Everything You Know (About Original Sin) is Wrong!

'They heard the sound of the LORD God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God among the trees of the garden. But the LORD God called to the man, and said to him, “Where are you?” He said, “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.” He said, “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?” The man said, “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate.” Then the LORD God said to the woman, “What is this that you have done?” The woman said, “The serpent tricked me, and I ate.” 

The LORD God said to the serpent, “Because you have done this, cursed are you among all animals and among all wild creatures; upon your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat  all the days of your life. I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; he will strike your head, and you will strike his heel.”'

--Genesis 3: 8-15

'The crowd came together again, so that Jesus and his disciples could not even eat. When his family heard it, they went out to restrain him, for people were saying, “He has gone out of his mind.” And the scribes who came down from Jerusalem said, “He has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the demons he casts out demons.” 

And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, “How can Satan cast out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand. And if Satan has risen up against himself and is divided, he cannot stand, but his end has come. But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.

“Truly I tell you, people will be forgiven for their sins and whatever blasphemies they utter; but whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit can never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin”— for they had said, “He has an unclean spirit.”

Then his mother and his brothers came; and standing outside, they sent to him and called him. A crowd was sitting around him; and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside, asking for you.” And he replied, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”'

--Mark 3: 20-25

Years ago Weird Al Yankovic had a song called Everything You Know is Wrong: black is white, up is down, and short is long, he sang. What if I told you that everything you think you know of the doctrine of original sin is wrong? 

Our story from Genesis is a familiar one, maybe a little too familiar. We know the basic outline, perhaps from Sunday School: God makes Adam and Eve and tells them not to eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil; Eve disobeys and eats an apple from the tree anyway, and the whole world has been paying for her actions ever since. This tendency to disobey God is thus passed to through our parents, a condition of rebelliousness, which we’re told is the original sin. 

Adam and Eve as seen in a Russian Orthodox mosaic.

The word sin has its roots in the Greek word hamartia, which is an archery term that means ‘to miss the mark.’ And let’s face it, we all miss the mark from time to time. This particular understanding of the Genesis story, though, isn’t how our Jewish siblings have understood it; in fact, it arises in the Middle Ages during the days of feudalism, and Jesus becomes the one who appeases God’s wrath when he is sent to die to pay for Adam and Eve’s original sin and our own. But there’s more to this misunderstanding the story, and when we unpack it for what’s it’s truly worth we find how it ties in with the Good News of a table of sinners eating with Jesus.

Let’s get this out of the way: not only is the fruit not an apple - the text never says what it is -  Eve is NOT to blame for bringing evil into the world. The serpent, who is a kind of trickster character that Christians will later identify as Satan, already existed within the created order. In other words, the undermining agent of confusion was already present, even before Adam and Eve came into full consciousness.  Furthermore, the serpent didn’t actually lie to Eve. He told her that if she ate the fruit she wouldn’t die – as God had said – but she would be like God, knowing good from evil, which is exactly what happens. And once she and Adam eat their eyes are open, they see the world in terms of good and evil, and they feel ashamed. The shadow side of this consciousness and their newfound ability to pass judgement – something only God could do up to that point – is the fear of being judged themselves. And so they cover themselves with fig leaves and try to hide, both from God and each another. 

God, of course, finds them and asks what they’ve done. Immediately they begin to scapegoat one another and play the blame game. Adam blames Eve. Eve blames the serpent. And thus begins a vicious cycle of blame and scapegoating and self-justification that has had disastrous results for us as a species, as well as our planet as a whole. We grasp at something like divinity, we try to hide the most vulnerable aspects of our humanity, and we blame someone, anyone else, for nearly everything that happens as a result. 

THIS is the original sin: scapegoating and blame. It can't be disobedience because how could Adam and Eve have disobeyed if they didn’t know what disobedience was because they hadn’t come into full consciousness yet? This is where it all begins, and the very next story in Genesis is, you guessed it, Cain killing Abel, precisely because he blames Abel for his own shortcomings in the eyes of God. 

A strong case can be made that every single human conflict comes down to this, our own fears of judgment – and therefore of death – leading us to take up defensive postures, and lash out at one another, both with words and with weapons. Enough blame goes around that any hope of reconciliation feels lost.  It happens in interpersonal relationships, in family systems, and even on the world stage – we see it right now. There’s plenty of blame to go around. And while it is disingenuous for a Christian priest to say that Jesus is the only answer to this problem, I believe that his life and death offer the world another way apart from the scapegoat mechanism. 

Often we focus on Jesus’ death as the agent that was meant to eliminate our perceived need to scapegoat. He willingly dies, not to appease a bloodthirsty God, but so that by taking on the shame, the guilt, and the blame, he would free the world from ever giving in to this temptation again. This is true, but I worry that in focusing on his death we neglect the way he lived, and how his very life is a testimony against the original sin of scapegoating. 

Jesus at table.

In our reading from Mark’s Gospel we find Jesus in the early days of his ministry, and boy howdy, is he coming under fire. Sure, he’s curing people and casting out demons, but it’s HOW he’s doing it that infuriates the authorities. They compare him to Satan – to the serpent – who is deceiving these people just as Adam and Eve were deceived. And just as Eve blamed the serpent, they blame Jesus for breaking the commandment about the sabbath, setting a bad example, and drawing people away the corrupt collaboration system between the Temple authorities and the Romans. They blame Jesus for leading the people astray, just as they blame the people for their own ills and plights; after all, if someone is born blind, or if a young woman is driven into prostitution, it was due to their own sinful nature. But right here in this very Gospel today we see Jesus undo this by inviting these very folks – along with a host of others whom the authorities scapegoated and blamed – to a table, to a meal. In a house. In a safe space, where judgement is not passed, only food and drink are. Plenty of folks in this story think Jesus is either out of his mind – as the authorities do – or is veering into territory that is going to get him in trouble – as his family does. But Jesus’ mission is to proclaim the Good News that the kingdom of God has come near – his first words in Mark’s Gospel – and the kingdom is a mindset, a way of being that has no need to blame others, to lash out in fear, but lets it all pass through the hands of Jesus.

His hands are the birth canal through which abundant life flows. And his table is the place where all of burdens are laid, where all fear subsides, where scapegoating and blame come to be transformed into love and light: at that table in the crowded house that day, in the field when he fed 5000 folks, in the upper room with his friends, and at the table we set each and every Sunday. 

There was another tree in that garden, do you remember? It was the Tree of Life, and though it’s never said explicitly in Genesis, Jewish scholars have offered that it was the tree from which all life – even Adam and Eve – ate. Jesus is that Tree of Life for us. He takes, blesses, breaks, and gives us his very self in the palm of our hand, and in doing so, he frees us from the need to blame or pass judgment on others. If the cycle of the original sin is to end, we need to build longer tables, not bigger walls.

If you’re holding on to blame or feeling the urge to scapegoat – whoever you are, come to the Table of the Lord, to which Christ himself invites us and meets us. Feed on the bread of life. And be made whole.

Shomer Shabbos!

'One sabbath Jesus and his disciples were going through the grainfields; and as they made their way his disciples began to pluck heads of grain. The Pharisees said to him, “Look, why are they doing what is not lawful on the sabbath?” And he said to them, “Have you never read what David did when he and his companions were hungry and in need of food? He entered the house of God, when Abiathar was high priest, and ate the bread of the Presence, which it is not lawful for any but the priests to eat, and he gave some to his companions.” Then he said to them, “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath; so the Son of Man is lord even of the sabbath.”

Again he entered the synagogue, and a man was there who had a withered hand. They watched him to see whether he would cure him on the sabbath, so that they might accuse him. And he said to the man who had the withered hand, “Come forward.” Then he said to them, “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?” But they were silent. He looked around at them with anger; he was grieved at their hardness of heart and said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” He stretched it out, and his hand was restored. The Pharisees went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians against him, how to destroy him.'

--Mark 2: 23-3" 6

Possibly the greatest film of all time is The Big Lebowski, the story of The Dude, who was, well, the man for his time and place – a man who, in his own words, abides. The Dude is a bowler, and in one of the film’s many memorable scenes, he and his teammates –Donny and Walter – are scheduled to roll on a Saturday. This infuriates Walter, a convert to Judaism because, as he points out, he is Shomer Shabbos, a Hebrew term meaning, “Sabbath observer.” When Donny asks what that means, Walter explains that Saturday is the Sabbath, the Jewish day of rest, and that he doesn’t work, drive a car, ride in a car, handle money, or turn on the oven, and he sure doesn’t roll! "Shomer Shabbos!" Walter keeps yelling, along with several expletives.

The Dude, Donny, and Walter

Despite being a convert, Walter takes the 4th commandment quite literally. No effort is to be put forth, no work done from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday. This commandment shows up in the Torah at two different times, first in Exodus, chapter 20, when it is connected with God’s own sabbath rest following the six days of creation; and again in Deuteronomy, chapter 5, when Moses gives it as a reminder about the Hebrew people’s forced labor under the yoke of Pharoah in Egypt. It is meant not just for them but for everyone under their charge, so that they will not take advantage of the labor of others, as the Egyptians took advantage of them. 

The idea of sabbath was not only a law to be obeyed, but it formed the theological core of what it meant to be in relationship with this God. Beyond just the commandment to rest, sabbath was intertwined with the idea of the jubilee, a time when all debts were erased, lands returned to their original owners, and the people restored to God by returning to the wilderness. Sabbath and jubilee both are about rest and restoration. Our modern, fast-paced, consumer-driven culture has lost sight of the need for sabbath, but the teachings of Jesus are fundamentally rooted in reclaiming and restoring a deep sensibility of sabbath, which has to do with the humility to understanding that as creatures of a Creator that calls us good, we are, fundamentally, enough. We don’t have to earn anything, and sabbath is our invitation to stop trying to do so, to remember that we are not as big and important as we think we are, and that it is not all up to us.

This is the understanding of sabbath that Jesus embodied – and that Christians today are still given glimpses of through the gifts of Centering Prayer, the Daily Examen, and the Divine Hours – but this isn’t the understanding of sabbath held by the folks who confronted Jesus in the early days of his ministry. 

Not once, but twice, Jesus is accosted by the religious authorities for breaking the 4th commandment, for not being a Shomer Shabbos and observing the sacredness of the sabbath day. It first occurs when his disciples are caught plucking heads of grain on a Saturday, and the second happens later the same day during the time of study in a synagogue, when Jesus heals a man with a withered hand. Jesus uses a story from the Book of Samuel about David eating the holy bread in the tabernacle of Nod, as a way of showing that the Scriptures themselves supply a precedent in which human need takes priority over even divine law. Some, though, are so insulted by Jesus’ actions that they begin to conspire with the followers of Herod – the Roman’s puppet King of the Jews – to find a way to kill Jesus. 

When we hear stories like this it is extremely important to not fall into some kind of antagonistic mindset as it pertains to the Pharisees. They were not the villains of the story – Rome was. The Pharisees, scribes, and other authorities held onto these strict, fundamentalist interpretations of the Jewish law as a means of silent revolt against their Roman occupiers, maintaining their customs and way of life in the face of occupation. Jesus frightened them because they were scared he would rile up the Romans, who then would bring their full wrath down on all the people, eliminating their very way of life. They may have been strict adherents to the law acting out of fear, but that doesn’t’ make them evil. 

This story also doesn’t make Jesus some kind of anarchist who hated the law. Jesus doesn’t abolish the sabbath, but rather insists that the principle of doing good and addressing human need should govern not just the law concerning the sabbath but every law. We wrestle with some of the same legalistic issues that are at play here; after all, just because something is technically illegal doesn’t mean that it is morally wrong. In the antebellum South, for example, it was illegal to teach a Black person to read or write. This week we mark the beginning of Pride Month, in which we honor the beauty and bravery of our LBGTQIA+ siblings, many of whom still remember the days when it was illegal to simply gather together in a bar or hold hands with the person they love. A law put in place that ignores the needs and denies the dignity of a person is not a law that has anything to do with the God of love. When we look around we see laws on the books in several parts of our own country that deny critical, life-saving health care to young people and those who are pregnant, putting doctors and nurses in the heartbreaking position of risking their careers in order to address serious human need. What, we ask, is the Christian ethical response? 

The sabbath was made for humankind, Jesus said, not humankind for the sabbath. The commandment was a gift for people, to restore them to God and to be sure they wouldn’t make an idol out of work or take advantage of others. The way the authorities respond to Jesus here is exactly what happens, Larry, when the letter of the law becomes an idol more valued than its spirit. When “following the rules” becomes the excuse for denying people’s dignity, legalism has replaced the love of Christ. Laws put in place to simply be obeyed without question are not laws that maintain an ethic of Jesus. It may seem trite, but it’s always worth asking, in all seriousness, what WOULD Jesus do? Would he march or protest in the streets like the drag queens of the Stonewall Inn? Would he remind his officials that human need trumps blind obedience? Would he urge us to do the same, and more?

Stephen Mattson, author of On Love & Mercy: A Social Justice Devotional once said to always trust the inclusive love of Christ over exclusive legalism. Or, as Johnny Cash put it, “I choose love.” And choosing love means placing human need – the needs of those made in the holy image of God – above all else. We, human beings, are the very clay jars of which St. Paul wrote,  each one holding the greatest treasure of all, the grace, love, and mercy of God. But these jars of ours are fragile, so we must be careful, not just with our own, but with each other’s. Take care to be ever-present to the needs that are around us, and we may only abide with each other, but abide in the love of Christ, and at last find our true sabbath rest and restoration. 

Trinity Sunday: The Sacred Mystery

How do you explain the inexplicable, or comprehend the incomprehensible? How do you preach on Trinity Sunday? A lot of clergy bemoan this day – and plenty of rectors pawn it off on deacons and other ministers to preach. Could they just be scared of committing a heresy?

Or could it be that in our modern, western way of thinking and being, we have simply forgotten how to dwell in the realm of mystery? In our post-Enlightenment world we are told that everything can and should make sense. If something cannot be proven, that it cannot possibly be “real.” For some, the fact that the Trinity makes so little sense is enough for them to say the whole thing is gobbledygook. But we mustn’t throw out the baby with the holy water. As my theologian wife has reminded me on several occasions, if we understand the world out of which the doctrine of the Trinity developed, and if we can re-learn to embrace mystery, then it’s perfectly reasonable to affirm the Three-In-One-and-One-In-Three. And that there is good news in the Trinity, even for us now. 

First off, the word Trinity is nowhere in the Bible. The only reference we even get to ‘Father, Son, and Holy Spirit’ shows up at the very end of the Gospel of Matthew (in what we call the Great Commission), when Jesus tells the apostles to “go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” You’d think our lectionary would use that Gospel every Trinity Sunday, but it only shows up in Year A, the year we read Matthew’s Gospel, so you’ll see it again in 2026. 

But notice I didn’t say that the Trinity isn’t in the Bible, because it is, albeit not explicit. God as Father – or Mother, or Creator – is all over the Bible. God creates the world ex nihilo, from nothing, and creates it out of love, a stark contrast to the creation stories of the ancient world that were rooted in violence. This is the God that Jesus of Nazareth calls Father, or Abba in Aramaic. Jesus is described as the Son of God, making him equal to God in stature, but the prologue to the Gospel of John goes even further and states that Jesus is the Word, the logos in Greek, that existed from before time itself, in the beginning with God. This logos, this Word, this Jesus, is not just the carpenter-turned-rabbi from Nazareth but is also God made flesh. The Holy Spirit, who showed up amongst us last week, is the breath, the wind, the ruach in Hebrew of God, which both moved over creation and spoke through the prophets. It’s not hard to find references to the Trinity, to God’s threefold action in the world, but how, when, and why, did it become such a core piece of being a Christian?

For roughly the first 400 years after Jesus folks struggled to figure out the question of who this person they called their Lord and their God was in relation to the God of the Hebrew Bible and this Holy Spirit that they were told came upon new believers. All the while publicly worshipping and professing this faith was illegal in the Roman Empire, seen as seditious. That is, until 313 when Constantine the Great declared it to be legal in the Edict of of Milan, and 10 years later gathered a bunch of bishops from both the Latin-speaking West and Greek-speaking East of the Church at a place called Nicea and locked them in a room and said: don’t come out till you figure out how who Jesus is. Well, they did, sort of. They declared that Jesus and God were one in the same, but they stopped short of explaining the Holy Spirit. That work did get done at the Council of Constantinople – not Instanbul – in 381, where three bishops called the Cappadocian Fathers said that God was three hypostes (persons) in one ousia (substance). One of those bishops named Gregory of Nazianzus coined the term perichoresis – the eternal dance - to describe the nature of this Trinitarian God, who was engaged in an endless waltz of the persons of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The document that came out of that council was the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed, which got shortened to just the Nicene Creed, and, of course, we affirm it every Sunday.

The Creed did more than declare who God is, it told us who God isn’t. There were, after all, lots of theories out there, which fractured and splintered this fledgling church-thing. They’d be declared heresies, but I assure you, they’re still around: Arianism said that Jesus and the Spirit weren’t divine, they were just creations of the Father: like the sun – you have the star, heat, and light, but the heat and light aren’t the star, just products of it. Modalism said that each Person of the Trinity had a specific jobs or modes, which didn’t intersect with each other: like water that exists as liquid, ice, and vapor, all separate modes. And then there’s Partialism, that stated the three Persons composed 1/3rd of God individually, which is, of course, like Voltron, the Defender of the Universe, who is composed of five robotic lions that merge into a giant robot samurai that fights evil alien monsters. Maybe you can guess which of those heresies is my favorite.

Voltron: Defender of the Universe

This teaching that God was Three-In-One became church law as a means of creating a common, unified faith, and without an affirmation of the Trinity a group can’t really be considered Christian by the historic definition of that word. But what’s the good news about the Trinity now? Very simple, it’s relational. The Most Rev. Peter Carnley, who was Archbishop of Perth and my seminary ethics professor, once said that every single conversation about God begins with the Trinity because every conversation about God begins with relationship. God models relationship for us. The Trinity is not hierarchical. There is no power-over in it, simply co-existence. One of the best modern allegories for the Trinity is the book The Shack. While it’s not super strong theologically, it gets the point across, especially a scene where Jesus – depicted as a Palestinian carpenter – and the Holy Spirit – a teenage Asian woman – are playfully dancing together. God the Father – shown as a well-built Black woman – says to the book’s author, who is spending a weekend in a shack with the Trinity, that that was the dream for humanity, that we might dance together the way the Trinity does. That’s our good news, that the Trinity is the model for all of our relationships. There’s no leading or following, no power-over. Just….the flow. Anyone who has ever seen a preacher just let loose and be led by the Spirit, anyone who has ever done any kind of theatre improv, those who understand the music of jazz or hip hop, know what “the flow” is all about. Flow is about creativity – play and life. It involves both letting go and being fully present to the movement of what is happening. The flow state is a divine state. The flow is the Trinity.

Is it even possible? That we could all be in relationship with each other as perfect as the relationship God is in with Godself in this flow? For humans by ourselves, left to our own devices, maybe not. But anything is possible with God. Such is this holy mystery. The Trinity is not a question to be answered, a doctrine to be understood – trust me, you’ve probably already committed a heresy today. The Trinity gives us the freedom to dwell in mystery, to not have all the answers, to rest in and dance with our God.

The In-Between Time

'Jesus prayed to the Father, “I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one. While I was with them, I protected them in your name that you have given me. I guarded them, and not one of them was lost except the one destined to be lost, so that the scripture might be fulfilled. But now I am coming to you, and I speak these things in the world so that they may have my joy made complete in themselves. I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they also may be sanctified in truth.”'

--John 17: 6-19

At the intersection of 10th Avenue and 20th Street in New York City is the Church of the Guardian Angel. All along the edge of the roof are friezes narrating various scenes in the Bible.  When you reach the end you see the faces of the apostles looking upward, and then all you see at the top are a pair of feet dangling there.  It’s the most adorable depiction of the Ascension I’ve ever seen! 

An Italian painting of the Ascension from the 15th century (similar to the frieze of Guardian Angel Church).

The Ascension is a core piece of our faith – right there in our Nicene Creed. It’s a high holy day on our calendar, but it always falls on a Thursday – 40 days after Easter – so we rarely hear about it on a Sunday, including this past Sunday. What always strikes me about the Ascension – and it’s something that that frieze on 10th Ave. shows – is the image of the apostles just staring up into the sky. They have no idea what they’re supposed to do now that Jesus has left them. In the story an angel shows up and tells them to return to Jerusalem and wait. Wait for Jesus to send the Holy Spirit, as he promised. But until then, they wait.

What a strange time that must have been! We reflected on that strangeness this past Sunday. The Ascension has happened but Pentecost hasn’t yet. For the next week we are in a liminal time, an in-between time. Jesus’ earthly ministry has ended, but the Holy Spirit hasn’t yet moved the apostles to proclaim the Good News themselves because, frankly, they’re not ready; after all, the first thing they do when they get back to Jerusalem is choose Judas' successor by playing a dice game! This is, in manner of speaking, the apostles’ interim period. It’s a short one, to be sure, only 10 days, but oh how long those days must have felt. Serving as Interim Rector at St. James' in Skaneateles, NY has afforded me the chance to walk this in-between time with folks. 

For the remainder of this blog, I will keep the tense in first and second person, so that it conveys more clearly the good news I had to share with the people of St. James' during their time of transition: 

I suspect that even for some of y’all [the people of St. James'], have experienced the last several months feeling, much longer than they’ve actually been. No doubt there’ve been times when folks have felt like those apostles, staring into the sky just waiting for Jesus to do something, feeling helpless, even hopeless, without their leader. It’s a pretty good reminder that the folks in biblical times understood something with which we are all familiar: that transitions are hard. 

Even when we know what’s coming, it’s still tough, isn’t it? Surely the apostles knew that SOMETHING was going to happen, even if they didn’t know what it was or when it would occur. In the same way, we all know that a person will be called to lead this parish by the power of the Holy Spirit and the insight of the Parish Search Committee and Vestry, even though no one – except God – knows exactly when that’ll happen. It’s scary, but it’s also holy.

This is one of those times when it’s really cool to be an Episcopalian, to be liturgical people, because our calendar and worship ground us right where we are. We can’t jump the gun, so to speak. Just like how we have to feel the pain at the foot of the cross on Good Friday and can’t skip ahead to the joy of Easter, we gotta sit in this in-between time, even though we know that the Holy Spirit is coming next week – and with her the “Acts of the Apostles” will truly begin . But not yet. It’s a divine lesson in delayed gratification. 

That is one of the earliest - and most difficult - things we learn as children, that you can’t always get what you want when you want it. Do you remember what that was like when you were a kid? If not, do you remember watching your kids when they didn’t get what they wanted when they wanted it? I barely remember the time my grandparents took me to Disney World when I was five, but I’m told that I was asking if we were there yet before we were out of their hometown of Bristol, let alone the state of Virginia. They say patience is a virtue, but Tom Petty says the waiting is the hardest part. Yet that is the gift that God gave the apostles before the greater gift of the Spirit’s coming amongst them: the patience to wait, to listen, to feel the discomfort of the liminal time, and to just be, wherever they were, wherever we are. It is so often in these moments God is most stirring, even if we don’t notice. 

What, then, do we do with these in-between times? I suspect they are good opportunities for us to remember who we are, and whose we are, and blessedly we have a good example this week from Jesus himself, to help us remember. In the 17th chapter of John’s Gospel, Jesus offers what is often called the High Priestly Prayer, it’s Jesus’ prayer to God the Father on behalf of his disciples – and not only the ones who walked with him, but also those who would come after them, including us. 

“Everything I have is a gift from you,” he prayed to the one he called Abba. He was referring to his friends. If Jesus thought of his earthly friends as gifts from God, does he think of us this way, too? I’d say absolutely he does! Imagine the difference it could make for each of us if we truly believed that, that we are loved, safe, and guarded from the threat of ever being lost. If we can spend these in-between times believing that we are untied to each other in the same way God is united to his Abba, what love could abound, what lessons could be learned, what transformation could occur between now and the promised time of fulfillment?! Like a caterpillar, going into the chrysalis phase, waiting to become a butterfly.

No wonder Jesus promises the gift of joy because there can be no greater joy than to know ourselves as beloved and safe, plugged into the divine connection, encircled by the surround sound of love. If everything is a gift from God, then you are a gift. I am a gift. They are a gift. Even this interim time of uncertainty and delayed gratification is a gift. All gifts. All loved.

We don’t have to look far to see a world constantly in a hurry, anxious to get to the next thing. We do it in our jobs, in our families, and in our churches. I wonder if the apostles even did it with Jesus when he left them to stew over those 10 days. Maybe the wisdom, the insight, the meaning of it all lies in the stewing. Any y’all ever make a vegetable beef stew? If so, you know you don’t just throw everything in the pot, flip the stove to high and cook for a matter of minutes. No, you gotta use a crock pot, turned to its lowest setting, and let that sucker marinate and simmer all day long. It’s hard to just watch it because we don’t wanna wait so long, but boy howdy is it good when it’s done! The tastiest food takes the most time.

Here in the stewing lies a precious gift. I suspect few of us would ever willingly choose to dwell in the interim time, yet this is where God has placed us. And just as we know that the Spirit will come next week and light the apostles’ hearts on fire, we know God is working in the same way, and in God’s time, you, together with the person called to serve as your next Rector, will set this world ablaze the power of our loving, liberating, and life-giving God. Cherish the gift that is the in-between time, and see what God’s cookin’ up. 

He Choo-Choo-Chooses Us

'Jesus said to his disciples, “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.”'

--John 15: 9-17

He said, "You didn't choose me but I chose you."  When I hear this I can't help but think of one of my favorite episodes of The Simpsons. In it Lisa offers a valentine to her classmate Ralph.  The card shows a crazy looking train with the tag line "I choo-choo-choose you!"  Well, that's Jesus folks, the one who will always choo-choo-choose us, even in the times when we don't choo-choo-choose him – or each other. 

In his Farewell Discourse, the last teaching to his disciples before his arrest and crucifixion in John’s Gospel, Jesus tells them that while they did not choose him, he chose them. He even goes so far as to call them friends. Think about that for a second. Plenty like Moses, David, and Elijah had been referred to as servants of God, but friends, that's pushing it. Still, that's the level of intimacy that Jesus offers his disciples. It is a friendship grounded on a commandment, a mandate - the very mandate we got on Maundy Thursday - to love one another as he loves them. 

I’ve told this story, but it bears repeating: years ago when I was playing baseball in high school I had a coach tell the guys on the team, "You don't have to like each other, but you do have to love each other."  At first that didn't make any sense to us, but we came to figure out that, while we may not always get along or agree with each other, we did have to respect each other. We did have to know that we were in this thing together, and that we could count on each other when the chips were down. That's what it meant for our team, our community, to love one another. 

The briefest instruction of all: love each other. The hardest instruction of all: love each other as you have been loved. Maybe it’s that second part that’s so hard to remember. I wonder sometimes if the reason we are so cruel to one another is not that we willingly ignore Jesus’ mandate to love, but rather because we forget that we ourselves are loved; after all, if we don’t know that love for ourselves, how can we possibly give it away; hurt people, hurt people, as the saying goes. How can we choose to love someone if we don’t know Jesus has already chosen us, and them, for that matter? Perhaps we are afraid that grace is somehow limited, that there is an expiration date or that we don’t have enough patience, enough bandwidth. Maybe we expect that Jesus doesn’t. 

Why do we so quickly hoard grace? We want it, we crave it, we long to feel the peace of Jesus’ presence, but still we find it nearly impossible to receive his grace easily and give it away freely. We have treasure to share, and when we know that grace – which calls us his friends – we can pour out forgiveness lavishly upon ourselves and all of God’s creation and share freely, without the need for anything in return. We can go laughing into our lives because we have inherited, through no deserving of our own, the very best of Good News: that Jesus choo-choo-chooses us.

Knowing that, how can we not choo-choo-choose to serve others, encourage others, challenge and call forth other’s gifts? The way we listen to and love the One who claims us as his friends is by keeping his fierce and gentle rule of love. As we love, we become love. As we become love, we give love. As we give love, we receive love. As we receive love, we love. And the cycle starts all over.

We are the body of Christ alive in the world now, loving now. Jesus has no hands, no feet, no heart in this world but ours. The little circles of love interlock with the big love weaving its way through the whole universe – healing, renewing, restoring all that is. We will not fail in these, our tasks of love, when we allow ourselves, first and simply, to be loved. To hear the voice of the one who calls us his friend and to believe him when he does so. When we know that kind of grace for ourselves, oh boy, love can abound, and the whole world can be changed. 

Even when we feel the evil coming and shadows all around, or when we feel danger around us, the love and grace of Jesus – of a loving, liberating, and life-giving God – joins us together as one. We are bound to this struggle with the wind and flame of the Holy Spirit, and we will never fail those whom we love in the very truest sense. We see this playing out right now – once again being led by a younger generation – as those who love justice and mercy – the very qualities Jesus himself preached to his friends – stand in solidarity and cry out against the atrocities of war and occupation. Not everyone may like them for doing so, but we are all called to love them, to remember why they’re witnessing in the first place, and to understand that the same loving, liberating, and life-giving God that choo-choo-chooses them to stand in solidarity with the suffering does the same of all of us who have been called friends of the crucified and risen One, and furthermore invites us to reflect on that friendship, on that amazing grace and love given to us, and to ask ourselves what we are doing with it.

As some of you know my all-time favorite saint is Julian of Norwich, whose feast day is coming up this week. In a vision she once saw something the size of a hazelnut in the palm of God's hands and heard a voice saying to her, "This is everything I have made. And I made it all for love."  In a time of plague, war, and death, Julian knew what it meant to be a friend of Jesus, what it meant to abide in his love, what it meant to know Jesus had chosen her. This is how, in spite of her hardships, she was able to hear Jesus’ say to her, "All manner of things will be well."  In our own time of plagues, war, disasters, and political upheaval, God’s hands are still cupped, still holding all that is in, and the voice of Jesus – the same voice that calls us his friends, that choo-choo-chooses us – whispers that all will be well. We have been given this gift by grace, which is unearned and unending. Let us all pray that we do not squander it. 

On the Good Shepherd

'Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father.”'

--John 10: 11-18

As just about all of you know, I was educated for ministry at The General Theological Seminary in the Chelsea neighborhood of New York City. At the heart of campus stood the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, which was a place of deep prayer and healing for me. If you manage to go there today, you’ll still see it: the stained-glass windows weaving bible narratives, the prayer for the consecration of a priest written in Latin around the walls, and the seven virtues carved into on the floor. There was a profound sense of holiness in that place, and I knew the first time I saw it that I wanted to pray there every single day.

Jesus with his shepherd's crosier, holding a lamb (with another at his side) in the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, 

General Theological Seminary

Behind the chapel’s altar is a reredos that has nine statues:  the four gospel writers, Peter, Paul, Elijah, Moses, and, in the middle, Jesus.  I called this reredos ‘Jesus and Pals.’ And because it’s the Chapel of the Good Shepherd, Jesus stands with a crosier, a shepherd’s staff, in one hand, and cradled in the other is a lamb.  Now all of the other statues are looking around the chapel, some at Jesus, others out at the congregation.  But Jesus’ gaze is fixed on that lamb.  There is nothing more important to him as he looks into that lamb’s eyes and it into his.  

I don’t know where you go to think and talk out loud to God, but while I was at General, that place, for me, was the chapel.  I’d go in the middle of the night with my dog Casey, who would curl up on the broad step in front of the altar, and I would talk, yell, or cry with Jesus.  And often I wondered what that lamb’s story was.  What had it done?  Where did Jesus find it? What was its name?  And more than once I wished I were that lamb.  I wished I were being cradled by Jesus, looking into his eyes and he into mine, as he tells me that all that is wrong in my life will be made well.  That, brothers and sisters, is my permanent image of the Good Shepherd.

This week we hear Jesus speak those very familiar words in the Gospel of John:  I am the good shepherd.  I am the good shepherd. (He says it twice, so he must have meant it!)  But what does that really mean?  Odds are they had heard plenty of stories of thieves breaking in and stealing sheep, possibly due to the negligence of a hired hand.  Maybe Jesus was telling this story while they watched a shepherd tending to and putting away the sheep into a pen or barn for the night.  But what does it mean for us to say that Jesus is our good shepherd?

There are two words used for ‘good’ in biblical Greek:  agathos and kalos.  Agathos simply describes the moral quality of a thing, while kalos means that in the goodness there is a quality of winsomeness, which makes it lovely.  When Jesus says he is the good shepherd, the word is kalos, which is to say that in him there is more than efficiency, more than fidelity.  There is loveliness.  There is sympathy, kindness, and graciousness.  Jesus isn’t a good shepherd in the sense that he does his job well - making sure the sheep are where they need to be.  He’s more than that.  He is the shepherd who loves his sheep, so much so that, rather than run away when threatened he lays down his life for them. He knows each of them by name and calls them, and they know his voice, a familiar, sweet voice that excites and inspires them. That’s a pretty incredible amount of love, and I suspect that as that little lamb in my seminary chapel gazes into Jesus eyes, that lamb knows that kinda love.

But Jesus doesn’t just stop there.  Being the good shepherd is about even more than caring for the sheep that are already in his fold.  There are others, Jesus says, and they too will be loved, they too will be welcomed; for there will be one flock, one shepherd.  A very hard thing, one of the hardest things, for us to unlearn in this life is exclusivity.  Once we get this notion in our heads that we, and we alone, are entitled to something, it is extremely difficult to accept that that something might actually be extended to others.  While living at General Seminary in my final year I witnessed a plan go into action that saw our oldest buildings sold to pay off debt.  Walls were erected as scaffolding went up, and as our buildings were remodeled and turned into high-fallutin’ apartments, folks from outside our close, folks who had no connection at all to the Church, were moved in.  The physical landscape of the seminary was changing, and we didn’t like it.  It’s a symptom of the wider Church.  We love our rules and regulations and the way we do things, but when we feel threatened, we get defensive and try to hang on to something that is not actually ours.  We didn’t want new neighbors on the close of our seminary.  But what we didn’t realize was that it wasn’t our seminary.  It was God’s.  And, church folk or not, God was bringing them into the flock, despite our exclusivity.  It’s always God’s flock, not ours.

From 2012: walls going up around the West Building, oldest building at General Seminary, as it is prepared to be gutted and transformed into million-dollar apartments.

You are not called to be shepherds.  I’m not a shepherd. Priests and pastors aren’t, either.  At best, we’re sheepdogs, just trying to herd everyone together. Because there is only one shepherd, and that’s Jesus.  And blessedly, he is not asking us to be him.  He is, however, asking us to model our lives on his own life of sacrificial, all-encompassing love.  Because the truth is that you and I ARE that lamb in his arms.  The truth is that he DOES cradle us and looks into our eyes and call us by name because he DOES love us so much that he lays down his life; not to make some kind of payment for sin or to satisfy God’s wrath, but in order to reveal God to the world, to make the invisible God seen and the unapproachable God accessible, to reveal that God so loves the whole world, no exceptions.

And what’s more, the good shepherd is the one who cradles and comforts and loves through the worst of our hurts and pains. I thought, as many did, that the days of watching our historic buildings turned into apartments and outsiders coming onto our close would be the worst in the life of General Seminary, but I was wrong. Today, there are no on-campus students. Debts that had once been erased by those property sales have mounted again, and dysfunctional, toxic administrations have led to enrollment cratering. No bishops will send students there anymore. There are even whispers going around, especially after events of the past few weeks, that the once proud, original seminary of the Episcopal Church – founded by the General Convention itself - will end all programs, that the chapel – with its statues of Jesus and Pals – will be deconsecrated, and that holy space once called Chelsea Square will be no more. Even in the midst of that pain and sadness, I still see Jesus cradling that lamb. Still loving it, no exceptions.

The writer of First John says, ‘Let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.’  That is my prayer for you and always has been. That you will love all whom the Good Shepherd draws into his flock, in truth and action; that you will know, even when you feel lost or hurt, that the Good Shepherd holds you, calls you by name, and loves you through it all. No exceptions. 

Showing Our Scars

'Jesus himself stood among the disciples and said to them, “Peace be with you.” They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.” And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.

Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and he said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things."'

--Luke 24: 36b-48

Happy Easter! Just making sure y’all remember we’re still in Easter – it’s the longest season of our church year, in fact, 50 days, so like Christmas, y’all can go around wishing people Happy Easter all the way up to May 9 and the Feast of the Ascension.  Give it a try, and see what happens.

The argument can be made that it’s always Easter. Think about it, we live in a post-Resurrection world. In a very real sense, it’s always Easter, no matter what season of the church year we’re in. That’s why we celebrate Holy Eucharist every Sunday because the early followers of Jesus worshipped in solidarity with the day of Resurrection, so every Sunday is a sort-of mini-Easter, all year round. 

We call such gatherings of ours Celebrations of the Holy Eucharist. That’s what Easter is, after all, a celebration, right? Sure, and at the same time it’s confusing, fearful, uncertain. At least, that’s how the disciples experienced it. 

Icon of the resurrected Jesus eating with the disciples.

Last week we heard a post-Resurrection account from the Gospel of John in which Jesus seemingly appeared out of nowhere – or maybe even walked through a wall – and showed himself to his frightened disciples, including Thomas, who, rather than believe blindly demanded to have an experience of the resurrected Jesus. And this week it’s a similar story, now told by the Gospel of Luke, as Jesus shows up amongst the disciples, who are startled and terrified; and while they feel joy there’s also an element of disbelief: how is any of this possible?? Suddenly, he’s there. After nearly three days of sadness and despair, hope that has been utterly dashed and forsaken, with all that he had represented to them coming to a violent end, and now – poof – here he is again. All they had treasured had been suddenly ripped away, and now Jesus has decided to just not be dead anymore, and almost casually says, “Why are you frightened?”

As though he does not know. As though these past 72 excruciating hours have only been a small inconvenience. In their hiding place – likely that same upper room where they shared their last meal with him – they’ve been inundated by a flood of sorrow and fear as they’ve remembered – and maybe even tried to forget – all that has happened. 

Here he stands. And what does he say to them? “Look at me. Look at my hands and my feet. See my scars.” They are not to look away from what troubles them, or avoid what brings them pain. He invites them to come closer to him. Touch him, see for themselves. They’re still not convinced, so he asks: do you have anything to eat? So casual, like an old friend showing up for dinner. It’s not entirely unlike the Eucharist, the sharing of bread and wine in a holy meal. It’s an initiation ceremony, as they are invited into the same life as the resurrected Jesus. 

And here we see the hallmarks of that resurrected life, namely the appearance of the scars. The Rev. Nadia Bolz-Webber, the renowned Lutheran pastor and founder of the House for All Sinners and Saints, once wrote that we preachers are called to speak from the experiences of our scars, not our open wounds. What’s the difference, you might ask? The difference is that preaching from our wounds can be raw, to the point of moving us into a place of anger – righteous anger, we might say – creating a disconnect between us and the people with whom we minister, because we risk getting stuck there in our pain. But our scars represent healing. They represent hurt, yes, but also lessons learned. When we preach from our scars, rather than our wounds, we can be vulnerable without remaining stuck in our pain.

That advice may have been offered for us preachers, but sisters and brothers in the Lord Jesus, they are for all believers in resurrection. Because it is vital for us, as we share the Good News of the resurrection of Jesus, that we remember that he carries his scars with him, even when he his raised. Easter offers us all hope that things will be different, that anything is possible now that Jesus has gone to hell and come out clean on the other side. We have this hope, this Easter hope, and yet like the resurrected Jesus we still bear whatever scars we have born through whatever fiery hells we have been through. For Jesus to be raised with his scars still showing, means that even our pain can be redeemed and can teach us something about who we have been and who we will be. We can wear them proudly now, no longer afraid of them, but grateful even for where they brought us. Every broken road humanity had ever been down led to the empty tomb, and God bless the broken roads of our own lives that have led us to where we are, to these moments of celebration, where even our scars, our fears, our confusion, can be redeemed by our loving, liberating, and life-giving God.

Jesus shows up and meets the disciples in the midst of their fear; meets them right where they are. He doesn’t rebuke them. He doesn’t scold them. He offers them peace, the same peace we will pass with each other shortly, and he eats with them – maybe not the same meal we’ll share in a little while, after all fish would make for a very messy and smelly cleanup for altar guild. And he lets them see his scars, so that they know it’s really him. He shows his full self to them. 

And to us. So that we who are ourselves prone to retreating to our hiding places built by our fears can look at our own scars, our own pain, and know that even they are redeemed and given new meaning. It was asked once by my favorite songwriter, “Can there be any sense in pain?” If the answer were no, then Jesus doesn’t keep his scars, doesn’t bear the marks of his own pain, his own broken road, as if none of it happened. Too often when folks experience pain, rejection, and abuse, they are told to wipe the slate clean, start over like none of it happened. "We don't talk about Bruno!"But we human beings can’t do that, not even Jesus. Even he doesn’t shy away the pain wrought by the cross, but through the resurrection, even that senseless pain is redeemed. And if we believe that the resurrection is real, not just for Jesus but for us all, then our own scars have been redeemed, too, and we can show our full selves, as well. That that is some good news, right there, for all of us.

Because we know it’s real, and because we know we can bear our scars proudly, we can also go and meet others in their fear. We can model for others that they need not be ashamed of their stories, no matter how painful, and that wearing their scars proudly, showing their full selves, brings meaning and hope And we can share what we have – bread, wine, maybe fish, maybe something more. This is what resurrected life – life in the ever-present reality of Easter – looks like.