Author: StAlbansChurch

Bread of Life

by Margaret D.

St Alban’s Episcopal Church

August 15, 2021

John 6: 51-58

“I am the bread that came down from heaven.  Whoever eats of this bread will live forever.”

We’ve heard this phrase a lot in the last few weeks.  And it certainly points to a central element of our liturgy.  But it seems we don’t talk very often about what it means to us.

I didn’t join the church until I was 50.  I attended Sunday School as a child, and I knew some of the stories, but I was never baptized, so I had never participated in communion. I don’t remember anyone talking to me about what it meant. In the 20 years I’ve been at St. Albans, I have read, listened, and discussed.  I’ve heard many people’s stories of their faith histories and talked over many passages from scripture.  But I haven’t heard much about what communion means to individual people.  So, for today, I’ve asked several people to share their thoughts on the subject, and I will share mine.

(Shares)

My thoughts about communion are still evolving.  Early on, I had a very powerful experience.  I had come to church feeling stressed and resentful about something that was happening that week.  I think I must have known, at some level, that it wasn’t really a case of the universe attacking me so much as my inner child having a temper tantrum. So, I prayed, during the service, to let go of these negative feelings.  They were stubborn, but just as I knelt at the communion rail, I felt some inner equivalent of a balloon popping, and the resentment evaporated, replaced by feelings of peace and joy.  I’ve never again had anything quite as dramatic as that happen, but it was enough. On a more intellectual level, I understand communion to be a symbolic expression of our unity as the Body of Christ.  For me, that was never quite enough.  I guess I was still asking, but what does that mean? Then, a year or two ago, I heard Father Richard Rohr, a Franciscan priest, speaking about his book, The Universal Christ, in a podcast.  He was asked if he believed that the bread and wine were the literal body and blood of Christ.  He said (more or less) yes, but in the sense that he believes that Christ is the divine in everything. In us, in trees, flowers, and rocks.  So, of course Christ is in the bread and wine, or the wafers and grape juice.  Communion, then, is a way of acknowledging that. That spoke to me.  And, if I had finished this earlier in the week, as I intended to, I would probably have stopped with that.  But, Thursday evening, in the Ben group, we were discussing this Sunday’s gospel, as we always do, and talking about what communion means.  There were only three of us present this week – me, another Episcopalian who was raised in a more conservative Protestant church, and a lifelong Catholic.  Out of our discussion, we reached a sort of consensus about communion, which I shall attempt to paraphrase: the bread and the wine are parts of Christ’s world.  When the priest consecrates them s/he is singling out this particular bread and wine to represent Christ among us.  Our part is to consent or agree to this.  And then we all come forward, in silence, to partake of it.

St. Alban’s Episcopal Church

August 8, 2021 Reflection

Sandy Burnett

In 1987, Pope John Paul II visited the Bay Area. As usual, my editor at the San Mateo Times was looking for a local angle on the story and he found one. I was sent to the Mercy Center, a convent and meeting center in Burlingame, to interview a nun who had written some new music that would be used during the Pope’s Mass in San Francisco.

That was how I met Sister Suzanne Toolan. When I mentioned that I’d recently returned to the Episcopal Church, she said she had a hymn in our Hymnal, so from then on I started checking the names of hymn composers. Turns out Sister Suzanne wrote “I Am the Bread of Life,” which also appears in Catholic, Lutheran and Methodist hymnals. The song, which Sister Suzanne wrote between classes she was teaching in 1964, has been translated into 20 languages. She’s also written lots of other music, including some Taize chants like “Jesus Christ, Yesterday, Today and Forever” and “Now in Peace, O God.”

Sister Suzanne has said that I Am the Bread of Life shouldn’t really work for congregational singing. “It’s too low. It’s too high,” she says. She believes the big draw is the Scripture from which the lyrics are drawn, some of which were read to us today.

What is it that’s so compelling about Jesus as the bread of life? Over the past few weeks, it seems that bread and feeding have been talked about over and over in the Gospel. Spoiler alert, we’re not done with the topic yet.

For me, I think it comes down to both the simplicity and the complexity of the message. Jesus tells us that belief in God  and the Savior are all that we need. We need faith to survive in a way that transcends our need for physical nourishment. This was a hard message for the people in his hometown congregation to hear. They had been taught that obeying the laws and customs of their people were the only way to a peaceful Paradise. Now one of their own was telling them they had to believe in him and he would raise them up on the last day. In the early Christian church — the people for whom John’s Gospel was written — the sacrament of the bread and wine became a way of being church, after many had been ousted from their synagogues for their beliefs.

This message of God’s continuous care for us sounds too good to be true and so we struggle with it. It’s not as easy as it sounds because believing in Jesus isn’t really the end of it. If you believe in Jesus and his message, then you also believe that doing your best to imitate God, as Paul says in his letter to the Ephesians, follows that belief, Can you really believe in God’s mercy and the sacrifice of Jesus without believing that you are destined for good? As the Psalm says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good; happy are they that trust in him.”

But we are often at a complete loss to discern what is good. Our trust wanes when things happen that don’t seem right and God doesn’t seem to do anything about it. That brings us to the first reading. Absalom has committed two very serious sins. First, this son of David takes it upon himself to murder his half-brother, who raped and abandoned their sister, Tamar. David had refused to avenge his daughter.

Second, Absalom leads a rebellion against David, God’s chosen King of Israel, in which thousands die. Absalom dies grotesquely, but David mourns this rebellious but beloved son. David knows very well that his own sins have had a big role in the sorrow of both his family and his country, and he wishes that he had died instead.  As so often happens, a sin leads to a cascade of unforeseen events. David’s successor, his son Solomon, asked God for the gift of wisdom, of discernment to know the difference between right and wrong. Absalom surely thought he was doing the right thing.

But we don’t have Solomon’s gift. We continue to sin, sometimes unknowingly, doing things we don’t really want to do. Even when we’re really trying to do good, we can sin. Which brings us back to Jesus as the Bread of Life, who is with us every single day and hour to comfort us in our guilt and frustration, and to forgive us. This nourishment, this love, is what keeps us going through our earthbound lives and into the afterlife. As living beings, we need real food and water to live, but as living spirits, we need our faith, and we need it 24/7 and forever, not just at mealtimes. Our Holy Communion is a way of reminding us of this need and of our relationship with both the Trinity and other believers throughout the ages.

Last week, we were fortunate to once again be able to have an in-person Communion which many of us have really missed this past year. Yet this longing, for me, has also made me think more about what I really need from church. From the first Christians, Communion has not only offered us a living reminder of the Bread of Life, but has been part of the identity of Christians and the church. But as always, what Communion stands for is the real Sacrament. And we’ve had to look at new ways of addressing the future, which I find both scary and exhilarating.

Of course, the whole world has gone through this experience. The Mercy Center, where Sister Suzanne, now in her 90s, still lives, hosted a Taize prayer service on the first Friday of the month from 1982 until April, 2020 — 38 years. I used to go occasionally when I lived on the Peninsula and there were many people for whom this was their home congregation. When the sisters realized that Covid wasn’t going to end anytime soon, they began an online Taize service. If you would like to participate, go to the Mercy Center Website for details. I’m not sure if Sister Suzanne is still able to be there, but I know that her music is still part of the service.

And today, we’re going to sing “I am the Bread of Life,” difficult as it is, but knowing that our basic needs can only be met through our faith.

St. Alban’s Church                                                                           II Samuel 11: 26 – 12: 14

Pentecost 10                                                                                      Psalm 51: 1-13

August 1, 2021                                                                                  Ephesians 4: 1 – 16

Pastor Jim Stickney                                                                          John 6: 24 – 35

Christ wants to equip the saints for the work of ministry. [Ephesians 4: 12]]

When I was a young man newly arrived at seminary, I was with a group of novices

who were assigned to be guided by a wise older priest who was our mentor.

Almost every day we gathered in a large room called “the exhortation hall,”

and there this experienced priest would deliver a formal “exhortation.”

Some of you may not be familiar with this word or concept, even though I’m sure

you have both exhorted others and have been exhorted yourselves.

An exhortation is a kind of spiritual pep-talk, an energetic encouragement

for people to excel in the practice of virtues, often Christian virtues.

Many of us are following the amazing athletes taking part in the Olympics in Tokyo.

Each one of these athletes has worked under the guidance of many coaches.

A good coach will challenge you to work harder, to summon forth your best effort.

and in performance or competition your coach will both affirm your success

and call you out with strong criticism when he or she sees that you’re slacking off.

This is the way the prophet Nathan criticizes King David for his abusive behavior.

Nathan calls out and condemns the king’s compounded sins —

the sin of adultery with another man’s wife, and the sin of having that man killed

in an attempt to cover up his transgression. Nathan “catches the conscience

of the king” with the little story of the poor man’s lamb served up to dinner guests.

David needed direct “negative exhortation,” and sometimes we do too.

Contrast that with what St. Paul tries to do when he writes to the Christians

in the early church: it’s positive exhortation, with words of encouragement.

He doesn’t write to make this community feel guilty about being wicked or foolish;

no: he pays them the compliment that they’re mature enough, savvy enough,

and experienced enough, to build upon their solid foundation in Christ Jesus.

See for yourselves if these words don’t give you a spiritual boost:

We must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind

            of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming.

But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into him who is the head,                           into Christ, from whom the whole body, joined and knit together

by every ligament with which it is equipped, as each part is working properly,

            promotes the body’s growth in building itself up in love.

Christ wants to equip the saints for the work of ministry.

In our Gospel for today, Jesus exhorts his followers to a higher form of discipleship.

Just after he feeds 5,000 people, some are tagging along for more free food.

I wonder if Jesus had a smile on his face when he looked them in the eye and said,

Very truly I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs,

but because you ate your fill of the loaves. Do not work for the food that perishes,

            but for the food that endures for eternal life. Jesus wants to equip these people,

and us, to dig deeper and find more substantial motivation for discipleship.

That brings us to ourselves, aspiring to be saints, or at least good Christians,

in the same way that the Christians living in first-century Ephesus were exhorted unto.

How do we equip ourselves to do the various ministries we live out? Paul says: the gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists,                                some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry.

You know that St. Alban’s has a lot of work to do as we emerge from the pandemic.

I’m happy to be a small part of that rebuilding as we gather in public

for common worship after more than a year of Zooming and distant worship.

My last celebration of the Eucharist here was fifteen years ago,

and I’m delighted to be invited for monthly worship with you here for a while.

.

In the years since I last led worship here, St. Alban’s has continued

and increased its ministry to the neighbors who are in need of care.

The spiritual food and wine from the altar is given to equip the saints —

the ordinary Christians — to sustain us as we exercise the gifts God has given us.

This includes the healers, the administrators, all kinds of volunteers —

some feeding the hungry, some caring for the elderly. Can you clarify your ministry —

what it looks like? and who it is you’re called to serve?

Then ask: how can this church help you live out this ministry you have?

Because — Christ wants to equip the saints for the work of ministry.

Ninth Sunday After Pentecost

St. Alban’s Episcopal Church ● Albany, California ● July 25, 2021

Steve Hitchcock

2 Kings 4:42-44

Psalm 145:10-10

Ephesians 3:14-21

JOHN 6:1-21

When I first read today’s Gospel from John 6, I said, “Good.  This is John’s account of the Last Supper.  This Gospel is perfect for helping us prepare to gather next Sunday, after such a long absence, for in-person worship and the reception of Christ’s body and blood.  This reading from John reminds us that as we celebrate the Eucharist, we experience the abundance – with leftovers – of God’s grace.

Unlike the other three Gospels, John does not include an account of the meal Jesus partakes before his crucifixion, when he tells his disciples, “Do this in remembrance of me. Instead, John shapes his account of the feeding of the 5,000 – a story told in all of the Gospels – to highlight links to the Eucharistic celebrations practiced by the first Christians.  Jesus starts by giving thanks (Eucharist in Greek), and Jesus – not the disciples – distributes the food.

But whenever I start to study a particular Gospel for a particular Sunday – that is re-read the text and the rest of Gospel, examine specific words and phrases, and sample what scholars have to say – I end up at a different place from where I started.

Yes, today’s reading is about the Eucharist, but the second part of our Gospel makes the even more astounding claim: Jesus gets into the boat of our lives, and we are glad that he does.  We willingly receive him.

In the other three Gospels, the point is that Peter needs to get in the boat with the other disciples – to be part of the community that trusts Jesus’ power to save.

What is so startling about John’s account is that it is Jesus who gets in the boat.  He doesn’t take us out of the boat and whisk us away to some fantasy land.  No, Jesus is here in the midst of our uncertainty and our fears as we struggle with the storms of our lives.

How Jesus gets here and why we willingly welcome him is set forth in the very first verses of today’s Gospel.

Last Sunday, while I was on vacation, you reflected on those memorable words of Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd.  I shall not be in want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside the still waters.”

Today’s Gospel reading shows us these verses are more than just beautiful words to comfort us.   We hear today that Jesus is our shepherd, that we want for nothing, and that we are surrounded by green grass and calm waters.

The Season of Bread

First, though, let’s step back and sort out where we are this Sunday.  We’re at the Ninth Sunday in the long season of Pentecost, so-called ordinary time.  This is the liturgical year B, so the Gospel lessons are generally from Mark.  But Mark is about half the length of Matthew and Luke, so we interrupt our regular program to fill in with readings from John’s Gospel.  During the next four weeks, which I’ll call the Season of Bread, we will read the very long chapter six – with 71 verses – of John’s Gospel.

Today, in this first Sunday in the Season of Bread, we hear the story of the actual feeding of the 5,000 with five loaves and two fishes.  This miraculous feeding is a story told in all four Gospels, followed by the account of Jesus walking on the water to the disciples in the storm-tossed boat.  The rest of John 6 is Jesus’ long conversation about what this feeding meant, including the famous Bread of Life discourse.

John is reminding us that we are part of this abundant feeding today.  He is saying that the “fragments” – a word used for the bread in the Eucharistic liturgy – were so abundant that they were left over.  Indeed, enough leftovers, if you will, to keep feeding all those who gather into the future to feast on Christ’s body and blood.

But the real miracle of this feeding is not that five barley loaves and a couple of fishes – provided by a small child – went so far.  No, the real miracle is that we experience this abundance in the midst of suffering, persecution, and loss.

Who is this Jesus in the boat with us?

That’s the point that John makes in the story that follows the feeding of the 5,000.  Jesus, like Moses, goes back to the mountain to communicate with God.  The disciples end up on a boat without Jesus in the middle of the lake, full of fear as they are tossed about by the stormy seas.  Then Jesus, as in the parting of the Red Sea in the Exodus story, comes walking on the water.  The disciples “wanted to take him into the boat.”  Or more accurately translated, “they willingly took him into the boat.”

They – and we today – are willing to receive Jesus because he tells them – and us – who is.  And that makes all the difference.

First, John notes that this feeding takes place at Passover, the feast that remembered when, during the final deadly plague in Egypt, God passed over those houses where a lamb had been sacrificed.  This is John’s way of telling us that Jesus is the new Moses, the one who is leading a new exodus, a new liberation from captivity.  And this new Moses is creating a new people of God.  This was especially good news for John’s first readers who were being kicked out of synagogues, excluded because their faith in Jesus labeled them as apostates.

Second, the Jesus in the boat with us is the Good Shepherd.  That’s why today’s reading notes that “there is much grass.”  As in Psalm 23, Jesus leads the people to green pastures where they will experience no want.

This reference to the Good Shepherd was also a signal to John’s readers that Jesus is the Good Shepherd who gathers us together and who lays down his life for our sake, the paschal lamb who saves us from death.

            Third, the Jesus in the boat with us is I am.  Those two words are way the NRSV has translated as “It is I,” but the actual phrase is “I am.”  Those words were the answer to Moses when, at burning bush, he asked Yahweh who he was.  This “I am” pronouncement by Jesus sets the stage for “I am’s” we’ll hear later in chapter 6 and in other chapters: I am the Bread of Life, I am the Way and the Truth, I am the Vine, and I am the resurrection and life.

So, the Jesus is the boat with us is God, the power and being that creates and loves everything that is.  The Word that became flesh and dwelt among us.  The Word that was with God and without whom nothing is created.  The good news isn’t that Jesus is like God, but rather that God is like Jesus.  God gets into our storm-tossed boat of life.  God listens to our fears and anxieties.  And God suffers with us, laying down his life that we might be raised to new life.

Keeping Jesus in the boat with us

What freedom from fear and joy for living becomes possible when this Jesus is the boat with us!  But John knew that his community found it hard – generations after Jesus had lived, died, and rose – to trust that Jesus was with them.  They, like us, wondered if they were better off without Jesus, whether it really made any difference to trust his presence among them.

For those first readers of John’s Gospel there was lots of evidence that God had abandoned them, that they had no status or place, that suffering and persecution were their fate.  And we today often struggle to believe that all this enthusiastic Jesus talk amounts to anything.  The world around us, the people close to us, and our own minds and bodies seem to betray us again that again.

That’s why John links the feeding of the 5,000 – Jesus the Good Shepherd feeding us all that we need, making sure that no one is lost – to what happens when we gather for the Eucharist next Sunday.  John knew that to sustain their faith and hope his community needed to hear those words about Jesus – and feast on the Bread of Life – Sunday after Sunday.

John’s Gospel is organized around a series of misunderstandings about who Jesus is.  Mary his mother doesn’t understand why her son doesn’t solve the wine problem right away.  Nicodemus can’t understand this business about being born again in the Spirit.  The Samaritan woman at the well misunderstands the type of water Jesus is talking about.  Later in chapter 6, the disciples fail to make the connection between the feeding of the 5,000 and Jesus as the Bread of Life.  And, in the pivotal chapter 11, Mary and Martha don’t understand what Jesus is saying about the death of their brother Lazarus.

This pattern of misunderstandings is completed – and resolved – in chapter 20 when Thomas’s so-called doubt is actually his understanding of who Jesus really is – and why he’s in the boat with us.  The Risen Christ – our Lord and God – is the One whose hands have been nailed and whose side has been pierced.  Our Lord is wounded for us, and our God has suffered death that we too might live in resurrection time.

The Eucharist and our gathering together again and again to hear Jesus’ words enables us to join Thomas – seeing Jesus’ wounds – to say, “My Lord and my God.”  In the Eucharist, we put our hands on Jesus’ broken body, we partake of his life poured out for us.

And because of this meal we partake – Sunday after Sunday, hearing the Good Shepherd call us by name – we are happy to sing while the boat rocks, we pray while the storm rages, and we are glad to be in this boat together.  Amen.

Reflection for July 11, 2021

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

Lawrence DiCostanzo

2Samuel 6: 1-5, 12b-19

Ephesians 1: 3-14

Mark 6: 14-29

Psalm 24

This is my eleventh reflection since the pandemic began.  And I want to thank you for giving me the privilege of speaking to you in this way.  I have learned a lot.  I tried to answer questions and I found questions I never knew existed.  So, it has been a wonderful job for me.

Reflections are pretty complicated.  I want to get a Gospel message across or to reaffirm a Gospel message.  At the same time, I want you to be interested.  Then, I also have to find what interests me and motivates me to keep going.  Finally, looking at the whole of the world as Gospel – and I believe the message of the Gospel can be found anywhere — I try to bring the world in.

So, let’s talk about the Vikings.  I have always been fond of the Vikings ever since I had a wooden sword as a kid and my brother and I battered each other, up and down our grandmother’s driveway, until the wooden bushel covers that we used as shields fell to pieces.  As I grew, I learned that Vikings had a complex culture as well as swords and fantastic boats that went beyond Greenland to the shores of our continent.

Recently, I read a highly excellent history of the Vikings, called “Children of Ash and Elm” by Neil Price.  Prof. Price consolidated a lot of my feelings about Vikings that I had accumulated over the years.  Yes, they were innovative, brave, family-oriented, agricultural, world travelers.  Yes, they were vicious to the people they raided, practiced human sacrifice, owned slaves in quantities.

And, when I read today’s passage from 2 Samuel, the Vikings sprang to mind almost immediately.

David is always presented to us as a hero – handsome, brave, an artist, loving the Lord, obedient to him.  But, like a Viking, David had a dark side — goal driven, lustful, bloody-handed, and sometimes a hypocrite.

I have a question about the passage from 2 Samuel that I think highlights David’s nature.  This question is: why did David’s wife Michal despise him in her heart when she saw him dancing before the Lord’s Ark?  Some say it was because David was behaving in an unseemly way and was maybe half naked; that he had thrown all kingly dignity.  I think, though, that the story goes much farther back, much deeper.

Michal was the second daughter of Saul who was the first king of Israel.  David eventually became Saul’s rival.  But, at the time when David was a high-ranking warrior in Saul’s retinue, Michal fell in love with him.  He won her with a bride price of blood that I really don’t want to go into.  You can read 1 Samuel 18.  There is nothing in the Bible about David loving Michal.  Perhaps Michal was second choice for David.  Saul would not allow his first daughter, Mehrab, to marry David.  She later married another man and had five sons who met a tragic fate together.

When Saul in a crazed state wanted to kill David, Michal saved David’s life by a deceit.   David began his years of wandering.  He married Abigail and many other women.  In the meantime, Saul married Michal to another man named Paltiel.

When Saul and his son Jonathan were killed as well as numbers of other people of Saul’s family and followers, David demanded that Michal be returned to him.  She traveled to David with Paltiel following after and weeping the whole way.  I think he loved her.  But he was told to turn around and go home.

David became king of all of Israel.  He had many children by many wives and concubines.  But Michal never had children by him even before David danced before the Ark.  She never had any children.  Why?  I think it was because David wanted no children who shared King Saul’s blood.  The practice then was to wipe out your predecessor’s line.  Mehrab’s five sons were later handed over to be hanged.  Another story.  (2 Samuel 21)  As far as I can tell, only one person of Saul’s line lived into the reign of David.  And he was kept under close watch.

So, this is part of the shadow side of David.  I could say the story as a whole accords with the culture of the time.  Nonetheless, it shows how in the Bible itself, David is not presented as an ideal figure.  He is both a Viking in the style of a hero and a Viking in the style of a killer.

So, what are the lessons to draw from this passage.  One is that I should not romanticize the stories of the Bible.  I should turn over stones and find what’s under them no matter how squeamish I may be.  The other lesson is that, if I’m realistic about these stories, I can find in them the truth of my own Viking self and therefore the immense generosity of God’s plans.

If the Lord loved and was loyal to a man like David who was not exactly lovable, then it makes the Gospel message of God’s love much more real, more tangible.  Why? I can’t say that, in my life, I have behaved like the shining romantic portrait of the wonderful David.  I’ve had my moments, like David, where I’ve behaved badly.  But David’s story makes me realize that I’m a human who is walking in company with other humans to the final Sabbath.  The combination of the people of the Bible and my own life adds depth to the statement in John’s letter that God is Love.  In sum, if God loved David, and he surely did, he has to be loving me.

Let’s turn to someone who did not look at the world romantically at all and see what he has to say.  Paul, who was pretty worldly-wise and a terrific observer and analyst of the human condition, had to know that David was not all hero.  And he knew that he himself was not all hero.  Before he became Paul the Apostle, Paul was likely responsible for people’s deaths.  At the least, he was a persecutor.  And, even as a saved man and evangelist, he continues to say, I can’t do what I want to do, and I do what I don’t want to do; I am a slave to sin.  Who will save me from this body of death?  (Romans 7) He is really crying out just as David cried out after he took Bathsheba and shamefully arranged the death of her husband Uriah the Hittite.  (2 Samuel 11-12)

Paul is asking in Romans: how can we live with ourselves?  And against this, Paul has the cheerfulness to write the certainties of today’s magnificent, glorious passage from Ephesians.  The passage summarizes EVERYTHING about our journey in the world:  forgiveness, God’s love, Jesus’ self-giving for us, God’s plan for the world.

The passage is really beautiful as literature.  But it is even more beautiful because of its realism.  In Paul’s hands, the Gospel acknowledges that we have our “David natures” and our “Viking natures.”  But it gives us the confidence to remain notwithstanding on the Way of Jesus.

What is that way?  It is the journey we’ve begun to the ultimate Sabbath, to the year of the Lord’s favor, the Jubilee.  That journey has a road map.  It is:  Imperfect as we are, we feed the hungry, we give drink to the thirsty, we clothe the naked, we welcome a stranger, we care for the sick, and we visit the prisoner,

This journey is made with one of the great virtues.  This is the virtue of hope.  For me, hope is the steadiest and the most comforting of all the virtues.  It lets us expect good things.  It helps us minimize our feelings about the bad things without discounting that they are bad.  It clears the air so that we can find our better selves and we can love more.  It helps us endure and keep putting one foot in front of the other cheerfully.  Hope is associated, I think, with the Holy Spirit.  As the passage from Ephesians ends is a pep talk for hope:  Having heard about Jesus and believed in him, we are marked with the seal of the Holy Spirit which is the PLEDGE of our inheritance toward REDEMPTION as God’s own people, to the praise of his glory.  The seal of the Holy Spirit is a promise for us David’s and for us Vikings.  Amen

St. Alban’s Church                                                   II Samuel 5: 105, 9-10

July 4, 2021                                                                Psalm 123

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost                                  II Corinthians 12: 2 – 10

Pastor Jim Stickney                                                  Mark 6: 1 – 13

I will not boast — except of my weaknesses.

When the flamboyant English author Oscar Wilde began his very successful visit

to America in 1882, he went through the New York Customs House. He was asked

if he had anything to declare. He said, “I have nothing to declare, except my genius!”

Some of us might recall the portrayal of Mozart in the play (and movie) Amadeus,

when Mozart speaks about how he sees himself in relation to other composers.

At one point he comes right out with it and says that he’s simply the best.

He’s reprimanded that others could take offense at his lacking the customary humility,

but by hindsight we don’t mind words about Mozart claiming to the the best.

This morning I’m considering this tension between showing humility & taking pride.

Some of us may be following the riders in the world’s most famous cycling event,

the Tour de France. More of us will be watching parts of the summer Olympics,

postponed from last year and held in Japan — a celebration of the world’s best.

We expect these winners to take their places on the podium and accept their medals,

(or yellow jerseys). Yet we also expect them not to trash talk about those who lost.

There are a few human beings who obviously excel at their chosen fields of endeavor,

and we cut a lot of slack to someone who’s obviously brilliant, especially

if such a person can display a little of the common touch and stay grounded.

But for ordinary people, what we want to hear is that they’re not the best.

In fact, something in us wants to cut huge egos down to size — especially enemies.

Just as we admire true excellence, so we can’t abide phonies, frauds, or pretenders.

This is why St. Paul declares, I will not boast — except of my weaknesses.

When it comes to spiritual things, we want our religious leaders to display humility.

We assume that someone who is given the privilege of preaching in a church

also shares in human weakness, and does not remain silent during the Confession!

         I will not boast — except of my weaknesses. St. Paul utters this gem of a guideline

only after he speaks of some extraordinary spiritual experiences (perhaps “mystical”).

He refers in the third person to someone caught up into the third heaven.

That person — most likely the writer Paul himself — was in Paradise, and heard things

that can’t be told, of experiences that can’t be trapped in mere human words.

It might seem quite a stretch for us to see Jesus described as weak or powerless.

And yet, in the Gospel story chosen for today, we hear Mark tell us,

                   “He could do no deed of power [in his hometown], except that he laid his hands

                   on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief.”

Jesus could not do much for people who had seen him grow up, for they knew him —

both too well and not well enough. His Good News couldn’t get past their history.

It didn’t matter that he preached well in their synagogue — that only made them feel

somehow inferior to this person to whom they had once been superior.

Did Jesus go back and make a special campaign to get them to change their minds?

Perhaps to our surprise, we hear: Then he went about among the villages, teaching.

He gave witness to who he was and what he could do, and then he left his home town.

I will not boast — except of my weaknesses.

Some parishioners were born in other countries, and chose to come here.

But most were born in this country, and like you, I said the pledge of allegiance

and was taught that ours was the best country in the world — that other countries

looked up to us as the best example of human freedom. Sure, we had some problems,

but thanks to active citizens, we could vote to change policies and solve problems.

But on this Independence Day, we have to admit that our pride has been challenged.

Despite advanced technology, we had more Covid deaths than any other country.

The murder of George Floyd revealed even more the realities of racism among us.

And on January 6th, our own fellow countrymen staged an insurrection.

We have to admit that our nation has been humbled.

Recall that St. Paul is careful to mention “a thorn in his side.” This character defect,

this constant irritant, kept him from being too proud about his lofty visions.

We all carry around with us our own personal “thorn in our side,” some reminder

of our frailty — despite our other gifts. As our country strives to better itself,

we know that simply chanting “USA! USA!” won’t get us very far. What will help

is our telling the truth about the thorns in the side of our country.

Honest examination of our shortcomings is the first step in correcting them.

One advantage of this Zoom format is that I can show you small photos

that would not be visible from a pulpit. Here’s one I took from our deck on Flag Day:

Our church’s flag and our country’s flag flying side by side.

Now, our church’s Hymnal places the National Songs on the very last pages.

In fact, the last song in the Hymnal is “O say can you see.”

A more singable national song is there, known as “America the Beautiful,”

Each of its three verses asks that God shed grace upon our country.

In particular, the second verse implores God to assist us overcome our weaknesses:

America, America, God mend thine every flaw —

confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.

I will not boast — except of my weaknesses.

Mark 5: 21-43

St. Alban’s June 27. 2021 service

Mary D.

What strikes me in reading this gospel is the absolute trust that the woman with the hemorrhage and Jarius show in Jesus. They have no doubt that he can heal the woman, and also Jairus’ daughter. The woman trusts that if she can just touch his cloak, she will be healed of her affliction. And Jairus pleads with Jesus in the assurance that if He lays his hands on his daughter, she will be made well, and live.

The depth of trust and faith that these two have is truly remarkable – and enviable. How often have we been called upon to “take a leap of faith”? And how often have I, and perhaps others, been found wanting in that leap? It takes enormous courage to open oneself to that depth of trust – and faith. How often do we tell ourselves that we “just can’t do it”, or that “it won’t matter what I say, do, or think”? How can we open ourselves to the work of the Spirit, and trust that the outcome will be what was meant to be – whether or not it was what we desired or expected? We will need to learn to be open to hearing the Spirit in our hearts, and listening intently to hear that voice over the clamor of everyday life. We can begin by committing ourselves to walking in the way of Jesus, through the good, easier times and the more challenging, harder times. This will require us to look into ourselves and identify those thoughts and actions that separate us from our fellows, and from Jesus. Then we must be willing to change, and accept the consequences of those changes. The changes may be difficult, and unpopular, but we must “stay the course” and continue on the path set out by Jesus. We can help one another in this with our support, love for one another, and mutual prayer.

Also striking is the fact that these two people were not “followers of Jesus”, but an unclean woman and a leader in the temple. They must have been very desperate, very courageous, and also very moved to trust that Jesus could give the help they asked for. Perhaps they had heard of other miracles that Jesus had done, and were open to asking for the help they needed. They persisted, and were rewarded for their faith. We also need to persist in the face of adversity, and not give up or give in to doubts or despair.

Another thing that strikes me is the fact that the healing of the woman was very “public”, in that it took place in the midst of the crowd. And Jesus tells the woman that her faith has made her well (has saved her), and to go in peace. Contrasting with this, Jesus allows only three disciples to go with him to the home where the daughter is lying. And he clears the house of all but the three and the mother and father. This is quite a departure from the public healing just performed. He then takes the child by the hand and bids her to get up. After she arises, Jesus tells the select onlookers to get her some food, and not to let anyone know about this. Thus, we too can go about our lives as we have also been saved.

In closing, these two miracles give us much to think about – and are a reminder that a “lively faith” can indeed change lives.
Amen

TRINITY SUNDAY

Steve Hitchcock

May 30, 2021 

Isaiah 6:1-8

Canticle 13

Romans 8:12-17

JOHN 3:1-17

Some of you may recall that a couple of years ago a bishop from another diocese visited St. Alban’s.  He preached on Trinity Sunday and explained that somewhat esoteric doctrine, so I’m not going to attempt to do that today.

Things aren’t going back to the way they were.

Rather, I’d like to try to exorcise the demon – more a quandary – from the trip Jan and I made to Mendocino two weeks ago.   For at least ten years, we’ve visited that lovely little town every February.  We were fortunate to do so last year – just weeks before we were all locked down.  This year, we delayed our trip until late May.

I’m probably the only one who was completely surprised that Mendocino isn’t the same wonderful vacation spot as in years past.  We’ve been vaccinated, virus cases are at record low levels, and it’s Spring.  But restaurants aren’t serving inside.  Others have closed permanently.  And, instead of February fog and drizzle, high winds make hiking a frustrating exercise.  Two weeks later, I’m still in a funk.

This minor – and obviously petty – setback has led me to conclude that things are not going to go back to the way they were.  Not soon and probably not ever.  The days ahead are going to be filled with struggles at the personal level. Our neighborhoods and cities will be challenged by homelessness and congestion.  Because of post-Census jerrymandering, Congress will likely be even more opposed to the interests of the majority of voters.  The Middle East and all the other places of international conflict will make this a dangerous world.

Ordinary Time

It’s fitting, then, that the Prayer Book notes that Trinity Sunday is the First Sunday after Pentecost.  Today is the beginning of what we call “ordinary time” in the church year.  Interestingly next Sunday, the Second Sunday after Pentecost, is the Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time.  The date of Easter determines how many Sundays after Pentecost we have.  Curiously, we work backwards from Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday after Pentecost usually in late November, and then we cut out any Sundays at the beginning of the Pentecost season.

And, because this is the year of Mark’s Gospel – which is half the length of the other Gospels – in the middle of the summer we have the “Season of Bread.”  For five Sundays in July and August, we will read sections of John’s Bread of Life discourse in chapter six.  All along, we’ll be reading sequentially from the Old Testament and from Paul’s epistles.  Even Barbara Metcalf will find it hard to find any connections among the three Scripture readings.

What a hodgepodge all this is, one confusing and sometimes frustrating mess.

Of course, all this liturgical and lectionary disarray reflects “ordinary” life.  Our day-to-day existence is one step forward, two steps backward.  In some ways, aging and illness are the best we can hope for – fearing the worst, violence and tragedy.  In this so-called ordinary time, talking about God’s love seems insufficient if not delusional.

Born again – by dying with Christ

That’s why today’s Gospel – echoed by our second reading from Romans – is such good news.  We are given the promise that we can be born again.  A fresh start.  A new beginning.

Jesus makes this outrageous claim in response to a question from Nicodemus, who comes in the dark of night.  It’s important that it is Nicodemus, a religious leader, who asks the question of Jesus.  Nicodemus is a person with knowledge and authority descended from Moses, the great prophet who led the Exodus from Egypt to the promised land.  He represents the best human effort to shape society and inspire good living.

Nicodemus’ question reveals his skepticism that we can be born again.  His question may also reflect doubt that we need to born anew.  Isn’t it enough to be a religious leader whose is preserving and continuing the great heritage of Moses?

Jesus’ response is that “Yes, we can be born again.” But it will take a new Moses and a new Exodus.  And what makes Jesus the new Moses is dying is the way to be born again.

During the Exodus, Moses lifted up the serpent on a cross as the antidote for those Israelites who were dying from snake bites in the Wilderness.  So, too, Jesus, lifted on the cross is the way God rescues us from death and gives new life.

Significantly, in chapter 19, it is Nicodemus who helps Joseph of Arimathea take Jesus down from the cross and prepare him for burial.  Nicodemus literally participates in Jesus’ death.

Baptism and Eucharist – where the Spirt blows and breathes

John wanted his first readers – and us today – to join Nicodemus and participate in Jesus’ death.  Today’s Gospel suggests how that is possible.

Our reading today is just a few verses away from the wedding in Cana in chapter two and a prelude to Jesus’ meeting the woman at the well in chapter four.  These stories remind us that it is through baptism and in the Eucharist that we are joined to Christ’s death and resurrection.   The huge amount of water, wine, and bread gushing through John’s Gospel is a metaphor for the abundance of God’s grace we experience as a beloved community gathered around baptism and the Eucharist.

What makes it possible for us to experience this abundant life today – to be transformed by water, bread, and wine – is indeed Pentecost and the gift of the Spirit.

In John’s Gospel, there is no Ascension 40 days after Easter, nor a Pentecost 50 days later.  John wanted his first readers – and us today – to keep both the Ascension and Pentecost closely connected to Jesus’ death and resurrection.  Indeed, in John, the crucifixion is depicted as a type of resurrection as Jesus re-joins the Father who, in the crucifixion, gives God’s own life in death.  Right after the Resurrection, Jesus meets Mary Magdalene in the burial garden.  Jesus tells her that she can’t touch him because he hasn’t ascended to the Father.

Then, in chapter 20, Jesus appears to the disciples in the locked room and Pentecost takes place right there.  Jesus invites Thomas to touch his crucifixion wounds.  Then the ascended Jesus – breathes his Spirit on the disciples.

In all of this, the Spirit – that third person of the Trinity – is present.  Last week, Kathleen Van Sickle reminded us that the Spirit is a wind that blows where it will.  And the wind is something heard, and speech is a form of breathing.  And what we hear, as the Spirit breathes and blows, are the words of the Risen Christ.

Our commission for Ordinary Time

After his resurrection, Jesus doesn’t take the disciples with him, but rather leaves them to live their ordinary existence.  Indeed, the Risen Christ breathes on his disciples and commissions them – and us today – to engage with the world, to keep talking about him and about the new life we are living.  In other words, to love one another.

So, yes, we are stuck in ordinary time, but today’s Gospel and Epistle remind us that we have an extraordinary family.  Our baptism is our adoption into a new family with a parent and a brother who literally sacrifice everything to keep us together.   And we experience that self-renewing love today and every time we gather – even by Zoom.  Hearing scriptures, praying, singing, and – yes – talking with each other helps us begin again.

So, our post-covid world will be both uncertain and ordinary.  But each day and each week will also be an opportunity to be born again, to start over, to build new connections in our new family, and to invite others to join us in this beloved community.  Amen.