YEAR B 2024 pentecost 9

Pentecost 9, 2024
Jeremiah 23:1-6
Psalm 23
Ephesians 2:11-22
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Well, last week’s gospel was . . . troubling, with the beheading of John the Baptizer by Herod’s soldiers because of the desires an angry mom.  This week, there’s a lot more good news in the gospel.  And, as you probably noticed, there’s a lot of talk about shepherds in our readings today.  It’s a reassuring change from last week.  

In the first reading, from Jeremiah, God speaks through the prophet to warn the bad shepherds—the leaders of God’s people.  Though they have scattered the flock, and driven them away, God promises to gather the flock back together, so they will prosper.  God will raise up new shepherds, and the people will have no fear.  And none will be missing.  None.

And then, we read Psalm 23 together.  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.  All that wonderful, pastoral imagery of green pastures and still waters.  Plenty of food and protection, and the goodness and mercy of God chasing us down, all the days of our life.  If you want to to know how life is with a good shepherd, just read Psalm 23.  It is many people’s favorite part of the entire Bible.  And for good reason, because it shows us what life is like when God is our shepherd.

And in today’s gospel reading, from Mark’s gospel, we see what the good shepherd does in human form.  We see how life is when God walks among us, and actually does these things in the flesh.  But that can be a distracting thing about this reading.  Because when someone tells us a story, we sort of imagine ourselves as that person.  And, I don’t know about you, but when I first read today’s gospel, I imagined it from Jesus’ point of view, and how I would react to the crowd pressing in on me.  Which, as I say, is not helpful.  Because—in case you haven’t noticed—I’m not Jesus.

So let’s look at it from the perspective of the other people in this story, starting with the disciples.  A couple weeks ago, Jesus sent out the disciples two by two, and “they went out and proclaimed that all should repent. They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.”  As today’s gospel opens, they have just returned from their journey, and they’re telling Jesus all that happened while they were away.  And there is a lot of commotion with people coming and going.  And I’m guessing they are exhausted, because Jesus says to them, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”  

Rest a while.  We have a hard time with that, don’t we?  We’ve all been taught from the moment we were teachable that resting is for wimps.  Sleeping is for the lazy.  Or maybe that God wasn’t serious about the sanctity of the Sabbath.  Early birds getting worms and all that.  As Matt Haig has written, Rest is an essential part of survival.  An essential part of us. . . . Just as we need pauses between notes for music to sound good, and just as we need punctuation in a sentence for it to be coherent, we should see rest and reflection and passivity—even sitting on a sofa—as an intrinsic and essential part of life that is needed for the whole to make sense.  God planned for us to rest.  We need rest.

So that’s the resting part.  But Jesus says, “Come away to a deserted place and rest a while.”  I don’t know how you feel about deserted places, but I’m not a fan, to put it lightly.  And if Jesus told me to go away to a deserted place, I’d probably say, “Um, no thanks, Jesus.  I’m good”  But notice, Jesus says come away.  Because Jesus is going with them.  I think this is important.  Jesus wants them to rest and reflect, but Jesus will be there with them.  But while they’re out in the boat together, the crowd recognizes them, and starts running around the lake, so that when they land in the deserted place, well, it’s no longer a deserted place, right?

And then Jesus goes ashore—not the resting disciples—and he sees the people.  And as we heard, “he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd;”  Which is a very wimpy translation.  The fantastic Greek word here is splagchnizomai, and it means much more than compassion.  It is more like a twisting in your bowels.  A better word might be gut-wrenching.  It is not pity or fondness, it is painful.  Jesus is unable to walk away from this crowd of people because he finds their condition gut-wrenching.

And why?  Well, as we heard, because they are like sheep without a shepherd.  That is what has moved Jesus so deeply.  The shepherd connection.  That they are like sheep without a shepherd.  And so what does Jesus do?  Three things:  He teaches, feeds, and heals them.  We only hear about two of those things today though, because the text jumps over the feeding of the 5,000, which I’ll get to in a minute.

So first, Jesus “began to teach them many things.”  This description could hardly be more vague, right?  What many things?  If this is his response to the gut-wrenching sight of all these people, we’d like to know what these “many things” are.  But we don’t know.  My guess is that he is telling them parables, since Mark says Jesus only ever taught in parables.  

So maybe they’re getting lessons about the kingdom of God, and how it is breaking through everywhere, all around them.  Maybe they’re hearing about mustard seeds, and how those tiny seed ends up providing a place for birds to build their nests.  But no matter what “many things” Jesus is telling them, I imagine part of it is about how Jesus is the Good Shepherd, because that’s what sparked his compassion:  That they are like sheep without a shepherd, and here he is:  the Good Shepherd.  Almost as if Psalm 23 has come to life, in the flesh.

So, Jesus teaches them many things.  Then what?  Well, if you look at the gospel reading in your bulletin insert, you’ll see that we jumped from verse 34 to verse 53.  And what we skipped over is usually called “The feeding of the 5,000.”  Remember, a large crowd has followed them to a deserted place, and after Jesus has taught them many things, the disciples say Jesus should send them away to get some food.  And we’ll hear that whole story next week.  But I just want you to see the order of things here:  Jesus has compassion on the crowd, That gut-wrenching reaction, and then those three things: He teaches, feeds, and heals them.

Which leads us to the third thing.  They get back in the boat, and they cross over to Gennesaret and tie up the boat.  And then, the people recognize him, and “they rushed about that whole region and began to bring the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was.”  Again, put yourself in the people’s place here.  Imagine rushing home to get your sick relatives and friends and carrying them out to wherever Jesus goes.  In villages, cities, farms, marketplaces.  Everywhere Jesus goes, people are healed.  The Good Shepherd heals them.  Revives their souls, you could say.

In the first reading this morning, God promised new shepherds, good shepherds.  And in Psalm 23, we heard what it is like when God is our shepherd.  And in today’s gospel, we see what it is like when the Good Shepherd walks among us.  He teaches us, feeds us, and heals us.  The Good Shepherd has come, for you, for me, for everyone.  And when the Good Shepherd is here, we learn about the kingdom of God, we feed on the bread of heaven, we are healed of brokenness, our sins are forgiven . . . and not one among us will be lost.

The Good Shepherd has come to us, to teach and feed and heal, the things we all need in this life.  You are loved by one who feels compassionate distress for you.  Who cannot turn away from you.  Who knows you need a shepherd, and has sent us the Good Shepherd—Jesus Christ, our Lord.  God continues to lead us beside still waters, to fields of green pasture, and together we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Amen.
   

YEAR B 2024 pentecost 8

Pentecost 8, 2024
Amos 7:7-15
Psalm 85:8-13
Ephesians 1:3-14
Mark 6:14-29

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I am going to tell you from the start that I am not going to focus on the mass shooting that happened yesterday in Pennsylvania.  I hope we all agree that violence has no part in our political process.  But I’ve said that before—specifically in January 2021—and some people were so offended by my saying that, that they sent me nasty emails and left the church entirely.  But I’ll still say it again: violence is never the answer to our political differences.  And we once again grieve for those killed, and we pray for the injured, both known and unknown.

And, in a not unrelated matter, let’s review the politically charged story we just heard . . . Herod—who is sort of the local governor of the Jews—hears about Jesus and his disciples, and the amazing things they are doing, and everybody’s got a different opinion about what is going on.  Some say that John the Baptizer is giving Jesus the power, and others are saying Jesus is really Elijah the prophet coming back to usher in the kingdom of God.  But Herod . . . Herod has a totally different idea.  Because Herod has a very guilty conscience, that’s why.  And a king with a guilty conscience makes for a great story.

Edgar Allen Poe could call this The Tell-Tale Baptist.  Or, as Shakespeare’s Lady MacBeth might say: “Out damned John the Baptizer!”  It’s easy to find examples like this.  If you’re Poe or Shakespeare, you just look around and talk to people, and before long you could have a big list of guilty consciences to work with.  We have a very hard time letting go of the things we have done in the past, even if everyone else has forgotten them.  That’s why we confess our sins every week—in the hope that one day we might actually believe in God’s unconditional forgiveness.  

So, in this gospel text, we hear Herod say, "John, whom I beheaded, has been raised."  People hearing this story for the first time would be asking, “Wait.  Hang on.  When did Herod have John the Baptizer beheaded?”  [Insert record scratch]  And then Mark says, “Thanks for asking,” and we flash back to a party at Herod’s house in order to answer that question.

Herod was living in sin with his brother’s wife—whatever that means exactly.  And John the Baptizer has called him out on it.  Told him that it was wrong to live that way.  Herod has John thrown in prison, but does not have him killed because, “Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he protected him. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him.”

I find this fascinating.  Almost like Herod knows John is sent by God.  He fears him, but he is intrigued by him.  He likes to listen to him, even though John is telling him things he does not wish to hear.  Almost like, by keeping John locked up in his prison, Herod has his own private spiritual advisor or something.

And then, Herod throws this party.  His daughter, Herodias (same name as her mother, Herodias) impresses the guests with her dancing—like how you make your kids show off when you have guests—and then Herod is so proud and boastful that he promises her anything.  Herodias goes to Herodias and asks what to ask for.  The mom, who hates John the Baptizer, tells her to ask for John’s head, and . . . Well, you know what happens then.  Horrible story right?

It’s a story that begs for a superhero, doesn’t it?  A case where we want John’s disciples to show up and bust him out of prison right before the guards come to behead him.  Some nick-of-time example that evil will not win out over good.  We want the lesson to be that Herod’s stupid ego and hate-filled Herodias will not win the day, because that’s the way stories are supposed to end, right?  John speaking truth to power is supposed to make him loved and respected, not headless in a dungeon.

Which raises the question that I really want to ask.  The elephant that is not in the room, in this case . . .
Where is Jesus in this story?  

And the silence that follows that question tells us all the answer.  If I say, “Tell me a story that isn’t about Jesus,” today’s gospel could be one of them, right?  Jesus is not in this story.  And it’s then tempting for us to say, See?  This is what happens to you without Jesus in your story.  And that is a very dangerous thing to think, because it then sets you up to start thinking that if you do have Jesus in your life, then bad things won’t happen to you.  

Everyone in this room has Jesus in their life.  So, has anything bad ever happened to you?  Exactly.  Then, if Jesus had been there at the party with Herod, would he have stopped John from being beheaded?  We can’t tell for certain, but I’m thinking the answer is probably no.  Even if Jesus were sitting in the house, for whatever reason, Herod still would have had John killed because of his boastful promise.

So now what?  What’s the point of Jesus if he can’t save you from dying?  What good is Jesus if he can’t help you when you are most in need of being helped?  Why follow a Savior who seems unable to save?

Maybe the best way to answer my own question is to say this:  Jesus is saving up his saving for the big leagues.  Even though God is intensely interested in every aspect of your life, Jesus does not save you a parking spot in front of the store.  Even though Jesus came that we might have life and have life abundantly, we are each still going to face death at some point.  Jesus does not save us from death.

Jesus saves us IN death.  The truth is that each of us is going to die.  But the greater truth is that each of us will be raised to new life.  God is in the resurrection business, is what it comes down to.  Jesus brings life out of death.  Hope to the hopeless, joy to the sorrowful, life to those who are dead in sin.  Jesus does not save us from suffering; but Jesus does save us in our suffering.  Even though we didn’t hear about Jesus in this specific story, Jesus was very much a part of John the Baptist’s story.  And that is what makes all the difference.

Now let me turn to Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, which we heard part of right before this Gospel reading.  That reading is 12 verses long, but is actually all one sentence in Greek.  Longest sentence in the New Testament.  210 words in one sentence.  Which is probably why it’s a little confusing to hear it read aloud.  But the part I want to focus on in this:  
With all wisdom and insight he has made known to us the mystery of his will . . . as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.

God’s will is to gather up everything, in heaven and on earth.  Everything.  Not God’s reluctant compromise.  Not just some things.  No, God will gather up everything and everyone, because God wants to.  You, and me, and the people we don’t even like.  As I said earlier, Jesus is saving up his saving for the big leagues.  

We all know that bad stuff happens in life.  This is not a new thought for you, I’m sure.  And I don’t need to spend time reminding you of the suffering in the world around us; you’ve seen the headlines.  Living can be a painful business.  And if you come to Jesus looking to avoid problems, or for protection against crazy kings who may have you killed because some little girl asks, well . . . I’m afraid Jesus isn’t going to be much help to you in that moment.  At least in getting us out of the trouble we face.

BUT, if you come to Jesus looking for comfort in the midst of life’s tragedies, and the assurance that you are loved beyond measure, and to remind you that it is God’s will to gather you up into the arms of Jesus . . . Well, then Jesus is the one you’re looking for.  God is with you every moment of every day, and that is what makes things different.  

You will be gathered up because it is God’s desire to gather you up.  You have been baptized into the death of Jesus, and you will be raised to new life in the resurrection of Jesus.  And along the way, in the midst of the struggles of life, you can come to this Altar and receive the assurance of forgiveness, the reminder that you are loved, and the gift of the body of Christ, the bread of heaven.

Amen

YEAR B 2024 pentecost 7

Pentecost 7, 2024
Ezekiel 2:1-5
Psalm 123
2 Corinthians 12:2-10
Mark 6:1-13

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

So, the first thing we have to do is define the word “prophet,” because it comes up in two of today’s readings.  We tend to think of a prophet as someone who knows the future, who can predict what is going to happen, someone you’d want next to you when you’re playing the lottery.  But a prophet is a person who speaks on behalf of God.  A prophet receives messages from God and passes them on to other people.  So then, a prophecy might foretell the future—like the birth of the Messiah—but usually a prophecy is simply just a message from God.

In the first reading, from Ezekiel, God fills Ezekiel with the Spirit and tells him to speak to the people, and to say, “Thus says the Lord God,” so that “they shall know that there has been a prophet among them.”  Ezekiel will speak for God.  That one fits right in with our definition of what a prophet is:  One who speaks on behalf of God.

And in the reading from Mark, Jesus is also delivering a message from God, when he is teaching in the synagogue.  Before this, Jesus has been out, healing the sick, raising the dead, and so forth, and eventually comes around the lake to his own hometown: Nazareth.  He is teaching in the synagogue on the Sabbath, and is interrupted by the grumbling of the crowd.  They start asking one another, isn’t this the carpenter?  Mary’s son?  The brother of these young people we know?  How can it be that he is speaking with authority, with wisdom?  We know him.

I’m sure you’re familiar with the saying, “familiarity breeds contempt.”  Well Jesus’ response is a first-century Palestine version of that saying, sort of borrowed from the Greeks.  “Prophets [or philosophers], are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.”  Jesus seems to expect this response from the hometown crowd.  It is human nature to refuse to have faith in what is familiar.  Bring in some traveling charlatan selling a snake-oil miracle cure and people line up with cash in hand.  Tell people that their local doctor knows best and people say, “Oh please!  I know her.”

We do it in our pop culture too.  Think of the 60’s when the exotic Transcendental Meditation movement swept eastward from California.  Or how the British Invasion of rock music spread across the country.  What is foreign is exotic; what is local is suspect, or inferior.  Give me this new group from across the ocean rather than the local bar band down the block—who might actually be better musicians!

And, most curiously, we do this in the Church as well.  The charismatic preacher comes to town and starts a mega-church, and attracts thousands of worshipers.  While the local denominational pastor who preaches the gospel, visits the sick, and administers the sacraments finds their congregation dwindling away over time.  Flashy lights and outsiders tend to outweigh weekly sustenance.  After all, isn’t the local pastor or priest the person we know?  Isn’t she the one who baptized little Sarah?  Isn’t he the one who disagreed with me over what color to paint the church basement?  And isn’t this the same leaky stone building I have spent a lifetime of Sundays in?  How could anything miraculous happen here?  How could this week-in and week-out message really change my life?  It’s all so . . . familiar.

Ah, the week in and week out.  That is what is interesting to me.  Because we Episcopalians actually specialize in the familiar, the tangible, the day-to-day stuff.  We do it sacramentally, with bread and wine, and water and words.  In the sacraments, we use the stuff of daily life; and we believe that God uses them too.  And in that moment, a connection is made that is made nowhere else.  God comes to meet us in bread and wine at this Altar.  God comes to meet us, when water is poured over our heads at that font. 

We might well ask, “Isn’t this just the bread from those little cellophane wrappers in the cupboard?  Isn’t this just the wine that the Altar Guild got from the bottle on Saturday morning?  Isn’t that pitcher of water for the baptism just from the faucet in the sacristy?”  Yes.  They are.  They are indeed.  And there’s the beauty of it!  We don't need spectacle because God uses the familiar.

We use the familiar around St. Timothy's all year long.  In the branches we carry on Palm Sunday.  In the ashes we don on Ash Wednesday, which are made from those same palms.  In the pages of those simple prayer books and hymnals in the pew racks.  Familiar stuff, being put to extraordinary use.  And think of the ordinary people serving God and our neighbors, from vacuumers to choir members, from readers to gardeners, from Vestry members to those who cleaned up after our Founders’ Day luncheon.  Extraordinary acts from ordinary people.

And this takes us back to a crucial little segment of this Gospel reading.  After Jesus gives the townspeople the smackdown of the hometown prophet not being welcome, we are told “he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.  And he was amazed at their unbelief.”

Okay, two things.  First, the phrase, “no deed of power” does not usually go with “except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.”  Even when we are feeling at the peak of our personal power, I doubt any of us have laid hands on doubting sick people and cured them.

And, secondly, well, this takes a bit of setup.  Throughout Mark’s gospel, leading up to today’s reading, faith is connected to healing.  Just last week with the bleeding woman, and the dying daughter, we heard that faith was the key to healing.  And, in the case of Jairus’s daughter, it was faith of the father, not the little girl.  But in Jesus’ hometown, we see something new.

Jesus is amazed at their unbelief.  And, remember, Jesus has seen some amazing things!  He is amazed at their lack of faith, their unbelief.  And yet, he lays his hands on sick people and cures them.  Even in the midst of this unbelief that amazes Jesus, the healing power of God is at work.  Faith is not always necessary for healing.

Throughout Jesus’ earthly ministry, we often hear of faith as being the thing that empowers us to move mountains, to cast out demons, to heal the sick, feed the poor, and usher in the kingdom.  But what is honestly more important to me is this question: what does Jesus do without faith?  What does God do for those who have no faith, or who have lost their faith?  In short, is God active in the world in the absence of faith?

And in today’s gospel, we have the answer.  In the absence of faith, Jesus lays his hands on people and heals them.  When we are filled with contempt at the familiarity of Jesus, he still heals us.  When we are absolutely certain that it is regular old bread and wine on that Altar, Jesus is somehow still present.  God meets us in the ordinary things of life, like food and drink.  But God also meets us in the ordinary people in our lives, like friends, family, and neighbors.  

And, most important of all, God still comes to us in the absence of belief.  Jesus lays his hands on us, and heals us, even though we have doubts, even though we have questions.  Even though we are convinced that the familiar—what we know and experience in our daily lives—is not enough.

Is this not Mary’s son?  
Oh yes, he certainly is.
And, it turns out, that’s exactly what we need him to be.

Amen

   

Independence Day

Independence Day, July 4

It is worth noting that what we honor today is called, “Independence Day,” and not “It is Finished Day.”  The Declaration of Independence was the starting gate, not the finish line.  We must always be wary of saying, “We have done the thing.”  Because, by our very nature, we are always doing this thing of being America.  Sometimes we do it well; and sometimes we fail miserably.

But the idea that makes our country different from what has gone before is that the very goal was to be something else.  Something that has never existed to our knowledge.  Which is why you hear people say things like, the great American experiment.  We’re making this up as we go.  And as any scientist will tell you, most experiments fail.  But the American experiment is different because of the goals enshrined in our founding documents.  From the start, we have been striving to be something different, something better: a more perfect union, if you will.

We can see this in the text of the hymn #719, O Beautiful for Spacious Skies, when we sing the line, “America, America, God mend thine every flaw, confirm thy soul with self control, thy liberty in law.”  God mend thine every flaw.  It comes right out and acknowledges we have flaws, and we are asking God to help us fix them.

That is the thing we should keep in mind as we celebrate the Fourth of July, our Independence Day.  Because we are not perfect.  But at our best, we are striving to be a more perfect union, a more decent place.  A more loving and accepting beacon on a hill, though we are not perfect.

In the first reading, from Deuteronomy, we heard that God “executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and loves the strangers, providing them food and clothing. You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”

God’s people are to care for the stranger, because they themselves were once the strangers.  They know what it is like.  In a similar way, the reason we care about democracy around the world is because we once served under a tyrannical king.  We have been there, and we know what it is like, and that is why we have a history of fighting for other people’s freedom.

But of course, we have our own history of subjugating and enslaving other people, and the racism that continues from it to this day.  We haven’t always lived up to the goal of ensuring freedom for others, even though we know what it is like to live under a tyrant.  This is a flaw that God is mending.  We are better than we were, but not as good as we will one day hopefully be.  

In the meantime, let us renew our efforts to fashion a country where everyone is free, where everyone is welcome, where liberty is law.  This experiment is still ongoing, and—against all odds—it has not yet failed.  Let us continue to pray that God will bless this land, and its people, because the land of the free has not always been free.  May we let freedom ring, for everyone, everywhere.

Amen

YEAR B 2026 pentecost 6

Pentecost 6, 2024
Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-15; 2:23-24
Psalm 130
2 Corinthians 8:7-15
Mark 5:21-43

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

So, the first thing we have to deal with this morning is that reading from the Wisdom of Solomon.  The book of the Wisdom of Solomon comes from what we call the “Apocrypha,” a word which means “hidden.”  Different denominations place different value on these books of the Apocrypha, and—true to form—the Episcopal Church splits the difference and takes a middle of the road approach.  In our catechism, on page 853 of the Book of Common Prayer, we read:

Q.     What is the Apocrypha?
    The Apocrypha is a collection of additional books written by people of the Old Covenant, and used in the Christian Church.

Which tells us . . . pretty much nothing.  However, in general, the books of the Apocrypha can be thought of as maybe, “optional.”  Interesting, possibly helpful, but not authoritative.

And the reason that’s important is because this reading today starts out with something that’s not really true.  As we heard, “God did not make death.”  Taken as a statement of fact, well, it’s not true.  Since the plants in Genesis have seeds, death is sort of baked in at the start.  Otherwise, these seeds would mean that all of creation would be smothered in plants if none of them died—which even my wife would not approve of.  But that’s all just an aside.  Because what I really want us to do is back up a verse from that reading, because it helps the passage make sense.

Starting at verse 12, that passage would read: Do not invite death by the error of your life, or bring on destruction by the works of your hands; because God did not make death, and he does not delight in the death of the living.  Which is an entirely different point, right?  Now the passage is telling us something about ourselves, which is, don’t live your life in such a way that you bring destruction on yourself and others.  Because God does not want you to die before your time.  

I just wanted to clear that up, because I personally find it jarring that the selected reading starts right off with the declarative statement, “God did not make death,” which as I said, is simply not true.  Right.  And speaking of death, let’s move on to today’s Gospel reading from Mark.

There is so much happening in this story!  You could write a whole book on just this little section of Mark.  By way of reminder, Mark’s gospel is thought to have been told by word of mouth before it was written down.  So, Mark is all action, immediately this and immediately that.  Matthew’s gospel, by contrast, begins with an extensive genealogy, which is fine . . . for a book.  But nobody would stick around to hear the story if Mark’s gospel started that way.  Mark is all action, all the time.  And typical of Mark’s gospel, today we have a story within another story.  Jesus is heading off to do one thing and is interrupted by another thing.

The interruption is helpful for a story that is being passed on by word of mouth, since people will want to stick around through the second story to hear how the first story ends.  But the story within a story is also a sign that the two stories are linked together.  And those connections are strengthened by things like the woman has been suffering for twelve years, and the little girl is twelve years old.  In verse 34 the woman is called “daughter,” and in verse 35 the little girl is called “daughter.”  It’s almost as if you can’t have one story without the other.  You need them both to get the whole picture.  What looks like two stories is actually one story.

So, let’s take a look.  Jairus, a leader of the synagogue comes to Jesus and begs him to heal his daughter.  This is a VIP asking for help from Jesus.  So, Jesus starts to walk with this VIP and a huge crowd comes along, including a woman who has been suffering from hemorrhages for 12 long years.  It’s important to note that in that culture at that time, women were uniformly looked down upon, and any person bleeding like that would be an outcast.  So this woman is the very opposite of a VIP.  No one wants her around.

But she has faith that if she can just touch Jesus’ robe she will be healed.  Which is some serious faith, right?  Also kind of bordering on superstition to our ears.  But she sneaks up, touches his robe, and immediately her bleeding stops!  Apparently not superstition at all!  At which point, she could have just slinked away all healed up with no one the wiser.  But immediately, Jesus stops and asks, “Who touched my clothes?”

Now, I think it’s important to ask ourselves how we hear this question from Jesus.  Is he saying, “What thief has dared to steal some of my precious power?!?”  Or is he saying, “Who is this person who has such beautiful faith and trust?”  I think it’s the latter—even though we might tend to think of it as the former.  Jesus senses that some of the healing power has gone out of him, which means that someone has been healed, and Jesus wants to meet her.

Now, again, she could have just kept on walking, all healed up, and ready for a new start on life.  I think that’s what I would have done, to be honest.  Just take the healing and go home to hide in my house.  But for some reason, her faith in Jesus is so strong that she trusts him enough to come back and confess.  She falls to her knees, confesses the whole thing.  Jesus tells her that her faith has made her well, and calls her “daughter.”  And in doing this—in referring to her as daughter—Jesus is welcoming her back into the community.  No longer an outcast, but part of the community.  Her faith has made her well and welcome.

And while he was still speaking, that is immediately, some people from Jairus’ house come to him and say that his daughter has died, and there is no need “to trouble the teacher any more.”  And if the story ended here, we might take the lesson that Jesus has come to save the outcasts, and will send the VIPs empty away.  That would still be a good story, because it would show us God’s concern for those we would rather reject and turn away.  It would remind us that God does not value status the way that we do.  But Jesus is not done yet.  Far from it!

Jesus says to Jairus, “Do not fear, only believe.”  Though the girl is lying in death, Jesus has not given up.  He takes just a few disciples inside the house, he tells the girl to get up, and immediately, she does!  And then comes my favorite part of the story.  It’s a little detail that gets missed in the midst all the drama.  But after Jesus brings her back to life, he tells them to give her something to eat.  Give her something to eat.

It’s not some spiritual misty miracle that he has done.  He has brought a real person back to life in the real world, and he immediately addresses her real needs.  Give her something to eat.  Saving a life is not enough; you must give them something to eat.  I have to say, there’s a message for us there in our post-Roe world.  Saving them is just the start.  Now give them something to eat!  Take care of them.  Immediately.  But I digress.

So, in this story within a story, we see Jesus doing what God has been doing since the creation of the world.  Welcoming the outcasts.  Feeding the hungry.  And bringing the dead back to life.  Loving the “unloveable,” caring about our physical needs, and bringing life out of death.

But there’s still more!  Jairus, the leader of the synagogue, he knows who Jesus is.  That’s why he comes and begs Jesus to heal his daughter.  He has faith that Jesus can do it.  And the woman with the hemorrhages—the absolute outcast—she believes that just touching the robe of Jesus will heal her.  She has the faith that it will happen.  But the little girl?  She doesn’t even know who Jesus is.  She does not come to Jesus in faith and belief.  She does not come to Jesus at all.  She’s . . . dead!  She can’t believe in anything.  She can’t ask for anything.  She is dead.

And Jesus comes to her all the same.  She is beyond believing, and Jesus comes to her anyway.

You’ve probably had times in your own life when you were beyond believing.  When you were emptied out of faith and dead inside.  And if you haven’t, well, you certainly will.  It happens to all of us.  The pressures and problems of life, the minefield of personal relationships, the struggle to make ends meet and care for our families.  Add to that the divisions these days over social and political issues.  These things can wear us down and put us beyond the reach of faith.  To a place where we doubt that God cares, and ask ourselves, “Why trouble the teacher any further?”

And in those moments, the times when we swear we cannot believe in anything, Jesus comes to us and says, “Little girl, get up.” 

And over and over we find that God still brings healing, still restores us to community, still brings concern for our physical needs, and still brings life out of death.  May God give us the strength to hear what Jesus says:  “Do not fear, only believe.”  And in those times when—like the little girl—we can’t even do that, Jesus comes to us all the same and says, “Get up.  Have something to eat,” the body of Christ, the bread of heaven.

Amen.

The Burial of Sarah Douglas

For Sarah Douglas
June 17, 2024
Isaiah 61:1-3
Revelation 21:2-7
John 6:37-40

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

I think everyone in this room could tell stories of how special Sarah Douglas was in their lives.  I mean, that’s why we are all here today.  Because Sarah made a difference in our lives, just by knowing her.  Just by talking with her.  Just by feeling her gift of unconditional love.  Our lives have been made better because we knew Sarah Douglas.

There are people we meet in this life who just seem to know things.  Like someone who knows how to fix a sink, so you want them to fix the sink.  Or someone who knows how to plan an event, so you want them to plan your event.  Or someone who knows how to fly a plane.  And you definitely want for that person to be the one who is flying the plane!  Some people just know things, and we want them to tell us what they know.

Sarah Douglas intuitively held a deep faith and knowledge of God.  I personally learned so much from her because she was always ready to offer an encouraging word about God’s presence in our lives and in this world.  And it was a powerful thing to witness the depth of her faith, her trust in God’s goodness and grace.  To be quite honest, there were times when I thought maybe she should be flying this plane!  Because she was just so unwavering, no matter what happened.  Never have I met anyone who so fully trusted in Jesus, and who so fully knew where she was going in the end.

In the gospel reading we just heard, Jesus says,
Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away . . . And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life; and I will raise them up on the last day.

Sarah understood those words from Jesus, and she believed those words, and she trusted those words.  Long before I ever met her, Sarah Douglas knew where she was going when she died.  Because she knew it was the place she had been all along.  Which is safely in the palm of God’s hand.  She believed that, she knew that, she trusted in that.  Jesus had her, and Jesus still has her.

Jesus says ”Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away . . . And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day.”  Jesus loses nothing and no one.

Sarah Douglas was given to Jesus in Baptism, and Jesus held onto her.  Jesus never lost Sarah, and Jesus will never lose you.  And Jesus will raise all of us up on the last day.  Sarah believed that with all her heart.  May God give us the grace to believe it just as much as Sarah Douglas believed it.

Amen.

YEAR B 2024 pentecpst 4

Pentecost 4, 2024
Ezekiel 17:22-24
Psalm 92:1-4,11-14
2 Corinthians 5:6-17
Mark 4:26-34

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

These are some of my favorite parables in the whole New Testament.  My musical partner and I have written several songs about them, and I’ve preached on them many times.  So I might have said everything I have to say about this reading.  Which means, some parts of this sermon will sound familiar to long-time listeners.  Let’s think of it as a “refresher sermon.”  So let’s start here . . .

It’s no secret that my wife is an avid gardener.  In the darkest of winter, she starts planting seeds in our basement, watering and tending them daily, until by early spring there is a small army of seedlings ready to come out into the world.  I am well aware that this all doesn’t “just happen.”  We have to plan overnight trips around the seedlings’ schedule.  And once they’re in the ground, it all just keeps going and going, with beautiful flowers and tasty vegetables all coming up in their due season.  But it’s a lot of work on her part.  And don’t even get me started on the effort that goes into those dahlias!

But not all the plants work this way.  Some things just grow.  A few years ago, she planted one bronze fennel plant, and the next spring there were about a thousand mini fennels growing all over the bed.  And the other beds.  And in the crack in the driveway.  And every year she actively digs up the dandelions after they’re done blooming, and the next year there are just as many. The daisies cannot be contained, and the sunflowers from the dropped bird seed are going strong.  All these kinds of plants are just out there doing their thing, without any help from the Mother of Seedlings.

As I’ve now learned, there are different levels of involvement when it comes to growing things in one’s garden.  Sometimes raising plants means 24-hour-a-day involvement.  And sometimes raising plants means they’re going to grow whether or not we tend to or even notice them.  So, in today’s gospel lesson, we want to be careful that we don’t mistake the dahlias for the dandelions.

Jesus said, "The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself . . . .”  The kingdom of God is like someone blowing dandelion seeds across your lawn, see?  Scatter these seeds on the ground, go to sleep and get up, and presto!  Harvest time.  But, of course, that goes against our basic principles of how life works—at least to us.

We have convinced ourselves that anything worth having is worth working for, right?  If lawns were truly maintenance free, I don’t know if people would have lawns, to be honest.  All the while, a field of dandelions is actually quite beautiful.  But maybe the reason we hate dandelions is because there’s no pain, and therefore no gain.  We want to work for what we have so we can be proud of the results.  Dandelions don’t need us to raise them, so we don’t want them around.  We want to be able to point to the fruits of our labor, to be the ones responsible for the harvest when the time comes.  

But Jesus says, someone scatters seed on the ground, and sleeps and rises night and day, and the seed sprouts and grows, and they do not know how. The earth produces of itself.  The farmer in the parable, the one sowing the seed, has nothing to do with this process at all.  She throws out the seeds and goes to bed.  Hear it again: The earth produces of itself.  This crop Jesus describes is going to grow, with or without her help.  All she has to do is show up at harvest time and cut it down.  And in our way of thinking, that just ain’t right, because plants are not free.

And then Jesus has the other example, one of my favorite parables: “The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade."

Now here’s one we can get behind, right?  Tiny little mustard seed grows into a big huge tree that brings shade to the whole neighborhood.  We often use this mustard seed analogy.  Fits with our thinking.  The Little Engine that Could kind of thing.  Underdogs, David and Goliath, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, it’s all the same . . . Don’t underestimate something just because it’s smaller than the others.  If you’ve ever seen my wife’s anger at squirrels and groundhogs, you know what I’m talking about.

We resonate with the idea of a tiny little seed growing up into a huge gigantic tree.  It just fits with all our stories of human endurance, and strength of character and stuff.  Incredible things can be done if we just put our minds to it.

However, what Jesus says about the mustard seed is nothing like that.  Jesus says, It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.

A mustard seed does not grow into a towering redwood.  It is a shrub.  Mustard is an aggressive sprawling species that takes root and spreads out in an ugly tangled mess.  A scraggly bunch of mustard shrubs coincidentally gives off the same bright yellow of the dandelion.  And they require just as much work when it comes to raising them.  One tiny seed and before you know it you’re the French’s Mustard Company.  The point is not that the little seed grows into a towering beauty of symmetrical tree-ness.  The point is that this tiny seed grows outward and covers everything.  It’s sprawl cannot be stopped.  The kingdom of God invades every aspect of every thing!

And, once again, there is no “raising” of the mustard shrubs.  Nobody can walk by in a couple months and say, “Look what I raised!”  The seed is planted and the planter no longer matters.  Plus, the seed in the parable is thrown on the ground!  Not even planted in the earth.  In neither of these cases is there any room for pride of accomplishment.  And that’s really the underlying point.  The kingdom of God is like this: YOU do not raise it.  YOU do not control it.  You do not do anything.  It happens in spite of you, when it comes right down to it.  The kingdom of God happens for your benefit, but is out of your control.  The kingdom of God is like a field full of dandelions.  The kingdom of God is like weeds, and fennel, and chipmunks.

And so what does that make us?  What is our part to play in this kingdom?  You know, what about us growing the kingdom of God here in Massillon?  Jesus said of the mustard seed, “when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade."  You and I are making our nests in the shade; that’s what we’re doing.  We don’t plant it; we live in it.

The kingdom of God is all around us.  Growing while we sleep, invading every inch of creation.  And you and I are like little birds that build our nests in the shade God provides.  We don’t need to be out there planting mustard seeds.  We need to be inviting the other birds to come and rest in the shade.  Come into the kingdom of God and you will find rest for your souls.  The kingdom of God is beyond our power, totally out of control, and invading every inch of creation, just as God intended.  It cannot be stopped, no matter what we do.  Thanks be to God!

Amen.