This file contains the sermons listed below

So. Which are you? Sheep or goat? Are you on the right or the left? Destined for eternal life or eternal punishment? Is that what the scene in our Gospel reading today leaves you wondering? And yet I don’t think that’s what this story is all about.

There are two matters that need to be clarified in the story. First, who is being judged? And second, who are “the least of these” with whom Jesus identifies himself?

Who is being judged? There are two possibilities here. “All the nations” could mean each and every person without exception, including you and me. This is the universal interpretation. Or “All the nations” may mean those nations that stand apart from Israel, or in this case the church. The nations are those for whom the people of God are to be a blessing, according to God’s promise and call. The nations will be judged by their conduct toward the brothers and sisters of Christ. This is called the particular interpretation.

Second, who are the “least of these” that “All the nations” are expected to serve? Again, there is a universal interpretation – they are anyone and everyone who is in need. Or, the particular interpretation – they are the believers – those who have heard Jesus’ word and do it – they are the brothers and sisters of Christ.

How we understand the story depends upon which interpretation we choose. According to the particular interpretation, Matthew tells the story in order to give encouragement to a mission-oriented community of believers living under hardship and persecution. It is in Matthew’s gospel that Jesus sends out his disciples with no bag, no staff, no extra clothes telling them to depend upon the hospitality of those who receive them. And if they are not welcomed, fed, sheltered and so on they are to shake the dust of that place off their feet and go on to the next village.

Perhaps now we can hear the story differently. If you and I understand ourselves to be among those whom Jesus calls “the least of these who are members of my family,” then the measure of the King’s judgment is the conduct of those outside the church toward us Christians, particularly when we reach out to them. We are the ones to be cared for with love and compassion. This is good news for us! For we are, at times, surely among “the least of these.” Hardship and want are not foreign to us. We are not invulnerable to illness or perhaps even imprisonment. Sometimes we are the strangers, alienated, alone and far away from home. Just so, our Shepherd King’s justice commands compassion towards us.

Given the entire scope of the Bible, however, there are certainly grounds for a more universal understanding – that is, all will be judged by the measure of our compassion for the hungry and thirsty, the stranger and the naked, the sick and the imprisoned. In that case, rather than scaring us with the threat of eternal punishment, I suggest that the story is meant as encouragement to all of us to do the sorts of things that the Shepherd King clearly wants us to do – namely, care for the poor and lowly, whoever they are, as best as we can.

The reason we begin to wonder about our eternal destiny is that know how weariness prevents us from being as compassionate as we need to be. We become weary because caring for others is often a very ambiguous matter. I remember the story of a woman whose husband was an alcoholic. She hated the church in her community because it had a soup kitchen where they would feed her husband, enabling him to continue in his alcoholism unchallenged. She was a poor taxi driver trying to keep body and soul together while her husband frittered everything away with his drinking.

It has dawned on me that I have entered a new stage in life - I have a son in college and another one soon on the way. I find myself talking with other parents about how hard it is to let go. We do what we think is best for our children at any given time, but we don’t know! As they get older and begin to make their own decisions and take charge of their own lives we tremble for them, hoping and praying that we have done something right – that we have given them a good enough foundation upon which they can build a good life.

There are mothers in this congregation running at low ebb; fathers too, I am sure of it. Each stage of life has its challenges. We have limited money, limited strength, limited wisdom, a multiplicity of demands upon us, but our children are so very important to us! We are tempted to be worn out, but the task of compassionate caring goes on.

We also become weary because we see so much need in the world. Many of us live from paycheck to paycheck. We have responsibilities right here in our own families and communities. But what about all those poor people whose lives have been torn apart by hurricanes and earthquakes? The numbers of those dying of starvation or from malaria or AIDS around the world are staggering! We want to help! The flood of appeals for money, particularly at this time of year is overwhelming. Many, if not all, are worthy causes, are they not? How can we not help but feel overburdened, guilty, helpless and weary?

We are also subject to weariness because we long for justice and peace but it seems so far away, so unattainable. We do not always know what justice means or requires in every situation. Plus, many people of good will often disagree on matters of justice. Our human wisdom can only go as far as we can see and usually we can’t see very far. So justice – true justice for all people – is beyond us. It is too hard for us. We cannot accomplish it; we never have and we never will. We muddle along doing the best we can with what limited wisdom we have.

So this is our predicament! The bottom line is that Jesus wants us to be compassionate people who so respond to the needs of others that our world will increase in justice and peace. This is a task of kingly proportions! In fact, we bear a kind of kingly authority in this world -- each of us -- in order that we might make this world a better place and that we might shelter the people who have been entrusted to us. So the real problem for many of us, and the true cause of weariness in this world, is not that we lack authority, but rather that we have it! The problem is not that we are bullied subjects, but that we are kings (and queens) who must not bully our little ones, but take care of them. And yet, too often it is beyond us. It is too hard and we are too weary and limited. Too often we seem to lack either the head or the heart for the task, or maybe both. And that is why we need our Shepherd King, Jesus Christ our Lord.

Ezekiel speaks of this Shepherd King in that comforting verse with a glorious repetition of the personal pronoun “I.” We do well to praise God for that little pronoun, for in this case, the “I” refers to the LORD himself -- not to feeble and fallible people like you and me, but to Almighty God, who declares:

I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the crippled, and I will strengthen the weak, and the fat and the strong I will watch over; I will feed them in justice.

There will come a day when our Shepherd King and Lord will take us by the hand and he will lift the burdens of kingly responsibility from our shoulders. Never will we be invited to lay down our love and compassion for others, but there shall come a day when we shall lay down our scepters before a greater and better Shepherd King, even Jesus Christ our Lord. He shall gather the strays, and heal the sick, and feed this old world in justice. So be encouraged all you weary kings and queens! There shall come a day of rest for you, as sure as Christ is King! To him be all glory and honor, with the Father and Holy Spirit, now and forever. Amen

Rev. Carol E. A. Fryer

Assistant Pastor

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TWENTY-SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — November 13, 2005

Zephaniah 1:7, 12-18; Psalm 90:1-12; 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11; Saint Matthew 25:14-30

In nomine Jesu!

Annually, on the last three Sundays of the dying liturgical year and on the First Sunday in Advent, the Church hears its Lord speak about final judgment and Christ’s return. In this particular year — the year of Matthew’s Gospel — Jesus’ words to us, coupled with the words of Paul and Zephaniah (and next Sunday, the prophet Ezekiel) are particularly hard. When coupled with the realities of our times — with nature out of control and with “the waste of our wraths and sorrows” so clearly in evidence — they are almost impossible to bear or to hear as Good News. Yet, whenever Christ is present, there is always Good News. And so, for that very important reason, I ask you to carefully listen to what Christ is saying to us today.

Jesus’ “Parable of the Talents” is the second of three “parables of judgment” recorded by Saint Matthew: the first being the “Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins;” the next, the “Parable of the Dividing of the Sheep and the Goats” we will hear next Sunday. Because they are parables — and they are parables, introduced as a group by the words “Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this” — they are not to be taken literally. Because they are Jesus’ parables, they are always about the gift of grace. In all three, there are three repeated themes that need emphasis.

First, they are about judgment rendered about faith-in-action, not on the results of that faith. Today is an excellent case-in-point. Not only does the master of the servants who doubled their talents praise them precisely for being faithful (“well done, good and faithful servant”); the doubling of the talents seems to be more due to the talents themselves — which, after all, are gifts from the master — than to the effort the servants put into doing business with them: The servant who got five makes five more; the servant who got two makes two more. To me that says that the grace of acceptance does its own work; all we have to do is trust it. What it emphatically does not say is that God is a bookkeeper looking for productive results. In fact, the only bookkeeper in this parable is the servant who decided to fear a nonexistent audit and who therefore hid his talent in the ground. And, to underscore God’s indifference to bookkeeping, Jesus gives two twists to the parable. He has the master say (to the useless servant) that he would have accepted anything — even rock-bottom savings-account interest — that the one talent might have produced as a result of faith-in-action. And then Jesus has the master take the talent and give it to the servant who has ten. Had Jesus wanted to show that God is interested in bottom lines, he would have given it to the guy who had four. Why this bizarre enriching of the already rich if not to show God’s aversion to any counting at all. The goodness of God’s grace does all that needs doing. Here, therefore, as in the parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard of a few weeks ago and the Dividing of the Sheep and the Goats next week, it is only the bookkeeping of unfaith that is condemned; the rest of the story is about the unaccountable, namely, the irrepressible — and seemingly irresponsible — joy of the Lord who just wants everybody to be joyful with him.

And that brings me to the second theme that runs continuously through these parables and is summed up succinctly in the master’s words, “enter into the joy of your master.” All these “parables of judgment” (so-called) are consistently about the ebullient joy of the Lord: The parable of the Ten Virgins; the parable of the Wedding Feast; along with the parable of the Workers in the Vineyard and the parable of the Prodigals — these are all about the Lord whose whole reason for being is to be extravagantly generous and throw extravagant parties — fatted calves for prodigals who do nothing but come home; free drinks and caviar for wedding guests who do nothing but accept the invitation; full pay for next-to-no-work-at-all grape pickers, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. The only reason that judgment comes into any of these at all is the sad fact that there will always be those fools who refuse to trust a good thing when it’s handed to them on a platter. And the saddest fact is that, if we know anything about ourselves, we know that such fools as these may very well be us!

And that brings me to the third and last theme of these parables: the absolute needlessness of fear, the utter non-necessity of our ever having to dread God. That third servant with his little shovel and mousy apprehension who thinks that God is as small as himself is such a nerd! He is just one more of those pitiful turkeys that Jesus parades through his parables to shock us, if that is at all possible, into recognizing the stupidity of unfaith. The elder brother, the man without the wedding garment, the laborers who worked all day for an agreed-upon pay, both the sheep and the goats who can’t recognize their Lord when they meet him (I could go on and on) — all these are cardboard characters, cartoons designed to elicit a smile at their preposterous behavior, sort of like Cartman or Kenny on South Park. It is also true, of course, that these are the folks we most easily identify with. But that is because we are all just as preposterous. We spend our lives invoking upon ourselves imagined necessities, creating our God in the image of our fears — and all the while Jesus is telling us about a God who keeps showing up for us with funny hats, noisemakers and balloons because he wants us to come on in and enjoy his own, fully-paid-for celebration. You want to be unsure of that invitation? You want to hear about all the reasons why you (or someone else) aren’t able to come in? You want to hear that God is “making a list and checking it twice”? You want to believe that God is “mad as hell’ and throwing tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, fires and floods at us, or worse, planning a big after-we’re-dead resurrection surprise to turn us into roasted goats? Well, you’re in the wrong place because in this place God’s party is already starting and going gangbusters! And at this table, we get to peek in on the festivities and nosh with the revelers!

And if you need to know how to behave while you’re waiting for your own Grand Entrance to begin, here’s a hint: Take a good look at all those parabolic cartoon characters — the elder brother, the grumbling workers, the five oil-depleted virgins, the mousy servant, and so many more. Look at them, laugh at them, laugh at yourself, and go and do the opposite! Embrace the prodigals! Burn down your oil lamps! Rejoice in God’s generosity and risk your talents! In other words, “enter into the joy of your Master,” because the party’s already begun!

And don’t be afraid of anything. Ever. [And especially] don’t be afraid of the judgment of God because our God — the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ — is just too busy enjoying his own party, the party he paid for by offering up his Son. Like it or not, he really is expecting all of us to join him at that party too!

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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ALL SAINTS’ SUNDAY — TWENTY-FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — November 6, 2005

Revelation 7:9-17; Psalm 34:1-10, 22; 1 John 3:1-3; Saint Matthew 5:1-12

In nomine Jesu!

“See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God, and so we are!”

According to official Vatican records, Pope John Paul II presided at the canonization of 464 saints during the 27 years of his papacy, from 1978 until his death in April, 2005. According to the official records of this parish, during that same 27 year period, from 1978 to Easter 2005, 342 saints were created, by water and the Spirit, through Holy Baptism in that Baptismal font. Within these two statistics lies the truth of all we celebrate today.

On the one hand, we give thanks for matriarchs and patriarchs, prophets and apostles, desert fathers, cloistered mothers, reformers and renewers of old and — for some of us — for our parents, spouses, close relatives, best friends and lovers who have gone before us through the grave and gate of death and now dwell in God’s nearer presence.

On the other hand, we give thanks for one another, for every baptized child of God, those we know intimately because we interact with them day after day or week after week here in this place; and those millions of others around the world who make up the universal Church, the earthly body of Jesus Christ our Savior.

Today is a day for us to remember all the saints: those separated from us for whom our hearts ache, those most physically near us who we often take for granted, ignore or, worse, dismiss, and those as yet unknown by us in every community, state and nation in every corner of the globe. Today is a day to celebrate all the saints by rejoicing that, in Jesus Christ, we are all alive, all united, and all held tightly — and this side of the grave — often uncomfortably close together in the warm and unyielding embrace of God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.

But there are “issues” for us in acknowledging this all-encompassing, Christ-centered, truth. We often separate the saints into at least three different categories. Category 1: The saints of history, acknowledged by all as models of holy living. Category 2: The saints in our history, whose faults and shortcomings have been eroded in our minds by our tears at their passing. Category 3: The saints we see around us — right here, right now — whom history has not yet haloed and whose faults no tears have smoothed away.

Our “issue” with all saints is that we think saints must be perfect; and this side of heaven, we are unwilling to give the benefit of that doubt to anyone. Yet the healthiest and holiest of saints were those who knew their limitations and imperfections [and] who lived beyond them because they knew Christ had redeemed them: Thomas, who doubted. Peter, who denied. Augustine, who lusted. Luther, who feared and hated. Rosa Parks, who was just plain tired.

For the saints gone before us, all the saints gone before us, their sins became the occasion for their sanctity. They became more holy in large part because they were less blind to their weaknesses. They allowed themselves to become vulnerable, a fragile pane of transparent woundedness, so that others might see Jesus Christ through them. And seeing Christ through them, find strength and hope in our vulnerability and weakness too.

What we honor about the saints, you see, is not their perfection, not their inner holiness, but their final costume, what they became and what they are with both their gifts and frailties because they put on Christ and learned to love God and their neighbors with their whole being; with all their heart and mind and weakness and strength. We celebrate that, in the saints we name — and in those we know but cannot name — this day in the presence of one another. Might we dare to celebrate that in each of us now while we remain in the presence of one another?

Today, as he has for three-quarters of the Church’s history, Jesus calls the saints — those “who shine in glory” and us “who feebly struggle” — “blessed.” Who does Jesus say are these “blessed”? The perfect? The righteous? The holy? The invincible, unassailable or indestructible?

No, not these at all. Whether you hear Christ in Matthew’s more “spiritual” beatitudes or in Luke’s more earthy, the message is one and the same: It is precisely the least perfect, the righteousness-deprived, the most needy, the most assailed and the most vulnerable — spiritually and physically — whom Christ himself beatifies. We — you and I and all we remember — we share in that title “blessed.”

Almost since Jesus uttered that word, it has been hard to understand. The Greek — and the Hebrew or Aramaic lying behind it — has been translated in so many different ways, from the lofty “holy” to the insipid “happy,” to almost no one’s complete satisfaction. And so I’d like to try a meaning of my own.

Secure. I think it means secure, — with all the freight that word today now bears. For ever since Easter — not last Easter but the first Easter — that is what we and those who have gone before us are — secure. Secure in the presence of terror. Secure in the midst of uncertainty. Secure in the face of death. Secure on both sides of the grave.

That’s what we are, dear sisters and brothers, with all our faults, in all our weaknesses, in all our doubts, through all our questions, in every joy and sorrow of life, in the nearer presence of God, or here, where uncertainty, improbability and ambiguity stalk us every moment of every day: Secure in the arms of God because of the living and dying and rising of Jesus Christ.

“See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God, and so we are!”

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

in the City of New York

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TWENTY-THIRD SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — October 23, 2005

Leviticus 19: 1-2, 15-18; Psalm 1; 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8; Saint Matthew 22:34-46

‘No Simple Answer’

by the Rev, Lowell G. Almen,

Secretary of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America

It was an extraordinary setting for me. I was standing in the high pulpit of the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C. I was speaking at the end of the Saturday evening Mass.

The occasion was a meeting of the U.S. Lutheran-Roman Catholic Dialogue. Members of the team had engaged in three days of discussions. Then, as is the pattern with the dialogue, participants go to a Roman Catholic Mass on Saturday evening and to a Lutheran Service of Holy Communion on Sunday morning.

At the Mass, Roman Catholic participants partake of Holy Communion and Lutherans receive a blessing. The pattern is reversed on Sunday morning when Lutherans partake of Holy Communion and Roman Catholic participants receive a blessing. Even that action is a painful reminder that the ecumenical journey has a long way to go toward full reconciliation.

As I spoke that Saturday evening, I talked about the work of the U.S. Lutheran-Roman Catholic Dialogue. I recounted how the dialogue’s document on the doctrine of justification had proved historically significant. That document provided a basis for the Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification, a milestone in the ecumenical journey. The joint declaration was signed by representatives of the Vatican and the Lutheran World Federation at Augsburg, Germany. The official signing took place on October 31, 1999—a date deliberately chosen in recollection of the Lutheran Reformation of the 16th century.

I emphasized in my comments that the Joint Declaration represents a highly significant development. But the convergence reflected in that document addresses only one topic—namely, the doctrine of justification. Many other matters need attention. The healing of memories and the spiritual quest to reflect greater unity—all of those endeavors will require a much, much longer journey.

At the end of the Mass, the presider and other chancel participants recessed down the long middle aisle of the Shrine. Then, as I was walking back along a side aisle to the sacristy, a young woman approached me. She said, “You spoke at the end of Mass, didn’t you?” I said, “Yes.” When I answered her, I wondered if she wanted more information or perhaps even wished to disagree with my observations. But what she said surprised me.

What she said was this: “My father is a Lutheran. My mother, a Roman Catholic. When I was growing up, they fought constantly about religion. Now, maybe finally, there can be peace in my home.”

“...Now, maybe finally, there can be peace in my home.”

From her own experience, she did not see ecumenical dialogue as only a group of theologians and church officials sitting around tables talking about obscure topics in minute detail. She saw the matter as one of reconciliation, even in her own home.

When I read the Gospel appointed for today—this 23rd Sunday after Pentecost—I thought of that young woman’s comment. The Gospel for today, through the words of Jesus, focuses on essentials. What is most important, Jesus is asked. The original question was intended as a trap. Jesus, instead, used the occasion as a moment of profound witness.

What is crucial? His response: “...love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” In other words, completely. Fully. Totally. Without reservation. And the second essential, he said, is this:

“...love your neighbor as yourself.”

These are the two sides of a single coin, so to speak. These two reflect the will of God for us—the will of God for reconciliation and the call of God to profound peace and genuine unity.

Responding to that call for unbounded commitment is not a simple matter, however. In any given situation, what does it mean to love God fully? No simple answer exists. In any given situation, what does it mean to love one’s neighbor without reservation? Again, no simple answer exists.

As each of us likely can testify, the complexity of our life of faith is beyond easy description. Indeed, the life of faith is both a daily struggle and a journey of hope.

Both struggle and hope are reflected in a comment of a friend of mine about love of God and love of neighbor. He describes the walk of faith as taking each step as a reverent, best guess. That is, our response in a given situation may be one that seems wise or appropriate at the time—our best guess. But perfection is not there. Absolute certainly eludes us. So we struggle and hope. No simple answer exists. Yet, we hear and seek to heed the words of Jesus, “Love the Lord your God… Love your neighbor....” And only one thing do we have for certain. That is, God’s claim upon us.

Those words in the baptismal service still echo throughout our life: “Child of God, you have been… marked with the cross of Christ forever.” In the baptismal water, we were bound together. Through that baptismal water, we journey each day.

Even when we may disagree, even when misunderstandings cloud our thinking, even when dilemmas crash upon our pathway, we remain bound together within the body of Christ. And we hear again the call for reconciliation with God and through God. We also hear again the summons for reconciliation with one another. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart.... Love your neighbor as yourself.”

As the four Gospels demonstrate again and again, Jesus was not naive about the prospects of the community of faith. The foibles and failings of early disciples had shown some of the problems. Indeed, Jesus frankly describes in parables and sayings a community that suffers from sin. And he sees reconciliation as constantly needed for spiritual health. Differences may exist, but what binds the family of faith together is deeper and stronger than any of those differences.

I saw that demonstrated in Orlando in August at the ninth Churchwide Assembly of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. Some hot button issues were on the agenda. Going to the assembly, we knew it would be a long and tense week. But those of us who had responsibility for the assembly came to discover some amazing things. Even when people differed, sometimes intensely, on one topic or another, the tone of the discussion was respectful. The spirit of most participants seemed constructive.

Besides dealing with potentially divisive issues, the voting members also demonstrated that they could look at the broader picture of the church’s work. An example of that occurred in the greeting on behalf of military chaplains. This year, Army Chaplain Michael Lembke gave that greeting. He is stationed in Germany. He returned in February from a year in Iraq.

Chaplain Lembke spoke eloquently of the work of chaplains. He outlined the variety of circumstances in which chaplains serve. And he underscored the importance of their work, especially in these difficult times.

During his year in Iraq, Chaplain Lembke not only served among the soldiers. He also went out into villages around the post in efforts to foster inter-religious understanding and mutual respect. Amid the terrors and scars of war, he was an agent of reconciliation and an ambassador of peace. And even amid the complexity of different religious traditions and the tensions with an occupying army, he sought in some ways to witness to commitment to God and love for one’s neighbor.

I had expected that Chaplain Lembke would get a gracious response. After all, so many congregations and communities are mindful these days of the work of the military. That is especially true as a result of the massive “call-up” of so many National Guard units.

But I was surprised by what happened. As soon as Chaplain Lembke finished speaking, the whole assembly gave him a standing ovation—a mark, I think, of the gratitude of our church for the work of chaplains, yes, but also a statement of commitment to prayer for all those who serve in the military and their families.

That standing ovation was not some blindly patriotic endorsement of a costly and controversial war. It was an affirmation, however, of the work of those who, amid complexity, seek to respond to the summons to love God and neighbor, even in the tense and difficult situations of this world.

In daily life, divisions and controversies abound. Yet Jesus invites us to care for the household of faith. This is the household of care and mutual concern. This is the household of unity even amid differences. This is the household established and restored by the One who claims us and keeps us in the faith.

Jesus also invites us to look beyond the household of faith. Even where no simple answers exist, he calls us to seek to love God and neighbor. Would that we could discover clarity as to what that means! We cannot. But we can dare go forth. We can do so in the struggle of faith and the journey of hope. We can do so knowing that God has claimed us. And assured by that claim, there can be peace in our hearts and in our life.

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DAY OF SAINT LUKE THE PHYSICIAN — TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST— October 16, 2005

Isaiah 35:5-8; Psalm 124: 2 Timothy 4:5-11; Saint Luke 1:1-4; 24:44-53

in nomine Jesu!

O God, it is your will to hold both heaven and earth in a single peace. Let the design of your great love shine on the waste of our wraths and sorrows, and give peace to your Church, peace among nations, peace in our city, peace and our homes, and peace in our hearts, through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.

For forty-nine months, we have concluded every liturgy at Saint Peter’s Church with that prayer, which is to say that we’ve prayed it about 5,000 times. I’ve often wondered over these years about where (that is, on which phrase) you have focused your heart and mind and soul. My own focus has moved around over these years. Right after September 11^th, as the stench of destruction daily filled my nostrils; “the waste of our wraths and sorrows” was my focus. More often than not, since our invasion and occupation of Iraq, and especially since we began praying for “those in harms’ way” and remembering “those, known or unreported who have been killed this past week,” it’s been “peace among nations.” Intermittently, depending on so many variables in my own life, “peace in Christ’s Church,” “peace in my home, our peace in my heart” has each risen to the top. I’m sure each of you — depending on what’s happening in your own life — has experienced a similar wandering through the various phrases, foci and rhythm of that prayer. There is nothing wrong — in fact, there is everything right — with that wandering focus.

But today, when we are particularly focused on wholeness, health, peace and healing, I’d like to sharpen our focus on the opening words of that prayer, the rather startling affirmation that “it is [God’s] will to hold heaven and earth in a single peace.” For it is that affirmation — with all that stands behind it in the biblical witness and in the tradition of the Church — that invites, allows and encourages us to have hope for our fractured lives and for every aspect of our broken world.

“O God, it is your will to hold both heaven and earth in a single peace.” We have not always — we do not always — believe that. We have not always — we do not always — affirm that. We have not always — we do not always — put that affirmation to practical use. Although some of the earliest writings in the Bible affirm the common origin of humanity and, as in the story of Noah for instance, our common redemption, there are numerous other texts — about choseness, uncleanness and separateness, for instance — asserting that these things, rather than wholeness, are God’s command and desire. Although much of the New Testament is filled with exhortations about the universality of Christ’s redemptive act for all, one can regularly read and hear messages that raise doubts about that universality, not so much on racial, ethnic or gender grounds (any more), but often on religious or moral grounds. Although much of the history of the Church — at least in the West — shows a painful but steady progression of greater inclusion, hospitality and the acceptance of leadership gifts from “all sorts and conditions” of people (as the old language so felicitously said it), we can still hear assertions that “all sorts and conditions” means some but not all.

And we do it to ourselves, breaking up our own beings — our own identities — into mind and body, or spiritual and physical or body and soul, or individual and communal, breaking up our own daily lives into “spheres of activity,” so that we segregate our personal spiritual needs from those of our partner, spouse, children, community and world as if all these other integral parts of our lives are different and separate from the core of our lives. How often have we asserted, or questioned whether, “It’s God’s will that I suffer”? How often have we announced that it’s God’s will that a person dies? How often have we behaved as if “heaven and earth” are so far apart that our unity with those gone before us and the perfection we believe will be ours “on the other shore” have little if any connection with the saints here and now and the imperfections of our communal life on this shore?

“O God it is your will to hold heaven and earth in a single peace,” we pray. But how often do we act as if God’s will that body and soul, saved and unsaved, church and community, saint and sinner, heaven and earth should be segmented and segregated always and everywhere this side of the grave?

Above all the biblical texts we can cite and all the church dogma we can find; above every theory of individualization and connectedness; above everything that our eyes see and our ears hear, even above our own experience of life and death, there is one overarching affirmation and truth: It is God’s will to hold heaven and earth — and every one and everything that dwells therein — in a single peace. Not without obvious differences; not without glorious diversity; not without excruciating tension; not without exasperating conflict; not without evident separation. It is God’s will to hold heaven and earth in a single peace. It is God’s will that all be one and whole in God’s praise.

That is the message, the focus and the power of the cross of Jesus Christ. That is the energy and context for our worship. That is the authority by which we can pray — and consistently use biblical and traditional symbols and signs — for healing and wholeness, and expect our prayers to be answered. That is the foundation for our faith in resurrection reunion. That is the strength that gives us hope that our lives, our homes, our city, Christ’s Church and the nations can be one and whole and strong.

That is the hope of Isaiah and the prophets. That is the core of the message — we call it “the Gospel” — from the pen of the one we remember as the Evangelist and physician, Saint Luke.

We may hear other messages, even from the Bible, even from the Church, even from this pulpit, even from me. We will have another experience — of soul versus body, of life versus death. We will see and hear and experience other truths.

But on this we place our hope; on this we base our prayer; for this Christ gave his life; and toward this goal — in the power of the Holy Spirit — we live our lives: O God, it is your will to hold heaven and earth in a single peace.

And so we pray: Your will be done. And so we work.

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — October 9, 2005

Isaiah 25:1-9; Psalm 23; Philippians 4:1-9; Matthew 22:1-14

In the Name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

Come! Everything is ready! The table is set; the food is prepared; you are all invited — whoever you are! Old, young, middle-aged, male, female, rich, poor, good, bad, healthy, sick, lost, lonely, abandoned, weak, strong, powerful, happy, sad…whatever words can be used to describe you, you are invited to this marriage feast. Come!

Not everyone that is invited comes. Some are too busy. Some are not interested. Some would rather not. Some don’t like parties. Some don’t like people! Some don’t think they really belong. Some think they are unworthy. Some are too proud. Some feel that they have better things to do. Some are afraid that no one will welcome them. Some just don’t care.

And yet Jesus’ parable couldn’t be any plainer — all are invited — your presence is desired — with no exception! Come now! Come without delay! For, as the Bible says, this is the acceptable time; this is the day of salvation.

It makes so much sense that the center of our life as the people of God is this meal — the Eucharist — the foretaste of the feast to come. It seems that from the very beginning this is what God has wanted — a people who will gather around a table as one people — in love with their Lord and in love with one another. It seems so simple, so straightforward, and yet we have so much trouble doing it!

That has always been the case. Israel of old had forgotten that God had elected her to become not only a strong and prosperous nation, but that, as such, she was to become a blessing to every other nation and people. Israel not only failed in that calling, she turned her back on her God and refused to come to the banquet. She killed God’s messengers — the prophets — and went her own way. The result? Exile! Foreign domination! And out of the ashes of defeat rose the hope for a Messiah — a Saviour — who would restore Israel to her former glory of peace and prosperity. Then she may at last fulfill her God-given purpose to be a blessing to all the nations and peoples of the world.

All of those hopes and dreams and promises have at long last found their fulfillment in one man, Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God the long-awaited Messiah — crucified and risen from the dead. It is he who invites us today into this holy community where we partake of the bread of his body and the cup of his love. We gather as one people, united in him, in love with our God and with one another.

As God’s people in this place, we are now that elect nation that is sent out to be a blessing to all other nations and peoples! This is our calling — our Christian vocation. How do we do it? By putting on our proper wedding garments and going out into the highways and byways of the world to invite one and all to come to the feast!

Mention of the wedding garment brings me to that poor man who forgot to wear his and was therefore bound hand and foot and thrown into the outer darkness. What in the world is that all about? If all are invited — good and bad and everything else — how is it that this man is expelled? What is the significance of the wedding robe? Who is this guy? What does he represent? How can we be sure that we are not like him? Isn’t that what we really want to know? Will I be thrown out — rejected — abandoned too?

Consider this: first of all the wedding robe refers to baptism. The church has long practiced clothing the newly baptized in a special, clean, white garment as they rise up out of the water. It signified the new life that had been bestowed upon them through baptism — through the water and the promises of God. And the church has always understood and taught that baptism was the doorway to the table — the banquet, the marriage feast of the Lamb.

So maybe the guy wasn’t baptized. That lets us off the hook doesn’t it? That is, if we are among the baptized. But we must be careful here lest we leave the impression that baptism is a one-time thing that, once it’s done, we can forget about it and go on our merry way.

Baptism is just the beginning of a new life — a particular kind of life - a life lived in concert with the ways of Christ. Baptism provides a specific shape to our life, namely the shape of repentance and forgiveness, dying to the ways of sin and rising again to newness of life. The baptized people of God pursue lives of virtue, or, if you will, holiness, or righteousness. Not because they have to in order to get invited to the feast, of course, but rather, because that is the point of the feast in the first place. That is, to be part of this feast is to receive our “desert food,” as the ancients put it. It is to receive the spiritual nourishment of communion with our Saviour Jesus, to the end that we might be strengthened for service out there in the world. And so the baptismal garments of repentance, amendment of life, and above all, love for humanity are the fitting, indispensable garments for this feast.

You see, I think that what ailed the man without the wedding robe is not that he didn’t have one, but that he forgot it. He left it behind somewhere thinking it wasn’t important or that he wouldn’t need it. He turned his back on his baptism and went his own way. He rejected God’s love and the community of God’s people.

What happens to a college student when all they do is party? Their behavior does not fit with a community of scholars and so they are expelled. What happens to a doctor who neglects patients? They lose the privilege to practice medicine — such behavior doesn’t belong in the medical community. What happens to pastors who abuse a parishioner? They are removed from their parishes. Just as each of these communities expect a certain kind of behavior from it members, so the community identified as the Body of Christ hopes for faithfulness, indeed, holiness, righteousness from its members. Jesus hopes that each baptized man, woman and child will strive to bear his image as best as they can. Plus, he gives us his Spirit to help us.

The question is — is there hope for the man without the wedding robe? Is there hope for you and me, for we know we are not perfect and we fail to follow our Lord as we ought. Is there hope for us?

Absolutely! For the mercy and compassion and forgiveness of God knows no bounds. Remember the story of the Prodigal Son and many other parables of Jesus that speak of the joy in heaven over every sinner that repents — every wandering child that comes home. And this community is unlike any other because at the center if it stands Jesus who welcomes prostitutes, tax collectors and notorious sinners, even the thief on the cross.

Furthermore, the invitation to come to the wedding banquet still stands. So come! Come to the feast. Come, eat and drink! The One who counts each and every one of you of more value than his very own life is waiting to greet you — the Lord Jesus Christ who has swallowed up death and who will wipe away the tears from all faces. To him be the glory, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, now and forever. Amen.

The Rev. Carol E. A. Fryer

Assistant Pastor

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TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST— October 2, 2005

Isaiah 5:1-7; Psalm 80:7-14; Philippians 3:4b-14; Saint Matthew 21:33-46

In nomine Jesu!

“I look for justice (mispat - משפט) and behold bloodshed (mispach - תשפח);

for righteousness (zedekah - צדכח) and behold, [the] cry (ze-ekah צעקת)” [of the poor]!

Doesn’t it bother you today to hear this, poetically proclaimed in Isaiah’s song of the vineyard; deliberately evoked for us today as Jesus comes among us to tell us his own parable of the tenants?

Doesn’t it bother you today to hear this, or do the blaring bravado of bloodshed and cacophonous cries of deprivation drown these words out?

“I look for justice and behold bloodshed;

for righteousness and behold, a cry!”

When Jesus comes among us today, deliberately evoking in our time and in our hearing Isaiah’s song of the vineyard, doesn’t it bother you today to hear that God expects a just and equitable society from us? Doesn’t it bother you at least as much today as it bothered Jesus’ other hearers, the ones who “realized he was speaking about them?” Or have they, the opponents of Jesus, stopped up our ears also?

The opponents of Jesus are alive and well and living among us — even within us — still. In the days of Jesus, few questioned their sincerity, or their authority, their right to proclaim the expectations of our God. Few question that today. In the days of Jesus, their message dominated in every media outlet — the public squares, the synagogues, and the Temple precincts. Today it dominates still, on radio and television, over the internet from pulpits and, most deceptively now as then, from the self-critical recesses of our minds. The opponents of Jesus are alive and well, among us and inside of us. When they speak with authority; when they call us to serious self-examination; when they remind us of God’s judgment, they are not wrong, they are just deliberately deceptive, and thus dangerous, not only to us, but to themselves as well.

Jesus’ critique of his opponents, then and now, is not that they do not speak for God (he would never say that!), but that they are guilty of homiletic sleight-of-hand, of Bible-based bait-and-switch. They are magicians, deliberately asking us to “look over there,” while concealing what’s happening right before our eyes. Even worse, they know it. “Blind guides,” Jesus calls them elsewhere. They know that we know that all is not right among us. They know that we feel responsible to fix it. And they know that we feel completely overwhelmed by that. Finally, they know that our experience of constant evaluation, continual judgment and resultant guilt is infuriatingly unavoidable and that we are compelled to do something about it. So they point us in the wrong direction — at least as far as the Scriptures are concerned — for judgment’s cause and guilt’s cure. They say, “Look over here at the prostitutes — those sexual sinners; at tax collectors — those unpatriotic sinners; at publicans, those poverty-stricken sinners; at lepers and Gentiles,” those reasons — undetermined sinners — label them, separate yourself from them, execute them if you must and then they ask us to look inside ourselves so that we will not become like them and share their fate. With this they assuage our guilt and their own. Fingering pointing, unremitting introspection — with these they deflect us from our communal responsibility. With these they deflect their own. And they make it all so easy, yes, easy. For it is easier to implicate others and to concentrate on your imperfections, than to deal with the inequities of the world. You can look to yourself; you can ignore, even defend, the system. You can cover your eyes and not see the bloodshed; you can stop up your ears and not hear the cries.

But then Jesus, evoking the prophets, walks center-stage here among us to sing us the love song of God’s long lament:

“I look for justice and behold bloodshed;

for righteousness and behold, a cry!”

It’s not so easy now, is it? It wasn’t so easy for Jesus. It isn’t so easy for God. So it can’t be that easy for us. So what are we going to do?

Our response, of course, is in the parable or, more precisely in its teller now present among us. He does not remain aloof, disconnected, uninvolved, irresponsible — an absentee landlord with impossible expectations unwilling to dirty his hands to get things done. With eyes wide open and ears unstopped, he comes among us in the person of Jesus Christ and he stands among us — at this Intersection, in this city in our world and plants himself right here in the mess of our midst. Not only that, he conforms himself to our responsibilities and our needs, to the needs of others and to the expectations of the God he calls “Father.” He contours his life — his teaching, his living and his dying — to the only fruitful form for living: the world-transforming trellis of the cross. That kind of living utterly destroys him, but God raises him to live and bear fruit forever more.

We are grafted to him through our baptism and own life nourishes and courses through our own. Planted in this place at this time, at this Intersection in this city in this world, we are being trained, molded and shaped to live our life as God lives his — connected, involved and responsible, and bearing fruit to transform this Intersection, this city and this world.

At the hymn we will sing reminds us: God chose this terrain for us; this time, this place and planted, nourishes and shapes us to bear fruit, here and now.

“I look for justice and behold bloodshed;

for righteousness and behold, a cry!”

Knowing our connection to his presence; feeling his life flowing through us, giving shape to our living and purpose to our lives; and having his love song to unstop our ears and uncover our eyes, doesn’t that make you want to listen? Doesn’t that make you hear their cries? Doesn’t it make you feel like you can change the world!

It ought to. And it ought not make you fearful; it ought to make you joyful and strong.

Vine, keep what I was meant to be, your branch, with your rich life in me!

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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NINETEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — September 25, 2005

Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-32; Psalm 25:1-8; Philippians 2:1-13; Matthew 21:23-32

In the name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

“I want to be holy.” That was what someone who came to talk to me about spiritual direction said. “Why are you interested in spiritual direction?” I had asked. It’s the kind of question I often ask in the beginning. “I want to be holy,” was the simple, quiet reply. “Yes,” I said, “I do too.”

Our world needs people who are holy. We need people like Mother Theresa, like Brother Roger of the Taizé community, like Desmond Tutu. People like these have a huge impact on our world. They are larger than life. When we see them or hear about them we become more hopeful. It’s important for us to know that great things are possible in this life. We pray that God will raise up even more great saints like these; more holy people who will bring some beauty and light into our dark and troubled world.

And well we should pray for such as these. But there are many, many other examples of holiness all around us. They are not well known and perhaps their influence doesn’t reach as far and wide, but they bring the beauty of holiness and the light of Jesus into the lives they touch. I think of Susan Neibacher who poured out her life for the homeless people of our city. She wasn’t perfect. Everyone who knew her knows that. But she believed that the homeless are beloved children of God who deserve better in this life, and she worked hard to make their lives better. There is great holiness in that.

I hope Trish Blohm will forgive me for using her as an example of a kind of holiness. In the past few years Trish has been in and out of the hospital and has struggled mightily with terrible illness. But she has borne it all with the grace and sweetness of an angel. Her Christ-like trust in the goodness of God, no matter what, has become a beacon of light to those who know her. This too is a kind of holiness.

I can give you other examples and you surely have some of your own. I think of my stepmother, Eleanor, who graciously and lovingly bears the burden of caring for my father who no longer even knows who she is. You, too, know people like this, I am sure. Maybe you don’t think of them as holy, but if in following Jesus they have come to resemble him in some way or other, holy is what they are.

Those dear people who bear the marks of holiness have the power to make us better and make our world better. We know it when we encounter them for we find our spirits lifted up, our hearts encouraged, and our souls drawn closer to God and to our neighbors.

I tell you, our hurricane-battered, disease-infected, war-torn, famine-plagued world is hungering and thirsting for men and women and children who are holy; for people who simply resemble Jesus in the things they say and do. It’s not impossible, as St. Augustine said, “God does not enjoin impossibilities, but by his commands admonishes us to do what is in our power and to pray for what is not.”

God’s specific command today, as expressed by the prophet Ezekiel, is this: “Repent and turn from all your transgressions; otherwise iniquity will be your ruin. Cast away from you all the transgressions that you have committed against me, and get yourselves a new heart and a new spirit! Why will you die, O house of Israel? For I have no pleasure in the death of anyone, says the Lord God. Turn, then, and live.”

The way of sin is the opposite of the way of holiness. It harms us and it harms our world. Sin discourages us and makes us weaker. It brings down our spirits and spreads distrust among us. It tears apart our communities, it separates us from one another and from God. The ways of sin are not what God wants for us - nor does God desire that we suffer the wages of sin. God wants us to live! So get yourselves and new heart and a new spirit! Live!

Paul’s exhortation is similar: “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling…” But then he adds this wonderful word of hope and encouragement and promise, “for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure.”

This is what I want to tell you today: striving for holiness is not an impossibility for you and me. We can do it! At least, we can make some progress. Most likely we’ll take two steps forward and one step back. Still, we can increase in the ways of holiness because we have powerful help! We have the grace of God - a pure gift of love that instills in our hearts the desire for a closer walk with Jesus which is the first step on the path. Then, we have Jesus himself who leads us in that path of holiness by the example of his own life poured out for us on the cross. Risen from the dead, he now walks with us to support us through the trials and temptations, troubles and burdens of this life, picking us up again when we fall. And, in addition, we have the power of Jesus’ Spirit - the Holy Spirit - who is even now working in us to renew our spirits and cleanse our hearts.

Therefore, if you too desire to be holy, do not think it is beyond you. Do not think that holiness is only for the religious professionals. Each and every one of you can make some progress in holiness - the triune God promises as much and enables us all the way!

Now, I must warn you, holiness won’t make you perfect! No one but God is perfect! And it won’t make you rich or smart, famous or powerful. It won’t protect you from illness, accidents, hurricanes or the plans of the wicked. It won’t make you better than anyone else - in fact, it makes us all the humblest of servants. But the path of holiness will do this: it will be a blessing to you and it will make you a blessing to our world.

We’re about to sing a wonderful hymn - At the Name of Jesus. As you sing it I encourage you to especially pay attention to the fifth verse and take it to heart. It goes like this:

In your hearts enthrone him

There let him subdue

All that is not holy

All that is not true

Crown him as your Captain

In temptation’s hour

Let his will enfold you

In its light and power.

To this Lord Jesus be all glory and honor, with the Father and the Holy Spirit, now and forever. Amen

The Rev. Carol E. A. Fryer

Assistant Pastor

Saint Peter’s Church

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THE EIGHTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — September 18, 2005

Baptism of Annabelle Moriah Sturm

Jonah 3:10 – 4:11; Psalm 145:1-8; Philippians 1:21-30; Saint Matthew 20: 1-16

In nomine Jesu!

When it comes to the “kingdom of heaven,” payback is a glitch. That bit of “sound byte” theology adequately sums up Jesus’ parable of the “laborers in the vineyard.” Payback is a glitch. But it’s our glitch. It’s as old as the Scriptures and as new as — well, allow this contemporary example.

Last Sunday morning before coming to church, I was surfing the channels while eating my breakfast. One of my recently discovered talents is that I can simultaneously shovel Cheerios with one hand and change TV channels with the other. And, if I coordinate my chewing with my channel surfing, I can run through my entire option package with each mouthful. This is, of course, a highly personal but perfect example of “time, talent and tasting.” However, last Sunday, between spoons full, I landed on Joel Osteen of Lakeview Church, preaching in his new state-of-the-art facility, the old Compac Center in Houston, Texas. Last Sunday, Joel was preaching to an overflow crowd comprised of his regular listeners and a large number of evacuees from Katrina, all of whom had received immense help from Joel and his community. What was his sermon theme? “Payback time.” “Payback time,” he announced. After all you’ve given all you’ve done, all you’ve suffered, “its pay back time,” and God — who is “in the restoration business” is going to pay back everything to everyone with interest! “Count on it!” Joel concluded. “Believe it!”

Obviously, Joel doesn’t know Jesus’ parable of “the laborers in the vineyard.” There Jesus puts to rest any suggestion that God is in the transaction business. “I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you.” Whether it’s laborers who work from early morning and bear the heat of the day or those who begin just before cocktail hour or any in between; whether its newly-baptized Annabelle Moriah or one of the not-so-retired clergy in our midst, “the kingdom of heaven” is equally distributed; grace is a free gift; and payback is a glitch. The “kingdom of heaven” is never about transactions — rewards, punishments, wages or payback. The “kingdom of heaven” is about relationships. And — what do you know — with this parable Jesus has moved us from the singular to the plural once again!

Before I go on, this term, “kingdom of heaven,” unique to Matthew’s Gospel, needs some explanation. Over the centuries, we have allowed ourselves to think of this as “otherworldly,” as the place where we all go after we die, and hence, as a place of future reward. But, we forget, Matthew is a pious Jew. And Matthew is no more likely to use the word “God,” in his writing than a modern day Hasid. And so, in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus uses the more pious term “kingdom of heaven,” to describe the present reality of all who hear his word and follow him. To put it concisely, the kingdom of heaven is not about transactions — rewards, punishments, wages or payback in the future; it’s about relationships — ongoing (past, present and future) relationships. And it’s on those relationships, between Jesus and the workers and those “standing idle” that I want to place the emphasis today. And, when we do that — when we talk about relationships, work and standing idle, we are talking sanctification, not justification; the work of the Holy Spirit, not Jesus Christ; the Third Article of the Creed, not the Second Article; “the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins,” not the “judge [of] the living and the dead.” For that, we need a dash of good old-fashioned (eastern) Orthodox theology and a healthy dose of Saint Paul, who writes to his favorite congregation today: “Live your life in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ; strive side by side for the faith of the Gospel.”

There’s never a bad day to talk about this, but today, with our “time, talent and tastings” brunch — when every committee, internal service and outreach ministry of our parish is inviting us to invest ourselves, our time and our talent — this is an especially good day.

So why do it? Sing in the choir, serve on a committee, feed the homeless, prepare brunch, teach Sunday school, assist in the liturgy, or by helping in our office by bending, folding and mutilating documents. In our hectic world, where our time is more scarce than our money and our “free time” is a contradiction in terms, why do it? Why “work in the vineyard?” Why not simply “stand idle?”

There are two easy responses, one pious, “God calls [sends, equips, authorizes and empowers] us;” and one political, “These are ways to express yourself and exercise power.” Either, or both of these, might work for you and, if that is so, that’s perfectly okay.

But allow me to suggest what Saint Paul calls, “a yet more excellent way.” Every time any one of us touches the life of another, or effects the life of the community, or serves those who are in any need, or works to build up the faith and the cohesiveness of the Body of Christ; every time any one of us works with others in the presence of Jesus Christ, every time — not some of the time but every time — God the Holy Spirit works on us, works in us — not to make us more “saved,” not to give us a bigger payback, but to strengthen us and make us feel closer to God and to one another. And here’s the thing — anecdotal, of course — but there’s no getting around it: there is a pay-off, a benefit for us when we work in the vineyard and are not standing idle: We are stronger, more confident and better able to face the shifting realities of life and death than we were before, and because we have worked with others, we know we are not alone. And the longer we do it, the stronger we are. I know that is true for me. At the risk of embarrassing her, I know that is true for, say, Dorothy Patrick too. She is stronger in faith, more certain of the support of the community and feels closer to God than, say, Annabelle Moriah does today. She is not more saved, just more sure. And the same is true for all of us. In “the kingdom of heaven,” the pay-off is in the relationships. There is no transaction. Paybacks are, and remain, a glitch. But the kingdom of heaven — and the relationships therein — these are priceless.

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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HOLY CROSS DAY / Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost — September 11, 2005

Numbers 21:4b-9; Psalm 98: 1-5; 1 Corinthians 1:18-24; Saint John 3:13-17

In nomine Jesu!

The Twenty-first Century began four years ago this morning. Here, there is no need to say where or how. If the next 96 years follows the pattern of these first four, this will be the most violent century in human history, and to nearly everyone’s surprise, the chief force for that will be faith.

I use the word “faith,” not religion, deliberately. Religion implies connectedness and organization. Much of what is happening to our world today — much of what is happening to us — has little to do with “organized religion,” and is about disconnectedness rather than connectedness. I use the word “faith” here, not in the biblical sense of communal trust in God and love for one another, but rather in the sense of those few important things, personally cobbled together, which motivate or drive us to be who we are and act the way we do. Four years into the 21^st Century, there are, I believe, three such expressions of faith — spread through every religion and culture in the world — which cause people to devalue, dehumanize and destroy one another. I’ve labeled them fanatic faith, irrelevant faith, and exhausted faith. Each of these “faiths” is more dangerous than the other; and none of us are immune to their power in our lives. But here comes the Good News; that is the Gospel: The antidote to these is what Saint Paul calls “the message about the cross.” Since I’m labeling things, I’m going to label this one “cross-wise faith.” As message not dogma, “cross-wise faith” is for everyone.

The last few years have made us painfully familiar with the terror of fanatic faith, which labels those who adhere strictly to its tenets as “chosen” and all others as “rejected.” Whether it is the “Hindutva” movement among Hindus or bin Laden and militant mullahs among Muslims or the Kahane movement and ultra-orthodox Israelis among the Jews or Pat Robertson, Franklin Graham and their ilk among Christians, we have all seen how the adherents of such fanatic faith can be found within all the world’s religions. Fanatic faith is dangerous because it creates a sense of invulnerable surety among its adherents and simultaneously, as the rejected seek to defend themselves, they — the rejected — become more militant in the expression of their faith. We continue to see the deadly effect both sides of this equation inflict. Because it has made us feel vulnerable and afraid, we have come to believe that fanatic faith is the most dangerous.

It was fanatic faith, enmeshed in Judas Iscariot’s zeal to end Roman authority that betrayed Jesus. It was fanatic faith, forged in the steel of Peter’s sword that denied Jesus. It was fanatic faith, embodied in the Sanhedrin’s religious nationalism that condemned Jesus. It was fanatic faith, incarnate in Pontius Pilate’s devotion to god of the Empire that crucified Jesus. But when God raised Jesus from the dead, God put fanatic faith in its place and its validity into proper perspective: “Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” Cross-wise faith is the antidote to fanaticism. The “wisdom of the cross” is God’s response to the self-centered triumphalism of glory.

We think of fanatic faith as intensely more dangerous, but irrelevant faith is equally if not more, so. Irrelevant faith elevates matters of history, science, and private conduct, and places these over and above matters of ethics, society and contemporary behavior; of “what happened?” above “what’s happening?” Irrelevant faith creates litmus tests about the origins of life and deems inconsequential the realities of life. It places personal morality above communal responsibility. It obsesses on sexuality — a mere jot and tittles in the breadth of the Scriptures — and dismisses inequity and poverty, which suffuse every book of the Scriptures. Irrelevant faith is dangerous because it supplants ethics with moralism and allows the “righteous” to fix blame, and the blamed to deny responsibility.

It was irrelevant faith that placed law over people. It was irrelevant faith that raised Pharisee over publican. It was irrelevant faith that condemned prostitutes, Gentiles and sinners. When Jesus healed on the Sabbath and cleansed the Temple; when Jesus reached out to lepers, made disciples of tax collectors and ate with sinners; when Jesus died as criminal and God raised him as “model of the godly life,” God put irrelevant faith and its validity into proper perspective: “Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” Cross-wise faith is the antidote to irrelevance. The “wisdom of the cross” is God’s answer to self-righteous dismissiveness.

Exhausted faith is a rare, but deadly phenomenon. It occurs over time as faithful people — cross-centered people — deal with fanatics, respond to irrelevance, seek to meet their neighbor’s, balance their own, and then, simultaneously, must cope with larger realities clearly beyond their grasp or control. From September 11 to Katrina, we have been living in those very same conditions. In the Gospel of Mark, exhausted faith is embodied in all of the disciples. In the Gospel of John, Thomas stands in our place. We can hear his resignation, as Jesus’ leaves for Bethany to raise up Lazarus, “Let us also go with him that we may die with him.” We can feel exasperation, after Judas leaves the Upper Room, when he cries, “Lord, we do not know where you are going! How can we know the way?” And we share in his frustration when he tells the other disciples, “Unless I see the marks . . . and put my finger in the mark of the nails; unless I place my hand in his side, I will not believe!” Exhausted faith questions the “wisdom of the cross.” Exhausted faith asks, “Does Christ have any useful power?”

When Jesus stands among his disciples, God does not put us in perspective or put our faith in its place. God does not promise us victory. God does not guarantee success. When Jesus stands with exhausted disciples, he shows us the marks of God’s own way of living, the wounds of God’s foolish defeat: his hands and his feet; his body and his blood. And he breathes on us— exhaling the Spirit — to refresh and renew the exhausted; to give us — God’s people — God’s peace.

It’s foolish, of course, to live as if serving works better than being served; as if power is more powerful in weakness; as if authority is found at the bottom of the pile, not the top of the heap. It’s foolish, of course, to see Christ’s cross as a model for service and not an as ornament of domination. Foolishness — powerlessness — to follow the way of Jesus; to serve like Mother Teresa, to endure like Nelson Mandela, to lead like Mohandas Gandhi.

In our highly competitive world where violence, power, money and might, and dogma-eat-dogma religions struggle to climb to the top of the heap, it is foolish to serve, to offer, to be unsure — to live and love with cross-wise faith.

It is foolish. It is stupid. And it is exhausting. And it is the way of Jesus Christ.

In the first four years of the 21^st Century, we have lived with unexpected terrorism, unwanted war, unrelenting genocide, and callous and un-impeded greed. We’ve faced the onslaught of fanaticism; the elevation of irrelevance and, through it all, we’ve sought to bear our neighbors’ burdens and change our nation’s ways.

Jesus remains among us, not in glory, not in power, not in dominating might. He is among us as one who serves us; to feed us, to inflate us with his Spirit, and to call us to follow in his way.

Foolishness. Utter foolishness. “But to those who are being called, Christ the power and the wisdom of God.”

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — September 4, 2005

Ezekiel 33:7-11; Psalm 119:33-40; Romans 13:8-14; Saint Matthew 18:15-20

In nomine Jesu!

Today might be labeled “hinge” Sunday. This weekend, all over America, our society is pivoting from actual summer to actual fall. Coincidentally on this Sunday, the Evangelist Saint Matthew is engaging us in another such pivot, which actually began last Sunday. For seventeen chapters, Matthew has been telling us who Jesus is — teacher, healer, embodiment of Israel — culminating that introduction two Sunday’s ago when Peter, recognizing Jesus and speaking for all us, declared, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” Today, Jesus begins to introduce us — his disciples, the ones whom he has called to “take up [our] cross and follow [him]” — to who we are and to what we are called to be and do. And the hinge, the actual place where our identity connects and pivots on his, are the words he will repeat about his and our calling two more times before he actually fulfills that calling is this: “That he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering . . . and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” What visibly connects us — our identity and the way we live — with Christ — his identity and the way he lives — is one clearly identifiable thing: Forgiveness leading to new and abundant life. That’s the hinge that holds this year and us together.

It is important to notice that when Jesus swings into talking about disciples, he moves immediately from a singular calling to the plural. Between Peter’s highly personal confession to Jesus’ emphasis on the community he calls “the church,” there is hardly a breath. That’s an important point in Matthew’s Gospel and it ought not be lost on us, living in splendid technological isolation as we often like to be: From this moment on, Jesus will never again call or speak to an individual disciple apart from the community! Why is that? Because it is only in community, in the relationship between and among people of faith, that forgiveness leading to new and abundant life can be expressed, experienced and embraced. That is the purpose of the community Christ calls “the church,” and the agents of that purpose within Christ’s community are you and me.

Contrary to a whole lot of teachers in the history of the church and a whole lot of preachers on the airwaves today, Jesus assumes from the very beginning, that there will be sin within the community of the church. Jesus anticipates that people in the church, from Peter, whom he has just rebuked after conveying to him “the keys of the kingdom,” to you and me will “sin,” even “against one another.” We often forget, but forgiveness, not infallibility or perfection, is the church’s Christ-given purpose and goal. And so Jesus proposes a way for forgiveness to happen — to be expressed, experienced and embraced.

Matthew 18 — how we have misused this teaching! Either we have ignored it altogether, arrogating the responsibility and authority for forgiveness into the hands of the clergy, or else we have perverted it by turning it into a step-by-step system for removal! By “we” I mean all of us! I am not excluding Lutherans, I am not excluding Saint Peter’s and I am certainly not excluding myself. We have all failed — and because of who we are we will continue to fail, often — to hear and use Jesus’ words for their intended purpose, namely that forgiveness be expressed, experienced and embraced.

If you doubt that this is Jesus’ goal, the church’s purpose and our responsibility, then just consider, for a moment, the very last words of Jesus’ teaching, “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector.”

Who are the “Gentiles and tax collectors” in Matthew’s Gospel? These are the very ones Jesus reaches out to forgive! They are the very objects of Jesus’ self-giving compassion! They are the ones whom Jesus’ embraces, heals, nourished and forgives! Not to put too fine a point on it, but they — “the Gentiles and tax collectors” are us. And that means that the very worst thing Jesus asks us to say about one another, the only category into which Jesus asks us to place one another, the only label Jesus asks us to use on one another is this: That — he, she or me — is always the principle object of Jesus’ forgiveness and, simultaneously, the principle agent for forgiveness’ delivery. And by the way, it is that each one of us experience forgiveness that is the purpose for “two of [us] to agree on earth in anything that [we] ask.”

Jesus also understands — and in our heart of hearts we do too — that forgiveness and new and abundant life delayed is forgiveness and new and abundant life denied. From the moment of Christ’s dying and rising, from the moment we were baptized into that dying and rising, forgiveness and new and abundant life has been our constant reality. That is what we affirm every time we stand at the font for whatever reason we stand there. Yet because of the unrelenting reality of constant evaluation and judgment — by self, God and others — and especially because of the constant, unrelenting reality of dying and death, there is an immediacy to our need to experience forgiveness and new and abundant life regularly. Jesus understands that need — so do we — and authorizes each of us to respond to it in his name and for his sake.

We know what happens when forgiveness is delayed, when the words of the Gospel are systematized, denied or ignored: Mistrust, self-doubt, frustration, anger, even, when left to fester long enough, hatred. Yet all these negative things pale into insignificance when compared with the loss of the positive, that the forgiveness for which Christ lived, died and was raised be expressed, experience and embraced. That is what Jesus asks of us; that is what Jesus gives us as our expectation of one another in the community he calls “my church.”

Our expectations and what Jesus asks of us come powerfully together each time two or three or more of us gather around his word and his meal. Here, in and through and with him, forgiveness and new and abundant life is expressed, experienced and embraced by us. Here Jesus not only instructs us in the ways of forgiveness but nourishes us with his own authority and power to forgive.

And what is the result of that instructing and that nourishing? What is the result of that expressing, experiencing, and embracing? Forgiveness, new and abundant life, where all barriers fall, all labels are removed, where community is re-formed and where God “holds both heaven and earth in a single peace.” What is the result of that instructing and that nourishing, with Jesus Christ recognized and standing in our midst? Jesus has a name for that, and a job for us to do. He calls that “my church;” the agent of forgiveness and new and abundant life in a world knocked off its hinges. Jesus has a name for that and he is talking about us. Happy hinge day!

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — August 28, 2005

Jeremiah 15:15-21; Psalm 26:1-8; Romans 12:9-21; Saint Matthew 16:21-28

In nomine Jesu!

“If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” As I end this year as your vicar, I’m not sure if I should take these words of Jesus as words offering hope, comfort, and assurance or if these are words causing anxiety, fear, and frustration. The “following Jesus” part I can handle and accept with relatively no problem. That seems easy enough. But…deny…myself? Take up my cross? After all, I know where the cross leads: Death! I don’t know if that’s really what I had hoped for or what I had expected when beginning this path — this calling — into the ordained ministry.

But I’ll tell you something else: this “denying” stuff, this idea of “taking up the cross,” isn’t just for those who have been called into the ordained ministry. The frightening thing is that each of us, assembled here as God’s sons and daughters, we who have been brought into this relationship through our baptisms are called to this same fate: to this life of self-denial, this life of taking up our cross, this life that comes from following Christ. Scary, isn’t it?

Sadly, it seems like many in the Church don’t remember this part of discipleship. Many, especially religious leaders, forget these words of Jesus as they focus on what they think is important. Whether it’s some form of morality disguised as theology that motivates their ministry or comments and opinions that are anything but the love of God and the love God expects us to give towards one another, these others in the Church often seek that which serves their own agenda, while masking it as doing the work of God. And so, by not denying themselves, their own selfish motives get in the way of what God requires of God’s disciples. And what God requires is simple: deny one’s self, take up one’s cross, and follow Jesus. It’s as simple as that. And, I admit, difficult.

It’s difficult to give things up, isn’t it, especially as citizens of the world’s most wealthy and powerful nation. Compared to most of the world, we haven’t given up a lot — at least not given it up intentionally. And so it’s easy to understand why many in the Church don’t get it, why many don’t “give it up” by denying that which they desire! Denying ourselves is contrary to all that we see in our culture and in our society.

But we should take note. Like the rest of society, the Church is often tempted to take the high road of the world instead of the low, death-leading road of God. We get tempted to display our faith in the world's methods with savvy advertising, aggressive fund-raising, music to please the masses, entertainment for entertainment’s sake, popular psychology masked as theology, and the pride of focusing on the numbers in the form of how many members are in our church. After all, that seems more appealing, it “sells” more than God’s way of the cross, of preaching the cross, of taking up our cross, and of serving the needy in Christ's name. And, of course, serving not for what we get out of it, the glory and attention we may seek and desire; rather, it’s serving by following Christ because that is what we are all about as his disciples. Now, I don’t want to criticize those others whom I’ve been speaking about too much, for there are certainly ministries and religious leaders both of which are faithful and, I say with caution, "successful." But it is important for every prosperous ministry to re-examine itself often to see if it has abandoned the cross and bowed its knee to its own desires.

It’s in those times, perhaps, we may hear these words of Jesus: “Get behind me, Satan!” With these words, Jesus commands Peter to move, and to move to his proper position: behind Jesus. That is Peter’s place, and that is the place for any of us as Jesus’ disciples: move behind the master so that we can follow the master. You see, when Peter took Jesus aside to rebuke him, he moved in front of Jesus, initiating a challenge to lead Jesus onto a different path. And this Rock, the name Jesus gives to Peter in last week’s Gospel, has now become a stumbling block by his moving in front of Jesus and tempting him towards another route, one that would take Jesus away from the cross! But Jesus reminds Peter, as he reminds each of us today, that God’s kingdom is a place where everything is the opposite of what we expect. This is discipleship!

And this call to discipleship — this denying of ourselves, this placing ourselves behind Jesus so we can follow him — is based only on faith in Christ and confidence in the future victory of God; it is not a matter merely of high human ideals or noble principles. To believe in Jesus as the Christ and to live accordingly means to reorient our lives toward the good news that God has acted decisively and ultimately in Jesus, not that Jesus has some good advice on how to live, but simply because he came to join us here in our world, here in our lives, here in this place to remind us that we are not doing this alone! And although he calls each of us to discipleship, this call is not separate from each other. This call to discipleship is a matter of community.

We confess that community while gathered here; the presence of the One whom we follow, our Lord Christ, is present in this bread and wine as we — as disciples, as community — as we commune as one in this meal our Lord provides. A meal that helps us grasp this great mystery that denying ourselves is tough, but we can do so because Jesus is with us. Jesus is the ultimate cross-bearer whom we can trust, Jesus is the ultimate One who denied himself to make our self-denying easier, and Jesus is the One whom we can follow wherever he leads us. We are not alone, my friends, for we walk together — as a community of disciples — to carry our crosses and to follow Jesus.

And now as I leave this place to journey beyond these doors, perhaps today’s Gospel is the best one to cling to as it strikes me that during this year I was the student and you, dear people of Saint Peter’s, were the teachers! You have shown me just as you continue to show one another and this great City of ours just what denying one’s self means, what taking up one’s cross involves, and what following Jesus is all about. I encourage you to read again the words of the second reading today, in which Paul lists several things each of us can do in our own calling of following Christ — together. I won’t reread these now. But to sum these up, following Christ is simply this: the sheer act of love towards “the least, the last, and the lost” — that favorite phrase of Pastor Derr — the act of love by serving all those whom God has created. That is the lesson I hope to remember in my calling of following Jesus wherever he may lead me in his Church. This year has shown me “that path” more than any other time in my life of what this route of following Christ looks like in the local parish setting.

May God continue to guide and empower you as each of you deny yourselves, take up your cross, and continue to follow our beloved Christ. Sometimes it’s difficult for the world to understand, but we as the Body of Christ — as the Church — are in this love and service business — together. And we do this by denying ourselves! +

Darryl W. Kozak, Vicar

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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FOURTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — August 21, 2005

Isaiah 51:1-6; Psalm 138; Romans 12:1-8; Saint Matthew 16:13-20

In nomine Jesu!

Ten years ago this October, while Carole and I were making our first visit to Israel, we visited what today is called Banea but what in Jesus’ day was known as Caesarea Philippi. Our guide, Dani, told us it was the “Las Vegas of Jesus’ time.” As far north as you can go and still be in Israel and high in the mountains, it’s not much today, just some ruins around a little mountain spring. Although it’s not much, it is of paramount importance to modern Israel: that little mountain spring is the source of the River Jordan, their only water source. Nestled at the base of Mount Hermon, its caves and rock ledges, pools and trees made it a refreshing and picturesque picnic spot. For centuries families would come and picnic there to honor the god Pan and his court of woodland nymphs in the cool of the cave shrine…and to get a little bit of refreshment from the springs there.

By Jesus’ time, it was a bit more of a hot spot. Caesar Augustus made a gift of the area to Herod the Great for his loyalty to the empire, and Herod had in turn erected a gleaming white temple to his benefactor on a rock platform extended from the main cave where Pan and nature had been worshiped. Herod’s son Philip who inherited the complex had renamed the city Caesarea Philippi to honor Caesar, to distinguish it from Caesarea by the sea, but also to glorify himself. He actually did build a “Caesar’s Palace” there as well. No neon lights or Wayne Newton, to be sure, but markets and plenty of sucking up by the social elite who would come to show off their loyalty and generosity to the powers that be. It was a cool place to be; a place to see and be seen.

I wonder what Jesus was even doing there. It’s not his usual kind of place. Usually he was with the common people, or among the poor and lame and leprous, or eating with sinners, and this co-opted capital of the empire doesn’t seem to be his style. Who did he think he was?

I like to think that, when Jesus asked his famous question about who they thought he was, Jesus was standing right there in the Augusteion, watching the sycophants parade around the Herodian marble and limestone, currying favor and ostentatiously proclaiming their loyalty there on the built-up rock. I’d like to think that Jesus and his disciples were gazing at one niche or another, taking in the sweep of the Pan-theon and remarking on the dedications to the statues and shrines. Who cast their lots with whom and whose power, in a sense, they were betting on.

So maybe that’s what Dani meant when he said Caesarea Philippi was the “Las Vegas of Jesus’ time.” Maybe there was even a pool going on . . . a little friendly wager . . . about who Jesus was going to turn out to be. What do you say? Well, some say Elijah. Odds favor John the Baptist, a ghost from the dead. But Jeremiah or one of the prophets might even pay out.

“But who are you betting on?” Jesus asked. “Where have you put your money and loyalty — and maybe even your life — down?”

Peter rakes in all the chips with his answer. He boldly, in that place, of all places, proclaims Jesus the Son of God, the chosen and anointed one of the only God. And, if they were actually there, standing before the great cool cave of Pan with the life-giving waters of the Jordan gushing out at the source, standing there on the rock foundation of that gleaming civic temple to Caesar . . . well, then, that would really mean something. It would mean something further if Jesus was standing there when he said, “You are Peter . . . and on this rock, this living faith, this gushing confession, I will gamble my life, I will place my bets, I will go so far as to build my church.”

So Jesus bets on us. He gives the church the keys to the kingdom, to bind up and loose the Law. To take measure of the day and its idols and to build the church, a worshiping and re-orienting community, where families of all kinds can picnic once again at the Source, at the life-giving waters of the One God.

I don’t know if they were actually standing in the grotto when this million-dollar question was asked. But Matthew makes a point of placing us in this vicinity, and we, here at this Saint Peter’s in 2005, are certainly in the vicinity of many of the popular shrines of our day. Whether it’s the gods of new age spirituality, or the gods of nationalism, militarism, fundamentalism, consumerism, conspicuous consumptionism, privilege, leisure, or any of the other gods of the empire we’re placing our bets and rolling the dice on, we know the pantheon of our day when we see it. Or do we? What happens when we place Jesus squarely in the middle of it all, and he asks the question, the age-old question, the only question, really: “God, or an idol?” “God or Caesar?”

Some years later, after Jesus’ death and resurrection, Agrippa II built up the city even further. Since Nero was now Caesar, he tried to rename it after the new god of the empire, but the name never took. Still, the accommodations were nice enough that General and soon-to-be Caesar Titus spent a long time there celebrating after the troops he led had sacked Jerusalem in 70 A.D., entertaining himself by throwing prisoners to the lions, or setting them up to battle to the death in elaborate war games. The stakes, it turned out, might be higher than we thought.

When it comes to the Source, when it comes to our life, when it comes to the power and, finally, when it comes to what we really worship and give our loyalties to . . . who do you say that Jesus is? Who are you betting your life on?

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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MARY, MOTHER OF OUR LORD — August 14, 2005

[Transferred]

THIRTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

Isaiah 61:7-11; Psalm 45:10-16; Galatians 4:4-7; Saint Luke 1:46-55

In nomine Jesu!

Today, we anticipate by one day the Feast of Mary, Mother of our Lord, a feast that has been celebrated in some way by Christians since 549 CE. Tomorrow, Roman Catholics around the world will celebrate the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, commemorating what they believe was her bodily assumption into heaven. On the same day, Orthodox Christians around the world will celebrate the Dormition, or falling asleep, of the Virgin Mary and the belief that, sometime after her death, she was assumed “body and soul” into heaven. Whatever the differing details, both of these traditions, representing the vast majority of Christians throughout history and throughout our contemporary world, celebrate the belief that Mary, the Mother of our Lord, now occupies a special place in the nearer presence of God, a place more exalted than any other except her Son himself. Many in both the Anglican Communion and in the Lutheran communion — notably Martin Luther himself — hold this same exalted view. English-speaking Protestants all over the world, joining their Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Lutheran and Anglican sisters and brothers, have been singing of Mary’s exaltation for nearly one hundred years as, in the hymn “Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones,” they address Mary as “higher than the cherubim, more glorious than the seraphim, . . . thou Bearer of the eternal Word, most gracious” and urge her to “lead” the praises of all angels and saints, as with her they “magnify” the Lord. In short, although we’ve often made a lot of our low opinion of Mary, in our hymns and in much of our popular piety, we have held her in highest esteem.

Our Roman and Anglo-Catholic brothers and sisters like to refer to her as “Queen” — Queen of heaven, Queen of the angels, Queen of all the saints, etc. One of my favorite Roman Catholic churches, strategically located in Orlando, Florida equidistant from Disney World, Universal Studies, and Sea World, is the Basilica of Mary, Queen of the Universe. We seldom use such royal terminology in reference to the Mother of God.

Today, however, I’d like to propose a correction to that on the basis of our Gospel for this day. Today I propose we begin referring to Mary by a new title: Mary, Queen of Justice.

When the Evangelist Saint Luke records Mary’s song, he was doing more than publishing a great hymn text for generations of composers to set to magnificent music. He was also recording an agenda — an outline, if you will — of Mary’s Son’s ministry and a lyrical repristination of the Bible’s most basic and all-pervasive agenda: “to lift up the lowly.” Mary’s song cannot be relegated to good liturgy alone; it must be seen in its biblical context as a clarion call to upset the social order that allows the rich and the proud and the powerful to, in Jesus’ words “lord it over others.” Hers is not just “spiritual music;” Mary is singing about immense societal change. She is singing very clearly about her own time, when the urban and landed gentry, the priestly class and Herod’s minions, encouraged by their imperial Roman masters, used every legal, economic and cultic trick to advance, enrich and enlarge themselves at the expense of the poor, the lowly, the hungry and the homeless — Luke’s famous trilogy of the least, the last, and the lost. Can you imagine what would have happened if Mary would have sung her song on the Roman Governor’s Pavement, or in the Temple precincts, or in the ruling Sanhedrin or in Herod’s courts where her Son would later stand under accusation, rather than in a tiny “Judean town in the hill country”? She would have been charged with preaching rebellion and would have been swiftly put to death. Now can you imagine if she — or we — were to sing this song on the steps of the U.S. Capitol, or in front the White House, any Statehouse, or any town, borough or city hall? How do you think “scattering the proud,” bringing “down the powerful,” sending “the rich away empty” would play in any of those venues? Yet we hear them today — more than once — right here on the corner of Lexington and 54^th Street at the corporate core of the “Island in the Center of the World,” in the words of Jesus’ own mother.

Mary, of course, is not creating new material in her Magnificat. She has no need to copywrite her work. As a matter of fact, she is a shameless plagiarist. And that’s important.

For her words are consistent with those of the 5^th Century BCE prophet we hear today in our first reading, proclaiming to a people who had been dispossessed by the more powerful, stripped — not only of clothing, but of their dignity — and driven away from the land that gave them sustenance that the LORD would restore, clothe, and re-establish them.

And those words themselves are consistent with the words of another woman, Hannah, who sang her song in almost the same Judean location nearly a thousand years earlier, as she gave her son, Samuel, to the service of the Temple:

The LORD makes poor and makes rich; he brings low, he also exalts.

He raises up the poor from the dust; he lifts the needy from the ash heap;

to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honor.

Mary is no innovator; she is simply the epitome of the biblical women and men who articulate God’s passion for justice, that is, for the sharing of power, resources and opportunity among all of God’s people. Mary is no innovator, but she does magnify the LORD who is passionate, not only to help the poor, but to effect systemic change.

God and Mary’s passion for justice, systemic change — for personal and societal transformation — is passed on to God and Mary’s Son. Remember his first sermon?

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
         because he has anointed me
            to bring good news to the poor.
     He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
         and recovery of sight to the blind,
            to let the oppressed go free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.

Jesus made good on that sermon and his Mother’s song by feeding the thousands, bringing in the outcasts, and welcoming the stranger. Jesus made good on his sermon and his Mother’s song by giving his life as one of the lowest of the lowly and dying as an outcast on a criminal’s cross. And God made good on Mary’s singing and Jesus’ dying by raising him from an outcast’s borrowed tomb and in so doing declared this to be God’s agenda and God’s way of accomplishing it for us, Christ’s followers, too.

As she leads us in our singing, Mary instills in us God’s agenda: to lift up the lowly through systemic change. As he leads us in our living, Mary’s Son shows us God’s way: by non-violent, pointed critique and by non-violent self-giving service.

And we all find our power as we eat and drink what Mary bore. And as we sing the Song of Mary, Queen of Justice, not only with our voices, but with daily lives of love.

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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TWELFTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — August 7, 2005

1 Kings 19.9-18; Psalm 85.8-13; Romans 10.5-15; Matt 14.22-33

In nomine Jesu!

In the name of the Father and of the †Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

I’m sure it’s happened to most of us, often when we least expect it and especially during inopportune moments. Times when we wish — times when we hope — it wouldn’t happen, but it does and it concerns us. “Why is this happening to me?” we may ask in utter desperation. “After all, my faith is strong, isn’t it? Strong enough to avoid this feeling?” But still it creeps up on us without any warning. And we may find ourselves like Peter in today’s Gospel…sinking…beneath an unsteady surface, sinking all because of this unwelcome feeling: doubt. And we may long for that hand of our Savior to reach down to us when we cry out, “Lord, save me!”

Doubt. It comes in many shapes and sizes, from small doubts, such as “I doubt I’m going to make it to work on time today” or “I doubt that I’ll get that promotion at work” to doubts that are more serious, arising from our fears: “I doubt that the medical test results will come out favorably…I doubt that that small image on the X-ray is nothing to worry about…I doubt that my relationship with my spouse or life partner will get better...I doubt if my family will ever be the same again.” And the waves crash in around us. Then there are doubts about our faith: do I really have a connection with God…do I feel God’s presence…does God even really exist? These are all fair and honest questions when the storms of doubt arise.

One thing I’ve been reminded of in seminary is this: the opposite of faith isn’t doubt! The opposite of faith is indifference: simply not caring one way or the other. Doubt, you see, shows that something is there, something is present, something is alive and active, and doubt often emerges because of our faith, doubt is part of our faith, especially during those times when our faith may seem shaky, or unsteady, as if the firm surface isn’t quite so firm now and because of the storms in our lives, we falter and we break through and we sink.

As I was delving into today’s text I noted that this Gospel was written somewhere between 80–90 CE (Common Era), during the early days when Christians were being persecuted, and similar to an earlier storm story in chapter 8 when Jesus calms the rough waters, this storm story addresses issues of danger, fear, doubt, and faith: issues that are as common today as they were centuries ago when this event happened! And one of the main points of this story is to reassure Matthew’s hearers then — and Matthew’s hearers gathered here now — that even in the midst of the turmoil and upheaval that we encounter each day, we need not fear because Jesus is present with us, reaching down and pulling us back up. I’m certain there will be much turmoil and upheaval this week in Orlando as our church body journeys into the brewing storm at the Churchwide Assembly, yet even in this inevitable storm, this Gospel reminds us that Jesus is present with and among us. But discussion about the Churchwide Assembly is for another time.

This Gospel today offers the same reassurance to us in other “storms” in our lives. These other “storms” can be all sorts of things: illness; uncertainty; impending death; persecution in its many forms, such as discrimination based on sexual orientation, or profiling based on ethnic or national ties. The list of today’s “storms” goes on and on. But the presence of Jesus in faith prepares us for all the times when things are going badly and even when things are going well!

There is a paradox in this Gospel as this story reveals that the storms of life can be a means of blessing, a means of “picking us up again” during our times of desperation and doubt. We may all know of someone who, when things were going badly, when all hope should have been lost, still grasped the faith of knowing that God was present for him or her. On the other hand, we probably all know someone who in a similar situation did lack faith, someone whose doubts became overwhelming.

I think of the story about the wife of a professor of mine as she was losing her life to cancer. All of her strength was gone, her faith was faltering, and pain overwhelmed her body. During this sinking situation, her pastor came to visit. She said she wasn’t able to pray any more, her faith wasn’t as strong as it had been now that hope and health and recovery were vanishing. She was weak: spiritually, emotionally, physically. What could she do? The pastor offered these wise words: don’t worry if you cannot pray. Remember that your friends — your family — in the church are praying for you, let them carry you along; let their faith hold you.

“Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” As Jesus reached down to Peter during his moment of little faith, he reached down to show that he wouldn’t let Peter sink. And as you and I move back and forth — up and down in our faith and doubt — sometimes focused on the storm and sometimes focused on Jesus, we can always cry out words that say it all: Lord, save me. And in our community here at Saint Peter’s, we can carry each other along, we can reach out to those in need, we can be the strong hand of faith for our loved ones who may be doubting and who need that hope to sustain them.

Earlier this week while this Gospel was stirring in my head, I happened to be listening to a Judy Collins CD. Now for those of you who know me well, that should surprise you, for I usually listen to much more modern music, not classics. But as I was in my daily commute listening to this CD a song hit me like a wave, a song I’ve never heard before. It’s called “Suzanne,” and this second verse called out to me, grabbing my attention; listen to the words:

And Jesus was a sailor when he walked upon the water

And he spent a long time watching from his lonely wooden tower

And when he knew for certain only drowning men could see him

He said, “All men will be sailors then until the sea shall free them”

My friends, we have been set free from the stormy seas we face in life. We are those drowning men and women and children lifted up through the waters of our Baptism and given this faith. And in Romans Paul also encourages those of us who — while desperate, while doubting, while questioning — still can call on the name of the Lord with our own confession of faith and we will be saved! In the end, faith is not being able to walk on water — only God can do that. But by God’s grace, faith is daring to believe that God is with us during the storms of our own lives. God is made real in the community of faith while we make our way — together — through the storm, battered by the waves. Faith is real today in these calm waters of our Baptism; faith is real in the presence of Christ in this bread and wine; faith is real in the presence of Christ in each of us as his Body. And this bread and wine assures us that the One who walked on water comes down to us now, reaching out for us even amidst our doubts to say, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” †

Darryl W. Kozak, Vicar

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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ELEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — July 31, 2005

Isaiah 55:1-5; Psalm 145:8-9, 15-22; Romans 9:1-5; Saint Matthew 14:13-21

In nomine Jesu!

Give us this bread that he may live in us, and we in him. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen

Today’s Gospel lesson, the feeding of the 5,000, is the only miracle recorded by all four Gospels. Now, I’ve learned a lot of important things in my theological education at the Episcopal General Seminary, one of those lessons is that if it is recorded in all four Gospels, it must be important.

Each of the Gospels follows a particular pattern in their telling of Christ’s miraculous feeding. First Jesus displays compassion for the sick. Then the disciples want to send the crowds away because it is getting late, but Jesus, being hospitable, gives them something to eat. The disciples respond with doubt that there is enough for everybody. So Jesus takes the five loaves and the two fish, looks up to heaven, and blesses and breaks the loaves. Jesus gives it all to the disciples, and the disciples go out to the crowds to feed the people. And in Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus specifically instructs the disciples, “You give them something to eat.” Jesus demonstrates his compassion, his mission to heal and to teach, he lays all of this in front of his disciples and puts the charge to them. “You give them something to eat.”

This charge should ring a bell for a congregation of Lutherans. I have studied Luther and learned that he placed special emphasis on the significance of the laity, speaking even about the priesthood of the laity. And as an Episcopalian who has been so warmly greeted and brought into the fold of Saint Peter’s, I can say that Saint Peter’s hears Luther loud and clear. It is not only the strong voice the laity of Saint Peter’s possess, but the presence of action that you present — the breakfast program, the Momentum AIDS Project, the relationships we hold with our sister parishes. These examples are important to note in reference to today’s Gospel, and also in recognition of the newly baptized today, Thomas. Thomas will grow up in this parish knowing that he is called to do something because of the strong emphasis that we bring something to share to the table. So what is he going to be called to do? Well, in my brief interview of the 12-week-old infant, I found out that he enjoys modern jazz, German operas, and long gazes up at the rafters. I think he’ll fit right in. But I also think that as he grows he will be exposed to a world of possibilities, here at Saint Peter’s and far beyond these rafters.

I have recently come to know a man through a biographical book entitled Mountains Beyond Mountains. This man exemplifies the world of possibilities we have read about today in the story of the feeding of the five thousand. He exemplifies the action to which today’s Gospel calls us — to take on the impossible and strive for the miraculous. Dr. Paul Farmer was born in 1959 to a family of six children in Massachusetts. His father, Warden Farmer, bought a bus that had been used as a mobile TB clinic. He converted it into a makeshift home for his family, and moved them to Florida where Paul grew up on a campground, in the bus, with the Farmer family of eight. Paul had an early interest in biology, requiring his sisters and brothers to sit and attend his “lectures” when they were only children. Paul, as a young adult, was granted a full-scholarship to Duke University and continued on to Harvard Medical School. While he was a student, he began making frequent trips to Haiti and soon began to feel that Haiti was his home.

Paul Farmer’s passion took him to Cangre, a village on the central plateau of Haiti. Cangre is where he ultimately built a place called Zanmi Lasante, which is Creole for Partners in Health. Tracy Kidder, who wrote Dr. Farmer’s biography describes his first trip to visit Paul. “I may as well say that from the moment I saw Zanmi Lasante, out there in the little village of Cangre, in what seemed to me like the end of the earth, in what was in fact one of the poorest parts of the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, I felt I’d encountered a miracle. In Haiti, per capita incomes came to a little more than one American dollar a day. The country had lost most of its forests and a great deal of its soil. It had the worst health statistics in the Western world. And here, in one of the most impoverished, diseased, eroded, and famished regions of Haiti, there was Zanmi Lasante.”

Paul was challenged by an established policy that required patients to pay user fees, the equivalent of about eighty American cents per visit. Paul did not want to offend the established local rules so he said everybody would have to pay the eighty cents, except women and children, the destitute, and anyone who was seriously ill. Thus no one could be turned away.

Dr. Farmer tackles many problems in Haiti, but two that I would like to share today come from two different Haitian sayings. The first one is, “Giving people medicine for TB and not giving them food is like washing your hands and drying them in the dirt.” This echoes the sentiment of our gospel today — Jesus heals the sick and gives them something to eat. Dr. Farmer ran an experiment where he took two groups of TB patients. Both groups got free treatment, but one group got other services as well, including small monthly cash stipends for food. Out of the group that only got free medications, 48% of the patients were cured. In the other group, everyone made a full recovery.

The second Haitian saying is, “God gives but doesn’t share.” Dr. Farmer’s translation of this saying is, “God gives us humans everything we need to flourish, but he’s not the one who’s supposed to divvy up the loot. That charge was laid upon us.” Indeed it was. The disciples try to get out of it by saying, “Send the crowds away so that they may go and buy food for themselves.” But Jesus says, no, “You give them something to eat.” This task was given to us long ago, as followers of Christ and as members of this community. It is our responsibility as we celebrate the baptism of Thomas, to instill in him this awareness. There is a task before us and we are all responsible.

Dr. Farmer’s mission statement at Zanmi Lasante is to tackle health problems that can’t be solved. Dr. Farmer saw the 5,000 people and the five loaves and the two fish and he took on the challenge. An estimated one million peasant farmers rely on Zanmi Lasante. More than 100,000 live in the immediate area and are served by the 70 community health workers working in Dr. Farmer’s clinic. People walk for days carrying the sick. Hundreds sleep on the front steps of the clinic to be seen the next day. Skeptics question whether or not Paul Farmer is being realistic with his vision to serve all of these people. He responds to this by saying, “It is unrealistic. It’s completely unrealistic. But the fact that it’s unrealistic to suggest we should reduce risk by reducing social inequalities doesn’t mean that should not be our goal anyway… without some sort of utopian idea behind our policies, behind our practice, I think we’re going to move forward very slowly, if in fact we don’t move backwards.” With that kind of motivational drive and positive outlook Zanmi Lasante has been a leader in the treatment of both multi-drug-resistant tuberculosis and HIV in Haiti and set an example to impoverished communities worldwide.

One of Dr. Farmer’s favorite stories is that of a girl who came to his clinic with extra-pulmonary tuberculosis. She was bald and completely malnourished — skeletal. After treatment, she is a healthy, smiling woman with a full head of hair — a miracle. Dr. Farmer comments with a smile, “It’s almost as if she had a treatable infectious disease”

Paul Farmer went out into the world with no personal resources except his passion for a group of impoverished and sick people. With that, he is constantly working to build a community that can sustain itself. He knows this cannot be done with medicine alone. What lies before each of us is the impossible, the unrealistic. We may not think that we can perform miracles, but yet we see miracles all around us. Seemingly small acts that change lives — sharing food, teaching someone how to read, providing a kind word. Our first reaction is that of the disciples — we don’t have enough to give, we have to wait until we have our medical degree, we have to wait until we have enough money, we have to wait until we have enough time. But Jesus told us to act now, “You give them something to eat.” And that is exactly what each of us is called to do through our baptism. In the act of giving, we will find that we can keep giving.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen

Christopher Craun

Seminary Field Worker

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TENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — July 24, 2005

1 Kings 3:5-12; Psalm 119:129-136; Romans 8:26-39; Saint Matthew 13: 31-33, 44-52

In nomine Jesu!

Warning! This sermon contains explicit material for mature audiences only! It includes the use of a four-letter word — a word I believe to be the most dangerous word in the church’s vocabulary. I have never used the word in a sermon. I have, in fact, forbidden its use in every marriage and commitment liturgy. I am loathe to use it with members of the church staff. To the best of my recollection, I have never once used it with either one of my sons. I am so adamant about this — so convinced by Scripture and the confessions that it has no place in our faith vocabulary — and so concerned that so many contemporary Christians preachers, teacher and theologians are insisting on the use of this word — that I have been looking for an opportunity to preach about it and today’s second reading gives me that opportunity. One of my colleagues calls this “the O-word.” You know it as the word obey.

First of all, let me say that there is nothing wrong with the results of obedience. Good order, safe conduct, respect for the dignity, life and property of others, the ability to keep whole groups of people safe and secure are all the products of disciplined obedience. Nothing and no one in the world could function without obedience to rules, laws, and social norms. Obedience brings good results. The results are not the theological problem.

Except that we of western culture are very much results oriented, and in more ways than we care to admit, we believe — within certain limits, of course — that the ends justify the means. When it comes to religion, for instance, we define a “good religion” as one that produces orderly and patriotic citizens who support our communal values. In times of war, for instance, those faith communities that teach their adherents to be conscientious objectors are always considered less than patriotic. But, I digress.

The problem with obedience, however, is not its results, but its source and motivation. The source of all obedience is self-interest. People obey either because they expect to be rewarded for their good behavior or because they expect to be punished for their bad behavior. “What’s in it for me?” — for good or ill — is ultimately, and often always, our primary concern. This casts whoever it is that we seek to obey — God, priest, parent, employer, whomever — as not much more than an authoritarian source of reward and/or punishment. The primary motivation for that kind of authority is fear. “Wait ‘til your father (or mother) gets home,” or “God’s going to get you,” becomes the operative motivator for right behavior, and right behavior is totally dependent on me. Once again, I need to say, this works. Many of us were raised this way and see nothing wrong with it.

Source and motivation, however, are very important to the God we meet in the scriptures and who is, to use Saint Paul’s language, “the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.” As far as that God is concerned, motivation is of paramount importance, and our behavior is the result of God’s action toward us, not our action toward God. “I am the LORD your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage” — that is the way the Ten Commandments, and the whole biblical legal code begins. “I acted for you,” God says. “Now act for me and for one another not in fear of what I might do, but in response to what I have already done. Respond as if you expect me to keeping on acting that way toward you forever.”

Now, for most people, including, I suspect, many of us, the opposite of obedience is disobedience. But in the Holy Scriptures we call the Old and New Testaments, the opposite of obedience is not disobedience, but faith; faith that trusts God to be loving, kind and gracious forever, and responds, not out of self-centered fear, but out of gift-centered love. Faith clings to a God who has shown he has and whom we trust will keep on loving us. Obedience, centered in self, seeks a future reward. Faith, centered in God, clings to an already given relationship. And that makes all the difference in the world, for it results, not in grudging rule-keeping, but in joy-filled relationship-building. The Bible and the Church calls that second response love.

The motivation for all Christian behavior begins, not with “thus says the Lord,” but with this: “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.” That is what we proclaim and assert at every Baptism. That is what we proclaim and assert every time we announce “the entire forgiveness of all your sins.” That is what we proclaim in touch and taste and nourishment when we say “the body and blood of Christ for you.” That is what we proclaim and share in the Greeting of Peace. And that is what we proclaim at bedside, graveside and columbarium side when we pray: “in sure and certain hope of the resurrection from the dead . . .” That is the sole motivation for faithful behavior, not fear, but faith; not obedience, but love. And that ought to be the way we shape our lives with our spouses, partners, children, employers, employees, and every one whose lives we touch.

Can we live in trust with one another? Can we take the risk of trusting that our spouses, partners, children, employees, co-workers and others will themselves be worthy of our trust? If we live this way, will we never be disappointed?

Of course we will! Because this side of our “sure and certain hope,” of resurrection, we will betray each other’s trust at the drop of a hat. Yet —

What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us? He who did not withhold his own Son, but gave him up for all of us, will he not with him also give us everything else? Who will bring any charge against God's elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? It is Christ Jesus, who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who indeed intercedes for us. Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written,

"For your sake we are being killed all day long;

we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered."

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.

And, if we believe that, we will return again and again and again to font and table and into the community that lives, not by fear, but by faith; not by coercion but by hope and trust. And we will let that shape our lives over and over and over again.

So in the name of Jesus, and on behalf of the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, and in the power of the Holy Spirit, I urge you: Do not obey. Do not seek to be obeyed. Trust and seek to be trusted. For that is the free gift of God in Christ Jesus; and that is the way of freedom, joy and peace.

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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NINTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — July 17, 2005

Isaiah 44.6-8; Psalm 86.11-17; Rom 8.12-25; Matt 13.24-30, 36-43

In nomine Jesu!

What kind of seed are you?” This question could be asked for the trilogy of seed parables we find in chapter 13 of Matthew’s Gospel. Earlier in this chapter (the parable we heard last week) we find a sower randomly scattering seeds, which fall on paths, on rocky places, among thorns, and on good soil. And the parable following the one we heard this morning is another seed parable: The mustard seed. And planted between these other two seed parables is today’s seed parable with the intention of grabbing our attention to hold in tension this question: “What kind of seed are you?” – “What kind of seed am I?”

This parable begs that question, as Jesus tells his hearers what, for them, would be an easy to grasp image: Seeds, deeds, and weeds…and wheat, but that doesn’t fit with my rhyming scheme. With this parable, those who gathered to hear the great teacher would understand this simple picture: Someone sows seeds in a field with the hope of harvesting only wheat, the “good stuff.” Ah, but while everyone slept – that is, while it was dark – an enemy came to sow weeds among the wheat, causing what would eventually be a challenge: Separating the good from the bad. And why? Simply put, the roots of each would intertwine while growing, and so uprooting the weeds would uproot, and destroy, the wheat. And so comes the challenge of separating the good wheat from the bad weeds. That’s easy to understand.

But this parable reveals much more: In our relationships, in our society, in our nations, in our world, and, tragically, even in our church, we often find the bad mixed with the good. In any of these “life situations” we can easily find good and bad. Whether it’s embarrassing conduct, or questionable ethics, or unkind people, the bad often is found among the good, with these two extremes constantly held in tension with each other and we may seek – we may strive for – a way out of this, a way to discard the proverbial “bad apple” that is “spoiling the otherwise good barrel.” And so, like the slaves asked their master in today’s Gospel, we, too, may ask: “Do you want us to go and gather the bad?” To which we hear this answer from the master: “No, let both of them grow – let both of them live in tension – together, the good and the bad – mixed together, to be separated at some later time.”

Yet there is more to this parable. Jesus is calling us to other challenges: Patience and faith. First, patience especially with those who fail to live up to the standard, those “weeds” we meet and know in life whose deeds, or personalities, or behavior don’t measure up to our expectations, those persons whom we love to judge! And second, faith that God will deal with these others, with these “weeds” in our lives, at the right time. After all, if we take matters into our own hands – alone – we may do more harm than good by “uprooting” the good wheat with the bad weeds. So, trust – have faith – in our God who knows how to deal with all that we so much want to deal with ourselves.

Yes, I admit, I judge people – not intentionally, but simply because I’m a human being with my own agenda, with my own expectations of others, and with my own method of “rooting out” the bad weeds in my life. And Jesus’ words in this parable remind us of words Jesus said earlier in Matthew’s Gospel: “Do not judge, so that you may not be judged” (Matthew 7:1 NRSV). That pretty much ends that conversation right there! And, with the faith that God will do the separating, we have hope that one day all will be wonderful, one day all will be perfect, one day all will be redeemed, one day all will be judged – but not just yet, which brings me back to my earlier challenge: Patience.

“Wait,” the master says, “until harvest time.” Or to put it bluntly: Have patience! And the idea is a helpful one in most any of the situations I mentioned earlier: In our relationships, in our society, in our nations, in our world, and in our church. A spouse will do well with his or her assumed-to-be imperfect spouse with patience. Parents will do well with their children with patience just as similarly as children will do well with their parents with patience. An employee will do well with his employer with patience or an employer will do well with her employee with patience. A seminarian or vicar eagerly waiting his first call and ordination will do well with patience. A recovering patient will do well with her recovery with patience.

This last example certainly came true for me last week as I flew home to be with my family and especially with my sister, LaVerne, as her life literally was on the line. And she, and my family, and I had to patiently wait for news of her condition. And now that my sister is home, she must patiently wait for the full recovery from this serious illness.

In life, we must patiently wait for the harvest to come, for the news to be announced, for the words to be heard all while the good lives in tension with the bad.

But I say that with much caution, for certainly there are times when being patient – when being tolerant – must end. A spouse, for example, must not patiently wait and endure a violent or abusive relationship, neither must an employee patiently wait and endure an oppressive work environment. After all, there are and should be limits to our patience. But nonetheless there are times when patience, healthy patience, is a good thing, especially in those situations, in those relationships, in those times in which we have hope. And it is those times that we must cling to patience and have faith – to trust – that God will intervene, that God’s will will be done. Weeds…the bad…evil does exist, but so does God. And as the psalmist writes in today’s Psalm: “[God] is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness” (Psalm 86.15 NRSV). God is “the first and the last,” Isaiah reminds us, and God is the ultimate One who will judge and separate the good wheat from the bad weeds.

So, “what kind of seed are you?” – “what kind of seed am I?” Paul gives us a clue in the reading from Romans today: We are children of God, adopted into God’s family. And in the waters of our Baptism we were brought into this family by God’s grace and in this meal of bread and wine in which the wheat of our Lord’s body becomes one with us, we are a part of his body of bread – of wheat – and we, too, are that wheat filled with God’s Spirit, we are the righteous who will “shine like the sun in the kingdom of our Father.” Yes, we have been harvested as the good seed – as the good wheat – and we are part of God’s family now! True, the bad weeds remain, but rest assured, my friends, that God’s goodness is stronger, and together as a “field of wheat” we can have faith that God will provide and guide us in this life because what God has sown has grown into you and me, as the Body of Christ.

Darryl W. Kozak, Vicar

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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EIGHTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — July 10, 2005

Isaiah 55:10-13; Psalm 65:11-14; Romans 8: 1-11; Saint Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

In nomine Jesu!

When God gives gifts God is so extravagant as to be absolutely wasteful. Of all the things that we’re asked to believe, this, I think, is the hardest. Yet, it is the consistent message of the entire scriptures; a message to which all of our readings attest: When God gives gifts — material as well as spiritual — God is so extravagant as to be absolutely wasteful. Trees burst with fruit, the sea teem with life, the skies drop fatness, flocks lavishly clothe the meadows, grain, wine and oil overflow, graces of every kind abound, and God’s Word is always full! When Jesus tells the parable of the sower and the seed, the notion that is most radical to his hearers then and today is the seed is scattered everywhere — in the path, on the rocks, among the thorns, for the birds and, oh yes, also on receptive and fertile ground. For his first century hearers long convinced by their religious leaders that God is frugal with his promises, doling them out to only a select and chosen few, this is radical theology. For us today, brainwashed by the myth that there is never enough of anything — material or spiritual — this is just as radical. Yet this is exactly what Moses, the prophets and Jesus invites us to believe and shape our lives around. So I’ll say it again: When God gives gifts God is so extravagant as to be absolutely wasteful.

This past week’s G-8 summit meeting sends the opposite message. What did the leaders of the world’s largest economies proclaim? There is not enough food, not enough medicine, not enough oil, not enough coal, not enough water, absolutely not enough money, not enough jobs, and soon — thanks to global warming — there won’t be enough air for anything. And, they have said, if you are unlucky enough to have been born in one of the poorer nations of the world, you’ve already run out of everything and we don’t have enough to share. (All the G-8 nations didn’t actually say that, but the biggest one did!)

Those of us struggling with our own personal economies don’t need the G-8 to tell us that. Those who regularly choose which credit card not to pay, those who regularly juggle medical expenses versus food, those who sweat out whether there will be enough for the rent or the mortgage or the child’s tuition are convinced, by their own very real experience, that there is not enough of anything to go around. And some of us — I know — hate it when the preacher suggests that we ought to do something about the other poor on our streets or our nation ought to do something more about the poor in the rest of the world. Dammit, we say, there’s not even enough for my family and me.

Given that personal as well as global experience, is there any wonder that we also have trouble believing that God is extravagant with God’s spiritual blessings? Catholics and Protestants certainly can’t receive communion together. “The clergy” certainly have more of the spirit than “the laity.” Surely God doesn’t want them — you can fill in that blank with different groups depending on what century you choose — at the altar or in the community or in the ministry. Surely the kingdom of heaven isn’t big enough for Gentiles, or Jews, or this decade’s outcast du jour.

We even do this to our own selves. Surely I’m not as good as, as smart as, as faithful as, as gifted as — now you fill in the blanks.

“A sower went out to sow,” says Jesus. He doesn’t do soil studies, demographic charts, or strategic plans. “A sower went out to sow,” says Jesus. He doesn’t consult actuarial tables or probability charts. “A sower went out to sow,” says Jesus, “and he scattered the seed everywhere.” Birds, rocks, well-worn paths, fertile soil, they all get it with extravagant abundance. And the sower is never concerned that he’s wasted a drop! There is enough, in abundance for all.

And what Jesus says about these spiritual gifts, the rest of the scriptures reinforces about material gifts. There is enough, in abundance, for all.

And when it comes to each of us individually and personally, the scriptures are just as radically sure. Paul is talking about everyone of us when he writes, “There is therefore no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Paul is talking about everyone of us when he writes, “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through the Spirit that dwells in you.” We act on that today as we lay the ashes of Santo Scibilia to his hope filled rest. For we say as we do this that, when it comes to the kingdom of heaven, there is enough, in abundance for all.

“The kingdom of heaven,” that’s what this parable and all the others we’ll be hearing over the next several weeks are all about. “The kingdom of heaven,” not some unfathomable destination that we reach when we shuffle off this mortal coil, but an actual reality, grounded in our here and now, growing, blossoming, bearing fruit in us as we live through the struggles of our lives in contradistinction to that other reality, represented by the economists and the summiteers and the pessimists who pound into us that there is never, ever going to be enough of anything for everyone. They’ve done it for so long and with so much effect that we actually believe that and shape our life accordingly, but that is exactly the opposite of what Jesus, Isaiah and Paul remind us today. So I’ll say it again:

When God gives gifts God is so extravagant as to be absolutely wasteful. . . and so we can be both certain of and humble with God’s faithfulness; extravagant with our hospitality and friendship, and less critical of the faith and living of others.

When God gives gifts God is so extravagant as to be absolutely wasteful. . . and so we can feed the hungry, house the homeless, provide medical care to the sick and troubled in our city and throughout the world.

When God gives gifts God is so extravagant as to be absolutely wasteful. . . and so debts can be forgiven, lives can be renewed, and the economy of God’s kingdom will go on.

When God gives gifts God is so extravagant as to be absolutely wasteful. Do you still have trouble believing that? Well, here comes our God — the Sower, the Seed, and the Nourisher — and whether you are fertile field, worn-down path, impenetrable rock, or for the birds, God — Sower, Seed and Nourisher — showers divine life and Spirit, power and blessings on you, through Word and Meal, and holy companions, and there is enough for today and for tomorrow and for eternity in the nearer Presence of our extravagant God.

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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SEVENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — July 3, 2005

Zechariah 9:9-12; Psalm 145:8-15; Romans 7:15-25a; Saint Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

In nomine Jesu!

If I were going to enter into the debate about Christian values in America (as our Bishop did last Sunday) there would be no better time to do that than this 229^th Independence Day weekend, and no better text to consider than the words of Jesus that we hear today:

Come to me, all you that are weary and heavy laden, 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 your rest. My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

These are, arguably, the most comforting, useful and valuable words of Jesus ever recorded. They are the clearest expression of his ongoing ministry as our crucified, risen and ascended Lord. They are the clearest expression of our ongoing vocation as his disciples and, more to our point, they are most clearly echoed in the beloved words of Emma Lazarus engraved near the base of our most enduring symbol of freedom, the Statue of Liberty.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Thousands of our ancestors have thrilled to her sight and clung to those words. Thousands of their decendants wait patiently still to file past that inscription as they climb the statue to gaze at this skyline of this city or to look down on the now closed immigrant-welcoming halls of Ellis Island. Is there any higher value, Christian or American national, than the value expressed here? I don’t think so.

Yet these are words of the past. Our world is very different now. Ellis Island no longer processes immigrants but is a museum of past hospitality and welcome. Government agents no longer welcome immigrants, but instead patrol these waters and scour this air, intercepting, processing and sending back those “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Along other borders, we describe those who risk their lives to cross the Rio Grande in search of safe refuge and security in a promising land in a more derisive way: “Wetbacks,” we call them.

On this 229^th Independence Day, we are not alone in our changing values. Australia, Canada, Switzerland, England, Germany and much of Western Europe have also closed their doors in the face of immigrants and refugees. We are not alone, yet it is we alone who claim to cling to our “historic Christian values.” We are not alone, yet we claim a singular and higher national calling.

Ours is, after all, an age of immigration, of “people on the move.” The number of displaced persons, refugees and asylum seekers is soaring (ask Darryl Kozak or Dennis Frado or Jackie Mize-Baker). People carry heavy burdens of disrupted lives and move often to seek safety and refuge. Sometimes that movement is voluntary; more often flight is an involuntary result of war or famine. And we are the ones who revel in our “pilgrim” heritage. We are the ones who describe ourselves as being on a “spiritual journey.” We are the ones who pray with Augustine, “Our hearts are restless ‘til they rest in thee.”

Zechariah has a word to say to us today, as he sings a song of hope for a people who found their home in a covenant with God. This was a tired, poor, and wretched refuse of a people, the homeless, tempest-tossed conquered of Babylon. “Prisoners of hope,” Zechariah calls them as he shares with them his vision of their future restoration when their ruler arrives in the city, triumphant, victorious, regally mounted, joyfully welcomed by all!

We are the ones who rejoice in that message, year after year, decade after decade, in the liturgy of Palm Sunday as we enter with Jesus into the remembrance of his dying and rising that sets us truly free.

And we are the ones who acclaim him; who rejoice that he has already broken the yoke of the oppressor and destroyed the warrior’s boots and bloodied garments, not as wartime leader, but as the humble, self-emptying Prince of Peace, crowned with thorns, enthroned on a cross whom we worship, praise and adore; whose voice we hear as comfort when he says,

These words live today in this assembly. “Come to me,” says the crucified and risen one. Come to me here and find welcome, refuge and sanctuary. Come to me and be nourished; come to me and be forgiven. Come to me and find life and living. Come to me and find your eternal home.

If I were going to enter into the debate about Christian values in America, I’d hear today’s readings as incomparable words of comfort, as a perfect description of my vocation and of our civic and national calling, and I’d go out of my way to conform my life – my whole life – and hold the life of my city, state and nation to that standard. That’s what I’d do on this 229^th anniversary of our Nation’s independence. What would you do?

Amandus J. Derr

Saint Peter’s Church

In the City of New York

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SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — June 26, 2005

Jeremiah 28:5-9; Psalm 89:1-4, 15-18; Romans 6:12-23; Saint Matthew 10:40-42

in nomine Jesu!

When the Archbishop of Canterbury visited this congregation we were standing together in the back and waiting for the procession to begin. He noticed the chair for the bishop above the altar. He looked at me and smiled. “So, is this your patch?” I began stammering about Lutherans not having cathedrals and then just stopped and said, “Yes, this is my patch.” And it is. Bishop Gillepsie, the recently deceased Episcopal bishop of Nevada said “Wherever I sit down is my cathedral.” But you have provided your bishop a chair and every time I come here it is a cup of cold water for this thirsty prophet. Thank you for the invitation to your pulpit and altar.

After the recent presidential election the pundits said that the tipping point for a Bush victory was the issue of “public morality” or “religious values.” They described a country divided: blue and red versions of religious values or public morality. In the midst of ongoing conversation around public morality, religious values, and the ascendancy of equating the vocation of America with the religious right, it may be good for us to meet a few people.

The first is John. He is a blue collar guy from the parish I served in Bergen County, New Jersey right next door to your own pastor’s former congregation. That part of New Jersey would be a red state kind of place. Their mayor was just the most conservative of the five candidates recently running for the Republican nomination for governor of the Garden State. When I introduced the chalice for use at the Eucharist he would accuse me of trying to make the congregation “catholic.” His attitudes may be described as racist, classist, homophobic, and any other name you could mention. We clashed on everything in those first years. But this was also a congregation which started a school for the children of its community, met with mayors and governors concerning affordable housing, bought the parish house next door to house homeless women and children, was a congregation where the poor and homeless knew they were welcome. And John was in the midst of it. His conversion came when we served a meal in our church basement for the homeless and John helped plan and serve the meal. John sat across the table from children of God who were hungry. He listened to one story after another. He connected in a radical way, with his faith and his vocation. Because he knew and believed the Gospel, he was able to act on it when given a chance. His attitudes softened, although he will probably never use the word vote and Democrat in the same sentence. My point: When you meet John and the millions like him you realize that the so-called red and blue divide is not that easy. I am not here trying to be condescending: “Even Republicans can be nice people!” Far from it. But the fallout after the election did show a cultural divide, one that has been there for years. My parents taught me to love the poor. And they probably voted for Bush. Contempt for John and his version of Christianity was deep and naked. And it has been there for years. The answer to the struggle for the soul of being Christian in America will never be answered by class contempt or self-righteous posturing. We can’t fight two wars. We can’t fight a culture war and a war on poverty. And we can’t spend our time and energy vying for the upper hand in whose version of a “Christian America” will prevail. We need to meet someone else this morning to help show us the way.

Meet Jeremiah. He has just heard Hananiah proclaim that all will be well. We will have peace in our time. Our lesson for today is curious. It is public theology at its most intense. Jeremiah thanks the prophet Hananiah for his pronouncement of impending peace and the end of exile in Babylon. “Amen!” to that vision says Jeremiah. He notes that prophets before them have prophesied war, famine, pestilence against many countries. They certainly can use a good word about peace. And Jeremiah ends this section by saying that when the word of the prophet about peace comes true, then we will know that the Lord has truly sent a prophet. In other words, just wishful talk about peace won’t make it happen. On the face of it, this slender text seems to match up with the theme of hospitality for the prophets in our Gospel for today. Jeremiah’s “amen” seems to be a cup of cold water shared in hospitality for the prophet. But let’s dig deeper.

Here’s the issue. Israel has lost its way. There are two contending myths about how the world is ordered, which clash in the Hebrew scriptures. The Canaanite myth is based on survival. When that value is central all else is servant to it. Living in the thrall of survival means treaties, power, war, acquisitiveness. But when a motley band of former slaves entered the land (“hapiru” which means “those on the margins” and from which we get the word “Hebrew”) they brought with them a different public consensus, a different spiritual story or myth. They worshipped Jahweh, the God who made central not survival, but attending to the widows and orphans, those on the margins. Survival or compassion? Trust in strength to insure survival or trust in the God of the oppressed? Scarcity or abundance? Baal or God?”

Israel had lost their way. “They have made offerings to other gods and worshipped the works of their own hands.” Israel will be purified and chastened. They will be conquered by Babylon and taken into exile until they again reclaim their vocation, not as one thug, narcissistic nation among many, but as a “light to the Gentiles, a blessing to all people.” They had forgotten that the God of Israel is the God of the migrant worker, the widow, the orphan, the captive, the poor, a servant people. And God sent Jeremiah to warn the people that any peace short of the peace of Jahweh, any vocation short of the call to be a light to the Gentiles, is a false peace, a false vocation. Equating public morality and religious values with the prospering of the nation as a power seeking its own ends is, for Jeremiah, a moral disaster. And so he had the unpopular task of speaking clearly the word of God. No justice no peace. And God knew that it would not be easy.

“Gird up your loins, stand up and tell them everything I command. Do no back down before them or I will break you before them.”

“The prophets are prophesying lies in my name…I did not send them…a lying vision who say ‘sword and famine’ shall not come to this land.”

This is tough stuff to hear and Jeremiah was considered unpatriotic. He refused to conflate the religious vision with the vision for the nation. He refused to give a message of false peace. And yet he yearned for the true peace of God as much as any of them. God did not call him to be a “moral majority,” to be the house theologian of a corrupt nation. He was called to speak clearly, with integrity, the word of the Lord and the vision of the God of the orphans and widows and victims of injustice. That vision of true peace will have its own power.

“It is they who will turn to you, not you turn to them… if you utter what is precious and not worthless.”

“They keep saying to those who despise the word of the Lord, ‘it will be well with you.’ Do not listen.”

Israel did go into exile. The holy things of Jerusalem were in captivity. “How can we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” Similar to our nostalgia and sorrow at the end of Christendom. There is the will to recreate a Christian nation in the public square. Here’s how Hananiah tried to do it.

Jeremiah had put on a yoke and was walking around in public saying: “You must not listen to your prophets, your diviners who are saying to you ‘you shall not serve the king of Babylon.’” What is our/your yoke?

Addiction to money

Arrogance of our nation

Fear of death

Inability to see the poor

Spending more money for prisons than education in the South Bronx

False peace and justice to answer religiously inspired violence with a holy war of our own

Promising ultimate security in anything but our Baptism

Hannaniah broke the yoke and predicted peace. He died within the year. Yet the vision of peace prevails. Jeremiah 29, the letter to the exiles. “Seek the welfare of the city into which I have sent you into exile…pray for it…for in its welfare you will find your own….”

And meet someone else. Jesus. Sermon on and down the mount. Travel light. We are sent, not to conquer the villages and households. We are not sent as a moral majority to coerce our vision of religious values. We are sent as exiles and pilgrims and prophets. We are to proclaim peace. Jeremiah 29: New York and Babylon.

The cough of a bulldozer in East New York breaking ground for Nehemiah Homes (affordable housing) to recreate blasted neighborhoods…past other versions of peace which make religion just the invocation of public pieties.

The Eucharist at my former congregation, where we processed with the bread and wine and candles and cross to the parish house around the corner, placed the Eucharistic elements on the kitchen table and prayed for the homeless women and children who would be moving in the next morning…God’s version of peace even if that ministry caused public controversy and lost members.

Leipzig, where the churches in the last days of communism were, in the words of one who attended the vespers, “A sanctuary of peace and justice where I can emigrate every time I come here….”

Nina, a woman I met in Ukraine who looked at me sardonically and said, “What, really do you believe about death and resurrection…really…” and Walter, my cousin preparing for his own death and asking me for a blessing and prayer….at times like this we do not want Hananiah’s pseudo peace; we want the truth of the God of the widows and orphans…

In Christ there is no red and blue divide: There is the red as we come together at the cross and receive the Body and Blood of Christ…there is the blue of our common baptismal water and orientation.

So come to the table, past the bogus versions of peace and God’s will, disguised as our own. Past phony blue and red divides, instead united in our primal baptismal orientation. Receive the Peace that passes all understanding. And when we hear the words, “Go in peace, serve the Lord,” seek the welfare of the city, as exiles live out the vision and public theology of true peace, prophets of the Prince of Peace.

Stephen Paul Bouman

Bishop

Metropolitan New York Synod

Evangelical Lutheran Church in America

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FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — June 19, 2005

Jeremiah 20:7-13; Psalm 69; Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39

In the name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

What have we gotten ourselves into?

That is the question we might ask ourselves after listening to our readings for today. This is the question Tiffany may be asking herself now that through baptism she has begun her new life in Christ. What have we gotten ourselves into?

Take Jeremiah. God has made him a prophet — a preacher! His mission is to announce God’s judgment upon an unfaithful, disobedient people. God tells him to take an earthenware pot and throw it to the ground so that it smashes into a zillion tiny pieces. And he is to say to the people — the priests and elders of Israel, “Thus says the Lord of hosts: so will I break this people and this city as one breaks a potter’s vessel so that it can never be mended.” Guess what! They don’t like Jeremiah’s preaching! They are offended by him! So the chief priest, a guy named Pashur, arrests Jeremiah, beats him and puts him in the stocks for a day. When Pashur releases him, Jeremiah angrily lays into him calling him “Terror on every side” and repeating his message of doom and destruction.

Then follows today’s text in which Jeremiah complains bitterly to God about the predicament he is in. He has been faithfully proclaiming the word of the LORD and it has caused him all this trouble and unhappiness! All his friends have turned against him. He has become a laughingstock to everyone and he is suffering terrible abuse. He is tempted to just give in, shut his mouth, and go along with the crowd and their popular notions of the day, but he simply cannot. His devotion and obedience to God make it impossible for him to back down! Still it doesn’t keep him from telling God how he feels about it!

Turning to today’s Gospel, Jesus’ twelve disciples may also be asking themselves, “what have we gotten ourselves into?” At the beginning of chapter 10 in Matthew, Jesus commissions the twelve to go out to the towns and villages of Israel to proclaim that the kingdom of heaven is arriving! He also gave them authority to heal the sick and cast out demons in his name. But then he starts with the warnings — here’s what you can expect to happen, he says. Some people will not welcome you. Some may persecute you. Your parents or siblings may betray you. Your friends will hate you. And finally, you will be treated no better than I am treated. And we know what happened to Jesus, though they didn’t yet. Can you imagine them standing around Jesus as he tells them all this, glancing sideways at each other, nervously shuffling their feet and wondering, “what in the world have we gotten ourselves into?”

What about us — you and I? What about Tiffany? What have we gotten ourselves into? Saint Paul is very clear about it.

What then are we to say? Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin go on living in it? Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life.

Baptism launches us — you and me and now Tiffany — into a new life; one that is a particular adventure. Yes, it’s an adventure! It’s not the easy life. It’s not the wide road of popular culture. It’s not the American Dream of success and security. It’s not the path of self-indulgence or even self-fulfillment. It is simply life in Christ. Why is that such an adventure? Because you never know what it will get you into! You never know how it will challenge you! You never know what it will call you to be or do. Ask Jeremiah! Ask the apostles! Ask the saints and martyrs! Heck, ask anyone you know who has responded to God’s call of service.

Think of Jesus. You could say he was a nonconformist, a troublemaker, much like Jeremiah. He said some things that were very unpopular. He made people uncomfortable and even angry! He was a wandering preacher. He had no place to lay his head; his home was nowhere and it was everywhere. He lived without fear, at least he wasn’t ruled by fear. He lived his life in complete and utter obedience to the one he called Father, and still does! He suffered abuse and scorn and died the death of a common criminal because the powers that be wanted to be rid of him. Little did they know that his death meant the death of sin and death for all those who live in him. Just so, death could not hold him and now he lives again on the other side of death. Saint Paul says it best, “For we know that Christ being raised from the dead will never die again; death has no more dominion over him.” And now death has no dominion over those who live in him!

Therefore, if we live in Jesus Christ we live in one who is in fact really ALIVE! And because he is alive there’s no telling what he will lead us into if we are willing to go along for the ride! It’s an adventure, I tell you! And yet it’s a particular adventure, that is, there are some very particular parameters to it. They are the parameters of Jesus’ own life lived in complete and utter obedience to the one he called Father. So to live “in Christ” means to join him in this way of living. It means saying and doing the sorts of things that Jesus says and does, even though, as we have seen, this can lead to trouble, unhappiness, and even suffering! Living in Christ means conforming ourselves to his image by carefully attending to his word, taking it in and letting it guide our minds and hearts and spirits. It means losing our life for Jesus’ sake and, as a result, finding in him — life that is true and good and beautiful. This is the adventure of walking in newness of life. This is the adventure into which baptism into Christ launches us! This is what we have gotten ourselves into! Or rather, this is what God’s Spirit has drawn us into.

Perhaps you noticed that, after Jeremiah is done complaining, his tone changes as he remembers that God is with him and will defend him like a great warrior. “To you I have committed my cause,” Jeremiah says, “Sing to the Lord; praise the Lord! For he has delivered the needy from the hand of the evildoers.” And so Jeremiah doesn’t give up and go home. He goes on. Things get worse. He sees his people defeated and sent into exile. Lots of bad things happen, but Jeremiah remembers the Lord and remains ever faithful to the God of Israel.

In the midst of all Jesus’ warnings about the bad stuff that could happen to the disciples, he says do not be afraid!

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.

No matter what happens — no matter what troubles, unhappiness or suffering befall us as we walk with Jesus in the new life that, in baptism, he so graciously launches us on — always remember that you and I have a Father in heaven who has counted every hair on our heads. We are precious to God — so precious that, by his death and resurrection, our Lord has already delivered us from every enemy that would snatch us out of God’s ever present, powerful, and loving hands, including sin and death. Therefore, as Saint Paul teaches, you and I must consider ourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus, to whom belongs glory, praise, and honor, now and forever. Amen

The Rev. Carol E. A. Fryer

Assistant Pastor

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FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST — June 12, 2005

Exodus 19:2-8a; Psalm 100; Romans 5:1-8; Saint Matthew 9:35 – 10:9-23

Sermon text: Genesis 41:1-8; 14a, 25-35

In nomine Jesu!

A long time ago, in a country far, far away, there was a man who had a dream; actually, two dreams. They weren’t just dreams, they were recurring nightmares. And the man wasn’t just any man; arguably, he was the most powerful man in the world: He was the ruler, or Pharaoh, of Egypt. Here’s what he dreamt:

There were seven cows, “fat and sleek,” grazing on the banks of the Nile. Out of the river came seven other cows — “poor, ugly and thin” — which ate the seven fat cows. Alternately, there were seven ears of grain, “full and good,” growing on one stalk. These were devoured by seven other ears of grain “withered, thin and blighted.”

None of Pharaoh’s counselors could interpret these dreams.

Enter Joseph, favorite son of Jacob, sold into slavery by his jealous brothers, unjustly accused and languishing in prison; summoned before Pharaoh. Listen as the Book of Genesis recounts their story:

Then Joseph said to Pharaoh, "Pharaoh's dreams are one and the same; God has revealed to Pharaoh what he is about to do. The seven good cows are seven years, and the seven good ears are seven years; the dreams are one. The seven lean and ugly cows that came up after them are seven years, as are the seven empty ears blighted by the east wind. They are seven years of famine. It is as I told Pharaoh; God has shown to Pharaoh what he is about to do. There will come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of Egypt. After them there will arise seven years of famine, and all the plenty will be forgotten in the land of Egypt; the famine will consume the land. The plenty will no longer be known in the land because of the famine that will follow, for it will be very grievous. And the doubling of Pharaoh's dream means that the thing is fixed by God, and God will shortly bring it about. Now therefore let Pharaoh select a man who is discerning and wise, and set him over the land of Egypt. Let Pharaoh proceed to appoint overseers over the land, and take one-fifth of the produce of the land of Egypt during the seven plenteous years. Let them gather all the food of these good years that are coming, and lay up grain under the authority of Pharaoh for food in the cities, and let them keep it. That food shall be a reserve for the land against the seven years of famine that are to befall the land of Egypt, so that the land may not perish through the famine."[i]

Most of us know the rest of this story. Pharaoh chooses Joseph to oversee this process and when the famine finally came, Egypt had so many stores that, again according to Genesis, “all the world came to Joseph in Egypt for grain, because the famine became severe throughout the world.”[ii]

You probably have noticed that this story has absolutely nothing to do with our lectionary readings for today. It has everything to do, however, with our life together as the “faithful People of Saint Peter’s Church” today, especially as we move into our annual congregational meeting.

You see, thanks to each of you, thanks to our marvelous staff, and thanks to God’s gift of several “wise and discerning” Josephs among us, we are right now completing the seventh of seven “fat” years in a row. Consider just these few examples:

· Five years ago, we created a Property Fund and funded it at a now annual rate of $110,000. This, in turn, has enabled us to plan and make needed capital improvements in a way most parishes are never able to do.

· Three years ago, after re-negotiating a significant increase in our leases, we established our special Benevolence program. By the end of this day we will have given away $54,000 in mission support to others above and beyond our annual sharing of resources with our synod and the ELCA.

· Seven years ago, we began re-funding all the moneys borrowed from our designated funds during the previous “famine.” In seven years, we completed that project.

· Five years ago we began bringing the salaries of all the lay members of our staff up to the level of staff members serving in other religious institutions in Manhattan. We’ve consistently raised those salaries and that means that, unlike so many faith-based institutions, we are not balancing the budget on the backs of our staff. That act of justice is something to be particularly proud of.

· Last year, we began a three-year process to reduce the percentage of what we take from our Trust endowment income, allowing for the possibility of a brighter future for those who follow us here.

The list could go on and on.

I don’t know whether we’re entering two, five, seven or ten or even one “lean” years. I do know that, in terms of our fixed resources — leases, space use, the Trust, and special grants — we have reached their limits. The Program Budget we adopt today is a budget for a “lean” year. And when, in the next few years, we face new mission challenges — the need to call a new assistant pastor for the jazz ministry, for example — we will need to learn how to balance “leanness” with mission and with justice.

You may think that budgets have no place in a service of Gathering, Nourishing and Sending that we call the Holy Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper, or the Mass. I beg to disagree.

1. Because church budgets (personal budgets too, I might add) are always theological statements. Annually, by establishing our real priorities they can either express faith or fear. A survival budget says one thing. A mission budget — which ours continues to be — says something quite different.

2. Because, every budget ought to have a Eucharistic shape. What is that shape? Jesus takes, gives thanks, breaks and shares. Everyone knows how to take and break resources. The people of God in Christ include giving thanks and sharing as necessary components to those other rather mundane tasks.

3. Because the Scriptures always have something to teach us about the way we handle all that God gives us, resources as well as challenges, fatness as well as leanness.

We’ve already modeled the last seven years’ handling of our resources in our last seven years together on Joseph’s stewardship of the fatness of Egypt. We need to model the lean years, whatever their number, as well. The Book of Genesis tells us that, “all the world came to Joseph in Egypt for grain, because the famine became severe throughout the world.”[iii] In other words, by prudent planning, God’s mission for Joseph and Egypt, that they provide hope and hospitality for those in need, which included Joseph’s father, brothers and their families — the children of Israel — never faltered when times were lean. Without that commitment to mission, Exodus and deliverance, exile and return, and the birth of a son of Israel named Jesus would never have occurred. We need to remember that for ourselves as well. Genesis ends as these needy ones find their home and grow numerous thanks to the prudence of Joseph and the generous hospitality of Egypt.

Four hundred years later, the Book of Exodus begins with the enslaving of Joseph’s descendants by “a new king who did not remember Joseph,”