Called to Community

Homily for Epiphany 3, Year A (January 26, 2020)
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church
Richmond, VA

Lectionary Texts

I was at an academic conference last weekend and had the opportunity to hear a talk by Stacey Abrams focused on her deeply passionate political advocacy to end voter disenfranchisement.  She chose to begin her talk with us…an audience of social workers…by giving us a sense of her identity within her family. This included her parents…both of whom are now ordained Methodist clergy…as well as her five siblings who each had a very different life trajectory, from neuroscience, to law, to working diligently every day at being a person in recovery.  She loved and honored every one of them in that speech. I know you weren’t there to hear the whole thing and I cannot even attempt to recall it all with the eloquence she did…but there were a few things about that talk that have lingered with me as I’ve been working with the texts of today’s scripture lessons.

First, there was a predictable outbreak of applause at the mention of her brother, the social worker.  Those of us present might not have known him, but we had an instant recognition of shared vocation and call whether or not we knew anything else about each other as individuals; the connection made us family.

The other lingering thought was how deeply and personally she was inspired to action by her youngest brother who exemplified the persistence and hard work it takes to move through patterns of incarceration and treatment to navigate a complex history of mental health and addiction.  She didn’t have to tell us all the details of his story: she knew she was speaking to a crowd full of people who also knew how easily people fall through the cracks of a broken system; how people self-medicate when there is no access or means to pay for essential medication; how much concerted work and resolute faith it takes for people to get up every day and walk the step-by-step journey through addiction. We were right there, walking with her as she told her story, taking in the narrative she told about the people who raised her, who inspired her and the policies and institutional barriers that frustrate her and injure the people she loves.

As I sat there listening to her story in that shoulder-to-shoulder packed room, I was reminded about the way in which call manifests in our lives.  We might be tempted to think of “call” as a mountaintop moment of personal clarity. But walking along the sea of Galilee with Jesus, we begin to see that call resides in ordinary, everyday relationship.  God speaks and the common threads of our lives begin to weave together in ways we never before realized were possible.

In the Epiphany stories of Jesus’ baptism, we were given a glimpse of the divine call made manifest in Jesus’ own life.  But in today’s Gospel, we get a glimpse of Jesus’ call on a more human and relatable level. The baptism of Jesus was a moment of divine recognition but it also inaugurated a deeply human story between John and Jesus, whose lives intersected profoundly when each entrusted the other with an intimate knowledge of meaning and purpose and identity.  John, whose call was to baptize Jesus whose sandals he did not even feel worthy to untie; and Jesus, prophetically stepping into the waters of baptism with his wild, living-on-the-margins, zealous older cousin John, a prophet who spoke hard truths, called for repentance and lived off the grid…as we might say now…in direct and defiant opposition to empire.  

As the narrative unfolds, Jesus relocates his life from Nazareth to Galilee and settles in Capernaum, on the northwest Galilean shore.  This was Roman-occupied territory, the seat of the empire that his cousin so often spoke out against. But, John had been arrested; his resistance to empire had been recognized as a threat and he had been taken away.  Jesus’ change of location was likely practical…we know from accounts in the Gospel of Luke that he was effectively chased out of the temple for his teachings in his hometown of Nazareth. But, it was also prophetic and poetic, as echoed in Matthew’s quotation of the prophet Isaiah.  Jesus left his Hebrew home to settle in the land held by the Roman empire that had imprisoned John. And he went there knowing full well what happened. Jesus goes into the heart of the empire to shatter the empire, taking up the cry of his cousin but this time, speaking with his own unique, clear and compelling voice:  “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”  

I’m struck by this intertwining of the ministries of John and Jesus where today’s Gospel lesson begins.  There are so many unanswered questions: what compelled Jesus to that particular place? How did the news of John’s imprisonment inspire Jesus’ actions?  While we don’t have clear answers, we have all the stories of Jesus’ life and ministry that follow, reminding us not only that John was pointing the way to Jesus, but that the character and qualities we see John the Baptist living were woven inextricably into this narrative of Jesus’ own ministry: Jesus who met people at the margins, withdrew to spaces set aside, lived in juxtaposition to empire even within empire; Jesus who preached the need to turn and change and reclaim a vision of the kingdom of heaven in our midst and who showed through story and example the reign of God which has come near.  Jesus, moved to action by the darkness of injustice, now moves deeply and deliberately into the light of call. Only then could Jesus recognize and call others.

You see, I’ve always focused more on the second part of this story than the first.  How was it that the disciples of Jesus would just leave everything and follow? But I am beginning to realize that the calling of the disciples may not have felt like a singular moment or a solitary choice but perhaps, instead, like the next faithful step forward into a community that saw them as they were, asked them to come as they were with the skills of their human lives, and saw the divine spark of purpose and call in the midst of their ordinary lives fishing, and building, and repairing.  Maybe we could see it another way: Jesus and the disciples on the shores of Galilee saw the need to feed those who hungered, make shelter those who needed rest, and mend the lives and structures that were broken. And so it was that a community emerged; God’s justice flowed like water and the kingdom of heaven came near.

I’m reminded of the intersecting lives of a few modern day prophets and justice bringers, too.  I listened recently to an interview with Ruby Sales, a civil rights veteran and (by her own admission) unexpected public theologian.  She, like many of our black siblings, felt the weight of oppression during the civil rights era in the tightening of Jim Crow laws and state sanctioned discrimination.  She felt a need to stand up and do something. During one of her first protests…in 1965 when she had just turned 17…it was Episcopal seminarian Jonathan Myrick Daniels who, freshly arrested and then unexpectedly released from jail earlier that afternoon, took a bullet fired directly at them by the town’s police deputy.  Jonathan died; Ruby survived. Her subsequent life of faith, of civil activism, and of public witness has been constantly intermingled with oppression by the empire. And yet she does not stop. Even more, she asserts that the central question of our public theology must be to turn to one another and ask: “Where does it hurt?”

In that interview, Ruby Sales explains “…love is not antithetical to being outraged. Let’s be very clear about that. And love is not antithetical to anger. There are two kinds of anger. There’s redemptive anger, and there’s non-redemptive anger. And so redemptive anger is the anger that moves you to transformation and human up-building.”

Jesus’ move into the heart of an empire that had imprisoned his cousin John was likely not one of gentle peace.  When structures of oppression hurt those you love, you get angry. Jesus steps into that place of human anger and fills it with divine redemption.  In today’s Gospel he took up the call to ministry vacated by an imprisoned John, and allowed the free slowing of the Spirit which rested on him in Baptism to call into ministry those who were needed in God’s vision exactly as they were, to do the work of replacing the empire of human oppression with the divine imagination of what can be, with God’s help.  Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John were invited to participate in the reign of God. Today we hear their resounding “yes” as an embrace of this ministry of heavenly redemption from the structures of bondage in this world. We are amazed, and we are terrified, and we too are invited to participate in this reign of God’s redemptive love for all of humankind. The kingdom of heaven has come near.

Not just our Gospel, but all of today’s lessons point to this universality of the Good News: the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light, and on those who lived in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined; our baptism, like that of Jesus, is of God; being baptized in Christ unites us in the same mind and the same purpose. Jesus reminds us that the Good News is as present and relevant at the margins of this world as it is at the center of the empire.  God calls us as we are, with the gifts and the strengths that we bring, living within the particularities of our time and place, to live into the fullness of the mission and ministry God has for us in the places where it hurts the most.

Where does it hurt?  Where we see hurt, we are called to go because that is the very place where God will meet us.  In the darkness of our hurt and the hurt of this world in which we live, the profound piercing of the good news of the light of Christ will be the most needed, and the most evident.

Love where it hurts; immerse into a community where we feed and shelter and bind up one another’s wounds.  See Christ in our midst, calling us to be that light for the world in which we live. Say yes, not because you feel you must but because you realize that God has put you in exactly the place you need to be, in this community which Christ has called into discipleship.  The steps will emerge, the story will unfold, and the kingdom of heaven will be near.



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[re]opening my eyes

Friends and Readers, I will not lie.  This has been a year of beautiful moments and new paths unfolding (which I do tend to take time to write about, or work into my sermons at the very least) but it has also brought the incessant pounding of grief on the door of my heart, overwhelming workloads that have decimated any semblance of self-care I had previously carved out, and it has been accompanied by the inevitable second guessing of myself that accompanies a whole pile of “new” entering my life.  Mostly, my life is amazing.  But, at one point this week, I found myself in my kitchen chopping carrots with such a vengeance that I’m shocked I still have all my fingers.  Emotional overload is real y’all.  Sometimes it’s a fine thread that keeps all our pieces strung together.

Thankfully, I’m not alone in this world and any time I’ve asked for help and encouragement this week (and even when I haven’t asked, to be honest) my people have been there for me, and points of light have found me.  One friend and mentor directly reminded me to not overlook the points of light that can be readily seen on my social media posts and the glimpses of my life that I share out loud with those who care about me.  I was deeply grateful for that reminder, and I needed to hear it above the din of clutter in my own mind.

All this took me back to thinking about when I started this blog.  Unbelievably, it will be seven years in February.  It was Ash Wednesday; it started as kind of a whim, a lenten intention to notice the small points of light on the journey I had been walking.  I wasn’t a priest then.  I wasn’t even discerning openly about my vocation and call, although to repurpose a therapeutic note from the transtheoretical model, “prediscernment” was certainly in action in the inner recesses of my mind.  Back then, I did a thing.  I made an intention to write something down every day during that lenten season and I didn’t even tell anyone I was doing it for quite some time.  I did it for myself, really, and I discovered so much about my life, past and present.  I kept doing it…not every day…but I persisted and seven years (and four more blog projects) later, I can sit here at a time where life is heavy and my string is ready to snap, and now I have this huge pile of stories to remind me to see all the light, especially at times where it wasn’t so evident.

I spent time this morning with people attending the food pantry at the parish where I now serve.  I gave blessings and prayed with those who asked.  Others received food, backpacks, duffle bags, toiletries, bus passes…whatever we had available.  I heard (and held) stories of people who are hard-working, proud, determined, and kind-hearted and have ended up at the short end of social and economic inequality from health conditions that were accompanied by massive debt; strings of industrial lay-offs without benefits; evictions from overpriced and undermaintained rental properties which damaged their credit.  Over two short hours, I also met advocates, musicians, encouragers, creative theologians, devout believers, unwarranted optimists, new faces with new stories and some old friends who have walked this journey with me for so long now that they consider themselves (rightly so) among my teachers and tell me, “I remember you back when you first started out.”  Paul told me he was proud of me today, and that was a gift like gold.

This group of people that bad circumstances bring together for a hot meal and hospitality is the flock that nurtures my spirit.  We don’t have to pretend: we know the system is rigged, that bad things happen to good people, that hard work doesn’t always get you to the top, that people don’t always get what they deserve, and people don’t always deserve what they get.  Our unspoken motto is: don’t panic.  Our spiritual practice is to believe that even when there feels like nothing, there is Something; to claim our identity as Beloved even when we don’t feel that way or others try to convince us differently; to open our hands and hearts to what comes to us, instead of clinging to everything we encounter, knowing we are merely travelers through this world.

I highly recommend this.  I acknowledge that it gets harder (because our hearts get harder) when reality starts to become defined by work, wealth, or influence.  Those things are the great temptations of the world in which we live and they will pull us off course at every opportunity.  Do meaningful work; be generous; share relationship.  That is what is real.

Let me close by telling the brief story of a few things that knocked me back into doing what is real this week (again, thankfully, not a chopped off finger!).

Last year, I met Earl when I was serving as Deacon and Missioner to Monroe Park.  Earl was sleeping in the ally next to the parish across from the park, which is where my ministry was tethered.  When I opened the chapel doors one cold winter morning, his tall and lurching presence startled me at first.  I invited him in to the chapel, and we talked.  I won’t relate his whole story but its relevant to say he was just out of the hospital; currently homeless and ineligible for many traditional shelter programs.  Long story short, over a few days Earl and I worked out a plan to get him connected to health care and housing options and back on his feet, and I bought a tracphone which I called the “Deacon Phone” and lent it to him so he could call various rental places we’d uncovered.  I didn’t see Earl again, and after a while where he’d call me to check in or vice versa, he didn’t answer the phone anymore.  These things happen; I know that.  I continued to pray for him every day at morning prayer in the chapel nevertheless, whether he was among the living or among the dead.  Frankly, I assumed the latter.

Fast forward, yesterday I was at that parish where I’d previously served working with some social work students and my former colleague in ministry there came in and said, “Someone came in last week and wanted to return this to you.”  She handed me the aforementioned Deacon Phone.  I confirmed that it was Earl, who I learned had been hospitalized for some time but now was indeed back on his feet.  Here it was a year later, and a person on death’s door (and sleeping on church doorstep) came back to find me and return a phone.  The moral of this story isn’t about a phone.  It’s about relationship.  And in that small, cell-phone shaped point of light God also dwells.

I tell this story, because it’s too easy to write off people like Earl.  “The homeless” become one dehumanized entity, rather than a whole range of individual people with complex identities and life stories.  I am honored to know some of Earl’s story, for the gift of his presence and the reminder of how our lives interconnect and create meaning mutually. Even the most well-intentioned among us can become hardened by fear and avoid stepping out of the bubbles of presumption and self-protection which shelter distrust.  God is just waiting at the margins, inviting us all into relationship.

So thank you, Earl.  And thank you to the woman today who sang me a Gospel hymn while I hugged her and we prayed for her dentist to finish her upper plate so she could smile again.  And thank you to the resident theologian who told me, “I have a Master of Divinity from the Master Himself!” then went over to the piano to exercise his wrists and serenaded us with several minutes of heartfelt melodies.  And thank you to the quiet young man who I remembered to locate a duffle bag for after he asked for one two weeks ago who, as he was leaving, looked me in the eyes and quietly said, “I’m glad you remembered.”

We have to remember that we are not in this world alone, or in our bubbles.  We’re in this together with God in our midst.  And that, my friends, is the real point of light.


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But what about…

Homily for Advent 4, Year A
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church
Richmond, VA

Gospel Text: Matthew 1:18-25

When I moved from being a practicing social worker to being trained as an academic researcher, I was told that I needed to develop a one-sentence elevator speech anyone could hear and understand. After a decade of working with the complexities of people’s lives, I needed to confine my intellectual curiosity to one sentence. Just one. I think it took me most of that first year of my doctoral studies to do it, but finally I landed on the description I have used for the past fifteen: “I study ways to improve women’s health and mental health during and around the time of pregnancy.”

At one of the first professional conferences I attended, I gave a talk where I used my elevator speech to define my area of study. As I concluded my presentation, a hand went up in the crowd. It was the first of many times that my well-defined area of scholarship would be immediately challenged by the question, “But what about the dads?”

Given today’s Gospel lesson, I can’t help but feel a bit like I always do when asked that question. On one hand, it’s a completely legitimate consideration: birth experiences are always more complex than just the person birthing the baby. On the other hand, I readily acknowledge that I might indeed have a bias: I have a particular interest in understanding the experience of mothers because of their role as physical bearers of life into this world in all the ways that happens, and all the emotional and psychological complexity that accompanies that. My experience also suggests that there’s someone in every situation who has the most to lose, and in my field of study, that vulnerable person is often the mother.

When I give research talks now, I’m quick to point out…early and often…that I actually care about all partners and participants in a birth experience. But, I am especially drawn in and moved by the experiences of mothers. Mothers may often be the most vulnerable and least powerful people in the story; but understanding and responding to their needs changes everyone’s story.

So, it’s probably not surprising that I’ve always felt drawn to Mary, whose informed yes-saying to God’s call upon her life put her almost immediately in an incredibly precarious position within her personal, social and cultural context. And I will also admit that this maternal and child health researcher loves Advent for the very particular and specific reason that each season we, like Mary, must confront our vulnerability and step faithfully into a fuller understanding of what exactly it means not to be afraid, to trust the Holy Spirit with wild abandon, and to make room to birth Christ anew in our own lives, and in the world.

Sometimes, I hear people wonder why Advent matters, or even whether we should bother holding open this space of expectant waiting anymore when culturally, it’s been Christmas all around us since Thanksgiving. And sometimes, people still ask, “what about the dads?”

And to both questions, today I say: I’m glad you asked.

And so it is that the birth of Jesus, in the Gospel according to Matthew, happened like this. Mary, betrothed to Joseph and living with her family of origin, was pregnant. In an assertion of faith which then and 2,000 years later we still profess in our creeds, she proclaimed that the child she carried was conceived by the Holy Spirit. The practical partner in this birth story, though, was Joseph whom we are told was a righteous man. As was the right and privilege of any man in his social position at that time, he could have chosen to publicly end their betrothal on grounds of infidelity and in doing so, sealed Mary’s fate as an unfaithful and therefore, effectively unmarriageable woman. That action on his part would likely have relegated her to poverty, living either as a forced dependent of her birth family or as an outcast. Mary was vulnerable in her pregnancy, vulnerable in her person, vulnerable in her social status, and vulnerable in her relationship.

But Joseph was a righteous man. While he knew the social conventions of his time and was likely encouraged to follow them, he had thought things through and determined a way to privately and quietly send Mary away so that her pregnancy wasn’t exposed. It was quite a progressive and open-minded thing for him to do, actually. As the Gospel writer attests: this was the plan he had thought through and decided to follow, because he was righteous. Human, virtuous, law-abiding righteousness.

Let me just pause here and say: rest assured that Matthew’s version of the nativity of Jesus is probably not going to be portrayed in a children’s Christmas pageant any time soon!

Back to the story, though. Joseph, having settled on his righteous plan, settled himself down to sleep. Once his mind was at rest, a messenger (ἄγγελος) of God, visited him in a dream and told him not to be afraid. The message was not only to fearlessly embrace Mary as his wife, but to accept this child and name…and therefore claim…this child as his own, with full recognition not of his own paternity, but of God’s intention for this child’s life. The name to be given was Jesus, derived from the name of the patriarch we in English translation call Joshua. Joseph, like Mary, had received the same divine message of a life-altering truth: this child coming into your life is Immanuel: God with us.

I have always wanted to know more about the thoughts in Mary’s mind throughout her pregnancy and as she cared for the infant Jesus. But like the hand waving in the audience, I find myself wishing we knew more about this dad, too. Maybe if we heard some of Joseph’s words, or could get inside his thoughts we could hear and see a bit of what the Good News felt like in his own expression and experience. I wish we knew how the angelic interruption bearing God’s invitation challenged his sense of safety. I wish we could hear the words of justice and advocacy that Joseph used to describe to his family the new course of action that his faith in God emboldened him to embark upon. What we do have in this story, though, is a knowledge of what Joseph does. Righteous, practical, and faithful Joseph enacted without hesitation not his own plan, but what he was called upon by God to do.

We know through his actions that Joseph also gave his full consent to participate in this life-altering and counter-cultural narrative, to move from security to vulnerability and in doing so, to become a true partner in the revealing of God’s incarnate love for all of God’s people.

The profound faith and courage of these human parents, Mary and Joseph, transform our understanding of what it means to live in faithful expectation of the divine. In our Christian journey through Advent, we are living the story of God’s incarnate love for humanity retrospectively: we’ve already travelled the road to Bethlehem; we’ve seen the star; we’ve heard the chorus of the heavenly host and we are circling back around to retell the holy story to each other as we do so beautifully, year after year. But the very human parents in this very human story do not have our experience. They simply have their call.

Mary and Joseph each had a dream; a choice; a reconciliation of their own human desires with God’s plan. In this narrative of the incarnation, they each independently say yes to God’s plan, and with God’s help they enter the uncertain journey unfolding before their feet, step by step.

Whether we see this story through the eyes of Mary or the eyes of Joseph, today’s Gospel lesson gives us a reason to pause in our lives of faith and ponder God’s call upon our own lives, a call to which we have also responded repeatedly this Advent that we will pursue, with God’s help:

  • Do we find ourselves making plans out of our own human, law-abiding righteousness?
  • Are we awake and attuned to hearing the messengers who offer up what God asks of us, even if it makes us vulnerable and causes us to challenge our fears?
  • Are we willing to name and claim what God has given us to do as the work of our lives?

You see, both the Mom and the Dad in today’s Gospel lesson are holding out to us the story of their lives, their trust, their vulnerability, their head-on encounter with their human fears and their willingness to defy the prevailing social norms of their time in order to embody the work God has called them to do. When I read the stories of these young parents, it activates the social worker and the pastor in me: I yearn to accompany their vulnerability, to console them with the knowledge that all shall be well, to remind them that God is with them.

But then I realize, they knew. They already knew. By the time the story of Jesus’ birth unfolded and revealed God’s love for the world in the form of a tiny child, Mary and Joseph held in the flesh what they already knew in their souls. In spite of all social and cultural evidence to the contrary, they had come to know the transforming and life-altering intention of the God of Love to join with and be with God’s people. That is the Good News that Mary and Joseph hold out for us today by word and example. No other elevator speech needed. Joseph, like Mary, had been given all he needed to know to act and move with faith through the journey of his life, to the glory of God:

Immanuel. God is with us.

In these final expectant days as we await the Christ Child, may our hearts like those of Mary and Joseph be open to welcome the incarnate love of God, who dwells and abides with us, forever. Amen.


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Reflection on the Eve of Christ the King

I awoke with a chant running through my mind on this chilly autumn morning, the Saturday before Christ the King.  Prayer is embodied for me, so rehearsing the cadence of the liturgy plants those words in my soul so they can sprout.  Waking today singing a chant that I had rehearsed yesterday was a visceral sign of germination, emergence taking shape even as my body was at rest.

Tomorrow at Sunday Eucharist, we will celebrate the Reign of Christ as we transition from the many weeks of Ordinary Time and into our preparations for Advent.  I will be chanting the Eucharist, and blessing the waters of baptism for the first time.  These new gifts of prayer and presence in my first year of priesthood are to be cherished and savored.

But this morning, there was Food Pantry and a hot meal being served in the parish hall, and that demanded my attention.  I put on my collar thinking about the Reign of Christ.  Leading the liturgy and pastoring at feeding ministries are the two times that I assuredly can be found wearing clericals; they are both extensions of the Great Thanksgiving and in my own mind, practically inseparable.  I stuffed several bus passes in my pocket, packed up a basket full of winter gloves, and went to the basement where the volunteers at church had cooked two delicious homemade soups with toasted cheese sandwiches.  They were trying out a new thing, too: in addition to bags of groceries, a table had been set with donated extras including toiletries, backpacks and other necessities that become quickly unaffordable when one is living on small amounts of cash.  I placed my basket of gloves there as well.  It’s a trust exercise, this communal sharing, holding the balance between parts of us that wish to ration quantities of donated items and choosing instead to simply put out what we have, in the belief that there will be enough.  Today, we chose trust, which at its base is love.  It was, I believe, the perfect invocation.

As our lay leader said a prayer on the fly, the doors of the church opened and God came rushing in.  I know, it sounds trite.  But this, I believe, is actually the case.  God is with us, at all times and in all places.  Sometimes when we notice the tangible presence of the divine, we get the directionality of the experience wrong.  We think, perhaps, that we go to church to meet God.  Or, we think of those in need are coming into the church to encounter God in the generosity of people of faith they encounter.   Those are very nice things, but they are actually about the reign of human-kindness.   In the Reign of Christ, we are reminded that it is God who is incarnate in the corners and social margins of this world who comes in to pummel us out of our comfort zone.  This in-rushing of God on a chilly autumn day reminds us that there is not one corner of this world; not one set of eyes; not one pair of calloused hands; not one hungry body or soul where God fails to be immanently present.  And God is aching for us to open the doors of our hearts; to enter in and bring us all into relationship.

I had just finished praying with a few people when Terrence came over to ask me if I would step aside with him, as he wanted to ask me something privately.  I hadn’t met Terrence before; he was thin and wiry and wore two thin coats which he explained equated to one really warm one.  I stepped to one side with him as he moved closer to a bulletin board where there was a picture of the nave of the parish, taken from the street-facing doors where the baptismal font was front and center and the camera angle pointed toward the altar.  “Now, I’ve never been here before so I’m not judging” he began, “But, what I want to know is this: what would happen if I came back tomorrow into THAT space, instead of this space?”

It was a fair question, and I acknowledged his earnest need to know.  He continued, “See, it’s sometimes when I come into churches that look like this, all beautiful inside, that I wonder what will happen when I’m there, just as I am.  I think about that a lot.  See, I pray every week about where God wants me to go to worship.  Sometimes, I have been to a church during the week and get a hot meal and everyone is kind because they have their roles planned:  they are the ones helping, and I’m the one being helped.  But then I can step into the same place on a Sunday, and see the same people, but it’s like I become invisible.  Or worse, people think I am coming in to meet Jesus for the first time, as if I don’t already have that relationship.  My whole life depends on that relationship; it’s the most important thing in my life that gets me through.  Sometimes I sit there and I think to myself: I wonder what Jesus looked like to the people in the temple.  Would people know Jesus if He showed up?  Or would they ignore him, too?”

I couldn’t argue with Terrence.  His words were prophetic, and important.  I realize that I’ve even felt a hint of that myself in churches I’ve been in, when I’m just a visitor and everyone is so busy talking with everyone they already know that there isn’t a real space for others to experience welcome.  And even saying that, I don’t know the added pain of experiencing that as a person living in this world without adequate shelter, food, or access to personal hygiene.  And, I really don’t know what its like to combine all that with being a person of color in a sea of mostly white faces.   But Terrence did.  And, I believe, so does Christ who draws us together.

Terrence’s words were a gift on this Eve of the Reign of Christ:  The face Christ reflected in Terrence, looking me in the eyes with one plea: will you love me as I yearn to love you? 

I did promise Terrence one thing: if I saw him walk through our doors on Sunday, or any day for that matter, I would recognize Christ in him, just as I did at that moment.  He offered me a hug, because that is what God does.

Just then, another tall and reserved man entered the room.  He was rugged and handsome, dark-skinned, tattooed, and walked with a deliberate pace as he took in his surroundings with an air of caution and determination.  Suddenly, an older, white woman…a regular to this feeding program…who walked stooped over with a cane and carried the weight of the world on shoulders looked over at him and her face lit up.  The two said, virtually at the same time, “My Angel!”  I watched as she stood and hugged him, her head barely reaching his chest and his reserve melting into deep compassion.

This unlikely pairing of people went on to tell me their story: two strangers, who found themselves together on two different occasions in life.  In each circumstance, the other would be dead if not for the other.  Each time, actions were taken that were selfless.  Each time, they unquestionably saw God in each other.  And today, months having passed, they recognized Christ in each other again.  I put a hand on each of them and blessed this space of God’s presence.  Suddenly, they both folded me in their embrace.  And there we stood, a misfit yet magnificent icon of the Holy Trinity in which every theological discussion of the ontological and economic manifestation of divine mystery was revealed in a space that needed no words.

The rush of divine presence remained with us, lingering over bowls of soup and the sorting through of needed hygiene products; the exchange of prayers and blessings along with the safety of a space where stories could be shared and held as sacred.  The revelation wasn’t just the presence of Christ in our midst; that was an unequivocal fact.  The revelation was the powerful, interrupting Reign of Christ breaking through our social structures, manifesting in the shared space and divine dance of interrelationship which defied all the lines of “us” and “them” which separate us in the world.

This is the Reign of Christ that I will carry with me into liturgy tomorrow; the embodied prayer will be in the words I chant over the waters of baptism; in the gifts we present as they are transformed along with each one of us to the Body of Christ who does reign in our lives and communities.  The Reign of Christ is now, and is yet to come.  And when it comes rushing in the doors where we worship and serve, then may we be waiting with open arms to be caught up in the embrace of incarnate love.

Come, Lord Jesus.


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Homily for the Feast of All Saints, Year C
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Richmond VA
November 3, 2019

Enlighten the eyes of our hearts, Lord, that we may know the hope to which we are called and may share in your glorious inheritance among the saints.

Link to Lectionary Texts


Blessings on this All Saints Sunday!


00100lPORTRAIT_00100_BURST20190827101726634_COVER (1)If you visit my office, either here at St. Mark’s or at VCU, it will be readily apparent that I appreciate being in the presence of saints.  I even brought some with me to share the pulpit today.  This icon of St. Phoebe, the first named female deacon of the early church, resides on my desk upstairs and inspires me to attend to 21st century formation of those called to this vocation of service and prophetic witness through the St. Phoebe School for Deacons.


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I also have a matching set of St. Frances Perkins icons displayed in my offices here and at VCU.  Frances Perkins was recognized as one of our Great Cloud of Witnesses in 2015, recognizing her contributions through social service and prophetic witness.  As Secretary of Labor under FDR and author of groundbreaking legislation such as the Social Security Act, she changed the lives of thousands of Americans.  This all took place through a foundation of her faith; Frances Perkins’ spiritual life as a devout Episcopalian grounded her social service through both public worship and private prayer.

But it has been an even more contemporary icon which has kept coming into my mind this week, one titled: “Our Lady, Mother of Ferguson and All Those Killed by Gun Violence.”  The image written on the icon by iconographer Mark Dukes depicts Mary with hands uplifted in prayer, bearing near her heart and womb the silhouette of a young black man also with arms raised…hands up…encircled in the crosshairs of a gun.

our lady ferguson

Shortly after I first encountered this deeply moving icon, which makes its home at Trinity Episcopal Church Wall Street, I heard some angry back-lash about it. One critic self-proclaiming as a devout Episcopalian even remarked, “Michael Brown was a thief, not a saint.”  When I heard that, I thought: you have entirely missed the point.

You see, I believe the reason that icon that keeps coming into my mind as I pray and prepare to preach on this particular All Saints Sunday is because it conveys a vital lesson for this ideologically charged time.  It is beginning to feel like we have a saint problem.  We are quick to focus on individual short-comings; we become disillusioned by seemingly good people who do bad things; we numb ourselves to injustice when we hear that a victim of violence has a less-than-pristine past; we blame human beings for bearing the flaws of human nature.  Our sense of sainthood gradually begins to erode, making us doubt the worthiness of others and ourselves.  Our understanding of saints becomes relegated to a series of artistic images of historically venerated examples of Godly perfection, utterly unattainable and therefore entirely dismissible.

But, once a year we celebrate this Feast of All Saints.  And I submit for your consideration that this holy day isn’t here for us to venerate the saints of the past, or solely to remember the beloved of our own lives who have died in Christ.  This Feast of All Saints is for us, together, to commemorate…literally speaking, to bring into memory together…all the saints with whom we walk this journey.  But first things first.  Maybe we need a little refresher about what being a ‘saint’ means to us here in The Episcopal Church.

So, amid all the festal white beauty, I’m also going to ask you to do something else rare and beautiful.  Reach into your pew and find the Book of Common Prayer…yes, the actual book…and turn with me to page 862.  We’re in the section of the prayer book that contains the historic documents of the church, and this particular historic document I’m drawing our attention to is our Catechism, a series of questions and answers about the way that we live out our faith in common prayer and practice in the Episcopal Church.  This isn’t just for confirmation class!  It offers us a grounding and shared understanding of what exactly it is we, The Episcopal Church, mean by the “Communion of Saints.”  So, are you ready?  I’m going to ask the question, and all of you are going to read the answer back, loud and clear:

What is the communion of saints?

The communion of saints is the whole family of God, the living and the dead, those whom we love and those whom we hurt, bound together in Christ by sacrament, prayer, and praise.

The whole family of God.

The living and the dead.

Those whom we love and those whom we hurt.

It’s interesting, isn’t it.  Nothing about perfection, unwavering faith, or unblemished virtue.  Nothing at all, really, about personal worthiness.  In fact, it seems that our Catechism suggests that recognizing the communion of saints relies not on the merit of individuals, but on our common lives bound together in Christ: in sacrament, prayer and praise.  Walking the walk, talking the talk, and most importantly, embracing our shared journey.  As we commemorate and remember together, we learn to recognize Christ in our midst.

When we use this lens of commemoration to hear the beatitudes as recounted in Luke’s Gospel, it becomes clear that in Christ, there isn’t a separation of the blessed from the woeful.  Jesus assures the crowd…and us…that God’s blessing rests with all of God’s people…the poor, the oppressed and the hungry, those weeping, mourning, and excluded.  In these humbling states of our life, we cry out to God and are found by the ever-present Holy One who holds us and embraces us in love.  But woe to us when we are caught up in our own self-interests.  In our over-confidence and self-assurance we not only fail to see others, but we risk not even seeing God-with-us.  Jesus points out to all those who will listen how to create beloved community: love, do good, bless, pray, give.  These are the actions of community…of communion.  Jesus instructs us and urges us to see with the eyes of our heart how to walk together through the highs and lows, the trials and tribulations, the joys and the sorrows of life.  We are bound together in Christ.  We walk together in Christ.  Even the death of our mortal bodies is no end to that divine communion as we are remembered together…commemorated…in Christ.

During this past year I have had the opportunity to engage very practically in this kind of saintly commemoration with another one of our Great Cloud of Witnesses, Dorothy Day.  Through a series of serendipitous events beginning with a search for a sermon quote, I became part of an international group of people working to prepare the diaries and letters of this social activist and co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement for canonization as a Saint, as recognized in the Roman Catholic Church.


Now, as an aside, Dorothy Day is also commemorated in the Episcopal Church as one of our Great Cloud of Witnesses; that resolution was passed at our most recent general convention in 2018.  My desire to be involved in this project isn’t focused on an outcome, but about walking with and learning deeply from this holy woman and her holy work.  I found myself wrapped into my own holy work of transcribing as I was preparing for ordination, and this project has truly opened the eyes of my heart. What walking with and commemorating this saint and Servant of God has done, and continues to do, is help me practically understand how God is at work among all of us, all the time.  I have typed up her shopping lists, her reflections on war and liberation, the fiscal accounting of her farm, her worries, her persistence, her travels to India where she met Mother Theresa, her holy reflections, her snarky remarks, and her prayers for mercy, peace and gratitude.  I see her blessed in poverty and comforted through tears.  I see her pride torn down and her faith rebuilt.  I see God’s providence, and unexpected grace, and the beautiful depth of a faith that I can see deepening over generations of time.  The words I type as I pour over her scrawling hand-written diaries and letters increasingly show the signs of human age, but also of divine presence and eternal changelessness.

This is what saints do: they offer us glimpses of God unshakably in our midst. Commemorating the lives of all the saints, isn’t just to remind us of who they were, but of whose we all are.

The eyes of our hearts are opened when we pray, when we bring with us to Christ’s table those whom we commemorate, when we praise God who binds us together in our common life and remakes us in sacrament, prayer and praise as the Body of Christ to serve the world.  The eyes of our hearts give us a vision that we live into here at St. Mark’s and in the world outside our doors.  It is lived out in faithful stewardship, hospitality in-reach and outreach in gifts of time, talent and treasure.  So, it is no coincidence that we celebrate our generosity and our faith today, in the communion of all the saints.  We see in each other…those whose lives have built the ministries of this parish, those whose gifts support us now, and those whose faithful and prophetic vision help us look ahead to the future…we see in each other the face of God who holds us, protects us, and nurtures us in our vulnerability every bit as much as in our strengths.  All of us, saints of God.

And so, we are bound together with those we commemorate today.  And, we are bound together with those who are suffering, those who are oppressed, those who are victimized by hate, and all those targeted in the crosshairs of this world.  We are bound together in Christ, with those whom we love, and those whom we hurt: the whole family of God.  You’re invited to the table, filled to overflowing with saints.  This table is always bigger and the guests more plentiful than we can ask or imagine. With open eyes and open hearts, allow yourself to truly commemorate all the saints, and to share the hope to which we are called, all of us, beloved children and saints of God.

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Bridging the chasm

Homily for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Proper 21, Year C
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church
September 29, 2019

Lectionary Texts:

Amos 6:1a,4-7
Psalm 146
1 Timothy 6:6-19
Luke 16:19-31

I invite you to step with me from a still-feels-like-summer Sunday in Richmond to a chilly autumn morning in Buffalo. I was about to set out for my work day as a Hospice social worker but when I climbed into the driver’s seat of my car, I discovered that the battery was dead. The only other vehicle I had access to at that moment was an old clunker that I had been trying to sell. Technically speaking, it ran but it was held together…barely…by the rust from snowy winters and made loud, clanging noises when going over 30 miles per hour. That particular morning, I had scheduled back-to-back home visits with Hospice families, so a running car was better than no car at all. I flipped open my map book…some of you may remember that before the days of GPS…and I saw that my first visit of the day was in an affluent suburb to the north. My vehicle chugged and sputtered all the way, but it got me there reasonably on time. When I pulled into the driveway of my client’s luxurious home in a very exclusive neighborhood, I definitely felt like the pizza delivery person, not the grief counselor. But as it happens, grief and bereavement know no economic bounds. I was greeted at the door and ushered into an ornate and brightly lit sitting room, where tea was already waiting. But then, we sat silently as I attempted to push the conversation forward by talking about the anticipated processes of grief. Every time my client looked as if she might cry during our conversation, she would turn away, or excuse herself to another room. The vulnerability of emotion in which our human grief resides was palpable. It was too much for her to bear, being in another person’s presence in that vulnerable state. In retrospect, my own vulnerability and insecurity as a young social worker wearing clearance rack clothes and driving a beat up car compounded the gulf of silence between us. After what seemed a much longer time than it actually was, I thanked her for the tea, left a packet of information and my card and we parted cordially. But, I knew she was unlikely to invite me back. The chasm was just too wide.

My next visit took me into the thick of the city, driving through the west-side neighborhood I had lived while a student with its particular ethnic mix of Italian, Puerto Rican, and Jamaican culture. It was a low-income area, what some would consider “spotty” with some streets of single family and duplex homes next to boarded up houses with the markings of gang activity. I felt right at home, though, with my old car and my knowledge of how to navigate these streets. The address of my visit was several blocks beyond that more familiar neighborhood. I recognized the street names from the local news reports. People took note of me as I looked for a parking place. When I pulled up curbside to my client’s home, three young men walked towards me. As I opened my door they said, “Are you the Hospice lady here to see Grandma?” I nodded yes and introduced myself with my name badge. The tallest said, “We’ll sit here and watch your car for you” and motioned to the others to bring lawn chairs down from the porch. I tried to joke a little and said, “I don’t think anyone will bother this thing!” He remained serious and said, “people here don’t like strangers, but if you’re taking care of Grandma then your part of the family.” They walked me to the door and introduced me to their Grandmother who was newly bereaved. She hugged me and welcomed me like a long-lost family member. Her house was filled with pictures, and vases of flowers that still lingered from his home-going celebration. She paused me by the refrigerator where she kept his obituary: “I tell him who’s here to visit and what I’m up to whenever I pass by” she said. She looked at her late husband’s smiling face and said “This is Sarah and she’s one of the Hospice people here to check on me.” We sat at the kitchen table and spoke vulnerably and honestly about love, and loss and grief that day, our two worlds coming together in mutual support.

I can’t help looking back on those two visits like a personal parable which is my window to see into today’s scripture lessons. The Gospel offers a vivid illustration of the great spiritual chasm that lies between the structures of wealth and power in this world, and the mercies of God’s reign to come. We hear that Gospel lesson after a foundation of scripture: The prophetic words of Amos to those at ease and secure in this lifetime; the refrain of a great reversal of fortune evident in the Psalm; then the Epistle lesson exhorting the early church to guard against this division on the world’s terms, “for the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, and in their eagerness to be rich some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pains.” Like the Magnificat Mary sings, the mighty are cast down from their thrones and the lowly are lifted up. For us and for the hearers of Jesus’ time, there was already a foundation of scripture and prophecy underscoring this parable of the rich man and the poor servant Lazarus: “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.” Lesson upon lesson today, we are reminded that there is a great reversal unfolding in the reign of God, up-ending the divisions that we have created and perpetuated here on earth.

But upending the status quo isn’t the end of the story, either. As Dorothy reminded us last week: the heart of the matter is the matter of the heart. It would be so easy to get caught up in a good vs. bad dichotomy in this parable, perhaps in an attempt to align with those who eventually get rewarded. But I think there are some important clues in our Gospel text that encourage us to reach down deeper, to consider the artificiality of these divisions, and to challenge the necessity of that chasm we create when we think in dualities of “us” and “them.” The lesson isn’t a literal tale of the great beyond, but about living into the greater depths of what is already here.

You will notice as the Gospel lesson unfolds that the rich man and the poor servant are both referenced in word or image as beloved children. Both, we might note, have fled the mortal coils of this life. And both had been trapped by their social positions. It’s like my first client and I, unable to see our common humanity because we were fixated on the gulf between. If we try to take this parabolic story literally and see the life to come only as an enforced reckoning of what has already been…then we become fixated on securing our position in the great beyond just as we’ve been fixated on our social position in this life.

But as this parable reminds us, there have already been so many lessons that teach us to see beyond and reach across that chasm: what has Jesus been teaching; how has Jesus been living; with whom has Jesus preached, and healed, and dined with, and prayed with? Jesus, though this parable, teaches us to bridge the chasms of this world…in this world…through the power of the one who has come with outstretched arms to be the bridge. This is not a bridge we demand to cross in our privilege, or shrink from in our vulnerability. Jesus comes to be present, to overcome this spiritual chasm for us, to live in His life and in ministry; in His death and resurrection as the connection point bridging all the margins of this world which would threaten to divide us forever.

Like the young men and their lawn chairs, Jesus shows up and welcomes us to the family.

And there’s a little more to my parable, too.

When I returned to my car that autumn morning, the three young men were still sitting curbside in their lawn chairs, reminiscing about their Grandfather and engaging in that loving family banter that we do when we are known and loved. They stood up when the saw me, and I thanked them for inviting me into their family circle that day. I realized in that very moment that while Grandma and I were talking inside, they were uniting with each other and the memory and influence of their Grandfather. It was all happening right there, on a city sidewalk in one of those areas of the city people had written off. My car was irrelevant. So was race, social class, gender and all the other labels of this world which divide us. Love and family and connection were happening right there, where most people only thought gang activity took place. God was present, filling the human power gap with divine love.

Just like grief and love are present everywhere, so God is present for all of us, the beloved Children of God. We are loved in our poverty and our wealth, in mansions and boarded up apartments. We are loved when our engines don’t start and when we are sputtering and dragging to keep up. We are loved when we have clarity, and courage and conviction. We are loved when we are vulnerable, hurting, and scared. But mostly we are reminded that what divides us in this world isn’t of any consequence to the love of Christ which is beyond all of that vulnerability, beyond all the false security of this world. It is in that divine, bridging love…in the depths of that belovedness…that we come to experience being enfolded into the family of God. In this world and the next, with those who have gone before us, and those who will continue to live after us…we are supported by the bridge that is the boundless love of Christ. In that love is our hope; in that love is what unites us; in that love is our identity as children of God and our connection with each other in this world, and in the life of the world to come.

So, I invite you to bring your lawn chairs and join the family. Today, that might even mean literally at Bryan Park! No need to wait for the great beyond: today and every day, let’s recommit to bridging the margins of this world and living as Christ teaches us, insuring that the chasms and social barriers of this world never get in the way of our common bonds as the whole, human family. Keep watch with the vulnerable and stay in the conversation with your own vulnerability. Greet those you know and those who you don’t know yet in the name of Jesus Christ, who unites us all in love. This bridge Jesus offers isn’t just for the world to come, it is for this world…our world…all of us as the beloved family of God.

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Jesus the Host, Jesus the Guest

Homily for Proper 17, Year C
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church
September 1, 2019

Lectionary Readings (Track 2):

Proverbs 25:6-7
Psalm 112
Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16
Luke 14:1, 7-14

There is nothing more ordinary or extraordinary than sharing a meal. For most of us, the earliest meals we can probably remember involve family dinners or other shared dining with people who cared for us and would teach us to move from playing with our veggies to trying bites of what had been prepared for us. Sometimes that process goes more smoothly than others! But eventually we learn the manners of the table and take in the social cues of how we are to conduct ourselves during meals as social situations. And then, it’s time to start school. And, as we know, the school cafeteria is its own lesson in social graces, or lack thereof.

While we don’t live in the same cultural context as Jesus, I think that the school cafeteria offers us a relatable, and admittedly timely, way to enter more fully into today’s Gospel lesson. Imagine walking into the school cafeteria and sitting yourself down next to the pinnacle of popularity. Maybe even someone a few years ahead of you, popular and from the most senior class. Now, perhaps some of you were more popular than I was in school, but let me just tell you that sauntering up to those choice seats, even as a naive newcomer, would surely have resulted in my immediate expulsion from the lunch table, sending me with taunts of shame far, far away from the “in-crowd.”

Many of us have watched it happen. And some of us have spent plentiful time weaving in and out of uncomfortable lunch-time situations, not sure of where we belong and just hoping to find a seat or a seat-mate who will accept us. The social pecking order of the school cafeteria is not for the faint of heart. Reflecting back on my own experiences, though, I have to tell you: once I finally found what became “my seat” those rough and tumble, sweet and funny mutually nerdy friends who made a space for me at the table were some of the people who have remained my friends for life. Being an outcast from the center of attention actually taught me something that I believe Jesus already knew: the low end of the table is actually a fantastic place to be.

Jesus the guest was being watched in today’s Gospel lesson, and he was watching people clamor and climb to be seated in the power seat. In the cultural setting of a meal such as this, this would mean watching people trying to be the literal center of attention. The guests of honor reclined in the center of the room, with those who wanted to be seen and heard crowding into that central, often elevated space. Jesus’ parable, which at first might sound like an instruction for social advancement, is really an invitation to take a closer look at what we think we know and in doing so, to reverse the status quo of daily life to align with the vision of the reign of God.

In the first part of this lesson, Jesus is drawing our attention not just to finding our place at the table, but how we occupy that space. If we are only looking for power and prestige at the center of attention, then we don’t notice who is with us, or who we crawl over in the process of getting there. We stop seeing those on the margins, and we don’t bother building relationships with those whose seats are in the “lower places” of the social pecking order. When the guest in Jesus’ parable manages to snag a seat at the head table then subsequently gets demoted, it’s to an isolated and outcast position surrounded by those already thoughtlessly stepped over.

Jesus offers up a different perspective: being in relationship with those who are on the outskirts breaks the power cycle and builds community among those gathered at the table. Jesus points out that even if we are subsequently invited closer, then it won’t just be about us. If we are truly living in beloved community, others at the table are rejoicing and remaining in relationship with us. We are honored in the presence of all who are with us and because we know them, we will want them to remain with us, in relationship. Jesus the guest reminds us that it isn’t the position where we start out or where we strive to be in the social ranks, but instead it is being in relationship: seeing ourselves as a part of the table…the community…that makes all the difference. When one of those humble guests is honored, all of the guests are exalted.

I think of Jesus, the guest, reminding us that he didn’t choose to enter this world amid wealth and power. He chose relationship. His incarnate beginnings were humble, and his relationships crossed all the social margins that separated people of that time. And, it is through his exaltation and rising to new life that all of us….ALL of US…are brought closer to God.

Then, in the second part of the lesson, Jesus turns the table and invites us to see through the eyes of the host. Jesus the host is, in essence, inviting us to see the hospitality of God. The invitation extended by the host in this example isn’t based on worthiness, social power, or reciprocity. The invitation is extended to those who are broken, vulnerable, and marginalized in this world. This is our host, opening up the heavens to come down and be present with this world in the lowliest and most humble of places. This is our host, not wanting to be repaid but to rejoice with us together in the world to come which God is making. This is our host who loves us not in spite of our brokenness, but because of it. This passage echoes the blessings of the beautitudes: blessed are the poor in spirit; blessed are the merciful; blessed are the meek; blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness. We will see God, because we are invited to God’s table. The hospitality overflows for us at the table set by our lavish host who simply says, “come and be my guests.”

When we dine at the table set for us by God, is it any wonder that, as the Epistle suggests, we occasionally find ourselves entertaining angels unaware? We are reminded in today’s lessons that there are no places on this earth: not prisons, not places of torture, not detention centers, not border crossings, not hiding places, not abandoned houses, neither homeless shelters nor eviction courts where God is not particularly and purposefully present. The hospitality of God reaches into the most unfathomable places of this world with exquisite intention. When we find ourselves in those places: whether by fault, or by accident, or with intentional presence of showing up then we will most assuredly encounter God. It is only in our arrogance of thinking we already have everyone and everything we need within our own locus of control that we close our hearts off to experiencing God’s presence among us.

But I believe there is also one more vantage point in today’s Gospel lesson that it can be just as easy for us to overlook. In his book, Stranger God, psychologist of theology Richard Beck breaks down and reconstructs this phenomenon of encountering God in the other. Beck reminds us that when we listen to lessons of God’s hospitality as told in our scriptures, we can have a tendency to reverse these characters and see these stories unfolding as members of the audience, watching a type of morality play. We hear the lessons play out and think we are being asked to perform a task: to show hospitality to others in order to be like Jesus. And of course, that is the kind of hospitality that Jesus models for us. But the larger point of these biblical stories of hospitality, Beck reminds us, is not about trying to be Jesus. but to help us truly welcome Christ into our lives.

So, in today’s lessons, we may also consider the possibility that God isn’t just the host but also the guest. God is the one entering the world at the margins and the low places; God is the stranger whom we welcome when we are the host, opening the doors to the guest house of our lives. Hospitality isn’t about trying to be God, a task for which we will invariably fall short, but in welcoming God whose one great desire is to be invited into our lives. The miracle isn’t God showing up for our benefit as an angel is disguise when we most need to be made aware of Divine presence. The miracle is when we open our hearts to see and experience God who is already in our midst, in the people and situations we have chosen to welcome to the guest table of our lives.

Who is circling around the table you host in this world, looking for a seat?

Gracious God, you are the host who welcomes us to the table, and the guest who dines in our midst. May we welcome each other as you would welcome, and come to see you in the faces of all those whom we meet. This we ask in the name of Jesus, who has made his home with the lowly and with whom we all rejoice in his exultation. Amen.


James Tissot 1836-1902 “The Meal in the House of the Pharisee” [Public domain]

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Sabbath Lessons

Homily for Proper 16, Year C
August 25, 2019

Note: Today is both my final Sunday at Grace and Holy Trinity Episcopal Church and the commemoration of the arrival of enslaved Africans at Jamestown, VA in 1619.

Gospel Lesson:  Luke 13:10-17

Now Jesus was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath. And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God. But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured, and not on the sabbath day.” But the Lord answered him and said, “You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water? And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the sabbath day?” When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame; and the entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things that he was doing.

When I was away at seminary last summer, I had the opportunity to take an interfaith elective with a professor from the Center for Jewish Studies.  I hoped the course would deepen my understanding of what I thought I understood of this shared concept of Jewish tradition and our Christian faith and life.  But before I even finished the pre-class reading, I realized that I had to check my assumptions. I quickly had to confront the fact that I had started to equate an understanding of the Sabbath with our contemporary knowledge of self-care: a day off, a rest, a break from the constant motion of our lives.  And that is admittedly part of it. But, during that immersion into law, mysticism and experience in the Jewish tradition, I caught a glimpse of Sabbath as something so much more: not self-care, but God-care; not human time, but God-time. Sabbath is the gift instituted by God and into which God invites those beloved by God to participate for our benefit and our liberation from the toil of this world. Or, as spoken eloquently and prophetically by Abraham Joshua Heschel, “Inner liberty depends upon being exempt from domination of things as well as from domination of people.” [1]

And so it is that in today’s Gospel lesson, we are introduced to a Sabbath story.  The scene that unfolds begins with Jesus teaching in the temple on the sabbath. Teaching and learning, you see, are Sabbath gifts.  To study and learn and wrestle with meaning together brings us more fully into relationship with God. In today’s lesson, Jesus the Teacher is immersed in this sabbath experience within the Temple, and a woman appears on the scene.  Not just any woman: she is bent over, unable to stand upright, stricken with ailments keeping her in physical and spiritual bondage. Eighteen years is a long time to have only looked at the ground beneath your feet. Jesus calls her to come near, lays his hands on her and proclaims her liberation from disease.  And her first response upon standing upright is to praise God.  

One might think this would have been viewed as a Sabbath miracle.  But, the subsequent banter among those with power and authority was one of legalism: had Jesus’ healing action violated Sabbath law?  The details of healing in the story highlight multiple violations of cultural norms, religious traditions, and social taboos. And it reveals Jesus undoing those misconceptions without hesitation in the name of the loving, liberating life-giving God.  Jesus acts to proclaim a core truth: the Sabbath is all about liberation. Indeed, who wouldn’t liberate an animal, one of God’s creation, let alone this woman? To participate in Liberation is to participate in God. Just as Jesus heals this woman, Sabbath is God’s plan for liberating us.

Confronted with this powerful truth-telling, those gathered express two distinctly different responses: shame and rejoicing.

That’s the way it often is with liberation.  Our response is often a matter of perspective.

I want us to listen to another story of Sabbath and liberation.   This one comes about 1800 years after the lesson we just read, narrated reflectively by Frederick Douglass in his 1855 narrative, My Bondage, My Freedom. [2]  Douglass, orator and social reformer who spent much of his life enslaved as the property of white landowners in Maryland, wrestles in his narrative with the tension between two institutions: sabbath, instituted by God; and slavery, instituted by humans.  Douglass and those who bought him and owned the property he toiled on lived in a time of religious fervor. Sundays, regarded in law and practice as the Christian sabbath, were one of the few times granted to enslaved persons for rest. Perhaps that was seen as necessary; perhaps as morally justified; and perhaps we can and should look back on the juxtaposition of sabbath and slavery with shameful irony.  But that tension existed in the lives of the human beings of that time. But Douglass recognized with his God-given intellect and the holiness of his spirit the opportunity of the Sabbath to grant not only rest, but liberation.  

Early in his life, Douglass was able to attend Sabbath schools led by white sympathizers on those days of socially sanctioned rest.  Several of those early schools were interrupted by class leaders and religious officials who learned that the schools were teaching reading, writing and encouraging intellectual freedom among enslaved persons which made them less valuable commodities on the auction market. He describes how those leaders co-opted those sabbath schools and turned them into opportunities for religious indoctrination supporting the institution of slavery and to reinforce a narrative of mindless obedience.  

But God is always working.  

For a time, Douglass was in the holdings of a Mr. Freeland whom he described as making “no pretension to, or profession of, religion” which he notes as being of great advantage.  Since there was social convention around the sabbath as a day of rest “for men and for beast” [incidentally, a phrase sometimes credited to today’s Gospel lesson] Douglass saw within that smallest fragment of freedom an opportunity to establish his own Sabbath school.  Douglass organized his community, and they began meeting secretly in the home of a free African American. Douglass describes that community of men and women, enabled to “act as intellectual, moral, accountable beings” as being a true family of faith; he goes on to say “we would have died for each other.”  In their secret Sabbath school, they were free to study the holy scriptures read by those who could read, teaching those who had not yet learned. They could use the intellect given to them by God to be empowered through the Holy Spirit and the strength of their community to be emboldened to act. Douglass says in his narrative, “it was the delight of my soul to be doing something that looked like bettering the condition of my race.”  Douglass and several other members of that school subsequently escaped their enslavement and were instrumental to the abolitionist movement and the founding of African American independent churches. [3] 

Even in the darkest corners of our human history, God was working.  

Sabbath is a gift from God.  Sabbath is liberation.  

And God’s liberating work is still happening in us, and in the world.

I was sitting with this week’s lessons and this narrative offered by Frederick Douglass during the very powerful and moving Service of Lament, Reconciliation and Commitment held by our Central West Region of the Diocese of Virginia last Saturday in observance of the arrival of enslaved Africans to Virginia 400 year ago.  As I sat in that space, and as I listened to my sister in Christ, the Rev. Dr. Dorothy White, preach the loving, liberating and life-giving Gospel, I thought about today’s Gospel lesson. With others there, I was confronting the shameful history of slavery and dehumanization of others of God’s own making, and the cruel aftermath of racism and white supremacy that has followed.  In her sermon filled with hope, as several of you were able to hear, Dorothy described racism as a heart disease, and one that our Great Physician is fully capable of fixing. But it requires intervention.  I hear this echoed in today’s reading.  Like this woman, even stooped over from the weight of collective history, we need to appear before Jesus.  I think of all who gather in God’s church today carrying the weight of this world and the legacy of the sins of slavery, racism and oppression as this woman standing there before Jesus.  This ailment has inflicted us for so many years with hatred, fear, distrust: we can barely stand upright sometimes. But finally something stirs in us and we recognize our need for healing.

And when we do, we meet Jesus, still teaching on our Sabbath.  Jesus sees us. Jesus comes to us. We are not cast-aside in our shame, nor are we sent away to tend our own symptoms.  We are met by Jesus who proclaims that this ailment and its diseased spirit no longer have hold of us. We are met by the loving, liberating, life giving God of the Sabbath.  

The question in our midst this liberating Sabbath day is: how will we respond?  

Talking about racism sometimes makes people feel shame, and shame is a paralyzing emotion.  Confronted with shame, we might convince ourselves we are unworthy to appear, as individuals or as a church or as a society.  But nothing changes if we live in that shame. We might be tempted to double down and justify our presumed moral authority or distance ourselves from the past in an attempt to keep the status quo and feel better about ourselves.  That doesn’t address the shame, either. It’s just a humanly applied band-aid of ignorance and blindness; and a band-aid does nothing for a disease of the heart and the soul.  

So what will it take to rejoice?  I believe we are given this story so that we can live into the model we see from the woman in today’s lesson, who could have stayed home, could have remained in her place, could have suffered in silence, could have felt sorry for herself; could have blamed others; could have blamed God.  Instead she chose to be present exactly as she was. She chose to appear before Jesus, ailments and all. She stood in her vulnerability and received the liberating, life-giving, healing love proclaimed by Jesus and she was transformed, made to stand upright. And her first action in response was to give thanks and praise to God.

We are given the same opportunity today.  We’ve already shown up on this Sabbath. We know and recognize and on this day at 3 p.m. churches and public institutions alike will toll bells to acknowledge the history of enslaved persons who first landed in Virginia in 1619, four hundred years ago. We may feel shame in that history. I know that I do. But, we also have an invitation to healing as we approach and experience Christ.  The Holy Eucharist, our Great Thanksgiving, is God’s gift of liberation to us: to ALL of us. It frees us from shame, from bondage, from self-serving acceptance of an unjust status quo. This meal together transforms us to be the Body of Christ in this world, to seek and serve Christ in each other, to love our neighbors as ourselves. We come back again and again not of our unworthiness or our pride, but in our great thanksgiving of what has been, what is, and what is yet to come.  

I stand humbled and honored to call us to this table together today.  You’ve all been a part of bringing me to this place, of forming me for ministry to the church and to the world.  I rejoice in that, and I bring myself filled with flaws and potential to the healing hands of Christ with my own desire to go forth and continue to be the heart and hands of Christ in this world.  So, I extend this invitation to you, too, the parish that has so meaningfully helped to form me. We are all in need of healing. So, bring yourself, your own narrative, your vulnerability, your heart in need of healing.  Jesus sees us, and meets us, and heals us. And together we are transformed by that liberating love, renewed and remade together to do the work that God has called us to do.



[1] Abraham Joshua Heschel (1951). The Sabbath (FSG publication reprint, 2005, p. 89).

[2] Frederick Douglass (1855) My Bondage, My Freedom.  [Online edition, Project Gutenburg]

[3] Emerson B. Powery and Rodney S. Sadler, Jr. (2005) “Reading Against Jesus: Nineteenth Century African Americans’ View of Sabbath Law” in SBL Forum [accessed online]

Of note:

Our Presiding Bishop Michael Curry has asked our Episcopal churches to take part in a national action to remember and honor the first enslaved Africans who landed in English North America in 1619 by tolling their bells for one minute today, Sunday, August 25, 2019 at 3:00 pm ET.  This is proclaimed as a day of healing, and I invite you to keep it in your heart…or with your own bells…tolling for the profound pain of the collective history we bear, sounding as a plea for healing, but also ringing out the defiant acts of liberation like those shown by Frederick Douglass where God’s presence was known even in the depths of oppression.  God is liberating all of God’s people, yesterday, today and in the days to come.



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I wrote this a number of years ago. It was, in fact, just as I was starting out on this journey of discernment and formation. I remain so grateful for the opportunities, every day, to see God’s movement in the world around me. Like Mary, “my soul proclaims the glory of the Lord; my spirit rejoices in God my savior.” Sharing this today for my own reminder of these moments of deep reflection on this journey I am walking.

small points of light

August 15: Feast of St. Mary

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in you, O God my Savior, for you have looked with favor on your lowly servant. From this day all generations will call me blessed: you, the Almighty, have done great things for me, and holy is your name.

I saw you there, sitting across from me. We were both mothering our newborns in the great glass fishbowl of the NICU. The swaddled eight pound bundle of red-faced crying baby that I carried looked suddenly so big next to others so small. You sat outside the plexiglass womb, the tiniest of babes being nurtured into life by something more complex than either of us could understand. I resented being there, feeling more hostage than home. I rocked my daughter and thought, “let us out! we are fine!” and I argued with the nurses…

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Constellation of Faith

Sermon for Proper 14, Year C
St. Mark’s Episcopal Church
Richmond, Virginia

Lectionary Readings (Track 2)

One of the great joys of summer nights is finding a clear, starry night to look up toward the skies. I still love a good evening of stargazing. In the summers of my youth, I spent what seemed like hours looking up at the stars and searching for constellations in the vast night sky. Sometimes it was cloudy, or the lights of contemporary life would get in the way of clear vision. But I loved it when the sky was cloudless, and filled with stars. The longer I looked, the more my eyes would adjust and the further it seemed that I could see. There were times when I felt entirely alone in the world, as we sometimes do. But in that vast expanse of space, there was also an assurance that like the stars in those constellations, I was connected with others in a way that perhaps I couldn’t see. Standing beneath those stars, I had a conviction that there was more to this life, to this universe, and to the vastness of God’s creation than I could see or feel at that moment.

One summer during my star-gazing wonder years, I went on an evening field trip to a planetarium. I remember looking up at the domed roof when the presentation began and seeing the entire night sky emerging with a clarity unlike anything I had been able to see with my own eyes. At first, I thought it was a movie being projected for us; then the guide explained this was not a movie: this was the night sky right above us, coming into greater clarity with the aid of a high-powered telescope. I remember feeling mind-blown; I suddenly knew with certainty that the conviction I had was true: there was more to this universe than I could ever see on my own.

I imagine Abraham standing in the pit of his own human sense of inadequacy, feeling much the same as you are I might when that which we hope for doesn’t seem to be emerging. And as he stood there in that vulnerable place, the heavens began to open up for him with the assistance of God’s telescopic vision. Abraham, grounded in hope and yet standing in a place of his personal scarcity was given a divine revelation beyond human comprehension. Like a young child suddenly made aware of the vastness of the heavens, Abraham’s hope became conviction. “And Abraham believed the Lord; and the Lord reckoned it to him as righteousness.”

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

Faith is born of God’s unconditional love and our human yearning to respond to that love. It is the tension between hope and certainty. In the Epistle to the Hebrews, we hear familiar examples of the faith of Abraham, echoing the first lesson we read today. But attunement to the context of this letter means putting ourselves in the constellation of Hebrew Christians living in a Greco-Roman world. Faith, in Greek is πίστις. In Greek mythology; Pistis was the one pure and good spirit held in Pandora’s jar (box) who, once released, fled the earth and escaped back to the heavens. So, faith was not on this earth; faith had escaped to reside in the heavens.

Imagine, in that cultural context surrounding the early church what it meant to profess faith, and to hold the Christian conviction that God has become embodied in Jesus Christ, incarnate God-made-human to dwell on this earth. Heaven had come to dwell with us, returning faith to our midst. And thus, the writer of the letter to the Hebrews sees and names the profoundly counter-cultural conviction that this incarnate love of God is the basis of our faith: in Christ, the embodiment of God, resides faith. This faith is not only known in heaven but also here on earth.

Like a high-powered telescope, this heightened understanding of faith expands our vision and helps us see further into the Gospel lesson: “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” If heavenly faith has come to dwell with us here, why would we even need to worry about stockpiling these finite resources? God has come to dwell with us, and faith resides in that relationship.

Howard Thurman, theologian, mystic and civil rights activist reflects poignantly on the nature of this kind of transforming, convicting faith in the way we live our daily lives in this relationship with God. In his book, Deep is the Hunger, Thurman writes:

“The human spirit has two fundamental demands that must be met relative to God. First, [God] must be vast, limitless, transcendent, all-comprehensive, so that there is no thing that is outside the wide reaches of [God’s] apprehension. The stars in the universe, the great galaxies of spatial groupings moving in endless rhythmic patterns in the trackless skies, as well as the tiny blade of grass by the roadside, are all within [God’s] grasp. The second demand is that God be personal and intimate…all of us want the assurance of not being deserted by life nor deserted in life. Faith teaches us that God is—that [God] is the fact of life from which all other things take their meaning and reality.” (p. 159)

So, for those of you for whom all this week’s talk of far-off stars and heavenly treasure still seems a bit too obscure, let me offer a tangible, everyday example of God’s vastness and our connectedness which resides right here at home. Last Friday, I began my day with Morning Prayer, then went to work at VCU and at lunch-time walked over to help out with the Red Door Ministry at Grace and Holy Trinity where I also supervise two social work interns who work with people experiencing homelessness and food insecurity. A young woman came in for Red Door lunch. She was quiet, and scared, and had just been evicted and didn’t know what to do. We sat with her and made sure she was connected with the homeless point of entry and the YWCA. I sent her off with a fervent prayer that the system…which I know has many holes…would work for her and that she would find a safe place to stay. I went back to my office at VCU after the lunch program and finished some work. I decided to pack up some books to bring here to St. Mark’s on my way home, where I am slowly moving in to my soon-to-be-office. When I arrived here and pulled into the back parking lot, I saw a few parish volunteers along with women waiting to come in for CARITAS intake. And among that group of people, I recognized the same young woman I’d spoken with earlier that day. When she arrived at the point of entry, she was referred that same day to CARITAS intake, landing her right here in your midst at St. Mark’s. As I walked into the parish hall, I was greeted by Diana, the CARITAS site manager. She and I are connected through CirclesRVA, but now I was seeing her in action in her work with CARITAS. In less than five minutes, I’d given multiple hugs to people who had originally crossed my path in my life at VCU, with Red Door, with CirclesRVA, and at Grace and Holy Trinity. And now here we all were in the midst of the warmth and hospitality you were offering to women in CARITAS, including this young woman who hours earlier had been terrified and unsure of where to go and who to trust. Here, she was held and loved and known, in the midst of a constellation of grace and connection. I watched as conviction and faith renewed in the expression on her face. When I left that evening, she told me she was confident that she would get back on her feet, and knew that she had support. That Friday expanded my vision and renewed my conviction, too: God is present in all these great and small actions of our lives; God yearns for the invitation to help us see God in each other, just as much as we yearn to know God.

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

The good news for us today is that we, too, are a part of both the vastness and the personal presence of God in this world. There are times when we may feel alone, or overwhelmed, or discouraged and disgusted by what we can see of the world around us. But God is with us, and God’s vision surpasses our own. When we catch a glimpse of that vision and are emboldened to act out of the conviction of our faith, our efforts are never in vain. Our connections with each other are vast, like the expanse of the stars in the heavens. But God knows them, and works with them and with us to restore this broken world to a wholeness of God’s vision. Sometimes we catch a glimpse of this one person…one shining star…at a time. Sometimes we see God in the connections we form with each other, emerging like constellations in the night sky. In all these moments we lean with conviction into the faith that we are a part of something larger than we are, even if we can’t see everything clearly just yet. And this, too, is reckoned to us as righteousness. We come to know this in the faith which dwells in our hearts, when we open our eyes and engage with our actions to do the work that God calls for us to do.

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