Tag: creation care

Pig: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, October 1, 2023 at Saint Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH. The lectionary text cited is Matthew 21:23-32.

Later this afternoon we are going to do a blessing of the animals in honor of the upcoming feast of St. Francis and as an unofficial conclusion to the Church’s Season of Creation. So, in honor of all God’s beloved creatures, here’s a story for you:

When I was in 3rd grade, my mom decided that we should get a potbellied pig as a pet. Now, most of you haven’t yet met my mom, but when you do, you will discover that she is a person full of surprising ideas and unexpected inspirations. Never a dull moment with her. 

And I don’t recall exactly how or why she decided we should get a potbellied pig, and in retrospect, I think it was probably something we should have thought through a bit more. First of all, we didn’t live out in the country, but in a house right downtown, and this pig would have to cohabitate with several Siamese cats who were, shall we say, selective about who or what they would tolerate. Second of all, we had never had a pig, and if you hadn’t already guessed, pigs are a little different than house cats. 

But nevertheless, the day arrived and we brought home a tiny little black pig and set up a bed for him in the mudroom. We named him Boris. Boris was truly the cutest thing you ever saw. He was also one of the naughtiest creatures that God ever made. Stubborn, unruly, and loud, Boris took over the house and horrified the cats and was completely and utterly pleased with himself.

Boris would not do anything you wanted him to do. We would put him on a little leash and try to take him for a walk. He refused to budge, and he would squeal as though you were trying to kill him. 

But if you left the back door open for a split second, he would run out as fast as he could into the nearby parking lot and begin gobbling up wads of dried gum. If you tried to stop him, he would squeal as though you were trying to kill him.

In the evenings, it was my job to feed him his dinner of bran cereal and mashed bananas. I had to try to do it as silently as humanly possible, though, because the moment he heard that cereal hit the bowl, he would squeal, as though you were trying to kill him, until dinner was served and he was finally placated. 

It became clear to us, after a very brief time, that that the idea of a pig was something far different from the reality of caring for THIS pig. It was not for the faint of heart. He would not be contained, nor tamed, nor would he adapt to the settled rhythms of our life. He was simply Boris. And that was that. 

But as maddening as he was, Boris was also delightful, because you always knew where you stood with him. He was unapologetically himself. There was no artifice, no secret agendas. Would that more of us were as authentic and transparent about our needs as he was. 

And so while we will offer that blessing of the animals later this afternoon the truth is that, quite often, animals bless us because they show us what it looks like to live with complete integrity of being. No masks, no posturing, just unaffected authenticity. What you see is what you get, wads of gum and squealing and all.

And there is something of Jesus reflected in that. Something of what it means to know who God really is.

When the chief priests and the elders challenge Jesus in today’s Gospel passage, asking him by whose authority he is doing what he does and teaching what he teaches, they are, of course, not asking out of genuine curiosity. They are not interested in who he truly is; they just want to trip him up and get him to say something that they can use against him. But Jesus knows what they are up to, and he beats them at their own game, entrapping them in their own questions with a bit of cleverness.

But the most important thing that we need to know about Jesus and take away from this exchange is not just that he is clever or quick—it is that he is authentic. The underlying truth, the thing his questioners miss, is the inconceivably good news that he is authentically who he says he is. Our whole faith hinges on this, in fact. Because at the end of the day, the true source of Jesus’ authority is his authenticity. His authenticity as the true Son of God, as the Incarnate Word, as the love of God revealed in the flesh. It is his authenticity that is so powerful: it is the fact that he is not here to play games, or to posture, or to only tell us what we want to hear. It is his authenticity that allows us to say, yes, Jesus, I trust you, yes, I will call you Lord, yes, I will follow you anywhere because I see, I know, I feel in my bones that you are the real deal.

And to give our lives over to the authenticity of God, to let it shape us into our own most authentic selves—well, there is no greater adventure that we can make in this life. Though I guarantee you, it’s not for the faint of heart.

Because while the authentic God is not exactly like a potbellied pig, there are some parallels. When we say yes to all of God, not just our idea of God, when we say yes to following Jesus, not just the idea of Jesus, we might get more than we bargained for, and it may not fit into the settled rhythms of our life. 

Indeed, we might assume somehow that, in our life of faith, we are going to adopt Jesus and take him home with us and set up a little comfy space for him in the back room, but the fact of the matter is that God is always going to demand freedom, and attention, and God is going to slip out the door and make you chase after, and God is going to keep making a lot of noise lest you forget that there are hungry bellies out there, and God will absolutely not be walked on a leash. 

But in all of the madness and all of the unpredictability of this life with God, the beauty, the gift is this: God will always be themself. You will always know where you stand with God. You will always know that you are loved. And we will come to discover that our own deep authenticity, messy as it might be, is where the power and promises of God will find us and save us and carry us onward. Even if there’s a little bit of squealing along the way. 

Eventually we had to give Boris away; a woman that we knew fell in love with him and took him to live out at her place in the country. The last story I heard about him, which I really hope is true, was that he escaped from her yard one day and that, after a while, a neighbor spotted him along the road, running back towards the house as fast as his little legs could carry him, with an orange in his mouth. 

I don’t know where he had been and I don’t know the end of the story, exactly, but as funny as it might sound, I think that’s one of the best images of authentic discipleship that I can conjure up: running forward in sheer delight, unapologetically yourself, brave and free, sustained by the taste of something sweet, heading towards home. 

So thanks for being authentically you, Boris. It was fun chasing after you for a little while. 

And more importantly, thanks for being authentically you, Jesus. We’ll keep chasing after you forever. 

Two Fires: A Sermon

I preached this sermon on Sunday, September 3, 2023 at Saint Anne Episcopal Church, West Chester, OH. The lectionary texts cited are Exodus 3:1-15 and Matthew 16:21-28.

Throughout the wider church, this month begins what is called the Season of Creation. It’s a time when we consider our interrelatedness with all created things and how our connection to the natural elements might shape the elements of our faith. So today, in that spirit, I want to tell you two stories about fire. 

The first will probably sound familiar: when I was a kid, I spent summers up in the north woods of Michigan, and one of my favorite memories is of the campfires that my dad and my grandpa would build out by the lake. There were s’mores, of course, and ghost stories, and as the evening wore on, a companionable silence settled in as the wood snapped and the flames danced in the darkness. And what I love about that memory of fire is not that it was something unique to me or my family, but that it felt like something that people have been doing forever. I suspect most of us have, at some point, experienced a similar quiet pleasure around a fire pit, where, as the night enfolds us, busyness gives way to simply being, and the amber glow creates a sense of closeness and belonging for all those who are bathed in its light. 

The second story is less comforting. When I was in seminary in northern California, having returned to the state after many years away, one of the things that was hard to ignore was the pervasive and intense threat of wildfire, far more so than when I grew up there as a child. Due to the corrosive effects of climate change, the fires across our continent are bigger and more widespread than ever before, and each year one must live under their shadow, both literally and figuratively. 

There was one fall where the smoke from nearby fires poured into Berkeley and the sky was gray like fog and the sun was red and we had to wear N95 masks to go outside long before COVID made them necessary for other reasons. And I remember how my friends and I discussed whether we should pack a bag with essentials ready to grab should the wildfire jump to the nearby hillsides. We wondered where we would escape to if they did. I thought of that again, recently, when smoke enveloped the midwest from Canadian wildfires and while watching videos of people flee the town of Lahaina as Maui burned. 

This is the duality of fire: it warms and sustains, but it also consumes and destroys. We need it, and we fear it. We rejoice in its beauty, but we ignore its power at our peril. 

And so perhaps it is no surprise that fire often appears in key moments of Scripture where God is revealed to humanity, for that same duality characterizes our relationship with the Holy. God is the source of our life and yet also of our trembling. God is the light of belonging and is also the burning heat that lays bare our pretenses of safety. And, as Scripture attests, the challenge of life with God is to learn how to hold both of these understandings at the same time. 

When Moses sees the burning bush, he is not immediately afraid, but attracted. This fire in the wilderness that burns but does not consume is not exactly a campfire, but it is a sign of God’s desire to gather in the people of Israel and tell them a new story. Moses and the burning bush form an image of humanity drawing together in communion with its Creator; and Moses’ experience suggests that when we gather in close to listen to God, we too will hear a promise of deliverance; we too, in the companionable silence, might hear the name of the One who abides with us. 

This story reminds us that part of our calling is to form communities where everyone and anyone can come hear the story of how God will liberate and heal all of creation. And even if we, like Moses, feel unworthy or unprepared to take part in that story, we are part of it, because the place we are standing is already holy ground. 

But gentle warmth is only half the story. Because this morning we also hear Jesus telling his disciples—in fiery, unsparing language—about the true nature of discipleship: the necessity of death and relinquishment and the searing pain of the cross that he will soon experience. We do not need to indulge in theologies that glorify suffering nor should we promote the idea that people’s pain is itself holy. But we do have to acknowledge that God’s activity in the world is not always cozy; it’s not limited to upholding that which comforts us. 

Through the Cross of Christ, God is like a wildfire, laying waste to the structures and the systems and the sins that confine and subjugate and placate; God’s intention is to incinerate them with justice; God means to engulf them in peace, so that something new might spring up. And this type of divine fire is dangerous—dangerous to the powerful, dangerous to the complacent, dangerous to anything within us our around us that stands in the way of the Kingdom’s coming. Get behind me, Satan, Jesus says to Peter, not because he hates Peter but because he rejects Peter’s assumptions of comfortable messiahship, of self-satisfied discipleship, and he intends to burn away those parts of ourselves that resist God’s mission in the world. As John the Baptist once said, “the one who is coming after me …will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” Now we begin to see what he meant.

So, two stories about fire, and two stories about God’s presence in the world. Two stories that are part of our own story, which must be held in tension and told and lived into, again and again, in every generation. 

How are we, at Saint Anne, gathering others in toward the burning bush? How are we creating a community with space enough for everyone to share their story, to delight in fellowship, to sing and study and pray and learn together? And how are we making sure others know that this fire burns as a sign for all people? Because it’s important to remember that Moses’s encounter with God in the desert was not a private revelation. It was the initiation of a public mission, one that radiated outward with light and heat and hope. There is a story about the world that does not end in division or oppression or fear. Are we telling that story beyond these walls? Are we inviting people to gather ‘round, to come and rest in its light? This is the call of the burning bush. 

At the same time, how are we, at Saint Anne, taking up the Cross as the sign of God’s categorical rejection of all that would harm and oppress and stifle the flourishing of life on this planet? Because it’s not enough for us to gather around the campfire while the world burns. Jesus could have stayed in Galilee telling stories with his friends if that’s all that was needed to save creation. 

But he didn’t. He took on the Cross—the ultimate symbol of degradation and cruelty—in order to consume it with the power of his love. And we who would follow him, we, too, have to look for the crosses of our own time—the failings, the fault lines, the dehumanizing tendencies of our hearts and our culture—and we have to take them up and take them on, speaking the word of love that is like fire, so that the crucifying forces of this world will be revealed for what they are: a lie. A delusion. A pile of ashes.  This is the call of the Cross. 

The good news that I have already witnessed at Saint Anne is that we are engaged in both of these things—the gathering in around the fire, and the setting the world aflame with love. But as we prepare for another program year, as we prepare for a new season of ministry together, I encourage you to consider how you are taking part in these two stories yourself, whether through education, through prayer, through advocacy and justice-seeking, through service, through pastoral care, or through the many ways that we build up and enrich life in this community. I hope you will make that commitment, knowing that you will never be walking alone as you do so. 

Because here’s the thing: God is already doing what God will do in the world: beckoning and illuminating, dismantling and renewing. Our choice, our vocation, our glorious gift and responsibility is whether we will join in, whether we will rest in the light, and whether we will become like holy fire ourselves, fierce, fluid, and free. 

In the end, it’s not two stories about fire, but one. Just one story, reconciled in the burning heart of Christ, one story that holds all of life, that holds all of creation, and it is God’s story and, if we so choose, of we so dare, it is also ours.