God's Inconvenient Call

Trinity and St. Philip’s Cathedral, Newark NJ

May 8, 2021

The Ordinations of Carrie Cabush, Katherine Rollo, and Lorna Woodham

Jeremiah 1:4-9

Psalm 84

Acts 6:2-7

Luke 12:35-38

God’s Inconvenient Call

It’s always a good idea to begin with gratitude, so I want to say thank you to Bishop Hughes for inviting me to preach at this wonderful and sacred occasion, here in our cathedral where, like many of the clergy gathered today, I was ordained a deacon.

I had not expected that I would ever again have the chance to offer a sermon in this place, but we all know that God is always full of surprises.

And, we give thanks for all of the people who have supported Carrie, Katherine, and Lorna on their long and winding journeys – giving thanks for family and friends and mentors, and, let’s not forget the members of the Commission on Ministry!

And, we surely give thanks to God for our three soon-to-be-deacons, who have listened carefully, worked hard, prayed even harder – who have already been a blessing to so many throughout this time of preparation.

Today we make official what has been quite obvious to many of us for a long time: you have been called by God to ordained ministry.

Of course, during this time of preparation you have been engaged in the hard work of discernment.

Like a lot of us, when I first started to consider pursuing ordained ministry, I got very interested in the practice of discernment – listening for God’s call. 

And, I think like a lot of us, I struggled with it. I wondered, how do I know that the call I’m hearing is from God and not just from my own will or my imagination? 

I remember early on in my time at seminary I took a class on Discernment, hoping that this would help me figure it out, so I could cross discernment off my to-do list, settle matters once and for all.

Well, it was an excellent class, but discernment is never really settled – it’s always a lifelong process.

But, I have become sure about two principles of discernment.

First, we know from the Bible, and from history, and from our own experience that God seems to delight in calling some of the seemingly least likely people to some very big jobs.

We heard that dynamic loud and clear in today’s first lesson.  After hearing God’s call, the soon-to-be-prophet Jeremiah protests that, I’m sorry but there must be some mistake, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.”

But, God knows what God is doing, just like God knew what God was doing when God chose a poor public speaker to lead the Israelites from slavery to freedom, just like when God chose a shepherd boy to become Israel’s greatest king, and just like when God chose a poor young peasant woman to carry the Son of God into the world. 

So, Carrie, Katherine, and Lorna, if right about now you’re feeling a little unlikely – or if this whole event feels a little unlikely – well, I’d say that’s a good sign, and you’re in very good company.

But, there’s something else about God’s call: it tends to be inconvenient.

God’s inconvenient call.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that if God’s call seems to be really convenient – really matches up with what you feel like doing – then it’s probably not a genuine call.

No, the God of surprises is always calling us out of comfort, always calling us to step out into the uncertain and the unknown, inviting us to trust that God will be with us, just as God was with Jeremiah during his many troubles.

God’s inconvenient call.

We see God’s inconvenient call throughout the gospels, as Jesus gathers his disciples.

The fisherman brothers James and John are called away from their boats and nets, called away from their livelihood, from probably the only work they had ever known, called away from their father who watched his sons, his future, walk off in a wildly unexpected direction.

God’s inconvenient call.

And, although inconvenience doesn't quite capture it, think of Mary Magdalene in the garden on the first Easter morning, exhausted from horror and grief, and now stunned by the unexpected best news of all time. Probably all she wanted to do was to sit for a bit, to cry, to hear more words from the Risen Lord, to try to make sense of what made no sense, but instead she is immediately called to be the apostle to the apostles, which sure sounds great to us, but she must have known that nobody would take her word for it.

God’s inconvenient call.

And, in today’s gospel lesson, Jesus promises even more inconvenient calls, warning that the master isn’t going to return at a civilized hour that fits our schedule, not going to return during regular business hours, but in the middle of the night or just before daybreak, when we’re bone tired and just want a few more minutes of sleep.

God’s inconvenient call.

From my own experience, I can tell you that it’s when I’ve been inconvenienced – when I’ve finally managed to block out some time to write my sermon and then I open my laptop, ready to begin – and then the phone rings – it’s then, in that moment of inconvenience, that I’ve often encountered God at work in my ministry.

God’s inconvenient call.

Since Lorna has done her field education in my parish, I’ve had the privilege and joy of getting to know her. But, I’ve had to ask some of my colleagues about you, Carrie and Katherine.

And, what I’ve learned is no surprise: all three of you are deeply faithful, compassionate, creative, hardworking, and persistent.

You really have already been gifts to the Church.

And, I have been totally unsurprised to learn that your calls have often been inconvenient – that this was not necessarily the way your foresaw your life unfolding – that your journeys have taken unexpected, sometimes unwelcome, twists and turns that have required you to be patient, that have called for some real faith and sacrifices on your part.

I don’t know how you feel about all of that, but I think this is all very good news, for you and for us.

When I was ordained a deacon – right over there - fourteen years ago, wise and well-meaning leaders of the Church had already been talking for years about how we could no longer do business as usual and that we needed to take the Church back out into the world.

But, while sometimes we did do business a little differently and every now and then we took the Church out into the world, for the most part not too much changed.

Let’s face it, with our beautiful buildings and lovely traditions, it is especially easy for us Episcopalians to get very comfortable.

I mean, if you’ve been around the church for any time, you’ve no doubt heard some of the many jokes that end with the punch line, “Because we’ve always done it this way.”

And then the pandemic struck. 

Like Julian of Norwich, who we honor today, we have been living with plague, trying to remain faithful when so much that we counted on and took for granted seems so insecure.

Of course, it’s been a time of deep fear and heartbreaking sorrow.

And, for us in the Church it has also been really inconvenient.

But, the God of surprises never misses an opportunity.

So, suddenly, business as usual was no longer an option.

Suddenly, we really did have to take the Church out into the world, or at least onto Zoom, Facebook, and YouTube

Suddenly, much of the injustice and suffering that many of us usually dismissed and ignored has been made plain for all with eyes to see and ears to hear.

My sisters, this is the Church and the world that God has inconveniently called you to serve in a new way.

And as we begin to come out of this terrible plague, no one knows what the future will bring. We don’t know what the Church will look like, though I’m sure – as Bishop Hughes has repeatedly warned us - there will be a push to somehow try to go back to the way things were before.

So, here’s my hope and my challenge for you:

Answer God’s inconvenient call by continuing to inconvenience us.

Let God use you to inconvenience us.

Yes, as deacons part of your job will be “waiting tables,” but don’t forget your call to “serve all people, particularly the poor, the weak, the sick and the lonely.”

As deacons, inconvenience us by pointing to the suffering all around us, challenging us to love and to help, rousing us from our comfort and complacency.

As deacons, inconvenience us by calling us out when we shrug and say, “But we’ve always done it this way.”

And, God willing and the people consenting, when you are priests, keep that diaconal spirit of inconvenience alive in your priesthood, alive in your heart, always.

So, today we give thanks to the God of surprises for so much – especially for Carrie, Katherine, and Lorna.

And, we give thanks for God’s inconvenient call – the call that always invites us out of comfort, inviting us to step out into the uncertain and the unknown, inviting us to trust that God will be with us, no matter what.

Thanks be to God for the inconvenient call to new life.

Amen.

On a Wilderness Road

The Church of St. Paul & Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

May 2, 2021

Year B: The Fifth Sunday of Easter 

Acts 8:26-40

Psalm 15:1-8

1 John 4:7-21

John 15:1-8

On a Wilderness Road

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Now, I’m not sure, but I think I may have mentioned to you once or twice before that baptizing people is one of my most favorite things to do is a priest. 

No, it’s true.

And, Baptism is definitely near the top of the list of things I have missed during our long stretch of separation.

It is such a joy and privilege to initiate newcomers into the Christian community – to remind people that, in and through the water of Baptism, God makes an unbreakable – an indissoluble bond – with all of us.

No matter what we do or don’t do – no matter how many times we mess up – God will never give up on us.

Which is very good news, indeed.

And, since I love baptizing people so much, it’s no surprise that today’s first lesson, from the Acts of the Apostles, is a favorite.

The story of the Ethiopian eunuch and Philip is vivid, and mysterious, and moving – and I think it speaks to the hard times that we’ve been living through.

The story begins with an angel telling Philip to get up and go to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza – a road that is described as “a wilderness road.” That little aside tips us off that we’re in for an encounter with the Holy.

Throughout the Bible – and I’d suggest throughout our lives - encounters with the Holy seem to happen more frequently in wilderness places and times, maybe because it’s there and then, away from the familiarity of our usual routines, that we pay a little closer attention to what’s going on around us.

Anyway, it’s there on a wilderness road that Philip encounters the intriguing figure of the Ethiopian eunuch.

This important government official – the treasurer of a kingdom – has been far from home.  He’s been up in Jerusalem to worship, but now he’s in his chariot making the long journey home to Africa.

The Ethiopian eunuch was almost certainly a non-Jew, a Gentile, but one who was drawn to the God of Israel – worshiping in the Temple and, as we see in this story, studying the Scripture. 

There’s something endearing about the Ethiopian eunuch sitting in his chariot, reading from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah, trying to make sense of the words – it reminded me a little of some of our Church By Phone services when we’ve heard some difficult and puzzling Scripture passages – I can almost hear some of us scratching our heads, trying to figure out what these old words might mean, what they might say to us today.

Anyway, Philip arrives and the Spirit directs him, “Go over to this chariot and join it.”

Philip does what he’s told, and, as we heard, Philip interprets Isaiah in light of Jesus – Philip proclaims the good news to this African, this outsider, this foreigner from a land that in the ancient world was almost the definition of faraway: Ethiopia.

And, then, in my favorite part of the story: the Ethiopian spots some water and asks Philip, “What is to prevent me from being baptized?”

What indeed!

So, Philip baptized the Ethiopian – perhaps the first African Christian – who continued on his way home, rejoicing.

And, it all happened on a wilderness road.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Looking back on the past year of the pandemic and economic troubles and political instability - and looking ahead to an uncertain future for us all - doesn’t it feel like we’re on a wilderness road, too? 

And, yet, here in this unfamiliar place, we’re having encounters with the Holy, too.

Philip squeezed into the chariot to sit beside the eunuch, studying the Scriptures together, taking a journey to the water of Baptism.

In the same way, one of the paradoxes of this long time apart is that many of us have somehow managed to grow closer to each other – and we’ve allowed God to grow closer to us.

And, that’s been God’s great desire all along.

As we heard in today’s lessons from the First Letter of John and the Gospel of John, God desires to be so close to us – close to all of us no matter how far from home we may be – no matter how far apart we may be – God desires to be so close to us.

God invites us to “abide” in God – God invites to dwell in God – to be held close by love.

God desires that we be as close as a branch to the vine, a branch that depends on the vine for life itself.

I confess that over the past few days it’s been really hitting me that our time with all of you here at St. Paul and Incarnation is drawing to a close.

I’m feeling the pressure of all the many things that need to get done over the next couple of weeks to make sure I leave the church in as good shape as I can.

And, of course, even under the best of circumstances, moving is a stressful experience – figuring out what we’ll give away or throw away and what we will pack and take with us – lining up movers – wondering what our new life will be like – as we relocate from a place we know so very well to a place where I’m going to need to use the GPS just about every day.

And, there are all the good-byes and the ending of relationships, or, at least, facing the hard fact of a new and unsettling distance between us.

But, while it’s been a hard week on the wilderness road, I’ve also had some beautiful reminders of our closeness – the kind of closeness that God desires for us – the closeness that Jesus offers us – the closeness of the branches to the vine – the closeness that is the very essence of love – the closeness of the water of baptism.

In a sermon a few months ago, I mentioned how, about eleven years ago now, Sue and I moved to Gainesville, Florida, where I was the chaplain at the University of Florida and rector of a small church called St. Michael’s.

We ended up staying there for only a year. We met lots of lovely people but it was a hard time for us. And, when I announced that I was leaving I felt like I had failed, letting down a whole lot of people.

Looking back on it, our Florida year was for us a wilderness road where we encountered the Holy. It was a journey that has continued to bless us.

First of all, cats joined our family that year. For a time we were minor celebrities at the Gainesville PetsMart: the couple who adopted three cats in one day!

But, we’ve also kept in touch with several of our Florida folks – especially Tina and Jean – who, over all these years and despite the distance that separates us, have gifted us with their friendship and support.

And, as I’ve mentioned, during the pandemic, some other Florida people have been calling into Church By Phone and joining us here on Facebook.

All quite amazing.

And then just the other day, I looked at my phone and saw that I had missed a call from a Gainesville number. I listened to the message and heard the voice of someone I hadn’t heard from, hadn’t talked to, in a decade: Annetta.

Annetta was a parishioner at St. Michael’s. Each Sunday, she and her husband and a friend would ride in a minivan from their retirement community to church. They were all kind and faithful people and I was very fond of them. But when I left, I figured that was it.

Well, anyway, I called Annetta back and she asked if I remembered her, and I said, “Of course, I remember you!” It turned out that she had called me because someone had told her that we were broadcasting our services and – after all this time and distance - she wanted to know how to find us. We talked for a time, picking up right where we left off, filling in each other on the big events of the past decade of our lives.

By the way, Annetta will be 100 years old this December!

And, as we talked, I felt myself getting choked up, amazed by the closeness I still felt even after all this time and distance. 

And, it all happened on a wilderness road.

So, now wait a minute. I can’t remember, have I mentioned to you how much I love baptizing people?

Well, as we approach the end of this little stretch of wilderness road that we’ve been walking along together, I’m so pleased and excited that on my last Sunday here – May 30 – we will have a Baptism.

Our much-loved parishioners Luis and Sima have asked that their beautiful daughter Lina Sofia be baptized. The hope is that, just like the Ethiopian and Philip, it will be an outdoor baptism during our afternoon service.

In any event, just like for the Ethiopian, there is surely nothing to prevent Lina from being baptized.

And, honestly, I can’t think of a better way to conclude my time here – celebrating the unbreakable – indissoluble – bond that God will make with Lina – one last chance for us to celebrate together the unbreakable, indissoluble, bond that God has made with us all.

Because the truth is that whether we’re in Ethiopia or Florida or Jersey City or, yes, Maryland, God desires to be so close to us.

God invites us to “abide” in God – God invites to dwell in God – a bond held together by love.

God desires that we be as close as a branch to the vine, a branch that depends on the vine for life itself.

And we know this is possible – we know this is true - because, just like the Ethiopian and Philip, we have encountered the Holy - on a wilderness road.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

A Sheepfold on the Move

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 25, 2021

Year B: The Fourth Sunday of Easter

Acts 4:5-12

Psalm 23

1 John 3:16-24

John 10:11-18 

A Sheepfold On the Move

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

I know that it’s almost impossible to believe, but about 160 years ago when a few Episcopalians first began to gather on this spot for worship and fellowship, they were surrounded by countryside.

In fact, back then this area was so rural that there was a herd of sheep that grazed just down the hill from here.

It’s true.

So, I guess that the first rector of St. Paul’s, the Rev. Fernando Putnam, didn’t have to work too hard in his Good Shepherd Sunday sermons for people to grasp the shepherd and sheep imagery that we heard today.

Just like people back in the first century, our Episcopalian ancestors would have had no trouble picturing a shepherd hard at work, no problem imagining the sight, the sound, and, yes, the smell, of sheep.

And, probably just like people two thousand years ago, the first people to worship in this church would have been struck by the image of Jesus as the “Good Shepherd” – or, actually, Jesus as a shepherd far better than good - a shepherd who sacrificed his life for the sheep – a sacrifice that was not expected of shepherds in Palestine, or the village of Bergen, I’m sure.

Of course, the land down the hill from here where those sheep grazed was paved over and built up long ago.

And, I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a shepherd in person, and the only sheep I’ve ever met were at a petting zoo.

So, I don’t know – maybe the shepherd and sheep imagery doesn’t work quite as easily and as well for us in the built up and noisy Jersey City of today.

And yet, because even the loudest racket is no match for Jesus, we can still hear the call of the Good Shepherd, inviting us to be part of his flock, welcoming us into his sheepfold.

After all, here we are this morning.

The other day I was driving up Montgomery Street and I noticed that it looks like workers are beginning to finally demolish the nursing home that has sat vacant and forlorn, covered in graffiti, for the past couple of years.

Some of you may remember that for the first five or so years of my rectorship a few of us – Gail, Vanessa, Dee Dee, occasionally a few others, and I - offered a monthly healing service at that nursing home – first known as Liberty House and later Majestic.

The attendance at our service would vary from month to month, depending on the health and awareness of the residents, and the availability of staff, and also what kind of competition we faced from the other programming that was scheduled during our time slot.

On our way upstairs, I always looked at the calendar posted in the elevator to see what we were up against, knowing that the ice cream social would give us some stiff competition, but the not so popular “Let’s Clean the Closet” meant we would have a full house.

But we always had our regulars. And, I think I can speak for the rest of the team when I say that the residents and the employees became very dear to us – we came to think of them all as a kind of satellite congregation, part of our community.

The highlight of the service was Gail’s music, of course, which could cut through the doldrums of nursing home life and snapped people out of the fog of dementia.

And, no matter what shape they were in physically and mentally, almost everyone would join in saying the Lord’s Prayer – and they would also say the familiar King James Version of the Twenty-Third Psalm:

And, in that place of much suffering and sadness, it was hard not to get choked up as together we said:

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Yes, Jesus the far-better-than-Good Shepherd continues to call us, inviting us to be part of his flock, welcoming us into his sheepfold.

And then, what?

Well, I think today’s epistle lesson from the First Letter of John gives us our answer.

The author of First John first reminds us of the far-better-than-Good Shepherd who laid down his life for us, and then insists that we ought to lay down our lives for one another – that we must care for people in need.

The author of First John asks the haunting question, “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses to help?”

And then he adds, “Little children, let us love, not in word or speech but in truth and action.”

Truth and action.

Now, I admit that I don’t know much about sheepfolds but I’m pretty sure that the sheepfolds in first century Palestine and in nineteenth century Bergen stayed put – the sheep mostly just standing around, safe behind gates or walls, grazing in the same spot day after day.

But, Jesus the Good Shepherd’s sheepfold is different – it’s not tied down to some specific place.

No, Jesus’ sheepfold is on the move.

Jesus the Good Shepherd calls us to follow him, to follow his example, to give away our lives in service to others – to love not in word or speech but in truth and action.

A sheepfold on the move.

So, you know, for as long as I’ve been associated with the church I’ve heard talk about how we need to get out of our buildings and take the church out onto the streets and into the world.

I’d like to think that over our past eight years together we’ve done that – at least sometimes.

On Good Friday we’ve carried the cross through the bloodstained streets of Jersey City.

In Jersey City Together, we have worked with others to demand safe streets, affordable housing, and decent schools.

We took a chance and opened our community center down at Triangle Park.

Over on Storms Avenue, Deacon Jill opened the doors to the world, creating the Lighthouse as a safe place for asylees and refugees – people who are the very definition of brothers and sisters in need.

Yes, we have taken the church out into the world - well, sometimes, at least.

But, this year has been something else.

As you are well aware, the pandemic has shut most of us out of our church building – and if we didn’t know it before we know it now – this building, as much as we love it and cherish it, as much as I love it and cherish it and will miss it so much – this beautiful building with foundations laid by faithful Episcopalians 160 years ago – this building is just a small part of the sheepfold.

Jesus’ sheepfold is not like other sheepfolds.

Jesus’ sheepfold is a sheepfold on the move. 

A few months ago when I signed on the dotted line and accepted the call from St. Thomas’ Owings Mills, I was sure that by now the pandemic would have eased enough that many of us could gather together here in our sanctuary – not quite what it was like before, but together, at least.

To be honest, I try not to think too much about how that has turned out to not be possible, though we hope to have some afternoons together outside over the next few Sundays

But, the day will come when our red doors will be open again.

And, when that day finally arrives, my hope is that we won’t forget the lessons of this hard time – that we won’t forget that we really can be the church out there.

My hope is that we won’t forget that we can pray over the phone or share our burdens and hopes in our small groups.

My hope is that many more of us will support Triangle Park and the Lighthouse and Jersey City Together.

My hope is that we will once again bring song and prayer and healing to the residents of nursing homes, people who despite much suffering are able to hear – are desperate to hear – the voice of Jesus the far-better-than-Good Shepherd.

My hope is that, whether we’re here in New Jersey or in Maryland or wherever, we will love one another not in word or speech but in truth and action.

Jesus continues to call us, inviting us to be part of his flock, welcoming us into his sheepfold.

But, Jesus’ sheepfold is not like other sheepfolds.

Jesus’ sheepfold is a sheepfold on the move. 

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

The Scarred Risen Christ

The Church of St. Paul & Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 11, 2021

Year B: The Second Sunday of Easter

Acts 4:32-35

Psalm 133

1 John 1:1-2:2

John 20:19-31

The Scarred Risen Christ 

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Well, by now, the world has moved on from Easter.

Stores have deeply discounted all that candy – the chocolate bunnies and the Peeps are all priced to sell.

The contents of Easter baskets have been mostly consumed, with maybe just a few stray jellybeans stuck at the bottom.

And, even here in church, after last week’s big – though virtual – celebration – even we might think that Easter is now in the rearview mirror.

But, of course, that is not so.

Yes, it is still Easter!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

It is still Easter for us, and in today’s gospel lesson it is still Easter for Jesus’ disciples. In fact, for them it is the evening of the first Easter, though they’re not celebrating just yet. No, the disciples are frightened and confused.

John writes that the disciples are frightened of “the Jews,” so, once again we need to remember that all of these people were Jews.

The truth is that the disciples are not afraid of “the Jews” but they are understandably worried that the authorities who had arrested and executed Jesus are coming for them next, so they’re hiding out in a room behind locked doors.

Plus, by now reports had gotten back to the disciples about the empty tomb – which must have been disturbing, for sure.

And then, on top of all that, there was Mary Magdalene’s account of a seemingly impossible conversation with Jesus.

Was that just the wishful thinking or the overactive imagination of someone brokenhearted by grief?

Or, could Jesus’ promise of rising on the third day really have been fulfilled?

I imagine the disciples would greet that possibility with a mix of emotions – shock, hope, joy, and maybe also fear and even guilt and shame – the fear we feel when the usual order of things has been turned upside-down – dead people don’t come back to life, after all, right?

And the disciples might have also been feeling guilty and ashamed because they remembered only too well that they had abandoned Jesus in his greatest moment of need.

The disciples all bore the invisible scars of their cowardice and betrayal.

And then, suddenly, Jesus appears – mysteriously transformed – a locked door is no obstacle for the Risen Lord – but he’s also the same – he shows his friends his wounded hands and side – he shows them the scars of his suffering.

And, Jesus heals their fear and confusion and maybe even their guilt and shame with the simple words:

“Peace be with you.”

“Peace be with you.”

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Of course, not everyone was there that first Easter night. 

The absent Apostle Thomas missed out on Easter – and it looks like he missed a kind of Pentecost, too – since, at least the way John tells the story, Jesus breathes the Spirit on his disciples right then and there.

Each year on this Second Sunday of Easter we hear the story of the missing Apostle Thomas, and I always wonder why he wasn’t there with the others. Maybe he was off running an errand or tending to his family or handling some other responsibility. Maybe he was too frightened even to gather with the others, though that doesn’t really match the little we know of his character. Maybe – and this is what I always imagine – maybe it’s that he was so angry and ashamed – angry at God for allowing Jesus to suffer and die – and ashamed that he, like the others, had abandoned the Lord.

Of course, the others tell Thomas their amazing news, the best news of all time: “We have seen the Lord.”

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And then, Thomas gets his big moment. He famously doubts his fellow disciples, saying that he won’t believe until he can see and touch the mark of the nails, until he can put his hand in Jesus’ wounded side.

And it’s here that I want to stop – the wounds, the scars.

Isn’t it amazing that the Risen Christ still has his scars?

Now, I realize that the scars provide a quick and easy way to convince the disciples, and a week later Thomas, that this is the same Jesus who died on the cross. But, I have to believe that there were lots of other ways that Jesus could have convinced his friends that he was who he said he was.

Isn’t it amazing that the Risen Christ still has his scars?

I mean, if we were writing this story, wouldn’t we have erased those wounds? Wouldn’t we have the Risen Christ appear radiant and unblemished, the horrors of Good Friday erased from his body and, as best we could, banished from our memory?

You know, church types like me always try to get people to attend the Holy Week services, especially Good Friday. And, I still stand by the fact that Easter is even sweeter if we’ve walked the way of the cross with Jesus.

But, then, on Easter, and in the days and weeks that follow, we do our best to put the suffering of Good Friday behind us, understandably eager to move as fast as we can from shadow to light, from sadness to joy.

But, that doesn’t seem to be how God operates.

Jesus keeps his scars.

And those scars serve as a reminder of his very real suffering at the hands of people not so different from us – those scars serve as a reminder that love comes at a great cost – those scars serve as a reminder that God is willing to suffer along with us, that, in a sense, God is scarred – just like us.

Because we are surely scarred, aren’t we?

We bear physical scars from accidents and surgeries.

Some women bear scars from the stretching required to carry new life into the world – another reminder that love always comes at a cost.

And, even if our physical bodies are somehow unmarked, our hearts have all been scarred - maybe by rejection and disappointment, maybe by cruelty and abuse, by betrayal and abandonment, by anxiety and fear, by loss and grief.

Maybe our hearts have been scarred by our own misdeeds and guilt.

Our hearts have certainly all been scarred by the events of the past year – the loss of people we love - a relentless pandemic, economic insecurity, political instability, devastating reminders of prejudice and hate – seeing and hearing poor George Floyd gasping for breath and calling for “Mama” – seeing those videos of Asian-American people verbally abused and even physically attacked - our hearts have been scarred by all of it.

So, maybe here in church – maybe - we can just turn the page from shadow to light, but not so much in a world that often seems so very stuck at Good Friday.

And yet, over and over, and often when we least expect it, the scarred Risen Christ enters the locked rooms of our lives – walks right into the locked rooms of our scarred hearts.

I know I talk about it all the time, but when I think of scars and new life, I can’t help but think about our community center at Triangle Park.

The scars remain on that long-neglected and violence-stained neighborhood, and yet, and yet, new life is taking root as more and more people find food and diapers and hygiene products, all sorts of help – and, most of all, a warm welcome - at our center.

Yes, the scars remain on that long-neglected neighborhood, but, as we speak, the old ugly paved-over park is quickly being transformed into a beautiful garden.

Yes, it’s looking a whole lot like Easter at Triangle Park.

And, here in our own church community, I keep hearing about how much people already love the small faith groups that are just a few weeks old.

In a time when we are still so separated from each other and perhaps feeling anxious about the future – thanks to Carol Harrison-Arnold and the facilitators – and thanks all of you who have taken a chance and are participating – the scarred Risen Christ has entered or lives in a new way, through mutual sharing and support, offering healing and comfort.

So, the Risen Christ shows us his scars – assuring us that God knows, really remembers, all that we endure. 

And, while Jesus’ scars and our scars are surely reminders of pain, they are also reminders that God has given us the strength to survive that pain.

Jesus’ scars and our scars are reminders of both suffering and of healing.

Jesus’ scars and our scars are reminders that God is all about transforming death into new life.

That’s what our friend the Apostle Thomas learned a week after the first Easter when, with his own eyes, he saw the scarred Risen Christ.

For Thomas, it was finally Easter.

It is still Easter for us all.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Abundant Alleluias in a World Hungry For Hope

The Church of St. Paul and the Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 4, 2021

Easter Day

Acts 10:34-43

Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

1 Corinthians 15:1-11

John 20:1-18

Abundant Alleluias in a World Hungry For Hope

        Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Happy Easter, everyone!

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

So, fair warning: I’m going to try to get as many “alleluias” as I can into today’s sermon and service.

I doubt there will be any complaints about that, because it feels so good to say this ancient and beautiful word of praise, doesn’t it?

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Part of the reason why it feels so good to say “alleluia” this morning is that during Lent, in addition to asking us to make a personal sacrifice – chocolate is the classic example – the church also requires us to fast from saying what we refer to during those forty days as only the “A word.”

So, ever since Ash Wednesday, over the long season of Lent, the word “alleluia” has been completely absent from our lives.

Well, actually, that’s not quite true.

I can think of at least three times over the last few weeks when I’ve heard and, yes, even said, “alleluia.”

Back just before the start of Lent, I reminded everyone who calls into our Church By Phone services that we would be refraining from saying “alleluia.”

Most people remembered, a few slipped up in the first few days, and one person just kept on sharing her “alleluias” with the rest of us.

Day after day, I’d conclude each service with “Let us bless the Lord.”

And, without fail, she would respond, “Thanks be to God. Alleluia! Alleluia!”

At first I thought about giving her a call and explaining about how we give up that word for Lent, but then I thought, you know, this has been such a hard time - it feels like we’ve been in Lent for a whole year – and it sounded to me like she just could not contain her “alleluias.” It sounded like she couldn’t help but express her joy and gratitude that, despite our forced separation, we can still hear each other’s voices, we are still able to pray together, even if it is over the phone.

Abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

The second time I crossed paths with “alleluia” was at our dear brother Alton Avaloy’s funeral, just a few weeks ago.

It was such an emotional afternoon, all of us still shocked and sad at the sudden loss of this good man, but also reassured by the resilience of our community – a community that, after all this time apart, came out in large numbers to say goodbye to our friend and to support his family, especially his mom, Sonia.

In my homily I told everyone that we were going to break our Lenten fast and shout “Alleluia” because, despite our grief, we rejoice that God is never going to let go of Alton, we rejoice at Alton’s new life with God, we rejoice that for Alton it was already Easter – for Alton, it is Easter forever.

How could we possibly contain our “alleluias?”

Abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

And, finally, there was Maundy Thursday evening.

Our Holy Week services are always important to me, but this year I tried to enter into them more mindfully as usual, taking in the beauty of this place, appreciating the chance to be here with “tech support” and Gail, with so many of you participating at home.

When I had reviewed the bulletin a couple of weeks ago, I hadn’t noticed that the “Hallelujah” at the end of the psalm had not been deleted.

So, there we were, live on Facebook on one of the most solemn nights of the year, Sue and I reciting the psalm responsively, and I concluded the last verse loud and clear so everyone at home could hear it, “Hallelujah!”

Sue flinched.

A split-second later I realized what I had done and almost clapped my hand against my mouth, trying to retrieve the forbidden word.

I was embarrassed. How could I, “a highly trained and deeply experienced religious professional,” make such a mistake?!?

But, later that night, I thought about all that we have been through together – all that this place has meant to me and will always mean to me – and I thought, how could I possibly contain my “alleluias”?

Abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

Early on that first Easter morning, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb of Jesus. 

John doesn’t tell us why she was there by herself, alone in the dark.

Maybe she remembered Jesus’ promise of rising on the third day, and she went to see, just in case something so unlikely could possibly be true.

Maybe - after all the horror of past few days and looking ahead to an uncertain future - she just wanted some time as close to Jesus as she could get.

Maybe even she didn’t know why she was there, what she hoped to find.

Well, at first, when she discovered the empty tomb, Mary’s heart must have broken yet again, fearing that someone had stolen the body, creating even more suffering for all those who had loved Jesus.

She rushes to get help. And Peter and the other disciple run their race to the tomb. They see its shocking emptiness. All that’s left is a cloth and linen wrappings. Maybe out of shock, fear, or just not knowing what to make of all this, the two disciples head back home – no help at all.

But Mary Magdalene remains.

And then, in one of the most powerful and poignant moments in all of Scripture she hears a voice – she hears that voice - she hears the voice of Jesus – call her name, “Mary!”

And, right then and there, early in the morning in a garden, a new age dawns.

In that moment, Mary Magdalene is the church – she’s the first person in the whole world to know the good news, the best news of all time:

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And, there’s no way that Mary Magdalene could possibly contain her “alleluias,” right?

So, she immediately rushes to tell the others - and soon enough Peter and the other apostles, and Paul, and so many others through the ages won’t be able to contain their “alleluias,” either.

They will share their abundant alleluias in a world hungry for hope.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

And now, my dear St. Paul and Incarnation friends, it’s time for us to share our abundant alleluias in a world that is so hungry for hope.

It’s time for us – all of us, now – to share our “alleluias” each time we call in for prayer.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” by welcoming our first refugees and asylees into the new Lighthouse.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” by feeding the hungry and clothing the naked at Triangle Park, and the homeless drop-in center, and wherever we find them.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” with the young people of our community, offering them a different way, offering them love and opportunity, inspiring them to finally lay down their weapons – the best way, the only way, to honor young men like Zaimier and Kaheem, whose young lives were recently snuffed out on the streets of Jersey City.

It’s time for us to share our “alleluias” by heading into our future, not with fear, but with the confidence of people who know that since Jesus is raised, no matter what happens, no matter how far from home we travel, there is nothing that can ever separate us from God’s love, nothing that can separate us from each other.

After all we have been through together – after journeying from death to new life – how can we not share our abundant “alleluias” in a world hungry for hope?

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Amen.

Even at the Grave, We Hope

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 3, 2021

Holy Saturday

Job 14:1-14

Psalm 31:1-4, 15-16

1 Peter 4:1-8

Matthew 27:57-66

Even at the Grave, We Hope

When someone dies, the immediate family and closest friends grieve, of course, but usually they also get caught up in the business – the busy-ness of death.

Even in the midst of grief, there’s lots of work to be done – which can be a kind of comfort.

There’s the meeting with the funeral director and the meeting with the clergy.

There’s picking out hymns and readings for the service.

There’s writing the obituary, choosing people to read or offer reflections at the service.

There’s greeting family and friends when they come to the funeral home, the church, or the repast – accepting condolences, somehow managing to make small talk with people who are sad and uncomfortable, not really knowing what to say.

In those first few days after a death, lots of people check in with calls and emails, maybe some drop off food, or send cards and flowers.

But, then, after not too long, most everybody else gets back to their normal lives. They soon stop checking in with us. But we who have suffered a terrible loss are not ready, just not able, to get back to normal – whatever normal will be without someone we love but see no more.

That’s what Holy Saturday morning always feels like to me.

Here we are up early on Holy Saturday morning, this strange time, this unsettling place, somewhere between Good Friday and Easter, between grief and joy, between death and new life.

You know, even people who take Holy Week and Easter seriously often skip over this moment – maybe eager to put yesterday’s sorrow behind us, maybe feeling time pressure because there’s always so much that needs to get done.

I’m sure it wasn’t so different back in Jerusalem two thousand years ago. 

The death of Jesus of Nazareth must have seemed to most people to be just another crucifixion in an occupied city punctured by crosses – another cautionary tale from Roman brutality - another tragedy in a world full of pain, suffering, and loss.

So, it’s better not to think about it too much – how all that hope that Jesus offered seemed to be extinguished on the cross – better to just mind our own business and get on with life. After all, there’s always plenty that needs doing to stay sheltered and fed, to survive.

So, most people moved on.

But, not everybody.

The grieving family and friends of Jesus could not move on so quickly.

We don’t know exactly what they were up to during this strange in-between time.

Maybe some ran off, frightened that the Romans would come for them next.

Maybe some gathered together, like the disciples in the locked room, also scared but maybe also trying to hold onto Jesus’ promise of the third day – not really believing it, but waiting around to see, just in case. 

And others, like Mary Magdalene and some of the other women, made preparations to do the only thing they could now do for Jesus, getting ready to visit Jesus’ grave and bathe his dead body with ointment – an act of love that seems pointless, an act of love that is, in fact, a sign of hope.

So, here we are.

Even people who were paying attention yesterday have already moved on, but here we are in this strange in-between time – grieving so much suffering, past and present, and looking ahead to an uncertain future.

Here we are, up early on Holy Saturday morning.

Because, even at the grave, we hope.

The Hope of a Suffering God

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 2, 2021

Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13-53:12

Psalm 22:1-11

Hebrews 10:1-25

John 19:1-42

The Hope of a Suffering God

Today we come to what must surely have seemed to be the end of the story of Jesus – the end of all the hope that he inspired among so many people – the end of the new life foreshadowed by the cleansing of lepers, the restoration of sight to the blind, the raising of the dead.

Of course, unlike the first disciples, we know that this was not the end of the story of Jesus – just the beginning, really.

So, without any irony, we can call today Good Friday.

But, it’s essential that we remember that, for most of our history, this day has been anything but good for our Jewish neighbors, our elder brothers and sisters in faith.

Over the centuries, our Christian ancestors forgot – or chose to forget – that just about everyone in the story I just read was Jewish – we forgot or chose to forget that this is a Jewish story – it’s a story of division among Jewish people – it’s a story of some Jewish leaders justifying the death of Jesus as a price to pay for keeping the peace under the brutal rule of the Romans.

Over the centuries, our Christian ancestors forgot – or chose to forget – that Jesus died at the hands of the Roman Empire, a cruel regime represented by Pontius Pilate – who, in the gospel sounds sort of reasonable, even regretful about this unpleasant business, but who was, in fact, more brutal than most.

Even worse than forgetting all of this, over time our Christian ancestors heard this old Jewish story and made the leap to blaming the Jews of their own time, punishing the Jews of their own time, for the death of Jesus centuries earlier.

Yes, for most of our history Good Friday has been a very bad day for the Jews.

I begin my Good Friday sermon this way every year, and it would be nice to think that we’ve all finally gotten the message, but, unfortunately, current events suggest otherwise.

We live in a time when the old demons of racism and prejudice and violence are on the loose – a time when people seen as “other” – very much including Jews - are in real danger.

So, once again, it must be said, Jesus was a victim of state-sponsored violence - killed by the Romans, who tolerated no threat to their rule.

In Jerusalem of two thousand years ago, crucifixion was a terrible but routine event. 

The city was often punctured with crosses, each holding a decomposing body, each standing as a grim and effective warning to anyone who might think about challenging Roman power.

And yet, despite the suffering of Jesus, and the suffering of so many other people back then and today, we insist that today is Good Friday.

And it seems to me that today is Good Friday most of all because now we know for sure that God knows what it’s like to suffer – to really suffer – to experience rejection, torture, abandonment, and even death itself.

In and through Jesus, God does not stand aloof from us, but instead enters into the mess of life, willing to suffer alongside of us.

Some of you may remember William Sloane Coffin, chaplain at Yale, pastor of the Riverside Church. He was one of the best-known American pastors of a few decades ago.

Back in 1983, Coffin’s son Alex, twenty-four years old, was killed in a car accident. And, just ten days later William Sloane Coffin somehow managed to preach a remarkable, now famous, sermon, in which he said:

“My own consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex die; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God’s heart was the first of all our hearts to break.”

“God’s heart was the first of all our hearts to break.”

And in the same way, the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when Sidney and Alton took their last breaths – the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when each of the millions of people around the world succumbed to Covid – the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when broken men opened fire in Atlanta spas and a Boulder supermarket – the heart of our suffering God was the first to break when 16 year-old Kaheem Taylor was shot and killed in an apartment building lobby on Bergen Avenue, just a mile or two south of here.

And if God – who could have easily avoided all our suffering, standing aloof from us forever – if God is willing to suffer like we suffer, then we can be sure that God walks beside us, giving us the strength we need to endure our suffering – and, even more than that, giving us the grace and wisdom to someday stop hurting each other, to beat our swords into plowshares, to finally, finally, take down our crosses and put away our nails.

These are surely difficult days as we endure a virus that does not care if we’re tired of it – as we face economic uncertainty, political instability, and the resurgence of ugly hate and destructive violence against anyone seen as other, anyone we can blame for our troubles.

Yet, we insist that today is good, because today of all days we know for sure that God is here in the mess of life, suffering alongside of us, and showing us the way to new life.

The hope of a suffering God.

Amen.

Jesus, Teacher of Hope

The Church of St. Paul and Incarnation, Jersey City NJ

April 1, 2021

Maundy Thursday

Exodus 12:1-4, 11-14

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Jesus, Teacher of Hope

In the gospels there are many titles for Jesus, but one of the most common is one that we heard tonight:

Teacher.

Jesus’ own disciples often call him “teacher,” as do others who are curious, or maybe even skeptical, about his message.

Jesus the teacher.

And, all these centuries later, Jesus is still rightfully celebrated as the great teacher. After all, we still remember the lessons that he taught long ago. We are still learning the lessons that he continues to teach us.

Tonight, on Maundy Thursday, we remember Jesus the teacher gathered with his closest disciples for one last meal.

For some time, Jesus had been predicting his suffering and death, but, understandably enough, his friends and followers did not – or maybe could not – hear what he was trying to tell them.

But now, together at the table one last time, the truth must have been sinking in.

And now, with time growing short, Jesus the teacher uses this meal as an opportunity to teach a few final, most important, lessons.

Jesus the teacher uses the most vivid and unforgettable imagery available in an effort to get through to his friends who, while lovable, often had a hard time understanding his meaning.

So, Jesus takes and blesses the bread and wine – this is me, he says, broken and poured out for you.

Jesus promises, each time you gather at the table just like this, I am here – I am among you always.

Do this in memory of me.

The second lesson of the Last Supper is perhaps even more stunning and memorable – it’s the lesson we reenact here just once a year, but we should probably do it more often.

Jesus washes the feet of his friends – an act so down-side up that Peter immediately objects.

But, to Peter’s credit, when he realizes the stakes, he gives in pretty quickly.

Peter and the others finally learn that following Jesus means allowing him to wash us.

Following Jesus means washing the feet of our brothers and sisters, offering loving service to people whose feet are covered with dust – caring for people whose hearts are covered with the dust of suffering and despair.

And, in one of the biggest miracles of this whole story, the disciples did not forget Jesus’ lessons.

They remembered what Jesus taught that night and passed on these lessons to us.

And, we’ve been breaking bread and washing feet ever since.

A year ago when Sue and I were alone here for our Maundy Thursday service with all of you watching on Facebook, the pandemic and virtual worship was still very new to us.

We consoled ourselves by thinking that we would need to do this just once and that a year later the thirty or so of us who usually gather for this service would be back again, some of us choosing to have our feet washed in what is always a beautiful and awkward moment.

But, now, a year later, it’s still just the two of us here.

And after the year of suffering that we have endured – and with an uncertain future ahead – I’m learning something new from Jesus’ lessons – or, at least something that’s new to me, anyway.

Yes, Jesus is teaching that he will always be with us in the bread and the wine, in our community.

Yes, Jesus is teaching that we must be washed in Baptism and give away our lives in loving service to others.

But, you know, gathered around for that final meal, facing the death of the one they had come to know as the One, the first disciples must have looked to the future with only fear and dread.

How could they go on?

What new horrors awaited them?

And now for us, after all we’ve been through this past year – a raging pandemic, political instability, a shattered economy, ugly prejudice and brutal violence against people seen as “other,” after all we’ve been through this past year, maybe we also look to the future with fear and dread.

And so tonight, Jesus teaches hope – hope – not magic, not wishful thinking, and not even optimism - but hope.

Just when it seemed like we were reaching the end of the story, Jesus points to the future.

Jesus teaches that this isn’t the end, it’s a beginning.

No matter what terrible things may happen, Jesus will always be present in the bread and the wine.

Jesus will always here in the community when we gather around the table. Yes, even on Facebook.

Hope.

Jesus points to the future that God and we can build together – a future we make real by washing the feet of people so desperately in need of kindness – a future we make real by giving away our lives in loving service to others – a future we make real by following Jesus’ command to love one another as he has loved us.

Hope.

Just when it seemed like we were reaching the end of the story, Jesus points to the future.

So, tonight, like the first disciples, in our own time of fear and despair, let’s learn from Jesus the teacher.

Let’s learn his lessons of bread, wine, and water.

Let’s learn his lessons of love.

Let’s learn his lessons of hope.

Amen.