Courageously Bear the Cross

Courageously Bear the Cross.

Those were the words the seminary dean said as he placed my graduation cross over my neck at our final Eucharist. Of course, since it was the dean, it was in Latin!  Had it only been three years ago that I stood in the same place on Holy Cross Day and entered my name in the Bexley Hall Matriculation Book?   “Am I really through with this scholastic endeavor?” I thought to myself.  It went so fast. 

The Feast of the Holy Cross – September 14 -  was our patronal feast at Bexley Hall.  It was begun to honor the work of Helena, the mother of Constantine, who led the effort to clear the debris from atop the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and in so doing unearthed the True Cross – nails and all.  The remembrance started innocently enough, but of course, became more and more ornate as time went along.  At seminary, we pulled out all the stops on Holy Cross Day.  Incense, sung liturgy, much bowing and scraping, and (of course) we had to sing our College Fight Song: Lift High the Cross.

It was great at the time.  But, right now I just want to close my eyes and shudder.  I just don’t think this was what Jesus had in mind. I’ve been thinking about this all week – the Feast of the Holy Cross coming so close upon these propers where Jesus asks us to take up our cross and follow him. With these words Jesus admonished his apostles; with these words he admonishes us. Courageously Bear the Cross.

Okay, but what does that mean?

Jesus is pretty darn clear:  It’s not about us.  His rebuke of Peter tells us that. We are to deny, forego, and ignore the devices and desires of our own hearts so that they might break open and spill out the love of God in our homes and communities.  We are to be willing to march into the messiest, smelliest, most unpleasant, and sometimes deadliest situations on behalf of Christ because that is exactly what Christ did for us.

As much as I hate the thought of Jesus being ashamed of me, I know I’ve made too many decisions about faith and ministry based on my own needs and not the needs of the reign of God.  Jesus asks “Who do you think that I am” and I am caught standing at a jewelry counter examining some gem-encrusted pendant and wondering if it will go with my paisley clergy shirt.  It’s a wonder that a large hand hasn’t appeared from the ether and slapped me upside the head. It does make you wonder about us, doesn’t it.

·         We toss around words like ministry and ‘bearing the cross’ like Tinker Toys. They sound pious but we really don’t have much attachment to them.

·         We forget that liturgy is to be more than esthetically pleasing. We come to church only for comfort and not for inspiration or strength.

·         We buy crosses to wear as bling, not as a declaration of our faith.

·         We volunteer only when activities are convenient or fit into our secular schedules.

·         We forget how privileged we are to be able to worship freely in this country.

You and I distract ourselves so easily from the kingdom of God. As some of my Facebook friends like to post: “We have so many first-world problems.”  

The relative ease of our lives makes us forget that ministry requires serious commitment….it’s not for the faint of heart.  I heard two stories this week to remind me of this.

A friend told me that one year he received one of those ubiquitous Christmas letters.  You know the kind, everything is wonderful, hope you’re well, I probably won’t think about you much over the next 11 months, but happy holidays anyway.  The one he received though had a bit of tragedy.  “They said that they’d experienced some financial hardship and because of that they weren’t able to refurnish their house at the shore,” my friend explained.  “I wish I’d had their tragedy. I was still grieving the loss of my mother.”

Another friend related an experience on a trip to Africa.  It was a story told by one of the priests he’d met there…a true story…a horrendous story.  It was a story of two church pews. In one, a woman sat alone. She was a Hutu woman and her entire family had been killed in the Rwandan genocide.  Behind her sat a man, a Tutsi man, with his family.  He and his people had been responsible for the woman’s solitary presence. It was the priest’s charge to foster a climate of reconciliation so that they could both share that holy space. Now that’s a story to remember when I think I’m having a bad day at the office!

This week has been full of grief and in need of reconciliation.  We remembered those who lost their lives in the tragedy of September 11th. Then, we watched as our embassies were attacked and innocent people killed because a few people are unable and unwilling to set their egos and agendas aside long enough to honor the dignity of others different from themselves.

Do you think that Jesus is here for our salvation only?  He may be your personal savior, and mine, but salvation is not only for us in our privileged bubbles but for the whole, messy, screwed up world.  If we don’t proclaim that salvation through our day-to-day living we are wasting the gift.

Do you think that religion is just about showing up once a week, saying the right prayers, and not engaging in activities that help heal the world?  If you are, then heed well the words of Jesus to Peter. You are about earthly things, not heavenly ones.  It takes more than an hour a week to feed your soul with scripture, study, prayer, and action. It takes more than an hour a week to center yourself in Christian community.

The disciples found it hard to understand that the Messiah was to suffer and die on an instrument of shame.  They expected something more majestic, something more defiant.  But, if the Messiah walked into Jerusalem knowing that what horror awaited him, how can we dare think that our walk with Jesus will be a stroll through a lamb-filled meadow on a spring morning?  We are told to follow him into the horrors that life often brings.  But we are FOLLOWING HIM; he has gone before us and will not abandon us. 

Today, Jesus invites us to begin again, to be reconciled one to another, and be strengthened to bear the cross in whatever path we are led.  Pray for steadfastness, that our privilege not distract us from ministering to the people who are hurting, from seeking forgiveness from those whom we have hurt, or from centering our whole lives on the Gospel and thereby living in God’s kingdom every day.

To be honest, Frederick Buechner said it so much more eloquently:

(The Cross) is the place where such a mighty heart was broken that the healing power of God himself could flow through it into a sick and broken world.”

Courageously Bear the Cross. Amen.

(c) 2012 C. B. Park, all rights reserved.

Batting a Thousand

Sermon preached at St. John's, Worthington, Ohio, on September 2, 2012

(c) 2012 C. B. Park, all rights reserved

 

“Liturgy is a part of our everyday life,” I told a class at St. Pat’s a few years ago. “It’s everywhere!”  They looked at me like I had three eyes.  So, I asked them to think about what makes up liturgy.  Thinking of church, they came up with:

·        People gathering for a purpose.

·        Songs chosen for the occasion – Advent, baptisms, that sort of thing

·        Readings chosen for the occasion - lectionary

·        People who have specific roles in leading the liturgy

·        Common responses to common calls culminating in a shared experience

·        Sending out into the community

After they identified the core ingredients of this thing called liturgy, I asked them to consider one of my favorite community liturgies:  A Cubs game at Wrigley Field.  By their countenance, I’d grown another eye.  But, I explained –

People gather there for a purpose.  Some are there with family, some are alone.  Some are there to party, some are there because they love the game.  Some want to immerse themselves in history.  But, all are there to enjoy a few hours away from the worries of the world.

Our opening hymn is the Star Spangled Banner.  There is the ceremonial pitch from the honored singer of the day.  

It all happens in the Big Inning. We read the statistics of the players in our bulletin – I mean game program.  The umpires and officials take their places at their assigned bases.  The coaches and team members line up in the dugouts ready to start the ritual.

“Play Ball!” says the home base ump.  And, the crowd roars its approval.

If you are a Cubs fan, you know the proper response to the unfortunate circumstance of the visiting team hitting a home run.  If you are visiting and are unaware – we let you know about it loudly:  Throw it back!  If you do not comply with the rubric, I mean tradition, the crowd gets more insistent.  When the ball finally finds its way back onto the outfield grass, the crowd roars its approval.

The innings roll on.  Finally, we get to that point we’ve all been waiting for.  The public address announcer introduces the guest singer for the Seventh Inning Stretch.  “A-one, a-two. . .” the singer begins, and then we all sip from the cup of baseball – “Take me out to the ballgame…”

On a good day, there are only 9 outs left.  We sing the “Go Cubs Go” song when there’s a victory. Win or lose, its been an experience.  We pour out from the stadium into the neighborhood of Wrigleyville.  

Some of us drive back home, some take trains, others to stay awhile longer to enjoy the lingering aroma of hot dogs, peanuts and cracker jack.  Thanks be to God!

“Okay, we get it,” the class was resigned. 

“Really?” I said.  I then asked them to take the example a step further. “What if you’d arrived and the stretch was sung in Spanish.  What would that do?”  “Imagine that when you left the game you were expected to reach out to people in need?”  I heard them swallow hard and sigh. 

Liturgy for its own sake is like a day at the ballpark.  It’s entertainment.   It’s self-centered.  We may be here for a shared purpose, but at the end of the ritual we go back to our unchanged selves and routine lives.  We can sing our songs or throw back home run balls as our parents and grandparents did, but unless we’re open to letting the liturgy change us, we just mosey past the turnstiles into a harsh and angry world.  All we’ve done is escape it for a while along with other like-minded people.

That’s what got Jesus’ knickers in a twist.  

He wasn’t against liturgy and ritual.  They have their proper place.  It’s just that the Pharisees and the scribes were more interested in how things got done than why things got done.  They were more about the trappings than about the transformation.  The cups and bronze kettles were polished wonders to behold, but the orphans and widows were hungry and no one seemed to notice them.

Growing up in high falutin’, Anglo-Catholic, Northern Indiana, I identify more with the Pharisees and scribes than I want to admit.  We were so wedded to the liturgy and the pomp and circumstance that I spent more time being afraid of church than happy to be there.  It was lovely – billowing clouds of incense, organ music, and very predictable verbiage.  The rector actually did a great job moving the congregation through the prayer book change.  We were ever so compliant.  But, in my 18 years there, I don’t remember ever hearing about justice.  My ethical upbringing came from my family, not my church. 

Then, I went to college.  The service wasn’t the same as I was used to – egad – you mean there are different ways to access Word and Sacrament?  Good Shepherd, West Lafayette, used the contemporary Lord’s Prayer.  Holy moley!  I sure stumbled over that for a good long time.  But, then it became a part of me. Now, it’s my preference. 

For the first time I heard sermons that connected the lessons and the liturgy to what we were actually to do in the world.  I learned about the difficulties of the food stamp system and how shaming it was to those trying to access it.  We participated in letter writing campaigns.  I learned about a world that was much darker and scarier than I’d ever realized.

I went to college a good Episcopalian.  I left it a struggling Christian.  The broader use of the liturgy was a significant part of that transformation. 

The journey through liturgy and discernment is still a struggle. My diaconal experience at St. Stephen’s was culture shock.  Then, I was exposed to the Lutheran tradition while I was in seminary.   By being open to new ways of being in community, I became more open to hearing the voice of God in sermons and liturgies.  Our church services included art and mime and dance as well as the stuff I was used to all the time.  Even St. Patrick’s pushed me.   Our 5:30 pm service uses contemporary music and has an abbreviated order of service.  I couldn’t imagine how it would work.  But, it did!  And, the late service is the fastest growing of all of the Sunday offerings.

What I came to learn was that church could not be my personal sanctuary.  In order to spread the good news of the Gospel of Christ, we must fling open our doors and speak to people who have not heard of Jesus in ways that will appeal to them, not us. 

That was a hard lesson to learn.  Deep inside of me was, and still is, that Northern Indiana girl who loves her bells and smells. But Jesus is insistent – it’s not about you and your need for personal religious happiness.  It’s much more important than that.  You’re here to have your eyes opened, to see God’s presence in every person, place, and thing. You’re here to bring people closer to God by being God's representative and advocating for the poor, the outcast, and anyone whose voice cannot or will not be heard.

My sisters and brothers, we are here not to polish brass, but to prepare for service in the world.  We are not here for solace only, but for strength – strength to take a hard look at those who are victims of injustice and find a way to restore them to full membership in society.  We are not here for pardon only but for renewal – a renewal of resolve to uphold our baptismal covenant and usher in the reign of God.

And, if we embrace this calling, my friends, we’ll be batting a thousand. Amen.

Food as Sabbath

Delivered at St. Jude's Episcopal Church in Wantagh, NY
July 22, 2012     (C) C. B. Park, All rights reserved

I have lots of good memories about growing up in rural Indiana: creating playhouses in fallow cornfields, finding Indian arrowheads in the backyard, and being chased by our Shetland Sheepdog.  Probably my favorite memory of all is Sunday dinner at Monie’s house.  Monie is my mom’s mom.  She and Patti (my grandfather) moved from Kentucky to Indiana to secure jobs at the Studebaker plant and White House clothing factory.  It was at Monie’s house that I learned all about good southern cooking.  You know, all the stuff that’s bad for you: bacon-laced green beans, fried chicken, okra, biscuits and gravy, and fruit pies with crusts made with lard.

It’s no wonder I have cholesterol  issues.

It was only when I was composing the sermon for her funeral 8 years ago that I realized the sacramental significance of those dinners.  Sunday dinner wasn’t just about eating.  It was about becoming family. It was about taking time to really be with each other.  It was about Sabbath.

I’m not talking about Sabbath in a do-nothing sort of way.  I’m talking about Sabbath where we set time aside to be thankful for what we had and were borne up on the love of family.

We were loved because we were, not because of what we did or said or accomplished.  We were appreciated for just being.  Oh, there was plenty of work involved in those Sunday dinners, Monie and my mom finished things in the kitchen, my sister and I set the table, and my dad and grandfather made sure there were enough chairs around the table.

We told stories at those Sunday dinners.  There were fun stories about my grandparents and parents growing up.  They were rural people and so there were all sorts of tales about animals and crops and the silly things that kids did back then.  We made our own stories too, kidding each other about a bad dish of creamed peas or how Patti burned his wrist on the turkey candle one year.  My son was lucky.  While he never got to experience his great-grandfather, he did get the chance to experience Monie’s Sunday dinners when he was growing up.  Leaving that table stuffed full of carbs made for a sleepy boy driving back to Columbus!

Monie’s Sunday dinner table wasn’t only for family, though.  So many times we pulled the table apart for one more leaf and a few more chairs so that a friend or visitor could join us.  I learned hospitality at that table.  I learned about taking a little less so that others could have something.  Funny how the resources always seemed to stretch to feed us all.

I think this is why that sentence in today’s gospel makes me so sad. “For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.”  I can’t imagine a more vivid image for our lives in 21st century America.  There are days when I look at my watch and realize that it’s 2 pm and I haven’t taken time for lunch!  That’s when I end up in a fast-food drive-through, stuffing my face with something unhealthy, and rationalizing it by saying ‘well, that’s just the way it is.”

The sin in this isn’t that I’m eating fast-food.  Well, okay, maybe that’s a part of it.  The real problem is that I haven’t allowed myself any Sabbath time.  In a culture that moves 24/7, we must carve out for ourselves time to rest, reflect, and remember that we are valuable for who we are – beloved children of God.  I’m beginning to understand that the reason there is so much table fellowship described in the Bible is because that is where we share the Sabbath with each other.  It is at table with family and friends where we experience God incarnate.

Have you ever had those “God” moments at a dinner table with your spouse or your children or a good friend.  It’s like having time stand still and you’re overcome with the sheer reality of the love that is surrounding you.

Have you ever dined alone, closed your eyes and had the aroma of the food you’re eating transport you to a familiar kitchen where a beloved relative was making something special just for you?  All those memories, all those stories, they weave themselves in and out of your conscientiousness like wisps of steam transporting the smell of cinnamon and butter.  You and your loved ones, living and dead, are brought together in an instant created by remembered stories and God’s presence with us.  You want to linger there as long as possible.

But, alas, we cannot stay there forever.  Life reminds us that we can’t just sit at the table, we have work to do, meetings to attend, deadlines to meet.  Nor can we can stay forever at the Lord’s Table.  Our mission is in the world, bringing Good News of God’s love to the broken hearted, feeding the hungry, fixing what we can, and committing what we cannot fix to God’s own healing.  However, we can come away from this Table knowing we are always welcome to return, and of course invited to bring a friend because there is always room for one more.

I invite you to take note, this week, of how you spend your time in food consumption.

Will you rush through, or take some time to be still and have a picnic with Jesus?  Will you grab something to go, or will you make time to have lunch with your colleagues and engage them in conversation?  Will you sit down to dinner, or lunch or breakfast, with your family?  Perhaps you have time to share a snack together.  Dining alone?  Turn off the television and give yourself a gift of divine recollections.

Remember, you’re not just eating, you’re making room for memories.

You’re making room for God.

Amen.

We want a King. Really?

[Sermon preached on 2 Pentecost at St. Patrick's, Dublin, Ohio. Text: 1 Samuel 8:4-11, (12-15), 16-20, (11:14-15)]

 

It’s one of the most used and oft remembered Parent-isms.  It’s that phrase that escapes maternal or paternal lips when one’s offspring is trying to convince you that they should be able to do something that one of their friends is doing just because one of their friends is doing it. The action in question is usually fraught with peril from the parental perspective.  The child can’t see past their own wants and desires.   In frustration and impatience, the Parent-ism rolls out off the tongue:  “If your friend decided to jump off a bridge would you do THAT too?”

This is the image that comes to mind when I read about Samuel’s displeasure in hearing the elders of Israel ask for a king to govern them so that they “can be like other nations.”   The elders weren’t asking for a change in governance.  You might think that given the fact that Samuel’s sons were abject failures.  No, the elders said they wanted a LEADER.  That’s when Samuel knew they were in trouble.  That’s when Samuel knew HE was in trouble.  It was all confirmed in his prayers to Yahweh:  “They have rejected me from being king over them.” 

Yes, the elders said they wanted a leader.  But, that’s not what they really wanted. 

That’s never what we really want. 

We want order.

We want protection.

We want direction. 

And, we want someone to blame when it’s not handed to us freely. 

We, like the elders, want someone else to fight our battles. So, we appoint and elect and hire in the sincere hope that we will get what we want.  Then, when that person fails (and they always do because we’ve set the systems up that way) we don’t have to take any responsibility for failed leadership.

The LORD knew that Israel’s desire would not be good for them.  Earthly kings would conscript young men for war and force young women into work below their abilities.  Earthly kings would take the best of the fruits of their lands and labor – the tenth that belonged to Yahweh would become the spoils of the powerful.  Eventually, their earthly king would fail or betray them and they would be lost to neighboring nations. 

Israel’s dilemma, like that child’s request to be like one’s friends, is that the desire to be like others often results in the loss of one’s God-given identity.  The desire to be accepted and loved by the ones we admire combined with our need for protection, order, and direction, is a recipe for disaster. 

Even within a collective, protection, order, and direction are achievable only in the short-term.  Kings and so-called leaders are too often corrupted. The people eventually become slaves to the systems.

The formation of the nation of Israel was to be set apart.  The point was that they were God’s people.  They were not to behave like all the others. The purpose of Israel was to be the city on the hill; the example for all the other nations. The very reason for the existence of their community was the practice of justice for all, without regard to social station or economic advantage.  The request from the elders to appoint a king over them – the request to be like other nations – was a demand for Israel to forsake Yahweh.  Forsaking Yahweh meant forsaking justice.  Forsaking justice meant forsaking the essence of who they were.

Driven by fear and the desire for security, people have given themselves over to charismatic authority figures over and over and over again.  Are we still willing to jump off that bridge because our friends are doing it? Or can we begin to see ourselves as a community committed to a shared purpose – the proclaiming of God’s Kingdom and working toward God’s justice?

Before you answer that question, I have to give you fair warning:  There is no business plan.  We only know where we are.   Together, we have to determine where we want to go.  What makes it even more fun is that we will discover our limitations while we are on the road and will need to work through them as we move together.  

 There also is no room for apathy.  Everyone must participate in this leadership activity – shared purpose and shared leadership requires that all are engaged in activities that support it.  We require enough integrity to hold ourselves accountable to our shared purpose and call ourselves out when we begin to avoid difficulties by distracting ourselves with work or emotionalism.  

The proclaiming of the Kingdom and working toward God’s justice isn’t anything we are likely to accomplish in our own lifetime.  The children of Samuel lurk in the shadows of commerce, in the halls of government, and – yes – even in the sacred chambers of religious institutions. They work to undermine the children of God by insisting that the way we’ve always done things is the only way to do things.  Their desire is for the security they know, the direction they’ve always gone, and the order that continually feeds them the lion’s share of the system’s resources.  When the children of God ask why these are so, the children of Samuel respond with replies bound to pique our emotions and distract us from the adaptive work at hand. 

As God’s chosen community, we must find our security in the knowledge that God has never given up on God’s people.  Even though they desired a king, God blessed Saul.  When Saul fell to his own corruption, God blessed David.  On and on it continues, through the time of the Judges, through the times of the prophets, even to this very day. We must see order as a means to an end and not the end itself.  We must travel in the direction of our purpose, but not be afraid to listen for the Spirit telling us to take a left, right, or U-turn.

You know, there’s an interesting thing about the word purpose.  Its roots come from the Indo-European word that means FIRE.  Our purpose should set us on fire.  Our shared purpose should give us the energy to change the world.

On Pentecost Sunday, Stephen asked us to be a people on fire with the love of God.  Today, I’d like to ask you to be on fire for an even higher purpose – that the world come to know God’s love through our works of justice and that we commit ourselves to become more and more empowered to do those works.   

We do not need to jump off the bridge of conformity. 

We are not expected to be like other people. 

We should not be like other people.

We need to be who we were created to be:  the people of God.

Amen.

(c) 2012 Ciritta B. Park, all rights reserved. With thanks to the Clergy Leadership Project and Hugh O'Doherty. :-)