Sermons from St. Anne's in-the-Fields

“I think it matters that Jesus gets annoyed with his disciples. The Disciples are our avatars in the narrative of the Gospels. When they behave as humans would, as you would under the circumstances, they get a clear and uncut rebuff from the Divine. I confess that my favorite readings of the Bible are when Jesus looks to his very human disciples and says, “really?” God appearing as a tempest makes a statement, sure. But side-eye? Side-eye cuts to the quick.”

One Sunday morning a mother shook her son awake, telling him it was time to go to church. No effect. Ten minutes later she was back: “Get out of bed immediately and go to church.” “Mother, I don't want to. It's so boring. Why should I bother?” “For two reasons: You know you must go to church on a Sunday, and secondly, you are the bishop of the diocese.” Here we are, bishops, priests, and lay people alike, having rolled out of bed and made it here this morning. Well, maybe we still have some parishioners reclining at home…

We were joined by Dale Allison, Professor of New Testament at Princeton Seminary, to talk about his new book on the resurrection.

“It feels like this is something of our last Sunday of the school year, before we shift into summer mode next week with one 9am service. It's also like we are at this societal moment of pivoting out of COVID-19 restrictions and more or less going back to normal – if there ever was such a thing. What's been a bit disorienting for me was the radical abruptness of reopening. It was like the CDC and our civic leaders just got tired of the gray zone of semi-regulated communal life, and rather than slowly undimming the lights, they just decided to flick the switch on, and many of us, accustomed to the dark and coziness of quarantine, are squinting a little bit, trying to acclimate to the bright lights of normal.”

“Imagine a Portrait Gallery approached you and wanted to capture your image for posterity. How would you like to be portrayed? What picture of yourself would you like others to see? And do you think that picture ties up at all with the pictures others have of you? How would you be in this portrait? Where would you be? What emotion, position, look would just capture you?”

“Human beings take around 650,000,000 breaths in their lifetime; About 25,000 a day. How many of those are we aware? My Apple watch rings once an hour with a reminder to Breathe. It's kind of annoying: What does it think I've been doing for the last hour? It doesn't give me a reminder to tell my heart to pump blood Or to my intestines to digest food. Why does it suppose I've neglected my breath?”

“I am not a priest—I just poorly play one on Facebook live. My study of the Bible is relatively recent and shallow—I didn’t find my way into regular worship until I met Gene. Sure, my childhood featured Easter Sunday services in fluffy Talbots dresses and two-weeks each summer of Vacation Bible School… but those were less an expression of my belief in God than they were my being easily bribed by flowery dresses and weeks of time at Grandma’s house. I’m not a rector, but Iama writer. I’ve consumed a lot of stories in all sorts of different media. I love the craft of storytelling, and the tropes and tools we writers use to tell a story right. That’s why I think I love John’s gospel.”

“Our tradition provides us two holy books, two sacred texts, to shape our spiritual imaginations. The first text is Holy Scripture – the Old and the New Testaments containing the great story of salvation, providing us the teachings of Jesus, and the examples of the earliest followers. The second Sacred Text is the Book of Creation. We don’t normally think of creation as a text, but all the elements are there. There are characters (both heroes and villains), and landscapes, and family conflicts, and resolutions and more bloody conflicts. And like any text, or book, it’s there for the reader to interpret it. To try and make sense out of it. What’s it about? Can we discern a plot?”

“Bertrand Russell, the famous British philosopher, once gave a public lecture on astronomy. He described how the earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the center of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy. At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said, “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on?” “You're very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But it's turtles all the way down! Two millennia ago, while the Stoics, and the Platonists, and the Aristotelians were holding forth about the motions of the planets and the stars and the observable universe, in the back of the room, a little old man stands up, and clears his throat, and says something so preposterous you’d hardly believe it: it’s love all the way down.”

“This fourth Sunday of the Easter season is awash in images of shepherds and flocks. This Gospel passage, and the 23rd psalm from which its imagery derives. The original audience listening to Rabbi Jesus would have been more than familiar with the frequent use of images of sheep and flocks in scripture and teaching. Years ago, when I dropped out of college for a bit of time that was graciously considered by the dean of students as a “leave of absence”, I lived on a farm in the Upper Connecticut Valley in New Hampshire. This farm raised blueberries and trees and was self-sustaining for its own produce. Living there was, quite literally, living off the land. Like most New England farmers, the man who owned the farm was responsive to his neighbors’ needs. Farming in New England is not for the faint of heart and you survive in solidarity with the other resolute souls who try to earn their living out of that stony ground and frequently harsh climate. One of the neighbors kept sheep, and when he would need to leave town for a time, we took care of his sheep. It was thus that I had a very short-career as a not very capable shepherd. The Mediocre Shepherd, you might say.”

“Easter Sunday puts a pause on the world’s worries: pilgrims make their pilgrammages; choirs belt out their strong hallelujah’s; the pope says mass for thousands; preachers mock death; the adorned altar proclaims spring, and for a brief shining moment the hope of Jesus Christ risen is tangible. But then the world blinks, as it were, loses its concentration and returns its attention to other pressing matters: COVID variants in the air, a border in disarray, a boiling planet and brutal gun violence. Then it turns to look for this hope again, and it’s gone. An array of forces is approaching us led by the baddest bully of them all: death. Where is that Easter bravado today? One week after, do you still believe in Easter? How? There was once a man who did not believe in Easter. His name was Thomas the Twin; we might call him St. Skepticus.”

Easter Sunday puts a pause on the world’s worries: pilgrims make their pilgrammages; choirs belt out their strong hallelujah’s; the pope says mass for thousands; preachers mock death; the adorned altar proclaims spring, and for a brief shining moment the hope of Jesus Christ risen is tangible. But then the world blinks, as it were, loses its concentration and returns its attention to other pressing matters: COVID variants in the air, a border in disarray, a boiling planet and brutal gun violence. Then it turns to look for this hope again, and it’s gone. An array of forces is approaching us led by the baddest bully of them all: death. Where is that Easter bravado today? One week after, do you still believe in Easter? How? There was once a man who did not believe in Easter. His name was Thomas the Twin; we might call him St. Skepticus.

I studied Greek in college. And I have to admit I didn’t choose this major for any high or lofty reason; I have since begun to tell people that I wanted to read the New Testament in the Original; that’s not really true. We had something of a “Major’s Fair” at our Orientation Week, and all the other tables were full and bustling except for the Classics table – so I wandered over, and I was drawn in by a kindly professor and a big plate of Grape leaves. I ate 4 or 5 or maybe 12, and I signed my name on a sheet. I’ve been thinking back on those early days recently, especially my first classes. The first Greek word I learned was the first person singular present tense indicative verb LUO. I quickly discovered it means “I loose.” You learn it on day one of the Greek class because it’s a short, regular verb that’s easy to conjugate. It’s a particularly useful verb for those who’re in the habit of tying up oxen or releasing mules. Now, as a 18 year old boy from a suburban town I didn’t have a lot of life experience to bring to sentences like “I would have loosed the oxen,” or “They are going to loose the donkeys,” let alone “I would have loosed,” “I used to loose,” and “I was going to have loosed.” But then comes the great day when you first pick up a copy of the New Testament in its original Greek. And then you enter a new world.

Holy Saturday is often referred to Christ’s Harrowing of Hell. A harrow is a spiked implement that is drawn over plowed land to break up clods, tear up weeds, and level the ground for planting. Knowing that bit of agricultural technology gives our figurative use of the adjective harrowing an important layer of meaning. When we speak of a harrowing experience, we mean one that is hair-raising and unnerving, one that disturbs our peace and challenges our sense of security. Whatever in us remains to be broken up and rooted out so that we may be made fertile and fruitful may need to be harrowed. It is not likely to be a comfortable process.

How in the world did it come to this? I met Daryl in a homeless shelter. Darryl was in his mid 40’s and he was fresh out of prison. He was rather open and forthcoming with me. He told his story about living on the run – drugs, and alcohol had gotten him into trouble. He told me about a life of dishonesty and duplicity, and straight-up fear – taking money from his mother, stealing his neighbor’s car. Because of this, he was always on the defense; always trying to protect something; always fearing that he was going to be found out. He was found out early in the morning after a multi-day bender. He said, “It’s never good when its your own Momma who calls the cops on you.” He was arrested and taken to County. Darryl told me something I will never forget; he said, “I sat there in my cell I was the freest I have ever been in my life. I was as free as a bird in springtime. I didn’t have to run anymore,” he told me.

This is a difficult day, if we let its meaning seep into our being, and into our marrow. It has come to this. Three years of preaching and teaching, comforting and confronting. Three years of mighty acts power, and small acts of kindness. Enigmatic parables, and straightforward and frightening demands. And now this. The last gathering, although most present don’t know it. A frightful wrestling with conscience, and a clear vision of what the next 24 hours would bring. Take this burden, and yet let it be according to your will. We tend to rush through this week, in a great hurry, it would seem, to get to the end. The place we know, or hope for, or pray for, or simply wonder about. The empty tomb, the encounters, perhaps we can even hold the notion of a Crucified-Yet-Risen-One in our hearts. Yet by rushing through this week, we do the story and ourselves a disservice.

“His disciples did not understand these things at first; but when Jesus was glorified, then they remembered that these things had been written of him and had been done to him. Don’t let this last sentence become a throw-away. It is extraordinarily important to linger on the idea that this moment of triumphal entry ultimately becomes, as the gospel tells us, an afterthought. Only we humans have the capacity to offer supplication for saving in one breath, only to scream “crucify him” in the next, and then forget, until later, that we were actually walking with God all along. Let’s stand right here at this intersection of need, fallenness, and memory.”

Garrett leads us in thinking about Jesus and the Father.

“We are now nearing the end of the first month of the second year of the COVID19 pandemic lockdown. While there are glimmers of better times ahead, with vaccinations continuing in their piecemeal, stuttering roll out, we have to acknowledge that the end of this pandemic is not on our horizon. We can continue to be numbed, or shocked, or outraged as the death count continues to climb. We can affirm that more than half a million of our fellow citizens have died of COVID19. As part of my job at the two hospitals where I now work, I hear the daily litany of new cases, transmission rates, deaths, numbers of people vaccinated, where on the queue of people waiting for vaccines we have reached. It has all become part of the way I live and work. A long, slow process of acclimation to what should have been unthinkable. And then something comes along that rouses me from the day-to-dayness, the shuffling torpor of our current way of being.A study released roughly ten days ago showed that one out of five Americans had lost someone in their family or their circle of friends to COVID19. One out of five. If you live in a community of color, that number climbs to one out of three.”

Dr. David Urion leads us in thinking about Jesus and the Jewish Leaders.

“…When I go to the grocery store, just me, I often forego getting a cart or a basket. “I can just carry it all,” I say to myself. This past week I had picked up some frozen pizza, and some ice cream, but then I realized I needed some toothpaste, and a fresh loaf of bread, and ohhh some fruit for my smoothies….both oranges and bananas, and of course I may as well get some garlic while I’m over there. I stood in the long line I’m sure drawing long glances from all the cart and basket users. And my foolishness caught up to me as my hands got cold from the frozen goods and my arms began to get weak, and I dropped the bread, and as I fumbled to retain it, I dropped the pint of Ben and Jerry’s and before I knew it the oranges were tumbling out of their bag running ahead of me. And I immediately had the thought, being the preacher that I am: ah, here is a metaphor.”

“I had the thought as I was reading this gospel of Jesus angry in the Temple that Jesus might have really benefitted from the clergy wellness day I attended a few weeks back. You know, every now and again, the diocese will offer these conversations for clergy where they will invite us in to talk about our feelings and experience of ministry. And as they go, these gatherings are very helpful. We talk about the weight of stress, and how stress often makes us act out in less than Christian ways – we get irritable, and snippy, and often our anger acts out in us. And we pick up tools from one another on how to cope with these difficult emotions. Take a deep breath. Recognize them, name them, give them space. But don’t fire off that email in the feeling state. Never send that email. Sit with your anger. Don’t act on it. Where were Rabbi wellness days in Jesus’ era?”

The Rev. Garrett Yates talks about the Woman at the Well.

Dr. David Urion leads us in thinking about Jesus and Nicodemus.

“The Gospel passage we hear today comes from a set of passages that are often referred to as “the hard sayings of Jesus”. These are the passages that don’t offer wonderful metaphors about the abiding and overwhelming love of the Creator of the Universe for frequently errant humanity, or stories of Good Shepherds and lost lambs being brought back to the flock, or children being welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven as particularly beloved of the Almighty. No healing miracles, no blessings, no comfortable words. These are the stories that demanded much of the audience contained within the narrative itself, the people Rabbi Jesus is directly addressing, They demand even more of those who listen to the narrative– to those who heard the first recounting of the story, when the gospel we know as Mark was a piece of performance art declaimed in front of groups of people. It demands much from a congregation like us, hearing it two millennia later. “

We were honored to have the Reverend Dr. Robert Allan Hill kick off our Lenten Study about the Gospel of John.

““At once the Spirit drove him into the wilderness.” I wonder: does this Holy Spirit drive us out into the wilderness? That might seem like a difficult question to consider, and anytime I come across a verse that is difficult in the English I take a peek at the Greek just to check if it can clarify or contextualize anything for me. The Greek, this morning, actually makes it worse. The word in Greek is ekballo– literally to throw something out; eject; cast out. It is the word that is used when Jesus exorcises demons. He throws them out. Well, before he can do any throwing out, he must first be thrown out. Does the Spirit throw us out into the wilderness? It is a difficult question, not least because of how much our society can romanticize the wilderness. We give the wilderness names. We create bookshops on its edges. And we offer guided tours along paths. We load up with insect repellant, sunblock, water, and we go for hikes to get in touch with nature. And yet in every wilderness encounter, the most essential thing is to not forget your car keys. The wilderness is exciting as long as you can leave. And we mostly can. It’s hard to imagine the Holy Spirit driving us out into the wilderness; in fact, it’s just the reverse. We often drive ourselves out there.”

“I come to this season deep in my feelings. My appetite for a weekly examination and contemplation of my wretchedness is nonexistent. Frankly, I have significantly less appetite for watching otherwise comfortable people perform their wretchedness out loud because it’s the fashion of the season. The energy of the next few weeks holds so little appeal, I probably shouldn’t be the person in the pulpit today. Today is the beginning of Lent and that means we’ve come back ‘round, full circle. A year of living in a transitioning world. We started Lent together as a congregation and ended it on Zoom. We went through the rest of the church calendar sometimes together and most of the time apart, and now here we are again, right back where we started: it’s Lent, this is Zoom, COVID is still here, the world is still broken and still wretched.”

““What world are you living in? Have you ever just wanted to blurt that question out to someone? Say when someone is just blind to those around them, say when you are watching the news – maybe even this past week? What world are you living in? I wanted to say it yesterday – I was in line at Donelan’s and the lady in front of me was on her cell phone, talking pretty loud, and even worse she was laughing loudly, like really loud…. “ma’am, we don’t laugh in public; not at a grocery store; it’s COVID. What world are you living in?” I think the Transfiguration is that moment for Peter, when he and James and John have to reckon with the world they are living in.”

“Imagine a world where every room you step into everyone there knows your name. You show up, and people you’ve never met greet you, as if events couldn’t get started until you got there: “Hey Al,” “Hey Carol,” how’s it going? It’s a strange phenomenon, to be recognized so immediately, so personally – every room, be it 4 people, or 40. Your stock has gone public. Everyone has seen a picture of you; knows your name. Of course, I’m not talking about you becoming rich and famous, I’m simply referring to life in Zoom meeting rooms. It’s weird to show up in a meeting for the first time, and before you’ve introduced yourself, everyone already knows you – your name is out there. “Oh look, okay Garrett’s here. Let’s get started.” “Yeah, hi everyone, I’m Garrett.” Here we are, all having tiny tastes of stardom, every day. ‘Do you not know? Have you not heard? It is the LORD who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name.’”

““He taught them as one having authority…” A friend’s father is a university professor who begins each term in a special way. On the first day of school he wears 2 buttons one on each lapel of his blazer. The button on the left says, “I’m in charge.” The button on the right, “Always question authority.” I love the image, and I would have loved to have Professor Barker. What a healthy sense of authority. Well, I’m not sure Jesus had two buttons on his tunic the morning he stepped into the synagogue, but the people there were impressed by his authority. What we know is that his authority was unlike the scribes; what we are left to wonder and explore is what his authority was actually like.”

“Speak, Lord, your servant is listening. May I speak in the name of One God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Imagine staring down at a city on a clear day from atop a mountain, the highest point within 60 miles. You can see far into the horizon but only hear the sounds nearby, perhaps a chirping bird or a gust of wind. In the deep sea, the rules are reversed. Standing on a ridge several thousand feet underwater, peering out to the ocean’s abyssal plain, you would see almost nothing. But if you listened through a hydrophone, you could detect sounds from hundreds of miles away: echolocating whales, chattering fish, even the occasional energy pulse from seismic surveys for oil and gas. I read an article back in November in the Times called, “Could listening to the deep sea help save it?” (The subtitle was what really hooked me: “in the abyss everyone can hear you scream.”)”

“It was a strange and disorienting week. One full of grief, and bewilderment, and anger, and fear….legitimate fear. The capital was stormed; lives were lost; there was mayhem and sedition, and the leader of our country was worse than silent. We thought we were leaving the craziness behind in 2020, but the first days of 2021 haven’t been very sane. One of the beauties of gathering each week, in God’s company, is that our weeks are always brought into another context. Today, with our gospel reading, we are brought to the sandy banks of the Jordan River. Mark makes it a point to say that there were a lot of people there: “And people from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him.” It’s Mark’s way of saying, everyone was there. Everyone you know, your whole neighborhood, your whole street….they are there. We are there, too.”

“Startle us, O God, with your truth and open our hearts and our minds to your wondrous love. Speak your word to us; silence in us any voice but your own and be with us now as we turn our attention, our minds and our hearts, to you, in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. Today is the Feast of the Holy Name. And thinking back on my childhood, one thing I never doubted was that the Lord’s name was holy. Worse than saying “crud,” or “crap”, or calling my sister a “jerk,” worse than all these was saying the name of Jesus in a fit of emotion. Because I knew it was off limits, I’d say it, and then when I’d get in trouble, I’d become my own defense attorney and argue that I said “Geezes,” or “Geez it.” In my childhood, we observed the feast of the Holy Name every day.”

“Did you ever try to describe what God is like? Or to describe what the life of Jesus meant? How do you do that? Do you state some facts? Do you state history? Do you make an argument? Or do what John did, and simply sing? That is how the Gospel of John opens, with an ancient hymn. I once heard the great Presbyterian preacher Robert Cleveland Holland, at whose church I was a singer, compare this sort of scripture to Robert Frost’s poem that describes the fog coming in on little cat feet. That description says nothing about fog coming from dew points and relative humidity, but everything about what the experience of fog is like. The poetry of this gospel’s hymn is emotional more than definitional, but it conveys that humanity and eternity have encountered something immense. That feeling is like stopping to look at a star. it is a “Will you look at that!” moment in scripture.”

Startle us, O God, with your truth, that we may behold, adore, and be drawn into mystery of the Word Made Flesh. You may have noticed that the Christmas story in Matthew and Luke feels a lot different than the Christmas story in John. Earlier this afternoon we enjoyed the annual and much beloved Christmas pageant – 20 or so of our children took their role as magi and shepherds, angels and the holy family, enacting the story as told by Matthew and Luke. This passage from Johns gospel, on the other hand, is almost impossible visualize, much less for our little ones to act out for us. Could you imagine a Christmas pageant with John 1 as the script? Where are we in this story? As I have been reflecting on this day I can’t help but think back to Christmas morning when I was a little guy.

“Among you stands one you do not know. Those were John the Baptist’s words as recorded in John 1:26. Of course, at that time it was literally true that a quiet carpenter’s son from the backwaters of the Roman Empire was rubbing shoulders with lots of people—including the crowds that jostled together at the banks of the Jordan River—but no one had a clue that this unimpressive-looking man was The One, The Word of God, The Logos by whom all things were created, and now made flesh. Sometimes I think that Jesus had a big halo, or a big spotlight on him, or a green arrow pointing down saying “Here is the Messiah.” There wasn’t.”

“The sermon for this morning emerged while I was sitting in a waiting room. And the inspiration for the idea came from the thought: waiting rooms are kind of awkward, and there isn’t a whole to do. There are, I counted, 7 things you can do. You can consider picking up one of those old celebrity magazines on the coffee table. You can decide to count how many flowers are in the arrangement on the receptionist’s desk…”

““But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.” Startle us, O God, with your truth, and open our hearts and minds to your word. As we begin again this Advent journey of waiting and expecting and hoping, be with us. Speak your word of hope to us. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen. This passage as the first gospel reading of the Advent season burns me. My family took no vacations this summer. We did not go home to Maryland for crabs and much-needed time with far-away family. We won’t be going home for Christmas. I have consoled crestfallen relatives. I have had to look into the eyes of my boys and disappoint them after repeating over and over during the summer that “we aren’t going home now in the hopes we might be able to go home when it matters most.” I have had to pull myself together in my own lonely, homesick moments.”

“Startle us, O God, with your truth and open our hearts and our minds to your wondrous love. Speak your word to us; silence in us any voice but your own and be with us now as we turn our attention, our minds, and our hearts, to you, in Jesus Christ our Lord. AMEN. Julian of Norwich lay dying in bed in her early 30s when she was graced with a set of divine showings – mystical encounters with God. If there is one word to describe Julian’s visions it’s that she discovered the eternal God to be kind. Remember Brother Curtis’ reflections from a few weeks ago on this word kind. Its related to our word kin, or kindred. God has chosen in Jesus to become our kin, and in the kinship of incarnation, God is supremely kind. Julian lived at the height of Medieval Christianity that was very concerned with the last judgment: that moment depicted in today’s Gospel when the scroll of history is rolled up, and we stand before the Judgment Seat.”

“If you’re having a bad day, reading the poetry of Emily Dickinson may not be the best idea. The Belle of Amherst lived a lot of her life in isolation and was believed to suffer from severe anxiety. Her poetry is not an ode to joy but more like an ode to truth, to the way life really is sometimes. At one point, she wrote, “I lived on dread.” At another time, she said, “Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me.” For Dickinson, life isn’t really about upholding morality, but it is about mortality, death and life, life and death. This is so much a part of her psyche that she says something I would have never imagined. She says, “I felt a funeral, in my brain.” Wasn’t I right that this is not early morning reading? She’s so mortal and understands our human limitations; that’s why I’m attracted to her work.”

“We continue to make our lectionary march through the parables as recounted in the Gospel of Matthew, these strange stories that Jesus uses to explain the political economy of this Kingdom of Heaven of which He speaks. The Kingdom of Heaven – the term He uses for the radical changes in human society and human behavior he exhorts his followers to join. A Kingdom, he promises, that is very near to all of them. A kingdom, He often tells those of His followers who have done something which He finds particularly exemplary, to which they are very close. The rules and norms of this Kingdom as demonstrated by these parables must have sounded profoundly revolutionary to a poor people subjected to the heavy hand of Roman occupation and its collaborators.”

“There’s a story that during the 1948 Texas US Senate race, a group of campaign workers for Lyndon Baines Johnson found support from some new voters – who were already dead. Johnson and his aides were out one night, illegally registering voters in a cemetery, when they came upon a worn tombstone, moss had grown up around the grave; the name was barely readable. The worker at the stone took a quick look and then moved on to the next. The leader of the expedition called out: “No, no, no, go back and register that person. He has as much right to vote as anyone else in this cemetery!” Christians believe in the communion of the Saints, a belief that says the dead who are now with God have a right to vote. Or rather they cast their vote with the way they lived. They have cast their lot with God, and in the lives of the saints we know the love of God more clearly.”

The year 2020 has us all registered in the same course, one we might call Impermanence. None of us thought we’d be in this class, but here we are, face to face with change, fragility, and life’s impermanence. We are living in the midst of what has been called the Twindemic — Covid-19 and also the racial injustices that have been brought to light following the death of George Floyd. In some ways as we are moving closer to the presidential election, you may say we are shifting towards a Tridemic. How can we survive this moment? What are the lessons this season has for us? How might our traditions of faith and spirituality help ground us in this shaken time? Our Forum series is meant to help us survive this course.

“Love God with all your heart soul and mind. And love your neighbor as yourself. On these hang all the law and the prophets. The Pharisees come at Jesus with a question about which commandment is the greatest. They are trying to trap Jesus. It’s actually a lawyer that asks the nitpicky question. It’s interesting to note that at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry he had 3 temptations put to him by the devil. Now a few days before his execution, at the end of Matthew’s gospel, in the last 3 weeks of readings, he has 3 tests offered by the religious authorities.”

“Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s. Or in the more familiar language: render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and render unto God what is God’s. From its beginnings as a minority religious community in the midst of Roman military rule to its status today as a majority faith in a secular American democracy, the church and state are like the odd old crotchety couple who have been in the neighborhood forever. It’s not at all clear that they should have gotten together in the first place, and it’s very difficult to tell what is really going on in the relationship, but given they’ve been seen together for so long, it’s awfully hard to imagine them not occupying the same space. Full disclosure that when I looked at the lesson for this Sunday, I immediately made plans to preach the Exodus reading. It is one of my absolute favorite readings, and I’ll say a brief word about it later on, but after being in our Bible studies this week, and hearing the different perspectives on the church and politics I can’t resist the minefield.”

“The Gospel today is one of the harder, or perhaps harsher, ones in our lectionary, and many preachers choose to address it by preaching from the Epistle instead, with its familiar and comforting turns of phrase that seem to be part of the very air we breathe. Peace that passes all understanding. Truth, honor, justice, purity, and excellence as human attributes. We can settle into those words like a comfortable old sweater, or a down comforter on one of these cold mornings.”

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” (Matt. 11) “Those words of Jesus in this morning’s Gospel reading are surely among the most comforting in the entire Bible. Lord knows, they hit me somewhere deep—because my burden this morning is a heavy one. As your preacher this morning, I’m afraid I’m not here to offer comforting words. Rather, I’m here to tell the truth, as hard as it may be to hear. Because that’s what I owe each and every one of you. Because there is no such thing as any real comfort without facing the truth. I think the Gospel teaches us that.”

I remember a talk offered by a therapist in my first-year orientation to seminary, and I think the talk was something like, “How do I know if therapy is for me?” I really don’t remember what the therapist said – I was too busy sizing up the room, thinking about these, my future classmates, and also doing my own diagnostics. Scanning the room, everyone was so fit and sharp looking, everyone’s Nalgene had the coolest stickers. I thought to myself, “No way any of you need therapy.” Again, I don’t remember anything the therapist said but I do remember her response a question I asked her. Trying to appear like I was really engaged, and also psychologically subtle, I said, “I struggle distinguishing between what I need and what I want. I often feel like I need recognition, but when I get it, it’s not as satisfying as I want it to be.”

“In his 2005 commencement address at Kenyon College “This is Water,” David Foster Wallace highlights the difficulty of giving attention and care to the most obvious, matter-of-fact, unmistakable aspects of our lives. He begins this address with a comical little parable about two fish. There were these two fish who are swimming along in the ocean, when a wise old fish swims by and shouts, “Morning boys, how’s the water?” The two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What the heck is water?” Wallace’s speech, which I commend to you, is about the singular challenge raised by these two young fish: how do we as people gain the awareness, the attention to see and notice that most obvious and essential of things – the water in which we are immersed. For Wallace, it takes practice, prayer, and attention to gain the miracle of sight, to be able to see what is right in front you, and say, “This is water. This is water.” Jesus’ parable for us this morning is like an icy splash of water onto his disciples faces – and he’s trying to shake them awake to recognize the water that is the Kingdom of God.”

“I have to say, after six months of a global pandemic, I'm in better physical shape than I've been in the last decade. Like many people, I’ve been working from home on a fairly strange schedule. For most of the spring, I'd usually get up around 6:30 in the morning, drink a cup of coffee and answer emails or work on my laptop until around 8:30, then spend a couple of hours with Murray while Alice was in class. We spent the rainy month of April trading off between wandering around outside and logging on to Zoom. With libraries, coffee shops, and playgrounds closed, going for a run together was one of the few leisure activities we had left, other than playing with the grass clippings outside the Harvard observatory. And so Alice, Murray, and I spent most of the spring running from place to place with our stroller, discovering that a two-year-old makes an inspiring, albeit rude, track coach: “I want you to run faster!” “