A Gospel of Abundance

'Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, also called the Sea of Tiberias. A large crowd kept following him, because they saw the signs that he was doing for the sick. Jesus went up the mountain and sat down there with his disciples. Now the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near. When he looked up and saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he was going to do. Philip answered him, “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was a great deal of grass in the place; so they sat down, about five thousand in all. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. When they were satisfied, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost.” So they gathered them up, and from the fragments of the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten, they filled twelve baskets. When the people saw the sign that he had done, they began to say, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.”'

--John 6: 1-14

How many of you remember the game Musical Chairs from elementary school?  Or the card game Spoons?  Do you know what both of those games have in common?  They're both based around the principle of scarcity. In Musical Chairs several chairs are set up in a circular pattern, the music plays, you and your friends walk or dance around the chairs, and when the music stops you try to find a chair to sit in, only there's always one less chair than there are kids playing, so someone always ends up without a chair, and if you're that someone, you're out.  In Spoons you and several others dig through a bunch of cards in an attempt to get four of a kind.  If you do you pick up a spoon, but like Musical Chairs, there's always one less spoon than people playing, so if you can't get a spoon, you're out.  I find it somewhat ironic that we are entertained by games with the message that there is never enough for everyone, and children's games at that.  

Why did we think this was fun??

 The very idea of scarcity is frightening, isn't it?  Think back to the days of the pandemic and people who were so afraid of running out of milk, bread, and toilet paper, that they raided stores and hoarded so much and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. The fear of not having enough was what drove folks to stock up on way more than they needed.  We do it, though, all of us, to some degree, when we are scared of not having enough. Gospels of scarcity are powerful and powerfully effective at getting us to buy more and share less. Capitalism itself is a gospel of scarcity.

The Gospel of Jesus Christ, however, is not a gospel of scarcity.  It should be, but it isn't.  Think about it:  we're told that Jesus was a carpenter, but he never actually works in the Gospels, so what's his income?  It ain’t coming from his apostles, either, because they all left their jobs to follow him.  They don't have homes, they just wander around--Jesus makes note of this when he comments that the Son of Man has no place to lay his head--and most days they don't even know where their next meal is coming from, they just have to rely on someone inviting them to dinner, like Simon the Leper, or hope that the women of their group brought enough cash since, according to the Gospel of Luke, they helped finance the ministry. Put most of us in the same situation--no income, no regular housing, no idea how we're going to feed ourselves, and we would be terrified, wouldn't we?  We would be preaching a gospel of scarcity, of not having enough, but blessedly this is not the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  

The word Gospel comes from the Greek εὐαγγέλιον which means Good News.  A message of scarcity is not good news, but a message of abundance is.  The great irony of the Gospel of Jesus is that the story of a homeless, jobless, itinerant preacher is actually a story of the abundance of God's grace and love and mercy.  Take the story we heard this week, the feeding of the 5000.  It's in all four of the canonical gospels, though a bit different. In the version we hear in John’s Gospel today, two of the apostles, Phillip and Andrew, address the situation from a place of scarcity.  Phillip remarks that six months' wages wouldn't feed everyone gathered on that hillside in Tabgah of Galilee.  Andrew points out that there is a boy with five loaves and two fish, but then he pessimistically asks, "What are they among so many?"   Even those closest to Jesus can't help but be fearful of not having enough.  But you know who isn't fearful?  The boy.

An icon of the feeding of the 5000, as depicted in the Fourth Gospel.

He's only found in John's version of the story. This boy offers what he has, and he shares it, not only with Jesus but with the crowd as well.  This is the great miracle of this story:  that out in the desert, tired and hungry, a single individual would be willing to share what he has for the sake of so large a community.  Can’t you see the whole hillside stir to life as now everyone begins to take some of their supplies for the journey and starts sending them forward for Jesus to take, bless, break, and give. In this neighborly sharing what little they have, all end up being fed. 

That’s the gospel of abundance, the good news that there is always enough, so long as we are willing to let what we have pass through the hands of Jesus. Five loaves and two fish CAN feed 5000 people, not because Jesus performed a magic trick, like he’s Madrox the Multiple Man, but because one person offered what little they had, and the people responded with generosity so great, that by the time Jesus was done, everyone got fed. They all shared instead of hoarding for themselves, and that is a miracle. 

Multiple Man as a member of Marvel's X-Factor.

Brothers and sisters, do you realize that a miracle occurs here in your church every single week?  At the altar we do as Jesus did. We take, bless, break, and give, and a tiny piece of bread and a little sip of wine are given to everyone, and miraculously we are filled. If sharing just a little bread and wine can do that, imagine what we can do if, like that like the boy in the story, we shared our loaves of bread, our fish, our time, our resources with those who are in need, stranger and friend alike.  Imagine what could happen if we focused less on the myth of scarcity and more on the truth of abundance, the truth that the hungry can be fed, the sick can be made well, and the poor can be given hope for their future if we are willing to let what we have pass through Jesus' hands and be offered for the sake of others.  If we could do that, well, that would be a miracle.

Miracles, it has been said, are not something that just happen, they're something that people make happen.  We don’t know if this is a factual story, but it is a true one because it speaks to the truth of what being followers of Jesus means, that there’s always enough. So why not share it. Maybe we hear that this small offering didn’t just feed all these folks but that it also resulted in 12 baskets full of leftovers, and we just can’t believe it. But knowing how true abundance likes to hide in very small places, and how even a tiny acorn of faith can inspire great movements, makes it very difficult NOT to believe this story. 

This past Sunday, the parish where I've been serving as Interim Rector for the last year - St. James' in Skaneateles, New York - shared that they had called their next Rector, who will be joining them on September 8. I closed out my sermon with these words for them:

You have so much to give, St. James’. To one another, yes, to the people out there, yes. And to your next rector. Soon and very soon. You have fed and nourished the Mitchell family in ways you will never know. Maybe it seemed small to you, but when what you offer passes through Jesus’ hands, abundant love, abundant life, flows. As you head into your next season of ministry together with your new rector, be on guard against the gospel of scarcity, which will try to tell you that you don’t have enough, whether it’s butts in the pews or bucks in the plates, that you’re not doing enough, that need is just too big, and the work just too hard. Don’t believe it. Continue to preach the gospel of abundance, and when necessary, use words. Offer up whatever you’ve got for the sake of the other, and all will be fed and filled, and miracles will happen.    

We Shall Not Be In Want

During seminary I worked with hospice, and I was routinely moved by the people that I visited.  As a chaplain, I would offer prayer, songs, and Scripture. No matter how debilitated or far gone those folks were, they always remembered one prayer—the Lord’s Prayer—they always remembered one song—Amazing Grace—and they always remembered one Scripture—the 23rd Psalm.  These pieces were just in their bones. This past Sunday we prayed the 23rd Psalm, which is a rarity on Sunday mornings for us Episcopalians because the Psalm is usually reserved for funerals. But we are blessed by its words of wisdom this week.

"The LORD is my shepherd; * I shall not be in want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures * and leads me beside still waters.

He revives my soul * and guides me along right pathways for his Name's sake.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; *

for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me; * 

you have anointed my head with oil, and my cup is running over.

Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, *

and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever."

--Psalm 23 (Book of Common Prayer translation)

A visual depiction of Psalm 23.

There is power in this Psalm, maybe more so than in any other. It’s sacred to Jews and Christians alike, and even those who aren’t fans of organized religion are often still familiar with and moved by it. The consensus is that Psalm 23 was written around 1000 years before Jesus by King David, the onetime shepherd boy who wrote it as a hymn of praise to the God who had been his shepherd throughout his life. The kind of protection and guidance that this Psalm articulates are things for which we all have longed. The power of the Psalm, it seems, lies in its relatability for every single person.

We experience this in the very first simple, yet profound profession: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” This has some radical implications when we consider that we live in a culture that preaches to us that we are supposed to always be in want, so that someone can sell us something that we’re told we need: Power, prestige, possessions, and protections. But this statement declares that no, in fact, the Lord our God is our shepherd, and thus is the only one who can provide the real wants and necessities of life. This declaration sets the tone for the rest of the Psalm, which explicates this fundamental profession of our trust in God and God alone.

That trust itself is revolutionary when we consider the ways folks have often had the tendency to prop others up as the shepherd, pointing to them as if to say that if we follow them we’ll all be ok. Even in Israel’s own story this backfires spectacularly. Remember when the people told God they wanted a king because everyone else had one, only for God to say no – because God was their sovereign – and then for the people to demand one anyway? Remember what happened? They got Saul, who decided to do his own thing and ignore God, and for his troubles ended up dead. David himself, whom God named as Saul’s successor, fell victim to his power when he had Uriah the Hittite killed in battle so that he could steal his wife, and for that his house was cursed. And that’s just in the Bible alone! Plenty of strongmen have said (and still say!) they’re the shepherd who will supply our needs, but this Psalm says otherwise, and each verse shows how.

Verses 2 and 3 relay how God provides all the basic necessities of life. For sheep, green pastures mean food, and still waters mean drink. And to be in right paths for sheep means that danger is averted and proper shelter is attained. Thus, God is the shepherd who provides food, drink, and shelter, the basic necessities of life, to all of God’s flock. We are part of that flock, along with all creation, and it is our deepest conviction, that all our needs are provided by God, as long as remember that there’s enough for us to share.

Verse 4 is both the structural and theological center of the Psalm. At the moment of greatest threat, of greatest peril and fear, God still provides, even if all that is provided is God’s presence through the valley of the shadow of death. Perhaps this is the verse that captures so many of our hearts. Who among us hasn’t walked that path? It is the hope of the Psalmist that when we lie in greatest weakness, need, and want, God’s promise to us is an abiding, everlasting presence that will, in God’s way, deliver us. Just like the angels and prophets always proclaim in Scripture, “Be not afraid,” the Psalm puts the words on our lips and in our hearts to affirm that, no, we shall not be afraid, even in the midst of such painful and fearful times because you, O God, you are with us, comforting us with a presence that is everlasting. Oh yeah, there’s power in this verse alone!

Then the Psalm shifts to the second person and addresses God directly, reinforcing the closeness of God to each of us. YOU are with me, says the Psalmist, an affirmation of God’s abiding presence and a reminder of the closeness of our relationship to God. The word we translate as “rod” is more often used to refer to a scepter, which evokes the majesty of God. The provisions of God are reliable because God – and God alone – is sovereign, the only one to whom our allegiance is owed, and the one who, even in the darkest, most frightening moments of our lives, can never be separated from us.

Something interesting happens in the final two verses, as here the metaphor shifts from shepherd to a gracious host that invites the Psalmist into a meal in the ever-welcoming house of the Lord. As Jesus reflects in his own earthly ministry, God invites all of us into relationship with one another around a table. You see, when we gather around a table, we see one another, we look into one another’s eyes, and we share the provisions of the table with one another. It’s impossible to not be in relationship when you are eating together, even if you’re not talking! God invites the Psalmist, and us, into such a relationship – one we experience at this table – so that we can invite others into the same relationship, so that we can spread our table for a brother or sister – or even someone who troubles us – and, like the shepherd, provide for their necessities of food, drink, and shelter for others because it is, after all, Jesus, whom our Prayer Book calls the shepherd and bishop of our souls, who does this through us, our hands, feet and heart. Finally, as David was anointed as king with oil on his head, we are anointed, both with actual oil at our baptism, and with the Holy Spirit on a daily basis. These anointing give us power to know the love of such an amazing God, and it is that anointing that follows us all the days of our lives and reserves our place in the house of the Lord forever.

There is a kind of trust in this Psalm that we might call childlike, trust in one to care for us, to tell us we’re ok. Jesus says we are to receive the Kingdom as a child; that is, placing all our trust in God and with the curiosity a child has for anything to be possible. That trust is renewed each time we pray this Psalm, each time we are reminded that with the Lord Jesus as our shepherd, anything is possible and the needs of all are met. Maybe this is your favorite Psalm. Maybe it’s not. But let its wisdom guide you in the days and weeks to come, let its comfortable words give peace to your wearied soul, and let its power set your hearts ablaze with the shepherd’s love. 

More Than Enough of Contempt

"To you I lift up my eyes, *

to you enthroned in the heavens.

As the eyes of servants look to the hand of their masters, *

and the eyes of a maid to the hand of her mistress,

So our eyes look to the LORD our God, *

until he show us his mercy.

Have mercy upon us, O LORD, have mercy, *

for we have had more than enough of contempt,

 Too much of the scorn of the indolent rich, *

and of the derision of the proud."

--Psalm 123

It has been quite a fortnight in our country, hasn’t it? I know a lot of folks say that politics needs to stay out of sermons (or, in this case, blog posts) – and when it comes to endorsing candidates or parties, I agree with that – but saying we should or we even can forget about what is going on in the world around us when we show up to church on Sunday mornings is just not realistic. During the last two weeks we witnessed a presidential debate that literally everyone has called a disaster, with two gentlemen who are, how shall we say, divisive for a lot of folks. The highest court in the land made some decisions that could have harmful ramifications for the future of this democracy. In the midst of all of that, just a few days ago, we donned our red, white, and blue, made some jokes at England’s expense on social media, and celebrated being Americans, though I’ve wondered what exactly we’re celebrating. It’s been a tough two weeks. 

The presumptive candidates for President of the United States.

During that time I did what I do first thing each work day when I come to work: I prayed. I went into the sanctuary of our parish, sat in the second pew on the left (my family's pew in the church where I grew up), and read Morning Prayer. On Tuesday of last week one of the Psalms appointed was Psalm 123 – the same one that we read together in church on Sunday– and later that same day I made a post on social media asking: are there any better words right now for us in our country than the last two verses of this Psalm: “Have mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy, for we have had more than enough of contempt. Too much of the scorn of the indolent rich, and the derision of the proud.”

When something shows up in the readings twice in one week, I usually see that as a message from God that I sure better preach on it, which is exactly what I did on Sunday. The circumstances around the creation of this Psalm, this prayer for deliverance, are never stated. It’s generally understood to have been written during the period of Jewish exile in Babylon, when trust in God seemed to have failed, and scorn and contempt were all around. The prayer is a petition, an ask, one so sincere and fierce that the author makes it twice – have mercy upon us, O Lord, have mercy. And what IS this mercy? It is a free, undeserved act of enormous kindness, and it is the most often-repeated word in English translations of the Hebrew Bible. The Christian New Testament might, instead, use the word grace. Personally, I’ve always seen them as going hand-in-hand, the grace and mercy of God, undeserved, free gifts of God’s abundant kindness. This is what the Psalmist most needs and wants and counts on from God. 

The Psalms are so wonderful because they speak to the whole human condition, and thus are timeless. How many of us, I wonder, have made similar pleas in recent weeks? We have had far too much of our share of contempt. The rich continue to be indolent; that is, averse to any activity or movement of change, filled with scorn at those who cry out for something different because it would mean losing their power, prestige, and possessions. The proud deride those who cry out for the indolent to be stirred out of their stubbornness, just as the prophets of old cried out. The rich keep getting richer with no consequence, while the proud remain so stubborn that they’ll go down with the ship. It’s not hard to find the similarities between what we’ve been seeing and what the Psalmist saw.

The remarkable claim of Psalm 123 - the "Good News," if you will - is that God’s mercy can override the contempt that we experience because that mercy is the only thing that is constant in such a struggle. It is a sense of God's presence and solidarity, a courageous refusal of the rich and proud, even when we are at our lowest points.

Our Gospel text on Sunday tied in nicely with the Psalm, as it portrayed Jesus at one his lowest points, being met with scorn and contempt from the very people that, one would think, knew him best:

'Jesus came to his hometown, and his disciples followed him. On the sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astounded. They said, “Where did this man get all this? What is this wisdom that has been given to him? What deeds of power are being done by his hands! Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?” And they took offense at him. Then Jesus said to them, “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.” And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief.

Then he went about among the villages teaching. He called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits. He ordered them to take nothing for their journey except a staff; no bread, no bag, no money in their belts; but to wear sandals and not to put on two tunics. He said to them, “Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place. If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.” So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent. They cast out many demons, and anointed with oil many who were sick and cured them.'

--Mark 6: 1-13

How discouraging it must have been for Jesus to return to Nazareth, only for the folks there to ridicule him in such fashion: . Who is this, they say? Isn’t he one of Mary’s kids? Where does he get off thinking he can talk like this? They’re too proud to see Jesus as anything more than the little boy they once knew, and in Luke’s version of this story, they even try to kill him. That couldn't have been easy to take. Why couldn't they see what was actually going on around them? 

Image of Jesus rejected at Nazareth (artist unknown).

When a leader gets discouraged, what happens to the ones following? No doubt the 12 were feeling pretty low at that point. How is this going to work if Jesus’ own people refuse to support him? Yet despite the rejection from his hometown, he withdraws and calls the 12 together and commissions them, sends them out – this is why they’re called apostles, because they are sent. Despite opposition, Jesus’ mission can and will regroup, refocus, and continue. 

And how does he send them out? In pairs. No one goes alone. Not even Judas! That's because we can’t do the work of Jesus alone. We can’t preach love to a world filled with contempt, we can’t offer good news to the poor while the indolent rich remain in power, we can’t create something new as those stuck in their pride deride us – none of it can we do by ourselves, nor were ever meant to. He sent them out together for a reason, because they’re gonna need each other. You’re gonna need each other. 

The road is tough at times; it was for those 12, why should we be any different. Like them, we go where Jesus directs us, like them we run into dangers, and like them we even find ourselves in abusive situations and relationships. But also like them, we are not meant to remain there, and like them, when we need to walk away and shake the dust off our feat as a testimony to such derision. But even that we do with the grace and mercy of God in our hearts. How? Through the Spirit that has marked us as Christ’s own forever, and though we may be dismissed by a harsh world, we trust in a different verdict, as confident of such a verdict from that same Spirit, as we are needful of it. 

Times may be worrisome and downright scary. The path forward unclear, but God is good…all the time. We know this. Like the Psalmist we cry out for God’s mercy and deliverance and at the same time we do the work Jesus has sent us out to do. St. Augustine said to pray as if everything depended upon God but work as if everything depended upon us. This is precisely what we do, and this work is never done alone. 

So take heart. Come what may, you have been given everything you need for the journey, including each other. And at the Table of the Lord we get food and drink to sustain us in that journey. This is the gift we receive so as to carry it and give it away. Despite opposition, the work of Jesus will always regroup, refocus, and continue. Trust in the God of love and grace, the God of deliverance and mercy, who, no matter what happens in the world around us, no matter how much scorn and contempt we must endure, always, always wins. 

Holy Interruptions

'When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered around him; and he was by the sea. Then one of the leaders of the synagogue named Jairus came and, when he saw him, fell at his feet and begged him repeatedly, “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.” So he went with him.

And a large crowd followed him and pressed in on him. Now there was a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years. She had endured much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had; and she was no better, but rather grew worse. She had heard about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, for she said, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well.” Immediately her hemorrhage stopped; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease. Immediately aware that power had gone forth from him, Jesus turned about in the crowd and said, “Who touched my clothes?” And his disciples said to him, “You see the crowd pressing in on you; how can you say, ‘Who touched me?’” He looked all around to see who had done it. But the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came in fear and trembling, fell down before him, and told him the whole truth. He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.”

While he was still speaking, some people came from the leader’s house to say, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the teacher any further?” But overhearing what they said, Jesus said to the leader of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.” He allowed no one to follow him except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they came to the house of the leader of the synagogue, he saw a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. When he had entered, he said to them, “Why do you make a commotion and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him. Then he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha cum,” which means, “Little girl, get up!” And immediately the girl got up and began to walk about (she was twelve years of age). At this they were overcome with amazement. He strictly ordered them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.'

--Mark 5: 21-43

One of my spiritual heroes is Henri Nouwen, a Dutch priest, who was also a writer, professor, and social advocate.  After 20 years teaching at Notre Dame, Yale, and Harvard, he devoted the remaining 10 years of his life to living and serving among the L’Arche Daybreak Community for Disabled Adults in Toronto.  As he put it in his book In the Name of Jesus, he moved from the best and brightest at Harvard, those who want to rule the world, to men and women who had few or no words and were considered, at best, marginal to the needs of society.  In that book Fr. Nouwen talks about the struggles of that move, how so often he just wanted to do the basic ministerial work of teaching and administering the sacraments, but so often he would be interrupted by the needs of someone in the community. It got really frustrating at times, but he came to see those interruptions as a gift. At one point he wrote, “I used to complain about all the interruptions to my work until I realized these interruptions were my work.”  

Father Henri Nouwen

Isn’t that interesting?  How often are we in the middle what we believe to be our work, only to be interrupted? Maybe we don’t give an audible Charlie Brown “UGH!” but our nonverbals – a heavy sigh, slumped shoulders –  communicate pretty clearly that we would rather be doing more important tasks. With such a mindset, interruptions seem at best rude and a waste of time, hardly at all the very work God calls us to be doing. But what if they were? 

Our Gospel this morning has Jesus being interrupted, not once, but twice.  We find Jesus coming off of a boat and entering a town, but immediately as he gets off that boat he is met by Jairus, a synagogue leader, who asks Jesus to come and heal his daughter.  There’s interruption number one; but sure, Jesus is a healer, it’s his “job,” if you will, so he allows Jairus to interrupt whatever it was he had planned to do when he came ashore.  Of course, then a large crowd gathers around Jesus, and a woman who’s been suffering from hemorrhages for 12 years—which not only left her in physical agony but also made her perpetually unclean according to the Law—seeks out Jesus to be healed.  Even Jesus’ interruption gets interrupted!  No doubt those around thought Jesus should have just moved on, especially Jairus, but Jesus instead meets the woman and engages with her, and in doing so he not only restores her to physical health but also restores her to the community, and this only happens because he allows himself to be interrupted.  

Notice how Jesus does not treat the woman like an inconvenience, nor does he complain that he doesn’t have time to go and complete the task of healing Jairus’ daughter, even though many in the crowd were complaining that she was already dead.  Perhaps it is because Jesus does not treat time as a commodity, as something that can be controlled, like so many of us do; after all, we cannot “waste” our time, can we?  We cannot devote time to something or someone that is unimportant, right?  This is partially due to our uniquely American, Puritanical, and capitalistic work ethic that has formed us to think that there is actually such a thing as a task that is wasteful, and that we should treat our time like our money, very carefully.  Jesus does not do this.  He does not choose which person is more important—the poor, unclean woman or the daughter of a big deal religious official —instead he treats both interruptions as opportunities to show God’s love and mercy to not only these people but all those who witnessed the two moments of healing.  For Jesus, the interruption is the work.  

Jesus healing the woman with hemorrhages, from a wall painting in the Roman catacombs

There’s a really cool literary technique that the Gospel of Mark uses called A-B-A; which means that Mark will introduce a situation (A), move on to something that might not immediately seem like it’s connected (B), then come back to the original (A again). The example of that today is Jairus asking for help, the woman interrupting Jesus, and then Jesus going to the house to heal Jairus’ daughter. For writers of all sorts, A-B-A is a well-known technique that loops folks back in after an interruption in a text or story – comedians use it all the time, heck, I use it often in my sermons. When applied to our lives, it’s a holy gift, because it helps us remember that the B, the interruption, is every bit as important as what brackets it on either side. 

I remember a time several years ago when I had an A-B-A moment. It was Vestry day – yay! – and I was doing everything from getting the agenda put together to setting up for the worship service we always did beforehand. That was A. Roughly an hour before the meeting, someone interrupted that work and showed up to the church needing food and gas.  There’s B.  “I don’t have time for this,” I thought.  This man had interrupted what I considered very important work.  As it turned out, I had recently read In the Name of Jesus, and I remembered what Fr. Nouwen had said. Perhaps, I thought, this interruption was the work that God was calling me to in this moment.  So what if I ended up being late for Vestry?  So what if other tasks I had planned to complete that day were not finished?  This interruption, this man standing in front of me, was my work. And, of course, I returned to A and did have that Vestry meeting that night as usual, but it was important that I understand that what I first thought was an interruption was the very holy work to which I was called.

As I told the congregation where I am currently serving as the Interim Rector, they had a pretty serious interruption around a year ago. The whole system seemed to be upended when a longtime, beloved Rector retired and took the organist with her (the organist was married to the priest). Many felt, as would be expected, that they didn’t have time for that! They had momentum and excitement for what God was doing, but then all of a sudden, a new concern arose. And how did these folks handle it? With grace and attention. They did the work that this interruption called them to do. They were at A, right now they're in B, and soon they'll be back to A. All of it is the work of the church. 

St. James' Episcopal Church in Skaneateles, where I am currently serving as the Interim Rector

Like Jesus, interruptions come for us, and they make no distinction between what or who is more or less important. The fact that Jesus treats the woman suffering with hemorrhages the same as he treats the daughter of a religious leader is significant. How we treat our interruptions matters. Because the truth is that when our work is the work of Jesus, the work of restoring all people and all creation to God, and by doing so through prayer and worship rooted in justice, peace and love, then there’s no such thing as interruptions because it’s all the work – the mission, if you will – of the church; and that’s not just me, that is straight from the Catechism on pg. 855 of the Book of Common Prayer. You can look it up. 

What might our lives look like, if instead of sighing heavily and bemoaning interruptions, we saw them for what they are: blessed gifts, as Fr. Nouwen called them, and the holy work that God gives us every single day?