Sermon: Eighth Sunday After Pentecost

The Rev. Allan Sandlin, associate rector
> click here for the Scripture for the day

2 Kings 4:42-44
John 6:1-21

So, here's the thing. I'd already written a decent introduction to this sermon. It was all about pot-luck dinners. I had in mind all the great church suppers I've experienced in my life and I'd come up with mouth-watering descriptions of some of them, just to get you thinking about food. Because one theme running through this morning's lessons is an abundance of food.

I was all set to talk about how the disciples couldn't figure out how they were going to feed all those people. They were worried and anxious, they just knew that five loaves of bread and two fish wouldn't last long no matter how frugally they divided the portions.

But Jesus confounded their timid expectations and provided an extravagant, abundant feast. Everyone went home with full bellies: no one went hungry.

But two things kept interrupting my thinking about that sermon. As much as I love this story, and I do love the story of the feeding of the 5,000, I couldn't let go of the fact that it's not the only story in this morning's gospel. Every time I just about settled down with the feeding of the 5,000, the image of Jesus walking on the water kept coming back into my head.

That's one thing. The other reason I gave up on the pot-luck supper sermon is that I kept thinking about you. Not that we haven't enjoyed some delicious meals together here at Holy Trinity. But I was thinking about the adult forum last Sunday morning out in the narthex and the concern in your voices over the sudden and tragic deaths of two parishioners.

And I was remembering those who are facing surgery and the one who just finished another round of chemotherapy. I was conscious of those of you who've lost a parent or a brother or a spouse in the past few months. I was thinking about my friend who just lost his job and others who are worried about their jobs.

And then I went back to the gospel. And I thought about those disciples. Those disciples who were, after all, not so very different from us. They were worried about running out of resources, they were scared of what they might lose, and even with Jesus standing right in front of them, they could not see the hope, the vision of how he was making all things new.

It's right there in the text, how they responded when Jesus tested them. Knowing full well what he had in mind to do, Jesus asked Philip, "Where on earth are we going to get enough bread to feed all these people?" Well, Jesus knew where that bread would come from. He knew because he was going to provide the bread, he was going to bless that bread and, at least in John's version of the story, he was the one who would take each morsel of bread and put it into the outstretched hands of those hungry, fearful people.

Of course, in John's gospel, Jesus himself is the bread. But you'll have to come back next Sunday for that.

And it wasn't just the disciples who were running scared. Take a look at the reaction of the crowd who showed up for the picnic. After they'd eaten their fill and after the 12 baskets of leftovers had been gathered up (because Jesus, being the captain of the Green Team, didn't believe in letting anything go to waste), they were stunned. They were impressed. One of them said to his friends, hey, he looks a lot like that old prophet Elisha did when he provided food for our great-grandparents. Maybe they'd been reading from the same Hebrew Scripture we read this morning.

At any rate, they were all set to make Jesus king because they thought that he could take care of their needs. But they jumped to the wrong conclusion. We know it was the wrong conclusion because of Jesus' reaction. He wanted no part of it. So he just slipped away while they were setting up the throne and polishing the crown.

The people thought they'd found a king who was so mighty, so powerful that he would deliver them from all their troubles, he would take away their loneliness and their heartbreak and cure their illnesses. Everything would be glorious and bright and shining and most of all, they'd all be happy. That's the kind of king they thought they needed. That's who they wanted Jesus to be for them. They were terrified of the reality of life, of the messiness and unanswerable questions and the senselessness that they kept bumping up against. I think that's why they wanted to make Jesus king. And who can blame them?

My friend Bob was born with hemophilia. As he was growing up, every single day, his parents feared for his life. Every time he fell, or got a small scrape or cut, they knew it could cause him to bleed badly. From his early childhood forward, he needed transfusions regularly and he wore braces on his legs. He spent weeks and months in and out of the hospital. His parents loved and cared for him and I don't doubt that they prayed to God for a cure, for answers to their questions about the unfairness of this disease.

In the late 70s, back before the nation's blood supply was more carefully screened, Bob contracted HIV through one of those transfusions. Miraculously, for reasons that I think are still uncertain, he never developed AIDS. Later on, he came down with Hepatitis C. And it was the hepatitis that began to destroy his liver.

Bob and his wife Anne live and work in Boston. Seven years ago his doctors in Boston placed him on the waiting list to receive a new liver. Ten times during those years, they were called to the hospital when it seemed possible a liver would become available. Ten times they went home with Bob still sick.

Then came a phone call from a doctor at Emory University Hospital saying that if Bob was willing to be part of a highly unusual procedure for transplantation, they could offer him some help. Bob said yes.

About a month ago now, the doctor called and told Bob and Anne to keep their bags packed and 3 weeks ago, the doctor called again and said come. A new liver could become available any time now, he said.

On Wednesday night of the week they arrived in Atlanta, they came over to dinner at our house. They were full of questions for us about the time in 2002 when I received my own new liver. Gretchen and I shared stories with them about those last months leading up to the transplant. They listened to us talk about how sick I became while waiting. And they heard Gretchen offer hope through her descriptions of our life together post-transplant.

It was a wonderful, luminous evening. On the way out the door, Anne said "Wouldn't it be something if the phone call came tonight?" And it did.

And now a little over two weeks later, Bob has his new liver. His body is learning how to live with this new organ and he's doing very well. He's out of the hospital and beginning to move out into the world-having dinner with friends, talking to his children on the phone, anticipating visits from his parents, enjoying some very hearty meals.

Here's the most amazing thing: his new liver gives him the same hope I now enjoy for a longer life. But having a new liver also means he no longer has hemophilia. For the first time in his life, he doesn't have to anticipate the next transfusion or worry quite so much about nicks on his chin when he shaves.

Every time I see their faces now and hear their voices, I sense their overwhelming gratitude for the gift God has given them. And it's all about extravagance and abundance, overflowing joy...

Here's another story of God's abundant grace. You may have heard that the General Convention of the Episcopal Church took place in Anaheim, California last week. Lots of us thought it would be another messy, contentious meeting, with angry voices and loud protests, with strong differences of opinion on the matter of human sexuality. Instead, the stories we heard were mostly about people pulling together, respectful of their differences and eager to get on with the work of the gospel.

For instance, before Convention began, the bishops and deputies were handed the proposed three-year budget for the Church that included cutting out all funds for the Millennium Development Goals. But they responded by not only restoring the 0.7% to the MDGs but they added another 0.7% to help fight domestic poverty. Funds may be scarce in the coming triennial, but our Church has said this is something God calls us to do, to risk, to spend our money on.

The Convention also passed two resolutions that bear witness to where we are as a Church with respect to the ministry of gay and lesbian people. While clearly reaffirming our commitment to the Anglican Communion, these resolutions also affirm the presence, the ministry and the witness of gay people in our midst.

The Episcopal Church has been here before. Just as God broke down the walls
that kept black people and white people in the 1950s and 60s from worshiping together... just as, in the 1970s and 80s, God broke down the walls that kept women from serving on the vestry or as chalice bearers or as preachers and priests, I believe God is breaking down these walls. And that is good news.

This good news points toward God's unexpected, generous grace in over-flowing baskets, reversing our expectations of scarcity. Dispelling our suspicion that there just isn't enough love and trust and respect to go around, to help us make it through the night...

Back in the 6th chapter of John's gospel it was sometime after sunset, the crowds had all gone home and the disciples had gotten tired of waiting around for Jesus. They were eager to get back to Capernaum and so they got into a boat and started rowing across the lake. You had to know things were not going to go smoothly, out of the Sea of Galilee in the middle of the night, without Jesus.

Sure enough, the waves start splashing in over the sides of the boat, the wind is howling. Maybe it was Philip who held his lantern up high over his head to help them see better. They couldn't believe their eyes. There came Jesus, walking on the water. And then, the scripture tells us, then they were terrified.

I wonder. What is it that terrifies you this morning? What worries you and keeps you awake at night?

You know, Jesus isn't the kind of king who'll be coming to the rescue. However, he will do with us what he did with the disciples. If we're paying attention, we'll recognize he's already in the boat with us and he'll see us all the way home.

And he's bringing along some bread for the journey. He's still feeding people with that life-giving, deeply satisfying bread. There's more than enough to go around and it's the only bread that we really need. It's food that sustains, food that nourishes and it's right here, right now, free for the taking.

Sermon: Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

The Very Rev. William Thomas Deneke, rector

The psalmist and the gospel writer team up today with sheep and shepherd metaphors.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want,” says the psalmist.

“As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he
had compassion on them, because they were like
sheep without a shepherd,” says the gospel writer.

We probably don’t like to think of ourselves as sheep. Others may fall into this category but we are too enlightened, too independent. Yet there are times when all of us feel more like sheep than shepherds.

One day last week, as I was leaving the church, a young man named Brandon showed up. He was obviously in considerable pain. He said that he had an abscessed tooth. In fact, he and his parents were driving from South Carolina to Alabama when the pain became so bad that they left the interstate and found their way to the emergency room at Dekalb Medical Center. Brandon had been given a couple of prescriptions but had no money to have them filled. He was truly living in pain and chaos. In a strange town, deeply in pain and needing help. There he stood in the church plaza, a sheep without a shepherd.

We went to the drug store. As we waited for his prescriptions to be filled, Brandon began to tell me of his situation. He was a plumber’s helper and he traveled from one construction site to another. Both he and his father did this sort of itinerate work and his mother went with them. There had been a mix-up in South Carolina: the master plumber was not to be on the site for another week and the helpers had been sent home.

To say the least, his was a hard life. Brandon was not complaining but he was wondering how much longer his family could continue in this line of work as his mother’s health was worsening.

Brandon is an example of someone living on the edge of chaos. It would not take much to go wrong and he would find himself in utter darkness. While his circumstances may be different than ours, the truth is we are like Brandon in many ways. Life is ever challenging any notion we may harbor that we, alone, are masters of our fate.

I think it raises our anxieties when life crashes in for those around us. Sometimes our tendency is to blame. We think life is not meant to be chaotic and if it is, it must be someone’s fault. But sometimes the best plans and the most sincere prayers seem to crumble before us, and there is no one to blame. We may find ourselves stuck somewhere between wanting to be the shepherd of our lives and feeling like sheep without a shepherd.

The other day I had a conversation with someone who had been laid-off. The place where this person worked was closed down. She was offered a job out west at another plant, but that was too far removed from her family and her roots, from where she belonged. Like most of us, this person took pride in being self-sufficient financially (although no one really ever is) and was now living on unemployment benefits, which would soon run out. Like others we know and like some of you, everyday she was seeking employment.

Here was a shepherd beginning to feel like a lost sheep. Still she was hopeful. Her faith was strong.

I hear these stories and I think how Jesus had compassion on the crowd because they were like sheep without a shepherd. He did not blame; he had compassion.

Compassion is a gift from God. Compassion opens doors to resources.

Jesus did not just feel sorry for the crowd. In his compassion he began to act. He taught and he healed.

I have seen what compassion has fostered at Holy Trinity. The support this parish has for outreach opportunities is a gift of compassion. The mission to Honduras we hope to accomplish in the coming days is empowered by compassion. Within our parish, compassion is evident in our pastoral and formation ministries. And in the way we hold one another in prayer.

Psalm 23 reveals the source of compassion: The Good Shepherd. Trust in the Good Shepherd leads us to say with the Psalmist, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me: thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

And when we can say that, compassion is at home in us.

Thank God for the times we can say these words. And when we cannot, we can take comfort that someone is saying them for us, for our prayers are also for those who cannot pray.

Our true hope is in the compassion of the Good Shepherd. In the compassion of the One who leads us beside still waters, who draws us to paths of righteousness, who comforts us, anoints our head and fills our cup. And who promises that we will dwell with the God of Compassion forever. The Lord, indeed, is our shepherd. Amen.

Sermon: Sixth Sunday After Pentecost

Angela Shelley Wiggins

Long ago, in a far away place, there lived a powerful king with a vast and wealthy kingdom. Well, actually, he wasn’t quite a king, he was more of a puppet for the real rulers, but he liked to think of himself as king. So we’ll play along, we’ll call him king.

To celebrate his birthday, the king held a great feast--the kind of party only a king would throw. He invited his most loyal supporters and advisers. People came from the far reaches of the kingdom to join in the festivities. The guests wore their finest clothes, bright colors, fine linen and silk.

The best meats and cheeses were prepared; the finest wines were poured. Everything was extravagant and the guests feasted. It was a night they would long remember.

There were speeches and toasts, congratulations, and well wishes. The king brought in entertainers – singers, musicians, jugglers, dancers, magicians, and acrobats. There was something for everyone.

Even the king’s sons joined in wishing their father joy and prosperity. One of his daughters danced; a beautiful and exotic dance. The king was so pleased with her, so pleased to have won her admiration.

He said to his daughter, “I will give you anything you wish for, anything up to half of my kingdom.” The guests heard this vow, heard the king declare to his daughter that she could have anything she wished for.

The king was pleased when she replied that she would ask her mother for advice. So wise, he thought, to ask advice of her elders. Most people, he thought, would reply hastily, and waste their wish on something small and trivial. But not this girl, she would choose wisely, carefully; she would choose something she would not forget. But remember, at this party, things aren’t always what they seem.

The girl ran to her mother and told her that the king had vowed to give her anything she asked for, up to half his kingdom. What should she ask for, she asked her mother. Another horse or a castle of her own? Jewels, silks, gold? What would befit such a vow? What should she ask for so she would never forget this night? She asked her mother, “what about you, Mother? What do you want most in all the world?”

It was an easy question for her mother to answer. She wanted revenge more than anything else, revenge on the man who had shamed her. Her husband, the king, wouldn’t grant it to her; he had locked her enemy in protective custody. But now she saw her chance. She knew the king wouldn’t go back on a vow made before his courtiers. All she had to do was to put her request in the mouth of her daughter, and it would be granted. She would have revenge.

Quickly she told her daughter to ask for the head of her enemy to be brought to her. With a reckless vow, the king had promised to grant anything the girl asked for. This is not what he had in mind, but he could not refuse her. He would not go back on a vow made so publicly and so boastfully.

When the girl approached the king, he looked down at her, eager to hear her fondest desire. He wondered what she would ask for. He asked for silence so that everyone could hear the girl’s request. The guests leaned forward to hear her. She made her request: she asked for the head of her mother’s enemy on a platter. There was silence, then a gasp from the guests.

The king knew he could not deny his daughter’s wish. He had promised her anything, and this is what she had asked for. He asked the musicians and dancers to begin again, and sent his soldiers to the jail to fulfill the girl’s wish.

In less than an hour the soldiers were back at the feast. As they carried in a platter with the severed head on it, the crowd cheered.

At this party, things are not always what they seem. What should have been a joyous celebration, a life-giving event, becomes a death watch.

We’re startled by how the story ends. It has a gruesome, grotesque ending, the kind of ending that lingers in our minds and dances around in our imaginations.

At first the story sounds like generous hospitality, but it quickly becomes a story of excess and recklessness. The whole story is a story of distortions, of things out of proportion and out of balance. We see the ugly side of almost everything.

It’s also a story of reversals, starting with Herod’s fear that the man he executed is now alive. Herod put John the Baptist in protective custody, but protective custody becomes death row; and a birthday becomes a day for killing.

The king plays at being powerful, but his wife and daughter subvert his power, and lure him into murder. The dance of delight becomes the dance of death, pleasure turns to grief.

The one sent to prepare the way of the Lord is dead. The one chosen by God to announce good news is chosen for execution. John the Baptist came to proclaim good news, and he was killed for that proclamation, killed because of the power of his words.

Everything that seemed good, seems to have gone bad. It’s a night they’ll never forget, but for all the wrong reasons. But remember, at this party everything is not what it seems. There’s more here than the story of a martyr’s death.

Mark the evangelist consistently positions the life and mission of the John the Baptist along side the life of Jesus. In life John the Baptist points to Jesus, and his death continues to point to Jesus Christ. In the introduction to this story, Mark has the people question whether Jesus is actually John raised from the dead. When we see John the Baptist, Mark wants us to think of Jesus Christ. He tells the Jesus story with John as a parallel. When he tells of the death of John, we know he’s looking ahead to the death of Jesus. Mark ends his story with the resurrection of Jesus, and that’s the beginning of our story.

And that’s where our hope lies, in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, in the new life we have in Christ. The Epistle lesson for today celebrates the giver of that new life, the life in which we are adopted as God’s own children. Unlike the king, the wicked stepfather, who promises half his kingdom, God has promised to us God’s whole kingdom, “every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places” (Eph 1:3). God has “lavished on us” the “riches of God’s grace.”

We don’t have to dance our way into God’s favor or trick God into doing what we want. Instead, God has “freely bestowed” grace on us, and has chosen us “to be holy and blameless before God in love.” Ephesians says we have “obtained an inheritance,” an “inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people” (v. 14).

Our story is a story of reversal, a story of adoption, a story in which we are forgiven, a story of life springing from death.

As the children of God, we are “marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit” (v. 13). We are Christ’s own forever. That’s something worth celebrating, that’s a reason to throw a feast.

And so we do. Today and every Sunday, not just any feast, but a heavenly feast. We have a feast around this table, and we celebrate mysteries we don’t comprehend. As the children of God, we remember our redemption, our adoption, and we join in the heavenly feast.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Sermon: Fifth Sunday After Pentecost

The Very Rev. William Thomas Deneke, rector

On a weekend when we celebrate independence and freedom, we find that neither is absolute and both are exceedingly complex.

In 1776 independence was primarily defined as independence from the rule of Great Britain. But even then there were all sorts of corollaries. Many colonists had come to America primarily for religious freedom, although as the Church of England was a state Church, the boundaries between civil and religious authority were fuzzy. For a good number of colonists, the aim was freedom from the throne and Parliament but not entirely from British culture. The Boston Tea Party was a case in point. Only later would a separate American identity be formed.

Now 233 years after the original Fourth of July we look back and marvel at the revolutionary movement revealed in the Declaration of Independence. A movement of democracy still developing today.

The Declaration has always been in process. Early on voting rights were available only to free white males who owned property. Liberty for all has a broader meaning today than in the 18th Century.

And there is another big change. We live in an increasingly interdependent world. We are seeing that in the global economic crisis of our time. National boundaries for the most part are only partially conveyers of independence.

And it is worth asking: Is absolute independence a desirable goal? From a Christian perspective freedom is never defined by independence. The full maturity of people and nations is shaped by relationships defined in the Great Commandment: "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind. And you shall love your neighbor as yourself."

This is paradoxical understanding of freedom. It shifts the perspective from simply freedom from to include freedom to. As we are freed from being consumed with ourselves we are freed to reach out to others. Being freed from fear and scarcity, we are freed to hope and embrace God's abundance. And being freed from self-loathing and guilt, we are freed to love our neighbor as ourselves, freed to love God and our neighbor who in an interdependent world is not only the person next door but also someone in Haiti, Honduras, New Orleans, and Belgrade, Serbia.

We sing hymns to celebrate this. Hymns such as "In Christ there is no East or West" and even "Joy to the World."

Moreover, this paradoxical understanding of freedom is underscored by the prayers of our church and especially the Collect for Peace in Morning Prayer. "O God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord, in knowledge of whom standeth our eternal life, whose service is perfect freedom..."

"Whose service is perfect freedom..." For those of us bound and freed by the vows of our baptism, any celebration of independence and freedom must come to grips with this prayer.

It is true that likely most Christian nations in conflict have maintained that God is on their side. This may appear at times little more than a self-serving political ploy. Still this cannot dissuade us from the call of our faith to pursue freedom foremost in service to the One who said to love God and our neighbor above all else. From a Christian perspective true patriotism is the willingness to pursue this truth and to pray fervently for the council of the Holy Spirit in all matters of the state.

This weekend we celebrate all that is good about our country, and we do well to repent of all that is sinful. We continue to learn what freedom means and does not mean. We are amazed and thankful that from the early days of people landing on these shores a nation of immense achievement, generosity, and diversity has come forth and continued to develop.

And above all, we give thanks that we are blessed with abundant resources and opportunities to glorify God, whose service, indeed, is perfect freedom.

Prayer for the nation: BCP p. 820

Almighty God who hast given us this good land for our heritage; We humbly beseech thee that we may always prove ourselves a people mindful of thy favor and glad to do thy will. Bless our land with honorable industry, sound learning, and pure manners. Save us from violence, discord, and confusion; from pride and arrogance, and from every evil way. Defend our liberties, and fashion into one united people the multitudes brought hither out of many kindreds and tongues. Endue with the spirit of wisdom those to whom in they Name we entrust with the authority of government, that there may be justice and peace at home, and that, through obedience to thy law, we may show forth thy praise among the nations of the earth. In the time of prosperity, fill our hearts with thankfulness, and in the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in thee to fail; all which we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Sermon: Third Sunday after Pentecost

The Rev. Benjamin Anthony
Episcopal Chaplain at Emory University


When belief in God is broached as a conversation topic, what ensues usually unfolds along the lines of rationality, logic or evidence. Or such belief is defended as an operation of faith, which is construed as the opposite of these other "empirically" based forms of human behavior. Belief in God and its attendant religious practices are situated as just one more form of human discourse, albeit one promoting largely discredited truth claims and where it has survived past its expiration date, religion is seen as liable to promote sectarian clannishness and "inspired" violence.

Religion's emergence into a competitive marketplace of ideas has exposed its weakness as a "system" capable of explaining everything. This is fine. Actually, this is a rather wonderful gift. In its inability to explain everything religion has a valuable, if underutilized freedom.

This freedom goes mostly unrecognized. Instead the pressures to make religion a "system of ideas" have induced in Christianity an amnesia for what makes religion—and the faith it sustains—possible. We seem to have forgotten that what makes faith possible (and worthwhile, I might add) is trust. Trust that the God we proclaim is loving, good and intent upon human flourishing. Trust that the lives we lead are gifts from this God. As religion becomes something of a minority report in contemporary culture, it will be increasingly tempting to make appeals to rationality, empirical evidence and proof as justification for its practice. I believe we would do well to look elsewhere. I believe we would do well to consider what it means to trust God and what signs constitute the trustworthiness of God.

Recently in the New York Times Stanley Fish authored a two-part column entitled "God Talk". In the column Fish took up the claims of an author named Terry Eagleton who has recently published a book in response to some of the louder voices of contemporary atheism. I won't summarize Fish's columns here or even attempt to characterize the responses to it. What I will say is this: I don't think it was originally intended to be more than a one-shot piece but the response to it, as measured by reader comments posted to the online edition, was so vigorous and polarized that Fish was moved to respond and refine his original post. By the time the editorial gatekeepers at the Times closed the articles to further reader comments, each column had generated nearly 800 comments apiece. Regardless of where one comes down on belief in God, it seems safe to say that a considerable number of people are concerned with the question and that the resources typically used to answer that question are better suited to generate heat rather than light.

One final comment: this is not a call for blinkered anti-intellectualism or a shortcut through the rigorous terrain of critical inquiry. Christianity is an historic religion which claims that the decisive events of salvation are human events and that redemption unfolds as a process of human history. But faith arises not just from evidence that verifies these events as "true" but in response to a God that is trustworthy. Said simply: Christian faith trusts that the God of Jesus Christ is the Creator and redeemer of the world. To that we turn.

Our turn towards the trustworthiness of God is helped along by a turn into today's Scripture texts. What I propose to do is to do a reading of them; specifically, I want to draw together the lesson from Job, its insights into God as Creator and the scene from the Gospel in which Jesus calms a windstorm and the fears of his disciples. What I hope such a reading will produce is a sense that the God who, as Creator is invisibly beyond all things becomes visible in Jesus.

The lesson from Job comes near the conclusion of the book. Job's friends have held forth, offering their partial understandings of how God governs the world and the affairs of people. Finally, God speaks. As if to emphasize the mysteriousness, God speaks "from a whirlwind," a narrative flourish that lends the speech an atmosphere of tremendous darkness. These are words freighted with incomprehensible gravity. God says to Job (and to us as well), "Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?...or who laid its cornerstone when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy? Or who shut in the sea with doors when it burst out from the womb?"

The only answer to be given goes something like "I don't know." Indeed this is the answer that Job gives when God's speech concludes after much elaboration. Job, humbled and chastened, says to God, "I know that You can do everything, that nothing you propose is impossible for You... Indeed I spoke without understanding of things beyond me which I did not know." (Job 42:2-3). On the one hand the power and hiddenness of God are accented and establish a limit for what human understanding can comprehend. This disparity, this gap that separates Creator from creature is impassable and any attempt to explore this disparity requires a measure of trust. Said simply, we may come to know our world well and intimately but that knowledge will always remain a darkened mirror reflecting the glory of God.

But we can say at least this much: God as Creator has brought the world into being with powers that infinitely surpass human imagination and as Creator, God shapes human destinies even more completely.

Now, let's turn our attention to the Gospel lesson. At first glance we seem to get a pretty straightforward affirmation of the insight we gained in the Job lesson. That is, we see that the power to subdue and order creation are at the disposal of Jesus, the Son of God. This miraculous display of power impresses the disciples. With the windstorm that had been buffeting their boat reduced to a dead calm, the disciples remark to one another, "Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?" We nod in ironic agreement for we, the readers of Mark's gospel, know who this man Jesus is. We know that he is the Son of God, right? But do we know what this means? Do we see Jesus as a kind of super human and fail to see the way in which he is actually perfectly human? In other words, does our faith owe to the narrow range of miracles that show forth Jesus' power to tame the forces of nature? Or does our faith owe to the rather greater miracle that is rooted in Jesus' relationship to God?

For in Jesus we see a perfect and pacific dependence upon God. And that tranquil, trusting relationship seems to me to be the overarching significance of this story from Mark's gospel. Before Jesus rebukes the windstorm, the narrator notes that Jesus was "was in the stern, asleep on the cushion." And immediately following the calming of the storm, Jesus asks his once panicking disciples, "Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?" Framing the performance of this miracle are clues that disclose the true nature of God as Creator. Jesus rests, secure in the care of God, trusting that the Creator of all things is intensely and intimately present to him. The disciples fear and trust is ensnarled with anxiety and despair: their faith perishes in the world's relentless threats of chaotic return.

We see that Jesus perfectly embodies God's creative power and intent. Jesus trusts God completely and so discloses the trustworthiness of God. As Rowan Williams has said, we see that God's power is "the unlimited power to be there, to be faithful to and for a world that is deeply unstable and unjust and suspicious and uncooperative: the power to go on trying to get through at all costs, labouring and wrestling with the human heart" (Tokens, p. 19).

This is hardly proof that God exists or even that belief in God is empirically plausible. I'm not sure such comforts are available to us. Perhaps God cannot be proven to exist. But there are reasons to trust that this is the case.

The words spoken to Job from an arcane whirlwind become plainly visible in Jesus, the embodied Word of God. And we see that the purposes of God intend our well-being. We see that God has created us to have life and to have it abundantly. We see as Rowan Williams says that "God is to be trusted as we would trust a loving parent, whose commitment to us is inexhaustible, whose purposes for us are unfailingly generous; someone whose life is the source of our life, and who guarantees that there is always a home for us." (Tokens of Trust, p. 19).

Sermon - Second Sunday After Pentecost

Tracy Wells
Communications Coordinator
> click here for the scripture for the day


What does it mean to be "chosen" by God?

In the Hebrew scripture for this morning, we read the story of God choosing David to replace Saul as king of Israel. The prophet Samuel surveys the sons of Jesse and discerns that David is the one God has chosen.

In essence, the work Samuel does in discerning the next leader of Israel is the same work that discernment committees do in choosing the next leaders of the church. As individuals present themselves as interested in a career in ordained ministry, it is the committee's responsibility to listen and to pray, and to discern which of these individuals God has chosen to serve as deacons or priests in the church.

I stand before you today as a product of that process. The committees met, the prayers were said, the bishop was consulted, and at the end, all these people affirmed that they believe that I have been chosen by God to be a priest.

And I believe it, too. The discernment process and the ordination service do not allow for a kind of "oh, if you insist..." approach to putting on the collar. Aspirants for the priesthood are not allowed to play the role of the reluctant leader, having greatness thrust upon them. A large part of the discernment process is learning to claim one's sense of calling. When the bishop asks in the ordination service, "My sister, do you believe that you are truly called by God and his Church to this priesthood?" I must be able to answer confidently and firmly, "I believe I am so called."

In essence, I must stand up and proclaim to the world that I am chosen by God.

Sounds just a bit arrogant, doesn't it? -- maybe even dangerous. We are rightly suspicious of people who claim to be "chosen by God" -- for me, that language conjures up images of early Puritans proclaiming who is and who is not among the "elect" few whom God has chosen for salvation, in a system that I would call theologically abusive. Throughout human history, people have used language about being "God's chosen people" to justify pursuing their own self-interests, often through violence.

But what we miss if we think of being "chosen by God" as arrogant is the fact that being "chosen by God" does not make us any better than anyone else -- because here's the secret -- God has chosen EVERYONE. But we are chosen to do different things, to play different roles. Claiming to be "chosen by God" only becomes arrogant when we believe that the thing God has chosen us to do is better than the things God has chosen other people to do.

My grandfather, who was not a church-going man himself, used to always say, "What a good thing it is that God made us all different -- that's what makes the world go 'round." Or, in the words of the Apostle Paul in the letter to the Ephesians:

"[E]ach of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift. The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ. (Ephesians 4:7, 11-13)

What role has God chosen you to play in building up the body of Christ? Even this passage from Ephesians is quite limiting, as it talks about people being called to be apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, and teachers -- but God also chooses people to be doctors and lawyers and English tea volunteers and vestry members and gardeners and finance committee members. Where do your gifts lie in serving God and bringing others to the knowledge and love of God?

In my experience of discerning my calling to the priesthood, I have come to believe that we all have a particular calling in life, a particular path that will bring us to a place of abundant blessing if we choose to follow it. I do not believe that God will reject us if we do not choose that path, but I do believe that we will find more fulfillment and abundant blessings if we do follow it.

In late college and the beginning of graduate school, I planned to pursue a career in journalism. I knew I loved studying religion, and I was also a good writer, so I thought I would combine these two things and become a religion reporter for a newspaper. My experiences in the world of journalism were all rewarding in some sense, and I believe that God was surely with me, guiding me and loving me through all that I did in that field of work. But while I was writing articles and copy editing newspaper pages, I couldn't shake the sense that there was something more important that I should be doing.

From the first time I began to read the Bible in earnest in late high school, I had been struck by Jesus's injunction to reach out to the poor. Passages from Scripture like, "If you love me, feed my sheep" (John 21:15-17), and "whatever you did to the least of these, you did it to me" (Matthew 25:40), would ring in my head as I walked past homeless people begging for change on the streets of Cambridge.

Finally, I listened to the call and began to volunteer with an outdoor church for the homeless in Cambridge, similar to the Church of the Common Ground here in Atlanta. Although I felt completely unqualified and incompetent in this ministry, it certainly brought me much closer to God than journalism ever had. I began to write about my experiences with the Outdoor Church, and some of my mentors began to suggest that I might consider pursuing ordained ministry. Although every practical bone in my body told me it was time to get a "real job" and start making money to pay off my educational debt, I felt the call to devote intentional time to seriously discern whether or not I had a calling to ordained ministry, so I spent a year in intentional community living and discernment in Omaha, Nebraska, through one of the Episcopal Service Corps internships for young adults. While I know God would have been with me even if I chose not to go to Omaha, it became obvious to me once I arrived and met the wonderful people there who supported me in my discernment that I had found the place of deep blessing that God had for me at that time.

Listening to God's call is not often easy or practical, in my experience. But when God chooses us to do something, we actually have very little choice in the matter. From comparing notes with others in the field of ordained ministry, I have heard countless stories of people who have denied their calling for many years, pursuing another career, until finally they were able to accept God's call, to recognize their chosenness, and begin to live into that place of deep blessing to which God had been calling them all their lives. Like Jonah, we are finally unable to run from our calling, however scared we might be to accept it.

It has certainly been difficult for me to accept that I am chosen by God. Ironically, although I look for approval from others and struggle with perfectionism, it is actually difficult for me to accept praise, and even harder to truly acknowledge that I am fundamentally accepted, even chosen, by God. My perfectionism often leaves me feeling woefully inadequate in the face of the calling I have received. Perhaps that's why I was brought to tears by the following quote, which I first heard in a sermon that a friend of mine gave at St. James Episcopal Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the church I attended while I lived in Boston. It is often attributed to Nelson Mandela, but was actually written by Marianne Williamson, an author and minister in the Unity Church. She writes,

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

My years in discernment have begun for me the process of becoming liberated from my own fear -- fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of being hurt -- and becoming reborn as "a new creation" (as Paul says in 2 Corinthians), a more calm and confident version of myself who is able to claim her gifts and own her calling. The process is difficult and ongoing, but it is happening. I am learning to accept my chosennesss, to acknowledge that I am the beloved of God - to stand up and say, "Yes, I am chosen."

I believe this is what happens when we begin to follow the path that God has prepared for us -- we are brought face to face with our belovedness and are liberated from our fear. God begins to pry open our hearts to accept God's love and begin to offer it to others. It may not always be the path we would have expected to take; it may not be the path that others would have us take -- but it is the path God calls us to nonetheless. And it is an invitation to a place of great blessing.

My prayer is that each of you would find that path, that place of great blessing, in your own lives, and in doing so you would find yourselves face to face with a God who loves you and who chooses you - every day and every hour - to represent God's love to the world.

The Lord has chosen YOU. Stand up and proclaim it to the world, and "let your light shine before others, that they may see your good works, and glorify God in heaven" (Matthew 5:16). Amen.

Sermon - Day of Pentecost

The Rev. Allan Sandlin, associate rector
> click here for the Scripture for the day

Our children, Thomas and Lizzy, grew up while our family was living in Germany. For both of them, I suspect, German is as much their mother-tongue as English. So imagine what it was like for Lizzy that day we first visited the school she now attends. Her eyes lit up when she walked into the classroom and recognized that the 12 year-old students were all speaking German with their teacher. She heard the language of her childhood, the language in which she first learned to read, the language the children in her Sunday School class spoke when the adults left the room. I don’t know exactly what she was feeling that day, but it might have felt like she’d come home.

What does it mean to hear a story told in your mother-tongue when you’re accustomed to hearing things through someone else’s culture, through someone else’s native language?

This morning, we’ve listened again to the Pentecost story from the book of Acts. Things started off normally enough but then people began to stand and read the lesson in other languages, mostly in their mother-tongue. Several languages, interrupting each other, all at once. What a great noise!

It gives us, perhaps, a glimpse of the chaos, the energy, the surprise of the first Christian Pentecost. Hearing Albert read in his mother tongue, Krio, and Cara read in Vietnamese and Gerritt in Dutch also reminds us that at Holy Trinity, our home countries and our mother-tongues are not all the same. It’s a gift, this diversity.

But don’t think for a moment this was meant to be a re-enactment of the first Pentecost. No. That was something entirely different.

The gospel according to Luke ends with the ascension of Jesus. The beginning of the book of Acts, written by the same author who wrote Luke’s gospel, picks up the story line. We find the disciples, now reconstituted as the 12 with the addition of Matthias (chosen, you’ll recall, by rather dubious means), gathered in a house somewhere in Jerusalem.

Some of Jesus’ last words to them still echo in their hearts: Don’t leave Jerusalem. Wait there for the promise of the Father. You’ll receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you and then you’ll be my witnesses. So now, ten days after Jesus’ Ascension, they were probably beginning to wonder how long the wait was going to be, maybe fear had begun to creep back into their hearts and minds.

And then this wild, strange thing happened. First came the sound, without warning, like a gale force wind. Then, like a wildfire, tongues of flame spread and danced above their heads. And the Holy Spirit filled them, giving them the ability to open their mouths and speak in languages none of them had studied in school.

I suppose the windows of the house must have been open, because a crowd soon gathered outside. Included in that crowd were Jews from at least 12 different nations, all living there in Jerusalem. They were residents of the city, not just in town for the festival of Pentecost. But Jerusalem wasn’t home to them—they understood the language spoken by the natives but it wasn’t their mother-tongue. It must have taken their breath away when each of them understood the disciples to be speaking in their own language. The crowd from Elam heard Elametic. (I made that word up…) Those who hailed from Pamphylia heard Pamphylian.

After the noise died down and after the disciples finished speaking about God’s deeds of power, the crowd was awe-struck. Amazed and perplexed. Some of them seemed curious, willing to ask questions about what this might mean, wondering together at the very mystery of these simple, unsophisticated fishermen suddenly able to speak a new language with eloquence. Some of them were open and wanted to hear more.

But not all of them. These others scoffed and turned away in disgust. Their minds and hearts slammed shut as they sneered ah, they’re just a bunch of babbling drunks.

And that’s all it took. Peter stood up and found his voice. With strength and confidence, he began this passionate, articulate sermon. Keep in mind, this is Peter speaking. Peter who a short while ago was denying that he even knew Jesus. Now he speaks with assurance. The part of his speech you heard this morning, is only the prelude to a mighty powerful sermon, a sermon that will reach the hearts of many in that crowd. If you were to read all the way to the end of the sermon, you’d know that 3,000 people were baptized as a result of hearing it. Not even Rick Warren can match that.

No one expected Peter to be able to stand up and preach like he did. But here he was, stepping up to the task with authority and strength. Where’d he get that power? Where’d it come from?

And where did those disciples learn to speak languages they’d never even overheard in casual conversation? Where’d they find the power to speak so fluently and tell God’s story in language that sounded like a clear bell? How are people ever enabled to do things they should never in a thousand years be able to do? And over the air comes the refrain You’ll receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you and then you’ll be my witnesses.

Of course, there are different ways of witnessing. In the telling of the Pentecost story this morning, the first language we heard was not actually heard at all. You saw it. Ginny moved to the center of the aisle and began to interpret the story in American Sign Language. What a witness our interpreters are—and what a gift to us are those who speak and listen through their hands.

Everything we’ve heard thus far suggests that receiving the gospel has to do with words, words, words. The disciples were given words to speak that would open hearts to God. Peter used words to confront people, to remind them of what they already knew about Jesus and to enlighten those who’d never heard anything about him.

But there are ways to witness to the gospel of Christ without using words.

St. Francis of Assisi is given credit for being the first to say it like this: Preach the gospel. If necessary, use words.

But sometimes it’s the very language we use in church that blocks the ability of some to hear. While those of us who worship here week after week might feel right at home, if Episcopalese isn’t your mother-tongue, well…how welcome would you feel?

Or how would you receive the good news of God in Jesus Christ if you are a single mother with a challenging 4 year-old in tow or a gay couple wondering if it would be ok to have their photo taken together for the parish directory or how do you hear the gospel if you are still learning to speak English or if your home at the moment is the Decatur Inn?

How do you hear, how to you receive the good news God is offering?

There came a point came in my life when I could no longer hear the good news of Jesus

through the voice of the Baptist preachers who formed me in the faith. Maybe the volume just got turned up too loud. But I could no longer hear love, I couldn’t hear compassion, I couldn’t hear anything above the din, the loud seemingly uncompromising voices.

Did you happen to read Tracy Wells’ Pentecost meditation in the e-news last week?

Tracy calls to mind the 4th chapter of Luke’s gospel. In particular, it’s a verse Luke must have still had in his mind as he was writing the book of Acts. Early in his ministry, Jesus stood up in his hometown synagogue and read from the prophet Isaiah: The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.

Then, Tracy asks a good question. How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to preach the Gospel?

For don’t you know, all of you who’ve been baptized have already been anointed by the Holy Spirit to be witnesses. It’s part of the covenant made at baptism and reaffirmed again and again throughout our lives in the church. So the question is, how will you do that? How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to preach the Gospel?

Last week, I attended a conference for preachers. Preachers like me, who do this week after week. Five days of listening to sermons, at least 3 a day, and singing hymns side by side with 1,500 other preachers from across the country. And oh, my goodness, the preachers we had with us. It was like going to the All-Star game, although instead of Manny Ramirez and Chipper Jones, we had Fred Craddock, Barbara Brown Taylor, Raphael Warnock and oh yes, Desmond Tutu. It was a rich time. It was really something to hear those people preach the gospel.

But we also heard the gospel through some very fine music and singing—a little jazz and some awfully good gospel music—but it was the congregational singing that really rocked the place. The organ was grand but it was when the organist would lay out for a verse or two and let us sing a capella…that’s when we began to preach the gospel. Maybe you’ve had such an experience—a moment when the music carried you to a place where the spoken word could not go. But maybe that’s just me.

There are other ways the gospel can be preached, other ways to witness to God’s love.

Some people go their whole lives without standing in a pulpit, but they find other ways to preach the gospel. Other ways to proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ. I’ve been told that Russ Wallace doesn’t really enjoy being in front of the congregation, not even to read a lesson from the Bible. But those 17 years of mission trips to Honduras, taking medicine and his skills as a doctor to places and people where they are so desperately needed—that’ll preach!

How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to preach the gospel?

Well, that’s one question. And it’s a good one.

Then there were those in the crowd who listened closely and attentively and heard the good news in a way that went straight to their hearts. They received a gift from the Holy Spirit as well—the gift of hearing.

By the way, did you catch what Jesus said toward the end of the reading from John’s gospel this morning? What Jesus says there feels almost subversive to me. Lest we imagine that everything we need to know about faith and life is contained in words recorded in the Bible, Jesus himself comes along and says

I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.

When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you in all the truth…

Now I wonder. How has the Holy Spirit anointed you to hear? Were you paying attention? And what did you hear?