Sit and Eat

Love the Guest is on the Way

I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on November 28, 2010, the first Sunday of Advent.  The text is Mark 1:1-8; read it here.  

 

 

I think that everyone has a language of welcome: a language of hospitality. 

 

This summer I went to visit my sister in England for a week, and when I arrived I found that the house was warm and clean and full of good food.  I was to sleep upstairs in the converted attic on a futon mattress that was nestled under the exposed wooden beams of the roof, my bed was made with bright red and orange sheets, a towel and a washcloth set out for me.  Next to the bed there was a delicate porcelain teacup filled to the brim with wild roses and queen anne’s lace my sister had cut from the garden. 

 

This gesture, this tiny cup brimming with flowers, made me feel so welcome in my sister’s home.  I felt that I belonged there, because I knew that she had prepared for me.  I knew she had made her house ready, and with her house ready, her heart was ready too. 

 

Everyone has a language of welcome. 

The type of tea you drink stocked in the cabinets when you arrive home, or an extra cup out in the bathroom.  Picking you up at the baggage claim when it’s really a lot faster to make loops outside the airport.  

Everyone has a language of welcome. 

 

 

The hymn we began worship with this evening, “People, Look East,” imagines the coming Christ as as guest. 

Make your house fair as you are able, 

the hymn proclaims. 

Trim the hearth and set the table 

People look East and sing today,

Love the guest is on the way. 

 

 

I like to imagine Christ as a house guest. 

I like to imagine setting up the spare room, 

putting fresh, new sheets on the bed 

and setting an extra place at the table. 

Putting fruit and nuts out in a bowl 

while something that smells good simmers on the stove. 

Filling a teacup with wild roses and setting it carefully on a bedside table. 

I like to imagine Christ as a house guest.

Making a place for love in our lives 

and in our hearts, 

preparing the way for God. 

 

It’s common to think of Christmas as a time when love comes down to us.  But Mark’s gospel implies a mutual sense of preparation.  John the Baptist who proclaims Christ’s coming appears not in the towns or cities of Israel, but in the wilderness, 

the dessert.  Out where no one wanted to go. 

 

And people were going out to him, the writer tells us, flocking to the desert to hear his message that a savior is coming.  Prepare the way, he tells them, make his paths straight. 

 

It seems that yes, love will come down at Christmas, but making a place ready for love is key.  Fresh linens and good food on the stove not only tell our guests that they are welcome, they prepare our hearts to be welcoming.  The work of readying the house,  readying our lives to receive a visitor, prepares a place in us that is receptive and open, ready to welcome the unexpected gifts that guests so often bring. 

 

How might you prepare your homes, however humble they may be, and your hearts, in simple ways this season?

How might you trim the hearth and set the table, readying yourself to receive the love that comes from God?

How might you welcome love into your life?

Welcome Christ into your midst?

 

Some of our preparations are visible and external: 

readying our homes, 

choosing gifts that express our love, 

giving money to build up the church and heal the world, 

preparing food that will nourish others. 

 

Other preparations take place in our hearts:

silent and invisible to many but known to us and to God. 

Spending time in silence, 

spending time in prayer, 

reading a poem or reflecting on a memoir, 

taking moments each day to be attentive to our souls, 

taking time to listen for God’s voice. 

 

If our outward preparations mirror the preparations of our hearts,

love will indeed find a place to be a guest in this season. 

 

Each heart in this room has a language of welcome. 

Learned from family and friends, 

evolving and changing as we continue, each day, 

to make room for the guest that is coming. 

Sweep off the doorsteps of your hearts. 

Light a candle and set it on the windowsill. 

Fill a teacup with wild roses 

and prepare the way of our God, 

made known among us, 

a guest in our midst, 

our homes, our hearts. 

 

Who Was and Is and Is to Come

I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, November 21 as we prepare for the season of Advent.  The texts are Isaiah 42:1-9 and Luke 2:22-32; read them here. 

 

We’re entering a season that is rich with symbol and fraught with difficulty. 

 

“The holidays,” as we call them, this season of big meals and celebrations, of family reunions and traditions, carry so much weight in our lives. 

 

The Christian season of Advent, which begins next Sunday, is a season of hope, expectation, anticipation, preparation.  All these themes are mirrored as we prepare to celebrate in all the ways that we celebrate, and as we prepare for all the emotional weight those celebrations might carry.  Oh yes, there is hope, expectation, anticipation, preparation. 

 

The season carries a promise of fulfillment:

The promise of finding some sense of fullness, of wholeness, of harmony or release found through celebrations with family and friends.  But some among us find that these promises left painfully unfulfilled, the expectation of fulfillment only heightening our disappointment when fulfillment is not found. 

 

Gathering with family can be a celebration for all who are gathered, all who are there.  But  the tables we gather around are crowded, crowded with the memory and presence of all who are not there, all who we carry with us. 

 

Our thanksgiving tables are crowded with unfulfilled hope:

crowded with those who were here last year but not this year,

with those who we hoped might be here but are not. 

Crowded with memories of things we wished we had done or left undone...

 

The tables we gather around are laden, not only with the present, 

but also with the past. 

They’re laden, as well, with the future:

The hopes and expectations of what may come in future years. 

Past, present, and future all meet. 

A season rich with symbol, 

fraught with difficulty. 

 

A friend of mine named Rachel told me a story recently.  To celebrate her third birthday, her parents decided to rent a VCR as a special treat.  VCR’s had just come out, and the novelty of having one at home was a pretty big deal. 

Well, Rachel’s family got the machine all set up, and they all sat down together to watch Dumbo.  Now, if you’ll remember, Dumbo is a story about a baby elephant with very big ears.  And one of the first things that happens in the movie is that Dumbo’s mother, in an effort to protect Dumbo from all the kids who come to the circus and make fun of him, strikes out and protects her child.  Because of this, it’s decided that she’s a “mad elephant” and she’s chained up and put in a separate cage and secluded. 

 

Well, the scene where Dumbo is separated from his mother was so alarming to Rachel at the age of three that that she became a completely hysterical, and couldn’t watch the film at all. 

 

Until someone had the idea to fast forward to the end of the movie and show her that Dumbo and his mom were reunited in the end.  She calmed down, and they started the movie again.  And secure in the knowledge that everything would be okay, she watched the movie. 

 

This experience struck me as incredibly appropriate for Advent.  Rachel’s knowledge of the future changed her experience of the past and changed her experience of the present.   Watching the end of the movie, in effect, fulfilled a promise, a promise that all would be well, and her faith in that promise changed everything.  Past, present, and future met, and she could experience the story through the lens of that promise. 

 

 

Simeon spent his life in the temple, waiting for a promise to be fulfilled:

a promise that had been given to him by God. 

And when that promise was fulfilled, 

it reverberated into the past, 

changing everything. 

 

A light to enlighten the nations.

The promise fulfilled, 

the words of Isaiah take on new resonance.

The past has taken on new meaning, 

the present changed forever, 

and the future filled with light. 

 

 

 

What it is that we’re waiting for, 

preparing for, 

As we play out the drama one more time?

As the word becomes flesh, 

and God dwells among us?

 

 

In Advent, we gather around tables that are heavy laden,

crowded with memory and expectation, 

somehow able to bear the past, the present, the future. 

They are tables of feast and thanksgiving, 

tables of loss and sacrifice, 

tables of love and communion. 

 

In Advent, we see the place where the end meets the beginning. 

The place where the snake bites its tail. 

We wait in hope and expectation 

for the birth of a child who’s presence among us 

will echo backwards and forwards in time. 

In a moment everything changes, 

the past is made new, 

the future recast. 

 

Glory to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, 

I intoned as a child as I crossed myself in church on Sunday, 

Who was and is and is to come. 

 

Christ’s birth recalls for us a promise,

a promise made that a Messiah would come, 

and a promise made that the Messiah would return. 

We wait, we wait, 

for the new things God’s promised to come to pass,

for a just and whole world, 

the fulfillment of all we have hoped for, 

and all that has been foretold. 

 

I have taken you by the hand and kept you, 

God said, once a long long time ago, 

and the words continue to reverberate in every generation. 

 

I have given you as a covenant to the people, 

a light to enlighten the nations. 

to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, 

from the prison those who sit in darkness. 

 

We wait for the promise to be fulfilled, and fulfilled, and fulfilled again. 

For eyes to see the Savior, 

to see and believe.

 

Mmmmm

It's possible that Central Park is responsible for about 80% of my love affair with Manhattan. 

Change is Gonna Come

I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, November 14 as we prepare to celebrate Advent.  The text is Isaiah 40:1-5; read it here. 

 

Last week I was teaching a new song to the kids in my church choir.  These were the littlest guys, the kindergarteners and first graders, and we were learning this song called, “He Came Down,” which we’re going to be singing on Christmas.  The song is from Cameroon and it goes like this:

 

He came down that we might have love,

He came down that we might have peace,

 He came down that we might have joy,

Alleluia, forevermore. 

 

And I said to the kids, "So, who are we singing about?”  And they all said, “JESUS!”  (They've learned that "Jesus" is generally the right answer for most of the questions I ask.)  And I said, “That’s right!  We’re singing about Jesus, and on Christmas we celebrate that Jesus was born, and brought joy and peace and love into the world!”

 

As soon as I said it, I heard the question in my mind, not from one of the kids, though one of them easily could have asked it, but from myself.  So if Jesus brought joy and love and peace to the world, then why is the world still broken and hurting?  And then an even harder question: Did Jesus’ coming change anything?

 

 

 

The Jews living in Judah during the time of the exile when this passage was written had been waiting a long, long time.  They were living under oppressive rule.  Their temple was destroyed, they could not offer sacrifices.  Their people had been torn apart.  They had been waiting, waiting for someone who could come and save them.  And one day, change finally came.  A man named Cyrus defeated the Babylonians, and changed everything for the better.  A rebuilt temple, freedom to worship.  They’d served their term, their penalty was paid, uneven ground was made level, and God’s glory was revealed. 

 

 

We’re all waiting for something, 

all of us waiting for that one thing, 

that one thing that if we can just grasp it 

will change our lives, 

will change everything for the better. 

 

The child we want but can’t seem to have. 

The partner we long for but hasn’t arrived. 

The home we desire but can’t seem to find. 

The career that seemed close but is now far off. 

 

 

The Jews in the exile waited for Cyrus. 

We waited for Obama. 

The people of Myanmar waited, waited, waited 

for Daw Aung San Suu Kyi to be released. 

We’ve waited for Mandela, 

waited for King. 

Waited for that light that shines in the darkness. 

 

We’ve waited for justice, for love, for peace, for redemption. 

Whoever our Messiah is, we’re waiting. 

 

And wait we should, 

wait in hope and in expectation 

that change is coming. 

Because messiahs bring hope, and hope bring change. 

 

 

But the thing about messiahs is they’re never alone. 

Who is Daw Aung San Suu Kyi without all those who throng to her house?

And who is Martin Luther King without all those who marched?

Who is Cyrus without a people behind him,

and who is Mandella without those who refused violence with him? 

 

 

Messiahs are never alone. 

And their great genius seems to lie 

not in their ability to bring change,

but in their ability to stir up hope. 

To stir up hope that fuels the fire of change, transformation, revolution. 

 

 

Jesus is not all that different. 

Because his ministry was not so much about what he can do, 

as about what we might do. 

His ministry was not so much about him being with us, 

as it is about him leaving. 

 

After the resurrection, the disciples look around to find that they are left only with...each other.  Each other, and a story about a great light they’ve seen that shines in the darkness.  They were waiting for a Messiah, a Messiah who’d come and gone.  And they’re left only with a command to “go and do likewise.” 

 

 

Does Jesus coming change anything?

 

 

Christ’s advent in this world 

means that we live in a world of light, 

a world of God among us, 

and no matter how long the exile, 

how long we wait in darkness,

we know that the light is there. 

 

The presence of that light, 

of God made known among us, 

God living and breathing 

and dying among us, 

that changes everything. 

 

It makes us a a people of hope. 

And hope is a powerful thing. 

We are a people of light. 

Light that shines in the darkness. 

 

Change is gonna come.
Not by his hands, but through ours. 

 

Sermon: Knowing the Time

I preached this sermon at St. Lydia's on Sunday, November 7.  The text is Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.  Read it here.  

 

 

There’s something about this time of year...it seems like it’s all about change. 

 

This Sunday, many churches are celebrating All Saints Sunday, remembering the saints of the church who have gone before us.  Remembering those who have died.  So somehow this passage from Ecclesiastes seems just right for this night, this season.  

 

 

Creation has a rhythm.  It often seems to me that creation is like a very complex piece of music.  Within that music are rhythms, and within those rhythms, even more rhythms.  If we were to step back, deep into space, and close our eyes, I imagine that we would hear a slow cacophony of sound, a chaos at first.  But gradually an ebb and flow, the development of melody, a strand of harmony, the swelling and fading of ostinatos. 

 

We are, as God’s creatures,

as members of a church,

a city, 

a society, 

a country, 

a culture,

all in our own way dancing, 

setting down the beat 

of the music of the world. 

 

The biggest part of my job as as a leader of this congregation, and as a preacher is discerning the rhythms of this congregation.  Listening for the subtle shifts and changes in the music that we are making together. 

 

There is a time for every matter under heaven, 

and my job is to help us know what time it is. 

 

St. Lydia’s is like a newly improvised melody.  It started quiet and low, and building slowly as it takes its place among the lines of song the whole church is making.  Our timbre is growing richer, our song bolder, our sense of rhythm more steady as we grow and change. 

 

When I listen to the music we’re making, I can hear that something is changing, shifting, deepening.  There’s a new maturity and stability in our sound.  Our pulse is strong and steady. 

 

There is a time for every matter under heaven. 

I believe that this is a time when our community will begin to really dig in.  To learn, bit by bit, what it means to really be church.  To struggle with the tension of opening our doors to all, and taking good care of all those at the table. It’s a time when we’ll learn our own strength, be surprised by our own tenacity, our heartiness. 

 

For us, it’s a time to build up, 

a time to set boundaries, 

a time to make choices,

a time to gather stones together,

a time to stitch together,

a time to love. 

 

 

I spent Friday and Saturday talking to clergy and lay people in the Diocese of Vermont about St. Lydia’s, and learned a little about what time in is for their churches in that Diocese.  It was wonderful to be with them. 

 

On Saturday evening, we celebrated a sacred meal, in the Hilton Hotel, attended by over 200 people.  20 tables in a ballroom set with bread and wine and juice and a salad, and steak and chicken and pasta primavera in big buffet tables nearby. 

 

We gathered in the hallway of the hotel and lit candles and sang and processed in to the ballroom, blessed our bread, and shared the meal.  We heard the story of Jesus and the Disciples, and I stood up to preach. 

 

As I spoke, I heard a sound to my right. 

I looked and saw nothing, couldn’t tell what it was. 

And then I heard it again. 

There was a commotion. 

One of the priests of the Diocese had fainted. 

He was an older gentleman.  I later learned that he had suffered from cancer. 

 

I wasn’t sure what to do.  Then some folks at the table next to me said, “We need to sing.”  And our music director rose and taught us a song.  A simple, beautiful melody, repeated over and over again.  There was melody, harmony, woven in and out.  We sang as the folks clustered around this man cared for him, we sang as the paramedics arrived and kneeled next to him.  We sang as he gradually regained his strength, and stood, victorious to our applause.  

 

Someone told me later, “We almost lost him.” 

And I wasn’t surprised. 
There was a moment as we sang when our voices seemed to darken,

and I thought, 

“God, please bring us through this.”

 

I thought for a moment that this might be the a time for dying. 

A time for dying in the midst of this assembly, 

as this saint of God went home. 

But we kept singing, 

and our melody seemed to find a new strength, 

a new voice. 

 

We kept singing, 

and something in the room began to rise. 

It was not a time for dying. 

but a time for living. 

 

The melody of one life had grown very faint for a moment, 

so faint that we wondered if it would melt away, 

back into the greater song the world sang as it spun. 

It was not time yet. 

The melody went on.

The world turned and we stood and listened. 

 

For everything there is a season. 

And a time for every matter under heaven. 

 

Sermon: Jesus Would Have Liked Halloween

I preached this sermon on Halloween night at St. Lydia's.  The text is Mark 5:1-20; read it here. 

 

 

This morning on my bike, I saw superman pushing a stroller down Fifth Avenue.  At brunch, the Invisible Man served me a frittata, while Fidel Castro filled the water glasses of the folks at the table next to me.  Biking here I saw a mermaid and a dragon, and a fuzzy, four year old monkey. 

 

I think that Jesus would have liked Halloween. 

 

Halloween is rooted in a ancient Pagan festival called Samhain, which in old Irish means “summer’s end.”  The festival celebrated the end of the “light half of the year” and the beginning of the “dark half” of the year, as they days grew shorter and shorter.  The Celts believed that on this night, the barriers between this world and the other world became so thin, that all sorts of spirits, good and bad could pass through.  So they carved turnips with faces and lit them with candles, and put them the windows to ward off evil spirits,  and lit big bonfires in the center of town, and families took stock of the food needed to get them through that dark half of the year. 

 

 

All Saints and All Souls are November 1 and 2, days when Christians remember those who have died in the last year.  Dia de Los Muertos is a time for those in Mexico to honor the dead, bringing food to the cemeteries for the ancestors to consume. 

 

It seems that there is something about this time of the year, that draws us to reflect on life and death and the dance between the two.  Nature gives up her harvest to us as the leaves fall from the trees, and the ground becomes unyielding.  The grain gives us life, but the scythe is itself a sign of death. 

 

The ancient Celts saw this night as the night where the boundaries blur, where the darkness, kept at bay for most of the year, is let loose for one night and allowed to roam free. 

 

I think Jesus would have liked Halloween. 

 

Our story tonight is set in the most appropriate of places: a graveyard.  And then man who lives there, lives among the tombs, is inhabited by chaos, consumed with everything that is dark and unknown, everything we let loose on Halloween.  In Jesus’ time he was thought to be possessed by unclean spirits, and so he lived in most unclean of places: among the dead. 

 

Jesus is familiar with unclean places:

Places of death and of sickness.

He touches lepers and women, 

Eats with prostitutes, 

Brings a friend back from the grave, still in his grave clothes. 

Jesus is familiar with unclean places 

and as this man bows before him, 

he says to him, 

What is your name?

 

What is your name?

We say it all the time. 

And it changes everything.  

Because when we name something, 

it looses its power.

And our fear is dispelled. 

 

What is your name?

Jesus says. 

My name is Legion, the man answers, for we are many. 

 

 

Have you ever felt it? 

That moment of finally finding a name 

for some secret part of yourself you’ve been hiding away?

Some hidden fear, 

some unsaid worry

that’s been living inside you and eating at your core?

And then someone helps you to name it. 

And it’s dispelled. 

 

I think Jesus would have liked Halloween because it’s a night when we not only name our fears, but act them out.  We put them on and look in the mirror, surprised at our own reflection.  We frighten and disorient, we turn everything on its head.  We enter the places we’ve kept secreted away, reveal the parts of ourselves we might rather hide.  We find our fear and give it a name.  And it’s dispelled. 

 

On Halloween, we let the boundary between this world and the next grow thin, 

And the darker side of things are let loose on the world. 

It’s a night when we open the gates of the graveyards 

and let death roam free. 

But we’re not afraid.  Death has no power over us. 

On Halloween, we play a trick on death. 

 

Jesus knew all about the darker side of things. 

He knew all about the thin places between this world and the next,

all about graveyards. 

In fact, I heard he stayed in one for three whole days. 

But in the end, it had no power over him. 

He played a trick on death.