Baccalaureate Benediction

Class of 2013,

May your time here in Boston not have been in vain. 

May you never look back and call these the absolute best years of your life. 

May you never stop learning. 

May you find a career. 

Barring that, may you find work. 

Barring that, may you find peace in the search.

May you never be in want for loving friends nor quiet solitude.

May you live the life to which God is calling you.

To quote author Marianne Williamson, “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.” 

Fellow graduates, friends, family, colleagues, faculty, staff:  You are, each of you, children of God.  It is my most sincere prayer that you go forward from this place and be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous.  

To be shamelessly trite, may you… Be You.

Amen.

This I Believe?

Boston University runs two "This I Believe" services, both through the School of Theology and Marsh Chapel.  This was my submission.

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Like many of my fellow friends and colleagues at the Boston University School of Theology, the last few years have been filled with blessings and challenges.  Seminary can be a confusing time when your every belief is brought out into the harsh light of day and closely examined.  Some beliefs did not survive the attempt while others were only made all the stronger. 

As a result, I can be inconsistent at times.  There are days when I am still a die-hard Trinitarian, in part because I’m such a Holy Spirit hipster fanboy.  Other times, I am at least a sturdy theist, though admittedly my God likes to shift from an old man with a beard to a youthful brunette woman.  But then again, sometimes I turn into an agnostic with closeted hopes of a universal consciousness not unlike some kind of divine iCloud.

Sad to say, “I don’t know” does not a good statement of belief make – or, at least, it would be difficult to stretch that into five minutes.  And after all, this service is called “This I Believe”.  So, what do I believe?

In no particular order, and EXTREMELY inexhaustive: 

I believe that people are inherently good, even in the face of human evil, especially in the face of human evil.

I believe the children are our future, but they’ve got a lot to learn.

I believe in a thing called love.

I believe that comics are art too.

I believe that watching YouTube videos of idiots playing video games will always make my day better.

I believe in silence and brevity, and I will gush breathlessly about it for ages.

I believe there is something sacred in laughter.

I believe that the Bible is the divinely inspired Word of God – except for the parts I don’t agree with.

I believe that “the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men cannot see,” and that kittens will never not be adorable.

I believe that Barenaked Ladies is the greatest band ever, provided your #1 criterion is how much I like them.  And I believe that Queen is the greatest band ever, provided your #1 criterion is that you have ears.

I believe that life is almost entirely composed of gray areas, and that’s only as terrifying as we make it.

“I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it's aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there's a cat in a box somewhere who's alive and dead at the same time (although if they don't ever open the box to feed it it'll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself.”  And I believe that Neil Gaiman wouldn’t mind me borrowing those words, considering the circumstances.

And perhaps, most importantly, I believe that, in the end, it’s going to be okay.  And sometimes that’s enough.

Some of these things I believe because they are true.  Others I believe because they are nice.  And sometimes I believe simply because I do.  Rarely do these ever align.  It’s important to make that distinction.  Because belief is never simply something done based on reasoning.  It’s not all about warm fuzzies, and it’s not all about being a huge downer.  Maybe your beliefs even contradict themselves at times.  Believing is funny that way.

So let me give my nerd cred one last bump.  There was a much-beloved and unfortunately-cancelled sci-fi show Firefly, and a movie which took the place of its finale.  One of the characters, Book, is a pastor – in their world called a Shepherd.  Like myself, he’s a man of faith who has found himself often in the company of the most unlikely individuals and dealing heavily with doubt and, frankly, reality.  During a pivotal scene that I refuse to spoil (regardless of how old the movie is), he desperately pleads with the lead character Mal, “I don’t care what you believe in, just believe in it.”

See, for all my high falutin’ theological trainin’, I can’t help but love this.  It’s easy to think that doubt is somehow the enemy of faith.  But there are so many kinds of faith, and so many things to believe – how could you not suffer from doubt??  It’s natural, and normal, and you’re not alone.  When you find your beliefs in conflict, or shaken; when you face doubts… face these things head-on.  You may come out the other side a different person, but you will come out alive and well.  This… I believe.

You Keep Using That Word; I Do Not Think it Means What You Think it Means

I gave this sermon a number of years ago when I had my ill-fated internship at a United Methodist church in western VA.  This was my attempt to fix my minor mistakes while delivering that one (which I had done from notecards, an admittedly foolish move for my first sermon ever).  The church held a summer program where they would host visiting youth groups, giving them a place to sleep, eat, and worship while going out into the city to repair homes for people who couldn't afford professional help.

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Luke 10:25-37

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

In reply Jesus said: “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead.  A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side.  So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.  But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him.  He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him.  The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

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The Bible can be… tricky sometimes.  It’s a common theme you’ll hear sometimes: ever since we decided it was time to translate the Good Book into something other than Latin, and people were free to pick it up and read it in their own language – anyone can do it, it’s so easy!  We get tricked into thinking that passages are straightforward, and with this one, that certainly seems to be the case.  If you see a dude laying half-dead on the street, help him out.  Easy.

But, nothing is ever that easy.  Life isn’t that easy.  So I want to take some time to break down this story and help you all see that there’s much more to it than simply “being nice”.

So, we start off with a rather common scene in the Gospels where a bunch of people are gathered around Jesus, throwing out questions, some of them trying to trip him up and prove that he’s not as great as he says.  This tends to blow up in their faces, and this poor schlub is no exception.  “What must we do to inherit eternal life?” he asks, wanting to see if Jesus is at all familiar with the Scriptures.  Already, Jesus can see where this is going, and flips it back on him.  Like any good public speaker, he answers with a question, “What do you think it is?”  And, like any good scholar, he knows that one backwards and forwards.  “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, et cetera, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

Cool, good job, A-plus.  But the scholar isn’t satisfied yet, and presses for more.  He isn’t going to let Jesus get away with it just yet.  What is a “neighbor” exactly?  Well, that’s fair.  It’s a pretty vague term.

True to form, Jesus replies with a parable, one of his most favorite rhetorical devices.  Everyone loves a story!

So, we’ve got a nameless, faceless guy (possibly a Jew) walking the long road from Jerusalem to Jericho, a treacherous stretch of land that is fraught with danger.  It’s twisty and full of places to set up ambushes for travelers who don’t know what they’re doing.  Sure enough, before we even get a chance to learn much about this guy, he gets jumped and loses all his possessions – clothing included – plus a good deal of blood, and consciousness to boot.

He’s half-dead and ready for just about anyone to come to his aid.  Lucky for him, a priest is passing nearby, only to snub him and pass on the other side of the road!  The same thing happens with a Levite, who also proceeds to walk the long way around him.  Like the priest, the Levite is a kind of religious figure, someone who has connections to incredibly important figures like Moses, Samuel, and Ezekiel.

Now, don’t get me wrong, this is harsh.  It’s bad enough to be ignored by regular people, but here we have two upstanding members of society leaving this guy to die on the road.  This is nothing new to us, I’m sure.  The Church doesn’t always have the best reputation, and I’d be willing to bet a fair few of you have friends who don’t really care for the fact that you’re a Christian.  An unsettling number of famous pastors have made some awful choices in the past.  They ended up in the public spotlight to remind people that even religious folks are human, even broken.  And this has been true for millennia.  Nobody’s perfect.

But let’s be honest, what they did was fairly smart.  That road was notorious for how dangerous it was, and I have no doubt that a few robberies started just like this.  These guys were looking out for number one.

In fact, only one person was willing to stop and help our poor nameless protagonist.  Unfortunately for him, and the audience listening to Jesus’ story, it was a Samaritan.  Without going too deeply into Jewish history, let me simply say that the Isrealites didn’t exactly get along well with the Samaritans.  One can imagine the cry of disapproval that ran throughout the gathered crowd as Jesus announced the savior of the story was to be the most despicable person any of them could imagine. 

This is the dramatic plot twist that Jesus has been building to, and I think it’s helpful to stop here for a moment so that I can ask you all an important question.  It may sound silly, but bear with me here:  How many of you have an arch-nemesis?

As you can see, my hand is raised.  I don’t want you to feel bad if you do, so let me tell you about mine.  You see, Batman has The Joker; Superman has Lex Luthor; Dr. Horrible has Captain Hammer.  Me?  Well, let’s just call him Tim.

The sad part is Tim and I were once amazingly close friends.  We met on a mission trip, and bonded almost immediately.  We had a core group composed of us and two others on the trip, and pretty much every second of down time was spent together.

However, by the second trip the next summer, things were… different.  He had broken up with a mutual friend of ours and she’d told us some of the things he’d done and said – nothing too awful, but certainly sketchy and weird.  Tim and I pretty much parted ways, until I decided to go to the same college where he was already a student.  From there, things, unfortunately, only got worse.

See, I call Tim my arch-nemesis because “we are not so different, he and I”.  We’re both choir and theatre nerds with plans to go into the ministry.  But where I tend to reserve my judgments, he told a Jewish friend of ours that she was going to Hell.  Where I tend to be a pretty humble singer, he’s eager to be front and center.  Where I tend to be pretty laid back as an actor, he’s a hard-core method actor.  Me and my friends made a habit of sitting around and telling Tim Stories.  I’ll spare you any further gory details.

We usually kept our distance.  We were never at war with one another, but we had our passive-aggressive moments.  Needless to say, if I were bleeding on the side of the road, he’s about the last person I’d want to see coming to my aid, and I’m not too sure he would be all that happy if I were helping him out.

This is the tension brewing as the Samaritan enters the picture.  The Jewish people gathered to listen to Jesus’ story don’t want to hear about the gentle and courageous Samaritan, they want to see themselves in the part of the rescuer.  This is not that kind of story.

And worse, he’s not just getting the guy up on his feet and leaving him to his devices.  He does everything in his power to make sure that the man is nursed back to health.  He bandages his wounds.  He puts him up on his donkey.  He pays to put him up in an inn out of his own pocket, and promises to come back and check up on him, willing to pay more money if that’s what it takes.

Any one of these would be impressive, but look at all the things he’s done in those few short sentences.  First, the dressing of the wounds.  He’s not just putting a few ACE bandages on his cuts and bruises, he’s tending to them almost lovingly.  Oil and wine are not cheap things, and for all we know, the only way he could bandage up those wounds was to tear up his own clothing!  And to put the poor guy on his donkey meant that he would now have to walk the rest of the way along the road.  To put it in context, Martin Luther King Jr. talks about driving this road, and says it takes about 15 to 20 minutes from end to end by car.  Walking that same stretch of road could take anywhere from 4 to 5 hours.  This is not a gesture made lightly. 

And then, of course, there’s the payment he makes for the man to stay at the inn.  Ignoring the extra cost on his return trip, he’s paying the innkeeper 2 denarii.  A denarii equals roughly a day’s worth of work.  Even by today’s standards, at minimum wage, he’s dropping over a hundred bucks to make sure that he stays safe.  This guy isn’t the Good Samaritan, he’s not even the Great Samaritan, he’s the Most Amazing Samaritan Known to Humankind!

So, after that rather long-winded answer, Jesus once again throws a question back at the scholar.  “Which one acted like a neighbor?”

You can hear the hesitation in his voice as he responds in the most roundabout way possible:  the “one who had mercy on him.”  He can barely bring himself to admit that the Samaritan was the one who showed love for his neighbor, but he knows it’s true.  It can be a tough pill to swallow.

And that’s the real problem with having an arch-nemesis.  This isn’t a funny book, and I’m not Batman – no matter how much I might want to be.  And the world isn’t composed of characters, it’s made up of people, just like you and me. 

And at the end of the day… Tim’s a good dude.  When my school held an event to raise money and awareness for the homeless, he and a group of other students spent 24 hours on the central plaza, sleeping in cardboard boxes as an act of solidarity.  He directed a play his senior year about a group of mentally handicapped and psychologically disturbed men living in a halfway house in honor of his sister, who has Down Syndrome.  He was always quick to offer a word of encouragement or a helping hand during choir rehearsal when someone couldn’t get a particular part down. 

We were friends once for a reason, and no matter how far apart we drifted or how much I might disagree with or dislike him, I know he’s got a good heart.

And so when I knew he needed it, I prayed for him, even if he wasn’t always willing to ask me directly.  On occasion, I was the one he talked to when things got hard.  I never dropped a hundred dollars so he had a place to stay or let him ride on my donkey – er… car…  But I realized at some point that what I was doing was downright idiotic.  It wasn’t about who he was or what he’d done or even what he was going to do.  Tim was a fellow human being.  Tim was my neighbor.

You all are here to do a great service to this city.  You’re out there in the sun sweating bullets and working really hard.  And that’s awesome, and it’s a really great feeling.  It’s even better when you’re working to build a ramp so that a sweet old lady in a wheelchair can get into her house easier, some nice woman who sits around and chats with you while you work and tells you stories from when she was your age.  But you should never let that be good enough.  In many ways, it’s easy to do something nice for someone like that.

But what about the other one?  What about the guy who says nothing?  The bitter old vet with the cane who critiques every nail and board you place?  The woman who refuses to let you come inside to use the bathroom because she doesn’t want her floor to get dirty?  Being a missionary – and that’s what you are, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – is far easier when the rewards are so glimmering and wonderful.  But to love your neighbor, you’ve got to wade in deep, and deal with all kinds of people out there, people who may think nothing of you even after you’ve worked your fingers to the bone.  When Jesus tells you to love your neighbor, he’s not giving you the shiny, happy command we like to think of.  It’s hard work, plain and simple. 

When we talk about being a Christian, part of what we’re talking about is being just like Christ.  And Jesus put up with a lot of people for the sake of real, true, honest love.  It won’t always make sense, and it won’t always be easy.  You may not see the rewards in the way you’re used to.  But just like every dad ever has said when you complain about chores, “it builds character”.  Learning to love the “unloveable” is what makes you a better Christian.  More to the point, it makes you a better human.

“Go and do likewise.”  That’s all you really need to say.  Jew or Samaritan.  Male or female.  Nice or mean.  Even your arch-nemesis.  Go and do likewise.  Bandage those wounds.

Jesus Wept

Another sermon for my Parish Preaching course.  This time, the subject was a funeral, and I decided to get a little more creative with it (if such a crass term can be applied).  So the passing in question is that of a young parishioner in some sort of fatal accident.  The idea originally came to me while trying to think about how I would do a sermon in the wake of Sandy Hook.  But I couldn't make that happen, because it was too far removed by the time I got down to writing it.

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Reading: John 11:35

Over two millennia ago, in a small town called Bethlehem, a baby boy was born, named Jesus.  He wasn’t given the honor of a decent birth, just a feeding trough filled with hay and the company of a rather bizarre band composed of an unwed couple, a handful of dirty shepherds, and some noisy animals.  Only alive a short while, Jesus wept.

Not too long after this, strange men came bearing bizarre gifts that were probably none too exciting for a newborn visit the parents.  The bearded strangers bent down close to the boy, one-by-one, and the presence of unfamiliar faces alarm him.  Jesus wept.

The strange men warned his parents that danger was on the horizon, and so they left the comforts of the only home he knew.  He found it hard to understand, and harder to cope.  It was hot and stuffy and sandy and, quite frankly, dangerous territory for a new mother and a baby boy, even with Daddy there to watch out for them.  Jesus wept.

Jesus grew up, like all children do.  He made friends, but children can be very cruel.  Whether it was his hair or his eyes or the way he walked, Mary suddenly found Jesus running into her arms, and through the tears he told her everything they’d said.  She tried to tell him that everything would be alright, but it’s hard to reason with a small child.  Jesus wept.

A few more years have passed.  The boy Jesus and his parents have made their usual trip to the Temple in Jerusalem.  Jesus got lost in the crowd and his parents went looking for him in a mad rush.  This is not the last time it happened, but it will be a few years before he is found in His Father’s House with the teachers.  For now, he’s still quite young.  He was lost and alone.  Jesus wept.

A young man, Jesus thought back on his life before he went off into the world to do his works among the people.  It was a time full of many stories and important moments.  They were private things, and he would not be who he was without them.  He felt joy well up in him.  Jesus wept.

Jesus was baptized by John, in the River Jordan, when a glorious sign appeared in the form of a dove.  He heard his Father’s voice for what may very well have been the first time, loud and clear.  He couldn’t believe it was really happening.  His purpose was recognized in the most humbling way possible.  Jesus wept.

Jesus ministered for some time when the news came.  A close friend of his had died.  Lazarus, practically his own brother, gone.  Mary showed him the place, and he lost it, if only for a second.  Jesus wept.

Jesus raged at the money-changers in the Temple.  He flipped tables and whipped at them with a rope.  His energy spent, he collapsed on the steps outside the Temple and cradled his head in his hands.  What was the point?  Was he doing anything?  Jesus wept.

During the start of that last week, Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a humble animal.  He knew what was to come, and to see the people cheering him on only caused him more pain.  If only they could see it, he thought, they would be somewhere else, looking up at the sky, deep in thought.  He bore the ironic sadness alone.  Jesus wept.

On Gethsemane, our Lord and Savior made one last desperate plea with the Almighty.  He begged for his life, pleaded, feeling he had no business with this cup.  And when he needed them most, his friends fell asleep on the job.  It is just too much to take, everyone deserting him when he needed them most – even God.  Jesus wept.

Even during his final moments, Jesus experienced doubt.  It is the hardest, most painful thing he has ever had to endure, and he can’t fathom why it had to go this way.  He cried out to God, unable to bear the emotional weight of it, “Why have you forsaken me?”  Jesus wept.

Mary went to the tomb, only to find it very much empty.  She mistakes the very man she is there to see for a gardener.  He called her by name, and she replied in kind.  He visited others, mistaken and doubted, but unable to deny the eventual effect he had on them.  He could finally see the seeds that he’d planted beginning to grow.  He gave charges and commands to his followers, and watched as they went about their work.  Jesus wept.

We gathered here today to say goodbye to someone who had no right to leave so early.  Jonathan Wright was young, far too young, and far too promising.  I knew him as well as I knew anyone else in this church.  But after today, the picture is so much clearer.  That’s part of the point, I suppose.  When someone leaves, we don’t want to merely meet and think deep thoughts about the meaning of life.  We want to tell stories.  That is what we do, at the end of the day.  For all our philosophy and theology and psychology and sociology, we are ultimately story-tellers.  It is the oldest art of all, and the dearest to our hearts.

That is why the Bible can be so important to us at times like this.  It tells us as much about ourselves as it does about God – and this is perfectly ingrained in the stories of Jesus.  Some of the stories I just told are found nowhere in its pages, and others were embellished.  But they fit, because Jesus was a man, and yet he was God.

There are many images out there of different “kinds” of Jesus.  My old pastor used to have this painting of a Jesus laughing brightly, as though he had just thought of something so beautifully wonderful he couldn’t help but laugh.  Every culture has some interpretation of Jesus to help them better relate to our Savior – African Jesus, Korean Jesus, Young Jesus, “Hip” Jesus.  Today, we greet another image into our midst, the Jesus who weeps.

It is at times like these that we wonder where God was.  It is a constant refrain, and one that does not necessarily have an easy answer.  I wish I could say otherwise.  In my seven years of higher education, I was involved in the mourning of at least ten people, almost all of them just as hard as this one, just as… stupid.  Where was God, we would ask.  Why couldn’t he stop that drunk, or that bus, or that icy road patch, or that bullet?

But I want us to look at things a bit differently.  It’s not even that we’re asking the wrong question.  It’s absolutely okay to wonder where God was.  It’s even right to look for a miracle.  We’ve been doing it since Genesis.

And there was a miracle!  John also tells us “The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”  God became us.  And opened up the possibility to experience everything life had to offer.  And as we all know, life hit God hard.  In and through Jesus, God experienced all the heartache, loss, and pain, that each and every one of us knows firsthand.

That is what can be so powerful about the image of Jesus weeping.  Because that’s God weeping too.  That is the miracle – the solidarity of the Creator.  The knowledge that the same one who formed you once underwent to the ultimate sacrifice to understand the Creation.

There will be days of sorrow to come.  There will also be days of joy.  Days of nothing at all and days of far too much.  Treasure them all equally.  Treasure the laughter, and also the tears.  You have each other, and you have your stories.  Treasure them too.  But most of all, treasure the knowledge that you are not alone.  There is nothing new under the sun, not even for God.  Because even Jesus wept.

Hungry

First sermon for my Intro to Preaching course.  This one was based on a system of "four pages" where we had to move through segments of trouble in the Bible and the world, then grace in the Bible and the world.  Therefore, it might feel a bit formulaic compared to my others.  That being said, the process of constriction apparently gave me a decent burst of inventiveness, so I hope this works as well.

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Reading: Luke 4:1-13

I’m starting off on the wrong foot here.  I’ve actually never participated in a fast before.  I’ve never done 30-Hour Famine or given up much for Lent besides the occasional soda.  And let’s face it, we live in America, one of the wealthiest countries in the world.  I generally don’t want for much.

So can someone tell me why I still feel hungry?  I am full and empty at the same time.  I like to think John Wesley would be proud, but this probably isn’t quite what he meant.  There is something missing, some days, a drought of meaning rather than food, and that is just as dangerous.

As always, Jesus has something to say about that.

Forty days.  Forty days without food.  One can hardly imagine the strain on Jesus’ body by the end.  Science can give us some clue, certainly.  It is not a superhuman feat to go without food for so long.  With enough food in the system, a person can last weeks on end without a single thing to eat.  But it is not a pleasant experience.  It would have taken only the span of a day for the hunger pangs to set in.  Less than 24 hours, probably, before his stomach began to grumble and growl.  His body cried out for food – divinity or no, the stomach wants what it wants. 

Another two or three days later, I would not be surprised if our Lord and Savior was down on hands and knees, crawling along through the Wilderness, barely able to maintain a cogent thought as the hunger reached a crescendo – a screaming void in the center of his belly that cared little for Immaculate Conceptions or Nunc Dimittises.  John the Baptist was not the only voice crying in the wilderness.  Jesus’ own stomach cried out too, not with a high and lofty “Prepare ye the way of the Lord!” but with an exhausted whisper –  “Feed me…”  He was hungry. 

It is likely an urban legend that hunger eventually goes away after too long without food.  But for those with the fortitude, it can be pushed to the back of the mind.  Perhaps a week in, Jesus might have actually found something else to think about besides food.  He sees himself trailing just behind the long train of the people of Israel.  Like him, they are hungry, and they beg and plead for food.  The Lord heard them, and soon they were blessed with manna and quail.

Well… so much for not thinking about food…

Eventually it occurs to him – I’m the Son of God!  His eyes catch sight of some stones, and just behind them, a figure.  Starved and exhausted, Jesus doesn’t know what to make of it.  Man?  Woman?  Human?  Bestial?  Comforting?  Terrifying?  All of the above, or perhaps, none of the above.  The silver tongue starts wagging, and it all seems so simple.  A little divine mojo and, boom, some bread to silence the grumbling stomach.

What’s a Son of God to do?

What are we to do?

After all, it’s Lent, when we as a Church remember Jesus’ 40 days in the Wilderness with 40 days in our own Wilderness.  And we are hungry, too. 

Not literally, though.  Of course, some people do take the season quite seriously, and abstain from something in an attempt to understand better what it was like for Jesus to be on his own journey of denial.  It is a common practice among Christians across the world, and indeed in many other religious traditions.  Over time, it has taken many an interpretation, and these days we ascetically abstain from meat, candy, coffee, soda, television, Facebook, and pretty much everything in-between that might keep us from God.

But here’s the problem: we’re already starved, and it actually serves to separate us from God.

You ever walk into your kitchen and go wandering from cupboard to fridge, knowing you want something, but unable to put your finger on what?  Or maybe you fire up Netflix and hunt around for 10 minutes before sighing with resignation and decide to just put on another episode of How I Met Your Mother because you don’t know what you want to actually watch?

I think perhaps we’re experiencing a similar problem with God.  I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’m going to go after a low-hanging fruit here.  We need only look to the spiritual-but-not-religious, the “Nones” that we can’t seem to go a week without hearing about, in the news or the latest Pew Forum poll.  I actually completely get it.  And I get the impression it’s not just me, and it’s not just the “Nones”.  People are leaving religion.  Whether it is the hypocrisy or the judgment or just boredom, they no longer find the communal religious life fulfilling.  And who can blame them?

But here’s the interesting thing.  As near as I can tell, it is not a matter of faith, it is a matter of starvation.  The whole point of the “Nones” is that they still consider themselves spiritual in one way or another.  They understand there is a greater mystery to the universe they can’t grasp.  Unfortunately, we have gotten in the way of that investigation.  The Body of Christ isn’t getting what it needs, and now it’s starting to eat itself from the inside-out.

What are we to do?

What’s a Son of God to do?

After all, he’s starved and probably going insane.  It’s the middle of the Wilderness, and he’s got this… thing reminding him that all he has to do is snap his fingers and he’s got food for days.  And he’s hungry.

But then he sees them again, the Hebrew people, marching along the horizon.  And he thinks about the manna that fed them – food from heaven.  And he understands.

Jesus gathers up what reserves of strength he has and makes his stand against the Tempter.  What pops into his mind is not a mere witty retort, or a snide comment.  He remembers the Scriptures he learned so well as a child.  And one from Deuteronomy comes to him, as if from nowhere, as if it were food from heaven.  “It is written,” he says, “‘Man shall not live on bread alone.’” 

Boom, ding goes the bell!  Round 1 goes to Jesus!  The crowd cheers!! 

Unfortunately, it’s not over.  There’s still two more temptations to go, and even then we see at the end of our story that this is not the last time that these two will run into one another.

But y’know what?  It’s a start.  And it sets the tone for the rest of Jesus’ temptations in the Wilderness.  Scripture is enough to keep him from doing something foolish.  Scripture has warded off temptation.  Scripture has fed him.

That’s what a Son of God does.

And are we not Children of God ourselves?

There is no singular solution to our hunger.  Anyone who claims to know exactly what we need to do to bring ourselves back from the brink of spiritual starvation is either overly-confident or lying.  But it seems to me that we have a pretty good starting point right here.

The way I see it, there is a feast prepared for us in the Word.  And we have been some rather ungracious guests to the table spread before us.  We cherry-pick what we like, taking a verse here and a verse there, and ignore the rest.  We gorge ourselves on the sweet stuff and grow sick of it before too long.  We take a small taste of the bitter food and decide that it is not for us.  And yes, I think it is even possible that some of us feast too much on the bread and the wine, filled up before the courses even start to arrive.  There is nothing quite so poignantly sad as the sensation of a full stomach in the presence of so much delicious variety.  Suddenly you’re experiencing a whole new kind of hunger.

This is the starvation I fear we have, the aesthetic sin of ignoring the feast before us.

Our spiritual lives begin to atrophy when we stick too much to the familiar.  Every course in the Word is of vital importance to our health.  There will still be the familiar taste of Gospel and Epistle, yes, but we must open ourselves to the rest:  the sweetness of Song of Songs, the complexity of the wisdom literature, the Psalms of alternating bitterness and umami, the sourness of the prophets, and so much more! 

It would be easy, in light of today’s story, to say that you should read your Bible in order to prepare yourself for spiritual warfare.  But that kind of talk always worries me a bit.  Instead, I would invite you to come to the feast.  There’s plenty of food to go around, and you’ll be sure to find whatever you’re in the mood for.

But more importantly, remember that this is an open invitation.  A feast doesn’t exactly do much good if there aren’t friends around to enjoy it together, right?  I’m not saying you have to go out and find a “None” and chuck a Bible at them.  But there’s a whole world of flavors available to us, and it would be a shame if we kept it all to ourselves. 

So the next time you reach for a Bible, don’t be afraid to go somewhere new.  Flip to a book you’ve never read before.  Sit with it a while, meditate on it, let it fill you with something you didn’t even know you were craving.  And, for once, be truly full.  We weren’t meant to live on bread alone.

Fear and Loving in Virginia

What follows is a completely fabricated sermon for a hypothetical same-sex wedding.  Of course I could have written a regular old wedding sermon for my class, but I figured, what the hell?  Apologies for the slight cliche and schmaltz of the opening, but I was essentially making a bunch of stuff up, and the point wasn't to create a compelling narrative.

========= 

Readings:  Ruth 1:16-18, 1 John 4:16-21

I was pretty thrown when Amelia and Katherine first came to me asking me to marry them.  Not because I did not agree with their decision, but because I could have sworn they were already married!  They had been members of my church, an affirming congregation in the heart of southern Virginia, for only a short while, and by all appearances they could have passed quite convincingly (if you’ll forgive the careless wording).  They have a house, a car, a beautiful son; they have laughing conversations and the occasional spat; they volunteer at church – Katie leads Sunday school classes, Amy sings in the choir – you get the picture.  But the evidence was right there in front of me the entire time.  As my father loves to say, “if it was a snake, it would’ve bitten you!” 

No rings.  Let it never be said I am an overly-observant man.

So today we come to rectify that.  Frankly, my job is embarrassingly simple.  I am here make legal and public what God has been doing for years – to join these two women together in Holy Matrimony, a most sacred pleasure on my part.  It is a formality, a ceremony not so much of beginnings but of awareness.

It was nearly ten years ago that the two met, and to hear them tell the tale is a bit like watching a carefully crafted dance – passing the baton back and forth to ensure you get every angle of the story possible.  The theatrical nerd in me is unsurprised to know that everything began with a performance of Annie Get Your Gun, with Amelia as the titular lead and Katherine the stage manager.  Anyone with a modicum of stage-familiarity knows that this should have been a formula for disaster, but they made it work.  How else but by God’s guiding hand could an actress and a techie find love?

I will leave it to them to tell the rest of their story, given that they’ve crafted it, naturally, to an art form.  Instead, let us turn our eyes to two other love stories.  They may threaten to overshadow today’s ceremony, but I believe the happy couple will understand.

First is the story of Ruth and Naomi, a beautifully queer tale if ever there was one.  There has been much speculation how to read this tale of female-bonding, and I leave it to theologians more intrepid than I to tackle the ins and outs of what is left unsaid.  But there are some things we do know.  Ruth and Orpah are Moabites who have married into Naomi’s Jewish family.  They are outsiders.  Things only become more confused as, one-by-one, the women all lose their husbands.  They are left alone, with no reason to remain together.  Naomi has plans to go back to Bethlehem, and urges her daughters-in-law to go back to their own families in Moab.  They are young; they still have time to find themselves proper husbands.  Both remain steadfast in their desire to stay with her, though Orpah eventually loses her nerve and does as Naomi requests.  But not Ruth.  Ruth “clings” to Naomi – she knows all too well that there are some things more important than state-recognized legalisms.  Naomi is family, and has been for ten years.  What good would it do to leave her after ten years of love?    And so they go together to Bethlehem, because the Lord is there, delivering bread to his people as they die of starvation.

In spite of all the fear, Ruth makes her declaration of unity.  It is one read at hundreds if not thousands of weddings, but it seems particularly prescient today.  Again, no speculation, just the facts, ma’am.  Ruth knew it, Naomi knew it, Amelia knows it, Katherine knows it, I know it, all of you know it – “what God has joined together, let no one separate”.  Ruth refuses to let even the cold hand of death be a deterrent to her destined love.  In light of this passage, I don’t think I could ever include “til death do us part” in wedding vows ever again.

I hope you will forgive me for getting political here, but there is a lived reality we must recognize.  This wedding is, in many ways, an act of bravery.  When all is said and done, Amy and Katie, and many of us gathered here, will return back to the wilds of southern Virginia, to a state that refuses to recognize the love we now celebrate.  Much like Ruth and Naomi, their shared bond has no legal significance.  They will be two women who are very close, and that’s about it.  The house and car?  Those are Amy’s.  The boy with the unbreakable grin carrying the rings?  He’s Katie’s.  In another state, they would be shared in the eyes of the law, but back home, they are merely roommates.  But they must return to Bethlehem, because that is where there is hope, that is where there is salvation from the famine spreading across the land.

Because Virginia is home.  They may not have family there, but they will nonetheless be surrounded by loved ones.  Their siblings in Christ will surround them with what they need most.  Because in spite of everything I just told you, there is Good News.  There is always Good News.  We in the Church are, at the end of the day, in the business of Good News, of Gospel.

And if you think the story of Ruth and Naomi is a queer one, then I have something even better.  Amy and Katie have a man in their lives.  So do I, and I’m willing to bet some of you do too.  And, spoiler alert, it’s the same guy.  He’s old, but God Almighty does he know what love looks like, and you can’t help but want to be like him, a little more every day.  Who is this polyamorous stud to whom I refer?  Come on, folks, it’s not like I have to spell it out.  I know it’s not Sunday, but really.  I’m talking about none other than the one, the only, Jesus Christ.  The story of Bethlehem didn’t end with Ruth and Naomi, after all.  That baby boy born in a manger under a star grew up to be the very pinnacle of love.  Just like our Old Testament couple, even death couldn’t hold him down.  May the same be said of all of us, most especially those we are here to celebrate today.

Love is a powerful thing indeed.  It makes the world go ‘round.  It topples empires and builds up the brokenhearted.  And when you feel like the whole world is against you, it’s the one thing you can depend on.  Your love for one another, and for God, will see you through.

As we heard from First John, love is what will sustain you even when fear runs rampant.  Perfect love drives out fear.  And there’s a lot of fear back home.  There are those who will question the love you have.  They will use fear and hatred to convince you that what you are is wrong.    Politicians will debate around you, pastors will preach against you, pious and righteous people will condemn you.  And they will be wrong.

Because fear and love are not opposite sides of the same coin.  They are opposing forces of unequal power.  They are not in balance, nor should they be.  Fear comes from a place of weakness, of darkness, producing hatred and misery.  But love, real love, true love, the kind of love I see when you smile at one another?  That comes from a place of strength, of beauty, of perfection.  That spark of love may feel small, but it is more powerful than the collective fear of every law, every misused biblical quotation, every hateful word that comes against you.

And better yet, you are not alone.  And I don’t just mean the community that will surround you, and hold you, and care for you – though we will.  When you love, you emulate God.  In the act of loving one another, you become love, perfect love.  By doing so, you abide in God, and drive out the fear that seeks to silence you and those like you.

Don’t get me wrong, it won’t be easy.  I’m not going to pretend that things aren’t still quite difficult for the LGBTQ community.  It wasn’t that long ago that the United Methodist General Conference voted to maintain its stance on homosexuality in its Book of Discipline.  Some rather unkind words were said, to put it mildly.  We could not even agree to agree that we disagree.  Not long after, North Carolina, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from where we live and worship, decided by popular vote to include a ban on same-sex marriage in the state constitution. 

Sometimes it is those closest to us that cause us the most pain.  Perfect love may cast out fear, but it is not a battle easily won.  Sometimes fear wears the guise of love, and good intentions pave that most dangerous road.  When the Bible is used against a group of people, it is simpler by far to follow the path of the “love the sinner, hate the sin” mentality that refuses to recognize the person as a whole.  To love is to live in God, and so love must never be compartmentalized.

Still, hope springs eternal.  In 2010, Dan Savage began the “It Gets Better” project, which encourages LGBTQ teens across the globe with a positive message of wholehearted acceptance and love through YouTube confessional videos.  On election day 2012, Maine, Maryland, and Washington approved same-sex marriage, also by popular vote, and Minnesota kept a ban out of their constitution.  Our own president even voiced his belief in the freedom of all people to be married to the one they love.

Brothers, sisters, and those in-between, love is winning.  Day by day, love is driving out fear.  And this beautiful, glorious day is another notch, a signpost for the world pointing the way towards Perfect Love.  But Katherine and Amelia shouldn’t be congratulated simply for their marriage.  Ultimately, it is their love we must applaud.  It’s hard to love, and easier by far to be afraid.  That is why love is the stronger contestant.  It takes guts to be that bold, no matter who you are.  And that bold, courageous love is what will change the world for the better.

Singing Ezekiel

So, I wrote a hymn!  Because why not!

The text is Ezekiel's Valley of Dry Bones, and you sing it to WOUNDROUS LOVE (http://www.hymnary.org/media/fetch/99166).

Heeeeeeere goes....

Our bones are tired and worn, we’re cut off, we’re cut off

Our bones are tired and worn, we’re cut off

Our bones are tired and worn

Hope gone and spirits torn

What can we do but mourn in our state, in our state?

What can we do but mourn in our state?

Can these bones live again, oh my Lord, oh my Lord?

Can these bones live again, oh my Lord?

Can these bones live again?

If so, just say “Amen”

Make known to us your ken – what will be, what will be?

Make known to us your ken – what will be?

Your Word brings life to bone – flesh and breath, flesh and breath

Your Word brings life to bone – flesh and breath

Your Word brings life to bone

Pray, make your Spirit known

E’en Death is overthrown in your Name, in your Name!

E’en Death is overthrown in your Name!

And home is where we’ll be, Great I AM, Great I AM

And home is where we’ll be, Great I AM

And home is where we’ll be

At peace and fin’lly free

To sing your victory, allelu, allelu,

To sing your victory, allelu

An Update on Stuff and Things

First and foremost, I want to thank everyone for their kind words, even if their kind words have been little more than "that really sucks."  I'd also like to thank everyone, hesitantly, for their not-so-kind words.  While I am nervous about supporting a show of anger, the fact that everyone seems to be getting so worked up makes me feel more loved than a hug ever could.  The human is a funny creature.

But honestly, my concerns at this point no longer really revolve around my district committee.  I will only say this: I am coming to believe that what they did was logical, that it was done from a place of love and caring for my own mental health and well-being, and that it was likely even done in the company of the Holy Spirit.

I do not believe what they did was right.  Ironically, it may very well have been the right decision for me, I suppose, insofar as they were trying to protect me.  But our church needs young pastors, and I don't know if we have the luxury to turn away the more broken among us.

Still, our church also needs young lay ministers, young deacons, young congregations.  I have not yet abandoned my vocation of ministry, and I still believe that I'm called to Word and Sacrament.  But it may be some time before that is fully realized, and in the meantime, I'm still part of a very small demographic that will not expand simply because the median age of our pastors drops a few notches.

The point is, it's not my DCOM I'm worried about right now.  It's my calling.

I posted something on Facebook on Monday that may not have made perfect sense to everyone, so I should explain a bit more.  I took out a scholarship in undergrad that, to my understanding, stipulated that I had to work in the VA UMC for the number of years that I had it, or it would turn into a loan.  Given the situation I'm currently in, this felt pretty damn restrictive.

I finally got in contact with the woman who handles the ministry-based scholarships at my school, and come to find out that the terms are much more forgiving - I can work anywhere, in any denomination, as long as it's full-time and in a church setting.

So, for the time being, I'm still happy to sit and chat with folks about how my DCOM meeting went, I don't think everyone has been told the tale yet.  But reserve your energy, please.  This is not about them.

In the span of a few weeks, I have gone from being on track to be ordained as a UMC elder to... pretty much nothing.  But a good nothing.  A free nothing.  I can do anything at this point.  I have gone from a claustrophobic, narrow corridor to a very large, open plain.  However, this means I am in the midst of some serious spiritual and vocational agoraphobia, and discernment is not going to be an easy task.

So, again, it would mean far more to me to receive a message, a call, or a drink, than a simple comment on this.  I doubt, very seriously, that this will be an easy thing for me.  I will likely need help.  Prayers are definitely appreciated, but so are wise, honest, and thoughtful words.

Movin' On Up

I post this a bit bitter-sweetly.  This is the sermon I delivered on the 30th of December, just a few days before my dreaded and ultimately not great meeting with my DCOM.  But it's a damn fine sermon about how to embrace 2013 and I still stand by it.  There's a few things I might have phrased differently had I not been in a southern, predominantly older, white UMC congregation, as per usual.  Such is the way of things.

------

So let’s talk about December 21^st.  Chances are, you’re pretty sick of hearing about it by now, but come along with me for a second, I think there are still depths we can mine from this particularly interesting letdown.

Apocalypses are huge in our culture right now.  Perhaps the most obvious is the prevalence of the zombie apocalypse.  It’s pretty much everywhere – movies, TV, video games, comic books, novels, short stories (even entire anthologies!); they have been done, ironically, to death.  But this isn’t the only kind available.  There’s an apocalypse for every kind of taste!  Television series have featured new apocalypses every season, and they’re always averted.  Writer-Director Joss Whedon has made an entire career out of apocalypses in his various shows and movies.  Sometimes the end of the world comes from space, or the center of the earth, or within the hearts of man.  You name it, and there’s probably an apocalypse related to it.

And of course we can’t forget all the apocalypses we find in Christianity.  Whether it’s the Book of Revelation or the Millerites and Seventh Day Adventists or Harold Camping, there are stories upon stories of people being absolutely certain that one day, God’s going to come back, Jesus descending on a cloud to bring about the end of the present, broken world and the start of a glorious new one.  The Mayan Apocalypse was only the most recent incarnation of this popular belief that things are coming to a close, that our chapter is at an end.

Sure, we could make jokes at their expense, and indeed that has been done, and will continue to be done each time someone decides to put a date and time to it.  Without a shred of irony, it would seem, despite Jesus telling people over and over that we would not know the hour.  But that’s hardly constructive, and it’s the jokes that made me sick and tired of hearing about December 21^st long before it ever rolled around.  Because there WAS something to be said.

See, whatever comes to mind when someone says apocalypse has very little to do with what the word actually means.  The original Greek word, apokalupsis, literally translates to “unveiling”.  The zombies, fire, and brimstone are ancillary at best and tangential at worst.  And with that in mind, I would say that we not only experience tens if not hundreds of apocalypses a year, but that we have survived each and every one of them.  The Revelation to Saint John is not about the end of the world, it’s an assurance that everything is going to work out just fine in cosmic terms.  Whether or not we live in the best of all possible worlds, the world is nonetheless getting a little better every day.  Things are looking up.

So what does all this have to do with today’s scripture?  The link does seem a bit odd, but I promise we’ll get to it.  Truth be told, this isn’t the first version of this sermon in the slightest.  I was initially struck by the pairing of two stories about young men, one in ministry, the other learning from clergy.  Clearly I can relate.  But my original plan wasn’t really working out, because it ended up being far too much about my own personal experience and wouldn’t have had much in the way of instruction.  Frankly, it was a bit too “whiny”.  But both accounts have an interesting conclusion in which Samuel and Jesus are both reported to have come away from their experiences growing in years, stature, favor, etc.  They became better people through their faith and work.  And that’s definitely something I can work with!

After all, we’re coming up on the end of the year.  Tomorrow night everyone will be partying and staying up til midnight to watch the ball drop, and most importantly of all, making resolutions for the coming year.  And I’m sure I’m not the only one whose found that the process of making resolutions to be much more engaging than actually KEEPING them.  I know I’ve certainly had more than a few failed attempts at bettering myself around the turn of the new year.  However, I think we can learn some very helpful lessons from today’s readings.  Instead of New Years Resolutions, I want to propose some New Years Revelations.  A forecast for the apocalypses of 2013.

First, let’s look at Samuel.  We might think of his story as the first step on our journey of revelation.  After all, we are told that he “grew in stature and favor with the Lord” and those around him.  But… um… how?  Well, the very next chapter, we have one very important answer.  Technically, we were introduced to him today not so much as a boy in ministry as servitude to the temple.  He doesn’t even really know who God is yet.  It isn’t until later that he finds himself sleeping one night and hearing someone call his name.  He believes it to be Eli, the priest, only to have the old man tell him he’s hearing things and to get back to bed.  Again, he hears, he goes to Eli, he’s told to go back to bed.  Only on the third time does the lightbulb go off over Eli’s head.  He tells Samuel to respond to the voice.  He does, and thus his journey of greatness is begun. 

In a way, his response is a very simple thing.  “Here I am,” he says, “Speak, your servant is listening.”  If only Samuel could understand what he was getting himself into, he might not have been so eager to respond!  But still, with that great, vast unknown before him, he responded to the call anyways.  It is said in that same chapter of 1 Samuel that the voice of the Lord was rare in those days.  Yet it was revealed to Samuel that day, and I truly believe it is available to all of us today.

Earlier this year I took part in a preaching competition up at BU, because what else are seminarians going to do for fun?  I preached on the value of silence, something I think we severely lack in our lives these days.  I won’t launch into the whole thing, because we’d be here all day.  But I hinted that it is only in silence when we can truly hear the still, small voice of God.  Not necessarily with the ears, but with the soul itself.

So, in the year 2013, I want you to open yourself up to the revelation that comes with truly listening to God in those moments of silence we can actually manage to wrestle out of our busy days.

Next, we have the incredibly fascinating story of Jesus as a teenager.  This is a rare treat in our Gospels, a story about the Son of God as a precocious youth.  Come to find out he’s a bit of a juvenile delinquent with a bizarre idea of fun.  Unlike Samuel, I think we have a pretty good idea of why Jesus grew in favor.  But even within this story I think there is a very crucial point.  When Jesus’ parents find him in the temple, one gets the impression that he isn’t merely there because he wants to pull out his divine powers and school the religious leaders for fun.  He is engaging with them in a very real and powerful way.  He’s listening to them and asking questions.  He’s not about to let nepotism be the only reason he’s so learned in the Scriptures.  It’s hard to believe that the Word itself would have anything to learn from mere mortals, but there he is.  And if Jesus felt the need to engage those who would become his very downfall, then who are we to avoid doing the same?

The thing I love about being up in the heathen north of Boston is the absolutely breathtaking variety of people I interact with on a daily basis.  I’ve made friends with Baptists, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, UCC and UU Christians, Agnostics and Atheists, even a Pagan or two.  These beautiful people come from across the country and across the globe.  They’re straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender; intellectuals, slackers, hooligans, party animals, bookworms; liberals, conservatives, moderates, and I don’t even know what else.  You name ‘em, we’ve got ‘em.  And each and every one of them has taught me something.  Being at seminary is about learning, and the classroom is only half the battle.  We engage one another in theological sparring matches, not in an effort to prove who is the wisest in all the land, but because it’s a chance to learn something new and strengthen our own beliefs in the process.  We may not agree, we often don’t, but we find a way to get along in spite of it.

It’s a big, scary world, and there is a very real fear that spending too much time among “the enemy” will turn you into one of them.  In cases like this, it can be helpful to remember that Jesus spoke earnestly as a kid with those who would have him killed, then spent his adult life with tax collectors and prostitutes, and I’d say he turned out just fine. 

So, my second hope for this coming year is that you allow yourself the revelations present in true engagement with the world. 

Finally, I think there is a vital message to be found in our Psalm for today.  We don’t preach on the Psalms nearly enough, and that’s a shame, because they are beautiful and necessary for everyday faith.  They are religious poetry full of believers and sinners expressing their love, their worship, their anger, even their hatred, at the ground level.  And what is church, if not faith at the ground level?

And today’s Psalm is perhaps more necessary than ever.  A recent article posted in the New York Times, titled “How to Live Without Irony” discussed the prevalence of “hipster” culture and the widespread application of irony to daily living.  Needless to say, it was not a glowing report.  Perhaps the article was lacking in generosity, but there is still something to be learned. 

We live in a culture of the ironic.  It’s easier, in some ways, to find small pleasures in the enjoyment of the seemingly un-enjoyable.  It is safer by far to laugh sardonically at tastelessness.  Safer, because being earnest means opening yourself up to criticism and judgment.  You can’t really be judged if you’re already the one judging.  That, I think, is what I love so much about the Psalms.  They are so honest.  Some of them feature boundless depths of sorrow and rage, and we hesitate to read them in church anymore.  The violent imagery is disturbing, to say the least.  But, on the bright side, we still have Psalms like the one we read today.  It features a joy rarely seen in this day and age.  There’s nothing wrong with the occasional ironic experience, but there is also nothing quite so thrilling as the feeling of honest happiness, to love something unironically, to the very core, with body and soul.  Pure, unadulterated joy can be so wonderful.

It’s always a bit dangerous to bring in outside faith systems into a sermon, much less one from a fictional book series, but I can’t help feeling this quote from a novel by Terry Pratchett neatly encapsulates a state of mind that might help avoid this kind of “hipster mentality”: 

“There is in truth no past, only a memory of the past.  Blink your eyes, and the world you see next did not exist when you closed them.  Therefore the only appropriate state of the mind is surprise.  The only appropriate state of the heart is joy.  The sky you see now, you have never seen before. The perfect moment is now.  Be glad of it.”

The same can be said of Sunday mornings – or whenever else you might attend worship.  It’s SO EASY to get bogged down in the routine of it all.  Intro, hymn, prayer, hymn, Scripture, sermon, hymn, benediction.  It can take a lot of energy to shake off this feeling of “Yeah, I get it.”  In reality, the problem, I think, lies in the bigness of God, the realness of Jesus, the infinite presence of the Holy Spirit.  How do you wrap your mind around it???  So we slip under the oh-so-comfortable blanket of hipster-like irony and smother ourselves with it.  It is comfortable yes, but a bit thick, and it doesn’t breathe too well.  It gets pretty stuffy under that blanket.  We need to climb out from under it once in a while and breathe deep the air of joy.

So, in this, the year two thousand and thirteen, be honestly joyful once in a while.  Let the revelation of joy wash over you and see what you start to notice.

After all, we made it through another year more or less intact.  A few scrapes, cuts, and bruises, but here we all are.  So praise the Lord – for real, I mean – along with the angels and the sun and moon and stars and fire and hail and snow and frost, men and women alike, old and young together. 

Let there be apocalypses each and every day.  We’ll survive them just fine.  Be silent and listen.  Engage the world.  Praise the Lord and be joyful!

Amen.

Okay. So.

I'm sure there are some folks still very curious as to what exactly is going on.  Though my ordination meeting was on Thursday, I didn't hear back from them until a bit more recently.  And the news wasn't pleasant.

I am not going to be certified by the district.  However, it turns out this is somewhat worse than I initially believed it to be.  According to the letter I got, this decision has also ended my ability to seek ordination as a United Methodist clergy.  This is still a bit vague, and I've got some questions to ask, but reading this positively, if I ever decide to try again with the UMC elder track, I apparently will have to start over from scratch.

Yes, it sucks.  No, I am not pleased.  Yes, there are other opportunities out there.  Yes, there are other denominations.  No, I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to do yet.  Yes, I'm still going to finish up my time at STH.  Yes, I'm going to kill it, as I have done these past five semesters, because I am still doing it like a boss.  No, I don't have any summer plans.

You get the idea.  Things are a bit... wibbly wobbly at the moment.  I can learn to live with that.

And please, for the love of God, do not simply like this or comment with a simple "Praying for you".  Prayers are much beloved, and of course you should keep me in your prayers.  But if you wanna make contact about this, for whatever reason, actually make contact.  Send me a message on Facebook or an e-mail or something - I've got a smartphone now, so I can never leave the grid.  Give me a call or take me out for drinks or whatever.  Tell me dirty jokes.  Watch stupid cartoons with me.

I shall endure.  I'll find my way.  I always have.  I always will.

You guys rock.  And I love you.