Monday, August 29, 2016

Pouring Tea

THE FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFER PENTECOST
August 28, 2016
Proper 17
The Rev. Dr.  Jack Eastwood



For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, 
and those who humble themselves will be exalted.
Luke 14

The gospel this morning awakens us to an attitude about life and a way of living that we don’t see much of these days. We don’t see it in our current political talk, our popular TV shows, or some of the successful self-help books.  Browse the self-help aisle at your local bookstore or Amazon.com, and you will see books entitled “Awaken the Giant Within” by Anthony Robbins, “The Hero Within” by Carol Pearson, and “Achieve Anything in Just One Year” by Jason Harvey.  They plumb the science of what one writer calls “the science of peak performance.”  Turning to popular TV, isn’t the show  “American Idol” about the thousands of people who desire fame, if only for 15 minutes?  I don’t suppose there is a lot of entertainment value in a TV show about people competing for the highest rating in the four cardinal virtues: Prudence, Justice, Temperance, and Courage. (Despite the talk about presidential temperament these days.)

What characterizes our age is the “selfie” and the lure of social media.

Rather than live according to the performance values our culture promotes, the Gospel of Luke  leads us in an opposite direction. It raises the value of living our lives according to the virtue of humility. The practice of humility is highly esteemed in the religious tradition, some writers say it is the seat of all the virtures,  and the practice of it is influenced heavily by the contexts in which it is applied. Unfortuately today in the context of our  narcissistic culture it has a bad name.  It is not difficult to understand why it can be easily misunderstood and practiced badly.  One spiritual writer described it as a “suspect virtue.”

Frederick Buechner wrote that in today’s culture, humility is “often confused with the gentlemanly self-deprecation of saying you’re not much of a bridge player when you know perfectly well you are. Conscious or otherwise, this kind of humility is a form of gamesmanship.  If you really aren’t much a bridge player,” he goes on to say, “you’re apt to be rather proud of yourself for admitting it so humbly. This kind of humility is a form of low comedy.”  To get at true humility, we must go in a different direction.

There is an old story that goes like this: There was a university professor who went searching for the meaning of life. After several years and many miles, he came to the hut of a particularly holy hermit and asked to be enlightened. The holy man invited his visitor into his humble dwelling and began to serve him tea. He filled the pilgrim’s cup to the brim, and then kept pouring so that the tea was soon dripping onto the floor. The professor watched the overflow until he could no longer restrain himself. “Stop!” he said. “It is full. No more will go in.” The holy hermit replied, “Like this cup, you are full of your own opinions, preconceptions and ideas. How can I teach you unless you first empty your cup?”

True humility is about the recognition and acceptance of the limits of our own talents and abilities.  This kind of self-acceptance involves a measure of surrender, and is the first step into the experience of humility which leads us to the commandment of loving our neighbors as ourselves.

At first glance, the reading from Luke’s gospel looks like a page taken from a first century book of etiquette. But closer study reminds us of the importance of what is called “table talk” in Luke.  Instructions and wisdom were often imparted at meals and banquets in Jesus’ time. Luke reports several stories of table fellowship and  that they  are always  integral to Jesus’ mission.  We can recall that it was at table where the meaning of the Eucharist was shared, where the betrayal of Christ began, where the promise of the Holy Spirit was announced, and when after his resurrection he appeared to the disciples and was “known in the breaking of the bread”.

Here, once again at table in this story, we see our Stranger from Nazareth  proposing new rules for the seating chart  in the kingdom.  Here he speaks of humility, which challenges anyone’s feelings about place and privilege. Over and over again in the stories from Luke we come across that counter cultural theme which resonates in many other texts of the bible. It is Luke’s major theme of overturning the tables of the social and personal order of life.
“For all who exalt themselves will be humbled,
and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Psychiatrist Robert Coles tells a poignant story about his first encounter with Dorothy Day, who was living and working with the poor in the slums of New York City. Coles was in Harvard Medical School at the time, studying to be a psychiatrist, proud of his status, and also proud that he had volunteered to work with Dorothy Day in helping the poor. He arrived for his first meeting to discover Day sitting at a table, deep in conversation with a very disheveled street person. She didn’t notice Coles had come into the room until they had finished their conversation. Then she asked, “Do you want to speak to one of us?”

Robert Coles was astounded by Dorothy Day’s humility. She had identified so completely with one of our poorest as to remove all distinction, social privilege or class,  between them. Coles said it changed his life. He said he learned more in that moment than in his four years at Harvard.

We may strive for many things in our lives, and our strivings have their own importance and place, but in the end, nothing counts more than the simplest yet most difficult to accomplish task, that of  allowing ourselves to be open to one another and to God.   This counter cultural movement is the kind of humility that we see in the cross. It is the courageous acceptance of who we are in front of God, in front of our self-emptying God.  It is the fruit of God’s grace within our lives.  AMEN




Sunday, August 21, 2016

The Magnificat and the rigged universe

Feast of St. Mary the Virgin
August 21, 2016
Richard Smith

You may or may not know this, but there’s a conspiracy afoot. People don’t talk about it much, but despite all your best efforts, Something or Someone is conspiring 24/7 behind your back to make you happy.

We Christians have a name for this conspiracy. We call it grace. A relentless kindness built-in to the universe. Our spiritual teachers tell us it’s everywhere. Often it’s hidden, struggling to break loose. At times it’s working quietly behind the scenes. Other times, it’s in your face, you can’t miss it.

Martin Luther King was on to this when he said his familiar words about the moral arc of the universe being long, but always bending toward justice.

The universe is rigged toward love and justice and joy. Something is afoot, a divine conspiracy of grace.

The recognition of this divine conspiracy once welled up in Mary’s heart, and in today’s gospel it flows into a powerful song about a new world that is both future and, strangely, already here. Mary sings

  • Of how God has already shown mercy from generation to generation
  • Has already scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts, brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly
  • Has already filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. 

Strangely, wonderfully, Mary sings of a God who not only will do these things, but who has already done them. She sings as if God, in some strange sense of time, had somehow already accomplished the redemption and restoration of the world.

God’s strange sense of time. In it, this present moment and the past and the future form one eternal now. It can sound esoteric and New Age-y, but if you’ve ever been hopelessly locked in a lover’s embrace, or rocked by Bach’s Mass in B Minor, or overcome with goosebumps looking up at a clear night sky, then you know that time is more than a matter of seconds and minutes, days, weeks, and years. Sometimes, as we like to say, time stands still.

The eternal now that gathers past, present, and future is yet another and deeper experience of time. Some anthropologists call it “everytime”.

The theologians say it happens when we circle this table for Eucharist. Because here, we’re not just dutifully remembering some past event, the Last Supper, as we would remember, say, the hoisting of the flag on Iwo Jima or Washington crossing the Delaware.

Rather, in God’s strange time, that intimate moment Jesus shared with his disciples on the night before he died is happening right now as we gather here; it envelopes us, catches us up.

Those early disciples at the last supper have nothing on us. This is our moment as much as it was Peter’s, James’, John’s. Jesus is as present to us in this moment as he was to them. We and they are all caught up in God’s strange sense of time, this eternal now.

And it’s not just about past and present. It’s also about the future. Circling this table, entering that eternal now, means leaving behind for a moment the world as it is and embracing a new future that, strangely, is already here.

In today’s world, we’ve become painfully aware of the tremendous lack of equity. Ten percent of the population own 76% of the wealth. Among the growing number of poor people, 70% are women and children. People of color are incarcerated, sometimes brutalized and killed by police at alarmingly higher rates than whites. An increasing number of people in towns like ours are becoming displaced and homeless--a high percentage of them LGBT youth who have been kicked out of their families.

That is the world as it is. But here, as we circle this table, we step out of that world to enter God’s time, a sacred space, a future we could not otherwise imagine if we take our cues simply from what we experience out there.

In here the rules are different. In here it doesn’t matter if you’re black or white or brown; rich, poor, middle class; documented or not, Republican or Democrat; old or young, gay, straight, or trans. In here everyone is welcomed and honored.

If you let it, immersing yourself in this new world week after week will change how you are out there. It will cause you to notice people and things you might otherwise overlook, share more of what you have, work for justice. It will break your heart and bring you much joy.

In this sanctuary, here in God’s strange time, we step out of the world as it is to glimpse a new world that God is bringing about, one that is kinder, more welcoming, more just. In this Eucharist we find the nourishment to align ourselves with that great divine conspiracy already underway, though it is often hidden and struggling to break loose in the larger world.

A poem by Jan Richardson speaks of this dynamic of entering this sanctuary and into God’s strange time and then returning to the world out there. I’ll close with this.

A Blessing Called SanctuaryYou hardly knew
how hungry you were
to be gathered in,
to receive the welcome
that invited you to enter
entirely—
nothing of you
found foreign or strange,
nothing of your life
that you were asked
to leave behind
or to carry in silence
or in shame.
Tentative steps
became settling in,
leaning into the blessing
that enfolded you,
taking your place
in the circle
that stunned you
with its unimagined grace.
You began to breathe again,
to move without fear,
to speak with abandon
the words you carried
in your bones,
that echoed in your being.
You learned to sing.
But the deal with this blessing
is that it will not leave you alone,
will not let you linger
in safety,
in stasis.
The time will come
when this blessing
will ask you to leave,
not because it has tired of you
but because it desires for you
to become the sanctuary
that you have found—
to speak your word
into the world,
to tell what you have heard
with your own ears,
seen with your own eyes,
known in your own heart:
that you are beloved,
precious child of God,
beautiful to behold,
and you are welcome
and more than welcome
here.
—Jan Richardson