Sermon 28 August 2016 Luke 14:1, 7-14 Proper 17 Year C

         It’s probably a good thing I’m only your temporary or transitional priest. It’s exciting that you will have a new priest some time in the future. Together you and s/he will discover anew how God is calling you to love and serve Christ. But the biggest reason it’s probably a good thing I’m what the army calls a “short timer” is because of this. (Brandish roll of toilet paper.) Yep, that’s right. You know what this is, and I’m willing to bet you’ve never seen one of these waved from the pulpit before. But, this is my symbol of humility, not a segue into bathroom humor. At least, it’s a symbol of humility for me anyway. And one of the primary things today’s Gospel leads us to is humility about whom it is that Jesus welcomes.

         So this roll represents humility to me; the thing that always seems to happen whenever I get a little too pleased with myself.

         I cannot tell you how many times I have preached a sermon, led a retreat, or given a presentation, and walked away sure that I was at the head of the table. I was right up there next to the host, in the place of honor. My ideas, my way of putting things, my articulate and witty ways are what made a difference in the success. Or so I thought.

         Then I walk into a bathroom. And there is no paper. Sometimes the roll is still neatly wrapped on the shelf. Sometimes there isn’t any roll and I have to go hunt for it. Other times, it’s obvious several people have used the roll, but not bothered to hang it up where it belongs.

         I used to sigh about it a lot. I used to feel put-upon, bothered, and maybe even the slightest bit martyred. My internal dialogue went something like this. “Why am I the only person who cares about others? I’m such a good person for changing the roll.”

It didn’t take me long to realize what I was doing wasn’t any more humble than taking glory for my accomplishments. Particularly because the way in which I was taking glory for my accomplishments, even changing the roll, meant that I thought no one else was as capable, brilliant, and caring as I thought I was being.

         The final blow to my idea of humility came from a pair of golden retrievers. I have some friends whose roll is never on the holder. Every time I visited them I patiently hung it up. Until one day, one of them took me aside and gently explained why. He told me the reason the roll wasn’t hung up was that if it were, their golden retrievers would grab the end of the roll and run gleefully through the house winding the paper around everything in sight. The retrievers would use the roll to decorate the whole house! The dogs grabbed that paper and ran round the dining table legs, around the kitchen island, over the bookshelves, across the bed and around the legs of the four-poster in the guest room. You can just imagine it. But, for whatever reason, the dogs ignore the roll if it’s just sitting there, off the holder.

         This experience with those two mischievous dogs was my important lesson about what humility really is. It’s a lesson I am still trying to absorb. Because today’s Gospel lesson seems like a simple etiquette lesson but really is about what the Kingdom of God is like.

True humility knows our gifts are no better than anyone else’s gifts. What makes the difference in our true humility is the knowledge that all gifts, all people, are welcome to sit at Jesus’ table.

Perhaps the essential core of true humility occurs at the end of the gospel we heard today. It is what Jesus says to the host of the dinner he attended, the dinner where Jesus watched people jockeying for position. Jesus warns us against being to proud. First he tells us not to sit too high because the host may ask us to go lower. And then, Jesus reminds us we will be blessed if we remember and invite those whom he loves.

When you give a luncheon or dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or your rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”[1]

         True humility is scary stuff. True humility asks us to step away from our needs for comfort and wealth and look at who we really are. When we acknowledge who we really are, we discover that we too are poor, crippled, lame, and blind, not always in the literal sense, but in the real sense of being just as needy for God as anyone we invite. And that means we all have the same place at the table. No one is higher; no one is lower than anyone else. In acknowledging our own neediness we gain the freedom to join Jesus wherever there is a place at his table. We know that a place is prepared for us all, without regard to status or talents or money or how hard we pray or how hard we don’t. In true humility we know that Jesus invites us all to the table, to become his friends and companions and to walk with him now and always. AMEN.

The Rev Nicolette Papanek

©2016

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[1] Luke 14:12b-14 (NRSV)

Sermon 21 August 2016 Luke 13:1-17 Proper 16 Year C

Do you know, I think the person in today’s Gospel with whom I sympathize the most is the leader of the synagogue. I have plenty of sympathy available for the woman who was bent over for eighteen years. Who wouldn’t? And I can appreciate the position Jesus was in, caught between breaking the Sabbath law or relieving long time suffering when it came to healing on the Sabbath. But the character with whom I really identify with is that poor leader of the synagogue.

Talk about being trapped. No matter what the synagogue leader did or said, someone wasn’t going to like it. I can just imagine him saying things like this. “Look, I’m supposed to maintain order for our faith. All I was trying to do was point out what scripture says! I was as overwhelmed as anyone by Jesus healing that woman, but an institution has to have some kind of order. We have to have some rules.”

Maybe he said, in a whiny voice, “Couldn’t Jesus have waited until sundown and saved us all a lot of trouble?” I’m sure he would be astounded to learn he has become an example of someone who held to law rather than grace. Really, all he was trying to do was stick to the rules about keeping the Sabbath properly. And after all, the Sabbath was created to bring God’s people closer to God. Just like today, people weren’t observing the Sabbath the way the way it was intended.

Most of us think we agree with this synagogue leader. Maybe we don’t agree about keeping the Sabbath any more, but we agree about some version of order or rules. Most of us have a few internal rules we think the world would be better off if everyone followed. But you know, when you are called to something, sticking to your core purpose is what counts. Stray too far and people begin to wonder why you’re there.

So that’s the position the leader of the synagogue was in that day. It’s important to note that he did not critique Jesus’ healing in any way. He saw, and no doubt believed. What he did critique was when it happened. And so I also believe that during any time when something new happens, most of us have a tendency to question not so much whether the new thing is okay or not, but the “when” of its happening. And this makes me have great empathy for both the leader of the synagogue and leaders in the church today.

New things are hard because they are new. Even if we want them, new things mean different ways of doing things; they mean adapting ourselves to a different way of seeing. That idea of a different way of seeing brings us to the bent over woman in today’s story.

Just imagine for a moment what she must have spent the last eighteen years seeing. Feet! Ground! Dirt and sandals! And knowing what roads and sanitation were like in 1^st century Palestine, she probably saw a lot of well…I’ll let you imagine what else she saw. Just imagine, though, spending eighteen years of your life looking down. And when you could lift your head up, you only saw a little bit at a time.

For human beings, that is a metaphor for how we see all the time, and the reason behind the attitude of the synagogue leader and perhaps even how difficult it might have been for the woman to adjust to her healing. Something she had wanted, no doubt craved, for eighteen years, and yet suddenly her view was different. Yes, it was probably joyful for her, but oh so different to find herself suddenly looking people full in the face instead of looking down.

That’s what Jesus does for us, though. Instead of looking down all the time, down at our own feet, and the dirt and whatever else is lying about, we can look up to Christ. The healing and revelation of Jesus Christ is what opens us to the ability to see Jesus full on, to look up instead of down. Bent over by whatever weighs us down, whatever we bring in here on Sundays, and whatever we carry out there, always looking down is what separates each of us from our own calling. When the woman was finally able to straighten up, she was able to look full on, to see Christ fully and to see as he sees.

In this morning’s Gospel the original language used to describe what happened to the woman who was bent over is, “being loosed.” The meaning is to be loosed or set free from bondage. Jesus sets her free or looses her from her bonds. Previously, the woman was described as being “unable to bend up into all fullness.”

When we allow Jesus to loose whatever pulls us down, he pulls us up to look him in the face. And to see in his face the love and compassion and strength that waits in him for us. Jesus looses us to “bend up into all fullness,” to see him fully and to see things as he sees.

What will happen here when the weight of the old flies off and we “bend up into all fullness” looking into the face of Jesus and seeing as he sees.  Christ Jesus will come among us and loose our bonds and we will bend up into all fullness of Christ to become who we are called to be by him and with him. AMEN.

The Rev Nicolette Papanek

©2016

Sermon 15 August 2016 Luke 12:49-56 Proper 15 Year C

         I really hadn’t planned on telling you this, but our lectionary study group this morning enjoyed the story so much I thought I’d share it. We were, of course, talking about Jesus and fire and this morning’s Gospel.

Some time ago, a bishop (not Bishop Ed, I hasten to add), was visiting a parish where the priest’s young son was an acolyte. The bishop had served in WWII as a chaplain and taken shrapnel in one of his legs. Walking could sometimes be painful so the bishop’s custom was to sit in the bishop’s chair as the rest of the altar party processed.

         The bishop was sitting in his chair, waiting for the procession to begin, when the priest’s son came in to light the candles. It was autumn and there was a large arrangement of dried fall flowers next to were the bishop was sitting. As the kid lit the candles on one side of the bishop, he was a little nervous and he whirled around rapidly to light the candles on the other side. As he did so, he set the dried arrangement on fire, and set the bishop’s sleeve on fire. The boy stood terrified, frozen, not knowing what to do.

         The bishop reached over, calmly patted out the fire on his sleeve, and extinguished the flower arrangement. The kid was still frozen. The bishop leaned over, put his hand on the boy’s arm, and said, “Listen son, if more bishops got set on fire, we’d have a better church.”

         Have you ever noticed Jesus always seems to burn white hot? He is never lukewarm. Take this morning: “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! Do you think I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!” Yet near the end of Luke’s Gospel when Jesus appears to his disciples after he is resurrected, we hear, “Peace be with you.”[1] And, in John’s Gospel both before and after the resurrection, Jesus says, ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you“ and “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”[2]

         Is it possible that this morning Jesus is trying to tell us God sends fire for a purpose? That fire is not simply to burn and wound, but is to transform and heal? The Old Testament, the Hebrew scripture, has a wonderful example of this transforming and healing fire in the Book of Daniel. If you haven’t read it, you might want to check it out. It’s an exciting story full of dreams, famines, feasts, fiery furnaces and fierce lions.

In the Book of Daniel, King Nebuchadnezzar has three young men thrown into a fiery furnace. It’s clear his motive is to burn the three young men. Yet what Nebuchadnezzar witnesses in the fiery furnace transforms and heals him. The King’s anger leaves him and is replaced with awe, as the fire does not burn the young men. The King sees the action of God in the fiery furnace and becomes a believer in the God of the three young men. The refining fire of the fiery furnace burns away the barriers keeping the King from recognizing the presence of the living God.

         Let’s not deny, though, that fire does burn, and fire can be painful. Any one of us who has gone through a personal or church transformation has experienced pain and suffering. Transformation is hardly ever easy and hardly ever gentle or sweet. God seems to get our attention with fire. And transformation by Jesus is the white hot in the middle of the fire.

         I can tell you what I learn again and again by going to places like Colorado on my vacation. I learn the healing power of fire. And I learn the necessity of fire; that fire must occur for transformation and new life.

         A Colorado wildfire, or for that matter, any out of control fire is frightening. In the aftermath you see the smoking blackened forest, the skeletons of dead animals and birds that were unable to escape, and you see the charred trunks of trees and feel a brittle crunch when you walk. All of it is horrifying. And yet, if you come back a few weeks later, a cool quiet soft green has begun to come up out of the earth. Like a thin gentle blanket the pale green covers the ground, climbs softly over the stumps, and spreads across barren fields. This is new growth.

         Did you know that a burnt forest goes through something called plant adaptation? Adaptation occurs in different ways, but in forested areas trees and plants will often adapt by becoming more resistant to fire. Trees become stronger and better able to withstand future fires. In addition, the fire’s heat will cause pinecones to burst open and land in earth that has been enriched by the ashes. Fire is actually one of the ways God enables new life for a forest.

         Jesus says, “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” The next time you find yourself in the fiery furnace of transformation, remember the forest. Remember that fire is the way God transforms and heals. Remember that just like the three young men in the fiery furnace, God is with you in the flames. And remember that like the newly enriched earth after the fire, you also will feel the thin gentle blanket of new growth creep across the landscape of your soul. Remember God’s purpose in the fire is never to burn and wound but always to heal and transform. AMEN.        

The Rev Nicolette Papanek

©2016

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[1] Luke 24:36

[2] John 20:19, 21

Sacred Spaces: Say Amen to Beauty and Order

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my strength. – Psalm (KJV)

It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant... – Matthew 24:26 (NRSV) 

            What do our places of worship say about our faith? Do the buildings send messages about what we believe and how we live out our faith? Are we saying one thing with our buildings and doing another with our actions? Does this cognitive dissonance have an effect on how we are perceived by those outside our faith? Does this cognitive dissonance have an effect on the faith and actions of those who worship and lead worship in those spaces?

• Sacred spaces need both transcendence and immanence. We Christian human beings may believe in the God who came to dwell among us, but we also believe in the God “above us.” We still behold the hills and the heavens to find our God. Contemporary society has taught us that God is within us. The sacred may indeed be within us, but God is always other. We need buildings and objects that draw our eyes upward and outward; things that are larger than we are. Small thinking and small-looking spaces remind us of our limits; Godly space should tell us God is unlimited. Jesus never rebuked the disciples for wanting to be great; instead he told them what to do to be great.[1] Our buildings should invite us into God’s greatness yet reflect the inherent humility and service followers of Jesus were and are taught.

• Sacred spaces should be both inviting and invite us to leave. Churches where windows that are covered or there are small slit windows tell a story of a congregation looking inward, not outward. A bevy of stained-glass windows is wonderful, but what do the stories tell us, not only about ourselves, but also about the needs of the world? What is there in the church to keep us restless and unsatisfied, seeking to follow Jesus outside the church?

• Sacred spaces should clearly show the primacy of our faith in symbols. And what kind of symbols do we believe in? In this age of the corporate logo, how can we best communicate when our symbols are no longer universal or even understood by the majority of people? Should we perhaps think not about descending to the lowest common denominator, but instead about expanding ourselves to the simplest and most direct symbols: light, openness, colour, geometry, movement?

• Sacred spaces should invite us to look inward but draw us to look outward. Architecture and design can ask us to examine ourselves, but it can and should also ask us to take the result of that examination outward and make it communal. Sacred spaces should move us from “me” to “us.” This is a slightly different sense from architecture that both is inviting and invites us to leave. That has to do with following Jesus and taking our faith into the world. Looking inward and being drawn outward has more to do with the communal aspect of our faith. We need architecture that asks us to be individuals, uniquely in God’s image, but to know that we are part of a congregation, a community, a group of persons also made in God’s image, and our worship spaces need to include singularity and particularity as well as gathering us into communality.

• Sacred spaces need flowers, plants and growing things. The ubiquitous dying post-Christmas Poinsettias and the pots of wilting Easter lilies say nothing meaningful about God’s growth but a great deal more about the sin of our inattention and lack of care for our sacred spaces. Rather than pointing up transcendence, the wilting flowers and dusty leaves tell a story of neglect: neglect of God’s sacred space, neglect of our being in that space, and neglect of our own inward searching for the beautiful and the sacred. Plastic and silk flowers might seem practical, but they get forsaken just as easily as the real. And, they imprint a false theology on the senses by their changelessness. During Lent we might explore thorns, bare branches, twisted and gnarled sticks, or even plain rods in a black vase to evoke images of our Lord’s lashes prior to his execution on the cross.  

• Sacred spaces need to be congruent. They need to be cognitively integrated.  Dual messages confuse a worshiper. Sacred space needs to send the same message for different uses. The space needs to be both comprehensive and intimate, yet integrate those things. The space needs to tell us how to behave. In Washington Cathedral, tourists and visitors fall silent as they approach the grand crossing. The space itself begins to speak. Even children notice a building’s cognitive dissonance. There are churches that have contemporary chapels for children’s worship and a traditional worship space for “big” church. Not surprisingly, the children learn one way to behave in “their” space, and then have no idea how to behave in the more traditional space of the church itself. In addition, we neglect children and their spiritual development if the sacred space they inhabit is dingy, poorly lit, uncared for, and still has two-seasons-ago altar hangings and fake flowers. A powerful message is being sent to those children about their value, or lack thereof. This is an architectural, psychological, and spiritual dissonance that can be actively damaging, harming the inherent sense children have for the numinous and beautiful.

• Sacred spaces need to be clean, tidy, and carefully nurtured. Cleanliness speaks a powerful message about caring for God’s creation. Dust, dirt, and decay are felt messages that begin to work on the soul to tell it a negative and unreal story of God’s care for us. Cleanliness, order and freshness tell our souls a story of constant renewal and rebirth and that God cares for us in an even larger and more transcendent way than we care for one another and our sacred spaces.

The Rev Nicolette Papanek

©2016

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[1] Quote from the Rev Dr Rob Voyle, Clergy Leadership Institute, www.clergyleadership.com