YEAR C 2025 lent 5

Lent 5, 2025
Isaiah 43:16-21
Psalm 126
Phil 3:4b-14
John 12:1-8

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

So the first thing you’re probably wondering is, “what on earth is nard?”  And the second thing you’re wondering is, “how much is 300 denarii?”  And you’re probably also wondering, “what does Jesus have against feeding poor people?”

Let’s go through these, one at a time.  Nard is an oil that comes from the plant called “spikenard,” which grows in India.  You can take the root of this plant and mash it up and get oil from it.  It’s expensive stuff, and always has been, partly because it is difficult to make, and partly because it has such a wonderful smell.  (But you’d think the name “nard” would make it just a little less valuable.)

I’ve talked about denarii before, but let’s review.  In the Roman Empire, there was a coin called an “as.”  One denarius was worth ten asses.  (Hey, I’m just reporting the facts here.)  And one denarius would be equal to one day’s wages for a farm laborer.  So, 300 denarii would be about 10 months' salary.  That means, if the jar of nard could be sold for 300 denarii, it would be worth about, $50,000 in Ohio today.  You could buy a lot of meals for people with $50,000, rather than pouring it over someone’s feet and wiping it with your hair, right?  So that covers nard and denarii.

Now, before we get to the poor, I want to mention a few things about this story.  There are not many times when something appears in all four gospels.  For example, the birth story of Jesus only shows up in two of the four gospel books, and it is radically different in those two cases.  Very few stories make it into all four gospels.  And this one, with the nard, and the denarii, and the woman, and the poor, this story is in all four gospels.

So, why does that matter?  Why is it so important that this story gets recorded each time?  Well, I guess it’s obvious:  all four gospel writers thought this was an important thing to tell us.  But it’s worth noting that the story is different in the different gospels.  In Matthew and Mark, the scene is set in Simon’s house, and an unknown woman pours the nard onto Jesus' head.  In Luke, they are gathered in the home of a Pharisee, and a woman (who is a “known sinner”) pours the oil on his feet while crying, and uses her hair to wipe off the oil.  In today’s version from John, the event takes place in the home of Lazarus—who has just been raised from the dead—and Mary, his sister, pours the oil on Jesus’ feet, wiping the oil with her hair.  (Incidentally, mixing these four stories together is what led Pope Gregory in 591 to bizarrely declare that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute—a mistake from which she has never fully recovered.)

So, given that there are differences in the four versions of what happened, it is useful to look at the differences, to help us see what John wants us to see.  

First off, the setting.  In the previous chapter, Lazarus has just been raised from the dead, by Jesus.  And now, six days before Passover, Jesus is back at the home of Lazarus and his sisters, Mary and Martha.  It is clear that John wants us to connect this scene to the raising of Lazarus.  Plus, by having Mary pour the oil on his feet, and dry them with her hair, John is also connecting us to the Passover meal that’s about to happen, when Jesus will wash the feet of his disciples at the last supper.  For John, this scene acts as a hinge, or a pivot point, moving us from the raising of Lazarus to the Last Supper and the death and resurrection of Jesus.  And so why does that matter?

Well, John tells us that Jesus loved Lazarus.  Do you remember what Jesus does before he raises Lazarus from the tomb?  It’s the shortest verse in the bible: John 11:35 “Jesus wept.”  Jesus loved Lazarus . . . and so he raised him from the dead.  Today’s story connects the raising of the beloved Lazarus with the resurrection of Jesus.  Can you see what that means for you?  I’ll give you a hint:    Jesus loves you too, and will bring you to new life.

Okay, so what about the poor?  “You will always have the poor with you.”  Some version of that line is in all four gospels here.  And it is often misused to get out of helping the poor.  Politicians do it all the time.  “No point in trying to help everyone, since Jesus himself says, ‘you will always have the poor with you’.”  And the response to that is to go look at Deuteronomy 15:11, where God says, “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land’.”  So God is saying, you will always have the poor, and there will always be people in need.  So feed them!

Now, in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, it is “the disciples” who suggest the money could’ve been given to the poor.  Only in John do we get this specific mention of Judas.  And, John adds this bit about Judas’ being a thief who would have stolen the money anyway.  So John makes the scene into something where it’s actually better that the money never went to the poor, since Judas would have just taken it.  But something gets lost in Judas’ being portrayed as a thief here.  And that something is:  us.

What I mean is this:  you and I probably don't think of ourselves as the kind of people who would steal from the collection plate.  We’re not like this Judas, who would use his pretend concern for the poor as a way to pocket money from the offering.  And for that reason, we just might miss an important thing that’s going on in this story.  

Because Judas raises a legitimate concern for the poor, which I know you share.  $50,000 could buy a lot of blankets and food for people living in our community.  Mary’s crazy oil pouring is a huge waste!  It’s enough to make you run out onstage in a black hat carrying a chainsaw.  This is just bad stewardship!  Times are tough; we need to watch every penny.  And $50,000 is a LOT of pennies!  What could possibly be helped by pouring all that liquid gold on Jesus’ feet?

I’ll give you the answer from John’s words:
“The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”
The house was filled.

Jesus is worth everything to Mary.  Jesus is the one who has brought her brother back to life.  Jesus is the one who loves her, who will bring her back to life.  A jar of expensive perfume, poured over the feet of Jesus, that is a mere token of what she owes to him, what we each owe him.  She does this as an expression of love, and from that love, the house is filled with the fragrance.  These feet—which will soon feel the nails of crucifixion—these same feet fill the house with the fragrance of perfume.

So, two questions . . . Why did Judas object to Mary’s extravagance?  Maybe his concern for the poor, or maybe because he was a thief.  But why did Mary anoint the feet of Jesus?  Because the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.

We can think of Judas as business as usual, the tired, old penny-pinching, selfishness masquerading as concern for the poor.  Maybe he just wanted to root out waste, fraud, and abuse!  Appealing to common sense, and good stewardship, but based in self-preservation and greed.  Turning inward.

We can think of Mary as a new way of being.  A way that throws everything at the feet of Jesus, knowing that he will turn it into a fragrance that will fill the world.  Pouring out our most treasured possessions for the one who redeems them—and us—and brings all things to fullness.

Those soon-to-be nail-scared feet give off the sweetest scent imaginable.  The overflowing abundance of God fills the room.  And we can sense it when we come forward this morning.  When you hear the words, “The gifts of God for the people of God,” then you will know.  The fragrance of Jesus has filled the room; the extravagant abundance of God overwhelms us.  The bread of heaven and the cup of salvation are here to offer us life and forgiveness.  As we heard from the prophet Isaiah, God is doing a new thing, and the fragrance fills the room.  Come and see.  Taste and see.

Amen

Frederick Denison Maurice, Priest, 1872

Frederick Denison Maurice, Priest, 1872

Socialism is a term not very much in favor at the present moment.  This is partly due to people’s misunderstanding what socialism is, and partly due to those with the loudest voices telling us that it will bring ruin upon our country and our world.  To be called a socialist these days is to be an enemy of the people.  Whoever “the people” might be, exactly.

Frederick Maurice is credited with being one of the founders of Christian Socialism.  As he wrote, “Christian Socialism will commit us into being in conflict with un-socialist Christians, and unchristian socialists.”  The idea of bringing socialism and Christianity into union seems absurd to us today.  And it was indeed absurd in Maurice’s day.  But if you look at how early Christianity is portrayed in the Bible, especially in the first chapters of the book of Acts, you can see that Christianity was a socialist movement from the very start.  It is the distortion of Christianity and—in more recent times—of Socialism that brought the two into conflict.  To our modern ears, Christian Socialism sounds like an oxymoron.  Not unlike “government progress,” or “Congressional ethics.”

And so Maurice was onto something when he said that Christianity and Socialism would be in conflict when they don’t embrace the tenets of one another.  Christianity without sharing with those in need is empty chatter; and Socialism without a foundation of Jesus’ teachings turns into stealing from our neighbors.  It is only in melding the two, by creating this obscure movement called Christian Socialism, that we can see either concept blossom into its full flower.

We can see where this leads in looking at the passion and work of Frederick Maurice.  While a professor at King’s College, he led the movement that eventually led to Queen’s College, which was founded to educate women.  When he lost his post at King’s College, he joined with others to found the Working Men’s College, specifically aimed at educating working men.  (As you can tell by the name.)  Providing pathways to education is foundational to making things better for those around us.

As does feeding the hungry.  Clothing the naked.  Giving water to the thirsty.  Freeing the captives.  Socialism—in its purest form—is about making sure everyone has what they need.  And Christianity—in its purest form—has the same goal at heart.  How often did Jesus say to do all those things?  The answer is, over and over.  In their best forms, Christianity and socialism want the same things.  And in joining them together, Maurice felt he was doing what was obvious.

But, of course, that’s not how life works.  The people of his day, on the whole, could not see what Frederick Maurice could see.  And yet, it was said of him that he was “a man to whom other men, no matter how much they might differ from him, would listen.”  Maurice did not point fingers and yell insults.  He reasoned.  And he persuaded.  He worked.  And he worked for those who worked.  And he worked for those who for whatever reason could not work.

As Frederick Maurice himself wrote, “Christianity is the foundation for Socialism, and Socialism is the necessary result of a sound Christianity.”  These are hard words to grapple with in 2025, but they are as true now as they were in 1870.  Christianity is the foundation for Socialism, and Socialism is the necessary result of a sound Christianity.

May we all learn to set aside our talking points and take this truth to heart.

YEAR C 2025 lent 4

Lent 4, 2025
Joshua 5:9-12
2 Corinthians 5:16-21
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
Psalm 32

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

So, I made a living for 30 years playing in a band called Lost And Found.  And—because of the band name—we often referenced the Gospel reading we just heard from Luke.  It’s part of a series of parables about things and people that were lost and found.  A lost sheep, a lost coin, and a lost son.  But you can turn those parables around and consider them as stories about a faithful shepherd, a diligently seeking woman, and a waiting father.  You can do a lot with these parables, and we did exactly that, what with having the band name Lost And Found.  

In fact, we wrote three different songs about this parable we just heard.  The first one was from the perspective of the prodigal son.  And the second was from the perspective of the waiting father.  And then in seminary I wrote a third song we never recorded, which combined both those perspectives along with that of the elder brother.  So much to work with in this story!  But today, I want to focus on the relationship between the two brothers.

We’ve all heard this story many times.  The younger son demands his share of the inheritance and then blows it on loose living.  And then he realizes the error of his ways, he repents, and he returns home offering to serve as a hired hand.  The father says “nonsense," and throws a big party for him.  A beloved child who was lost has been found.  Great.  So what’s the problem?  Well . . .

This unconditional welcome makes his older brother mad.  As we heard, “he became angry and refused to go in.”  Refused to go in?  What the cheese?  There’s a fun party going on, with great food and music, where everybody’s happy because they have been reunited with the loved one who was lost and you refuse to go in?  There could be angels and archangels and the whole company of heaven singing in there, and you refuse to go in.  Why?

Well, because “this son of yours came back.”  This son of yours came back.  Not “this brother of mine,” not “this sibling whose name I’ve known since the day he was born.”  No.  This son of yours.  This son of yours, this sinner who shouldn’t even be allowed entry has been welcomed in and celebrated.  

A friend of mine named Jonathan Rundman has a great song called, “Meeting Nixon,” where he suggests that when we walk through the pearly gates we’ll all be meeting Nixon.  And what I love about that song is that it upsets everybody!  Evangelicals would say Nixon never had a born-again experience.  Catholics would say he wasn’t part of the true Church.  Republicans might say he betrayed the country and gave us the EPA.  People on the left might say he was a crook who bombed innocent civilians.  The idea of Nixon being in heaven is a universal irritant, which is what makes that song so great!  And there are so many other examples of this kind of thing.

Like here’s one.  It puts me in mind of the anger over student loans being forgiven.  I know lots of people whose loans were forgiven, and I rejoiced for them, while hoping that mine might one day also be forgiven.  But I’m sorry to say, mine has not been forgiven.  In fact, right now, I don’t even know who owns my student loans, let alone how much my payments will be once they start again.  Fat chance I’m getting invited to the student-loan-forgiveness party.

But I’ve seen lots of people, both inside and outside of government who are furious that some people’s loans are forgiven.  That these others have been welcomed into the party with the fatted calf.  People who refuse to rejoice that some other people—this son of yours—got a second chance.

My younger brother died of AIDS in 1994.  Since then, science has come up with medications that allow people with AIDS to lead healthy productive lives.  It would be absurd for me to be mad that these people are alive when my brother didn’t have that chance.  Just think of all the people whose lives have been saved through advancements in medicine and technology.  Should we be angry because that son of yours, that daughter of yours got a second chance?

The older brother's real complaint is that the underserving got a chance at life.  He’s been working hard and playing by the rules.  And for what?  A party with his little brother?  “No, father, I will not be joining in this party for the undeserving.  I’d rather sit out here by myself and pout until you give me a party of my own.  The redemption and salvation of the underserving is no reason to celebrate!  The lost being found brings me no joy.”

The older brother is self-selecting out of a good time because someone else got some grace.  But just imagine if he could take a step back a moment and consider what that grace means.  Because if his father can celebrate someone who squandered the life he had been given, if those on the very edges of acceptable behavior can receive a grace-filled welcome, well . . . what does that mean for him?  What does that mean for us?  If no one is outside the reach of God’s redeeming love, what does that mean for you and me?

Well it means we’ll be meeting Nixon, that’s what!  But only if we’re willing to step inside the celebration that’s going on.  You can view this story from a perspective of grace, or a perspective of retribution.  Each one of us can do that when we hear a story like this.  We can say, phew, my little brother was saved!  Or we can say, what is that horrible “son of yours” guy doing here?

Now you know by now that I am not the biggest fan of the writings of the apostle Paul.  But this week’s reading from 2 Corinthians is a banger.  As Paul says, 

All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us.

Given us the ministry of reconciliation, and entrusted the message of reconciliation to us.  You know what our prayer book says is the mission of the Church?  “To restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.”  That’s our mission.  (You’ll find it on page 855.)  To restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ.  All people.  That’s the ministry of reconciliation that Paul is talking about.  

And that’s what’s missing in the story of the prodigal son, a.k.a. the story of the waiting father, a.k.a. the story of the disgruntled brother.  The prodigal son is restored to unity with his father, through his repentance and the father’s forgiveness.  He experiences the ministry of reconciliation, as does his father.  But the older brother?  He will not be reconciled.  No way.  In fact, the reconciliation makes him angry!  So angry that he can’t even bring himself to join in when there’s a free raucous party going on in his own house!

And then his father pleads with him, trying to convince him to celebrate.  Come on in son!  It’s Laetare Sunday.  We dressed the priest up in pink!  Rejoice!

Today, we are all invited to the party because the lost have been found.  We can choose to stay outside and sulk.  We can point our fingers at the undeserving and refuse to admit that they are our brothers and sisters and siblings in Christ.  Or we can decide to take a chance that a celebration is exactly what we need, whether we deserve it or not.  As the father says, “we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”  So come into the party and celebrate; be reconciled, and rejoice.  We’ve got bread and wine and lovely music.  And oh, have you met Mr. Nixon?

Amen

YEAR C 2025 lent 3

Lent 3, 2025
Exodus 3:1-15
1 Corinthians 10:1-13
Luke 13:1-9
Psalm 63:1-8

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

Well, here we are in the third week of Lent.  And Lent is a time when we all ask ourselves, “What the heck kind of readings were those?”  Paul tells us that bad things happen to bad people.  And Jesus tells us that bad things happen to good people.  So, essentially, if you’re a person, bad things will happen to you.  Any questions?

Of course, intuitively we know all this.  Bad things happen to everyone all the time, whether those people are being good or being bad.  What’s weird to us is, we don’t expect the point of the Sunday scripture readings to be:  Bad things are going to happen to everybody.  It feels a little threatening, to be honest.  But as always, there is good news to be had.  We just have to look for it.

Alright.  Let’s start with the first reading, from Exodus.  This is an amazing and powerful story, which you’ve heard many times in your life.  It’s the call of Moses, or sometimes known as the burning bush, or sometimes the naming of God.  It is dramatic, and mysterious, and is a hinge moment in the life of Moses and for the Israelites.  

And we need to ask ourselves, “How did Moses get here?  What brought him to this life-changing encounter with God?”  And here, you’re just asking for the plot of the Dreamworks movie, “The Prince of Egypt.”  So, let’s do a quick review:  Moses’ mother, Miriam, put her baby in a basket in the river to avoid his being killed by Pharaoh along with the other Israelite children.  Pharaoh’s wife found the baby and raised him as her own son.  Moses grew to hold a prominent place in Egypt until he killed an Egyptian guard and then fled into the wilderness.  While he’s out there on the run, he defends three girls from ruffians, and then falls in love with Tzipporah, whose father is a hight priest of Midian.  He marries her and falls into a regular life as a shepherd of her father’s flocks.

So why is all that important?  Because for Moses, his overall life has been a spectacular fall from grace.  He went from being a prince of Egypt to being rejected by the Egyptians.  And having broken one of the commandments by killing a man, he is also rejected by his own people, the Israelites, plus he is married to the daughter of a pagan priest!  To all his own people—of both cultures—he is a nobody, an outcast, and a sinner to boot.  

He is living in the desert, figuratively and literally.  He is not looking for God.  He is not trying to get right with God.  Moses doesn’t even try to come to God.  But God comes to Moses.  Turns out, after a long fall from grace, Moses falls into grace.  Nothing to deserve it, nothing to warrant it.  All God, no Moses, no matter whether he was good or bad.

And then we move to that second reading, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.  There are all sorts of problems about this reading, and we don’t have time to go into them all here.  Or any of them here.  My advice is, don’t necessarily take everything Paul says as gospel . . . because it’s not the gospel.  So then, let’s move on to the gospel.

You notice, this reading starts with the phrase, “At that very time.”  At what very time?  Well, if you back up to Luke chapter 12, you’ll see that Jesus is in the middle of a big long string of teachings and parables here.  There’s a large crowd, and he is switching back and forth between talking to the crowds and talking to the disciples.  And then, apropos of nothing, there were some present who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.  A very strange segue, I think you’ll agree. 

But Jesus uses this jarring interruption to talk about repentance and—perhaps more importantly—to remind everyone that suffering is not a consequence of bad character or bad behavior.  But we think that way, because our entire justice system is built on that idea.  Do bad things, suffer bad consequences.  But Jesus is flipping this around.  He is saying something more like this:  The fact that you are suffering does not mean that God is displeased with you.  And that is important for us to remember, because I think that’s sort of our go-to approach to things.  “If I am in pain, that means God must be mad at me.”  And then we ask, “Why are you mad at me God?”  But that’s not how God works.  That’s not how grace works.  Just as God came to Moses in his fall from grace, God comes to us in our suffering.

And then, Jesus gets to the parable of the fig tree.  As we heard, “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard.”  Stop right there.  What kind of person plants a fig tree in a vineyard?  Is this man just eccentric?  Does this man not know how grapes and figs work?  We don’t know.  But we also don’t know that Jesus means for us to view this man as representing God, so let’s not jump to conclusions.

Anyway, as we heard, the vineyard owner finds the gardener and tells him to cut down the tree because it has not borne fruit for three years and is wasting the soil.  (Side note: it takes fig trees up to five years to produce edible fruit.)  And the gardener begs him to leave it be for a fourth year, that he will put manure around, and then if there’s still no fruit, “YOU can cut it down.”  Notice that subtle little twist there?  He is told to cut it down, and rather than do as he is told, he makes the case that there is still hope, but he STILL doesn’t agree to cut it down.  He throws it back on the vineyard owner who wants early figs to cut it down himself.

Now, many preachers will use this story as a scare tactic.  I’ve heard them do it.  If God sees that you are not bearing any good fruit, Jesus might step in for a season and try to help you, but after that if you fail to produce, you will be cut down.  If you don’t produce things, you will die.  But that’s not the gospel, that’s capitalism.  Capitalism turns people into producers and consumers, and capitalism isn’t the Gospel.

This is not a story about how you need to be better, or how you need to be good, or how you need to produce some results for the crazy vineyard owner who stupidly planted a fig tree in his vineyard where the grapes are supposed to grow.

What’s going on here is that Jesus is up to his old tricks again.  Subverting the system in order to save people.  Undermining the authorities in order to rescue those who don’t measure up, because they are planted in the wrong place.  Is it the fig tree’s fault that it is not producing fruit?  Well, look at the solution the gardener offers.  It’s manure; it’s a soil amendment.  The problem isn’t the tree; the problem is the soil.  And the gardener knows that by fixing the soil, by fixing the system, by fixing the location, by fixing the environment, this little fig tree might bear fruit after all!

Aha, you might be thinking.  But the gardener only guarantees one extra year.  And the first answer to that is, it’s not next year yet.  The gardener only has to save the imperiled tree right now.  Who knows what next year will bring?  Instead of wondering what will happen if the manure doesn’t work, let’s think about what will happen if the manure does work.  What then?  What then indeed.

It’s interesting to me to consider St. Timothy’s Church as the fig tree in this parable, after all we’ve all been through since 2020.  Like, some high-priced church consultant might come in and try to evaluate how much fruit we have produced lately.  How many new members?  How many people attend on Sunday mornings?  How many concerts have we hosted, or how many meals have we shared together?  And then imagine that consultant saying, 'See here! For the three years after COVID I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’

And now we should ask, who produces the fruit at St. Timothy’s?  At first glance, it seems to be us, the people, right?  People’s elbow grease in the kitchen, people offering to read or pass plates, people caring for our altars and sacred vessels, people poring over spreadsheets and making budgets.  But you find the real answer when you ask why those people do those things.  People volunteer to do all that because they love God and they love their neighbors.  Love is from God.  All love is from God.  The fruit that St. Timothy’s produces is the fruit of God.  Love.  It’s not us; it’s God.

And if we need manure poured around us, and to be given another year, then that is what Jesus is going to do for us.  We can’t control whether or not people come to church.  We can’t control people who decide they’d rather sleep in on Sundays, or people who are mad at the priest for preaching an “offensive” sermon four years ago, or last month, or two months from now.  Because that’s definitely gonna happen again.

But we also can’t control how much fruit we produce; we can only rely on God, and trust that Jesus will always opt for mercy, always give us another year, and another year after that, and another year after that.  One year of mercy after another.

God came to Moses when Moses wasn’t even looking for God.  And God comes to us, whether or not we are looking.  That is the message of grace in these readings today.  God is always coming to meet us, wherever we may wander, and Jesus is always looking to amend our soil, wherever we may be planted.  May God continue to bring forth fruit from this parish, as God has always done, one year at a time.  One year at a time.  One year at a time.

Amen.

The Burial of Bobbie Muhlbach

Bobbie Muhlbach
March 22, 2025
Isaiah 25:6-9
Revelation 21:2-7
John 6:37-40

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

Perhaps you’ve heard saying, “If you haven’t got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.”  Please don’t worry.  This isn’t going where you think it is going.

When I first came to St. Timothy’s 8 and a half years ago, John and Bobbie Muhlbach were super active members of the church.  A couple years in, Bobbie got a scary diagnosis and was not able to be as active.  But she did eventually give in to our nonstop requests to join the choir.

And it wasn’t long before we appointed her the Choir Social Event Director.  Because no one could throw together a social event like Bobbie could.  When our then-organist Levi Muriuki got his green card, Bobbie gave him a hat and sunglasses with American flags on them, and a cutting board shaped like the United States, and we sang “God Bless America” while drinking wine after rehearsal.  Anyone who was there that night saw Bobbie doing what only Bobbie could do.

In the depths of COVID, our choir used to meet on zoom just to check in and support one another.  Sometime around Easter, Bobbie turned her camera off for a bit.  And when she turned it back on, she was dancing in her kitchen wearing a full-body Easter bunny costume!  No one could top Bobbie for bringing joy into the depths of seeming despair.

But here’s the thing about Bobbie being part of our choir.  I’m not gonna name names, but some of our singers can’t actually read music.  But they are still able to sing in our choir.  Still able to add their voice to the beautiful music during worship.  And that’s because they sat next to Bobbie.  Her voice helped others sing.  She helped others find their own voice.  We could update that quote I started with by saying, “If you haven’t got any notes to sing, come sit next to me.”  Just by being herself—by sharing who she was—Bobbie brought others into their own.

We miss having Bobbie in our lives.  And we miss hearing her voice in our choir.  But there are people who can literally sing because they sat next to Bobbie.  And that’s not nothing.  And it’s not just in our choir.  There are people who can read and speak in public and even just laugh because they sat next to Bobbie.  Her voice goes on in the people who sat next to her.  Bobbie is still singing and speaking and laughing because they are singing and speaking and laughing.

In the gospel reading we heard a few minutes ago, Jesus says, “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 promises that he will lose nothing.  Barbara “Bobbie” Lee Immel Muhlbach has not gone anywhere she has not always been.  Which is safely in the arms of Jesus.  Because Jesus does not lose what is his own.  No one and no thing is beyond the loving embrace of Jesus.

Bobbie’s voice goes on because others are still singing.  And that means we can still hear her singing, and one day we will see her again, face to face.  And I have a hunch that Bobbie is planning one heck of a celebration for each and every one of us when we join her where she is waiting.  

May God bless Bobbie Muhlbach, and may God bless you.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 lent 2

Lent 2, 2025
Genesis 15:1-12,17-18
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Luke 13:31-35
Psalm 27

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

I want to begin by drawing your attention to the opening phrase in today’s Collect:  “O God, whose glory it is always to have mercy.”  In that prayer, we are reminded not only of God’s mercy, but that mercy is God’s glory.  Think about that.  When you imagine glory, you probably picture some victorious overwhelming vision of power and might.  When you think of mercy, you probably think of something very different.  But the message in that little phrase is this: in mercy, God’s glory is displayed.  It really is quite amazing to me.  And it ties in quite well with today’s lessons.

So, let's start that reading from Genesis.  A couple chapters before this, God tells Abram that his descendants will be as numerous as the dust of the earth.  Skip ahead to today’s readings and Abram is like, “Well, I guess I’m not going to have any children.”  God says, “I am the Lord who brought you from Ur of the Chaldeans, to give you this land to possess.”  But Abram asks, “how am I to know that I shall possess it?”  Like, you know, how can I be sure, God?  And God could say, “Because I said so, you idiot!”  Or, God could say, “How dare you doubt me?”  But instead, God chooses to give Abram something he can understand.  Something that will make sense to him . . . if not to us.  And so God is going to make a covenant with Abram.

At which point, we must stop and talk about covenants in the culture of that time.  The verb used when making a covenant there is “cut.”  You would “cut a covenant” with someone.  And the reason for that is because a covenant involved cutting an animal in half.  And the point of cutting an animal in half was this:  the two people making the covenant would  walk between the two halves of the severed animal, and pledge that if they break the covenant, then may the fate of the animal be theirs as well.  Serious stuff!

Usually, both parties would walk through and make the scary pledge, but the weaker one always would.  So, you offer to lend me $100; we cut a three year old heifer in half, I walk through the middle and say, “If I don’t pay you back, may my fate be like that of this animal.”  Though that’s a bad example, since a heifer is surely worth more than $100.  But you get the point.

And so, on that day the Lord cut a covenant with Abram.  While Abram—the weaker party— is asleep!  And in the making of that covenant, God passes through the severed animal, rather than Abram doing so.  We don’t know specifically what is up with the smoking fire pot and flaming torch, but we can tell in the context that they are representative of God passing through when the covenant is made.  And this subversion of covenants is absolutely ridiculous, because we would expect for Abram to pass through, or at least for Abram and God together.  But here we have only God making the pledge.  Only God being vulnerable and willing to take a chance.  Only God’s life being put on the line, with Abram asleep at the time!  He doesn’t even know it’s happening.  God is doing for Abram what he cannot do for himself.  Stepping in for the weaker party in the covenant.  And there it is: God, whose glory is to have mercy.

And then let’s look at today’s gospel reading, from Luke.  Some Pharisees come to Jesus and tell him to flee because Herod is looking to have him killed.  Jesus calls Herod a fox, which is perfect, because just a little later he imagines himself as a hen protecting her baby chicks, the very ones that a fox would be looking to snatch away.  

I love that we get this feminine imagery for Jesus just a week after International Women’s Day.  And, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always imagined this as a cozy little scene, with a hen nestling up against the baby chicks, all comfortable and smiling with their little baby chick beaks.

Turns out—as I learned 3 years ago when this text came up—when a mother hen gathers her chicks to protect them, it’s actually super aggressive.  Like the bird version of grabbing them by the collar.  She’s protecting them from imminent danger, not snuggling up with them in the hen house.  And if you picture what that looks like, you’ll also see that when the mother hen is protecting her babies—with her wings wrapped around them—she is leaving herself completely vulnerable.  She cannot use her wings to protect herself when she’s holding onto her chicks for dear life.  The hen lays down her life for the chicks that she gathers under her wings.  And there it is again: God, whose glory is to have mercy.

So, the Pharisees come to Jesus and tell him to run away because Herod is planning to kill him.  But Jesus will not die in Herod’s Galilee; he must die in Jerusalem, the holy city.  We don’t know what to make of the statement that a prophet cannot die outside Jerusalem, since Moses and Jeremiah—two chief prophets—did not die there.  Some say Jesus is talking about himself in the third person, or there’s an issue with the indefinite article.  But no matter.  The important thing to know about this is that Jesus is not stating some incorrect historical “fact” about other prophets; he is referring to his own death, not someone else’s.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!  Jesus knows what will happen to him if he continues on toward Jerusalem.  He’s known it since chapter 9, back when he set his face toward Jerusalem.  The Pharisees come to him and tell him to run, to save his own life.  And knowing he will die, he refuses to run away, refuses to rally his followers to rise up and fight.  What do we even call this?  Suicide?  Fatalism?

No, we call this courage.  This is the courage of vulnerability.  The courage of sacrifice.  The courage of laying down one’s life for others.  Or passing through the split heifer.  Or gathering the chicks under his wings.  Not striking back, but surrendering.  And there it is again: God, whose glory it is always to have mercy.

God passes through the split heifer.  For us.  Jesus goes to Jerusalem.  For us.  We get a very different message from today’s scripture readings than we get from the world around us.  That story of Abram and God, the gospel reading we heard from Luke, they both show us a different way.  And it is certainly not the way that we see in our world.  Because God’s ways are not our ways.  The courage of vulnerability we see in these readings makes us uncomfortable, because we don’t want to be that way ourselves.  What would people think?  How would people treat us?  Could we even survive?

It’s hard to think about, isn’t it?  But that’s because we’re trying to put ourselves in God’s place—rather than in Abram’s place—imagining ourselves walking through the split heifer when it should be Abram doing that.  We’re trying to put ourselves in Jesus’ place, imagining walking on toward Jerusalem, knowing that he will be killed by the religious leaders of his time.

But you and I are not the God.  You and I are not Jesus.  You and I are Abram, sound asleep while God does what needs to be done.  You and I are the tiny chickens that Jesus gathers under his wings.  And that’s probably even harder to think about, right?  Baby chicks definitely does not fit with our independent self-made self-confident image of ourselves.

We are not called to be Jesus.  But we are called to follow him.  We are called to trust him.  We are called to be gathered under his wings.  

As we saw in these lessons today, when the stronger party takes the vulnerable role by choice, it makes no sense to us.  And yet God continually sacrifices for our benefit.  This is never more clear than when we consider the Eucharistic Feast of Communion.  Where Jesus offers us his own body and blood, so that we can be strengthened for our journey, forgiven of our sins, and reassured of God’s salvation.  

Though we do not understand God’s ways, may we always be grateful that God’s ways are not our ways, and that Jesus has the courage of vulnerability to lay down his life for the living and the dead.  For sinners who need redemption.  For tiny chickens in need of the shelter of his wings.
As we prayed, “O God, whose glory it is always to have mercy.”  Glory to God forever and ever, that we might find God’s mercy forever and ever.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 lent 1

Lent 1, 2025
Deuteronomy 26:1-11
Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16
Romans 10:8b-13
Luke 4:1-13

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

We usually say that today’s Gospel reading is about temptation, and I suppose it is: The Temptation of Jesus.  But, in the end, it is really more about the identity of Jesus. Jesus has been out in the desert for forty days and forty nights.  And then the tempter comes and offers Jesus some relief if he will just go against . . . well, go against what it means to be the Son of God.  Just go along with this one little betrayal of everything you’ve ever stood for.  I’ll make it worth your while.  You’ll be part of the powerful club who rule the world.  Just . . . surrender in advance.  But Jesus refuses at every turn.

So we could say, Jesus is very good at resisting temptation, even when he’s hungry and exhausted.  Or, we could say, Jesus is like us: tempted in every way.  We could say a lot of things.  But instead, I want to talk once again about rocks and bread.  Yes.  Rocks and bread.  And now you’re on the edge of your seat, I know.

To set the scene, Jesus is out in the wilderness.  He has been fasting.  He is hungry.  The devil, or satan, or “temptation” comes to him and says, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.”  If you really are, then you will . . .  The oldest trick in the book, right?  If my parents really loved me, they’d have bought me a baby tiger when I was ten.

The implication here today is, if you don’t command this stone to become a loaf of bread, you are not the Son of God.  It is a challenge, sure, but a false challenge with no way out (if you believe the challenger).  Either you do this thing, or you are not who you say you are.  It is not a temptation; it is a trap.  The only way to deal with it is to sidestep it, right?  And that’s what Jesus does.  But he sidesteps it by way of pointing to something much bigger.

In response to the tempter, Jesus quotes Moses when he was chastising the people for their lack of trust in God.  To review the quotation, in the 8th chapter of Deuteronomy, Moses reminds the Israelites how God has watched out for them, protected them, instructed them.  He reminds them that when they were hungry in the desert, God gave them manna in order to make them understand that “one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD.”  They want bread, the thing they are familiar with.  Instead, God gives them something they have never seen.  In their smallness, and their focus on mere survival, they crave what is familiar.  Instead, God gives them something that is so out of their mindset that they actually call it, “what is it?” which is what the word manna means.  Manna.  What is it?

God continues to give them this new food, all the way to the Promised Land.  And though Israel’s trust in God during their wandering was shaky at best, Jesus in his complete trust knows that God will provide, and by quoting Moses in the desert, Jesus uses the moment to remind the tempter that God has already provided food in the past—for 40 years . . . in a desert!

But, of course, there is more here.  Much more.  “The people do not live by bread alone.”  Animals live by bread alone; but people don’t.  For animals, life is all about food.  Getting food, storing food, beating up the other animal for food.  And once the food is gone, they start again.  Food food food.  If you’ve ever had a dog, you know what I’m talking about.  

This is the way animals are: constantly in search of their next meal.  But people do not live by bread alone.  Oh sure, we might survive on bread alone.  But surviving is not living.  Merely surviving is not what God created you to do.  Surviving is thinking too small.  God created you to live, to interact with other people, to love and laugh, and weep and mourn.  Bread is something that must be replaced every day.  But living is something entirely different than just surviving.  You do not live by bread alone.  But I said we would talk about bread and stones.

So what about stones?  Luke uses stones 3 times, in interesting and consistent ways.  We have today’s example connected to changing a stone into bread.  And a few verses before today’s gospel, John the Baptist tells those who have come for baptism, “God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham’.”  And a little less than 40 days from today, we will hear the Pharisees tell Jesus to order his disciples to stop praising him.  To which Jesus will answer, "I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out."  

In Luke, we see stones not turning into bread, stones not turning into children of Abraham, stones not praising Jesus.  So what’s the connection?  Well, in all three cases, God could turn these stones into something else, but God does not.  When the people are not living up to their calling, God could simply replace them with stones.  But God does not.  So, why not?  I think it’s because God intentionally does not deal in flashy magic tricks to accomplish things.  God does not reach down and move people and things around by forcing them to be something they are not.  The power of God is shown in drawing things into perfection—what they were meant to be—rather than forcing them to become something they were never meant to be.

Instead of an awesome overwhelming undeniable display of power of shock and awe . . . God sends a baby in a feeding trough.  Rather than some ruler who appears atop the mountain, commanding people to bow down and worship with his  arms raised in victory . . . Jesus appears atop a cross, nailed to the wood, arms open in defeat.  

Sure, God could use rocks to accomplish what needs to be done, but stones have their own part to play.  Stones should not be turned into bread, or into children of Abraham, or into choirs singing praises to Jesus.  The big moment for stones comes much later in the story, when a stone is rolled away to reveal the empty tomb.  Stones have their own place in creation and revelation: to reveal our salvation.  Let stones be stones, and let bread be bread.

And, of course, bread has its place in our ongoing story as well.  Jesus is not going to turn stones into bread.  Jesus is going to turn himself into bread:  the bread of life, the bread that is blessed, broken, and shared.  When the tempter tries to get Jesus to turn a mere stone into mere bread for mere survival, he is showing the smallness of his thinking.  “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.”  Oh please!  There is a much bigger future for a stone; and there is a much bigger future for bread; and we shouldn’t settle for that kind of small thinking.

And because of stones and bread, there is a much bigger future for me and you, together.  You and I do not live by bread alone.  We do not find life alone.  We live in community.  We were built for community.  We find life in the bread shared in community, because Jesus meets us in the breaking of the bread.  A community that gathers to share bread, because the stone has been rolled away.  

The Tempter thinks too small, and assumes we do as well.  But we know from God’s Word the true power of stones and bread:

The stone is rolled away to reveal the glory at the resurrection of Jesus.  It is the curtain that rises to reveal the hope of eternal life for those who mourn.  And the bread, through the power of the Spirit in our community, becomes the body of Christ, the bread of heaven.

And after we gather at this altar, we will go out into the world taking Christ’s victory with us.  Not by some cheap parlor trick of having been turned into loaves of bread.  And not with some awesome conquering power to forcefully rule over the kingdoms of the world.  We go out into the world to share this good news: that a baby has been born into our messy world, that God has submitted to the worst that is in us on the cross, that the stone has been rolled away from the empty tomb, and that Jesus has come to us in the bread of life.  And—because of all of that—that the tempter has no power over us.

Jesus has overcome the power of death and the devil, and you and I together proclaim that good news with the saints who have gone before, and those who are yet to come.  The stone will be rolled away, and the bread of heaven comes to us this day, because we are God's beloved, the beloved children of God, forever being molded into what we were always meant to be.  May we never settle for thinking anything less.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 ash wednesday

Ash Wednesday, 2025
Joel 2:1-2,12-17
Isaiah 58:1-12
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6,16-21
Psalm 103

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

I think we can all agree that it is jarring to have this particular gospel reading on this particular day every year.  On Ash Wednesday, we always hear Jesus tell us not to practice our piety before others.  We hear that we should pray in private.  Going out in public we should wash our faces and not let anyone know that we are fasting.

And then, one by one, we come to God’s altar to have ashes put on our foreheads before going out into the world, which announces to everyone we meet that we have been to church.  We have let our left hand know what our right hand is doing.  There’s a huge disconnect here, and I have to admit that it really bothers me every year.

However, there is some thing else that I want to draw our attention to today.  Because there is something else going on underneath that smudge of ash on your forehead.

When you were baptized, and when you were confirmed, and when you are sick, and—yes—when you are on your deathbed, a bishop or priest uses holy oil to make the sign of the cross on your forehead.  At baptism—the start of our Christian journey—when we make that sign with holy oil, we say the words, “you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.”  Sealed and marked as Christ’s own forever.

This means no matter what else gets put on your forehead, this promise remains underneath it.  The slings and arrows of living in this broken world, the pain and disconnect from our friends and family, the agony of watching those we love die, and the heartache of relationships that fall apart, we wear these scars as testament that we have lived.  You could say that these things disfigure our faces, to use the words of Jesus.

And on top of all that, we then come to church on Ash Wednesday where we are each individually reminded that we are going to die.  Welcome to church.  Glad you’re here.  You’re going to die.  On the surface, it doesn’t seem very reassuring, I have to admit.

But then we need to remember something.  Underneath those ashes, underneath the scars from all the slings and arrows of this world, there’s something else.  Because underneath the cross of ashes lies another cross.  A cross made with holy oil, blessed by a bishop, inscribed on your forehead along with the words:

“You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.”  Sealed and marked forever.

Yes, life can be hard.  And yes, we will all one day die.  But death has no power over us, because Jesus has promised us that where he goes, we too will go.  Because we are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.  Forever.

Amen

YEAR C 2025 last epiphany

Last Epiphany, 2025
Exodus 34:29-35
Psalm 99
2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2
Luke 9:28-36

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

This story we just heard is what we church people call “The Transfiguration of Jesus.”  And, of course, that’s why we sometimes mistakenly call today “Transfiguration Sunday.”  But in the Episcopal Church, Transfiguration Sunday actually happens in August for us.  But today is the last Sunday in the season of Epiphany.  Always the last Sunday before Ash Wednesday.  Our last chance to proclaim Alleluia, before we bury that word for Lent.

The church year started with the Incarnation at Christmas, where we could say the Divine joined with humanity.  And today, with this Transfiguration, we could say that humanity joins the Divine.  At Christmas, the Son of God takes human form to walk among us.  In the Transfiguration, the earthly Jesus talks with two great heavenly figures.  

In today’s reading, then, heaven and earth are joined in the reverse fashion of Christmas.  In a way, it completes the cycle.  But, as it turns out, the real story is only about to begin.  Everything from the shepherds watching their flocks by night right up until today is just prologue for the main event.
In Luke’s Gospel, this mountaintop Transfiguration experience is set up as the beginning . . . of the end.  Jesus is about to “set his face toward Jerusalem.”  And Jerusalem is the focal point of Luke’s Gospel. 

Every important event in Luke happens in Jerusalem, and specifically in the Temple there.  In a sense, this story of the Transfiguration of Jesus is when Luke’s Gospel is about to take off.  The nine chapters that come before today’s reading are like the introduction in Luke, just background: getting us ready for the whole point of the story, where we will walk with Jesus toward Jerusalem, and toward his death at the hands of his enemies . . . which would be . . . us.  But that’s getting ahead of ourselves.  Let’s go back to the mountain . . .

Okay, so Jesus has taken Peter, James, and John, and climbed up the mountain.  It’s hard to miss the connection to our Old Testament reading, with Moses coming down from Mount Sinai with his face glowing from being in the presence of God.  Now, as we heard, the disciples saw Jesus talking to Moses and Elijah, who appeared in glory.  Both Moses and Elijah have been on mountains to receive divine revelations, so there’s an echo there.  Both Moses and Elijah were taken up into heaven at the end of their lives.  So . . . both Moses and Elijah have seen God face to face.  

The connection is profound and mysterious.  Exactly who is revealing what to whom here?  I think our immediate tendency is to view Moses and Elijah as giving Jesus some kind of pep talk before he heads toward Jerusalem.  But it’s just as plausible to view it the other way around—as Jesus giving them an explanation of what he is about to do, reassuring them of the necessary plan.  The way it gets translated in our version is that “they were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem.” 

The chosen word “departure” here is kind of unfortunate, since the Greek word is exodus, and that seems a little more fitting.  “Departure” to our modern ears sounds a bit like Jesus is going on a trip: like Moses and Elijah are taking him to the airport.  On the other hand, because of our experience with the Israelites’ escape from Egypt, the term “exodus” has more of a sense of being called out, of being led out of bondage, of heading for bigger things.  Jesus is going to Jerusalem to accomplish his exodus.  So what is Jesus’ exodus?

Well, just before today’s reading, Jesus tells the disciples he must undergo great suffering and be rejected and killed.  And then, he says, if any want to become his followers, “they must take up their cross daily and follow me.”  That’s the set-up for today’s reading.  The set-up for telling us what Luke means by the exodus of Jesus.  The way of salvation is to Jerusalem, which leads directly to the cross.  The way “out” is through the cross.  Jesus will not bypass the cross, and neither can we.  Even in this moment of shining glory, Jesus is talking about the cross.

Peter wants to build houses for the three of them, most likely because of the Jewish Festival of Booths.  Peter was thinking the story was over.  The Messianic Age had arrived, and so it’s time to build the permanent monuments of rest from which Jesus will rule.  But, as we’ve already said, this is the beginning of the story, not the end.

But, again, the point here is that Peter totally misunderstands.  And, keep in mind, this is just ten verses after Peter has clearly identified Jesus as the Messiah.  Peter is committed, and Peter understands.  But Peter will deny Jesus, and Peter does not understand.  And I think it is safe to say, we are all more like Peter than we care to admit.  We rightly call Jesus Lord, and, yet, we will also deny knowing him.  We fully understand, and yet we are totally clueless.

But I skipped over the voice from heaven.  You’ll recall there was a loud voice from heaven saying, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him.”  That might sound kind of familiar to you from a few weeks ago, when we observed the Baptism of Jesus.  In that case (back in Luke 3:22), there was a voice from heaven saying, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”  But, do you notice the difference between the two?  The first voice, at Jesus’ baptism, was directed to him.  God the Father, speaking to the Son.  (You are my Son.)  And today, here on the mountain, God the Father is speaking to the disciples, about the Son.  (This is my Son.)  So, the question is, what has happened in between these two cases of the Father speaking?

The answer is Epiphany.  And now you’re thinking, was that a trick question?  Well, I guess it was, a little anyway.  In between Jesus’ baptism and Transfiguration, we have been in this season of Epiphany, the time when Jesus goes from simply being here, to being announced to the nations.  At his baptism, the Father speaks to the Son and tells him who He is.  And in today’s reading, the Father speaks to the disciples, and tells us who Jesus is.  If the season of Epiphany is the birth announcement, then the Transfiguration is the Bar Mitzvah, or maybe confirmation.  This Transfiguration is when Jesus’ identity is announced.  We now know who he is: The Son, the Chosen, the one we should listen to.

But before that, when Peter gets the bright idea to build booths for all of them, you can see he regrets saying it, even as the words come out of his mouth.  Let us build booths, one for Moses, one for Elijah, and one for you, “not knowing what he said.”  Not knowing what he said.  In other words, not thinking before he spoke, right?  He just blurts it out, and probably wishes he hadn’t, even as the words are coming out of his mouth.  

After he suggests the building project, a cloud descends on them, the voice from heaven speaks.  And, “when the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.  And they kept silent, and in those days told no one of what they had seen.”  And, I mean, can you blame them?  Remember, this is before the death of Jesus, which means before the resurrection, before the Holy Spirit and Pentecost.  Imagine trying to explain what they had just seen.  Their teacher, Jesus, hanging out with Moses and Elijah, and the voice from heaven . . . sometimes in the midst of mystery, the best thing to do is to keep silent.  When we don’t understand, when we are overwhelmed by what we see, sometimes the best thing to do is to keep silent.

And that’s where all this comes together today.  This is not a story about me or you.  This is a story about Jesus.  But, then, it’s only natural to ask: If it’s not a story about you and me, then what does this rather odd story about Jesus mean to you and me?  
I think the answer is in that silence.  Silence can be golden.  Silence is respectful, comforting, appropriate.

For something to be overwhelming and incomprehensible doesn’t mean that it has to be glorious.  In our daily lives, it’s often quite the opposite, isn’t it?  We get overwhelmed by financial pressures, by unexpected illness, by the death of people we love.  We cannot comprehend the tragedies in our world, or in our neighbors’ lives, let alone in our own lives.  We stand in a place where words make no sense.  Sure some days are glorious: everybody’s got a job and everybody’s healthy.  But, you know, those days can be rare.  And sometimes, the only appropriate response to what we see is one of silence.

And that response of silence is appropriate not just because of what we see and experience.  That silence is also appropriate because you and I are about to witness the exodus of Jesus.  As we stand at the threshold of Lent, we take up our crosses and follow Jesus on this journey to Jerusalem.  We are in a place where words make no sense.   And we gather in this place today to receive food for this Lenten journey.  And when we receive the bread and wine, the body and blood of our Lord, we are in a place where any words in response make no sense, except for one.  And that word is “Amen.”

YEAR C 2025 epiphany 6

Epiphany 6, 2025
Jeremiah 17:5-10
1 Corinthians 15:12-20
Luke 6:17-26
Psalm 1

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

We sometimes call this reading “the beatitudes of Luke.”  They are slightly different from the Beatitudes of Matthew.  Matthew only gives us the blessings.  In Luke’s version, Jesus also adds the “woes.”  In Matthew, it’s the sermon on the mount.  But in Luke—as you might have noticed—it specifically says "Jesus came down . . . and stood on a level place.”  It’s usually called “the sermon on the plain.”  This is one of the themes of Luke’s gospel.  Lifting up the lowly and casting down the proud.  Leveling the playing field, as we might put it.  In Matthew it’s a mountain; in Luke it’s a level place.  In Matthew it’s about blessing the downtrodden; in Luke it’s also about announcing woe to those who are rich and happy and satisfied with things the way they are.  

Go back and look at the song of Mary, the Magnificat, in the very first chapter of Luke’s gospel.  God has filled the hungry with good things, and God has sent the rich away empty . . . which then makes them also among the hungry, meaning that God can fill them with good things too.  That’s Luke, in a nutshell.

But first, let’s look at the other readings we heard this morning.  In Jeremiah, we heard something very similar to those beatitudes from Luke.  The prophet writes, “Blessed are those who trust in the Lord, whose trust is in the Lord.”  But then also, “Cursed are those who trust in mere mortals and make mere flesh their strength, whose hearts turn away from the Lord.”  In less poetic language, we could say trusting in God is a blessing in itself.  Trusting in ourselves is a curse.  And our reaction to that, here in the land of self-made, up-by-the-bootstraps entrepreneurs, is nuh-uh!  From the moment we are born we are told, trust in yourself, believe in yourself, watch out for yourself.  It seems Jeremiah begs to differ: And instead, blessed are those who trust in the Lord.

Then, let’s turn to today’s Psalm.  “Happy are they who have not walked in the counsel of the wicked . . . Their delight is in the law of the Lord.  It is not so with the wicked; they are like chaff which the wind blows away. Therefore the wicked shall not stand upright when judgment comes.”  Again, in less poetic language, the ones who are happy, who are blessed, are the ones who stay connected to God, the creator of all that is.  On the other hand, those who are not connected to God have no foundation.  They are like a beautiful, towering house of cards.  And though we might be tempted to envy them for their self reliance, and success, and confidence, they will not stand upright when judgement comes.  Scary stuff.

But take note:  The wicked do not perish because they are being punished.  They perish because they are not connected to God.  They do not have the one thing that matters in this life.  And here’s the problem:  We think of these ones as happy, or blessed, because we have a fundamental misunderstanding of what truly matters.  According to the Psalmist, the truly happy ones find their delight in the law of the Lord, and they meditate on his law day and night.  The law of the Lord.  The wicked are a law unto themselves.  And not to put too fine a point on it, but the word autonomy literally means “self law.”  Auto-nomy: self law.  Yikes! 

These are harsh things to hear in a nation that so puts self-reliance on a pedestal.  But according to these first two readings, building myself up does not equal happiness; the goal of life is not self-sufficiency; and getting what I want does not equal prosperity.  Even though you have probably heard the opposite from the first day you waddled into your kindergarten class.  Relying on God is wisdom; relying on yourself is foolishness.  And when we doubt that is true, all we have to do is take a walk through any cemetery.  All the earthly success, all the fortunes passed down to their kids, all the streets named after the ones buried in those graves is not going to help them if they are not connected to God.  Mastering the power of positive thinking and reading “Your Best Life Now” will not raise us up from death.  Sorry.

So, that’s the first two readings.  Now let’s look at the words we heard from Jesus a few minutes ago.  Jesus says, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now,  for you will be filled.  Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.”  It’s important for us to notice that Jesus does not say, Blessed are the poor because you are poor!  Being poor is not what makes them blessed.  You know why the poor and hungry and weeping are blessed?  Because Jesus is blessing them.  Jesus sees them with the mercy-filled eyes of God, which is a completely different view from what you and I have.

You and I—living here in the land of self-reliance—would tend to say, “You know who’s really blessed?  Those who are rich; those who are full now; blessed are those who are laughing now.”  You see the problem, right?  We equate blessing and happiness with everything that is the actual opposite of what Jesus is saying.  Every self-help book and better business practices manual tells us that Jesus is wrong.  That Jeremiah is wrong.  That the Psalmist is wrong.  Which is why when this collection of readings comes up every three years, we all lose our footing and start thinking, “Well, that’s not really true Jesus.  You’ve got it all backwards.  Blessed are the rich and woe to the poor, Jesus.”  We don’t want to think about these lessons because these lessons stand opposed to everything we’ve been taught from the moment we could be taught anything at all.

So what are we to make of all this?  How do we reconcile what we see in the world around us with what God is telling us in these three readings?  Well, maybe our main takeaway is just that:  Things are not as they appear. Because God’s perspective is different from ours.  What we call rich and famous, God calls selfish and despised.  What we call poor and downtrodden, God calls blessed and admirable.  And, not in some future pie in the sky kind of way, but right now.  Today.  God does not see the world as we see the world.  God does not judge people the way we judge people.  And that is good news, believe me!

Because this means that when people reject you, God calls you blessed.  When you find that people are leaving you out and putting you down, God is drawing you in and lifting you up.  In those times when everyone you know is turning away from you, God is turning toward you, because God sees what mere mortals cannot:  That you are precious, honored, and loved.  Blessed.

And here is the most interesting thing of all.  If we could see with the mercy-filled eyes of  God, if you and I could see things as God sees them, we might also say, what the world calls powerful, we call weak.  What the world calls successful, we call failure.  What the world calls wasteful, we call valuable.  And, more importantly, what the world rejects, we seek out and embrace.  

Being connected to the Creator of everything that is, seen and unseen, this is what truly matters.  Whether you are rich or poor.  

Trusting in God to do for us what we cannot do for ourselves, that is what truly counts.  Whether you are hungry or full. 

Living our lives in the hope of the resurrection is what makes life worth living . . . Because what the world calls dead, God calls alive.

Listen again to today’s Collect:  O God, the strength of all who put their trust in you: Mercifully accept our prayers; and because in our weakness we can do nothing good without you, give us the help of your grace, that in keeping your commandments we may please you both in will and deed.

May God give us the grace to put our trust in God, who is our only strength and our redeemer.  You are treasured, and honored, and redeemed—no matter what the world around us may say—because you are connected to the one true and living God.  Blessed are you, people of St. Timothy’s.  Blessed are you because Jesus is blessing you.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 the presentation

The Presentation, 2025
Malachi 3:1-4
Psalm 24:7-10
Hebrews 2:14-18
Luke 2:22-40

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

So in this reading we just heard, Mary and Joseph take their little boy, Jesus to the Temple, in order to fulfill the Law of Moses.  And then they offer the appointed sacrifice of two turtledoves or young pigeons as the law requires.  Great.  But, why?  Why do Mary and Joseph have to go and do this thing that is required by the Jewish Law of their day, when Jesus is already the Son of God?  Why does Jesus, who is God, need to be presented to God in this way?  And, for another thing, why are we celebrating the Presentation of Our Lord on February 2nd?

Well, let’s start with the easy one: we’re only noticing The Presentation of Our Lord because it happens to fall on a Sunday this year.  But the Presentation is always 40 days out from Christmas.  It’s always on February 2nd, but we don’t usually hear about it.  Which makes me a little sad inside.  But this day is also called Candlemas, and is traditionally the day that churches bless their candles for the coming season.  And, in some traditions, THIS is the day when you take down your Christmas decorations.  (Which has been my ongoing excuse for why there is a still a giant pine tree standing in the corner of our living room.)

But enough of that.  Let’s go back to the beginning.  Like back to the time of Moses.  As you’ll recall from “The Prince of Egypt” movie, the Israelites—God’s chosen people—are being held in slavery by Pharaoh in Egypt.  God gets Moses to lead them out of bondage and through the Red Sea, and then they wander in the desert for 40 years.  (There’s that number 40 again.)  And while they’re out there, God gives Moses the Ten Commandments.  And then later on, God gives them a whole bunch of other laws they need to follow.  Like a lot of laws!

What is the purpose of those laws?  The things we call the Law of Moses?  You know, all that stuff about shellfish and the Sabbath and pots and pans and sacrifices of turtledoves.  What’s the point of those?  This is a very important question, which I will answer for you.  The Law of Moses was intended to make the chosen people distinct and separate from their pagan neighbors.  To differentiate them.  Everyone around them was doing particular things like eating pork, and mixing fabrics, and working on the Sabbath.  And also doing horrific things like sacrificing their first-born sons to their pagan gods.  God’s wants us to see a different way of living.  And so rather than sacrificing their first-born sons, God’s people sacrifice pigeons on behalf of their first born.

God wants the chosen people to be different from their neighbors, you see?  And that is important for this reason:  Following these laws does not change God.  Following these laws changes God’s people.  In obeying the commandments of God, the Israelites become different from their neighbors.  Not for God’s sake, but for their own sake.  God’s people are to be holy, which literally means to be set apart.  That is the purpose of the Law of Moses.  To set them apart.

But also, the purpose of the laws is not so that God can sort them out from their neighbors. The purpose is so that they can sort themselves out from their neighbors.  So that they will know they are God’s people.  God does not need to recognize who they are, but they need to recognize who they are.  You remember when Moses is up with God on the mountain receiving the Ten Commandments?  And the people come to his brother Aaron with all their jewelry and ask him to make a bull out of it, and they bow down and worship it.  And then God gets angry and sends Moses back down to yell at them.

Why is God angry with them?  Because they broke the rules?  No.  Because they have forgotten who they are.  They have become like their neighbors, worshipping a golden calf.  That’s not what God’s people do.  That’s not how God’s people act.  That’s how their neighbors behave.  But God’s people are different.  God’s people are not like their child-sacrificing pagan neighbors.  And when they act like their neighbors, it means they have forgotten their identity.  They have forgotten who they are, and whose they are.  And Moses smashes the Ten Commandments into pieces, and has to go back up the mountain and start over.

To be clear: God does not need the Law of Moses to recognize the chosen people.  God already knows God’s chosen people. The point is to get them to know themselves as the chosen people.  And clearly, it’s harder than it looks, right?  Moses goes up the mountain, and before he can say “Ten Commandments,” they’re down there worshipping a golden calf they just made up.  As we say in my favorite Eucharistic Prayer, “Again and again you called us into covenant with you.”  God is always calling us back.  Always looking for ways to help us recognize who we really are: God’s holy, chosen people.

So, again, why do Mary and Joseph take Jesus to the Temple forty days after his birth?  To fulfill what is written in the Law.  Not because God needs it.  Not because Jesus needs it.  But because Mary and Joseph need it.  They need to be reminded of who they are.  It doesn’t change God that they sacrifice two turtledoves.  But it changes Mary and Joseph.  Because it reminds them that they are among God’s chosen people.  They are set apart from those who do not bring their first-born sons to the Temple.  They are reminded of who they are, and whose they are.

And then there’s Simeon, whom also heard about.  He is led by the Spirit to come to the Temple.  The same Spirit who told him that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord's Messiah.  This is a man who lives by hope!  With hope.  In hope.  He does not know when he will die, but he knows that the Messiah will come in his lifetime.  And he will see the Messiah.  It’s hard to even imagine the thrill he must feel at seeing Jesus.  People have been waiting for generations to see the Messiah, and Simeon lives his days knowing that the Messiah will come during his lifetime.  And he does!

And what does he do when he meets Jesus?  He steps aside.  It’s like the ultimate mic drop, you know?  Like, my work here is done.  Lord, let your servant depart in peace, according to your word.  For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all people.  A light to the Gentiles (that’s us), and the glory of your people Israel.  The Messiah has come, for everyone, and Simeon can now go in peace.

Simeon was set apart by God to be one who would see Jesus.  That is his identity, his chosen purpose.  And Mary and Joseph are astonished by this.  And then Simeon blesses them, which is just beautiful.  But then there’s also Anna.  She is referred to as a prophet, and is 84 years old.  Which would be ancient in those days.  She also recognizes Jesus as the Messiah, and begins “to praise God and to speak about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.”  Another first-century evangelism chair, heads out to do God’s work in the world.

All these people in today’s Gospel, Mary, Joseph, Simeon, Anna, they all know their identity.  They know who they are, and whose they are.  And when they encounter Jesus, knowing who they are, everything changes.  Just like for you and me.  Knowing who Jesus is tells us who we are, and whose we are, and that changes everything.

You and I go through life with a lot of uncertainty . . . to say the least.  Situations change, we lose those we love, relationships fall apart, disease and illness are never far from us, it seems.  As the Collect says, we are constantly tossed about by the chances and changes of this life.  But when we remember who we are, when we remember whose we are, when we remember our identity as God’s people, then everything is different.  Not easier . . . but different.  Because we have hope.  Because we remember that we are not alone.  Because our eyes have seen God’s salvation.  And we too can go in peace, according to God’s word.

May God give us the grace to remember our identity:  redeemed children of the one God, who makes all things new, who lifts up the lowly, who dismisses the servants in peace, according to God’s word.  The one who sends us out, like Anna, to praise God, and to speak about the child, to all who are looking for redemption . . . which is, quite honestly, everyone we meet.

Amen.

YEAR C 2025 st timothy sunday

St. Timothy Sunday, 2025
Isaiah 42:1-7
Psalm 30:1-5
2 Timothy 1:1–8
John 10:1–10

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

Today we celebrate St. Timothy Sunday.  Our “patronal feast,” as it is called.  And we have good reason to celebrate our 189 years of ministry in Massillon, and beyond.  This parish has done some amazing things, and we have a proud history of helping our neighbors.  From setting up trade schools in the basement, to building a chapel for our black neighbors after the Civil War.  Over the centuries we have fed people, and educated people, and entertained people, and been good neighbors for a long time.  And I know we will continue to do even more in the future.

We also have some dark periods in our parish history.  
In 1851, at a Christmas Eve service, a young girl named Abby was accused of “spirit rapping,” because noises were heard during the priest’s sermon.  She was charged with disturbing a religious service, and an actual trial was held in Cleveland, which was covered by the local media for several days.  The judge dismissed the case for lack of evidence.  And life went on.
 

In 1873, Fr. Wallace Probasco came to St. Timothy’s.  In the earliest versions of our parish history, his red-headed wife is disparagingly described as drawing attraction from the the older men of the parish, and riding her horse around town like a “common hussy.”  But that was probably just the anger talking, since she refused to visit her priest husband as he died of smallpox, for fear it might damage her delicate complexion.  More recent editions of the parish history are a little kinder to her.  And life went on.

In 1877, Fr. Robert Dunbar Brooke took over at St. Timothy’s, and he lasted just 8 years.  As our parish history puts it, “An unsub­stantiated story says that after a secret vestry meeting he was asked to resign. A Southern  Democrat [right after the Civil War] he had alienated some of the congregation by his political views.”  And life went on.

The point of my telling you these stories is, we can celebrate our history, while also acknowledging where we’ve gone off the rails.  And life has gone on.

And this week, as we celebrate our parish history, many people are celebrating the inauguration of our new president.  Nationwide, 49% of the people voted for him.  In Ohio, 55% of the people voted for him.  In Stark County, 61% of the people voted for him.  Which means, 61% of our voting neighbors wanted the things that are starting to happen, and will happen in the years ahead.  On Monday, as fires continued to rage in southern California, we withdrew from the Paris Climate Agreement, joining an elite group of four countries, which now includes Iran, Libya, Yemen and us.  As we have clawed our way back from Covid, and the threat of avian flu and other diseases continues to grow, we have now withdrawn from the World Health Organization, and paused funding for medical conferences and cancer research.

Lots of other things happened this week as well, such as pardoning people who assaulted and killed police officers at the Capitol on January 6th, because we back the blue, and support law and order.  And, closest to me, the Federal Government now says that trans people do not exist.  As the proud parent of trans person I can tell you this one is patently false.  Trans people do exist, and you have met one, and eaten meals with one, and heard one sing in our choir.  But 61% of my neighbors wanted this denial of my child’s existence, and so here we are.  Welcome to Stark County Fr. George.

You might be among the 61% who are celebrating the inauguration of the new president, and I sure hope the price of eggs finally does come down.  But some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  And not just for our own children.  When ICE comes back again to raid the Freshmark plant—which they most certainly will—I worry about what happens to the children who come home from school to find their parents are suddenly gone.  Seriously.  What happens to them?  Those are real kids, who live ten blocks away from us, no matter the price of the eggs they pack into the cartons we buy at Giant Eagle.  So yeah.  Some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  But 61% of the people in Stark County wanted exactly this.

Now I know some of you are thinking, “Hey, Fr. George promised not to preach politics from the pulpit.”  And, yes, I did promise that.  Because you’d hate to follow in the footsteps of the Southern Democrat Fr. Robert Dunbar Brooke and be run out of town on a rail.  But I’m not talking about politics or elections; I’m talking about the results of politics and elections.  I’m not telling you who to vote for, or my opinions on legislation.  I’m just telling you about the real-world consequences in the real world we live in because 61% of the people told us they wanted this world.

And this seems as good a time as any to tell you that on Thursday, someone called the church office and left a l-o-n-g and rambling message about how disgusted he was by what a Bishop in another Diocese said to the president during her sermon, explaining how she could not possibly know that people are frightened right now, and how he would never join our church, and that the Episcopal Church leadership is absent because they have their heads stuck up a “woke hole.”  Left that message.  On our church voicemail.  A faith community 400 miles away from that sermon.  We’re in for quite a ride the next four years, I can tell you that.

But there is nothing political about what I’m saying.  I haven’t mentioned anyone’s name or political party.  I am just reminding you that we are heading into a period of great suffering for the people around us, including people you know and love.  People who are going to need protecting, and support, and allies.  And for the next four years, some of us are going to be sad, and angry, and worried, while knowing that 61% of the people we run into in the grocery store wanted exactly this.

And I’m also telling you where I am, as your priest.  Like it or not, you have a priest who—barring some outside intervention—is going to be sad, and angry, and worried for some time to come.  But I am still your priest, no matter who you voted for, and no matter who you support in the political realm.  So see?  I’m not preaching politics after all!  I’m just asking you to care.  Asking you to care about people who are going to suffer.  A lot.

But at the same time, we are still here celebrating St. Timothy Sunday and preparing for our Annual Meeting.  Our gospel street preacher is probably outside right now with his plastic bullhorn getting ready to terrorize us after the service.  (Which is all the more incentive for you to stick around for the luncheon and Annual Meeting, so you don’t have to hear him call you a sodomite as you walk to your car today.)  But he’s allowed to be out there.  The First Amendment supports his freedom to do that—for those who still believe in the Constitution  And he doesn’t actually disrupt our services, like Abby’s alleged spirit rapping did back in 1851.

We’ve been through a lot these past 189 years.  And God willing, we will be through a lot for many years to come.  But I can’t help but think we are at an inflection point as a parish, while living in a country that is also at an inflection point.  Are we willing to honestly look at who we are and who we want to be?  Are we willing to put aside partisan talking points and things we see online to honestly talk to each other?  Or are we more inclined to take the easy path.  Be reflexively angry at someone who disagrees with us.  To shut out those who get their news from a different source.  To reject those of a different tribe.  And that goes in both directions, believe me.

St. Timothy’s has held together through an actual Civil War.  Through two World Wars.  Through panics and depressions and presidential assassinations and civil unrest, and more than one pandemic.  And yet here we are.  Battered, and damaged, in an aging building that never stops leaking.  But here we are.  We can do this because we have done this.

Some of us are really hopeful right now, but some of us are sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  But we are in this together.  And that’s the most important thing.  Together.  Let’s keep talking.  Let’s keep loving our neighbors as ourselves.  And let’s keep trusting God to guide us into the future.  A future where one day, by the grace of God, not any single one of us will have to wake up feeling sad, and angry, and worried for our children.  As our own state motto says, “with God all things are possible.”  May God make it so.  May God make it so, and may God continue to bless St. Timothy’s Episcopal Church.

Amen