Earlier in the week I was looking through the books in my office to find something that might help me think differently about Pentecost, since I’ve preached on this feast more than a few times. So I grabbed Preaching Through Holy Days and Holidays, which was given to me as an ordination gift. The title is kind of redundant, but it’s a collection of other people’s sermons, which are ok, but I don’t always find them super helpful. Still, I turned to the Pentecost section and my jaw literally fell open. One of the sermons was written by The Rev. Dr. Mitties McDonald DeChamplain, and while that name may not mean anything to you it’s pretty important to me because she was my preaching professor at General Seminary.
She has since gone on to glory, but Mo. Mitties is one of my Church heroes, everything you’d imagine a priest to be: filled with grace, wisdom, and serenity of spirit. She was small in stature and quiet in speech, but she had a presence that spoke loudly and commanded a room. She taught us to "always preach with abandon, keep your Jesus count high, and stay grounded in caritas." Her life was changed by the events of 9/11, after which she spent countless hours with other clergy at Ground Zero, ministering to those in pain and looking for survivors. Perhaps most importantly, she loved my dog Casey something awful and gave the little girl her middle name: Casey Louise Mitchell. "I just assume everyone’s middle name is Louise", she told me.
Casey Louise getting blessed by Mother Mitties on our last St. Francis Day in seminary (Fall, 2011).
She was a darn good preacher herself, and the sermon in the book shows it. She preached it on the Eve of Pentecost for a preaching conference in D.C. sometime around the turn of this century.. In the sermon, Mo. Mitties recalls the days after she took her General Ordination Exams, which are kind of like the bar or medical boards for clergy. They’re awful, and you need some kind of selfcare after you finish. She was told to go to the National Cathedral on the following Sunday and be fed by their 11:00 am Eucharist, and any of you who have been to the Cathedral can attest to how powerful that experience can be. So Mo. Mitties writes in the sermon about going up for Communion surrounded by all these people, and as she moves, she takes note of a woman, whom she describes as “an elderly woman in her mid-60s with radiant ebony skin and eyes that brimmed with an almost incandescence.” This minister of hospitality and welcome kept saying to the people walking up to receive, “Stay close, please. Stay close, please.”
When I read that, I looked up to heaven, laughed, and thanked dear Mo. Mitties, because right now, some 20 years later, that’s a message we need. She may have been encouraging that room full of preachers to stick together in their common vocation, but “Stay close, please!” are words for us, too. What does it mean to stay close when staying physically close these past two years hasn’t been a good idea for most of us? How can we love and support each other and be emotionally close when we can’t get near each other? We’ve had to relearn what closeness really is; or as Yoda put it, we had to "unlearn what we have learned." COVID-tide even gave us a new term – social distancing – which was meant to remind us that we needed to keep some distance to stay safe, but it started to feel like the term implied we shouldn’t be social, which just isn’t true. We are social creatures, we have to be in relationship with each other in order to survive. We’ve tried to stay close even when we can’t stay close. It’s been really hard, especially on the most vulnerable among us, and it’s been exhausting.
Pentecost, though, felt like a shot in the arm - pun intended - for our parish. After three years we were finally able to celebrate our annual parish cookout, worshipping in our Outdoor Chapel with no COVID restrictions. There was a great joy in the atmosphere, and it really felt like a new day in our parish, like we had turned a corner. So, as we turn a corner, I hope that we will remember those words and stay close. Regardless of physical distance, we must stay close, brothers and sisters.
Y’all know I like to call you brothers and sisters because, well, that’s what we are. We’re a family, despite how the last two years have tried to get us to forget that fact, we always have been a family. COVID-tide tried to convince us that being separated meant we were less of a family, but we know that isn't true. Just think of your family that live on the other side of the country (or the world); are they any less your family?
And the thing about family is that you can’t quit them. You cannot choose the family you are born into or the story of that family, which also means you can’t change the ugly parts in the past, the skeletons in the family closet. Nevertheless, our family is a story we are written into forever, for good and ill. Blessedly, we know family is not about blood alone, but especially in cases of abusive relationships, plenty of us find new family, our friends, colleagues, or church folk who love and support us when our blood relatives can’t or won’t. This being the start of Pride Month, I’m particularly reminded that family comes in all shapes and sizes, and that closets are not for skeletons and hiding but for shoes, fabulous shoes.
What makes us a family is the Holy Spirit, that part of God that is the life-giver. Jesus knew this because in his two languages - Hebrew, which he read and Aramaic, which he spoke - the word for 'spirit' is feminine. It was the Spirit or breath of God that moved over the waters at creation and called the A-dam out of the dust and gave the human one life. The Scriptures for Pentecost remind us of the Holy Spirit’s life-giving properties. In the Acts of the Apostles we hear about the Spirit giving birth to the Church (Acts 2: 1-21). The reading from Romans 8: 14-17 reminds us that we are all children of God, united by the Holy Spirit. Even Psalm 104 calls to mind the Spirit’s role in not only birthing but sustaining all of creation. If the Spirit births all things, then all things are related. All are siblings. All are family.
The Holy Spirit binds us all into such a family, not just as a parish, not just as Episcopalians, or even as Christians, but truly as one human family. And the Spirit urges us, as that usher urged Mo. Mitties and others as they came to Communion, “Stay close, please!” She’s calling us all today, still, to stay close. So, maybe we can hear her voice, just this once, and maybe by the Spirit's power, we might be a little different from this day forth. Perhaps we will hold each other a bit more carefully, be a bit more patient, a bit more understanding, a bit more kind. Maybe we will remember that we are family, and that no crisis, whether the violence we’ve seen the last couple weeks or the madness of COVID from the last couple years, can change that.
So, this Pentecost I’m grateful that my parish was able to be physically closer than we have been in two years, and I pray that closeness continues. And I also pray that we will all stay close in heart, mind, and common mission to love and serve. Stay close, brothers and sisters, to each other. To your God. To Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. To the Holy Spirit, who showed up at Pentecost to tear away the veil that we put up between each other, and who still has the power to set our hearts on fire with love for God and a passion to transform the world. As my parishioners know, it is a new day in Asheboro now, as it was a new day in Jerusalem back then. It is a new day for us all. So as we head out into it, stay close, brothers and sisters. Please.
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