"Cura Personalis"

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

February 28, 2021

Year B: The Second Sunday in Lent

Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16

Psalm 22:22-30

Romans 4:13-25

Mark 8:31-38

Cura Personalis

Last week there was a story in the paper about the so-called “boredom economy.”

It’s the idea that one of the effects of the pandemic – one of the results of being forced to spend so much time at home – has been a profound sense of boredom.

Of course, lots of people don’t have the luxury of being bored, but those who do, and who also have some extra money burning a hole in their pockets, have tried to cope with their boredom by ordering lots of things from Amazon and other online retailers.

People have been buying all sorts of stuff, including items for new hobbies like bread making (remember the run on yeast early in the pandemic?) and also gardening (apparently there’s been an uptick in the sale of seeds).

Now, I don’t really need a newspaper to tell me this. All I have to do is look at Duncan Avenue every afternoon, clogged with delivery trucks, with delivery people dropping off mountains of parcels at our doors and in our lobbies.

And I bet you see the same scene on your street, too.

After I finished the article, I didn’t give the boredom economy another thought until I read yesterday’s paper where there was a letter to the editor from someone – a law professor, actually - who read that article and simply wasn’t having it – just not buying that buying lots more stuff is a healthy way to deal with the pandemic.

Here’s part of what she wrote:

“This past year I have been terrified, devastated, exhausted, depressed and yet also enormously grateful for what I have: food, shelter, safety, love.”

Amen, right?

It’s a great response – and a timely reminder of the importance of gratitude, especially in times of trouble, especially when we’re frightened or suffering, or, yes, even when we’re bored.

For the past week and a half I’ve had special reason to give thanks for my parents, who I’m fortunate enough to still have in my life, though the truth is that, because they have always been here, I take them for granted all the time.

My parents have always supported whatever it was I wanted to do, even if they may have had doubts or misgivings about the wisdom of my choices.

And, they also made many sacrifices for both my sister and me, including spending quite a bit of money so that we could go to Catholic grammar school and high schools.

For me, that was St. Peter’s Prep, the Jesuit high school here in Jersey City.

I don’t think I was conscious of it at the time – I was too focused on trying to pass math – but Prep’s approach to education wasn’t just dumping information into our heads. It wasn’t so much about giving us what we needed to get into college or to get us ready to make a lot of money. No, the philosophy of the school is and was the Jesuit idea of Cura Personalis – a Latin term that means “care for the whole person” – care for the body, mind, and spirit.

During my four years at Prep, I was never just a number, never anonymous, never just a young man in a blazer and a tie, interchangeable with all of the other guys obeying the same dress code.

No, most of my teachers and counselors cared for me as an individual, as “Tom,” and not just as a “student,” not just as a “grade point average,” not just as a “tuition check.”

To receive that kind of care from people who are not family is a life-changing experience, and one that I’ve reflected on many times over the years – and it’s the kind of care that I’ve tried my best to pass on as a teacher and a priest.

Cura Personalis – care for the whole person – has such a profound impact on us because this is what we are made for.

It’s true that on a biological level, a genetic level, we are all basically the same. But that’s definitely not how God sees us – and that’s not the way we are meant to see one another.

God loves us not as “humanity,” but as Tom and Sue and Gail and Yukiko.

God loves us not as “humanity,” but as Abram and Sarai, calling them by name – even giving them new names - their true names – calling them by name to step out in faith, to trust that God will keep God’s promises no matter how unlikely, no matter how outlandish, they may seem.

God loves us not as “humanity,” but as unique and precious individuals, promising to be with each of us no matter where we go, even when our journeys take us to some deeply shadowed places, even when we’re frightened, or bored, and feeling not very grateful at all.

God loves us not as “humanity,” but as unique individuals.

As Jesus tells us, God has counted every hair on our head.

Cura personalis.

In last Sunday’s gospel we heard the story of Jesus’ baptism, as recorded in the Gospel of Mark.

Jesus comes up out of the Jordan and hears the voice from heaven say, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

In the water of Baptism, we might say that Jesus himself experiences Cura Personalis, right?

And, it’s that sense of beloved-ness that must have sustained Jesus during his forty days of temptation in the wilderness.

And, it’s that sense of beloved-ness that must have sustained Jesus as he did his work of teaching and healing, proclaiming the kingdom.

And, it’s that sense of beloved-ness that must have sustained Jesus when he was confronted with rejection and underwent suffering, and even death.

In today’s gospel lesson, Jesus predicts his suffering and death – and, understandably enough, Peter does not want to hear it.

In fact, Peter is so distraught at the thought of his Lord suffering that he  “rebukes” Jesus – a strong word that “rebuke.”

And, maybe because Jesus really was tempted to turn away from his destiny, Jesus “rebukes” Peter right back, “Get behind me Satan!”

Jesus then uses this unpleasant confrontation to do some hard teaching, telling his disciples – telling us – that to follow Jesus means taking up our own cross, enduring our own suffering, and giving away our lives in service to Jesus and his gospel.

Now, let’s be honest, promising suffering is not exactly a great church growth strategy.

After all, life has enough suffering as it is, right?

But, I think the call of Jesus to take up our cross and to follow him, to step out in faith, only makes sense, only has any appeal, if we recognize and remember that God cares for our whole person – that God loves us as individuals – and that God will not let go of us – God will not forget how many hairs are on our head.

Just as God did not let go of Jesus or forget Jesus during his time of suffering and death.

So, now in our time of deep shadows, many of us are so tired of being cooped up. Maybe, if we have the cash, we’ve been dealing with our boredom with “retail therapy,” by doing way more online shopping than before, maybe baking more bread than we can possibly eat.

Even as the number of vaccinations increases week by week, we remain anxious about the future, worried about the new variants that keep popping up, wondering when exactly the new normal will begin and what that new normal will look like.

We grieve the loss of so many – tomorrow would have been Sidney King’s birthday – and we surely miss him and so many others.

As you know, just last week we crossed the grim milestone of 500,000 Covid deaths here in our country. Like many of you, I was moved by the ceremony at the White House with all those candles lining the steps. I was touched when the National Cathedral tolled its bell 500 times, each toll representing 1,000 deaths.

But, it’s also true that it’s hard for us to wrap our minds around a number as big, as abstract, as 500,000, hard to feel what that number represents.

It’s hard for us to do that because that’s not what we’re made for.

God doesn’t look at our suffering and loss and see “500,000” or the “millions” more who have died around the world.

No, God sees and loves individuals – God sees and loves Sidney – God remembers all the hairs on his head - God sees and loves and won’t let go of each individual, each precious person who had particular hopes and fears, strengths and weaknesses, moments of pride and occasions for regret.

Cura personalis.

God loves us each as individuals, and we are meant to love one another as individuals.

And, for that, especially in a time of suffering and death, and maybe even boredom, we give thanks.

Amen. 

Christ Brings Us To God

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

February 21, 2021

Year B: The First Sunday in Lent

Genesis 9:8-17

Psalm 25:1-9

1 Peter 3:18-22

Mark 1:9-15

Christ Brings Us To God

In my sermons over the past year I’ve talked about many of the people and events that we have missed during this long and hard year of the pandemic.

Just last week, I mentioned how, in normal times, on Tuesday many of us would have squeezed into Carr Hall for our Shrove Tuesday pancake supper and cabaret, and then on Wednesday we would’ve received our ashes, remembering that we are dust and to dust we shall return.

But, this year it was just Facebook and Zoom.

I miss that our buildings don’t get much use these days – by us and by the groups we usually welcome here.

This week I’ve been thinking especially about our Saturday morning AA meeting. 

Over the years I’ve gotten to know some of the people who regularly attend that meeting, chatting with them before or after their session, and sometimes, if I’m in the sacristy or in the church, I can’t help overhearing some of the testimony given by these alcoholics in recovery.

I’m often moved by their raw honesty about their addiction and the heartbreak and wreckage it so often caused – lost jobs, broken relationships.

I’m always impressed by the intensity and urgency of these meetings – how so many of the attendees hate to miss a meeting, how they wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

I’ve often thought that church should be more like an AA meeting – and, who knows, maybe the small groups we are forming for faith sharing will inject a little more intensity and urgency into our life together.

But, most of all, when I’ve talked to these men and women before or after their meeting, I can’t help but respect the credibility – the hard-earned wisdom - that comes from having been to hell and back.

These are people who have seen – who have lived through – deep shadows.

They know what they are about – and I’ve found it’s very much worth my time to listen to what they have to say.

Today, on the First Sunday in Lent, we hear the story of Jesus’ Baptism, followed by his forty days and nights of temptation in the wilderness, and then the official start of his ministry. Jesus declares:

“The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

Since we are reading the barebones Gospel of Mark, these important moments of Jesus’ life and work are told very quickly and with only the absolute minimum of detail.

Unlike Matthew and Luke, Mark doesn’t even tell us the nature of Jesus’ temptations.

It’s enough to know that he was out in the wilderness for a good long time, and that he was tempted.

We don’t know much at all about Jesus’ life before he presented himself to John to be baptized.

We have the birth and infancy stories in Matthew and Luke, and then that’s just about it until a grown-up Jesus showed up at the River Jordan.

But, we can assume that Jesus’ family and his village raised him, and that the Jewish law and rituals were at the center of his life. 

We can assume that life was sometimes sweet, that there was love and laughter, the satisfaction of a job well done – but we can also be sure that life was also often hard.

In those days long before modern medicine, illness and death were ever-present, and Jesus was probably not too old before he endured the loss of neighbors and family members, perhaps even including Joseph, who vanishes from the gospels after the birth and childhood stories.

So it’s very possible, even likely, that Jesus had seen, had lived through, deep shadows before the Spirit drove him out into the wilderness for forty days of testing and temptation.

But, I have to believe that those forty days of hardship – I don’t think the angels show up until the end – those forty days of testing - changed Jesus – that, just like at his Baptism, through his suffering in the wilderness, Jesus has learned who he is and what he is about.

It’s now - after his trip to hell and back - that Jesus is very much worth listening to.

Right after the passage we read today, Jesus begins to assemble his team, to gather his disciples.

And, as we talked about a few weeks ago, it’s always so striking that the disciples just drop what they’re doing to go off and follow Jesus – leaving behind their livelihoods and even family members.

I usually just assume that the gospel writers compressed things for the sake of heightened drama, but now I wonder if these people followed Jesus so decisively because they could see in his eyes and hear in his voice that he had journeyed through deep shadows, and had come through the other side – giving him hard-earned wisdom, making him very much worth listening to.

Maybe it was because of Jesus’ time in the wilderness – because Jesus had experienced and endured real temptation and real suffering - that those first disciples decided that it was a good idea to follow Jesus.

And, especially in our time of trouble, maybe it’s precisely because of Jesus’ suffering that we should recommit ourselves follow Jesus.

Today’s second lesson is from the First Letter of Peter.

First Peter is one of the more obscure corners of the New Testament. It’s a text that doesn’t come up too often, and I doubt that I’ve ever mentioned it in a sermon more than once and twice, if that.

First Peter was written probably sometime around the year 100, written to Christian communities that were being persecuted.

The author of First Peter attempts to encourage these suffering Christians, reminding them of their Baptism, connecting their suffering to the suffering of Jesus the Son of God.

It’s the first verse from today’s lesson that jumped out at me. The author of First Peter writes, “Christ also suffered for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, in order to bring you to God.”

It’s through Christ’s suffering that he brings us to God.

And that reminded me of an idea that I first read about in a book by one of my seminary professors, John Koenig.

It’s the idea that when we pray, Jesus is right there praying alongside us.

Professor Koenig writes, “…we needy disciples are never alone when we come before God with our prayers.  Jesus is there, too, as high priest, supporting us and interceding for us at the throne of grace.”

That image has always stuck with me.

And, especially when it’s hard for me to pray, when I’m feeling tired or anxious or guilty, or maybe even doubtful that anybody is even listening, during those hard times I’ve found it especially comforting and strengthening to imagine Jesus praying alongside me – Jesus the high priest who really knows what it’s like to be tempted – Jesus the Son of God who really knows what it’s like to suffer, really knows what it’s like to walk through deep shadows, knows what it’s like to go to hell and back, really knows what it’s like to gain wisdom the hard way.

So, today, like Jesus and his family and neighbors who lived with illness and death all around, like the suffering Christians who received the First Letter of Peter, we are living in a time of trouble, living through deep shadows.

Our parish prayer list that we pray three times a day every weekday keeps getting longer and longer.

So, especially now, we should remember that Jesus lived through deep shadows, too – making him worth listening to, worth following.

And, when we struggle to pray, remember that Jesus is right there – right here – praying alongside us, bringing us to God.

Amen. 

God Breathes New Life Into Our Dust

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

February 17, 2021

Ash Wednesday

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

Psalm 103

2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

God Breathes New Life Into Our Dust

As you know only too well, for almost a year now, we have been forced to adapt to the pandemic – and this week is no exception.

In normal times, last night we would have squeezed into Carr Hall for our big Mardi Gras party. We would have stuffed ourselves with pancakes and other delicious treats. Some of us would have sipped a little sangria. We would have enjoyed talented entertainers, and, who knows, maybe even a return engagement of Virgil the Magician!

And, of course, we would have cheered on our kids in the always hotly competitive pancake-flipping contest.

And then today the mood would have become much more somber.

Lent would have begun with services in church throughout the day.

And, a few of us would have spent some time over at a windswept McGinley Square offering “Ashes to Go.”

The ashes that we usually receive, either in church or on the street corner, are meant to remind us of our mortality – a call to remember that we are dust, and to dust we shall return – a call to remember that the there is no time to waste.

But, as I mentioned in my Sunday sermon, we don’t really need that reminder this year, do we?

We have been well aware of our “dustiness.”

Each time we put on a mask before venturing out into the world – each time we board a bus or go to the supermarket – each time we cough or feel a little warm or a little clammy or when our food isn’t quite as tasty as we expected – each time a family member, friend, neighbor, or parishioner has been diagnosed, we have been reminded of our mortality, reminded that we are dust.

Not to mention when Covid has taken the lives of people we know and love.

I think that we can manage just fine without ashes this year.

So, without ashes, but well aware of our “dustiness,” today we begin the holy season of Lent – the forty days when we are called to sacrifice, to give up something, to take on something, to prepare for the overflowing joy of Easter.

Some have rightly said that over the past eleven months we’ve already given up quite a bit, thank you very much, and many of us have taken on just about all that we can manage.

So, if we usually look at Lent as a time of suffering then it sure feels like it’s been Lent all year long.

But, you know, maybe the pandemic, maybe this hard year, gives us a chance to remember, or to really learn, what this holy season is all about.

Lent is never supposed to be about suffering for the sake of suffering.

My goodness, life is hard enough, even without a pandemic, right?

And, although we put away the “A” word until Easter, Lent is never supposed to be about gloom and doom. 

I mean, we need all the joy we can get, right?

No, Lent – the ashes, the sacrifices, the taking on, the preparation – it’s all meant to draw our attention back to God.

Lent is meant to help us answer God’s call: “Return to me with all your heart.”

God is always calling to us - always waiting for us - always ready to breathe new life into our dust.

St. Paul understood that better than most.

Paul knew great suffering in his life – his message was frequently ridiculed and rejected – the little Christian communities that he started often went right off the rails as soon as he left – he was sometimes imprisoned and tortured – and, yes, he had a lot of his own issues, too – and yet, and yet, God would not let go of him, no matter what.

After each setback, God would breathe new life into Paul’s dust, giving him the strength to go on.

So, Paul knew what he was talking about when he called on the Corinthians - when he calls on us today - to be reconciled to God – to fall into the arms of God - to let God hold on to us through the trials of today and whatever tomorrow brings.

And Paul also knew that there’s no time to waste.

As he writes to the Corinthians, “See, now is the acceptable time, now is the day of salvation!”

So, yes, it’s Ash Wednesday - without ashes.

Yes, it’s the first day of Lent.

Just like every Lent, we are invited to confess our sins, to sacrifice, to take on some new way of serving others.

But, if you’ve already given up enough and can’t take on even one more thing – it’s OK. It really is.

It will be a beautiful and holy Lent if we just remember that we are dust.

But not just any old dust.

We are dust that is loved by God.

And the God who raised Jesus from the dead on the first Easter morning is always ready to breathe new life into our dust. 

Amen.

Blessed Assurance

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

February 14, 2021

Year B: The Last Sunday after the Epiphany

2 Kings 2:1-12

Psalm 50:1-6

2 Corinthians 4:3-6

Mark 9:2-9

Blessed Assurance

You “Church By Phone” people may remember that this past Thursday was the feast day of Fanny Crosby, one of the most productive hymn writers of the 19th Century.

Because she is probably best remembered for “Blessed Assurance,” the tune and the words of that much-loved hymn have been echoing in my brain for the past few days.

“Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine!”

And I’ve been thinking about Fanny Crosby herself, who was quite an amazing person.

She was born in 1820.

And, probably the best-known fact about Fanny Crosby is that she was blind. She claimed to have lost her sight as an infant but others think that she was born blind. 

Yet, despite her inability to see the faces of the people she loved, her inability to see the beauty of God’s creation, despite her inability to see the very words she wrote, despite her profound disability – or, actually, maybe because of her profound disability – Fanny Crosby was a person of deep faith, a faith that sustained her all the way to her death in 1915 at the age of 94.

Over the course of her long life she wrote hymns, of course – lots and lots of them, something like 8,000 or 9,000 of them (but, who’s counting?) and also plenty of poetry and music. She was also a teacher.

She was married to a man who was also blind. Together they had a daughter who died not long after she was born, and after that terrible tragedy Fanny and her husband lived mostly separate lives.

Despite the popularity of her work, she was poor, in part because – you’ll be surprised to learn – she made less money than her male peers, and she would also give to anyone less fortunate than herself.

Yet, throughout her long and often difficult life, despite her many sorrows and struggles, it seems that Fanny Crosby was somehow able to feel that blessed assurance, a foretaste of glory divine.

Today is the Last Sunday after the Epiphany.

We began this short journey back at the Jordan where, in the water of Baptism, Jesus heard the voice from heaven say: “You are my Son, the Beloved. With you, I am well pleased.”

From there it was a quick sprint as Jesus assembled his team, calling the first disciples to drop everything and follow him, to start fishing for people.

Those first disciples must have been dazzled when Jesus wowed everybody in the synagogue with his teaching, when Jesus cast out unclean spirits and healed many of the suffering people who were brought to him.

Those first disciples could not have known what they were in for as they followed Jesus from town to town, listening to the stories, watching in wonder as the blind were given sight, as the ears of the deaf were opened, as the dead were raised.

And now, today, on this Last Sunday after the Epiphany, we hear the story of the Transfiguration.

We’re on the mountain with Peter and James and John, fishermen who had left behind their nets to follow Jesus.

We’re on the mountain, so often the place of encounter with God, when suddenly Jesus is transfigured, clothed in a white more dazzling than we can imagine, a sneak preview – a foretaste - of Easter.

That would have been more than enough, but then Moses and Elijah appeared, those two giants of Israel’s past, two men who, it was believed, had not died but had been taken up into heaven.

That would have been enough – and it’s certainly enough for Peter who, not unreasonably, suggests that they build shelters for Jesus, Moses and Elijah, that they hold onto this mountaintop experience for as long as they can.

But, there’s more – the voice from heaven sounds again, just as at the Jordan.

But this time the blessed assurance isn’t just for Jesus. It’s for the disciples. It’s for us:

“This is my Son, the Beloved! Listen to him!”

And then, it was over. 

Moses and Elijah were gone and the heavenly voice had gone silent.

All that was left was Jesus – more than enough, of course – who warns his friends not to say a word about all that they had seen and heard.

Together, they make their way down the mountain, descending from this mountaintop experience.

The disciples don’t know this yet, but now Jesus begins the journey to Jerusalem – the journey to his capital city where, after a palm-waving welcome, he will be roundly rejected, tortured, and brutally killed as a common criminal, convincing anyone who might have been paying attention that the cross was the end of the story.

During the hard days that lay ahead, I don’t know if Jesus and his friends remembered and held on to the blessed assurance of the Transfiguration.

I don’t know if they remembered and held on to that foretaste of glory divine – that sneak preview of Easter. 

I don’t know, but I hope so.

By now, it has been almost a year since we worshiped together in person.

It is almost time for Lent again – a season when we are called to remember our mortality and practice self-denial – a season that, frankly, this year seems almost beside the point.

After all, haven’t we been reminded of our mortality every time we put on a mask and venture out into the world – every time we go to the supermarket or get on the bus?

Haven’t we been denied so much that we used to take for granted – like being together in church?

It has been a long year of suffering.

But, you know, during this time when we have been, in a way, blinded -unable to see an end to the pandemic, unable to see some of the people we love the most, when some in our land have been blinded by fear and anger and lies, during this time of blindness we have also been given the gift of sight – able to see much of what is usually hidden, able to see what’s truly possible, so long as we stick close to God and to each other. 

In our hearts, and in our life together, we have been writing and singing our own hymns of love and faith.

We’ve prayed like we’ve never prayed before.

We’ve supported one another, creating new communities over the phone or on Facebook – yes, not the same as what we used to experience in church and in Carr Hall, but blessed assurance, nevertheless.

We’ve discovered that we – individually and as a community – are stronger, more resilient, more creative, than we might have thought.

And now today, some of us finally have the opportunity to receive Holy Communion apart, but also together – about to receive the most blessed assurance of all, the greatest foretaste of glory divine.

So, yes, it has been a hard year.

And, yes, we are not out of the woods yet.

And, yes, no doubt, the year ahead will bring more than a few setbacks, some unwelcome surprises, changes and losses that will be perhaps hard to bear.

But, as Jesus says, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.”

And, that’s for sure.

So, today, let’s remember Fanny Crosby, blind, but somehow always able to see blessed assurance.

Today, let’s remember Jesus and his friends who on the mountaintop received a foretaste of glory divine.

And, today, let’s remember all that we have been through together.

Let’s remember how even a perfect storm of pandemic and economic collapse and political instability is no match for the power of God.

And, let’s remember the hymns of love and faith that we have been writing in our own hearts – the hymns of love and faith that we have been writing, and singing, together.

Blessed assurance, indeed.

Amen.

Urgency

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

February 7, 2021

Year B: The Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany

Isaiah 40:21-31

Psalm 147:1-12, 21c

1 Corinthians 9:16-23

Mark 1:29-39

Urgency

So, I’m going to begin this morning with a little confession.

Some of you know that every Episcopal church keeps what’s called a service register. As you’d probably guess, it’s a book in which we keep a record of all our services, including details like how many people attended, how many people received Communion, and so on.

Each year before our annual meeting I refer to the service register to calculate statistics like our “average Sunday attendance,” numbers that give at least one measure of our church’s health.

In normal times, we keep the service register on the desk back there in the sacristy. And that’s where it has been during all of these long months of the pandemic.

And, in normal times, I am particular about the service register – making sure that all of our services are accurately recorded, making sure we only use black ink!

But – and here’s the confession part – I had not made an entry in that book since Sunday, March 15, 2020 – the first time that Sue and I and my iPhone were alone here, hoping that at least some of you had managed to find us on Facebook.

After we finished that first online service, wondering if you had been able to see and hear us, hoping that we wouldn’t have to do church this way for too long, I sat at the desk just as I usually did and entered the numbers: two people present, two communions.

And that was it.

Week after week, I saw the service register on the desk, open to a half blank page, and I thought about getting back on track, but I just couldn’t seem to do it. I’m sure part of it was just usual procrastination, but it was more than that. There didn’t seem to be much point – no one would be looking at that book anytime soon – and there was something just depressing and demoralizing about keeping track of all of these services when we have not been together as we would have liked.

But, last week, with our “parish assembly” looming, I finally brought the register home with me, and began entering not just all of our Sundays but also all of our Church By Phone services. It’s a lot! I got as far as September before my hand started to cramp, and I plan to finish the last few months this afternoon.

And, as I was entering all of this information, recording all of the praying that we have been doing, I began to feel a renewed sense of urgency.

We need to remember what we have been through together, how we have remained faithful despite all of the obstacles and sadness – and we need to continue and expand our ministries.

Even if you don’t have a service register of your own, I think many of you can relate to my experience.

The long months of the pandemic sank many of us into a real funk. It took most of our energy just to take care of our basic needs, to meet our most important responsibilities.

I think because we couldn’t see when and how this would end, the bare minimum was the best we could do.

But, lately, a sense of urgency has returned.

It may have begun with the presidential election, which offered two very different candidates and two wildly different visions of our future – an election that attracted a record number of voters.

And this sense of urgency has definitely continued with the rollout of the vaccine.

I’m glad to say that I’ve heard from many of you who are eager, determined to get vaccinated – calling and emailing the city, the county, the hospital – sometimes calling and emailing repeatedly – and now, finally, some among us are getting vaccinated, and can’t wait for the second dose, and the return of at least some freedom and security.

Finally, on the horizon, we can see the day when we will at last be reunited and I can start entering some bigger numbers into our service register.

Urgency.

Last week I mentioned how almost everyone agrees that the Gospel of Mark was the first of the gospels to be completed, around the year 70.

It’s also the shortest, most barebones of the gospels. It’s like Mark just can’t wait to tell the story of Jesus. There’s no time to wait. The whole gospel is driven by a sense of urgency.

Last time, we heard Jesus begin his ministry at the Capernaum synagogue, wowing everybody with his authoritative teaching, and then most dramatically, casting an unclean spirit out from a poor suffering man.

When things like that happen, you know that word is going to get around, right?

This week we pick up right where we left off. Jesus has had his eventful time in the synagogue and now he and the disciples return to Peter and Andrew’s house, where Peter’s mother-in-law was sick with a fever. Jesus heals her and with almost comical urgency she immediately gets up and starts to serve everyone else.

Whenever I read this story I think of the many people I’ve known who never want any fuss about themselves – even when they’re sick – they just want to be of service to others.

Then, that night, it seems the whole town turns up at the door, bringing to Jesus all the people who needed healing.

We’re told that Jesus healed many of them and then early the next morning – more like the middle of the night, really – Jesus heads out to the wilderness to pray.

But, he’s a celebrity by now, and the disciples and the crowd pursue him – hunt him. They’re looking for more healing – for more good news.

And the story concludes with Jesus and the disciples leaving Capernaum and heading out to other towns where people also needed healing and good news.

There is urgency in every element of this story.

Peter’s mother-in-law doesn’t wait even a minute to start serving others.

The crowd throngs around the house, urgently hoping for healing.

Jesus gets up in the middle of the night, urgently looking for some quiet time with the Father.

The crowd urgently pursues Jesus even into the wilderness.

And, finally, Jesus knows there is no time to waste – he’s got to hit the road and travel to other towns, continuing his teaching and healing.

Urgency.

And now here we are today.

We are not quite out of the woods – Covid remains very dangerous and it will take time to get most of us vaccinated – but it feels like hope is finally helping us shake off some of our funk, beginning to dream of life when all of this is finally behind us.

And, I suspect – I hope – that we will return to our Christian lives with a renewed urgency.

In normal times, many of us received Communion pretty much every week. And, maybe, we took that for granted, forgetting the awesomeness of receiving Christ into our bodies, into our souls.

I know – because I’ve gotten calls and emails – that many of you urgently want to receive Communion – to receive one of the wafers that we are about to consecrate on the altar today and that will be distributed next Saturday and shared together next Sunday.

In normal times, maybe a lot of us counted on others to do the praying, others to do the ministry.

But, I know that many of us have been praying more urgently than before – praying on our own and praying together on the phone or here on Facebook.

And I know that many of us have been taking on ministries more urgently than before – calling people, sending cards to people who might need cheering up, giving donations to help people down at Triangle Park.

Sonia has still been making lunch for the guests at the homeless drop-in center.

Deacon Jill has been urgently plowing ahead in getting the Lighthouse reopened. Soon we will once again provide hospitality to refugees and asylees.

Our Sunday School teachers have been urgently trying to keep our kids engaged, using WhatsApp to teach their lessons.

After years of thinking about it, some of us are urgently beginning our oral history project, collecting the stories of our longtime parishioners so we can better understand our past and be a more faithful church today and tomorrow.

It feels to me like something has shifted – all of our many worship and prayer services are finally being entered into the service register – we’re getting up from our sick beds and serving others – Jesus is healing our worn-out hearts – and Jesus is back on the road, seeking out the sick and the lost – and, as always, Jesus invites us to walk beside him.

Let's get going. There's no time to waste.

Amen.