The Heavenly Banquet, Right Here and Right Now

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 28, 2022

Year C, Proper 17: The Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

Jeremiah 2:4-13

Psalm 81:1, 10-16

Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16

Luke 14:1, 7-14

The Heavenly Banquet, Right Here and Right Now

So, have I mentioned to you how much I love baptizing people?

No, it’s true.

And while I think every Baptism is really joyful, I have to say that our two Baptisms last Sunday were just off the charts joyful. 

The two children, Teddy and Lily, are adorable – and, by the way, they remained nearly silent during the service.

And Teddy and Lily were surrounded by so much love from the family and friends gathered around them here in person, and from those tuning in via live stream across the pond in Ireland and England.

The choir has special connections with both children, so the music was even more beautiful than usual, if you can imagine that.

Just like at every Baptism, there were some big promises made and renewed.

We pledged to resist evil and to repent when we sin.

We vowed to proclaim by word and example the Good News – to seek and serve Christ in absolutely everybody, loving our neighbor as our self – to strive for justice and peace, respecting the dignity of every human being.

They really are big promises, promises that can only be kept with God’s help.

But, as I reflected on today’s gospel lesson, I kept hearing the words of one of the baptismal promises – one that maybe doesn’t sound quite so big or so difficult.

We promise to continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers.

With God’s help, of course.

If you were here last Sunday, you may remember that we heard the story of Jesus healing the bent-over woman in the synagogue on what must have been a most memorable Sabbath morning.

The leader of the synagogue was unhappy with Jesus, arguing that this kind of healing – this kind of work – should not be done on the Sabbath.

Well, today’s gospel lesson is also set during the Sabbath, but rather than being in the synagogue, this time Jesus has been invited to the home of a leader of the Pharisees for a meal.

Luke tells us that the other guests – maybe other Pharisees – were watching Jesus closely, which sounds kind of ominous, especially since we know that the Pharisees are usually depicted as opposing Jesus.

Then again, wouldn’t we keep our eyes on Jesus if we were sitting at the table with him?

We didn’t get to hear it in today’s selection, but right after we’re told that Jesus was at the home of the Pharisee leader, he heals someone again – yes, once again on the Sabbath!

So, this Sabbath healing on top of last week’s incident might make us expect that this meal is about to be spoiled by hostility and conflict.

But, probably wisely, the Pharisees don’t comment on Jesus healing on the Sabbath.

Instead, Jesus takes the initiative and offers some teaching for both guests and hosts.

Guests, don’t take the best seats for yourself because someone more important may come along and you’ll be forced to move and won’t that be embarrassing!

Hosts, don’t invite people who can repay your hospitality, but instead invite the poor and the weak – only invite the people who can never repay your hospitality.

Now, Jesus isn’t some kind of divine Emily Post, teaching us about etiquette!

No, Jesus is pointing to the heavenly banquet where we will all gather around the table, where the poor and the suffering and the humble will get the best seats.

And Jesus is suggesting that we don’t have to wait until we’re dead to feast at the heavenly banquet – the heavenly banquet is already underway right here and right now, and, as the author of the Letter to the Hebrews writes – we can entertain angels right here and now.

Now, some of you may think that I lived my whole life in New Jersey before moving here last year.

But, actually that’s not true.

About a decade ago, Sue and I spent a year in Gainesville, Florida, where I served as rector of a small church and the Episcopal chaplain at the University of Florida.

Since we were ministering to college students who, during the weekend at least, are not known to be early risers, our Sunday service at the university chapel was later in the day – at 5:00, I think.

We usually had a pretty good turnout for the service, in part because each week, parishioners from local Episcopal churches would provide a hot, homemade meal that we enjoyed after the service.

Since the food was always good and lovingly prepared and generously served, the word got out. And so, in addition to the students, we were joined by an interesting assortment of other hungry people – some were homeless or close to it – some were a little smelly and unkempt – some seemed to have no one else in their life so this was their one chance each week to break bread with others, to enjoy lively and friendly conversation.

I might have predicted that the students would resent these other guests, or that they would be uncomfortable or even afraid, but that was not the case at all.

We put several tables together into a T-shape, so there was no place was more or less prominent than any other.

And as we all sat around the table together, as we all enjoyed the food and each other, I remember looking around and thinking that this is what Jesus calls us to – that this is entertaining angels without knowing it – that this is a little taste of the heavenly banquet, right here and right now.

When I prepare people for Baptism – usually parents who want to have their children baptized, I go over the big promises that they will be making.

When we get to the promise to “continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers” I usually sum that one up as a promise to be here with us in church – where we certainly do get a taste of the heavenly banquet.

But, you know, over the centuries the church – not just St. Thomas’ but the whole church – has so ritualized what we do here – constructing special buildings with seating that, if not reserved, often feels that way – we’ve formalized things so much that we’ve moved a long way from the kind of banquet that Jesus taught about on that long ago Sabbath at the Pharisee’s house.

So, the promise to break bread together is not only a promise to make it our business to be here on Sunday but also to share our table with other people, all sorts of people, especially the poor and the weak, the people who can never repay our hospitality.

You know, when we were developing the new website, we gave a lot of thought to answering questions that a newcomer might have before coming here some Sunday:

Can I wear any kind of clothes or do I need to dress up?

Can I sit anywhere or are certain places reserved for certain people?

Will I be welcomed if I look or sound different than everybody else?

Maybe some of you had questions like that before you came here.

And, while there’s always room for improvement, I think we actually do a pretty good job at welcoming all different kinds of people – more welcoming than people out there might think.

But, you know, Jesus called the Pharisee to a deeper hospitality.

And Jesus calls us to a deeper hospitality, too.

So, my hope is that, in this time of renewal, we’ll look for ways to be even more welcoming here on Sundays.

And, I also hope that we’ll look for other ways to break bread together – maybe in our big parish hall that sits empty most evenings - to open our doors not just to parishioners, but maybe to the Stevenson students just down the road, to anyone who is hungry for food and companionship.

My hope is that we won’t just deliver food to hungry people but actually sit and eat with them, to get to know them and to let them get to know us.

That can be uncomfortable and even scary, believe me I know.

But just like the students and other guests in Gainesville, Florida, we’re all invited to break bread together at the heavenly banquet right here and right now, where we are likely to entertain angels without knowing it.

May it be so.

Amen.

Giving Thanks For The Rev. Canon Dr. David Hamilton

My friend and brother, The Rev. Canon Dr. David Hamilton, died earlier this week.

At the invitation of my St. Peter's Prep colleague Patty Nickerson, Sue and I first visited St. Paul's Church in Jersey City on the Second Sunday of Advent in 2000. We were impressed by the dark beauty of the old building and by the friendliness of the welcome. The choir performed with great skill. The sermon was engaging and wise. But what touched us the most was The Peace. Suddenly, everyone was in the aisle, shaking hands and embracing like beloved sisters and brothers. Used to just giving a friendly wave to the people nearest us, Sue and I were overwhelmed by the love. And then the priest appeared at our side, extended his hand, and said, "Hi. I'm Dave. Welcome to St. Paul's."

Dave Hamilton changed our lives forever.

By the time we met him, Dave had been through some hard times and painful losses. He made an unanticipated journey from the suburbs to the city. Yet, his scars made him a more compassionate priest and a greater man. Truly, he was a "wounded healer." His priesthood was about extending his hand to all of us and saying, "I'm a pilgrim on the road, just like you. Let's walk together."

Through Dave, God reawakened in me an old sense of call to priesthood. As I made my way through the ordination process and seminary, he listened to my fears and offered encouragement ("Persistence is usually rewarded," he liked to say). He took me out to lunch at his usual places like Kellogg Garden and Al's Diner, wanting to hear about what I was reading and learning. And there was always laughter. There was nothing better than his laugh. It started in his belly and usually ended in a coughing fit.

I had always expected that Dave and I would be priests "together" somehow. I don't know exactly what I thought that would look like, but for a long time, it seemed like it would never happen. He got sick around the time of my ordination and struggled quite a bit these last few years. We kept our friendship alive by talking on the phone and getting together for lunch near where he was living down the Shore.  

But then, about four years ago, he surprised me by asking if he could preach some Sunday at St. Paul's. Of course! It had been a long time since he had been in Jersey City, but all of our longtime parishioners greeted him with so much warmth, love, and joy. It was a family reunion. It felt like Advent 2000 all over again. He preached powerfully from the heart, standing in the aisle, both frail and strong, looking like a prophet who had survived by God's grace alone during a long time in the wilderness. Finally, it was time for Communion. Dave and I stood beside each other at the altar, the 13th and 14th Rectors of St. Paul's, priests together at last.

Rest eternal grant to Dave, O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon him.

"The Time is Always Right to Do the Right Thing"

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 21, 2022

Year C, Proper 16: The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Jeremiah 1:4-10

Psalm 71:1-6

Hebrews 12:18-29

Luke 13:10-17

“The Time is Always Right to Do the Right Thing”

Today’s gospel lesson includes lots of elements that we find elsewhere in the story of Jesus.

Jesus is in a synagogue.

Jesus has a conflict with the religious establishment, in this case the “leader” of the synagogue.

Jesus performs a miraculous healing, in this case setting freeing a woman who had been bent for eighteen years.

So, the outline is familiar but there is a distinctive element to this particular story.

As far as we know, the bent-over woman has come to the synagogue on this particular Sabbath day with no expectation that, after eighteen long years, this would be the day of her healing.

It’s possible that she knew of Jesus’ reputation for miraculous healing and that, when she heard Jesus was going to be in the synagogue that day, she made sure to be there, too, hoping that she might be liberated from her suffering.

Possibly, but the text doesn’t say that.

In fact, notice that the woman does not even ask Jesus for healing. She doesn’t try to reach out and touch his garment.

No, Jesus takes the initiative.

Jesus sees her and calls her to him and without her having to say a word, he says, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.”

He lays his hands on her and she is unbent.

We might expect everyone to rejoice at this miracle but there’s at least one person who’s not happy at all: the “leader” of the synagogue.

Now, as part of the religious establishment myself, I admit that I kind of sympathize with him.

In the face of Jesus’ obvious power – I mean, come on, everybody just saw the woman stand upright – you can feel the synagogue leader’s authority slipping away. How many suffering people has he healed, I wonder?

And, as is often the case when people fear that they are losing power, the leader falls back on the letter of the law. He points out that what Jesus has just done should not happen on the Sabbath. Any other day would be fine, but not the Sabbath, the day set aside for worship and rest.

And, you know, the leader is kind of right.

Jewish Law is clear that if there’s an emergency, people can offer aid to someone sick or injured on the Sabbath, of course.

But, as far as we know, the case of the bent-over woman was not an emergency. After all, if she had suffered for eighteen years she probably could have endured for one more day. 

(Easy for me to say, I know.)

So, the synagogue leader is only kind of right because, while he knows the rules, but doesn’t know that he’s dealing with Jesus the Son of God.

And, God’s healing power cannot be somehow scheduled by us. 

We cannot limit God’s grace in any way – as much as we might really like to help God decide just who should be healed and blessed, and when.

As I’ve sat with this story, my attention has been drawn to Jesus’ urgency.

When he sees the bent-over woman, he doesn’t make a mental note to meet with her after the service is over. He doesn’t tell her something like, “I’m sorry for your suffering, but see, I’m in the middle of teaching these people, so please wait for me until after I’m done.”

He doesn’t even say to the congregation something like, “Look at this poor woman. Let’s all pray for her, shall we?”

No, he immediately – right there, on the Sabbath in the synagogue, in the middle of his teaching – he immediately calls her forward and heals her.

Urgency.

As I’ve imagined this scene, I remembered a quote from Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Dr. King said, 

“The time is always right to do the right thing.”

Unfortunately, we’re really good at coming up with all sorts of reasons why, actually, this is not the right time to do the right thing.

Maybe we think we’re just too busy.

Or we’re reluctant to get entangled with someone else’s life.

I admit that those are my go-to excuses.

Or maybe we feel like we’re too old - or that we’re too young.

In today’s Old Testament lesson, we heard the call of the Prophet Jeremiah.

And, like any real prophet, Jeremiah tries to dodge God’s call.

(You always have to watch out for people who are really eager to be prophets – they’re always false prophets.)

Anyway, Jeremiah tries to wriggle away from God’s call by claiming that he’s just too young for such a monumental task.

Jeremiah says, “Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.”

But, God doesn’t buy that. 

Instead, God promises to be with this young prophet, giving him all that he really needs to complete his work.

“The time is always right to do the right thing.”

One of the things I love most about St. Thomas’ is that, maybe surprisingly for a church that’s been around for so long, we often have a strong sense of urgency.

It was around a year ago when many of us of watched in horror and shame as Afghan people, including many who had assisted the United States over the past couple of decades, scrambled desperately to escape their country as it fell again to the Taliban.

But, rather than just lamenting this tragedy, rather than just writing checks, our parishioners immediately began thinking boldly and creatively – wondering if we might welcome refugees here – and trying to figure out how to make that happen.

As many of you know, our sense of urgency crashed into many obstacles, bureaucratic and otherwise, but we’re close to welcoming our first guests.

And, by the way, our application was done so well that it’s being used as a model for others who want to take on this difficult task!

“The time is always right to do the right thing.”

Or, think about our “Bottoms Up” campaign.

As soon as we heard about the desperate need for diapers and feminine hygiene products, the donations have been pouring in – with parishioners and UPS and FedEx delivery people dropping off so many boxes that we’re almost creating a safety hazard over in the Parish Hall!

“The time is always right to do the right thing.”

Finally, this morning I have the great privilege of baptizing Teddy and Lily.

I mean what could be more joyful than two baptisms in August?

Three, I guess.

Just like at every Baptism, this morning there will be some big promises made, big promises renewed.

My prayer is that Teddy’s and Lily’s parents and godparents and all of us will feel a real sense of urgency. Although these children are young, there is no time to waste. 

    With God's help, it’s time – right now – to begin praying and breaking bread together – it’s time – right now to begin teaching them about loving God and loving their neighbors – it’s time – right now – to begin seeking and serving Christ in all people and respecting the dignity of every human being.

On a long ago Sabbath, right there in the synagogue, Jesus called forward the bent-over woman and healed her.

May we be blessed with that same sense of urgency, right here, right now.

“The time is always right to do the right thing.”

Amen.

Luis, A Guide Along the Way

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

August 15, 2022

The Funeral of Luis Gomez

John 14:1-6

Luis, A Guide Along the Way

I want to begin by thanking the Luis' family for inviting me to be here today and I want to especially thank Father Martin for graciously sharing his pulpit with me.

I am especially grateful to be here because, like all of you, I loved Luis very much and would not have wanted to miss this celebration of his life, this time when we entrust our brother to Almighty God.

The gospel lesson we heard today is the one we often read at funerals. In fact, we read it at Lois’ funeral right here a few years ago.

The setting is the Last Supper for Jesus and his closest friends.

Jesus had been predicting his death for quite a while, but you know how it is. It’s hard for us to accept that someone we love so much is going to suffer and die.

Now though, gathered around the table one final time, I’m sure the hard truth was beginning to sink in.

But, rather than sitting around in grief and fear, Jesus the Great Teacher uses this opportunity to teach a few last, most important lessons.

Jesus gets to his knees and, in an act of lowly service that shocked the disciples and still startles us, he washes the feet of his friends – showing them that this is how we are to love and care for one another.

Jesus takes and blesses the bread and wine and says this is his body and this is his blood, promising that he will always be with us in this special way, each time we gather around the table and remember him, just like we will do here in a little while.

Finally, Jesus promises that he will return for us and bring us to the place of reunion. And, furthermore, Jesus says that we know the way to the place where Jesus is going.

I always like to point out that the Apostle Thomas is the only one brave enough or honest enough to admit the truth.

He says:

“Lord, we do not know the way to the place where you are going. How can we know the way?”

And Jesus responds, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

Jesus is the way. 

Amen?

Jesus is the way, but we all know that we can lose our way along the way, right?

So, you know what God does?

God helps us out by sending us special people to guide us, to keep us on the way, to call us back to the way.

I know Luis was a guide along the way for his family and friends. 

And, you know what? Luis was a guide along the way for me, too.

When I arrived back here as rector, nine years ago now, St. Paul’s was in a fragile state. A lot of people had drifted way from the church for one reason or another, and it was not clear that we would be able to draw them back or if we would be able to attract newcomers.

Publicly, I expressed nothing but confidence in our future, but privately I wondered and worried.

I think I mostly kept those concerns from the congregation but I can remember a couple of times when I slipped.

Because I was so relieved that people were coming to church, there were a couple of Sundays when I began the announcements by thanking people for being here, making it sound like somehow I was the host of this event - and not Jesus Christ!

Anyway, I guess Luis let it slide the first Sunday but the next week when I said it again, I saw him – right there in his usual pew beside Lois – shaking his head “no.”

After the service he pulled me aside and in as loving a way as possible he told me to stop saying that – that being here was a blessing and an obligation, and not something for which he or anyone else should be thanked.

Luis guided us along the Way.

Another example.

Placing Holy Communion into the hands of people gathered around the altar is one of my great joys. Each time, I try to stay mindful, but I admit that sometimes I slip into autopilot or my mind wanders, or I get distracted by something going on elsewhere in the church. Sometimes I just look along the rail or down the aisle to see how many more people are waiting, and I’m no longer fully present.

But, no matter where my mind was when I reached Luis at the rail, he always brought me back to the sacred moment that we were sharing. He always took his time, kissing the cross he wore around his neck, making the Sign of the Cross and then, only when he was duly prepared, he stretched out his hands to receive the Body of Christ.

Luis guided us along the Way.

Finally, there was the love that Luis and Lois shared.

They were inseparable, of course. I used to see them all over the city, driving around in Luis’ truck (How could you miss that truck?)

They had such an easy way with each other, always up for laughing with each other, and always up giving each other the business.

Some of my fondest memories of Luis and Lois were at our elaborate coffee hours next door in Carr Hall, where Luis would say something funny and outrageous and Lois and Sonia and Irmgard and several other parishioners would go right back at him, having so much fun– and, of course, we’d all console Lois that she had to deal with this guy all the time.

I called this weekly game, “Pick on Luis.”

But, during Lois’ final illness and death, we all saw the seriousness, the depth, and the richness of their love. I remember those last days in the hospital, how Luis cared for Lois so tenderly, serenading her, holding her hand as she took her final steps on the Way. 

Luis soldiered on without Lois these last few years, but it was clear how lost he was without her, and how he so longed for reunion.

Luis guided us along the Way.

A few years ago, I visited Luis and Lois at the apartment over on Stegman. As usual we laughed a lot together and we prayed.

Luis and Lois showed me the family photos that were all around the apartment, telling me with pride who was who.

And Luis proudly showed me the elaborate shrine that he had created in their home, this beautiful sacred space that meant so much to him.

And so, you know, it seems exactly right that Luis’ earthly life ended there in that apartment, in the place that represented what was most important to him: his God and his family.

And now, Luis has completed his earthly journey and is in the place that Jesus has lovingly prepared for him – the place of reunion – the place of reunion with Lois and all the faithful departed.

And, we know the way to that place.

We know the way because we know Jesus – and we know the way thanks to a special guide named Luis Gomez.

Amen.

When There's Trouble in the Vineyard...

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 14, 2022

Year C, Proper 15: The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

Isaiah 5:1-7

Psalm 80:1-2, 8-18

Hebrews 11:29-12:2

Luke 12:49-56

When There’s Trouble in the Vineyard…

A few years ago, Sue and I took a winery tour out in beautiful Sonoma County, California.

Visiting the various wineries and vineyards, we were both struck by the obvious pride that the staff took in their work. It was fascinating to hear them describe how they carefully tend the fragile vines and how they painstakingly transform the grapes into wine that they were happy for us to taste, and even happier for us to purchase!

In a way that I hadn’t before, I came to appreciate how winemaking is so delicate, and even personal.

But, of course, despite tender care, and despite the knowhow earned from lots of experience, sometimes the weather is too wet or too dry, or the vines get attacked by pests, or weakened by disease – and, as you probably know, in recent years there has been horrible destruction caused by wildfires.

Sometimes there is trouble in the vineyard.

During biblical times, growing grapes and making wine was a major economic activity in Israel and other parts of the Near East.

Aside from being a significant source of revenue, wine was also a part of everyday life, at least for those who could afford it.

And even for others, no celebration was complete without abundant wine –Jesus averted a real crisis for the hosts at the wedding at Cana!

Since vines played such an important part in people’s lives, it’s no surprise that the image of the vineyard appears throughout the Bible.

In fact, Israel saw itself as a vineyard – a vineyard lovingly planted, tended, and protected by God.

We heard that beautiful image in today’s lesson from the Book of the Prophet Isaiah.

In what’s sometimes called “The Song of the Vineyard,” God recalls the care that God has taken with God’s vineyard, digging into the soil, clearing away the rocks, and planting not just any vines but “choice vines.”

God does so much for God’s vineyard, creating the best possible conditions to produce the healthiest and most delicious grapes.

But, there was trouble in God’s vineyard.

Instead of producing the beautiful and delicious grapes that God hoped for and expected, the grapes have gone wild.

There was trouble in God’s vineyard – but we’re not talking about an agricultural problem here. No, this isn’t trouble caused by the weather – this isn’t trouble caused by an infestation of bugs or the destruction of fire. 

No, there was trouble in God’s vineyard - there was trouble in Israel - because God had expected the people to live justly, but instead God saw bloodshed – God expected the people to be righteous, but instead God heard the cries of the oppressed.

In the most haunting image of Isaiah’s “Song of the Vineyard,” God seems to give up on the vineyard, deciding to remove its protective hedge, breaking down its wall, allowing it to be trampled and overgrown, and finally even denying it rainfall.

It must have been sobering for the people of Israel to hear these words of God through the Prophet Isaiah – and, if we’re really listening, these should be hard words for us to hear today, too.

It’s been yet another week of “unprecedented events,” but it’s also been another week of events that are so routine that we hardly notice: another week of violence across the land, another week of bitter political division, yet another week of a rich few having a whole lot and many poor having so little.

Once again, God sees bloodshed and hears the cries of the oppressed.

Now, if the only Scripture we had was this little snippet from Isaiah, or even Jesus’ startling announcement in today’s Gospel lesson that he has come to bring fire to the earth, well, we would be a people without hope.

But, of course, this is not the only Scripture we have.

And, when we look at the whole sweep of the story of God and us, we see that God never gives up on the vineyard – God never gives up on us.

During our Sonoma County winery tour, one of the vine-growers explained to us the process of grafting vines.

Just in case you don’t know, vine-growers graft vines by making a small incision in the base of the vine (called the rootstock) and then adding another vine that is inserted into the incision.

It’s through grafting that a new grape vine is produced.

Although, as you might guess, I know next to nothing about gardening or agriculture, I actually already knew about grafting.

I knew it because St. Paul uses that image for the relationship between Gentile (non-Jewish) followers of Jesus and the people of Israel. In his Letter to the Romans, Paul imagines God grafting the Gentiles onto the vine of Israel.

This is the work of God. 

This is what God does all the time.

Especially when there is trouble in the vineyard, God is at work, grafting us together, creating something new and beautiful. 

Last week, Betsy Wilmerding and I attended an event sponsored by a remarkable organization called Thread. Maybe some of you know it. Thread’s mission is to “weave a stronger social fabric” by making a ten-year commitment to children in Baltimore City. Thread provides them with mentors to guide them through the many challenges of life, especially life in the city.

I can imagine the mentor/mentee relationship as a kind of grafting, requiring incisions - requiring sacrifice and trust as people from different places and backgrounds come together to create something new and beautiful.

And you know, I couldn’t help noticing how many young people – young people of all different backgrounds – were at this Thread event, and how excited they were to be there. I’m pretty sure they are drawn to Thread by the promise of grafting – being grafted with other volunteers, being grafted into meaningful work, and being grafted into relationships with the children of Baltimore.

Especially when there is trouble in the vineyard, God the grafter never gives up on us.

And sure enough, we see God the grafter at work right here at St. Thomas’.

At the Men’s Breakfast on Thursday, I was talking to a relatively new parishioner, someone who arrived here right around the same time that Sue and I did.

We were talking about our new community and he said that he was really struck by – actually kind of surprised by – the warmth of the welcome he and his wife had received.

In a place like this, where a lot of people and their families have been here for a long time, he had assumed that it would be kind of hard to “break in,” you know? But that hasn’t been his experience at all.

I was so glad to hear that – and it certainly matches what Sue and I have experienced over the past year.  Now, of course I had expected you all to have good manners, but you’ve offered us way more than that, inviting us to more than just living and working here, but really wanting us to be grafted into this community, for this to be our true home.

And, as I look around our church these days, I see this holy grafting happening all around us – here in church, during fellowship, on the Altar Guild, in Bible Study, among the Handicrafters, and on and on.

God is grafting new people into our community, creating something new and beautiful right here, in our little corner of God’s vineyard.

At the end of today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus notes that we may be good at predicting the weather but not so great at reading the signs of the times.

Jesus is right, of course, but even if we can’t read the signs of the times, this past week offered several pointed reminders that there is most definitely big trouble in the vineyard.

So, as we step together into an uncertain future, it’s essential to remember that God will not give up on us, no matter what.

Especially when there is trouble in the vineyard, God works with us and through us, grafting us together, creating a vineyard of justice and righteousness - the beautiful vineyard that God has always meant for us to be.

Amen.

Where Are Our Hearts?

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

August 7, 2022

Year C: The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Isaiah 1:1, 10-20

Psalm 50:1-8, 23-24

Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16

Luke 12:32-40

Where Are Our Hearts?

A few days ago I had the sacred privilege of visiting the home of our parishioner Joan McShane to pray with Joan and her family as her earthly life drew to a close.

If you’ve been around long enough, I’m sure you’ve been in similar situations, gathered around a bedside as the veil between life and death thins, and is finally transcended.

These are always intense moments and often terribly sad, especially when we say goodbye to someone who seems just too young to die.

But, in my experience, more often than not, this can be a beautiful time, as the urgency of death moves people to say what maybe has been long left unsaid, to set aside disagreements and bridge estrangements. In these bedrooms or hospital rooms, tears of sadness are sometimes mixed with tears of joy. 

Often there is even laughter as family and friends recall wonderful times they have shared, the cherished memories that make life sweet, even in the midst of suffering and loss.

It really is one of the great gifts of priesthood that I get to walk beside people during this most tender part of their journey.

As I was driving back from Joan’s home, I thought back to before I was a priest, back to the first time I was beside someone as death approached.

More than twenty years ago now, my grandmother, my mother’s mother, was hospitalized for what turned out to be the illness that would take her life.

As it happened, most of her hospitalization took place during my Christmas break from school. That didn’t make for a very happy holiday but it did mean that I didn’t have to teach and was free to go to the hospital often.

During those last days, my grandmother and I spent more time together than we had since I was a little kid. Sometimes other family members were there, and sometimes we were alone.

Sometimes she dozed but often she was awake and alert. She talked about her life and I talked about mine.

Her life had not often been easy, marked by the hard work of raising a big family, enduring the death of one of her children, and in her last years, the fear of dimming eyesight.

But, my grandmother was a deeply faithful person, a devout Roman Catholic.

I often think about how, after she retired, she often participated in what’s called a novena – it’s a series of services that takes place over the course of nine days. That alone sounds daunting, I know. But, to get to the church where the novena was held, my grandmother had to cross – on foot - the busy roads that lead in and out of the Holland Tunnel – something like 8 lanes of traffic each way.

Not a journey for the faint of heart. 

What I remember most about those last days is that my grandmother faced her death without regret or fear. She knew that she had done the best she could and she completely trusted that God was not going to let go of her now.

At one point in the hospital, she turned to me and said, “I know where I’ve come from and I know where I’m going.”

(Whether she knew it or not, she was quoting Jesus in John 8:14.)

During and after her life, all of us who loved her knew exactly where grandmother’s heart was – her heart was with God and with her family.

And, that’s what this is all about.

Where are our hearts?

Long ago, God spoke through the Prophet Isaiah, warning the people that, if their hearts were in the wrong place, if they did evil, if they abandoned the oppressed, then all their worship and sacrifices – all their “novenas” - would be repulsive to God.

Where are our hearts?

Jesus, of course, is always concerned about our hearts.

Last week we heard the Parable of the Rich Fool, a man who did very well for himself, but rather than sharing what he had, or even giving thanks to God for his good fortune, he planned bigger barns for all his stuff. He looked forward to eating, drinking and being merry all by himself.

But, in a moment, his life was over.

Where are our hearts?

Today’s gospel lesson continues last week’s theme.

Jesus calls the disciples not to fear. Jesus teaches that we don’t really need very much. And most of all, Jesus calls us to remember that our true treasure is with God.

Jesus says, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Where are our hearts?

After my grandmother died, I reflected a lot on what changes I might need to make in my life so that when my time came, I also could step into God’s arms without fear or regret, with the same kind of confidence that she had.

It’s one of the reasons I’m here standing before you today and not preparing to welcome another freshman homeroom!

But, especially these days, I wonder about my heart. 

I wonder about all of our hearts.

Where are our hearts?

I’ve mentioned to some of you that lately I’ve been trying to get out of the house as early as I can to walk on the rail trail that is about 20 minutes away from here, in Ashland.

I suppose these early morning walks are a way to care for both my physical and spiritual hearts.

Anyway, the other day as I was driving to the trail I turned on the radio just in time for the news at the top of the hour. It felt like my heart was beating faster as I heard about Ukraine, climate change, monkeypox, gun violence, so many people having to take a second job to pay the bills, and that never-ending pox known as partisan politics.

Finally, I thought, why am I doing this to myself? And I snapped off the radio.

And that’s how it’s been, right?

And I’m afraid that’s how it’s going to be.

So, with God’s help, we need to guard our hearts – we need to keep our hearts in a safe place, so we don’t succumb to compassion fatigue, so we don’t get caught up in the frenzies and fears of our time, so we don’t become like the rich fool and think that bigger barns will somehow save us.

Although I’m not getting ready for a new freshman homeroom, I have been thinking a lot about the fall here at St. Thomas’.

And my great hope is that, with God’s help, in the months ahead we will renew our commitment to God and to one another – that we will spend even just a little more time – maybe some of the time we currently spend worrying over the news – that we will spend even just a little more time in prayer, praying for our families and friends, for the suffering city just down the road, for our broken world, praying even for the people we don’t like or who don’t like us.

Now, I’m not asking anyone to make a novena, but if it works for you, go for it!

But, I hope that this season of renewal can be a time for us to care for our hearts – to make sure that, like my grandmother, we keep our hearts close to God.  

And, if we do that, we can face an uncertain future without fear, knowing where we have come from and where we are going.

Amen.