Keep Easter Weird

Weird / adjective / ˈwird

1 : of strange or extraordinary character : ODD, FANTASTIC

2 : of, relating to, or caused by the supernatural : MAGICAL

Living so close to Austin, it’s not that hard to adopt one of the Texas capital's famous slogans and co-opt it for my own purposes.  Keeping Austin Weird has been, at least for as long as I’ve been in central Texas, a widely accepted way of life for Austinites. It has its’ blessings and its’ curses, but for the most part who can argue with the idea?  Austin is weird. If you’ve never been there, it’s a bizarre mix of eclectic styles, an influx of new people and ideas, and pockets of funkiness that are very difficult to ignore. So this year, when I was thinking about the weirdness of Easter in our churches, I wondered… What if we worked to KEEP EASTER WEIRD?

Hear me out.  Worshipping on Easter Sunday was absolutely bizarre.  I stood in front of an iPhone on a tripod with sound wires running from the choir loft and hundreds of feet of Ethernet cable connecting my friend Mike’s desktop which sat on top of a commandeered prie-dieu in the middle of the aisle.  Weird.

The people I love weren’t there physically.  My family, my friends, the strangers, the newcomers, and the kiddos hopped up on jelly beans and the peeps that I love to give out were missing. I knew they’d be there online in some form or fashion, but it was so strange to show up to church without the church there.  I thought about the old nursery rhyme with hand motions… “here is the church, here is the steeple.” Without people, it doesn’t work.

I wore my seersucker suit and my white bucs, because I don’t know how to Easter without them, but I was lonely when I let myself into the chilly nave.  I said a prayer that I always say on Sunday mornings before I walk into the early service, but on Easter Sunday this year it had extra meaning. 

O Lord my God, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; yet you have called your servant to stand in your house, and to serve at your altar. To you and to your service I devote myself, body, soul, and spirit. Fill my memory with the record of your mighty works; enlighten my understanding with the light of your Holy Spirit; and may all the desires of my heart and will center in what you would have me do. Make me an instrument of your salvation for the people entrusted to my care, and grant that I may faithfully administer your holy Sacraments, and by my life and teaching set forth your true and living Word. Be always with me in carrying out the duties of my ministry. In prayer, quicken my devotion; in praises, heighten my love and gratitude; in preaching, give me readiness of thought and expression; and grant that, by the clearness and brightness of your holy Word, all the world may be drawn into your blessed kingdom. All this I ask for the sake of your Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

I’ve never been one to dwell on the “I am not worthy” part, except in the Wayne and Garth way of not being worthy to see Alice Cooper.  However, on this day in the cool sanctuary, resplendent in fresh Easter lilies,I got it. Not being worthy for me means embracing the weirdness of it all- the outward and visible signs of our inward and spiritual faith, the story of our Hope founded in scripture and story, and the saving grace of surrendering to life on life’s terms. Weird, right?

It hit me that the Easter experience is as alive and well for me (and you) as it was for the Marys at the tomb.  I imagined what those love-filled, grief-stricken women felt as they were told by that angel that He wasn’t there.  The bizarreness of leaving the tomb, dropping spices and linen strips along the way, only to be met by a supernatural figure on the path outta there. “Do not be afraid,” He says, “don’t be afraid, and go and tell my people that if they’ll go home to Galilee, they will see me.”  Don’t be afraid!? How about awestruck, wonder-filled, overwhelmed by the glory and goodness of it all? We’re not worthy, indeed.

Go home, Jesus tells them. Go back to where you came from. Return to the source of your existence. Literally, emotionally, spiritually, or metaphorically… go home.  To the rootedness and comfort of just being loved for who you are and who you were created to be. Weirdest Easter message ever! When we are home in ourselves, we are at home with Christ.  Weird, but oh so true.

It’s true because, as we are reminded elsewhere in scripture, the very same power that raised Jesus Christ from the dead, the very same Spirit that moved over the waters of creation, lives and moves in you and me.  That oddly supernatural Grace upon Grace, that extraordinary character of God’s restoring Love is in us- from Galilee to Goliad, Bethsaida to Buda… Christ is Risen and that Risen Christ is for us, with us, and in us- wherever we may be!

There is a weirdness to it all that I don’t know if I’ve ever truly embraced until this, the SECOND WEIRDEST EASTER EVER.  The strange and extraordinary character of what happens to the women at the tomb and disciples thereafter all point to the magical, wonderfully super-natural goodness of it all for me, right here and right now from my little spot in God’s creation.  My hope for all of us this year, in these unusual times, is that we will lean into the weirdness and continue to KEEP EASTER WEIRD! (Alleluia)

Well, at least I still owned the domain name...

I have sputtered and started a blog no less than five times in my life/career.  I like to write, I just have some shortcomings when it comes to sharing.  I worry about my grammar and about sharing ideas that I’m sure are just rattling around from someone else’s thoughts.  I worry about what you’ll think.  I worry that I might just live into that old Mark Twain/Abraham Lincoln/Proverbs quote that says, “better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”  The proverbial wisdom of that statement has left me leaving lots of drafts in my computer, and for these unusual times, I think it’s okay to throw out some drafts into the waste basket that is the internet.  They help me to write, and I hope they might help you to find some lightness or connection today.

As most of you (my two loyal followers and my sisters) no doubt remember, I am a preacher.  I preach.  Which means I’m constantly on the lookout for ways to talk about good news in the world.  Bearing good news for me means wrestling with Grace.  Grace, for me, means experiencing the world with an extra dose of mercy, love, and hopefulness.  I’m enthusiastic about that idea.  Like any good enthusiast, I want to share what I like... I like seeing the world on Grace’s terms.  Call it optimism, call it naïveté, call it downright simple; as long as folks can understand that it’s just my point of view and I like what I see.

I hope that by writing some of these thoughts down and putting them out there for people to actually read, I can solidify my own thinking about life.  I’m grateful that I have the opportunity to share, and I’m grateful that if you’ve made it this far in reading, you’ll be enthusiastic about grace too.

This week I’m renewing warehouse of ideas is Holy Week in the midst of a global pandemic.  I have time to write.  I also have time to worry.  So, just for today, I’m going to put aside worry and write.  Thank you for reading and let me know what you think.  Want to be a grace enthusiast with me?

Thanks and Keep the Faith!
Love,
Ben+

“Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope; today I declare that I will restore to you double.”
Zechariah 9:12

Letting go and letting God...

So, for the past few weeks I've been trying to figure out the best way to continually let go of the things that worry me. I've never been seen as much of a worrier, but for some reason, letting go of some things can be terribly difficult. I wish I had a nickel for every time I walked through the house (on a perfectly good day off) and worried about something someone had said at vestry, or whether or not so-and-so was doing okay with their recovery. The challenge for me is not what someone says or how someone is doing, but me worrying about whether or not I was doing enough with my response/reaction/connection. Stuff gets in my head and it's tough to let go because I don't seem to know that "best way" to let go.

And then it hit me...

There isn't a best way.

It's actually pretty simple. Just let go. When the worry crosses my mind, gently allow my thoughts to return to the goodness an mercy of God. Let God worry about the vestry. Let God worry about the recovery of my friend. Let God have the cares and concerns that are keeping me from being fully connected to the very same love and mercy that I know exists for the things I worry. If it's there for them, why not there for me? Hmmm... let go, and let God. Got it.

Until the next worry, of course.

So, maybe the "best" way is the continual way of constantly returning (gently and quietly) to the word of love that is found in God's quiet presence. Maybe letting go means being more aware of the role that Still, Small voice plays in the voices of friends and family who walk this road with me.

Just for today, I'll look for God in the words and actions of those around me. Maybe by letting go of my own "stuff" I'll get in touch with the constant presence of the Loving Creator all around me.

Auto-Harps, Big Green Tents and love that casts out all fear.

Sermon preached on Luke 7:11-17

Second Sunday after Pentecost

If you pay enough attention in God’s church, you can observe a whole range of stories, customs, and traditions about funerals and burying the dead. They range from the really poignant to the really confusing. They can make you want to call your mom or dad and tell them you love ‘em or they can make you scratch your head in disbelief- sometimes in the same breath.

When he was a young priest in the diocese of West Texas, Bishop Ed Browning (from the diocese of Hawaii) has gone down in history as the curate who got too close to the side of a grave while officiating his first burial service. Not only did he remember that sandy soil doesn’t hold up well in a really deep hole, but he also learned that it is awfully hard to figure out how to get a priest from the bottom of a freshly dug grave with a casket suspended over. Which, by the way, is a particularly wonderful story when you take into account that the young curate who had this experience went on to become the presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church.

Deep in the rural south, I officiated the service for a man who had died suddenly and tragically a few weeks after his wedding. Aside from the massive grief of losing this beloved son, brother, and husband, the family didn’t quite understand why he choose the Episcopal Church as his faith community rather than the Pentecostal tradition he grew up in- they couldn't relate to the weirdness of an Episcopal Prayer Book funeral and the "stuffy" nature of this particular tradition (stuffy was their word, not mine... although I definitely see where they're coming from sometimes). As I worked with them explaining some of the funeral customs and church traditions that their beloved embraced, we could all see that something was missing in our plans that we just couldn’t put our finger on.

When we pulled into the cemetery and approached the gravesite on the hill, I saw what it was that the family had been missing, or more accurately, who. Awkwardly ambling behind the pallbearers was an incredibly tall woman wearing a bright pink hoop skirt and carrying an auto-harp. As we made our way to the standard-issue green tent with the funeral home’s name on it, I couldn’t help but cringe at the thought of an encounter with this person who looked more like she belonged on the stage at the Opry than in the middle of a traditional Rite I, Prayer Book-Style burial service.

However, in traditional God-like fashion, the experience from this woman was an experience of grace that none of us will soon forget. Standing next to me at that burial service was an Appalachian Pentecostal deaconess who had, for the better part of seven decades, devoted her life to singing for the people of her community in times of joy and pain. At baptisms and burials, this sister in Christ had served our God by offering the finest gift she had, in the finest style she knew.

When she launched into a unforgettable mixture of Amazing Grace, The Lord’s Prayer, and some mountain-style version of Psalm 23 that I had never dreamed existed- there were no doubts concerning the resurrection that has been promised to all of us in Christ Jesus.

Not only were we comforted in our grief, we walked away knowing that God had moved an entire hillside closer to Christ’s presence. The joy and passion of that moment in time crushed the sadness of that man’s burial. Don’t get me wrong, we were still sad, but all of us knew that tragic death and wicked heartbreak do not get the last word in the grasp of God’s loving authority.

This story from the seventh chapter of Luke’s Gospel gives us a similar taste of that gracious movement that surprises, comforts, and challenges the people of God in life and death. Jesus and his pals are returning from Capernaum where they have just experienced the miraculous healing of a Roman centurion’s slave. Jesus and his friends are traveling from Capernaum to Nain, riding the good vibes of the miraculous healing that they have just witnessed.

If you’re a disciple, then you know that you’re walking beside The Man right now, and something big is going on… You may not fully understand it, but you know that something is happening through this man Jesus. There is a sense that history is unfolding before your eyes and somehow, through the grace of God, you are right there in the midst of it… walking with the Healing Hero of Galilee, the mighty prophet who heals the sick and doesn’t even have to be in the same room with them! If you’re a disciple right now, then you have no problem shouting that His is “the kingdom, the power, and the glory, now and forever! Amen!”

It is right there in that moment, the “glory-be-forever” moment, that the procession of disciples meets the procession of mourners that is leaving the city gates with the only son of a widow carried on their shoulders. We don’t know what brought them to this point other than the tragic and heartbreaking death of a son, but we do know that in the intersection of Joy and Grief, the love of God does powerful things.

There, in the intersection of two seemingly different processions, God’s presence is made real for all of us. When excited disciples meet woeful mourners, the future and the reality of God’s kingdom come into focus for the widow, for the disciples, and for us. It is a reminder that “even though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we shall fear no evil” because God walks with us, no matter which procession our journey follows.

When Jesus reaches out and places his hand on the dead man’s coffin the two processions grind together in a mass of human experience. “Rise Up,” he says. “Rise up!” from death and enter into the new life of faith that comes even in the midst of a horrid march to the cemetery. “Rise up!” and go into the world proclaiming a new kingdom where death no longer gets to define a funeral procession. “Rise up!” and take hold of your beloved and share in the good news of life everlasting.

Just like the prophets of old, just like Appalachian deacons on the side of a hill, Jesus comes to us with a reminder and a promise that widows, slaves of roman military officers, and all of us, really... are subject to the miraculous new life that happens in Christ Jesus. The gift of life happens when we experience in our own call to “rise up!” from the old life of sin and death and embrace the procession that God has given us through the power of the Holy Spirit. Rise up dear ones, and remember that God walks with us in all our processions, in valleys of shadow and green pastures, God is there. And the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours… now and forever. Amen.

Where's the fire?

A friend of mine, who happens to make his living leading worship in a church, recently received a compliment on his energetic style of reading the prayers in an ordination service. The woman who complimented him sought him out after the service- a grand affair, full of pomp, circumstance, and clergy all over the place- to tell him how wonderful it was to hear someone pray with some energy and enthusiasm. Which is, at the same time, a wonderful compliment to my friend and a tremendous slap in the face of the church I love.

After hearing this story, my buddy and I began to wonder... Where is the fire that is supposed to drive our experience in worshiping the creator of Heaven and Earth? Where's the excitement that we get from being a part of a gathering that comes together, sets aside differences (sort of) and prays with one voice? According to his version, my friend simply "read in a voice that conveyed some actual belief in what he was reading." Have we gotten so complacent in our own lives that we have forgotten to speak in voices that convey the realities of what we are reading and praying? Where's the fire? Where's the passion? Where's the heart in our experience as the Body of Christ?

Trust me, I know that there isn't a place for monstrous personalities in the Episcopal style of worship. I know we don't need (or want) slick-haired televangelist-style praying that reeks of desperation and phoniness. I know that leaders in the church have to get out of the way and let God work through the tradition that has been handed down for centuries, but what does it say when the people of God seek out the priests of God to say thank you for having enthusiasm and spirit?

I'm not naive in this game, either. I know that zealous personalities can be entirely distracting in liturgical worship. I know that someone who "acts out" the praying can be as ridiculous as someone who deadpans the whole thing, but I'm sure that my friend's encounter is not all that unique in the church these days.

Riding in our personalities isn't always the best vehicle for transporting the love of Christ, but for Pete's sake, can't we at least move into a time and place where people aren't shocked that we believe the prayers we speak?

In my own spiritual reflection, I am challenged and convicted to speak in an authentic voice... I want to preach and read on Sundays in a way that not only shows my love for what I'm saying, but also the love of God for the people who are hearing. So why is it that churchy forms of public speaking, the kind that many of us stake our lives on, has lost the expectation for fieriness? Why aren't more people asking about fiery speech in their preachers, pray-ers, and folks who are generally expected to like their role in the worship of God?

For the most part, I don't have an answer to this... I'm pretty sure that we've lulled ourselves into submission to mediocre expectations and lack-luster performance. We've almost come to expect our preachers and pray-ers to be so devoid of emotion that we simply shift in the sinking sand of boring Sunday mornings whenever we walk into our churches. The reality is, we all have a part in this stuff whether we are listening from the pews or learning to pray for the friendless and the needy. We need people to speak, and we need people to listen, and we certainly need people to step up and say to our speakers- "thanks for speaking in a voice that offers some enthusiasm."

Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of people out there who are energized and enthused by the life and ministry outside of Sunday morning, and thanks be to God for their energy! But many of us are seeking that authentic voice in our prayers that speaks the word of God for the people of God. Many of us are looking to hear the fire that ignites the spirit and warms the heart. We are looking to lift up our hearts to the flame of God's love and find ourselves fired up in the process.
"I baptize you with water... He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire." Luke 3:16

The Wheels on the Bus (and Other Important Parables)

Jesus also said, “With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.” Mark 4:30-32

My twenty-month-old daughter has an interesting fascination with busses. Pretty much every road trip, whether it be to the grocery store or the other side of the island, is a constant barrage of shout outs to busses, for busses, and about busses. Whenever we actually see a bus, there is a delightfully high-pitched squeal that comes out while my sweet child admires the wheels on the bus that do, in fact, go 'round and 'round. I bring this whole bus obsession to light because I'm pretty sure that, for my daughter, seeing a bus on the highway actually connects to the idea that Jesus is working with in the fourth chapter of Mark's gospel.

In this part of Mark's Gospel, Jesus is attempting to give those who would listen some understanding about the kingdom of God, both now and in the future. On the one hand, Jesus is using comparison stories (parables) to describe what is going on in God's world. But on the other, He is using these comparisons to set the stage for what is to come. It is a classic example of our faith's ability to be about the right now and the soon to be. In the case of the mustard seed, we all see the comparison as being something little that grows into something big and that makes plenty of sense for us, but in this case, there is definitely something more to the parable than just a simple seed that grows into a giant bush.

Most of us, if we've been exposed to this passage before in Sunday School, have probably seen an actual mustard seed. I can remember the sweet little lady who brought in the package of seeds so that each child in my class could hold them and feel how truly small they really were. Proof positive that Jesus knew what he was talking about in all these bible lessons from afar. I can also remember wishing that my precious Sunday school teacher would have brought a picture of a mustard tree for us to see as well, because I imagined them to be as tall and stout as redwoods. Boy was I disappointed when I learned that they aren't much more than garden-size bushes. Sure, they can be eight to ten feet tall, but in my mind, I was picturing something much more majestic than a member of the cabbage family.

Which brings me back to the desire that my daughter has to see and experience the wonder and majesty of public transportation. For months now (the majority of her short life), her mother and I have sung, and listened to, several different versions of the children's classic The Wheels on the Bus. Different verses about drivers and mamas who ride the bus make this song something that my sweet child can relate to audibly and visually, especially considering the hand motions and videos that go along with this catchy little tune. For us, describing a bus is just something we do to entertain her and maybe teach her a little rhythm; but for her, a bus is comforting and thrilling at the same time. The giant people mover represents a whole new world that is waiting for her to explore and participate. A bus is big. A bus is wonderful. A bus is exciting.

Now I'm not going to go as far and say that the kingdom of God is like a bus, but I am going to point out something different about this parable that I think is important. When Jesus talks about the mustard seed, he's not just talking about a seed that grows into an eight foot tall leafy green bush. He's talking about the wonder and majesty of the smallest things in our lives. An often overlooked aspect of this particular story is the idea that our lives are made up of a lot more small things than big.

God's kingdom doesn't just grow from one tiny seed into one great big plant. It is made up of thousands of little things that somehow get brought together to make an amazing forest of Grace and Joy in our lives as faithful people. From kindness and generosity to hopefulness and optimism, God's kingdom emerges through the actions of millions of faithful people. A great deal of our time and energy is often trying to make mustard seeds into redwoods, and without knowing it, we've missed the point, which is our role in bringing God's kingdom to life.

Whenever I pass a bus, it seems insignificant, but for my daughter (and a lot of other people) that bus is no small thing at all. This past Wednesday, the local bus service brought one of my parishioners to the healing service that we celebrate each week at 9am. As the bus pulled in next door to our house, my daughter stood at the door and shouted for Joy that a real live bus had come so close to where she lived. As she went out with her mom to greet them, I realized that God was there in that moment in two places- bringing my elderly friend to church and giving my daughter an up-close and personal look at the thing she loves the most right now.

Our lives are made up of tiny little moments that have a greater impact on the world around us, whether we know it or not. Rather than going from giant event to giant event, God's kingdom is about taking life one day at a time, moment to moment, one step in front of the other. The parable of the mustard seed isn't just about faith that grows from a tiny little seed, it's about realizing that the tiny little seed is a miracle all by itself. From the excited squeals of joy to the gentle reminders that God is present, our hope is in the seemingly insignificant and the pointless, which they say, is just like the kingdom of God.