Notari and her partner Sharon told us about this fabulous parish right in our new hometown. I'm not sure I believed them, but I decided to see. And I have been here happily ever after.

Now, as these "coming out" stories go, mine is pretty tame. My parents didn't throw me out of the house. But I do feel that Cardinal O'Connor threw me out of my church. Through his actions, as the representative of God and the Roman Catholic Church in New York, the community that I had always relied on suddenly decided, "Well, after all, you know, maybe God Do Make Junk. And -- guess what? -- you're it."

I'm willing to bet that most of the gay people here have some sort of story like that.

And so do the vast majority of gay people who are not here. Because, remember, there are thousands of people out there who are too scared or too hurt to even think about walking into this building.

Now we know that once they get in here, they can sit in any pew, shake hands with any person and find someone who welcomes them and cares about them and wants to give them space to repair their broken relationship with God. We know that. But how do they know?

These walls are pretty thick. Nobody outside can hear what we're doing in here. The windows are really high up and full of all that colored glass. People can't pass by and see what's going on inside. So how do we reach out? How do we tell those scared, hurt, unchurched gay people that not only does Jesus love them, but we do too?

How do we do it? We do things -- individually and collectively, as a community.

We have events. We have "Marriage Equality Weekend" and put a rainbow flag banner across the front of the church. We march in parades, like the New York City Gay & Lesbian Pride March coming up in two weeks.

Last year, with our elders riding in style down the route, we showed that support for gay people is not limited to the young. We had a lesbian priest marching in her clerical collar -- strangers hugged her. We also had many other parishioners, gay and straight, toddlers riding on their lesbian moms' shoulders, young Keenan walking out front, waving like the Mayor of New York.

I can't tell you how many people shouted "thank you." Some cried. Others said, "I know someone who lives in Maplewood." And thousands of people saw tangible evidence that "Christian" does not always mean "homophobe." And that at least some Episcopalians really do mean it when they say, "The Episcopal Church welcomes you."

Because as wonderful as St. George's is, it's easy to forget that not every Episcopal church really stands behind that slogan. And I'm not just talking about parishes in Florida or Texas or Virginia, where there are bishops and priests who want to separate from the U.S. church because we allowed an openly gay man to become a bishop. There are parishes right down the road -- parishes in our very own diocese -- where gay and lesbian people do not feel welcome.

These are the parishes Bishop Beckwith was talking about when he said one of his goals for the diocese is to practice "radical welcome."

You know, for the longest time I didn't even know what the phrase meant. The Bishop would talk about "radical welcome" and I was like -- "Huh? It wasn't until a month ago, when we had the priest from Connecticut come down to talk about becoming a welcoming parish that I realized that the phrase "radical welcome" basically translates as "being nice to gay people and people of color." Radical.

I guess there are a lot of parishes that need to work hard at that. It's pretty much business as usual at St. George's, thank God.

But once we leave the friendly confines of our parish, and of this town, the rest of the world is not quite so radically welcoming. In fact, especially in the last year or so, parts of my new church have started to feel a lot like my old church.

Case in point, the Lambeth Conference that begins next month in England. That's the gathering that happens every 10 years, when all of the bishops of the Anglican Church and the Episcopal Church gather to talk. And once more, the media will be filled with stories about how Gene Robinson, the Bishop of New Hampshire, is being excluded. These stories will mention that the only reason he is being excluded is that he lives in a committed relationship with another man.

Now, imagine for a minute that you're someone who doesn't know much about the Episcopal Church. You know about as much about Episcopalians as I know about the Lutherans or the Amish. Which is to say, you know they're there and they believe in Jesus. But that's about it.

Now imagine being a gay man or a lesbian who left or was thrown out of his or her church. And you start hearing these stories about the Episcopal Church. Yes, it's great news that one tiny, little state "hired" a gay bishop. But the whole rest of the world seems to be mad about it.

So if you're an unchurched gay person, which part of that story makes the bigger impression on you? The part that offers hope -- or the part that reinforces everything you've already learned about organized religion?

We may believe that when it comes to the future of the Episcopal Church, there's much more reason to hope than to despair. We know our bishop is a good guy. And we know that there are lots of other good guys and good women wearing those pointy bishop hats. But I've been an Episcopalian for 15 years and a part of this incredibly loving, spirit-filled parish for 16. And I have to tell you, some days it's hard for me not to think, "Here we go again."

If all those leaders of my church won't welcome Gene Robinson to God's table with his brother and sister bishops, then maybe I'm not welcome either. Not really.

On days like that, it's hard for me to remember that I'm safe here. That even though our Bishop and our Presiding Bishop are going to leave Gene Robinson behind physically -- and leave me behind metaphorically -- when they walk through the doors to the Lambeth Conference, we will still be in their hearts. And they will be advocating for us.

You know, 15 years ago when I was received as an Episcopalian, confirmations were still held at each parish. So I was received here at St. George's. Bishop Spong was here and our Rector, Barry Stopfel, was standing at his side. And of course Barry was one of the few priests at the time who was openly gay. His presence gave me the courage to believe that this church really was different.

There I was, an open lesbian, with my partner standing up for me, and the Episcopal Church was saying, "Yes, Elaine, God loves you. We love you. Be with us."

And when I knelt down before Bishop Spong, I just burst into tears. I mean, I turned into Niagara Falls. I couldn't stop crying. And the Bishop looked at Barry and whispered, "Is she okay?"

And Barry whispered back, "She used to be Catholic."

I still cry a lot in church. And not just at weddings and funerals like everybody else. I cry at baptisms -- and I cry buckets at ordinations. I think it's because even after all these years there's still a part of me that doesn't trust that the welcome the church is extending in those sacraments is going to last. There's a part of me that's still waiting for this church to pull the rug out from under me just like the last one did.

As members of St. George's, where everyone truly is welcome, that may be hard for you to understand, but I think it's very important for you to hear.

You know, in many ways St. George's is an island, a "radically welcoming" island. And that's great. But we have a choice. Are we going to be a tiny island, the St. Kitts of the Episcopal Church? Or are we going to be an island like Australia -- so big and expansive that it takes up an entire continent?

It's not what we do inside this building that makes us Christians; it's how we take what we do here out into the world. In today's Gospel, we heard Jesus tell the apostles, "The harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few. Therefore, ask the Lord to send laborers out into the field."

We can't wait for somebody else to send the workers. We know what needs to be done; we have to do it.

So, please, don't just enjoy the inclusiveness of the St. George's community while you're here -- take it out into the world with you when you leave. Tell your friends, your family, your coworkers. Come out of the closet -- whether you're gay or straight, come out of the closet as Christians who welcome gay and lesbian people into community with you.

Take back the word "Christian" from the bigots and the haters. Their voices are loud right now, but our voices can grow louder as more people join in our welcome and our island expands, until the whole Diocese is on the same island, and one day the whole Episcopal Church will be, too.

I've had people say to me, "I'd like to talk about this stuff, but what can I say?"

Talk about your experiences, talk about your life. I think any sentence that combines the words "gay," "church" and "welcome" will be a revelation to many people.

And if you prefer to use humor -- my father always told me that people remember things more if you can make them laugh -- here's a quotation that was given to me by a dear friend of mine who happens to be straight. It's a quotation from that famous theologian, Dorothy Parker.

Now, Dorothy Parker started writing in 1919 and she wrote all the way through the 1940s, so you know this quotation has been around a long time. Dorothy Parker wrote, "Heterosexuality isn't normal; it's just common."

I want to close with a prayer Bishop Beckwith used as a blessing at the end of his Consecration. I can't offer a blessing, but I can share it with you as a prayer. So please pray with me:

May God give us grace never to sell ourselves short,
Grace to risk something big for something good,
Grace to remember that the world is too dangerous now for anything but truth
And too small for anything but love.
Amen.

March 30, 2008 • "People of the Resurrection"

Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

I grew up in the Episcopal Church, and as far back as I can remember, I've known this Sunday, the Sunday after Easter, by its informal name, "low Sunday." And this year, my peers at General Theological Seminary have taught me another name for this Sunday - "Seminarian Sunday," for the large number of seminarians who are preaching this week while Rectors catch their breath and energy following Holy Week and Easter. It all sounds pretty dreary, doesn't it? But frankly, this year, I have welcomed the opportunity to learn more about this "low Sunday" and found out that this is not the official name for the drop in attendance following Easter Sunday. But in fact, the word "Low" is a derived from the Latin word "Laude", which means "praise," and the Sequence hymn of this day once read, "Let us sing praises to the Savior with humble voice."

Now, while this word-play exercise excuses some of the let-down of this day, I still find myself wondering why, in this season of the Resurrection, do we not joyously celebrate Christ's victory over death with more vigor and passion, with crowded pews of energetic believers? Surely, Christ's resurrection is worth more than one week's celebration, since it's ultimately the foundational message on which our church is based. As such, our Church, complete with its liturgical seasons and calendar, devotes 50 days to Easter, the time of Revelation in the form of Christ's appearances to his disciples following his resurrection, leading up to his ascension and then the day of Pentecost. We call it the "Great 50 days!" Yet it seems like the churches I've always been a part of pay an awful lot of attention to Lent: the self-examination, the self-reflection, Lenten studies, Lenten suppers, Lenten retreats. Among other things, Lent is the season we connect with the humanity of Jesus. But it's in this Easter season, all 50 days of it, that we connect to and celebrate the divinity of the risen Christ.

This second Sunday of Easter is also important because, in spite of our 3 year lectionary cycle, every year, today's Gospel reading re-introduces us to the disciple, Thomas. Thomas is forever known as "doubting Thomas," as if that's a bad thing. Frankly, Thomas should be the patron saint of those of us here in the pews today, the patron saint of modern people, people of both reason and faith. Thomas, who is remembered for saying that "unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe" (John 20:25) should not be a figure that we pity for his weaknesses, but instead, he is a disciple who teaches us a way to live into these 50 days of Easter, living into Christ's Resurrection.

I remember feeling quite prideful after hearing this Gospel lesson, when Jesus answers Thomas' doubt by saying, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." (John 20:29) Yep, that is me, I'd think, better than the disciples. I wasn't there at the empty tomb. I wasn't there in the upper room, nor was I there on the road to Emmaus. And yet, I believe.

You know, it's funny, because the disciples are portrayed, at times in the Gospels, as being somewhat dense. It's almost easy to poke fun of them. But, recently, I have to admit, that the more I look at my own life and my own faith, being honest with myself, I have come to see myself in their folly more often than I'd like to admit. I came to identify with Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane on Good Friday, and now I realize that I identify with Thomas as well.

My experience on 9/11 is a prime example of this, one that allowed me a much better understanding of the disciple Thomas, and his doubting side. On September 11, 2001, my husband left for work in the usual way, taking the train into the city, and was headed for his office on the 62nd floor of the World Trade Center. He worked in the South Tower. But because he was scheduled to leave on a business trip later that day, he left home a little later than usual, carrying his luggage with him. On the way to work, a picturesque early fall day, he decided to take the ferry across the river, and when he did, he saw the plane fly into his building. At some point in the hours that followed, my husband was able to reach out to me by cell phone and assure me that he was safe, and headed for home. Sure, I heard his voice, but I also heard and saw everything else that was unfolding that day, and I needed more than that. I needed proof. I needed to be sure. "Until I see him," I thought to myself, I will not believe. And it was so � hours later, he finally made it off the train in the New Providence station, and it wasn't until then, when we were in full embrace, that I had my proof, knew he was alive, and my doubt for his safety dissipated. So much for faith without proof.

I now hold a whole new respect for Thomas and his powerful doubts, and I've realized that my doubts extend infinitely further than just that day of 9/11. Thru this and other life experiences, I have realized that my faith is far from some neat and tidy package. I have loose ends hanging out all over the place. These are my places of my doubt, my bundles of fear, and my collections of conflicting information. It's a messy container which makes for an uncomfortable faith at times. But, just the same, I have also experienced times of great Revelation, fleeting but still very real, and Jesus reveals himself to Thomas in this very way; not in a blaze of glory or with flashes of light or sounds of trumpets, but as the wounded and loving savior. This love accepts Thomas' doubts, and accepts my baggage of loose ends as well, and Jesus reveals himself to us and brings us peace in that act of Revelation, enabling us to see.

While I'm sure that it would have been easy for the disciples, Thomas included, to hang out in that upper room and wait for Jesus, their beloved teacher and Lord, to appear time and time again, they did not. In fact, the disciples with Jesus at the Transfiguration wanted to hang out there too. Jesus' appearances were brief but powerful, and the strength of these encounters empowered and compelled the disciples to tell about their encounters with the Risen Christ. Thomas, after he reaches out and experiences the Risen Christ, boldly proclaims, "My Lord and my God!" This was his Christ-experience, his name for the Easter Revelation, his statement of faith.

Thomas' bold proclamation, which sprung up out of his places of both doubt and faith, invites us to ask ourselves, what is it about our own Christ-experience, including both places of doubt and places of faith, about traveling this annual road to the cross and then finding the empty tomb at Easter, which enables us to discover new life? What is it?

In my family, we have a saying, which comes out of military service, "RHIP" � Rank Has its Privileges. Usually this applies to the one who has to clear dishes from the table, or who gets to sit in the front seat of the car. But right after "RHIP" comes "RHIR" � Rank has its Responsibilities. So along with the front seat on the car ride, comes the obligation to help me out with various chores and errands along our way. We learn from the disciple Thomas that his experience of the Risen Christ comes with a responsibility to proclaim. He tells his story of the resurrection, his story of faith when he says, "My Lord and My God!" What can we proclaim about the risen Christ? We aren't meant to remain here, huddled closely within the walls of this church, reveling in the power of Christ's resurrection. No, we are to tell the story to those outside this place, tell what it is about the Easter celebration that keeps us coming back year after year. But before we can tell a story, or before we can tell THE story, we have to think about what it is that is important to us. Why is Christ's resurrection so meaningful for us? To what situations does Christ's life bring new life? In what ways are we strengthened by our experience of the risen Christ?

So, let these Great 50 days of Easter be a time of examination, transformation and then proclamation. The power of Christ's resurrection will transform us, just as it did Thomas, and allow us to move in rhythm with our questioning selves, pushing our faith in new directions. Our transformation is the living part of us which makes us alive in Christ and our call to live into that resurrection is to tell that story. Live this story of resurrection during these 50 days, and when we greet the new season of Pentecost, we will be just like the disciples who were empowered to proclaim in every language their powerful Christ story. We too, will be able to share, each of us, in our own language, words of hope, grace and love with the world. We thank God for Thomas today, our patron saint of this Sunday after Easter, who reminds us that we are real people, people of faith and doubt, who can touch the marks of pain, grow in love and service in the name of Christ, and then boldly proclaim that we are people of the Resurrection. Amen.

March 21, 2008 • Good Friday

Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Good Friday has always been a tough day for me. I think Bernie smelled my fear when he asked me to preach tonight. It comes on the heels of my favorite service of the entire liturgical year, Maundy Thursday, and takes me to a place where I'd really rather not go. Things go from bad, in the silent darkness at Tenebrae, to worse, during the solemn stripping of the altar last night, and just when you think things can't get much worse, they really do. And now, with it so early in the calendar year, it seems like we've raced from the cradle to the cross at record speed. I'm not sure that I'm really ready for it, and I would much prefer to tiptoe around this Friday night, pretending that it's just another Friday, a day to dye Easter eggs with my boys and dream of some early warm spring weather. Trouble is, ready or not, Good Friday is here, and the heaviness of this day, the sorrow of Jesus' painful and lonely death, always call out to me; So, like it or not, Good Friday is a day that we, as Christ's followers, cannot ignore.

One of the major problems I have with Good Friday is that there is so much mystery wrapped up into this one day. I've researched and read volumes on the meanings behind Jesus' death on the cross, yet still, I can't make any sense of it. Some sources hold to the belief that Jesus' suffering and death were offered as a sacrifice for the sin of humanity. Others say that we are "saved" through the example of Jesus' life without sin, and still, there are others who suggest that Jesus' life and death were God's subversive attempt to outmaneuver or outsmart the devil. I just can't seem to wrap my head around any one of these ideas, no matter how many scholarly books I study or how many years I experience this Good Friday liturgy. But, as Bernie so often reminds us, when a biblical reading or theology leads us into a difficult place, a place of discomfort or confusion, we are best served by moving directly into the storm, as disciples who wrestle and struggle with the discomfort.

So, move we do, into this night of Good Friday. Now, I don't know about you, but as a child, I remember wondering, why the word "good" in front of this Friday. As a matter of fact, my own children have asked me that very same question. I have never really heard a satisfactory answer to this question either - some sources say that perhaps it was once called "God's Friday," and the word "good" is morphed out of the word "God," but that explanation doesn't do anything for me. So, regardless, insufficient explanations aside, the title "Good Friday" has stuck, and perhaps we should search for the "good" which lies in the midst of all this unexplainable, unfathomable mystery.

Certainly, at first blush, there's not too much "good" about it: Jesus' betrayal by Judas first, and then by Peter, Jesus' lonely walk to Golgotha and his agony in the crucifixion. Even though John's passion narrative, which we heard today, presents Jesus as being in calm control, all of us have probably heard other Gospel accounts of Jesus' crucifixion, which paint quite a different picture, one of despair, abandonment and suffering.

But in spite of Jesus' agony, we do, find a Jesus portrayed in John's Gospel, that loves right up until his last breath. Jesus never betrays his mission of love, even in the midst of questioning and torture by the High Priest, by Caiaphas, by Pilate or even by the mob of people calling for his death. Jesus' unwavering and radical love, now this is "good." Additionally, even while on the cross, Jesus sees his despondent mother and deeply loves her, placing her in the care of the "beloved" disciple. This unending and caring love, again, this is "good."

The revelation we find through the cross is that God's love is radical, eternal and mysterious. Jesus' life was ultimately a life of radical love, and His love was so pure and boundless that the world couldn't possibly allow it to continue. This perfect Love, which was nailed to the cross, beckons to us today, and calls us in, as disciples.

Now, as you know, a disciple is a student, a follower, a believer. One seeking to learn, but far from one who has it all figured out. We are disciples, called as believers just like Peter, who was unquestionably one of Jesus' closest friends and in Jesus' innermost of inner circles. But, the same disciple Peter, who dropped his fishing nets to follow Jesus, who stood on the mountaintop to witness Jesus' transfiguration, was the same disciple that was so consumed by discomfort and fear that he denied even knowing Jesus, three times, a betrayal of (as we say) biblical proportions. We, too, are disciples of Jesus, and we, too, come to this day of Good Friday as both believers and betrayers.¹

The fact that I am in seminary, right now, might suggest to you that I can easily claim the title of "believer." But in fact, my call to ministry has certainly not shielded me from deep suffering. And in the midst of my distress, I have to admit that I quickly settled in as a "betrayer." A little over a year ago, my youngest son, then almost 6 years old, was diagnosed with a form of autism. This was coupled with the fact that my 15 year old son already suffers from the disorder. Because of this diagnosis, I experienced the effects of grief, and almost literally heard the window of hope for my son slam violently shut.

So, I, being a "believer," went to the seminary chapel. I was searching for God and for a source of hope, but could find nothing. Instead, I was greeted by what I took to be a rather glib recitation about how good God was all of the time, and how all the time, God was good. I wasn't so sure. Then, during the prayers of the people, the worship leader invited members of the congregation to call out attributes of God, which they were feeling at that moment. So from the chairs came words like "awesome!", "holy!" and "loving!" All of a sudden, up from my gut, probably the same believer's gut which forced the words of denial out of Peter's mouth, came the word "mean". I shuddered, did I really just say that??? I had, and it was precisely how I was feeling. At that moment, my suffering made me wonder, "My God, My God, have you forsaken me?" I had, so quickly, turned from a believing disciple into a betrayer, just like Peter.

The good news in all of this unsettling irony lies yet another mystery. The mystery of God's love. The power of my pain, which had enough strength in it to snuff out my awareness of virtually everything else, was met by God's love. My suffering was not some evil from God's hand, not a test of endurance, and certainly not sanctioned by God. Instead, I was held by God, even as a disciple so quick to betray this very love, and God loved me. God did not turn away from me; just the opposite, Perfect Love kept calling me back. And that, again, on this Good Friday, is "good."

This evening, as we come up in a moment to venerate the cross where Jesus held the sin of the world in love, we stand before the cross as disciples; disciples who can't completely understand, but are on a journey nonetheless. We are participants in this never-ending story of Christ's death and resurrection, drawn year after year to this day of "Good Friday." No, it's not just another Friday, not just a day of dyeing eggs and enjoying the coming of Spring. It's a day when we come to the cross, questioning, not just as believers, but also as betrayers, trying to make sense out of the perfect Love that suffered on the cross. And in the presence of that perfect Love, we meet a God who, through the presence of Jesus, loves us all unconditionally.

So, come to the cross today, seeking the fullness of this unconditional love, which holds us in our suffering, overcomes death, and offers us life. The mysterious fullness of God's love is here today, love both human and divine, and that love is offered today to us, all of us: seekers, believers and betrayers. Jesus, who shows us that a life of love is not out of our reach, is calling us on a journey to life. And that way to life is Love. And that Love is very "good." Amen.

Footnotes:
¹ Rev. Dr. William Danaher, General Theological Seminary Ethics Professor.

February 17, 2008 • "Martin, Malcolm & Me"

Cheryl L. Thompson

When I was asked by Marlene to speak to you, my first reaction was, how do I get out of this, I don't even sit on the pulpit side of the church. But I remembered that Jesus often asks us to step out of our comfort zone for some reason. I don't know the reason for this, but I guess I have a story to tell. I have always been a believer. I have many conversations with God and am always grateful for the way things turn out and believe that he or she has a hand in that outcome. I don't really believe in coincidence, and sometimes, small things happen that are evidence to me of God's presence in my life. My big blessings, are my husband, although not always, and my son, again, not always, but I feel that my life could have taken so many turns, that would not have left me in the place that I am now. Another blessing is this Church. I feel like I have a home. I didn't feel that way for many years.

I was raised as an AME or Baptist depending on whether or not my mother was going to send me to church or attend church herself. My father briefly attended church and then stopped, but I believe he was typical of a preacher's kid. My parents met and married in New York, so that I am a native New Yorker. Most people believe New York is an integrated city or at least people get along peacefully. I'll get back to that later. When my father stopped attending church, he found a group called the African American Cultural Society; this was a group of mostly black men with thick glasses who sat in my father's room and discussed books they had read about African history. I was seven years old and I served the role of typical hostess, which I learned from my mother. I would serve them tea and cupcakes which I had made on my little stove and I would listen to some of what they said. Other times, my father would have me read to him from these books, so that I have forgotten more African history than most people ever learned.

By the time I was eight, my father became interested in traditional African religion, which meant Voodoo here, but Yoruba in the outside world. My father traveled to Cuba to become initiated in the religion. He changed his name to an African name, taking on the name of one of the Nubian Pharaohs. He changed his clothing to African attire, which I had to make for him, because there was no store or on line ordering for such clothing. He found that he could escape some of the rules about black limitations in this attire. Because people assumed he was not American. He enjoyed this greatly. When it was time for the second phase of this initiation, he could not return to Cuba because a revolution had happened. He then traveled to the village of Ife in Nigeria to complete his training. After several years, he became a Yoruba priest. He explained to me that the gods had two sides, a good and bad, that some of the gods were tricksters. He had altars for several gods in our house and a bloody cross on the inside door of our apartment. The cross represented the belief in the connection between the ancestors and the living with the horizontal representing life on this plane. Thus, the cross had a symbolic connection with the African slaves in their religious experience. In addition, he always had food for the dead on the floor in a New York City apartment, I don't believe that food was consumed by the dead, but it was eaten. I was terrified. There were blood sacrifices of birds, chickens, goats, and lamb, in my house. I told other people and they didn't believe me. They would say to me your father is just ahead of his time, or that my imagination was overly active. At one point, he was involved in a ceremony that involved cutting spots in his head and mixing his blood with the blood of others. I was convinced that this would kill him. It didn't, but it sent me running to the Roman church. I learned there that it was a sin to conjure up the evil spirits and I believed that my only protection was the power of God and the saints of the Catholic Church. I attended CCD alone. I spent hours in the church lighting candles and praying, I mostly prayed for safety. I was baptized when I was 15 years old, alone. Only my godmother and the priest were there. When my father finally found out what I had done he was totally outraged. He wanted to know how I could become a part of the oppressor: didn't I know that Catholics was purveyors of the slave trade. He believed that I had lost my mind. I believed that I was saving my soul.

While these events were occurring in my house, the outside world was also affecting me. When I graduated from 6th grade, I was notified that I would be attending a junior high school in upper Manhattan because of my grades and IQ score. This was in 1957. I was 12 and I was once again terrified. I had seen what was happening to the children in Little Rock and had no reason to believe it would be different for me in New York. There were streets in New York that you could be hurt on just because of your race.

I was so afraid, I asked my mother to come with me to school on the first day. She was afraid too, but would not admit it, because she believed she had to be there for me. My entrance into the school was uneventful, but I was never included in any social interactions. I was once told that I might have been invited to a party, but no one wanted me there. I learned to be with myself and to do my work. But I also learned to be quiet. I did my work and never shared unless called upon because my classmates were not happy with my ability. I even had a teacher who accused me of cheating on the Iowa Exams, when I had the highest score in the class. I simply asked her whom could I have cheater from. We never got along after that and my grades in English were always lower than my grades in Spanish, a language I have not mastered to this day.

Needless to say my faith has been shaken and stirred, so James Bond, I am not. Shaken came first, John Kennedy was assignated, it was the first Sunday that I did not go to Mass since my conversion. My father and I sat together glued to the television. When God did not reach his or her hand out of heaven and destroy me, I realized that I would not die if I didn't go to church.

A man I adored was killed, my heart was broken, I was angry with God. At a time of such hope, there was national despair. I could not believe that weekend. Two years later, I man I had quiet respect for was the next assignation: Malcolm X. He was a soft-spoken man who adored his wife and four daughters. His intelligence and charisma brought him to a place he never expected to be. He was a child of limited resources and hope. He visited our home on several occasions because my father was involved in the Black Nationalist movement so that they developed a relationship based on shared beliefs. His fiery public rhetoric stood in stark distinction to his private life. His ability to see that his situation was a result of circumstances was his strength. He was able to express the dark side of Martin Luther King's hopefulness. Martin was a man who came from circumstances that were hope filled. Martin was entrenched in the black middle class. Malcolm was entrenched in the black underclass. These men saw the world differently and while both were deeply religious, their needs and sense of society were diametrically opposed. I never met Martin. I simply loved him as I did JFK. There was such principle, hope and conviction that life could be better

Malcolm did not share a belief that life in America could be improved without a revolution. Malcolm was clearly bright but understood a piece of American life that is often missing among the middle class. Martin understood this, and wrote an essay to social scientists saying that while he understood the morays of the South and that a non-violent movement was the most powerful tool for that area, the cities were different and he did not know what tools would be appropriate. He called upon the social scientists of the time, to teach and to help with the ways in which cities were responding to the civil rights movement. He did not want to see riots but he couldn't find a tool that would be responded to in the cities.

Malcolm believed a revolution was necessary. This is not such an unusual thought; Thomas Jefferson thought there should be a revolution in every generation. Martin appealed to the educated, those people who were ready to move into an integrated society. Malcolm appealed to those people who were not going to be released from the barriers of discrimination. His rhetoric was extreme, but it resonated with black people who felt defeated and hopeless. Martin's rhetoric resonated with blacks who just needed to be unshackled. Around 1964, Malcolm X did what Muslims are supposed to do. He made the Hodge, the visit to the Holy City of Mecca. It is here that he met Muslims from all over the world. People dressed in the same garments, there was no way to determine who was rich or poor, but he saw people of many ethnicities. He came back to the United States feeling a need to express his new understanding that much of the problem in the U.S. is economic discrimination. He became Islamic in a broader sense of the word and was no longer limited to beliefs of the American Nation of Islam, which may or may not be interpreted as a cult. His awareness that some people were held in poverty and that the political system needed to address this. He saw the problem as one that exceeded race. He spoke of all people deprived of the American dream. His ideas became inclusive; he understood that many groups in America were deprived of the chance to achieve. This awareness resulted in his alienation from the Nation of Islam and ultimately resulted in his assignation. He was aware that he was in danger. I knew him as a father who adored his daughters and loved his wife. His ideas changed over time, but I believe that Martin needed Malcolm. The two standing in apparent opposition allowed people to choose a civil rights activist they could trust and follow. Martin had appeal to blacks and whites because he acknowledged the need for the humanity of all people to be recognized. He did this from a deep belief in Christianity, a conviction that most of us could relate to.

His non- violence in the light of the violence we saw on TV raised our commitment to the civil rights movement. He was the right man for the majority. Malcolm was the right man for the minority.

In 1965-66 Martin Luther King began to speak about poor people, he began to speak about the Viet Nam War and to talk about discrimination of black, brown, red and yellow people in this country and in the world. He planned a Washington, D.C. Resurrection City after the Memphis garbage man strike. This would move Martin from a black civil right leader to a leader of oppressed people. Just as Malcolm had come to the awareness that poverty is a major problem for Americans and for all people all over the world; Martin also began articulating the same belief. When he spoke about this with the plan for all people to come to Resurrection City on the great lawn between the Jefferson and Washington Memorials, he was killed. He was killed in 1968. While I know I can be a conspiracy believer, it is striking to me, how these two giants of the civil rights movement were killed at the same point in their thinking. The recognition that there is a deep philosophical and economic basis for the maintenance of the status quo appears to me to have resulted in their deaths, my final shaking of hope and belief was the assignation of Robert Kennedy. I remember listening to the radio through the night, and saying to God, I know this is wrong but if someone had been killed let it be McCarthy, I wasn't really wishing him dead but was so overwhelmed by the loses in the public arena, I didn't think I could accept another one. At this point, I was so angry with God that I stayed away from any formal practice of religion for almost 20 years.

Then my faith was stirred, I had given birth to a boy who needed moral development, I know people believe that this can be done without church, but I still believe that Jesus is present when two or three are gathered in his name, which to me means a community. I was not concerned about his spiritual development because I know or believe that we are hard wired to seek God. I wanted him to have the comfort I had once enjoyed in the Roman church but I wanted him to have none of the craziness. I knew he could not be catholic, but I had been so nurtured by my local priests, the church was always open in those days, you could sit in safety and silence. There was time to be with God. While I am not always happy with his current practice of his religion, I trust his belief because I have seen it since early childhood.

I was at once afraid that I had left the one true church, until I saw the consecration of Bishop Barbara Harris. That experience helped me understand, that God is the base of the Church and humans do whatever they do but it does not change God. This stirring set me free.

Back to Malcolm and Martin, without them with their diametrically opposed approach to civil rights would anything have happened? The Northern States could have felt comfortable in their de facto segregation and the South would continue to feel justified in their de jure segregation. I have lived through both and have seen the value of both perspectives. One could not have existed without the other. The more frightening Malcolm, even though dramatically changed after the Hodge, was killed first. The other, Martin, entrenched in the black middle class, began to talk about economic deprivation in the richest country in the world was killed also. For me hope died and did not find resurrection until 1982. At that point, I was ready to return to an interactive relationship with God. I am not without fear and doubt, but belief helps me get through life's challenges. What I have learned from all of these experiences is that God is always present. And we must learn to listen to what God is trying to say to us. We cannot reject anyone because he or she may be the return of the Messiah. We must see God's presence in each and everyone we encounter, despite the difficulties we sometimes experience.

Amen.

January 6, 2008 • The Epiphany

Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Matthew 2:1-12

Good morning, and Happy New Year! Today, we celebrate Epiphany, the Christian celebration of God manifested or revealed to humanity; God, the divine, in the person of the blessed Baby Jesus; God living and dwelling as one of us. And, in addition, Epiphany is the day we recall the 3 Magi, or "wise men", who journeyed, following a star, to pay homage to and bear gifts for Jesus in the manger. And, in the Eastern Church, this is the day when they remember and reflect on the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River while still other churches reflect today on Christ's first miracle at the wedding feast in Cana.

With so many interesting and important threads stirred up during this season of Epiphany, it was difficult to decide what to preach about today. Still, I have to confess, for most of my 41 years in the Episcopal Church, I have witnessed an Epiphany Sunday demonstration by 3 congregants dressed up as the three kings, reenacting the parts of Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, but as I understand it, those 3 kings will arrive next Sunday here, bearing their symbolic gifts at the St. George's Family Service!

So my husband and I began to talk about why Epiphany is important, and what about Epiphany relates to us and to our lives today. And something interesting happened during this simple conversation. Rather than the three 'wise men' or that bright guiding star or Jesus' baptism in the Jordan River or Jesus' first miracle jumping to the forefront of my mind, instead, King Herod, the threatening and menacing figure from our Gospel reading today, leapt off the page and came to life for me.

King Herod, in this story from Matthew, is clearly undone by the strange appearance of a previously unidentified star and by the wise men looking for a new "king of the Jews." In fact, the Gospel tells us that King Herod was not the only one who was "frightened" by this news. But "all of Jerusalem with him" were afraid (2:3). Obviously, King Herod was feeling very much like an outsider, someone shut out, like a person not invited to a party. And so, he reacts, calling together his closest allies, the "chief priests and scribes of the people" (2:4) as well as consulting the 'wise men' themselves, and he asks them to let him in on their secret.

Now King Herod, also known as Herod the Great, was a powerful man. He was responsible for rebuilding the second Temple in Jerusalem, but also was well known for his excessive brutality in Judea. What was it that King Herod was clinging to, that caused him to fear the news of Jesus' birth so violently? Could a little baby, born in obscurity to apolitical parents, lying in a manger in Bethlehem mean that King Herod could not or would not be able to carry on with life as usual, maintaining his kingly life of luxury and preserving his dominance in power? King Herod was clinging tightly to his grip on power as we see thru Matthew's description of his efforts to trick the Magi into revealing Jesus' whereabouts.

Herod's desperation in this Gospel story brought to mind a mental image of a story I once read by the Catholic theologian, Henri Nouwen. It is the image of the "Clenched Fist." Nouwen tells a story of an elderly woman, who when brought to a psychiatric center, was wildly swinging at everything in sight. Her vigor and energy frightened everyone so much that, for her own safety, the doctors felt that they had to take everything away from her. But, in her hand she clutched one small coin which she gripped in her fist and refused to give up. In fact, it took two people to pry open her tightly clenched hand. It was as though she would lose her very self along with that coin. If they deprived her of that one last possession, she would have nothing more and she would be nothing more. At least, that was her fear.¹

Similarly, King Herod was also clinging to his fears, to his greediness, to his control, clutching his "coin" of power.

And in the same way, whether we chose to acknowledge it or not, we cling ever so tightly to our own fears, our own jealousies, our own bitterness. Perhaps you were slighted at some point, disrespected or mistreated. Perhaps your hard work was not acknowledged properly, or worse, attributed to some one else. Perhaps someone seemingly less talented and productive than you received a promotion that you thought should be yours. We cling to these feelings, even though sometimes they are many years old, clutching them as if they give us life.

As Nouwen writes, we say to ourselves and excuse ourselves, this is just how I am, it's me, because it's life as we know it. We justify clinging onto these disappointments and pains, because it's what we know, whether we like it or not, whether it's healthy or not, whether it's painful or not, even when it creates a giant-sized barrier which inhibits us from worshipping the baby Jesus or, even when it hinders our experience of the risen Christ.

All of us here have experiences such as these, although hopefully and certainly not to the same degree as King Herod! But good news is found today in our Epistle reading from Ephesians. It's no coincidence that today's Epistle assures us that all of humankind, Gentiles as well as Jews, are invited to experience and dwell in the "boundless riches of Christ." (Ephesians 3:8) The shimmering star over Bethlehem, the star which calls us all to Jesus, Emmanuel - God with us � is the star that beckons all of us to be insiders. It's so easy to think about Epiphany and focus only on what we, as God's beloved, receive. But it's more than that. First, Epiphany is about what we are able to let go of. We are invited to open our clenched fists, to lay our jealousies, our bitterness, our anger, even our fears at the feet of Christ. Just like the woman in the psychiatric hospital, who had to let go in order to receive beneficial treatment and help from her doctors, we, too, have to open our hands fully in order to receive a gift. The symbolic posture of opening up our hands in order to receive a gift, allows us to be ready for, experience, and receive the freedom and joy that Christ offers us, "the boldness and confidence through faith in Christ." (Ephesians 3) All of us.

The Gospel lessons for the next few Sundays give us a hint, or a glimpse, of what Jesus' wonderful and powerful works are; of the gifts that Christ offers us to place in our unclenched hands. Not to steal Bernie's thunder for the weeks ahead, but we'll hear about how Jesus, anointed at baptism, "went about doing good and healing" (Acts 10:38), teaching, calling disciples, "proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people (Matthew 4:23)." All of this is available to us today as well � being healed, being called as Christ's disciples.

So let us celebrate God incarnate in this season of Epiphany, keeping in mind the words of the angels who proclaimed his presence, "Do not be afraid!" Don't be afraid, like King Herod and the rest of Jerusalem, do not be afraid of a loving God who desires nothing more than to enter your most intimate space and invites you to let go of whatever it is you cling to so anxiously. Do not be afraid of a God who transcends our human realities. We are all invited guests, insiders on this Epiphany journey to meet Christ, but we must first open ourselves, our frustrations, our disappointments, our insecurities, "to the One who is love and only love."²

Amen.

Footnotes:
¹ www.beliefnet.com; 'First, Unclench Your Fists' by Henri Nouwen, 2006.
² Ibid.

December 9, 2007 • Second Sunday of Advent

Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Matthew 3:1-12

Today's Gospel reading introduces us to the very familiar biblical character of John the Baptist. We meet him every year in Advent, since all 4 Gospels unanimously proclaim John as the official herald to the Messiah, the prophet for whom the prophets foretold would "Prepare the way of the Lord."

But what does this edgy, rough-and-tumble prophet have to say to us today? What is his message for us here, at St. George's, thousands of years later and thousands of miles from the wilderness path about which he spoke? This question made me want to dig for more about John the Baptist, but it also led me to wonder what John the Baptist might look like here, in our context, today. So, imagine with me, if you will, that standing just outside these doors is John the Baptist. Let's go meet him.

John certainly doesn't look like us. He's rough around the edges, just as you might imagine an ascetic from the desert might look (and smell!), but just the same, he is the first bona fide, genuine voice of God that we've heard in years. Hordes of people can't help themselves but flock to him, and we are no exception. But it's kind of like coming upon the scene of an accident, some slow down and look, while others move out of the way. For the words he uses are beyond frank, in fact they're downright scary. Who talks like this today? Says things like "flee from the wrath to come" (3:7) which was in our Gospel reading today, and describes our beloved and tame 21^st century Jesus as holding a "winnowing fork" which will separate the wheat from the chaff to be burned "with unquenchable fire?" (7:12) John's words, appearance and smell make me, personally, want to walk a little faster, and not hang around for his message. I consider running to the other side of the street, in an attempt to avoid John's odd behavior and powerfully challenging words. But my curiosity plants my feet firmly in front of him.

Although John's method and message pose danger to him physically, the danger he knowingly faces doesn't seem to altar his message any. His message to us, on this day, is quite clear. He wants us to Repent. "Repent!" he yells, and we all take a step backward. I look around at all the other people, and act as if he were speaking to them, not me. It's hard to look at him, but harder yet, to listen to him. He's surprised at finding us today, so concerned with Christmas gifts, decorating and entertaining and this only serves as fuel for his repeated cries, "Repent!" As I begin to think about my own list-making, my gift-giving, and my entertaining priorities in this busy Advent season, I realize John's calls to repent are aimed at me. My Advent bears little resemblance to John's other cry, "bear fruit worthy of repentance." (3:8)

Some of the people respond, "But it's so easy to be swept up in this gift-giving and gift-receiving frenzy," while some other brave soul acknowledges our temptation to welcome only those whom affirm and love us to our holiday gatherings. Out loud, I wonder, "Perhaps we do have something to repent, but can't we participate in the secular Christmas and still find the Messiah?"

John continues on, undaunted by our skeptical tone and says, "You invite and welcome carefully chosen friends and family to your table this time of the year, but I wonder how many of you are aware of those who are hidden in the peripheries of pews here? Or equally important, have you considered those who are sporadic in their attendance here? Have you thought about who is not here at all, and why? These people, including the ones in your own families, who make you want to metaphorically "run to the other side of the street," are my fellow prophets who often have the most interesting stories to tell and are important voices to hear. They challenge your notions of harmony and peace the most, but also reveal to us a different face of God. Repent that you want to "run across the street." "Repent, and turn to face them," John the Baptist continues. "Your call this Advent is to be peacemakers of the Kingdom and open your hearts and lives to those who challenge you. It's just one more way to "Make the path straight" before being able to embrace our Messiah who comes soon!"

Finally, exasperated by our questioning looks, the Prophet lifts his hands high to the heavens, "We have Abraham as our ancestor (3:9), nothing is impossible for our God. Repent (3:2) - turn back to God, again and again, and again and again, because in order to greet Jesus on Christmas Day this year, you must first turn around and face the messiness in your lives; the messiness which is found in those whose faces are different, who ruffle our outer as well as our inner feathers. Only then can we find the Messiah who promises to baptize us with the Holy Spirit and with fire!

With that, John finishes his teaching, and turns to walk to the other side of the street, approaching those who really did cross over.

So ends our imaginary encounter with this rogue prophet. I understand his message because honestly, there's not much mystery to his words in this Gospel. But this doesn't make it any easier to hear or to follow John's message. And in case you're thinking that the only way we can encounter "John the Baptist" is through our imagination, think again, because, I bumped into my "own" John the Baptist just last month at Drew University. He (John) was a she, in the form of a classmate of mine in my Wednesday class this semester. This class always begins with a few minutes of sharing time. The Professor opens with the question, "how is it with your soul?" And one by one, my classmates share about their weeks, both spiritually and personally.

On one particular week, I was struggling with life at home and the weight of mothering my children with little to no respite help. The weight of my son's unclear future also added to my burden. After sharing this piece of my soul, a woman in the class pointed her finger at me and said, "the reason no one has come to your side to offer help is because of your judgmental nature." My jaw was on the ground. I was impaled, and I found no words for response. Her words haunted me for weeks. I cried because of them and then wrestled with them. I asked myself and others, "Who talks like this today?" "Who really says things like this?!"

Then a few weeks later, our professor opened class again, with the same question, "how is it with your soul?" This time, a different woman shared her present situation. She was confused and conflicted by her roots in the Baptist Church which damned her for questioning her sexual identity. She carefully described her pain, using the words from King David's lament in Psalm 31, "Be kind to me God - I'm in deep, deep trouble again. I've cried my eyes out; I feel hollow inside. My life leaks away, groan by groan; my years fade out in sighs. My troubles have worn me out." Her pain was palpable and her anguish real. Most of us in the room were speechless or simply prayed silently. But then, the same woman who had wagged her finger at me just a few weeks earlier began to speak. She spoke words of comfort and respect, and then said, "no matter what path you take, or whatever you decide, the truth is - God wants us to be free." Again, she repeated, "God wants you to be free!"

This was someone that, weeks before, I had been unable to look at, much less listen to, a person who had basically lumped me in with the Pharisees and Sadducees John described as the "brood of vipers" (3:7). But she was now speaking words of hope, promise and freedom. She was John the Baptist to me. I didn't want to look and I didn't want to listen. Although it was a painful realization, I realized I had judged and rejected well-meaning offers of help. And she spoke the truth.

Jesus' message at Christmas is, in fact, "you're free!" Sit with that today and in this season of Advent. You are free. Free from fear. Free from guilt. Free to love. But in order to find and celebrate this message, we must first face the prophets in our own lives who are like John the Baptist. These prophets make us uncomfortable, but when we listen to them, we are preparing the way of the Lord, and we will be ready to openly greet our Messiah at Christmas. Only then will we be able to live into and celebrate the freedom that Christ brings.

December 8, 2007 • Homily for the Ordination of Christian Carroll to the Priesthood

The Rev. Anne Bolles-Beaven

Numbers 11:16-17, 24-25
Philippians 4:4-9
John 6:35-38

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.... The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." May I speak in the name of the Living God. Amen.

We come here today in this season pregnant with transforming grace to make our request known to God. We come expectantly: to ask God to send down his Holy Spirit upon Chris and make her "a priest in Christ's holy catholic church." We come, just as Moses and the 70 elders came to the tent of meeting - that the Holy One might "talk to [us] here," might take some of the Spirit that God has given to those called to lead God's people in the past and put it on Chris. It is, as it was in the book of Numbers, a one-time event. It is, like baptism, unrepeatable, indelible, an eternal change.

People sometimes refer to ordination as being "set apart." We clergy find that somewhat flattering until we find out that "set apart" can quickly become "set aside." "A priest is not 'set apart,'" Dean Fenhagen of General Seminary used to tell us with some frequency, "but 'set within.' Priests only make sense 'within' a community of faith" - whose life they are called to nurture by Word and Sacrament and within whom they stand as icons of the sacred calling to sacrificial love and service to which the whole Body is called. (The Rev. Jim Fenhagen, paraphrased from conversations with him at GTS, 1985-1988, author of Mutual Ministry.) Ordained ministry is not 'set apart' from lay ministry but set alongside it in a relationship of mutual ministry - as the dean's book on the subject was later called. We're all in this together.

It is such a leap of faith what we do today - on your part, Chris, and on ours! We ordain you to be a minister of Word and Sacrament among us: Word in a world where words can so easily seem just words; Sacrament in a world of such suffering that water, a bit of bread, a sip of wine, the touch of a thumb in oil can seem small indeed. Still against all odds, with a certain disarming foolishness, we do what Christians have always done: taken certain people of our community, set them in the midst and called upon God to empower them to help midwife us into the full measure of the stature of Christ. We say to them: live out among us what we say we believe.

Beneath the surface of things we believe that God created us in love, by love, for love - that God is with us, for us, just as we are not as we might have been. We believe God is at work in our lives blessing, healing and transforming us - turning guilt into gratitude, fear into forgiveness, birthing joy from the wreckage of despair. We believe we have a mission in the world, that our lives serve a larger purpose, that we have a destiny beyond the merely personal having been knit together into the Body of the Risen Christ and filled with his Spirit and sent in his power.

We believe that there is more to life than meets the eye. But it is easy to forget that we believe that because what meets our eye is war in Iraq and Afghanistan and shootings in a mall in Omaha. What meets our eye is homelessness and hunger, racism, sexism, and bias against those who differ from us, politics fueled by expedience and self interest, blatant disregard and contempt for the least, the lost, the lonely and the left behind. We see all this but we believe something else. We hope something else and we need your help in remembering it.

Chris, please stand up. We're not ordaining you to run a church - though churches need running and some of those tasks you'll do. We're ordaining you because the community needs help in keeping its memory and its hope alive and you're it. You're the one God sent. "Tell me the old, old story of Jesus and his glory," the old hymn goes. "Tell me the old, old story of Jesus and his love." That is your vocation among us: to remind us of whom we are and whose we are, to keep us from veering off into lives of fantasy, futility or despair, to keep what we believe in our hearts, by the grace of God, before our eyes.

Be on the lookout for grace among us. Show us where you see green points poking up out of the ground - and do your best to keep us from stepping on them. Look for your story within THE story and help us to do the same. Help us to see ourselves as God sees us not perfect but "very good" - "and God looked at everything that God had made and lo it was very good." Encourage us. Challenge us. For goodness sake, do us all a favor and shake us out of our individualistic mindset - introduce us to the fact that we have some 20 centuries of company steeped in this same life giving scripture, seeking this same obedience to Christ, sustained by this same saving life giving bread and wine. We are never in this alone no matter how it may appear to any one of us from time to time. In a similar vein we rarely have a "lock" on the truth. Teach us how to tell one another the truth in love by telling us the truth in love and then do your best to listen when we try to tell you. We're all in this together. We all need help expanding our vision and turning our worries into prayers. In the words of The Message, "It's amazing what can happen when Christ replaces worry at the center of your life."

"Let your gentleness be made known to everyone" but don't let gentleness and humility be the bushel under which you hide your light. Let your light shine. Let your light shine before all people. Christianity has been shaped by such wonderfully arrogant men - like St. Paul and St. Augustine - that all of us are constantly on the lookout for the sin of pride. Women tend more toward the sin of self erasure. You are a curious and dedicated student; be an equally curious and dedicated teacher. Share what you do know and HAVE found because your job is to devote yourself with real intention to these things. There are other jobs - we will be doing many of them - but this is yours. We have much to learn from you: your palpable prayerfulness, your dependence on God, your relationship with Chris, your integration of contemplation and justice.

You've labored as a social worker - digging deep and getting dirty. Help us to put our hands and feet where our hearts and minds are. Help us to do more than talk a good game. Call us to service beyond self - to strive for justice and peace among all persons loving our neighbors as ourselves. Help us to embody hope - to one another and to the world. There will be days when we miss the mark and wander off the way and not want to hear it. There will be days when you will do the same and not want to speak it. Do it anyway. Baptize us, marry us, preach, preside and pray - in season and out of season when you feel inspired and when you do not. You are a priest: Carry us in your heart as Christ carries you. This is your ordination vow. This is your calling among us.

"Rejoice in the Lord always" and thank God for the self evident charisms with which God has equipped you for the work of this ministry - three master's degrees, in social work, psychology and divinity - all of which will prove useful for it has been wisely observed whenever two or three are gathered together there will be problems. Thank God for your pastoral abilities - healing and profound and desperately needed. Thank God for all that has taught you to be aware of the dark and unafraid to sit in it. It is a gift that will cause many to rejoice and deeply, especially if, as I hope you will, you offer yourself as a spiritual director.

"Finally, Beloved" Chris, though there will be many temptations to do otherwise, resist the demons of negativity that seek to pull us down and away. "Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence - any at all! - if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me" - keep on offering yourself to God, keep on consecrating your life to Christ, day after day after day - "and the God of peace will be with you." "The Lord is near" - loving and upholding you now and always.

Remember in whose strength you go.
In Christ's name we wish you joy.

October 28, 2007 • "Reversal of Mission"

Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

Good morning. Let me take a minute of your time, and for those of you whom I have not met yet, my name is Mary Davis, and I am a second year theological intern at Drew University in Madison, and on the path toward ordination here in this Diocese. I am spending this year with you here at St. George's as part of my "Field Work" experience, and part of this experience is, of course, preaching.

Today's parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector is a story told only in the Gospel of Luke. This story, along with many of the other stories or parables we've heard from Luke this fall, highlights a theme of "divine reversal" which, if we are not careful to look closely and intentionally at it, it is capable of seeming unreasonable to us.

For the Pharisees were the holy men of their age, and this particular Pharisee presented today in Jesus' parable, was one who had gone beyond the expectation of the law, was adhering to the code of purity, and then some. He was not only fasting once a week as the law required, but twice. And even better, (and I'm not just making a plug here because it's Stewardship season) he tithed on "all" of his income, going yet again, beyond what the law required.

Then, on the other hand, as you well know, Jesus compares this 'holy' Pharisee to the tax collector. His hated status in Jewish society is well known, since here was a Jew, who was a traitor, at best, by working for the Roman government, and at worst, more like a human parasite, feeding off of his fellow Jews.

Clearly, this is one of those stories, and Luke is famous for this, which presents for us a "radical reversal." Our sensibilities and sense of justice are challenged by the notion that the supposed 'holy man' here, the Pharisee, is not rewarded, while the sinful and parasitic tax collector is in fact exalted. "For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted," says Jesus.

I chewed on this lesson for quite some time, repelled by the Pharisee's self-righteous prayer, yet caught myself, thankful, that I was not like the Pharisee! Interesting, hum? Yet this was not the first time I've caught myself thinking like that. Because, for those of you who don't know me yet, I have three children, three boys in fact, and these boys manage to continually humble me and my assumptions and highlight my own inner "Pharisee."

My oldest child, Ryan, who is now 15, suffers from the developmental disability called Asperger's Syndrome. It's on the Autistic Spectrum, and severely limits his ability to negotiate this social world in which we live. So it's easy for me, and certainly for others in our world, to judge his inadequacies, his shortcomings, and his single minded focus at times. And yet, if this wasn't bad enough (and I'm being slightly facetious here), perhaps the worst thing about his disorder is that he is totally enamored by Japanese Cartoons. You know the type - Yugioh, Pokemon, Digimon, Dragonball Z. If you haven't seen or heard of these cartoons, they are our imported animated figures from Japan, whose eyes are drawn much larger than our American-made cartoon figures, and when their mouths move, it is not in sync with our English words, because originally, Japanese words were scripted. These cartoons are the bane of my existence. Partially, because they are an almost constant source of background drama and noise in our house, but also because I have visions of my son as a 30-year-old, lying on my couch incessantly watching them. But just as I laid out my judgments, looking down upon my son's recreation of choice, one day, he sat up from his cartoon stupor and told me, "You know mom, this cartoon "Twitches" (which is a Japanese cartoon found on the Disney Channel about twin witches separated at birth) is a lot like Jesus and God." Intrigued, the Pharisee, I mean, the dutiful theological student and mother lifted her head from the dishes in the sink . . . "how so," I asked? He said to me, "Yeah, they are the forces that fight the darkness and evil that have filled the world and they want, more than anything else, to bring light to the world."

Now that's humility � there I was with my grand theological thoughts, my judgments, my self-righteous efforts, and all of them were rightfully squashed by my developmentally disabled teenager's insights in to darkness and light. His humble revelation about Jesus' mission to bring Light to the World was not an assessment of me, but rather, a simple statement that pulled me out of my rut of judgment, and allowed me to find the spark of God's grace within Ryan, and at the end of this day, Ryan's Japanese cartoons brought the light of Christ to me.

Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest and author, whose work has spoken to me in many ways, wrote about this divine reversal. He called it the "reverse mission." And this is exactly what this parable in Luke shows us. Nouwen writes, "I have become aware that wherever God's Spirit is present, there is a reverse mission. . . [and] this reversal is a sign of God's spirit. The poor have a mission to the rich, the handicapped have a mission to the able-bodied, the dying have a mission to the living. Jesus shows us that the victims become our evangelists, calling us to conversion." And in that conversion, we humbly become aware that all of our efforts at learning - about ourselves, about others and about God - all of our efforts to do the right thing, and all of our attempts to fix our world, all of them mean nothing without God, without the humble admission that God's life and breath dwell in everyone.

There is another layer of "divine reversal" in this parable which causes me to sit up and take notice, especially during this Stewardship season, and again, it's the Pharisee. Because the title "Pharisee" is derived from the Hebrew verb, "to separate," which is exactly what the Pharisee had done. His prayers and actions, though beyond the code of purity and certainly beyond expectation, were done alone. The gospel reads, "The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus . . . ." And I think that the other piece to this divine reversal draws us to one another, instead of away from each other. We all matter. All of our stories and practices of faith, God's working in our lives, are all part of telling a story of something that can't really be told because it's something that defies explanation, something that exceeds our comprehension. And yet, telling and sharing the story of our lives in Christ, here in this church, in this year, and as this congregation, is exactly what we are called to do.

Some of you might have heard this story before, but it comes to me from a book by Charles Foster, and he took it from one of Elie Wiesel's writings. But it's a story of a Great Rabbi, who whenever he saw misfortune approaching his community, followed the custom of going deep into the heart of the forest, and there he would ask God to save his people. He would go to a sacred place, and he would light a sacred fire, and he would say a special sacred prayer. And sure enough the disaster would be averted.

Well, this great rabbi died at an old age, and he was succeeded by his disciple, who was also a good and holy rabbi, but he did not learn all there was to know from his teacher, and when disaster would approach he would go to the same place in the forest, for he knew the place, and he would light the same sacred fire, for his knew how to make the fire, but he had forgotten the prayer. And so he would just remember that there was a prayer, and that would be enough. Disaster would be averted.

When he died and was succeeded by his disciple, again, the same pattern would play out. Only now, when disaster would approach the village, the disciple would go to the sacred spot in the forest, for he knew where that place was, but he hadn't learned how to light the sacred fire, and he didn't know the sacred prayer. And so he went to the place, and said, "Oh God, I'm here in this place, and I do not know how to light the fire, and I do not know the sacred prayer, but that must be enough." And it was.

And he lived to an old age and was succeeded by his disciple, yet another generation. By this time, the sacred place in the forest was lost. So when disaster approached the village, this rabbi knelt in his home, and said, "Oh Lord, God, I do not know the place in the forest, I do not know how to light the sacred fire, and I do not know the sacred prayer, but I know the story and that must be enough." And it was.

These Rabbis didn't pray for their communities and leave. And they didn't just talk about the "good old days" and revel in the past. Instead, they prayed, lighting the sacred fire and finding a sacred place, and then returned to community to embrace the future and teach the next generation. It's so important for all us to remember the story of a living God acting in our midst, but even more important, to live that story now, in community, and incorporate the generations to come into our story with God. Again, we all matter.

Our stories do not live and move in separateness, like the Pharisee. Our connectedness to generations before us � generations of 'tax collectors' and generations of 'pharisees' � allows us all, by the Grace of God, to embrace one another as community. By turning over and over and over and over again, returning time and time again to God, our story becomes one of humility, one which recognizes and values the breath of God that was given to all of us. That holy breath created a story of community, a place where our traditions, both old and new, are shared together - with each other, with God, and with the saints that traveled here before us.

This is true stewardship: offering ourselves and our treasures up to God, by humbly stepping out of the way of our own righteousness, so that all of our stories of faith may be used for God's work in this church, this community, and in the world today.

September 23, 2007 • "The Stewardship of Time and Talent"

Chris West, Stewardship Co-Chair

The Stewardship of Time and Talent. That is the theme of today's Ministry Fair. Time and Talent. Seems pretty simple. Not always easy - but simple. A bit of time given here and there. A sharing of talent - of personal gifts - well - maybe that seems a bit more complicated.

Still - it is a new year - not liturgical, not by the calendar. This month we return to Sunday School and regular worship hours and the choir singing and Dinners For Eight and a host of other activities that mark this time.

And we return to Stewardship - that calling out to consider both the new and the renewal of our commitment to share with St. George's (and therefore with each other and the greater church and the larger community) our treasure, our time and our talent.

I'm not going to talk about the treasure part this morning. The Stewardship Committee wanted very much to give full voice and visibility to the other aspects of Stewardship. So today - our Time and Talent Fair.

I want to shift a bit now - to today's Gospel lesson. The one where the writer of Luke almost seems to be telling a story where Jesus is telling his disciples - be smart: be shrewd like the "children of this age" not the "children of light".

A story where a manager is doing a poor job for his boss - and when he gets found out - he decides to add cheating to wastefulness. In his fear as well as his disdain for working or begging - he comes up with the idea that he'll just help everyone that owes his boss money and thereby ingratiate himself with them. And the boss - he seems to think this is fine - because the manager "had acted shrewdly".

At the end of the telling of this story - Jesus says "make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes."

The whole thing makes no sense. A boss who's angry with an incompetent employee and then thinks he's great because he cheats him. And - even more confusing - Jesus talking about being shrewd and being dishonest, like that's a good thing.

But the final sentences - the summing up of the story if you will - are very clear.

Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful in much - and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much. No one can serve two masters - we will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. We cannot serve God and wealth.

Our faithfulness - our keeping our part of the covenant - in little things and big things - is required. And we cannot give short shrift to the small stuff - because when we do - we give the big stuff short shrift as well.

This is what happens when we are not whole and complete. Or maybe it causes that fragmentation. I'm never sure which comes first.

But the splitting of our selves and the battle that can rage between our yearning towards the God of our understanding and the world's demands - can be overwhelming sometimes. A lot of times.

A favorite of my remembered biblical stories is only one of my favorites because as a child I completely misunderstood it.

It is the parable of the talents. And it goes (the quick version) like this: A man going on a long journey leaves his goods with his servants. Now in the bible - the goods are talents - an amount of money, which somewhere or other I read, is the equal of about a thousand dollars today.

Two of the servants invest the talents and double them. When the man returns, he's happy. But the third servant - afraid to lose the talents - has buried them for safekeeping and the man - pretty upset at not having the talents increase - is very angry. This is one of those stories that end in weeping and teeth gnashing.

The thing is - I didn't know the talents were money when I first heard this story. I just thought they were talents - like singing or dancing or playing the harmonica. So I thought the point was - don't bury your talents. I may have also confused this with not hiding your light under a bushel.

Anyway - you get my point, I hope. More about this later.

Christian and I were on vacation recently in Maine - we did a bit of research before leaving about what there was to do and where we wanted to go. But when we arrived we found the most amazing Tourist Information Center. It was amazing because it was filled with everything you would need to know about Maine ... and it was organized in a way that satisfied even my obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

We went there three separate times - to browse, to get ideas, to be sure we hadn't missed anything - and to revel in the numbers of activities, places, events, restaurants, galleries, nature walks, scenic drives open to us. And everyone else there was doing the same thing. Wandering through this large room - ducking in and out between aisles of shelves. We were part of this small community of sojourners. It was great.

As the weeks leading to today's Fair galloped along, I kept thinking about the Center. And in this last week - when even more parishioners suddenly seemed to jump on the idea of hosting a table - I thought about it some more.

Because when you go down stairs after the service and wander around our very beautiful Parish Hall - you'll have this whole host of opportunities in front of you.

Please don't think of them as duties to be fulfilled - or obligations to be met. Pretend you are going into the Center in Maine the way Chris and I did. And see the smorgasbord of all these things to do and let your appetite be whet. We are entering this hall together - surveying this smorgasbord as yet another community of sojourners.

There are opportunities for fellowship, chances to un-bury talents and let them increase, occasions for grace when our commitment to our life of faith overcomes the calls of a world in which faith, grace and fellowship seem unsupported.

And today you get a One-Day Dispensation from the sin of Pride - (see your bulletin). Good today and today only! Because we want you to be bold, to brag, to pop your jerseys, to let both your big talents and your small skills get put to good use.

Now why do I say 'put to good use'? That's a bit presumptuous I guess.

So let me tell you how it is I really came to be standing here this morning - speaking to you. I have been a member of St. George's for about 12 years I think. I've done a few things here in that time - but the one that has brought me the most joy is teaching Sunday School - 4th, 5th or 6th graders depending on the year. I've done that most of the years I've been here.

I don't think I'm that good at it. But I love it. And I love the children who have been in my class.

I watch with anticipation all the even younger ones - and I start thinking about how eventually I'll get them in my class. So each year when I consider how maybe I'll ask Jane Cates for a year off, I think of someone I've been waiting to see in my class and I postpone for another year that brief sabbatical.

Let me reassure you - this ministry is not without its frustrations. Aside from my own insecurity, there is of course the occasional Sunday morning when I'm certain no one is listening - no one cares - the whole group is out of control and I'm just about to bust.

Following one such Sunday - as I was shepherding the little lambs to the church (there's an irony to our joining you all at the Peace) a few of the children made a stop at the water cooler.

This is pretty routine with them. I slipped into my normal pose and tone of voice when this happens and shushed them along - reminding them "Come on - we're going to church now."

And then something happened. I felt this great sense of calm - of certainty - and I had a waking up moment. I thought - this is their church. They know this place. They know every nook and cranny - from the stage to the altar to the cloister garden to the playground to the kitchen. They've crawled and run and walked over every surface. They feel comfortable here - this is a place they know. The faces are familiar - some grownups even know their names (though I wish there were more of them).

And someday - 20 or 30 years from now, they may be sitting in a newcomers' meeting at a rectory telling people about the church they went to as children. And that will be this place. This church. St. George's will be the church of their memory. It will be the place they remember and even if they don't know that now, it is true.

We create - in our covenant with God and with each other - this memory. It is the work we do here, the worship we pray and sing here, the ministries we embrace and engage in and are engaged by, the place from which we reach out and the place in which we may turn inward, the place we meet the comfort we find in each other with the strength we find in ourselves, the place we try to name the un-nameable.

It is the place of our memory - which we carry with us all through the week if only we will stop to hear, and look, and remember it.

There is ample opportunity today for us to continue - or to embark upon - this memory-creation.

When you walk downstairs look for Joy. Be bold. Take chances. Over-reach. Build a memory - for yourself, for our children, for each other.

Let us pray -

Lord, guide us to be faithful in a little so that we may be faithful in much, show us the way to wholeness and completeness, remind us of our many talents, relieve us of our fears of the finiteness of time, and guide us to continue to create and re-create this church in which we give you thanks and praise. Amen.

April 29, 2007 • "Sheep and Shepherds"

Tom Murphy, Seminarian Intern

It's hard to believe that it's the Fourth Sunday of Easter already. It was a wonderful Easter celebration here at St. George's. I missed Maundy Thursday, but Good Friday was a powerful service and it was an amazing experience to enter the darkened church for the Easter Vigil. On Easter Sunday morning, I think the family service was my favorite with a very convincing Roman centurion outside telling all of us there was nothing to see here -- and then letting us in on some surprising information -- the tomb of Jesus of Nazareth was empty. And don't get me started on the release of the "Alleluia Bugs"! It was a wonderful, joyous time.

But then the weeks roll by and pretty quickly things get back to normal -- the usual challenges, messes and small joys of life. And even in church, although it's still the Easter season we can easily shift into cruise control and not pay much attention to what's happening week after week. And so it would be very easy for us to roll past Good Shepherd Sunday and not give it a second thought.

What we celebrate today is profound, beautiful and challenging. Jesus is both sheep and shepherd. And so are we. We are both sheep and shepherd.

I have to admit that much of the shepherd/sheep imagery in the Bible is a real problem for me. First of all, I find it difficult to relate. Having lived in the city my whole life, my encounters with sheep have been few and far between -- maybe just a couple of trips to the Turtle Back Zoo when I was a kid. Cats, squirrels, and pigeons I know -- sheep not so much. And I'm pretty sure I've never seen a shepherd in person.

Second, from the little I do know, sheep are inoffensive but not the brightest of animals in God's creation. Somehow, it seems a little insulting to be compared to a sheep. Just the other night I was flipping through the channels and came across a documentary about dogs. Part of the show focused on sheepdogs in England who have learned dozens of commands whistled by the shepherd. These clever dogs are able to move and corral the seemingly mindless sheep without a bit of trouble.

But, the sheep/shepherd imagery pops up throughout the Bible and is found all over Christianity. Obviously, it lives on in bishops' staffs and the title "pastor." Over at General Seminary for the past three years I have sat in the Chapel of the Good Shepherd and looked at the statue of Jesus the Good Shepherd which stands just behind the altar. In the statue, Jesus looks down lovingly at the little lamb that he holds in his arms. I've tried to warm up to the image, but even after three years it still seems too saccharine for my tastes. I don't like to think of myself as a little lamb or a dumb sheep.

So what's a seminarian to do? What's a Christian to do? Well, if like me, you struggle with the sheep image today's lessons powerfully show us that there's nothing saccharine about it. The author of Revelation writes "For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd." If we're not paying attention, it's easy to miss what's being said here. Jesus is both sheep and shepherd. Jesus gives his life on the cross and Jesus leads us into eternal life. Jesus is both sheep and shepherd. And the truth is, whether we like it or not, we're sheep all right -- but we are also called to be shepherds.

In last Sunday's gospel lesson we heard, "Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep."

And now today's reading from the Acts of the Apostles is sort of a sequel to last week's gospel lesson. Acts records a very powerful, miraculous way that Peter took up the work of feeding Jesus' sheep -- the raising of the disciple Tabitha from the dead. Peter has been a sheep, all right. We've seen Peter have trouble understanding Jesus' message. Most painfully, we've seen Peter abandon the Lord and deny him three times. And yet, Jesus the Good Shepherd never gives up on Peter, despite his stumbling and despite his failures. Finally, although Peter will indeed remain a sheep all his life, yet he is also called to be a shepherd. And the same is true for us -- you and I are both sheep and shepherds.

It is our arrogance that leads us to deny our sheep-like quality. Too often we like to think we're smarter than we are. We like to think that we've pretty much got everything figured out. Some of that fades as we mature -- but not all of it. Especially in our own time when science continues to push the boundaries of our knowledge, it's all too easy to fall into the arrogant trap of thinking we've pretty much got everything figured out -- that we're in charge. I would guess that sheep don't much consider that there is a big world beyond their own pasture -- to them they know all that's really worth knowing. They've got it all figured out. I suspect we're not so different- although we should be. This arrogance and sinfulness usually leads to at least embarrassment and at worst disaster.

I'm reminded of how in the 19th Century supposedly there was a proposal to close up the US Patent Office because, well, pretty much everything had been invented. That kind of arrogance and short-sightedness is just funny now, but as we think about our own lives how many times has our own arrogance led us to embarrassment or led us to hurt others and ultimately hurt ourselves? The ancient Greek philosophers and writers understood this very well when they described how hubris -- excessive pride -- led to the downfall of so many.

But it's not just the idea that we've figured everything out -- many of us also suffer under the illusion of control. If you've been around a while you've probably learned that actually we have very little control, but we still seem to forget. Quite a few times I've visited people in the hospital who express great anger and shock that they have lost so much control of their lives. But really they've just been forced to recognize what's been true all along.

For me the road to ordination has been a vivid example of a lack of control. Step by step Chris Carroll, myself, all of us in the ordination process, have been at the mercy of others who say yes or no about our futures. No control, not always fun, often stressful, but a good lesson to remember. We sheep are not in control.

But, fellow sheep, the good news this morning is that the Lord is our shepherd. The 23rd Psalm -- which has comforted so many -- affirms that God is with us in our distress. God is with in the times that our stupidity and arrogance get us into trouble. God's rod and staff comfort us. The Good Shepherd's goodness and mercy shall follow us all the days of our lives. So maybe it's not so bad to be a sheep after all!

But, we are not just sheep. We are also called to be shepherds. Peter was commanded by Jesus to feed and tend the sheep, and so too we are expected to feed and look after one another. In the Episcopal Church this is actually fairly easy to remember because we have become so centered in baptism and the Baptismal Covenant. During a baptism everyone assembled promises to support the newly baptized in their life in Christ. We promise to be shepherds.

In the Baptismal Covenant we promise to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ. We promise to seek and serve God in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves. We promise to strive for justice sand peace among all people and to respect the dignity of every human being. We promise to be shepherds.

In our baptism we -- lowly sheep that we are -- are called to be shepherds. All of us -- not just bishops with their staffs -- not just people with the title pastor -- all of us sheep are also called to be shepherds. We are all called to take part in the work of Jesus Christ in the world. We are called to tend our fellow sheep. It is a daunting task, but we know that the Good Shepherd, the One Shepherd of All, is guiding our work and walking with us all the days of our life.

As this sheep gets ready to move on to a new, yet-to-be-known pasture, I've been reflecting on my too brief time here at St. George's. I've been in an interesting position of being part of the community -- you've been wonderfully welcoming -- but also still something of an outsider. And so maybe I can see you a little more clearly than you can see yourselves.

I have seen wonderful sheep-shepherds all over this church. One of the reasons I came here was to get a sense of suburban life. I could go on about all the things I've observed and learned in these past few months but most of all I've been impressed by your diversity -- in all sorts of ways. But, considering the disagreements that are causing so much pain in the Episcopal Church, I have been deeply moved and comforted by the bonds of care between straight and gay people here. Sexual orientation seems to make little difference -- the people of St. George's are all sheep-shepherds trying to serve God and take care of one another. The genuine care for one another in this place has been a joy and inspiration to experience. I am very grateful.

So on this joyous Fourth Sunday of Easter let us all pray that we open ourselves to the saving truth that we are all sheep cared for and loved by the Good Shepherd. And let us pray that we will open ourselves to the truth that we are all shepherds called to care and love one another.

Amen.

April 6, 2007 • Good Friday

Tom Murphy, Seminarian Intern

Over the past week a few people from our diocese have been exchanging emails on the topic of salvation. It's been a very interesting conversation. The discussion really boils down to the question, how exactly are we saved? How does Jesus save us? A very appropriate topic for Holy Week! I've been following the emails back and forth and thinking about the question.

In the discussion, some people have supported the traditional understanding that God requires Jesus to pay for our sins on the Cross. Since we could never redeem ourselves, God sent his only Son to substitute for us, to take on our sin. In other words, Jesus was a blood sacrifice -- the Lamb of God -- that sets things right between God and us. Jesus pays our debt to God and we are saved.

Others reject that explanation, saying it turns God into a bloodthirsty monster, willing to brutally sacrifice his own innocent Son. Instead, they suggest that we are saved by the example of Jesus' life. They argue that in Jesus we see who we are supposed to be and how we are supposed to live. Jesus lived his life in loving self-giving and so we are made, we are called, to be like Jesus.

As I've thought and prayed about this I've decided that neither description of our salvation is satisfactory. It is wrong to select one moment or one element of Jesus' life as the cause of our salvation. We are saved by Jesus -- we are saved by God becoming fully present in Jesus -- we are saved by the entire sweep of Jesus' life -- from the manger in Bethlehem to the Cross on Calvary to the empty tomb on Easter morning. We are saved by this life of perfect love, this life of perfect self-giving, this perfect sacrifice for the whole world.

And in our church we are blessed indeed to have liturgies that reflect the indivisible mystery that is Jesus Christ. Over these three holy days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter we live into the truth that there is no separation between death and resurrection. There is no separation between suffering and salvation. From the washing of the apostles' feet on Maundy Thursday to the empty tomb on Easter morning we celebrate the one great act of love that is Jesus Christ. The love of God poured out for the world in Jesus Christ. We are saved.

The earliest church understood this indivisible mystery so they celebrated Christ's life, death and resurrection all at once. Although a nightmare for the Altar Guild, there's something to be said for that, because the danger for us is that we skip over the suffering. The danger is that we skip over the suffering and move right on to salvation. And that's why we have Good Friday. That's why we're here today.

We gather not to get ourselves worked up over the suffering of one man who lived two-thousand years ago, especially if we're not worked up by the many thousands of people suffering in even worse ways right now. No, we gather today and remember the death of Jesus on the Cross because the Cross is the end result of loving service to the world. The Cross is part of the great sweep of Christ's life. The Cross is part of the great act of love that is Jesus Christ. Jesus -- and we -- can't separate suffering from salvation. And so even though we know how the story ends, we must not skip over the suffering.

I have to admit that in the past I have been impatient with Good Friday. I remember my first Good Friday at the seminary when it came time for the veneration of the cross. I hadn't seen that done before, and I thought it was a little� excessive. The service was long already and one by one seminarians and faculty knelt before the cross, heads bowed in prayer. I remember thinking this is a bit much -- can't we move it along a little? I have to get back to Jersey City! And, let's stop pretending. After all, we know that this story has a happy ending!

Last year, though, I had no choice but to stop and venerate the cross. I had no choice but to reflect in a tangible way on Christ's suffering. Some of you know that each year the churches along Broad Street in downtown Newark participate in a Good Friday walk. The crowd stops in each church where a member of the clergy gives a homily on one of the seven last words. The walk begins at my former field placement parish, House of Prayer.

Anyway, last year I just barely got from the seminary to House of Prayer on time. I was wet from the rain. I had had enough of Good Friday and was ready to move on to Easter. After all, we know how the story ends. Just as the service was beginning someone leaned over and told me that I was going to carry the cross from House of Prayer to the next church a few blocks away. No one had warned me. I hadn't had a chance to lift the cross. How heavy was it anyway? Was there a certain way I was supposed to carry it? I looked at the Stations of the Cross on the wall of the church and saw how the artist depicted Jesus carrying the cross over his shoulder and I thought, well, that's what I'll do too.

The time came and I led the congregation out of House of Prayer and onto Broad Street. The cross was heavy enough that I could feel its weight on my shoulder. I could feel its rough texture on my hands. As I made my way through the drizzle and down Broad Street people stopped in their tracks and looked at the cross on my shoulder. Cars slowed and drivers and passengers stared. Their expressions were a strange mix of curiosity, sadness, and understanding.

Finally we arrived at the next church and I handed off the cross. I can't say that I remember much of the homilies I heard that day but I vividly recall the feel of the cross on my shoulder and in my hands. It was the most powerful Good Friday of my life. In some small way I understood the real, physical suffering of Christ -- suffering that was the end result of loving service to the world. Suffering that was the end result of healing the sick, forgiving sinners and challenging hypocrites. We cannot separate suffering and salvation. We cannot separate death and resurrection.

So, what about us here today? What does Good Friday mean for us? We are called to take up the work of Jesus Christ. In a real sense the Church is born at the foot of the Cross. We are called to live our lives in loving service. We are called -- in our own way -- to be like Jesus -- to be broken and poured out for the world. Listen to the prayers that are next in the service. You'll hear that we are now taking up the work of Jesus Christ. In his life, death and resurrection Jesus has shown us the way. We are called to love and called to serve. We know that a life of love and service means that, like Jesus, we too will experience suffering. But we need not be afraid. After all, we know what happens next. Thanks to the one great act of love that is Jesus Christ -- we are saved.

Amen.

March 25, 2007 • "The Unexpected"

Tom Murphy, Seminarian Intern

These past few months I've been writing a thesis on Ignatius of Loyola, who's probably best known as the founder of the Jesuits. Before entering seminary I taught at a Jesuit high school -- the same school that I had attended. It's been wonderful getting reacquainted with Ignatius. (Let's get the shameless plug out of the way: this Saturday morning I'll be leading a mini-retreat on Ignatian Spirituality -- I hope you'll be able to join us.) Anyway, as I have read about Ignatius and reflected on his life, I have been deeply moved by how over and over things did not work out quite the way that Ignatius expected.

Growing up in the Basque region of Spain at the end of the 15th and beginning of the 16th Centuries, Ignatius -- like many young men of his time -- dreamed of the glories of battle. That romantic dream came to an abrupt end when both of his legs were shattered by a cannonball. During his long, painful -- and never really complete -- recovery he came to the conclusion that God was calling him to a different kind of glory -- he was to go to the Holy Land and convert the Muslims. He actually got to Jerusalem but was quickly sent back home. Back to the drawing board! Then he decided that God was calling him to get more education. To begin he had to learn Latin -- so this once proud and vain man sat in the same class with little boys and struggled to master the ancient language. And finally, Ignatius, who had dreamed of adventure, ended up his last years sitting behind a desk writing letters - managing his worldwide religious order, the Society of Jesus.

Ignatius came to realize in profound ways that God does the unexpected. And really his whole spirituality was focused on paying close attention to the unexpected things God is doing in our lives -- the unexpected ways that God is at work in our lives. Now I suspect that all of us have learned one way or another that God does the unexpected. Over the past few weeks I have been moved to hear some of your stories -- how you found this warm and dynamic community of St. George's -- sometimes just when you were ready to give up on God or to give up on the Church. Your stories have reminded me of my own story -- I was a Roman Catholic teaching in a Roman Catholic high school who one Sunday went to St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Jersey City, mostly out of curiosity to see what the inside of the church looked like. And for one of the few times in my life, I knew that this was exactly right. And, talk about unexpected, somehow I'm here standing in your pulpit today!

So God does the unexpected, and yet I think we often forget that fact. Or maybe we'd like to forget it. God doing the unexpected makes us uneasy. Most of us are usually not too crazy about change or about surprises. We like to think that we've got God all figured out. This usually, of course, means that we think God is pretty much just like us.

It seems appropriate that during Lent we take some time for humility. We can use these days of sacrifice to remind ourselves that we do not control God. We can remind ourselves that our ways are not God's ways. We can pay extra attention and be open to God working in our lives -- especially to be open to God doing the unexpected. So it's helpful that in each of today's readings we are reminded that our ways are not God's ways. We are reminded that God acts in unexpected ways.

The prophet Isaiah is writing to an Israelite community that has suffered through the Babylonian exile. They suffered the shock of seeing the Temple desecrated, Jerusalem destroyed, and spending decades exiled in Babylon -- desperately trying to hold on to their faith and their identity in the midst of so much pain and suffering. It seemed like all was lost. But now Isaiah describes God as doing the unexpected. God says through Isaiah, "I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?" What is this new thing? Something unexpected - God anoints Cyrus, a Persian -- not a Jew -- to free the Jews from their bondage and allow them to return to their homeland. By choosing Cyrus as the "anointed one" God once again does the unexpected.

In the passage from the letter to the Philippians, we find Paul again defending his credentials. This must have gotten very frustrating after a while! We can assume Paul is defending himself because there were others preaching a different gospel to the Philippians -- a gospel probably based on rituals such as circumcision. Paul defends himself by saying in Christ God has done the unexpected. Oh sure, Paul has all the traditional qualifications -- circumcised on the eighth day, a son of Israel, a Pharisee, a scrupulous follower of the Law.

But Paul has come to realize that God has done the unexpected. The purity codes gave people so much comfort and certainty -- I'm in with God because of my rituals and my heritage. Yet, in Christ, God reveals that purity and birthright are not the things that really matter. Over and over, Jesus crosses boundaries, eating with sinners and teaching both Jews and non-Jews -- and even women! In Christ, God has done the unexpected -- opening salvation to all people -- to people in Philippi and to people in Maplewood.

Finally we come to today's reading from the Gospel of John -- the anointing at Bethany. It's a strange and mysterious scene isn't it? Lazarus -- recently raised from the dead -- is there, as are his sisters Mary and Martha. The sisters are true to their characters -- Martha is working away and Mary is at Jesus' feet. Judas is there as well. The strangest part of the story, of course, is when Mary anoints Jesus' feet with very expensive perfume. And then she wipes his feet with her hair. Talk about crossing boundaries! Talk about the unexpected! Judas has seen enough and erupts -- pointing out that the money they could have gotten for the perfume would have helped a lot of poor people.

And then we get one more dose of the unexpected, when Jesus responds with the famous sentence, "You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me." Doesn't really sound very much like Jesus, does it?

So, what to make of this strange passage? One of the techniques that Ignatius used is what is known as the fantasy meditation. Essentially, one reads or hears a passage of Scripture and then imagines being there � actually seeing, hearing, tasting, feeling what's going on.

It's a powerful way of approaching Scripture and prayer. But in the case of the anointing at Bethany I have a little problem. You can probably guess where I am going with this. Here I am two months shy of ordination and I find myself strongly identifying with Judas Iscariot -- that can't be good! Now John clearly stacks the deck against Judas claiming that he didn't really care about the poor. He was angry about the waste because he was stealing from the common purse. Maybe so. But doesn't Judas have a point?

Sermons by Guest Preachers& Other Addresses

Other Addresses

June 15, 2008 • "The harvest is plentiful but the laborers are few"

March 30, 2008 • "People of the Resurrection"

March 21, 2008 • Good Friday

February 17, 2008 • "Martin, Malcolm & Me"

January 6, 2008 • The Epiphany

December 9, 2007 • Second Sunday of Advent

December 8, 2007 • Homily for the Ordination of Christian Carroll to the Priesthood

October 28, 2007 • "Reversal of Mission"

September 23, 2007 • "The Stewardship of Time and Talent"

April 29, 2007 • "Sheep and Shepherds"

April 6, 2007 • Good Friday

March 25, 2007 • "The Unexpected"

Sermons by Guest Preachers
& Other Addresses