MUSIC: "I Will Be Your Standing Stone"

WITNESS: "Christ is Still in the Rubble"

WITNESS: "Where Are You, Humanity?"

HOMILY: "Rejoice? Now? Yes!"

A Meditation on Philippians 4 & Isaiah 12

Sunday, December 15, 2024

Dave Grishaw-Jones

1.

A couple nights ago, I stepped outside after a particularly intense meeting of our Immigration Team, and just before a particularly important meeting of our Budget Team.  I just needed some fresh air.  To clear my head and do that little reset thing I do.  It was raining that night, and strangely warm for mid-December.  But I was grateful for a few quiet and uncommitted moments.  

And then, as I did, just as I stepped onto the porch off the mezzanine here, a text with a picture came through, from my daughter Claire up in Portland.  And she’d been out on the playground that day, yard duty at the school where she works.  And a group of 3rd graders she’s fond of decided to painstakingly thread and braid her long brown hair.  Strand by strand by strand.  

So in my hand, in those uncommitted moments, I had a picture of my 29-year-old daughter, a teacher-in-training, now sitting on a playground bench, with three tall 3rd grade girls behind her, all three beaming brightly at the expertly woven cornrows and spiraling braids falling across their teacher’s shoulders.  The tallest of the three—whom Claire later noted is an Angolan refugee—is pointing a long finger at my daughter’s reconfigured mane.  Smiling broadly.  Like she’s never seen something so beautiful.

And before I could even catch myself, or take note of the undergraduates chatting in the parking lot next door, I was laughing out loud, really out loud—the way you do when joy monkey-jumps your heart and blindsides decorum.  The way you do when delight overwhelms tedium like a lineman taking down a quarterback.  Just me on the porch, laughing into the damp night sky.  To no one at all.  But wanting the whole world to see the picture in my hand: the picture of a happy teacher in cornrows, and the three 3rd graders who made her so.

So here’s a question.  Do you ever feel a little guilty, or even just a little sheepish, when joy catches you by surprise?  When it feels like joy is a luxury, a privilege, and you wonder if it’s even appropriate, whether it’s even faithful to enjoy a moment, a text, a sunset, a warm embrace?  Do you ever worry that—in a world like the one we’re living in now—joy might be a little too selfish, a little too indulgent, outdated and even callous?  When immigrants live, day-in and day-out, afraid of the knock on their door?  When fear becomes public policy and queer friends are singled out for derision and worse?  When glaciers melt and seas rise and politicians dismiss climate change as a hoax?  Seriously.  Maybe the times we’re living in require a more sober spirit, or a more clear-headed approach to daily tasks and community life.  

I found myself looking down at my phone that night, at that picture of my daughter and her cornrows and the three students behind her, and then closing my eyes, and thinking of my friend, Antony.  Your friend, Antony.  Over these next several weeks and months, Antony and others like him are counting on our focus, and on our sobriety, and even on our protection.  The new administration has made it terribly clear that they intend to frighten and belittle and bully immigrants and their advocates across the land.  That had been the topic of our meeting that afternoon.  So was my brief flirtation with joy, then, a kind of betrayal of my commitment to Antony?  My love and devotion to his freedom, to his wellness, to his life?  Is joy now a luxury I should set aside for another day?

2.

And the answer to that question, friends, and on this both the Apostle Paul and the dear man we know as Antony fully and faithfully agree: the answer is emphatically no.  Joy goes hand in hand with service and resistance.  Joy is Christ’s birth in our hearts, and Christ’s teaching made concrete in our lives, and Christ’s promise that God’s love overcomes all human fear, all human folly, all arrogance and pride.  “Rejoice in the Lord always;” writes Paul to the Philippians, “again, I will say, Rejoice!”  As serious as we are about one another’s protection, we have to be awake, alert to the joy with which God resists cruelty and despair.  As deliberate as we are about dangers to creation, we have to be awake, alert to the delight with which God meets every human community, and every human need, and every human yearning.  Joy is our witness to the Love born again and again in the darkest days of winter.  “Rejoice in the Lord always;” says Paul, “again, I will say, Rejoice!”

So I want to insist on this, friends.  That our beloved community here on Main Street find a thousand reasons for joy in the New Year.  That our little church lean with harmony and gusto into hymns of hope and liberation.  That our united and uniting congregation search out the sunsets that swell human hearts, and the wonders of children growing before our eyes, and the simple, sweet things neighbors do for other neighbors—and that we rejoice in the power of God’s grace to overwhelm despair with delight.  Again, I will say, Rejoice!  Rejoice.  In Antony’s gratitude for a church that walks its talk.  Rejoice.  In Catherine York’s magic in bringing new life to an old carol.  Rejoice.  In the cradle that bears the Christ who reveals love as the one and only promise that matters.  Doesn’t mean we won’t have sad and difficult days; but joy is our mode of perseverance and resistance.

It’s interesting, maybe even necessary to note that Paul writes this letter to the Philippians facing his own death, knowing that he may shortly be executed, and sorting through relationships and commitments with the communities he’s loved.  All of his work, all of his hope, all of his sacrifice seems fragile now, vulnerable to the whims and rage of the proud and powerful.  And yet, and yet the nearness of Christ, the peace of God: it fills Paul’s heart with confidence—not in his own life, not in his own accomplishments, but in the grace he’s discovered in Christ, the grace that he’s celebrated in mutual care within communities he’s loved, the grace that shimmers in every sunset, and flickers in every child’s eye, and reveals all life, all of it, as divine gift.  As divine gift.  The executioners may seem powerful; but Paul trusts in a power far more lasting than violence, far more enduring than cruelty.  “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,” he writes, “will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

So is Paul saying: Rejoice when you get your degree?  Rejoice when you’re awarded tenure at last?  Rejoice when you reach the corner office?  No.  Rejoice in the here, rejoice in the now, rejoice in the One who has anointed you for just this moment, for just this season, for the day you’re living and the community you’re living for.  Is Paul saying:  Beat up on yourself for every imperfection, and then rejoice.  Serve your sentence, pay your fine, and then rejoice.  No.  Rejoice in your beautiful, wonderful and imperfect life.  Rejoice in the mistakes you’ve made, yes, even in the mistakes you’ve made, and the opportunity to reconcile with ones you’ve wronged.  Rejoice in relationships made whole through God’s mercy and your forgiveness.  “Rejoice in the Lord always;” he says, “again, I will say, Rejoice!”

So let’s all agree, shall we, that we can and we will claim our joy as birthright, lean into it as vocation, and set aside any shame at all when delight brings wonder and spirit to what has been a difficult day.  If it is our intention to resist authoritarianism, if it is our calling to advocate for the vulnerable, if it is Jesus’ desire that we inhabit a countercultural kin-dom of God—we will do so joyfully.  We will do so gratefully.  We will sing our songs of resistance and break the bread of abundance and accept the cost of discipleship with the deepest kind of gratitude.  For the Lord is near.  That’s the Christmas gospel.  The Lord is near.  Standing by the immigrant’s side.  Braiding the teacher’s hair.  Reaching for your hand.  Rising with the sun.

HOMILY: "Choreography of Resistance!"

A Meditation on Luke 1:39-55

Sunday, December 8, 2024

Part One: "Mary Says 'Yes'!" (November 17, 2024) HERE

Part Two: "Choreography of Resistance!" (December 8, 2024) BELOW

1.

I’ve always imagined—maybe you have too—that Mary hurries to the hill country to find support, care, companionship in a season of unanticipated disruption. Whatever you make of the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’, Mary’s going to have a baby. So she takes off for the one cousin, the one human being, whose counsel and care she trusts most. Elizabeth in the hill country.

But the Bible lends itself to interpretation, right, to a variety of readings and meanings. And what if there’s another way to read all this?

Maria, Elisabeth (Lucy D'Souza-Krone, 1990)

What if Mary goes—and some suggest it’d be a four-day trip on foot, and apparently she goes alone—what if she goes because she knows that Elizabeth needs her? Maybe this explains the urgency of her trek. Maybe this explains the clarity with which she leaves everything and everyone else (Joseph?) behind. What if Mary hurries to the hill country, sleeping on benches when she can, napping under trees now and then, foraging for food, because she’s heard that Elizabeth is vulnerable, she’s heard that Elizabeth is shaken, she’s heard that her dear, dear cousin and soulmate needs her?

Think about it for a moment. We know that Elizabeth’s endured years of cruelty from neighbors and gossips who interpreted her childless life as a sign of moral failure, or even worse as an indication of God’s rejection. And that kind of shaming—as we know—makes it hard to trust anything, anyone, or any angel at all. And we also know that Zechariah—Elizabeth’s beloved—has been rendered speechless by the possibility that, in their old age, they too would soon have a child. Breaking every rule and convention. Disturbing the expectations of neighbors and gossips.

And we know this too: that the two of them (Elizabeth and Zechariah), traumatized by cruelty, chastened by unimaginable news, and at least partially muted by all of it, have fled to the hills to wait. To wait. To wait for the mystery promised, but yet unseen. To wait for the revelation strangely foreshadowed by an angel, but still impossible to believe. And remember, out there in the hills, Zechariah’s still speechless, unable to speak, awkwardly bumbling around the house, strangely incapable of meaningful conversation. Alive, alert to the possibilities, she must be, Elizabeth. But also isolated, befuddled and vulnerable frankly to the stirring of new life in her own flesh.

So maybe, then, it’s Mary who goes to comfort Elizabeth, or better yet, to embolden Elizabeth and believe with her, dream with her, imagine with her a world in which the promises of God are in the making. Not distant and imagined, but in the making. Maybe, then, it’s Mary who responds to Elizabeth’s craving for companionship, for a friend who knows how to rub her feet, for a sister who knows when to sing a song and when to put the kettle on and when to just sit still.

2.

I want us to notice, but then to internalize and claim, the spiritual power available to these two women as they greet one another, and then as they honor their lives and bodies and vocations together, and then as they boldly bear witness to God’s vision and intention. You see, the Magnificat—the song that emerges out there in the hills: it’s not just Mary’s Magnificat, right? It’s the song these two women sing together, sing to one another, sing into the hills and into the very heart of God.

“Our souls lift up the Lord!” That’s how it works, right? That’s always how it works. “Our souls lift up the Lord! Our spirits celebrate God, our Liberator!” All of the blessing God showers upon Mary is equally, abundantly, delightfully showered upon Elizabeth as well. Upon the two of them, together. “Our souls lift up the Lord! Our spirits celebrate God, our Liberator!” When we commit to relationships of tenderness and strength, when we invest in friendships that defy cruelty and convention, when we build spiritually vibrant and prayerfully grounded communities of care, we make ourselves available to the liberating energies of God. We begin to sing the gospel of grace. We open our hearts and homes to the radical, world-flipping energies of the Holy Spirit.

Is that phrase a little too much? “The radical, world-flipping energies of the Holy”? Judge for yourselves. This is their song. This is their gospel. This is the power, the prayer unleased in Mary’s concern for Elizabeth, and Elizabeth’s delight in her cousin. Judge for yourselves. This is their song:

The proud in mind and heart,
God has sent away in disarray.
The rulers from their high positions of power,
God has brought down low.
And those who were humble and lowly,
God has elevated with dignity.
The hungry—God has filled with fine food.
The rich—God has dismissed with nothing in their hands.

This is sacred scripture, friends, the Word of the Lord. This is the Magnificat, the song Mary sings to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth takes up as her own. This song, their song is all about reversals, worlds flipped upside down. This song, their song is all about privilege upended, power redefined and a feast that fills the hungry, the poor, the desperate with fine food and righteous hope. What begins in their gratitude for one another, what takes hold in their care and protection of one another, soon becomes an anthem to love’s revolution. Their song stakes a claim for God’s intention, for the world’s salvation, and (yes) for humankind’s liberation.

The proud in mind and heart,
God has sent away in disarray.
The rulers from their high positions of power,
God has brought down low.
And those who were humble and lowly,
God has elevated with dignity.

Imagine, if you will, this text, this poetry being read at next month’s inauguration in Washington. It might bring the whole city toppling down, turned inside out by the joy of two women, and the fearlessness of God, and their commitments to a kin-dom of the humble and the kind. “The proud in mind and heart, God has sent away in disarray.”

ADVENT POEM: "Turning"

An Occasional Poem in Advent

Approaching the altar, 

But turning instead to the east,

Moving in the other direction,

Bending our torsos and spirits

Toward unseen light, trusting 

One we can't ever know or even face;

A King's history, a long arc,

Bending, tilting, seeking 

Somethiing like shalom,

Something like justice and jubilee,

Something like Love's Feast;

Is it possible, is it foolish, is it ours

To walk the bendiing, tilting road

Before us, together,

With prophets of old like Rosa and Pauli,

With today's practitioners of satyagraha and love,

With siblings whose own tatoos cry mercy,

Stained glass before our eyes?

What if the altar here is not at all 

Our destination, but a kind of 'kyrie eleison',

A kyrie eleison to keep us turning 

On the wheel, circling with sisters, brothers,

Sworn enemies, holy friends,

Leaning into the arc that is

Jesus' 'agape' and Gandhi's 'ahimsa'

And the No-Thing that is Every-Thing?

O guide our weary, funky, faithful feet:

Along the ridges of possibility and mercy,

As this labyrinth unwinds a newness

That is our one true home.

2 December 2024

Deep Advent

HOMILY: "She Comes to Set Us Free"

A Meditation on Mark 7:24-37
Sunday, November 24, 2024

The Fourth Sunday in Early Advent

1.

Could it be that grace is a Syrophoenician sister who shows up on Jesus’ doorstep, unannounced and unwelcome? Could it be that grace is a Palestinian troublemaker who will not be denied, who slips into his quiet retreat on the coast, not only to challenge him, but also to entrust him with the most precious prayer in her life? This is truly what grace is always about. Always and everywhere. To challenge any limits on our imagination. To challenge any boundaries to our compassion. And then: to invite in our hearts, and in our lives, a radical turning toward beloved community and the mercy of God.

Is Jesus then—like the rest of us—in need of this grace? I think so. Is he—like the rest of us—stuck in habits that limit his imagination, in beliefs that keep him from seeing and knowing and touching what’s most important and holy? I don’t see any other way of reading this text. He calls this Syrophoenician sister and her family a pack of ‘dogs.’ The most vile slur in the ancient world. He dismisses her—briefly, but emphatically—as unworthy of his time, his concern, his faith. But she, she nevertheless entrusts Jesus with the most fragile and precious prayer in her life, with the life and wellness of her own daughter.

You see, grace isn’t magic, and it’s not pixie dust. Grace is the deliberate intrusion of Love in our lives, yours and mine, God’s shameless invitation to friendship and partnership in world that aches for blessing, healing and peace. Grace comes in a thousand different guises, from a thousand different directions. Almost every time, unannounced and unexpected. So she throws herself at Jesus’ feet, and maybe ours too, and begs him to cast out whatever it is that threatens her child’s life.

And this is always the way with grace. Because when her daughter is healed, when her daughter is restored to health and made well, Jesus himself is also made whole again. Let me repeat. When her daughter is healed, Jesus himself is also made whole again. No longer is there a theological wall around his heart, a preoccupation with privilege, or a sense of resentment to folks outside his own tradition. No longer is he able to write off a sister, a brother whose prayers are foreign and unintelligible to him. Jesus too is restored by grace, awakened in this moment to the sweet and holy pervasiveness of grace; and it’s this Palestinian troublemaker who shakes him loose, who reveals the one and only faith that matters; the faith that sees divinity in humanity, and humanity in every child of every family in every people.

And as you read Mark’s gospel from start to finish, you see that this very moment is transformative in Jesus’ life, in his ministry, in his sense of what it means to be a Child of God. He is saved by her grace. She arouses in his heart not just a sense of justice and righteousness, but a kind of delight that sees mercy and trusts mercy and extends mercy to the brokenhearted and hungry, to the unacknowledged and unseen, to the hopeless and anxious—wherever they may be, and whomever they may love, and whatever their faith or passion. The Syrophoenician’s daughter is healed; and Jesus is made whole.

And I think that’s why this particular story—short and compact as it is—is so important for us, for the church in this generation. Because, friends, faith is a journey of transformation and redemption. For Jesus, yes, and for you and me too. We are always in need of healing and hope. We are always in need of forgiveness and grace. Not because we’re jerks. Not because we’re marked by some kind of sinister spirit. But because we’re human. Because the journey itself is about waking up to the magnificence of our lives, making amends when inevitably we get things wrong, growing into awareness and hope, and embracing mercy as the one and only language of faith itself. Embracing mercy as our vocation.

So the point of this morning’s gospel may well be that you and I can expect grace, can watch for her, in the ebb and flow of our ordinary lives; in the unexpected knock, during dinner, at the front door; in the woman who awkwardly sits down, a little too close perhaps, on the subway in the city; in the coworker who suddenly wants to have a conversation about race and how it gets between the two of you. Grace is God’s handiwork, stitched into our lives, into our neighborhoods, into our days and weeks and seasons. Always eager to catch our attention. Always determined to shake us loose from habit and shame, from pride and privilege.

The vitality of your faith and mine depends on this. On our vulnerability. On our openness. On our watchfulness. And do know this, my friends. Do not doubt this. You are every bit as worthy of God’s grace as Jesus is. And believe me, she’s everywhere. Grace is that subtle turning within, where the air you inhale becomes the breath you offer to the world. She’s that tear in your eye, welling up in the moment a friend offers unqualified forgiveness. She may show up unannounced. And she may challenge the most precious and deeply held assumptions in our hearts. But she comes to set us free.

FAST FOR GAZA: "Tuesday, November 26"

Fasting is an ancient practice--not simply Christian, but rooted in traditions around the world committed to compassion and surrender.  I'll be joining this one-day fast on Tuesday, not because I expect it to change things on the ground, but because I believe it's time for a serious and confessional approach to American violence.  The starving of Gaza's children, the malnutrition unleashed, the AI-driven destruction of families, homes, hospitals and ecosystems--it's funded by American lawmakers, blessed by American taxpayers and fully and terribly wrong.  Join the fast on Tuesday.  And let me know what you experience, and how you connect to movements of resistance and liberation along the way.

GRIEF: Requiem for Humanity -- سعيد سلباق - نعي...

HOMILY: "Mary Says 'Yes'!"

A Meditation on Luke 1:26-38

Sunday, November 17, 2024

The Third Sunday in Early Advent

1.

Saying ‘no’ is always an option.  Sometimes saying ‘no’ is even the soul-protecting, spirit-saving thing to do.  Sometimes saying ‘no’ is the only life-affirming thing to do.  So saying ‘no’ is always an option.  But here Mary says ‘yes.’  When a messenger of almost unimaginable hope appears.  When she’s invited to join a resistance that will make the first last, and the last first.  When her body is the temple within which that resistance will organize and grow.  Mary says ‘yes.’

And this ‘yes’ is planted today in the rich loam of our November fatigue.  Hear the word of the Lord.  This ‘yes’—Mary’s ‘yes’—is lobbed like a Fourth of July firecracker into the desolate halls of our American hearts.  If Mary can entertain an angel in her home, if Mary can make space in her own body for unimaginable hope, if Mary can commit to a revolution of love—maybe we can too.  You and I.  In your body and in mine.  In the beloved community we call home.  Maybe we can too.

You see, Advent isn’t just four calendar weeks in December.  Advent is a spiritual practice.  Advent is a way of hopefulness in a hopeless time.  Advent is the promise of a ‘yes’—and the Holy Spirit’s relentlessness is setting that promise before us, and within us.  Not only in Mary’s body, but in ours.  Even though the days seem to be darkening.  Even though the warriors seem to be winning.  And that’s why—in this Early Advent season—we draw near to Mary.  We listen for Mary’s courage, for her faith.  We draw life and hope and grace itself, from her ‘yes.’

2.

So Gabriel shows up in Nazareth—a rather nondescript village in occupied Palestine—and he shows up unannounced in Mary’s home and unauthorized by the priests or powers that be.  Gabriel’s just there.  Face to face with Miriam, with Mary.  A young woman, in a culture shaped in almost every way by patriarchy and patriarchal power.  But Gabriel doesn’t ask permission of her father, or of any male guardian or would-be husband.  Gabriel simply and shockingly enters her home, and the room where Mary’s staying.  And Gabriel says: “Good morning!”  Or, in other words, “This day is God’s day.”  This is gonna be God’s day.  

"The Annunciation" (Jackie Nourigat)

And in every other biblical moment—where an angel or a messenger or a prophet announces a pregnancy or celebrates a birth—in every other biblical moment, that news is delivered to a father-to-be first, or a male protector first, or a governing patriarch first.  But not now.  Not here.  Not in Nazareth.  

This time, Gabriel steps into Mary’s life, into Mary’s home, into Mary’s imagination—and there is no protector giving him permission or showing him the way; and there is no father-to-be taking credit; and there is no priest, no patriarch interpreting the message for her.  And Gabriel says to Mary: “Good morning!  You’re beautiful with God’s beauty, beautiful inside and out!  God be with you.”  Or, in other words, “This is gonna be God’s day.”    

Rabbis and scholars through the ages have noted that the very name, Gabriel, means something like the “power of God.”  The power of God!  So isn’t it possible, then, that Gabriel’s unannounced, unauthorized visit that day intends to engage Mary in God’s own revolution?  In God’s own project of blessing, renewal and even redemption among the peoples of the land?  Mary’s not simply an ancillary character, a bit player, a useful womb, in another savior’s story.  Mary is invited, urged, blessed, loved into receiving Gabriel’s greeting as her own call to ministry, partnership and power.  Power!  “God be with you.”  She’s facing—with her family, with her community—an occupation that stifles the spirit and siphons off resources and bullies indigenous peoples.  But Gabriel says, “God be with you.”  Mary’s invited, urged, blessed, loved into participating in God’s saving energies, God’s healing purposes, God’s power in the world.  God’s power in the world.  There is no gospel apart from this moment.  There is no gospel apart from Gabriel’s blessing and Mary’s yes.

You see, the power of God is not (and never has been) the same as the power of the fist, or the power of the tyrant, or the power of the bully.  If Gabriel is an emissary, or an angel, of the power of God, Gabriel comes with a counter proposal, an alternative offer, a way beyond the coercive ways of empires and armies and patriarchs.  Gabriel comes with God’s gospel:  “You’re beautiful with God’s beauty,” he declares, “beautiful inside and out!”