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While You Wait…

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 6, Year A

Genesis 18:1-15, 21:1-7

It was the great American, Thomas Paine, who said, “These are the times that try men’s souls.”

And among the many trials and tribulations of modern life, there is one that stands out as particularly vexing to the spirit, testing the limits of human endurance to their utmost:
The mandatory software update.

There are times when I’m on the phone saying, “Yes, Mr. Treasurer, I will email that PDF to you right away.”
I open up the laptop, and it says:

Update downloading: 10%.

And it creeps, inch by inch, toward that promised land of 100%.

20%.

And I start to pray.
“Lord Jesus, help me.”

30%.

That makes enough time for a conversation.
“How are you doing? How are the kids? How’s the family? Everybody good?”
“Oh, good. That’s great.”

40%.
50%.

I start praying even harder.
“Jesus, you’ve got to give me peace, because if you give me strength right now, I’m going to need bail money with it.”

60%.
70%.

At this point, I don’t know if I need to call an IT guy or an exorcist, but it’s one of those two.

80%.
90%.
100%.

And then…

Update installing: 10%.

And there’s nothing you can do, right?
Just wait it out.
And eventually, we’ll get there.

Of course, there are other situations in life where that’s true.

When we look around the world, we can see situations of national and global import that seem so far away, we feel like we can’t do anything about them.

Sometimes it’s a little closer to home: people we love going through a crisis of health, relationship, or job. We want to fix it for them, but all we can do is be there for them.

And then there are those times when it gets even closer than that:
It’s the crisis happening within our own bodies and our own minds.

Those are the moments when we really do pray:
“Jesus, help me. I want to be better, but I don’t know how.”

These are the times that try human souls.

Abraham and Sarah, in our first reading today, were in one of those times.
They longed to be parents, but had been unable to conceive.
If you or someone you love has ever been through that crisis of infertility, then you know exactly how painful and disappointing it is to continually get your hopes up and then have them dashed again.

But there was even more to it than that.
This wasn’t just a personal hope of Abraham and Sarah. It was also a larger promise they felt God had given them:

“I will make of you a great nation. Your descendants will outnumber the stars, and all the families of the earth will be blessed through them.”

They believed this.
And yet here they were in their nineties, Abraham pushing one hundred, and still no baby.

So I don’t blame Sarah one bit for laughing when some random stranger shows up on her doorstep and says, “Hey, you’re going to have a baby.” I’d laugh too.

I imagine her saying, “You men just don’t get it, do you? That’s not how this works.”

They were holding on to what was, at this point, a distant hope.
All they could do was wait, hope, pray, and—as we read in the text—laugh about it.
The text doesn’t say this, but I’d bet dollars to donuts they cried about it too.

But here’s the thing:
There was more going on in that moment than either of them realized.
Because these three random strangers were not just anybody.

The text is delightfully ambiguous about who exactly these people are.
Are they angels?
Is it God?
We don’t really know.

But there’s something more happening in this moment.
And that, I think, is the good news for those of us who are living in that territory of unfulfilled promises, like Abraham and Sarah were.
There is more going on in your life, in your heart, and in who you are right now than meets the eye—maybe even more than you yourself realize.

Still, all they could do was wait.
But there was something else they could do.

When these three strangers show up, Abraham and Sarah roll out the red carpet for them.
They are just falling over themselves in this extravagant display of hospitality.

Abraham says, “Let me bring you a little bread.”
But what he actually brings is not a little bread.
It’s a feast of Thanksgiving-level proportions.

They go completely over the top with this hospitality.
And that’s really intentional, because it’s the exact opposite of what happens in the next chapter, when those same visitors go to the town of Sodom and Gomorrah. There they are not met with hospitality, but with an angry mob that wants to take advantage of them, do violence against them, and exploit them.

In the ancient world, hospitality wasn’t just about being nice or being a good host, although those are lovely things.
It was a survival practice.
There was no AAA.
There was no state highway patrol.
Travelers were vulnerable people.
They could be robbed, exploited, even killed, and nobody would know the difference because they were strangers.

Which is why, in the Torah, we have all these laws about being kind to strangers, immigrants, refugees, and people from other places.
Lives depended on it.

That’s why the extravagant welcome that Abraham and Sarah offer these three visitors matters so much.
They could not control what was happening with the unfulfilled promises in their lives or in their world.
What they could choose was who they were going to be in the midst of that waiting.

And they decided:
“We are going to look out for our neighbors, even the ones we don’t know.”
“We are going to roll out the red carpet and welcome them.”
Because you never know: You just might be welcoming God himself.

And I think that holds true for us today.

When we think about the unfulfilled promises in our own lives and in our world, there is so much we cannot change, even though we wish we could.
But we can hold on through it, moment by moment.
We can decide what kind of people we are going to be in this moment.
Am I going to be a person who acts from fear or from love?
Am I going to reach out to strike or to serve?

Who do we choose to be in the midst of the waiting?
That is ours to decide while we await the fulfillment of God’s promises—however, and whenever, God works them out.

Bless Your Heart

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 5, Year A

Genesis 12:1-9

St. Mark’s parishioner Tom Greenburg standing up for Pride

When I lived down South, we used to have this saying.

It was pretty common—or at least I heard it a lot:
“Bless your heart.”

People would say this to me quite frequently. Every time I heard it, I would think, “What a nice thing to say. This person thinks I have a good heart. Thank you so much.”

It wasn’t until many years later, after I had moved away from the South, that someone finally explained to me:
“Barrett, that wasn’t a compliment. That’s just the polite Southern way of calling you stupid.”

I had misunderstood the meaning of the word “blessing.”

That’s a common thing that happens.

Often, when something good happens in someone’s life, or someone experiences success, material wealth, or prosperity, they might say, “I’ve been blessed.”
And that’s a really beautiful thing.
Because what I think most people are trying to say is, “I’m grateful for the good things in my life, and I want to give thanks.” Whether they are giving thanks to God, to the people around them, or simply expressing gratitude for life’s gifts, they are grateful and they want to express it.

But as with so many things in this world, there’s a flip side.

If material wealth and success become identified as blessings from God, then, if we’re not careful, we can start to think that they are signs of God’s approval.

And if we have God’s approval, then it’s only one more step to saying that whatever we say or do must be right.

And from there, it’s only one more step to saying that we cannot be criticized.

And there, I think, we can see the danger.

Because anyone who claims to be beyond criticism, and uses the Bible to justify that stance, is abusing Scripture.

There is a situation in our world today where I think this danger is present.

Our first reading today, Genesis chapter 12, is often quoted in relation to the tragic situation in the Holy Land between Israelis and Palestinians.
There is a longstanding argument over who gets to be in charge, who belongs there, and who has claim to the land.
Our Jewish neighbors—and we Christians as well—trace our spiritual lineage through Isaac, the son of Abraham.
Our Muslim neighbors trace their spiritual lineage through Ishmael, also the son of Abraham.
And both groups can point back to Abraham and say, “We are descendants of Abraham.”

Anyone who has followed the news at any point during the last fifty years can see that this has been the source of incredible tension and conflict.

I am not going to resolve that today.

It is a complex political problem that requires a complex political solution.
And anyone who claims the solution is simple is probably part of the problem.

But I do think some of that conflict arises from a misunderstanding of what blessing means.
God blessed Abraham and promised land to Abraham and his descendants.

We’ve already noted other ways in which people can misunderstand the meaning of blessing.

As Christians, we have a duty to pray for the leaders of all nations, that they would exercise their authority with justice, wisdom, compassion, and peace for the sake of the common good.

Insofar as our own nation is involved in that situation, let us continue to write letters and make phone calls to our elected officials, advocating for diplomacy, so that all of God’s children might live together in the peace and wholeness that God created them for.

So we’ve talked a little bit about what blessing is not.

Let’s talk now about what blessing is—and what it is for.

A blessing is a recognition of the inherent goodness that resides within someone or something.

When someone or something is blessed, we are saying:

“This person/thing is good.”

Our Hasidic Jewish neighbors have blessings for almost everything.

Like us, they often say a blessing before a meal.
But they also have blessings after meals.

They have blessings for waking up in the morning and blessings for going to sleep at night.

They have blessings for children.

They have blessings for using the restroom.

They even have blessings for seeing a particularly beautiful person.

The reason why our Hasidic Jewish neighbors do this is because there is a belief that a spark of divinity resides within everyone and everything.

When a blessing is spoken over that person or thing, that spark is recognized and reconnected to its source in God.

And this becomes a joyful and holy duty.

I think that’s beautiful.
And I think it captures something essential about what blessing means.

Blessing is the recognition and affirmation of the inherent goodness in someone or something.

It is recognizing that goodness as coming from God and returning to God.

This month, as many of you know, we are celebrating Pride Month.
This is a time of celebration for our lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer siblings.
Theirs is a community that has often been demeaned by the language of others, sometimes by people misusing Scripture in order to do so.

People have called them names.

They have been described as abominations, unnatural, inherently disordered, or perverted.

As we have grown as a society, and as many Christians have grown in our understanding of Scripture, we have come to recognize some of those past mistakes.

Pride has emerged, in large part, as a counterargument to those demeaning messages.

It is a way for a community to bless itself.
It is a way of saying:
“There is a spark of divinity in us, too.
And we’re going to gather together and celebrate that.”

That’s what blessing is.

Now let’s talk about what blessing is for.

When God blesses Abraham in our first reading today, God says:

“I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.”

And a little later:

“All the families of the earth shall be blessed through you.”

What Scripture is saying here is that the purpose of blessing is not ownership or possession.
The purpose of blessing is a calling.

Just as the inherent goodness—the divine spark—exists in me and in each of you, so it exists in everyone and everything else.

Our joyful calling as people of faith is to speak that blessing, to recognize that goodness in everyone and everything.

This is our joyful duty.

So as we go out into this week, as we continue to celebrate Pride Month, and as we continue to carry the burdens of the many problems in our world today, let us remember our calling to be a blessing to others.

And let us recognize that the inherent divine goodness within us is also present in everyone and everything else.

Amen.

Holy and Human

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Trinity Sunday

Genesis 1:1-2:4a

I’ve got this phone. You may have one similar to it. And this thing tracks a lot of my data.

It can tell me how many steps I’ve taken today. It can tell me how much screen time I had last week (answer: too much). It can even track my weight and my blood pressure, so my doctor can keep an eye on it. It can tell me how productive I’ve been by checking things off a to-do list.

It knows a lot about me.
But it doesn’t really know me in the way that my family and my friends do.

There’s a big difference between knowing about someone or something and knowing them as a person.

We experience this in other parts of our lives, too.

At work, there are all kinds of productivity trackers. Even here at our church, where I work, once a year I’ve got to gather statistics: What was the attendance like on Sunday? How much came in through the offering plate? How many weddings and funerals did we do this year?

This data is useful.
But there’s a lot about this church that that data can’t tell me.
Can it tell me how much you love God and love each other?
The answer to that is no.

Same thing with the government. Every ten years it takes a census and writes down things like our ethnicity, our gender, our age, our address, how many people are in our household—lots of data points.

But they can’t really capture the essence of you and your family.
It’s just data.

The data is useful.
But it’s tempting sometimes to reduce complex, mysterious human beings to data.

Data points can’t capture who you are, because people are not statistics. People are not cogs in a machine.

The ancient Jewish people in the sixth century BCE understood intimately what it felt like to be treated as parts of a machine.
What had happened to them was that they had a war with the Babylonian Empire, which was the great superpower of that day, and they lost.

And the elite and the leaders among the people were taken off as slaves in Babylon.
And the Babylonians did their best to erase who they were—erase their religion, erase their culture, erase their language.

But here’s the thing:
The Jewish people resisted.

They accepted the fact that they had lost the war and were now obligated to work as a slave class.
But they did not accept the conclusion of the empire—that they were just cogs in a machine, that they were just property.

And our first reading today, from Genesis chapter 1, is a statement about that.

It is not a science book about the origin of life.
It is a poem about the meaning of life.
It is a song of human dignity in the face of oppression.

The language we hear in the text is very rhythmic and repetitive.

“God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. And God saw that it was good. And God called the light day and the darkness night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.”

And that pattern repeats itself again and again for each of the six days.

Now, there’s a form of language that uses a lot of repetition and rhythm: Poetry.

Within that poem, if we read carefully, we see something really fascinating happening.

There is a thematic match-up between the first six days:

  • Day one and day four.
  • Day two and day five.
  • Day three and day six.

In those first three days, God creates a habitat in which beings will dwell.

And in the second group of three days, God creates beings to live in those habitats.

  • On day one, God creates light and darkness.
    Match that up with day four, and God creates the sun, the moon, and the stars.
  • On day two, God creates the sky and the sea.
    And on day five, God creates the fish and the birds, which live in the sea and the sky.
  • On day three, God creates the land and the vegetation.
    And on day six, God creates the animals and the humans.

In each case, there’s a habitat and the beings that live in that habitat.

And the interesting thing about those beings is that they’re all Babylonian deities.
Except that, in this story, they’re not called gods and goddesses.

The sun and the moon, for example, were major features of Babylonian religion.
The Babylonians were telling the Jewish people, “You’d better bow down. Our gods are stronger than your God because we beat you in the war.”

And the Jewish people say, “No.”
These are not gods at all.
In the language of the text, they’re literally just “the big light” and “the little light.”

They’re not even given proper names.

According to the view of humanity that the Babylonian Empire held, humans were created to be servants of the gods. Humanity existed for them.

But in this biblical passage, the Jewish storytellers say:
Actually, we are created to be stewards of creation.

God made us in the divine image and said, “Rule over and care for” all these other creatures.

So it’s exalting human dignity above these so-called deities.

And finally, most of all, is the last day of creation, the seventh day, which came to be known as the Sabbath.

“On the seventh day, God rested and sanctified a day of rest for all creatures.”

Just imagine the Jewish people who were working as an enslaved class in Babylon at that time.

Their culture is being erased.
Their faith is being erased.
But they practice the Sabbath.

A day of rest, one day a week, when everybody goes on strike.

They say, “Six days a week we will do our jobs. We will work hard for you.
But one day a week, we all stop working.
And we’re going to take that time to pray, to be with our families, and to remember that we are not your machines.
We are not your property.
We are the beloved children of God.
That is who we are.
You cannot erase that from us.”

That’s powerful.
It gets me every time.

And it makes this message so meaningful.

This is a poem about human dignity.
It’s about people who refuse to be dehumanized, who refuse to be pushed aside and reduced to productivity statistics.
No matter what data was collected about them, they knew they were always going to be more than that.

Their faith gave them the strength to make it through that season known as the Babylonian Exile.
To endure.
To resist the erasure of who they were.
And to remember their own human dignity.

And when they would go back to their work, they would go back in a new way.
They weren’t serving merely the Babylonians who won the war.
They said, “Our daily lives are about serving God and each other.”
And that’s a much more meaningful way to work.

I can think of several examples—one from history and three that are a little closer to home.

First is the historical example: Dr. Jonas Salk.
He was the doctor who invented the polio vaccine.
And this obviously was a dramatic scientific accomplishment.
But the interesting thing is that he refused to patent it.
He could have made a lot of money.
But after he invented this vaccine, he said, “This belongs to humanity.”
This vaccine was going to be distributed freely to the world, to eradicate polio and ease the suffering of human beings.
That is holy and human work.

That’s a historical example from the past.
But we don’t just have to look at history to find examples of meaningful work that honors human dignity.

Chris Russell runs a game every other Sunday night at a comic shop here in town.
I’m part of this game.
It’s very silly. A bunch of nerds get together and pretend to be the crew of a spaceship, and we have a grand old time.
It’s a fun hobby.

But let me tell you something:
It is so much more than just a game.

The place where we meet is so much more than just a local business.
This is a place where people have formed a community of support.
Many of the members of this group have been through crises—hospitalizations, family members passing away.
Time and again, the members of this group have gathered around each other to offer support, helping one another buy cars, find jobs, and get through difficult times.
It’s become so much more than just a comic book shop.
It’s become something deeply holy and deeply human.

I think also of Patti Fosdick and Joanne Grigg, who took a shoe store on Chicago Street and turned it into an animal rescue.
A place where cats who have no home can receive care.
Where they can be introduced to families.
Where they can be there for anybody who wants to come in on a random Friday, and play with them, and feel a little better.
Through caring for animals, they too are doing holy and human work.

This is a sacred thing.

The last example I’ll mention is our dearly beloved departed sister, Mary Dally.
She worked for decades in our local schools.
And yes, she had a job to do.
There were children to educate and benchmarks to meet.
But the essence, the soul of her work as a teacher in this town, was the way she loved multiple generations of students.
The week that she passed away, I was having lunch over at the diner, and the waitress said, “You know, I was one of Mary’s students. And years later, my daughter was too.”
The testimony to her holy and human work came during her funeral service, when this church was standing room only.

All of these are snapshots from our local community of people living from that essence of human being that God gives us—the image of God.
And I think it can lead us as we go about our lives and our work.

Yes, our data continues to be collected.
It’s useful.
But I invite you to consider the essence and soul of who you are as God’s child.
Your soul, loving the souls of other people—is a part of God’s work in this world.

When God had made the world, he didn’t say, “This is very productive.”
He said, “It is very good.”

Believing in Jesus

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Easter 5

John 14:1–14

Jesus said, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.”

Now, that’s a tall order…
Because, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the world lately, but it’s kind of a mess out there!

I mean… My gosh!

I doom-scroll through the news, and it starts to look like the things that win, in this world, are power and money. The people who get ahead are the ones who can dominate and accumulate, at all costs.

And, when I see that, part of me is tempted to wonder: What if they’re right? What if that really is how the world works? What if love is just a nice feeling, but not the truth about reality?

And that’s when Jesus says to us: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.”

But what does that even mean?

Because “believing in Jesus” can mean different things to different people.

For some people, “believing in Jesus” means accepting the historical fact that, once upon a time, there was a guy named Jesus who lived in a land far away, and inspired a lot of people.

Most historians agree that much is probably true.
So whatever Jesus means by ‘belief,’ it has to be something more than that.

We church folks, on the other hand, often think that “believing in Jesus” means believing certain things about Jesus—agreeing with the traditional ideas that the Church talks about in the Nicene Creed: That Jesus is the Son of God, was born of a virgin, rose from the dead, and will come again in glory.

There’s nothing wrong with any of these. They are theological statements, which can be neither proved nor disproved by science. Traditional Christians call them “revealed truths,” which can only be accepted on the basis of faith.

But, here again, we encounter a problem:
There are plenty of Christians who say they believe all of that—and live in ways that look nothing like Jesus.
We have a word for that:
It’s hypocrisy.

So, here again, we see that “believing in Jesus” must mean something more than simply believing that Jesus existed and accepting certain theological beliefs about Jesus.

So, what then does it mean to “believe in Jesus?“

And if that question—what does it really mean to believe?—feels a little unclear, we’re actually in good company.

Because the disciples are just as confused as we are.

Jesus said, “You know the way to the place where I am going.”

And Thomas says, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

But Jesus doesn’t give him a map. He gives Thomas himself.

He says, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also.”

That is a staggering claim.

Because Jesus is not just pointing to God—he’s revealing God.

If you want to know what God is like—look at Jesus.

If you want to know what really matters in this world—look at Jesus.

And what do we see, when we look at Jesus?

We see someone who chooses compassion over control. Someone who serves instead of dominating, who forgives instead of retaliating, who gives himself away rather than grasping for more.

We see a life defined by love.

And that brings us back to belief.

Belief, in the sense that Jesus means it, is more about alignment than agreement.

The Greek word for “believe” is pistis—it means trust or allegiance.

To believe in Jesus is not just to say, “I agree with these ideas about him.”

It’s to say, “I trust that the way he lived reveals what is actually real—and I’m going to live like that’s true.”

When we look at Jesus, we see what ultimately matters.

And that’s where this becomes both beautiful and difficult.

Because if love is ultimate, then a lot of what the world tells us starts to fall apart.

The world says: power is what matters.
Jesus says: love is what matters.

The world says: get all you can for yourself.
Jesus says: give yourself away.

The world says: win.
Jesus says: serve.

And the reason this is hard is because it doesn’t always look like Jesus is right.

It doesn’t always look like love wins.

So we live in this tension.

We feel the pull of one reality—the one we see on the news.

And we hear Jesus pointing to another—the one revealed in his life.

Believing in Jesus means choosing which of those realities we are going to trust.

It means saying, “Even though it might cost me, I trust that love is more valuable than money.”

That’s not just an idea. It’s a way of life.

Toward the end of the passage, Jesus says, “The one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these.”

What does that mean: “Greater works?”

I don’t think he means more spectacular miracles.

I think he means more and more people living in alignment with the reality that he preached and lived—choosing love over power, compassion over control.

The works are “greater” because they spread out wider.

And I’ve seen glimpses of that.

St. Maximilian Kolbe was a Catholic priest who lived in Poland during World War 2.

When the Germans invaded, he had an opportunity to escape, but chose instead to remain behind. He hid Jews and other refugees fleeing persecution inside the friary.

When the Nazis arrested him, they offered him an opportunity to sign his name on a list that would have given him the same rights as a German citizen, but he refused and was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp.

Finally, when the Nazis decided to execute ten prisoners in retaliation for one prisoner who had escaped, St. Maximilian Kolbe volunteered to take the place of another prisoner who had a wife and children. He died at Auschwitz in 1941 and was canonized as a saint in 1982.

St. Maximilian Kolbe was a man who believed in Jesus.

We know this, not because he was a priest who recited the Nicene Creed, but because of the way he lived his life.

That’s what Jesus is inviting us to do when he says, “Believe in me.”

Don’t just believe things about Jesus, but trust in Jesus himself.

Trust that the way Jesus lived reveals what actually matters.
And live like that’s true.

What would it look like, this week, for us to “believe in Jesus” in that sense?

Maybe it looks like a moment when we choose compassion over control.

When we choose the way of Jesus over the way that seems easiest.

When we choose to listen. To forgive. To act with kindness.

Not because it guarantees a certain outcome—

But because we trust that what Jesus showed us is what matters most.

Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me.”

In other words:

Don’t let your hearts be shaped by a false vision of reality.

Trust what you see in Jesus.

And live like that’s the world you actually inhabit.

Because it is.

A Picnic in a War Zone

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, Uncategorized1 Comment

Sermon for Easter 4, Year A

Psalm 23

Psalm 23 is one of the most well-known passages of religious literature in the world, from any religious tradition.

It’s comforting. And so we often read it at funerals. We cross-stitch it onto nice, fluffy pillows. And it’s one of those passages that we kind of take for granted. We hear it several times a year—that’s what many of us do—and we don’t really continue to think about it.

But I’d like to change that today.

I’d like to take a closer look at it. And it might help to keep your bulletins open to it so that we can really internalize these words. Our psalm is on page six—we just sang it together a few minutes ago.

We’re going to go through this and take a closer look at why this psalm is so comforting, and why it speaks both to our ancestors in the past and can still speak to us today.

So let’s start right now.

In this first verse, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.”

That word “want” is really interesting. It’s the same word that was used in the Torah, in Deuteronomy chapter 2, verse 7, when Moses is talking to the Israelites about their forty years wandering in the wilderness. He says, “These forty years the Lord your God has been with you; you have lacked nothing.”

Older translations say, “You wanted for nothing.”

And in Hebrew, it’s the same word as in the psalm—chesar, if you like learning other languages.

And that word choice is really intentional, because it ties this psalm back to the earlier stories of Israel.

It would be like if, in American dialogue, someone used the phrase “certain inalienable rights.” We would immediately recognize that as a reference to the Declaration of Independence.

In the same way, this word is a reference back to their ancestors’ story.

So what the author of the psalm is saying here is: these times are not unprecedented. Just as God was with our ancestors back then, God is with us now. And just as they got through hard times then, we are going to get through this hard time now.

It’s the same story. It’s connected.

So when it says, “I shall not be in want,” that’s the first reason why this psalm is comforting.

Let’s move on.

“He makes me lie down in green pastures.”

This is another interesting image.

Sheep, as we know, are prey animals. And prey animals don’t survive by having big claws or being stronger than predators. They survive by hypervigilance—by watching all the time.

If you’ve ever seen a deer in a field, you know what that looks like.

Prey animals don’t lie down easily. Many animals, like cows, learn to sleep standing up so they can run quickly if a predator comes near.

They only lie down when they feel completely safe.

So when the psalm says, “He makes me lie down,” it’s describing that level of trust. That sense of safety.

Any cat people here? Dogs love belly rubs. Cats? Only if you are their very special person.

I have a cat who will let me rub her belly—but only after everyone else has gone to bed, and no one else is around. Then she decides, “Okay… now you can.”

Because that’s when she feels safe.

That’s the relationship being described here.

Let’s keep going.

“He guides me along right pathways.”

Again, something we might take for granted—but it’s referring to something very specific in shepherding culture.

The ancient Israelites were a shepherding people. Their ancestors worked the same land for generations. There were no paved roads, no GPS.

But over time, the safest routes through the wilderness became worn into the land. Paths formed by generations of shepherds who had learned where to go and where not to go.

So those “right pathways” are the collective wisdom of those who came before.

Which leads into the next verse:

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

The shepherd’s staff—that crook—is a familiar image. Our bishops carry something similar as a symbol of their pastoral office. “Pastor” literally means shepherd.

That staff is a weapon—not to beat the sheep into submission, but to defend them. To fight off predators when necessary.

The wilderness is dangerous. So it’s comforting to know that the shepherd is with you, ready to protect you.

And then we come to this remarkable image:

“You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me.”

Older translations say, “in the presence of my enemies.”

Picture this:

Two armies lined up on a battlefield, ready to charge.

And then one general strolls out into the middle of no man’s land… lays out a blanket… pulls out a basket of sandwiches and lemonade… and sits down for a picnic.

Can you imagine?

The enemy soldiers would be watching and thinking, “That guy has a lot of nerve. He’s either very brave or very foolish.”

There is nothing more unsettling to an opponent than someone who remains calm in the face of danger—who doesn’t panic, who doesn’t react, but simply holds their ground.

That is what faith looks like.

It looks like the audacity to have a picnic in the middle of a war zone.

Psalm 23 is comforting not because it describes perfect, peaceful surroundings, but because it describes a way of being—a kind of serenity—that can exist even when things are not safe.

That’s what it looks like to trust the Good Shepherd.

And the beautiful part is this:

When we trust the Good Shepherd, we begin to become the hands and feet of the Good Shepherd in the world.

We begin to offer that same sense of safety and care to one another.

This can take many forms.

It can look like bringing meals to someone who is sick—like so many of you did for my family this week when my wife had surgery. Thank you. She’s doing well.

It can look like offering rides to church.

It can look like creating a space where someone who is going through something hard can come, speak freely, and know they will be safe—that they will be held, metaphorically, in the arms of love.

All of these are ways we become the hands and feet of the Good Shepherd.

There’s another way I’ve been learning about over the past several years—something specific to my experience as a man—and I suspect many of my brothers here can relate.

My wife once asked me: if I were walking through a dark parking lot at night and saw another man walking nearby, what would I think?

And I said, “Honestly? I’d probably be thinking about what I need to get at Meijer.”

And she said, “My first thought would be: I hope he doesn’t attack me.”

That was eye-opening.

It made me realize that many of our sisters are navigating the world with concerns that have never even occurred to me.

And it made me start thinking: what are some simple ways I can be the hands and feet of the Good Shepherd?

Sometimes it’s very simple.

If you’re walking through a parking lot and there’s a woman a few steps ahead of you, you can slow down. Give her space.

You might just be thinking about eggs, milk, bread.

But she doesn’t know that.

So creating that space communicates something: safety, respect.

This isn’t about politics. It’s about what our mothers and grandmothers taught us about being gentlemen—literally, gentle men.

It costs us almost nothing. A few extra seconds.

But the impact is powerful.

It creates space. It communicates care.

It’s one small way we can walk those “right pathways”—those well-worn paths of respect, kindness, and gentleness.

There are many other ways. You can think of your own—I’ve seen you do them.

And I look forward to seeing the ways you continue to create spaces of safety and love in this community.

Spaces that reflect the care of our Good Shepherd.

Amen.

A New Story

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Easter 3

Luke 24:13–35

Stories are how human beings make sense of the world. We do it all the time. We can’t help ourselves. It’s just how our brains are made.

From the earliest days of human history, children would sit around the campfire with their elders and ask, “Why are things the way they are?” And the elders would tell a story.

Across cultures and religions, one thing is always true: we tell stories.

And if I were to ask you who you are, you would tell me the story of your life.

Stories are how we make meaning.

Now, the most interesting stories are the ones where things don’t go according to plan. That’s where the good stuff happens.

Nobody wants to see a movie with no conflict. There’s no plot.

When that happens, we tend to fall into three kinds of stories:

The fix-it story,
The forget-about-it story,
And the figure-it-out story.

The fix-it story is the one we prefer. Something goes wrong, but we come up with a plan and get things back to the way they ought to be. And a lot of the time, that works.

But sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes there are situations we simply can’t fix, no matter how hard we try.

And that’s when we fall into the forget-about-it story.

When everything falls apart, we sit in the ashes and say, “Forget about it. What’s the point?”

But if we don’t give up entirely, if we keep going, we may begin to enter another story: the figure-it-out story.

This is the story that doesn’t fix the problem, but doesn’t give up hope either.

Out of the ashes of the old story, something new begins to take shape—a meaning we didn’t expect, a kind of good we never saw coming.

Not because the suffering was good, but because something real can still emerge within it.

I saw this often in my work as a hospice chaplain.

People would come to me after being told there was nothing more the doctors could do for them.

At first, many of them were living in that forget-about-it story—grieving the life they could no longer return to.

And my work was simply to walk with them.

I would ask about their lives, and I would listen.

And slowly, something would begin to shift.

As they told their stories, they began to see them differently.

They thought about the people they wanted to thank. The people they needed to forgive. The love that had shaped their lives.

And those final weeks or months often became deeply meaningful.

Not because anything was fixed, but because they were finally able to see what mattered.

That journey—from fix-it, through forget-about-it, to figure-it-out—is exactly where we find the two disciples in this morning’s Gospel.

They had hoped that Jesus “would be the one to redeem Israel.”

But things didn’t turn out that way.

Instead of victory, there was a cross.

And when Jesus died, it seemed like all their hopes died with him.

That was the end of their fix-it story.

So when the stranger meets them on the road to Emmaus, they are living in the forget-about-it story.

“They stood still, looking sad.”

They say, “We had hoped that he would be the one to redeem Israel.”

And Jesus just listens.

And then he begins to reinterpret their story.

He shows them that suffering was not the end of the story, but somehow part of it.

And something begins to stir.

They say, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”

That’s the beginning of the figure-it-out story.

But it isn’t complete until they reach the table at the end of their journey.

There, Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them.

And suddenly, their eyes are opened.

They recognize him.

The story doesn’t go back to what it was, but reveals something deeper than they had ever imagined.

And then… just like that, he’s gone.

But Jesus is still there, in the blessed and broken bread.

And that’s when they run back to Jerusalem to tell the others.

Kindred in Christ, that same journey is the one we take every time we come here.

We come from weeks that did not go as planned, carrying burdens we cannot fix.

Sometimes we sit here wondering if any of this really matters.

And yet, here, our stories are reframed.

In the reading of Scripture.
In the prayers.
In the breaking of bread.

Sometimes, our hearts burn within us.

And sometimes, our eyes are opened.

We learn to see Christ here, in this bread and this wine, so that we can learn to see Christ everywhere else.

And we go back out into the world to tell the story:

That Christ is alive.
That he meets us in the middle of our stories.
And that somehow, even now, our stories are being drawn into the greater story of God.

And so, as we go back out into the world this week—a world where life rarely goes according to plan, and some problems are just too big to be fixed—when we are tempted to throw up our hands and say, “Forget about it,” I want to invite you to keep holding on.

Keep walking that road to Emmaus.
Keep listening to each other’s stories.
Keep trying to figure it out.

Trust that Christ is with you in the midst of the mess, working not to take things back to the way they were, but to bring forth a new story from the ashes of the old.

Go forth into this world, transformed by the power of Scripture and Sacrament.

And proclaim, not only with your lips but with your lives, the good news:

That the Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

The Patron Saint of Critical Thinkers

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Easter 2 A

Text: John 20:19–31

This is one of the most defensive sermons that I preach in a given year.

Because, every year on this week, the gospel reading is the story of Saint Thomas, often called “doubting Thomas,” because he would not believe in the resurrection until he saw Jesus and touched his wounds.

And every year, I want to say:
“Hey now. That’s not fair.”

And I wanna say this for two reasons:

First of all, because doubt is not a sin. Doubt means that you’re taking something seriously enough to ask tough questions. So if anything, St. Thomas the Apostle is not a “Doubting Thomas,” but the patron saint of critical thinkers.

And second of all, Thomas is not the only person in this story who has doubts.

St. Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb and sees actual angels. They tried to explain the situation to her, but she doesn’t believe them.

Later on, she sees Jesus and goes back to tell the disciples—but they don’t believe her either, until Jesus finally shows up and shows them his hands and his side. That’s when they believe.

So when Thomas comes along and says, “Unless I see the mark of the nails… I will not believe,” he is not asking for anything special; He is simply asking for the exact same thing that the others had already received.

So why is he the only one who gets stuck with the label, “Doubting Thomas?” It’s not fair.

So no, I don’t think that Thomas deserves the bad reputation he gets by asking to see the marks of the nails in Jesus’ hands. That’s why I want to come to Thomas’ defense.
He’s not a doubting Thomas; he’s the patron saint of critical thinkers.

But here’s the thing:
I don’t think this story is actually about Thomas. I think it’s about all of us who came late to the party of the resurrection.

Like Thomas, we don’t get to see what the other disciples saw on that first Easter Sunday. We don’t get the luxury of absolute proof; we have to live with the uncertainty.

Because of that, it’s easy to sometimes feel like we are second class citizens in the kingdom of heaven. We were late to the party, so we don’t get what the others got.

I don’t know about you, but I feel like that a lot of the time. I look around the church and wonder if maybe everyone else understands something that I’m missing.

Other people seem so confident in their faith, but I know that I am riddled with doubt.
Other people seem so peaceful, but I know that I am overwhelmed with anxiety.
Other people seem so kind and loving, but I feel the fire of anger within me.

It makes me wonder: am I missing something?

If I’m not alone in that feeling, if you’re feeling it too, then Thomas is our guy.

Because Thomas knows what it feels like to be late to the party, to feel like you missed something important, and now everyone else gets something that you don’t.

Thomas is right there with us, in the middle of that angsty feeling, and so is Jesus.

Behind the locked doors of fear and doubt, Jesus appears again: Speaking not judgment, but peace.

Another interesting detail is that the risen Jesus keeps his wounds, even in his resurrected body. Whatever resurrection means, it does not erase the pain we have endured.

He shows us his wounds, not just as proof of the miracle, but as signs of compassion. He says, “Are you hurt? Look: So am I. You are not alone in your pain.”

That tender place is where the encounter happens that inspires Thomas to proclaim his great statement of faith: “My Lord and my God!“

And then Jesus says something that “breaks the fourth wall.”

If you’re not familiar with that term, it comes from television and movies. “Breaking the fourth wall“ is what happens when a character on screen looks into the camera and speaks directly to the viewers at home. It’s a way of including the audience in the story itself.

And that’s exactly what Jesus is doing when he says, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

When Jesus says that last line, he’s no longer speaking just to Thomas; he’s speaking to all of us as well: “Blessed, are you who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Kindred in Christ, what this means is that you are not late to the party. You have not missed out on something that everyone else gets.

You are blessed. Because you have not seen and yet have come to believe.

This is a bold statement. What I’m going to say next is even bolder:
That if this blessing applies to us, “who have not seen and yet have come to believe,” then it also applies to those who have not believed, and yet have come anyway.

Blessed are those who keep showing up, even though they’re not sure about what they believe.

When those who stand outside traditional faith choose to do the right thing, they do it for its own sake, not in hope of eternal reward or fear of eternal punishment. They do what’s right out of the goodness of their hearts and we Christians could learn a thing or two from that.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Blessed are those who have not believed and yet have kept showing up anyway.

Kindred in Christ, there are no second class citizens in the kingdom of heaven. The blessing is bigger than we think. The Holy Spirit is already at work in the lives of those who don’t even have words for it.

So then, the message for us in today’s gospel is actually very simple:
Go easy on Thomas.
Go easy on yourself.
And go easy on each other.

Faith is not a finish line;
it’s a process.
And sometimes that process looks like asking a lot of tough questions.

Sometimes it looks like showing up week after week, not because you have it all figured out, but because something in you has a hunch that something here is worth holding onto, even if you can’t yet identify what that “something” is.

And the good news is this:
Wherever you are in that journey of faith and doubt, Jesus shows up.
Behind the locked doors of fear and doubt.
In the middle of our questions and uncertainties.

And the words that he speaks are not words of judgment, but of peace.

“Peace be with you,” he says.

So, don’t be afraid of being called a “doubting Thomas.”

Keep asking those tough questions.
Keep showing up.

Because it turns out…
that’s exactly where the blessing is.

Home By Another Way

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for the Feast of the Epiphany

The text is Matthew 2:1-12.

When I was younger, I used to believe that there was one specific right way, and a whole lot of wrong ways, to practice spirituality. I thought I had to believe all the right doctrines and follow all the rules perfectly, or else God would get mad at me and punish me accordingly.

Now, to be fair to my younger self, there were a few upsides to this way of thinking. For one, it gave me a very strong moral compass, which is a good thing for a young person to have. And number two, it gave me a strong sense of community with others who were trying to practice their spirituality in the same way. And that’s also a good thing.

The downside, however, was that I lived with a constant sense of dread—that if I asked too many tough questions, or failed to live up to my moral code, I would be in deep yogurt with God, who watched everything I did, listened to every word I said, and knew every thought I thunk, and was keeping a meticulous record of all of it, for which I would one day have to answer.

I knew very well just how much I failed to live up to the high standard I set for myself, and I figured that God was looking at me in just the same way—only more so, because God could never forget.

I’ll be honest. Living with that kind of fear, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, was crazy-making. I was told that I needed to trust in God, but the God I believed in—the all-seeing and all-knowing micromanager—wasn’t trustworthy. That kind of God was less like the lover of our souls and more like an abusive ex-boyfriend. No matter how hard I tried, nothing I did would ever be good enough.

I believed these things about God because I thought that’s what it said in the Bible. But then I made one fatal mistake: I actually read the Bible. And what I found there was something more complex, more nuanced, and more loving than the abusive ex-boyfriend I had been in a relationship with up to that moment.

It’s funny, isn’t it, how the Bible is a central source of our theology, but actually reading it can completely wreck that theology?

The gospel for the Feast of the Epiphany is one of those biblical passages that absolutely wrecked my theology. But it didn’t just break me down—it broke me open. This story opened my eyes to the reality that God is both bigger and more loving than all my narrow ideas about God.

This story—the visit of the magi, or wise men from the East, as our translation renders it—is one of the best-known and least-understood stories in the New Testament. The magi themselves were not Jewish. In all likelihood, they were Persian, from somewhere around the modern-day city of Baghdad in Iraq. The dominant religion in that area at that time was not Judaism, but Zoroastrianism. And these magi were astrologers.

And that’s the first place where the Bible starts to mess with my theology. Because I had always been told that astrology was fake and bad, and that I should stay away from it. But here was this famous story in the Bible, no less, where spiritual seekers are using astrology to find their way to the presence of Jesus. That made me go, wait, what?

And it didn’t stop there. It gets weirder—so hold on to your seats.

These Persian astrologers determined, by practicing their craft, that a great king was being born in the land of Judea, so they figured they should go and pay their respects. And if you’re looking for a newborn king, where else would you go except to the king’s palace in the capital city, right?

So they ring the doorbell and say, “Hey, congratulations.” And King Herod is just standing there like, “What? There’s no newborn king here. What are you talking about?” So he goes and consults with the bishops and the theology professors, and they tell him, “Yeah, it’s not happening here. It’s supposed to happen in Bethlehem, according to the ancient prophecies.”

So Herod sends the magi back out to find this new king—not because he wants to pay his respects, but because he wants to eliminate any possible threat to his power. But the magi don’t know that. So they set out again.

And another really interesting thing happens. The text of Matthew’s Gospel specifically says that the magi didn’t follow the directions the clergy had given them from the Bible. It says that they set out, and they saw the star again, and they followed that instead—and lo and behold, it led them to the exact same place the clergy had told them to go.

They weren’t following the “right” way that was prescribed by the Bible. They were following the light they knew, and it led them to the same place.

It’s hard to be a fundamentalist when you actually read the Bible.

So they get there, to the presence of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They pay their respects. They offer their gifts. And just as they’re getting ready to go home, they have a dream. And in this dream, God warns them not to return to Herod, but to return to their own country by another road.

Other translations render this sentence as “they went home by another way.” And I really like that turn of phrase.

The magi were going home by another way—not just at the end of the story, but the whole way through. They were not members of the God Squad in the traditional sense. And they didn’t follow the guidance of the Bible. They walked by the light of their own star and ended up exactly where they needed to be anyway.

That says something to me about the God we believe in today—not the abusive ex-boyfriend god, not the all-knowing micromanager, but one who is not afraid of people who ask questions, make mistakes, and travel by their own light. God was with the magi in ways that broke the rules. And that same God is still with us today and has been all along.

One of the many things that I love about the Episcopal Church is that we have a theological tradition where diversity is baked in. Our theology is not about obedience to a single infallible authority. It’s an ongoing dialogue between scripture, tradition, and reason. There is room in our theology for differing viewpoints, and the God we believe in is bigger than all of it.

No book or person or institution is capable of having the last word, because we believe that word hasn’t been spoken yet.

Like the magi, God is still guiding us closer to the presence of Jesus by many and various paths. So none of us has the right to pass judgment on another, or say with absolute certainty, “You’re wrong, and I am right.”

We might think we’re right, but God is usually standing off to the side with a little smirk, going, “Are you sure about that?”

If God could lead the magi to where they needed to be by the light of a star, then surely it’s no big problem for God to lead you wherever you need to be by means of whatever light you follow—no matter the size of your questions, the severity of your mistakes, or the strangeness of your personal beliefs.

Kindred in Christ, that’s the good news of Epiphany for us. What that good news asks of us is the courage to ask the big questions, the humility to make mistakes, and the confidence to trust that we are still loved, even when we don’t get it right.

That is the light that will lead us home by another way.

Amen?

Laughing at Ourselves

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 25, Year C

Click here for the biblical readings

As I was coming up with an opening illustration for this week’s sermon, it occurred to me that the one thing you’re probably learning about your new rector this year is that he watches way too much TV. But then again, maybe that’s just something I’m learning about myself. Anyway, what came to my mind this week was a scene from an episode of the famous sitcom The Office.

And in this scene, the boss was on his way to a very important meeting when he slipped and fell into a koi pond. When he got back to the office, soaking wet, he tried making up all kinds of stories to hide his embarrassment about what really happened. But the thing is that all his rationalizations and excuses just made people laugh at him more.

Later on, when he finally admitted the truth about what happened and started poking fun at himself, people’s laughter started turning into compassion. Instead of making up jokes at his expense, they said, “You know, Michael, that’s really the kind of thing that could have happened to anybody.”

I find that moment in the scene very fascinating. It’s like the situation itself was calling for laughter, no matter where it came from. If Michael couldn’t laugh at himself, then the universe was going to make sure that somebody was laughing about it. But when Michael finally did learn how to laugh at himself, the laughter became a gateway to mercy and understanding. It’s as if laughter had this secret power to unlock the doors of compassion in our hearts.

How like life! When we as human beings stand on the firm bedrock of safe and supportive relationships, we gain the ability to laugh at ourselves. And that kind of laughter, rather than tearing us down or pushing us farther apart, has the ability to build us up and pull us closer together — provided that our relationships do, in fact, stand on that solid ground of safe and supportive love.

As a Christian, I do believe that the entire universe stands on just such a solid ground. When we say each week in the Nicene Creed that we believe that Christ will return in glory to judge the living and the dead, I imagine that judgment not as a verdict in a courtroom, but more like a funny story told around the Thanksgiving table. The embarrassment is there, but so is the love. And that love gives us the power to laugh at ourselves.

That’s how I imagine the final judgment of the living and the dead — not as a sentence to hellfire and damnation, but as a side-splitting laugh at ourselves. Because we learn from Scripture that God is both just and merciful. The one who judges us is also the one who knows and loves us best.

In today’s gospel, we get a glimpse of that justice and mercy in action. Jesus tells a parable about a Pharisee and a tax collector. Pharisees, as we know, were very educated and religious people — upstanding citizens and pillars of their community. Tax collectors, on the other hand, were the scum of the earth: bottom feeders, liars, and traitors to their own people.

The Pharisee in this story is doing exactly what we would expect an upstanding citizen to do — holding his head up high in church, listing his accomplishments, and thanking God that he is not like other people, especially this tax collector here. The tax collector, meanwhile, is standing at the back of the church, looking down at his shoes, and the only prayer he can manage to get out is, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

It’s the tax collector, according to Jesus, who went down to his home justified that day, despite his lack of religious or moral qualifications.

Now, what I find interesting about this passage is that at no point does Jesus say that the Pharisee is not justified. Our English translation says that the tax collector went down to his home justified instead of the Pharisee. But the Greek word translated as instead of in our English Bibles is actually the word para, which literally means alongside. So another way that we might translate this verse from the Greek is to say that the tax collector went down to his home justified alongside the Pharisee, not instead of.

And I really like that. Because if I’m really honest with myself, then I have to admit that there is both a Pharisee and a tax collector within me. Like the Pharisee, I too have the capacity to act like a self-righteous windbag. And like the tax collector, I too have the ability to act like a selfish dirtbag. And if I’m being really, really honest, I’m often doing both at the exact same time.

So it’s very comforting for me to be able to read this story as one where both the Pharisee and the tax collector go down to their home justified alongside each other — because most days, both of those guys are coming home with me.

Several years ago, I had a job interview at the hospice agency where I ended up working for several years before I came here. The interview went really well. I came home all excited and ready to talk about it. But then I walked through the door, and my wife Sarah had just had a disaster of a day. Things were stressful at her job, the kids were acting out, and she needed to unload about all of it.

At the end of the night, we went to bed, and she had forgotten to ask me how my interview went. One part of me was seething — this is the Pharisee part of my brain. Except I was imagining him as more like a tough guy from New Jersey. And he said, “Here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get that job, and you’re gonna work there for like six months, until one day she asks you, ‘Hi, honey, how was the hospital today?’ And you’re going to be like, ‘Lady, I ain’t worked there in six months! But what do you care?’ And then she’s gonna feel real bad about it. Forget about it.”

So that was one voice in my head — the Pharisee from New Jersey. I decided I should name him Carl. So that’s Carl.

The other part of me was not from New Jersey, but rather from the Midwest. So obviously, he was a nice guy, because we Midwesterners are nice people. And this part of me was saying, “Oh, don’t you know, Sarah’s really busy, and she’s worried about a lot of really important things. You’re not that important, so you should just keep your yapper shut. Remember that you love each other and just get back to your darn life.”

I didn’t give that voice a name, but it was more like the tax collector side of me. That’s the part that just wants to stand in the back, look down at my shoes, and make myself small and invisible.

But let’s be honest: if I was to listen to either of these voices by itself and do what it says, would either one lead me toward having a more honest and loving relationship with my wife? No, it wouldn’t.

So instead, I took a deep breath and imagined myself sitting at a table with both of these guys. I let each one have their say, and even wrote out what they said in a journal. Because the thing is, each part of me was actually trying to help me — they just weren’t being very helpful in the way that I needed at that moment.

So I heard them out, listened with compassion, and tried to understand where each one was coming from. And what I ended up doing was sitting down with Sarah the next day and saying, “Hey, I’m sorry you had such a rough day yesterday, but I had that really big job interview with hospice, and it hurt my feelings when you didn’t ask me about it.”

And Sarah, my wonderful wife, said, “Oh my gosh, you’re right. I’m sorry. Please tell me — how did it go?” And I did tell her about it, against the advice of the Midwest nice guy, because I am important to her, even though she does have a lot of other really important things to worry about.

And I also went against the advice of Carl from New Jersey and his elaborate ruse about working a job for six months without telling my wife, because obviously that plan would not have worked — but mostly because I didn’t actually want her to feel bad. I just wanted my wife to take an interest in my life and the things that are important to me and to our family. Which, of course, she does. We all just have bad days sometimes.

I tell this story as a personal illustration of the Pharisee and the tax collector that exist within each of us — because they both do. That’s why I’m glad that the text of Jesus’ parable can be translated as, “The tax collector went down to his home justified alongside the Pharisee.”

At the end of the day, it was neither the religious and moral observance of the Pharisee nor the humility of the tax collector that justified each of them in the eyes of God. It was God’s own mercy that supported them both. The only difference between them is that one of them recognized that truth and the other did not. But they both needed it, and they both got it — whether they realized it or not, whether they deserved it or not.

Kindred in Christ, the same thing is true for each and every one of us today. We stand in right relationship with God not because we deserve it by virtue of our righteous deeds or our honest confession, but simply because we need it, and it is there. We stand in right relationship with God because God loves us, whether we realize it or not, whether we believe in God or not.

We receive love because God is love. And that is the central truth not only of our faith but of our entire existence. And that love is what gives us the ability to laugh at ourselves — when we trip over our own shoelaces, or when we strut around like a bunch of pompous and self-righteous Pharisees, or when we betray our moral values and closest relationships like the tax collector did. Beneath all of that, the central truth holds firm: you are loved, whether or not you realize it, whether or not you deserve it, whether or not you believe in it. It’s still true — for you and for everyone else in this hurting world.

My prayer for you today is that you would come to know this truth more fully for yourself, and that knowing it will make it easier for you to reflect that same love onto the faces and into the lives of the people around you.

Your Faith Has Made You Whole

On By J. Barrett LeeIn Sermon, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Sermon for Proper 23, Year C

Click here for the biblical readings.

Navigating the diverse world of religious beliefs can be an enlightening, if tricky, experience, even when one is already an active participant in a particular faith community. Visiting another community for the first time can feel disorienting. Up until last week, I had been to Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox church services. I had visited a synagogue and even served as a guest preacher in Unitarian Universalist services, but until recently, I had never been to a mosque.

That changed a little over a week ago when I attended Friday prayer services at the American Muslim Society of Coldwater with my friend, Pastor Scott Marsh, of the Coldwater United Methodist Church. Pastor Scott and I meet regularly for mutual support and to discuss joint ministry opportunities in service to the wider Coldwater community.

One concern that we share is for our Muslim neighbors in our beautiful city, most of whom are also Yemeni immigrants. In spite of the fact that there are differences of skin color, religion, and language between these, our neighbors, and the predominantly light-skinned, Christian, and English-speaking population of Coldwater, Pastor Scott and I wanted to send a message of friendship and support from the Christian clergy of this town.

We were concerned that the negative and hostile rhetoric against immigrants and Muslims that seems to predominate in present-day news media was causing our neighbors to feel unsafe and unwelcome in our community. What we discovered instead surprised us greatly, but I will return to that in a moment.

What I want to emphasize right now is the sense of awkwardness that Pastor Scott and I felt as newcomers in a religious space, even though both he and I are trained professionals in the sphere of religion. For once, we did not stride into the room with the confidence of leaders, but with the tentativeness of visitors. We were unaccustomed to the practice of taking off our shoes at the door. We didn’t understand a word of the sermon or the liturgy, which was entirely in Arabic. We were vulnerable outsiders, cut off from the usual trappings of familiarity that make us feel comfortable in the religious spaces where we lead.

This experience of isolation and fragmentation is common in modern society. We, the people of the digital age, for whom the traditional structures of faith and family seem to be eroding away in the relentless stream of data that comes through the internet, are frequently left feeling like strangers in a strange land. We feel cut off from the sources of meaning that sustained our ancestors for generations. In the wake of constant change, this sense of alienation is understandable—and it relates directly to today’s gospel.

In the story that we read this morning, Jesus encounters a group of similarly alienated people. The text tells us that they were lepers, although that term is a bit of a misnomer. Leprosy, in the modern sense, refers to a condition known as Hansen’s disease, but in the ancient world it could refer to one of any number of infectious skin diseases that required those who suffered from them to be quarantined from the general population. Their isolation from the rest of society was not a matter of moral purity but of public health.

The Torah required that people suffering from skin disease keep their distance from everyone else and loudly announce their condition whenever an uninfected person drew near. This was the isolated state of the ten people whom Jesus encountered in today’s reading. Moreover, the reading particularly focuses on one person who was even more isolated than the rest because he was a Samaritan—and thus regarded as a heretic and a half-breed by his Jewish neighbors.

So this person, like many of us in the modern age, was cut off from all the familiar sources that gave life meaning in the ancient world. These ten people, and this one Samaritan in particular, cried out to Jesus for mercy from the depths of their isolation and despair.

Jesus, in turn, reconnected them to the roots of their tradition, where they might find meaning. He said, “Go, show yourselves to the priest.” And the text says that as they went, they were made clean. This was all well and good for most of them, but not for the Samaritan. For him, there was no option of showing himself to the priest because he was not Jewish but a Samaritan, and thus unable to enter the temple and complete the ritual of purification prescribed by the Torah.

So what was he to do? He did the only thing he could think of—he turned around, returned to the presence of Jesus, fell at his feet, and thanked him. Upon seeing this, Jesus asked a very interesting series of questions. He said, “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine—where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”

I find those to be very interesting questions. Upon hearing them, many of us consider them to be rhetorical questions. The answer, we think, is obviously no. No, no one but this foreigner returned to give praise to God. But that doesn’t sit well with a careful reading of the text.

After all, Jesus had told the ten to go show themselves to the priests, hadn’t he? Presumably, they were doing exactly what Jesus had asked them to do—visiting the priests in the temple and giving thanks to God for their healing, as prescribed in the Torah that their ancestors had followed for generations. The only reason one of them came back to thank Jesus personally was because that person was legally unable to enter the temple under the traditional laws of the Torah.

What I wonder is whether Jesus’s question was not rhetorical but authentic. What if he actually wanted us to consider where the other nine had gone? What if Jesus wanted to show us that there is more than one way to give thanks to God when we are grateful for the good things that God has done for us? What if the diversity of praise is the very thing that Jesus wants to highlight for us in today’s gospel?

Kindred in Christ, I believe that is exactly what is happening in today’s reading. After asking these three poignant questions, Jesus turns to the Samaritan ex-leper and says, “Get up and go on your way. Your faith has made you well.”

The first thing I notice about this sentence is the part where Jesus says, “Go on your way.” It reminds me of the Fleetwood Mac song from the 1970s: You Can Go Your Own Way. He doesn’t tell the Samaritan to convert to Judaism or to start following the laws of the Torah. He says, “You can go your own way.”

And immediately after this, I find it most fascinating that he refuses to take credit for his own miracle. He doesn’t say, “I have made you well.” He says, “Your faith has made you well.” He gives credit not to the giver of the gift but to the receiver. Isn’t that interesting?

To me, that says that Jesus isn’t interested in building a name for himself because Jesus doesn’t have an ego to bruise. I mean, come on—the guy works a miracle and then refuses to take credit for it. Who does that? Only the kind of person who is more interested in helping people than getting credit for it.

Jesus said to the man, “Your faith has made you well.” And there’s something else that’s interesting to me about that. Our translation, the New Revised Standard Version, renders that last phrase as “Your faith has made you well,” but other translations have rendered it differently. Some say, “Your faith has saved you,” or “Your faith has healed you.” But this is one of the very rare instances where I think the 17th-century King James Version actually renders it best. The King James Version says, “Thy faith hath made thee whole.”

And I really like that, because that’s what faith actually does for us. Whether or not faith can cure people of physical ailments or preserve their immortal souls for bliss in the afterlife, faith, we know, has the power to make us whole.

Humans are meaning-making machines. Evolution has hardwired us to look for patterns and connections in the world around us. When we see two unrelated events that seem to be related to one another, we instinctively look for some kind of causal connection between them. We can’t help it—it’s just the way we were made.

Our faith is not a system of beliefs that we cannot prove scientifically, but the means through which we are able to put together the fragmented pieces of our lives into one coherent whole. Like Jesus said to the man in today’s gospel, our faith makes us whole.

Kindred in Christ, that is the good news coming to us through today’s gospel. That is how we can take the fragmented parts of our life and the alienated people in our society and weave them together into one coherent unit—not because we look alike or talk alike or pray alike, but because we have been brought together into one family by the God who loves us all, regardless of our skin color, or ethnic background, or language, or even our religious beliefs. Our faith has made us whole.

When Pastor Scott and I went to the mosque on the Friday before last, we entered that building as strangers and outsiders. We didn’t speak the language. We didn’t share their specific beliefs. And these two white guys didn’t even look like anyone else in that room. But I want to tell you how we received a welcome of radical hospitality and joy and love. We got a tour of the beautiful new facility that they are building for the worship of God and for service to our community.

They spoke to us about members of their faith community who have been in Coldwater longer than either Pastor Scott or I have been on this earth. Kindred in Christ, I want to tell you today, with both embarrassment and joy, that Pastor Scott and I went to that mosque to extend hospitality, but instead we received it. We went there to offer welcome, but instead we were welcomed.

They surrounded us with the loving arms of Allah, which is simply the Arabic word for God. Friends, Pastor Scott and I learned something that day. We discovered, like the Samaritan in today’s gospel, that our faith has made us whole—not an Episcopal faith, or a Methodist faith, or a Muslim faith, but faith in that mystery which transcends all names and categories, including the categories of existence and nonexistence. Faith in God, or Allah, or love, or any other name that you may choose to give this mystery.

It was faith that brought us together. It was faith that united us across the boundaries of our many differences. It was our faith that made us whole.

Amen.

Fr. Barrett, Pastor Scott, Dr. Ali, and a longtime member of AMS Coldwater (also named Ali)