In the Kingdom of the Foot-Washing King

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

November 24, 2024

Year B: The Last Sunday after Pentecost – Christ the King

2 Samuel 23:1-7

Psalm 132:1-13

Revelation 1:4b-8

John 18:33-37

In the Kingdom of the Foot-Washing King

One of the key moments in the gospels occurs just a bit before the exchange that we just heard between Pilate and Jesus.

Back before Jesus was betrayed, back before he was arrested and tortured, back at the Last Supper, Jesus taught his friends a few final most important lessons.

And maybe his most essential teaching occurred when he stood up from the table, removed his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. 

He poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet.

Probably they were all shocked and confused.

Maybe they were embarrassed – embarrassed for Jesus, embarrassed for themselves.

Feet, you know.

But it’s Peter who expresses his horror at the idea that his Lord would stoop to perform an act of such lowly service – this was the kind of work done by a slave, most certainly not an appropriate task for the Messiah, the Son of God.

Yes, Jesus had certainly taught some challenging, confusing, unsettling lessons, but I mean foot-washing was just too much.

So, Peter objects, tries to say no to Jesus.

But Jesus warns Peter that he must allow Jesus to do this – that if Peter wants to be part of Jesus, then he must allow Jesus to wash his feet.

Peter gets it – he gets it so clearly that, with a little nod to, yes, Baptism, Peter invites Jesus to wash his whole body.

Try to imagine the scene.

The disciples were just beginning to wrap their minds around the bitterly painful reality that Jesus was going to be killed.

They were beginning to grasp that the end – or what sure seemed like the end – was near.

And now Jesus has made his way around the table, washing all those dusty, smelly feet.

After Jesus was done – when perhaps the room was fragrant with fresh smell of clean feet – Jesus explains that this is how it is to be among his followers – this is how it is to be among us.

Just as Jesus the King has washed our feet, we must offer this same kind of loving service to one another.

        This is how it is to be

        In the Kingdom of the Foot-washing King.

        To say the least, a foot-washing king was uniquely strange back in the first century.

        In today’s gospel lesson, we hear the Roman governor Pontius Pilate struggle to make sense of Jesus.

        Pilate knew all about the ways of the world, the ways of kings, the ways of raw power.

        You had to be tough to be a Roman governor.

        So, Pilate knew all about using cruelty to assert and maintain authority.

        Pilate knew all about instilling fear and amassing wealth.

        And yet, standing before him was a King like no other – a King with no army – a King who didn’t fight back – a King who claimed that his kingdom was not in Pilate’s world of power politics.

        Standing before Pilate was a King – a King he’ll execute just like he disposed of countless other troublemakers, countless others who dared to threaten the glorious power of Rome.

        A King who would rise again on the third day.

        No, Pilate never did figure out Christ the King.

        But we shouldn’t feel too superior to Pilate because the truth is that we also struggle to figure out Christ the King.

        A foot-washing King is uniquely strange in any century, including our own.

        Today is the Last Sunday after Pentecost, the last Sunday of the Church Year, the Feast of Christ the King.

        Much of our church calendar – the different seasons and the various holy days – much of our church calendar is very ancient.

        But not the Feast of Christ the King, which is only 99 years old.

        In the aftermath of World War I, Pope Pius IX recognized that, while the horrific war may have ended, the world was still a very dangerous place.

        The pope and other Christian leaders were alarmed that many Christians were no longer placing their ultimate trust and faith in Christ the King.

        Instead, Christians were pledging allegiance to strong men.

        Many Christians were getting swept up in nationalism and fascism

        Many Christians seem to have concluded that, yeah, the Foot-Washing King might be nice for church and everything, but in the “real” world, you gotta be tough.

        Pilate would have heartily agreed.

        So, responding to this grim situation, in 1925 the Roman Catholic Church, quickly followed by Anglicans, Lutherans, and others, created the new feast day that we celebrate today:

        Christ the King.

        On the last Sunday of the church year, we are reminded that our King is not like the kings of the world.

        No, our King is Christ the Foot-Washing King.

        And we are meant to live in the Kingdom of the Foot-Washing King.

        Well, you don’t have to know much history, and you don’t have to closely follow current events, to know that this new feast day has not exactly been a big success.

        Over the last 99 years, Christians have gone right on putting their ultimate trust in worldly kings – including some kings far more evil than anyone Pope Pius IX could have imagined, kings who would never, ever wash anyone’s feet. 

        Over the last century, Christians have gone right on getting swept up in the ideologies of their time, fooling ourselves into thinking that this – this system, this policy, this party – this will finally solve all of our problems.

        Will we ever learn? 

        Back at the Last Supper, after Jesus finished washing the feet of his friends, he said to them,

        “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord – and you are right, for that is what I am. So, if I, your Lord and Teacher have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.”

        As we conclude what’s been an often very difficult year and we look ahead to a new year of uncertainty, the kings of this world will continue to be the kings of this world, the kind of kings that Pilate would have known well.

        But no matter our troubles, just like with the first disciples at the somber Last Supper, Jesus calls us to follow his example of loving, lowly service.

        It’s a costly way – it was a costly way for Jesus, and it is a costly way for us – but it is the only way to new life.

        We are invited to live now and forever with Jesus and with one another in the kingdom of the Foot-Washing King.

        As always, the choice is ours.

        Amen.

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.

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.

 

“Eyes Raised, Hands Joined, Feet Bare”

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

October 20, 2024

Year B, Proper 24: The Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost

Job 38:1-7

Psalm 104:1-9, 25, 37b

Hebrews 5:1-10

Mark 10:35-45

“Eyes Raised, Hands Joined, Feet Bare”

Some of you know that a week ago I made a silent retreat.

You may remember that this is something I’ve done before. But for those of you who didn’t know, yes, I can be quiet for a few days!

For this year’s retreat, I spent the week at a beautiful monastery tucked away in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia – amazingly, just a 90-minute drive from here.

Along with the Trappist monks who live, pray, and work there, about ten of us were on retreat – maintaining silence in the retreat house, taking our meals sitting side by side, not saying a word, which, I have to say, did make me self-conscious of my chewing and the little groans as my body began to digest the food.

A silent retreat gives the time, space, and, most of all, quiet to pray and to think.

And one of the things I reflected on is how I use, or misuse, my time. How much time I waste on unimportant things. How much time I waste scrolling through social media.

Often that scrolling is what they call doomscrolling, reading and looking at posts about all the terrible things going on in our country and world – the natural and human-made disasters, the wars and threats of war, and the approaching election that so many of us dread.

But, that said, sometimes you find something good or inspiring on social media.

For example, the other day, someone posted a letter that Pope Francis wrote to the men he had recently appointed as the newest cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church.

The main function of the cardinals is to elect the next pope.

But, throughout much of their history, many cardinals have wielded a lot of power, both within the church and in the secular world, too.

And often this power has been reflected and enhanced by living in great luxury, and by receiving deference from others.

And that deference may be best summed up by how cardinals have been traditionally addressed: “Your Eminence.”

So anyway, Pope Francis wrote to the newly appointed cardinals.

He called on them to have their “eyes raised, hands joined, and feet bare.”

“Eyes raised, hands joined, and feet bare.”

Eyes raised to see farther and love more deeply.

Hands joined in prayer.

And feet bare to touch the harsh realities of life, calling for them to be compassionate and merciful.

Eyes raised, hands joined, and feet bare.

I love that.

And then, here’s how the pope concluded his letter:

“I thank you for your generosity and I assure you of my prayers that the title of ‘servant’ will increasingly eclipse that of ‘eminence.’”

“That the title of ‘servant’ will increasingly eclipse that of ‘eminence.’”

Well, that sure sounds a lot like Jesus, doesn’t it?

Just now, while I was reading today’s gospel lesson, some of you regular churchgoers may have had a sense of déjà vu. 

It was just about a month ago that we heard a passage from a little earlier in the Gospel of Mark, that’s a lot like what we heard today.

In that first instance, Jesus and the disciples were walking along the road. Jesus is teaching – warning – preparing his friends that he is going to be betrayed, suffer, die, and rise again.

Meanwhile, what were the disciples talking about, arguing about?

Who among them was the greatest.

With infinite patience, Jesus taught the disciples, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”

That seems pretty clear. One would think that the disciples would’ve gotten the message.

But one would be wrong.

One would be wrong because Jesus’ message and example of servant leadership was radically countercultural in the first century, just as it’s radically countercultural today when most leaders would much rather be eminences rather than lowly servants.

And so here we are today, with the brothers James and John giving us a masterclass in not just getting it.

First, they say to Jesus: “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”

Demanding something of Jesus, that’s pretty gutsy.

And then it turns out that James and John have set their sights very high. They’re not interested in who’s the greatest here and now. No, they want the best seats, right beside Jesus, in the Kingdom.

It turns out, Jesus can’t grant that but, he warns the two bold brothers that what they’re asking is going to cost them – that following the way of Jesus – the way of loving service – is going to cost them, it will cost them everything.

The brothers say that they are able to make that sacrifice.

Not totally convincing, I have to say.

And, of course, true to form, the other ten disciples got mad at the brothers and so, yet again, with infinite patience, Jesus reminds them that for him – and for us – the way to true greatness is sacrifice, the way to true greatness is offering loving service.

It was around three years ago - after having spent a few months beginning to get to know this place, after getting to know at least some of you – it was around three years ago that I first suggested that God is calling us to be a “servant church.”

This wasn’t something that I just made up.

As I said back then, generously helping others is woven into the fabric of St. Thomas’ – long before I arrived here there was your deep commitment to Habitat for Humanity, Loaves and Fishes, and Paul’s Place – there was the Christmas Extravaganza - just to give a few examples.

But, over the last three years, what we’ve tried to do is move this beautiful truth about St. Thomas’ to the center of our lives together.

So that when we think about our church – and maybe even when people out there think of our church – one of the first things that we and they think of is that this is a church that doesn’t just serve itself, but this is a church that serves others.

And so, with “eyes raised, hands joined, and feet bare,” this servant church under the servant leadership of our Outreach co-chairs Margaret Green and Betsy Wilmerding, we’ve used our time and our gifts wisely.

We’ve welcomed and cared for new friends who’ve traveled a long and hard road from Afghanistan.

We’ve deepened our commitment and expanded our generosity to the Community Crisis Center.

And, of course, there’s “Owls First,” the new afterschool enrichment program now underway at Owings Mills Elementary School.

Plus, we’re just beginning to build a relationship with Owings Mills High School and just beginning to make friends with leaders in other neighboring faith communities – and who knows where that might lead?

We are a servant church with a lot of wonderful servant friends.

And today, on Outreach Sunday, some of those friends from the Community Crisis Center and Owings Mills Elementary and High Schools, and Hizbullah, our first and much-loved Afghan friend, will be speaking at the 10:00 service.

When you have a chance, I hope you’ll take a look at the video on our website or YouTube channel, or at least, read the descriptions of our outreach work and look at the photos right there in the center of today’s “magazine.”

Today is Outreach Sunday.

Today we celebrate the good work that God is doing in and through our servant church – the good work that God is doing among our servant friends.

“Eyes raised, hands joined, feet bare.”

Amen.

Serious Business, Abundant Mercy

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

October 6, 2024

Year B, Proper 22: The Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost

Job 1:1; 2:1-10

Psalm 26

Hebrews 1:1-4; 2:5-12

Mark 10:2-16

Serious Business, Abundant Mercy

Since I started serving here, a little more than three years ago, one of the biggest surprises has been the weddings.

We’ve had quite a few weddings these last few years, and there are already a few on the calendar for 2025!

In a time when so many people have either flat out rejected the church, or have simply drifted away, I think that this is a very encouraging sign.

Now, I’m sure that some of the couples have chosen to have their weddings here, in part, for the beauty of this place, or to maintain family tradition, or, maybe to keep the peace with parents and grandparents.

But, overall, I’ve found these couples to be quite serious in their preparation and quite sincere in wanting God’s blessing upon their union.

I always have several meetings with the couples, getting to know them, learning about their relationship and talking about challenges or difficulties they may have faced.

And, at our last meeting, we always talk about the service itself, reading through the words that they and I will say, reflecting on why we say these things, and what it all means.

During these conversations, the couples are often surprised when we reach the part of the service when the officiant asks the congregation – usually a lot of happy, fancily dressed people who are looking ahead to a great party – when the officiant asks the congregation a most serious question:

“If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now; or else for ever hold your peace.”

During the wedding, this often elicits a few awkward giggles or the clearing of some throats.

And then, after waiting a beat, the officiant asks the couple the same question:

“…if either of you know any reason why you may not be united in marriage lawfully, and in accordance with God’s Word, you do now confess it.”

After another moment of awkward silence, we proceed.

Maybe these questions seem archaic or even humorous, but they’re important – not because this is an ideal time to reveal some impediment  to marriage – but because they underline the importance of the promises these two people are about to make to each other – they remind us of how their relationship is about to change forever – and they point to the fact that marriage is serious business.

In today’s gospel lesson, we pick up almost exactly where we left off last week.

Last week, we heard a very common theme in the gospels: the disciples just not getting it.

You may remember that the disciples complained to Jesus that other people, not part of the “inner circle,” were casting out demons in the name of Jesus and they wanted Jesus to put a stop to that right away.

Jesus declined to do that, and he went on to highlight that our relationship with God is serious business – so serious that we should remove whatever causes to stumble, whatever causes us to sin.

Jesus says, “If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off.”

And now today, we heard another recurring gospel theme: the religious authorities playing a game of “Gotcha” with Jesus.

In this case, the Pharisees ask Jesus, “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?”

Now, we should try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but this is a very suspicious question.

I mean, as Jesus points out, the Law of Moses is quite clear that, yes, a man could divorce his wife. The only debate was about under what conditions could he do so.

But the fact that the Pharisees ask Jesus this question would seem to indicate that they’ve heard that Jesus has been teaching something different – something more restrictive than the Law – and they want to hear him say it for themselves – they want to get Jesus on the record.

And Jesus gives them what they want.

He skips right over the Law and looks all the way back to the beginning – back to God’s original intention for marriage – that the two become one, and that this union should be permanent.

“Let no man put asunder,” in the thunderous language of the King James Bible.

And then, when he was alone with his disciples, Jesus goes even further and says that any divorced person who remarries is committing adultery.

Obviously, for many reasons, this is a very challenging, even painful, teaching and I’d rather talk about almost anything else - even the Orioles getting swept in the post-season yet again – I’d rather talk about almost anything else than talk about this.

But, let’s begin with some context. 

First of all, much like the amputations Jesus had just talked about, Jesus’ hard teaching is a clear reminder that marriage is serious business.

In the words of the Prayer Book, “…marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, deliberately, and in accordance for the purposes for which it was instituted by God.”

Second, back in the first century, divorce was often very bad news for women. Men could cruelly use very trivial reasons to divorce their wives, leaving them quite vulnerable in a very harsh world.

Even with the safeguards that are in place now, that can still happen, unfortunately.

So, we can certainly hear Jesus’ teaching as a way to protect women from being discarded and abandoned. 

Finally, any time we read short excerpts of Scripture, like we do in church every week, it’s important to remember that these are just little slivers of the great sweep of God’s message to us.

And so today, I want to point to the words of our collect, our opening prayer, especially this:

“Pour upon us the abundance of your mercy.”

God is abundantly merciful.

Marriage is serious business, but God is abundantly merciful

And since God is abundantly merciful, I am sure that our merciful God does not want people to stay in marriages that are physically or emotionally abusive.

And since God is abundantly merciful, forgiveness is offered when we mess up and fall short of the very high standards that have been set for us – which is very good news since, whether we’re married or not, we all mess up on a regular basis.

So, a tough lesson today, but here’s the good news:

Yes, marriage is serious business, but God is abundantly merciful.

Amen.