It was dark.
Late at night, and she couldn’t sleep. So she crawled out of the bed that she shared with her parents and her sister, stepped over the sleeping dog in the doorway, and quietly slipped outside into the night. In the dead of night, the village slept, silent and still. She glanced up at the stars and crossed her arms over her chest against the chill, a little peasant girl, in a little village in the middle of nowhere important.
Suddenly, and still silently, from behind her shone a fierce light, piercing and white. She whirled around, and there, behind her, huge and terrible, was what could only have been an angel of the Lord. Her arms and legs turned to wax, she began to take a step backward, and collapsed in an undignified heap on the dusty ground.
A voice that shook the earth said, “you will conceive, and bear a son. You are to name him Yeshua, and he will be save his people from their sins.”
And Mary’s whole existence was laid bare in a flash. She began to think of the shame of becoming pregnant without being married, the shame that she would bring to gentle Joseph, the carpenter to whom whe was betrothed. The shame that she would bring to her parents, the shame that she would endure for the long months of her pregnancy, the shame that she would carry for all the rest of her days, an invisible scarlet letter that could never be removed.
And then the rest of the Angel’s words sunk in.
The messiah.
The son of the most high God.
And she dared to look the angel in the face. The Angel saw the fear in her eyes. Shaking with fear, reeling, unbelieving, she asked:
“How can these things be?”
* * * * * * * * * **
It was growing dark in the region of the Gadarenes.
The sky fading from blue to purple, and the villagers watched young Yeshua walk into the graveyard.
In there, in the shadowy corners amongst the tombs, lived the horror that everyone knew, but that no one in the village spoke of. The thing that had once been human. His eyes burned with an alien intensity. He smashed anything in reach. He foamed at the mouth. He chewed ropes in half and broke chains with his bare hands. At night, his tortured screams echoed off the hills and roused the sleeping children.
Yeshua disappeared into the shadow of the tombs. And, as everyone knew was coming, the harsh, grating screams began—and then suddenly and abruptly stopped. The silence hung over the village, and they looked at each other in surprise.
Then, out of nowhere, every pig in the village began to scream. Scream as if hundreds of invisible butchers were wielding their knives all at once. They went wild. They smashed the fenceposts, cut themselves on shards of wood. Blood splattered the walls of the houses. They trampled over each other, over small children, over pots and wagons. The whole herd rushed as one down the hill, screaming and kicking, and then, as one, in defiance of all logic, in defiance of all natural animal behavior, threw themselves over the cliff into the sea.
And all was quiet again.
The crazy monster of a man walked down the main street of the village next to Yeshua, calm, in his right mind. And the villagers looked at each other. And Yeshua saw the fear in their eyes. And they asked,
“how can these things be?”
* * * * * * * * * **
It was dark.
Deep, angry dark, and the Sea of Galilee heaved and pitched like a monstrous thing. Twelve frightened men in a tiny fishing boat, far too many for such a craft, getting in each others’ way. The waves licked greedily over the side of the boat, and it rode lower and lower in the water. The rain came down sideways, the wind howled through and tore the sail to shreds. Invisible fingers in the water tore the oars from their hands.
All was lost. All was lost. And then, right over there, oh God, there’s somebody out there. Somebody walking on the water. And Yeshua stepped into the boat, and the wind stopped. And the waves were still. And the disciples looked at the sea, and looked at each other, and Yeshua saw the terror in their eyes, and they said:
“how can these things be?”
* * * * * * * * * **
It was getting dark in Bethany.
Mary and Martha wept outside the tomb, but Yeshua said, “roll the stone away.” Out of the mouth of the grave flowed the darkness and the stench of death. Yeshua called out with a loud voice, and there, oh God, there is Lazarus. Mary and Martha crept closer and saw. Yes, he’s really alive. They looked at Yeshua, and Yeshua saw the fear in their eyes, and they asked,
“how can these things be?”
* * * * * * * * * **
It was noon in Jerusalem, but the clouds rolled in and blanketed the land in an eerie, thick, oppressive shroud.
Mary stood, not far from the top of the hill, not far from the foot of the cross, trying to avoid catching the eyes of the Roman soldiers. Trying harder to avoid looking up, at her son. Her firstborn. Pierced, splayed out, exposed, whipped almost beyond the point of recognition, bleeding from a thousand wounds.
Yeshua looked down and saw the fear in her eyes. And she whispered,
“how can these things be?”
* * * * * * * * * **
Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, three women went to the garden tomb to care for the body. But the stone was rolled away from the door, and the open mouth of the grave was silent.
As they stood there, in the cold quiet early morning darkness, suddenly there appeared a fierce light. A voice that shook the earth said, “why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here.” And as the others turned to flee in terror, Mary dared for the second time in her life to look into the face of the Angel. And the Angel looked at Mary and saw in her eyes fear, and wonder. And she said,
“how can these things be?”
And the angel said:
Fear not.
For nothing will be impossible with God.
18 December, 2005
06 December, 2005
In by a yard
Just got the news today...my fantasy football team made the playoffs.
By a yard.
I'm the last seed. There are three teams with identical records tied for hte last place. First tiebreaker is records against like teams, which is inconclusive. Second tiebreaker is total points scored for the season. I outscored the other guy 1047 to 1046. a 0.1% difference.
It gets better. The other guy's stud RB is Shawn Alexander, who played on Monday Night Football last night, in the snow. He scored two touchdowns, and was taken out in the second half, because the Seahawks were winning and the coach didn't want him hurt. Turns out he ended with 49 yards. Four fantasy points. Fifty yards, five points, and he goes to the playoffs. But no.
There's something theological in there, but I have to think about it.
(several things that might be said about the whole concept of fantasy football, but let's not go there for the moment)
By a yard.
I'm the last seed. There are three teams with identical records tied for hte last place. First tiebreaker is records against like teams, which is inconclusive. Second tiebreaker is total points scored for the season. I outscored the other guy 1047 to 1046. a 0.1% difference.
It gets better. The other guy's stud RB is Shawn Alexander, who played on Monday Night Football last night, in the snow. He scored two touchdowns, and was taken out in the second half, because the Seahawks were winning and the coach didn't want him hurt. Turns out he ended with 49 yards. Four fantasy points. Fifty yards, five points, and he goes to the playoffs. But no.
There's something theological in there, but I have to think about it.
(several things that might be said about the whole concept of fantasy football, but let's not go there for the moment)
02 December, 2005
Writing sermons is hard (part 1 of many)
This is finally making its way through my thick head:
Preaching is hard.
I heard it and heard it, but I didn’t believe it. I sneered at my classmates who said they wrote their sermons on weekends. I actually visited at the home of one of my best friends, a priest, who trotted himself off to the bedroom on Saturday night to write his Sunday sermon, and proceeded to chew him out. And then I found out that one of the better Episcopal preachers I know actually writes his sermons on Sunday morning.
I’ll confess something, on behalf of my brethren clergy in the Episcopal Church: most of us can’t preach our way out of a wet paper bag. Some of us are too scholarly, still stuck in seminary. Most of us are too centered on sacraments, and consider preaching just one of the things of lesser importance that happens on Sunday, in contrast to the Eucharistic celebration, which is the biggest thing. (While, theologically, I can see their point, it’s also the kind of mentality that leads to moving the candlesticks an inch to the left to maintain the symmetry and scowling darkly at the acolytes because they’re wearing flip-flops under their robes.) These folks are lazy, I thought. They’re not taking this seriously. Many of us are afraid of talking in public, and have never mastered that fear. A few of us, Lord have mercy, think we know better than the average sinner in the pews, and have become pompous and arrogant and judgmental.
Maybe it’s having been dipped in the Baptist tradition for a few years, but I think the sermon is equally important with anything else the church does. That the 10-25 minutes I’m going to stand up and speak are the most important minutes I spend all week.
At Seminary, I read all the books on the homiletics professor's suggested list. He would mention a few more in passing during lectures or in conversation. Read those too. I currently have...um...three books on the art of preaching and three books of sermons sitting on my on-deck shelf.
This week I led chapel for the school. I led morning and evening prayer. I visited the sick and the shut-ins. I consoled the grieving friends of one of our own, who died after a long illness. I prepared for and taught two Bible studies. I scheduled visits for Eucharistic ministers. I bought the card stock for invitations to my ordination as a priest. But this is a week when I’m preaching, so none of that has given me a sense of accomplishment. Nothing has brought peace. The upcoming sermon hovers over all.
I had it in my head that I would have this routine. Based heavily on the advice of Fred Craddock, one of the great teachers of preaching. Monday: exegesis. Tuesday: main point and outline. Wednesday: draft. Friday: revision. Saturday afternoon: delivery practice. Sounds good, seen from afar. Worked, too, while I was in seminary. And then I went to a congregation and got busy. And then the senior pastor went and gave me Mondays as my only day off. Tuesdays are staff meetings, which, to my great irritation, eats half the day. Now my schedule is shot, and I haven’t even started.
Add to it that there’s really no finished product for a sermon. It’s pages of text, printed out and scribbled on, delivered into the open air of a meeting of God’s people. I don’t get to see it land. I don’t see results. When someone weeps or laughs (and when that might be a good thing), I take a mental picture to hang on to. When people write me notes about my sermons, I save them in a drawer. Seriously.
Most awful of all is knowing what I’m daring to do. First the Bible is read, Old Testament, Psalm, Epistle. Then a section of the stories about Jesus are read. The lectionary wizards are pretty good about stringing them together so that there’s a textual crescendo. And then I get up, poor damn fool in a round plastic collar, and dare to speak God’s word in the present day. Sounds crazy.
I’m not such a fool as to think that my words are going to save someone or bring life. That’s Jesus. Got that pretty clear. But that’s not an excuse for not giving it my best effort.
And here it is, Friday afternoon, not a word down on paper. My four-year-old is in extended after-school care, and I'm feeling more and more guilty about that as the clock ticks on. Tomorrow we have things to do. I can't just drop them and come back up here and write. Knowing that other first-year ministers struggle with this doesn’t help. I’ve read their blogs, too. The comments to their posts are usually jokes about procrastination and red-eyed Saturday nights.
Maybe it’s the season. Secular Christmas=be nice to other people. (and spend lots of money on stuff nobody’s going to remember next year) And I categorically refuse to preach banality. Maybe it’s the text. Prepare ye the way of the Lord. Make straight in the desert a highway for our God. The one coming after me is greater than I; I’m not worthy to untie his shoes. Maybe I don’t want to preach repentance.
This is the thing saving me at the moment: advice from Eugene Sutton. Instead of making the preparation for preaching, and the preaching exercise, an expenditure of energy, instead, make it an energizing thing. This is what I was called out to do. This is what God takes delight in. To quote one of my top-5 favorite movies: I believe God made me for a purpose. For [missionary work in] China. But He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.
And I do. Sometimes. But not right now.
Preaching is hard.
I heard it and heard it, but I didn’t believe it. I sneered at my classmates who said they wrote their sermons on weekends. I actually visited at the home of one of my best friends, a priest, who trotted himself off to the bedroom on Saturday night to write his Sunday sermon, and proceeded to chew him out. And then I found out that one of the better Episcopal preachers I know actually writes his sermons on Sunday morning.
I’ll confess something, on behalf of my brethren clergy in the Episcopal Church: most of us can’t preach our way out of a wet paper bag. Some of us are too scholarly, still stuck in seminary. Most of us are too centered on sacraments, and consider preaching just one of the things of lesser importance that happens on Sunday, in contrast to the Eucharistic celebration, which is the biggest thing. (While, theologically, I can see their point, it’s also the kind of mentality that leads to moving the candlesticks an inch to the left to maintain the symmetry and scowling darkly at the acolytes because they’re wearing flip-flops under their robes.) These folks are lazy, I thought. They’re not taking this seriously. Many of us are afraid of talking in public, and have never mastered that fear. A few of us, Lord have mercy, think we know better than the average sinner in the pews, and have become pompous and arrogant and judgmental.
Maybe it’s having been dipped in the Baptist tradition for a few years, but I think the sermon is equally important with anything else the church does. That the 10-25 minutes I’m going to stand up and speak are the most important minutes I spend all week.
At Seminary, I read all the books on the homiletics professor's suggested list. He would mention a few more in passing during lectures or in conversation. Read those too. I currently have...um...three books on the art of preaching and three books of sermons sitting on my on-deck shelf.
This week I led chapel for the school. I led morning and evening prayer. I visited the sick and the shut-ins. I consoled the grieving friends of one of our own, who died after a long illness. I prepared for and taught two Bible studies. I scheduled visits for Eucharistic ministers. I bought the card stock for invitations to my ordination as a priest. But this is a week when I’m preaching, so none of that has given me a sense of accomplishment. Nothing has brought peace. The upcoming sermon hovers over all.
I had it in my head that I would have this routine. Based heavily on the advice of Fred Craddock, one of the great teachers of preaching. Monday: exegesis. Tuesday: main point and outline. Wednesday: draft. Friday: revision. Saturday afternoon: delivery practice. Sounds good, seen from afar. Worked, too, while I was in seminary. And then I went to a congregation and got busy. And then the senior pastor went and gave me Mondays as my only day off. Tuesdays are staff meetings, which, to my great irritation, eats half the day. Now my schedule is shot, and I haven’t even started.
Add to it that there’s really no finished product for a sermon. It’s pages of text, printed out and scribbled on, delivered into the open air of a meeting of God’s people. I don’t get to see it land. I don’t see results. When someone weeps or laughs (and when that might be a good thing), I take a mental picture to hang on to. When people write me notes about my sermons, I save them in a drawer. Seriously.
Most awful of all is knowing what I’m daring to do. First the Bible is read, Old Testament, Psalm, Epistle. Then a section of the stories about Jesus are read. The lectionary wizards are pretty good about stringing them together so that there’s a textual crescendo. And then I get up, poor damn fool in a round plastic collar, and dare to speak God’s word in the present day. Sounds crazy.
I’m not such a fool as to think that my words are going to save someone or bring life. That’s Jesus. Got that pretty clear. But that’s not an excuse for not giving it my best effort.
And here it is, Friday afternoon, not a word down on paper. My four-year-old is in extended after-school care, and I'm feeling more and more guilty about that as the clock ticks on. Tomorrow we have things to do. I can't just drop them and come back up here and write. Knowing that other first-year ministers struggle with this doesn’t help. I’ve read their blogs, too. The comments to their posts are usually jokes about procrastination and red-eyed Saturday nights.
Maybe it’s the season. Secular Christmas=be nice to other people. (and spend lots of money on stuff nobody’s going to remember next year) And I categorically refuse to preach banality. Maybe it’s the text. Prepare ye the way of the Lord. Make straight in the desert a highway for our God. The one coming after me is greater than I; I’m not worthy to untie his shoes. Maybe I don’t want to preach repentance.
This is the thing saving me at the moment: advice from Eugene Sutton. Instead of making the preparation for preaching, and the preaching exercise, an expenditure of energy, instead, make it an energizing thing. This is what I was called out to do. This is what God takes delight in. To quote one of my top-5 favorite movies: I believe God made me for a purpose. For [missionary work in] China. But He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.
And I do. Sometimes. But not right now.
29 November, 2005
Advent meditation
Lo! he comes, with clouds descending
once for our salvation slain
thousand thousand saints attending
swell the triumph of his train
Alleluia! Christ the Lord returns to reign.
Every eye shall now behold him
robed in dreadful majesty
those who set at nought and sold him
pierced, and nailed him to the tree
deeply wailing, shall the true Messiah see.
Those dear tokens of his passion
still his dazzling body bears
cause of endless exultation
to his ransomed worshipers
with what rapture, gaze we on those glorious scars!
Yea, amen! let all adore thee
high on thine eternal throne
Savior, take the power and glory
claim the kingdom for thine own
Alleluia! Thou shalt reign, and thou alone.
It’s easy to see Advent as the end of the year. It’s December. The days are getting shorter. Shopping season has been in full cry for at least a month already. But Advent is the beginning of the church calendar. And, like the first of Steven Covey’s now-infamous Seven Habits, we “begin with the end in mind.” In Advent, we prepare, not for the coming of Christ as a baby—that already happened—but for the coming of Christ in the time when all God’s promises will be fulfilled.
Paul’s first letter to the church at Thessalonica is the earliest piece of New Testament writing, dated c.51. He encourages the Thessalonians, “The Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet call of God…and so we will be with the Lord forever.” The earliest piece of the New Testament points not to the past, but to the future—to the fulfillment of God’s reign.
Since then, our understanding of the universe has changed. We know that above the clouds is outer space, that below the ground is the molten core of the earth, and that east and west, north and south, are ways to understand direction on this madly spinning sphere we know as Earth as it hurtles through the dark. But our Advent hymns, like this one, still use Paul’s description of power and majesty. It may not happen exactly this way, and that’s okay. Though Christ has ascended, he is not gone; he will return, with power and with great glory.
And so we say each Sunday, claiming the faith of God’s people for thousands of years: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.
Top 10 reasons to be an Episcopalian
From the home office at 815 2nd Avenue, NYC:
10) No Snake Handling
9) You can believe in dinosaurs
8) Male and female, God created them; male and female, we ordain them
7) You don't have to check your brains at the door
6) Pew aerobics
5) Church year is color-coded
4) Free wine on Sundays
3) All of the pageantry--none of the guilt
2) You don't have to know how to swim to get baptized
And the #1 reason is...
1) No matter what you believe, there's bound to be at least one other Episcopalian who agrees with you.
Attributed to Robin Williams, a card-carrying Episcopalian. No, he didn't invent the phrase "we're like Catholic lite--1/3 less guilt," but he's said it many times.
15 November, 2005
A house of prayer for all nations
On the top of Mount St. Alban, overlooking the city below, is the church of St. Peter and Paul—more famously known as the National Cathedral.
Eighty-three years in the construction, three hundred million pounds of stone, it’s two football fields long. Gleaming smooth marble floors, sparkling stained glass windows, graceful columns soaring up and up and up…you can fit a ten-story building inside the nave. The tallest tower is three hundred feet high, and from its top you can see the whole capitol city. The biggest of the great bronze bells in the tower weighs twelve tons, and, on the quiet of a Sunday morning, it can be heard for miles. Calling out to the city, calling them to come up the hill, calling them to prayer, drawing the city and the nation to know the power and majesty of Almighty God.
The writer of Isaiah was surely imagining this kind of magnificent beauty when he wrote these words: “The foreigners who join themselves to the Lord…who keep my covenant…these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar, for my house shall be a house of prayer for all nations.”
That’s the kind of language that makes you think of grand and glorious plans, noble enterprises. The kind of language that draws your heart and your eyes up, and out, to the power and majesty of Almighty God.
Israel’s self-understanding included taking part in this grand vision. God said to Jacob, in you, Jacob, through you, all the families of the earth will call themselves blessed. Paul says to us that we've been grafted into the tree of Israel. Well, this is how we’re going to take part in the grand vision. To be the shining city on the hill, to build the great temple, the great cathedral, and let the people come.
They were just walking along, minding their own business. Trying to, anyway. Some of them wondering what they’re doing so far from home, feeling uncomfortable in an unfamiliar environment. And then, from behind them, they hear it. “Jesus! Jee-sus!”
Who’s that? She’s not one of us, she’s a local. Man, we just got here. Does anybody recognize her? She didn’t follow us from the last town, did she?
“Lord, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
Hey, what’s up with that? That’s a Jewish phrase, Son of David. She’s definitely not Jewish. I really don’t want to deal with this right now. Just keep walking. Jesus, she’s asking for you, can’t you tell her to…I don’t know. She’s making a scene!
But she came and knelt before him. Right there, on her knees, in the dusty street. Bartholomew scowled and looked away. Andrew was staring very hard at anything except her. Philip wanted to dig a hole and crawl right in.
She is everything Jesus was not. Canaanite. Female. Gentile. Despised. Definitely not descended from Jacob. She has that slight olive tint to her skin that speaks of an ancestry from somewhere off to the west. She speaks a different native tongue, and her accent is harsh and grating to Galilean ears. She’s just about as other as other can be. Oh, and her daughter has a demon.
But there she is, on her knees in front of Jesus. Calling him “Son of David.” Calling him by the name that says that she recognizes him as the heir to the throne of David, the one who brings with him God’s power.
See, the problem with building the house of prayer for all nations is that, every so often, the other nations show up.
And get their dust all over your floor.
And bring their demons with them.
One thing is clear from scripture: God’s mission crosses boundaries. The ministry of the church crosses boundaries. That’s what mission means—sending and being sent across significant boundaries of human experience to bear witness to God’s action in Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit.
This is the end of the season of Pentecost, in which we celebrate the work of the Holy Spirit in the midst of God’s people. On the day of Pentecost, the very first day, the Spirit came with tongues of fire, filled the disciples, and drove them out. And the disciples went out and began to preach in all the languages of the world. Wild, uncontrolled, indeed uncontrollable. Crossing boundaries.
Pentecost reminds us of two big things. First, that mission is not something that the church does, separate from who the church is. As if our identity, our vocation, and our mission were three separate realities. Instead, our identity is found in mission. That membership in the church is membership in God’s action in the world. God’s action that crosses borders and boundaries, that draws the world into covenant relationship with God and with each other.
My house shall be a house of prayer for all nations. Yes, the grand and glorious vision. Yes, the woman kneeling in the dust of the road.
The other thing Pentecost reminds us—and this is the good part—is that Mission is not a good idea. It’s not a task to perform, a duty, an obligation. Mission is what God is up to. Mission is what the Holy Spirit is about, in all its forms and fashions. Mission is us joining in the work of God, enabled by God working in and through us. It is an invitation to a greater understanding of your own identity, an invitation to join with God’s action, God’s work in the world. An invitation to—in the power of the Holy Spirit—cross borders of human experience, bringing God’s grace, and being transformed yourself.
Make no mistake: God is transforming the world. Are you ready?
Eighty-three years in the construction, three hundred million pounds of stone, it’s two football fields long. Gleaming smooth marble floors, sparkling stained glass windows, graceful columns soaring up and up and up…you can fit a ten-story building inside the nave. The tallest tower is three hundred feet high, and from its top you can see the whole capitol city. The biggest of the great bronze bells in the tower weighs twelve tons, and, on the quiet of a Sunday morning, it can be heard for miles. Calling out to the city, calling them to come up the hill, calling them to prayer, drawing the city and the nation to know the power and majesty of Almighty God.
The writer of Isaiah was surely imagining this kind of magnificent beauty when he wrote these words: “The foreigners who join themselves to the Lord…who keep my covenant…these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar, for my house shall be a house of prayer for all nations.”
That’s the kind of language that makes you think of grand and glorious plans, noble enterprises. The kind of language that draws your heart and your eyes up, and out, to the power and majesty of Almighty God.
Israel’s self-understanding included taking part in this grand vision. God said to Jacob, in you, Jacob, through you, all the families of the earth will call themselves blessed. Paul says to us that we've been grafted into the tree of Israel. Well, this is how we’re going to take part in the grand vision. To be the shining city on the hill, to build the great temple, the great cathedral, and let the people come.
They were just walking along, minding their own business. Trying to, anyway. Some of them wondering what they’re doing so far from home, feeling uncomfortable in an unfamiliar environment. And then, from behind them, they hear it. “Jesus! Jee-sus!”
Who’s that? She’s not one of us, she’s a local. Man, we just got here. Does anybody recognize her? She didn’t follow us from the last town, did she?
“Lord, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
Hey, what’s up with that? That’s a Jewish phrase, Son of David. She’s definitely not Jewish. I really don’t want to deal with this right now. Just keep walking. Jesus, she’s asking for you, can’t you tell her to…I don’t know. She’s making a scene!
But she came and knelt before him. Right there, on her knees, in the dusty street. Bartholomew scowled and looked away. Andrew was staring very hard at anything except her. Philip wanted to dig a hole and crawl right in.
She is everything Jesus was not. Canaanite. Female. Gentile. Despised. Definitely not descended from Jacob. She has that slight olive tint to her skin that speaks of an ancestry from somewhere off to the west. She speaks a different native tongue, and her accent is harsh and grating to Galilean ears. She’s just about as other as other can be. Oh, and her daughter has a demon.
But there she is, on her knees in front of Jesus. Calling him “Son of David.” Calling him by the name that says that she recognizes him as the heir to the throne of David, the one who brings with him God’s power.
See, the problem with building the house of prayer for all nations is that, every so often, the other nations show up.
And get their dust all over your floor.
And bring their demons with them.
One thing is clear from scripture: God’s mission crosses boundaries. The ministry of the church crosses boundaries. That’s what mission means—sending and being sent across significant boundaries of human experience to bear witness to God’s action in Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit.
This is the end of the season of Pentecost, in which we celebrate the work of the Holy Spirit in the midst of God’s people. On the day of Pentecost, the very first day, the Spirit came with tongues of fire, filled the disciples, and drove them out. And the disciples went out and began to preach in all the languages of the world. Wild, uncontrolled, indeed uncontrollable. Crossing boundaries.
Pentecost reminds us of two big things. First, that mission is not something that the church does, separate from who the church is. As if our identity, our vocation, and our mission were three separate realities. Instead, our identity is found in mission. That membership in the church is membership in God’s action in the world. God’s action that crosses borders and boundaries, that draws the world into covenant relationship with God and with each other.
My house shall be a house of prayer for all nations. Yes, the grand and glorious vision. Yes, the woman kneeling in the dust of the road.
The other thing Pentecost reminds us—and this is the good part—is that Mission is not a good idea. It’s not a task to perform, a duty, an obligation. Mission is what God is up to. Mission is what the Holy Spirit is about, in all its forms and fashions. Mission is us joining in the work of God, enabled by God working in and through us. It is an invitation to a greater understanding of your own identity, an invitation to join with God’s action, God’s work in the world. An invitation to—in the power of the Holy Spirit—cross borders of human experience, bringing God’s grace, and being transformed yourself.
Make no mistake: God is transforming the world. Are you ready?
An invitation appropriate to West Texas
God willin’ and the creek don’t rise
Bishop Gary Lillibridge
will ordain
Me
a priest
Lord, have mercy on the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church
Wednesday, January 11, 2006, 7:00
St. Thomas Episcopal Church & School
1416 North Loop 1604 East (across from the Wal-mart)
San Antonio, Texas
Y’all come.
Bishop Gary Lillibridge
will ordain
Me
a priest
Lord, have mercy on the One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church
Wednesday, January 11, 2006, 7:00
St. Thomas Episcopal Church & School
1416 North Loop 1604 East (across from the Wal-mart)
San Antonio, Texas
Y’all come.
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