Sermon 11 September 2016 Luke 15:1-10, Proper 19 Year C

         Today is the 15^th Anniversary of the World Trade Center tragedy and the other horrific events that unfolded September 11, 2001. What I remember most from that day, aside from all the television footage, was the chapel bell ringing at the seminary and all of us knowing we needed to be there. We gathered at first in stunned silence, then some of us weeping, some of us whispering, some of us wondering because we had relatives in New York or elsewhere, and some of us numb and not thinking at all, only feeling lost and grieving. And then together we began to pray. As the prayer rose and gathered strength, rising unseen on the still air in the chapel, we grew stronger, more determined, more ready to move into a world torn apart and in deep need of God’s love and forgiveness. We made ready to find the lost sheep of God.      

The first parable in the Gospel today is one of three back-to-back parables Jesus tells in the fifteenth chapter of Luke. There’s an old Gospel hymn about the first of the two parables we hear today. It’s called, The Ninety and Nine. Anybody know it? (Only one person raised a hand. One other person later confided to me s/he knew the hymn, but hadn’t her raised a hand.)

Elizabeth Clephane, a Scotswoman, wrote it in 1868. Ira Sankey, who was the music associate of the Evangelist D. L. Moody, spotted Ms. Clephane’s poem, printed in a newspaper. Mr. Sankey tucked the poem in a pocket as he and moody boarded the train to an evangelism event. On the train, Sankey tried to read the poem to Moody, but could tell Moody was not paying attention. He tucked the poem back in his pocket and forgot about it. During the worship service that same afternoon, Moody preached on the Good Shepherd and at the end of his sermon turned to Sankey and asked him to end the sermon with an appropriate solo. Sankey remembered Ms. Clephane’s poem, pulled it out of his pocket, muttered a short prayer for God’s help, struck an A flat on his little portable organ and began to sing, composing as he went. When Sankey finished, both he and Moody were in tears. Moody asked Sankey where he had found that beautiful text, and Sankey replied it was what he had tried to read to Moody on the train. “I just didn’t hear it until now,” said Moody.

In spite of all the other things these parables about the lost sheep and the lost coin have to say, the primary message of the parables is about joy. Yes, the parables are about loss. Yes, the parables are about being found. And yes, these two parables are about the deep and abiding love God has for us, even in the midst of our sins and sorrows.

Despite what you may hear elsewhere in the world, God is the God of forgiveness. And God is the God of joy. Our Lord Jesus Christ is the God who goes out looking for the least, the lost, and the lonely.

So today, it seems particularly appropriate to let the words of Elizabeth Clephane, the author of The Ninety and Nine, preach the Gospel.

Her words tell us, no matter how far we stray, God rejoices and all heaven sings when we are found. This is how we can live our lives even in the midst of horror, whether global or personal. This is how we know who is the finder of the lost sheep and the lost coin, and even the one who thinks he or she can never be found.

(Our choir director and a male member of the choir sang the first verse of The Ninety and Nine. When they finished, I kept silent for about a minute and then read the poem in its entirety.)

The Ninety and Nine[1]

There were ninety and nine that safely lay

In the shelter of the fold.

But one was out on the hills away,

Far off from the gates of gold.

Away on the mountains wild and bare.

Away from the Shepherd’s tender care.

Away from the Shepherd’s tender care.

“Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety and nine.

Are they not enough for Thee?”

But the Shepherd made answer: “This of Mine

Has wandered away from Me,

And although the road be rough and steep,

I go to the desert to find My sheep.

I go to the desert to fins My sheep.”

But none of the ransomed ever knew

How deep were the waters crossed,

Nor how dark was the night the Lord passed through

Ere He found his sheep that was lost.

Out in the desert He heard its cry.

Sick and helpless and ready to die,

Sick and helpless and ready to die.

“Lord, whence are those blood drops all the way

That mark out the mountains track?”

“They were shed for one who had gone astray

Ere the shepherd could bring him back.”

“Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent and torn?”

“They are pierced tonight by many a thorn,

They are pierced tonight by many a thorn.”

And all through the mountains, thunder-riven,

And up from the rocky steep

There rose a cry to the gate of Heaven,

“Rejoice! I have found My sheep!”

And the angels echoed around the throne,

“Rejoice, for the Lord brings back His own!

Rejoice for the Lord brings back his own!”

 AMEN.

The Rev Nicolette Papanek

©2016

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[1] The Laura Ingalls Wilder Song Book, compiled and edited by Eugenia Garson, Harper and Row Publishers, New York, Evanston, and London: 1968

Homily Thomas Clark Oden, Jr 27 August 2016

                            

Please note: I do not normally post homilies for burial services, weddings, or other special liturgies, respecting the wishes of relatives and friends to keep the thoughts expressed for the family and the gathered congregation. In this particular case I have the permission of the surviving spouse. I was also urged to post the homily by musician friends and colleagues attending the service or those whom I bored by asking more questions than they probably wished to answer about musical improvisation.

I believe I know what improvisation looks like in my own art, but I am not a musician, only an appreciator of music and musicians. My thanks to Clark's wife Jeanne, the grown children Clark helped raise, and his extended family, for the privilege of knowing him even a little, and for permission from Jeanne to post this homily.

"Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God." ~ 1John 4:7

  John 6:37-40                   Thomas Clark Oden, Jr               27 August 2016

  Isaiah 25:6-9         

         Last night, in honor of Clark, I listened to Dave Brubeck. I thought about Jeanne telling me about Clark’s awakening to jazz when he heard Blue Rondo a la Turk. As I listened, I think I understood why jazz came together the way it did for Clark. And especially why Clark was passionate about Dave Brubeck’s jazz.

Brubeck’s music, and jazz in general, has an order and structure recognizable to the aficionado. It also has a richness and depth that we hear in our reading from the Prophet Isaiah where we are invited to a banquet of rich food and great wine. But, jazz, food, and wine always leave room for improvisation. Right there, I believe, is how Clark lived his life. Clark was a messenger for improvisational love.

Improvisation requires a deep knowledge of what the composer intended. That knowledge allows the musician freedom to improvise rhythms and tempos that echo the composer’s work, and to add, enhance, and expand. The additions, enhancements, and expansions are not there to make a better piece of music, but a piece of music that slowly unfolds further and deeper and embeds itself in the heart of the listener. Improvisation honors both the roots of the composer and the shoots of the improviser.

You’ve heard members of Clark’s family tell stories about him, and the common theme in those and all the others I heard was Clark’s great gift at improvisation. Whether it was digesting his father’s theology and making it more concise and accessible, or praising his beloved mother-in-law for her care of their children, or re-engineering something to be better or louder or more efficient, that was Clark’s way in this world. A messenger for improvisation: A guy who couldn’t resist tinkering with what he was handed. Clark was a partner with God in making God’s dream for him come into being.

The Gospel reading we heard today is Jesus’ improvisation on how we come to believe. We begin with the knowledge that God never lets us go, even in those times when we are unsure of God’s very existence. We can believe this because if everything God gives Jesus comes to him, and no one is ever driven away, then all our life is a continual improvisation on that theme. We may think we are moving farther or closer to God, but we are always enfolded in that loving rhythm no matter where God’s music takes us.

In marrying Jeanne and finding himself with not only Jeanne but the gift of three children, Clark’s improvisational skills gave him the wisdom and strength to be a father who provided the underlying structure but also the ability to bring out the best in each child in in the unique ways each was created. For Clark, that improvisational skill extended to forgiveness as well. He knew some times it takes longer to forgive than at other times, yet forgiveness was another tune to improvise. After a wonderful wedding anniversary dinner, Clark wrote to Amy, “…the point is we all have to forgive, and be forgiven. It’s part of living a free life. I certainly have had to be forgiven many times, and I’m far better off having been forgiven, than I would’ve been had those that forgave me refused to do so.”

If you want to know to whom Clark credited his strength and wisdom to lead his improvisational life, all you have to do is read what he wrote to Jeanne as he proposed marriage. “I truly believe we were meant to be together, that God is behind our union and will bless out marriage.” The rest of what he wrote held both the underlying structure of what he believed and also the brilliance of his tinkering skill to build an improvisational relationship based on that core theme. Just like tracing his roots in Enid, he always went back to the core theme to mine it for its brilliance and power before he would improvise the rest.

None of us know what being enfolded by God will be like for us when we depart this life, but I like to imagine Clark like this. After he’s greeted into that great love that is God, he’ll look up Dave Brubeck. And he’ll tell him he’s figured out a way to re-engineer his instruments to sound even better as they accompany the angels in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Do you want to honor God’s wisdom and strength and improvise your life the way Thomas Clark Oden, Junior, improvised his life? Go back to your roots, pleasant or unpleasant as they may be. Be who you are. Honor what those roots have taught you. Improvise from those roots, always remembering the core music of your roots. Tinker with your life and figure out how to make it better. Be a good storyteller. Listen well to someone else’s story. Light a candle in the darkness. Help raise a child. Be someone’s structure when they need it. Be joyful when someone needs it. Spread love lavishly. Ask for forgiveness. Forgive yourself. Forgive someone else. Improvise! Improvise! Improvise! AMEN.

The Rev Nicolette Papanek

©2016

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