My friend Sally tells a story about growing up—growing up in the 1950’s on a farm in the deep south, a farm far outside of town—the sort of place where you only see the folks in your family, and the folks who live on the farm, and the folks who come occasionally to visit. Sally made friends among the folks that were around—and her best friend was another little boy just a couple of years older called Frank who lived on the farm, too. When Sally was about five and Frank was seven, they’d spend hours running through the cotton fields together and pulling one another around in a wooden red wagon along the dusty roads of the farm. They were the best of friends—until Sally started school, and she noticed that Frank didn’t go to the same school as she did. And as she got older she noticed that she never saw Frank at the same places she went in town—the soda fountain, the doctor’s office, even the movie theater. And finally, when she was older, and she invited friends over to the farm for picnics or dinners in the dining room, she learned that her best friend Frank wasn’t welcome to join.
You see, Sally is white, and Frank is black. And somewhere along the way Sally learned that it wasn’t okay for them to be friends. That Frank wasn’t welcome as an equal in her world. And what a perversion of the message of the incarnation that lesson was—a lesson she still grieves today.
I admit it. I was sorely tempted. I am moving this coming week and the lectionary presented me with a real gift. The epistle reading (at least the optional part of it) has the part of St. Paul’s letter to the Galatians where he commands them to “bear one another’s burdens.” What does it mean to bear one another’s burdens? To bear, of course, literally means to carry something. The apostle urges the church to help one another by picking up their oppressive, heavy burdens, like boxes or sofas, and carry them in such a way that relieves them of their trouble. So, … [gesture with hands]. The application would seem pretty clear.
But I would never do that. You all are far too smart. You would have simply responded, “Yes, but Father, three short verses later, St. Paul he says, “Every person must carry their own weights.”
Think about the last job you applied for—or, if you’ve not applied for a job yet, maybe a school application, or any sort of application, really, that you have to wait to hear from. After the application, the screening interviews, maybe a phone call or Skype, additional questions, writing samples, in-person interviews, and follow up conversations, you probably expect at worst a letter saying thanks, but no thanks—or, in the best situation, a phone call saying, Yes, you’re it! We want to hire you!
Now imagine the situation of the great prophet Elijah and his successor, Elisha. Elijah has been told by God to anoint Elisha in his place, but rather than making a phone call, or sending an email, Elijah goes out to look for Elisha—and he finds him tilling the soil, driving a team of twelve yolk of oxen, two dozen oxen—quite a lot of ox power—and to tell him he’s been chosen, Elijah comes alongside the young Elisha and throws his mantle, a big cloak, over him. It might seem strange to our modern ears—imagine if you knew you’d gotten the job when your boss threw his coat over you—but this gesture, the same one from which we get our phrase “assuming the mantle,” means just that—that Elijah is passing his authority, his responsibility, to Elisha—that he has been chosen, he has been named. He is the prophet. He got the job.
Today’s lectionary readings are filled with violence. Violence remembered from the past. Violence threatened in the future. Violence enacted in the present. Violence responding to violence. Social violence. Psychological violence. Violence against humans. Violence against animals. Violence against the environment. Violence fueled by ethnicity. Violence fueled by economics. Violence fueled by religion.
Our newsfeeds this week are also filled with violence. Violence directed specifically against the LGBTQ community. Violence motivated by bigotry. Violence with guns. Violent rhetoric. Threats of violence. Violence promised by politicians. Violence enacted against politicians. Violence ignored by politicians.
Jason Ballard, an emerging leader in the environmental justice movement, once said this about deforestation: “If we could only figure out how to make trees emit WiFi signals, we would solve the problem of deforestation in no time. Too bad all they produce is oxygen.”
Often the tyranny of the urgent blinds us to the importance of taking the long view. What is urgent and what really matters in the end are not synonymous. But time takes a toll. And in the end, the simple onslaught of daily life can prove the hardest challenge.
We come today to the memorable story of the widow of Zarephath from the beginning of Elijah’s ministry. Elijah prophecies a drought will come upon the land of King Ahab. Immediately God sends him into the desert wilderness, by a stream, the Wadi Cherith, to be fed bread and meat morning and night by ravens and to find water in the wadi. His prophecy was fulfilled, the wadi dried up and there was no rain in the land
I wonder if you’ve seen the film Babette’s Feast. Babette comes mysteriously and humbly to live with community in the Jutland in Denmark. She is employed as a servant. She has come from Paris and is a wonderful cook, yet all the people want is coarse bread and fish. The people are gruff and unkind and soon we see that they harbor long held hurts and animosities.
64 plastic water bottles, 214 plastic grocery bags, a barbie, and a Doritos bag-
these were some of the contents of the belly of a beached whale this spring.
The gorgeous, sleek, magnificent creature was stuffed- belly brimming with the tailings of human addiction to comfort, to quick access, to the thousands of little things that take a tremendous amount of earth’s resources to manufacture, only to be used once, maybe twice, then discarded with ease.
On Pentecost Sunday I have often preached of an experience I had at a relatively young age sailing with my family on Long Island Sound. My parents loved to sail. My father, a Quaker, no doubt found the hours he spent in silence at the tiller guiding our boat over the waves a time of peace and refreshment. When I was about 10 I began taking the tiller. Some days the wind would be stiff and we would heel over and cut through the waves. Other days were calm—meaning little or no wind. On those days we were hot and often bored.
There is a Victorian-era church in England, where, in the midst of billowing clouds painted on the flat surface of the ceiling, plaster feet meant to be those of Jesus visibly hang down. Today we smile at the image. The possibility that Jesus moved vertically into the sky, to be seated at the right hand of God, isn’t made more real by our exploration of outer space. The image has moved from belief to metaphor, or, perhaps, was always meant to be metaphor.
If I were to ask all of you gathered here today to raise your hand if you experienced teasing or bullying in your life, I imagine most of us would be raising our hands. For some of us it was a searing experience that has impacted much of our lives since then. For others it may have been a time that brought some reality into our lives without much lasting consequence. Yet, we know that for many being bullied was, and is, an ongoing serious concern.
Throughout history, people have been moved to share the inspiration they find in nature, and their understanding of the experiences in their lives, and ours, that nature can offer. Throughout history people surrounded by nature have been moved to prayer. And we come together today to celebrate a festival of nature whose roots predate Christianity.
My first year in seminary we were all required to meet each week in a small group called Curriculum Conference. I was surprised to learn that one of the members of the class, lived on a farm in a nearby suburb—a sheep farm. All winter long as we talked about our lives and our experiences as new seminary students, we watched Liz knit scarves and sweaters from fine wool of vibrant colors—wool from the sheep she and her husband raised. The last meeting was held at her house because it was lambing time. We marveled at the gentle lambs—they seemed to be all legs, covered with white fluff. We held them and they nestled into our arms.
In the 19th century, a medical doctor named J. C. Stroud explained the odd flow of both blood and water from Jesus’ body as a violent rupture of his heart. “Stroud theorized that a hemorrhage had taken place through the heart wall into the pericardial sac, there was a clotting of blood, separating it from the serum … —a convenient thesis that gives preachers the opportunity to stress that literally died of a broken heart.”[1] Another 19th century doctor theorized that the soldier had actually pierced his bladder as well and that it was urine that flowed out with the blood.[2] Doctors in the 1950’s and 60’s estimated the water probably represented serous pleural and pericardial fluid.[3] “Since the pleural cavity is just inside the rib cage, even a shallow lance thrust could have opened it and the two parts of the blood have come out relatively unmixed.”[4]
For me, preaching at a funeral, much like preaching at a wedding, is an essential part of my call to ministry. When else are there so many people in church for whom Jesus Christ has little impact on their daily lives? There is no more pregnant time for birthing new life in Christ.
I have a pair of earrings that I cherish. Each is a small disc of old dull gold, with decorative engraving around a tiny pearl. Some years ago I dropped one of them and stepped on it, breaking the disc off the ear wire. I was quite sad when I realized what I’d done.
In today’s reading from the Gospel of John we see Jesus struggle with the reality of what is to come. In this Gospel he goes knowingly to his death, yet he has struggled with the truth that approaches and accepted his fate.
“The Bible’s Moses cuts himself shaving. He is afraid, he is a liar. He does many a thing under the table before being Up There with the other Tables.”[1] So says Hélène Cixous, French literary critic and feminist. True, and we could also add murderer, stutterer, unsure of himself, hot headed, unpredictable, and often a big disappointment.
But the Bible’s Moses is also one who sees God face to face and lives, whose face shines with the blinding Shekinah glory, which must be veiled before other mere mortals.
How many times have we seen an adult trying to comfort a screaming baby? Have you ever been mystified and at the same time frustrated when regardless of what you tried, you had no success? For a new parent it is a relief when one can finally begin to understand what a baby needs by the sound of their cry.
Think a minute of the fanciest invitation you ever received. Was it for a wedding, birthday, graduation or engagement party? A Bar or Bat Mitzvah? An Anniversary?
When you received the envelope in the mail, did you know it was something special? Did the envelope have a certain size? A certain weight? An unusual color? Was your name written in careful script? What did you think when you opened it up?
