Month: May 2024

Wake Up: A Sermon for Pentecost

I preached this sermon on Pentecost, May 19, 2024, at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH.

I actually don’t remember my dreams that often, but every so often I have a really strange or stressful one. You know, the sort where you are caught in some embarrassing situation and you can’t get out of it, or everything starts crumbling apart and you fall through an opening in the floor, or some scary monster is chasing you and you can’t quite get away. I once had a dream where I opened my mouth to speak and marbles kept pouring out of it. Hopefully not a subconscious commentary on my preaching prospects today.

But if you have ever had a stressful dream or a nightmare, then you also know that strangely pleasurable pang of relief when you wake up with a start and realize, blessedly, that everything is ok. You are safe. The walls are not falling down around you. The monster wasn’t real. You can speak the words you need to speak. 

And so you catch your breath in the soft pre-dawn gloom, and it’s true, the world to which you’ve awakened may not be perfect, it may carry its own tangible shadows and fears, but it is solid and real, and the sun is rising, and it will somehow be ok. This is the relief of waking up. 

And this is why, I think, that in many of the great spiritual traditions of the world, coming into the proximity of divine truth is also often described as “waking up.” We employ the metaphors of sleep and dreams and wakefulness in talking about our experiences of God because we know, instinctively, what it feels like to be jolted into an awareness of what is real, to find safety and purpose in the things that we can actually hold onto, the things that endure, versus those things that are confusing and illusory and which fade like dreams, like the moon at daybreak. 

It might even be said that the entire spiritual journey of humanity is one made in the direction of “waking up” and comprehending, as much as our mortal minds can, what is True with a capital T and to cultivate within ourselves the place where that truth can take root and flourish and bear fruit and not be crowded out by nightmares and delusions. I think that this is the case no matter who you meet, no matter who you are, no matter how you understand God. 

Notice that I am deliberately speaking in very broad strokes here about human spirituality, and not specifically about a Christian spirituality—not yet. That is intentional, even if it’s maybe a bit daring to do so on Pentecost, one of the major Christian feast days of the entire year.

But Pentecost is a very unusual feast day, and if we take it seriously, it demands more from us than a passive acknowledgment of one moment in the life of Jesus’ disciples recorded in the book of Acts. It would be easy to gather and to sing some hymns about the Holy Spirit and wonder what the tongues of fire looked like and then go on about our business til next year. 

But what if we were meant to do more than that today? What if Pentecost was meant to wake us up to something entirely new, something very real and enduring and transformative about the God whom Jesus embodied?  

Because here’s the thing about Pentecost: it is, perhaps more than any other feast day, a categorical statement that the gospel does not belong to us. Let me say that again: the gospel does not belong to us. At least, not only to us.

Because the true gospel of love that Jesus initiated cannot be contained or controlled or wielded by anyone, including the churches that bear his name. It is universal, for all people, not in an imperialistic sense where we will compel others to be like us, but simply because the movement of love, the movement of the Holy Spirit, is everywhere, in everything and everyone. This was the radical revelation and invitation of God in Christ, fulfilled at Pentecost: to wake up to the good news that God’s love is free to all people. And then to act like people who are awake.

Nontheless, we have spent over 2,000 years, in various places and times and cultures, fitting the message and the mission and the death and the resurrection and the ascension of Jesus into a sectarian or institutional framework. And of course we would. We’re only human. For all we know, the apostles were drafting an organizational chart in the days leading up to Pentecost. 

But then something happened. Something so strange and wild and free and destabilizing that even the account of it in Acts doesn’t make a lot of sense. All we get are metaphors: a sound like a rush of violent wind. Divided tongues, as of fire. People speaking in languages they don’t even know. It honestly sounds more like a strange dream, except in this case it wasn’t. They were not asleep, and they were not drunk on new wine. They were awake. Maybe for the first time in their entire lives. And in the speaking and the praying and the blowing of the wind and the burning of the flame something became apparent that had not been before:

That whatever Jesus had been doing, whatever he had been trying to teach them and pass on to them and invite them into in his risen life, it did not belong to them, or to any one group. This gospel was not a secret teaching for the elect, it was not an exclusive invitation for the chosen, it was not a blueprint for the power of one nation above all others. It was the Spirit saying to all of creation:

Wake up! Wake up and see that I love all of you, that I love everything, that everything is nothing but love! Wake up, children of every nation and creed and language and color and class. Wake up and see that the good news is you were made for blessedness, you were made for communion with your Creator, you were made to stand at the threshold of heaven and earth and to let these things rush through you like a fire, like a gale, like the light of the rising sun! 

The Gospel of this love does not belong to you, and that is what makes it good news. It is for Israel, but not only for Israel. It is for the Gentiles, but not only for the Gentiles. It is for the rich, the poor, the healthy, the weak, the lost, the found, the mighty, the marginal, but it does not belong to any one of them alone. It is for the gay, the straight, the trans*, the young, the old, the urban, the rural, the liberal and the conservative, the partisan and the cynic, but not for any one of them alone. It is for the human, the beast, the soil, the stars, the rivers, the wood, the stone, the deep ocean and the immeasurable depths of the cosmos. It is for all of them, this gospel. It is for all of us.

And on this day, on this strange and beautiful day, we have a choice: we can either wake up all over again and rediscover our calling to a universal, boundless, borderless, indiscriminate care and concern and fellowship with everything and everyone. Or we can keep dreaming our restless dreams about a God who is more concerned with perpetuating cultural warfare and the histories of violence and loss to which we have become accustomed. 

But I will tell you, I am weary of those terrible dreams. I am ready to wake up and see what is real, to speak clearly, to seek what is possible if we let the gospel be what it is, as dynamic and fluid and liberated as the Holy Spirit, belonging to no one and thus belonging to everyone, everywhere, always, revealing how we all belong, how are all beloved, how everything is possible if we dare to act like it is.

This morning we are baptizing baby Oliver and baby Thea into all of this. And as we witness their incorporation into this life, into this story, into this community, what I hope you will remember is that, on a fundamental level, what we are talking about in baptism, and what we are talking about on Pentecost, and really on every Sunday we gather, is not only being part of a church, but also about being part of everything. 

It is about recognizing our kinship with every face we encounter, and with the night sky, and the vast earth, and the creatures that dwell therein. It is about giving something of ourselves over to everything else, just as Jesus did—something of our life, and labor, and heart—so that we might wake up, with a start, and yet with a strange pang of relief, to realize that life is neither a strange dream nor a private nightmare to endure, but something solid and real and interconnected and whole, and that the sun is rising, and that somehow, in the end, everything will be ok. 

For there is a God who is bigger than everything, who burns with love for you; there is a Spirit who is closer than your own breath, and this Spirit has come, in wind and fire and gentleness to say one, necessary thing as you toss and turn in that gloom just before the dawn:

Wake up, dear one. Wake up.

Books: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, May 5, 2024 at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH. The lectionary text cited is John 15:9-17.

If you didn’t already know this about me, now you will—and I’m not ashamed to admit it, because I am surely in good company with others in this room–but…I buy too many books. I can’t seem to help myself. 

My partner, Matt, will attest to this, as will my mom, who I am pretty sure passed this problem on to me. New, used, it doesn’t matter—if I am out and about and I pass by a bookshop, I have to go in. I have to peruse. And more often than I should, I find yet another book that I absolutely need to buy it right now. *Right now.*

Never mind that I have a teetering stack of books on my bedside table most of the time, all in various stages of consumption. Never mind that I have a wall of books behind me in my office. Never mind that I have donated so many books to local libraries, every time I have moved, that I could have probably started a library of my own. It’s not my fault they keep publishing so many good ones!

Books are just so interesting. So many good ideas, so many stories, so many important histories and lessons to digest. I think my all-time record purchase, one time when my mom and I took a trip to Florida and stayed near a used book store—was 22 books in one visit. They probably only cost me $10 or $20 in total, but still. A little embarrassing. As to whether I read all 22 of them cover to cover…no comment. 

These days Matt just gives me a knowing look when a small Amazon package shows up at the apartment door or when I make a sabbath day visit to the local book shop. He knows what he’s in for in the future, God love him. 

Now, despite my insatiable appetite for books, I will admit that it can get a bit overwhelming when it comes time to actually pick one to read and stick with. Hence the big stack by the bedside.

But every so often…you come across a book that just draws you in. If you are an avid reader, you know what this feeling is like. The plot or the writing style just envelops you, and suddenly you are not interested in scrolling on your phone or watching Netflix or anything else—you just want to devour this book and see what happens next. It is truly one of the most pleasurable experiences in life. And not only because you are being entertained or educated, but because you are focused. All the little annoyances and worries and wonderings that clutter our minds fall away for a bit and you are part of a new and different world with each turning of the page. 

If it’s been a while since you found a book like that (or a film, or a piece of music, or whatever it is that captivates you), I hope that you do so soon. I hope you remember what it feels like to surrender yourself to the ideas and possibilities of another world. 

Because, although there are always more books to collect, there is a certain rest, and peace, and, paradoxically, a freedom, in committing fully to just one: one story, one thing, over all the other ones beckoning from the proverbial shelf.

And speaking of stories worth committing to, this morning Jesus arrives at the central theme of his own story. “This is my commandment,” he says to his disciples, “that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” 

This is my commandment. This is it. This, right here, is the purpose of the Gospel stories. This the purpose of the entirety of Scripture. This is the purpose of everything; the beginning and the endpoint of creation. Love one another as I have loved you. 

And I know we spend a lot of time wondering about and debating the meaning of existence, but here’s a spoiler alert: your life is about loving one another. Just as God, incarnate in Jesus of Nazareth, has demonstrated that love in the flesh. 

Your life is about proclaiming this love and practicing this love. That’s it! That’s the one story, above all others, that we were meant to read and internalize. And we can spend our lives reading a thousand other books or exploring esoteric philosophies, looking for countless other hints about what it means to be alive and to live well, but I guarantee you, we will always come back to this: love one another.

“I have called you friends,” Jesus continues, “because I have made known to you everything I have heard from my Father.” All the secrets of the universe, all the origins of creation, all the big questions about why and what and how and when—it’s all just summed up in this: love one another.

I think, in some ways, we are convinced it must be more complicated than that. We imagine there is some secret library, locked away, waiting to be discovered, that will reveal a more complex, surprising answer to why we are alive on this earth. We construct a bunch of ideological theories and political dividing lines to explain things. But our faith reveals to us that there isn’t some big secret. There’s just this. Love one another. It’s almost embarrassingly simple.

Now I understand, of course, that this does not mean that the actual living out of our lives is always simple. How we choose to love one another, how we wrestle with the challenges of love and the sacrifices and the losses it occasions and how we navigate the many temptations to choose something other than love—thes are all stories that are still being lived, still being told and written down and passed on. 

But to be a Christian, to be a disciple of Jesus, is to say: no matter what my own story is, no matter how hard or complicated it gets, and no matter what other stories I encounter in this big, diverse, sometimes scary world, there is ONE story that is the key to understanding all the rest: love one another. 

And it is to say: this is the one story that I will choose over all the others on the shelf, and I will find rest and clarity in choosing to believe that loving one another is all that will be left when the last word has been written at the end of time. 

And this is the story that we will keep on telling and living out here at St. Anne, as best we can, week after week, year after year, because you know as well as I do that the world is still, always, desperately in need of such a story. 

For all the cultural impact of Christianity in our history and society, it seems too often that a lot of people who claim to follow Jesus have lost the plot of what he was actually talking about. They decided somewhere along the way that his story was about purity or power, not love.

But while we may not know everything, this much we do know and this much we proclaim: God is love and love is God and no one has greater love than this: to lay down one’s life like an open book; to become engrossed in the story of the love we share; to forsake all the side plots and distractions, because we know that love for one another is the only story worth telling. It is the only one that makes sense in the end.

If it’s been a while since you felt a love like that, I hope that you do so soon. I hope you remember what it feels like to surrender yourself to the ideas and possibilities of love.

Now, I will probably never read all of the books on my shelf in their entirety. I will probably keep buying more books. Matt, I pray, will be patient with me.

But what I take comfort in is that, even if I never get to read every story written, I already know the resolution to all of them. We catch glimpses of it here every week, in the bread that we eat, in the reconciliation we pursue, in the songs we sing. All beautiful fragments of the one true story. 

And not to give away the ending entirely, but I promise you this: it’s good news.