Sermon: Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

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

Doral Randolph Sandlin, my father’s younger brother and the last of Ethel Eugenia Brown Sandlin’s seven children, died this past week. He’d already lived about 20 years longer than any of us expected him to live, but his death has been hard on our whole family.

Like his brothers and sisters, he grew up during the Great Depression, raised by a remarkable mother whose husband was killed in a train wreck in 1932, leaving her with little money and all those children to care for. After high school, my uncle received an appointment to the Naval Academy and played basketball there. He flew jets during the Vietnam War and then taught aeronautical engineering at Cal Poly for many years. He was the finest whistler I’ve ever heard in person and he loved the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Well, no one’s perfect.

He had lots of natural gifts and abilities but above all Uncle Doral was someone who loved having his mind challenged and I think from time to time he even took pleasure in having his mind changed. He’d sit down at the kitchen table with his older brother, my father, the Southern Baptist theologian and preacher and ask him a question he knew Dad couldn’t resist. “Do you believe in the virgin birth?” or “What do you think about women preachers?” Now, my father always considered himself to be biblically conservative and socially moderate, but compared to his brother, he was a flaming liberal.

Their conversations would start off pleasantly enough, but they usually wound up getting overheated. Dad would get increasingly frustrated that he couldn’t convince his brother of his misguided thinking. Uncle Doral stayed cool, happy just listening and talking though I suspect he kind of got a kick out of watching his big brother get excited. Dad rarely stayed cool enough to realize that once in awhile his brother did change his mind. Uncle Doral was very good about not letting his brother know that he’d won the argument.

I have a hunch that he would have liked today’s gospel story about Jesus and the Syrophoenician woman. He’d have found it very interesting and he’d have saved up lots of questions for Dad’s next visit so they could discuss it.

But I was wondering, when you heard it read just now, did it startle you at all or make you a little nervous, to imagine Jesus behaving like this? Were you hoping I’d have some logical explanation for it, something that says it didn’t really happen this way or that Jesus didn’t really compare this woman and her child to dogs hungrily waiting for scraps under the table?

If Jesus had his picture on Facebook, one that his disciples posted for all the world to see, don’t you suppose it would show us Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Generosity, Mr. There’s-enough-here-for everybody-to-have-some-bread-and-we’ll-have-lots-left-over? But that’s not the Jesus we bump into today. Perhaps Jesus is tired and grumpy and needs a break after his non-stop teaching and healing and preaching among his own people in Galilee. So he crosses the boundary of his home territory and escapes for the weekend to Tyre, a place where Gentiles live, people he’s not accustomed to encountering at all.

A woman comes looking for Jesus. She’s a Gentile woman from Syrophoenicia and under normal circumstances, a Jewish man, a teacher of some renown like Jesus, wouldn’t have been caught dead in the same house with her. But she seeks him out, hoping against hope that he’ll be able to rid her precious daughter of the demon possessing her. We expect Jesus to respond to her with kindness and assurances that if she has enough faith, her daughter will be healed.

But did you hear what he said to her?

Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.

It’s shocking, isn’t it? Even if you’ve read and studied this passage a hundred times before, it still catches us off guard. Jesus is rude, even hostile and has clearly forgotten the “royal law” James holds up for us in the epistle reading. Remember, it’s the second part of the great commandment Jesus himself gave us: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” It seems he’s momentarily just forgotten that.

Some biblical scholars, though not many, say Jesus was in control the whole time, that he was just testing her. But I doubt it. I think he simply and quite humanly changed his mind. His understanding of his mission grew, perhaps he grew some himself.

The woman doesn’t behave like we’d expect her to either—she doesn’t shrink back and say “well, thanks anyway, I’ll guess I’ll have to look elsewhere.” No. She has something to teach Jesus when she says “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” She corrects Jesus and points him in the right direction.

So I was wondering…who is the Syrophoenician woman for us? Who makes us uneasy when they show up in church, asking questions, maybe even demanding to be heard? Who pushes the boundaries of our comfort level and makes us wish they’d find someplace else to call home?

“Let the children be fed first…”


“Here’s the problem with the Episcopal Church today.” Every head at the table turned to face our colleague, Norma, who has a track record for saying provocative things in our monthly Commission on Ministry meetings down at the Cathedral. She’s an African-American educator and when she speaks, we listen. We’d been talking about the decline in membership in the Episcopal Church and what the next generation of clergy leadership might look like—how they need to be both visionaries and good managers. As usual at our meetings, she’d been listening very attentively to the conversation, not saying much. And then she let us have it, right between the eyes:

“The problem with the Episcopal Church is that we don’t know how to sing ‘Just as I am.’” She elaborated. “We don’t know how to invite people to join us, to come and worship with us and work with us. At the church where I eventually became a member, I hung around coffee hour for months as a visitor, hoping someone would talk with me, someone would invite me to become a member, thinking that someone would have an idea how to do that.”

Norma wasn’t suggesting that we institute a Baptist-style altar call at the end of our services, softly humming “Just as I am” as the pastor stands at the front of the church urging people to come forward and make a profession of faith or join the church. She wasn’t asking for that. We already have an altar call in the Episcopal Church every Sunday morning when all are invited to receive Holy Communion.

But I think she’s right. We don’t know how to sing “Just as I am” in the Episcopal Church. We aren’t very good about the invitation piece of hospitality, asking people to come to church with us and then asking them to stay and become members. And the larger truth may be that we aren’t very good at sharing the good news of the gospel in the first place; we’re pretty lousy at telling the story of Jesus and even worse at telling our own stories.

And then we keep a fairly tight watch on the boundaries surrounding who we’ll welcome into our churches and we’re reluctant to invite people who aren’t, in fact, already members of the club.

Across the table, someone else asked the question “Are we proud of being an exclusive church?” I winced and so did everyone else as we nodded our heads in affirmation. We don’t really know how to sing “Just as I am”.

If Jesus changed his mind about the Syrophoenician woman, do you suppose we might change our minds? Or another way of asking that: Do you suppose we might radically change the way we think about hospitality? What would radical welcome look like at Holy Trinity?

For as long as I’ve been an Episcopalian, I remember seeing those signs by the side of the road that say “The Episcopal Church welcomes you.” I think we’ve got one right on the corner of Sycamore and Sycamore Place. I always smile when I pass one of those signs, taking a fair amount of pride in our anthem of being a welcoming church. But I wonder how seriously we take it? Do we really welcome everyone?

I’ve heard it said that evangelism in the Episcopal Church never gets off the ground because we think that everyone who wants to be an Episcopalian already is one. You know that there’s at least a kernel of truth in that.

So can we learn something new?

When Jesus met the Syrophoenician woman, his world-view told him that his mission was just to his own people, to people who spoke the same language, had the same ethnic origin as he did. Jesus started out that day with a narrow perspective, convinced that he was already reaching those who God wanted him to reach—his own Jewish people.

But this unexpected, surprising encounter with a woman turned out to offer Jesus the gift of a lifetime. She opened his eyes and his ears to the possibility that his audience was to include everyone and he changed his mind. Jesus discovered he had some new neighbors and from this moment on, his ministry, his work, his mission will include all of them.

And so, who are our neighbors?

Maybe they are people who will see the new solar array and be curious about a church that’d do something so green.

Maybe they are families struggling to make ends meet or families with children in the Holy Trinity Pre-School.

Maybe our neighbors are first-year students at Agnes Scott or maybe they wandered upstairs from DEAM, looking for help.

Maybe our neighbor is a woman who moved to Atlanta from New York to be near her grandchildren.

Maybe our neighbors are from the deaf community and have only just learned about our wonderful interpreters here at Holy Trinity.

Maybe our neighbors are that family who chooses to drive past four or five other Episcopal churches just to get here on Sunday mornings.

And of course, our neighbors also live in Honduras and Haiti, in the fire-ravaged hills of Southern California and the war fields of Afghanistan. As the opening line in the prayer for Labor Day puts it: Almighty God, you have so linked our lives one with another that all we do affects, for good or ill, all other lives…our neighbors are indeed nearby and far away.

In the second story in this morning’s gospel lesson, Jesus unstops the ears of a man who was hearing impaired. Having had his own ears opened by the unnamed Syrophoenician woman, Jesus now proceeds to do some ear-opening work himself.

And that work goes on. I wonder what Jesus is up to here at Holy Trinity?

Maybe, just maybe, he’s nudging us to do some neighbor-inviting and risk sharing our stories of God’s love. Maybe Jesus is inviting us to begin living into the inclusive, extravagant ways God is calling us to act, to become the body of Christ in the world.

I’ve not been able to stop humming “Just as I am” ever since Norma mentioned it the other day. So late yesterday afternoon when I thought I had the sermon all wrapped up, I sat down at the piano in our living room and played through this old Baptist hymn I learned so well as a child.

You probably know the first verse by heart. But if you kept singing, you’d discover in the following verses some decent theology, some words of encouragement, of invitation and challenge. Now, I suppose I could just stand up here and read those verses to you as a closing refrain to this sermon... but you know me better than that. And who knows? Maybe I was wrong about Episcopalians not knowing how to sing “Just as I am”. It’s on page 693 in your hymnal.

Just as I am, without one plea,
but that thy blood was shed for me,
and that thou bidd’st me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, though tossed about
with many a conflict, many a doubt;
fightings and fears within, without,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind;
sight, riches, healing of the mind,
yea, all I need, in thee to find,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, thou wilt receive:
wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve,
because thy promise I believe,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, thy love unknown
has broken every barrier down;
now to be thine, yea, thine alone,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Just as I am, of thy great love
the breadth, length, depth and height to prove,
here for a season, then above:
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

Sermon: Twelvth Sunday after Pentecost

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

Where did the summer go? Wasn’t it just yesterday we were celebrating the Feast of Pentecost, wearing our best red ties and red dresses, listening to the cacophony of languages in the reading from Acts? Wasn’t it just yesterday our children were coming home from the last day of school, anticipating summer vacation and wasn’t it just yesterday we were still hopeful that the Braves might win the division?

This summer did seem to go by quickly, though if you’ve been coming to church lately and paying attention to our readings from the gospel of John, it might seem things have really slowed down. Back on the last Sunday of July, we listened to the first of five readings from the 6th chapter of John’s gospel. And if you’ve stayed the course over the past few Sundays, you’ve perhaps gotten your fill of stories about Jesus and bread. Jesus has had lots of words to say about bread, hasn’t he?

You’ll remember that all this started with John’s version of the feeding of the 5,000—a story so important to the church that it’s included six times in four gospels. It’s the story of Jesus taking a few loaves of bread belonging to a young lad, blessing that bread, breaking it into pieces and putting it into the hands of hungry people. And out of that story, Jesus has been talking about bread, the bread of life, the bread of heaven. Bread that reminds us of the manna God gave our ancestors in the wilderness, but bread that contains deeper meanings and a life-giving promise. Jesus promises us that he is that bread and that if we eat that bread he will abide in us and we in him.

And you’ll recall that earlier in the story, this kind of talk caused some rumblings among the crowds. At the end of last week’s reading and repeated again this morning, we listen to Jesus say "Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them." And today it’s the very people following Jesus, his disciples, who are mumbling and complaining. One or two of them are overheard to say "This teaching is difficult, who can accept it?"

Even with the benefit of 2,000 years of Eucharistic theology behind us, we still struggle with the question. "What does it mean, Jesus? How are we supposed to understand this talk about flesh and bread, wine and blood?"

I talked with a friend of mine in Louisiana the other day. She’s a Presbyterian pastor and I knew she’d be preaching on this text today. I was also curious what a Presbyterian would have to say about John’s Eucharistic theology—in a congregation where they normally have Communion once a month. I was surprised to hear Patti say that during the month of August, they were celebrating the Eucharist every Sunday, alongside listening to the readings from John about the bread of heaven. We laughed together because I’ve been telling her for years that she really is an Anglican at heart and this proved my point. In her preaching and in their worship together, I take it that they’ve been exploring the mystery of the Word made flesh, dwelling for a little while in the mystery of bread and wine becoming the very presence of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist. Now, that’s where we live as Episcopalians, but for these Presbyterians who are so very saturated by the spoken word on most Sundays, it represented a new opportunity. And then I came back to today’s lesson and found myself drawn to this verse:

It is the spirit that gives life;
the flesh is useless.
The words that I have spoken to you are spirit and life.

Yes, the words Jesus speaks today may unsettle us, may cause us to wonder what he’s talking about. But you sense the truth in these words. Jesus’ words give us spirit and life. They have the capacity to empower us, to compel us, to change us. The words Jesus speaks abide with us, as Jesus who is the Word incarnate abides with us.

Anything is possible when the Spirit has invaded our hearts and inspired and enlivened us. Anything.

But the opposite of that is true as well. When we try to limit the meaning of scripture, to coral it and say things like “It means this and only this” we end up killing the possibility.

Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Who can understand this?

Jesus gives us ideas, Jesus gives us words that suggest, not define. Our friend, author and priest, Barbara Crafton, who led Holy Trinity’s Lenten Quiet Day last March writes

The words of scripture are never just one thing. They aren’t true in the two-dimensional way a newspaper story might be true: “Yesterday, so-and-so did such-and-such at such-and-such a time in such-and-such a place.” The truth of them plumbs truth to its very bottom, and searches it out to its widest expanse. It is as much the truth of possibility as it is the truth of history. By its very nature, it is bigger than we are. We must never cut it off at the knees by insisting that we know exactly what the words say. We do not know. We will never know, not here. We struggle to understand them, but we cannot know, because we can’t see what comes next. We can only read them, discuss them, pray them and then trust them to reveal their mystery to us…

Let me tell you about one such moment of mystery, a moment of spirit and life, from the summer of 2006 and the last time the Episcopal Church gathered for our General Convention. It happened on a Sunday morning, in Columbus, Ohio. Several thousand of us or so were gathered in a huge convention center for the Eucharist that morning. After worship, the bishops, all 300 or so of them, departed in a solemn procession and were transported by bus to Trinity Church a few blocks away. There they were sequestered to vote for the next Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church. The candidates before them were all fine bishops of their own dioceses. They were mostly white and they were, of course, mostly male. With one exception.

Conventional wisdom held that one of the 4 or 5 male bishops would be elected. This was the first time a woman had even been nominated and no one, I mean, no one, thought she had a chance. We heard things like There is too much controversy in the church already, there is no way the bishops will elect a woman this time and even if she is the best candidate, it’s not the right time.

And then the moment came when the chairperson of the Nominating Committee came to the microphone, looked out at the 800 of us in the House of Deputies and another thousand or so observers awaiting the results and announced:
“On the 5th ballot, the Right Reverend…Katharine”…and there were gasps of surprise and scattered applause…”Jefferts Schori was elected.”

Later in the afternoon, after the allowed time for debate had ended and the House of Deputies had voted to confirm her election, Bishop Katharine was escorted into the hall. She was greeted with a prolonged standing ovation and loud, enthusiastic cheers. It was an unforgettable moment. It was a risky thing those bishops did, it offended a few people, it thrilled many others and it was clearly the work of the Holy Spirit.

So what does this have to do with the Gospel today? Just this. If we, as a Church, were bound to a literal reading of scripture that claims women cannot speak in church, that women must submit all their spiritual questions to their husbands, Bishop Katharine would never have been made a priest, much less a bishop. For beloved St. Paul says exactly that in his first letter to the church in Corinth. Robyn and Deborah (and my predecessors, Anne, Melissa, Alicia and Susan) would never have been able to serve at this altar, you’d have never heard them preach, or benefited from their teaching. But the words of scripture are never just one thing. The truth of scripture takes us places that surprise us, that startle us and disturb us because it is the “truth of possibility every bit as much as it is the truth of history.”

None of us, not me, not you, not any bishop or your Sunday School teacher or college religion professor or the Archbishop of Canterbury, has a corner on scripture. This side of heaven, the complete, full meaning of Holy Scripture will remain hidden from us. I believe each generation will continue to find new meaning, new depths of understanding in the timeless words of life.

Every now and then, we will get glimpses of truth, glimpses that show us the way home. They will come to us in bits and pieces, something like the bits and pieces of bread that fall into our hands, as we come to the feast of abundant life prepared for us today. Amen.

Sermon: Eleventh Sunday After Pentecost

Joe Pearson, Deacon

Invocation of God’s Spirit

God of all ages past, our present today, and for years to come, be with us as we seek your presence in our lives and anticipate what you have to teach us today. Amen.

The Introduction

Last week, Bishop Alexander had us hanging on a pendulum arc that swung from our baptism and our history on one end and our individual and collective future on the other. He talked about our tendency to look back and to work hard to hold on to what was. He encouraged us to stand in the present, respecting and honoring our traditions, and to embrace the unknown tomorrow with anticipation. With reference to the “transfiguration,” he recalled how the disciples wanted to build dwellings to “house” the spirits of Elijah, Moses and Jesus. Instead “a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, ‘this is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!’" Without diminishing what was, God wanted them to focus on the present—what is and what is to come.

So here we are again, one week later, sitting smack in the present. As we sit, each of us brings our own unique remembered past. Everything and everyone who has brought us here is also here—along with Elijah, Moses and Jesus. But none of us knows what will transpire in the next second or minute. Will someone faint? Will someone be struck by God’s grace? Will others be struck with boredom--thinking perhaps of golf dates, or lunch plans, or work challenges…?

The pendulum of life swings and we are caught here and now at the center of that which was and is and will be. We are part of the long arc of history and active participants in the shorter arc of our lives in this day and time.

Just a little over ten years ago, I was caught in one of those moments “between the no longer and the not yet” and wanted, like Solomon, some direction, some discernment about my future:

• Should I retire now or work a few more years—maybe make it to 70
• When I retired what did I want to do
• Where did I want to live
• Did I want to seek ordination

Bottom line: I was at one of those milestone crossroads……and the temptation was to “stand pat,” to hold on to what was and slide quietly into the future. But something was nudging me to move forward, to move beyond the present into uncharted waters.

My spiritual director at the time, John Westerhoff, encouraged me to engage in a specific period of discernment. With his support, I decided to go on a spiritual retreat. I spent eight days in solitude and silence at a Jesuit retreat center in Colorado. For this retreat, each attendee was assigned a spiritual director. We spent the entire time in silence—except for one hour each day when we met with our director. On the first day, I shared my list of concerns and said that I was hoping for some discernment.

At the end of my time there, I came to a strong realization. You could say, and I do, that I experienced a major breakthrough—something like a conversion.

Exegesis and Mid-Rash

With this memory in mind (I want to hold for now sharing details about my breakthrough experience) I find our texts for today extremely interesting and quite frankly, somewhat confusing.

For the past several Sundays, the gospel texts (with the exception of last Sunday when the Transfiguration text from Luke took precedence), have come from the 6th Chapter of John.

The long arc of this chapter begins with loaves and fishes and the feeding of an estimated 5,000 (including rumblings from the flock present of a Kingship for Jesus) and ends with grumblings, defection of some followers and Jesus’ forecast of betrayal. Consider the following:

• Feeding thousands with real food from undisclosed sources
• The food sated crowd (now convinced that Jesus is their Messiah, their once and future King) seek him out
• Jesus, not wanting to be so confronted, departs and crosses the Sea of Galilee. En route he takes a walk on the water. At first this seems out of context. Why would John inserts this here—almost as an afterthought? I suggest, for extra reading, that you check this out at home and see what you think. But I digress….
• The people, not finding Jesus, go looking for him. It seems they want to make him their long ago promised candidate for King, and along the way to provide more food, to perform more miracles. For them, it seems that Jesus validity depends on his being willing to perform signs and wonders.
• When they find him they ask—and I greatly paraphrase: What must we do to keep these miracles coming? What signs will you give us? Moses provided manna. You provided loaves and fishes.
• Jesus counters and my vivid imagination suggests he counters with a flash of anger: It was not Moses who provided manna. It was God, my Father, and your God. Don’t you get it? It is not about the food; it is about me. I am the bread of life.
• The disciples, the crowd, (whoever was still around) are astonished. How can that be? We know you. Are you not the son of Joseph the carpenter? What are you talking about?
• Again and again, it seems, Jesus responds: I am the bread of life. Moses gave you, by the grace of God, physical food. Yesterday I provided loaves and fishes for you to eat. But this is not what I am about. I am the bread of life. This bread brings eternal life.
And this is where our gospel text for today enters the narrative. Jesus says, “I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”
• But again, the people cry out in disbelief: How can this man give us his flesh to eat?

The gospel reading for next Sunday concludes this narrative arc. In this reading the disciples say: “This teaching is too difficult. Who can accept it? Chapter six ends with some followers leaving and the commentary from John that Jesus knew from the first who would betray him—and even identifies Judas as the betrayer.

From Miracle to Betrayal. John has provided us with a lot to ponder.

What in the world is going on? It is obvious that Jesus and his disciples are not on the same page. The disciples are caught up in 1) tradition and their expectations based on it, 2) the practical world of survival where food is scarce, 3) the thrilling rush of adrenalin as they hear Jesus preach, experience miraculous events, and bask in his charismatic presence. Imagine how they must feel as their excitement mounts that this man, this carpenter’s son from Nazareth, may well be the long expected Messiah.

From this hoped for King, they want food (read miraculous signs and wonders), substance, mission, political leadership. What they get is mystery-- ambiguity. They are asked to replace their desire for things with Jesus desire for people to come directly to God through him.

It seems, though, that at every turn they misunderstand what he means, what he teaches, what he desires for them. He has been sent to show them the deep love that God has for them. He has been sent to alter their focus on things, and principalities and powers and to refocus on one thing only—the mystery and power and glory of the living God.

Jesus affirms: “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate….”

Implications for Us.

It is no wonder that they were confused. Those disciples wanted substance. What they got was metaphor.
Are we, two thousand plus years later, still somewhat confused ourselves?
Don’t we want, downright expect, answers?
Don’t we demand substance?
Don’t we seek guidance and direction?
Don’t we allow our expectations, our desires, our needs to frame what we want—even expect—from God?

Instead of just giving us what we want and say we need …
Jesus offers Jesus.
Jesus offers God.
For Jesus, that should be enough!

It is clear that Jesus is not talking about disciples actually eating his literal flesh. He is speaking symbolically. Keep in mind that in the gospel narratives Eucharist has not yet been instituted. That comes later. These disciples did not have centuries of theological dialogue and struggle about whether wafers and wine were the real presence of Jesus or just some mystical symbol. In fact, there is no institution of the Eucharist in the gospel of John. The symbolic activity that takes place at John’s last supper is the washing of feet. I have often wondered why John did not include this Eucharistic and symbolic feast in his gospel.

It now occurs to me that in Chapter 6 John is essentially presenting a Eucharistic metaphor. It is symbolic and deeply incarnational. God is in Jesus, and when we take in Jesus we literally take God within us. This is, first and foremost, about human life—your life and mine—with God. The word Immanuel—used quite often to refer to Jesus--simply means, “God is with us.”

To accept this, to believe this, to respond to this is an act of faith. It requires a bold leap from the realities of human expectation to the promises of divine blessing.

This in no way implies that guidance, or mission, or purpose, or answers will not come through a life of Faith—a life of God’s incarnation with us. It is nothing more or less than getting our priorities straight and putting first things first.

I believe that God created the universe, is omnipresent, is always with us, always seeking us, always wanting to be in relationship with us. As I read the Bible—the story of God’s attempts to relate to and lead a people—it is clear to me that most of the time the people just didn’t get it.

And while I am speaking of “not getting it,” this brings me back around to the time mentioned earlier when I went on a silent retreat—seeking answers to what I thought then were important life issues. I thought, as I entered into the time of silence, that answers would come. Like Solomon, I wanted God to provide a concrete plan of action—or at least a hint of direction.

I got my answer, and it was a complete shock. I realized that all of my life I had been an active participant in the life of the church, had accepted leadership positions, taught classes, preached sermons, went on mission trips, prayed, fasted, visited the sick…. I was very active in the business of the church.

I discovered at that retreat, that I was missing something primary—a deep and abiding relationship with God. Jesus was a hero, a servant, a role model. God was the architect of the universe. I believed in God and Jesus, I gave thanks and praise and worship, but in the final analysis I was not in a specific and personal relationship with them.

The answer that I got, important as those life decisions were, was this: until I accepted the living presence of God in me, understood God’s desire, through Jesus, to be in relationship with me, and began to develop that, then NOTHING ELSE MATTERED.

That is what most of the disciples did not get. That is why Jesus consistently, and insistently, implores the disciples to come directly to God through him.

T. S. Eliot, in his Four Quartets poem, talks about leaving home, going on life’s long journey of learning and experience only to come back home and experience it again for the first time.

John’s gospel today brings me back home—seeming yet again for the first time—and brings me back out of my head and my searching and reminds me of something fundamental, yet easily overlooked through the struggles of life.

This is why I can say, one more time, what I said as I child, and you, surely, must have said or sung it as well.

“Jesus loves me;
This I know;
For the Bible tells me so.”

Amen!

Sermon: Ninth Sunday After Pentecost

The Very Rev. William Thomas Deneke, rector

I am the bread of life.

These words of Jesus are familiar. We read them, say them, and sing them. In the Eucharist we even say “the bread of heaven”. What is interesting about this bread of salvation is that it does not always come to us in planned or predictable ways. The bread and wine of the Eucharist feed our souls every Sunday. But sometimes food for the soul, and even communion, come to us like manna from heaven, unexpectedly, and as a pure, unearned gift of grace.

This morning I want to share with you a story about how I encountered the bread of heaven unexpectedly. Several years ago, I traveled to Russia for a month long summer sabbatical with a friend who was a Lutheran college professor. We went first to St. Petersburg where we engaged in study at the St. Petersburg Theological Seminary. From there we flew to Biysk, a city in Southern Siberia, to meet a family we had both befriended on a previous Russian trip.

During our stay in Siberia, our host family took us on an excursion to a village south of Biysk in an area near the Altai Mountains (not far from the Chinese and Mongolian border). We went there to visit the newly restored Church of the Icon of the Kazan Mother of God. While touring the inside of the church, we met two young Russian Orthodox priests serving the church, and a Russian woman named Antonina, who was an active lay leader.

The priests and Antonia told us that sometime after the Bolshevik Revolution, the holy icons had been ripped from the Iconostasis and used on the street in front of the church as paving. The building was then turned into a storage place for chemical fertilizers to be used by the local collective farms.

A few courageous villagers carried off some of icons, which had been thrown into the street and hid them in their homes. Though they were now in somewhat poor condition, five or six of these icons were back in the newly restored church.

During the conversation, Antonina also shared that she had the honor of baking the large, round loaves of communion bread used each Sunday during the Eucharist.

Since it was lunchtime, Antonina invited us, all four adults and two children, whom she had never met before, to come home with her for lunch.

To turn down such an invitation would have been considered quite rude in Russian culture, so we accepted her kind offer. We walked a quarter of a mile through the streets of the village and over the fields to her "izba" (log house). While we became acquainted with her husband and son, Antonina busied herself in her "summer kitchen" located across the garden from the house. In preparation for our meal, Antonina's husband took us outside to wash our hands at the family's cleverly constructed "sink". Next to the basin hung the family towel, which was offered, to each one of us to dry our hands. We later learned that this act of offering the family towel was considered an honor according to Russian custom.

In less than 20 minutes, Antonina set out a magnificent luncheon table for her guests. Lunch consisted of a first course of fresh, uncooked garden vegetables, followed by a "borsch" of vegetables into which she lobbed huge spoonfuls of fresh sour cream. This was topped off by some kind of ground beef served with huge slices of bread covered in fresh butter.

Antonina did not serve just any bread to her guests. She brought to the table the large round loaf of bread that she had baked for communion. As she proudly held up the bread for all to see, I could not help thinking about the Eucharistic act of consecrating the bread. As she broke and passed around the bread, accompanied by cups of tea, I sat there in amazement.

What struck me was the parabolic power of a simple act of hospitality transformed into an authentic form of communion. While orthodox women are permitted to bake the bread of communion, they are not permitted to serve it. Neither are "strangers" -- the non-orthodox -- permitted to receive the bread of communion. This dominant patriarchy of the Russian Orthodox Church had been turned upside down when Antonina welcomed strangers to table fellowship and served as the "celebrant" of this simple "communion".

In our tradition, bread broken at communion is offered to each communicant with the words, "the body of Christ, the bread of heaven". This bread lovingly baked, broken and served by Antonina was nothing less than manna, or bread of heaven. Such an act of hospitality surely gives us a glimpse of the One who is the Bread of Life.

This story suggests that we can encounter communion and food for the soul in unexpected forms, along unfamiliar paths and with people who differ from us in every way imaginable. Come to think of it, this seems to be the way of Jesus portrayed over and over again in the gospels.

By the simple act of breaking bread with those in whom he came in contact, Jesus demonstrated an all inclusive, non-hierarchical divine hospitality that crossed all barriers of nationality, class, gender, race and creed. Perhaps, this story of a Siberian family's hospitality can serve as a reminder of the love of Christ that knows no boundaries. Perhaps it can remind us that food for the soul can be discovered in the most unlikely places, offered by those who seem to have the least to give.

Let us pray: Gracious God, grant us the wisdom to recognize the need to nourish our souls as well as our bodies. Enable us to perceive food for the soul even in unexpected places and to have the grace to accept gifts from those who may seem to have the least to give. Lead us daily to embrace your hospitality and grow in neighborliness so that we may be nourished and transformed through the Bread of life. Amen.

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.