My sermon for August 1

If you go to Trinity, Milton, don't read this!!!

August 1

          If you were here last week, you heard the first part of the story of David and Bathsheba and Uriah the Hittite.

          David sees Bathsheba bathing on her roof top—but his is higher—and he is enamored of her. He invites her to his bed and she becomes pregnant.

        (Tip here--watch where you bathe.)

          Problem was, she was Uriah’s wife.

          Then David tells Joab, his general is the war with the Ammonites, to put Uriah on the front line and fall back so he will be killed.

          And as we learn in today’s reading, Uriah was Killed—by the Ammonites…and David….

          That reading last week began with these words: “In the Spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle.”

          Spring, each year, brings me many thoughts—but ‘going to war’ is not one of them.

          Today I want to talk about conflict and ‘The Other’ and what Jesus tells us about all that.

 

          In David’s time, the Middle East was in nearly constant conflict. And the conflict was always against ‘the Other’—someone different ethnically or in language or racially different from you.

The Hittites were ‘other’ from the Jews. There Kingdom was what is now Turkey. But war and conflict make for strange bedfellows. The Hittites hated the Ammonites more than they hated the Jews.

Remember, Russia, now our adversary, was our Allies in World War II against the Germans and Japan, both of which are now our friends!

But conflict always involves “us” against the “other”.

Our own Civil war was between Free States and the ‘Other’—the Slave States.

For the Slave States, it was ‘us’ against the ‘other’—the Free States.

Conflict is always ‘us’ against the ‘other’.

 

After he married Bathsheba and she gave him a son, King David was visited by the Prophet Nathan, sent by God.

(Just a hint—when it comes to the Hebrew Scriptures that a King is confronted by a Prophet—place your bet on the Prophet….)

Nathan tells David a story about a very wealthy man who has many flocks, who when an unexpected visitor comes, steals the only ewe lamb the only possession and ‘like a daughter’ to a poor man to serve his visitor.

          David is enraged. “As the Lord lives, the man who has done this deserves to die…because he had no pity.”

          Then Nathan drops the bomb: “YOU ARE THE MAN!”

          Then God tells David that he was chosen to be the King over God’s people and you have betrayed me by killing Uriah in secret and I will take all from you and do it in public.

          Pretty dramatic.

          But at least David has the humility and guilt to say to Nathan, “I have sinned against the Lord.”

 

          Who have been “the Other” in our country?

          I’ll tell you, though it gives me pain, our ‘other’ have been people of color.

          Our great nation was founded on two things—and incredible document called the Constitution and the evil of slavery.

          In that remarkable Constitution, slaves were counted as 3/5 of a person in the census.

          The OTHER.

          Our Presiding Bishop and our Bishops have called the churches of the Episcopal Church to be in conversation about “Racial Healing, Justice and Reconciliation”.

          Your Vestry and I, in the near future, will be inviting you into conversation about healing and justice and reconciliation. Those conversations will not be shaming us—they will be calling us to be disciples of Jesus. They will be calling us to look clearly at the history of our nation and to do what we can do to find healing and justice and reconciliation.

          Remember this: Jesus had a very different view of ‘the Other’ than history has had.

          Jesus said, “welcome the stranger.”

          Jesus said, “love your enemy.”

          Jesus said, “let the poor come unto me.”

          Jesus said, “love your neighbor as yourself”, no matter if your neighbor is ‘the Other’.

          In today’s Gospel, Jesus is talking to those he fed in the wilderness about ‘bread’.

          His questioners see bread as something to eat.

          Jesus sees bread as something to ‘do’ and embrace.

          “I am the bread of life”, he tells them

          To receive that eternal bread we must follow him—welcome the stranger, love our enemies, love ‘the other’ in our midst. He calls on us to reflect on all of that and trust in him.

          Not much to ask, really, for eternal bread….Amen and Shalom.

A much better day

I slept really well last night--on and off from 10 p.m. to 9:15 a.m. I got up three times to pee--so I must have been as hydrated as they told me to be. When I woke up I took a shower and my temperature was 98.1.

Ate some breakfast--soft boiled egg and bacon.

Then I went to Trinity, Milton to lead a Bible study on 'reading the gospels side-by-side' and talked with the guy who is their Pastoral Care Counselor. He was a Roman priest until he left to get married and have children. I hear great things about his care of folks in the parish.

A great afternoon there.

Home to talk with the man who is contracting some work we need on our 171 year old house.

Still feeling great.

I think it was the chill and the terrible air yesterday.

I liked today oodles more than yesterday.

 

 

Not a good day

 The AC was on too high last night in our bedroom. I woke up congested and chilly.

It got worse: I had an upset stomach and in the afternoon, diarrhea.

I couldn't eat anything until early afternoon--had one helping of mac and cheese and a bowl of chicken noodle soup for dinner.

I didn't feel well enough to be on more than 45 minutes of my zoom group.

Plus I had to go to Waterbury Hospital to get my Zolaire shots.

My temp there was 90.

My temp is almost always 98.3. The nurse told me to call my doctor.

After an hour nap I did.

"Check your temp. Stay hydrated. Try to relax and eat."

So I did.

My temp just now was 98.6 and I feel a lot better.

But not a good day--I prefer 'good days'!

The good news and the bad news

(I found this in my documents today. I know it's not Lent, I'm a priest, after all. But with polls showing less than 50% of Americans are Christians, it has meaning today.)

 

 

   THE DESERT OF LENT

 

          There is good news and bad news. And both are the same—we are living in the “post-Christian era”.  American culture used to be synonymous with a culturally agreed upon “Christian culture.” That is no longer true. In fact, the Christian church is marginalized in 2012. We live in a “multi-cultural” society. Christianity is no longer the norm. In fact, the Church is now and will be for some extended time, perhaps forever, a remnant in our society. Once again, as in the first and second centuries of the first millennium, we are a “pilgrim people”, the Church lives in the desert—on the edges of society, as a counter-culture.

 

          That is the bad news and the good news.

 

          It is “bad news” because it requires us, as the Church, to give up our arrogance and control of the culture. It is “good news” because it requires us, as the Church, to give up our arrogance and control of the culture.

 

          The GOOD NEWS and BAD NEWS are exactly the same.

 

                                                *

 

          The “desert church” motif is one I appreciate and embrace. The first rule of living in the desert is this: never carry anything you don’t need to survive.  So, here in the desert, the Church has the opportunity to lay down and cast aside much of the flotsam and jetsam that holds us back and pins us down. We have to be a “pilgrim people” who travel light.

 

          At a clergy conference years ago, one of the speakers talked about “the desert church”—the church of the new millennium and this post-Christian era. It is almost like being back in the days before the Council of Nicaea in 325 C. E. (If you had any doubt that we’re in the “post Christian era” notice how the politically correct—like me!—use “C. E.”, meaning “the Common Era”, for dates rather than the good-old “A. D.”,  anno Domini, meaning, “the year of our Lord.”) After 17 centuries of dominating and forming western culture, the church is back in the market place, competing with other faiths, other philosophies, other spiritual systems. It is an exciting and challenging time for the church. I honestly can’t think of a better time to be a Christian. We must live with urgency and passion. We must “travel light”.

 

We have a job to do.

 

Shalom, jim    

 

 

Today

 Went to my first Vestry meeting at Trinity, Milton.

Talkative group. I like that.

My agreement says I will lead Vestry meetings. I haven't done that for years and won't do it there. I like to listen and watch.

It's a great group of people there. Very committed, very dedicated.

I enjoy them a lot.

I'm still struggling to learn names, but the vestry decided today that everyone should wear name tags, even visitors.

That's good for me.

I begin a Bible study on Wednesday.

I hope it will be challenging for people.

It's 'Reading the Gospels side-by-side" and brings into question what people think about the Gospels.

Looking forward to it mightily.

Good day at Trinity, but 3 1/2 hours is about all I can do to talk to people.

Since the pandemic it's just been me and Bern, and though our conversations are rich, they are rare.

I'm talked out and ready for sleep.

Good Night

 I've got to get up at 7:40 in the morning to go to Milton and do church.

I'm very sleepy though it's only 9:42.

I'm going to bed.

I hope you've had a good day.

And I wish you restful sleep and a wondrous day tomorrow.

Good night.

Good night.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Lightening bugs

(this is a post I wanted to share again since I've been watching lightening bugs the last few nights)

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Yes, Virginia, there are lightening bugs in Connecticut

I've just been watching Lightening Bugs--fire flies--in our neighbor's yard. So I decided to reprise the fourth most viewed post of mine ever.

They are blinking, blinking, blinking.





They're out there tonight--the fireflies--in the mulberry tree just beyond our fence where the groundhogs come in the late summer to eat mulberries that have fermented and make them drunk. A drunk groundhog is a wonder to behold!

And the lightening bugs are in our yard as well. I sat and watched them blink for 20 minutes tonight.

My dear friend, Harriet, wrote me an email about lightening bugs after my blog about them. If I'm more adroit at technology than I think I am, I'm going to put that email here.

Jim, I just read your blog and have my own firefly story. Before we   went to Maine,
before 6/20, one of those nights of powerful   thunderstorms, I was awakened at 10PM
and then again at 2AM by flashes   of lightning followed by cracks of thunder - the
 kind that make me   shoot out of bed - and pounding rain. And then at 4:30AM there
was   just lightning, silent. The silence and light was profound. I kept   waiting
for sound. I couldn't quite believe in heat lightning in June,   so I got out of bed
and looked out the window. There I could see the   sky, filled with silent lightning
 bursts. And under it, our meadow,   filled with lightning bugs (as we call them) or
 fireflies, flashing in   response. I've never seen anything like it. I can't remember
 the last   time I saw a lightning bug. And then your blog. Is this, too, part of
 global warming? Are you and   I being transported back to the warmer climes of
 our youth, West   Virginia and Texas? Well, if it means lightning bugs, the future
 won't   be all bad.
I did do it, by gum....

So the lightening bugs are blinking, as we are, you and I.

Blinking and flashing and living. You and I.

Here's the thing, I've been thinking about a poem I wrote 4 years
ago or so. I used to leave St. John's and go visit folks in the hospital or nursing home or their own home
on my way to my home. Somehow the blinking of the fireflies has reminded me of that. So, I'll try, once more
to be more media savvy than I think I am and share it with you.
 

I DRIVE HOME

I drive home through pain, through suffering,

through death itself.

I drive home through Cat-scans and blood tests

and X-rays and Pet-scans (whatever they are)

and through consultations of surgeons and oncologists

and even more exotic flora with medical degrees.

I drive home through hospitals and houses

and the wondrous work of hospice nurses

and the confusion of dozens more educated than me.

Dressed in green scrubs and Transfiguration white coats,

they discuss the life or death of people I love.

And they hate, more than anything, to lose the hand

to the greatest Poker Player ever, the one with all the chips.

And, here’s the joke, they always lose in the end—

the River Card turns it all bad and Death wins.

So, while they consult and add artificial poison

to the Poison of Death—shots and pills and IV’s

of poison—I drive home and stop in vacant rooms

and wondrous houses full of memories

and dispense my meager, medieval medicine

of bread and wine and oil.

Sometimes I think…sometimes I think…

I should not drive home at all

since I stop in hospitals and houses to bring my pitiful offering

to those one step, one banana peel beneath their foot,

from meeting the Lover of Souls.

I do not hate Death. I hate dying, but not Death.

But it is often too much for me, stopping on the way home

to press the wafer into their quaking hands;

to lift the tiny, pewter cup of bad port wine to their trembling lips;

and to smear their foreheads with fragrant oil

while mumbling much rehearsed words and wishing them

whole and well and eternal.

I believe in God only around the edges.

But when I drive home, visiting the dying,

I’m the best they’ll get of all that.

And when they hold my hand with tears in their eyes

and thank me so profoundly, so solemnly, with such sweet terror

in their voices, then I know.

Driving home and stopping there is what I’m meant to do.

A little bread, a little wine and some sweet smelling oil

may be—if not enough—just what was missing.

I’m driving home, driving home, stopping to touch the hand of Death.

Perhaps that is all I can do.

I tell myself that, driving home, blinded by pain and tears,

having been with Holy Ones.

8/2007 jgb

Someone once told me, "We're all dying, you know. It's just a matter of timing...."

Fireflies, more the pity, live only a fraction of a second to the time that we humans live. They will be gone from the mulberry tree and my back yard in a few weeks, never to be seen again. But the years and years we live are, in a profound way, only a few blinks, a few flares, a few flashes in the economy of the universe. We should live them well and appreciate each moment. Really.

One of the unexpected blessings of having been a priest for so long is the moments, the flashes, I've gotten to spend with 'the holy ones', those about to pass on from this life.

Hey, if you woke up this morning you're ahead of a lot of folks. Don't waste the moment.

(I told Harriet and she agreed, that we would have been blessed beyond measure to have walked down in that meadow while the silent lightening lit the sky to be with the fire-flies, to have them hover around us, light on our arms, in our hair, on our clothes, be one with them....flashing, blinking, sharing their flares of light. Magic.)

(What isn't here is one of my worst memories from childhood--catching fireflies and putting them in a jar and letting them die.

I regret that more than most anything I've ever done.

My own fault, my most grievous fault. I am profoundly sorry for doing that.)