The Only House God Wants

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

July 21, 2024

Year B, Proper 11: The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Samuel 7:10-14a

Psalm 89:20-27

Ephesians 2:11-22

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

The Only House God Wants

So, it turns out that planning your own funeral can actually be a lot of fun.

Who knew?

Last Sunday, after the 10:00 service, about forty of us gathered in the Parish Hall and had a great time talking about Christian funerals and at least beginning to consider lessons and hymns and all the many details that go into the service.

(Don’t worry if you missed out – we’ll do it again in December.)

I pointed out to the group that funerals are evangelism opportunities – and I invited everyone to consider including Holy Communion in our funerals.

We all know that there are lots of people – including many of our own family members and friends – who are turned off by church.

(Not necessarily this church specifically, but “church” in general.)

And often they have good reasons.

The loudest Christian voices in our country tend to be mean and judgmental and hypocritical.

And we all know that the church has been stained and discredited by abuse, corruption, and exclusion.

So, a lot of people stay away – they stay as far away as possible.

But they do still come to funerals.

So, each time we have a funeral, my hope is that we will offer something that is beautiful and meaningful and authentic – and not crazy – something that will get at least one or two people who’ve been away to say, “You know, that was great. I’ve missed that. Maybe I’ll give church another try.”

And a big part of that beautiful, meaningful, and authentic offering is Holy Communion.

For people who’ve been away from church, who’ve been alienated by church, I think hearing our invitation to Communion – that all are welcome – that it’s not necessary to be an Episcopalian or a member of St. Thomas’ – hearing that kind of welcome can be quite powerful.

And way more powerful than the invitation is actually receiving the Body and Blood of Christ – taking Jesus into our body and soul – into our heart.

And our heart is the only house God wants.

If you’ve been in church for the past few weeks, you may remember that we’ve been hearing about the rise of King David.

In today’s lesson from Second Samuel, David’s enemies have been defeated.

He’s firmly in command of his kingdom and he’s living in a house made of cedar – then, as now, an expensive building material.

(We have the bills for our church’s new cedar shake roof to prove it!)

Well, to his credit, David realizes that there’s something off about him living in a nice house made of cedar while the Ark of the Covenant – understood to be the very presence of God – was living in… a tent.

So, David decides that he’s going to build a house for God – and the Prophet Nathan wholeheartedly approves the plan.

But it turns out that God has other ideas.

God has been on the move since the Israelites were in the Sinai wilderness during their long exodus from Egypt – and God is not interested in being kept in a house built by David.

In fact, God turns the tables on David.

God says, you want to build me a house? No, I’ll build you a house – a royal dynasty that will reign forever.

Later, of course, David’s son Solomon will build a spectacular house for God – the Jerusalem Temple.

And although the Temple and the sacrifices that took place there were the center of Jewish life for centuries, there was always some ambivalence, some unease, about the Temple.

Some of the prophets – and later, Jesus himself – will criticize the Temple – reminding people that, instead of slaughtering lots of animals, what God really wants is a sacrifice of the heart.

As God says through the Prophet Isaiah:

“…cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”

That’s the kind of sacrifice that God desires.

And our heart is the only house God wants.

Over the past week, I’ve had several conversations with parishioners who are understandably anxious about the state of our country and worried about where we’re headed.

And I’m right there with you.

And, I’m sure like a lot of you, I’ve been thinking about how we got here – and how we might heal some of our divisions, and soothe some of our anger, and calm some of our fears.

It seems to me that our country is suffering from a kind of spiritual heart disease.

Maybe it’s because of all our distracting gadgets, maybe it’s because we don’t really get to know each other anymore, I don’t know, but we seem to no longer care so much about each other – or, at least, that we don’t care about people who are different than we are, who believe different things, who see the world differently.

Instead, we assume the worst of each other.

We look for opportunities to score points – often cheap and dishonest shots - against the “other side.”

But this game is just a race to the bottom – a race with no winners at all.

Fortunately, we know the cure to spiritual heart disease.

In today’s lesson from the Gospel of Mark, we heard what happens before and after Jesus feeds the multitudes – the only miracle remembered in all four gospels – the miracle that we’ll hear about next week.

But what strikes me about what we heard today is that people are so hungry for Jesus – so hungry for Jesus that they follow him and his disciples into the wilderness – so hungry for healing that they brought their sick loved ones wherever he was – desperate for his healing touch.

I’m reminded of the people who come here after they’ve been away from the church for a while – the people come here for a funeral or on any given Sunday – the people who come here hungry for the Good Food – the people who hear the invitation to the Table and say yes.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s offered here every Sunday.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s offered here every week to anyone and everyone who is hungry.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s taking Jesus into our bodies and souls – and, with God’s help, living lives of love and service.

We know the cure for spiritual heart disease – it’s welcoming God into our heart.

And our heart is the only house God wants.

Amen.

The Ultimate Ultimate Thing

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

July 14, 2024

Year B, Proper 10: The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12b-19

Psalm 24

Ephesians 1:3-14

Mark 6:14-29

The Ultimate Ultimate Thing

As you know, because I’ve mentioned it like a thousand times, I grew up and lived most of my life in Jersey City, a medium-sized city just across the Hudson River from Manhattan.

And, while I try to project a tough, gritty, urban image, the truth is that I grew up in a neighborhood called… Country Village.

Country Village doesn’t sound like a very tough place. And it’s not.

Country Village was built in the early 1960s and was designed to be a little island of suburbia in the city, a way of convincing at least some people not to flee the city.

So, there are curving streets named for different kinds of trees, winding along a mix of standalone homes and rowhouses.

Actually, my old neighborhood looks a bit like Rodgers Forge, over in Towson.

Anyway, growing up in Country Village back in the 1970’s and early 80’s wasn’t perfect, of course, but it was pretty peaceful. And, looking back now, fifty years later, it seems downright old fashioned, even idyllic.

All of us kids walked back and forth to school.

In good weather, we rode our bikes through the neighborhood.

And during long and carefree summer days we played ball right out in the middle of the street, yelling out “Car! Car!’ when the occasional driver needed to interrupt our game.

Our parents would call us into the house for supper and, later, called us again to wrap it up when it began to grow dark.

I mention all this because almost two weeks ago, at the start of my second week of vacation, I returned to Country Village to pick up my parents – they still live in the house where my sister and I grew up - and bring them down here to stay with Sue and me for the rest of the week.

And on a perfect summer day, not very hot or humid at all, the kind of day that fifty years ago there would have been a bunch of kids out in that street yelling “Car!” when I turned the corner, on a day just like that, there wasn’t a soul outside. 

I wasn’t surprised – it’s been like this for years – but I wondered:

Where were all the neighborhood children?

Well, we probably know the answer, right?

I’m sure that most of them were inside their houses, inside their rooms, their eyes glued to computers, tablets, or phones.

 

None of this news – and it’s not limited to kids, either.

Our whole society seems designed to keep us distracted.

I mean, almost of all of us carry around little distraction machines in our pockets or purses, buzzing and pinging throughout the day and night.

Our attention spans have been ruined.

(I used to preach for half an hour!)

And we are distracted from what is most important – distracted from ultimate things.

In some ways, with our ability to constantly connect and scroll, this is a new problem.

But it’s also an old human story – we want to distract ourselves from ultimate things – to distract ourselves from God – distract ourselves from the wrong we may have done or the wrong done in our name – distract ourselves from the simple but hard truth that no one gets out of here alive.

Back in the first century, Herod Antipas was a member of a truly depraved royal family, who ruled parts of Israel, at the pleasure of the Romans.

His father, Herod the Great, so called, was the king who tried to use the Wise Men to find and kill the newborn King of the Jews – and when that didn’t work, he just slaughtered all the children born in Bethlehem around that time.

So you get the idea.

Herod Antipas was a chip off the old block, a great builder but also ruthless, taking whatever he wanted, including marrying his brother’s wife.

The firebrand prophet John the Baptist criticized Herod for that, infuriating the wife, and leading to the tragedy we heard today.

The royal birthday party was nothing more than a lavish distraction, a distraction that led to an ill-considered promise to give the dancing daughter whatever she wanted, a distraction that led to the gruesome death of the righteous John the Baptist.

No doubt, Herod went right on distracting himself with all the trappings of royal life and power, but those distractions don’t work forever.

And later, when the Righteous Jesus appears on the scene, did you hear the dread in Herod’s voice when he thinks that the spirit of John the Baptist has returned?

Ultimate Things.

        Yesterday evening we were all reminded, yet again, that we live in a country that is angry, violent, and seemingly so divided. 

        Seemingly so divided that, honestly, I hesitate to say anything about it.

        I will say that those distraction machines in our pockets aren’t helping matters.

        Since we really don’t know each other anymore, we assume the worst of each other.

        And our distraction machines and much of cable news deliberately misinform us and work really hard to keep us frightened, angry, and divided.

        Aside from switching the channel, I have no idea what to do about this.

        But I do know that it’s good for us to be part of a church, how blessed we are to be part of this church.

This is one of the few remaining places where we spend time – meaningful time – with people who are different than us – who come from different places, who have different ideas about all kinds of things – and yet we can and do pray and serve together – we can and do love one another – we can be, and often are, instruments of God’s peace.

And it’s probably not a coincidence that this is one of the few remaining places where we put away our phones. 

Well, most of us, anyway.

One of our newer parishioners has spoken about what a gift that is – to be here free of electronic distractions for an hour or so.

And I would add that another blessing of our distraction-free church is that it gets us thinking about ultimate things.

Why are we here?

What is our purpose?

And what happens after we die?

At a vestry meeting a while back, when I first mentioned the idea of offering an opportunity for parishioners to plan their funerals, there was some nervous laughter, and I got some strange looks.

Of course, I get that planning our funerals can seem morbid – it’s probably the last thing anyone wants to think about.

But, as I’ve mentioned to you, over the years I’ve sat with many grieving families who had no idea what their deceased loved one might have wanted – and so, anxiety and guilt and stress compound their grief.

And I’ve been really gratified by how positive – I know this sounds strange – how excited – so many of you have been about today’s event.

In fact, last week, one couple stopped by the office to purchase their cemetery plot.

They said they wanted to “beat the rush!”

I’d like to think the part of the reason why so many of us have been willing to look ahead and plan our funerals is that those of us who regularly attend church have a lot of practice in thinking about ultimate things.

Acknowledging our mortality isn’t overwhelming because we know the ultimate ultimate thing.

And no matter the violence, anger, and division all around us, we do not lose heart – we stick together - because we know the ultimate ultimate thing:

In our baptism, God has made an indissoluble, unbreakable, bond with us.

This holy bond of love is stronger than anything.

        Stronger than tyrants like Herod.

        Stronger than the sharpest blade, the most destructive bullet.

        And, because Jesus Christ is risen, we know that God’s holy bond with us is stronger than hate, stronger than anger, stronger than fear, stronger than death itself.

        God's holy and unbreakable bond with us is the ultimate ultimate thing.

        Amen.

Into the Storm, with Jesus

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 23, 2025

Year B, Proper 7: The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

1 Samuel 17:1a, 4-11, 19-23, 32-49

Psalm 9:9-20

2 Corinthians 6:1-13

Mark 4:35-41

Into the Storm, with Jesus

Today’s first lesson sure is a long one but it’s a great story.

The story of David and Goliath is well-known, even by people who don’t know much of anything about the Bible.

This story of the underdog triumphing over the giant has entered popular culture, just like a few other Bible stories: Adam and Eve, Noah’s Ark, the parting of Red Sea, and Jonah and the Whale (or, actually, the large fish).

We’ve talked about Jonah before but just to refresh everyone’s memory:

God called Jonah to travel to the great city of Nineveh and call the people there to repent. If they didn’t repent, God would destroy the city and all its inhabitants.

But Jonah, he didn’t want to go to Nineveh – it was the capital of the mighty Assyrian Empire – not a friend of Israel – and, apparently, Jonah had no problem with God destroying the city.

So, instead of obeying God’s will, Jonah tried to run away from God by getting on a boat and heading in the opposite direction of Nineveh.

But God doesn’t give up on Jonah or the people of Nineveh.

So, God kicks up a great storm. The storm is so fierce that it terrifies the sailors who are all praying to their different gods.

Meanwhile, Jonah is down below, sleeping soundly.

        The sailors cast lots to figure out who among them has brought about this calamity, and the lots point to Jonah.

        Jonah admits that he’s the problem and tells the sailors to toss him into the sea, which, eventually they do, reluctantly.

        And the storm is stilled, and Jonah gets to spend three days and nights in the belly of the large fish, reconsidering his life choices, before getting another chance to do God’s will.

        Jonah is a charming story – and it’s an important story, reminding us of the need to follow God’s will.         

        And Jonah also reminds us that God’s love extends to absolutely everyone, even the people of Nineveh, even the people we don’t like, even the people we call enemies.

        Jonah was also an important story for early Christians who recognized Jonah’s three days and nights in the fish’s belly as a kind of foreshadowing of Jesus’ time in the tomb.

God didn’t forget about Jonah and Jesus in the depths.

        And when we’re in the depths, God won’t forget about us, either. 

And, finally, the memory of Jonah provides a backdrop for today’s gospel lesson, when the disciples sail into the storm with Jesus.

Obviously, there are some key differences between Jonah and Jesus.

Unlike Jonah, Jesus does not run away from God’s mission. 

Just the opposite, really.

And, unlike Jonah, Jesus is eager to share God’s love and mercy with everyone. In today’s passage, Jesus and the disciples are sailing to Gentile – to non-Jewish – lands. 

The people there need to hear the Good News, too.

And, finally, although, at first, Jesus also sleeps as the storm rages, he’s not the cause of the storm, he’s the one who calms the storm.

Jesus criticizes the disciples for their lack of faith, for freaking out during the fierce storm. But, as someone mentioned in our Wednesday Bible Study: let’s give the disciples some credit, they had enough faith to turn to Jesus in their time of trouble.

Into the storm, with Jesus.

Today’s gospel lesson got me thinking about the storms of my life – the personal storms of sorrow, fear, and regret.

And I also got to thinking about the storms that we experience together.

I mentioned to you once before that I took my very first seminary class at the General Theological Seminary in New York City on the evening of September 10, 2001.

That first class was an exciting and joyful milestone on my road to the priesthood.

But, of course, the next day – a day that started with so much beauty and promise – quickly descended into a storm fiercer than anything most of us had ever experienced, had ever expected.

I was teaching that morning in Jersey City, in a classroom with a view of the New York City skyline.

And Sue was working over in the City, a couple of miles north of the World Trade Center.

It took many hours for us to be reunited, but we were among the fortunate ones, of course.

And I don’t remember how our church – St. Paul’s – got the word out – I guess by email or a phone chain – but that evening our rector, David Hamilton, invited all of us to a Communion service at the church.

I remember walking the few blocks from our house to the church, still in shock, still numb after everything that had happened, and very frightened that maybe this was just the beginning of the storm.

And I remember gathering in the church – it was late enough that it was already dark out – and so the church was lit only by the lamps and candles.

I don’t remember much about the service itself, but I do remember feeling grateful that Sue and I were together and that we were gathered with Dave and some of our sisters and brothers, gathered in our beautiful old church building.

You may know that the main part of the church, where you’re sitting right now, is called the nave – from the Latin word meaning “ship.”

Despite the numbness and fear, I could feel the presence of Jesus in that place, in that boat, with those people. 

And, I thought, maybe, we’re going to get through this.

Into the storm, with Jesus. 

We all know that our personal storms can churn up in a moment: one wrong step, one word spoken in anger, one phone call or email.

And anyone who was around for the catastrophic storm that arose suddenly on a beautiful September morning nearly twenty-three years ago, knows that those kinds of storms can arise without much warning.

And then there are the storms that we can see looming out there on the horizon, storms that seem so big and unstoppable and leave us feeling dread, feeling like we’re up against a seemingly unbeatable Goliath.

Storms will continue to rile the waters and we will sometimes be terrified or maybe just grow numb to all the suffering.

This is why it is so important to be right here, in the boat.

Be here with our sisters and brothers, this perhaps unlikely mix of people, this community of love, this community of faith, this community of remembering.

Be here, praying to Jesus, praying with Jesus.

Be here in the boat, sailing into the storm with Jesus.

Trusting Jesus, who is wide awake, and way more powerful than any storm.

Amen.

God Can Do a Lot with Small Seeds

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 16, 2024

Year B, Proper 6: The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

1 Samuel 15:34-16:13

Psalm 20

2 Corinthians 5:6-17

Mark 26-34

God Can Do a Lot with Small Seeds

Maybe it’s because of our upcoming "Celebration of Life" planning session, but funerals have been on my mind.

Funerals are such a sacred and tender responsibility.

Over the years, of course, I have presided and preached at many funerals, including quite a few right here.

(I’ve learned that when you have your own cemetery, you tend to have a lot of funerals!)

For me, there are really two kinds of funerals.

One kind is for people I’ve come to know and love.

Here at St. Thomas’, I think of beloved parishioners, and great dads, like Jim Piper and Sandy Martin.

At that type of funeral, I’m grieving, too. And so, it can be a real challenge to maintain my composure.

Not easy.

(In case you’re wondering, my strategy is to try to not think so much – just focus on the words and the choreography of the service. To be honest, it doesn’t always work.)

The other kind of funeral is for someone I didn’t know well or maybe never even met.

The challenge there is quickly learning as much as I can about the person’s life so I can craft a homily that is not just generic – so I can say something true about how God was uniquely at work in this person, in this life.

A couple of weeks ago, we held one of those second kind of funerals, for someone I never met.

His name was Robert Baker and although he only had a very distant connection to St. Thomas’, his daughter asked if her dad’s funeral could be here.

Well, around here we don’t say no to baptisms or funerals!

Fortunately, Robert made my task much easier because several years ago he had written a memoir.

He begins his book by telling the story of his grandmother who, back in the late 1800’s, left Poland and traveled on a German ship to Baltimore, where she began a new life in Canton.

Robert tells the story of his grandparents and parents who received very little education and spent their lives toiling in factories, where the work was tedious and dangerous and the pay not so good.

Young Robert was an obviously intelligent boy and a go-getter. Like his grandparents and parents, he was not afraid of hard work.

        Although money was always tight, his family made sacrifices and he was able to attend what was then Loyola College.

        There, Robert distinguished himself as such an excellent student that one of his professors, Fr. Gibbons, recommended that he apply to the Hopkins Institute of Advanced International Studies.

        And, sure enough, Robert was the first Loyola student to be admitted into that prestigious program, setting the course of his life.

        He went on to have a fulfilling career in the Foreign Service, stationed in many places around the world, having all kinds of Cold War adventures that he recounts his book: experiences that were gratifying, exciting, dangerous, frustrating, and funny.

        In his book, Robert points out that less than a century after his grandmother sailed to Baltimore on that German ship, her grandson was the cultural attaché in the US Consulate in Berlin.

        Quite a leap.

        And here’s the thing: none of that would’ve happened if Fr. Gibbons hadn’t seen something promising in Robert and made his life-changing suggestion.

        A small seed, perhaps, but Jesus teaches us that God can do a lot with small seeds.

        Something else about funerals.

        One of the hardest moments of being a priest is leaving - leaving a church, leaving a community where we’ve been through life and death together.

         I’ve left churches a couple of times now – and it’s always painful.

        And one of the saddest parts of leaving a church is missing out on the big moments in the lives of the people I’ve left behind, not being there for times of joy and sadness, missing out on all those baptisms and funerals.

        Well, a couple of months ago, a man named Eric Petersen died.

        He was a much-loved parishioner at my church in Jersey City, where he served as the Verger, which, if you don’t know, is a ministry focused on hospitality and worship. At St. Paul’s, his main responsibility was training and supervising our acolytes.

        Eric was a Vietnam veteran, and he was also a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America (the other CIA!).

        In his professional life, he had worked in large commercial kitchens, but his passion was baking the most decadent and delicious desserts.

        By the time I met Eric, he had been slowed by a stroke. He mostly got around in a motorized chair – a big challenge, for sure, but somehow, he managed to get himself to church and pretty much anywhere else he wanted to go.

        I’ve mentioned to you before that another one of our parishioners, a woman named Sonia Staine, started a beautiful ministry serving once-a-month homecooked lunches at a local drop-in center for people who were homeless.

        The goal was to serve food at least as good as anything we served at our Sunday church coffee hours (which were usually pretty elaborate meals), at least as good as anything we served ourselves at home.

        Well, of course, Eric volunteered to prepare the desserts.

        With great determination and generosity, each month Eric would get himself and his desserts to the drop-in center. There he would sit in his motorized chair before trays of deliciousness, happy and proud, bantering with each guest, offering something beautiful and even extravagant to people for whom store brand cookies would’ve been a treat, people who spent their days just trying to survive.

        A small seed, perhaps, but Jesus teaches us that God can do a lot with small seeds.

        One other memory of Eric:

        He came up with the idea that the church should offer a cooking class for boys.

        And, of course, he would be the head teacher.

        I was a little skeptical, but he put together a plan and we received some grant money for this innovative project.

        With the grant money, we bought lots of kitchen equipment and one of our parishioners even made chef’s hats for all the boys.

        With the help of a few other parishioners, Eric taught the boys a lot, from the basics like hard-boiling eggs to more advanced skills like making one of his signature desserts.

        And the boys really did learn, although, I have to say, they never quite mastered the art of cleaning up the kitchen. 

        Eric and his students hosted coffee hour a few times – no small task in that church -impressing everybody with their newfound talents.

        That was all years ago, now. And I don’t know if those young men have retained any of the techniques that Eric taught them, but I bet that they remember his fatherly love for them, his belief in them, his care and respect for them, the pride he took in what they were able to accomplish.

        A small seed, perhaps, but Jesus teaches us that God can do a lot with small seeds.

        Often, when we take the time to reflect on the lives of the people we love, we discover, we remember, seemingly small things, all those small seeds.

        When I think of Jim Piper, I think of how he was always so eager to make connections, to bring people together, especially people he thought might be able to do some good for the city he loved.

        And when I think of Sandy Martin, I think of all the time he made for his children and grandchildren, all those school events he attended, all those games and tournaments, always so supportive and so proud.

        The lives of Robert, Eric, Jim, and Sandy, and so many others I’ve met along the way, remind me to be on the lookout for opportunities to share seemingly small seeds – offering a word of encouragement, just showing up, making a phone call or sending a note.

        Small seeds, perhaps, but Jesus teaches us that God can do a lot with small seeds.

        Amen.

    

Jesus' Family

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 9, 2024

Year B, Proper 5: The Third Sunday after Pentecost

1 Samuel 8:4-20; 11:14-15

Psalm 138

2 Corinthians 4:13-5:1

Mark 3:20-35

Jesus’ Family

Over the past week or so, it’s been nice to see all the high school graduation pictures getting posted on social media.

So much pride, excitement, and joy.

This time of year always gets me thinking back to my high school days, thinking back to the early 1980’s…now let’s see, how long has it been now…forty years!

Whew. My goodness!

I’ve mentioned to you before that I attended St. Peter’s Prep, an all-boys Jesuit high school in Jersey City, a brother school of Loyola Blakefield here in Baltimore and many other Jesuit schools across the country and around the world.

Making the sacrifice to send me to St. Peter’s Prep was certainly one of the greatest gifts my parents ever gave me.

It was a life-changing, life-defining experience.

Over those four years, I learned a lot – the subject matter, yes, or some of it, anyway - but most of all I learned a lot about myself, about other people, and, of course, about God.

All of us at Prep were taught that the highest ideal is to be a man for others.

One of the school’s great strengths back then (and it’s even more true now) was that there was no one way to be a Prep student.

And while I’m sure that it was sometimes challenging for some of my classmates, the truth is that there were jocks and nerds and theater kids and all the rest, and many who happily and confidently cut across those artificial categories.

        And everyone more or less tolerated everybody else.

        And I think everyone eventually found their people.

There wasn’t much pressure to be like everybody else.

Which was a good and beautiful thing – and a rare thing in a world where it’s often very hard to be different – a world where it can be very tempting, but ultimately self-defeating, self-destructive, to wear a mask, to put on an ill-fitting uniform, to try to be just like everybody else.

And, in a way, today’s lessons are about trying to fit in, trying to be just like everybody else.

A theme that runs through the Old Testament is that God did not choose the people of Israel because they were especially powerful or even particularly faithful.

No, the only thing that makes the people of Israel special, holy, is simply the fact that God chose this small and seemingly insignificant people. 

So, on the one hand, what an honor to be chosen by God, to have God as your King.

But, on the other hand, it’s a lot of work to be God’s chosen people, all those rules to follow.

Wouldn’t it be nice to just be like everybody else?

Especially when other nations sure do seem so much richer and more powerful.

And that’s the tension we hear in today’s first lesson.

If you were here last Sunday, you may remember that we heard the story of God calling the boy Samuel.

Well, today we jump ahead many decades.

Samuel is now an old man, a respected leader of Israel.

The elders go to Samuel and ask for a human king – really, they’re asking to be like everybody else, to be like all the other kingdoms and empires, countries way more powerful and prosperous than Israel.

So, the elders think, you know what, let’s try that. 

Let’s try being like everybody else. 

Samuel warns them about all the downsides of a human king – the wealth that he’ll take, the lives that he’ll take – but the elders either don’t hear it or they’re simply willing to pay the price.

And so, Israel gets its first human king, Saul.

And, like all kings, the kings of Israel will be a mixed bag, some better than others but all flawed, sometimes deeply flawed.

As a monarchy, Israel doesn’t lose its chosen-ness, doesn’t lose its holiness, but, unfortunately, it does become more like every other nation, more like everybody else.

Which brings us, finally, to Jesus’ family.

They really make quite a scene in today’s gospel lesson, don’t they?

For Jesus, facing opposition from the religious leaders must have been hard, especially when, as we heard today, they accuse him of being in cahoots with the devil.

But opposition from his own family must have really stung.

The family members – we’re told even including his mother - try to keep Jesus from his mission and ministry, begging him to come home.

        Why do they do this?

        Well, maybe they’re trying to protect Jesus from very real dangers.

        Or maybe they’re embarrassed by Jesus, maybe they’re tired of the neighbors mocking Jesus, sick of all the whispering and eye-rolling.

        Maybe Jesus’ family just wants him to be like everybody else.

        “Come on, Jesus, settle down in Nazareth, earn a good living in the carpentry shop, get married, just be ‘normal.’”

        It must have been painful for Jesus to hear the pleas of his family.

And, as we heard at the conclusion of today’s gospel lesson, Jesus rejects his family.

He asks the crowd, “Who are my mother and my brothers?”

And then he answers his own question:

“Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

Whoever does the will of God is a member of Jesus’ family.

        A hard experience for Jesus but good news for us.

        We’re all invited to be part of Jesus’ family.

        And we accept that invitation in the water of Baptism, just as the wonderful father and son duo of Will and Paul will accept that invitation, right here, in just a few minutes.

        And we live in Jesus’ family by doing our best, with God’s help, to live out our baptismal promises:

        Coming here to pray and break bread together.

        Asking for forgiveness when we mess up and striving to do better.

        Proclaiming the Good News by word and example.

        Seeking Christ in everybody, loving our neighbor as our self.

        Striving for justice and peace.

        With God’s help.

        Always and only with God’s help.

        Long ago, the people of Israel wanted a human king, they just wanted to be like every other country.

        And long ago, Jesus’ family wanted him to turn away from his mission, wanted him to just be like everybody else, to just be “normal.”

        And today, even if we graduated from high school decades ago, we may feel peer pressure to just be like everybody else out there – look out for number one, demonize the people we disagree with, fear and hate people who are different, refuse to hear the voices of the frightened and the suffering, and give our ultimate loyalty not to God but to a human king.

        But we know that’s not the way.

        That’s not the way of Jesus.

        Being part of Jesus’ family means doing God’s will, each in our own unique way.

        Being part of Jesus’ family means being a person for others.

        We are all invited to be part of Jesus’ family.

        Let’s accept the invitation.

        Amen.

Lectionary Poem: Common People

Lectionary Poem: Common People

The people of Israel clamored:

Give us a king!

A king, that is, other than God.

God warned them

they’d never find a king like him.

How could they, right?

I’m reminded of “Common People”

I wanna live like common people

I wanna do whatever common people do

Are you sure you want to live like common people?

You want to see whatever common people see?

The people of Israel got tired of

their special vocation,

just wanted to live like 

common people,

king, taxes, cruelty.

How? Why?

Well, here’s the thing

about being set apart:

First, you feel special.

Then, you feel put upon.

But,

Are you sure want to live like common people?

Are you sure you want to see what common people see?

Am I sure?

Year B, Proper 5: The Third Sunday after Pentecost 

June 9, 2024 

1 Samuel 8:4-20; 11:14-15

Sabbath Quiet

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

June 2, 2024

Year B, Proper 4: The Second Sunday after Pentecost

1 Samuel 3:1-20

Psalm 139: 1-5, 12-17

2 Corinthians 4:5-12

Mark 2:23-3:6

Sabbath Quiet

So, as I mentioned last week, I’ve long been an avid reader.

But if the world of literature is split between prose and poetry, I’ve always been firmly in the prose camp.

Works of history, biographies, and novels have been my books of choice.

But over the last couple of years, I’ve finally gotten interested in poetry.

I’m not totally sure why this has happened, but I can pinpoint the exact moment – the exact poem, actually – that sparked my rather late-in-the-game interest.

Almost four years ago, I was reading the obituaries in The New York Times as I always do (now I read the obits in The Sun, too!), I was reading in the Times and came across the obituary of Diane di Prima, a poet, someone I had never heard of before.

Diane di Prima lived a long, adventurous, and countercultural life in the arts, a journey that took her from Greenwich Village in the ‘50s to San Francisco in the ‘60s and beyond.

She’s usually labeled a Beat poet, one of the very few women in that group.

All very interesting, but what caught my eye was an excerpt from one of her poems that closed the obituary.

Here it is:

        I’d like my daily bread however

        you arrange it, and I’d also like

        to be bread, or sustenance for

        some others even after I’ve left.

        A song they can walk a trail with.

Although I later learned that she was addressing her poetic muse, her words that clearly echo the Lord’s Prayer,  sounded to me like a most beautiful prayer.

God, make us bread for others.

Make us a song they can walk a trail with.

And that’s how my interest in poetry started! 

Over these last few years, I’ve been reading more poetry and just a few weeks ago I began taking an online poetry writing class.

I signed up thinking it might add some new colors to my preaching but mostly it’s a just little gift to myself, an opportunity to try something new, to stretch a bit.

And it’s been a challenging and enriching experience, getting me to dig deeper, to consider every word, to reflect on every image.

The main requirement of the class has been to write a weekly poem, a different type of poem each time.

When I first sat down to write my first poem, I put on some music in the background, thinking that it would help set the mood, maybe prompt some inspiration.

But I quickly discovered that the music got in the way, distracted me.

        I realized that I needed quiet, or at last as much quiet as is possible in our noisy day and age. 

        I needed quiet to hear, to listen deeply.

        I was reminded of this need for silence when I began to reflect on today’s reading from First Samuel, when the boy Samuel hears the voice of God calling to him.

        We’re told that “the word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread.”

        And we’re told that it’s night in the Temple where the boy Samuel has been serving with the old priest Eli.

        So, it’s during the nighttime hush - when the clamor of the world’s busyness has finally quieted – it’s during the nighttime hush that the boy Samuel hears the voice of the Lord.

        Samuel hears the Lord but, well, “the word of the Lord rare in those days,” so Samuel assumes it’s Eli calling for him. He makes the same mistake a couple of times before Eli figures out what’s going on.

        It’s interesting that it’s a boy, a child who hadn’t gotten jaded and cynical yet, hadn’t closed his heart and his ears – it’s a boy who hears the Lord.

        But it’s the old man, his vision failing and maybe a little hard of hearing now but full of years and wisdom, it’s the old man who can discern what’s happening, who’s speaking.

        The need for quiet – to hear, to listen deeply.

        I’d say it’s pretty easy to make the case that we are living in another time when it seems that the word of the Lord is rare, and visions are not widespread.

        In just the last week, I’ve had several conversations with people who’ve expressed alarm at how stressed out and even crazed so many of our neighbors seem to be – acting irrationally, speaking irrationally, driving erratically…   

        There are lots of reasons for this, of course, but I think near the root of the problem is that there is just so much noise – so much racket in our lives and in the media and online – this never-ending din that is driving us bananas.

        Fortunately, God has offered us – actually, commanded us – a different way:

        Sabbath: a time of rest, prayer, healing, and love.

        In today’s gospel lesson, there’s a lot of talk about the sabbath but it sure doesn’t seem very quiet and restful, does it?

        No, instead, we hear the heightened disputes between Jesus and the religious leaders who are watching him closely, looking for “gotcha” moments like, say, plucking grain on the sabbath or healing a man’s withered hand on the sabbath.

        Now, I want to proceed with caution here because one of the longstanding Christian slanders of Judaism is that it’s all about obeying rules, that it’s a religion empty of grace and love.

        That’s not true today and it wasn’t true back in the first century, either.

        But what is true today and was true back then is that, religious leaders of any tradition can get so caught up in the rules and regulations, can get so protective of their own authority, that they lose the plot, they miss the point.

        (I’m talking about other religious leaders, not me. Obviously.)

        So, yes, sure, Jesus and the Pharisees could have had an interesting debate about whether it was lawful to pluck grain on the sabbath, but the point is that it’s always God’s desire that the hungry get fed.

        And, yes, the man with the withered hand could’ve hung in there a little while longer, until sunset when the sabbath was over, sure. But Jesus was right then and there and the point is that it’s always God’s desire that we experience wholeness.

          And, my goodness, the man with the withered hand has been healed!

        But, to their credit, the religious leaders do recognize the importance of the sabbath, the importance of obeying God’s command to rest, to be quiet.

        And I think, in our time of so much noise and distraction, in this time when so many of our neighbors seem crazed, in this time when kids’ lives are programmed nearly to the minute and rates of anxiety and depression are through the roof, we need to obey God’s command and rediscover sabbath quiet.

        Find even just a little time to turn off the cable news, put away the phone, log off from the computer, take a walk or just look out the window, say a quick prayer, asking for help and saying thank you, waiting for the word of the Lord.

        And if we do that, we just might hear the Lord’s quiet, poetic, voice, calling us – 

        Calling us to be bread for others.

        Calling us to be a song.

        A song they can walk a trail with.

        Amen.