August 2024 – By Another Road

Montana: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, August 25, 2024 at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH. The lectionary text cited is John 6:56-69.

As most of you know, my dad’s side of the family lived in a small town in the woods of upper Michigan. I talk about that place a lot, in sermons and in stories, and I think about it a lot too, because it inhabits that place in my heart where one finds something true and good to hold onto as the years go by.

Because as a kid in California who moved around a lot, Iron River, MI, (population 2,000) was an unconventional promised land of sorts: a place where the doors always stood open and porches creaked hospitably when you stepped on them and streets were paved in golden sunlight. It was (and to some extent remains for me) a sort of dream. Maybe you have your own such place, somewhere within your own heart and history. A particular golden landscape. A door that always stood open for you.

But for my family who actually lived full time in Iron River—and especially my grandpa, Russ, who lived there his entire life—it was not a dream. It was simply where he lived, and where his family had always lived, for generations. He loved it in his own practical way, but I think it’s safe to say it did not dazzle or tantalize him like it did me. No, for my grandpa, the promised land was another place entirely. It was…Montana.

If you’ve been you know that Montana is a stunning place, especially in the western half where the mountains are like green teeth chewing the sky, with lakes as still as glass mirrors reflecting the faces of the big thunderhead clouds. And while I was busy dreaming of Michigan, it was Montana that had long fueled the daydreams of my grandpa. So much so that at one point, when my dad and his siblings were young, he attempted to move the family out there.

It didn’t work out, and they soon returned back to Michigan, but for as long as I can remember, he would get a sort of dreamy, wistful sound in his voice whenever he talked about the big sky and the small western towns and that one particular diner in eastern Montana that had the best tomato soup known to God or humankind.

But ultimately, while my grandpa loved the idea of Montana, the freedom and adventure it represented to him, it was Michigan that was home for his entire life, until he died at the age of 89. It was that one small Michigan town where he swept hallways as a janitor and drove buses and went fishing and paid bills and fixed broken things down in the basement while puffing on his little cigars.

And while he might have dreamt of the wind singing in the pines on some far off Montana peak, it was in Michigan where he sang songs to his grandchildren and watched us grow up to dream our own dreams.

I was thinking about all of this—Michigan and Montana and the places that tantalize us and the regular places where we make a life—because I have realized that it parallels and illuminates something really important about our lives of faith. In particular, I’ve been thinking about that very word, faith.

When I say the word faith–when I ask you to talk about your faith–what would you say in reply?

Typically, we would start to talk about what we believe—what we think—about who God is and how God acts in the world. Faith is the word people often use to describe their attitude towards the Bible and Jesus and whether they think he is who he says he is. And so, if I say I have found my faith, it means I think one thing about Jesus. And if I have lost my faith, it means I think something else.

Faith, understood in this way, is very conceptual; it’s an idea that we wrestle with. It is sort of like Montana was for my grandpa—this lovely but not quite solid thing that rattles around in our head, a vision that remains always just out of reach.

But what I have realized is that Jesus is not all that interested in this sort of faith. I don’t think he came just to tantalize us with concepts or give us more fuel to endlessly debate ideas about God. He came to give us something real, something tangible. He came to give our actual lives back to us.

Because Jesus teaches, time and again, that the Kingdom of Heaven is not a place hidden beyond the horizon. It is the ground beneath our feet, made holy by our daily choices. It is the temple of the present moment, open to all who recognize here, now as the place where we meet God.

At the risk of sounding overly provocative, I am suggesting that Christian life is less about faith and more about fidelity—the commitments we make and the promises we keep, where love looks less like a map to a far off place and more like an object mended in the basement. In this Christian way of life, we commit not so much to an idea as we do to a set of choices made and acted upon. Choices that build a sense of home and hope for ourselves and the people around us.

That’s why Jesus is so insistent about bread and flesh and blood in this discourse we’ve been hearing for the past few weeks. He is telling his disciples, and us: stop treating all of this—what I am doing, what I am saying, what I am teaching—like it’s an idea that you can take or leave. God is not an idea. Love is not a theory or a concept or an ideology. It is the fundamental substance of existence.

And until we realize this–until we realize that God is not an idea and heaven is not a dream destination, but the enactment of our daily fidelity to love–until we claim this, we do not have life in us. Not truly, not fully, not yet.

And so if you are ever looking to check in with God about your discipleship, about how things are going between the two of you, I would encourage you to spend less time agonizing over your doubts or relishing your certainties and spend more time asking: to what or to whom have I given my fidelity? What choices am I making? What relationships am I building? What simple, practical work am I doing to love the ground beneath my feet in the name of Jesus?

I daresay that the Gospel of Christ has endured for over 2000 years less because of the triumph of an idea and more because certain people in each generation decided, as Jesus did, to put some flesh on their love—they decided to stop talking and actually live the gospel out. To give their own bodies and selves as living bread for the life of the world. Even if it just looks, most of the time, like fixing broken things, paying the bills, sweeping the hallway, and singing to your grandchildren.

You know, I have sometimes wondered, when my grandpa died and went to be with God, what it looked like for him when he got there. I wondered if it looked like Montana..that maybe he got there at last and finally found himself at home in the high peaks, bathed in wind and cloud and Spirit.

But if I am honest, I bet his homecoming looked more familiar than that—that heaven is more like being enfolded back into the love we spend our life on.

And so maybe, just maybe, in some quiet, woodsy corner of heaven, he is still tinkering in the basement, still singing in the night, or driving down a quiet highway, headed not towards Montana or any ineffable dream, but to the place where God actually abides—the place that looks like flesh and blood and fidelity. The place that looks like home.

Purpose, Passion, Practice: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, August 11, 2024 at St. Anne Episcopal Church, on the occasion of my one-year anniversary as Rector. The lectionary text cited is John 6:35, 41-51.

In a revelation that will surprise exactly no one, I was a theater kid growing up. My first big role was as an ice cream cone in the 2nd grade Christmas pageant at school. In 3rd grade, I was promoted to a Russian Baker in the Nutcracker; I rocked the chef hat but the dance moves eluded me. Then in 4th grade my big break came: I starred as the Nutcracker himself.

This was a low budget production in a rural California elementary school, so my costume was made out of a long old white silk shirt of my mom’s that she fashioned into a sort of tunic with red tights, and God help me, somewhere there are photos of this. You wouldn’t ever catch me in such an over the top getup these days, but….well…*looks down at vestments* Nevermind!

Anyway, growing up, I loved theater so much—not just being on stage, but the immersive process and culture that surrounded it. The lore and the lingo and all the little traditions of theater people that go on behind the scenes. The bond that you form with the other people working on a production. The sense that, no matter what else is going on in your life—no matter how strange or scary or lonely things might be elsewhere—in this place, doing this thing, you know where you fit. In this place you have a part to play, both literally and figuratively, and other people have your back as your strive together towards a common vision.

What a healing, even saving experience it was, as a nerdy, closeted kid, to be enfolded into a community and a way of life like that.

If you were ever a theater person, you know what I mean. But if not, then still, I hope, somewhere along the way, that you have experienced your own version of a tight knit community of purpose and passion and practice.

Maybe it was a team sport. Or music. Or another hobby or fellowship group that brings you deep joy. I’ve met devotees of bird watching and of stamp collecting and of long distance running and there’s always something so beautiful about the way their faces light up when they talk about this thing, whatever it is, that guides and sustains and challenges them.

And then, of course, there’s church. And church can be complicated.

Now, I will tell you, that one of the primary things that led me to begin serving as your rector exactly one year ago was that, when I got to meet folks from the Vestry and the Search Committee, their eyes also lit up when they talked about St. Anne. I thought—YES, this type of joy and enthusiasm is what we SHOULD experience when we walk into the doors of a church on Sunday morning.

But you and I both know that the church, more broadly, is not always this way. And in some corners of our society, it’s quite the opposite. It is a place where too many people, for a whole host of reasons, experience their faith not as a community of purpose and passion and practice but as some combination of duty, and fear, and anxiety. For them, church can feel like that bad dream people have where you’re on stage and the big spotlight is shining down on you and you forgot all your lines and you just know there’s a trapdoor that going to swallow you up.

But here’s the thing (and it needs to be said out loud): the true purpose of church is not, and should not ever be like that. Church should not be a place that plays into our fears and anxieties. It can be a place where we acknowledge our fears and anxieties, of course, but it should not play into them. It should not exacerbate fear or foster suspicion in our conduct with others.

When you’re a theater kid, you learn to overcome your worst fears and your stage fright because you know that you are part of something bigger than just you, that there is something beautiful worth putting yourself out there for…and church should be the same. At its best and truest, it always has been.

There’s a bit of this in today’s Gospel reading today. Jesus is under the spotlight, he’s been pursued by a group of folks who want to know how he’s going to perform for them, how closely he is going to follow the script of what they are expecting in a Messiah. And they’re not fully convinced. They say, “is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know?” He is not nearly mighty or impressive or well-connected enough to topple empires and lead us to victory over our enemies.

And I get it. These people are afraid. They are hungry and tired and afraid. They want someone strong who is going to help them be less afraid of all the big forces in the world they cannot control. God forgive us, we still want that. A sort of typecast strongman messiah.

But here’s the thing about Jesus—maybe one of the most important things about Jesus. He refuses to play that part, because Jesus refuses to let fear be the defining feature of the human experience.

Just as God has been saying throughout all of Scripture (more so than anything else God says in Scripture): Do not fear. Be not afraid. Not because fear isn’t normal or natural—it is—but because fear is not the pathway to the answers we seek. The fearful, vindictive, vengeful warrior is not who God ultimately reveals himself to be, and it is not the role any of us were meant to play either.

If God—and Jesus as God’s Son—wanted to traffic in fear, he would have said to this crowd: I am the Warrior you have been waiting for. I am the one who will get rid of your enemies. I am the one who scorns the people you scorn and hates the people you hate. And they probably would have been thrilled!

But that’s not what he says is it? He says, instead, I am the bread of life. I am the bread of life. I am not a warrior, I am just bread. I am a warm meal at the end of a long day. I am a table with enough seats for everyone. I am nourishment and kindness and a lively, earthy, sacred love. I am the one who is inviting you in to a way of life, not an imperial religion, not an endless series of wars both military and cultural. I am inviting you into a community of purpose and passion and practice. I am not going to play upon your fears. I want to see your eyes light up.

Somewhere along the way, friends, much of the church lost that script, or decided to toss it out. They decided to stage a different sort of production, one that is more about power and control and influence than it is about love and justice and mercy.

But what I love to see, and what gives me undaunted hope—both here in our parish—and elsewhere in the Episcopal Church—and in other parts of the so-called “declining” church—which, by the way, is really just the church getting back to its roots—is that we are reconnecting with that spark of fearless creativity. We are trying new things. We are laying down old prejudices and assumptions. We are asking good questions and admitting that we don’t have all the answers. We are doing it together.

To me that sounds like Jesus, and it is as delightful and delicious as the scent of warm baking bread. And, for me, it is as thrilling as those old theater days when I was a little bit afraid but I realized I was part of something bigger and lovelier and livelier than just me—that I didn’t have to go it alone anymore, that I belonged.

We belong, here. We belong to each other, here. All of us, in this community of purpose, passion and practice that is the church. That is what we are building together here at St. Anne. That is what we are going to welcome people into when they come through our red doors; and when we are out in the community; and when we are talking about our faith with our friends. We are going to say: this is what brings me joy and hope and peace and determination and compassion, and that is enough. That is what the Bread of Life, the Lord of Love, the great I AM came to help us do.

You know it’s funny, the very last play I was ever in, as a senior in college—and I am NOT making this up—included a scene where I had to play a priest. God has a sense of humor sometimes.

But God knows, better than we do, the many roles we will be called to take on, and this, right here, is where we work to discover them. Not as theater people, but just as people. People made for the single greatest role ever written: ourselves, transfigured by God’s love, with light in our eyes.

Mercy: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, August 4, 2024 at St. Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH. The lectionary text cited is 2 Samuel 11:26-12:13a.

People sometimes ask the question, if you could have dinner with any one person, living or dead, who would it be, and why? And usually the answer we give is a celebrity or some other interesting figure from history—somebody fun or fascinating. Mine would probably be either Rowan Williams, the theologian and former Archbishop of Canterbury…or Dolly Parton. And that probably tells you all you need to know about me!

But this morning I have a different question for you…and it’s maybe a little bit of a harder one: If you could make amends with any one person in your life, living or dead, who would it be? If you could sit down across from just one person and know that somehow, the breach between you could be repaired, the fence mended, the hostility put to rest…who would you pick? Imagine, for just a moment, what that would feel like.

Imagining such a thing can be a tender, even painful sort of moment…especially if we feel that this is not a realistic possibility. I can think of a few people who were once in my life that I wish, somehow, I could get another chance to say the thing I never said, or to take back the thing I did say.

But that pang in the stomach, that sense of longing for reconnection…it’s good to be reminded of it from time to time. I would say it’s necessary, even, in our life as Christian disciples. Because that pang, that longing, is indicative of a fundamental part of our faith. It’s a part that we don’t talk about a lot, because it can get overlooked in our conversations about love or justice or wisdom or truth. And that fundamental thing is mercy.

Mercy is an somewhat misunderstood concept. It is not just what a judge offers to a criminal, or some sort of favor bestowed the unworthy. It is far humbler, and gentler and more mutual than that. Mercy is the softening of the heart that takes place when we truly, fully see each other. It is the thing that makes reconciliation possible.

For me, mercy is like that feeling when your aching bones and tired mind sink into a warm bath at the end of the day, when there is nothing left to give or to prove or to hide. Mercy is like slipping under cool sheets and falling asleep beneath the untroubled, drifting stars. It is the remembrance of the fundamental kindness that holds all things and all people together.

And the desire to take part in mercy is what prompted you to think of that one, seemingly inaccessible person. It’s that part of ourselves that longs to say to the ones we’ve lost and the ones who’ve hurt us, I see now, I see YOU now, and I feel seen by you now, and so now let us rest in the silence of what we have seen, of the price that was paid, of what is forgiven, and of whatever it is that waits for us on the other side of regret.

This sort of mercy is important. And it’s essential, actually, if we hope to begin to understand the Gospels and the many complicated stories that are given to us in Scripture. Without mercy, they can seem more like a series of vivid, sometimes frightening dreams. But with mercy—it all begins to make a bit more sense.

For example, consider the reading from 2 Samuel. I promised you last week that we would get the rest of the story—David’s comeuppance after his seduction of Bathsheba and his plot to kill her husband. And today we see it. The Lord sends a prophet to David and, by way of a parable that contrasts mercy and hard-heartedness, he gets David to unwittingly pronounce judgment on himself.

You are the man, the prophet Nathan says—you are the man without mercy. You are the one who has tramped on the vulnerable! You are the one who has forgotten who you are! Where is the old David, the one with the gentle light in his eyes? Where is the young shepherd who would not hurt even the smallest lamb? Where is the brave young man who stood up to terrible giants? When did you, David, decide that you were now a terrible giant yourself?

And, even though he has done horrific things, and even though he will eventually pay a dear price for them, David understands. He sees his failure. And he seeks God’s mercy. “I have sinned against the Lord,” he says, and this one sentence is the key to the story—the softening of his heart, the crack in his defensiveness, the one thing that makes healing and reconciliation possible again.

Without mercy, this would just be a story of a violent king and an angry God. But with mercy, it is a reminder that even in our worst moments, God refuses to forsake us. God will always call us back to the most innocent and compassionate and tender version of ourselves.

Because sometimes that one person we wish we could sit across from and make amends with is simply an earlier version of ourselves. And in such moments, mercy begins with recognizing how far we have strayed from the person we thought we were, or the person we once hoped to be.

Mercy, for David, is being able to look at himself and to say, I see now, God. I see YOU, now, God, and am seen by you, God. Every part of me: the terrible king I’ve become and the gentle child I once was. Come what may, let me not forget this seeing, God. Let me sing Psalms about this seeing. Let me not forget how you called me back to myself, how you reminded me that the best parts of myself are not lost entirely.

My friends, if we hope to make any sense of the Bible, and of what it means to follow Jesus, and what it must look like to navigate the troubled times in which we live, I will tell you this: mercy is the key. Not being right all the time. Not being the strongest or the most impressive. Not winning the game or the prize, whatever that is. It’s just mercy.

Mercy is the only thing that will lead not just to change in our world, but transformation of our world. And it begins, as most things do, within each of us.

If you are wondering how on earth to begin, or how to engage in the practice of mercy, here and now, I have a very practical exercise for you—one I read about in a book many years ago. It’s simple but powerful, and it goes like this:

This afternoon, or this evening, or whenever you have a few quiet minutes to yourself, I want you to call to mind that person you thought of a few minutes ago. The one that is distant from you. Imagine them, as vividly as you can, at their happiest or healthiest. Imagine them as God might see them, before the hurt, beneath the pain and fear. Imagine yourself the same, the two of you sitting across the table, both of you at your best.

And then, just for a few minutes, imagine what you would say to them.

Maybe it’s, I forgive you.

Maybe it’s, please forgive me.

Maybe it’s, I don’t know how to forgive you just yet, but I’d like to someday.

Maybe it’s, I know you tried your best.

Maybe it’s just, I don’t understand why it turned out the way it did between us but I wish it were different.

And I see you, now.

And I wish you peace.

Maybe you can imagine them saying something back. Or maybe not. It’s ok either way.

And then rest in the silence. And know that, somewhere, somehow, in this imagined conversation which is a sort of prayer, that a small seed of mercy has taken root in your heart and has been released into the world.

Try it sometime. I’d love to hear how it goes if you do. And with practice, maybe it will even empower you to have a real-life conversation like that with someone when the time comes. And God will be glad.

Because what I believe, fundamentally, is that if you asked God who he’d like to sit across the table from and make amends, it’s you, and me, and all of us. God is hoping for some version of this conversation each week at this Eucharistic table, so that he can say to us, yes, I see now, I see you, now, I long to be seen BY you, that you might slip into my love like a warm bath and slide under the cool sheets to sleep an untroubled sleep.

And then you will understand that this was always the key to every story, this was always the dream written in those silent, drifting stars, this was alway the word written upon your soul to call you back to yourself and to one another:

Mercy.

Speak it, and practice it, and it will tell you all you need to know.