Archive for the ‘America’ Tag

Advent 4   Leave a comment

mrpriest
The following is a homily I gave at St. Thomas Episcopal Church, Denver, on the morning of 24 December 2017.
Scripture: Romans 16:25-27
Luke 1:26-38
Canticle: Luke 1:46-55

Today’s Gospel lesson, known in the Church as The Annunciation of Gabriel to Mary, or simply The Annunciation, is my favorite Bible story. And it’s one of the most influential stories in terms of art; I would encourage you when you go home this afternoon to do a Google image search on The Annunciation. You’ll find hundreds of paintings over the centuries, from ancient murals and icons to John Collier’s very modern take. Even if you can’t call to mind any images of the Annunciation at this moment, some of the pictures you find will undoubtedly be familiar to you. (Your search may reveal a few early images in which Mary is wearing a chasuble and stole—the vestments of a priest).

The story has inspired hymns and spiritual songs, perhaps most notably Hymn #265, which we often sing at this time of year as well as on the Feast of the Annunciation, March 25th. And three words of Mary’s response inspired Paul McCartney to write one of the Beatles’ most celebrated songs.

If you pray the Rosary, or grew up praying it, you know that the first line of the Hail Mary, “Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee,” comes from Gabriel’s greeting here.

All this familiarity with The Annunciation can desensitize us to its revolutionary nature: this is one of the most subversive stories in the Bible.

Let’s quickly address Mary’s virginity: the Church and our culture have developed an unfortunate fixation over the centuries on Mary’s sex life, and it has had an unhealthy effect on our broader conversations around sexuality, with some devastating consequences, particularly for young women.

Mary’s sexual innocence is not the point, and the message is definitely not that virgins have found favor with God and those who aren’t virgins are out of God’s favor.

The point—as Gabriel explicitly says—is that God can do what should be biologically impossible. This is God saying, “I know the parameters of human reproduction; I created those parameters; and I can transcend those parameters.”

Because what’s about to happen will change everything.

Mary accepts the strange news that follows the strange greeting, and says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” That “Here am I, the servant of the Lord” echoes the response of God’s faithful servants over generations to God’s call; look through the Bible and you will see those words again and again. They’re good words to have in mind if God should ever call you to anything.

And when Mary says, “Let it be with me according to your word,” Mary becomes three things: one, she becomes a mother.

Two, she becomes in essence the first Christian priest, consecrating with her word the body and blood of Christ—a fact curiously overlooked or excused by two millennia of male church leaders opposed to the ordination of women, despite Mary being depicted in priestly vestments in liturgical art for nearly that whole time.

Three, she becomes Theotokos: the Mother of God. Now, I recognize that may be a controversial term for some of you. Calling Mary the Mother of God isn’t to worship Mary, or to say that Mary is greater than or equal to God or Jesus; it is acknowledging and showing reverence for her special role and place—as Gabriel clearly acknowledges in the text—as the mother of the incarnate God, the one who was chosen for and accepted this role—risking her impending marriage, her reputation, and in a time of both high childbirth mortality and the stoning of unmarried mothers, risking even her life—and gave birth to Jesus and raised him.

So Mary is special. And yet, very much human, and very much an example for all of us: for each one of us is called to echo her response: Here am I; let it be with me according to your word.

Every day, in every moment, God calls you and me and The Church to do as Mary did, and give birth to the incarnation of God in the world.

Most of you know that Erica and I are expecting our first child in April. And we have had countless friends and relatives telling us, “Your lives are about to completely change forever. You can’t even imagine how much everything is about to change.” And it’s something I don’t mind hearing over and over, because I know it’s true: I know that no matter how much I can intellectually grasp how profound an experience becoming a parent is, I won’t really know until I experience it first hand. Neither books nor movies, nor having nieces and nephews and the children of close friends in my life can prepare me: the experience is beyond my comprehension.

So is this true of the Incarnation. What we will celebrate tonight, what St. Paul calls “the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages but is now disclosed,” was foretold for generations as the coming of a king and liberator of a great kingdom—and yet turns out to be not a king and kingdom in an earthly sense, but a helpless baby born to a family of marginalized ethnicity in a time of occupation and oppression, and a spiritual kingdom whose citizens strive to live in marked distinction from the values of the kingdom they physically inhabit. Even the Prophets couldn’t grasp the astonishing thing they were foretelling. But they knew that everything would change.

Shortly after the Annunciation, Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who is unexpectedly pregnant with John who will become the Baptist, and Mary sings the canticle we call The Magnificat, which took the place of a Psalm for us in today’s liturgy. This Song of Mary hearkens back to the Song of Hannah, mother of the prophet Samuel—another unexpected pregnancy—and it is perhaps even more subversive and insurgent than The Annunciation.

Mary begins, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord,” (in Latin: Magnificat anima mea Dominum, my soul magnifies the Lord) and then she tells us why; she paints a picture of a world turned upside down, a world in which God has scattered the proud in their conceit, has cast down the mighty from their thrones, has lifted up the lowly, has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty; God has come to the help of God’s servant, for God has remembered God’s promise of mercy.

The Magnificat is what love, justice, and power look like in God’s kingdom. It is the polar opposite of what love, justice, and power look like in our wounded world. It is the polar opposite of the greedy, heartless tax bill passed into law this week. It is the antithesis of the justice and power structures we see in our nation today. It is a world in which Mary’s consent is an essential element of the Incarnation, as is Joseph believing her story.

This song of subversion is part of the Church’s daily liturgy: it’s optional at morning prayer, but always part of evening prayer. If you’ve ever thought about memorizing a piece of poetry to calm yourself at stressful times, consider memorizing this canticle, and reciting it—praying it—regularly.

Note that Mary uses the past tense; these are the things that God has done. Even though Jesus is not yet born, and we may not see how justice is prevailing on Earth, it is already done, and cannot be undone. The powerful, the unjust, and the unloving just don’t know it yet.

Tonight Christmas begins. God is coming into the world through unlikely means: an impossible pregnancy through the consent of a brave and Blessed Mother.

God is coming into the world through the faith and love and justice of every person in this congregation and in the Communion of Saints—brave and blessed mothers all. And everything is about to change…

“Do not be afraid, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a child… of his kingdom there will be no end.”

The Church As A Knife   Leave a comment

95994194_o

Viridiana (Luis Buñuel, 1961)

In Luis Buñuel’s Viridiana (1961), a man going through his father’s possessions finds a small bejeweled crucifix; upon closer inspection, he discovers that the cross is actually the casing of a pocketknife. “What an idea!” the man exclaims, presumably in horror at the juxtaposition of faith and violence.

I recently watched the film Spotlight (Tom McCarthy, 2015) about The Boston Globe’s investigation into child molestation in the Roman Catholic Church. The story of what they found is well-known: an intricate system built around sheltering priests—and more importantly, the institution of the Church itself—from public scandal. Bishops, clergy, laypeople, the criminal justice system, and even the parents of abused children all conspired to keep silent while great evil was going on. The Globe’s senior editors even come to acknowledge that they had the facts of the story years earlier, but shied away from challenging the Church. A whole city—and a whole world—was complicit in the hurt inflicted on the vulnerable.

It’s not hard to see the harm the Church Universal has done over the centuries: slavery, racism, genocide, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, child abuse, countless wars, and other corporate sins have all been explicitly or tacitly condoned by The Church, justified by texts from the Bible.

It’s easy and tempting for those of us in The Episcopal Church and other denominations that tend to be progressive in policy and steeped in social justice to wash our hands of those sins and say, “not my church, not my Jesus.” But while the latter may be true, the former is not.

One of the authorized forms of the Confession of Sin in the Holy Eucharist in The Episcopal Church begins:

God of all mercy,
we confess that we have sinned against you,
opposing your will in our lives.
We have denied your goodness in each other,
in ourselves, and in the world you have created.
We repent of the evil that enslaves us,
the evil we have done,
and the evil done on our behalf.
(Enriching Our Worship 1, pg 56)

I believe that “the evil done on our behalf” includes not only sins our nation and society do in our name, but sins Christians do in the name of Jesus, whether or not we personally or denominationally endorse them. We have a responsibility to act as a counterpoint to those sins. To, as the Baptizer says, “Bear fruits worthy of repentance.” To bring a loving, credible God to those whom the Church has instead shown an unwelcoming and unwelcome God.

And we have a responsibility to examine and confront the prejudices we harbor in our own hearts but would like to deny or disown. My own racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and capacity for violence are all obstacles in my service to Jesus and my fellow human beings.

My heart has been breaking daily since the election last November, as every day in the transition and inauguration of our authoritarian new government brings more news of rights stripped, protective regulations eliminated, and preposterous fictions presented as truths. This administration values money and power over God’s creation, industry and military over programs that help people.

But worse, there is an increasing devaluation of human life—or at least certain human lives: people in poverty, people with chronic illness or disabilities, racial/ethnic minorities, non-Christians, LGBTQ+ people, women. These are all human beings made in God’s image and beloved of God, and our nation’s current government does not care about them. In our name, the United States Government has denied their belovedness, their human dignity.

But what about the Church? What are we, as followers of Jesus Christ, doing about it?

I can point to dozens, even hundreds of Episcopalian and other Christian friends, along with Jews, Unitarians, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, and agnostics who are marching, organizing, calling legislators, and other great resistance work. Preachers, writers, and speakers who proclaim a gospel of resistance from their (real or virtual) pulpits. Servants who are ministering directly to people in those vulnerable, uncared-for groups. Churches that are declaring themselves sanctuaries for undocumented immigrants and others in danger.

But I also see bishops, clergy, and lay leaders who won’t speak up, won’t do enough. Who say: “The Church should preach the Gospel, not engage in social justice” (as if the two weren’t inextricably linked). Who feel an obligation to make milquetoast statements about race, but can’t bring themselves to say “Black Lives Matter” (or if they do, quickly follow it with “All lives matter” or “Blue lives matter”). Who feel an obligation to acknowledge the Pulse nightclub shooting, but don’t acknowledge that it was specifically an attack on the LGBTQ+ community. Who refrain from making a statement about the election or the administration for fear of upsetting conservative voters in their pews. Who preach a false idol of “unity” that is not true unity, and serves no one but the powerful.

Perhaps they fear losing the pledge checks of wealthy parishioners; perhaps they fear losing their own earthly power. But in these conformist statements, these faith leaders not only fail in their prophetic duty to lead their people to greater discipleship, they fail in their pastoral duty to the vulnerable, marginalized people in their care.

And if we follow their lead, we become complicit in those sins.

Many of us in The Episcopal Church pride ourselves on our inclusivity: officially, all baptized persons—of any ethnicity, gender, gender identity or expression, or sexual orientation—are welcome to all aspects of church life, including ordination and marriage. We pointedly proclaim our slogan, “The Episcopal Church welcomes you,” and declare “you” to mean “all of you.”

But does it mean anything to our gay and lesbian neighbors? To our black or brown neighbors? To the impoverished families on our doorsteps? Does it mean anything to the women whose ordinations we defer while approving those of their male peers? To the women we ordain but under-employ and underpay? To the transgender people we say we welcome, but keep at arms’ length by using incorrect pronouns and binary gender language? Our policy statements are little good if they are only theoretical.

One of my Gregorian Brothers, Brother Karekin Madteos Yarian, BSG, lives and ministers to the Queer community in San Francisco’s Castro district, a ministry of presence and love to young people living on the streets, drag queens performing in gay bars, and everyone else in that community. Every day Brother K meets people who have either never heard of The Episcopal Church at all, or have no idea that TEC or any other Christian denomination would welcome them. All they know of Christianity is the religion that told them they were inherently disordered, that made their families reject them. Why would they bother to notice or believe “The Episcopal Church welcomes you” on a church sign? Even in a diocese that has been ordaining LGBTQ+ persons and blessing same-sex partnerships for four decades, the Church can fail the people outside its walls.

I attend a mixed (mostly European-American and African-American) parish in Denver full of committed, long-time racial justice activists. And yet in recent conversations on race, we white parishioners have learned that our black siblings have experienced racism from us. Even where we think we have overcome our prejudices, we have far to go.

When—either through our actions or our silence—we let the sins of the Nation and the Church go unchallenged, we are complicit in the injury caused by those sins. If Christians are not preaching—by word and deed—the God of love and the belovedness of every human being, the Church becomes nothing more than a knife disguised as a cross.

Now is the time to remember our love for God and our Neighbor. Now is the time to stand up and say in no uncertain terms, “All people are made in God’s image, and we will not stand by while any of our siblings are cast aside!”

Today’s The Day   4 comments

For me, it has to be today. The worrier in me—and most of you know that’s an extremely strong part of me—has concerns about a major disaster or family emergency somehow preventing me from making it to the polls. Nevertheless: it has to be today. Of course, the procrastinator in me—and most of you know that’s an extremely strong part of me—needs every last moment to study the voter information guides and make sure I understand the nuances of the local ballot measures. But even if I were fully informed and settled weeks in advance, still it would have to be today.

I know many of you have happily voted absentee for years, and several of you have enthusiastically posted on Facebook over the past few days about your early voting, and that’s great. Whatever works best for you is what works best. But for me, there’s something essential about showing up at the polling place on Election Tuesday.

It’s probably based in my love of ritual (which most of you know is an extremely strong part of me). Is there a more sacred ritual in democracy than stepping into one’s polling place and casting one’s vote?

Do you remember the television show Northern Exposure? In its third season there was an episode called “Democracy In America” in which the little town of Cicely, Alaska chose its mayor. Chris, the local DJ, spent most of the episode waxing philosophical about the exercise of democracy, quoting Whitman, Lincoln, and (as the title suggests) DeTocqueville on the subject, and lamenting his own loss of franchise in his years as a convicted felon. On election day, Chris shows up at the town hall having shorn several inches off his trademark long hair and shaved his customary stubble, wearing a suit and tie in place of his usual casual hipster threads. He gives no explanation except to quote Luke 15:6: “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.”

I’ve voted in every election since I was 18, and, truth be told, I’ll probably be unshaven and in a T-shirt as I step into the voting booth today. But it will mean as much to me as it did to “Chris In The Morning”—the chance to have my say in our governance. Of course we can do this in many other ways in between elections, but that day on which we cast a ballot is a special one. Some say it should be a holiday, but I have mixed feelings about that; I’m sympathetic to the fact that many people find it difficult to get out of work in time to reach the polls (despite the laws requiring that employers allow employees to do so), but I’m also wary of it being yet another commercialized “holiday”—you know all the big stores would jump on the opportunity for “Election Day Sales.” But more to the point, though it is special, it should also take place within our normal life. Voting is something both special and common. It is how we do what we do.

Happy Election Day!