This is Not the End

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 17, 2024

Year B, Proper 28: The 26th Sunday after Pentecost

1 Samuel 1:4-20

1 Samuel 2:1-10

Hebrews 10:11-14; 19-25

Mark 13:1-8

This is Not the End

This year, the change of seasons has been delayed.

The summer warmth lingered far longer than it should have while the ongoing drought gave us the most beautiful and long-lasting foliage that I can remember.

But the cold, and even some welcome rain, arrived last week.

The days grow short.

We’ve entered a chillier and more shadowy season.

Meanwhile, here in church, we can feel the seasonal change as we approach the end of the year.

In just two weeks, a new church year will begin on the First Sunday of Advent.

Of course, Advent usually gets pretty much gobbled up by the commercial Christmas of the world. And that’s too bad because there are two important themes to Advent – two sides of the Advent coin.

One is preparing for the birth of Jesus.

And the other is preparing for the Last Day, getting ready for the day of judgment - getting ready for the end.

        There have been two times in my life when I’ve thought that maybe this is the end.

The first was twenty-three years ago on what started as a beautiful September morning with an impossibly blue sky.

I was teaching history at my high school alma mater, St. Peter’s Prep, in Jersey City, just a few blocks from the Hudson River waterfront. 

My classroom was up on the top floor, with big windows looking to the East, giving me and my students a pretty good view of the New York skyline.

Sue was working in the corporate offices of Barnes & Noble, near Union Square, a couple of miles north of Manhattan’s southern tip.

It was the second day of classes.

So, the school year was still new enough to be shiny and hopeful, the students’ notebooks almost entirely blank, ready for all sorts of possibilities.

Well, most of you are old enough to remember how that day which began with such beauty ended with such horror.

After the fall of the second tower, which I could see and even hear in my classroom, as I turned to face my students sitting before me, wide-eyed, looking for me to somehow make sense of this, I remember thinking that whoever did this wanted to terrify us before they finished us off.

I remember thinking that maybe this was the end.

And there were many endings that day, so much death, destruction, and fear.

But it was not the end.

It took all day for her to find a way back across the river, but Sue eventually made her way back to Jersey City.

That night, Sue and I walked the few blocks from our house to our church to pray with Dave our rector and a few of our fellow parishioners. 

I don’t remember much of that night. I don’t recall a word of Dave’s homily, but looking around at the beautiful church, looking at Sue beside me, and my sisters and brothers around me, I remember thinking that, no, this is not the end – that somehow, we would go forward – together.

When school resumed a couple of days later, even as the ruins of the World Trade Center smoldered a little more than a mile away, we started something new.

Each morning, many of us gathered in the school’s foyer to pray for peace – students, faculty, and administrators, all of us together, pouring out our hearts to God.

This was not the end.

The second time when I thought that maybe this was the end was just a few years ago.

As you know, from time to time, different diseases pop up, usually in faraway places. And aside from feeling compassion for the people suffering and admiration for the people trying to help, epidemics or pandemics never really touched my life until, of course, the arrival of Covid-19.

And, at first, even that didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Back at our church in Jersey City, just like here, we made some modifications to the service – no exchange of peace, no drinking from the cup – and then we abruptly stopped meeting in person for what most of us thought and expected would be a few weeks until we “stopped the spread.”

Well, you all definitely remember what happened during those long months of separation.

There was a tremendous loss of life and livelihood, especially up in the New York City area where we lived, which was an epicenter of the pandemic.

During those hard and frightening days, we all learned whose work is truly essential.

For me, there were two moments during the worst of the pandemic, before the vaccines, back when there seemed to be only tunnel and no light, two moments when I thought that maybe we’d never get this under control, that maybe this was the end.

The first was one day when I drove past our main hospital, the Jersey City Medical Center, and there was a long line of out-of-state ambulances parked there, all different unfamiliar colors and names, all idling, waiting for the next call to help someone gasping for breath.

The other moment was the saddest, strangest funeral I’ve ever been part of.

A prominent, much-loved parishioner of our church died but we weren’t allowed to hold a funeral service.

What I could do is go to the funeral home by myself, where, I knelt before the man’s open casket and said the service, just the two of us, in that still and silent room.

After that saddest, strangest funeral, I spoke with the funeral director.

Now, I should say that, in my experience, funeral directors are some of the most upbeat people around. I’m not sure why that is – maybe they know better than most the preciousness of life, the value of time.

I knew this particular funeral director pretty well, but that day I hardly recognized him. We were masked, of course, but through his eyes and voice and body language, I knew that he was drained and exhausted. I saw profound sadness and even fear in his eyes.

And I remember thinking that maybe this was the end.

And there were many endings during those days, so much death, destruction, and fear.

But it was not the end.

In just a few days after we were told we couldn’t meet in person, Sue figured out how to live-stream our service on our church Facebook page.

On that first Sunday and for months of Sundays to follow it was just the two of us in church. Sue was our camera person, acolyte, lector, and intercessor while I presided and preached.

Of course, I would never ever want to go back to those days, but they weren’t without their blessings. After the service, I used to especially love scrolling through the comments posted by parishioners and other viewers, all those “amens” and “alleluias” and greetings of love and friendship.

And, very early in the pandemic, we started offering conference call prayer services, three times a day, morning, noon, and evening. And it was a joy to hear all those much-loved voices as they called in day after day and as we prayed for deliverance, prayed for each other, and even managed to laugh.

And, amazingly enough, the morning edition of “Church By Phone” continues to this day.

This was not the end.

I’ve shared parts of these stories with you before, but I wanted to return to them again because, for me, they come closest to what the Jewish people experienced in the year 70 when the Romans destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem.

As we heard in today’s gospel lesson, while speaking to his awestruck disciples about forty years earlier, Jesus had predicted that this would happen, that the mighty Temple would be destroyed – not one stone left upon another.

It’s hard for us to grasp what a catastrophe this was for the Jewish people.

The Temple was the center of religious life, the place where, in a sense, God was believed to dwell.

It’s where the sacrifices took place, the sacrifices that kept Israel in covenant with God.

How could God have allowed the holiest place on earth to be destroyed?

And what happens next?

No doubt, many thought that this was the end.

But two new spiritual sprouts grew from the ashes of the Temple.

The priests were no longer needed, but the rabbis, the teachers, took the lead.

And a new Judaism was born, a tradition strong enough to withstand catastrophes even worse than the destruction of the Temple.

And the other sprout was Christianity itself, the faith that has brought us here today, two millennia later, the faith that reassures us that God loves us enough to die for us.

This was not the end.

As we heard in today’s gospel lesson, Jesus is quite frank that times will be hard.

For some of us, at least, it probably sounded like he was talking about today.

But no matter the season, even in the midst of the cold, even when the shadows are deepest, God is at work, planting seeds of new life.

So, we face our hard times, together, trusting that even when the end does come, God will not let go of us, no matter what.

Amen.

Generosity Begins in Our Hearts

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 10, 2024

Year B, Proper 26: The Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17

Psalm 127

Hebrews 9:24-28

Mark 12:38-44

Generosity Begins in Our Hearts

Over the past few days, I’ve been thinking about one of Jesus’ greatest parables, the Parable of the Good Samaritan.

I’m sure many of you are familiar with it.

The set up is that a lawyer asks Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Rather than answering the lawyer directly, Jesus responds with a question:

“What is written in the law? What do you read there?”

Of course, the lawyer knows the law, and he responds,

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus congratulates the lawyer for giving the correct answer.

But then the lawyer asks a follow-up question:

“And who is my neighbor?”

To answer that question, Jesus tells a story.

A man was going down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho when he was attacked by robbers who stripped him, beat him, and left him for dead by the side of the road.

Now a priest came down the road. And when he saw the beaten man, he crossed to the other side and went on his way.

And then a Levite – the Levites played special roles in the Temple – then a Levite came along, saw the dying man, and he also crossed the road and went on his way.

And then a Samaritan came along. 

Unlike the other two, he helps the poor man, bandaging his wounds, put him on his animal, and brought him to an inn. The Samaritan paid for his stay, giving him to time to heal and recover in safety.

The Samaritan was a neighbor to the beaten man by the side of the road.

This is what loving your neighbor as yourself looks like.

Even after two thousand years, this parable is still so powerful and challenging.

But for the first Jewish hearers of this parable, there would have been two great shocks.

First, although Jews and Samaritans were related to each other, they really didn’t get along – didn’t trust each other.

Jews could hardly imagine that a Samaritan might be “good.”

To get a feel for that initial reaction to the parable, simply replace “Samaritan” with the kind of person, or even the person, that you despise the most.

Imagine that’s the person who helps the stranger in need.

Go ahead. I’ll give you a moment.

And for Jesus’ first Jewish audience, the other shock of this story would have been the cowardly and selfish behavior of the priest and Levite.

I mean, of all people, these officially religious men would have known that God’s Law obligated them – required any Jew – to assist a person in need and distress.

That obligation would have been more important than potential risks to their personal safety, and certainly more important than wherever they were in such a rush to get to.

But, in this parable, as so often throughout history and still today, the official, professional religious people fail spectacularly, and it’s the most unlikely person – in this case the hated Samaritan – it’s the most unlikely person who obeys God most perfectly – it’s the most unlikely person who is a neighbor – it’s the most unlikely person who is generous.

I thought of the Parable of the Good Samaritan when I began to reflect on today’s gospel lesson, where Jesus makes some pointed criticisms of the religious establishment, making those criticisms while he is right in the heart of the religious establishment: the Temple.

None of his criticisms should be surprising. I mean, throughout the gospels, Jesus doesn’t have much good to say about the religious leaders of his time.

He dismisses them as hypocrites.

He condemns them for making life more difficult than necessary for people.

And every time Jesus criticizes the religious leaders of the first century, all of us who are religious leaders today should probably get at least a little bit uncomfortable.

I mean, I’d sure hate to be one of those guys… walking around in long robes…

And I definitely wouldn’t want to be the kind of person who… recites long prayers…

Or always sits in the best seats…

Well, at least as far as I know, I haven’t devoured any widow’s houses!

And then, after Jesus is done criticizing the holy men, as if on cue, a widow appears in the Temple.

In the English translation, she’s described as poor, but the Greek word is better translated as “destitute.”

This widow, destitute and vulnerable, appears in the Temple and makes her offering: two small copper coins.

One commentary said that was equal to 1/64th of the typical daily wage - a tiny, tiny amount of money. But it’s everything that she has.

And Jesus simply speaks the plain truth when he says that she has given far more than the others, who gave bigger amounts, yes, but they had plenty left over.

This passage is usually interpreted as Jesus praising the widow for her exceptional generosity.

And I suppose that’s true.

But we can’t forget what we heard just before we met this widow. We can’t forget Jesus’ critique of the system, his criticism of the priests taking advantage of the poor widows.

Does God really want her to give all that she has to the Temple?

And why is the widow destitute, anyway?

So, just for the record, please be as generous as you can be with the church. But please do not give everything you have to the church.

We are not interested in devouring anyone’s houses!

You know, asking you to be generous feels kind of funny because so many of you are incredibly generous with the church – giving so much of your time, talent, and treasure.

        As I’ve said before, it’s deeply moving and inspiring.

The jampacked Thanksgiving bags began arriving last Sunday. I’m not sure how that happened since we just began distributing them last Sunday, but when you’re generous and determined you can make even seemingly impossible things happen!

And I know that most, if not all, of you are also generous with other institutions that do good work – schools and all sorts of charities.

And since it seems that, no matter our political persuasion, we all agree that in our very rich country so many of our neighbors are struggling to make ends meet, so many people have just a few coins rattling around in their pocket, so many people are lying in distress beside the road, I know that we will continue to be generous, continue to be a Servant Church.

Finally, I keep thinking about the priest and Levite who crossed the road to avoid the man left for dead by the side of the road.

And I think of the scribes who liked wearing their long robes and saying show-off prayers and taking the best seats and devouring the homes of widows.

They knew God’s law better than anybody and yet they lost their way.

        How could this be?

But then, I think about my own life, the times that I’ve messed up, the times I’ve lost my way, the times I haven’t been as loving or generous or forgiving as I should have been, and the root cause of those mistakes has always been that I haven’t taken care of my heart.

I allowed my heart to get sick with fear or anger or grievance.

Without rest and renewal, I’ve given into compassion fatigue and become stingy and resentful and judgmental.

I mean, that man lying by the side of the road should’ve been more careful! He’s not my problem!

So, especially these days, when the news is practically pumped into our veins, clogging our spiritual arteries with poisons, we must care for our hearts.

Yes, we should be informed but that doesn’t have to be twenty-four hours a day.

At least sometimes, we should turn off the TV, put away the phone, shut down the computer, and just be quiet, just breathe, just look out the window, take a walk, open the Prayer Book and pray one of the prayers or psalms that will comfort and feed our soul.

For our own wellbeing, we need to care for our hearts.

And we need to care for our hearts because that’s where generosity begins.

Amen.

One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 5, 2024

Election Day Prayer Service

Deuteronomy 10:17-21

Psalm 145:1-9

Romans 8:38-39

Matthew 5:43-48

One Lord, One Faith, One Baptism

This past Sunday, during fellowship after the 10:00 service, one very kind parishioner told me that she was worried about me.

Specifically, she was worried about how I would do at our service here this evening – concerned that I would stray into partisan politics and get myself into some trouble.

I really appreciate her care for me.

But there’s no need to worry.

I mean, it’s true that in this anxious and overheated moment, almost anything can be heard through a partisan ear, seen through a partisan lens.

And, actually, that’s one of the reasons why we’re gathering tonight rather than last night. Even if I were inclined to be partisan in the pulpit, which I’m not, there’s no point.

Unless you’re going to get up and go vote right this minute, it’s over.

For better or for worse, what’s done is done.

We are now in that uncomfortable in-between time, between voting and receiving the results.

But I’m also not worried about being misheard or misinterpreted because tonight I don’t really want to talk about the election.

No, I want to talk about… Baptism.

(Plot twist, I know!)

When I meet with someone about to be baptized, or, more often, when I meet with parents preparing to have their child baptized, I always discuss the multiple meanings of Baptism.

There’s forgiveness of sin – the washing away of our inherited tendency to selfishness, our destructive habit of rebelling against God.

There’s initiation – it’s through Baptism that we become members of the Church.

And, like Holy Communion, Baptism is also a sacrament of unity.

In the familiar words of the Letter to the Ephesians, words that we say at the start of each Baptism service:

There is one Body and one Spirit;

There is one hope in God’s call to us;

One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism;

One God and Father of all.

Baptism is a sacrament of unity.

We are united with God – an unbreakable unity, a bond that can never be dissolved no matter what we do or don’t do, no matter how many times we mess up, no matter who the president is.

Baptism is a sacrament of unity.

And we are united with one another – and although we often try to break it apart, this is also an unbreakable unity, a bond that can never be dissolved no matter what we do or don’t do, no matter how many times we mess up, no matter our political affiliation, no matter who we voted for, no matter who wins this election.

Baptism is a sacrament of unity.

And this amazing gift – this indestructible bond with God and one another - calls for a response from us.

Since there is nothing that can separate us from God’s love – since God will not let go of us no matter what – we are free – we are truly free to be bold and generous.

No matter who wins the election, this is very good news for us all.

In a few minutes, we are going to renew our Baptismal Covenant.

With God’s help, and because we have been washed in this sacrament of unity, we can go for it:

We can gather here with our Christian siblings, week after week, in times good and in times anxious, like tonight.

We can acknowledge our mistakes, admit when we’ve fallen short, asking for forgiveness and for the strength to do better.

With God’s help, and because we have been washed in this sacrament of unity, we can proclaim the Good News by what we say and what we do.

We can seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as our self – and, yes, that includes both Republicans and Democrats.

We can strive for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being – and, yes, that includes independents and the indifferent, too.

With God’s help, and because we have been washed in this sacrament of unity, we can really do these good and holy things.

In fact, as an old friend of mine used to say, “I don’t have to believe it because I’ve seen it!”

Here at St. Thomas’, here at this servant church, over and over, I’ve seen us strive to live out our Baptismal promises, loving boldly and generously.

With God’s help.

Finally, I’m going to invite you to use your imagination.

I’ve mentioned to a few of you that I have a little dream about a change I’d like to make inside of our church.

As you know, our baptismal font is tucked away here in the corner, which is not ideal symbolism, and also makes it hard for most people to actually see our baptisms.

So, my little dream is that someday, maybe, we could move our font to the center of our church, right there in the middle of the aisle (which, I’ll just note, is extra-wide).

This would wonderfully symbolize the central place of Baptism in our Christian life, and it would allow us to gather around the font each time we welcome a new Christian.

Now, we have a lot of capital projects in the works, and I know changing things in the church can be understandably upsetting for many people.

So, at least for now, I’d like you to just imagine.

Imagine our font, right there in the center of the aisle, in the heart of our church.

Now, imagine all of us gathered around the font.

Imagine that we’re all here, our own communion of saints, parishioners past, present, and future, all of us washed in this sacrament of unity, our differences set aside and our anxieties at rest. 

Imagine what is profoundly true:

There is one Body and one Spirit;

There is one hope in God’s call to us;

One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism;

One God and Father of all.

Amen.

Removing the Trappings of Death

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 3, 2024

Year B: All Saints’ Sunday

Wisdom of Solomon 3:1-9

Psalm 24

Revelation 21:1-6a

John 11:32-44

Removing the Trappings of Death

Today is All Saints' Sunday, when we celebrate the women and men throughout history recognized by the Church for their holiness: the apostles and martyrs, the “fools for Christ.”

And today we also recall the saints of our own lives – people unlikely to ever receive any official acknowledgment – but men and women whose sanctity has touched us and others in powerful and life-changing ways.

If you’ve been around here for a while and paying attention to my sermons, you’ve already met some of my personal saints:

There’s my grandmother Rita who faced her final illness with profound faith. Once, when I was sitting beside her hospital bed, she suddenly turned to me and said, “I know where I’ve come from, and I know where I am going.”

Whether she realized it or not, she was quoting Jesus in the Gospel of John.

And there’s Dave, who was the rector of our church in Jersey City. On our very first Sunday there, at the Exchange of Peace he made his way down the aisle to Sue and me, extended his hand and said, “I’m Dave. Welcome to St. Paul’s.”

His welcome changed our lives forever, beginning for me a journey from teacher to priest, a journey that eventually led Sue and me here with all of you.

And there’s Paula, a woman about my age, sick for a long time, dying of cancer. One time when I was sitting with her in the hospital she said to me, “When I first got sick, I asked ‘Why me?’ But now, having seen all these other sick people, I ask ‘Why not me?’”

And there’s Sister June, who for decades led St. Vincent Academy, an all-girls high school in Newark. Along with other remarkably dedicated and talented educators, she stayed in that struggling city, while many other institutions either closed or fled to the suburbs. When I interviewed for a job St. Vincent’s, she told me that my job wouldn’t just be teaching history, that the school’s work wasn’t only education. No, the school’s mission was doing our part in Christ’s ongoing redemption of the world.

These are some of my personal saints – not perfect people, of course - but their holiness and faithfulness are gifts that continue to inspire and challenge me, continue to shape my life.

I hope today you’ll recall your own personal saints and give thanks for their witness.

And today - with God’s help and with all humility - maybe we can aspire to be saints in our broken and frightened and angry world.

But how might we do that?

        Well, let’s look at today’s gospel lesson, the raising of Lazarus.

        During his earthly ministry, Jesus worked many miracles, performed many signs. We heard one of his greatest just last week: restoring the sight of the bind beggar, Bartimaeus. 

        But the raising of Lazarus is Jesus’ greatest sign, pointing to what his life and ministry are all about: defeating death and offering new life.

        This can be hard for us to believe, especially when death seems to have the upper hand.

        I mean, even Jesus’ friends Mary and Martha, Lazarus’ sisters, they trusted in Jesus, they believed that if Jesus had been present during their brother’s illness, he could have and would have healed his friend, just as he had healed so many others.

        But even Mary and Martha, who knew and loved Jesus so well, even they couldn’t imagine that Jesus could and would offer new life to their dead brother.

        After all, four days in the tomb is a long time.

        Well, you just heard what happened next.

        Jesus calls the dead man out of his tomb, and to the totally understandable shock of everyone present, Lazarus lives again.

        I want to point out one easy-to-miss detail in this story.

        When Lazarus came out of the tomb, he was still wrapped in his burial cloth.

        Jesus says, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

        Jesus offers new life.

        But, as my friend Sister June and so many other saints have understood, we have a role to play in this ongoing redemption.

        Jesus offers us new life.

        And Jesus calls us to unbind one another, to remove the trappings of death.

        This is not easy work, because, especially today, the trappings of death in our world are very powerful and frightening – they’re heavy and they hold us tight.

        The trappings of death poison so many of our hearts.

        The trappings of death include:

        Our refusal to give others the benefit of the doubt, refusing to even try to understand their points of view.

        Our mistrust of people who are different, different in how they live, believe, love, think, and look.

        Our tendency to use cruel or even violent language – our tendency to use cruelty and violence in the mistaken belief that somehow this will solve all our problems.

        Our willingness to look away from the suffering of others, focusing only on our own needs and comforts, quick to blame others for their troubles, and conveniently letting ourselves off the hook.

        Our fear and faithlessness, forgetting that just like God did not give up on Lazarus, just like God did not leave Jesus dead in the tomb, God will not give up on us, will not let go of us, no matter what.

        I could go on, but these are some of the trappings of death that weigh us down.

        And, yes, especially two days before Election Day, we can feel those binds, can’t we?

        But Jesus offers us new life.

        And Jesus calls us to unbind one another, to remove the trappings of death.

        If you’ve been around for a while and paying attention to my sermons, not only do you already know some of my personal saints, but you’ve also heard me preaching a lot about the importance of community.

        I’ve often preached about the gift - the special vocation - of this particular community.

        St. Thomas’ is one of the few places around where we rub shoulders with, where we build relationships with, a diverse group of people, people who probably disagree with us about a whole lot.

        I’ve never taken a poll, and I really don’t want to know, but I would guess that politically we’re about 50/50, Republican/Democrat.

        Just like our country, more or less.

        And yet.

        And yet, we pray together, week after week.

        We share a cup of coffee and a pastry together, week after week.

        We welcome absolutely everyone who comes through our doors, week after week.

        We offer loving service at Owings Mills Elementary School and the Community Crisis Center.

        We’re about to fill Thanksgiving bags for people we’ll never meet, for people who can never thank us or do anything for us in return, people we don’t know anything about except that they’re hungry – and that’s all we need to know.

        And when one of us is sick or in trouble or sorrowing, we offer hope and support, sending forth prayers to heaven, preparing meals, writing cards, making calls.

        The world binds us with the trappings of death - with fear and anger and hate – but here, here, no matter our differences, we love one another.

        Just like for Lazarus long ago, Jesus offers us new life.

        And Jesus calls us to unbind one another, to remove the trappings of death.

        With God’s help, this is our special vocation.

        With God’s help, this is the work of the church.

        With God’s help, this is the way to sainthood.

        Amen.