Touching the Fringe of His Cloak, the Rev'd Jackie Cherry, July 19, 2015 – Proper 11, Yr B

They begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak;
and all who touched it were healed.

Imagine, the sick on their mats at the marketplace need only touch the fringe of his cloak to be healed. Where is Jesus? Has anybody seen Jesus? The whole world needs his cloak.

Most of you know that I had a miraculous healing 4 months ago. I rejected my transplanted kidney that I had had for 20 years, and for seven months I struggled to stay alive. During that period, I asked for prayers, but I didn’t pray for healing. My prayer was that I remember God is with me. Always.

My friends asked me what they should pray for. When I told our congregational Dean of Prayer, Liz Specht to pray for God’s will, she said, No, that’s not going to help me; I need to know what specifically to pray for so I can tell other people what they need to pray for. Liz was insistent, so I gave her some details: I need prayers for breath; I need prayers for the water in my body to shift away form my heart and lungs and move back into my vascular system; and I need prayers for an O+ kidney that I don’t have antibodies against. This information satisfied Liz, and learned how to text so she could transmit her prayers via social media.

I want you to know that the last prayer for an O+ kidney that I didn’t have antibodies against was theoretically impossible; immunological studies had revealed that I have antibodies against 100% of the population.

This crisis began last August with the doctors at UCSF trying aggressively to stop the rejection. I was given round the clock infusions for 3 days and then discharged. Once home, Sarah Lawton called several times. I didn’t answer the calls; I was in no condition to talk and I did not want visitors. But you know the way Sarah works relentlessly for social justice in the national church, and in the world - she’s a powerhouse, and in that vein she was resolute in changing my no visitor policy.  I buckled and allowed her to come over. Sarah found me in bed in my dim disheveled room. She sat beside me and said I want to give you my kidney. And then, as if she were standing on the podium on the floor of the House of Deputies, Sarah recited an eloquent outline of the reasons why I should accept her gift.

• I have been thinking about this for 10 years;
• My kids are independent now;
• I am very healthy;
• You are my son’s Godmother;
• You are my sister in Christ;
• In Christ we are one body and I have what you need.

Sarah punctuated her compelling list with this question:
Can you think of anybody more qualified to give you a kidney?  I couldn’t think of anybody more qualified.
Will you accept my kidney? Yes I will. And we both cried.

Do you remember when I said, I asked for prayers, but I didn’t pray for healing?
Well, I was healed the moment Sarah offered me her kidney. Don’t get me wrong,
I was still sick as a dog - every system in my body was failing. But Sarah’s offer broke open my heart to the immense love that surrounded me that I didn’t even know was there. I was overwhelmed. The only words I could muster were, I didn’t know you loved me so much.

It didn’t stop there. From every direction, in ways I never expected, again and again, an outpouring of love knocked me over until it seeped fully into my bones. Kevin and Kathy, Michael Clark and even a stranger offered their kidneys. I asked for prayers,
but I didn’t pray for healing because I had already been healed.
We found out in November that I wasn’t compatible with any of my living donors.
To stay alive, dialysis was my only option. During dialysis blood is pumped out of the body and filtered through an artificial kidney, known as a hemodialyzer, to remove waste, chemicals and excess fluid. The bodies total blood volume is circulated through the machine several times during each treatment. Dialysis clinics, at least the two that I’ve seen, are isolation pits with no natural light, occupied mostly by old people who will never be candidates for transplants. Each station consists of a hard, blue vinyl reclining chair, the huge dialysis machine, and a TV. While the blood is cycling through the artificial kidney the waste is shunted into an elaborate plumbing system that’s built into the wall. All of us hooked up the machines have no chance of life without the grueling treatment. Most all of the patients arrived alone, sat alone for the 3 or 4 hour treatment and left alone.

My dialysis schedule was T, TH, F and S. If there were no complications, each session lasted 4 hours. During the 5 months I was on dialysis, I only had 2 or 3 sessions without complications. The truth is, despite all the pain that I suffered, and all the suffering I watched those around me endure, I began to look forward to my dialysis days. You see, I had a group of people, all of whom are from this congregation, who volunteered to drive me week after week, month after month. And they didn’t just drive. Every Saturday Birgit and DD stayed with me through the whole thing. Jan had Tuesdays, Liz drove to San Francisco from Mill Valley on Thursdays. Jack, Judy and Rebecca were all over the calendar whenever I needed them. Sarah got off work early to take the Bart back to the city so she could pick me up. Heather and Kathy spent their Christmas in the clinic with me. I could go on and on. With their love, my friends lit up that dark dialysis room, by their presence I was comforted. And everybody, the doctors, nurses, technicians and patients witnessed it. They told me how lucky I was to have such a huge support network; they had never seen anything like it.

But I wonder if they really knew what they were seeing. During that time, I was just trying to survive. It’s only when I looked back that I recognized not just the fringe, but the entire cloak.

They begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak;
and all who touched it were healed.

+++
I want to change my tack here and give you a few statistics.

• As of April 22 of this year there are 101,662 people awaiting kidney transplants.
• On average, over 3,000 new patients are added to the kidney waiting list each month.
• 12 people die each day while waiting for a kidney
• Every 14 minutes someone is added to the kidney transplant list.
• In 2014, 4,270 patients died while waiting for a kidney transplant.
• And another 3,617 people became too sick to receive a kidney transplant.

With so many serious medical complications, I wasn’t cleared for surgery until mid-March. It was only a week after I was listed on the National Kidney Registry when I got the call from UCSF with the news they had found a compatible kidney. The transplant surgery was on March 21st.

At the end of June I received this letter:

Dear recipient,
Writing a letter like this is difficult to say the least. I’m not sure what to say or how to address you. I’ll just begin.
Several months ago you received the most honorable gift a person can give; life. You received life from my husband Russ. With his death, the past few months have been trying. One thing that has helped me through this transition without him is knowing he gave renewed hopes and dreams to you and your family.
My husband worked in Alaska managing projects like the building of power plants and large commercial retailers. He spent his free time outdoors and with his family. We had a fulfilling life together fishing, traveling, snowmobiling, hiking and raising our daughter. We were always planning our next adventure. As an all-Alaska kind of guy he loved the mountains. Russ made good choices and challenged others to do the same. He had an eternal optimism, contagious smile, and infectious spirit unmatched by anyone. He made his friends and family better people, and he made us smile even when we thought we couldn’t; Russ continues to make me smile. He loved his little girl Ridgely without question. She was seven months old when he was killed in an avalanche while snowmobiling in the mountains he so loved. He was 33.
With his death I grieve the loss of the one I loved most deeply, the one I was closest to, and the man who protected me and made me whole. I shared the ultimate partnership and friendship with Russ. I built my life, my home and my future with him. He was my soul.

While our daughter may never remember her daddy, she will surely know him through the stories and memories of friends and family. Through the eyes of our daughter he lives on. He lives on through you.
My wish for you is to honor my husband and “climb your mountain.”
Sincerely, 
Kolbey

Here is what I know - by the love of my friends, all living cloaks, I was healed. I don’t think this to be the miracle. It was compassion, and generous love put into action in the manner of Jesus and his disciples. This was not divine intervention - it was good people practicing the gospel of Jesus.

The death of a 33-year old man wasn’t the lack of a miracle.  It was a tragic accident
that left a 7-month old baby girl without her father and a grieving wife without her husband.

The miracle as I see it is that Russ may have had the only kidney in the world that would save my life, and he had chosen to be an organ donor. He didn’t die because I needed a kidney. He just died. And here I stand, wrapped in the cloak of Jesus with prayers of gratitude for our remarkable medical technology and the ordinary people who choose to be donors.

Drops in the bucket, July 5, 2015, the Rev'd Robert Cromey

What is a prophet? Not profit.

A prophet is a person is regarded as an inspired teacher or proclaimer of the will of God.

Today, prophetic voices are those who follow the radical teachings of Jesus. They do not predict the end of the world. They are teachers who teach humanity. Much of the political and business world teaches and worships money. That is the word profit not prophet.

Jesus comes into his hometown. He is a famous teacher and healer.
His neighbor immediately questions him. How come he talks like this? How did he get so smart? Is he a wise guy? His dad is only a carpenter! They also say, “He is only the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon.”

Jesus says, “Prophets are not without honor, except in their home town, and among their own kin and in their own house.” He is discouraged.

The writer gives us throwaway line. “Yet he leaves after healing a few sick people and cured them. He went on with his work anyway.” He heals the sick while getting out of town.

This weekend celebrates the Declaration of Independence. Brave English citizens living in the American colonies chose to become independent of their mother country England. The signers of the Declaration of Independence could have been hanged as traitors to their country. The signed the declaration. They were prophets of a new country and a new world. And they were without honor in their own country – England.

Bishop Pike in the 60s was a strong voice for civil rights for African Americans and free speech opposing censorship of book and movies. He was brought up on charges of heresy in the House of Bishops of our church. He was without honor in his own country.

Paul Moore, great Bishop of New York, chose to hide his gayness so he could preach love and acceptance for gays and Lesbians. LGBT had not been defined in his day. He was a prophet without honor in his own country.

Brea Newsome made a wonderful direct action in pulling down the Confederate flag at the South Carolina capital.

What’s also interesting about this to me is the outsized role single activists can sometimes have in moving conversations forward, setting off new movements, and exposing the power structure that oppresses people. Most of us are simply not going to climb that flagpole. But we probably should. ...

Lonely acts can sometimes prompt vast movements. But lonely acts will often -- usually -- sink without a ripple. What's hard is to predict which actions will make enduring waves. What Newsome did certainly amplified a cresting tide already in motion. She's won an honored place in the long river of resistance -- but she is certainly not alone.” She is a prophet without honor in her hometown.

In the Nuba Mountains of Sudan Dr. Tom Catena, a Catholic missionary from Amsterdam, N.Y., is the only doctor at the 435 bed Mother of Mercy hospital in the far south of Sudan. He is the only doctor for a population of more than a half million people. The area is under constant bombardment and shells from the Sudanese government. It is up to Dr. Tom to pry out shrapnel from women’s flesh and amputate limbs of children as he delivers babies and removes appendixes.

There is no telephone, electricity, or running water. Obviously no X-Ray machine. Dr. Tom has worked in the Nuba Mountains 24/7 for eight years. Muslims and Christians praise Dr. Tom’s work “People are praying he never dies.”

He is paid $350 a month, no retirement and no health insurance. He is driven by his Catholic faith. “I have been given benefits from the day I was born, a loving family, a great education. I see my work as an obligation, as a Christian and a human being, to help.

A Muslim Chief says Dr. Tom is Jesus Christ. Jesus healed the sick, made the blind see and helped the lame walk – and that is what Dr. Tom does every day.

When we try to do good things we often feel like they are a just a drop in the bucket and don’t do much good. When we write to the President, our senators and representatives it seems like just a drop in a bucket.
However, empty bucket gets filled to overflowing.

Each of us is a drop in the bucket of helping the hungry – Julian Pantry

Drop in the bucket – Fr. Richard leads a Mission Walk against police brutality.

Drop in the bucket – Some hold a sign calling on a Vigil for Justice and peace.

Drop in the bucket - The Julian Pantry is our program for feeding the hungry.

They are all drops in the bucket but after a while the bucket gets full. Look at all the drops in a bucket too bring about the right for LGBT people to have the right to marry.

Crossing over; about the murders in Charleston. June 21, 2015. The Rev'd Dr. Richard Smith

There are no words to capture the pain and anger and horror of what happened in Charleston this week. No words. I’ve read and listened to many words -- from the President’s to Jon Stewart’s to the New York Times’ to several pastors’. Their words, no matter how eloquent, all fall short of what happened, and I know mine will, too.

It would not be so hard if this were simply a matter of someone’s mental instability. But this is not mental illness. This is profound and ugly racial hatred.

It would not be so hard if this were simply an isolated case, a particular bad apple. But it’s not. This is part of a larger sinful fabric in which we are, each of us in one way or another, implicated. 

One Navajo scholar has lamented just how profoundly broken we are, how deeply this ugly sin of racism runs in our American DNA. He writes,  

Today I lament, I mourn over the life of each and every person that was violently taken in Charleston South Carolina. 

I lament that a 5 year old child was robbed of her innocence and forced to "play" dead in order to survive. 

I lament that today, the confederate flag is still flying in the Capitol of South Carolina. 

I lament the roots of dehumanization that exist within the founding documents of the United States of America; in our Declaration of Independence, our Constitution and our Supreme Court case precedents. 

[He’s referring to that document we’ll so proudly read across the country in a few days on the Fourth of July. Just a few lines after it so nobly proclaims that “All men are created equal,” it refers to Native Americans, the very people we slaughtered as we stole their lands and livelihoods, as “Indian savages”.]

He continues,

I lament that our nation continues to celebrate its racist foundations with holidays like Columbus Day, sports mascots like the Washington Redskins and the putting of faces like Andrew Jackson on our currency. 

I lament the deaths of Eric Garner, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown and countless others. 

[We could add Amilcar and Alex who were killed by the police near our church.] 

I lament the words of our political candidates who promise to lead America back to its former "greatness", ignorant of the fact that much of America's "greatness" was built on the exploitation and dehumanization of its people of color. 

I lament that today the dominant culture in America is in shock because in the city of Charleston South Carolina one individual committed a single evil and heinous act of violence, while minority communities throughout the country are bracing themselves because the horrors of the past 500 years are continuing into their lifetime. 

I lament with every person and community, throughout the history of this nation, who, due to the color of their skin, had to endure marginalization, silence, discrimination, beatings, lynching, cultural genocide, boarding schools, internment camps, [immigration detention centers,] mass incarceration, broken treaties, stolen lands, murder, slavery and [the doctrine of] discovery.

Lamentations by a Native American at the profundity of the evil unleashed in Charleston.

Today’s gospel is about a crossing over. Jesus and the disciples are crossing a lake. A storm arises, and the disciples get paralyzed with fear. Jesus, in that terrifying moment, gives them a teaching.

And maybe that teaching can speak to us this morning, give us a sense of how to stand, how to speak and act in this time of our own crossing over.

For we as Americans are crossing over. The racial, cultural, and economic makeup of our country is changing dramatically. This crossing over arouses fear and exposes some of our worst features: profound racism and white privilege, the incarceration of innocent men, women -- and in the case of immigrants, entire families -- all the police shootings, the displacement of so many poor families and seniors from their homes, and, most recently the murders in Charleston.

It is a time of profound upheaval and change, and in this crossing over, we, like the disciples, now find ourselves in a violent storm. 

Many scholars say that Mark intended this gospel story to be a metaphor for his own community’s struggle at the hands of the Roman Empire: Rome is literally slaughtering them, destroying their culture, forcing them to worship Caesar, stealing their modest wages in heavy taxes to the Emperor and leaving them and their families impoverished. In that context, the hope of throwing off Roman oppression was stirring, the hope of crossing over to a new world more rich in possibilities for life. Could a storm be far off?

They were crossing over, and along the way a storm arose. And Jesus, as the story goes, falls sleeps. And the fury of the waves becomes too much, and so the disciples wake him, they shout at him “Don’t you care that we are being destroyed?”

Then, after he has calmed the winds and the waves, but before they reach the other shore, Jesus offers these trembling disciples some challenging words. 

In Greek these words are often translated, “Why are you afraid? Where is your faith?” But I think they are better translated, “Why are you so timid?” It’s a subtle difference. The Greek word here is the same one Paul uses, for example, when he writes to Timothy, “God did not give us a spirit of timidity. He gave us a spirit of power, and of love, and of a good mind.”

So in the very midst of the storm Jesus is challenging the disciples “Why are you so timid? Where is your faith?” This is no time for cowering, for being shy, for being cynically resigned as though this is just the normal way of things. This perilous, terrifying moment requires all the more boldness and all the more love. 

Just when all hell is breaking loose and they are losing everything, when they have nothing left to hang onto and God seems to be asleep and they feel so helpless and fear is in their throats, Jesus is challenging them not to be timid, but to live out of their faith. 

Their faith that, despite all evidence to the contrary, God will not leave them to face this violent storm alone. And that same God empowers them, urges them now, in the face of this violent storm and all this bloodshed and oppression, to stand boldly and to speak and live their truth. 

A couple of days ago in Charleston, several family members of the slain spoke to Dylann Roof, the man who killed their loved ones. After a number of them had spoken, the granddaughter of one of the victims said  “Although my grandfather and the other victims died at the hands of hate ... everyone's plea for your soul is proof that they lived in love.” And then she added with boldness and determination, “Hate won't win." 

This is how it works sometimes for followers of Jesus: In the midst of the storm, with all the hate and trauma and grief, with tears running down your cheeks, and your knees shaking, you live, speak, act not with timidity but with boldness, out of your faith.

“God did not give us a spirit of timidity. He gave us a spirit of power, and of love, and of a good mind.”

Could the teaching of Jesus in today’s gospel guide us in our current crossing over? What might it mean for you personally to live, speak, and act boldly at this hour?

Let me close with the words of South Africa’s Alan Boesak: “When we go before Him, God will ask, "Where are your wounds?" And we will say, "I have no wounds." And God will ask, "But why? Was there nothing worth fighting for?”

Seeds, June 14, 2015, the Rev'd Dr Richard Smith

Two very different parables about seeds in today’s gospel. Each parable reveals a very different facet of this disruptive and uncontrollable thing we call the kingdom of God.

The first parable urges us to trust a natural growth process that happens when a seed is planted.

There is the story of the man who sowed seed in his field, and every day dug up the soil to see how the seed was doing. He wanted to catch each moment in the interaction between seed and soil and intervene in their natural lovemaking. He did not trust the seed and soil to grow without his ongoing tweaking. Needless to say, nothing ever grew.

The parable of Jesus in today’s gospel offers a different strategy. Once contact is made between seed and soil, between the word of God and the human heart, a process of development begins. This process is more mysterious than we know and we should not interfere with it, not try to tweak it. It’s a matter of paying attention to that process, of trusting it, cooperating with it. Paying attention.

Pay attention to where God at work in the world around you.
Where is love breaking out, justice being pursued, freedom being won, human dignity being insisted on and restored?

Pay attention to where God at work in your own heart.

• Where do you find beauty?
• When does your heart melt?
• When do you get goosebumps?
• When does your heart begin to race from a new sense of purpose? 
• When do you feel outrage at injustice, and find hope in an otherwise dark moment? 

All of these are signs of God’s presence, and it’s a matter of being actively attentive to them both within and around us, trusting them.

And then, when the harvest arrives, cooperating with that process, going into the field with our sickles to bring in the crop.

But most of the time, it’s a matter of waiting patiently, with trust.

Sometimes finding our deepest joy and purpose in life is less a matter of some dramatic action, some heroic decision made in haste, perhaps out of fear of never finding it, than it is of simply going about the rhythms of our days, “sleep and rise night and day”, trusting that God is at work in our lives, leading us step-by-step to a fuller and richer life; the seed is slowly germinating and growing into the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head, then the abundant harvest, then the bread.

Our task most of the time is simply to pay attention to what is God is doing, often very subtly, hidden and underground, both within and around us.

The writer Nikos Kazantzakis tells us that once when he was a boy he noticed a cocoon stuck to a tree; a butterfly was about to emerge. He waited a while, but it was taking too long, so he decided to warm the cocoon with his breath. The butterfly finally emerged but its wings were still stuck together and it died soon afterwards.

Kazantzakis says, “I just couldn’t wait for the sun to complete the necessary process of patient maturation. That small corpse is until this very day one of the heaviest burdens on my conscience. But that’s what made me understand what a true mortal sin is: trying to force the great laws of the universe. We have to have patience, wait for the right time and then follow confidently the rhythm that God has chosen for our lives.”

The second parable about the mustard seed reveals a very different facet of this uncontrollable kingdom: This kingdom is very disruptive.

I’ve always liked this story of the mustard seed, found comfort in it. The mustard seed is so small, but grows into a huge shrub. Like my faith, so small and fragile, that can, with God’s grace, do great things. I still find a much-needed comfort in this understanding of this story--an encouraging, hopeful word.

But did you know there’s another side to the mustard seed? The shrub it grows into is a nuisance that will, if you let it, destroy your whole carefully planned garden. This is not like the beautiful, powerful Cedars of Lebanon we sing about in the psalms. This is a bitter-smelling shrub, about 3-4 feet tall, that shoots out uncontrollably in all directions. It can overrun your whole garden.

And that, Jesus says, is what the kingdom of God is like. Watch out!

Every Sunday around this table we pray, “Your kingdom come.” But be careful what you pray for! You have been warned! Like a mustard seed disrupts your awesome garden, the kingdom of God will disrupt your life.

It’s like falling in love, or deciding to raise a kid. Perhaps a carefully planned career path gets tossed aside. You spend your time and money differently. You discover new joys and delights, and you sacrifice some things you thought you could never live without. The kingdom is disruptive like that, like love.

That kingdom drove Martin Luther King to Selma, Rosa Parks to the front of the bus, many of the Freedom Fighters to have their legs broken, Cesar Chavez to Delano. It is, I suspect, what draws many of us to this part of the city, to worship here--in a tragic and beautiful neighborhood like this, a crazy community like ours--when, if we had more sense, we’d be reading the New York Times in some trendy coffee shop, or doing brunch.

And into your carefully planned garden, the mustard shrub attracts birds--birds that are unwelcome because they will eat whatever other seeds or fruit you may be trying so hard to grow.

As the word of Jesus takes root in your heart, you’ll begin to notice people starting to cross your path seeking shelter from their storms. Don’t say you were not warned. They will find you.

They might come, like many come here to St. John’s, after a night on the streets asking for coffee and a few bucks for a Big Mac, or on a Saturday morning for a bag of groceries.
Sometimes they might be like the family we met-- Ricardo and Amelie and Nicole--who needed our help to keep their family from being torn apart, from Ricardo being unjustly deported to Guatemala where his life would be in danger.
Or they might be like the young ex-gangbanger who was trying to start a new life, who needed a few odd jobs to earn some money, and later some help to bury his girlfriend after she was tragically shot and killed.
Or, in another way, it might be one of the struggling non-profits in the neighborhood who can’t afford today’s high rents for meeting space and who asks to use our church.

The kingdom will completely disrupt our carefully planned worlds. And just as the birds of the air find shelter in the branches of the mustard tree, so people will seek us out for shelter.

So the kingdom is beyond our control. And it is, like a mustard shrub, disruptive, a nuisance.

And yet...and here’s where it gets a little weird...it’s also our hearts’ deepest desire, something we rightly pray for week after week: Your kingdom come. Go figure.

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.