Category: Sermons

After reading this week’s lectionary several times, and pondering the readings, it seems to me that the unifying theme for this week is the intersection of faith and of prayer. And interestingly, not just our faith in God, but God’s faith in us. Ah, my. How is it that these important, foundational things, faith and prayer, can be at once so simple, and yet so complex?

In the Old Testament reading, we see that God favors Solomon’s prayers for wisdom; not just by saying “yes, I give you these things!” but even more importantly, by approving Solomon’s admission of weakness, his desire to do right by his people, and his subsuming his own ego in order to do his best for his people.

In Paul’s letter to the Romans, we see him encouraging the followers to trust in God’s love for them. 

And in Matthew’s gospel lesson – oh, my! Parable after parable – so many we can hardly count. It’s a bit comical, really, all the ways that we hear about the value of faith. And, ah, the parable of the mustard seed; how beautiful, how simple – and how devastating! 

On its surface, it seems so straightforward; “don’t worry, if you have just a tiny bit of faith, that’s all you need – it’s enough to grow a mighty tree!” But when you read what precedes this parable, it’s pretty daunting. The disciples have just come back from their attempts to cast out demons from an afflicted soul. They tried – and they failed. And when they return home, Jesus is cranky; he chastises them and tells them that they failed because they lacked faith. And, of course, with (I can only imagine!) a heavy sigh, Jesus heads off to do it himself. Oh, dear. I mean, I have full sympathy for Jesus here; he’s preparing for his departure from this plane, and he needs to get his disciples fully up to speed to do the work ahead when he’s gone, and they aren’t able to do it! Who among us hasn’t thought “fine, I’ll just do it myself!” any number of times? Reloaded the dishwasher. Gotten out the plunger. Or despaired that a child, or protege, or loved one, will never master the basic skills to do “it” themselves when we are gone. 

However, I do really sympathize with the disciples here; after all, they TRIED to cast out the demons! They went off on their own, and they tried, and they failed. I don’t know about you, but if Jesus came to me today and said “okay, Christine, it’s time for you to go cast out some demons – see you when you get back!” I’m very likely to try to beg off. How on earth could I do it? 

And “measuring” faith already feels so harsh; I think that it’s easy to head off in the wrong direction in this area. For instance, if someone prays for a healing and doesn’t receive it, that they – or others – might believe it’s because they didn’t have enough faith, or didn’t pray the “right” way. Or likewise, if someone is dealt a terrible tragedy or hardship. Or, conversely, that if they hit the jackpot of blessings it’s because they deserve it. And that is just not right; the world is full of injustice, tragedies and hardships and disease, and it’s no reflection on the victims – or victors – and what they deserved or “should” have done.

Perhaps I’m feeling a little judged recently; it seems like every good thing I try to do just isn’t good enough. I drive a plug-in hybrid-electric vehicle; every time I reach my destination, it grades me – and seems to always find me wanting. “That was pretty good, but next time, do better!” We have solar panels; every month, PG&E gives us a grade: “your solar profile is pretty good, but similar EFFICIENT homes are excellent!” Man, patronised by my car AND PG&E! 

The unhoused woman I bring food to likes to call out what I assume are meant to be encouraging things to me; things like “you’re still walking pretty good!” and “You’ve gained weight, haven’t you? Yeah, you have!” Ummm … okay. Thank you, I guess? 

AI keeps offering me helpful suggestions to improve my emails and text messages. Heck, even writing this reflection entailed artificial intelligence essentially telling me that my sentence structure was lousy. So maybe I’m a little hyper-sensitive about my faith vis-a-vis demon-casting-out powers.

But I also realize that my ego is threaded throughout my efforts in life, and that this can be especially present in my prayers and my faith. I want to not just do right, but to be right. I want to be in control of the narrative and of the outcome. I keep putting myself in the center of the story. Oftentimes, my prayers of “please please please do this thing for me, God!” have actually been me attempting to will God into doing what I want. You will not be shocked to hear that that hasn’t gone so well.

One of my favorite quotes is something I’ve heard Kris Whitten share several times in his always-wonderful reflections: “I know there’s a God – and it’s not me!” 

Realizing these things, over the years I’ve shifted my mode of praying. After sitting with the advice to “let go and let God,” and to “pray as though God has already answered my prayers,” I moved from praying for an outcome to simply thanking God for being with me, with us, in good times and bad. For surrounding us with love. For reminding us that God is with us. For each of us holding each other up as best we can. And the very, very most satisfying moments of prayer have been where I have been fully able to release my will, and simply say “I accept.” When I am able to do that, I feel a physical release of pressure, and relief truly washes over me.

Last week, as I listened to Jeffrey play Schubert, and to Linda give her reflection, once again, I found myself with my palms open in front of me. And it came to me that my making that gesture was a physical way for me to try to open myself in acceptance, to say “I accept” to God. I accept your beauty. I accept your wisdom. I accept your love. I accept your grace. I accept your will.

God’s love for us is an expression of their faith in us. Recently Judah played his arrangement of “Great is thy Faithfulness” for us; how good to be reminded that God has faith in us! What is the nature of God’s faith in us? Is it perhaps rooted in “I accept?”

This week I read an interview with the Reverend – and Senator – Raphael Warnock. (I will resist reading you the whole piece, packed as it is with profound wisdom and insights! Ask me later for the link.) In it, he said something remarkable about faith; he said “faith isn’t about knowing. Faith is just that – it’s an act of faith.” Let me repeat that: “Faith isn’t about knowing. Faith is just that – it’s an act of faith.” And that beautiful idea reminded me of how Reverend Warnock likes to say that a vote is a kind of a prayer, something which fills me with joy. Reverend Warnock went on to quote Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched with Dr. King. Rabbi Heschel said that when he marched with Dr. King, he felt like his legs were praying. There are so many ways that faith and prayers can exist!

So, back to the mustard seed. And back to demon casting. Upon reflection: it strikes me that there are many ways, both large and small, to “cast out a demon” of injustice. Big things, like running for office, like Reverend Warnock did. Or like my cousin Martha’s son, Andrew Floyd, who was a lawyer for the Department of Justice, investigating the January 6th insurrection – until he got canned for it; Andrew was one of the people who filed the suit which successfully blocked the 1776 slush fund. But  every time we go to a rally to protest what is happening in our country, we are actually attempting a little demon casting! And every time one among us makes a sandwich for someone in need, well, maybe that isn’t going to solve world hunger, but by golly – one sandwich at a time. Every time we vote. Every time we protest inequity. Every little kindness. Every little gesture of caring and love. Every good deed and generous and loving act – they are all that mustard seed of faith.

So, I accept the challenge. I accept God’s love. Please say it with me: I accept!

Saints and Sinners — That’s Us

The first thing I’m curious about in this parable is that the relationships are upside down.

The Master is doing the work. The servants , who you would expect to be doing the work, are providing the commentary on the quality of work – negligent or outright stupid. “Hey, Master – didn’t you plant good seed? There sure are a lot of weeds growing there. Want us to pull out the weeds (you obviously accidentally planted.)?”

Ok – ‘fess up. How many times have you thought you could do better with the design of things? With the way things work.

Aging for example. Arthritis, really? Memory loss, hearing loss, teeth falling out, how fair is all that? Why couldn’t we go out on a high note of strength and happiness?

And poison oak, rampant on hiking trails – mosquitos whining in your ears, biting the back of your hand, itching for days.

Birth defects? Early onset Alzheimers?

There is so much beauty, so much goodness, so much pulsing, thriving life – AND there is a lot in this world that could be designed better – you know it and I know it.

But it’s not just the natural world.

You and I are a big mixed up mix of good and bad, of pure and not so pure, of doing good for others partly because, well, it strokes our own ego.

And honestly, it’s hard to tell sometimes which is which. The truth is that when we try to get rid of something we classify as “evil”, there are often unintended consequences, blowback –and we can end up with something even worse.

Pain is a good example. We want to mitigate pain, physical pain, emotional pain, but when we go too far in trying to feel better all the time, we risk creating addictions.

We want to get rid of disease, but when we go too far in trying to stamp out illnesses, we risk creating super-bugs that are resistant to treatment.

We are certainly thankful for science, for the scientific method, for medical advances, for climate controlled housing, for increased food production, for all the ways we have of improving the comforts of our earthly existence.

AND this parable is telling us wisdom – Good and evil, right and wrong, opportunities and challenges, joys and sorrows, they are intermingled and our perceptions are limited – are judgements about which is which is quite possibly incorrect, or at least ill informed.

So Jesus invites us into a spacious place of greater wonder and greater acceptance of the world and other people and ourselves as we are — beautiful and flawed, annoying and endearing, difficult and enjoyable, sinful and faithful. Saints and sinners. That’s who we are. That’s the way of this precious world we inhabit.

Jesus told this parable to Galilean farmers who knew the kinds of weeds he was talking about. They were called darnel, or tares. And darnel looks like wheat. If you Google darnel and wheat you can see photos of the two plants – and they are virtually identical.

But it’s easy to tell which is which by the time the wheat is ready to harvest. Wheat grains are heavy. They make the plant droop with their weight. Darnel, on the other hand, is unproductive. It has no weighty head of grain, so the plant continues to stand up right.

By their fruits you will know them, Jesus says.

So, Jesus says, let it be. Things tend to sort themselves out. And the more we trust that to happen, the happier we will be, and the more room we give God to work all things to their rightful purpose.

Friends, here’s the hope for this morning – that we can more and more accept ourselves and others as we are. Not as we think we should be. Or as we think we need to be. But as we are.

When we stand for the creed and say “I believe in God almighty” – may the Spirit still our doubts in the Master and deepen our trust – in other words, may we give God some space and trust that God knows what God is doing – that God has things in hand.

It’s good to be here. It’s good to grow together in wisdom and trust and compassion.

I think that everyone has been on a farm.  Maybe we’ve visited just a place like The Little Farm in Tilden Park.  Once there were two big hogs there with a bunch of piglets.  My grandkids named the hogs Lisa and Jason after their parents.

Speaking of names, my father’s cousin, Jimmy, had a good-sized farm in Connecticut.  It’s where I first drove a car, and a tractor had to come and pull the car out of a ditch.  Years past, Jimmy’s farm dog had been a Saint Bernard.  But in his later years, Jimmy drove around in his pickup with a very lively pug.  Jimmy was always feeding him, and the pug became quite a little fatty.  Jimmy would shout at him, “Get over here, damn you!” And the pug would run and literally jump into Jimmy’s arms.  Or Jimmy would shout, “Hurry up, damn you!”  And the dog would jump into the cab.  The family had named him “Pumpkin” or something like that.  But the dog thought his name was “Damn You.”

Jesus is said to have been a carpenter or a carpenter’s son.  But, like Jimmy, he seems to have known a lot about farming.  Jesus talks about seeds, mustard trees, fields and vineyards, grape vines, day laborers.  His disciples snack on standing heads of grain.  And he knows animals too — sheep and goats and donkeys.  The Gospels are full of the open air, growing things, and probably the noises of animals.  And since Jesus tells the story of today’s Parable of the Sower from a boat, I am reminded that he also knew a lot about fish.

So, I wonder how Jesus’ contemporaries, the people on the beach, listened to the Parable of the Sower.  A sower was a guy they all had seen at his work and also met on the roads and in the  marketplace.  He was a pretty important cog in the economic machinery of the time.  Everybody lived close to the land. 

Jesus’ listeners were probably saying to themselves:  “So, what’s Joe the sower going to do in this story?”  But Jesus surprises them because the sower and the seeds are background to the story.   The surprise is that the story is about the dirt.  And, as it turns out, the dirt is actually the people listening to Jesus  — the people who are the thorny patch, who are the path or the rocky patch, who are the field itself.  Jesus challenges them to ask themselves what kind of dirt are each of them, how do they fit into the parable.

But do Jesus’s listeners really understand this story or are they confused?  Jesus doesn’t quite answer this question.  There’s a part of this passage that today’s reading leaves out.   In it, Jesus talks, in a kind of positive and negative way, about why he tells parables or at least why he tells this parable of the sower.  He says that he tells parables because the listeners actually do not understand.   Jesus says that they’re like the people that the prophet Isaiah talks about: They can’t hear, they can’t see, they can’t understand with their heart.  That’s pretty bleak or perhaps it means simply that people learn better through stories.  Personally, I think that’s actually true. 

So, as Jesus goes on to explain the Parable to his followers, we see that he knows that there are in fact people that are going to hear the message he gives, people who are the rich soil, people out of whom the seed will bear a thirty- or hundred-fold harvest.  This has to be so because it’s fits with how a sower behaves.  The sower’s object as a farmer is to sow the field where the rich soil lies.  From where the sower stands or walks, the field is bigger than the path around it or by it.  It’s bigger than the thorny patch.  Now we come to see that the sower, who seems so careless, is Jesus himself.  He travels and tosses out his preaching and actions everywhere, as widely as he can, so that he can reach every single little corner of the field.  He casts the seeds this way and that in any way he can — parable, miracle, preaching, and resurrection — just so that the maximum number of people will have the opportunity to receive the word about the Kingdom.  He’s casting seeds even to people who don’t hear or understand.  As we know, even today there are people who need to hear it, who do not get it.  Just look at the comments sections in the New York Times!  It’s like evangelical radio says today: We’ll keep on preaching the Gospel until everyone in the whole world has heard it.

What about us?  We are actually not the people who heard Jesus preach from the boat.  They heard this story before the Crucifixion and Resurrection and Descent of the Holy Spirit.  We hear the parable after all these great events.   So, how is this story meaningful for us?

The good soil, the path, the rocky place, the thorny patch, are us humans.  In this, we are like the people on the beach.  The seeds are still the delicate, magical, immensely strong carriers of the Gospel.  They are always being sown.

But nowadays I am actually every type of soil Jesus mentions.  Sometimes, I’m the path where the seed just lies and the birds find an easy meal.  Maybe this is when I’m sinning, when my store of love is not an ocean, but a puddle.  Sometimes, I’m the thorny ground where the seeds get choked because there are a million distractions every day.  There’s the news, there’s the article I absolutely must scroll, there’s balancing the bank account, there’s watching TV, there’s just a general skittishness that makes me restless.  Sometimes, I’m the thin soil when I don’t pay attention, when I enjoy worship, but don’t carry it into my world.  But, sometimes, even sometimes, I am the rich soil.  I say this because, no matter what, my mind, my heart, my soul, the Holy Spirit in me always seem to tap me on the shoulder, to point me to the seeds. So, I turn alternately from being bad dirt to being good dirt, over and over.

But how can this be?  How can I alternate this way? If I’m still a sinner, if I fail at love every time I take a step, how can I ever be the rich soil?  Here is where Saint Paul helps us out.  He reminds us not of our perfection, but of our advantage.  St. Paul can be really grouchy and complicated.  But he really loves us.  He says, in today’s epistle reading, that we have been freed from the law of sin and death — not from sin and death, but from the law of sin and death.  So, I can still sin and I will still die.  But somehow I am no longer locked in.  I can still be the bad soil for a time.  But, through the Incarnation and Jesus’s hard work, we have the Spirit in us.  And the Spirit is our reminder, the person who knocks on the door.  I think this is what Saint Paul says today in the reading from Romans:

The Spirit of God dwells in you . . . [I[f Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.

We are really lucky because we have the Spirit and we are the body of Christ.  So we can be the rocky ground, the path, the patch choked by thorns, but only at times — not all the time because we are also rich soil and we bear fruit.  Just remember the Apostles’ Creed:  I believe in the Holy Spirit; I believe in the forgiveness of sin.  As a priest once said to me, God has already forgiven you.

Several of us in this congregation read lots of mystery novels.  Others of us count on Britbox TV, so we can watch those British detectives at work.  And some of you are highly skilled with crossword and jigsaw puzzles.

Part of our pleasure – okay, addiction –is that we like to solve puzzles and see how all the pieces fit together.  There’s also the satisfaction that the bad guys get caught.  Life may not be perfect, but some measure of justice can be achieved.  There is at least some level of “righteousness” – of things being made right.

But there’s another reason why we’re drawn to these stories.  In every mystery novel and every TV show, no matter how brilliant the central character is, he or she never solves the mystery alone.

At least one other character – and more often several – help the lead detective get to the solution.  And we are intrigued and enchanted by the interactions – both playful and poignant – of the team of detectives who solve the mystery.

To be sure, team members almost always make mistakes, get distracted by false leads, fight among themselves, and are often more bumbling than brilliant.

Today and the next two Sundays, our third reading will be from Matthew’s Gospel, from what is known as the Mission Discourse, the second of five long speeches that Jesus makes in Matthew’s Gospel.

The Pentecost Season is how we experience the reality of what the Easter Season promises – that the Risen Christ is present among us, that we have been raised to new life, that our worn-out lungs and frazzled brains are now Spirit-filled.

Listening to Matthew’s Gospel is an ideal way to keep the Easter promise alive because this Gospel invites us to follow Jesus … to be his disciples … to join the Jesus team. 

Matthew wasn’t written at the end of the first century to be a story about what happened 30 or 40 years earlier.   Rather, it’s a story about what was happening to those Christians, probably in Syria, two generations after Jesus.  And it’s our story today.

And that story is good news, good enough to move us – as Reverend Linda suggested last week – from fear to faith.  More than that even: from despair to hope, from paralysis to joy, from dark to light.

All that’s possible because we are being invited to join a team, to be part of a circle that helps – if you will – solve the mystery of life, to help make things right.

Matthew’s Gospel highlights the significance of this team by focusing on the 12 disciples.  They represented the 12 tribes of Israel.  And Matthew calls them “Apostles,” the post-Easter name given to the 12 disciples.

What this team of 12 disciples constituted was nothing less than the restoration of 12 tribes of Israel before civil war and exile decimated all but two of the original tribes.  Jesus’ words about a shepherd and the flock and about the harvest are promises that God’s kingdom is coming and all things will be made right.  And this team of disciples – this new Israel – will be a light to all nations.

To turn this promise into a reality, Jesus gives the disciples and us today – a mission.  And that mission is the same mission as Jesus’ mission.  

In the chapters immediately before this reading, Jesus has been doing exactly what he instructs the disciples to do: Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons.

It wouldn’t have been lost on Matthew’s first readers that what Jesus was doing was – in actuality – going on a mission only to Israel.  The “lepers” cleansed suffered not from what we know as leprosy but from a “skin disease” more akin to eczema.  These disfigured individuals were excluded and cut off from society, but Jesus says his mission now brings them in. 

And, even more startling, in the verses immediately following the cleansing of the leper in chapter 8, a centurion – a Gentile and an enforcer of the brutal Roman occupation – asks Jesus to heal his paralyzed son.  Jesus does so and thereby makes it clear that revenge and violence have no place in God’s new kingdom.

In today’s reading – and in the next two weeks – Jesus will offer detailed and forceful instructions to his team.  Helen Mirren would be proud!  But, boy oh boy, does this team run into trouble.

In subsequent chapters we will see that the disciples failed to understand and to follow Jesus.  In Matthew’s own community two generations later, the breakdown of community and the behavior of its leaders left a lot to be desired.

As we read in today from Romans and as is hinted in Matthew’s Gospel, it’s not only internal problems that threaten the Jesus team.  There will be rejection, there will be suffering, there will be evil that drives us to fear and despair.

Right now, all our efforts seem so futile.  Our prayers, our protests, and our political action have so little impact.  Illegal and insane wars go on.  Diseases are surging as science and medicine are underfunded and scorned.  Millions of people in our own country and around the world are struggling to get enough food to eat.

And, in the midst of all this evil, our mission team – we as Jesus’ disciples sent on a mission – seem so ineffective.

But we really shouldn’t be surprised that our “Jesus team” is so dysfunctional, so likely to make mistakes The One we follow also ended up failing, failing so badly that he was crucified as a common criminal and a political renegade.  

Matthew’s Gospel – as we hear in Eucharistic Prayer A – Jesus stretched out his arms on the cross, as a perfect sacrifice for the world.  Through his death, we have the forgiveness of sins, the wiping away of our failures, an end to our fear and our arrogance.

But the curious thing is that, after all the instructions they receive in today’s Gospel reading, the disciples don’t actually go out on a mission.  They have to follow Jesus to the cross.

We see now that the solution to this mystery – the big mess of our lives and our world today – is that, in swallowing death, Jesus overcame death and the grave and was raised to newness of life.  And, in Matthew’s Gospel at the crucifixion, there is an earthquake and all those dead bodies – including us – come out of their graves and start walking around.

That’s why Matthew’s unique ending to his gospel is so powerful.  In these final verses, after his death and resurrection, Jesus does actually send out the disciples – and us today – into the world.  But unlike the meager supplies we hear about in today’s reading, Jesus sends them – and us – with lavish resources.  He tells them he – as the Risen Christ – will be always with them.  

And Jesus doesn’t send us out one by one, but two by two, and 12 x 12, and 70 x 70.  As we stumble along together on the hard road ahead, the Risen Christ joins us, he walks beside us, he stays in the midst of us.   

So, as we gather together this morning and as we go out in the world, our spirits are lifted, our hearts strengthened, and our minds comforted.  Thanks to the Spirit’s work, this team – our team – has the mind and the heart of the Risen Christ to heal the sick, welcome the outcast, and proclaim good news.

Faith over Fear to Move Forward

We are in transition, on the way from the known to the unknown.  We don’t know who our next state governor is going to be, or if the midterms will proceed smoothly, or how or when the Strait of Hormuz will open or gas prices will come down or… or..we can all plug in our own unknowns, right? 

Some of us are facing surgeries, some of us are facing the unknown territory of changes in family members health, some of us are attempting to remodel our kitchens, or remodel our psyches! Some of us are in the process of coming out as gay, some of us are transitioning genders  – All of us are in the transition of aging.

It’s safe to say that most all of these journeys – from the known to the unknown – from the smallest to the largest – require courage and trust and faith.

And that’s what we get in the story of Abraham and Sarah leaving their country and their people to go to a new land, simply on the basis of having been called out and responding with yes, ok, we’ll go.  Responding with yes on the basis of a divine word for which they had no proof. And the always amazing thing, every time we come to this story, is that they this wild word of adventure and hope and danger and possibility resonated with something inside them, and they trusted it, trusted the future of following this call. And so can we.  But before we look forward let’s peer back into the scriptures – The story is that about 4,000 years ago a family of semitic nomads left Ur of the Chaldeans, perhaps in southeastern Iraq near Nasariyah. They settled in Haran, Turkey, on the Syrian border, where a child named Terah was born, and lived.

When Terah died, it was his son Abraham who heard the voice of God calling him to continue the journey his ancestors had begun. So this word didn’t arise out of nowhere. His ancestors were already journeyers. It’s just that they had stopped and settled and become quite successful. But now the word to continue the journey comes: “Leave your country, your people, and your father’s household and go to the land I will show you.”
Abraham believed this word that came from the divine, and so, at the age of seventy-five, “Abram left, as the Lord had told him.” Maybe this voice appealed to an inner nature of adventure, maybe to some restless quality of his nomadic ancestors was passed down to him – who knows? But it’s no wonder that Paul uses Abraham’s astounding faith and trust to ground his theology in his letter to the Romans. By the way, we will be reading through Romans for most of the summer.

Because I am keenly interested both personally and as a preacher in this movement from fear to faith, as I think Paul was as well, I want to spend some time on three basic fears that are common to all of us, fears that could have kept Abraham from moving forward but that he overcame through trust in God – whom I should point out, he more intuited than knew at the beginning of this journey. He and God were not well acquainted. He was busy being a businessman, a high-level rancher, a successful man of the community. He was not a mystic or religious guy. We tend to put these people on a pedestal but they were a whole lot like us.

Ok – so three fears that can enslave us to the past and to the known, even when what we already known is not healthy or helpful. I’m indebted to theologian Dan Clendinin for outlining these three movements from fear to faith.

1. Ignorance. We human beings tend to fear what we don’t know and what we can’t control. Our gay and transgendered friends can testify that moving towards being out and about with who they are might be freeing, but it can also be dangerous, because others often react out of fear about what they don’t know and cannot control. A potent spiritual practice is to embrace our own ignorance. Our own lack of control. It’s freeing to do this, and it keeps us from potentially harming others as we attempt to squash what we can’t control. A dear friend of mine contemplated her own gender transition for many years before making visible changes, and she did so without knowing how others would react or receive her, and she was fully aware of how little control she would have over that. But she found that her trust in God deepened with every step forward she took. The thing was that she had to take the steps with as much faith that she had, and then found that God was meeting her there and calling her onward.  

My friend can testify to the faith that Abraham discovered as he moved forward.  The letter to the Hebrews says: “By faith Abraham obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country.” (Hebrews 11:8–9)
2. Which brings me to the second fear that enslaves us to the past. Fear of Including others who are different from us. Abraham had to open his mind and his heart to receive the stranger. Actually, he had to endure the discomfort and awkwardness of being the stranger. Right? He was the one journeying. He was the immigrant. As the gay theologian Manuel Villalobos Mendoza writes, “A true coming-out demands acceptance of the other as brother and sister. In a true coming out, blessings flow; cultures are exchanged and enriched; the stranger becomes a friend, the sojourner becomes a citizen.”  Through Abraham, the sojourner, the immigrant, the stranger, Genesis says that “all peoples on earth will be blessed.” (12:3). The challenge of inclusion is always with us. God is always setting us towards widening the circle of blessing. Now here’s the rub – widening the circle, including more voices and perspectives necessarily means giving up some power – which brings me to the third fear which is that of powerlessness or impotence.
3. This fear is so strong that it can create extreme backlash. Witness what is happening now, in terms of women’s rights over our own bodies, the flood of anti-trans legislation, the swing towards extreme exclusion of immigrants. This fear of powerlessness is deep seated and dangerous. And so, the spiritual practice is to accept not only our fundamental lack of control, but our fundamental powerlessness. One of the central promises Abraham hears from God is the promise that his progeny will be as many as the stars in the sky. But he is 75. His wife Sarah is far beyond child bearing years. And so both Abraham and Sarah laugh, but God replies, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” (18:14). And so Abraham leads by giving up insisting on his own control and his own power and trusts that God can do what God promises to do. Now the truth is, Abraham also hedged his bets. He had a plan B and a plan C. But the point is – he tried, in spite of his fears, to trust that God will “give life to the dead and call into being things that were not.  Against all hope, Abraham in hope believed and so became the father of many nations,” as Paul writes to the Romans. (Romans 4:17, 21). Our own spiritual growth is built on that same rock – God’s ultimate and infinite power to bring life out of death, something good out of nothing. Resurrection. 

So friends, however fear shackles us, however it manifests in our lives, we can take steps forward into the fullness of life through faith. Maybe it’s on a big adventure like Abraham and Sarah, or maybe it’s just greater ease with what is. However we are called forward, let’s take a deep breath and say yes.

And as we say yes to moving forward in faith, we can use Paul’s words from his letter to the Ephesians: We give Glory to God whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine: Glory to him from generation to generation in the Church, and in Christ Jesus for ever and ever.” (Ephesians 3:20-21)

Acts 2:1-21, Psalm 104:25-29, 32, 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13, John 7:37-3

Amazed and astonished, the [crowd] asked, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? …. in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.”

Have you ever gone somewhere special for a big event? A place where crowds of strangers from all over the world are there with you? This year alone we have the World Cup here in North America, and events all over the country for the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. Events like this are hectic, and joyful, often hot and expensive, and there are usually long lines for the bathroom. I have fond memories of one New Year’s Eve in Times Square, and being in Jerusalem during Ramadan. In New York, I was confident that I was safe – I spoke the language, after all. Jerusalem was a little more unnerving – I spoke neither Hebrew nor Arabic, there were a lot of police and security barriers, the streets were narrow and crowded with worshippers. I remember one time I found myself in a narrow passageway near the Dome of the Rock, with worshippers rushing in the opposite direction I wanted to travel. I just had to wait, and trust I wasn’t lost. if someone around me had spoken English I would have been so relieved!

This, then, is the setting of our Acts reading today. A crowded city, Jewish believers from all over the Diaspora, gathered together, intent on prayer and celebration. And the disciples, still reeling a bit from Christ’s final words, and ascension. Waiting for something to happen. Wondering what comes next.

The author of Acts tells us the disciples “were all gathered together in one place,” probably to celebrate the Jewish feast of Shavuot, the Feast of Weeks. Pentecost, or “Pente-kosti”, in Greek, simply means “50th” – it’s been 50 days since Passover, 50 days since that great feast of sacrifice and salvation. Shavuot was originally a harvest festival, marking when you could harvest the first wheat. And, since all first-fruits belong to God, devout people made pilgrimage to the Jerusalem Temple, bringing loaves of bread made from that first, freshly-harvested wheat. Later, the feast became a time when the people remembered the covenant God made with Noah after the great Flood. Then, after the second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, the feast commemorated the Torah, when the people of God received the law of God, to direct and govern their lives. So – a feast day for receiving, and giving thanks. Amen! But also a day when we remember: it is God who directs our lives, and God is getting us ready to go to some unexpected places.

Think what it means that each of the disciples were speaking in different tongues. That everyone in the crowd – people from all over the Mediterranean world – could understand. The message of the gospel – God’s good news, shown in Jesus, was no longer going to be contained in Jerusalem, or Galilee, or even the cities across the Jordan River. It was time for the good news of the kingdom of God to spread to the whole world. Now people everywhere could hear about Jesus’s healing, compassion, and love. Now their hearts could be touched, and receive the Word of God, and have new life in Christ.

Now, I realize that, depending on how you were raised, this last bit of my sermon might sound pretty “evangelical.” And, in fact, I was raised evangelical. I actually wanted to be a missionary as a teenager; I even studied linguistics and foreign service in college. I read stories of missionaries who went to China and traveled into the rain forests of Ecuador and Papua New Guinea. After college, though, I left that kind of church, and over the years I learned to recognize the harms that western, colonial powers brought, alongside the gospel, over many centuries. But what I continue to be interested in is this question of language.

Communication and connection. What made the day of Pentecost remarkable was that the disciples and the people surrounding them could communicate. They could understand one another. And therefore they could enter into a relationship – with each other, and with God. The Holy Spirit gave them this moment of pure understanding, pure connection – a moment of the kingdom of heaven, here on earth.

Now, it doesn’t seem that this magical moment of linguistic understanding lasted beyond the day of Pentecost. The disciples didn’t instantly become polyglots, speaking all the languages of “Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene.” But they did come away with an experience of understanding, and being understood. Of connection and communication that leads to community. They came away from that day with the understanding that this was now their work to do. To connect. To communicate. And to build the kingdom of God.

Communication takes work. Anyone who has ever had a friend, or parent, or child, or neighbor, or co-worker, or boss or any relationship, really, knows that communicating takes work. Means getting quiet, so you can listen.

Means listening for what might not be said, means noticing emotions and trying to understand motivations, means wanting the other person to be happy and well, means finding common cause and looking for common ground. And that’s just communicating with the people around us in our day-to-day life! All of that before we try to address, say, the school board, or local politics, or the increasing polarization of our national politics.

Communication takes work. And it can only happen if we are willing to turn our minds – and our hearts – towards learning another language – the language of another person’s heart.

We all do this, sometimes out of necessity but also out of curiosity and even love. What language have you learned to speak, to connect, to be heard? How do you talk to your kids, even when they’re making you crazy? How do you communicate with your boss, or a co-worker whose help you need? What do you say – or not say – to your parents, now that you’re an adult? I learned about Pokemon and soccer for the kids at my last church; I speak differently about being a priest to people outside the church than I do to Episcopalians. And I don’t pick fights with my dad about our political differences because I love him. But I do talk with my parents about the issues that are important to me, like migrants and asylum seekers who are afraid, or my friends with trans kids who worry about getting gender affirming care. We can hear one another, because we love one another, and we’ve decided to use language in a way that keeps us connected.

We make these kinds of choices about speaking (or not speaking) out of love, or necessity, or care, or sometimes just to meet our own needs. But what about all the people and situations that we don’t think we “need” to communicate, or connect anymore?

In recent years, we’ve all become sorted by “the algorithm” into more and more separate bubbles of language. We no longer watch the same evening news broadcasts or read the same newspapers; we don’t listen to the same music on the radio or watch the same TV shows. One person gets Kpop and makeup tips in their Tiktok feed; another gets world war II documentaries and tips on grilling on Facebook; another gets quick healthy meals and yoga poses on Instagram. We watch what we want and scroll past what doesn’t interest us. We talk to whom we want and block anyone who irritates us. We no longer have to tolerate difference, or stay in the room when it gets uncomfortable. We are losing the ability, and even the desire to hear, and to speak, these other languages.

But this is not the way of the Spirit, who wants to blow through any barriers in our hearts. This is not the way of the gospel of Jesus, who showed us a life of communication, connection and love.

We are called to show God’s love to the whole world, not just the people around us who we already need and love. We are called to speak Jesus’ words of healing and justice and peace to our whole community, not keep that light for ourselves. The Holy Spirit wants to be blowing and flowing everywhere. Wants us to be connecting and communicating with people who are different from us. People we don’t think we share common ground. People we find challenging to listen to. People we are afraid won’t heart us. People we aren’t sure how to love.

But we are called to this holy work of connecting and communicating God’s love. Of listening and speaking with loving hearts. Of spreading the good news of God’s love everywhere, not just in our little algorithmic bubbles.

And we are blessed. We don’t have to do this on our own! We do it filled with the Holy Spirit. Filled with the confidence and boldness that God’s love is for everyone, and that the Spirit will give us the language we need to communicate it. If we open our hearts to learning to listen, and to speak, with spirit of Pentecost. Amen.