She descends, and nothing is the same again

A sermon for Pentecost Sunday

“Suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them.”

The language we hear in our Acts reading today is crafted to be rich, metaphorical and colorful.  It’s a crazy scene.  What’s going on?

During the 40 days after his resurrection and before his ascension, Jesus had been moving amongst the disciples again; he filled their broken hearts with purpose and hope. Before he ascends, he tells them to gather in Jerusalem for the festival of Pentecost and he has promised them that the Holy Spirit will come upon them there. And so they are gathered, all together in one place.  And even with this sense of immanence, the absence of Jesus must have been palpable.  The apostles must have yearned for his presence, and they must have been stunned, delighted, and amazed at what happened in that room. For what an entrance the Holy Spirit makes!

I imagined the scene like a family reunion, with one beloved member—the head of the family--absent, and a new family member invited to take his place. And who shows up but the crazy aunt in the family! She blows in, with flaming red hair, and generally disrupts everything in a most unpredictable and glorious and holy way. The crazy aunt who laughs a little louder than everyone else, speaks the truth in a disarming way, rearranges the seating chart, blows open the windows, and takes the party outside. The people at the party just have no idea what hit them, but they know that everything is different now. Holy disruption indeed!!

Perhaps it was the same Spirit breathing into me that brought this image into mind when I went to see the musical Mame a few years ago. It happened to be during Pentecost season, and I have never forgotten the image. And so, ever the scholar, my research this week had me watching the movie Auntie Mame, starring Rosalind Russell, who created the role on Broadway as well as in the film. People, I think Mame is that crazy aunt!

Mame greets Patrick, who has no idea how his life is going to change...

She is a flamboyant (get the flame reference?) exuberant woman, famous for her extravagant parties that bring together eclectic, bohemian guests.  A literary critic described her as having “a wit as sharp as vodka and a heart as free as her spirit.” Her motto is, “Life’s a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!” In the musical version of this story, her admirers sing to her: “You made us feel alive again, you gave us the drive again…” (Or in the words of our psalm, “You send forth your Spirit and we are created, and so you renew the face of the earth.”)

Now—do you see what I mean about Mame and the Holy Spirit?

The story is set in the 1920’s. Auntie Mame adopts her orphaned nephew Patrick and has to fight her late brother’s stuffy lawyers, who want him sent to an exclusive (stuffy) boarding school.  She wants to send him to a progressive school, because she wants Patrick to be a sensitive, caring, modern young man, open to everything life has to offer. (After all, “Life’s a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!”) She introduces him to her friends—an exiled Lithuanian bishop, a washed-up singer, all kinds of avant garde artists, musicians, and writers—even an unwed mother she has taken in, to the shock of polite society. Before one of her parties, she suggests that Patrick write down the words he hears that are new to him, and later, he approaches and asks, “what is a heterosexual?” It’s a subtle allusion, but judging by the characters at her parties, I’m pretty sure Mame would be front and center in the Pride parade in downtown Portland next weekend. And Patrick? He is absolutely thrilled with it all. “She made him feel alive again. She gave him the drive again.” Mame had come into his life like a breath of fresh air.

In fact, the word Spirit comes the Latin word for breath—and so to be “inspired” is literally to be breathed into, as in Genesis, God breathed into Adam and he became a living being. In the Old Testament, God’s Spirit is in the tabernacle, the tent of meeting, the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night. This weekend, Jews celebrate their Pentecost, called Shavuot—which, like the word Pentecost, means 50 days. It celebrates the gift of the Torah, how Jews believe God is made known to them. Whether as a small, still voice, a mighty wind, or a flame of love, the Spirit’s presence is the difference between a formless void and the perfect shalom of God’s creation; between a mere assembly of people and the very church of Christ in the world.

And while the comparison with Mame may be frivolous, who the Holy Spirit is, exactly, is not something Jesus said much about. Instead we recognize the Spirit in the stories of the lived faith and transformative works of the early believers.  And today, on what we recognize as the birthday of the Church, we are reminded again that this is how the Spirit works:  she hangs out with people. Jesus speaks of an Advocate, “the Spirit of truth,” whom we will know because the Spirit will abide with us and in us. She speaks to us in whatever language we understand, and will give us words and inspire us to the works which will make Christ known in the world.

But the Spirit is not neutral.  For she is one with God, and so carries God’s agenda of justice and truth and inclusion wherever she goes. The Spirit came to challenge the powers who rejected Jesus and rejected his message. And, as our Acts reading emphasizes, she both glories in diversity and unites across difference.  The Spirit blows where the Spirit will, across borders, transcending walls and boundaries, and speaking her truth into the hearts of the most and least likely in turn.

Now, back to Mame. Later in the story, Patrick’s trustee has prevailed and sent him to a college more to his liking, and Patrick has become a bit—well, conventional. Mame becomes concerned when she meets his fiancée, a stiff, vacuous socialite. Sensing holy disruption may be in order, Mame gets herself invited to the fiancee’s family compound in a “restricted” community in Connecticut—“restricted,” meaning it excludes Jews and other so-called undesirables.  Well, Auntie Mame will have none of that. She reciprocates with an invitation to a party on her own turf, and through a carefully and creatively planned disaster, she exposes the narrow-mindedness of the fiancée and her family, and Patrick sees the light.  And oh, by the way, she buys the lot next to their home in that snooty suburb, and builds a home there for unwed mothers.  Holy disruption, indeed.

The Spirit is doing the same today.  Like those early apostles, we begin as disciples, followers of Jesus, but we are filled with the Spirit in order that we, too, might become his apostles.  Messengers.  Those who are sent.  And while the Spirit knows how to work in us in silence, with a still, small voice, she is an extrovert:  she inspires us so that we may inspire others.

This day, Pentecost, we’ve decked out our sanctuary to celebrate the birth of the Church—the anniversary of the gift of the Spirit as the animating presence in the Church, and we have set a special place at our table for her.  But she doesn’t just make a birthday appearance: she’s already here. We have manifested her in the welcome and hospitality we show to others.  Her creative inspiration is present in the architecture of this place and in every Sunday School and preschool classroom, in our art camp, and in our beautiful celebration today.  She is present when we open our hearts to welcome people into this place and invite them to participate with us in our work of holy disruption. Her truth has inspired us to open our eyes to the world’s hunger and serve our community. Surrendering to her inspiration, and letting it lead us, is what this community at St. Gabriel’s is all about.  

So let us affirm her. She is present and accounted for:  Our friend, our advocate, the crazy aunt in the family of God.  Let us celebrate today all the ways the Spirit has inspired us in the past, and ask her to breathe into us anew, to wash over us, to shake us up, to take away our fear, and to fill us with creativity and purpose. Because life is a banquet, my friends, and there are so many pour souls who are starving to death. 

We are going to need a bigger table. 

Preached June 9, 2019 at St Gabriel Episcopal Church, Portland, OR 

Lectionary readings:  Genesis 11:1-9; Psalm 104:25-35, 37; Acts 2:1-21; John 14:8-17, 25-27

Therefore according to his command....

Whoops, this is a little out of order:  a Maundy Thursday sermon. 

A story is told of a young man, known to be unsavory, who falls in love with a saintly young woman. Because of his reputation, he knows that she will not so much as look in his direction. So he slips into the vault of the town cathedral, dons one of the masks of the saints used in the annual town festival, takes on the demeanor and behavior of the saint, and begins to woo her. Surely enough, over time, she begins to fall in love with him. As the relationship flowers and deepens, the young man’s scoundrel friends become envious of his success with the saintly young woman, and one day, out of sheer spite, they challenge him in the center of the town square, in the presence of his beloved, to take off the mask and reveal his true identity. Dejected, knowing that all is lost, he slowly removes the mask…

…only to reveal that his face has become the face of the saint. 

This story comes from a book by one of my professors in Virginia, James Falwell. He himself wasn’t sure of its origins, but its inspiration is likely medieval dramas which played with the concept of the mask (like Cyrano de Bergerac). The “mask” metaphor is also found in the writings of church fathers and mothers, about our desire and our search for God.

Professor Farwell told the story to illustrate something about the mystery of the Eucharist. Today, in our Epistle, we hear Paul’s “words of institution,” that is, the command given to us by Jesus at the Last Supper, along with the command to love one another. When we who call ourselves followers of Christ share Eucharist together, we put on a mask, like that young man. We enact and speak in ritualized ways that reflect the actions and attitudes of those who follow Jesus of Nazareth. We praise God, the source of life, beauty and truth; we listen to the history of God’s love for us and our struggle to flourish as humans in the service of God; we lament what is broken in the world; we call to mind our obligation to help those who are broken and how imperfectly we practice that.  Then we commit again to “walk in love as Christ loved us,” making peace with each other and welcoming each other to a shared table

We bring our desires for God and for our Life to the altar—sometimes with intention and focus, and fully present--other times more timid, or unfocused. In directing our actions together we unite under Christ and with Christ. His blood—the blood of life—enters our own bloodstream; his body, which he asks us to take, and eat—literally to chew on--nourishes our bodies. Like the young man in the story, we seek the one we love--or try to love--or want to love more deeply; and we do this by acting and speaking in ways consistent with the nature of the One we love.  Just as the young man in the story became the one he longed to be, worthy of the love of the saintly young woman by imitating the saint.

These latter chapters in John’s Gospel, from which our reading is taken, are full of Jesus’ instructions to his followers.  Jesus had a problem to solve—he knew where he was going, but his disciples could not grasp it. They are huddled together in fear and terror in the place we call “the Upper Room.”  They are, to put it frankly, freaking out.  In these chapters, Jesus uses his last hours with them to pray for them, to teach them, to love them, to encourage them, to prepare them to be the church without him on earth. Throughout these chapters, the disciples say, “how can we be your people if you are not with us?  Without you, what are we supposed to do?” Along with his teachings, Jesus gives us two practical commandments to answer that question—what are Christians to do? In our Gospel we hear him tell us the first one:  love one another, as I have loved you.  He embodies that in action with the washing of the feet. And then, in the sharing of the meal, he gives us the first instructed Eucharist.

This Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples—from which our Eucharist came--was a Passover meal. In Exodus we hear God’s commandment to mark the Passover, to commemorate when, by the blood of the lamb, the people were liberated from their slavery and given passage to the promised land. The Passover Seder still gives strength to Jewish people. They are commanded to celebrate it every year. It reminds them of the goodness of God, the gift of God’s liberation of their people, and holds them together to remember who they are and whose they are. And in the Last Supper Jesus inaugurates it as a Christian tradition and gives it Christian meaning—and so we say, “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.” In telling us to continue it, Jesus marks his own sacrifice for us, not just as a history lesson, but as a reminder of who WE are, and whose we are.  This is where the incarnation pivots from Jesus’ bodily presence on earth, which is coming to an end, and Christ with us, in the Holy Spirit and the sacrament.  And so he says, “do this.” Twice in our Eucharist, with the bread and the wine, he says, “Do this, in remembrance of me.” 

Eucharist, by Gisele Bauche 

There’s a saying about the Episcopal Church:  We pray what we believe, and we believe what we pray. 

Well, some of us do. At least some of the time.

I mean, sometimes we’re not always feeling it. And you know what, that’s ok. Woody Allen once said, 90 percent of life is showing up. In the 12-step movement, there is the expression, “Fake it until you make it.” It says, “I’m willing to put one foot in front of the other, work the program, keep coming back, go through the motions– and do that on faith even if I don’t always believe it or understand it – that through this work, the belief and understanding will come.” In fact, studies show that taking on a more positive outlook – pretending to be happy when not, or adopting a strong, non-verbal body posture despite not feeling the confidence that the posture would suggest – has the effect of moving us in the direction that we are acting out. Neuroscience now confirms how much of what we do with our bodies wires our brain, just as much as the other way around--perhaps even more.  So when we show up with our bodies—our thoughts and beliefs then follow. If you’ve ever said, “I almost didn’t come to church this morning, and now I am so glad I did”—you know those times when your body leads the way.

And so we do this:  We do this in that faith that what we see, say, sing, hear, taste and even smell – is forming us, one Eucharist at a time, to be like little Christs. We do this to literally and figuratively become members of Christ’s body—of one mind with Christ, and Christ’s hands and feet in the world. And in so doing, we affirm that being Christian is not so much about holding particular beliefs or doctrine about God or the world, but about becoming a certain kind of person before God and in the world.

Robert Taft, a scholar of liturgy, wrote that, “the purpose of Eucharist is not to change bread and wine, but to change you and me: through baptism and eucharist it is WE who are to become Christ for one another, and a sign to the world that is yet to hear his name.”

So pay particular attention to the sights and sounds of this mystery as we celebrate it tonight. As you take the bread and the wine, ask for it to work in your body, to change you, a little at a time, to be a little more Christlike, so that we make the world a little closer to God’s kingdom. As St Augustine said, “be a member of the body of Christ in order to make your Amen true…Be what you can see, and receive what you are.”

That is, a beloved child of God, and a living member of the body of the one true Christ.  

Preached April 18, 2019 at St Gabriel Episcopal Church, Portland, OR

Lectionary readings: Exodus 12:1-4, 5-14; Psalm 116:1, 10-17; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-17; 31b-35

Our Home In-Between

Where in the world is Jesus Christ? That’s the question our Gospel takes up today, and it brought to mind a powerful book by the African-American author Ta-Nehisi Coates whose title suggests an answer to the question: Between the World and Me.  Just six chapters, it’s in the form of an open letter by the author to his 15-year-old son. As a young black man in a world where fathers and mothers have to worry about the safety of their black sons, Coates’s son is starting to ask questions of his father about justice. Coates knows that his son will have to make his own decisions about how he will be in the world. He wants to protect him from it, but he cannot. So in this letter, as in those upper room conversations between Jesus and his disciples—he is helping him face reality, allaying his fears, and offering encouragement. Somewhere between the world—all that it offers, and all that it threatens—and everything Coates has taught him, along with who he was created to be—is where he must find his path.

Now Coates does not hold back in describing the fierce reality of the world as he sees it. Still, he writes: “I would not have you descend into your own dream. I would have you be a conscious citizen of this terrible and beautiful world. My work is to give you what I know of my own particular path while allowing you to walk your own.” 

And likewise Jesus helps his followers, who want to know, just as we want to know:  Where does God live in this world, which can be so beautiful, and so terrible, and how do we locate God among us?

In this Gospel reading, Jesus takes up a question from a prior verse, from Judas (not Judas Iscariot—he’s already left the building to do his nefarious business), who asks him: “Lord, how is it that you will reveal yourself to us, and not to the world?” Will you be with us and others just can’t see you? Is an invisibility cloak involved?  It’s a question rooted in confusion, and anticipatory grief about the impending crucifixion. Where in the world will you be, if you are not among us?, they want to know. Where will we be, in relation to you?

And Jesus answers frankly—I will not be with you in this way any more. It’s not the plan. My presence will always be with you, and the Advocate, that is, the Holy Spirit, will show you everything you need to know. So don’t worry—it will be ok. In fact, better than ok.  For you will receive a peace the world cannot give, the peace which is the consequence of my presence with you, if—IF--you practice the way of love I have taught you, and make a home for God amongst you.

Perhaps the disciples were hoping that they would go somewhere with Jesus. Surely they hoped to be delivered from the violence and persecution around them. Instead, they learn that they are to stay in this place, and that God would come to them. Jesus would be with the Father, they would remain in the world—and somehow, through the Holy Spirit, they would find a joyful communion between them.

Likewise, this is OUR dwelling place and God is with us. Here. For Jesus will spend only 40 days with his disciples, and then ascend into heaven—which we celebrate as Ascension Day on Thursday. And here we followers of Christ remain, between the world and God.  

Now this is, and was, a pretty big stretch.  But how confidently we see the Christians in our first reading—in Acts--living in the Spirit of Christ together. The lesson takes place after Pentecost, after the Holy Spirit has made its home in these communities of Christians, and what a contrast they offer in courage and confidence, and joy, with those disciples, huddled together in fear before Jesus’s crucifixion. The peace they have embraced is transformative. It is meant to show us:  this is what the peace of this life in-between looks like.

We see this in Lydia’s story. First, Paul’s heart is opened to the call of the Spirit to go to Macedonia--a change of plans--and to form the first mission in Philippi. Then Paul’s heart is opened to approach a group of women, who would not ordinarily be in conversation with someone like him. Then Lydia’s heart is open to the message she hears about how the God she worships is at work in this Christ. And finally, she opens her home, and it becomes the hub of the Christian community in Philippi. All of these were extraordinary acts of open-heartedness:  at best, simply not done; at worst, dangerous. But theirs is a story of joy, and peace that the world cannot give.

The disciples haven’t experienced the Resurrection yet, let alone Pentecost. They don’t know what we do: that in the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, the good news of Jesus Christ remains with us and we, in our mortal bodies on this fragile earth—are the ones who act as Christ in the world. We are the little Christs, the Christians. We are to embody the good news. We are Jesus’ love in action--as Presiding Bishop Curry puts it, the Episcopal branch of the Jesus movement. Here we are, living between the world and the Father, beloved community held together by the presence of Christ consciousness—filled with peace and powered by fuel the world cannot supply.  At least that’s the opportunity, if we hold up our end.

The picture of Christian life in Acts is of love freely given and freely shared. It’s a community where, lifted up by this love, people’s ears and eyes and hearts are open to being called and who follow those calls unafraid: calls to strange, unknown, or uncomfortable places, sometimes to be in community with people who are not like them. Those of us who haven’t felt pulled out of our comfort zone to be Jesus’ love in action—we, too, must seek the peace of which Jesus speaks.

Ella and Andrew Allison, just before leaving for China, 1910

Finding our home between the world and the Father brings to mind another letter. My grandparents spent nearly 40 years as missionaries to China, raising their children, including my father, amidst civil war, Japanese occupation, eighteen months in an internment camp, and finally, the Communist revolution. There was no peace in the world around them—at any point--and yet my grandfather’s abundant letters are full of joy and peace.

He writes on a cold day in February 1940, after a blizzard has him stuck in the mission field, which they had visited by bicycle, their preferred mode of transport. The heavy snow kept them from a baptism and from looking in on the sick as planned. But on the third day, my grandfather writes, leaving their bicycles behind because the snow was still so thick, they set forth into the snow to walk 19 miles to a midway point, where they arrive by dark and stay somewhere—it’s unclear where. On the next day they walk the final 11 miles, this time through slush instead of snow, until they reach home. He describes it as a joyful adventure, and ends his letter this way:

“Pray for us and for all we work with, that the Blessed Mystery may always abide with us; for when it does there is no letting down of the fresh joy of being co-workers with God.” I mean, talk about Acts of the Apostles! My grandfather puts me to shame. Every letter he wrote spoke of this peace. They had truly found their home “between the world and the father.”

Like them, our home in-between is where the Spirit calls us and where we answer. Where we come together, not just as individuals, assembled, like at a movie, but as church, a people held together by membership in Christ. And so as we anticipate the Ascension, the 2^nd departure of Jesus from this world, we meet Christ here in beloved community and we make Christ known to others by sharing his gift of peace.

Where in the world is Jesus Christ? He is at home in the Father, and so, in the peace of the Spirit, are we.

Preached May 26, 2019 at St Gabriel Episcopal Church, Portland, OR 

Lectionary readings (Easter 6C):  Acts 16:9-15; Psalm 27: Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5; John 14:23-29