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