Sunday, March 17, 2024

HOMILY: "Unless a Grain of Wheat" (Lent 5)

March 17, 2024
John 12:20-33

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit…”

1.

In the 1970s Carter Heyward was among the first small group of women to be ordained to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church. After a long and bitter fight. And like Bishop Gene Robinson here in New Hampshire, these women met fierce opposition in certain circles, and even in some churches. Where meanness and prejudice get especially cruel. And Carter Heyward tells a story about communion, and serving communion in those first few months at a small parish in Ohio. A high moment for her, but a bizarre one for the church.

You may know that, in the Episcopal tradition, parishioners often come forward and kneel at the altar rail to receive the bread from priest’s hand. And that Sunday, newly ordained, Carter Heyward stepped to the rail to greet her people with the consecrated bread, the Body of Christ. She stepped down the line, offering each one communion, inviting each one to ministry and partnership with Jesus.

That day in Ohio, one man arrived at the altar rail with a grudge to bear. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t let it go. Carter Heyward’s ministry, her priesthood was so abhorrent to him, so threatening to everything he held dear in the world—that he came to the rail, kneeling but seething. And when she offered communion, he batted the bread away and angrily bit the priest’s finger. So committed was he to his own resentment, so unwilling to receive the gift that was literally at hand. And so opposed to the idea of a woman priest. He just batted the bread away, and bit her finger hard. Can you imagine? Carter Heyward says that the cost of discipleship and the risky business of the priesthood got a little clearer for her that day.

It’s tempting, of course, to take communion for granted—this simple, if sacred, transaction, couched in prayer and blessing. We’ve done it a hundred times, five hundred times before. It can seem rather routine. But what if it’s more than that? What if this simple monthly meal at the table is both our lived memory of Jesus’ sacrifice and our solidarity with that sacrifice? What if we take the broken loaf in our hands, and into our lives—to welcome and embrace this promise: That just as his heart was broken open in love, so it will be with us. After all: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies,” Jesus said, “it bears much fruit.” The broken bread, the emptied cup. What if this sacrament—this eucharistic reenactment is more than just a familiar ritual—but also a risk we take in faith, a faithful risk that our journeys and Jesus’ journey are one and the same. To be offered up to the world in love. To be poured out upon the earth as mercy. To be justice and peace, en-fleshed, in-carnate, in wartime.

Maybe we should follow Annie Dillard’s wonderful advice in A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and show up for Communion Sundays in batting helmets, shoulder pads and shin guards. Because this isn’t just a quaint exchange of consumer goods; it’s a commitment we make—every time—to “soul force” and total transformation. It’s a commitment to trust and courage and solidarity with Jesus. If we dare. If we dare to let go.

And of course, that’s exactly what that parishioner in Ohio couldn’t do—or at least, couldn’t yet do. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t give up on his own grievances, release his anxieties to God’s grace, turn over his patriarchal prejudice at the altar. And because he couldn’t—at least, couldn’t yet do that—he met the gift of God’s grace with contempt. He took the promise of new life and mangled it. He rejected his own liberation, and the Love that even in that moment sought him out. I want to believe that that wasn’t his last trip to the altar. I want to believe that—like the rest of us—he was given a second, a third, a fourth chance. As many as he needed. To wake up. To give up on his grievances and release his fears at last. To receive the gift of faith. To see his world reawakened and his life within it.

2.

This morning, on his way to the cross, inviting you and me to join him, Jesus says: “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” And this kind of poetry, which means to bewilder but inspire, invites reflection around sacramental practice and communion itself. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” And then: “Those who cling to their life in this world will lose it, and those who let go will keep it for eternal life.” There’s a koan in all this, a sense of mystery and strange blessing, an invitation to curiosity and hope.

If that fellow in Ohio has to learn, somehow, to turn over his privilege and prejudice, in order to fully and gracefully receive what Jesus is doing in his life, maybe I too have privileges to sacrifice at the altar. Maybe every one of us has grievances to release, and fears, anxieties, burdens to set aside—so that we can accept the healing, love and partnership Jesus is extending. In the bread. In the cup. In the hands of a priest or priestess. And we do this over and over and over again. Communion is transformation. Communion is conversion. Communion is poetry; and faith then is like the art of being alive in wounded but wonderful world. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

So I want to offer this as a way to approach this ancient, but dynamic sacrament at the table with Jesus. To step into that Upper Room with Jesus, to lean into his presence at the table—is to bury our fears in the gospel of love. To acknowledge his suffering, to bear witness to his lovingkindness—is to release every grievance that blurs our vision, every bitterness that diminishes our hope. Maybe your fear has something to do with your own unique vulnerability in the world, your own mortality perhaps, a sense of foreboding or shame that just clings to your soul. Lean into God’s presence. Here at the table. Bury your fears in the gospel of love.

In this broken bread, in this common cup, in this sweet feast, Jesus says: “As I give up my fears, as I release my grievances, as I welcome God’s abundant love—so can you. Break this bread.” And then, “As I receive God’s promise of everlasting mercy and endless abundance—so can you. Drink this cup.” See, it’s not transactional, not at all. This sacrament is the promise in the midst of your awakening, the assurance in the midst of your transformation, and the strangely satisfying gift of divine presence—as you and I move into the conflicted spaces, and unsettling challenges, and critically important ministries of our lives. And there will be conflicts. And there will be challenges. But always, always, always, in releasing our fears to God, in casting off our grievances, in putting our hand in Jesus’ hand—we are renewed and refreshed and awakened again and again by the Love that sets us free. If we dare. If we dare to let go.

Sunday, March 10, 2024

HOMILY: "Love Weeps" (Lent 4)

A Meditation on John 11
Sunday, March 10, 2024

1.

Weeping for Jerusalem
In just two short weeks, anticipating what will become a procession of palms and his own version of first century civil disobedience, Jesus will pause on a hillside overlooking Jerusalem. And there he will weep over the holy city, the city whose very name means City of Peace. The city whose reason for being is to bear the promise of inclusion and communion and justice.

And on that hillside, reflecting on his life, his world, maybe even human history itself—Jesus will weep over Jerusalem. And he will say: “Would that you, even now, might know the things that make for peace!” “Would that you, even now, might know the things that make for peace!” Jesus will feel all this violence in his bones, in the very marrow of his bones. He will grieve the militarism of empires, the calculated violence of nations, the hatred and venom unleashed in conflicts festering in human communities. And he will weep.

After last night’s offering of “The Armed Man,” I spoke with several singers who told me that there’s a point in the piece—when rage overcomes human decency, when violence roars in the lyric and music—where their own tears overwhelm even the director’s instructions and they just can’t sing. For a measure or two. For a heartbeat or two or three. We’re talking about Hiroshima and Auschwitz and Vietnam. We’re talking about genocidal wars and human pride turned demonic destruction. And I’m moved by each of you, by each of those singers, and by your Christ-like weeping, and your Christ-like humanity, and your Christ-like tenderness. Your tears, I might add, are the salty seeds of a world healed, a planet reconciled, a human community redeemed not by AR 15s and weaponized drones and atomic bombs—but by love. By love and hope and your own tears.

2.

Unbinding Lazarus
And, of course, in this morning’s story—this long and involved story from the Gospel of John—Mary and Martha are grieving for Lazarus, their brother, their beloved brother.  And their friends, their community has gathered around them, come to them with love and support.  And they’re all grieving together, weeping for the one they’ve lost, leaning into one another with love, and hanging onto one another through waves of sadness and the kind of pain that rolls through the human spirit like a tsunami.  And Jesus—who strangely delays—comes to them at last.  And there’s a special relationship here, between Jesus and Mary and Martha and Lazarus; they were particularly close, especially dear to one another.  So when he sees Mary coming, and when he hears her brokenhearted voice, and her despair for what might have been—Jesus weeps.  Again, for a life lost.  Again, for the circle broken.  Again, for a friend in distress.  Jesus weeps.
  
Early on, in this Lenten season, we talked about giving up fear for Lent.  Instead of chocolate or TV.  Giving up fear for Lent.  Maybe the flip side of that is taking up grief—allowing oneself to weep, allowing our grief to roll like waves through our bodies, through our voices, across our communities.  Maybe it’s our weeping that reveals the passion of God for life, and the love of Jesus for all peoples and all children and all kinds of communities and nations and human hearts.  Maybe it’s our weeping that will open fissures in our spirits through which new light can shine and new hope can break forth.  Give up fear for lent.  But let every tear flow freely.
Now it’s interesting about today’s story.  When you read the Gospel of John—the whole of it, or (really) any one piece of it—you are struck by how very different it is, how odd it is, and how wildly it wanders from the language and pacing of the other three New Testament gospels.  Matthew, Mark and Luke.  

Matthew, Mark and Luke are beautiful texts, to be sure.  But they move more quickly.  And they focus on Jesus’ deliberate movements, across Palestinian landscapes, in and out of human communities—welcoming and feeding, healing and teaching.  In one moment he’s confronting shameful purity codes, and in the next he’s upending oppressive systems of debt and judgment.  His teaching seems to have a clear purpose.  

But often the Gospel of John raises questions that are hard to answer.  Often it lingers around wonder and delight.  Even celebrates bewilderment and confusion. And throughout, the Gospel of John cautions against idolatry, Christian idolatry in particular, assuming we have all the answers and that this Jesus is ours alone.    “Concepts create idols,” said Gregory of Nyssa, a fourth century Cappadocian bishop.  “Concepts create idols; only wonder comprehends anything.”  And that’s kind of a fitting summary of the Fourth Gospel, and what makes the Gospel of John tick.  “Only wonder comprehends anything.”  Even Jesus.  

So the Gospel of John insists that just when we think we have Jesus pegged, just when we think we know exactly who Jesus is and what he’s about, just when we think Jesus is “our” guy—Jesus is going do something unexpected, or flip a table in the temple square, or ask an odd and unanswerable question.  Just when we think we have Jesus and God figured out, Jesus aims to surprise us.  To throw the doors of our hearts open wide again.  To cause us to reassess his message and purpose all over again.  Because it’s all about wonder for Jesus.  Wonder and faith and divine compassion.  And there’s no way around the messiness of life.  And there’s no way around the hard edges of human experience.  And there’s no quick theological shortcut through the mysteries of grace and love and incarnation.  God is in the details.  You heard that right, God is in the details.

Sunday, February 25, 2024

HOMILY (LENT 2): "In Remembrance of Me"

A Meditation on John 13
Sunday, February 25, 2024 (Lent 2)

1.

Years ago, I spent a beautiful retreat day in the Santa Cruz mountains with Alexander Shaia, writer, psychologist, theologian, who's done some really exciting work on Christian spirituality and the four New Testament gospels.  We're going to explore Alexander's work, and the practices he celebrates, in this Spring's Koinonia program.  So I hope you'll watch for that.  But that day in California, he was most interested in talking about Lent, this six week season between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday.  

What kind of pilgrimage is suggested by this 40-day journey, with Jesus, with the Beloved Community, into the mysteries of faith, leaning into the demands of discipleship and the ways of the cross?  Could a 21st century church find meaning and even renewal in the ancient patterns of the early church?  He's a pretty intriguing thinker, Alexander is, with family roots in Lebanon and the Maronite tradition, and training in several intersecting disciplines.  I was pretty stirred up, to be honest.  And I wondered.  Maybe we were oversimplifying and underselling Lent in the church.  Maybe there was a deeper vein of peace, promise and possibility to be found.

2.

And he started, early that January morning, as the dew still glistened on the redwoods just outside: he started with the story we've read this morning from John.  Just before the Great Festival of Liberation, just before the Passover, Jesus gathering his disciples for a supper and washing their feet.  "Having loved his dear companions, he loved them right to the end."  Is there a sweeter summary of the gospel: "Having loved his dear companions, he loved them right to the end."  And, you know, maybe that's Lent in a nutshell: this deeply unsettling, but powerfully moving story about how it is that God loves you and me right to the end, that God loves the whole world right to the end, that God loves our beauty and our frailty and our brokenness right to the end.  "What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!"  Lent is our turning, our turning, our turning toward that kind of Love.  Breath by breath.  Day by day.  Week by week by week.

The most revolutionary thing Jesus does, Alexander said, and where the Spirit begins to resurrect Jesus and his body in us, is in that particular moment.  On his knees.  Beside that table.  With an apron around his waist.  The liberation of love begins in God's humility.  Which so quickly enlists and inspires our own.  This God is not a punishing tyrant.  This God is not a bossy moralizing bully.  This God kneels, an apron around his waist, to wash our feet.  Everybody’s feet.  The peace beyond all understanding ripples like a river through Jesus' fingers.  

"What if," Alexander asked that day, "the Lenten practice is six weeks of prayer and fasting, six weeks of preparation, six weeks of letting go and picking up, six weeks of encouragement--so that the church is ready for Holy Thursday?"  

I'm sure we must have looked blankly back.  Because he recognized that he needed to clarify and expand.  "What if," he asked, "the Lenten practice is preparing the church, preparing the beloved community of disciples, for the Holy Week moment when we too fall to their knees, with dinner on the table, and we too tie towels and aprons around one another's waists?"  "What if it's all about getting ourselves ready--spiritually, physically, theologically--to wash one another's grimy, pointy, beautiful and (sometimes busted) feet?"