Monday, August 7, 2017

Homily: The Transfiguration [August 6, 2017] Trinity, Santa Barbara


 
Every winter I lead a retreat at our diocesan camp, Camp Stevens, in the mountains outside of Julian, California. Loving those hills as I do, I have never been big on “mountaintop experiences”. They rarely seem to last. The Rocky Mountain High we get on the hilltop often disappears once we near the ground   I don’t really trust the mountaintop experience. Give me the epiphanies on offer at sea level.
I routinely distrusted mountaintop experiences until a couple of weeks ago, when I unexpectedly had the opportunity to spend a Saturday riding up one with two friends from high school. These two guys—Owen and Phil--were in town for the wedding of another classmate’s daughter, and they called me up out of the blue to see if I wanted to go bike riding in Griffith Park with them. Though I usually see them both at our every-ten-year reunions (the next, the fiftieth, comes this October) I hadn’t known them all that well in high school. But I always liked them both a lot, and I’m still spry enough to pedal 50 miles or so, so I said, “Sure, why not?”
We met for breakfast at a coffee shop in Burbank (where we all grew up) and then made our way over to the park. Phil, the buffest of the bunch, suggested we ride the steep back road past Travel Town and the water tower up to the Griffith Park Observatory. Owen and I agreed. As we began our ride, we started talking about our own home lives in high school and the home lives of some of our friends. I was not prepared for what I learned.
We began by sharing some of the family traumas we had ourselves experienced in high school. Even though none of us grew up in Dick and Jane, Ozzie and Harriet households, the three of us came through routine family dysfunctions pretty well. All six of our parents were a bit crazy, but they loved us as best they could.
Then we began talking about our other classmates, people we each knew and admired. I was shocked by what I did not know about them. One boy had been routinely beaten by his father every other day or so. One girl had been serially molested by her father. A girl we all knew turned out to have been living in an almost Dickensian style of poverty. As we named and discussed these friends and others, we began to see that we had all gone through high school without knowing very much about each other at all.
Because all adolescents are perpetually self-involved, it appears that during our high school years we had come to school each day so obsessed with ourselves that we had not really seen each other. The more we pedaled up the hill, the more we began to realize the enormity of the unseen burdens that our friends had carried with them to school each day. As we pulled up finally to the observatory to take selfies by the bronze bust of James Dean, I saw myself and my classmates in a new and surprising way. Not only had I not known them. I hadn’t even known myself very well. I wasn’t as empathetic and compassionate as I had thought myself. The kids I had known and sometimes envied had been struggling with challenges that made mine seem small by comparison.
Today we celebrate the Transfiguration of Jesus. In Luke’s account of this event, Peter, James, and John suddenly see Jesus in a new and surprising light. Their understanding of him, like my understanding of my high school classmates, is changed in an instant. As I think about this story in the light of my own recent mountain experience, two ideas emerge. One of them concerns Jesus’s companions, the other Jesus himself.
What actually happens in the Transfiguration story? Luke tells us that, as Jesus was praying, “the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white”. When I was younger I often had a difficult time with this gospel because it seemed at best supernatural, at worst like a bad laundry detergent commercial. But over the years I have come to see—especially with the help of some conversation with colleagues—that the miracle occurs not so much to Jesus as to his companions. If we read this story with some care, it becomes clear that it is not Jesus who changes; it is his companions’ perception of Jesus that changes.
People followed Jesus for various and sometimes contradictory reasons. Some saw him as a healer, others as a teacher. Some saw him as a nationalist revolutionary who would kick the occupying Romans out of Israel. Some regarded Jesus as a teacher, others as a mere magician. No doubt Peter, James, and John brought various perceptions of Jesus and his mission up the mountain with them that day. What happened in that moment was indeed a transfiguration, but it was a transfiguration of their perception. They suddenly saw—and the presence of the Old Testament heroes Moses and Elijah helped in this—that Jesus was up to bigger things than personal wellness and regime change. They saw that Jesus’s life and ministry were about a cosmic process of redemption, renewal, and hope. Their understanding of Jesus had been too narrow. This mountaintop experience opened their eyes to see Jesus in a new and transfigured way. The one they traveled with was more than a teacher, healer, or revolutionary. He was one whose life and ministry would begin a new age of universal justice, liberation, and peace.
So the first idea asks that we reconsider and perhaps expand our own conception of what Jesus is up to. If that first idea says something about who Jesus is, the second invites us to contemplate both his destiny and ours.
In the second part of the Transfiguration story, a cloud comes and overshadows them. They all enter the cloud, and a voice comes from within it and says, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” As when we read a poem or a story, so when we read the Bible we have to ask ourselves some basic questions. What is this cloud doing here, anyway? What is it supposed to represent?
There are a number of possible answers, but to me the most obvious one is that the cloud has something to do with God. The divine voice issues out of that cloud. Jesus and his companions are drawn into it. Everyone is gathered into this cloudy divine presence. And then we hear God’s voice endorsing Jesus and his purpose.
The story’s first idea helps us see Jesus in a new light. The second idea suggests how he and God and we are all connected in this transformative process. In being drawn into and covered by the cloud, Jesus is taken up into God and God’s life. The teacher, healer, and revolutionary now lives and represents something of God’s own purpose. And what’s true for Jesus is also true for Jesus’s friends: Peter, James, and John are taken up into the cloud as well. Their lives now shine with a purpose beyond themselves. They, too, are part of what God is doing in the world. Their stories have meaning and significance not only in themselves but in the ways they exemplify and enact God’s purposes. Everyone leaves the mountaintop with both a new self-understanding and a new meaning. We are more than the sum of our parts. We are part of who God is and what God is doing in the here and now and in the future.
On a July Saturday this year I went up a hill with my friends and experienced a transfiguration of sorts. I saw them, my classmates, and myself in a new and transfigured way. On a similar day a couple of millennia ago, Jesus and his companions went up another hill and saw themselves, their world, and their God with similar newness. They saw that God was up to something big cosmically, socially, and personally. They understood that God’s purposes are bigger and deeper and more universal than they had previously thought. And they understood that God’s purposes extended even to them. Their lives were no longer only about themselves. Their lives now had meaning and significance and purpose because they, with Jesus, had now been taken up into God’s own life. Their ultimate destiny was assured. They could begin to risk themselves for the transformation of the world.
We come now to gather with Jesus and his companions at God’s table. Just as our lives become more than we thought they were, so do this bread and wine. There is more going on than we usually know. For all our self-reflection, you and I still rarely see ourselves or others very well. Every once in a while, our eyes and our minds are opened to see them as God does. You and I, along with Jesus, his companions, and every person with a sad or painful story, add up to more than we think we do. God is doing something in and through us that will both bring us fulfillment and lead to the redemption of the world. Just as Jesus was transfigured, just as his companions’ understanding of him was transfigured, so let our lives and minds and hearts be opened to the holiness of everything and everyone as we gather together with Jesus and take in the bread that is now more than bread, the wine that is now more than wine. As we do that, God’s gracious purpose will work itself in us, and over time we will become more than just what we thought was ourselves. Amen.


           

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Homily: Roger Kirk Memorial Service [July 29, 2017] St. Paul's, Oregon, Ohio



            I’m Gary Hall, a priest in the church, and I’m here because I’m married to Kathy, who is Betty Kirk’s sister. It has been my peculiar destiny to marry into a family where the men are all expected to be super-nice. I’m not sure I inherited the same “niceness” gene shared by Norman Matheson, Roger Kirk, and Harry Zymaris, but I count it both a great sadness and a great privilege to be presiding at this memorial service for a wonderful and in his own way extraordinary man.
I met Roger Kirk for the first time on the day after Christmas in 1975. I remember this so clearly because I had just driven straight from Boston to Toledo to stay for a few days with Kathy and her family. I had met Betty and the Mathesons in Cambridge a year before, but this trip was my first meeting with Roger. I remember coming into the house on Luverne and seeing Roger, Manhattan in hand, standing by the fireplace in his Harvard sweatshirt. I was ragged and tired from the drive, and Roger offered me a Manhattan. It was the first of many acts of kindness I received at his hands.
            Tim, Joe, and Andy have spoken beautifully about their grandfather and his presence in their lives. I don’t have many stories to add about Roger, but I do have some images:  Roger with a Manhattan in hand by the fire, Roger looking out at the lake, Roger at a baseball game, Roger singing his heart out in church, Roger sitting in the Adirondack chair he helped me assemble in our back yard and reading a book about birds in California, walking with Roger on the beach in Carmel looking at the Hale-Bopp comet in the night sky after Easter in 1997. I know that Roger worked incredibly hard most of his life, but I got to see and know him principally in his rare moments of relaxation. Although we belonged to different political parties, the only serious argument he and I ever had concerned the designated hitter rule. But Roger’s values were solid and pure. He loved his family. He loved nature. He loved baseball. If that version of the Trinity was good enough for Roger, it’s good enough for me.
            We’re gathered this afternoon both to remember Roger Kirk and to give thanks for his life. We have three scripture readings to help us do that.
            Our first reading was from the Wisdom of Solomon. [Wisdom 3: 1-5, 9] “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God,” it goes. “Those who trust in God will understand truth, and the faithful will abide with God in love.” The first thing we should acknowledge about Roger was that he was faithful. Speaking as a priest, I might be misunderstood to be talking about Roger’s religious ideas. But in calling him “faithful” I am thinking more of his behavior than his beliefs. Roger was faithful to all of his commitments. He was faithful in his family relationships, in his business practices, in his civic commitments. He gave himself over to the people and the things that he treasured. This kind of faithfulness—personal, relational, practical—is on the decline these days in our culture. Our loyalties today seem to shift with the winds. But Roger was perhaps one of the last of a generation who committed themselves early in life and then stayed with the people and the causes they had given themselves to. I have been working in the church for almost as long as I knew Roger, and it’s hard for me to express how precious a faithful man like Roger is in the work I do. He is there when you need him and even when you don’t. He keeps his promises. He takes on important yet unrewarding work for the sake of the cause.
            The Wisdom of Solomon tells us, “the faithful will abide with God in love.”  Faithfulness is one of the attributes we prize so highly in God, and it is one of the attributes God prizes so highly in us. Whatever else we might have to say about Roger Kirk, the first thing we need to acknowledge is this: the steady, committed, generous faithfulness that Roger exemplified cannot be overvalued. His life of service to the people and the causes he loved shows us the very definition of what the Bible would call a “good life”: family, nature, baseball; and, of course, friends, community, and church, and work. This is not a glamorous list of commitments, but they’re at the center of the Bible’s description of what it means to be a faithful and righteous human being.
            But it is one of the mysteries of existence that righteous, faithful lives do not always run smoothly. Roger celebrated the joys of family, nature, and community even in the midst of business difficulties and personal suffering. The last decade of his life was overshadowed by his experience of Parkinson’s disease, and those of us who knew and loved Roger felt the cruelty of an affliction that took away some of the basic joys that meant so much to him.  In our second scripture reading from Romans, [Romans 8:14-19, 34-35, 37-39], Paul speaks to an early generation of Christians who also experienced suffering, and while Paul does not attempt to answer the question we all pose (Why?) he does get at what suffering reveals to us about ourselves and God. At the end of our passage, he asks:

Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can “separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord”. Not even illness. Not even death. One of the things a long, faithful life reveals to us is the way God’s universe actually works. Over the course of his life, Roger’s faithfulness was not paid back in good luck or “earthly rewards”. But over the course of his life Roger’s steadfast commitments revealed the depth and extent to which his love of God had patterned his life. Roger’s love and faithfulness revealed both to him and us something about how things finally are.
We spend our lives in the psalm’s words living “in the valley of the shadow of death”. We fear death as the worst thing that can happen to us. But as the 23rd psalm and Paul’s letter remind us, there is always someone alongside of us as we traverse that valley. That one is committed to us. That one is faithful. Roger’s lifelong faithfulness is for each and all of us a sign of God’s unbreakable commitment to us. We are precious to that one, and not even the thing we fear most can alter or cancel that commitment. From our vantage, death looks like a defeat. From God’s vantage, death is just one point on a journey in faith and love and hope.
And that, finally, is where the third reading, our gospel [John 11:21-27], comes in.  Jesus tells Martha as she mourns the death of her brother, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” Martha has complained to Jesus that if he had only been there, Lazarus would not have died. Jesus responds that even those who die are part of the resurrection now.
Those of us who follow Jesus have so gotten used to talking about resurrection in the future tense that we have forgotten to look for signs of it in the here and now. I have no doubt that Jesus’s promise is real, that in and through him and the one he calls his Father you and I and all creation will participate in God’s future. And if read the scriptures aright, I also know that nothing—not even his death and separation from us and not even the pain of his final days—can separate Roger Kirk from the love of the God that he knew and served all his life.
But here is something else I know, and it is something we often miss at occasions like this. I know that every once in a while someone like Roger comes along who shows you what resurrection actually means. When we’re lucky enough to know someone who lives as Roger lived, we get a sense of resurrection not only as a future promise but also as a lived reality now. In all this I am not trying to make Roger holier or nicer or better than he was. I am not saying that Roger was perfect or anything like that. But I am saying that his steadfast, faithful, righteous qualities add up to something like an image of life as it can be lived on God’s terms in the here and now.  Jesus’s resurrection means not only liberation from the fear of death. Jesus’s resurrection means freedom to live as risen people in the midst of life now. Roger Kirk showed at least me what a life lived on God’s terms might look like. And I’ll bet he showed you that, too. For this gift, we will always be grateful.
            We come now to the Eucharist, the meal of bread and wine which Jesus gave us as a way to remember both himself and the kind of living he calls us into. As we gather around God’s table with each other, with Jesus and with Roger (and with Harry Zymaris who was a blood brother with Roger in faithfulness and generosity) let us remember and recommit ourselves to the things in life that really matter. Family. Nature. Community. And, yes, even baseball. If the rules of the church would let me, instead of the wine I would fill the chalice with Manhattans. But you get the idea.
            Roger, we love you. We miss you. We have learned so much from you. And we commit ourselves, each in our own way, to living the faithful, steadfast, generous life that you and your son-in-law Harry have shown us.  Amen.

Monday, July 10, 2017

Homily: The Fifth Sunday after Pentecost [July 9, 2017] Trinity, Santa Barbara



            I begin this morning by quoting a couple of experts. The first is none other than Michael Corleone in Godfather Three, who said when called out of retirement, “Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in.” There aren’t a lot of ways in which I identify with the Godfather, but surprise at suddenly finding oneself back in action might be one of them.
            The second is from a real local noteworthy, our mutual friend Anne Howard, who last week looked me in the eye and said to me—with all the love and empathy and pastoral care at her command—“Don’t mess up.”
            “Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in.” “Don’t mess up.” These are the two watchwords as we gather this morning. I’m very glad to be with you here at Trinity for the next while, and I will do my best not to mess up.
            My wife Kathy and I moved back to Los Angeles from Washington, D.C. When I retired a year ago last February, and for my sermon at the farewell Evensong at the cathedral there I chose as my text a passage from Chapter 17 of Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. If you remember that book, you probably recall the episode where Tom and Huck sneak into their own funeral—which is kind of how I felt preaching at my own farewell service.  As Mark Twain says,
The minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide.

            My own “rank rascalities” aside, I have always found that as we look in history’s rear-view mirror we sentimentalize things that drove us crazy at the time. To tell the truth, I was a bit edgy for the National Cathedral—performing the first same-sex weddings there, working with the White House on gun violence, calling for the Confederate flags to come out of the building and its windows, marching with Black Lives Matter—and if I was edgy there, I’ll probably be a bit stodgy for you. (I can actually say the Nicene Creed all the way through without once crossing my fingers.) But relations between clergy and a congregation are about much more than issues or ideology. They are about the commitment to live and work together in love and mutuality to advance and enact God’s mission in the world. I have long admired Trinity Church for its inclusivity, its outreach, and its joyous spirit, and I consider it a great privilege to join you in your life and worship and work for the next indeterminate interim time.
So I ended one ministry with some words from Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer. Let me begin another one with an even more familiar episode from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, the famous whitewashing story in Chapter two. You may remember that Aunt Polly caught Tom sneaking back into the house in the middle of the night, and she punished him by assigning him to whitewash the fence on a beautiful Saturday morning. Tom quickly figures that the way to get out of this onerous task is to pretend to his friends that it is so much fun that they will actually pay him to let them do it for him.  Mark Twain concludes this chapter by observing:
Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it—namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.

            Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.” Though he was a skeptic in religious matters, Mark Twain might be channeling Jesus here who says, in this morning’s gospel,
Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. [Matthew 11: 28-30]

Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.” I have been a priest for over 40 years now, and one of the things I have learned over time from living and working in the church is that following Jesus is actually fun. The language we use to talk about ministry and discipleship is dark, gloomy, sacrificial language, and it therefore obscures a deep truth about what it means to be a Christian person. Caring for each other, working for justice, praying and advocating for the sick, the oppressed, sitting with the dying—these are not the bitter pills that we swallow as some kind of passport to eternal life. They are eternal life itself. The work we share together as church—praying, celebrating, mourning, serving—this work is life itself distilled into its primary elements. The yoke of Jesus is easy. His burden is light. 
When I was younger, one of my heroes in the ministry was the late Bishop Daniel Corrigan, known I’m sure to many of you. In the 1980s I used to come up from Malibu on Friday mornings once a month to Mount Calvary where Bishop Corrigan would preach and preside at the Eucharist. I was talking with my friend Harvey Guthrie about Dan Corrigan last week, and Harvey told me that he once was part of a conference on the theology of work where Dan was the speaker, and Dan began his remarks by wrapping his lanky form around the lectern, leaning in, and observing, “I haven’t done a lick of work since I was 27.” I think he was in his 60s at the time.
            Now Dan Corrigan lived a very long life, so for him to say, even into his 80s, that he hadn’t done a lick of work for fifty plus years must have said something about what it meant to him to be a follower of Jesus. And when you think about the life that Jesus lived and called others into, it was a life distilled into its primary elements. You and I, as educated first-worlders, often think of Jesus first as a teacher, which of course he was. But if you read the gospels, you’ll see that the people who followed Jesus did so not so much because of what he said as because of how he lived. In a world of political oppression, Jesus lived as a free person. In a world of economic privation, Jesus lived as one blessed with abundance. In a world that drove people into shaming and competition, Jesus lived in mutuality and compassion. In a world that suffered physical and mental illness, Jesus offered healing and renewal. So for Jesus to tell us that his yoke is easy and his burden is light is for him to say something about how we get through the stresses and strains and complexities of what it means to be human in a complicated and sometimes frightening world.
            I don’t know about you, but when I read the New Testament what I find there is a world that looks pretty much like the world I inhabit today. Instead of the Roman Empire we have a political order that seems at worst malevolent and at best out of control. We inhabit a society where people are still persecuted and shamed because of their racial, ethnic, gender, and sexual identity. And, as did our first century forbears, we face the complications and stresses of ordinary human life. Relationships—then as now—can be conflictual. People we love leave us or die. Making a living and raising children and caring for aging relatives—all of these take energy and patience and love. And sometimes we’re just too frazzed to be gracious about it.
Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.” “I haven’t done a lick of work since I was 27.” Life will always offer us challenges and threats, but it will always give opportunities and blessings, too. We don’t find life’s meaning by searching for complicated abstract truths. We find it in shared prayer and faithful action. We meet it as we gather around the table where Jesus presides.
I cannot promise that everything will go smoothly in our time together. I cannot promise that life won’t intervene with its challenges and stresses as we seek, in community, to follow Jesus, love each other, and serve the world. But I can promise that we will find joy and meaning together in our common life. Following Jesus is actually fun. Following Jesus with others is even more than fun—it is what life is finally about.
“Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in.” I am so looking forward to being with you as together we serve Jesus with energy, with compassion, with boldness and without doing even a lick of work. And I swear I will do my best, in our time together, not to mess up. Or at least to do so in interesting ways. Thanks so much for this opportunity to spend this interim time with you. Amen.     

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Homily: Feast of St. Alban [June 25, 2017] St. Alban's, Westwood



            I spent the final years of my professional life living and working on Mount Saint Alban in Washington, D.C., so when the opportunity came around to say something about Alban the Christian saint and martyr on his feast day I couldn’t pass it by. Mount Saint Alban in D.C. is the home to Washington National Cathedral and its three sister institutions—National Cathedral School for girls, Beauvoir [elementary] School, and of course St Albans School for boys.  If you do a Google search for St. Alban, it is this latter institution (including the astronomical tuition it now commands) that gets most of the mentions.
            The historical St. Alban was, of course, the first British martyr. But in the way we tend to trivialize all saints (St. Francis loved domestic pets, St. Valentine flowers and chocolate, St. Christopher surfing), St. Alban seems to be revered mostly because he died on a hill.  The slightly elevated place near London where St. Alban was killed is known as Mount Saint Alban, and its Washington descendant got its name when Joseph Nourse—the first Register of the United States Treasury under four presidents and a renowned nepotist and social climber—bought the farm at the corner of Wisconsin and Massachusetts Avenues and christened it “Mount Alban”. The rest, of course, is history. Except that everybody around the cathedral at least seems to have forgotten the life and witness Saint Alban himself.
            You here in Westwood have not, so let’s spend the next few minutes reminding ourselves why we honor Saint Alban and then reflecting on what his witness might mean for us today.
            We don’t know a lot about the historical Alban, but the Venerable Bede says that he died in the third or fourth century during a Roman persecution. According to Bede, Alban converted to Christianity after witnessing the extraordinary piety of a priest whom he eventually sheltered. When the soldiers came to his house seeking the priest, Alban put on the priest’s cloak and offered himself to the soldiers in the priest’s place. After a series of trials, Alban was beheaded. They say his head rolled downhill and a well sprung up where it landed, but that will have to wait for another sermon.
            There are other supposedly miraculous things that happened during Alban’s execution, but when we strip them away here is what we have: a story of hospitality and sacrifice. Alban got in trouble when he offered shelter to a Christian priest who was being hunted. And he stayed in trouble when he continued to profess belief in the Christian God and not in the Roman Emperor. Hospitality and sacrifice. How do these virtues of the third century speak to us in the twenty-first?
            Listen again to these words of Jesus from today’s gospel [Matthew 10: 34-42]:
Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.
Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.

            The story of Alban is important for all of us—cathedral denizens, Westwood parishioners-- because it reminds us of what a Christian person is supposed to be and do. I think in twenty-first century America we have become confused about that. In the American public imagination, Christians are seen as people who tell others how they should live—a kind of super aggregation of Dana Carvey church ladies. Within the church itself, we seem to be a group that wants to argue about what we think Christianity is supposed to mean. Public Christianity has become a hyper-virtuous scolding. In-house Christianity has turned into an endless series of theological litmus tests.
            At its best, however, Christianity has never been about telling other people how to live or what to think. Indeed, at its best Christianity has never been much about “meaning” at all. The gospel is not about thought. It is about action. In a pragmatic tradition like ours (Anglicanism), following Jesus has always been less about theology and more about behavior. We imitate Jesus not by trying to think like him. We imitate Jesus in trying to act like him. It’s the same with those exemplary Christians, the saints. We trivialize saints by downplaying their witness and emphasizing the cute things associated with them. We trivialize Jesus by turning his community into an academy, a debating society, or an association of scolds.
            In the tenth chapter of Matthew, Jesus does not tell his companions what to think or what to tell others to think. Instead, he tells his companions what to do; and there are only two things. He tells them to welcome others as they would welcome him. He tells them that if they want to save their lives they must lose them.  He talks about hospitality. He talks about sacrifice.
            Hospitality and sacrifice: plain and simple yet hard to pull off. No doubt it is easier to argue about the creed, the Trinity, the virgin birth, the resurrection or to lecture others about their reproductive lives than it is to practice hospitality and exemplify sacrifice. But these two practices—and not speculation about them—are what Jesus commands. Give a cup of cold water to these little ones. Those who lose their life for my sake will find it.  Plain, simple, yet hard to do.
            It is easier to name a mountain after a saint than it is to pattern your life by him. Because their examples are so challenging, we will always treat saints as mascots rather than examples. But the fact that you all give one day a year to celebrate Saint Alban says something about the nature of this faith community; it says that you remain committed to patterning yourselves as a parish after the example of his witness. And just as Jesus advises us in the gospel, so did St. Alban live his life in the service of these two virtues. Give a cup of cold water to these little ones: hospitality. Those who lose their life for my sake will find it: sacrifice. These are fitting virtues for an urban faith community, especially today.
            First there is hospitality. Alban sheltered a person who was being unjustly pursued by the state. In third century Roman Britain, Christian clergy were the hunted. In twenty-first century nativist America there are a host of people in jeopardy, but in our place and moment it is undocumented immigrants and the refugees who need our sheltering care. “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.” Under Susan’s leadership, you here at St. Alban’s have begun the work of collaborating with others to offer sanctuary to those who are now the targets of our own government. In so doing you are following the example of Alban, your patron saint. The sanctuary movement has both scriptural and saintly warrant. There is nothing else you all can do together as important as this. Offering sanctuary to the undocumented is not only good scriptural and spiritual practice. It is a witness to a confused church and world of what Christianity is actually about.
            And then there is sacrifice. Somewhere along the line we Americans turned Christianity into a philosophy of happiness and success. There’s nothing wrong, of course, with being happy or successful. It’s when we turn happiness and success into Christian virtues that we get into trouble.  Happiness and success are fine, but they are at best accidents, and they are not the point of the Christian life. The point of the Christian life is in losing oneself on behalf of others, and in so doing finding not only oneself but finally getting what it’s all about. We talk about sacrifice as if it’s the bitter pill we must swallow as part of all this Jesus business. In doing so we miss the joy of what the Jesus movement is all about. In spite of what you might see on TV or hear from our national leaders, generosity and compassion are not only virtues—they are pleasures. A lifetime of being kind and other-directed actually turns you into somebody you might want to be. Not the kind of news you’re going to get from an early morning presidential tweet, but there you are.
            Your patron, St. Alban, knew all that. He offered hospitality to one in danger and finally gave his life as a witness to the generous and embracing love he found in donning the priest’s cloak. You and I will probably not be called to martyrdom, but we are called, as was Alban, to lives of hospitality and sacrifice. As followers of Jesus and companions of Alban, our job is neither to make it to the top nor to tell others how to live. As followers of Jesus and companions of Alban, our job is to welcome others and lose ourselves in their service. It’s a simple calling, and a noble one. As we gather now around God’s table, to that calling we once again commit ourselves, and for that calling we continue as always to give thanks. Amen.






Monday, June 12, 2017

Homily: Trinity Sunday [June 11, 2017] St. Edmund's, San Marino



            What a week we’ve had: The Senate Intelligence Committee hearings! The UK election! The NBA Finals! The French Open! The Stanley Cup! What’s a preacher to choose? I know: let’s talk about the Trinity.
As you all probably know by now, Trinity Sunday is the preacher’s graveyard. I cannot begin even to number, much less recall, the horrible sermons I have endured on this day—some of them delivered by me. I used to be a seminary professor and dean, and when I had that job I rarely gave advice. But one thing I regularly used to say to graduating students was that, when they got ordained, they should avoid this Sunday like the plague. Talk about anything on Trinity Sunday—baseball, the weather, even if you have to politics, but please do not try to explain the Trinity in fifteen minutes.
            Of course, being students, they regularly disregarded my advice, figuring that they alone had the homiletical key to unlocking the mystery that has preoccupied theologians and philosophers for 1600 years. So they ascended pulpit steps and gave little lectures that, for all the good they did, could have been talking about Fermat’s last theorem or Schroedinger’s cat. Their auditors smiled politely and then avoided eye contact and greeting them at the door. The new preachers left their churches realizing that, like mountaineers, they had assaulted Everest and had had to turn back.
            So yes, today is Trinity Sunday. It is the First Sunday after Pentecost, the first Sunday in what we call “ordinary time”, and in setting aside this Sunday to give thanks for the doctrine of the Trinity, the church calendar is naming this doctrine as one of the principal gifts of the Spirit given to us at Pentecost. Now I did not tell my students to avoid trying to explain the Trinity out of any doubt about it myself. I have been a priest for 40 years now, and while my intellectual understanding of God as revealed to us in three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit---has grown gradually over the years, my lived experience of the Trinity is exponentially deeper than it was when I was in seminary. So the doctrine of the Trinity is one I both publicly affirm and personally believe. But the doctrine of the Trinity is, like all things we receive from the Spirit, a gift. And when you receive a gift you don’t try to explain it. You give thanks for it. And you try to figure out what to do with it.
            Happily, one of the other gifts we have this morning is a gospel passage from the very end of Matthew [Matthew 28: 16-20], chosen I suppose because it’s the one place in the New Testament where Jesus actually mentions the members of the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—by name. This passage also goes by the name of “the Great Commission”, because in it Jesus commands his apostles to “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations.” Over the centuries of the church’s life, the Great Commission has been read as our warrant for evangelism. When Jesus mentions the Trinity, he does so not an abstract idea but a missional command.
            This is a jam-packed little passage, and there is so much to say about it. So let me just tick off four quick aspects that might help us all live into what it means to know, love, and serve God in what our proper preface today calls “trinity of persons and unity of being”.
            It’s brief, so let’s hear this gospel passage again:
The eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” [Matthew 28: 16-20]
            One thing to notice about today’s gospel is its setting. Jesus’ core followers gather on a mountain, and we hear that “when they saw him, they worshipped him; but some doubted.” Some doubted. The first point about living into the mystery of the Trinity is that some are always going to doubt it. I worked for many years at All Saints Pasadena, and in the days when they used to say the Nicene Creed there, parishioners would opt in and out of reciting it as their personal faith permitted. We would begin, “I believe in God,” and then half the congregation would drop out, unable I guess to go the next step and affirm the divinity of Jesus. Many would chime back in when we mentioned the Spirit, though “holy catholic church” always gave them trouble. The first point: even the disciples doubted, so it’s OK if you do too. Following Jesus is not brainwashing, and the church is not a Maoist re-education camp. Following Jesus is less about what we think and more about what we do. I’m not saying that belief is not important. I am saying that it’s not as important as we usually think it is. And that’s where the other three points come in.
            After they have gathered on the mountain, Jesus’s followers hear him specifically tell them to do three things: make disciples of all nations, baptize them, and teach them. The Holy Trinity in this passage is a trinity less of ideas than it is a trinity of actions. Jesus’s final earthly words to his followers tell us not what to believe but what to do.
            Jesus tells us first to “make disciples of all nations”. This is a hard one for Episcopalians, but there is no way around it. Polite and reticent as we are, you and I have been commissioned to tell others about our faith and invite them into the community which nurtures it. This does not mean that we are supposed to be storm troopers of intolerance. We can respect the faith of others while telling them about our own. In witnessing to our own faith these days we are more likely to encounter those who have no religion rather than those who practice Judaism, Buddhism, or Islam. So the issue here is not cultural imperialism; it is simple hospitality. There are a lot of people in our world whose lives would be better if they knew a church like ours not only existed but also welcomed them. Following Jesus on Trinity Sunday means first that we let other people know that he is important to us we welcome them into his community.
            Jesus’s second imperative: that we baptize. There are two great sacraments in our church, and because Eucharist has become so central in our lives we tend to neglect Baptism. Over the course of the last 60 or so years, Christians around the world have rediscovered the importance of Baptism in the early church and its radical implications for us. In Baptism we get both an identity (a name) and a commission. We are claimed as God’s own and we are authorized to serve each other and the world in God’s name. Easter and Pentecost are about many things, but at their heart they are festivals of freedom, celebrations of the way you and I and all creation have been set free by the life and death and resurrection of Jesus. Part of this new Easter life is the opportunity to tell other people about it. Part of this new Easter life is the opportunity to free ourselves, each other, and the world from the imprisoning chains of oppression in all its forms—social, cultural, relational, and yes, political. Baptism empowers us to be agents of God’s love, justice, healing, and liberation in the world. Jesus commands us not only to live as free people ourselves but also to offer that freedom to others.
            And then, finally, there is this teaching thing. In his Great Commission, Jesus makes us not only liberators but teachers. One of the gifts of being a Christian in America derives from the First Amendment—there is no established religion in the United States, and we all rightly respect everyone’s religious principles (or lack of them). But respect for everyone’s religion does not mean that all religious ideas are created equal. There are a lot of bad religious ideas abroad in America right now—some of them horribly repressive, others laughably wifty and vague. A priest friend of mine says the problem is not that people don’t believe anything; it’s that people believe everything: a little bit of Jesus, a little bit of Buddha, throw in some rabbinical stories and maybe some yoga, and you’ve got the patchwork quilt of 21st century American religion. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I served as the vicar in Malibu. Am I a fool to believe that it is possible to be both multicultural and sound? That we can share the love and compassion and justice and forgiveness of Jesus without sounding either like schoolmarms or airheads? Following Jesus implies both gifts and obligations. Teaching with both soundness and respect for others means, in the words of Emerson, that we will say less “thou shalt” and more “I ought.”
            As they gathered one last time on the Galilean mountain with Jesus, his companions met him with a mixture of faith and doubt. The life of faith will always work this way. Some of us will have total faith, some of us will have no faith, most of us will have some mixture of one and the other. The late Bishop Fred Borsch used to say that the creed, like all doctrines of the church, is the faith of the whole church, and sometimes it takes the whole church to believe it. Jesus’s Great Commission doesn’t obligate us to think or believe anything. All it requires of us is that we act in love, compassion, healing, and forgiveness towards ourselves and others. Believing in the Trinity is the whole church’s job. All you and I are required to do is give thanks for this mysterious gift and then do what we can to live out its gracious implications in our lives, for each other, and the world. Amen.


Saturday, June 10, 2017

Homily: Frederick Houk Borsch Memorial Service [June 10, 2017] St. Augustine's, Santa Monica


Gary Hall
St. Augustine’s, Santa Monica
June 10, 2017 [Frederick Borsch]

All of us see Fred Borsch from a different perspective. For most of us he was our bishop or seminary or college dean. For some an irreplaceable family member. For others a mentor and friend. For many a New Testament scholar and teacher. For others yet a civic leader and public intellectual. Maybe even a tennis partner.
            To me, Fred was many of those things and something else. In my experience of him, Fred Borsch was primarily a poet and a lover of poetry. I didn’t know this at first about him. My early experiences of Fred were of a rather distant public figure—my bishop. Early on, Fred was a man I admired from a distance and listened to with respect. It was only as I was fortunate enough to get to know him as we worked together—first here, then in New Haven and Philadelphia and finally in Washington-- that I began to realize what an enormous heart and soul he had. And his heart and soul found their best expression in reading, talking about, and writing poetry.
            I found that out one night when, after a long and contentious meeting with a priest accused of sexual misconduct, Fred went to his desk and pulled out an essay he had written on George Herbert’s poem, “Artillery”. Herbert’s poem compares the life of prayer to an ongoing battle between the speaker and God, describing both God and the speaker as “shooters”. It concludes with the speaker’s admission that we and God live with each other in tension and an uneasy peace:
“Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deign
To enter combat with us, and contest
With thine own clay. . .
                            There is no articling with thee:
I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.”

Fred knew that I had been an English teacher, and it appeared he wanted to redeem what was left of a painful and conflictual evening by thinking about prayer and words and how we use them, about how God can take even human aggression and pain and turn them into something beautiful and true. We talked that night for probably an hour about George Herbert’s beautiful and vexing poem, and in that moment I saw a side of this public man that I didn’t know existed. Fred said that Herbert was right: we and God are “shooters both”, each assaulting the other with our various weapons of complaint and love. I saw my bishop in a way I hadn’t seen him before, and being let into this aspect of his life and thought was both a revelation and a privilege.
            I will come back to Fred’s poetic side in a bit, but I don’t want us to forget that he was also a public figure. Fred made his living first as an interpreter and expositor of the New Testament, then as a public articulator of Jesus and his priorities to the wider community. Fred Borsch was a very American type of exemplary English bishop, a kind of bishop we don’t see that much in the U.S.—one who acts both as shepherd to the gathered church and to the wider public within his diocese. Fred wrote books, sermons and op-ed pieces, and he used all these forms to articulate a gospel vision of what a just society might look like.
In the gospel reading we just heard, the Beatitudes, Jesus gives his strongest expression of the gap between God’s priorities and ours. “Blessed are the poor,” he says. There is a connection between Jesus’s words and those of George Herbert. If we are “shooters both”, then the Beatitudes are God’s opening volley in an ongoing contest about our social and personal values. We want to live for ourselves. God wants us to live for the greater good. Our culture equates blessedness and prosperity. God’s values endorse something else: poverty, meekness, righteousness, mercy, purity in heart, peacemaking. God’s values always rile us just a bit, and so the life of prayer, like the life of the church itself, is often full of conflict. To Fred’s mind, it was the job of the church to hold out the gospel vision to a beautiful yet confused world. In Fred’s practice, a bishop spoke both to the church and to the world about how we might, together, bridge the gap between is and ought, between God’s vision and ours.
            Fred spoke to us during his career first as a scholar and teacher, then as a preacher and public figure, finally as a novelist and poet. In retirement, Fred produced a dizzying number of books—essay collections, meditations, poems, a history of religion at Princeton, and even a couple of novels. In his final novel, My Life for Yours, Fred created a character very much like himself, a retired school head and English teacher named Harold Barnes, who dies during a gym workout and then finds himself alive in the body of a much younger (and very different) man. It is a wonderfully inventive and entertaining book, and part of its fascination lies in the way Fred imagined both a different career path (he could have been a great teacher and schoolmaster) and how those of us who have lost him might react and carry on after his departure. The novel shows Harold’s widow and children first grieving, then accepting, then making their way in the world anew. When I first read My Life for Yours a couple of years ago I thought of it as merely the counterfactual imaginings of a vigorous man in his seventies. Now I see it as Fred’s extended meditation on his own death and how those of us who loved him can make our way through grief, in John Milton’s phrase, “To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.” To be sure, Fred was a scholar and a thinker and a leader. He was also, to the end, a pastor, seeking to lead both himself and us through life’s deep woods into the open spaces of God’s love.
            Earlier in this service, Fred’s son Matthew read the title poem from Fred’s collection, Parade: 
[Parade
“I want to see, I want to see,”
my little grandson pulls on me.
I lift Jack up that he may point
to firemen smiling from their truck,
hooting when they whoop its horn.
Next horses and a marching band,
and, by God, an elephant thumps ahead
of open cars and pretty girls, I notice,
waving to a squad of cyclists,
black and red and white and blue
in the parade that’s passing through.

It’s then I see I want to see
new poets, next musicians, scouts,
explorers of the quarks and stars,
even global warming, if more caring,
undoing of some old diseases:
all he may see this century,
seeing he cannot shoulder me.]

Like My Life for Yours, the poem “Parade” is a witty yet poignant reflection on life’s finitude. The speaker hoists his grandson on his shoulders to see the literal parade, realizing that a figurative parade of future events is coming, that his grandson will not be able to return the favor, and that little Jack will have to be his eyes and ears for the coming century. The book Parade ends with a similar poem, “As Well”:
             
As Well
Of course we die alone,
marked by loss and brokenhearted,
even doctors say so,
and eternity seems vast,
while there is love, as well, my gratitude,
and where go these unless you—
as I am parted?

This poem, “As Well”, gives voice to the same kind of love of life and longing for connection after death. If all we knew about Fred Borsch was these two poems, we would think of him as a rather witty (if mordant) observer of life and death and their respective ironies. But Fred was not only a poet. He was a pastor and preacher. He probably never became an English teacher for the same reason he never played Major League Baseball: as satisfying as those career choices might have been on one level, they would not have enabled him to express the depth and extent of his faith. Fred not only believed what we proclaim today in this liturgy. He lived it and wanted to make it accessible to the rest of us. And that is why there is yet one more thing to say.
Several years ago, Fred sent me the text of an Easter hymn he had written, and though I don’t believe it has yet been set to music, the text of “Easter Now” should be in whatever incarnation of our Hymnal that comes next. Fred Borsch the poetic ironist knew we die alone and that we will not see the parade ahead of us, but the Fred Borsch the Christian person knew something more. He knew that the love and hope and compassion and goodness we meet in Jesus and in each other will outlast and finally transform all those other things that oppress and frighten us—even (in some mysterious way we cannot entirely grasp) death.
I’m thankful for so many things about Fred Borsch, but today I’m perhaps most thankful that a man like Fred could hold together such a sharply questioning critical intelligence and such a deep and compelling faith in one complex human identity. On more than one occasion I heard Fred say, at a funeral like this one, that the mystery is not, “Why did God take him from us?” but rather, “Why did we get to have him in the first place?”
Easter is God’s answer to both questions, taking the pain and the joy of death and life and somehow making them into a new way for us to be together in the world. Here, finally is how Fred announces Easter in his hymn text, “Easter Now”:

EASTER NOW
Now to broken-hearted yearning,                                  
Now for love such love returning                                   
In upper room, light from a tomb.                                 
The wounds, his voice, again bread broken,
Rabounni, Jesus, from death woken.   [Alleluias]                      

His Spirit’s peace upon us breathing,
Our hoping, hearing hearts for healing
That we might see how it could be,
And now does daystar’s courage dawn,
And now can be our morning song. [Alleluias]

            Thank you, God, for the gift of Easter. Thank you for this community that celebrates and proclaims it. And thank you today most of all for the gift of the life and ministry and witness of Frederick Houk Borsch. Amen.