St. John the Baptist; Second Sunday of Advent year B, December 7, 2014; The Rev'd Dr. Richard Smith

On the surface, Mark begins his gospel very matter-of-factly: The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.

But looks are deceiving; there’s more going on here than meets the eye. These are words of defiance. When Mark uses the terms “good news”  and “son of God”, he’s invoking terms used by Caesar, terms well-known in the Roman Empire of his day.

Back then, “Good news” was a political term. It was marketing hype that included all the official announcements about the Roman conquests, the victories of the Roman Legions, and their often brutal subjugation of many peoples--including Jesus’ own people, the Jews. Caesar’s good news inspired shock and awe.

In the opening line of his gospel, Mark co-opts this term from the Roman Empire to introduce a counter-story about a different kind of good news, a different vision for how life and the world can be. A vision based on love and mutual service, forgiveness, justice, mercy rather than on subjugation, domination, and brutal cruelty. Mark is writing a counter-story to that of Caesar, and it is an act of treason.

This is also the case when he refers to Jesus as the Son of God. In Mark’s day, that term referred to Caesar. Caesar was the Son of God, and here again, Mark is disrupting the story of the Empire by claiming that the real son of God is not Caesar but Jesus. 

For Mark, Caesar has it all wrong. Being son of God is not about power and control, but about laying down one’s life in love. The punchline in Mark’s gospel becomes clear when Jesus hangs from the cross, having just been executed by the Empire as a criminal. In that moment, a centurion who has just watched Jesus breathe his last declares, “Truly, this is the son of God”. It’s the supreme irony in Mark’s gospel, reflecting an understanding of what it means to be the Son of God that is very different from Caesar’s.

In our context today, we know well Caesar’s version of good news. We’ve seen the recent headlines about the killings of young African-Americans and Latinos by police officers: 

• Eric Garner was a father who was selling single cigarettes to support his family. 
• Michael Brown was a son heading off to college. 
• Tanesha Anderson, a mental health patient, was in need of an evaluation and intervention. 
• Tamir Rice was a twelve-year-old boy playing in the park. 
• Alex Nieto, a student at San Francisco City College, was eating a burrito in Bernal Heights Park while on his way to work.

Each of them killed by police.

Suddenly, as we see the faces of many African-American and Latino mothers, the ancient words of the prophet Jeremiah ring eerily true: “A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are no more.”

And our judicial system has failed them and all of us as Americans. Grand juries in Ferguson and Staten Island have refused to indict the officers who killed Michael Brown and Eric Garner, meaning those officers will never stand trial. Here in San Francisco, in the police killing of Alex Nieto, police have not released a witness list, not released the recording of a pertinent 911 call, not released the police reports, and not released the names of officers involved. This makes an independent investigation impossible. We’re forced to blindly trust what the police tell us. Given that no officer has ever stood trial for killing an unarmed black or Latino in this City, we have reason to be suspicious. It’s reasonable for us to want access to the available facts.

In our day, even in our City, we know well Caesar’s version of “good news” and how it manifests itself. 

In the very beginning of his gospel, Mark introduces the wild man John the Baptist who preaches repentance. Our spiritual ancestors realized that they had, knowingly or not, bought into Caesar’s story, and that if things were ever to change, they would first need to free themselves from that bitter story. They would need to repent, and so they wade into the muddy waters of the Jordan to be baptized by John.

And perhaps this is true for us as well--that, like our spiritual ancestors, we, too, knowingly or not, have bought into Caesar’s story. In our day, each of us in our own way have become complicit in the racism so deeply, often subtly, embedded in our culture and social institutions. And so, for us as for our ancestors, mountains must be leveled and winding ways made straight in order to find a new way. 

Years ago, in the pre-dawn hours of March 12, 1964, Kitty Genovese was assaulted and murdered in New York City. Her screams awakened at least thirty-eight neighbors who heard or watched how, for another half hour, her assailant stalked, stabbed, raped, and finally killed her. No one wanted to get involved or even call the police. The story attracted international attention. It was not just that many identified with the victim and understood that something like that could easily happen to them. Killings happen all the time.

What could account for the public’s fascination with this crime? Many who have studied the case attribute it to people’s deep-seated fear that, had they been there, they would have been the thirty-ninth silent witness. In this crime people caught a glimpse of the “bad Samaritan” in themselves.

The story of Kitty Genovese shines a light on our sense of being guilty bystanders in a cruel world. Today, with the recent police killings of young people of color, we are more aware of the scope of racism, the fact that we are all, especially if we are white, its beneficiaries if not its agents.

It’s not enough to say that we ourselves would never use the “N-word”, would never mug or kill or exploit others. In the war between good and evil, there is no neutral ground. All that is needed for evil to triumph is for good people to stand by silently. Martin Luther King used to say that he was more troubled by decent folks standing on the sidelines than by the racists who threw rocks.

The point is not to get down on ourselves but to awaken from a lonely hypocrisy. We are all caught up in this racist web. We too have bought Caesar’s version of “good news”. Better to feel our solidarity in sin and the need for repentance than to cling to a phony righteousness.

It is often said that the longing for liberation begins when you notice that you are in prison. Getting free to love requires facing up to our part in the sin, the racism, of the world. 

In today’s gospel, our spiritual ancestors wade into the muddy waters of the Jordan River. They come to John dissatisfied and desperate. They come for baptism with a look in their eye that says “God, I hope this works”. The past has become intolerable and they know they can’t go on as they are.

We in this country know that our racist past is no longer tolerable, that we can’t go on like this. And so on this second Sunday of Advent, we are invited to join our ancestors in the Jordan to confess our sin along with them, especially our sin of racism and our acquiescence to it, and to repent, to turn away from the story of Caesar and to gently turn a new way toward life, toward what Mark calls “the way of the Lord”. 

The Sheep and the Goats; Feast of Christ the King; November 30, 2014; The Rev'd Dr. Richard Smith

Ignacio (Nacho) Martin Baro (1942-1989)

Today is the last day of the year on the church’s calendar, and so the gospel speaks about the end times. Our thoughts turn to more ultimate things, ultimate in the sense of having utmost importance. Thoughts about how to measure a life, how to know whether it is successful or not.

It’s like what happens when someone approaches the end of their own individual life. They get a clarity about what is most important. Things that might have once mattered matter no longer. What is most important--for example, the love of family and friends--now becomes very clear; other things fall away.

Sometimes it’s good to look at our own context in which we are hearing the days’ gospel. This year we have a special context for hearing this particular gospel passage, for thinking these ultimate thoughts. I’m aware of three things going on at this moment in the world and in my own heart.

• For one thing, the grand jury in Ferguson is about to announce their verdict in the case of the officer who killed Michael Brown. That verdict that will have broad implications for all of us Americans but especially for the many young brown and black people whose lives too often don’t matter within our larger American culture.
• Secondly, last week, the President removed the fear of deportation from 5 million undocumented immigrants. It was a bold move on his part, and a hard-won victory for immigrants after hundreds of thousands of parents had been torn from their children. Still, it leaves 6 million people still under threat of deportation, including our immigrant LGBT sisters and brothers who remain particularly vulnerable.
• Something else is going on as well, perhaps more personal to me. Last Sunday was the anniversary of the death of a friend of mine. I’ve been thinking of him all week. His name was Nacho. He was a Jesuit priest teaching at the University in San Salvador. Every Friday after he finished his classes, he would travel to one of the poorest barrios outside of town to offer the Eucharist and minister to the people there. Twenty-five years ago last Sunday, early in the morning, several armed soldiers raided the University where Nacho was teaching, dragged him, his fellow priests along with their housekeeper and her daughter into a small garden area and shot and killed them. They did this because Nacho and and the other Jesuits had given themselves heart and soul to the poor of that country who in those days were being rounded up and massacred left and right.

These are just a few parts of our context as we listen to this morning’s gospel, as we try to reconnect once more with the things that matter most in lives.

And, of course, what matters most is love. “In the evening, we will be examined on love,” St. John of the Cross once wrote. In the end, it won’t matter how much money you made, or the color of your skin. It won’t matter whether you looked like Miss America or Groucho Marx. The only thing that will matter is whether you tried to love with all your heart.
When I was hungry, Jesus will ask each of us, did you feed me? When I was thirsty, did you give me to drink? When I was naked, did you clothe me, or sick or in prison and visit me? When I was a stranger, an immigrant, did you welcome me?

These are the kinds of things we must do, what we each try to do. But notice: There is nothing uniquely Christian about them; all people with good hearts do these things whether they are Christian or not.

Still, I think there’s something unique about the way we Christians do them. After watching how Jesus lives and moves through the gospels, after spending time with him in prayer, after drinking in what we can of his Spirit, we come to do these good things in a uniquely Christian way. There’s a unique quality to the way the Spirit of Jesus goes about these good things.

For one thing, there’s a lack of calculation. jesus cautions us not to be like the goats. They’re the ones who say, “Lord, had we known it was you, we would have responded. But all we saw were these poor folks, some of them not looking not very well put together, some of them strangers who can’t speak English, some who don’t smell very good, some with criminal records. Why exactly would we want anything to do with them?”

There’s a Wall Street kind of calculation going on here: I’ll do this to get something in exchange. I’ll invest my time and energy and money caring for someone if it will yield me a good return of one kind or another--if not money, then perhaps some recognition or influence.

So the goats say, “If we had known it was Jesus, we would have responded--because we would have gotten something out of it: a place in the kingdom, a ticket to heaven. But to us, these folks didn’t look anything like Jesus. They just looked like just run-of-the-mill needy people, the kind who can’t repay us. So we did nothing for them.”

So goes the thinking of the goats with their quid-pro-quo calculations that constrict their hearts and short-circuit their love.

The sheep are not like this. They don’t calculate. No quid pro quo. They see people in need--people hungry, in prison, sick, people who are strangers, and they respond. They don’t even know that all along they are doing these things for Jesus. In fact they’re surprised to find that out at the end. Quite simply, they had seen people hurting and in need and so they responded. It’s very simple and pure, the way love is supposed to be.

Be like the sheep, Jesus is urging here. Love with his Spirit.

When Jesus sees a man with a withered hand, he doesn’t stop to do various mental gymnastics, asking whether it’s appropriate to heal on the sabbath, wondering how it will play out among the religious leaders if he were to heal the man’s hand. No, he simply sees this man in pain and he responds, he heals him.

And when Jesus comes upon a leper, one of the outcasts of his day, he doesn’t stop to consider what all the purity codes dictate and what the onlookers might be thinking. No, he just reaches out his hand and touches this man, this leper who probably had not been touched by anyone in years.

Simple. Pure. How love is supposed to be. Without calculation. It’s how Jesus does things.

There’s another unique way the Spirit of Jesus goes about feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and visiting the imprisoned. It does these things without calling attention to itself.

When the religious hypocrites of Jesus’ day did good things, they would blow trumpets, stand on street corners, look glum so everyone would know they were doing some noble and heavy stuff. We may not be quite as dramatic as they, but we can certainly understand the need to be recognized, have our good actions noticed and applauded.

But when the Spirit of Jesus is at work in our actions, the need to gab about our accomplishments is not as strong as the need to be thankful for the grace that enables us, has caught us up and moves us along.

The other day after watching the President’s speech on immigration, I was complimenting a young Latina for the amazing work she had been doing for immigration reform. She said, “It’s all because of my mom who was always there for me and never lost faith that one day I could have a better life if she brought me to this country.” No need to promote herself or her abilities. She knew that what she did was enabled and supported by a grace from outside herself.

Years from now, when I get to heaven, I can imagine running into my friend Nacho. And if I ask him how he managed to end up in his cool new heavenly home, my hunch is he’ll say, “Well, I just tried to love everybody I could, freely, without calculation, and it was no big deal.”

The Ten Virgins Matthew 25:1-13; Proper 27; November 9, 2014; the Rev'd Robert Cromey

The parable of the ten virgins relates that the Kingdom of God is like a wedding banquet – FOOD, BOOZE, DANCING, kissing and great boisterous fun. The five foolish virgins were late to the wedding feast and were not allowed in.

Jesus message is “Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” Jesus means we do not now when God’s kingdom will break in.

 The parable excludes latecomers. I don’t think so. I believe there is nothing you can do or believe that will stop God from loving you.

Jesus, a Jew of his time, believed the Kingdom of God, the end of history would happen in his lifetime. He also believed that if the Jews followed the law then God would save them. If you did not follow those rules, one would be cast out into outer darkness and would not achieve the love and presence of God.

After Jesus’ death the church evolved theologically so that many now believe, as I do, that there is nothing you can do or believe that will stop God from loving you.

But for today I want to focus on  “Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” Jesus means we do not now when God’s kingdom will break in.

Living on the brink. We live on the brink every day. We can die in the blink of an eye, just like that.

Now that I have reached a certain age, 83 and a half, not a day goes by when I don’t thing “I could die, I could day at any moment. Then I go and have another cup of coffee and another piece of pie. I don’t dwell on death I merely note it. I’m not afraid of death, I don’t think about it a lot.

In the mid 1980s, when I led funerals for 75 plus gay young men, I thought of death a lot more than I do now. All of alive from those days remember that death was in the air.

We live every day on the brink of death from a nuclear bomb, a polluted air, water and land. Any bite we eat may kill us.

Immigrants in our own church or neighborhood live on the brink of deportation.

Brittany Maynard, a lovely East bay woman moved to Oregon where she could get assistance in dying. Oregon is a state where physician assisted death is legal, it is called Death with Dignity.  Ms. Maynard was diagnosed with aggressive brain cancer. In the days near her death she suffered from frequent seizures and severe neck and head pain. She chose to take life ending pills and soon died last weekend.

She said in an earlier video, ”I did this because I want to see a world where everyone has access to death with dignity.” There are five states Washington, Oregon, Vermont, Montana and New Mexico. California is not among them

Opponents to Death with Dignity are prevented from passing such legislation from the usual suspects. The Roman Catholic Church, the fundamentalist Christians like the Mormons and Southern Baptists and disabilities rights organizations, to name just a few.

We are always on the brink of new life, new possibilities, new friends, and new paths to justice.

The New Republican dominated Congress means we liberals have to trust the process of election wherever it takes us. I suspect we can handle the new problems and opportunities that will come our way under this new regime.

New babies. New loves, new lovers, New friends, new books, new TV shows.

A few weeks ago well-dressed woman, new in church, said hello to me after the service. I asked her name and she hesitated and said, “Sally. You are the first person I ever said my new name to. I am now a woman. I had the surgery. I felt so safe in this church.”

“I feel so safe in this church.”

Tuesday is November 11. Some of us remember that this used to be called Armistice Day. As kids we had a day off from school. On November 11, 1918 the First World War ended with Germany surrendering to the Allied forces. This war was called the “War to end all Wars.” That was 96 years ago.

The world thought we are on the brink of world peace.

But 21 years later Hitler’s armies invaded Poland and World War 11 began.

When Word War 2 was over, the United States has been waging war ever since from Korea through Afghanistan. Some us bear witness to peace.

People have stood vigil since the beginning of the war in Iraq. The vigil was started by the San Francisco Friends Meeting House. Many Episcopalians have joined in over the years. I stay for a half hour from 12 to 12:30 PM most Thursdays. Feel free to come for as long or short a period as you wish. There are plenty of signs provided by the Quakers. If you do not wish to receive these email, please just let me know. If you wish to add a name to the list, let me know that.

The Vigil takes place each Thursday from noon until 1:00 PM at the old Federal Building at the corner of Golden Gate Ave. and Larkin Street.

For more information about the weekly Thursday Vigil please contact me at my new email address robcro904@gmail.com.

We live on the brink of death but also of life, new life, new dreams, creativity and perhaps even the basic message of Jesus, food for the hungry, justice for all and peace.

The Greatest Commandment; Proper 25, October 26, 2014; The Rev'd. Dr. Richard Smith

The Pharisee in today’s gospel who asks which commandment is the greatest is trying to start a debate. There were over 600 laws. Choosing one as the greatest would pit Jesus against those who had chosen another. And, if all the laws were given by God as devout Jews believed, then aren’t all of them of equal weight? This Pharisee is trying to engage Jesus in a debate, but he is disappointed.

Because Jesus answers not by choosing one or two of the commandments, but by pointing to what undergirds all the law and the prophets, the very reason they were given by God in the first place: as a tool to help us love--love God, love each other.

For Jews, it is the very reason for doing all the things the law requires; for us Christians, it is the very point of our lives. It’s all about love--love of God, love of each other, love of this world. We’re down to basics here.

And it’s important now and then to make this explicit, so we don’t forget why we do all the wonderful things we do.

There’s that touching scene from “Fiddler on the Roof” where Tevya turns to his wife and asks, “Golda, do you love me?” She dismisses him, “Do I what? What a silly question! You must be stressed, maybe it’s indigestion. Go lie down.” But Tevye insists, “Do you love me?” Again, Golde shrugs him off. “For 25 years I've washed your clothes, cooked your meals, cleaned your house, given you children, milked the cow. And you ask, do I love you? Ha!” But Tevya stands his ground, asks a third time “Golde, I asked you a question: Do you love me?” And finally, Golde stops and she thinks quietly and then gives in. “Well, I guess I do.”

And Tevye replies, “You know, it doesn’t change a thing. But after 25 years, it’s nice to know.”

It was very important for Tevye to hear those words from his wife. It was equally important for Golde to hear herself say those words to her husband. It’s important now and then to make love explicit, otherwise we can lose sight of the forest for the trees, the reason we do all the amazing things we do, the love that undergirds them, makes sense of them.

What’s true of Tevya and his wife is true of us at St. John’s. We do many good things here:
In the past year:

• We helped secure healthcare for working people in this City, 
• We helped keep the adult day centers open to make it easier for seniors to stay in their homes.
• We gave valuable input on the needs of LGBT seniors.
• We’ve delivered a quiet but powerful message of peace and ending gun violence in our neighborhood through our Nightwalks and our work to pass Proposition 47, 
• We’ve given out food for as many as 300 people/week through the Julian Pantry, 
• We helped bring water to poor villages in Nicaragua, 
• We’ve worked for immigration reform and helped the children who recently arrived at our border to have more adequate legal representation. Recently, we helped an immigrant family stay together when they were almost torn apart from an unjust deportation.
• Week after week, we’ve stood for an end to war at silent vigils down at the Federal building.
• Week after week, we’ve provided funds to people who are homeless, or needing a meal, or a little extra to pay the rent through the Vicar’s Discretionary Fund.

That’s is a lot for a small parish, and we should be proud of these things. But as this morning’s gospel reminds us, it’s not enough simply to do good things. What’s important is that these good things come from hearts full of love--our love for God, our love for each other, our love for this crazy world. Without love, as St. Paul puts it, we are a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. Without love, we’re lifeless, dry, and empty, simply going through the motions.

Which is why we gather each week at this table to break the bread, sing our songs, and tell the story of Jesus. It’s here that we remember why we do the things we do, tap into the spiritual energy that inspires and supports our life and work together. It’s here that we make explicit what often goes unspoken throughout the week: that what we do comes from love, a love that we ourselves have received and tasted, a love that we now pass on to others.

And it’s from that same love that our parish leaders have invited us these last few weeks to give financially to this community as well. We give money to this community because we love--it’s as simple as that. We love each other, we love this crazy character we call Jesus, and we love this neighborhood and City with all their terrible beauty. We give financially to St. John’s because we love.

And there’s more and more about us to love.

• We have a few little ones who will soon be ready for some formation and spiritual guidance of their own in Godly Play. While we’re getting things ready for them, with a little more money, we could hire an occasional babysitter to free their parents so they could more fully participate with us grownups in the Eucharist.
• Our music has been greatly enriched with Aaron’s good work. The man knows how to play that organ! With a little more money, we could make some needed repairs to make that organ even more beautiful and powerful.
• Our garden continues to be an oasis here in the Mission. We’re grateful for the enhancements that Dennis Turner is making possible in the bequest he gave us when he died. But for those enhancements to happen, we have some preliminary work to do. Some trees need some tending. With a little more money of our own and Dennis Turner’s generous bequest, we can guarantee that our garden remains a place of beauty for us and the people of this City for years to come.
• And with a little more money, we can make some needed repairs to this building, like fixing those “thingies” on the tops of these columns that could come crashing down on your beloved vicar’s head at any moment. Just saying. With a little more money, we could make sure that this space remains both safe and beautiful for our worship and for the many in our neighborhood who rely on it: our friends from Mission Dharma, Friendship House, Mission Graduates, Volxkuche, the Aztec faith community, the Plaza 16 Coalition.

All of these things are within our reach. We can do them if we each do our part to share the financial load, if we are each as generous as possible.

Let me close with an old story from the rabbis. Two brothers owned a farm.  One brother was married and had several children, the other was single.  They shared the work equally, and they shared the fruits of the harvest equally as well, each with his own home, and each with his own barn.
Then one night, the single brother said, "It is not fair that my married brother and I share the harvest equally. He has several mouths to feed; he needs the grain more than I."  So that night, he took a sack of grain from his own barn and walked across the fields to put it into the barn of his brother.

That same night, the married brother said to himself, "It is not right that my brother and I divide the grain equally. When he gets old, he will have no one to take care of him. He needs the gran more than I."  He also took a sack of grain from his own barn and took it across the fields to his brother's barn.

This continued for some time. Each night the two brothers gave away their grain, yet each morning they found it had been miraculously replenished. They never told each other about this miracle.

Then one night, the inevitable happened. As the two brothers crossed the fields, each saw the other, each carrying a sack of grain. They realized at once what had been happening, dropped their loads and ran to embrace each other in laughter and tears.

The rabbis say that, on that very spot where the two embraced, the great temple of Jerusalem was built, because temples and mosques and churches like ours are built on those places where people embrace in laughter and in tears.

This is our story here at St. John’s. At the end of the day, it is love that builds this church.

The Man Without a Wedding Garment; Proper 23, Year A, October 12, 2014; the Rev'd. Dr. Richard Smith

So as you probably know by now, we’re in the midst of a special season in the church year. No, it’s not Christmas or Easter or Advent or Lent. It is rather the fundraising season!

There are many reasons why we members of St. John’s give our money to this parish. Probably we each have our own reasons. But speaking as your vicar, I hope that part of the reason we give to a community like St. John’s has something to do with today’s gospel. Let me explain.

I’m pretty sure this gospel is not about what we think it is about.

There's the old story of the pastor giving a children's sermon, where every week the children anticipate him making a new point about Jesus. This particular week he begins by holding up a stuffed squirrel and asking, "Boys and girls, do you know what this is?" Silence. The pastor asks again. Silence. Finally, one little boy is bold enough to shyly raise his hand and offer, "Gee, I know I'm supposed to say Jesus, but it sure looks like a squirrel to me."

If you’ve heard this morning’s gospel passage before, then something like that was probably happening in your own mind as you heard it again. Jesus, in his parables, often uses kings or lords as symbols for God. So as soon as he begins, "The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king...," we immediately think this king is a metaphor for God.

But watch what happens: The king Jesus describes here is a cruel tyrant, flat out. This cruel king invites some folks to a wedding banquet; when they refuse, he blows them all away, sends soldiers who kill them all and burn their city. When the folks who are left alive in his kingdom hear what this king does to people who turn him down, is it any wonder the banquet hall is filled the second time around? Knowing what he did to the last invitees, would you turn him down?

The first people to hear this gospel story would have easily recognized who Jesus is talking about here. He’s retelling a well-known story, still fresh in everyone’s memory, about how King Herod took over Jerusalem.

You remember Herod, the king who slaughtered all the innocent children when he heard of Jesus’ birth, the one who later beheaded John the Baptist. Herod was a cruel tyrant.

Jesus is here retelling the story of how Herod had taken over Jerusalem. This had involved his joining his family with the ruling Jewish family in Jerusalem. Herod had invited the Jewish leaders and their followers to ratify the joining of these two powers. But they did not like him, they knew he was a cruel tyrant, so they refused. Because they refused, Herod attacked the city, burned much of it to the ground, slaughtered people left and right. Those who survived were brought under his rule by force, as virtual prisoners in their own city.

Today’s gospel is a retelling of that brutal story. Like Herod, the king in Jesus’ story first tries to win over the people by invitation. When they refuse the invitation, he slaughters them and burns the city. Those left alive are then brought into the marriage celebration by an offer they cannot refuse, by force.

But in his retelling of that brutal story Jesus adds a new twist. In his telling, one person refuses to go along with the program, refuses to dance and sing at the king’s wedding, refuses to wear a wedding garment. This man stands there defiant. When the king challenges him for not wearing the wedding garment, the man remains silent. The king then binds him hand and foot, and casts him out into the darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Some scripture scholars say that when Jesus describes this man without the wedding garment, he’s referring to himself. Jesus himself is the one who defies the Herods of this world, stands silent before those who accuse him of treason, offers a different way of living--the way of nonviolence, of forgiving even of one’s enemies, the way of love. As a result he is cast out and killed. This is what the kingdom of heaven looks like when it stands against Herod.
We have two competing worldviews here: that of Herod and that of Jesus. And in today’s gospel we’re invited to choose between them.

The fact is, we’re very familiar with the reign of Herod.

• In Herod’s reign, a young gay man Matthew Shepard, the anniversary of whose death we remember today, gets tied to a lonely fence post, severely beaten, and left to die
• In Herod’s reign, a young African American man in Ferguson, Michael Brown, is gunned down by police when he’s on his knees with his hands in the air.
• In Herod’s reign, immigrant families like Ameli and Nicole whom we met last Sunday are torn apart by unjust laws.

This gospel passage puts the reign of Herod on display and invites us to choose between that reign and the reign of Jesus.

I like to think that here at St. John’s we choose the reign of Jesus, we create a space very different from the reign of Herod. In our best moments:

• Members of this parish have tutored young people from this neighborhood, many of them fugitives from Central America in the 70s and 80s, to make sure they could finish high school and go on to college. The reign of Jesus.
• Later, this parish became a home and a sanctuary to many gay men afflicted with HIV and ostracized from their families and churches. Many of them are now buried here in our garden. The reign of Jesus.

We still do this.

• Every Saturday morning this space is hopping as the Julian Pantry distributes food to people from our neighborhood and City. The reign of Jesus.
• Every Wednesday evening, proud young Native Americans gather here for a healing circle, make their beautiful native costumes, practice their powerful ancient dances. We provide this space to them. The reign of Jesus.
• Twice each month a joyful evening of free food and entertainment is shared by people from our neighborhood and City. The reign of Jesus.
• Last week, as I mentioned, we welcomed Ameli and Nicole, a mother and daughter, both immigrants who fled Guatemala for their lives. Ricardo, Ameli’s husband, is about to be unjustly deported to Guatemala where his life will once again be in danger. His wife and daughter came here to tell their story. We gave them our prayers and some money to fly to see Ricardo one last time before he is deported. They have been living under the cruel reign of Herod. But last Sunday, we showed them a different reign, the reign of Jesus.

Sometimes this happens in ways we’re not even aware of. A few Sundays ago, while I was getting ready for Mass, I saw a young man sitting quietly at the back of the church. I told him, “Hi, my name is Richard,” and told him was glad he could join us. He paused for a moment, then said very emphatically, “I am Will.” We chatted for a few moments, then I ran off to finish getting ready for Mass.

I saw Will a few more times in the following weeks, briefly saying hello each time. Then last Sunday he came up to me during coffee hour just as he was leaving. He said, “I just want you to know that I’ve been coming here while in town on a work assignment. That assignment is about to end, so I don’t know if I’ll be back again. But I want you to know before I go that this is the first place I’ve ever introduced myself as Will.”

Will is a transgendered male from another part of the country where people like him are neither understood nor welcome. While he was here at St. John’s, he looked around, saw who we are and how we are with each other. And, for the first time in his life, he felt safe enough to cross the threshold and introduce himself as Will. It’s what people do in the reign of Jesus.

In different ways we create a space very different from the reign of Herod. But most especially it happens week after week around this table as we gather--from university professors to street people; from beautiful toddlers and their parents to those of us in extreme middle age; from Filipinos and African-Americans to Caucasians and Latinos--all of us together, gathered around this table to tell the ancient stories of our spiritual ancestors, make Jesus present, and break the bread.

There are many reasons why we reach deep into our pockets to contribute our hard-earned cash to this community, and we each have our own reasons.

But ultimately it’s because we know that the alternative reign that Jesus invites us into is not some airy vision detached from the very real world in which we live. It is flesh and blood, brick and mortar. That kingdom happens in time and space. It happens right here, in this space, day after day, week after week.

And we want to be part of it, and we want it to be here for others as well. And so we contribute our money, to continue to make the reign of Jesus happen here, to make it real right here.

Forgiveness; Proper 18, September 7, 2014, The Rev. Dr. John H. Eastwood

Teach me, O LORD, the way of your statutes, *
Give me understanding, and I shall keep your law; *

In my preparation this week for today’s service, I looked at the calendar and remembered

that this Thursday is the thirteenth year anniversary of that terrible day that has come to be

referred to as 9/11. As I studied the scriptures for today the themes of forgiveness, repentance, and

the commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself arose. Those themes we find summed up in

the psalm for today which I chose as text for this sermon. Then I laid all that aside and thought

back to the discussions many of us remember in the days following that terrible time. There was

one conversation that sticks with me far more than anything else. It relates squarely on our texts

The conversation was an onstage TV panel discussion with audience about who made the

attacks and why they did what they did. It was about how we as a nation should respond and what

were our choices in responding. The panel was made up of prominent people from all walks of

life. What makes this conversation memorable is the statement of one panel member and the

response of the audience. He said, “In all the things we have said as a panel, I find there is

something missing. There is another response I think we should consider.” He paused, as if to

summon up some courage, then said, “I think we need to think about forgiveness.” The response

of the crowd was loud and predictable. A very angry and bordering on disgust “No way!” was

heard around the room. And it became a moment I have never forgotten.

I have never forgotten it for two reasons. The first reason comes from our understanding

that our responses to things that happen which hurt us often produce anger in one way or another.

It is our first line of defense as human beings and we will hold onto it as longs as we need to until

something happens to help us resolve and let go of it. The other reason is that there are just some

things we never get over. It may be a loss of relationship or a work suddenly disrupted. It could

be that we may know that we need to forgive someone, or allow ourselves to be forgiven, but the

resentments are so strong ­ whether they are about personal loss, or fear based prejudices ­ that

Unfortunately, we like to dwell on the negative. We tell ourselves over and over that we

should not have been treated in a certain way, or we plot imaginary approaches to revenge.

Shakespeare caught this trait in Brutus’ speech at Caesar’s death. “The evil that men do lives after

them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” In other words, because we are human, we find it

difficult to free ourselves from the negative in past events, and in people, including ourselves. Yet

healthy lives depend on our ability to let go. This is what we need.

The psalmist echoes our need and the path we need to take as he sings:

Teach me, O LORD, the way of your statutes, *

Give me understanding, and I shall keep your law; *

With wholeness of heart, body and mind, the psalmist sings the prayer to God, seeking to

be free of controlling darkness. He seeks to let go of the past that imprisons and move forward to a

future where resentment and revenge and have no place. In response, the lessons today remind us

of the great gift of love we are given and reminds us that forgiveness is the key that unlocks grace-
filled living. In the life of the Church, we see how this is played out. If we look back to the second

century of its existence, “See how these Christians love one another.” was the pagan observation of

the new quality of life among the members of the new sect, alive and growing in Paul’s Rome.

Since those days, the practice of Christian love through forgiveness has always been the Church’s

calling. It is a gift that Jesus gives his church, one not always easy to do. Yet we pray frequently,

sometimes daily, “And forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.” It has not

been an easy path and the stumbling blocks are many.

Sometimes the church is blind to human need, absorbed in power struggles, and

preoccupied with itself. But they do not defeat us, they only make the task of forgiveness more

real. Sometimes newcomers to the church are turned away by church conflict. Another church or a

good place for brunch with friends might be a better alternative. But spiritual growth undertaken

seriously means learning to deal with the dark side of our nature and giving attention to how we as

a community can more faithfully use the gifts we are given. That is why our program here at St

John’s of listening in small groups has great potential for the growth of our own congregation. It is

one way to pursue concerns or issues that would divide us, and to find resolution. And there is

another opportunity for healing. At our healing station here at the Chapel steps, we can ask for

prayer to help our ability to forgive; healing takes many forms, spiritual as well as physical.

If we search the scriptures for our understanding about this love, we can find no better

place and no fewer words than those uttered at the cross. “Father, forgive them for they know not

what they do.” Martin Luther King called this “love at its best.” When Jesus was being plunged

into deep agony, and when human beings had stooped to their worst, God’s Son uttered words, not

of revenge, or thoughts of righteous wrath, but despised and rejected as he was, he cried, “forgive

them!” In him there was no darkness but only light, the light of forgiveness. And that is his great

gift to us. He says here, “forgive”, take it and use it.

In the reconciliation work after apartheid in South Africa led by Archbishop, there is a

wonderfully moving story told by him. His Committee held hearings for the nation in which

people were enabled to come forth to give voice through personal story, to their need to be

reconciled as a community. One time a police sergeant was confronted with some atrocities he had

committed. In one circumstance, he had taken a black man into captivity and shot him, point

blank, in the presence of his wife. Later, the same officer captured this wife’s only son, killed him

and brutalized his body. He admitted that he had done these things in court.

Then the wife and mother who was present was asked what she wanted in this situation.

She said, “I want three things. First, I want the sergeant to know that God forgives him, and so do

I. Second, I want him to come to my house one day each week and sit with me because I no longer

have anyone for a family. And third, I want to come forward now and hug the sergeant to prove

that my love is real.” The sergeant fainted ­ and the courtroom began quietly to sing, “Amazing

They, like the psalmist, had understanding. They understood how important it was to be

free of such evil. They understood, too, how free this woman felt by throwing aside her need for

revenge and accepting God’s forgiveness as a gift to be passed on. Is it possible that we know this

It is amazing what can happen to us when we allow ourselves to be embraced by love. It is

amazing how the grace of forgiveness can free us to walk with a lighter step, help us to walk

across the bridge over the river of pain that too often divides us from each other. Forgiveness is

God’s amazing grace. AMEN

Going into the vineyard; Proper 20, September 21, 2014; The Rev'd Richard Smith, Ph.D.

This past week I visited Ferguson, Missouri. I went to the place where Michael Brown was killed. I talked with one of his cousins, to several young people and mothers, to community organizers, and clergy.

Much of what I saw was not surprising. Since I’m a little cynical in my old age, since I’ve seen before how justice has worked--or not--in similar situations, I was not surprised that their consensus is that the officer who shot Michael will go free, that justice will not be served here.

Nor was I surprised at the many tears, the rage and the huge fear in the various young people I spoke with. Michael Brown’s death has opened up old wounds they have suffered for years from the police, and after the most recent trauma they had just been through with Michael's killing, the tears and rage and fear seemed like healthy and legitimate reactions. So these things did not surprise me.

But here’s what did surprise me. Today in Ferguson, so many people have been lifted out of their own little worlds into something very big.
As soon as he heard the news, a thirty-something white man they call Woo, who had moved away from Ferguson years ago, quit his construction job in Arkansas to come back home and work as a community organizer. “We’re all brothers and sisters,” he said.
A young African-American man named Mel who has had a bumpy ride on the planet--he’s a former gang-banger, a drug addict with a prison record and one failed relationship after another--is now part of a 24/7 encampment witnessing to what happened to Michael Brown and demanding justice. “In my whole life,” he told me, “this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
A woman named Francesca whom I passed in a church hall was on her way to a meeting to learn what mothers like her could do to change the Ferguson City Council and get a new police chief. “This political stuff is all new to me,” she said, “But I gotta learn these things for my daughter’s sake.”
Then there was twenty-two year old Marcellus Buckley, a cousin of Michael Brown who was killed. To deal with his own sadness and anger and that of his community, he began writing poetry. He’s now known as “the poet of Ferguson” and has learned to say very powerfully what people in this small town are feeling.
Over and over again I saw people moving out of their own smaller worlds--their day-to-day concerns of earning a paycheck, buying groceries, doing the laundry--into something much larger, a deeper connection with each other and the larger world, an impulse to make things better for the many young African-American and Latino men who are far too often traumatized by the police. They have stepped into a much larger story, one in which they each have an important role to play.

It’s what happens in today’s gospel, which is a controversial one in a capitalist society like ours.

Laborers are hired, some early in the morning, some at noon, others at the end of the day. What sticks in our craw, and what is no doubt the focus of most sermons on this passage, is that they all get paid a full day’s wage, they all get paid the same. It doesn’t seem fair. If this gospel were trying to lay out best business practices for dealing with employees rather than a spiritual truth, there would be lawsuits.

But hold that thought, that controversy, for another time--and another sermon.

Today I’d like to focus on what’s on the landowner’s mind. For him, what matters is not what you get paid—he knows he’s going to give you everything you need, so that’s not a problem. Nor does he care about where you happen to be in the food chain, how high you’ve made it in the corporate ladder or the hierarchy. His concern is simply that you work in the vineyard, that you not waste your life on things that don’t really matter.

When he sees workers standing idle on the corner, he is pained. “Why are you standing here idle all day? You! Go into the vineyard.”This is a parable about the bigger picture, the larger story in which each of us is invited to play a part. Jesus calls it “the kingdom of heaven”. It is the dream of a new world, a new human reality. It is magnificent and wonderful. And like those day laborers eager to find work, like so many of the people of Ferguson in this critical moment, we, in our deepest hearts, are eager to be part of it. In our better moments, none of us wants to fritter away our precious time on this planet on things that don’t matter. It’s in our DNA. We want to live and live fully. And we want to be part of this great dream that God is bringing about all around us.

Ask people what they want in a job, and meaningfulness looms large. For decades, Americans have ranked purpose as their top priority -- above promotions, income, job security, and hours. Studs Turkel once interviewed hundreds of people in a striking array of jobs. He concluded that for us as for all people, work is a search "for daily meaning as well as daily bread." Yet all too often, we feel that our work doesn't matter. "Most of us,” he writes, “have jobs that are too small for our spirit. Jobs are not big enough for people."

This gospel is meant to bring us to a moment of clarity. It’s the kind of clarity people sometimes get when a tragedy like Michael Brown’s death happens.

In such a moment, we have a chance of getting our priorities straight. Suddenly all business-as-usual chatter in our heads doesn’t seem quite so important anymore. How much money do I make, how much weight I need to lose to fit into my jeans, how I compare with someone else. What does matter is that you are part of something vast and wonderful. You are not standing by idle, wasting your life. No, you, in your own way--in the way you do your job, or care for your friends and loved ones, or take part in the many ministries here at St. Johns’--are helping to build the kingdom of God. This, just knowing this, is all the reward you need. It’s what you were born for.
Because you’ve discovered something: That the Lord of the vineyard has said to you as to the laborers in today’s gospel, as to the people of Ferguson in this critical moment, “You, Go and work in my vineyard.”

Forgiveness; Proper 19, September 14, 2014; The Rev'd. Richard Smith, Ph.D.

OK, did you notice how inappropriately this morning’s gospel reading ends? “And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he would pay his entire debt. So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart."

OK, lighten up! For God’s sake, we’re celebrating a wedding here today. What’s with the harsh and threatening words? What’s with this talk about torture? (I mean, I know these guys met 35 years ago in a leather bar, and they might know a few things about a certain kind of torture…. But still!) Can’t we just lighten up?

This is the gospel reading assigned in our lectionary to this Sunday of the year, and, to be honest, I thought about swapping it out for something a little less harsh, something a little more joyful in keeping with the occasion. But on reflection, and even later after discussing this reading with Richard and Daniel, I decided to keep it, because I think it has a lot to say about marriage and, in fact, about any life lived in communion with others. Let me tell you why...

First, a word about the context in which this passage appears. It follows last Sunday’s reading about what to do when another member of the church hurts or offends you. In that reading we were given a procedure, a set of steps, aimed at reconciliation. Many centuries later these steps were echoed in the Truth and Reconciliation process that Archbishop Tutu presided over in South Africa.

First you have a one-to-one conversation to get the issue out on the table.

If this doesn’t arrive at an understanding and a true reconciliation, then witnesses are brought in to mediate the dispute, to sort out what happened and recommend what can be done to bring things back together.

If this doesn’t work, the larger church is brought in to bring the two people together, probably using more formal and authoritative structures.

If even this does not work, the offending person is seen as someone in need of outreach to bring them back into the fold. In Jesus’ words, they should be seen as tax collectors or Gentiles, people who were special objects of the community’s relentless care.

This is the context for today’s gospel, and it presents one side of the equation of reconciliation. You don’t simply sweep an injustice under the rug. You confront it and work it through in the hope of achieving reconciliation.

Here is how Desmond Tutu described the thinking behind South Africa’s later version of this gospel strategy:

Forgiving and being reconciled to our enemies or our loved ones are not about pretending that things are other than they are. It is not about patting one another on the back and turning a blind eye to the wrong. True reconciliation exposes the awfulness, the abuse, the pain, the hurt, the truth. It could even sometimes make things worse. It is a risky undertaking, but in the end it is worthwhile, because in the end only an honest confrontation with reality can bring real healing. Superficial reconciliation can bring only superficial healing.

So that’s what we heard in last week’s gospel, this strategy for reconciliation.

And in today’s gospel, Peter responds to all this with a practical question: What happens if a brother or sister offends me over and over, how many times must I forgive? He suggests seven times--more generous than what the religious leaders of his day suggested. For them, the max was three.

Peter here is asking about the limits of forgiveness. The same question many Americans still ask all these years after 9/11. At what point is it OK to strike back, to even the score?

Peter is ready to retaliate; he just wants to know when.

Jesus replies that we must forgive not seven times, but seventy-seven times--meaning you never stop forgiving. It’s an ongoing part of your practice, something you do everyday, perhaps every hour.

When someone has hurt us, it often leaves a wound and a painful memory. Over time, the pain from that wound can return, that painful memory can bubble to the surface again and again.

And each time we feel the pain of that wound once again, each time we become aware of that recurring memory, we have a choice to make. We can choose to dwell on it, picking at that wound, turning that painful memory over and over in a downward spiral of sadness and anger and depression. When we go this way, it is not God who is torturing us. It is we who are torturing ourselves by feeding this heavy darkness in our hearts.

We can choose to go this way. Or we can choose to let go, to move on, to forgive.

Sister Helen Prejean, in her book Dead Man Walking, writes about a man whose son was murdered. When he arrived in the field with the sheriff's deputies to identify his son, he immediately knelt by his boy's body and prayed the Lord's Prayer. When he came to the words: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," he realized what a profound commitment he was making. He later told Sister Helen, "Whoever did this, I must forgive them." Though it has been difficult not to be overcome by bitterness and feelings of revenge that well up from time to time, this man said that each day, for the rest of his life, he knows he has to pray and struggle for forgiveness. Not seven times, but seventy-seven times.

Jesus extends his teaching about forgiveness with a story about how to become a forgiving person. We become forgiving this by allowing ourselves to receive forgiveness.  This is something the unforgiving servant in today’s gospel never got…

The master had forgiven his overwhelming debt, but this servant never really let that forgiveness in, never let it transform his heart. How do we know this? By watching how he treats a fellow servant who was indebted to him. He seizes him by the throat, demands that he pay up. Even after the other servant falls down and pleads for mercy, he has him thrown into prison.

If this first servant had fully grasped how profoundly he himself had been forgiven by his master, if he had allowed himself to experience the full force of that forgiveness, it would have transformed him, making him forgiving toward his fellow servant.

Because forgiveness is something that flows. It flows first into us from God and from others, and then it flows through us to others. The person who really knows how to forgive is the one who really knows what it means to be forgiven. The one who forgives little has not really allowed herself to be forgiven.

Once a reporter asked Pope Francis “Who are you? Who are you really, at your deepest core?”  Francis sat back in his chair and thought very hard for a few moments, then he said, “I am a sinner who is deeply loved and forgiven by God.”

That’s how he understands himself and his deepest identity. A sinner loved and forgiven by God.

If it’s true that forgiveness is something that flows, then maybe it’s no surprise that the word most frequently spoken by this man in his sermons and talks is “mercy”. Francis knows very deeply what it means to be forgiven, and that forgiveness flows through him, and makes him in turn merciful to others. Forgiveness flows.

A word about marriage. This sacrament is custom-designed not for gods or angels but for human beings. Without at least some degree of forgiveness, marriage becomes a long-term endurance contest. But with forgiveness at it’s very core, a marriage can conquer any obstacles life may throw at us.

“Forgiveness, “ Henri Nouwen writes, “is the name of love practiced among people who love poorly.” He goes on to say, “The hard truth is that all [of us] love poorly. We need to forgive and be forgiven every day, every hour increasingly. That is the great work of love among the fellowship of the weak that is the human family.”

The fellowship of the weak. I like that. It’s a great term for the church that Jesus is describing in today’s gospel. It’s also a great term for marriage. A fellowship of the weak in which we all love poorly, in which we must all be forgiven and forgive.

A friend once told me a metaphor for marriage. It is like a particular kind of rock polisher. It’s a cylinder that spins around and around at very high speeds. Into the cylinder you drop the rocks, and they collide and crash into each other. It’s a violent way to polish stones. But at the end of the process, the stones are truly and exquisitely beautiful, precious gems, a sight to behold.

That’s kind of how marriage is, this very human fellowship of the weak in which we crash into each other, saying things we never thought we’d hear ourselves say--sometimes words beautiful and loving and romantic, but also at times words of deep pain and hurt and anger. Sometimes it involves confrontation, hard conversations, maybe a little counseling. But the miracle is that in this sometimes turbulent way, we and our spouses and our marriages become beautiful and exquisite.

Don’t take my word for it. Just look at a few of the elder couples in this room: Liz and Ed, Leah and Cecil, Stoner and Darryl, Jack and Judy.

You see what I’m saying: In and through this sometimes turbulent fellowship of the weak we call marriage, we become beautiful and exquisite.

Forgiveness. It’s an essential part of this rapidly spinning and profoundly joyful, sometimes giddy and sometimes turbulent way that we humans love.

After 35 years, Daniel and Richard know a lot about these things. And today in this liturgy of commitment we lift them up and say thank you for speaking to us about God through your life together through the ups and downs of all these years. And we say congratulations, and may all your love and joy and forgiveness continue to flow for you--and for us--for many, many more years.

Going to Jerusalem; Proper 17, August 31, 2014; The Rev'd. Dr. Richard Smith

I’ll talk about today’s gospel in a moment, but first a pop quiz about the world we live in.
Question 1: Which country in the world has the largest percentage of its population behind bars?
The US. With 2.3 million prisoners, the US has more people in prison than China, which has a population four times the size of the US.Our incarceration rate is six to ten times greater than that of the other industrialized nations--and this is despite the fact that the crime rate in the US has dipped below the international norm.Clearly, since crime has been going down over the last few decades, this rising mass incarceration is not about stopping crime or reducing the crime rate. Something else must be going on here.
Question 2: Among racial groups in the US, which group is most likely to commit drug crimes?
Whites, especially white youth.Yet in some states, black men have been incarcerated for drug charges at rates twenty to fifty times greater than those of white men. When they come out of prison, they are often unable to find work, either because of discriminatory laws or because of the stigma of having been in prison.
Here’s how a Latino high school kid in our neighborhood explained it to me. If a white kid is found carrying a small amount of marijuana, the police drive him home, talk to his parents, the parents ground the kid for a few weeks, and that is the end of it. But if a Latino kid in the Mission is found with the same amount of marijuana, he has his head slammed against a wall. Next thing, he’s kneeling on the sidewalk, his hands cuffed behind his back, waiting to be taken to the police station.
As the recent events in Ferguson have brought into bold relief, the practices of law enforcement are often racially charged.
Bonus question: In the City of Oakland, what is the most frequently shoplifted item?
One study lists it as baby diapers. Many poor women of color have had no other way to get the things they need for their children. Many of these women, after being charged with shoplifting, have then been been torn from their children and sent to prison. For stealing diapers for their kids.
This is our context. We are living in an era that some have called the new Jim Crow, the days of racial segregation.
And our context resembles in many ways the context of Jesus where the victims of imprisonment and crucifixion by the Romans were nearly always the social outcasts and members of the lowest classes. These were often the same ones rejected by the religious authorities as unclean, as sinners.
It was with these outcasts that Jesus threw in his lot, hanging out with them, even eating and drinking with them. This triggered opposition, it outraged the religious and political authorities. Because Jesus so freely hung out with the outcasts of his day, many wanted to see him put to death.
In today’s gospel, Jesus ups the game. “I must go up to Jerusalem,” he tells the disciples. This is an imperative for him, and it is not trivial. 
Jerusalem is where the temple is; it is the very center of both religious and political authority for the Jews. It is the abuse of that very authority that Jesus has challenged in word and deed throughout his ministry. “Hypocrites,” he calls the religious leaders. “Whited sepulchres, you lay heavy burdens on peoples shoulders but will not move a finger to lift them.”
Jesus knows his words and actions have provoked opposition.
Jesus can do the math here. And in today’s gospel he knows that if he goes to Jerusalem, he will be tortured and killed. Heavy stuff. Nevertheless: “I must go to Jerusalem,” Jesus tells his disciples. This is, for him, an imperative.
A story. You may have heard the story about the beautiful village alongside a river. It was lovely and peaceful, with lovely homes and beautiful little parks and plazas. Great place to raise a family. And one day, something horrible began to happen. When they looked out over the river they saw human bodies floating down. Some of them were half alive. 
They brought them ashore and began nurturing them back to life. Others were already dead. They gave them a respectful burial. The next day, the same thing happened, more bodies. They began caring for those still alive, and buried those already dead. Next day and the day after, same thing.
This kept happening until one day, one of the townspeople said, “Maybe it’s not enough for us to care for these people as they are carried down the river. Maybe we also need to go to the top of the river to find out what’s killing all these people in the first place.”
I wonder if this is what Jesus is about in today’s gospel as he turns his face toward Jerusalem, the center of the very religious and political oppression that had been crushing the spirits of so many of the people of his day. “I must go up to Jerusalem,” he tells his disciples, I must go to the top of the river.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t stop there. When Peter takes him aside to argue with him--“Lord! This must never happen to you!”--Jesus tells him, “Get behind me, Satan!”
If some scholars are correct, what Jesus is saying to Peter in that moment is, “Peter, come and follow me, get behind me. Right now you’re following the way of the world, looking at this in the ordinary human way. But this is not the way of humans who are in touch with God.” 
What Peter needs is an alternate way of thinking and seeing. “Come,” Jesus says to Peter, “get behind me, follow me.” 
To make matters worse, Jesus adds that there will be consequences if he does this. He, like Jesus, will provoke opposition. He, like Jesus, might end up carrying a cross. 
What would it mean for Jesus to give that same invitation to us in our own day, in our own context, an invitation to follow him to Jerusalem, and possibly carrying a cross?
What would it mean for us to follow him to Jerusalem in these days of mourning the deaths of young black men, of the mass incarceration of people of color? What would it mean for us, in our own context, to go with him to Jerusalem? 
What would it mean for you as an individual in the context of your own life--your job, your relationships, and skills and pleasures and responsibilities. What would it mean for you to follow Jesus to Jerusalem?
What would it mean for us as a faith community to follow Jesus to Jerusalem?
I have an idea about the latter, for us as a community. It is of a piece with the Nightwalks many of us have done to reduce the gun violence here in the Mission. 
On the November ballot, the Safe Neighborhoods and Schools Act will appear. It’s called Prop 47. This initiative will make a big difference to many families here in the Mission, the Bayview, and other poor neighborhoods in the City. It was developed by our own District Attorney George Gascon. It has the support of many others in law enforcement and all the major faith leaders including our bishop are behind it. We at St. John’s could help it pass.
Prop 47 changes the lowest-level, nonviolent crimes, such as simple drug possession and petty theft, from felonies to misdemeanors. Since we won’t have to spend millions keeping all these people in prison, we’ll be able to redirect the savings to schools and crime prevention. I mentioned the moms in Oakland imprisoned for shoplifting diapers for their kids. This measure would return them to their kids and provide them with needed services to start over.
St. John’s can play a key role in passing this initiative, even though it might mean pushing the envelope a bit and moving slightly outside our comfort zones to do phone banking, voter registration, canvassing neighborhoods, meeting with various public officials to gain their support, talking about the initiative with our friends, financially supporting the effort. Even just a few volunteer hours can make a big difference. 
More details as they become available. For now, I just wanted to alert you to this possibility. I’ll be including information about Prop 47 in the weekly parish email, and I hope we can have a forum or two to kick it around among ourselves. For now, faith leaders throughout California are inviting us to be part of this important work, and I throw it out as one possible way for us, in our own context, to accompany Jesus on the way to Jerusalem.
However we choose to respond, the invitation of Jesus remains--to follow him to Jerusalem, even though it might mean carrying a cross as it did for him. 
This morning, Jesus the teacher beckons us as he did Peter to get back into following him. He wants to remind us of the paradox at the very heart of our faith as his disciples: that through this journey that sometimes involves carrying a cross, we find the deeper life that sustains us; we find resurrection.

THE THIRTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST, PR 18, September 7, 2014, The Rev. John H. Eastwood

Teach me, O LORD, the way of your statutes,
Give me understanding, and I shall keep your law; 

In my preparation this week for today’s service, I looked at the calendar and remembered that this Thursday is the thirteenth year anniversary of that terrible day that has come to be referred to as 9/11. As I studied the scriptures for today the themes of forgiveness, repentance, and the commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself arose. Those themes we find summed up in the psalm for today which I chose as text for this sermon. Then I laid all that aside and thought back to the discussions many of us remember in the days following that terrible time. There was one conversation that sticks with me far more than anything else. It relates squarely on our texts. The conversation was an onstage TV panel discussion with audience about who made the attacks and why they did what they did. It was about how we as a nation should respond and what were our choices in responding. The panel was made up of prominent people from all walks of life. What makes this conversation memorable is the statement of one panel member and the response of the audience. He said, “In all the things we have said as a panel, I find there is something missing. There is another response I think we should consider.” He paused, as if to summon up some courage, then said, “I think we need to think about forgiveness.” The response of the crowd was loud and predictable. A very angry and bordering on disgust “No way!” was heard around the room. And it became a moment I have never forgotten.

I have never forgotten it for two reasons. The first reason comes from our understanding that our responses to things that happen which hurt us often produce anger in one way or another.  It is our first line of defense as human beings and we will hold onto it as longs as we need to until something happens to help us resolve and let go of it. The other reason is that there are just some things we never get over. It may be a loss of relationship or a work suddenly disrupted. It could be that we may know that we need to forgive someone, or allow ourselves to be forgiven, but the resentments are so strong ­ whether they are about personal loss, or fear based prejudices ­ that Unfortunately, we like to dwell on the negative. We tell ourselves over and over that we should not have been treated in a certain way, or we plot imaginary approaches to revenge.

Shakespeare caught this trait in Brutus’ speech at Caesar’s death. “The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” In other words, because we are human, we find it difficult to free ourselves from the negative in past events, and in people, including ourselves. Yet healthy lives depend on our ability to let go. This is what we need.

The psalmist echoes our need and the path we need to take as he sings:

Teach me, O LORD, the way of your statutes,
Give me understanding, and I shall keep your law; 

With wholeness of heart, body and mind, the psalmist sings the prayer to God, seeking to be free of controlling darkness. He seeks to let go of the past that imprisons and move forward to a future where resentment and revenge and have no place. In response, the lessons today remind us of the great gift of love we are given and reminds us that forgiveness is the key that unlocks grace-filled living. In the life of the Church, we see how this is played out. If we look back to the second century of its existence, “See how these Christians love one another.” was the pagan observation of the new quality of life among the members of the new sect, alive and growing in Paul’s Rome.

Since those days, the practice of Christian love through forgiveness has always been the Church’s calling. It is a gift that Jesus gives his church, one not always easy to do. Yet we pray frequently, sometimes daily, “And forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.” It has not been an easy path and the stumbling blocks are many.

Sometimes the church is blind to human need, absorbed in power struggles, and preoccupied with itself. But they do not defeat us, they only make the task of forgiveness more real. Sometimes newcomers to the church are turned away by church conflict. Another church or a good place for brunch with friends might be a better alternative. But spiritual growth undertaken seriously means learning to deal with the dark side of our nature and giving attention to how we as a community can more faithfully use the gifts we are given. That is why our program here at St John’s of listening in small groups has great potential for the growth of our own congregation. It is one way to pursue concerns or issues that would divide us, and to find resolution. And there is another opportunity for healing. At our healing station here at the Chapel steps, we can ask for prayer to help our ability to forgive; healing takes many forms, spiritual as well as physical.

If we search the scriptures for our understanding about this love, we can find no better place and no fewer words than those uttered at the cross. “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” Martin Luther King called this “love at its best.” When Jesus was being plunged into deep agony, and when human beings had stooped to their worst, God’s Son uttered words, not of revenge, or thoughts of righteous wrath, but despised and rejected as he was, he cried, “forgive them!” In him there was no darkness but only light, the light of forgiveness. And that is his great gift to us. He says here, “forgive”, take it and use it.

In the reconciliation work after apartheid in South Africa led by Archbishop, there is a wonderfully moving story told by him. His Committee held hearings for the nation in which people were enabled to come forth to give voice through personal story, to their need to be reconciled as a community. One time a police sergeant was confronted with some atrocities he had committed. In one circumstance, he had taken a black man into captivity and shot him, point blank, in the presence of his wife. Later, the same officer captured this wife’s only son, killed him and brutalized his body. He admitted that he had done these things in court.

Then the wife and mother who was present was asked what she wanted in this situation. She said, “I want three things. First, I want the sergeant to know that God forgives him, and so do I. Second, I want him to come to my house one day each week and sit with me because I no longer have anyone for a family. And third, I want to come forward now and hug the sergeant to prove that my love is real.” The sergeant fainted ­ and the courtroom began quietly to sing, “Amazing They, like the psalmist, had understanding. They understood how important it was to be free of such evil. They understood, too, how free this woman felt by throwing aside her need for revenge and accepting God’s forgiveness as a gift to be passed on. Is it possible that we know this It is amazing what can happen to us when we allow ourselves to be embraced by love. It is amazing how the grace of forgiveness can free us to walk with a lighter step, help us to walk across the bridge over the river of pain that too often divides us from each other. Forgiveness is God’s amazing grace. AMEN

Going to Jerusalem; Proper 17, Year A; August 31, 2014; The Rev'd Richard Smith, Ph.D.

I’ll talk about today’s gospel in a moment, but since we're starting another school year, let me give you a pop quiz about the world we live in.

Question 1: Which country in the world has the largest percentage of its population behind bars?

Answer: The US. With 2.3 million prisoners, the US has more people in prison than China, which has a population four times the size of the US.

Our incarceration rate is six to ten times greater than that of the other industrialized nations--and this is despite the fact that the crime rate in the US has dipped below the international norm.

Clearly, since crime has been going down over the last few decades, this rising mass incarceration is not about stopping crime or reducing the crime rate. Something else must be going on here.

Question 2: Among racial groups in the US, which group is most likely to commit drug crimes?

Answer: Whites, especially White youth.

Yet in some states, Black men have been incarcerated for drug charges at rates twenty to fifty times greater than those of White men. We now incarcerate a higher percentage of Black people than were incarcerated at the height of apartheid in South Africa. When these young men come out of prison,  if they are still young then, they are often unable to find work, either because of discriminatory laws or because of the stigma of having been in prison. And they are not allowed to vote.

Here’s how a Latino high school kid in our neighborhood explained the racial disparity to me. If a White kid is found carrying a small amount of marijuana, the police drive him home, talk to his parents, the parents ground the kid for a few weeks, and that is the end of it. But if a Latino kid in the Mission is found with the same amount of marijuana, he has his head slammed against a wall. Next thing, he’s kneeling on the sidewalk, his hands cuffed behind his back, waiting to be taken to the police station.

As the recent events in Ferguson have brought into bold relief, the practices of law enforcement are often racially charged.

Bonus question: In the City of Oakland, what is the most frequently shoplifted item?

Answer: One study lists it as baby diapers. Many poor women of color have had no other way to get the things they need for their children. Many of these women, after being charged with shoplifting diapers, have then been been torn from their children and sent to prison. For stealing diapers for their kids.

Think about it: None of the Wall Street executives who caused the global economic meltdown have gone to prison so far, but poor moms in Oakland are imprisoned for shoplifting diapers for their kids.

This is our context. We are living in an era that some have called the new Jim Crow, referring back to the days of racial segregation.

And our context resembles in many ways the context of Jesus where the victims of imprisonment and crucifixion by the Romans were nearly always the social outcasts and members of the lowest classes. These were often the same ones rejected by the religious authorities as unclean, as sinners.

It was with these outcasts that Jesus threw in his lot, hanging out with them, even eating and drinking with them. This triggered opposition, it outraged the religious and political authorities. Because Jesus so freely hung out with the outcasts of his day, many wanted to see him put to death.

In today’s gospel, Jesus leans into the opposition. “I must go up to Jerusalem,” he tells the disciples. This is an imperative for him, and it is not trivial.

Jerusalem is where the temple is; in the time of Jesus, it is the very center of both religious and political authority for the Jews. It is the abuse of that very authority that Jesus has challenged in word and deed throughout his ministry. “Hypocrites,” he calls the religious leaders. “Whited sepulchers, you lay heavy burdens on peoples shoulders but will not move a finger to lift them.”

Jesus knows his words and actions have provoked opposition. He can do the math here. And in today’s gospel he knows that if he goes to Jerusalem, he will be tortured and killed. Heavy stuff. Nevertheless: “I must go to Jerusalem,” Jesus tells his disciples. This is, for him, an imperative.

A story. You may have heard this one about the beautiful village alongside a river. It was lovely and peaceful, with lovely homes and beautiful little parks and plazas. Great place to raise a family. And one day, something horrible began to happen. When they looked out over the river they saw human bodies floating down. Some of them were half alive and these they brought ashore and began nurturing them back to life. Others were already dead and these they gave a respectful burial. The next day, the same thing happened, more bodies. They began caring for those still alive, and buried those already dead. Next day and the day after, same thing.

This kept happening until one day, one of the townspeople said, “Maybe it’s not enough for us to care for these people as they are carried down the river. Maybe we also need to go to the top of the river to find out what’s killing all these people in the first place.”

I wonder if this is what Jesus is about in today’s gospel as he turns his face toward Jerusalem, the center of the very religious and political oppression that had been crushing the spirits of so many of his own people. “I must go up to Jerusalem,” he tells his disciples, I must go to the top of the river.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t stop there. When Peter takes him aside to argue with him--“Lord! This must never happen to you!”--Jesus tells him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

If some scholars are correct, what Jesus is saying to Peter in that moment is, “Peter, come and follow me, get behind me. Right now you’re following the way of the world, looking at this in the ordinary human way. But this is not the way of humans who are in touch with God.” 

What Peter needs is an alternate way of thinking and seeing. “Come,” Jesus says to Peter, “get behind me, follow me.” 

To make matters worse, Jesus adds that there will be consequences if he does this. Peter, like Jesus, will provoke opposition. He, like Jesus, just might end up carrying a cross. 

What would it mean for Jesus to give that same invitation to us in our own day, in our own context, an invitation to follow him to Jerusalem, and possibly to carry a cross?

What would it mean for us to follow him to Jerusalem in these days when we see bodies floating down the river, and mourn the deaths of young Black men, and witness the mass incarceration of people of color? What would it mean for us, in our own context, to go with him to Jerusalem? 

What would it mean for you as an individual in the context of your own life--your job, your relationships, and skills and pleasures and responsibilities. What would it mean for you to follow Jesus to Jerusalem?

What would it mean for us as a faith community to follow Jesus to Jerusalem?

I have an idea about the latter, for us as a community. It is of a piece with the Nightwalks many of us have done to reduce the gun violence here in the Mission. 

On the November ballot, the Safe Neighborhoods and Schools Act will appear. It’s called Prop 47. This initiative will make a big difference to many families here in the Mission, the Bayview, and other poor neighborhoods in the City. It was developed by our own District Attorney George Gascon. It has the support of many others in law enforcement and all the major faith leaders including our bishop are behind it. We at St. John’s could help it pass.

Prop 47 changes the lowest-level, nonviolent crimes, such as simple drug possession and petty theft, from felonies to misdemeanors. Since we won’t have to spend millions keeping all these people in prison, we’ll be able to redirect the savings to schools and crime prevention. I mentioned the moms in Oakland imprisoned for shoplifting diapers for their kids. This measure would return them to their kids and provide them with needed services to start over.

St. John’s can play a key role in passing this initiative, even though it might mean pushing the envelope a bit and moving slightly outside our comfort zones to do phone banking, voter registration, canvassing neighborhoods, meeting with various public officials to gain their support, talking about the initiative with our friends, financially supporting the effort. Even just a few volunteer hours can make a big difference. 

I'll offer more details as they become available. For now, I just wanted to alert you to this possibility. I’ll be including information about Prop 47 in the weekly parish email, and I hope we can have a forum or two to kick it around among ourselves. For now, faith leaders throughout California are inviting us to be part of this important work, and I throw it out as one possible way for us, in our own context, to accompany Jesus on the way to Jerusalem.

However we choose to respond, the invitation of Jesus remains--to follow him to Jerusalem, even though it might mean carrying a cross as it did for him. 

This morning, Jesus the teacher beckons us as he did Peter to get back into following him. He wants to remind us of the paradox at the very heart of our faith as his disciples: that through this journey that sometimes involves carrying a cross, we find the deeper life, the deeper joy that sustains us; we find resurrection.

St. Mary the Virgin, 2014, Mr. Timm Dobbins

He-Qi, the Annunciation

May my thoughts and words today be acceptable to God. Amen

An Episcopal priest died and was waiting in line at the Pearly Gates. Ahead of him is a tough looking fellow with tattoos, blue jeans, and a leather jacket. St. Peter says to the man, “Who are you, so I’ll know whether or not to let you into the Kingdom of Heaven?” The man says, “I’m Tom Hitchens, and I drove a cab in New York City.” St. Peter looks at his list, and says, “Take this silk robe and gold staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven. NEXT!”

The priest steps up and sticks out his chest very proudly, and says, “I am the Reverend Andrew Simon Ellington, Rector of Christ Church, Albany for 42 years!” St. Peter again checks his list, and says, “Take this flour sack robe and hickory staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

The priest says, “Hold on, that man was just a taxi driver, why did he get a silk robe and gold staff?”
St. Peter says, “When you preached, people fell asleep. When he drove, people prayed!”

I hope my words today will not have you sleeping.

I actually wrote three sermons for today. The first followed the lectionary for this Sunday, the 17th and although I thought it an acceptable sermon, it just didn’t move me when I read it aloud. I asked a Deacon, whose preaching I love, for some advice on what to say when one is asked to preach, and the lectionary just doesn’t speak to them, but they have a sermon they would like to preach. She said to always preach the sermon that’s in your heart, and find a way to make the lectionary fit! So I wrote a second sermon, which I loved very much and worked the lectionary in. BUT, last Sunday, I found out that we were not using the lectionary for the 17th had to write a third sermon for today. Let this be a lesson that if Fr. Richard asks you to give a homily, always check which readings will be used for the date before you say yes! Since you no longer have to feed the parking meters on Sundays, I contemplated delivering all three sermons, but I know you, and none of you have been bad enough to deserve that!

Raise your hand if you have ever been a teenager. Now keep your hand raised if you did everything your parents told you to do as a teenager without questioning why. That’s about what I expected.

Today we celebrate a very special teenage girl named Mirium, or as we know her, Mary. As she entered history, she was just a normal country girl in a backwater village, still living with her parents and biding her time to be married to an older man, a carpenter named Yusef. On just another average day, when she was probably at her chores, maybe sorting lentils for a dinner stew, or spinning some wool into cloth, or hanging up the family laundry, something absurd and shocking happened to her. As she looked up from her work in the house, she was startled by a stranger standing before her.

Don’t you imagine she was even more than startled? After all, young girls were never in the company of a man without being chaperoned. That was strictly forbidden in Jewish society!

The stranger shocks her with the salutation, “Greetings most favored one! The Lord is with you.” One minute she is doing her work, daydreaming about what her life will be like outside her parents house, and what it will be like as Yusef’s wife, and this apparition just pops in and says she is ‘most favored.’ Luke says she was ‘deeply troubled’ to hear this. I think I would be too! It might be like having your phone ring one evening as you’re watching TV, and a voice on the line says “Hello, you are VERY special, and God has a huge job for you that’s going to make you world famous!” I imagine most of us would hang up immediately. But Mary kept on listening to the message.

The angel Gabriel could plainly see that Mary was troubled, so he told her not to be afraid of this greeting. It is only the prelude to the message that she is soon going to be the most favored woman in
the world. That in fact, people for centuries afterwards will call her blessed among women. How on earth did she wrap her teenage mind around THIS news?

Then Gabriel tells Mary she’s going to have a son who will be great, and eventually be ‘King over Israel forever.’ How would you react if someone appeared in your house and gave you news like that on a Thursday afternoon? Don’t you suppose this information set of a chain of questions in Mary’s mind about who is this Gabriel, how he knows these things, and how on earth is she going to bear a son when she’s only just engaged to Yusef? And that last question would be the scariest to Mary, because a girl who got pregnant before marriage was libel to be put out of her family and community at best, or stoned to death at worst.

So it would be only logical that Mary had a whirlwind of thoughts and questions, with confusion, wonder and excitement crowding in as well. But somehow, for some reason, she had clarity and presence enough in her stunned condition to say to Gabriel, “Here I am. I am the Lord’s servant; as you have spoken let it be.” BAM, the biggest unquestioning and unequivocal YES to God in all Judeo-Christian history, and it comes from a teenaged girl!

I usually don’t trust people who say YES to God that readily. As Susan B. Anthony said, “I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do, because I notice it always coincides with their own desires.” I’ve seen too many televangelists bilk people out of their money, too many self-avowed Christians who are so full of hate that I can’t see where they have any room for God, too many people who have blessed lives but don’t want others to have the same blessings. Many people only say yes to God as a bargaining chip, hoping to get the best out of the deal. God, if you find me a job, if you heal my daughter, if you bring us rain, I promise I will....

But Mary wasn’t asking what she would get out of it from God. She was pure enough and simple enough to decide that if God was calling her to do this, then she would honor that call, and do as God wished. And deciding to do so as quickly as she did must indicate that her trust in God’s plan and providence was much greater than her fear of losing her reputation, family, and perhaps her life. It was a decision of ‘so be it’, given whole-heartedly. The decision to give in to God’s will is one that most of us wrestle with all our lives.

Along with you, I say every week that I want to follow God and do God’s will via The Lord’s Prayer, but the rest of the week, it’s a struggle between my will and God’s; whether or not to sleep in on a Saturday morning instead of volunteer at the pantry, to have a nice lunch with a friend on Thursday instead of standing in the windy cold outside the Federal Building with a “No More Wars” sign in my hand, to watch that movie from Netflix instead of walking around the Mission at night saying I want the gun violence to end.

Our minds are constantly bombarded with messages about what we need to buy to be happy, what we need to drive to be thought well of, what we need to eat to be satisfied or the ‘right shape.’ And we don’t often stop in the midst of all this noise to ask what it is God wants. It takes some quiet and prayer in the midst of all the distracting noise to discern what God wants us to do in the world, to be for the world. And if we sometimes think we’ve gotten a clear message, we are sure it must not be quite right because it requires some action of us that we’d rather not do.

The question of what we are to build with our lives as we answer the clear calls to justice, is addressed in a poem called “So?” by the late Cal Berkeley professor Leonard Nathan.

So you aren’t Tolstoy or Saint Francis
or even a well-known singer
of popular songs and will never read Greek
or speak French fluently,
will never see something no one else
has seen before through a lens
or with the naked eye.
You’ve been given just the one life
in this world that matters
and upon which every other life
somehow depends as long as you live,
and also given the costly gifts of hunger,
choice, and pain with which to raise
a modest shrine to meaning.

God’s message and request to Mary certainly required of her hunger, choice, and pain in plenty. Her entire life would become God’s living parable of surrender to, and acceptance of, a higher calling . Being the theotokos, the literal bearer of God’s eternal love would tax anyone to the depths of their soul, as Mary would find out towards the end of that job. And that a young, inexperienced girl could say YES to God shows us that all of us, deep down, are capable of doing the same. Thank you Blessed Mary for being that example for all us. Amen