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

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

Alton, Philando, and the good Samaritan

The Rev'd Richard Smith, Ph.D.

The man had been badly beaten and bruised. The priest saw him lying there in pain, but then moved away, crossed to the other side of the street and went on his way.
Then the Levite saw him, and moved away, crossed to the other side of the street.
But the Samaritan saw him, and he did not move to the other side of the street. Instead, he was moved with compassion.

The Greek word Luke uses here for being moved with compassion is splangnizomai. The splangna are the entrails of the body, the guts. When the Samaritan was moved with compassion, he felt something deep inside his own guts. This was not some abstract issue, the kind of thing you kick around inside your head, or spar back and forth with friends over beer in a stimulating discussion. For the Samaritan, this was a profound, transformative moment.

The Samaritan saw the beaten man and was deeply moved, felt it in his guts. In our own cultural imagery, we might say his heart was broken. He would never be the same again.

This is really where the story begins, with a man who does not move away from the one in pain, who has a heart willing to be broken by what he sees. Who is transformed.

The rest of the story is a series of verbs: Out of his own broken heart, he goes to the beaten man, bandages his wounds, pours oil and wine on them, hoists him on his own animal, brings him to an inn, and takes care of him. The next day he takes out two silver coins, gives them to the innkeeper, and says to the innkeeper, “take care of him…”

The Samaritan saw the beaten man, and rather than moving away, he let his heart be broken by what he saw, and out of that broken heart, he began to act.

Could this be a model for us after a horrific week like this?

After the trauma and tears of Orlando, after seeing the horrific videos of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, after the news reports of the five officers killed in Dallas, we have to choose:

• We can, like the priest and the levite, turn away from those in pain as has happened too often in our country’s past, and cross to the other side of the street, and continue with life as usual.
• Or we can, like the Samaritan, allow our hearts to be broken, and out of our own broken hearts, begin to act, bringing about the justice that can eventually lead to healing.

A few weeks ago, we held a press conference here at St. John's for Luis Gongora Pat, the unhoused man recently shot and killed by police up on 20th and Shotwell. In that press conference, his family was announcing their filing of a civil suit against the City.

The TV and radio stations were hauling in their equipment, and I was setting up chairs. An attorney approached me. She said that during the press conference, they needed to show some troubling photos of Luis’s bullet-ridden body. One photo was especially graphic.

You see, after police had fired several bullets at Luis, he was seriously injured and fell face down on the ground. But then the officers simply lowered their guns and continued shooting at him. The final shot, the one that finally killed him, entered through the top of his skull while he was face-down on the ground. The attorney wanted to know if it would be OK to show in church a graphic photo of his shattered skull.

I said it would be no problem. Because, a central image for us Christians is of a man’s broken body hanging from a cross--a graphic and violent image if ever there was one. So, showing such images of Luis would not be a problem here.

This is the central mystery in which we live, the truth at the very center of the universe: that God is with us in all our unspeakable nightmares. That God saw us with all our violence and pain, the bullet-riddled corpses on our sidewalks, our hatreds and fear and rage, our helplessness and tears--and did not move away, did not go to the other side of the street. Rather, like the Samaritan, he let his own heart be broken, and drew even nearer to us, took on our flesh in Jesus, entered into all our pain, embraced it, become a victim of it himself.

In that way he transformed all that pain and trauma and helplessness into life. Out of all that pain and death, God brought life. “By his wounds we are healed,” our scriptures tell us.

Can this be the model for us in this time? Can we do as the Samaritan did, follow this divine rhythm? Can we let our hearts be broken, stay with the pain, the tears, the lamentation? Can we let our own broken hearts be the seedbed out of which new life can spring?

Hard thing to do. We’d rather push all of that pain aside, find some easy workaround. All that ugly hateful racism that is the original sin of our country. It would be so much easier to cross to the other side of the street, pretend we never saw those videos, pretend we never heard Philando’s little girl crying to her mom after she saw her dad killed, “It’s OK, Mommy. I’m here with you.”

If only we could get that little girl’s screams out of our heads.

Can we let our hearts be broken, and not run from this horrible, horrible nightmare?

In our country, we have never really stayed with this pain. We’ve certainly had previous moments of it, such as Bloody Sunday during the Civil Rights movement and the explosive days after the Rodney King beating in LA. But sadly, instead of staying with the pain of racism and standing with those bearing the brunt of it, our country took what seemed at the time like an easy way out: law-and-order crackdowns, a bogus war on drugs, mass incarceration of people of color. As though the problem was people of color and not our own racist systems.

The result? Since the 1980s, California has built 22 prisons but just one University of California campus. It’s not hard to do the math here. Some historians call it the largest prison construction project in the history of the human race. And our country is the most incarcerated in the world today. Even the most conservative public leaders are beginning to recognize: We can’t solve the nightmare of racism simply by throwing people of color in jail.

Can it be different this time?

If we as citizens were to stay with the heartbreak and pain and not avoid it, could it be different?

I can’t say specifically what kinds of solutions might emerge, but I’m quite sure that if we move away from this pain and go on our way like the priest and the levite, we’ll never find a solution. If we try to find an easy way around it--if we say, well, I’m not personally a racist myself, so it’s really not my problem--we’ll never end this nightmare.

The only viable path is that of the Samaritan: to stay with the pain and the tears and the heartbreak, move closer to those bearing the brunt of it, stand with them, listen to their stories--which are likely to be very different from those of us who are white, especially when it comes to their experiences with the police.

And then, like the Samaritan, perhaps with tears still in our eyes, we can begin to act.

And it seems so overwhelming. This god-damned racism is so deep in our DNA as Americans, how do we change it?

I spent part of my youth in Eastern Washington where it snows a lot in the winter. And I remember sometimes in the middle of the night waking up to the sound of huge tree limbs crashing to the ground under the weight of all the snow.

How did that gently falling snow become so powerful that it could topple such mighty tree limbs? Well, it was one small snowflake followed by another and another and another through the long dark night until so much snow had accumulated that finally one last snowflake fell. And it was enough to bring the huge limb crashing to the ground.

I wonder if the dismantling of our racist systems will be like that, one snowflake at a time. A letter to a congressperson here, a vigil for Amilcar there, a Nightwalk, a phone call, a conversation with a coworker, a meeting with a public official. One snowflake after another.

So i have no magic solution to our inherent racism, but I’m quite sure that out of our broken hearts, and only from there, will the dawn begin to break and solutions begin to emerge. All of us, black and white and brown, in tears, and working together.

Here’s a poem about a man carrying his son across a busy street in the rain. It’s called “Shoulders” by Naomi Shihab Nye, and I’ll close with this.

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder. 

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow. 

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo
but he’s not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE. 

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy’s dream
deep inside him. 

We’re not going to be able
to live in this world
if we’re not willing to do what he’s doing
with one another. 

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

How Can a Serious Christian be an American?

A sermon by The Rev. Robert Warren Cromey

Church of St. John the Evangelist

San Francisco

July 3, 2016

Jesus says these words to his disciples and therefore to us. “Love your neighbors and your enemies.” This is radical Christianity. It is not how most people treat each other. Jesus words are standards by which we hold our values. He also says elsewhere to feed the hungry, heal the sick and stand against injustice.

The present American values are: Get rich, Buy stuff, Worship Celebrities. Put band-aids on social problems like homelessness, affordable housing, immigrants and health care.
Spend billions on defense.

Declaration of Independence was proclaimed in 1776. We celebrate it on July, 4. It separated the colonies from England. It freed us from unjust taxation, proclaimed free enterprise. However, the declaration exempted slaves, women and Native Americans.

John Adams, a prominent New England farmer and lawyer went to Philadelphia in 1776. Abigail, his wife said do something for the women. They did not.

How can a serious Christian be and American?

We rejoice and give thanks that we are an independent nation, no longer dominated by England or any other country.

We rejoice that we have a solid constitution and strong Bill of Rights.

We are thankful that most of us have the right to vote. Yet many states try to prevent people from voting.

We Christians are glad that the state may not interfere with the practice of our religion.

We give thanks for our freedom to speak and assemble. As a preacher I do not have to worry that the government can censor my remarks.

A serious Christian is a mature person, a thoughtful person and one who lives with ambiguity.

I can love my country and criticize the Congress for failing to protect the citizenry from random gun violence.

I can love my country and hate its war mongering in the Middle East.

I can love my country and hate the treatment of immigrant people.

I can love my country and decry that our capitalist system cause so many to be hungry, homeless and live in poverty.

I can love my country as a patriotic American and protest police killing young men and women of color. I can protest police murders and at the same time as giving thanks for the bravery of police officers who risk their lives to help other. That is what I mean by ambiguity.

A serious Christian is open to love our country and be its severest critics.

Jesus calls us to love our enemies as well as our neighbors. The U.S. government chooses to wage war instead of waging peace.

Jesus says love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. Radical Christians can help mobilize and deepen and humanize American values.

A Reflection on Orlando

A sermon by the Rev. Jacqueline Cherry

The Episcopal Church of St. John the Evangelist, San Francisco

June 19, 2016 – Proper 7, YC

Last Sunday morning, my 10-year-old daughter, Firefly, and I went to brunch in the neighborhood. She sensed something was wrong, so in a very understated way, I told her about Orlando. We’d been seated only a few minutes when a gay couple sat down at the table next to ours. Both men were glued to their phones, broadcasting the news as it flashed across the internet. I tried to distract Fly; but I couldn’t keep myself from listening either.

One man proclaimed, “We’re under attack!, a guy armed with assault weapons was arrested on his way to LA Pride! They are coming to get us.”

I could see the wheels turning in Firefly’s head, she said —When you were a kid you worried about a nuclear bomb; when I was born we worried about climate change; but now I have to worry about guns.

“But now I have to worry about guns” was both a question and a statement. My job as a parent is to protect my daughter. Or, if nothing else, provide the illusion that she is being protected. So when she asked if we were safe I said Yes.

And the men next to us echoed Yes. We lied. Last Sunday morning none of us felt safe.

For some, the Pulse massacre brought back terror of the Stonewall Riots. For others, the massacre brought back profound grief of the AIDS epidemic when we watched our gay brothers and lovers die; young and old, in every corner of our lives —the waiter at the Patio - dead; men who stood with us here, in the communion circle - dead; co-workers, classmates, fathers, men we loved, men we didn’t like at all - dead. And friends we didn’t know were dead until we read their names on the quilt. Somehow we managed to choke back the grief and carry on. But it came flooding back with the news of Orlando; the Pulse massacre shocked and brutalized our collective gay spirit.

Over the last week, we have heard nonstop chatter and speculation — the gunman was a terrorist; had pledged his allegiance to Isis; was bullied as a child; was a closeted gay man who had internalized his father’s homophobia; and so on.

With very few facts revealed, this is what we know to be true:
The Pulse massacre was a direct assault on the gay community by an American born shooter. More specifically, a surgical strike on gay Latinos, a brown-skinned subset of Orlando’s larger gay community.

So yes, Firefly, yes Harper Dandridge and Rhys Monroe, yes David, and all you children with two mamas and two daddies; yes you unflinching gay teens celebrating your high school graduation; yes, in this country you need to worry about guns. And you need to worry about homophobia — deep, systemic, insidious homophobia.

We gray-haired lesbians and gay men, we who have lived here in this city-over-the-rainbow for decades, we have done you a disservice. We have worked for gay rights and equality for some 30, 40, some 50 years. We are weary. And I am afraid our post Stonewall, post Silence = Death complacency has nurtured in you a false sense of security, when we wanted nothing more than to believe our protests and parades had made the world safer for you. We failed.

In the wake of the Pulse massacre, I hear the gospel story of the possessed man, living amidst the tombs, in a different light. In the wake of the massacre, the Gerasene demoniac is an outcast gay man, reviled for who he is, shackled and bound by self-loathing and homophobia. Jesus, of course is the same, he goes to the place nobody will go, and heals a man nobody else would dare touch.

Oh, it’s a good story, Jesus exorcising legions of demons that immediately embody a heard of swine, cascade over a cliff and drown in a lake. But I’m convinced that this story would play out differently today. St. Paul reminds us that before Christ, the law was our disciplinarian. And he goes on to assure us that in Christ we are all children of God.

Today there is no need for exorcism. Today Jesus would sweep the ostracized gay man up in his arms, and gather under his wing all of the queer outcasts - the fags and dykes, trans and transitioning, and the bullied gay teen standing on the edge of a chair waiting for the courage to step off. Jesus shepherds them all out of the catacombs, and onto hallowed ground.

My sons and daughters, Jesus says, I give you this holy place. When you are afraid, when enemies mock you and break your bones, when you cry to God, “Why have you forgotten me?” Gather with one another in this sanctuary, sweet with the smell of perfume and sweat, hear the gospel of Whitman, sing your gay anthems and dance.

Here you may kiss your lover. Here you are free to flip your hair like Cher. This is your holy place; this is Pulse, the I Beam, Amelia’s, The Eagle. Come here and know that you, and you, and you, are forever loved, just as you are.

There are rites and liturgies in the gay community, though they might not be recognized as such —

• The Liturgy of Coming Out; 
• The Covenant of Sacred Sex Between Two Women or Two Men;
• A Celebration at the Occasion of the First Gay Parade;

and the one I wrote last night,

Prayers of Thanksgiving for a Gay Bar
Let us thank God for the beauty of this sacred space.
Eternal Creator, lover of all life, the heavens cannot contain you;
inside the walls of this gay bar,
O God, we feel your presence.
For our Community universal of which this building is a symbol,
We thank you, God.
For your presence whenever 2 or 3 have gathered,
We thank you, God.
For this place where we may be still and know that we are loved,
We thank you, God.
For this sanctuary where we are free to two-step and waltz,
We thank you, God.
For dark corners where bodies are worshipped,
We thank you, God.
For the fellowship of daddies and dykes, fairies and femmes,
We thank you, God.
For the balm of refuge from our homo and transphobic world,
We thank you, God.
For blessing our vows and sanctifying our colorful families,
We thank you, God.
Eternal peace be to this gay bar and to all who cross its threshold.
Amen.

For two days after the Pulse massacre I was numb and didn’t cry. On Tuesday I drove through the intersection at 16th and Potrero and passed the same McDonald’s I’ve passed 1000 times. I’ve always hated that place, I curse the cars backed up on 16th Street waiting for the drive through. When I’m stopped at the red light I inevitably recall Michael Moore’s documentary. To my eye, that McDonald’s was nothing more than a health hazard to avoid.

But Tuesday as I drove by, I noticed a new message on the golden sign glowing above the front door. In all capitol letters it read — LOVE HEALS.  ALL OUR HEARTS ARE WITH ORLANDO.

That’s when I lost it. That’s when I pulled over by the post office and cried. That’s when everything felt different, and at the same time I realized the horror that nothing had changed at all. I wept for the young men and women gunned down in their holy place. I cried for our country’s love of guns. I cried for the shooter, and I wondered what demons possessed him.

Then I realized the Gerasene demoniac wasn’t just an outcast gay man; he was also the shooter. Jesus would cross the Galilean Sea, step off of his boat, and ask the armed man his name. And just like the demoniac, Jesus would transform Omar Mateen with his love. Remember this morning’s Epistle, In Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith. There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. God’s love knows no bounds; there is no religion more radical than Christianity.

In the wake of the Pulse massacre where 50 people were killed by assault weapons that are legal and easily acquired, there are two things I ask you to do: commit to working for stricter gun control laws, and love like you’ve never loved before. Brothers and sisters, our lives depend on it.

Amen.

Gay Pride after Orlando

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Gay Pride Sunday

Luke 9:51-62

The Rev.d Richard Smith, Ph.D.

The Sunday before last, a dashing young man named Edward Sotomayor was shot in the back and killed when he shielded his lover from a bullet. It’s what our greatest teacher calls the highest human act: laying down one’s life for one’s friend.

The story would be powerful and poignant enough, but remember that Edward was a gay man, one of the 49 gay Latinos killed in Orlando, and this adds a layer to the story.

Before that dreadful moment when he would form a human shield around his beloved to protect him from that fatal wound, he had already gone through the long journey that each and every gay person has had to go through simply to say, “I am gay”, what each and every gay person has had to go through to find the one whose lips they could kiss, the long journey every gay person has had to travel to finally look into another’s eyes and say simply, “I love you”.

Before arriving at the point where he would give his life for his beloved, Edward Sotomayor had already been formed by that very long gay journey. His love was a product of that journey. That long, perhaps arduous journey was the crucible that formed his love.

And it is that long and sometimes arduous journey of love that we queers celebrate today.

We know we can’t take our love for granted; it’s been condemned and denied us for centuries by church and state and society at large. There are forces who would deny it to us still.

• You can YouTube what the Christian lieutenant governor of Texas posted on his website the morning of the Orlando shooting: a passage from Galatians: “They shall reap such as they sow.”
• Or the Baptist pastor in Sacramento who ranted that same Sunday morning, when the bodies in Orlando were not yet cold, that the gunman ought to have lined up everyone at that nightclub and shot them all, but having 50 of them dead was better than nothing.

Such hatred accounts for the alarmingly high suicide rate among gay teens, and that a large percentage of homeless youth in San Francisco are gay kids, some of them transgender, who were forced to flee from families that either disowned, abused, even threatened to kill them.

It’s because of such hatred that we have to march defiantly, and dance, and kiss our same-sex partners and friends right out in public -- a lot!

But this day is not just for us queers. This unconquerable desire to love and be loved may play out differently for us queers, but it's fundamental to every human being. It is placed deep inside every one of us by the One who made us. No one can take it away. It will always win.

In 1963, several years before Stonewall, a woman wrote to an attorney at the ACLU:

Dear Sir:
I am writing to you concerning a problem we have.
5 yrs. ago my husband and I were married here in the District of Columbia. We then returned to Va. to live. My husband is White, I am part negro, and part indian.
At the time we did not know there was a law in Va. against mixed marriages.
Therefore we were jailed and tried in a little town of Bowling Green.
We were to leave the state to make our home.
The problem is we are not allowed to visit our families. The judge said that if we enter the state in the next [25] yrs., that we will have to spend 1 yr. in jail.
We know we can’t live there, but we would like to go back once and awhile to visit our families and friends.
We have 3 children and cannot afford an attorney.
We wrote to the Attorney General [Robert Kennedy], he suggested that we get in touch with you for advice.
Please help us if you can. Hope to hear from you real soon.
Yours truly,
Mr. and Mrs. Richard Loving

The attorney she wrote that letter to accepted the case. Four years later Mildred Loving, who was Black, and her husband Richard, who was White, made history when their struggle led to the landmark Supreme Court ruling that overturned the ban on interracial marriage.

The couple, who shunned the spotlight, made it clear they never set out to be social revolutionaries. It was simple: they loved each other, wanted to marry, and beyond that, as Mrs. Loving said, “It was God’s work.”

In the end, love must trump everything else, but sometimes only after a struggle.

A man in today’s gospel declares his intent to follow Jesus. He speaks without any conditions: “I will follow you wherever you go.”

Wherever? Really?

At that particular moment, as a result of his own struggle to love, Jesus is on his way toward being executed as a criminal in Jerusalem. Has this man’s unbounded zeal taken that into consideration?

Love is a choice we make, a powerful decision, and, yes, it involves a struggle.

This year, the struggle takes on a new facet, as the queer community joins so many others in fighting for an end to gun violence.

The South African theologian, Alan Boesak, said, “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?”

In this morning’s gospel, Jesus says to a second man, “Follow me.” It is a call to love, and it demands an immediate and wholehearted response.

But the man does not immediately act on that call. Instead, he allows his duties as a son to take precedence. He decides to go back home and live under the command of his father until his father dies. Then, after he has buried his father -- sometime in the indefinite future -- his calendar will be cleared for following this call to love.

Jesus is blunt here: “Let the dead bury their own dead”. Loyalty to past commitments, even to the cultural scripts about good sonship, should no longer hold him. If he stays in these commitments, his heart will shrivel and he will have missed the whole point of his life, which is to love. He may end up burying his physically dead father, but he himself will have become spiritually dead.

So on it goes, this journey of love that involves hard choices, a struggle, a fight that requires our immediate and wholehearted attention.

The actor and writer of Hamilton, Lin-Manuel Miranda, recently captured this so powerfully, and let me close with his words:

When senseless acts of tragedy remind us
That nothing here is promised, not one day
...history remembers
We live through times when hate and fear seem stronger
We rise and fall and light from dying embers
Remembrances that hope and love lasts long
And love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love
Cannot be killed or swept aside...
Now fill the world with music love and pride.

The Pool of Bethesda

Sixth Sunday of Easter
John 5:1-9

The Rev'd Dr Richard Smith

The man has sat by that pool at Bethesda for thirty-eight years. Bethesda means “house of mercy” but it has been not so merciful to him.

When the healing angel stirs the waters, he has no way to get into the pool because of all the crowds rushing in ahead of him. After 38 years it’s safe to say he’s gotten used to it, that he could not imagine the future being any different. He’s resigned himself to a diminished life, given up on his own dreams and his own heart. He can no longer even imagine what it would be like to stand up, feel his full weight on his feet, take one step and then another, gain his stride, pick up the pace, maybe even--imagine!--begin to run. No. After 38 long years, such dreams have long since faded.

He lies there, face down in a half inch of life and drowning.

This is not what God intended for him or for any of us, this diminished life, this despair, this resignation.

Along comes Jesus, a prophet who knows that the only God there is the the one who works 24/7 so we can thrive, live abundantly. And Jesus, who is close to the heart of God, sees a very different future, one full of possibility and hope.

So he says to the man, “Do you want to be made well?” He’s trying to reawaken the man’s own deepest desire. “Do you want to be made well?” Over all those years, the man has lost touch with that deep desire, and Jesus now calls him back to it. The vague outline of new possibilities, a new future is beginning to emerge.

At first the man doesn’t get it. He can’t imagine anything other than his own dismal present experience. He doesn’t answer the question; instead, he simply laments his own helplessness before a cruel fate. "There is no one to put me into the pool."

But Jesus brushes his lament aside and simply says, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.”

Now comes the hard part, the crux of the story, the decisive moment. Will he or won’t he? Will this man give in to those voices of resignation that tell him it’s better to stay put, not take the risk. “You might fall, get hurt, humiliated.” Or will he resist those voices, believe the vision, stand up, pick up the mat, put one foot in front of the other and slowly, perhaps hesitantly at first but then with greater and greater confidence, learn to walk again?

This brief story has a happy ending. John says, “At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk.” It’s a triumphant moment of courage and defiance and determination. He breaks through all the resignation and despair that had overtaken him through the years. Now he is a new creation.

This story is echoed down through the ages. People find the spiritual resources to resist the voices that diminish them. Addicts begin the journey of recovery. People after years of abuse regain a sense of their own dignity and beauty. Married couples working through some hard times find each other again.

It happens on other levels. Women break out of the shackles tradition has imposed on them to flourish as individuals and great artists and thinkers and leaders. Gay people burst out of the closet. Elders refuse to simply sit back and watch TV when there’s still so much wrong with the world, so much left to fight for. People of color keep putting one foot in front of the other in that long journey to freedom and equality. Today is International Workers Day and we remember the stories of workers refusing to be exploited, demanding a fair wage and safe working conditions.

Just a few blocks from here, five hunger strikers called the Frisco5 are resisting the loud and powerful voices telling them and their families to simply move on to make room for the one percent, to simply resign themselves to being harassed by the police and and shot down in the street. Despite how dismal things have gotten for so many of us in this City, these strikers have not resigned themselves, have not lost their capacity to dream. They can still imagine a new creation where there’s room for everyone including their families and the elderly and the Alex Nietos, Amilcars, Marios, and Luises.

San Francisco poet Tony Robles talks about the impact the strike has had on him, how it has re-ignited his own imagination and given him a burst of hope.

It took a hunger strike to make me feel alive in a city that feels dead. I'm sorry but I'm new to the snow. I grew up with colors sprouting from my skin and the color of poetry stained on my tongue. It took a hunger strike to fill my belly with feelings of Frisco, songs of Frisco, the Frisco that is soaked in my bones and blood. It took a hunger strike to bring back that down home feeling and black laughter and fire and tears that flow so deep. It took a hunger strike to clear my veins of digital cholesterol. It took a hunger strike to show we can be tender without legal tender. It took a hunger strike to bring back my city on one piece, one corner of city block. It took a hunger strike to see the Frisco I know--again.

Some theologians say there are a couple of ways to break the human spirit. One involves blatantly visiting poverty and violence on people, the other involves seducing them.

The first strategy can be seen in poor countries run by dictators--like Honduras, and Syria--but also in neighborhoods like ours where many families and elders are forced out of their homes, and police imprison and kill people who are black and brown, and sweep unhoused people from the only shelters they have left. Such relentless assaults can over time break people’s spirits and cause them to lose hope.

The second strategy operates by manipulation and seduction. It first afflicts you with anxiety, convincing you there’s something wrong with the way God made you. You’re too old or too young, too skinny or too fat, the wrong color, the wrong gender or sexual orientation. Then it tries to sell you the cure. And somewhere in the desperate effort to assuage that contrived anxiety, somewhere in the frantic pursuit of skin creams that promise to remove those aging wrinkles, spa treatments to calm your nerves and give you the perfect body, the latest technological gadgets, and cars that put you in control, somewhere along this treadmill you lose your way, lose passion and purpose, your zest for life. A consumer society has disconnected you from your own heart and your own deepest desires and dreams.

Both strategies crush the human spirit. The first does it by violence and brute force and economic exploitation, the second by manipulation and seduction. Both deaden our passion for life. Both leave us in despair, depriving us of the ability to imagine that things could be different, that something new could emerge, that we could be whole.

To thrive as God would want us to do, we have first to consciously resist the voices, however powerful and intimidating they can seem at times, in order to give our imaginations room to envision something new and beautiful and powerful.

I believe Mary Oliver may have been thinking of this when she wrote this poem that I will now close with.

The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice – – –
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations – – –
though their melancholy
was terrible. It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do – – – determined to save
the only life you could save.