Servants

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

February 26, 2023

Year A: The First Sunday in Lent

Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7

Psalm 32

Romans 5:12-19

Matthew 4:1-11

Servants

We had a most beautiful Ash Wednesday here at St. Thomas’.

At the noon and 7:00 PM services, Wanda played and the choir sang, and, well, once again, they just outdid themselves.

We had good attendance, which was great, of course. But it always surprises me that so many people come to church on what really is a very peculiar day. We hear Jesus warn us against showing our piety in public. And then we have ash smeared on our foreheads where everyone can see it. And then we get reminded that, someday, we are going to die.

Of course, just like Good Friday, Ash Wednesday only makes sense because it’s not the end of the story.

The ashes were a powerful reminder of our dependence of God, but just temporary, easily washed off.

But the bond that God makes with us in the water of baptism – we can never wipe that away, no matter how hard we may sometimes try. 

The bond that God makes with us in the water of baptism is permanent, sustaining us throughout the trials and temptations of life, holding us tight even when it sure seems like suffering is gaining the upper hand, never letting us go, even when it seems like death is getting the last word.

Today, on the First Sunday in Lent, we always hear the story of Jesus in the wilderness – forty days of prayer and fasting – and near the end of that wilderness time, a famished and exhausted Jesus is tempted by Satan.

Satan here is not so much the embodiment of evil that we usually think of. No, he’s simply the tempter – the one who probes and tests us, revealing our weaknesses and failures, revealing our faith and strength – not to God, who already knows – but to ourselves.

It’s essential to note that Jesus’ forty wilderness days take place immediately following his Baptism – right after Jesus came out of the River Jordan and saw the Spirit of God descend on him like a dove – right after a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

That unbreakable bond with God the Father secured Jesus as he faced his wilderness time, as he endured his temptations.

And, in this case, you may have noticed that Satan’s temptations don’t actually seem so bad.

Jesus, you’re so hungry. And you have the power to make bread out of these stones. What harm is there in a loaf or two?

Jesus, you’re the Son of God so, really, there’s nothing to worry about, right? Why not throw yourself from the Temple and let the angels save you? Then everyone will see and know who you are.

Jesus, you’re the King of Kings. All you have to do is bow down before me and you will truly reign as king of the world.

No, the temptations really don’t seem so bad - except that they would have diverted Jesus from his mission.

Jesus was not sent to fill up on bread but to be bread for the world.

Jesus didn’t come into the world to make a showy leap of faith but to give away his life on the cross, revealing the wideness of God’s love and mercy.

Jesus is a king without gold or worldly glory, his only crown is made of thorns and his power is revealed when he washes the feet of his friends, when he forgives those who persecute him.

And so, in his wilderness time, secured by his baptismal bond, Jesus is able to successfully resist temptation – Jesus remembers his identity, remembers his mission:

Jesus is a servant.

And, just like the first disciples with their freshly washed feet, Jesus calls us to be servants, too.

In addition to being the First Sunday in Lent, today is our Annual Meeting day, a time to take stock of where we’ve been and what we’ve done over the past year, and to look ahead to the future as best we can.

Coincidentally, I had lunch the other day with another priest in the diocese, someone I had previously only met briefly.

As we were eating, he asked me what brought me here – what led Sue and me to quite literally leave home and join all of you.

Between bites of food, I answered as best I could, but for the rest of the day I thought back to that discernment, and I circled back to something I’ve mentioned before, back to one of the very first things I learned about St. Thomas’.

During the earliest and scariest days of the pandemic, when the church and everything else was all closed up and we feared for our survival, what did this church do? Some of you – I think I can now guess who – made masks and hung them on the parish hall doors, free for the taking, given away to we’ll never know who - a simple but beautiful act of love and hope and service during a wilderness time.

Servants.

And, I have to say, you had me right then.

And now, for the past year and a half, over and over I have seen you living out our vocation as servants – I have seen this church truly be a servant church.

You have given of yourselves in countless ways – given money and expertise and, the most valuable commodity of all, your time:

Welcoming new friends from Afghanistan, guiding them through government bureaucracy, giving them daily rides to school and work, offering driving lessons, welcoming them into your homes.

Spending many hours designing a new church website, thoughtfully weighing every word and photo, determined to find the best way to tell our story to the many hungry people out there.

Bringing (or having delivered) mountains of clothes and food and hygiene products and cleaning supplies for the people who line up each week at the Community Crisis Center.

Having the courage to lead a Zoom Bible Study session, providing the opportunity for fellow parishioners to learn more about God’s Word.

In an uncertain and inflationary time, continuing, and, in many cases, even increasing your financial support – and new parishioners making a pledge for the first time.

Showing up early on Saturday morning to set up and beautify the church – coming out on Thursday evenings to rehearse the beautiful music we hear every Sunday – inviting and training and thanking (yes, with chocolate) the youth acolytes, reminding them that they have much to offer their church.

I could go on.

But you do all this and more, never to glorify yourselves but to offer loving service to people in need – loving service to this church – loving service to the God who makes an unbreakable bond with us.

I hope you will read the Annual Report. It’s the product of lots of hard work. It tells an exciting story of renewal here at St. Thomas’. Most of all, it tells the beautiful story of one year in the life of a servant church.

You know, when I first sat with today’s gospel lesson, I thought about the temptations that we face today.

Of course, Satan is quite good at coming up with temptations that match our individual vulnerabilities.

But, together, as a country, as a world, I think the most dangerous temptation we face is despair.

We are in a wilderness time, buried in a deepening avalanche of problems and challenges. That’s bad enough. But, even worse, we seem to lack the will to set aside our differences and get to work, digging ourselves out.

It would be so easy to give into the temptation to despair.

But, as always, the way to resist is to follow Jesus’ example.

In his wilderness time, secured by his baptismal bond, Jesus successfully resisted temptation because he remembered his identity, remembered his mission. 

Jesus is a servant.

And we are a servant church.

Amen.

"Heart Work"

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

February 22, 2023

Ash Wednesday

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

Psalm 103

2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

“Heart Work”

I think it’s safe to say that Ash Wednesday is one of the more peculiar days on the Christian calendar.

Each year, on the first day of Lent, we interrupt our usual midweek routines to gather together.

Each year, we hear Jesus warn us against showing our piety in public…and then we have ash smudged on our foreheads…where everyone can see it.

And we get reminded that someday we are going to die.

By now, I know many of you well enough to know that you are not here because you want to show off how religious you are – that’s not how you operate, not at all.

And, besides, these days no one cares, anyway.

And I doubt that many of us need a reminder that someday we will die.

One of the gifts of St. Thomas’ is that each time we come here we can’t help but see the graves of people who were once like us.

They, too, had fears and hopes, setbacks and triumphs.

They, too, loved and were loved. 

And, in most cases, just like us, they gathered right here, bathing these old walls in prayer, receiving the Body and Blood of Christ, placing their trust in the God would not let go of them, no matter what.

So, today is certainly not about showing off and it’s not even so much about getting a reminder of our deaths.

No, today and all the Lenten days ahead, are really about our hearts.

In today’s collect, our opening prayer, we asked God to “create and make in us new and contrite hearts.”

That’s what today - and the forty days ahead - are all about.

Ash Wednesday and Lent are about asking God to open our hearts – allowing God to work in and through our hearts.

Our Lenten “heart work” begins with the ashes, which, more than a death notice are really a reminder of our total dependence on God.

Our Lenten “heart work” continues by setting aside, even just a little, whatever might be getting in the way of God and us – too much drinking or too much busyness or too much cable news or too much internet, or just too much. 

Our Lenten “heart work” might mean trying to heal a broken relationship or finally asking forgiveness for something wrong we have done.

Our Lenten “heart work” is making even just a little bit of time for God and us, maybe getting up a few minutes early to say a prayer or to jot down thoughts in a journal or just to look out the window and breathe.

Our Lenten “heart work” might include giving a little more than usual, or coming here more regularly than usual, or maybe getting involved in some good work we’ve been feeling called to do.

But, all we really have to do is take our “heart work” seriously, and God will take it from there – opening our hearts – making in us new and contrite hearts – and then working in and through our beautiful new hearts.

What could be better than that?

I wish you all a holy and heart-felt Lent.

Amen.

Coming Down the Mountain

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

February 19, 2023

Year A: The Last Sunday after the Epiphany

Exodus 24:12-18

Psalm 2

2 Peter 1:16-21

Matthew 17:1-9

Coming Down the Mountain

Well, I know that it really may feel like we just took down the Christmas decorations, but today we have reached the Last Sunday after the Epiphany.

And, as we do every year on this Sunday before Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent, in today’s gospel lesson we heard the story of the Transfiguration.

Six days after Peter correctly – and maybe surprisingly – identified Jesus as the Christ – the Messiah – Jesus brings Peter and the brothers James and John up a high mountain.

There, the three fishermen disciples receive quite a sight, as Jesus is transfigured before their eyes – his face radiant and his clothes dazzling white.

And then Jesus is joined by Moses and Elijah, two giants of Israel’s past, who, it was believed, had not died in the usual way of all people.

I’m sure Peter, James, and John could hardly begin to understand what was happening – that the veil between heaven and earth had been opened – but, to his credit, Peter knows that is good to be there. Peter knows that he is on sacred ground and quickly proposes a building project – he offers to construct dwellings for Jesus and Moses and Elijah.

I mean, who wouldn’t want to stay up there forever, right?

But before Peter can even start gathering materials for his “capital campaign,” there comes the voice from heaven, “This is my Son the Beloved; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!”

And very understandably, the disciples fell to the ground, terrified.

And what is the first thing Jesus says to his friends, as they held on for dear life, as they clung to that holy ground?

“Get up and do not be afraid.”

And, probably with their heads spinning and their hearts thumping, Jesus and his friends come down the mountain.

Together they begin the journey to Jerusalem – on their way to the palm parade - to betrayal and rejection - to three denials by Peter who knew better – to suffering and death – and, finally, to the shock of an empty tomb and the unimaginable joy of new life on the first Easter morning.

But, in order to reach Jerusalem, it was first necessary to overcome fear, and come down the mountain.

Probably like a lot of you, Sue and I keep track of important milestones in our lives by noting them in our calendars.

A few weeks ago, she mentioned to me that it was the two-year anniversary of “Bishop’s Sutton’s call.”

That was the day the bishop phoned to let me know that the wardens and vestry had called me to be the next rector of St. Thomas’.

Bishop Sutton called quite early that day – January 29, in case you’re wondering – so early that, while I was awake and up, I think I was only about halfway through my first cup of coffee, so maybe not quite as alert as I would have liked.

I think I said something profound like, “Oh, wow.” And I was about to say that I’d like just a little bit of time to talk it over again with Sue and I’d get back to him shortly. But, before I could formulate those words, he said, “I trust you are receiving this as good news?”

And I said, “Oh, yes” – which he heard as “Yes, I accept” – which I was going to do anyway. But, without any further conversation with Sue, we were off and running.

Thinking about that memorable call, got me thinking back to my first conversation with Bishop Sutton, on a date I won’t forget: January 6, 2021. 

As the Republic seemed to wobble, he and I spent about an hour on Zoom, getting to know each other and talking about my ministry and my hopes for the future at St. Thomas’.

I talked about my interest in bridging the gap between the suburbs and the city, and the work I had done in community organizing in Jersey City, focused especially on affordable housing.

I guess that sounded good enough to the bishop and, actually, it sounded pretty good to me, too.

But then I got here, and it has taken a lot of time to get to know the parish – to get to know many of you – to learn my way around the neighborhood.

And we’ve certainly done a lot together over the past year and a half, but I’ve done none of the stuff that Bishop Sutton and I talked about.

Instead, the truth is, the city just down the road from us seems daunting to me, its problems overwhelming. So, I’ve spent most of my time up here on the holy mountain, where it is certainly beautiful and I feel God’s presence all the time.

But, lately, I’ve been feeling a holy nudge.

“Get up and do not be afraid.”

Since even before I arrived here, I’ve heard about the amazing work of the Community Crisis Center in Reisterstown.

And I’ve tried to support our partnership efforts, all the different collections, including our “Bottoms Up” campaign.

But, although I had driven by many times, I had never stopped in, had never seen the center in operation, and had certainly never volunteered.

Well, about a month and a half ago, before the 8:00 service, Margaret Green and I were talking in the narthex and then, in her usual direct way, she said to me, “You should volunteer at the Center.”

I felt a little convicted, to be honest.

Yes, of course, I should volunteer at this place that is such an important partner of our church.

So, a few weeks ago, on a chilly Saturday morning, I showed up, glad to see that a couple of other parishioners there, too.

I got a tour of the center from Eileen the director.

I sensed the joyful dedication of the longtime volunteers.

I saw the long line of cars begin to form along Resisterstown Road.

And then I was put to work, distributing a small number of personal hygiene products – a roll of toilet paper, a bar of soap - only three per family – as people drove through the center’s driveway.

I wondered about all the time that they had spent waiting, only to receive what seemed to me to be so little. But, most of the clients seemed cheerful and quite grateful, though it must get old to say thank you so much.

Coming down the mountain.

And then, last week, I got a text from another priest in the diocese asking if I was planning to attend the BUILD action in Baltimore City on Thursday morning.

BUILD is Baltimoreans United in Leadership Development, and is a sister organization of Jersey City Together, which I had been involved with back home.

I had known about the BUILD action, and had thought about going, but felt kind of funny about it as someone living in the County and still kind of new.

At least those were the reasons I told myself for not going.

But, I felt the nudge from my colleague, and so Betsy Wilmerding and I took the ride down to West Saratoga Street where we joined nearly 300 other people – Black and white, clergy and lay – calling on the mayor to take action on the thousands of vacant houses across the city.

Maybe you heard about this on the news.

I have no idea if this is a wise or workable plan, but I have to say it was good to be there – to hear the stories of people whose neighborhoods have been neglected for so long – to hear the passionate faith and commitment of clergy who are challenged to pastor in pastures that are not green at all.

Coming down the mountain.

Lent is now just a few days away, so there’s still time to decide on what we might give up or what we might take on during this holy season – what we might do to open our hearts to God, to allow God to work through us.

I’ve resolved to get out of the office and off this beautiful campus a bit more – to go down the mountain.

It’s not easy down there – there’s plenty of suffering, for sure – but just like for Jesus and his fisherman friends – it’s the way to Jerusalem – it’s the way to new life.

Amen.

Spiritual Training

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

February 12, 2023

Year A: The Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany

Sirach 15:15-20

Psalm 119:1-8

1 Corinthians 3:1-9

Matthew 5:21-37

Spiritual Training

I love this time of year. 

Although it can still be quite cold, and although the groundhog saw his shadow, right around now we start to see and feel the first hints that the seasons are beginning to change.

I’m sure that you gardeners, especially, have spotted the first sprouts poking through the soil – taking that as a sign of hope or maybe seeing it as a cause of concern that things are happening too quickly.

And even those of us who barely pay attention have surely noticed that the days are growing longer. Now, when I walk out the door after our Sunday evening service there are still a few lingering hints of daylight – and we know that ever-brighter days are ahead.

And, just as the seasons are beginning to change outside, the seasons are starting to change here in church, too.

I know it feels like we just took down the Christmas decorations, but Ash Wednesday is just a week from Wednesday – no, it’s true - so we are now deeply into what we might call “Pre-Lent.”

If you were here last week, you may remember that we heard God speaking through the Prophet Isaiah, describing the kind of sacrifice that is most pleasing to God, a kind of fasting that is way more costly and holy than giving up wine or chocolate.

God says, “Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?”

Oh yes, it’s “Pre-Lent.”

And today’s lessons point even more clearly to a change of seasons here in church.

In today’s first lesson, from the Book of Sirach, we heard a heavy emphasis on choice – on our choices:

“If you choose, you can keep the commandments, and to act faithfully is a matter of your own choice.”

Those verses reminded me of a school disciplinarian I once worked with. When a student, or a teacher, messed up he always said, with a shrug,

“It’s all about choices.”

And the psalmist writes, “Happy are they whose way is blameless, who walk in the law of the Lord!”

But who exactly is blameless? And how could we ever even approach blamelessness?

I mean, even if we live our lives with as much integrity as we can, we all benefit from unjust practices – a system that makes life so hard for the poor, and a way of life that implicates all of us in the poisoning of the earth.

And then we have some hard teaching from Jesus in today’s gospel lesson.

Last week, Jesus insisted that he had come not to abolish the Jewish Law but to fulfill it.

And now, Jesus goes even further than that – intensifying the Law that is already quite demanding and strict.

Jesus teaches that anger and insult approach the seriousness of murder – that lust is adultery in our hearts – that divorce is wrong – that we should cut off parts of our body that cause us to sin - that we should not swear, ever.

Reading that challenging passage, I was reminded of another moment, later in the Gospel of Matthew, when Jesus offers a different hard teaching. The disciples are astounded and ask, “Then who can be saved?” And Jesus replies, “For mortals it is impossible, but for God all things are possible.”

Listening to today’s lessons – the importance of our choices – the call to blamelessness – the teaching that what’s going on in our hearts is at least as important as what we actually do – we may feel just like those first disciples.

“Who can be saved?”

And Jesus’ answer is the same today as it was back then, “For God all things are possible.”

So, it seems to me that our most important task is to open our hearts to God – to allow God to work through us.

And, just like athletes striving for even greater excellence, opening our heart to God, allowing God to work through us, requires training – spiritual training.

Which is a good way to think of Lent, isn’t it?

During those forty days of preparation, we’re encouraged to hit the spiritual gym: to run – or walk – or maybe just crawl - the spiritual track – to lift some spiritual weights – it’s OK to start with the lightest ones.

During those forty days – and, hopefully always – our spiritual training shapes us so that we really can open our hearts to God, allowing God to work through us.

And what might that spiritual training look like?

Well, let me tell you the story of my first church job.

Sixteen years ago, I was in my last semester at seminary.

Commencement and ordination were getting close.

It was all very exciting.

I was filled with a sense of blessedness, and accomplishment, and, maybe most of all, relief.

There was, however, just one little thing: now I had to find a job.

Even back then, fulltime clergy positions were already getting kind of scarce. In fact, in my diocese there was only one fulltime position available – to serve as curate (or the assistant clergy person) at Grace Church in Madison.

Madison was and is a beautiful and appealing suburban town, its streets lined with plenty of old trees shading attractive homes. It has a main street picturesque enough to have been featured in several movies. There’s a train station offering easy access to New York City.

In short, it’s a really nice place.

But I really didn’t want to go there.

I was convinced that I was called to be a city priest – after all, that’s the world that I knew and where I thought I could minister best.

And, to be totally honest, I felt insecure, afraid that I just wouldn’t fit in with people who went to fancier schools than I had, who were interested in things that I knew nothing about – stuff, like, you know, golf and gardening.

(Yes, God has a sense of humor.)

But, despite my hang-ups, the reality was that I needed a job.

So, I went out to Madison to meet with the then-rector, the Rev. Lauren Ackland, and have conversations with a wide range of parishioners. Slowly, it dawned on me that I liked these people. I could imagine myself living among them and serving beside them.

As the day went on, I became more and amazed by just how much was going on at Grace Church – so many wonderful, vibrant ministries, mostly led by lay people. 

Finally, near the end of my interview day, Lauren asked me if I had any questions.

And, I said something like, “I have to ask, why do you think this church is doing so well?”

I’m kind of embarrassed by that question now (Remember, I was new to all of this!), but I’m glad that I asked because I’ll never forget Lauren’s answer.

Without hesitation, she said, “It’s the daily worship.”

Grace Church offered a public service of worship every day of the year. Most of the weekday services were not particularly well attended. Sometimes it was just the officiant and the reader – and sometimes just the officiant alone, praying for, and on behalf of, the whole community.

Lauren said that the walls of the church were “bathed in prayer,” and that all of those prayers had a powerful spiritual effect.

I confess that at the time I was skeptical, but over the years I became convinced that she was absolutely right.

I can’t really explain how, but by God’s grace, the practice of daily prayer – that spiritual training - strengthened the entire church.

And, what’s true for a community is also true for each of us.

We have been given a seemingly impossible challenge – to always make good choices – to live blamelessly – to control our hearts as much as we contain our actions – all seemingly impossible, but with God, all things are possible.

The changing seasons are a call for us to hit the spiritual gym – to do some spiritual training – shaping us to open our hearts to God, allowing God to work through us.

Happy “Pre-Lent!”

Amen.

"I Stand By the Door"

"I Stand By the Door"

- Samuel Shoemaker, (1893-1963)

I stand by the door.

I neither go to far in, nor stay to far out,

The door is the most important door in the world -

It is the door through which men walk when they find God.

There is no use my going way inside and staying there,

When so many are still outside and they, as much as I,

Crave to know where the door is.

And all that so many ever find

Is only the wall where the door ought to be.

They creep along the wall like blind men,

With outstretched, groping hands.

Feeling for a door, knowing there must be a door,

Yet they never find it...

So I stand by the door.

The most tremendous thing in the world

Is for men to find that door - the door to God.

The most important thing that any man can do

Is to take hold of one of those blind, groping hands,

And put it on the latch - the latch that only clicks

And opens to the man's own touch.

Men die outside the door, as starving beggars die

On cold nights in cruel cities in the dead of winter -

Die for want of what is within their grasp.

They live on the other side of it - live because they have not found it.

Nothing else matters compared to helping them find it,

And open it, and walk in, and find Him...

So I stand by the door.

Go in great saints; go all the way in -

Go way down into the cavernous cellars,

And way up into the spacious attics -

It is a vast, roomy house, this house where God is.

Go into the deepest of hidden casements,

Of withdrawal, of silence, of sainthood.

Some must inhabit those inner rooms,

And know the depths and heights of God,

And call outside to the rest of us how wonderful it is.

Sometimes I take a deeper look in.

Sometimes venture in a little farther,

But my place seems closer to the opening...

So I stand by the door.

There is another reason why I stand there.

Some people get part way in and become afraid

Lest God and the zeal of His house devour them;

For God is so very great and asks all of us.

And these people feel a cosmic claustrophobia,

And want to get out. 'Let me out!' they cry.

And the people way inside only terrify them more.

Somebody must be by the door to tell them that they are spoiled

For the old life, they have seen too much:

One taste of God and nothing but God will do any more.

Somebody must be watching for the frightened

Who seek to sneak out just where they came in,

To tell them how much better it is inside.

The people too far in do not see how near these are

To leaving - preoccupied with the wonder of it all.

Somebody must watch for those who have entered the door

But would like to run away. So for them too,

I stand by the door.

I admire the people who go way in.

But I wish they would not forget how it was

Before they got in. Then they would be able to help

The people who have not yet even found the door,

Or the people who want to run away again from God.

You can go in too deeply, and stay in too long,

And forget the people outside the door.

As for me, I shall take my old accustomed place,

Near enough to God to hear Him and know He is there,

But not so far from men as not to hear them,

And remember they are there too.

Where? Outside the door -

Thousands of them. Millions of them.

But - more important for me -

One of them, two of them, ten of them.

Whose hands I am intended to put on the latch.

So I shall stand by the door and wait

For those who seek it.

'I had rather be a door-keeper...'

So I stand by the door.

Visionaries and Visions

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

January 29, 2023

Year A: The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany

Micah 6:1-8

Psalm 15

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

Matthew 5:1-23

Visionaries and Visions

Whenever I sit with a passage of scripture, especially if I’m going to preach on it, I try to keep historical context in mind.

Partly I guess that’s a case of, “once a history teacher, always a history teacher.”

But it’s important to remember that, while scripture is divinely inspired, it was written by people in a particular time and place, telling the story of people who experienced joy and sorrow, people who suffered greatly and yet who still dared to hope.

So, you may remember that last week’s lesson from the Gospel of Matthew began with a kind of matter of fact, by the way, mention that John the Baptist had been arrested.

That arrest is an important reminder that during the days of John the Baptist and Jesus, the people of Israel were oppressed, ruled by the Romans and their local puppet leaders like Herod – powers that be who tolerated no dissent or criticism, willing to arrest and execute any potential troublemakers.

People like John the Baptist spoke truth to power and, as usual, power did not like it one bit.

Under the weight of such terrible tyranny, the people of Israel dared to hope that their God – the God who had led them to freedom in the past – would act once again and overthrow the Romans and their allies, turning the world upside down.

It was in this hard and edgy world of suffering and expectation, that Jesus lived and began his ministry, gathering his ragtag band of disciples and calling the people – as John the Baptist had earlier called – to repent, because the kingdom of heaven had come near.

But what does that mean, exactly?

Well, in today’s gospel lesson – the familiar if still puzzling Beatitudes - we get something of an answer.

Jesus calls his disciples close and announces that the kingdom of heaven is a downside-up kingdom – a realm where it’s the poor in spirit – the mourners and the meek - who are blessed.

The kingdom of heaven is a downside-up kingdom – a realm where it’s those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, and the merciful, and the pure in heart, and the peacemakers, and the persecuted, who are blessed.

I always wonder what the disciples and the others who were present thought of Jesus’ vision – probably about the same as us, I guess.

Oh sure, we’re willing to buy Jesus’ downside-up vision if the kingdom of heaven is all about life after death.

But, if Jesus is talking about a transformed here and now, well, this must have sounded pie in the sky to people living under Roman brutality, just as it probably sounds like wishful thinking to us.

After all, we live in a land torn apart by relentless gun violence.

A land where Tyre Nichols cried out for his mom while he was brutalized by Memphis police officers, while he was ignored by others whose job it is to save lives.

We live in a land where so many are enslaved by addiction.

A land where, for many political leaders, cruelty seems to be the only point.

A land where so many of us are convinced that there’s just not enough for everybody and so I can only win if you lose.

And yet, in the Beatitudes, Jesus is not talking about life after death.

He’s pointing to the transformed, here and now world that begins with him.

Jesus unveils a vision of a downside-up kingdom, and invites us to help build it.

As Paul notes to the Corinthians, the supposedly wise ones of the world will never buy this, dismissing it as wishful thinking.

But down through the ages God has inspired visionaries who, in the words of the Prophet Micah, do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.

And, despite all of our many troubles and sorrows, the kingdom of heaven comes nearer and nearer.

If you were around last weekend, you could probably tell that I was thrilled by the turnout on Saturday and Sunday to hear our guest Dawn Eden Goldstein speak about Fr. Ed Dowling, a Jesuit priest who played an important role in the early days of Alcoholics Anonymous.

I find so much of Fr. Ed’s story moving and inspiring, this man who in his youth had been a gifted athlete but then had to endure debilitating arthritis, a priest who was seen as a bit of an oddball even by some of his fellow Jesuits, a person without an alcohol addiction who saw himself as “underprivileged” because he could never be a member of AA. 

As most of you know, inviting Dawn to speak about Father Ed was part of my ongoing attempts to celebrate Samuel Shoemaker, the Episcopal priest who grew up here and is buried in our churchyard, who is remembered by the Episcopal Church each January 31, the man who back in the 1930’s provided the spiritual foundations for the Twelve Steps of AA that have saved so many lives.

Because many of you have heard me talk about Sam Shoemaker before, and because many churches, including ours, have long hosted AA and other Twelve Step groups, we might think that Shoemaker’s work with alcoholics was sort of routine, the kind of thing that a clergyman was expected to do.

But that wasn’t the case at all.

As rector of Calvary Church in New York City, Shoemaker had a vision of a church that reached out beyond its doors to the poor and suffering. He opened Calvary Mission, which welcomed the down and out, including alcoholics, people usually looked at with pity and disgust.

Shoemaker’s vision of the down and out as truly blessed – which was really just Jesus’ vision of the downside-up kingdom – set off a wave of blessing that continues to wash over people who had seemed beyond hope.

For example:

The other day while I was thinking about today’s sermon, reflecting on Jesus’ vision, and marveling at the visionary lives of Fr. Ed and Sam Shoemaker, I was sort of idly scrolling through Facebook when I came across a post by a young guy named Mike.

Mike had been a young homeless man who used to show up at our church in Jersey City.

He came to services sometimes and to the monthly community suppers we offered, always taking a plate to go, too uncomfortable or impatient to eat with others.

He was a sweet guy but an addict, and so he would regularly ask me and others for money, usually coming up with some creative story about why he needed it.

“Fr. Tom, I’m not even gonna lie to you,” he’d say, before proceeding to lie to me.

We tried to help him as best we could and he was on our parish prayer list for years.

We certainly didn’t trust him – addiction can make you do some bad things - but we loved him and we hoped he could get clean but we weren’t optimistic.

And then we didn’t see him anymore.

But then, a couple of years ago, Mike sent me a Facebook friend request. Of course, I was relieved and, frankly, kind of surprised to see he was alive and doing well enough to be on Facebook. 

Turns out he’s been working as a roofer – hard work, for sure – but an honest living.

He has a girlfriend and they seem to be very much in love.

Well, here is what Mike posted just as I was thinking about Jesus’ vision of the downside-up kingdom and how Fr. Ed and Rev. Sam shared that vision and helped to make it real.

Mike wrote, “Today is a big milestone in my life…one year clean and sober from booze and drugs. Very grateful. One day at a time.”

He went on to thank specific people who had stuck by him and then added, “Also want to say thank you for the 12 Step educational program.”

In the Beatitudes, Jesus is not talking about life after death.

He’s pointing to the transformed, here and now, world that begins with him.

Jesus unveils a vision of a downside-up kingdom, and invites us to help build it.

God inspires visionaries like Ed Dowling and Sam Shoemaker to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with God.

And, despite all of our many troubles and sorrows, the kingdom of heaven comes nearer and nearer.

Amen.

Discerning the Call

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

January 22, 2023

Year A: The Third Sunday after the Epiphany (5:00 PM)

Isaiah 9:1-4

Psalm 27:1, 5-13

1 Corinthians 1:10-18

Matthew 4:12-23

Discerning the Call

In today’s lesson from the Gospel of Matthew, we hear the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry.

John the Baptist has been arrested and now the baton has been passed to the one for whom John had prepared the way.

Jesus begins his work by proclaiming what had been John’s message: “Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

The key difference, of course, is that, in and through Jesus, that message has been fulfilled.

The kingdom of heaven has indeed come near.

Jesus also begins his work by gathering his disciples – that notoriously ragtag group of followers – flawed and often confused – certainly not anyone’s idea of an “A team.” 

But that’s who Jesus calls.

Starting with two pairs of brothers: Peter and Andrew and James and John.

As we heard, Jesus approaches these fishermen brothers while they are doing their work – work that probably took up most of their time – work that was grueling and dangerous and also often tedious and frustrating – work that required courage and patience – a hard way to earn a living in a time and place when there were not many opportunities for wealth and safety.

What’s most striking to me (and probably to you) about Jesus’ call to these fishermen is that they seem to make their choice to follow in a flash, seemingly setting aside their livelihood without a moment’s notice, leaving behind, at least for now, their boats and their nets.

And what must Zebedee have thought as he watched his two sons – watched what he thought was his future – get up and walk away from the only life they had ever known?

Last Sunday, I told you the story of how Sue and I found our way to the Episcopal Church – it was all thanks to a holy invitation from one of my teaching colleagues.

And it was not long after we had become members of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Jersey City that I began to feel the reawakening of an old sense of call to the priesthood.

That call was certainly not as loud and clear and certain as Jesus’ summons to the fishermen brothers but, at the same time, it felt very real to me.

It felt real but also frightening and definitely inconvenient.

After all, I already had a good life. I liked teaching at St. Peter’s Prep, my alma mater, a Jesuit high school with a strong sense of mission, where I got to work beside some of my best friends.

I had thought that I would spend the rest of my working life there.

But, as I grappled with the fear and inconvenience of my sense of call, in my imagination I looked ahead to the end of my life, increasingly certain that if I didn’t at least explore ordination, I would regret not taking the chance.

And so I began what the church calls the “discernment process,” a fairly long and complicated series of requirements and lots of meetings – first with my friend Dave Hamilton, our rector – and then with a committee of other parishioners – and finally with a commission of people from around the diocese.

This discernment was not just me listening for God’s call – it was the work of the community, too.

And it was entirely possible that no matter what I was feeling – or thought I was hearing – others might not be feeling or hearing that same call – and I might be turned away, asked to follow a different road, consoled by the fact that at least I had tried.

Well, you know how the story ended.

Or, actually, “ended’” is not the right word.

Because, as kind of a task-oriented person – I love checking off items on my “to do” list – one of the hardest lessons I had to learn is that discernment never ends.

Despite the apparent quickness of the fishermen brothers to follow Jesus, the truth is that every day they had to decide to continue with the Lord – or not.

With God’s help, throughout their lives, Peter and Andrew and James and John had to listen, open their hearts, and do their best to discern what God might be calling them to do.

Discerning the call.

Although I knew better, after I was ordained I kind of thought my discernment days were behind me.

I had reached my goal! I was a priest!

But, soon I relearned, that discernment is forever.

There were and are so many unanswered questions, so many roads from which to choose.

Where to work?

What ministries to support?

What words will be most meaningful in this time and place?

All of it requires setting aside time to listen.

I guess it was about two and a half years ago, on a summer evening, Sue and I were sitting on the porch at our rectory in Jersey City, just talking about the future – looking a few years ahead - wondering if maybe we had one more big move in us, pondering if we were hearing a call to take on a new and different challenge.

Having grown up with a father who was (and is) an Orioles fan, I’ve always had an interest in, and a soft spot for, Baltimore – which had the plus of being not too far from home.

And so, we wondered.

I reached out to a clergy friend in the Diocese of Maryland, just curious about what might be possible, not now but down the road a stretch.

Well, before I knew it, I was talking to Canon Stuart Wright from the diocese, who shared with me information about the churches that were currently searching for clergy.

At first, it didn’t seem like any of them were the right fit. And, besides, this was all happening sooner than we had expected.

But, to my surprise, a certain church in Owings Mills – a place I had never heard of – it kept tugging at me – and just like all those years ago when we first found St. Paul’s Jersey City, I finally concluded that this was a possibility that I had to explore.

Discerning the call.

Back when I was first coming through the ordination process, I came across a quote from a wonderful novel by Gail Godwin called Evensong:

“Something’s your vocation if it keeps making more of you.”

And that’s been the guiding principle of my ongoing discernment. 

Just as God wanted to make more of the fishermen brothers than they could have ever imagined, God wants us to live lives that keep making more of us.

In just the short time I’ve been here, I feel like I’m on the right track because I keep growing – and I’m convinced that we are on the right track together because so many of our parishioners are growing, too – stretching our spiritual muscles – deepening our commitment – taking on new ministries – and new people continue to walk over the well-worn threshold in the church, perhaps answering a call that they are hearing and feeling in their hearts.

So, like the fishermen brothers long ago, let’s keep our eyes and ears and most of all our hearts, open.

Jesus continues to call us to follow him – always offering us more than we can ask or imagine.

Amen.

Holy Invitations

St. Thomas’ Episcopal Church, Owings Mills MD

January 15, 2023

Year A: The Second Sunday after the Epiphany

Isaiah 49:1-7

Psalm 40:1-12

1 Corinthians 1:1-9

John 1:29-42

Holy Invitations

If you were here last week, you may remember that I talked about how when I was a young man I felt certain that God was calling me to be a Franciscan friar.

And when that turned out not to be true, I became a teacher because I didn’t really know what else to do.

I thought that teaching would be a good job for me while I waited for my “real life” to begin.

And, yes, it’s true that I taught for 17 years.

Although I always had the feeling that teaching wasn’t my real vocation, the truth is I loved much of the work: helping my students to learn and grow, and working with colleagues and friends who were so committed to education.

And since I taught in Catholic schools, church was kind of built into my job – there were lots of prayer services, Masses, and retreats – in fact, the schools themselves were expressions of faith.

But, after Sue and I were married for a couple of years, it dawned on me that it might be good for us to go to church together.

So, in the year 2000, on the Saturday evening before the First Sunday of Advent, we walked from our house in Jersey City to attend Mass at one of our local Catholic churches.

The details don’t matter now, but, bottom line, it was not a good experience for us.

Though I think about that Mass all the time.

It’s a reminder for me that, while things here in church will sometimes go wrong, we should always give our best efforts to God and our fellow parishioners, and especially for newcomers who have made the not so easy effort to walk into our church and will probably and rightly not come back if they are not welcomed and fed.

Anyway, Sue and I going to church seemed like a failed experiment.

Sometime during the week I was in the faculty room telling the story of our not-so-great experience at mass. You may have noticed that I can be a bit of a ham, so I’m sure I made the story more entertaining than it was, trying to get a few laughs from my colleagues.

But when things settled down, one teacher, a woman named Patty, said quietly:

“You should come to my church sometime.”

That church was St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, just a few blocks from our house.

And so, a few days later, on the Second Sunday of Advent, Sue and I walked to St. Paul’s. I had said to her that, if nothing else, it would be nice to accept Patty’s kind invitation, and we’d also get to see the inside of this interesting looking church.

With some uncertainty, we walked through the front doors, where we were greeted warmly by the smiling ushers and handed bulletins.

We took our seats, in a pew not too close to the front.

We heard music that was very well done and appreciated a sermon that was smart and funny and meaningful.

We noticed the beautiful diversity of the congregation.

And when it came time for the Peace we were struck by how just about everybody was up and out in the aisle, greeting each other with smiles and laughter, as if reuniting with long lost friends.

To be honest, at this point we were feeling a little overwhelmed by it all when suddenly the priest came bounding down the aisle to us, stuck out his hand, and said,

“Hi. I’m Dave. Welcome to St. Paul’s.”

That day I somehow knew that I had found something that I hadn’t even known I was looking for.

What I also didn’t know – at least not yet - was that my life was about to take off in a wildly different direction.

Sue and I went back to St. Paul’s the following Sunday and for all the Sundays after that.

And Dave – the Rev. Canon David Hamilton – and I quickly became friends. It was one of the closest and most profound friendships of my life.

And, not long after becoming part of the St. Paul’s community, I felt a reawakening of an old call to priesthood, starting a journey that would lead me away from teaching and off to seminary – walking a twisting road that would eventually bring me back to St. Paul’s as its rector and, finally, to be here with all of you.

And, here’s the thing: none of this would have happened if that day in the faculty room my colleague Patty hadn’t taken a chance and said,

“You should come to my church sometime.”

Holy Invitations.

I was reminded of Patty and her holy invitation to me when I began to reflect on today’s gospel lesson.

We’re told that as Jesus walked by, John the Baptist exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” – and, when you think of it, “Look” is a kind of invitation.

Sure enough, Andrew and another unnamed disciple accept that invitation and they do more than look - they quite literally begin to follow Jesus.

When Jesus asks what they are looking for, maybe because they didn’t really know that were looking for anything or anyone, they just ask Jesus where he is staying.

And Jesus offers a beautiful and gentle invitation, “Come and see.”

Andrew surely doesn’t know how exactly his life will be transformed by this encounter, but after spending the day with Jesus, Andrew knows enough to go straight to his brother Simon and share the good news: 

“We found the Messiah.”

At its best, Christianity is a story of holy invitation – God’s invitation offered through John the Baptist, Jesus, Andrew, and so many people down through the generations, people like my colleague Patty, and so many people here at St. Thomas’.

Before Sue and I made the big move from Jersey City to join you here, I wondered if you were serious about welcoming newcomers – everyone says they are – but I wondered if you were really up for the task of extending a holy invitation, taking the chance to say, “You should come to our church someday.”

But, the team that worked on our website was determined to put that holy invitation out there – insisting that all are welcome – that this is a place for all to belong - and sure enough people are accepting our invite.

And our ushers don’t just greet the people they’ve known for years but they welcome everybody, especially the people who seem a little uncertain about crossing that well-worn threshold, just like Sue and me all those years ago on our first Sunday at St. Paul’s.

And then there are our youth acolytes – this wonderfully renewed ministry that we are praying for today in our parish prayer cycle.

Since before I arrived here, I’ve heard and shared the concerns that children and youth have been mostly missing.

And we’ve been working on rebuilding our Christian education program.

We’ve made progress in that department, though, of course, there’s much more to come.

And a few months ago there was the question of trying to restart the acolyte program.

Frankly, I was skeptical – I just wasn’t sure if our youth were really interested in playing a role that, while important, might seem kind of old fashioned.

But we decided to try. So, Sara Hollands and I had the genius idea of inviting John Lang to lead the program and we extended an invitation to our youth to meet, to practice, and to begin.

To my great surprise and delight, the renewal of the acolyte program has been a joyful success – the youth have returned in a big way. Some of their families have been here forever while others are fairly new to the church.

I love seeing them fly through the front door before the 10:00 service is about to begin – cutting it a little close sometimes – then quickly vesting – taking up the cross and the torches and leading our parade up the aisle.

Why has this great renewal happened?

Well, I think it’s the power of holy invitation – John’s gentle invitation to these kids, his patient guidance during each service, and the kind thank you that follows each time they serve.

John the Baptist said, “Look.”

Jesus said, “Come and see.”

Patty said, “You should come to my church sometime.” 

And John Lang and we invited our youth to once again play an important role in their church.

And these holy invitations made all the difference.

Amen.