Pentecost; May 24, 2015; The Rev'd Richard Smith, Ph.D.

Here’ a story by theologian Diana Butler Bass:

As the end of Lent 2011 neared, I went to my local bank to deposit some checks. Three tellers were working that morning, all women. One woman wore a pale ivory hijab as a head covering; the second woman's forehead bore the dark red mark known as a bindi; the third woman had a small crucifix hanging around her neck.
I walked up and laughed. "You all look like the United Nations of banking!"
They exchanged glances and smiled.
"You are so right," said the Hindu woman. "You should meet our customers! But we cover a lot of languages between the three of us."
It was a quiet morning. They wanted to talk. I said something about being a vegetarian for Lent. The Hindu woman wanted to give me some family recipes; the Muslim woman wanted to know more about Christian fasting practices.
I shared how we had dedicated Lent that year to eating simply and exploring vegetarian foods from different parts of the world. "When we eat Indian food," I explained, "we try to talk about the church in India or pray for people in India. The same for African and Asian and Latin American countries."
"What a wonderful idea!" the Muslim woman said. "We need to love our traditions and be faithful to our God; but we teach the beauty and goodness of the other religions too."
Her Hindu colleague chimed in, "That is the only way to peace ­­ to be ourselves and to create understanding between all people."
... I glanced at my watch. I needed to get to an appointment. I thanked them for their insights.
"I would wish you a Happy Easter," I said hoping they would hear the sincerity in my voice, "but, instead, I wish you both peace."
I started to walk away when the Muslim teller said to me, "Peace of Jesus the Prophet. And a very happy Easter to you."
And the Hindu woman called out, "Happy Easter!"
When I reached my car, I realized that I was crying. I had only rarely felt the power of the resurrected Jesus so completely in my soul.

What she describes, what brought tears to her eyes, was a Pentecost moment. It was the experience of the early disciples in the first reading when people of different languages and ethnicities and parts of the world connected. A Pentecost moment. It’s what we sometimes find here at St. John’s where Berkeley professors and physicians become friends with­­ -- and stand around this table with­­ -- people for whom simple day­-to-­day survival is often a struggle.

Gathering what has been dispersed. Connecting what is normally fractured.

This is the work of the Spirit. It is what Jesus, a Jew, called Tikkun Olam. The ancient Jewish story is that at the dawn of Creation, when light was created, something happened to shatter that light. It exploded into small shards that scattered throughout the world. And the task of every Jew, a task that Jesus took upon himself as a Jew, was to gather the divine spark found in every human being, from every corner of the world, back into one great light, gathering back into one what had been shattered. Tikkun Olam. Repairing the world. It is the work of the Spirit at Pentecost.

What gets in the way of this gathering, this great healing work? Jesus speaks about this in today’s gospel passage. Drawing from his own Jewish mythology, he has a word for it: Satan.

I know the word Satan can conjure images of the church lady from Saturday Night Live and red devilish figures, but in biblical mythology, Satan is the prosecuting attorney in a huge courtroom, “the accuser of our brothers and sisters” as he would later be called, and, still later, “the enemy of our human nature” whose goal is to crush and destroy the human spirit. Jesus says he is “the ruler of this world”.

The work of Satan is to divide us into “us” and “them”. He does this by “a scapegoating process where the majority can see itself as righteous by accusing a minority or one person of sin and then carrying out a judgment against them.”[1]  It was by this scapegoating that Jesus himself was killed.
Satan is the father of lies who judges, condemns, kills not only Jesus but also all those with whom Jesus identifies: the poor, the vulnerable, and the outcast.

If you are a person of color, or a woman, or LGBT, or someone who is aging, or someone with little or no money, chances are you’ve been on the receiving end of the work of this figure of Satan. We’re aware of it today:

● In Palestine, Syria, Myanmar
● In our own country and neighborhood, where police kill unarmed civilians with impunity, without ever even going to trial, all under the guise of keeping the peace, serving and protecting.
● In our neighborhood and all across our country, where immigrants desperately trying to care for their families, are torn from those same families and sent to detention centers, deported to countries where they often face torture and death.

In our own day, this is the work of what our ancestors would call Satan. And in a few moments, when Oziah is baptized, each of us will be asked point­-blank: “Do you renounce Satan...?” This is what we’re being asked to renounce.

All so that we can enter this great feast of Pentecost, make room for the Spirit, the Advocate, the Defender of the Accused who takes our side, pleads ferociously on our behalf, overturns the condemnation of Satan. No more separation into righteous and unrighteous, pure and impure. Today, the ruler of this world is overthrown. The shards of light are being gathered now; what has been shattered is now reconnecting. This is the work of the Spirit, not only in the larger world but in each of our own hearts where we can sometimes become divided, lose touch with who we are, who God has called us to be. This is the work of the Spirit, reconnecting what has been shattered.

One last thing... I know the usual symbol for this Spirit is a dove, but I prefer the one from Celtic Christianity: the wild goose that represents purity, strength, grace, and a deep and ferocious nurturing of her young. She is caring and protective, but also strong and beyond human control, hard to catch. She is not a tamed creature. Unlike the cooing of the dove, she is loud, noisy, and unrestrained.

This is the Spirit: strong, defiant, a bit disturbing, harsh, and exciting. She takes up our cause, she fights for us. She overturns the condemnation once laid on Jesus and on so many of our brothers and sisters, and perhaps us as well. This Spirit, the Advocate, frees us from the lies and chains of Satan, so we and our brothers and sisters can live and breathe and move -- and do it together.

It is this Spirit we welcome into our midst once again as we celebrate Pentecost. It is this Spirit in which we hope to drench ourselves as we stir once again the waters of baptism -- both for Oziah’s sake and for our own.

Nico's Funeral, May 16, 2015, The Rev'd. Richard Smith, Ph.D.

In a few moments, I’ll invite Nico’s niece Carola, and his friends Christopher and Robert to share some of their own reflections about Nico. Then, after the service, over some light food, we’ll all have a chance to share our own reflections.

For now, I want to say a word about the big house, the mansion mentioned in this gospel reading.

Notice there’s no mention in this text of heaven. It's not about a mansion in the sky. Jesus is not speaking about what happens after you die, but rather about this world becoming transformed into the dwelling place of God, a magnificent temple of great beauty, a sacred space. Or to use the image in this passage, all creation being being transformed into a huge mansion in which God dwells, and--follow me with this metaphor--you and me being transformed into rooms in this great mansion, each of us a dwelling place of God, a part of a temple magnificent and beautiful and sacred.

Transformation, a metamorphosis: like winter into spring, like a caterpillar into a magnificent butterfly. This is what this gospel text is about.

This great transformation is taking place all around us at every moment. And when it is finished, well, here is how our spiritual ancestors described what it will be like: "Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

This great transformation, a sight to behold, doesn't come easy, doesn’t come without  struggle and tears and darkness and pain. Sometimes we can become so overwhelmed by the darkness that we lose sight of the magnificent creatures we are and the great transformation going on all around us and within us. This is why we rely on the scriptures and teachings of our spiritual ancestors to remind us--so we don't forget, so we don't lose faith. This is why God gives us each other, to help each other on our way home.

And this is why God sometimes gives us someone like Nico, a more than usually colorful reminder of this great work, this metamorphosis happening all around us, happening inside each of us.

Nico knew all about transformation into a new creation, about metamorphosis.
I’m not just referring to the metamorphosis that came each day with his donning of bling and, during Lent, the purple-sequined blouse he like to wear to church. These are, to be sure, wonderful reminders of this greater story of transformation. But there was more.

Nico used to laugh when he'd tell us that, when he and his siblings were little and their mother was introducing them to strangers, when she came to Nico she’d sometimes say, “...and this is my son Nico...and, well, this one’s a little different.”

Nico knew from early on that he was different, and it was his willingness to step into that difference, with all its fabulousness and bling, that transformed what might have been a caterpillar into a magnificent butterfly.

Later there was a still more profound transformation in Nico. After dark years of losing everything to alcohol, of being ashamed and disappointed in himself, forgetting the butterfly he was--after those dark years came another transformation, finding himself again, remembering who he was, transforming yet again, this time far more beautifully and profoundly than ever before.

Becoming sober, and, in the process, not forgetting what he’d been through and learned along the way in those hard years on the streets. Becoming this time a man of compassion and great wisdom.

He was still Nico, of course--with all the rings and bracelets, the same sense of irony and sarcasm, the same dirty mind, the same mischievous sparkle in his eyes. But all of that was now part of a larger fabric: a spiritual depth, a compassionate and generous spirit, a genuine kindness and concern. We’ve all experienced this from him in a variety of ways, and I hope we’ll share these and other stories of Nico later this afternoon.

But for now, let me invite you to quietly pause for a few moments. If Jesus has it right, then you and I, along with God, are caught up in a vast and wonderful story about transforming all creation and ourselves into dwelling places of God, temples beautiful, magnificent, sacred.

But in this moment, may we pause to savor this one particular, remarkable episode in that greater story, resting for a moment in sheer amazement not just that our beloved Nico has been so fabulous, but that he has also been for us, what we are each called to become for each other: nothing less than the very dwelling place of God.

Pruning, Fifth Sunday of Easter, Year B, The Rev'd. Dr. Richard Smith

Today’s gospel is about being pruned. Perfect for a week like this. The news has been bleak:

• Police in Baltimore apparently breaking the spine and killing Freddie Gray. This and the many other revelations of racism and violence in our law enforcement and judicial systems have provoked tears and outrage around the country.
• In our own neighborhood, we recently got the horrifying revelation that Amilcar Perez Lopez, the young Guatemalan immigrant killed by police, was killed not in self-defense as the police department had claimed. Rather, they fired six shots to his back as he was fleeing unarmed, running for his life.
• A terrible earthquake in Nepal, 7000 dead.
• And we just passed the one-year anniversary of the kidnapping of all those school girls in Nigeria by Boko Haram.
• And Nico, even under 24/7 hospital care still falls down at the least expected moment, leaving him black and blue and in pain.
• And I have friends who are going through some pretty hard things in their families and relationships and work.

And that’s the thing. At any given moment, even when things are going relatively well, there are still so many difficult things life throws at us and it often feels like we’re being pruned.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe, as theologian David Lose suggests, it just feels like being cut, cut down by life’s tragedies great or small, cut down by disappointment or despair, cut down by illness or job loss or divorce or other circumstances beyond our control, and left to wither and die.

If you've ever seen pruned bushes, you know how they can look so ravaged that it's hard to believe it will ever bear fruit or flower again. It’s only with time that the new shoots and buds and blossoms can start to appear.

The question isn't, finally, whether you'll experience some difficulty, some heartbreak, some cutting. The question is whether that cutting will be just the beginning of more withering, or will be toward new growth.

A word about the context of today’s gospel passage.

As David Lose notes, Jesus is speaking to the disciples on the eve of his crucifixion. He is about to be cut down, and they are about to be cut down by his crucifixion and death, and he is assuring them that it will not be mere, senseless cutting, but that they will survive, even flourish, bear abundant fruit.

The second context is that of John’s own community for whom he is writing these words. By the time they hear these words, they will have already been scattered, likely thrown out of their synagogue and their families, and have had plenty of reason to feel like they’ve been abandoned, been cut down and thrown aside, withering. But John writes to assure them that while they have indeed been cut, it is the pruning for more abundant fruit and life.

No doubt that was hard to believe. To the disciples on the night before the crucifixion or to John’s scattered and outcast community, it definitely felt like they were being cut down, abandoned, left to wither. And it’s like that for us as well; so much of life simply tears at us with no evidence that it is toward some fuller, more fruitful future.

But amid this uncertainty and distress, Jesus still invites us – actually, not just invites but promises us – that he will not abandon us but rather will cling to us like a vine clings to a tree so that we endure, persevere, and even flourish, not in spite of, but in and through all these difficulties.

This is the mystery we immerse ourselves in during these Easter days: the promise that these hardships will not have the last word. Whenever our hearts get broken, this promise of Easter opens a way out of the darkness.

Because heartbreak and the pain of being cut away are an inevitable part of life, and the way we understand and deal with it can determine whether we are being cut to wither and die or pruned to flourish and grow.

Writing on the topic of violence, Parker Palmer suggests that violence is what happens when we don’t understand our own pain, when we don’t know what to do with it.

The violence can take many forms, some overt, others more subtle. “Sometimes we try to numb the pain of suffering in ways that dishonor our souls. We turn to noise and frenzy, nonstop work, or substance abuse as anesthetics that only deepen our suffering.

“Sometimes we visit violence upon others, as if causing them pain would mitigate our own. Racism, sexism, homophobia, and contempt for the poor are among the cruel outcomes of this demented strategy.”

Sometimes this violence is inflicted by individuals, other times by systems as we’ve seen in the established policies and practices of local law enforcement in Ferguson, Baltimore, and here in our neighborhood.

Nations sometimes don’t know what to do with their pain either, and so they become violent, inflicting pain on others through torture and warfare.

Palmer writes: “On September 11, 2001, more than three thousand Americans died from acts of terrorism. America needed to respond and plans for war were laid. Few were troubled by the fact that the country we eventually attacked had little or nothing to do with the terrorists who attacked us. We had suffered; we needed to do violence to someone, somewhere; and so we went to war, at tragic cost. A million Iraqis lost their lives, and another four million were driven into exile. Forty-five hundred Americans died in Iraq, and so many came home with grave wounds to body and mind that several thousand more have been victims of war via suicide.”

Violence is what happens when we don’t know what to do with our pain.

But there’s another way of handling our pain, one that actually leads to abundant fruit. “We all know people who’ve suffered the loss of the most important person in their lives, or suddenly found themselves unemployed or with a serious disability. At first, they disappear into grief, certain that life will never again be worth living. But, through some sort of spiritual alchemy, they eventually emerge to find that their hearts have grown larger and more compassionate. They have developed a greater capacity to take in others’ sorrows and joys, not in spite of their loss but because of it.”

This is the kind of suffering that Jesus is speaking of in today’s gospel: It is not simply a cutting away, but rather a pruning, and it leads not to abandonment or violence or death; but rather to more life and love, more compassion and justice, abundant fruit.

What about you? Is God doing some pruning in your life right now? Some loss or disappointment or pain? Can you allow yourself to acknowledge the very real pain of that moment? At the same time, can you see it not as a cutting that leads to withering and death, but as a pruning, as a step toward a more abundant life, abundant fruit? Perhaps even now you can see some of the new shoots and buds and blossoms already emerging, the first signs of more abundant fruit.

Perhaps in our country at this moment, the exposure of racist practices that have for centuries destroyed the lives of so many people of color will lead to a pruning that in turn will yield abundant fruit. Already it seems to be galvanizing the hope and determination of people of color to speak their word, tell their stories, demand justice. Perhaps it will also lead the rest of us to listen, honor their stories of oppression, join them in the struggle for a new day. Perhaps this time of painful revelation and outrage in our country can be a pruning that yields abundant fruit.

In the parish email of a couple of weeks ago, I included a poem by Mary Oliver. Let me close this sermon by reading that poem once again.

Lead
by Mary Oliver

Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again.

to the rest of the world.