Caught a glimpse of Jesus down by the railroad tracks...

Feeding of the Multitudes homily

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Mon, 01 Aug 2011 01:03:00 +0000

A homily offered at St. James Episcopal Church on the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost. July 31, 2011. Matthew 14:13-21

In the section of the New Testament in 1st Timothy that deals with ordination to Holy Orders there is a verse (1 Tim. 5:22) that says “Do not ordain anyone hastily.” Now I know the Anglican approach to Scripture has taken some heat from our brothers and sisters in other traditions, but let me tell you, if there is any verse in the Bible that the Episcopal Church interprets very literally, it is “Do not ordain anyone hastily.”

One of my fellow deacons who was in the School for Deacons with me had actually been in the process for ten years. She used to joke that she was afraid she was going to reach the mandatory retirement age before she ever reached ordination.

If I learned anything during that whole process it was that in the Episcopal Church the path to Holy Orders is a marathon, not a sprint. In our own diocese before one is ordained there is a very lengthy process of discernment and formation that takes place. If you discern a call to the priesthood then hopefully you will eventually be given the Bishop’s blessing to go off to seminary for a few years to prepare for ordination. If you discern a call to the diaconate then hopefully you will eventually be granted the Bishop’s blessing to enter the diaconal formation school for a few years to prepare for ordination. Until that time, people in both tracks----future priests and future deacons undergo the same lengthy process. During that time each person undergoes very extensive background checks, physicals and psychological testing. During one of the sessions of my Psychological testing I was given an inkblot test. Do you know what I am talking about?

I was told that I was supposed to look at a series of cards with what appeared to be ink splatters printed on them and then tell what I saw. The psychologist was sitting across from me with a pencil and pad ready to write down what I saw when I looked at the abstract patterns. It was my first time taking one of those so I just took him at his word followed his instructions. I thought, ’this could be fun.”

I looked at the first card and said something like, “Hmmmmm… let’s see. I see the city of Rome at night or maybe some cherub choirs. I also Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker in a light saber battle and a field of wildflowers.” He would scribble down everything I said on his pad. I noticed that he was getting an increasingly disturbed look on his face as he continued writing, but I just kept on going. “Maybe it’s a spinach and mushroom pizza or the top of a volcano. It could be a T-Rex footprint or maybe a dragon.” Finally, he just seemed to have had enough and he put down his pad and said, “ Look, between us, it really does not look good if I write down too many things. One or two is enough. You don’t want me write down more than that.” I said, “Ohhhh.” Suddenly, the only pattern I could see was the Bishop saying, “Son, it looks like we are just going to have to send you back to the Baptists.” After that I just gave one or two simple, unremarkable answers: “It’s a tree.” “It looks like a bird.”

Now, I believe the premise of that inkblot test is that what you see actually reveals more you that it does about the actual images. Life is like that, isn’t it? Two people can look at the exact same thing but see completely different things.

Our outlook----or what we see often reveals a great deal about us and where we are at. The same holds true in our life of faith. Spiritually, our perspective or point of view often reveals where we are at in our faith journey. As Christians, the process of ongoing daily conversion of life is a call to see things from a different point of view--- the Divine point of view. It’s an exciting invitation to see the world with a whole new set of eyes.

The story of the feeding of the 5000 offers two different ways of seeing. One perspective sees scarcity: “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” The other perspective is grounded in the abundance of God’s generosity: “Bring them here to me”…and all ate and were filled.”

Both perspectives agree there is a problem: a large crowd full of hungry people. But the two different points of view see vastly different ways of dealing with the problem. One wants to send the crowd away: “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” That seems like a perfectly reasonable and sane thing to do, doesn’t it? Jesus could you just go ahead and wrap up all this sermonizing about the kingdom of God so everyone can go find something to eat? The other perspective offered by Jesus sees a different solution to the problem: “Jesus said to them, ‘They need not go away; you give them something to eat.”

One problem: two different solutions. 1) Send them away vs. 2) Keep them here. Guess which one is always the Gospel perspective? My brothers and sisters I submit to you that the kingdom of God will always be found in the perspective that is about inviting people to the banquet feast, not turning people away. The kingdom of God is only glimpsed in the perspective that is about invitation and embrace instead of exclusion.

However, the problem with that perspective is that so often it seems radical, risky and at times downright impossible. And that’s precisely the point. The perspective of faith always sees things in a way that calls us out the security of the known into the unknown and unfamiliar.

That does not mean faith is about denying the reality of problems around us. You know how we sometimes tend do that in the South. We hope that if we politely pretend the problems don’t exist that they will all just somehow go away. Faith is not a retreat into a fairy tale never, never land of pretending that we cannot see life‘s problems. Faith does not somehow see less---instead it actually sees more. The writer of the letter to the Hebrews said, “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” The perspective of faith allows us to lay hold of the invisible. As long as we only see the problem and our own lack or power and resources we will always take the safe course---we will always hunker down, circle the wagons and send the crowd away. However the perspective of faith allows us to factor in the one thing that changes every equation: the power and presence of a loving and generous God.

As long as we can only see the obstacle and our own inability to surmount it then the obstacle will loom large in front of us like a mountain. However, faith allows to measure our obstacle not only by the size of our own resources and power, but also by the size of the generosity of our God.

Let’s be honest here. Have you ever found yourself overwhelmed by the size and scope of problems around you? Have you ever looked at what little bit you have to contribute to solving the problem and it just felt so insignificant----like a bucket of water against a vast ocean? You feel like throwing up your hands and saying “What’s the use?” Why bother? What little bit I can do will not even make a dent in the problem…. If so, then you are in good company. The disciples felt the same way. “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.”

Jesus offer us an invitation to a different perspective: “ Bring them here to me.”
When we take what little we have----however small and seemingly insignificant in proportion to the problem--- and offer it over into the hands of the one who can break it, bless it and multiply it then we begin to live with an awareness that Jesus can take our little bit and make much of it. That’s what our faith can do for us. It’s a whole different way of seeing the world.

When I was growing up here if you heard the words 7th Avenue mentioned it was always in the context of the place your parents told you to stay away from. One of the families I went to church with had a business on 7th Avenue and I worked for them in the summers. I remember going to work and many mornings the there would be someone piled up in the doorway, drunk and passed out. I also remember that you had to go to the outside of our building and go around back to access the restrooms. The only problem was that there were often men passed out drunk in the tall grass of the field there so I would tip toe to the bathroom in fear that I was going to wake them up. I remember riding down Maple Street where I now go to work every day and looking at all the people piled up sleeping under the 64 overpass and feeling so terrible for them.

In 1980 there was a man named George Cox who was a fairly new Christian---a recent convert to the faith. He had a job that brought him to 7th Avenue every day. He drove a Little Debbie snack cake truck and before he would go on his daily route he would have to go to a warehouse on 7th Avenue to load up his inventory. Early every morning he would pass by all the homeless people under the 64 overpass and all the people in the fields and doorways and it bothered him, As he began to read and study the Scriptures of his newfound faith the words of Jesus in the Gospel began to vex him even more in light of what he saw every morning on his way to work. Why wasn’t someone doing something to help these people? So he began to visit local pastors and ask that very question. The responses he received ranged from downright anger---one pastor told him to get in his truck and get on down the road---to sympathetic acknowledgement that there was indeed a problem but that the problem of homelessness on 7th Avenue was just too vast and complex. It’s a huge social problem and what can one church do to really make a difference?
However, he was still so new to the faith that he had not yet developed that skillful way of tuning out the Gospel and the words of Jesus continued to sting him, “You give them something to eat.” He said he knew he had to do something---no matter how small it was in comparison to the problem.

He did not even have loaves and fish, but he had some extra Little Debbie cakes that were still good even though they were so close to the expiration date that they could not be sold. So he bought a large coffee pot and after work he began to open park his Little Debbie truck down on 7th Avenue and open up the back and give out those snack cakes, coffee and he would talk to people who were not used to people either listening or talking to them. That’s how the Rescue Mission where I work was started----literally, out of the back of a truck. It was started on a shoestring budget and a lot of faith.

George no longer lives in this community, but we are celebrating our 30th anniversary this year so I have had the occasion to actually spend some time with him talking about the history of the organization. By the way, he told me that not every church was resistant to helping. He said when he rented their first little storefront building it was $75.00 a month and they were going to give him a break if he could pay two months in advance. He could only afford one month and had no idea where the second month’s rent was going to come from. He said to me “We did not have a kitchen or a way to prepare food at that time. We had to borrow a sofa to cover a hole in the floor.” He told me that first year all of the meals that were served at that location were prepared up there at that St. James Episcopal Church in that great big old kitchen of theirs and they would bring it down to serve in our building.” I said, “Hmmm…I know those people at St. James---bunch of trouble makers. They are always feeding somebody with that big old kitchen of theirs.”

We now serve over 60,000 meals a year to the hungry in our community and we provide shelter to well over a thousand homeless men, women and children each year. I asked George if he ever imagined that offering up his Little Debbie cakes and coffee would lead to this? He said, “No, I am probably more amazed than anyone by all of this, but I was certain that God could surely make something out of the little bit I had to offer.”

Faith gives us a whole new way of seeing the world. It allows us to begin to assess things not only by the size of our own strength, but by the size of our God.

So to everyone in this room who has ever taken a look at how enormous and overwhelming the problems are in this world around us and how seemingly insignificant are our efforts to address them----when you get discouraged and feel like giving up I want you to remember one phrase: five loaves and two fish.

Five loaves and two fish. It’s not even worth fooling with OR it can feed a multitude. It all depends on how you look at. It all depends on how you look at it. The kingdom of God invites us to see the world from a radically different perspective. In the eloquent words of our own Bishop, faith is what allows us to begin to dream as God dreams.
Amen.

Trinity Sunday homily

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 00:56:00 +0000

A homily preached at St. James Episcopal Church on the First Sunday after Pentecost. June 19, 2011. Matthew 28:16-20

Have you ever had one those times when you just could not seem to connect with someone---no matter how hard your tried? Back when I first started working at the Rescue Mission I struggled to earn the trust of the people on the streets. It was like there was a hard wall between us. There was this attitude of, “How could you possibly understand what it’s like to be in our shoes?” Sometimes it felt to me that because I had not been in legal trouble and I had never been homeless that people automatically assumed I had a Mr. Rogers mixed with a “holier-than-thou” outlook on things. Of course, reflecting back on it now, I didn’t help myself out much by doing stupid little things like wearing a coat and tie to work on some days.

I want to tell you about the day that all began to change for me. Ironically, it started out as a coat and tie day. Several years ago there was a store near the shelter that has now has gone out of business. The owners moved to a different state years ago. This particular business had a dumpster near the back entrance of our shelter. Quite often new guests at the shelter would mistake that dumpster for ours and throw our trash into it. Our trash bags were a different color than theirs and if they spotted them one of the owners would call us and I would respond by apologizing and retrieving our trash. We try to be good neighbors to the businesses that border the shelter property. So that morning I marched over to our neighbor’s dumpster in my coat and tie thinking that I would simply pick up a couple of bags off the top of the heap, only to discover that I could not reach our bags because they were at the bottom of the massive dumpster. It was empty except for our trash. So I went and got a broom and climbed up on the outside and began to try to fish for them so I could lift them up and out with my broom handle. I strained and stretched and I could almost reach the biggest bag. That’s when I felt my weight shift and the next thing I knew, Mr. coat and tie here was down in the bottom of this tall dumpster in a couple of inches of stagnant water. To make matters even worse, the broom I was using had pierced the trash bag it had just as I slipped. The bag was torn open and our garbage was floating around me in the cesspool on a hot summer morning.

Something inside of me just snapped. There was yelling that morning---lots of unholy yelling echoed from the bottom of that empty dumpster out onto Seventh Avenue. I angrily began to pick up the scattered items and toss them out of the dumpster. It must have felt good to have something to take my anger out on because I started launching them straight up into the air, high over the dumpster and outside. I imagine it must have appeared to be some bizarre volcano of trash raining down on the pavement punctuated by screams and shrieks coming from the belly of the beast.

Finally, after it was all cleaned out and the fury had subsided, I struggled back up over the wall. I felt and looked like a soldier climbing out of a foxhole after battle. To my utter horror, a crowd had gathered. Many of the people I was there at the Mission to serve were standing there with their mouths open in disbelief. I thought, “Oh no, this is it. I lost it. I have blown it. They will never respect me after this.” Suddenly, to my surprise, they burst into laughter. A couple of guys even applauded. Somehow, in that moment I became human and real to them. I was less than perfect after all. I did not always have it all together. That dumpster ruined a suit, but it broke through the wall and I was able to begin to form relationships with the very people I was called to serve. That incident made me accessible to them and in turn they became accessible to me.

Our Gospel reading today contains one little phrase that does that for me when it comes to the disciples of Jesus.

“Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted.”

“But some doubted”---this is not simply Thomas, doubting because he had not yet seen the risen Christ. This is after the risen Christ has appeared to them and after they worshipped, but still it some doubted. This little phrase is so honest and so troubling for Church’s traditional portraits of the disciples after the resurrection that many people have tried to explain it away. My New Interpreter’s Study Bible finally concludes with the comment on this verse: “The presence of doubt… indicates the community of disciples is not perfect.”

I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I am delighted that the Gospel writer makes note of it because it’s through that little phrase that these disciples become accessible to me and where I live. They become real human figures with the same struggles and weaknesses and doubts that we have.

One of the surprising things for me about being ordained is that when I wear the collar people will come up and start talking about church. Sometimes complete strangers will just come up and tell me what they think is wrong with church---not St. James, just church in general. It makes me sad when I hear people tell me that they feel alienated because of they have doubts. Usually it goes something like this. “I felt so out of place with everyone else saying the creed when I am not sure I fully believe all of that stuff. I felt like a hypocrite because I had to say the creed like this (fingers crossed behind back).”

People should never feel like their doubts are causing them to look on from the outside. We are not a community of perfect faith that always believes everything with 100% certainty. We are not now and we were not all the way back in Matthew 28. That did not disqualify them from being a part of the community back then and it should not now. What we have to do is stop pretending that we always have it all together.

The things we struggle with and the doubts we have are honestly probably the very same things that others sitting in pews around us are alsostruggling with at any given time. We do not come to this table to worship together because we always have perfect faith. We do not come to this table together because we have somehow earned our way onto some sort of Divine dean’s list. We come together because Jesus invites us to come to this table to receive grace together!

I wish that I could say that I always have this perfect faith. I wish I could stand up here and tell people I am that guy, but I am not. There are times when I say the creed and my heart just sings it our like the ancient poetry of faith it is. However, there have been many times in my journey when that was not the case. That does not mean I give up and walk away from the community of faith. It’s precisely in those moments that I most in need of remaining connected to the community of faith. Those are the times when I sit back and listen to the community affirm the faith and the faith of the community carries me.

When we are in community there are days that we carry others and there are days when others carry us. That is truly what is at the core of what we celebrate today.

Today is Trinity Sunday. The doctrine of the Trinity is not some abstract doctrinal puzzle to sit back and do mental gymnastics with. It is God’s love song about the Divine community that is God. Love cannot exist alone by itself. Our spiritual ancestors said that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are each fully God, but none of them are the totality of God alone without each other.

Self-giving love to each other is at the heart of the doctrine of the Trinity and it is the model for our life together in the community of the church.

In that lengthy reading Genesis this morning we heard: “Then God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness.”

In other words, we with the capacity and need for community. We were designed to be in relationship with others. Our faith is designed to be shaped and formed and strengthened in community with each other. Community is the only soil in which we can grow and make disciples as Jesus commanded in Matthew 28.

The Roman Catholic Bible Scholar Luke Timothy Johnson has described the difficulty of trying to teach the academic study of the Scriptures to graduate students who come to school without any real faith background in church where they could witness how the Scriptures are heard and applied and lived out in community. He says it’s like a medical student trying to learn about the human body from simply dissecting a cadaver without having ever seen how a living body looks and moves in motion or the life that shows up in a person’s eyes in love or laughter.

I would daresay the same thing about the doctrine of the Trinity. When we try to have a discussion about the Trinity divorced from a living experience of community, then the whole thing becomes this dead, abstract discussion that simply causes our eyes to glaze over.

In the 5:00 service last night we baptized Josie Jordan in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit just as today’s Gospel instructs us to. It was wonderful. I love baptisms. They are my favorite services. To be baptized in the name of the Trinity is to be welcomed into and warmly embraced by the community of faith here on earth that is a reflection of the Divine community within the Trinity. That’s why baptism is not a private affair. It is a communally witnessed event where those who are gathered are asked, “Will you who witness these vows do all in your power to support this person in his or her life if Christ?” And we answer: “We will’ And then we all renew our baptismal covenant where we promise with God’s help to “continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers.”

Community is the only soil in which we can grow disciples as Jesus commands in our Gospel reading. It’s the only way we can be equipped to fulfill the Great Commission. We will either do it together or we will not do very long at all. Community with each other sustains us for long haul of carrying out God’s great mission.

Beside my bed I have a National Geographic with a pull out about the giant redwood trees in California. I have never seen a giant redwood tree, but getting out there to see them is really up on the top of my bucket list. I mean to do so one day. I cannot tell you how many times I have pulled that magazine out and read that same article over again and again before falling asleep at night In my reading about them I came across a very interesting fact. Those majestic trees, that reach so high you often can't see their tops, actually have a very shallow root system. It’s amazing that tress that tall and heavy are able to withstand the harsh weather and winds of the High Sierras and yet some have done it since the glaciers were retreating.

How in the world can they do that with a shallow root system? It is something called “the grove factor“ where trees grow in close proximity to one another. What happens is the roots reach out in all directions and they get tangled up with the roots from other Redwoods. The roots grow together, intertwining with each other and creating a stabilizing root bed that helps each tree continue to stand. A lone Redwood tree growing by itself wouldn't last long, but a Redwood forest can last for thousands of years.

It’s that kind of community we are called to live in within the church that allows us to weather the storms and overcome the seasons of doubt. It allows us to do more than survive. It’s a place where our mutual faith can flourish and thrive in a way it could never do in isolation from others.

My brothers and sisters Trinity Sunday is our invitation to hear the Spirit calling to do the work of living in community with each other---- when it’s easy and especially when it is hard, because in the end the sum of our common faith together is always stronger than the individual parts.

Amen.

Good Shepherd Sunday homily

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Sun, 15 May 2011 23:58:00 +0000

A homily preached at St. James Episcopal Church on the Fourth Sunday after Easter. May 15, 2011. John 10:1-10

In May of 1998, I was literally given a crash course on how quickly life can change in the blink of an eye. I had just started a new job and I was having some success, but one night after work I was driving home in the dark fog and rain. I remember seeing the brake lights of the car in front of me as it suddenly swerved and then for just a split second I saw headlights. I never even had time to hit the brakes. A 17-year-old drunk driver was driving the wrong direction in my lane and his car crashed head on into mine. It was a horrific accident scene.

What I remember next was an increasing chorus of muffled voices and sirens. I was pinned under the weight of the engine block that had come through the floor. The voices outside the car grew in number and volume. People were shouting and I became aware of the fact that a number of emergency workers had somehow managed to enter through the back of the car and they were yelling as they were trying to pull me free of my metal cocoon.

As they pulled me out onto a board, they put my neck in these blocks and strapped me in so tightly that I could not move. I could not see anything except the dark night sky and the rain pouring down on me, but I heard so many voices. Some of them were angry. Some of them sounded scared. I did not recognize any of them. I will spare you the gory details, but I heard one of those voices say that he had once seen someone with the exact same injuries as mine who “bled out” before they could get him to the hospital. I began to panic!!

It was not so much that I was not afraid of dying. I began to panic because I realized that I was afloat in a sea of complete strangers and that my last moments on this earth might be spent among people who did not know me---so I prayed. All I really wanted from God was to please let me see my wife and my little boys just one more time.

In the hospital I was still strapped in those necks block things and I could hear many voices and the sound of equipment, but I could not move. Finally, I heard a voice that I recognized. It was not only a voice that I recognized, but also a voice that I loved.

Before I ever caught a glimpse of my wife’s face, I knew she was in the room. It was only at that moment that I finally began to relax. Somehow, when I heard her voice, I knew that whatever the outcome, it was going to be okay. It was going to be okay.

We live in interesting times. It seems like we are surrounded by a 24 hour news cycle of endlessly talking heads and competing voices that get louder and louder and louder. In a world of scary, strange voices that bring death, fear and division, Jesus says a defining characteristic of belonging to the Good Shepherd is being able to cut through the static and all of the other noise and tune into his life-giving voice.

Jesus uses the image of a Shepherd in our Gospel reading today. He says, “the sheep follow him because they know his voice.”

Our peace and stability in a shifting and unstable world will not be found in the sea of voices that compete for our attention. The source of our strength is found in one voice that we know and trust to lead us to abundant life.

Barbara Brown Taylor wrote about a friend of hers who grew up working on a sheep farm in the Midwest. She said, “It never ceased to amaze him, growing up, that he could walk right through a sleeping flock without disturbing a single one of them, while a stranger could not step foot in the fold without causing pandemonium. Sheep seem to consider their shepherds part of the family, and the relationship that grows up between the two is quite exclusive. They develop a language of their own that outsiders are not privy to. A good shepherd learns to distinguish a bleat of pain from one of pleasure, while the sheep learn that a cluck of the tongue means food, or a two note song means that it is time to go home.”

Today’s Gospel calls us to listen and pay attention and go deeper with the Gospel voice of our Good Shepherd because it is the voice that leads us to life. Of all the voices clamoring for our attention…only the voice of the Good Shepherd leads us to green pastures and beside the still waters.

As your deacon, I am called by my ordination vows to set before you the needs of the world. But in doing that I don’t want to simply be yet another voice in the mix. When I set before you the needs of the world I simply ask that each time you listen for the voice of our Good Shepherd. I cannot tell you what you should be doing. All I can do is present the needs of the world and ask that you listen to see if that is what God is calling you to. Whatever the ministry opportunity, the question is not “will this make the deacon happy if I do this?” The main question should be, “Is this where God is calling me to use my gifts and talents?” If you choose to get involved with something simply because someone twisted your arm to do it, you into, it will not be life-giving and it will not be spiritually sustainable. However, if you do it because have discerned that it is something the God is leading you to then it will be one of those places described in today’s Psalm that revives the soul.

Frederick Buechner says that our calling is to be found in the places “where our deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet”.

Let me give you a good example of what I mean by this. Our Outreach Committee has discerned a need for our parish family to reconstitute our Faith Link team with all new people and new energy. Faith Link is a program that brings together people from a faith community like ours and a single-parent, low income family to encourage self-reliance, independence and self respect by providing social and emotional support. In others words, it’s not so much about giving money as it is giving of who we are. It asks that you volunteer to take about an hour and a half a month to mentor and share the skills and gifts you have. This parish has been involved with this program for a long time, but the people who were involved with it have moved on to other places and other areas of service. In reconstituting this team we intend to celebrate our past successes and quite frankly learn from past mistakes. I believe in the fundamental goodness of this program because through my work at the Rescue Mission I was familiar with the successes of this program in other churches long before I came to this parish. I also believe there is an abundance of amazing gifts and talents in this parish that could be a blessing to a Faith Link family.

You get where I am going with this? Hehe….There’s just one catch, but it’s a pretty big deal for me. At the very core of what I value as a Christian, I believe it would be wrong for me to stand here in this pulpit and use guilt and shame to try to manipulate people to volunteer for this. That is not life giving. Ultimately, it does not lead to the wholeness that God desires for us.

When I left my former life of fundamentalism I made a promise to God that I was leaving behind guilt trips and brown beatings from the pulpit. I do not intend to go back there again. So what I intend to do is simply offer information about how to be involved with the Faith Link team in a presentation today at 10:20 in the Trinity Room and next Saturday at a breakfast in Stillwell Hall at 8:30. In doing so all I ask is that you listen for the voice of the Good Shepherd and try to discern if it is something God is leading you to or not leading you to be involved in.

You see, while guilt and shame may be effective temporary motivators, they are external motivators. They are only good as long as the pressure from the outside is applied. But if someone discerns a call from God it will speak to something deeper within us and it’s life-giving. It’s an internal motivator because it comes from within.

I have discovered that when a person becomes convinced that God is calling that person to do something, you don’t have to beg, beat or drag that person kicking and screaming, you just have to get out of the way because they are doing it not because they have to, but because they want to.

Austin Mansfield tells a story about a priest he knew in New York City who went to Ireland to visit his relatives. While his friend was staying at his cousin’s farm, they decided to have some fun with him. After doing some chores in the fields, they told him to come in for dinner just as soon as he was through rounding up the sheep into the pen.

After nearly an hour of chasing after sheep, trying to push, poke, prod, and even pull them with no success, he gave up and asked the cousins to help. They sent out their five-year-old daughter, who simply called out to the sheep, and within minutes they had all followed her through the gate into the pen. He learned the hard way that it had nothing to do with strength or skill, but it had everything to with recognition of, and trust in the voice calling the sheep.

I invite you to come to one of the two information forums we are going to have---today at 10:20 or next Saturday at 8:20, but as your deacon, I cannot call you to join the Faith Link team or any other outreach ministry of this parish. I can humbly educate and inform you about the deep needs of this world, but only Christ can call you to the places where your deep gladness will meet those deep needs. I simply ask you to listen and remain open to the voice of the Good Shepherd because I know that voice will always call the right people at the right time out into the world, but it will also do something that I cannot do---it will lead to wholeness and deep and abiding gladness that restores the soul!

“The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice.”

The call to live as a part of the flock that belongs to Jesus is a call to not be blindly swept up in whatever voices happen to be the loudest at any given moment. It’s a call to go deeper with the voice that we know. In the end, it’s a call to listen to the only voice that leads to abundant life because his is the voice that always leads to life----it always leads to life.

Amen.

Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday homily

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 23:48:00 +0000

A homily preached at St. James Episcopal Church on Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday. April 17, 2011. Matthew 21:1-11 and Matthew 26:14- 27:66

How many of you grew up in home that had one of those large family Bibles? We had one and when I was just a preschooler it seemed really huge. We kept it down in the bottom of a cabinet, but like the good Baptists we were, we pulled it out, dusted it off and displayed it if we knew the pastor was coming for a visit. That huge Bible is one of my earliest memories. I was hooked on it long before I ever went to kindergarten and long before I ever learned to read. You see, ever so often in that massive book there would be a section of full page, full color reproductions of sacred art. They were scenes from Biblical stories as painted by famous old masters. I was so fascinated by them that I just sit and pore over those images. In fact, there are still some Bible stories that when I hear them read I picture them in terms of those images. It was through those images that I first encountered the story of Jesus. I remember the picture of the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday; the adoring crowds lining the road and bowing down to Jesus as rides along on a donkey. But in just a couple of pages there was also a scene with Jesus and Pilate standing before a different crowd of people---their faces looked angry and they shook their fists at him. I could not make any sense the contrast. I remember asking my Dad why that crowd was so angry with Jesus when everyone was just so happy with him a couple of pictures before that? What did he do to cause that? I remember that sudden shift from happy crowds to angry mob frightened me.

We are now on the threshold of Holy Week; it is both Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. As I was reflecting in preparation for this homily on what is essentially two Gospel readings (One from Matthew 21 one from Matthew 27) I realized that in one sense I understand a lot more now than I did when I was four years old, but in another sense, the contrast between to two different crowds Jesus encountered in these readings still baffles me. And yet it’s a contrast that probably resonates with experiences of everyone in this room. I suspect that all of us here today have, at some point, experienced a sudden reversal of fortune where everything rapidly shifted in front of you. Life is like that isn’t it? Some days you feel like Jesus on Palm Sunday and you ride the donkey. Other days it feels like you are the donkey.

The other thing that I remember from those sacred art images from my childhood is the surprising portrait of the serenity of Jesus in both of those scenes.

I used to think that the reactions of Jesus described in these scenes almost sounded detached and aloof, but that’s not really the case. I have come to believe that what we see in the behavior of Jesus is an image of a person who has his eyes on something larger---something that transcends the both the approval and disapproval of the crowds. Jesus has fixed his vision to a point much farther on the horizon: the approval of God. That is the voice that speaks louder than anything from the crowds. No matter what the crowds yell---from Palm Sunday right up to the taunts on Good Friday, EASTER is God’s final word on the matter. The only verdict that matters is the last verdict to come in.

The example of Jesus throughout Holy Week shows us that true courage is not the absence of fear, but rather it is overcoming our fears through confidence in God. That is how followers of Christ throughout the ages have summoned the courage to do the right thing even when it defied the values of the culture around them. It’s not so much simply tuning out of the voices of the crowds, but the tuning into the voice of the One who has the final word.

During Apartheid in South Africa St. George’s Cathedral was a focal point of nonviolent resistance to the injustice and oppression that was the law of the land there. Blacks and whites had the holy audacity to worship together at St. George’s in defiance of the directives of Apartheid. Desmond Tutu was the Anglican Archbishop of South Africa. During one particularly tense encounter during a worship service security forces arrived with armored vehicles outside the cathedral. Listen to what one of the witnesses who was present had to say about it, “…the police were massing by the hundreds on the outside and they were there to intimidate, to threaten, to try and frighten all the worshipers. I will testify, being on the inside, that I was scared. You could feel the tension in that place. The police were so bold and arrogant they even came into that Cathedral and stood along the walls. They were writing down and tape recording everything that Archbishop Tutu said. But he stood there to preach… a little man with long, flowing robes, and he said, "This system of apartheid cannot endure because it is evil." That’s a wonderful thing to say, but very few people on the planet believed that statement at that point in time. But I could tell that he believed it. Then he pointed his finger at those police standing along the walls of his sanctuary and said, "You are powerful. You are very powerful, but you are not gods and I serve a God who cannot be mocked." Then he flashed that wonderful Desmond Tutu smile and said, "So, since you’ve already lost, since you’ve already lost, I invite you today to come and join the winning side!" And at that the congregation erupted. They began dancing in the church. They danced out into the streets and the police moved back because they didn’t expect dancing worshipers.

Was Archbishop Tutu just a reckless, suicidal man without any natural fear? No, he would later admit that he had plenty of fear. He knew full well what could happen to him. He knew the people trying to intimidate him had power and weapons. He knew they had a history of not hesitating to resort to violence to silence critics, but he also knew something else: Archbishop Tutu wrote: “During the darkest days of apartheid I used to say to the president of South Africa, that we had already won, and I invited him and other white South Africans to join the winning side. All the "objective" facts were against us-the laws, the imprisonments, the tear-gassing, the massacres, the murder of political activists-but my confidence was not in the present circumstances but in the laws of God's universe. This is a moral universe, which means that, despite all the evidence that seems to be to the contrary, there is no way that evil and injustice and oppression and lies can have the last word. God is a God who cares about right and wrong. God cares about justice and injustice.”

That is where his uncanny confidence came from. His fixed his vision to a much larger point on the horizon: the approval of God----and so should we.

Last week during our Diocesan "Service of Repentance, Healing and Reconciliation" Bishop Taylor offered an amazingly direct and honest apology for our diocesan complicity in the sins of slavery segregation and racism. In that apology he said ,

“I apologize for the loss of the future God had in mind as our Church forgot what our Lord preached and instead accepted what the racist culture said.
I apologize for all the times the Church has said, “Not now” instead of speaking for the truth.”

It was at that moment that I realized just how much I do not want my great grandchildren to one day have to be holding a service of repentance for my silence in the face of injustice simply because the voice of the crowds. The voice of the culture around us will always try to intimidate into fear and conformity.

Martin Luther King said, "Courage is an inner resolution to go forward despite obstacles…Cowardice asks the question, is it safe? Expediency ask the question, is it politic? Vanity asks the question, is it popular? But conscience ask the question, is it right? And there comes a time when we must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but one must take it because it is right.”

My brothers and sisters our courage to do the right thing should come from the fact that in the end we are Easter people. That means we are more concerned with God’s final verdict than the crowds’ fickle approval. Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday teach us that when we do the right thing sometimes the crowd will applaud and sometimes it will want to see you crucified! Some days you will be hero and some days you will be a zero, but the only voice that should matter is the one that will have the final word!

As we enter this Holy Week, I was us to pause and remember that as Christians we are called to follow the example of Jesus. It is a summons to live into the type of moral courage that breaks free of the voices of the crowds around us and enter into that place called the Kingdom of God where the injustices of Good Friday are never the final word. Easter is the final verdict where we hear that God’s final word always favors justice over injustice, love over hate, life over death.

Transfiguration Sunday homily

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 00:37:00 +0000

A homily preached at St. James Episcopal Church on the last Sunday of Epiphany. March 6, 2011. Matthew 17:1-9

We all have our own unique gifts and talents. I have a special skill that causes my wife to prohibit me from going to the grocery store alone unless it’s an extreme emergency. You see, I have an uncanny ability to take a list that she has written out for me and get everything on that list and still get nothing that she wants in terms of quality and value. (Some of you may have spouses with that same talent?) My purchasing decisions always seem to just astound my dear wife. She will ask, “Why did you get that brand?” To which I reply, “I don’t know…the box was big and red and yellow. It just spoke to me. That jar of Apple Juice had a really cool picture of some people hiking on it.” Then it usually turns into a lesson on “just because it says it’s on sale does not mean it is a good deal” or “just because it has green leaves printed on it does not really mean it’s healthy or environmentally friendly.” Or my personal favorite, “There’s no such thing as healthy Cocoa Puffs---even if it comes in a green box.” Recently my wife asked me why I had purchased such an unusually expense brand of deodorant? I grabbed the container and looked at the beautiful drawing of mountains on the front and then my eyes went immediately to a red sticker on top of the package. I suddenly remembered why I purchased the deodorant. The sticker said, ( I am not joking---this is an exact quote) “Smells like wilderness, open air and freedom.” When I thought about it I had to admit that I really could not honestly say that I know what freedom smells like. You see, my wife’s job actually is in marketing, so she just looked at me and said, “It is people like you that keep people like me in business. You are a marketing department‘s dream come true.”

The world of marketing and advertising is often predicated on getting us to see something that is not really there---appealing visuals, nostalgic sounds and all sorts of techniques to conjure up the illusion of substance where there is none.

But what Jesus teaches about the kingdom of God over and over in the Gospel is what I like to call God’s reverse marketing strategy. Whereas the world will try to polish and shine and manipulate you into seeing something valuable where there is really nothing, in the kingdom of God, it’s just the opposite. The most valuable is often hidden in plain sight disguised as something ordinary and mundane. What appears to be of little value or consequence is precisely where that which is of most value to God is to be found. It’s almost as if God goes out of the way to make sure you dig deeper and have to take a closer look. It would be a whole lot easier in the kingdom of God if we just had neon signs from God that flashed and said “Pay attention to this”!! That’s how the world works. That’s not generally how the kingdom of God works.

But ever now and then we do get a bright light that breaks through the darkness. Sometimes we do get a rare glimpse into a deeper reality than the one we are familiar with.. In the language of Scripture, we call that an Epiphany. An epiphany is often a sudden insight… an a-ha moment where our own understanding is transformed.

We often use the language of light to describe those moments of sudden insight. We say things like “She finally saw the light” or “it was like someone flipped the light switch on and I could finally see” or even the imagery of cartoons where there is a light bulb is drawn over the character’s head.

The language of our faith tradition also describes epiphanies another way: Mountain top experiences. Mountain tops are places where see things with a higher clarity because our perspective is elevated. I like that language. It’s not that God is somehow present on the mountain top and absent from the valley below---it’s just that somehow we are more present to God in those special moments. In our first reading from Exodus we heard how Moses went up to the mountain of God to experience an epiphany. In first Kings 19 we learn about another fellow named Elijah, who went up to the same place---Mt. Horeb or Mt.Sinai, the mountain of God, to experience an epiphany of the glory of the Lord passing by. Both experiences were filled with light. Both experiences were mountain top experiences. Now, both of those characters appear in the vision we heard described in today’s Gospel reading.

As we come to the conclusion of this liturgical season of Epiphany we are offered this story of the transfiguration of Jesus---an vision that our other reading from 2nd Peter describes as taking place up “on the holy mountain”--- because it’s really sort of the ultimate Epiphany story where disciples see the light on so many levels.

The way the Gospel describes it, it’s almost as if these disciples are now being invited to experience that same light that Moses and Elijah experienced in their mountain top Epiphanies. What is significant in the Gospel story is where this light is coming from---or I should say WHO this light is coming from: JESUS

That is the message of the Transfiguration and ultimately the message of Epiphany: Jesus is the God’s light for the world.

Jesus did not become the light of God and the light of the world at this moment. Theologically speaking, he already was and is that. The transfiguration was simply a brief pulling back the curtains to reveal what was already true. It’s sort of like when I go hiking in the mountains. I can start off down here at this elevation in Hendersonville and it will be foggy, cloudy and wet, but as I drive up the Parkway, somewhere around 4500 to 5000 ft elevation, I sometimes get above the clouds and there is the sun and the blue sky. It’s so depressing down below, but the sun did not go away---I simply could not see it, but it was there all along. I like to think of this Transfiguration experience as something like a break in the clouds, to reveal what was true about Jesus all along. It was a very dramatic and sudden break in the clouds.

And then comes the strangest part of the whole story. It all goes away as suddenly as it happened and the Jesus and the disciples go back down the mountain and start serving again.

It is wonderful to be granted those epiphany moments where we feel like we are on top of the mountain, but the story is not meant to end there. My sisters and brothers, I humbly submit to you that it is vital that we come down from the mountain to serve in the world in the light of that experience. We are never meant to remain on the mountain. We are meant to carry it with is into the world

The mountain top experience is not meant to be a substitute for the world down below, instead the mountain top experience is given to nourish and sustain us to serve once we come down into that real world again. N.T. Wright, now a retired Anglican Bishop in England says this about the connection between the healing of the boy and the Transfiguration: “These things are never given for their own sake, but so that, as we are equipped by them, God can use us within his needy world"

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I would just rather stay on top of the mountain, but to do so would be to really negate the purpose of the whole mountaintop experience.

Many, many times when I have gone hiking in the mountains, I have found myself lost and caught up in the beauty of the place. I have verbalized it: “I don’t ever want to leave here. I wish I could just stay here forever. Honey, let’s buy a cabin up in the woods and just become hermits up here.” However, I know that I am not meant to stay there. For me and my vocation there is a world of homeless and hungry people that I am supposed to come back to. The beautiful scenes I experience up there in the mountains are not where I live, but I carry their beauty with me so that I can go back renewed in order to serve in the world where I do live.

That’s the challenge of mountain top experiences. We are not meant to hold on to them for dear life, we are supposed to let them hold onto us as we live life.
Epiphanies are not given to entertain us and keep us up on the mountain top. Epiphanies are given to equip us to come down and serve. We carry them with us and return to those Epiphanies moments to give us strength to serve in the dark places we face each day in the real world.

People sometimes have the wrong notion about what my vocation is like. They will say things like, “You sure are lucky to get to serve the homeless. You must always get to see Jesus in the faces of the people you serve everyday.”

As flattering as that is to me, I always feel like looking around behind me because surely Mother Teresa or someone like that must be standing behind me and that’s who they are talking to. I would love to live in an elevated state of spiritual bliss where I was always aware of the presence of Christ in everyone I meet, but the reality is that it’s hard. It’s hard for me to see Jesus in the face of the man who has walked out on his family to pursue drugs. It’s hard for me to see Jesus in the face of the person who comes to my doors strung out and cussing me (sometimes in English and Spanish and a little sign language). I try to tell people that I don’t always see Jesus in everyone, but I catch glimpses of Jesus every now and then and that’s enough to sustain me.

Several years ago I had one of those high points in my spiritual journey. I had just been to my very first Commission on Ministry overnight and everyone seemed to affirm that they also could discern a call to the diaconate in my life. I was on cloud nine from that experience. I went to Atlanta for a couple of days for a International Conference for Homeless Shelter ministries. We rolled our sleeves up and jumped right in to urban development ministry. The theme of the conference was from Matthew 25 where Jesus says whatever you do to the least of these you do unto me. I had this crystal clarity that this is what I am supposed to be doing with my life because in serving others I get to serve Jesus. That was so profoundly real to me as I came home.

I had barely been home a day or so---and I was still basking in the glow of that mountain top experience when I ran into the grocery store to pick up some dog food and encountered a lady that I had not seen for some time. She used to eat at the shelter and engage in all kinds of behavior on the streets outside of the shelter. She came up to me on the dog food aisle and started sharing the good news about her life. Her very loud voice carried a long way. I am sure half of the store heard her say, “ I don’t smoke crack anymore.” Then she began to describe in a pretty graphic ways all the things she no longer did since she escaped her life on the streets. She was unaware that others were stopping to listen and stare, but I was not. I was mortified as I noticed a man grab his son and quickly walk away. Part of me wanted to melt because I was wearing nothing to identify myself as someone who works at the shelter. What would everyone think of a man listening to a woman describe how she was no longer… did certain things? Would they think that I was a former associate of hers? Would they think that I once used drugs with her? The stunned look on the face of one elderly lady at the end of the aisle confirmed my fears.

The story that this lady was broadcasting was actually great news and she was eager to share it with me. So I had two choices. I could brush her off and maybe work something into the conversation that alerted everyone around us to the fact that I serve at a homeless shelter. I could also choose to get over my concerns about being perceived as a respectable citizen and just listen and celebrate the good news with her. She had visited my office many times and I had told her that she was valuable to God and worth more than the lifestyle she had been trapped in. All of that would seem like a load of empty religious talk if she thought that I was paying more attention to those around us than I was to hearing how she escaped the trap of her former life.

She needed someone to see Jesus in her and that does not always come easy for me. The only way that I was able to simply stand there and get over myself and listen to her story was the fact that the reality of my epiphany meant that I could see more of the reality of Jesus in her, but I was surprised at how quickly my epiphany would be put to the test. We come down from the mountain and go back into the real world. The real world will put our mountain top experience into practice. That’s precisely the point. It’s not simply about us. Our mountain top blessings are meant to equip and sustain us to go back down the mountain and be a blessing to others.

The lesson of the Transfiguration and the lesson of this season of Epiphany is that Jesus is the light and the light always goes with us, whether we see it or not. The light is there---wherever we are called to follow Jesus to---the light is there, because Jesus is there: up on the mountain and back down in the world. My prayer for us as we end Epiphany is that we not only see the light of Christ, but that we remain open to carry that reality with us back down the mountain and out into the world to serve. AMEN

Homily for the Second Sunday after Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 00:26:00 +0000

A homily preached at St. James Episcopal Church, Hendersonville NC on the Second Sunday after Christmas, January 2, 2011. Matthew 2:13-23

Whenever I am not at church or working at the homeless shelter, those who know me well already know the reason they cannot reach me. I am usually off hiking up in the high mountain woods far out of cell phone range. You see, my friends call me a waterfall junkie. I love waterfalls. One of my very favorite waterfalls is in Pisgah National Forest. And it’s actually very easy to get to. It’s called Courthouse Falls. The headwaters for the French Broad River flow down the mountain below a rock outcropping called the Devil’s Courthouse. Courthouse Falls is stunning. My wife says it looks like something out of a fairy tale movie. There’s a natural bowl carved out into this black rock. The rock is usually covered in some sort of flowering ivy. The river flows down a gorge and suddenly pours off into this deep green pool at the bottom. It is one my most frequent haunts.

Six years ago, a fellow waterfall addict that I have come to know through our mutual love of waterfalls, took a young lady up there on a date. It had been raining hard for a couple of days, but there was a break in the rain and he really wanted to show her this beautiful spot. He was a little surprised that the water levels seemed about normal after all of the recent rain. They made their way down into the bowl at the bottom to get a closer look. Then they rock-hopped out to the middle of the river. There he spotted a photographer’s dream come true. Just opposite the waterfall, a beautiful scene was unfolding down the river. The rays of the sun were breaking through and shining down on the river through the trees in the gorge. He could not let this opportunity pass by, so he pulled out his camera and set about trying to capture it. Those of you who do any outdoor photography know what it is like to go into that hyper focus mode where time slows down and everything else just fades away as you focus in on your subject. That’s what happened to him, but not to his date. She was watching the waterfall when she started noticing something strange. That beautiful white cascade was starting to turn brown. She was not an outdoor person, but she thought that was a bit odd. Then she noticed that the water was rapidly rising around the rocks they were standing on. Then she heard a roaring noise growing louder and louder above the waterfall. She started to punch her date and get his attention. When he turned around and looked he instantly realized the danger they were in and grabbed her hand and jumped up on the bank and started to scramble back up the wall of the gorge. Some sort of natural dam from all of the stormy weather had just broken lose up stream and all of the sudden this dark churning water full of debris just gushed over the top of the waterfall and filled the gorge with water. They barely made it out in time. I actually saw a photograph he took of this terrifying scene. Instead of pouring down into the pool, the angry water is shooting straight out like a water hose. Now, I don’t think it helped him earn a second date that in the seconds following their narrow escape from death he paused to take photographs, but he did catch some really cool images!

That is what the scenario is today’s Gospel reading feels like to me. It’s finally Christmas. We have been waiting all of Advent for the baby Jesus to arrive as we relive that story. We just spent the glorious holy days in hyper focus on the whole beautiful scene unfolding in front of us. Angel choirs singing good tidings of great joy to shepherds. Joseph and Mary; the Christ child lying in a manger. We’re looking at that beautiful scene and the very next thing we know in the narrative, the Christ child is in imminent danger of being swept away. It seems like they just got here and now the Holy Family is on the run to Egypt. Like that young lady at Courthouse Falls who began to punch her date and get his attention. An angel gets Joseph’s attention in a vivid dream and says there is life-threatening danger swiftly rolling down your way. Jesus, the Savior, born in the city of David, is all of the sudden part of a family of political refugees hiding out and taking asylum in a foreign country.

On Christmas Eve I stood right there and read Luke’s beautiful Nativity story and in the earliest moments of Christmas morning we turned the lights out, lit our candles and sang together , “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.” Now, this morning, I stood there and read, “Flee to Egypt…Herod is about to search for the child to destroy him.” Almost in the same breath---- it’s peace, love and joy and then run, danger, upheaval! BUT ISN’T THAT THE WAY LIFE IN THE REAL WORLD WORKS?

Sometimes in the space of a single day, we experience these high moments on top of the mountain and then next thing we know the rug is pulled from beneath us and the real world seems like it is going to flatten us like a steam roller. We come together at church and worship God together on Sunday. It’s wonderful--everyone is wishing each other the peace of the Lord, hugging and shaking hands. But then a funny thing always happens after that----Monday… and it’s back to the stress of work, school or whatever place the world exerts pressure points into our daily lives. It does not matter how much security we try to carve out for ourselves we all know what it like to suddenly go from high to low, from peace to turmoil. Probably most of us here today have experienced one of those days where everything was going just right and it was on that day----that very day, that we got the telephone call we did not want to get or the news from the doctor or the boss that we hoped would never come. That is part of the unpredictable and fluid nature of life in the real world that we live in. It’s also the world that Jesus entered. Peace and stability one moment and upheaval and bare survival the next---the pattern of the Gospel story shows that Jesus entered our zip code---or as we heard last Sunday, the Word was made flesh and entered the world. It was not a world made up simply of pristine, beautiful Christmas card sentimentality, but the raw, gritty, unpredictable real life world you and I live in!

The mystery of the incarnation is that God is fully present in the human life of Jesus. God was not only fully present in the beautiful Nativity scene. God was also fully present in sudden flight to Egypt.

My brothers and sisters the mystery of the incarnation is that God is there on our good days and somehow God is there on our worst days. It does not require a great deal of faith to believe God is present when things are calmly along as planned. The test of our faith is learning to trust that God is also present in the game-changing variables that interrupt our plans.

If you are going through some sort of sudden, unplanned, unpredicted life-altering upheaval, today’s Gospel declares that God is still with you. God is with us at the peaceful moments and God is with us when life seems to have us on the run. Please understand that I am not in anyway trying to minimize the real pain or trauma caused by the situation. The Holy Family had to get out of town and flee for their lives. They had to leave the comfort and security of friends and family behind. IT was, no doubt, both awful and absurd at the same time---just like some of the things we all experience. The good news we need to hear in the midst of our pain is that God is still with us even when we are wandering lost in exile. God is still in those times of limbo when it would be tempting to believe that we have been abandoned by Divine presence

The Gospel declares that God has been there and is there with us. is The Word was made flesh and lived among us in a human life that was as times as vulnerable and painful as our is. God does not simply dwell somewhere up there in the sweet by and by. Through the incarnation God entered the nasty now and now that is common to human experience. Through Christ God enters into our suffering and chaos and stands in solidarity with us in the midst of our pain.

At the Rescue Mission we usually seek to have a balance in the way we hire our staff. We need some people who have a great deal of professional experience, but we also try to hire some who have come through our programs or other programs like ours. We want people who now have some stability under their belts. We need them because of their ability to relate to what it’s really like to be homeless and to struggling with the issues that of that. experience. I have come to recognize that they can offer something vital that I can never offer: the solidarity of a shared experience.

One fellow once put it to me like this. “I respect education, but I am fighting to get sober. I need more than someone’s Master’s degree. I want to talk to someone who has fought this same demon that I am fighting. I want to hear how that person got through it.”

Rowan Williams, our Archbishop of Canterbury, writes about the incarnation and the ups and downs in the life experience of Jesus. He says, “… it means that God understands exactly what we are and what we suffer and why we struggle.”

The Gospel story of the flight to Egypt declares that through the human life of Jesus, God entered into a solidarity of shared experience with our upheavals, interruptions and moments when it seems we are running for dear life.

It also means that because God entered into a real world of pain and suffering, if we are going to be followers of Christ, so must we. The Gospel calls us to let go of our comfort and security to go out into that real world that is outside of our beautiful church walls. Jesus did not stay frozen in time in a nativity scene in the holy city of David.. The Messiah became a refugee child far away down in Egypt. My sisters and brothers, the Body of Christ does not remain between two candles on a beautiful altar. Each week we come forward, we eat it, we take the body of Christ into us and then go out into the real world to BE the living body of Christ. When I dismiss us each week, we go out to be the hands and feet of Jesus Christ to a truly hurting world full brokenness and upheaval.

That is part of what I love about the Episcopal Church. Anglicans are people of the incarnation. It’s part of what drew me in. It is who we are. It’s in our spiritual DNA to be out in the real world making a real difference. The Episcopal Church is not my native tradition. In the tradition I grew up in, the world was very scary place. A place to retreat from and not be defiled by it. However, the Episcopalians I knew were always right in the thick of it. Why? Because that’s the real world the Word made flesh entered into. Other traditions see the world as a glass that is half empty and leaking. It’s a lost cause. It’s heading for the flames. Give up on it. Retreat and circle the wagons and just wait for it to go there in a hand basket. As Anglicans, as people of the incarnation, we see it as a glass that is half full awaiting redemption and the fullness of God.. While other traditions are trying to modernize their buildings and worship styles, but keep their theology and members pulled back a safe distance from the world we are doing just the opposite. We hang on to our ancient liturgy and traditional worship styles, but we actively engage the world. We don’t run from the world, instead we run in to it!

St. James, as your new deacon, I am so proud of all that you are doing in the real world. You not only get it---you really get it. I am proud to say that there is so much ministry to celebrate here. In my work at the homeless shelter I interact with many other service organizations and charitable groups. I have discovered that St. James seems to be embedded in just about every transformative activity in our community. Whenever I tell people in that I am now at St. James, I hear a chorus of, “Oh they are involved in our organization. They support it and people from there volunteer here.”

Since my arrival a few weeks ago, I have been asked by a few people why I am always smiling up here. The answer is really very simple: I am just so happy to be here! I am proud to be associated with a place that follows the example of Jesus and engages the real world where people are really hurting. You are not only a grace-filled parish --- you spread that grace into the world. I am delighted about our shared journey that is ahead of us. I hope to be a cheerleader who fans the flames of your good works. I also hope to invite you to continue going out and entering into the messiness of the real world to be the living Body of Christ.

One of my favorite spiritual authors once wrote, “Life offers only one tragedy in the end: not to have been a saint.” He goes on to define “saint” as “to be in the world who God is.”

Ronald Rolheiser wrote about a four-year-old child who woke up one night frightened, convinced that there were all kinds of spooks and monsters in her room. In terror she fled to her parents' bedroom. Her mother took her back to her room and, after soothing her fears, assured her that it was safe there: "You don't need to be afraid. After I leave, you won't be alone in the room. God will be here with you!" "I know that God will be here," the child protested, "but I need someone in this room who has some skin."

The world needs more than just another sermon about the presence of God. The world needs the good news to come alive and have some skin to it. That is our calling. It is not enough to simply tell the world that God loves it. We must be in the world and let that love take concrete form in our lives and actions. By living as the body of Christ in the real world God’s presence takes shape in a tangible way.

To be a saint is “to be in the world who God is.” May God continue to grant us the courage and grace to enter into the real world and live up to that calling…to be in the mix of this world as God is. Amen.

Good Friday Homily

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 23:08:00 +0000

St. John's Episcopal Church, Asheville, NC , 04/02/10

I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I have hiked to some beautiful, remote waterfall where the last part of the hike turned out to be the most difficult ground to cover. I could hear the waterfall, but I could not yet see it. The roar indicated that I was almost there. However,it seems like there’s always just one last ridge to climb and it’s a doozy. Why are they always at the end of the journey instead of the beginning?

We are almost at the end our Lenten journey together. Easter and the alleluias are just around the bend, but first we have to climb Golgotha with Jesus. As it turns out with so many of my hikes, Good Friday is the steepest, hardest part of the journey. It is difficult terrain.

What could possibly be “good” about Good Friday? What could possibly be good, godly or holy about a day on which some of the Gospel writers record the crucified Jesus using those words from the Psalm that we just read, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”

One of my favorite children’s books is titled, “Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.” I have often thought that by itself, Good Friday should really be called “Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Friday.”

Of course, we are Easter people. We are about Eternal Life and Resurrection so we can look back on this day with the hindsight of Easter and call it Good Friday or God’s Friday. Easter transforms the hopelessness and despair of Good Friday into hope and joy…but not yet.

Before the victory trumpets of Easter, the Gospel is a funeral dirge and we are left to sit, just like his disciples, in the darkness, confusion and sadness of the reality of a brutal death. Justice, compassion and hope are shredded and left hanging on a tree like the lifeless body of Jesus. Good Friday means that we do not rush to Easter to get the answers that come with the Resurrection. Good Friday is the day where we pause to wrestle with the questions.

With all of the vast theological significance that the rest of the New Testament unpacks about the death of Jesus, it is easy to forget that Good Friday was a day when a good human who taught love and non-violence was betrayed, tortured. An innocent person was arrested and executed by a government official named Pontius Pilate who favored political expediency over justice. A violent revolutionary named Barabbas who taught and practiced hate and murder was set free so that Jesus could be killed. Everything is upside down. It would seem to be the epitome of the old cliché that “nice guys finish last.”

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” That ancient line was in the hymnbook of the Hebrew ancestors of Jesus long before he quoted it on Good Friday. Psalm 22 shows us that Jesus stood in succession to a long line of his people who looked around at seeming triumphs of the wicked and the suffering of the righteous and had to ask, “God where are you? How could this happen in your world?” That long line did not end with Jesus.

No doubt, it is the question on the minds of his followers as they scatter in fear and go into hiding on Good Friday. It is a question that has haunted many good people over the centuries when those people suffered for doing the right thing.

The German theologian Jurgen Moltmann once said, “Good Friday is the center of the world.” If you watch the news or go online then you already know that Good Friday is the messy territory where we spend a great deal of our human lives.

According to Amnesty International, in places all over the world today, there are political prisoners of conscience who will wake up in awful conditions of abuse and torture simply because they spoke the truth or chose to do the right thing. Like Jesus, close friends betrayed some of them. Like Pilate, spineless people in power did nothing and chose to save their own careers at the price of another innocent life. Like Barabbas, people who commit unspeakable acts of violence go free while the innocent are punished because they ended up not on the wrong side of justice, but on the wrong side of power. “My God, how could such a thing happen? Where are you? How could you forsake us?”

I know a man who is dying of cancer. He’s good man who has given money to many good causes. He returned from spending time at a cancer treatment center where he encountered terminally ill children and their families and he was devastated by the absurdity of it all. His question to me was, “Where is God? How could God allow such things to happen?” That is an honest Good Friday question.

If we are honest, we have all probably wrestled with such Good Friday questions at one time or another. The world we live in lends itself to such questions.

It does not mean we are evil or unfaithful to wrestle with such questions. It means that we are honest and that we are human and that’s precisely the point. It means we are like Jesus or rather Jesus was like us. We are in good company with such questions. We are in company with Jesus and the author of the 22nd Psalm and virtually everyone who has ever struggled with what seemed like the abandonment of God.

Good Friday means that Jesus is not simply a beautiful icon locked away in the pristine pages of Sacred Scripture. Good Friday places him in our zip code. Good Friday means that Jesus enters into the raw, unfair, difficult places that perplex us and strain our faith. On Good Friday Jesus stands shoulder to shoulder in solidarity with every person who has suffered tragic loss, unfair treatment, betrayal, sorrow and pain.

Jurgen Moltmann, the German theologian I mentioned earlier said, “My God, where are you?” was the first prayer that he ever uttered. As a 17-year-old soldier in Nazi Germany on July 1943 he barely survived the Allied bombing raid on the city of Hamburg called “Operation Gomorrah.” 40, 000 people, including the person standing next to him, were killed. He cried out in the firestorm, “My God, where are you?”

A couple of years later he found himself in a POW camp in Scotland at the end of WWII. The Allies showed the POWS video footage of the liberated concentration camps and holocaust that Nazis had perpetrated. His fellow prisoners were perplexed to discover the depravity hidden behind the idealism of the “great cause” they had been fighting for. Many of the POWs became bitter and disillusioned. The carnage that Moltmann had witnessed and endured as a teenager all seemed to have been in vain. Some of his fellow POWs committed suicide. His world fell apart.

One day a Scottish minister gave him a Bible. His upbringing had been so secular that he had never read the Bible before. In it he discovered the words of Psalm 22 and found them again on the lips of Jesus on the cross. This was the beginning of his journey of faith. He discovered in the Jesus of Good Friday someone who understood the pain and disillusionment that he felt. He would later about write about Good Friday:

"I knew with certainty: this is someone who understands you, the Divine brother in distress, who takes the prisoners with him on the way to resurrection. I began to summon up the courage to live again, seized by a great hope…This early fellowship with Jesus, the brother in suffering and the redeemer from guilt, has never left me since."

Easter is about victory. However, the only people who seem to win on Good Friday are the ones who should NOT win. Good Friday sounds like defeat. Good Friday resembles us in our weakest moments of loss.

On Good Friday, we are not given answers. Instead we are given a very real, human, suffering Jesus who stands in company with the very real human suffering that afflicts this world and touches all of us. Today we venerate the cross and keep vigil with Jesus. Because of this day, we know that he can keep vigil with us. Today we behold his cross and in doing so we can be sure that he knows ours.

Come, Holy Spirit: Reflections on my ordination.

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 01:24:00 +0000

When love comes to town, I’m gonna jump that train.
When love comes to town, I’m gonna catch that flame. ---B.B. King and Bono

Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.
Where charity and love are, God is there.

What happens when the Holy Spirit shows up? Technically, we are taught that the Spirit of God does not have to show up. We “live, move and have our being” in the very presence of God, (Acts 17:28) even when we are strolling down the aisle of the grocery store trying to find those coupons that we stuck somewhere. The issue is never about whether or not God is present to us, but really more about how present we can be to God in any given moment. However, there are moments when we invite a special sense of God’s presence. What happens then? That kind of question seemed academic until Saturday.

Saturday was the day of my ordination. I spent the afternoon of the day before ordination with the other ordinand and our Bishop. The Bishop sure had a lot to say about the Holy Spirit showing up on Saturday. That made me a bit nervous. What would happen? Would I end up experiencing something akin to a white-collar version of the wild antics on those late night televised religious broadcasts? Would I be suddenly possessed, or feel something unusual? Or worse, would I end up suddenly asking everyone for a love offering?

There are two things that Jesus taught about the Divine Spirit that would almost seem to be in tension with each other. The first is that the Spirit of God is as mysterious and unpredictable as the wild desert wind that whips up fierce sandstorms out of nothing and then disappears into the calm. In fact, the very words employed in the Scriptures to name the Spirit, both in the Hebrew Bible and in the New Testament, are words that are related to the wind. “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8) We cannot tame or predict the Spirit of God. We cannot manipulate or bend the presence of God to our will. The life-giving Spirit can no more be tamed than the primeval gale forces blowing across the face of the deep in the Hebrew creation narrative. (Gen. 1:2) On the other hand, once we come to understand that we cannot tame or direct the force of the Spirit, we hear the words of Jesus, “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (Luke 11:13) We cannot make the Spirit show up any more that we can create a hurricane, but all we have to do is ask. The Spirit is not manufactured, purchased or in any way earned. The Spirit is gift and grace, just like everything else with our exuberantly generous God! All we can do is ask, and ask we did.

We belted out a sung invitation, “Come Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, and lighten with celestial fire.” I felt my knees lock up and my eyes widen as I looked around, half expecting to see something materialize the way people it did in the transporter room of the classic Star Trek. Everyone was dressed up in red (which every liturgical Christian knows is the Holy Spirit’s favorite color) and everyone was singing. When I knelt down for the Bishop to place his hands on me, I took a deep breath…

I wish I could tell you that I felt an electric shock go down my spine or a heated light glowing around my head as a tongue of flame danced above me. I did not. Instead, what I experienced was much deeper and warmer. Instead of focusing the attention on me, she focused my attention on everyone else.

I can only describe my experience as being overwhelmed with a profound sense of deep gratitude and warmth for everyone who had walked along the way with me to that point---those who were in the Cathedral and those who were not; those who are still alive and those who have passed. They were all with me, or rather I should say, I was present to them at that point and I loved them.

That sense of connected gratitude and love only grew during the Holy Eucharist. People from my past, present and future began to come forward to share in the sacred feast that Jesus said was intimately connected to his body. St. Paul declared, “You are the body of Christ and individually members of it.” (1 Corinthians 12:27) The Bible teaches that Jesus is raised from the dead and has become a living people. We eat the bread and have a share in that body. We drink the wine and his very lifeblood connects us and flows through us and makes us alive to God. We are the incarnation, sent into the world to become his hands and feet on the same mission that he had: to give away the extravagant love of God and touch the outcast and heal the broken. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:21b-22)

One by one they came forward and one by one I began to see the vast connected network of the body of Christ. I loved them, every one, and that was the moment that I realized the Holy Spirit had shown up. The fruit of the Holy Spirit begins with love. (Galatians 5:22) St. Paul taught that without love all other manifestations of the Spirit are meaningless (1.Corinthians 13:1-3) because “God is love”, inseparably. (1 John 4:8) It is the very DNA of the incarnation. Love is the animating Spirit that moves the living body of Christ. I came to understand that the Holy Spirit’s presence was not about me, but about getting me to turn outward toward everyone else. My ordination and Holy Orders ---none of it was simply for me. A warm wind of love showed up at my ordination, and all we had to do was ask. All we have to do is ask.

My prayer for Christmas Eve

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 00:48:00 +0000

On this silent and holy night, we pray for those parents who will watch their children take their first deep breaths and enter a world of light. We pray also for those who will watch their children cling to final exhales in the dark. We pray for children who have parents that fight to make a place for them, even if it means a humble manger in a stable. We also pray for discarded children who have parents that choose lovers, chemicals and adventure over their own offspring. We pray for children snuggled in beds while their parents hide presents under decorated trees. We also pray for those children who live in fear of the angry footsteps of wounded, abusive parents.

Lord, grant that someone, somewhere will give them room in the inn tonight.

We pray for loved ones who warm themselves in the glow of family and friends tonight. We also pray for strangers who loiter in the cold of loneliness and those who are bloodied by broken homes and shattered relationships. We pray for those loved one who could not make it home tonight, but are held in our love. We also pray for those whose distance from their families cannot be measured in miles. We pray for those cherished friends whose images adorn our mantles and refrigerators. We also pray for those whose pictures have never been in anyone’s wallets.

Lord, grant that someone, somewhere will give them a seat at a table tonight.

We pray for our teenagers, who bring idealistic joy to world. Let them hear good tidings of great joy sung above the hushed sounds of angel wings. We also pray for those runaways whose demons sleep under bridges and in cars with them tonight. We pray for our teens that wear peace signs and hippie buttons and just want someone to take notice. We also pray for those whose innocence crept away choking and spitting on the red haze of war or the dark realities of an X-rated world. We pray for teens that will play new video games and dribble new basketballs on the morrow. We also pray for those who will have to carry AK-47s in order to live one more day.

Lord, grant that someone, somewhere will do more than just speak worn out words about how you are the Prince of Peace tonight.

We pray for shepherds and other blue-collar workers keeping watch by night in fields and factories. We also pray for those who will go to bed hungry for jobs and opportunities to earn some daily bread. We pray for those who dress up like Santa in order to spread joy and we also pray those who have to wear dirty clothes for days on end. We pray for those who are ignorant of the many hidden privileges that have surrounded them in security. We also pray for those who live, move and have their being in a world that has never given them a second chance. We pray for those who fall asleep on soft pillows of contentment and for those who will wake to a nightmare of noisy concrete, barbed wire and iron bars. We pray for those who descend on the sick and dying like a chorus of caring heavenly hosts. We pray those who are dying of diseases that can be cured in other zip codes and those who are shot up with needle of routine indifference toward injustice.

Lord, grant that someone, somewhere will figure out that you were born to do more than hang around, cursed on a tree.

We pray for those who sing Christmas carols full of life. We also pray for those whose innocent blood cries out from the ground, out of tune with Creation’s song. We pray for those who travel in freedom and we pray for people trapped in barrios, ghettos and gated communities. We pray for those who own very little and we pray for those who are owned by their things. We pray for those who will laugh and feast with hope in the morning. We also pray those whose dreams have been blown up by suicide bombers or crushed by tanks. We pray for those who yearn for your kingdom to come and long for your will to be done on earth as it is in heaven. We also pray for who feel the lash of a hard bottom line that drives them to stain their souls in slavery to profit margins. We pray for those who will wake up to the sounds of children laughing and also for those who will wake up far away in the sterile silence of a homeless shelter in the morning. We pray for those imprisoned in their own death row of ignorance, prejudice and hate. We also pray for those who whose hands will be repeatedly nailed as they work to open those doors and release people into your new life.

Lord, grant that someone, somewhere will stop watching the front door long enough to notice that you sneaked in through the back door and left it...unlocked.

Silence may be kept

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 01:26:00 +0000

There is an over-circulated joke that says that Episcopalians are very fond of the Holy Bible because it contains so many nice quotes from the Prayer Book! That’s because the Book of Common Prayer is so central to our life and worship together. What and how we pray as Anglicans vitally shapes our identity and expresses what we believe. The Book of Common Prayer betrays our tangible commitment to beauty in worship. I find that incredibly important to my own life of worship. It may not be the thing for everyone, but it works best for me. I have a copy of the BCP by my bed, on my desk at work and in my truck. I realized one day that I am almost never more than twelve feet away from a Prayer Book for most of my life now.

Last year, when my formation for ordination process started to focus on liturgy, I had to start paying even more attention to the details. Those details are in smaller italic print. They are called rubrics because they were originally printed or written in red ( Latin: ruber) so they could be distinguished from the words of the liturgy that were spoken, which were printed in black. The rubrics are the written directions for the liturgy. I love them because they are thorough. There is no second-guessing about it, for example: “The following Confession of Sin may then be said; or the Office may continue with “Lord, open our lips.” “Then the Ministers and the People may greet one another in the name of the Lord.” “The People may add their own petitions.” “The Deacon or Celebrant says”… and my all time favorite: “Silence may be kept.” Nothing is left to chance or whim. Everyone is on the same page, decently and in order. In short, it is scripted. Deviating from the script is not a sin. In my tradition it is much, much worse. It is poor decorum.

That does not work for everyone. My oldest son has his mother’s worship genes. He has no interest in history whatsoever and could care less about tradition. I will say, “This is how our ancestors worshipped hundreds of years ago.” He will just look at me as if to say, “So what?” I then look at him as if to say, “Am I really your father?” My youngest son will respond to the same statement with a “Coool!” while he bows and makes the sign of the cross. I speak at all kinds of churches. Whenever I go to one that is of the more contemporary worship style, my oldest really enjoys it. There is one church where they play music with live guitars, drums and keyboards. They do not have hymnals. They project the words of the song upon the walls. I am not kidding. Seriously, they really have the words rotating up on the walls. They stand for long periods of time and sing with their hands lifted up in the air. My oldest son will be moved to the point that he has tears in his eyes. My youngest will have a look of utter terror in his. I spoke at one of those services once and the worship leader stopped right in the middle of the music and asked for anyone who wanted to pray at the front to please come forward. That seemed off the script for sure. My oldest went forward. My youngest looked at me in horror and whispered, “What do I do? What is happening?” I could tell that he longed for a Prayer Book to say, “Please turn to page 641 for additional directions.” Alas, there was no script to follow and he felt like running out of the building. I leaned over and whispered, “Just sit still and look holy.” Ahhh…now, he could do that. We both just sat there and reverted to our Anglican default settings: “Silence may be kept.”

I have many Christian friends who think that is mechanical and unspiritual. They fail to behold the beauty and creativity of the rhythm that the rubrics bring. It certainly would do nothing for them in the same manner that having the lines of a song projected upon the walls stands to do little for me. You see I had to sit through many slide shows when I was young. Every holiday my relatives showed the same slides to the family. Projections on the wall, while they bring back fond memories of my aunt Edith and uncle Charlie, do not exactly cause my heart or mind to soar to heaven.

I have often thought that I wish my life at the Rescue Mission came with rubrics. Unfortunately, most of life is lived unscripted. That is especially true of my type of work. It is as unpredictable as an old-fashioned tent revival meeting. One minute you are sitting in your chair at the back. The next minute you are on your back in the sawdust at the front watching people jump from chair to chair as they shout and wave a handkerchief. One minute I am sitting at my desk in my office. The next minute I am out front trying to stop traffic so that the nearly naked man who has been huffing paint does not get run over in the street---- “Wait a minute, he actually has a tattoo that says ‘Live to ride, Ride to live.’ How did he get a tattoo down there? Oh no, that car almost hit him! I wish the police would hurry up and get here.”

Actually, I can think of some pretty good rubrics to help order the chaos of crisis shelter ministry: “If the intoxicated man flips his middle finger, the Director responds by saying…” “If he moons you, an alternate form may be used.” “When desired, Directors may be appointed to slap the snot out of abusive husbands. In Lent, they may use a baseball bat.” “If a mentally challenged person gets a monthly check, it is appropriate to hide the income from predators in some convenient place.” “In place of calling 911, or in addition to it, the staff may use any of the additional means to keep disturbed individuals from jumping the fence.” “The Director or staff member faces the People and says…” “Here a ‘No Smoking in the Bathrooms’ anthem is sung or said.” “On weekends the following resources for mental health emergencies may be used.” “A hungry lady with children takes precedence over a lazy man requesting seconds at lunch.” “If a fundamentalist questions the validity of providing GED training to the homeless, hit him with a Bible while singing ‘Inglorious things of thee art spoken’ or, turn to page 732 for additional directions.” “It is always appropriate to yell at agencies that dump people like garbage at homeless shelters.” “If a guest urinates on the sidewalk use Lysol, then follows generous amounts of hot water.”

Sigh…of course, there is no such book of homeless shelter rubrics. There are so many invariables that the book would certainly resemble those massive, old Bibles that were kept chained to the tables in old Cathedrals. At the end of the day, the rubric that I usually find best to follow in just about every situation is my favorite, “Silence may be kept.” It’s always golden!

The Soloist: a theological movie review.

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 00:36:00 +0000

Something strange happened in the Jones household last night. My wife and I sat down and watched a movie together…and we both actually enjoyed it. That might possibly be one of the signs that herald the beginning of the Apocalypse. The only way she would like one of my movies would be for James Bond’s mother to be diagnosed with cancer so that 007 moves home and everyone in his family learns to love each other again. The only way I could ever watch Julia and Julia with her would have to involve at least one Julia wearing an Iron Man suit, lots of explosions, car chases and an evil plot to take over the world with her recipes. You get the picture. My wife liked the long, first part of Titanic and I could only tolerate the last 40 minutes where something interesting actually started to take place.

Last night we watched The Soloist with Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr. It is based on the true story of journalist Steve Lopez’s interaction with Nathaniel Ayers, a cello prodigy whose schizophrenia drives him into homelessness on the streets of the infamous Skid Row of Los Angeles. I admit that I have no idea what makes a film a critical success or if director Joe Wright should receive an award, but I do know that this film surprised me.

I am hesitant to watch any media portrayal of homelessness because the depictions are usually hurtful stereotypes that only serve to push the homeless further into the margins of society’s consciousness. The other reason that I was initially reluctant to watch a movie about homelessness is the fact that it is the meat and potatoes of my everyday existence and it has been for more years than most people last in this business. When I am not at work, I am usually hiking to a remote waterfall somewhere as far away from crime, drugs, prostitution and mental illness as possible. In other words, I cope by intentionally getting away from the overwhelming crush of the masses when I am not at work. However, so many people have asked for my feedback on this film that I could not ignore it. It obviously touched something within many of its viewers.

Several people have asked me about the accuracy of the film. I have never been to Los Angeles, but I have met people who work there in homeless shelters. I also know people who have toured the areas just outside of those shelters. They describe a horrifying place of human misery like a permanent encampment of an army of severely mentally ill people. In short, their descriptions match what the movie portrayed of those who live on and under the pallets and skids of Skid Row. I know it is the place where this first became known. “Skid Row Staph” strikes terror into the hearts of homeless shelter workers everywhere and drives up our own operational budget for Lysol.

I can say that the portrayal of some of the homeless people in the movie was so realistic that a couple of times I was tapping my wife on the shoulder while shouting, “That’s so spot on!” The depiction of Nathaniel Ayers as a chronically homeless man who is suffering from schizophrenia, but is also beyond the reach of the any sort of required medical treatment because he is neither homicidal nor overtly suicidal was painfully similar to my experiences with many chronically homeless people. Over 90, 000 people are homeless in Los Angeles County every night and 35,000 of them are chronically homeless precisely because they are in the same sort of shape as the character portrayed by Jamie Foxx. My experience has been that many people in that condition tend to migrate to larger urban centers, but sadly their migration is often helped along by one-way “bus ticket therapy” and “patient dumping” by organizations in smaller communities. The tragic reality is that the most troubled souls among us can easily get lost and remain invisible in the bigger cities. It’s no secret that many smaller communities, which survive on tourism revenue, count on that very thing happening.

The thing that I found most appealing about The Soloist was its honesty. It did not try to wrap things up into a neat, “lived happily ever after” fairy tale ending. The movie ends with a sense that everything is unfinished, impermanent and open to revision each day. Making peace with the fact that humans are concrete, complex people and not sterile, abstract cases to be managed or “fixed” is a process that everyone who works with the homeless eventually experiences. That’s because homelessness is ultimately a human issue that is as diverse and unpredictable as humans generally are. Many of my conservative evangelical friends like to believe that once an individual is “healed’ everything just neatly works itself out into tidy resolutions that mimic the narrative patterns found in the stories of the Bible. Many of my left-leaning Christian friends believe that institutions are the key to solving homelessness. More affordable housing and services surely would fix the problem. Both deny the complex reality of human experience by reducing individuals to a two-dimensional, cookie cutter simplicity. Homelessness will not be resolved by conversions or stroking checks. Both approaches miss the fundamental truth that the movie tapped into so well: in the end there is no such thing as an abstract homeless “problem” to be solved from a distance, but only people who are homeless and in need of mutual human nearness. People who rise from the grave of self-absorbed, super busy, rat races and walk the journey of long-term friendship with another human can narrow that distance one person at a time. Everything else is often hubris.

Of course, that sort of thing does not feed our messiah complexes. Whether by evangelism or activism, we want to save the world and quickly move on to the next problem. I find a lot of people very interested in the eternal souls of the homeless. I also find a lot of people very interested in the availability of a roof for the homeless, but I find very few people actually interested in the everyday lives of individuals who are homeless. Heck, I find very few people with time enough to be interested in the everyday lives of individuals who are not homeless. Instead, everyone is so busy rushing to usher in the kingdom that they trip over the homeless fellow and never ask him what he had for breakfast. If they did, they would discover the kingdom is already here, hidden in plain sight by its bare-naked simplicity and grace.

I have repeatedly witnessed the amazing difference that the involvement of just one friend---not a paid service provider or social worker, but a real friend can make in the transformation of the life of someone who is homeless. That’s the true message of The Soloist. It’s also the slow heart of the Gospel that was long ago tossed aside during the McWalmartization of the Church in North America. I am not against more homeless shelters, religious soup kitchens or government housing initiatives. However, those are not the answer. Getting over our 'Constitutional right' to individual self-centeredness will reach deeper than all of those could ever hope to. The Gospel is about incarnation. It’s never about redemption from outside or above, but entrance into the messy world of another. There are over 90, 000 homeless people in Los Angeles County each night. However, there are almost 10 million people in Los Angeles County. Imagine what would happen if just 90,000 of them slowed down long enough to actually get to know just one homeless person and come to care about that person’s life…then, it would truly live up to its name.

Guest post by Kerry Jones

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 01:13:00 +0000

(Dear Readers, a year ago I did a guest post on my wife's blog and my dear wife returned the favor and posted this on my old blog. Since my old blog has now gone away, I thought I would repost it here. Yes, I know just how blessed I am to share life with her. After two decades together, I am still absolutely crazy about her.)

Do you like stories? I do, when I have time for one. If this is a tightly scheduled day for you, and you have already cursed out the old lady in the Buick in front of you for making you late to your dentist appointment, then you might resent this post, because it might take longer than just a minute, but if you’ve got your coffee in hand, and have settled down for a quiet moment away from the fray, then why not sit a spell and go on a journey with me.

I was sixteen and had just gotten my first car about the time I first met this skinny, lanky boy with a huge smile. My mother, grandmother, and I did this singing gig back then where we went around to various churches and belted out gospel tunes in three part harmony. (It’s a southern thing.)

On this particular night, we were back at our home church for what was probably a revival of some sort (our brand of gospel belting was especially in demand at those sorts of things), and he and his father happened to be in attendance. My mom, who had already met the young man in question, could hardly wait to introduce us. Normally, her enthusiasm for any guy would’ve been the death knell to any future interest on my part, but I had to admit, the guy’s smile was genuinely infectious.

We struck up a friendship not long thereafter. The friendship mostly consisted of short talks on the phone and bumping into each other at various gospel-singing/revival/make-sure-you-haven’t-lost-your-salvation type of events. Once or twice, the lanky kid tried to take things to the next level with me. He bought me little presents occasionally, and even asked me out on an official date once, where I unintentionally stood him up (this is hotly contested, but I am eternally sticking to my story).

The guy with the great smile eventually went off to college, and our friendship dwindled to a few sporadic letters. That is, until I was at the end of my senior year in high school and was dateless for a formal event that was coming up. Fearing that I had probably already burned my bridges, I was very doubtful as I sent off that letter asking my smiling friend to be my date for the event. And yet, miraculously - - smiling, lanky young men being what they were back then - - he magnanimously consented.

Your coffee is probably getting cold about now, so I’ll cut the story shorter here by just telling you that whatever was in that corsage he brought me that night was pure gold. From that night on, I was hooked, and I’ve been privy to the depths of that beautiful smile for twenty years now.In fact, that smile has superpowers that not many people beside myself are aware of. In the last twenty years, that smile has gotten me to:

*endure thousands of hours of potty humor

*traipse through briar-infested woods and across cliff ledges in search of undiscovered trails

*play second fiddle to any new theological theory in book form

*watch more than my share of cars and planes being blown up on screen

*prepare hundreds and hundreds of manwiches

*administer hundreds and hundreds of rolaids

*birth two beautiful boys sporting genetically dominant smiles

*watch helplessly as those boys become infected with dad’s potty humor

*patiently handle the interruption of every family outing within a twenty-five mile radius because we are spotted by a former shelter resident who either wants to share their latest victories or beg for another chance at redemption

*look on as my husband’s heart breaks for the umpteenth time when he offered that chance for redemption only to see the person crumple it in their fist and toss it to the curb

*share in my hubby’s elation each time a shelter resident makes the momentous discovery that they are worth the effort it takes to pull themselves out of the pit they are in

*even stick it out despite the daunting future possibility of having to iron all those clerical collars

Being the lifelong companion of this man has been an adventure fraught with laughter, head-shaking, eye-rolling, snuggles, love, exasperation, consternation, giggles, and even the occasional indigestion. It has meant coping with basically the equivalent of doctor’s hours - - my hubby is on call 24/7, 365 days a year. But it has also meant being privileged to spend my life with my best friend. The one whose smile still makes my heart melt. What better ending to any story can there be than that?

The foolishness of preaching

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 00:21:00 +0000

"You can no longer separate Word and Flesh. Once separated, once you refuse the reality of the Incarnation, you are left with a theology that is merely a heap of words." ----Alan Ecclestone

Words, words, words. Without incarnation, that is all they are. Preachers often find themselves wrestling with God and their own demons in the pulpit---nakedly, right in front everyone. That is because the best truths we ever speak are born from the womb of our own struggles---when the words are incarnated into real human experience. The best preachers often tell on themselves by the themes they revisit over and over again with success. We are drawn like moths to the flame by the irresistible urge to subconsciously exorcise our own demons. I say that with some embarrassment because a theme that constantly comes up in my preaching is the acceptance of our own humanity as a gift from God. Deep down, I know that this journey into the world of homelessness has been about more than compassion and justice for those in need. It has been a quest to find my own humanity. My Holy Grail quest has been the search for my own soul among those lost souls who are also trying to find their way home. My best sermons have always been the strongest indictments of the worst of me. Of course, the little old lady who shakes my hand at the back of the church and tells me what a wonderful “message” she just heard has no idea that I just crucified myself again with my own words.

For good or bad, my love affair with preaching has shaped the last twenty years of my life. I love to tell stories. I love to make people laugh, and occasionally cry, but the thing I love most of all is the “aha” moment. I have not found anything more beautiful than watching someone experience an epiphany. The irony is that most of the lasting epiphanies have little or nothing to so with my sermons. What I say and what people hear are quite often two very distinct things. Most of the time when someone tells me the really profound “truth” that she or he heard in my sermon, I realize that I did not say that at all. It was not even close enough to the intent of my homily to count in horseshoes or hand grenades, but there it is, some life-changing truth that I was never even brilliant enough to have come up with in the first place. Deep down, I know that most preachers are given far more credit than they deserve for things like that. I might just get kicked out of the club for admitting that on here because most practitioners of pulpit craft take themselves far too seriously. The most dangerous thing a preacher can ever do is start believing all of the kind things those nice, gray-haired ladies say after the service. I have watched many of my peers over the years begin to not only smoke, but to also inhale that drug. The next thing you know, they are sure that they really are brilliant after all. Watching that happen is often as painful as watching a crack addict slowly melt away over time.

The best sermons are the ones that we preach to ourselves about two minutes into the one that the preacher is giving from the pulpit. We know ourselves better than any preacher could ever begin to know about where we are at in life. Those “ooh” and “aah” moments of epiphany belong to you and God. I do not mind that my hearers go off to their own burning bushes while I am speaking. It beats watching them stare at the windows or count the bulbs in the chandeliers.

Not long ago, I preached at a large church here in town. A lady came up to me after the sermon and said, “You are wasting your talent on those people down there at the shelter.” Whatever kind of bizarre compliment she meant by that, her words broke my heart. They spoke volumes about how little she thinks of the people at the Mission. It is the same attitude that causes people to dump their trash on us as a “donation” in order to save a trip to the land fill dump. I could not help but wonder what made her think that a pretty church somewhere full of aging people who show up to get their heavenly tickets punched each week was more worthy of my very best efforts than the homeless and hungry people who voluntarily wander into my little chapel service each day at noon?

Like our meals, each noon chapel service is open to the public. Anyone may attend. You are welcome to drop by if you are ever in the area at noon. For years now I have offered my very best reflections, homilies, humor and stories to the people I deeply love there in that little chapel (shown in the picture). I had a pulpit speech instructor years ago who rolled his eyes every time I walked in the room. He said that I did not approach the text with enough soberness. I am ashamed to say he was probably correct. He would definitely flunk me out of homiletics now if he visited one of our services at the shelter. Sometimes we have a rowdy, irreverent crowd. Other times we have older folks who come into the warmth and fall asleep. I do not blame them. It is very comfortable in there and I have, on occasion, put myself to sleep.

My prayer is not that people will remember what I say, but that we all encounter something more than a mere heap of words. Together, I hope we are all foolishly touched by a little incarnation of faith, hope and love.

"Let us all see again."

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 03:21:00 +0000

Reflection for Morning Prayer, Rite 2, Diaconal Formation Class, February 14, 2009

Mark 10: 46-52 (NRSV) They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, “What do you want me to do for you?” The blind man said to him, “My teacher, let me see again.” Jesus said to him, “Go; your faith has made you well.” Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.

“I am never going back to that church again.” My stunned wife and I looked across the table at our ten year old who had just burst into tears. He was not, and five years later, still is not the kind of kid who would normally make that kind of ultimatum. We could not argue with him. He had tried his best to fit in. My wife and I had repeatedly tried to educate the people in charge of the church class he was in. You see, when he was five, he was diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome. It’s a neurological disability that causes him to have vocal and motor tics. No, he does not have coprolalia, which causes people to scream and uncontrollably shout profanity. Even though it is the symptom most commonly associated T.S. thanks to the media, it is actually a rare symptom. My son Andy’s symptoms involve movement tics and clearing his throat over and over again. I am very proud of my son. Since he was small, he never hesitates to try and educate people who feel compelled to stop and stare. He is an extraordinarily brave young man. I probably would have wilted at that age under just half the scrutiny he gets on a regular basis. However, no matter what he did or how much we tried to educate them, the people in charge of his class made it clear that they did not appreciate his behavior and disciplined him for what they viewed as intrusive, disruptive misbehavior. They would set him aside in the corner and isolate him from the others. We later learned that they even allowed a discussion to take place in class about whether or not his condition was one of those “demon possessions” that Jesus healed. No, my little boy was not demon possessed, but I certainly was for a while after learning of that incident. My wife and I did the only Christian thing we could do. We listened to our son and we never went back.

I dredge up that very painful story to say this. Our reading from Mark this morning is a fine story. I am sure it has profound layers of meaning about the theology of healing and Christology based on how Bartimaeus used the term “Son of David” and so on. However, as I personally reflected on it, all that my experience with disabled people would let me hear was that same old crowd saying, “Shut up Bartimaeus!” “Shhhh, stay back there and be quiet. We’ve got important Jesus things going on up here in the front row. You will interrupt our God games.”

I have seen Bartimaeus all my life. Not only do I have a son with a disability, but I also grew up in a single parent home and was raised by a father on dialysis and in a wheelchair. I have had front row seats to witness that same exclusion from Jesus because “we don’t have handicapped seating—our bathrooms are downstairs and we are grand -fathered in.” God forbid, the very last place you would want to make room for everyone would be a church. “We can’t fit you into our agenda right now. We’ve got important things to do like paint that steeple with our building funds. It’s vitally essential, you see. So, shush with all that racket, just go on about your business. You are a square peg in a round hole, an intrusion into our otherwise comfortable front row seats.”

Blind Bartimaeus and all the others like him, lepers, the lame and the deaf, begged outside the temple gate where they were excluded. They sat by the pool of Bethesda or lived in shanties by the side of the road. They sat in the shadows and like my dad and my son, they felt the sting of religious words that blamed them for their predicament---cursed by God. One of the very few times I can ever recall my very devout dad crying was after a fellow Christian told him that he could be well if he only had enough faith. That misguided person made him feel like was suffering needlessly for his own spiritual failure of "not believing enough."

On one level, the crowd was right. Bartimaeus was indeed an interruption. The narrative in this Gospel has Jesus on the way, quickly moving from place to place right on up to the climax of the story. In fact, the next thing in this Gospel is the highly anticipated triumphal entry into Jerusalem. The sacred cadences of Holy Week are playing when it all come to a screeching halt. One dissonant voice calls out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” The music stops. (Silence) “Hey, who said that?” “How dare anyone interrupt this parade? Jesus has an important schedule to keep, you know.” It was a rather rude and inconvenient interruption after all.

The interesting thing is that the Gospel story of Jesus is one long series of inconveniently placed interruptions. Bartimaeus interrupts Jesus. A centurion intrudes upon him on his way into Capernaum. Jairus interrupts Jesus and a woman with a hemorrhage intrudes upon Jesus on his way to Jairus' daughter. A very emotional woman bursts in and interrupts his dinner in the home of Simon. They are all interruptions. Yet, when we pay attention to the those stories we begin to realize that those incidents were not interruptions of his ministry, but rather the interruptions were his ministry. I believe the spirit may be whispering through these stories to say “ The work of God is quite often found in the context of that which is the most inconvenient.”
I work at the homeless shelter. I am there to serve the homeless. Sometimes I get so busy with programs, making sure the food is properly prepared and the washing machine is working and all that goes into running a homeless shelter that when a homeless person actually shows up at the front desk to see me, I catch myself wanting to say, “Ahhhhh, now is not a good time. Tell him to come back next Tuesday. I am too busy serving the homeless.” It’s easy to instantly spot what’s wrong with that picture.

Bartimaeus is physically blind as this story begins, but I cannot help but wonder if the text is telling us that the crowds were the ones who really were blind. They could not see what was really impotant. On one hand we have a blind beggar and on the other hand we have Jesus coming down the street---the very Jesus who has a pretty good track record of healing the blind. Bartimaeus has to call out and persevere over the crowds trying to shush him. My question is why wasn’t blind Bartimaeus, of all people, placed up at the front to start with? Probably for the same reasons that I get so busy serving the homeless that I cannot make room for a homeless person in my schedule or that we get so busy carrying out our church agendas that we cannot accommodate someone whose very presence is an inconvenient interruption.That is the most tragic kind of blindness: the eyes of our hearts are dimmed and we are closed off from seeing what is really important.

When Jesus stops and actually notices Bartimaeus, he does more than heal his sight. He opens our eyes and teaches us how to see.

What would it take for us to be willing to make room for those who are an interruption into our otherwise sanitized Jesus parades? What can be done to welcome a homeless person who smells from not having a shower in days? What about someone who speaks another language or is from a different culture than our own? Heck, what about a kid with Tourette’s Syndrome? It is inconvenient. It is an interruption, and that is precisely where God is most often knocking at our door. The role of a deacon may very well be to say to the crowd, “Psssst, the blind guy is really what Jesus is all about. Why don’t you make way through the crowd so we can get him a front row seat at this parade.”

I will say this: we ended up at our little Episcopal parish out in the cornfields, not because they have the most polished liturgy or the most spectacular facility. We ended up there because they welcomed a kid who sometimes makes some funny noises and sometimes twitches. They said, “Oh big deal. Come on in. You are all welcome at this table.”

Jesus said to Bartimaeus, “What do you want me to do for you?” I think the appropriate diaconal response would be, “My teacher, let us all really see again.”

Amen.

Stay in touch, blockhead!

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 02:44:00 +0000

I was once asked on another blog to tell about St. Lucy. Seeing how I did not have any clue, I followed the time-honored tradition of all clergy and simply made up answer that went like this: St. Lucy was the sister of St. Linus. She was widely known in church history for pulling the football out of the way just as St. Charlie was about to kick it. Church authorities excommunicated her for her prolific use of the phrase "blockhead”. This was known as the great "blockhead controversy". St. Peppermint Patty led the orthodox defenders of the view that all heads are created round. Legend has it that the pagan Pigpen, who only bathed once a year, persecuted her until he heard a voice from an unseen source that said "Mwahnawawaw Wampwahwa" Pope Snoopy the Great reversed her excommunication and her influence continued to grow. She is the patron saint of people who feel compelled to charge money for worthless psychological advice. It is widely rumored that Dr. Phil is a devotee of the cult of St. Lucy. On her feast day crabs are traditionally served since, by her own admission, she often felt "crabby." In the 20th century a group of English lads from Liverpool wrote a song about a vision they had of her "in the sky with diamonds." Ethel Mertz, a resident of New York reportedly saw a vision of St. Lucy's face on a piece of toast, but then she later sold it on Ebay.

I have been a target of the St. Lucy Society ever since I gave that answer. They have wanted to hunt me down in order to deal with my blasphemy. However, I remain an unrepentant follower of the notion that if one has to learn ecclesiastical history, then it should at least be mildly interesting, if not always true. (Evidently this was also the view of early hagiographers as well.)

The real reason that I know anything about St. Lucy at all has to do with a letter I have to write every so often. When my Bishop granted me postulancy, he asked me, “Do you know about Ember letters?” I am sure the dumb look on my face revealed the answer long before I shook my head and said, “No, Sir, I do not.” In my mind I was picturing a Varsity Letter jacket from High School with a small charcoal grill as an emblem for the sport I excelled in. Around my house I am called “the grill master”, so I could easily envision myself lettering in embers if grilling became a sport. (Yes, I had better stop this before I completely embarrass my Archdeacon. I try very hard not to embarrass her in public.) Four times a year, the Church sets aside days to reflect on God through creation. These “Ember Days” take place in winter after the Feast of St. Lucy; in spring following Ash Wednesday; in summer after Pentecost and in fall after Holy Cross Day. Our Canons state that I “shall communicate with the Bishop in person or by letter, four times a year, in the Ember Weeks.” The purpose of these letters is to reflect on my “academic experience and personal and spiritual development." In other words, I am supposed to let my Bishop know what is going on with me. No, I have not, nor will I ever communicate to him my version of St. Lucy’s story. The whole point of being a postulant is to get to go on and become a candidate for ordination! As strange as it may sound, I actually enjoy writing Ember letters. I received an email from the Bishop’s administrative assistant this week reminding me that another one is due in a couple of weeks. It is sort of nice to know that your Bishop wants to know what’s going on with you. Heck, it’s sort of nice to think that anyone wants to know what’s going on with you. Very often the difference between solitude and loneliness is whether or not you have someone who is thinking of you while you are alone.

I have come to value that type of communication in my work at the shelter. No, I do not require the homeless to write Ember letters. Sometimes I have people who come in saturated with the smell of wood fires they have stayed around for days. Occasionally a person will pass out too close to one and serious injury will occur. I can only imagine what I would get if I said, “I want you to write me an Ember letter.”

On one of the tours of the shelter that I conducted today I was asked, “ How do you know if people continue to do well after they graduate from one of the your programs?” I told her that follow up was largely done through voluntary self-reporting. In other words, we ask people to stay in touch and check in with us from time to time. I cannot track people down, but I genuinely want to know what is going on with them. I was asked, “How do you know if they are not doing well?” I replied, “We stop hearing from them.” In the world of addiction recovery, when someone drops off the radar screen it is never a good thing. When people are doing well they love to tell me about it. I have one fellow who still calls me regularly from Seattle just to let me know how he is doing. I also have a regular stream of people who come by to stick their heads in my door on occasion and let me know they are doing well. It is a very subtle form of accountability, but it works.

I have worked with people on the journey of recovery long enough to know that I really know nothing when it comes to recovery. If I had a magic pill or a secret program success formula, the world would be beating my door down. The irony is that the people who I often think will not make it are the very ones who graduate from my program. The ones who come in showing the most potential are often the first to relapse. We simply try to take the best of the 12 steps traditions and combine them with the most intensive mentoring discipleship and pray that we get it right with each person seeking help. I have discovered that everyone’s journey is unique and there is no cookie-cutter cure-all for addiction that is “one size fits all.” However, I have discovered some important themes that seem to run through all of the lives that continue to do well after leaving the shelter. One of those themes is accountability. Whatever form it takes in each individual situation, there is always a degree of surrender to being open to others. We strongly encourage people to find a faith community to become engaged in so they can make the transition to independent housing with the accountability and companionship of their church families. I tell them it is the difference between playing defense and offense. It is a plan for failure to simply go home alone at night and sit in an empty apartment and say, “ I will not use drugs, I will not use drugs.” That is simply sitting back waiting for temptation to come. I encourage my guests to be proactively involved with their new communities and get some real face time with people who are interested in how they are doing. I have come to believe that is not only critical for the battle against addiction, but for the struggle to remain human in the midst of the dehumanizing indignities of our modern culture.

We all need someone who wants to know what is going on with us, even if it’s just to say “Good Grief” every time the world pulls the football away just as we are about to kick it.

Storm clouds

noreply@blogger.com (Tim) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 22:08:00 +0000

“God is raging in the prophet’s words.” ---Abraham Heschel

“You build the tombs of the prophets and decorate the graves of the righteous, and you say ‘ If we had lived in the days of our ancestors, we would not have taken part with them in shedding the blood of the prophets.” Thus you testify against yourselves that you are the descendants of those who murdered the prophets.” ---Jesus (Mt. 23:29-31)

"And you can swallow
Or you can spit
You can throw it up
Or choke on it
And you can dream
So dream out loud
You know that your time is coming ‘round" ---U2, Acrobat

“You cannot invite those children over here. They are black.” The man standing in front of me was the leader of a little church that I worked in right after college. He wielded all of the power. It was a very rural area. I had gone over to the “poor section” and invited children to come over to a church activity we were having and I was being chastised for it. It had never crossed my mind that there might be a problem. It was not 1963. It was 1993, but it was still very much in the heart of the old Confederacy. I only made him angry when I pointed out the fact that the church sent financial support to people who served in Africa. That was different in his mind. That was Africa. This was America, more specifically, his America. I could not resist stating the obvious irony that if those missionaries were successful in Africa then this man would be spending a long time in heaven with black people. “When we’ve been there ten thousand years...” was sung almost every week in that church. If he could spend ten thousand years with black people in heaven, I could not figure out why his grandchildren could not spend an hour with black children at a church function. He looked me in the eye with all of the seriousness of men who are serious about such things and growled, “There will be no black people in heaven.” Except he used another very offensive term to refer to African-Americans. I sputtered and stammered in shock and he continued. “When we get to heaven we will be made like him for we will see him as he is and everyone knows that Jesus was not black.” I had to know just how he knew that Jesus was not black. His reply was, “God is light and in him is no darkness at all.” He was serious. The problem was that he was not some uneducated bumpkin from the sticks. He was a retired insurance salesman and an elected official in the town! It had never occurred to me that people really believed that white missionaries were going to Africa to help make people white one day in heaven and let them practice being Anglo-Saxons until then. After a long argument, he finally conceded that I could invite those children with one qualification. He said, “Just don’t let them play in the back yard. The neighbors who live around the church might see them.” He obviously knew our neighbors better than I did. He was afraid of their racism as only a fellow racist could be. He knew that what was in his heart was also in theirs.

I barely escaped that tradition. It was a hellish nightmare that nearly destroyed my soul. I have encountered racism all of my life. It was present in the school where I was a ministerial student. It was present in my church, neighborhood and the culture I grew up in. I do not remember the struggle for civil rights. Dr. King was murdered before I was born. The world I grew up in was a world that was still reeling from the collision of two storm fronts. One front was the prophetic word. The other was the status quo of “devout” Southern culture. The prophetic word in the Hebrew Scriptures declared that God was not interested in songs and sacrifices. God wanted justice. Worship with a blind eye toward injustice was blasphemy to God, declared those troublesome prophets. No matter “how sweet the sound” of Amazing Grace sung beautifully in Southern churches each week, there was a stain on the very soul of our culture that could not be wiped away with sacred melody. Classic Christian theology teaches that sin cannot be really be dealt with until it is truthfully named, owned and claimed in the process of repentance and reconciliation. Racism is a sin to be repented of. It is not simply a “blind spot” that otherwise good people happen to have. People act as if it is a minor problem like constipation. It is a terminal cancer that devours souls.

Everyone bemoans the silence of God until it is broken. People long to hear God speak. They want to hear the “word of God”…that is, until they finally get it. Then they want to toss it back as if they are playing a holy version of “hot potato.” Prophets are always inconvenient because the prophetic word is a sword. The prophetic proclamation is always bigger than the person speaking it and it is always like lobbing grenades into a fireworks factory. It destroys security and privilege so that justice may sprout and thrive. We love to venerate prophets long after they are gone, but at the time of their visitation “respectable” people want to silence their uncomfortable, radical rumblings. They put them on a cross or assassinate them on a balcony in Memphis.

This photograph is of our local monument to Dr. King. He had long passed away when I had that confrontation with the elderly church leader. That man whose theology of exclusion still held sway in his little fiefdom had lived through the storm currents of Dr. King’s prophetic word. He had heard and chose not to respond. Sadly, he had allowed it to pass over him and he missed the truth. That was then, but as we pause to remember the martyred prophet today, I cannot help but be a little frightful for the church. What uncomfortable prophetic word are we in danger of missing ourselves because it would mess up “the way we have always done” things? We deride the hard hearts of our ancestors a generation ago at our peril if we cannot learn from their mistakes. Abraham Heschel once wrote, “The things that horrified the prophets are even now daily occurrences all over the world.”