Archive for the 'Sermons' Category

Sermon for June 17th, 2012

Published on June 30, 2012 in 2012 Sermons. Closed

Sermon for Proper 6B
Holy Cross, Weare
June 17th, 2012
M. Lise Hildebrandt

 

Happy Father’s Day!  One of the best parts of my relationship with my Dad growing up is that he read stories at bedtime.  I remember sitting on the floor with my sister and three brothers as he sat in a chair and read to us from the Just So Stories or Winnie the Pooh.  He has a deep expressive voice—I can still hear him saying, “on the banks of the great grey-green greasy Limpopo river . . . “   This was such an important part of my childhood, that I vowed to read to my children.  From the earliest times, Eric and I read stories, all kinds of stories to them every night until they were 14.  We had many favorites including Mercer Mayer’s There’s a Nightmare in my Closet.

In this story, a little boy explains how he was terribly afraid of the scary things in his closet.  He would close the door and not look until safe in bed.  Then he would peek out, but not see anything.  Because the monster, the nightmare, was invisible to him.  But every time he looks away, we see this huge ugly monster coming out of the closet.

I don’t know if this story is for children, or if it is for their parents.  As soon as you have children, you start becoming aware of all the nightmares lurking in the closet and in the pantry, the medicine chest, the playground, in the neighborhood, on TV, on the internet . . . Everywhere you turn, there are invisible threats.  Traditionally, fathers have been placed in the roles of provider and protector for children.

How do most of us deal with the nightmare in the closet?  We work harder and harder, don’t we?  Every time we turn around, there is a new threat.   Sudden Infant Death Syndrome or the increasing amount of autism; hormone-altering chemicals in food can liners and sports coaches who turn out to be abusers; rising obesity and diabetes, epidemics of bullying and suicides.   We are often so bombarded with information about these “closet nightmares” that we have no clue how real they are, how much we should worry about them, or which are real and likely to affect us and which are not that big of a deal.    Add in a wild economy, lots of unemployment and life upheaval, and we can truly feel besieged.  Some parents get to the point of spending all their energy trying to keep their children safe—to the point that they have no life of their own.

Even if we you don’t have children, life today can make you overwhelmed with monsters, real and imagined.  A few months ago, I heard a radio show on finances—a woman called in, explaining that she was thinking about retirement and wondering if she had enough money socked away.  The show host responded vehemently that she shouldn’t even THINK about retiring until she had saved up $750,000.  So great.  There’s another closet nightmare—since there are many people for whom this is an unattainable goal.   Even when you work hard, even when you do everything you can for your children—and of course, that is not good for you or your children in the long run—even so, you can’t fight against all the scary invisible unknown dangers.  You can exhaust yourself and cripple your children.

There is, however, another kind of invisible force running through the universe.  It is called the power of God, or the kingdom of God, or the Way.  It is energy for good, energy that brings life.  It is, says Jesus, like the force inside a seed that causes it to sprout and grow, put out flowers and produce grain.  The earth and water help it, but it is this force for life that works in it, invisibly, without help even from humans.  It is a force that turns the tiniest seed—even a mustard seed—into a huge bush.  The Way of God is like that, working invisibly, working when we sleep or aren’t paying attention, working God’s will, often under the surface, undetected, or through the smallest or most unlikely people or things.

An example of this is seen in the Old Testament reading.  In last week’s reading, the people of Israel demanded that God give them a king.  This week, we skip ahead.  Saul was made king, and was fine for awhile, but then he started disobeying God.  Samuel is grieved, and even the Lord is sorry he made Saul king.  So he works under the surface, invisibly to produce a new king for Israel.  The Lord starts the ball rolling.  He has Samuel go to Bethlehem, to the house of Jesse to look for the man whom the Lord will pick as the new king.  One by one, all of Jesse’s tall, fine sons go by, and one by one the Lord says, “Nope, not him.”  Samuel is startled, because they look wonderful, but God says, “Don’t look on their appearance or height, for I do not see as humans see;  I look at the heart.”  The Lord is looking for a quality that may be invisible to others.  So Samuel asks if there are any others sons.  Jesse sends for the youngest, a sheep-keeper named David.  When David comes in, the Lord says, “That’s the one,” and Samuel anoints him king.

There is only one problem.  Saul is still the king, and will kill anyone who declares himself king instead.  That does not seem to be a problem to God, however.  Working invisibly, he engineers a way to bring David into Saul’s household.  Saul gets fits of madness—maybe anxiety or depression– that seem to be calmed by music; he asks about a musician, and his servants tell him about Jesse’s son, who plays the harp.  That is David; David is called to court and plays for Saul.  Eventually, David takes over as king, but is all happens subtly, invisibly, by the hand and power of God.

We try so hard to achieve; we try so hard to cope with all the real and invisible threats in life, but it seems we can just run from one crisis to another, trying to plug one hole in the dyke after another, knowing that eventually the flood of water or danger or economic ills may overcome us.  There is another way.  A way of letting go.  A way of accepting that we can’t fight off all the dangers or crises; we can’t ultimately keep our children safe, we may not be able to live up to somebody’s standard of what we need to retire, we may not be able to keep from getting cancer.

You know what the truth is?  You can’t keep yourself or your children safe.  You can’t plan for every eventuality.  The old notions of retirement may not hold water for many people today.  On Friday night, my daughter Becca and her boyfriend Matt stayed overnight with me.  They got up early, packed up, and headed out the door to meet my other daughter and her friends and climb up Mt. Washington.  An hour later I got the call every parent dreads:  “Mom, we were in an accident!”  Not even a mile from my home, they were looking at signs for the highway and didn’t see the stoplight.  They plowed into a car crossing the intersection.  They were fine; the other driver had minor injuries.  The car is totaled.  They were horribly shaken up.   I had seen them just minutes before, but had no power to keep this from happening.

Bad things happen.  But the force for good is always present; God tries to break in and grow wherever we are.

In the book, There’s a Nightmare in My Closet, the boy eventually comes face to face with the nightmare.  Both are terribly afraid of the other.   When the boy realizes that the monster is scared, he is able to befriend him and invite him into his safe bed with him.  I’m not sure we can make friends with all our fears, but letting go of the need to try to control life is like making peace with the nightmares.  Bad things happen.  But the force for good, the kingdom of God, is always present, trying to work through all sorts of things, small things, invisible things, to increase life, joy, hope, positive change.  Just hours after the accident, Matt’s grandparents decided to give him a car they have held onto but not been using.

Our mindfulness course starts today.  Mindfulness is all about letting go of fear, let go of control, and being present to the day, the hour, the minute.  It calls us to let go of our illusion of control.  There is little that we can actually control, and when we recognize that, we are freer to live life now.  I can’t control the stock market or price of gas or the weather or whether my kids get in accidents.  I can’t guarantee that I’ll be healthy or that Holy Cross will become a huge parish or that I’ll retire with lots of money.  I can decide that I have enough today.  I can try to take care of myself and my relationships and my work here at Holy Cross the best I can each day.  I can look in the closet and decide that the nightmares may not happen and aren’t worth worrying about or may happen and I will cope.  But that’s it.

The Tao Te Ching is an ancient text from a Chinese teacher, Lao Tzu.  Tao Te Ching means “the book of the Way.”  Jesus also called his path of life “The Way,”—“I am the way and the truth and the life.”  The brief sayings have a great deal of wisdom in them.  This in is about what we can accomplish with all our striving and work and worry:

Fill your bowl to the brim
and it will spill.
Keep sharpening your knife
and it will blunt.
Chase after money and security
and your heart will never unclench.
Care about people’s approval
and you will be their prisoner.

Do your work, then step back.
The only path to serenity.       (Tao Te Ching, Steven Mitchell, © 1988, p. 9)

“Do your work, then step back.  The only path to serenity.”  We do what we can each day, and then let go.  There is a wild stream of God flowing around and through us.  The best thing we can do is stop striving so hard and let go.  Allow it to use us.  Stop fretting and trying to hold on.  Jesus promises that when we trust in God, we will be filled and carried and used to produce great fruit.

It is the best thing we can do for our children, our parents, our friends.  Do our small piece of work each day, and then let go.  As AA says, “Let go and let God.”  That is the Way, a way of freedom and joy.  Let us pray.  Amen.

Sermon for May 27, 2012

Published on June 30, 2012 in 2012 Sermons. Closed

Sermon for Pentecost B
May 27, 2012
Holy Cross, Weare
The Rev. Lise Hildebrandt

 What information would you most like to have?  What would be most helpful to you to know?  We live in the so-called “Age of Information” and we bombarded with messages from every direction these days—whether we want it or not.  There are all these different ways to communicate—through cell phones, iphones, smart phones, laptops, ipads, tablets where you can talk, email and text—you can also follow Twitter or check in on Facebook.  There are 200 cable channels on the TV.  Lots of information everywhere.  But the vast majority of it?  Ads for stuff we don’t need—I really don’t need Viagra—or details of people’s lives that I really don’t want to know, or time-wasting games and videos, or just huge quantities of information that may or may not be true.  Not useful.

And what information would you like to communicate to others?  Perhaps there is something you want to be able to convey to your son or daughter or to your spouse or friend or coworker.  What is the message you want to give and how would you give it?  As much as we want to be able to give useful, meaningful communication to others, most of what we convey is pretty mundane, surface.  Worse, it might not even be true.  I recently read about a new phenomenon among teens and young adults.  It’s called “sleep texting.” My daughters provided me with an example.  Last summer, Karin went on an early morning run and sent her sister a text to have her open up the apartment door.  She got a text back—“I’m busy.  I’m in a meeting.”  Karin stood there for 5 minutes until she realized that Becca couldn’t be in a meeting—she was asleep in bed.  When she woke up, Becca had no recollection of what she had done.  We laughed at the story, but talk about meaningless communication!

So think about these two questions:  what would you most like to know or understand or feel?  And what would you most like to be able to communicate to others?  Write down a few answers on your piece of paper, or if you don’t like words, draw a picture or symbol of what those might be.

Today is the celebration of Pentecost, one of my favorite days in the church year.   The disciples scatter after the death of Jesus.  When he comes to them, resurrected, he gathers them back at Jerusalem, where they hang out together and start to understand when it means that he died and was brought back to life.    Jesus tells them to stay in Jerusalem until the Holy Spirit comes, because then they will be equipped and directed into their ministry.  And Jesus is carried up into the sky; the disciples wait around for what is to come.

And come it does.  On the day of Pentecost, which was a Jewish harvest festival celebrating the first fruits of the new harvest year, the disciples are together.  There is a sound of wind and the sight of fiery tongues and then the Spirit taking hold of the disciples and compelling them to speak fluently in languages that they didn’t know.  And they weren’t just saying, “My, what a nice day,” or “Have you tried the restaurant down the street, known for its great falafel?”  They were speaking specifically of the amazing deeds of power that God did through Jesus Christ.  And all these people from all over the world were in Jerusalem, and they heard these words in their own language from these northern hicks.  Boy, were they confused!  What in the world was happening?

I reckon the disciples were also a little astonished.

Peter recovers enough to rebut the people who were sneering that the disciples had just been drinking.  No, he said, this is what God foretold through the prophet Joel, that God’s spirit would pour down on people and allow them to speak words of truth directly from God.

Pentecost is all about the Holy Spirit and the Holy Spirit is all about communication.  But a particular kind of communication.  The Holy Spirit doesn’t sell you stuff that you don’t need.  It doesn’t fill up your mind or time with useless fluff.  It doesn’t lie or give you directions that turn out to be wrong.  The Holy Spirit communicates the mind and heart of God.  It’s a direct line, a direct data stream, direct satellite dish to God Central.  This is communication that builds community, builds up relationship.  That’s its hallmark.  It is life-giving, essential communication.

So the Holy Spirit works in this direct-line-to-God way.  Falling down on the disciples as wind and flame, it opens them up to be vessels filled with God.  All they have to do is open their mouths and out comes God-words.  They are so connected to God in that moment that they are clear conduits.  They themselves know God intimately.  Can you imagine having that experience?

But the Spirit’s communication has a direction and an object.  The first way is out–as conduits for God, the words and actions of the disciples send them out to others.  The Spirit equips them to communicate God to others.   They are given the ability to preach, heal, teach—and thus, from the first moment of its existence, the Church is outward-looking.  They are sent to bring God, healing, forgiveness, mercy, hope, justice—to others outside of their small disciple group.  And this is an essential characteristic of the Spirit.

The other direction for the Spirit is seen just a few verses later from this passage in Acts.  It says that “All the believers met together constantly and shared everything they had.  They sold their possessions and shared the proceeds with those in need.  They worshiped together at the Temple each day, met in homes for the Lord’s Supper, and share their meals with great joy and generosity—all the while praising God and enjoying the goodwill of all the people.”  This is the vision of the early Church—eating together, worshipping together, and sharing what they had to care for those in need.  The second way the Spirit equips and communicates is to build up relationships between those who are the Church—“in” you might say, but it is an ever-expanding, ever-changing “in,” not a “us-vs-them” kind of in.

The Spirit brings God to the disciples– God through the disciples to those outside the Church, and through the disciples to each other and those who recently joined the Church.    The Spirit builds up relationship through the truth, mercy, and justice of God.

So what kinds of questions do you have?  Anyone willing to share what you wrote?  The Holy Spirit can answer that . . . What to do next for a job; how to live a less crazy life; how to cope with a certain family member; how to bring healing to difficult relationship; how to live in a way that heals the Earth; to know that I am forgiven for something I did or didn’t do that weighs on my heart  . . . the Spirit can answer that.  Not only that, the Spirit WANTS to answer your questions and give you the direction and assurance that you need.  Call on the Spirit.  The Spirit will not fail you.

The Spirit does not show up empty-handed, however.  The Spirit comes bearing gifts.  Not surprisingly, the gifts of the Spirit have to do with communication in one of these two ways—from God through the disciples outward, and from God through the disciples to build up the Church.  The Gifts of the Spirit are distinctive in this way, and so are not just skills or talents or things you might be good at.  They also have power beyond ourselves.

Some of the gifts make people into apostles or evangelists, people who can particularly bring the Good News of God to others.  Being able to perform miracles is another gift of the Spirit that is outward looking.  As Episcopalians, these gifts tend to make us uncomfortable, because we don’t like the idea that we are going to brow-beat people into conversion—not our style.  But St. Francis said, “Proclaim the Gospel always; use words if necessary.”  Remember what you want to communicate to others?  If it is compassion or hope or forgiveness or justice or reconciliation or acceptance—that is Good News—and whether you speak it or act it out, you are being an evangelist, conveying God’s heart and mind to others.

Some of the gifts are particularly for building up people in the Church—the gifts of pastor, teacher, administrator, leader—these focus on assisting people in their walk with God and helping the church community be grounded, healthy, moving out in faith.

Many of the gifts can be applied with the Church or as a tool to minister outside the Church.  The gifts of healing, helping, mercy, encouragement, wisdom, faith, serving, even being a prophet—these can either strengthen the Body of Christ, the Church by communicating God’s knowledge and love, or they can bring people closer to God who may not know God.  They are tools for making relationships stronger, healing wrongs, increasing hope and justice.

Do you know what spiritual gift you have?  Everyone has at least one.  It is something that both helps you know God and communicates the mind and heart of God to others.  If you don’t, don’t worry.  Others may be able to see it in you; or it may not have been revealed to you yet.  It’s important for us to claim our spiritual gifts, and to know as a community what we all have.  That may determine what our calling as a parish is, or we might find that we lack certain gifts, so need to pray for people who have them.

After you come up to communion, I invite you to spend time walking around the altar, looking at the spiritual gifts listed here.  See if one of them jumps out and grabs you—either something you know you have, or something that you wished you had.  Or, if you see one that you know to be true for someone else, go ahead and give that to other person.  If you’re not sure, don’t worry.  Ask the Spirit.  It will come.

What do you want to know and experience?  What do you want to be able to communicate to others?  The Spirit is the source of all true, helpful, and life-changing knowledge.  We need the Spirit.  Let us pray.

Amen.

Sermon for May 20, 2012

Published on June 30, 2012 in 2012 Sermons. Closed

Sermon for 7 Easter B
Holy Cross, Weare
May 20, 2012
M. Lise Hildebrandt

               Yesterday we elected a new bishop.  As I wrote this sermon before the election happened, I now say, “As I’m sure you’ve heard, we elected ________________ the X Bishop of New Hampshire, and we’re thrilled and are sure that he/she will do a wonderful job. “  I don’t know why we have to use Roman numbers for our bishops, we’re not Roman Catholic after all.  But I digress.  _____________, I mean                 is our new bishop, who will be consecrated on August 4th, X days before our celebration of a new ministry here at Holy Cross on August 14th.

Today our first reading– from the Acts of the Apostles–is about another election—the election of the XII apostle after Judas killed himself.  This story takes place just after the Ascension, forty days after Easter, when the recently resurrected Jesus is carried bodily up into heaven, leaving the disciples down below, scratching their heads.  So then they figure they’d better get a new apostle to replace Judas.  They decide on their search criteria—someone who had been with Jesus all along—find their two nominees, and vote.  Actually, they let the Holy Spirit vote by casting lots.  And Matthias was elected.

It’s a straightforward story.  Clear plot, defined action, conclusion.

Contrast that reading with the Gospel reading from John.  This is part of what is called the “High Priestly Prayer of Jesus.”  John 17 goes kind of like this:  “Thanks, God, glory, glorify, glory, disciples you gave them to me, I give them to you, you gave me your word, I gave it word to them, now they know that I came from you;  I’m going to you, I kept them safe, you keep them safe, in the world, out of the world, not of this world , evil one bad, coming to you, others not yet, they may be one, you and I are one, we are one, they are one, glory, glorify, glory, love you, me, them.”   OK, maybe not exactly, but you get the idea.  Jesus talks in circles.  Did he really talk like that, I wonder?  If he did, no wonder the disciples were confused most of the time!

What today’s passage in John boils down to is the relationship between God, Jesus, and the disciples.  God gave his word or understanding to Jesus, which he gave to the disciples.  And that word/revelation/understanding is that Jesus comes from God; Jesus is God.  That is the first piece—the disciples have been entrusted with this peek into Jesus’ true nature.  And the second thing is that Jesus is asking God to protect the disciples from the Evil One, because Jesus is about to die and the disciples are going to be sent out into the world.

Now we can see that the two readings deal with a common theme.  Jesus is praying to God about what is about to happen to the disciples—when Jesus will die, the disciples will go through a huge time of transition.  They will be scattered, come back together, encounter the risen Christ, lose him once again when he ascends, and then finally be reconstituted by the Holy Spirit as apostles, people sent out to speak and be the Good News to others.    In Acts, we jump into the middle of this transition time—Jesus is gone, the Holy Spirit hasn’t yet come, the disciples/apostles haven’t yet gotten their mission, their special gifts, their marching orders.  It’s a vulnerable and scary time, a time of preparation, waiting, changing gears.

A time remarkably like the one we’re in.  It’s the end of an era in the life of the diocese.  Gene Robinson’s tenure as bishop is coming to an end.  Tonight at St. Matthew’s in Goffstown they’ll be showing a film about Gene’s election and its impact on the wider church and it is a very good film.  Whatever you think about the bishop, his election has been deeply significant to our church; his status as the first openly gay bishop has also in many ways hijacked his episcopacy—it took over, and whatever else he might have wanted to do—well, didn’t happen.  Who he is and what he has done are important.  It’s also great to be able to move forward and to address other issues and other needs of the diocese, which may have suffered in the meantime.  But transition takes time.  Things will kind of fall apart for awhile as Gene steps down and ___________steps in.  You can’t move in a new direction until you kind of slow down and make the turn.  It will be an exciting but vulnerable time for the diocese.

And, lest we forget, we’re still in transition here in at Holy Cross.  I’ve been here less than six months.  I’m still getting to know the parish and community, and we still have all the challenges you had before I came—how to spiritually feed people who are stretched thin by life, how to serve the children and youth and their parents, how to keep stuff going without burning everyone out, how to be engaged with the community, etc.  They didn’t magically get solved when I came.  Surprise!  Some things are fallen by the wayside, we have a change of some personnel, attendance is up and down.  OK.  It’s been less than a year since John left.  Holy Cross is not where it was when John was here, BUT we’re not yet claiming a new vision, a new mission, moving forward boldly.  That takes time.  We’re still in transition.

In fact, we all live in transition times.  Moving from one economy to another,  from a life based on fossil fuels to eventually, a life based on renewable resources, maybe from individualism and buying lots of stuff to living more simply and with richer community connections.  We’re aren’t where we were, but we surely aren’t where we need to go.

Jesus prays for the disciples, that God would keep them safe from the Evil One.  Not that they would be sheltered from the world—that means all the daily stresses and tensions and difficulties that any person will encounter—or even from the special assaults they will get as ambassadors for Christ—rejection, beatings, jail, hardship.  Jesus asks that they be kept safe from the Evil One—Satan, the Devil, or whatever you will call it.  The Evil One causes dissention and destruction, preying on people’s fears, causing them to believe lies about God and themselves.  Where the Holy Spirit breaks down barriers and helps people to understand each other better, the Evil One puts barriers and misunderstanding between people.  Where the Spirit assures people that they are loved and will have enough, the Evil One assures people they deserve only punishment and will have to grab all they can.  Where the Spirit fosters community, healthy relationships, and caring, the Evil One fosters factions, overly close or overly distant relationships, and selfishness.  Where the Spirit brings clarity and joy, the Evil one brings confusion and despair.

Jesus knew that the disciples-turning-apostles would be in for a hard time.  When you’re in transition, you’re in danger.  Danger especially of doing something, anything, to get out of transition.  Either glomming to the past, because it feels safe, or else running and jumping into something new, anything, because it gives a sense of direction.  Either way, you’re acting out of fear, and you just open the door to the Evil One—“move right in and take over.”  If I’m going to err here, it’s going to be in the running off and doing new things department.  I am impatient, I confess it.  I need people to say, “Yes, maybe we should try this” but also people to say, “Whoa, let’s take our time here.”  Both.

We are to be in the world but not of it.  That’s a core quality for our whole lives, not just here at church.  Right now, the world says, “Do!  Be busy!  Achieve!”  Yes, we are called to do something, but that something needs to be from God, not from a place of fear or need to achieve.  And whatever you are dealing with in your life, no matter how hard or how large, Jesus still has the same prayer for you:  to be protected not from adversity, but from the Evil One.  Stay connected to God; believe that you are loved and cared for; stay connected to others who will support you, who also believe in the love of God; continue to speak and be the Good News to others.

The primary way we do this is through prayer.  We tend to have a pretty narrow vision of prayer.  So let’s call it something else:  on vestry retreat, we talked a lot about having our pitchers filled vs. watching around empty and depleted all the time.  It’s not just about standing there passively and having God fill us up, because there is also this relationship, this give and take, the creativity that we can participate in.  So maybe the idea is being a vessel with a lid.  God is always trying to pour in, but most of the time, even though we may be empty, we keep the lid on.  Nothing goes in.  There are places and occasions in our lives that allow us to open up that lid.  Music or beautiful sunsets or creating something or hiking or playing with your children or . . . . ?  What is that thing or those things that  allow you to open up to that life-giving, creating Spirit, where you feel refreshed and regrounded and able to allow God’s life and love to soak into you?  Prayer does that too.  And then this God-filling also changes your vessel—its shape or color or usefulness.

As we go through these various transitions, it is vital that together and also individually fill up, stay grounded, allow God in.  If our worship leaves you tired or bored or underwhelmed, we need to change it.  We need to be filled.  We need to be drawn together by the Spirit.  We need to actively pray for each other, for Weare, for Holy Cross, for the diocese and the state.  Not just on Sunday but the rest of the days too.

When we are filled, when are much more able to act out of love not fear, to be patient for the Spirit’s leading and mission, to have courage to try new things and fail or change course, to reach out beyond our comfort zone.  We are able to trust that God gives us enough and more than enough and that we will be part of amazing works, amazing community.

Sermon for May 13, 2012

Published on June 30, 2012 in 2012 Sermons. Closed

Sermon for 6 Easter B
Holy Cross, Weare
May 13, 2012
M. Lise Hildebrandt

 

Love is everywhere.  In the Bible readings today. In the news:  President Obama said the “L” word when explaining his position on gay marriage—saying that two people who love each other should be allowed to marry each other.  Love is even in my fruit bowl:  my bananas say, “I love your heart.”  How sweet.  Of course, it’s Mother’s Day, which lets loose a flurry of advertising, reminding us to go buy stuff and tell our moms how much we love them, because of course we all love our moms!

The truth is, the love between mother and child is the most complicated love on the face of the Earth.  Fathers and children—that is also a powerful relationship fraught with danger—but, correct me if I’m wrong, mothers take the cake.  It’s that relationship that keeps psychiatrists in business.  Mothers are God to their children.  Think about it.  We look to God to provide what we need, to give us a sense of belonging, of being cared-for.  We run to God when things go wrong and we need comfort.  We ask God for direction.  We need to know that we are loved—by God.

The first relationship is with our mother—before we are born, we know her, we are enveloped by her, fed by her.  We even know her voice.  Once we see daylight, she is usually the one who tends to our needs—feeding, changing, cuddling, soothing.  We know security in her arms and by her sight and voice.  She is the first person to teach us about relationships and the lessons that we can trust the world to take care of us, that we are cared-for, cherished, and loved.  She truly is God.

But she is not.  She is human, and will of course fail.  Sometimes in only minor ways.  Sometimes she fails in crucial ways that scar the child for life.  One friend told me that her mother said, “Children are like waffles—you should throw away the first one.”  My friend was the oldest of four children.  Another friend grew up with alcoholic parents, who failed on many levels to care for her.  Instead, from a young age, she would clean up after her parents when they were drunk, cover them up with blankets, and take care of her younger sister.  Or a mother might beat her children or be in an abusive relationship and not protect them from physical, emotional, or sexual abuse.   My second mother, whom I’ll called and considered “mom,” generally took good care of her five children.  But she had a wicked temper.  My mother-god was both caring and benign and also a wild angry woman.  I grew up fearing to fail her, fearing her anger.  You can find that kind of thing in the Bible with the real God too.

So Mom love is imperfect love.  At best. it is pretty good.  Mom was there for you, didn’t screw up in any lethal way, managed not to pass on too much of the family baggage to you.

But there is another reason that mom-love is complicated.  That’s because, to love your child properly, you always have to change HOW you love.  When you have a baby, you—and others–absolutely have to take care of his every need.  But if you are still spooning food into your kid’s mouth and wiping his butt when he is five, ten, or twenty, you have failed to do your job.  Bring on the psychiatrist!  Every year or three, your role changes.  From the moment your child is born, the trajectory is all about the kid leaving, and about you helping her leave.  It becomes less and less about physically caring for your child and protecting her, and more and more about education, support, encouragement, equipping, comforting.  Kissing the boo-boos, but letting your child experience the world enough—in a controlled way—to get boo-boos.

Recently, I was astonished to find that my relationship with my kids has changed in a profound way.  I’ve heard mothers say, “My kids and I are friends now.”  And I thought, “Clearly this woman has abdicated her authority as mother by trying to be pals with her children.”   Certainly being friends is not appropriate with your minor children.  But I now find that my young adult daughters and I have become friends.  And this was probably hastened by our divorce, which happened just as they went to college—but our relationship is much more equal now.  I teach them, but I also learn from them.  I support them, but they also support and encourage me.  We are all in the process of changing, growing up, trying to make sense of a world that is in flux.  I’m still mom, as in, “Waah, my boyfriend dumped me,”   (“poor thing”) or “I need money” (“yes, I’ll send some”) or “I’m going to rent a ZipCar and drive to Providence in the dark” (“no, you’re not, that’s a bad idea”).   But we are also, greatly friends.  It’s not a part of mother-love that I ever imagined, and it is not something that I ever shared with my own mother.

Mother love is complicated.  So is God-love.  Amazingly, if you read through the Old Testament and into the New Testament, you see that God-love also changes.  It isn’t clear if God actually changes over the centuries, or whether it takes all this time for the people to grow up in their capacity to know and love God.  But there is real movement in the way God reveals himself/herself to the people.  At first, God chooses one people, the family of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob to be the Israelites—they will be God’s people, God’s chosen children and God will be their God.  And God smites people when they are bad and sometimes has the Israelites wipe out peoples and take over their land.  But over time, God uses other nations to chasten the Jewish people, and then God gives a vision of all peoples and all Creation being included in harmony, salvation, restoration.  Everyone as God’s beloved child.   Even in the Old Testament, you see this theme.

Then with Jesus, you see not just that God loves the people she created, God is willing to suffer to death for God’s own beloved ones.  Rather than fight off and kill the Romans and religious people who plotted to kill Jesus, God allows Jesus, God’s own son, to die.  And then, Jesus came back to life, preaching not vengeance, but forgiveness.  It’s a true change of how we understand God-mother-love.

And the most astonishing thing of all, perhaps, is what Jesus says in today’s Gospel.  He says, “As the Father/Mother God has loved me, so I have loved you”—that is, I have loved you with this divine parental love—but then he says, “You are my friends.  . . I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father/Mother God.”  What could it mean to be friends with Jesus?  Jesus is calling the disciples his friends—his equals—ones who know his mind and his heart—ones who share in his life and in his mission.  Equally.   Jesus says, “I have told you everything I heard from God.”  They are friends with God, knowing God’s mind and heart as well.

Isn’t that amazing?  And by extension, that means that we too could be friends with Jesus and friends with God.  Not in a “Jesus in my pocket” or “God does everything I want” kind of way.  But in a way that it is possible for us to know the mind and heart of God and to be co-creators with God, co-workers with God, friends-on-a-mission with God in the world.

This means, of course, that we have to grow up in our relationship with God and Jesus.  It should give you pause.  That although God will always be God, provider, guider, beloved, comforter, boo-boo kisser, forgive-us-our-messes-God, what God wants most of all is to be working beside us and through us as equals.  Seems laughable, doesn’t it?  Or even kind of terrifying—we’re supposed to do that??

There is a story about a monastery (“The Rabbi’s Gift,” M. Scott Peck, in A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul, Jack Canfield, Mark Hansen, 1995, Health Communications Inc., pp. 56-59) that had fallen on hard times.  “There were only five monks left in the decaying mother house:  the abbot and four others, all over 70 in age.  Clearly it was a dying order.

In the deep woods surrounding the monastery there was a little hut that a rabbi from a nearly town occasionally used for a hermitage. . . As he agonized over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to the abbot at one such time to visit the hermitage and ask the rabbi if by some possible chance he could offer any advice that might save the monastery.

The rabbi welcomed the abbot at his hut.  But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the rabbi could only commiserate with him.  “I know how it is,” he exclaimed.  “The spirit has gone out of the people.  It  is the same in my town.  Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore.”  So the old abbot and the old rabbi wept together.  Then they read parts of the Torah and quietly spoke of deep things.  The time came when the abbot had to leave.  They embraced each other.  “It has been a wonderful thing that we should meet after all these years,” the abbot said, “but I have still failed in my purpose for coming here.  Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?”

“No, I am sorry,” the rabbi responded, “I have no advice to give.  The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.”

When the abbot returned to the monastery, his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, “Well, what did the rabbi say?”

“He couldn’t help,” the abbot answered.  “We just wept and read the Torah together.  The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving—it was something cryptic—was that the Messiah is one of us.  I don’t know what he meant.”

In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered this and wondered whether there was any possible significance to the rabbi’s words.  The Messiah is one of us?   . . . one of us monks here at the monastery?  If that’s the case, which one? Do you suppose he meant the abbot?  Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant Father Abbot.  He has been our leader for more than a generation.  On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas.  Certainly (he) is a holy man. . . a man of light.  Certainly he could not have meant Brother Elred!  Elred gets crotchety at times.  But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people’s sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right. . . Maybe the rabbi did mean Brother Elred.  But surely not Brother Phillip . . . so passive, a real nobody.  But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him.  He just magically appears at your side.  Maybe Phillip is the Messiah.  Of course the rabbi didn’t mean me.  He couldn’t possibly have meant me.  I’m just an ordinary person.  Yet sup-posing he did?  Suppose I am the Messiah?  O God, not me.  I couldn’t be that much for you, could I?

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with e      extraordinary respect on the off-chance that one among them might be the Messiah.  And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

(Now) . . . it happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even . . . go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate.  As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed this aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place.  There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it.  Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray.  They began to bring their friends to show them this special place.  And their friends brought their friends .

Then it happened that some of the younger men . . . started to talk more and more with the old monks.  After a while one asked if he could join them.  Then another.  And another.  So . . . the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the rabbi’s gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm.

We are to grow up in love.  Maybe we’ll never be friends with our mothers, but at least we can forgive them and be grateful for whatever good they were or are, whatever gifts they gave us.  And ask for forgiveness from our children for our failings and give them our blessing as they ultimately need us less.

We are also to grow up in love with God.  To let God infuse our very lives, our work, our relationships.  To ooze out of us and work through us, so that we do great works with God.  To dream big, act boldly.  To treat each other as friends of God.  Maybe even as the Messiah.  Let us pray.  AMEN.

April 29, 2012 4th Sunday of Easter

Published on May 10, 2012 in 2012 Sermons. Closed

Sermon for 4 Easter B

Holy Cross, Weare

April 29, 2012

M. Lise Hildebrandt

 

What is Church?  What are some possible answers?   . . . What is the point of Church?  Who is in charge?  Who has power?

These are not idle or theoretical questions.  They are keenly important and hotly debated today.  What the American church was 200 years ago, 100 years, even 50 years ago–it is not now.  There is in fact a lot of uncertainty about what Church is or should be in the 21st century.  As we prepare to elect a bishop, as we move forward as priest and people here at Holy Cross, these are core questions—What are we?  What do we do?  Who cares?  If we can’t answer these questions, we might as well sell the building and go home.

At the vestry retreat last week, we started asking questions like these.  And I’m certainly not ready to close up shop.  Even if it isn’t yet a completely clear vision yet, there emerged some strong passion about what Holy Cross is and can be.  And it is not unlike the picture we heard in the Acts of the Apostles passage.

Acts Chapter 4 relates events in the life of the very earliest Church.  Pentecost has come and gone; the disciples of Jesus are preaching the news of his life, death, and resurrection.  We read in chapter 2 that “the apostles performed many miraculous signs and wonders.  And all the believers met together constantly and shared everything they had.  They sold their possessions and shared the proceeds with those in need.  They worshipped together in the Temple each day, met in homes for the Lord’s Supper, and shared their meals with great joy and generosity—all the while praising God and enjoying the goodwill of all the people.  And each day the Lord added to their group those who were being saved.”  In chapter 3, Peter and John heal a beggar who has been crippled his whole life, and because of this, in chapter 4 they are arrested and hauled before the Jewish rulers and priests, who are dumbfounded about what is happening.

Here some things to note:  the Church at this point is a band of Jesus’ followers—men and women—who have no clue what to do or how to be Church.  They are pretty much all Jews—they have a strong religious background—but clearly they are being called to be something new.  So what do they do?  They gather, worshipping frequently together—in the Temple, because that’s where they were used to gathering—sharing meals and Eucharist together.  They pray a lot, because it is the Holy Spirit who is guiding them, showing them what to do, what to say, how to be.

At this point, there’s not much structure to the church.  No priests, deacons, or bishops—in fact, the Jewish religious hierarchy of priests, high priests, and teachers of the Law are often “the enemy”—either actively opposing the Christians, or at least standing for the old, institutional, ineffective way of being in relationship to God.  There are leaders in the Church—Peter is clearly one—and others arise, according to their gifts—but there is no ordination other than baptism, no hierarchy, no institution.  We are told that all share their money and possessions, so that everyone has what they need.  It’s a picture of socialism and equality.

And the Jewish leaders are astonished at what is going on, because they hear about these miracles and teaching, but notice that John and Peter are uneducated fishermen.  How can this be?  The power comes not from hierarchy or institution or college degree, but directly to the Christians from God, through the name of Jesus Christ.  The religious leaders are afraid of causing a riot if they punish Peter and John, so finally they let them go, telling them to stop preaching in the name of Jesus.  The disciples say, “Do you think we’re going to obey you rather than God?  Not a chance!  We won’t stop and you can’t make us.”  Their power and direction comes from God.

The picture of this early Church is no doubt idealized, and it is also just of the earliest Church.  As the movement goes viral, and more and more people join, the organization changes.  Specialized roles pop up—some people are appointed to take care of feeding widows and orphans, some focus on preaching and teaching.  The movement starts reaching non-Jews, which causes soul-searching and division among the leaders—do Gentiles have to become Jews first before they can become Christians?  And there are kinds of ethical problems too—what do you do when someone sells property and pretends to give all the proceeds to the church, but really doesn’t?  How do you treat those who leave others hungry while they eat plenty in the community meals?  What do you do when church members sue each other or a Christian is having sex with his step-mother?  So even early on, Church was a place of complex relationships and problems, and it was ever evolving as circumstances changed.

But for several hundred years it was truly a counter-cultural movement, not allied with the ruling powers, taking care of the poor and outcast, providing sanctuary, offering people community, hope, and a direct experience of God.

In the 4th century, the Church went through a massive shift.  After the Emperor Constantine, Christianity was adopted as the official religion of the empire.  It became aligned with political, social, and monetary power.  And though it would continue to spread and have great influence, it also suffered greatly under the corruption of wealth and power.  It was used as a weapon to conquer and destroy.  The Church would erupt over time around the world in places of persecution and suffering, but the official Church often was on the wrong end of the power spectrum, relying not on God but on military and political might.

The great news is, by the 21st century, the Church has been stripped of its official status.  It is no longer “the place to be seen,” or the institution that helps rule the world.  Whole generations are growing up without any association with church—or temple or mosque.  In New Hampshire, only 7 or 8% of people belong to a religious organization.  And church people moan and groan about the decline of the place of church in society and point to Sunday sports or malls or people’s overly busy lives as the cause.  Those may be symptoms, but aren’t really the issue.

We have been going through this huge cultural shift away from church as establishment—and many other institutions as well—and we can no longer coast along on society’s coattails.

This, my friends, is a great moment, a great opportunity.  We get to ask—we have to ask—what are we about?  What is our purpose?  As I prepared for the vestry retreat, I thought my question was, “What should we be doing?”  I finally realized that the question was:  How do we want to BE?  Who are we as Church?

What emerged was wonderful.  I asked—“How do you want to BE in your life?  What are the qualities that you want to nurture?” and also “How do we want to BE as church?  What are the qualities that you value in Holy Cross and what things do you want to nurture here?”  The answer to the first question seemed center around qualities that are largely absent from our lives—we want to be less busy, to have more time for ourselves and families, to be more peaceful, more mindful, to live more simply.  We want to take care of the planet.  To live in balance.  To be grounded.

And how do we want the Church to be?  What do we cherish about Holy Cross?  I heard a number of different ways of saying that it is a safe place, a sanctuary, a place to be quiet, reflect.  A place of important relationships—where we want to develop even deeper connections with God, with each other, with the community.  We want to support and be supported in our families, through economic challenges and life transitions.  I heard a desire to be more involved in Weare and the area, and heard claimed the identity that this is a place that accepts you wherever you are and wherever you come from, not assuming an Episcopal or even a Christian background.

Part of my question was—how are we to be priest and people together?  I am not interested in being the person that decides all and does all.  And I heard from vestry members that they aren’t interested in that model either.  I want to listen with you, work with you, support you.  I have gifts for ministry, experience and ideas, but so do you.  And the only way we’re going to figure out where God is leading us, is by listening to God, listening to each other, listening to the Weare and beyond, which is our parish.

I am brought back to the picture in passage from Acts.  We’re really starting over again.  We’re called to reinvent Church—or rather, to let ourselves be remolded, reinvented.  So much is good and positive here—what would we look like if we truly allowed ourselves to become what we—and the world—needs?  A place of peace and sanctuary, a place that helps us get grounded, find sanity, strengthen relationships, live sustainably, slow down, pay attention, find joy, help each other cope with crisis, economic challenge, illness.  A place that is counter-cultural—that places people above things, common good above individual greed, contentment above wealth and “success.”  A place that invites God’s spirit into every aspect of life.

How do we become this?  Prayer, time spent together in worship, meals, conversation.  Listening.  Paying attention to the Holy Spirit.  Over the next months I hope we can find avenues to explore this vision and this longing more.  Are you ready?  Let us pray.  Amen.

April 22nd, 2012 3rd Sunday of Easter

Published on May 10, 2012 in 2012 Sermons. Closed

SERMON FOR 3 EASTER, YEAR B

Holy Cross, Weare

April 22, 2012

The Rev. M. Lise Hildebrandt

            How do you get someone to change?  How do you change the way a person thinks or believes or acts?  The short answer is:  you don’t.  Only that person can do the changing—and many of you the helplessness of dealing with people as they self-destruct.

And yet—there are ways we can influence and encourage people to change.  The advertising business spends billions of dollars convincing people to try products or change loyalties; public health advocates focus on how to change health habits of individuals and communities.  It’s a faith question:  How do you get people to believe in a loving God?  How do you convince people to attend Holy Cross?  Vestry question.

And today is Earth Day.  Our planet is in crisis.  On Friday, I heard an interview on Public Radio with a man who spent 2 weeks in space, observing Earth.  He spoke of both the beauty of the planet and its fragility–how small it really is and how thin the atmosphere.  And he said that the imprint of humans is huge—almost every square mile touched by roads, agriculture, buildings or fall-out from human habitation—much of it detrimental.  Getting us to change our ways and our relationship to “our island home” is a matter of survival.  How do we do that?

For many years, public health officials thought that to change, people just needed education.  If they heard the truth, they would change.  So they believed.  Remember the 5-a-day campaign?  It was a national government sponsored campaign based on the premise that if people knew that eating at least 5 fruits and vegetables per day improves health, they would do it.  They were kind of surprised to find out that very few people changed habits just because of knowledge.  And in fact, research has shown that on any given issue, a very small percentage of people, maybe only 1 or 2%, will change because of knowledge.  Don’t get me wrong—education is important, it is vital to change, but it is almost never enough.

Millions of people know the story of the Gospel and don’t believe.  Millions of people believe that climate change is real and don’t act.

So what causes belief or change?  Social scientists have identified many other factors—one is that you need to believe that the change will be beneficial to you—that eating fruits and vegetables will help you lose weight or prevent a heart attack or make you strong—remember Popeye?  Another thought is that people need to have the confidence they can change—gee, what do I do with vegetables—how do you buy, prepare, and cook them?  Some think that timing is everything—that people have to be ready to change, such as after getting back a high cholesterol report from the doctor.  Modeling is important, say other researchers.  People need to see others successfully eating vegetables and looking like they actually enjoy it!   Some believe that peer pressure is key—everybody is eating vegetables; I guess it’s time I tried them.

And recent thinking focuses on the environment—you know it’s really hard to eat fruits and vegetables when all you can buy at work and in schools are sodas and Cheetos.

So now, in order to change eating habits, public health advocates are using these various approaches to try to get people to change.  And I have to say that, even so, diet habits of Americans are really dismal.

How do you get people to change?  How do you get people to come to faith?  This is even harder than getting them to eat better.  Jesus hangs with people for years, he preaches and teaches, even tells his disciples what will happen at the end.  And they don’t believe.  They run away when he is arrested.  They deny him.  He is raised from the dead, and they don’t believe.  He comes to be with them in Jerusalem, a similar scene in Luke from the one we heard last week in John.  The Lord has appeared to Peter and to the two disciples on the road to Emmaus—the disciples hear that Jesus is alive.  Yet when he suddenly appears, they are terrified.  So much for belief through knowledge!  Jesus tries to convince them by showing them the signs of his suffering, by eating food to prove that he is not a ghost, and by reminding them of the Scriptures telling of the necessity that the Messiah must suffer and die.  And finally, finally, they get it.  They believe, and worship him, and are filled with joy.

It is not just knowing, it is not just seeing, it is not just because others believe–at the heart of belief is experiencing the sacrificial love that Jesus has for us; seeing the signs of the suffering that he undertook, and understanding that it is because he loves us so much, he would give up anything, everything, to bring us to God.

In 1991, Billy Graham was speaking at a conference for Evangelists in Amsterdam.  [from Virtue, March/April 1991, pages 28,28,69]  A man named Joseph had traveled all the way from Africa, for a chance to share his story with the evangelist Billy Graham.  Joseph is a Masai warrior.  One day, Joseph was walking along a hot, dusty African road, and met someone who shared the good news of Jesus with him.  Joseph decided to follow Jesus.  He was so excited and filled with joy, that the first thing he wanted to do was run back and tell his own home village about this Jesus.

Joseph excitedly began going from house to house, telling each person he met about the love of God in Jesus, the cross, the risen Jesus.  He was surprised when people were not excited as he was.  Even worse, people became violent.  The men of his own village held him to the ground while the women beat him with strands of barbed wire.  They dragged him from the village and left him to die alone in the bush.

Joseph crawled to a water hole, and after a few days regained some of his strength.  He was really puzzled about the hostile reception he received from cousins and neighbors he had known his whole life.  He decided that he must have left something out of the story of Jesus.  Perhaps he didn’t share it all correctly.  So he sat there in the bush, rehearsed this message of Jesus that he had heard, and then went back to his village to share his faith again.

Joseph limped into the center of the village, and said, “Jesus died for you, so that you might find forgiveness and come to know the living God.”  Again he was grabbed by the men of the village and whipped and beaten by the women, reopening all his wounds which had just begun to heal.  A second time, the villagers dragged him away and left him to die in the bush.

It was incredible to have survived the first beating.  It was a miracle to have lived through the second one.  After a few days, Joseph woke up in the jungle, scarred and bruised, and determined to go back.

He returned to the people he loved more than anyone else in the world, the people of his home village.  Before he could even open his mouth, they began to attack him.  Still Joseph spoke to them about the love of Jesus.  The last thing Joseph saw when he was passing out, was that the women who were beating him began to weep.

 

This time, Joseph woke up in his own bed.  The very people who had fiercely beaten him, were now trying to nurse him back to life.  And the entire village had now pledged to follow the ways of Jesus.

 

After telling his story, Joseph lifted his colorful African shirt to show Billy Graham the scars on top of scars that covered his entire chest and back.  The signs of intense pain and suffering.  The signs of love for the people in his village.  Because by these scars, the entire village now followed Jesus.

Joseph showed these tangible marks of love.  Marks of love you could touch.

There is incredible power in sacrificial love, especially that of Jesus.  Power enough to heal the lame and cure the sick.  Power enough to draw those who are lost or broken back to health and relationship.

That deepest love we have for others can be transformational, but like the love of Jesus, it comes at a great cost to us and leaves behind scars.  We may be called to do the most painful thing—to walk out of an abusive relationship, to kick an adult child out of home, to give up custody—with no guarantees about the outcome.  But there are stories, even in this congregation, of the transformational grace of God that has worked through this immense suffering and sacrifice to bring more healing and wholeness to the other.

What would this love of Jesus look like as we consider our relationship to the people of in the parish or in Weare or to the planet?  How can we be bearers of God’s love to others?  Today, weather permitting, we will clean up a stretch of 114 as part of the town-wide cleanup and Earth Day.  Now this is a simple thing, not requiring much of a sacrifice.  But last year, Earth Day was on Good Friday.  A clergy friend and I developed the “Stations of the Earth,” reading the story of Christ’s walk to the cross as we visited sites of destruction and pollution around the city.  As our group walked, we picked up trash.  And I had a revelation—I realized this was an act of devotion—picking up bottles and fast food wrappers and plastic bags was washing the feet of God.

This act alone won’t change the huge environmental problems that we face—but it can lead to a changed relationship to the Creation.  To clean and kiss the feet of God is to take a step towards transformational love.  Will we sacrifice for God and God’s people?  If others see and experience our love for God’s people and Creation, how may it touch them?

Let us pray . . . AMEN.

 

 

Easter Sunday Sermon

Published on May 10, 2012 in 2012 Sermons. Closed

Sermon for Easter 2012

Holy Cross, Weare

The Rev. Lise Hildebrandt

 

What does Easter look like?  Bunnies?  Colorfully dyed eggs?  Easter lilies?  Spring dresses?  A beautiful table laden with special foods?  These are wonderful signs of new life and joy.

But that first Easter morning, Easter looked like something else.  It looked like disaster.

Once the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene got up with first light to go to the tomb of Jesus.  The last few days had been surreal—how quickly Jesus went from beloved teacher and acclaimed Messiah to being arrested as a criminal, swiftly judged, beaten, and executed.  It defied comprehension.  She had seen it all; she had watched him die on the cross; she had touched his lifeless body and seen it laid in Joseph’s tomb.  But it didn’t even seem real.  During the Sabbath, she hadn’t been able to come to the tomb, but now she was going.  Perhaps being near his body would allow her the chance to take it in, to believe that he really was gone from their lives.

But as she comes into the garden, she can see that something is wrong.  The huge, heavy stone that covered the tomb has been rolled away!  Disaster!  Not only is Jesus dead, now his body has been stolen!  Mary runs back to find Peter and the “beloved disciple”—probably John–and tells them that “they have taken the Lord’s body out of the tomb and I don’t know whether they have put him!”  It could hardly be worse.

The two other disciples run to the tomb and look in.  There they see the linen wrappings that were around Jesus lying there, but no body.   It says that the beloved disciple believed, but also that they did not yet understand that Scripture said Jesus would rise from the dead.  So it’s not certain whether he got it or not.  But all Mary sees is disaster.  After the other disciples leave, she remains in the garden, weeping not only for the death of Jesus, but also for the loss of his body.  Disaster upon disaster.

Then she decides to look in the tomb herself.  She sees tow angels, but apparently doesn’t recognize that they are angels.  They ask her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” and she explains that she can’t find Jesus’ body.  Then she turns and sees someone standing behind her, who asks her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” and she tells her tale and asks this person, whom she takes to be the gardener, to give her back the body.   And it is obvious that she is not seeing clearly.  Either because she is so distraught, or her eyes are all puffy from crying, or because she only sees what she expects to see, but she doesn’t really see the angels and she doesn’t see that it is Jesus behind her.  All she sees is disaster.

Until Jesus speaks:  “Mary!”  That finally cuts through—“Rabbi—teacher!” she exclaims.  And disaster turns to confusion, and confusion turns to joy, and joy turns to certainty—he is alive!  There’s something different about him for sure—not all of his atoms quite aligned properly or something—he says, “Don’t grab onto me just yet”—but gives her the message to take to the other disciples:  “Tell them that I am ascending to our God.”  And she goes and she gives them the message.

The morning, which started out as a mystifying disaster, turns into something exactly opposite:  joyful resurrection.

Easter doesn’t usually look like what we expect; resurrection may look like disaster.  We may not see it, because we don’t expect it.  Or we may not see it, because it doesn’t look like anything good.

Rachel Naomi Remen recounts a powerful story of resurrection that looks like disaster in her book Kitchen Table Wisdom (“The Emperor’s New Clothes,” pp. 94-99, Riverhead Books, © 1996).  At the time, she was the head doctor of the pediatric floor of Mt. Zion Hospital in San Francisco.  She came to work one day and heard doctors and nurses in a heated argument in her office.  The problem, it seemed was a 5-year-old boy, terminally ill with leukemia.  “Apparently th(at) morning the child had told the nurse who awakened him that he was going home today.  ‘Help me pack my things,’ he demanded, pointing with excitement to his tiny suitcase in the closet.”

“The nurse was horrified.  Who could have promised this terribly sick little boy that he could go home when he had no platelets or white cells?  When everyone knew he was so fragile he could bleed to death from the slightest injury?  She asked the other nurses on her shift and the previous shift if they had told the child he might go home.  No one had said a word to him.”  And so the nurses accused the doctors and the doctors were offended that they had been accused.  Hence the argument.

Rachel stepped into the fray and inquired whether anyone had asked the boy about who told him he could go home.  No one had.  She volunteered, feeling suddenly tired.  A disaster on her hands.

 

“He was sitting on his bed pillow, facing the door, and coloring in a book when I entered the room.  I was struck by how emaciated, how sickly he was.  He looked up from his coloring and our eyes met.  In that moment things changed.  The room became very still and there seemed to be a sort of yellowish cast to the light.  I had a sense of an enormous presence and I remember thinking wildly that we had stepped outside of time.  Suddenly I was aware of the overwhelming guilt I felt about this little boy.  For months I had done things to him that caused him pain and I still had not been able to cure him.  I had avoided him then and I felt ashamed.  As our eyes met, it seemed that somehow he understood this and forgave me.  All at once I was able to forgive myself, not just for this little boy but for all the children I had treated and hurt and couldn’t help throughout my career.  It was a sort of healing.

“His frailty and my tiredness fell away and we seemed to recognize each other.  In that moment we because equals, two souls who had played out our difficult roles in a drama with absolute impeccability; he as a little boy and I as a doctor.  The drama was complete.  It had served some unknown purpose and there was nothing to forgive or be forgiven.  There was just a deep sense of acceptance and mutual respect.  All this happened in a heartbeat.

 

“Then he spoke to me.  In a voice filled with joy, he said, “Dr. Remen, I’m going home.”  By now I was speechless.  I mumbled something like, “I’m so glad,” and back out, closing the door behind me.

 

“I returned to my office very confused and shaken by the experience.  ‘What did he say?’ the staff demanded.  I told them that I hadn’t asked. ‘Why don’t we just wait a little while and see what happens.’  A few house later the child said he was tired.  He lay down, pulling his sheet over his head, and quietly slipped away.

Rachel, trained as a doctor, for whom death was a failure, a disaster, had no way to make sense of this experience at the time, and so conveniently forgot it.  About a year later, she started having a series of disturbing dreams, all of them about pediatric patients who had died, and all of them calling up the feelings she had stuffed—“feelings of sadness, pain, helplessness, and loss.  (She) would awaken sobbing uncontrollably, sometimes for hours.  These dreams occurred nightly.”  Eventually the little boy with leukemia showed up in her dreams, and she was finally able to see the experience for what it was.

Grace.  Resurrection.  The powerful healing presence of God in the very face of death.

No, the boy didn’t magically get healed of leukemia.  But profound healing took place nevertheless.  He knew, with joy, that he was going home, that he was fine, that death held no fear for him.  He was completely wrapped up in the love of God, and that certainty of love shone through him.

 

He was a complete, whole person, and thus was able to convey to Rachel his complete acceptance of her, his complete understanding and forgiveness.  Not just as a 5-year-old boy, but as a complete unique human being, a divine soul, fully alive.

Through her dreams Rachel was able to experience the divine grace and mystery of life stronger than death, stronger than anything that looked like or was disaster.  That’s what Easter looks like.

What does Easter look like to you?  Where have you seen it?  Perhaps in a family crisis that has finally allowed you to overcome old wounds and reconcile with family members.  Perhaps in being laid off from a job that eventually led you to much more fulfilling work.  Or in a bout with cancer that allowed you to change your priorities and walk with a renewed trust in the great good life force beyond our limited knowledge.

Perhaps you are still waiting for resurrection, still living through disasters.  Financial struggles and unemployment.  Broken relationships and a broken heart.  Frustration with the ugliness in politics, the undercurrents of meanness in current culture, the empty promises of the American Dream.  Right at the time our way of life seems to be collapsing, we are ripe for resurrection.  For rethinking our priorities, rebuilding community, reconnecting to caring for the least among us.  Let us look right in these places of disaster for the shining, renewing, surprising presence of the resurrected Jesus—“Why are you weeping?  I am here.  Death is not the final word.  God is.”

Let us pray.  AMEN.

 

 

 

 

November 13, 2011 Sermon – 22nd Sunday of Pentecost

Published on November 14, 2011 in 2011 Sermons and Recent Sermons. Closed

a sermon by
The Rev. Canon Charles LaFond
Proper 28, November 13, 2011
Holy Cross, Weare, NH

When I was a child, I had a collection of post cards from my grandmother. One day, a friend, staying at my house as our guest, ripped the corners off most of them to steal the stamps. When I saw what had happened, I confronted him and he said he did not think I would miss them. The relationship was permanently damaged. That experience was my first exposure to what I do now as my life’s work – encouraging this conversation we are having in the church around stewardship. I did not love my friend less, however, I was always aware that there was less joy in our friendship after that. When we hold back our pledge, it is not the love between us and our god which is sapped – rather it is some of the joy that is reduced. And the irony is that it is OUR joy which is withered by the self-worship of that particular flavor of greed.

This morning’s readings from the prophet Zephaniah, from Paul’s letter to the Philippians and from the Gospel are all pointing to right relationship. The entirety of the Holy scriptures of the Hebrews and the Christians can be summed up as a story about the difficult relationship between God and God’s created humans. And this set of readings is no different. Continue reading ‘November 13, 2011 Sermon – 22nd Sunday of Pentecost’

October 23, 2011 – 19th Sunday after Pentecost

Published on October 30, 2011 in 2011 Sermons, Recent Sermons and Sermons. Closed

HOLY CROSS CHURCH, WEARE, NH
The Rt. Rev. Arthur E. Walmsley

Leviticus 19:1-2, 15-18; Psalm 1; I Thessalonians 2:1-8; Matthew 22:34-46

“Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?”

To begin: a story. It took place on a July day in the summer of 1988, twenty-three years ago. In Connecticut where I was then the bishop, we had a summer camp, Camp Washington, which offered a full summer of programs for kids from grade school through high school. I was standing on the steps of the dining hall on a bright summer afternoon when he came up to me, threw his arms around me, gave me a hug and said, “You are my most favorite bishop!” I watched as his beaming smile was mirrored by the gentle care and affection with which he was surrounded by fellow campers and staff members. Danny was a young man who had Down’s Syndrome. His greeting reminded me of the day on which I had confirmed him, when he had stood in the midst of the congregation, proud with his daddy and his mother. He called out the best in those around him by his trust, his affection, and his smile. He was a gift to us. Continue reading ‘October 23, 2011 – 19th Sunday after Pentecost’

October 9, 2011 – 17th Sunday after Pentecost

Published on October 19, 2011 in 2011 Sermons, Recent Sermons and Sermons. Closed

by The Rt. Rev. Arthur E. Walmsley

Exodus 32:1-14; Psalm 23;  Philippians 4:1-9; Matthew 22:1-14

The telephone rang just as we were sitting down to dinner.  Often such calls come from someone trying to sell us something — new siding for our house, maybe, or cheaper car insurance — I seldom remember what it was five minutes later.  I sometimes get irritated when the seller is insistent, even though my better judgment says that the caller is probably low-paid and has taken the job because he — usually it’s a he — because he needed work  and is paid by the volume and success of his calls.  So I try not to be abrupt.

This time the call came from a pollster wanting my views on the economic situation and the upcoming election.  He was well-spoken and obviously well-trained, and I was hooked.   Continue reading ‘October 9, 2011 – 17th Sunday after Pentecost’