A Sermon for 911

A Sermon Preached on September 11, 2019
Church of the Incarnation, New York City

Today, we commemorate three notable occasions:  the 18th anniversary of 911; the life and ministry of Harry Thacker Burleigh, one of America’s most influential composers; and the beginning of our Church Pension Group (CPG) board year.  These three events actually hold together in an odd sort of way, and I invite you to consider them with me.

Everybody has a 911 story, and our generation will forever be able to answer that question: “Where were you when the towers were hit?”  Some of you were in the financial district, and others were in Episcopal church buildings around the country. As for me, I was at a retreat center outside of San Francisco for a CREDO clergy conference.

I had awakened early in the morning to go running; it was, after all, a health and wellness conference, and I intended to make a new start.  I returned from my early morning run and walked into the refectory. My CREDO companions were still asleep. However, the kitchen staff was gathered in a corner of the room staring at a small television set suspended from the ceiling.  With my first cup of coffee in hand, I wandered over, looked up at the TV, and saw smoke coming from the towers. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and then I heard the newscaster exclaim: “A second plane has hit the second tower!”  

Stunned, I wandered out of the refectory and tried to call home to family and friends in New York and New Jersey, but I couldn’t get through; the phone lines were jammed.  Desperate to share the news, I woke up some of my fellow conference participants and told them what had happened. However, like Peter on the morning of the resurrection, they couldn’t believe my words, so they ran to the refectory television to see for themselves.  Then they, too, started frantically trying to call friends and family.

After breakfast, our CREDO conference faculty convened us in the chapel.  We said prayers, and then were informed that, after consultation with CREDO and CPG leadership, we would continue with the conference.  It was all we could do, they said. We couldn’t go home as air traffic around the country was suspended, so we might as well make the best of it and continue our work of health and wellness.

So there we were, navel gazing on a CREDO conference at a retreat center outside of San Francisco while the rest of the world was in turmoil.  Despite the best efforts of the conference faculty, it was a conflicted and confused — and for many — a not very successful CREDO. Some wanted to stay and keep going with the program.  Others (including me) desperately wanted to get home to our families, congregations and communities. How could we reflect on our personal financial, physical, spiritual and vocational health and wellness when the world was blowing up?

My most vivid memories of that conference include:

• Groups of clergy standing in the cloister with cell phones to our ears trying to connect with loved ones far away

• Watching that little television set in the corner of the refectory ceiling for news from the outside world

• Listening to the sounds of military jets patrolling the night sky along the Pacific coast

• Trying to get a photo ID so that I could fly home when the air space reopened (that’s a story for our cocktail hour)

• Going to the San Francisco airport to get on the first flight out of town

• Taking 7 connecting flights to get home

• Finally, falling into Emily’s arms at 3 o’clock a.m. when my last flight landed

I have two other memories of that conference: one disconcerting, and the other one comforting.  

The first — As some of us were working with Nancy Smith to make airline reservations for home, a member of the conference faculty said to me: “You know, Desmond Tutu would have stayed on this retreat.”  I was so offended and angry as he stood in judgment of my decision to prioritize to my congregational, civic and family affections and responsibilities over my CREDO time. This past summer, I shared that story with Bishop Tutu’s middle daughter, Naomi, who responded: “I think my father would have wanted to leave as well.”  

The second — In the middle of that awful week, as communities around the nation gathered in interfaith prayer services, our CREDO conference gathered to pray.  We prayed for victims both living and dead, grieving families and communities, first responders, and government leaders. We also prayed for our nation whose sense of security and innocence had been shattered, and whose identity, values and resolve were being tested.  And then we sang. We sang our hearts out well into the night. Thousands of miles away from the rubble that was once the World Trade Towers, a small group of Episcopal clergy were singing for our lives and the life of our world.

The heritage of singing — in both good and bad times — has been passed down through the generations.  Miriam sang after crossing the Red Sea, and Deborah sang after defeating her people’s enemy. David praised God in song and his son Solomon sang of love.  Isaiah wrote songs of exultation, Jeremiah lamented in song, and Zechariah sang as he rejoiced. Paul and Silas sang in prison, and the voices of heaven sang a new song of the lamb before the throne of God. And, as we heard in this evening’s gospel reading, Hannah and Mary sang when they learned of their pregnancies. 

I have given a lot of thought to the power of singing since that day.  We sing to celebrate and to grieve. We sing as we work and as we play.  We sing to make the world smaller. We sing to drown out the voices of hatred.  And sometimes, we sing to stay warm, awake and alive.  

Singing is a powerful form of prayer.  Perhaps that’s why St. Augustine once said, “To sing is to pray twice.”  

Singing has always been a way of surviving the horrors of prison and torture. Perhaps, one of the most poignant examples of the power of song during fateful times was the final message of Etty Hillesum.  Scribbled on a scrap of paper and thrown from a box car as she and her family departed for Auschwitz, this young woman wrote, “Tell them, we left the camp singing.”  

Singing is also a powerful act of spiritual and political resistance.  The early Christian martyrs sang as they faced lions in the coliseums. Striking workers sang outside the mines, mills and factories.  African American slaves sang as they toiled in the cotton fields. The LGBTQ community has sung our way to equality. And, though I don’t know for certain, I imagine that our sisters and brothers walking from Central America toward our border are singing along the way.

One of the most powerful resistance songs is an old Quaker hymn that dates back to pre-Civil War North Carolina when members of the Religious Society of Friends suffered for their opposition to slavery.  Its words spoke volumes about the power of song: “Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear that music ringing. It sounds an echo in my soul. How can I keep from singing?”

Where would we be without singing?  I don’t know. My beloved Emily says that when she sings, it is the only thing she can think about; for her, singing gives her head a vacation from the cares and worries of the world.  As I am learning first-hand, for people with dementia, singing is calming and comforting; it helps us to make connections and keep memories alive; and is one of the last cognitive faculties to go.

Harry Thacker Burleigh, whom we remember today, certainly understood the power of song. Born to a free African American family in Erie, Pennsylvania in 1866, Burleigh demonstrated an early passion for music as he learned to sing in local church choirs. In 1892, he earned a scholarship to attend the New York Conservatory of Music. There, he developed a friendship with the school’s director and one of my favorite composers, Antonin Dvorak.  The two shared an interest in using spirituals and folk songs as inspiration for classical composition.  

Following graduation, Burleigh was hired as the baritone soloist by St. George’s Episcopal Church on Stuyvesant Square.  In 1900, he made history by becoming the first black soloist at Temple Emanu-El on Fifth Avenue. He even sang a command performance for King Edward VII.  

Burleigh was also an incredibly accomplished composer.  Inspired by Dvorak, he focused much of his attention on adapting African American spirituals into classical arrangements for choirs and soloists.  He is perhaps best known in the Episcopal Church for his arrangements of “Deep River,” “My Lord, What a Morning,” “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” “Go Down Moses,” and “Were You There.”  I can only imagine what Burleigh would have written to commemorate 911.

As the publisher and custodian of The 1982 Hymnal and Lift Every Voice and Sing, CPG is indebted to composers like Harry Thacker Burleigh and entrusted with the task of keeping their music alive in the world and available to the church. 

And on this 18th anniversary of 911, it is the church’s responsibility to remember that awful day, and to work very hard every day so that it might never happen again.

As we remember those who lost their lives and loved ones on that fateful morning of September 11, 2001, may we be comforted with words from one of Burleigh’s best known songs, “Deep River”:

Oh don’t you want to go to that gospel feast,

That promised land where all is peace?

Deep River

I want to cross over into campground.

May the souls of all the departed rest in peace.

Rules of Etiquette, According to Jesus

In the book Entertaining for Dummies, author Suzanne Pollak writes, “Most people invite the same two or three couples over for dinner, and what happens is that you end up talking about the same thing.”  The boring results, she explains, is that, “the conversation just picks up where it left off at the last party…To keep the conversation fresh, Williamson suggests that one should “invite a scandalous acquaintance or an intellectual with something to say that everyone wants to hear.” 

Now, I ask you, who would that be?  Who would you invite to your next dinner party?  A survey of recent college graduates reported that Jesus was at the top of their dream guest list.

I don’t know how popular Jesus actually was as a dinner guest, but I do know that our Lord liked parties and did a lot of “table talk.”  Some of Jesus’ most significant discourses, miracles, radical acts and resurrection appearances take place at the dinner table or around a meal: the wedding at Cana, the feeding of the multitudes, the healing of the man with dropsy; the anointing by Mary Magdalene; the washing of feet; the institution of the Lord’s Supper; and my favorite, breakfast on the beach.          

Jesus recognized that table companionship – those with whom we eat – made a powerful social commentary and a wonderful teaching opportunity.  Our Lord believed and behaved as if all of life was a banquet hosted by God: a party with an open invitation, a table with many seatings, a meal overflowing with the variety and abundance of creation so that all the guests could be satisfied, and plenty of leftovers to be shared with those who for varied reasons couldn’t get there in time.

 It was Jesus’ mission on earth to help us clearly see God’s intentions for the abundance of divine grace: to help us to understand and follow God’s rules for table etiquette, as much as (if not more) than we follow those offered by Ms. Manners, Emily Post or Amy Sedaris.

 What are these rules, you might ask?  They can be summed up in two words: humility and hospitality. 

In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus is an invited guest at a dinner party, a banquet given by a leader of the Pharisees. One phrase, “they were watching him closely,” leads us to believe that Jesus was probably the “scandalous acquaintance or the intellectual with something to say that everyone wants to hear.”  Without a doubt, the host and other table companions were testing Jesus. And what did Jesus do?

First, he asked a provocative question about healing on the Sabbath.  When he got no response, he then healed the man with dropsy.

After this, he agitated the situation further by commenting in parable on the seating arrangements. Waiting until everyone was seated at his or her various places of honor, Jesus told a story that could be interpreted on many levels: economic, social, political, and even theological — suggesting that those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.

 After insulting the party guests, Jesus then insulted his host by criticizing his invitation list.  “When you give a luncheon or dinner, don’t invite your friends and relatives who can reciprocate. Instead, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind who cannot repay you.”

 Can you imagine such a scene?  A recent college graduate, perhaps one of those surveyed, has her first major dinner party to celebrate her new high-powered job with a prestigious firm.  She invites some of her potentially important colleagues and their spouses. She is ready to impress them with her new apartment, her new dining room furniture, her new tableware, and her newly acquired gourmet cooking skills.  She also gets her dream come true — Jesus is among the invited guests. But there is one hitch; our hostess is not allowed to tell anyone who he is.  

The dinner guests arrive. They have their cocktails and move to the dining room. Jesus sits quietly at the far end of the table while everyone chooses a seat.

 Just as everyone begins to eat, Jesus first insults the guests for their jockeying for power spots at the table. And then to add insult to injury, he turns to the hostess and says, “Next time you have a dinner party, why don’t you invite the men living in the shelter at your church, or the assistants in your office, or the stranger you pass on the street, instead of these new colleagues you’re trying to impress.”

I don’t know what I would have done in her place.  But I do know that if God is the host of Jesus’ dinner party, the parable suggests that God raises us up out of our own humility, and God humbles us out of our own arrogance and self-importance.

We are called to welcome the stranger into our community and our lives, and not just strangers who look and act like us; rather, we are to invite strangers who might be very different from us, but who none-the-less are invited to join the party.

A party is a risky act of faith on the part of the host who wants to offer joy and believes that his or her guests are worth the effort.  It’s a risk for the host who doesn’t know if anybody will show up, too many people will show up, or there will be enough food and drink to go around.  In hosting a party, we risk that we won’t have enough chairs for people to sit, that somebody might spill wine on our favorite chair, or break grandmother’s antique chair.  There also is a risk that the guests might not get along, someone might say or do something inappropriate, or we might have to deal unexpectedly with someone’s pain or grief causing a guest to present him or herself more as a stranger than a friend.

The dinner party, as a metaphor for Gospel living, is not about cultivating a society of one’s own kind, or getting ahead through entertaining. Rather, the dinner party is about celebrating life with your neighbor, crossing the boundaries of race and class, and sharing the bounty of the harvest with those less fortunate than you.  And may we all remember that in the giving and receiving of hospitality with humility, we might “entertain angels unaware.”  

Think globally. Act locally.

One of the things that I like to do in the summer is to catch up on my reading. This past week, I have been reading Richard Powers’ amazing book, The Overstory.  In it, the author describes a seven-year-old boy as one who “knows that most of the world is a present for him.”

I consider it an amazing gift to spend summers on the Outer Cape.  All those years of reading Henry Thoreau, Henry Beston, Marge Piercy, and Mary Oliver have come full circle. Their stories and imagery come to life for me here.

Every morning, I look out at the water and give thanks for this beautiful and fragile landscape. I also give thanks for my neighbors who work so hard as stewards and keepers of this place:

• The shellfish men and women who harvest our oysters, clams,  lobsters, and mussels

• The deep sea fishermen and women who bring us bluefish, striper, tuna, and swordfish

• The farmers who raise our fruits and vegetables and sell them in the local markets

• The bakers who make our bread and blueberry muffins

• The cooks, waiters, and dishwashers who work in our local restaurants

• The shopkeepers and drivers who stock, sell, and deliver items to meet our every need

• The women and men who clean up after us

• The cashiers who ring up our groceries at the market

• The yoga and exercise teachers who stretch our bodies

• The doctors, nurses, and vets who take care of us when we’re sick

• The painters, sculptors, musicians, and artists who feed our spirits

• The lifeguards, police officers, firefighters, and EMTs who keep us safe 

For this place and all these people, I offer thanks. But that’s not enough. As the prophet Micah says to the seeker who asks what is required of her, God has told us what is good and what is required:  do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God. “Do,” “love”, and “walk” are action verbs that demand we get off of our donkey and help our neighbors.

The New Testament writer of James reminds us that faith without works is dead.  When we live out those baptismal promises, though, “They will know we are Christians by our love.”  To paraphrase an old camp song, when we work with each other, when we work side by side, we will guard each one's dignity and save each one's pride.

Thus, in our baptismal covenant, we promise to proclaim by word and example the Good News of God, to seek and serve Christ in all persons, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to strive for justice and peace among all people, and to respect the dignity of every human being. The Christian faith is not just a head thing; it involves the heart and hands in a call to action.

With so much facing our nation and our world--with climate change, gun violence, sex trafficking, detention and deportation, the growing gap between rich and poor, bigotry, and hatred all running rampant in the public square--it’s hard to figure out what action to take.

Being a Christian today is really about thinking globally and acting locally. We need to be informed about the big picture; we can’t remain blissfully ignorant. We also need to engage with others to solve those big, complicated issues.  An important step is to take meaningful action in our own communities.

Matthew’s Jesus makes it really clear. When we feed, shelter, clothe, visit, and advocate for our brothers and sisters in need, we feed, shelter, clothe, visit and advocate for Christ himself.  

The St. James Chapel here in Wellfleet commits to the practice of showing love for neighbors by supporting programs and services that benefit the lives of year-round residents and seasonal workers on the Cape. The aim every year is to donate 50% of the offerings directly to groups that support those in need on the Outer Cape.  

Their generous donations support people and programs that serve those who live with physical, mental, and spiritual challenges: isolated and lonely seniors who need help and companionship; workers who can’t afford Cape housing costs; abused women who have nowhere else to turn; the sick and injured who require medical care on the outer Cape; the hungry who need food; local children and youth who can’t afford summer camp; year-round residents who need energy assistance in the middle of the winter; and those living with dementia.

Recently, we hosted our second “Outreach Sunday” at the chapel to learn more about the ongoing needs of local residents and seasonal workers, as well as the services provided by various social agencies to meet those needs. After listening to the sacred texts (Micah, James and Matthew 25), our community outreach partners stood in a sacred circle around God’s table and told us about the social service needs of year-round residents and seasonal workers on the Outer Cape and what the agencies are doing to address those changing needs.  After they spoke, the chapel warden, Darcy Hackert, announced that fundraising had exceeded the budget and that the vestry had voted to award an additional $500 to each organization. It was a delightful surprise. Before and after worship, the patio bustled with agency exhibits and lively conversations.

Dorothy Bass has written that Christian practices are shared patterns of activity, in and through which life together takes shape over time in response to and in the light of God, as known in Jesus Christ.  Woven together, they form a way of life.  

I am blessed to serve at St. James Chapel and witness God’s presence among them.

Meeting the needs of our neighbors is one concrete way to practice our collective faith and to remind each and every one of us of our baptismal obligation to do the same.

Question for Reflection:  How are you thinking globally and acting locally?

How Shall We Pray? A reflection on the Lord's Prayer

Adapted from a July 28 sermon at the Chapel of St. James the Fisherman, Wellfleet, MA

The apostle Paul invites us to “pray without ceasing.” Good idea, but how? How shall we pray? Our patron James and his fishing buddies asked Jesus that very question; and Jesus, in turn, taught them to pray what we have come to call the Lord’s Prayer.

Last Sunday, we celebrated the Feast of St. James the Fisherman, taking a deep look at the Lord’s Prayer. But first, I asked the question: What is prayer?

I don’t know about you, but my prayers are usually fairly simple. They often start with “Thank you God,” and then I move on to words like: please, help, heal, give, strengthen, and protect. My prayers frequently include the line: “I’m sorry.” Sometimes, I offer up really profound phrases like: “I’m confused or lost, and I need guidance,” or “I’m tired, frustrated, or hurt, and I need comfort.” Sometimes, like Jacob, I wrestle with God; other times, like Moses, I complain to God; and once in a while, like Abraham, I bargain with God. And yes, there are times, when like Martha, I give God a piece of my mind.

Many of my prayers (and I bet yours, as well) are mundane versions of asking, seeking, and knocking. We come to God as beggars, asking for help and support; we approach God as seekers, looking for answers and advice; and sometimes, we knock on God’s door, in need of hospitality and companionship. These three words – ask, seek, and knock – are really the essence of the prayer that Jesus taught our patron James and the other disciples when they asked him, “Teach us to pray.”

Biblical scholar John Dominic Crossan describes The Lord’s Prayer as both Christianity’s “greatest and strangest prayer . . . a revolutionary manifesto and a hymn of hope.” He writes, “It is a prayer from the heart of Judaism on the lips of Christianity for the conscience of the world.”

In the words of Frederick Buechner, “We are asking God to be God; [and] we are asking God to do not what we want, but what God wants.” We also are praying that we might align our will with God’s will. Ironically, as Aldous Huxley once observed, “This third clause of the Lord’s Prayer is repeated daily by millions who have not the slightest intention of letting any will be done except their own.” Is that true for you and me?

When we pray, “Give us this day our daily bread,” we’re looking to God to both “keep us alive with three square meals” and sustain us in our spiritual journey. In using the first person plural, we also pray that everybody else have enough. Thus, when uttering these words, we’re invited to consider what nourishment or help we actually need, and what we’re doing to provide for the needs of others.

As we pray “forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us,” we are called to recognize our daily need for repentance and forgiveness. We also ask that we might be merciful as God is merciful. Whether we choose the word “sin,” “debt,” or “trespass,” this petition exemplifies Jesus’ new commandment of mutual love, perhaps even suggesting that we are forgiven only so much as we are able to forgive. Therefore, when praying the Lord’s Prayer, we should ask ourselves: What do I need forgiven? For what do I need to forgive others? Or, on whose door do I need to knock?

As we pray the final petition of the Lord’s Prayer, “save us from the time of trial,” or “lead us not into temptation,” we seek God’s companionship that we might remain alert during the challenging times of our lives. In doing so, we are not asking that we might be spared difficulties. Rather, we’re calling upon the love of God to abide with us and to give us strength so that we might pass through such testing, trials, and temptations with perseverance and without abandoning the core of who God has called us to be.

Beginning with James and his fishing buddies, this simple and short prayer has encouraged, comforted, and challenged believers and non-believers throughout the ages. It has been recited in churches, catacombs, colosseums, camps, and on crosses. It has been spoken, sung, chanted, and translated from the original Aramaic into thousands of languages. Over the millennia, the Lord’s Prayer has been faithfully adapted and edited in efforts to be understood in as human language evolves.

However we translate it, when we pray the prayer that Jesus taught, we ask that God will do the seemingly impossible – make the ordinary holy, make the reign of divine justice and peace a reality, lift up the voices of the oppressed, provide whatever is needed in the moment, forgive those who need to be forgiven (including ourselves), and save us all from the time of trial and temptation.

With each passing day, my prayer life becomes increasingly important to my spiritual well being, and as my Frontotemporal Degeneration advances, my conversation with God is becoming increasingly quiet. I joke that I can finally go on a silent retreat. As words diminish, much of my daily prayer is now expressed through movement and music.

The familiar prayers of my childhood are my favorites, and at bedtime, I still find myself praying, “Now I lay me down to sleep. . . .” Every morning, I sing the Shema (“Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one”), for it keeps me connected to my Jewish heritage. I love the prayer of St. Francis, but I’ve lost the ability to recite it from memory. I take comfort in Thomas Merton’s prayer that begins “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end,” but I can’t remember the rest of it.

I also love the prayers of praise in our hymnal and those embedded in the music of Taize. I even like some of the psalms, including the contemporary ones of Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Van Morrison, Joan Osborne, and the Airborne Toxic Event.

When I get anxious (which is a major symptom of early-stage dementia), I repeat the prayer mantra: “Be still and know that I am God, and I am here with you.”

But for me, the Lord’s Prayer remains the center of my prayer life. I say it, not once, but many times a day. I recite it upon waking up in the morning and falling asleep at night. I say it while swimming, walking, biking, holding a yoga pose, sitting in traffic, and watering my garden. And it is the prayer I pray most with other people.

The more I pray the Lord’s Prayer, the more confident I become that God’s will can be done on earth as in heaven if we all bend our ears, hearts, and minds to God’s way. And saying it has changed my life and my heart. In fact, every time I pray it, I go deeper into the mystery that is God.

Jodi Picoult, in her 2008 novel entitled, Change of Heart, made this observation about the Lord’s Prayer: “Before I realized what I was doing, my own mouth had started to form the words, a muscle memory. And to my surprise, instead of it feeling false or forced, it made me relieved, as if I had just passed the baton to someone else…It felt like putting on flannel pajamas on a snowy night; like turning on your blinker for the exit that you know will take you home.“

That’s how I feel when I pray these words. They come from a muscle memory deep inside, they signal my way home, and I am confident that they will remain with me, even when my ability to speak is gone. Then, in the stillness and silence of my heart, I will pray: “My God in heaven, holy be your name,”

This morning, I encourage you to “pray without ceasing.” And when you’re not sure how or what to pray, I suggest you try the Lord’s Prayer. In the end, it’s as good as it gets.

Welcoming the Stranger, Jesus Style

When Jesus sent 70 disciples on their first evangelical mission, His instructions were specific and clear:  Approach the world with innocent, gentle and trusting grace, as if it’s a friendly universe – even though you will meet those who reject and wish you harm.  Do not allow possessions or pretenses to get in your way. Trust God to provide what you need. There’s an urgency to this mission, so don’t get sidetracked, diverted or distracted, but go where you are sent.  When you get to your assigned location, knock on the door, and bid “shalom” to its occupants.  

Shalom is a wonderful Hebrew word - far more than a friendly greeting.  Shalom is a biblical vision of a world with a place of welcome for everybody and enough food and shelter to go around.  Shalom is God’s dream for a world where there is no disease, where there are no prisons,  no violence, no oppression, no war. Shalom is a commonwealth where everybody gets to enjoy Sabbath rest, including those who put food on our table, make clothes for our bodies, and clean up our mess.  Shalom is the divine hope for human beings to live together as sisters and brothers of the one God whom we call by many names and to whom we come by many routes.  Shalom is God’s realm where peace, justice and kindness reign.  As commonplace a Hebrew greeting as it is, to bid shalom with intentionality is to wish the very best for the one you greet.

 Jesus instructs his disciples, if welcomed,  to eat whatever is offered and to not look for better accommodations.  In other words, they are to be good guests. After receiving the hospitality of strangers, Jesus’ followers are to proclaim in word and deed the kingdom of God - wholeness of body, healing of spirit, and peace for the household and their community.

 Idealistic but not naive, Jesus prepares his followers for rejection: “Whenever they do not welcome you, shake the dust off your feet and move on.”  As Michael Ondaatje observed in his 2018 novel, Warlight,  you “can learn as much from those who bar the door as from those who let [you] in.” 

After cautioning his disciples about the inevitability of rejection, Jesus says, “On that day it will be more tolerable for Sodom than for that town.”  To be clear, the residents of Sodom were punished not because of homosexuality, but because of their inhospitality and lack of compassion and regard for the stranger.  Jesus concludes by reminding the disciples that "Whoever listens to you listens to me, and whoever rejects you rejects me, and whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me" (Luke 10:16).

Thus,  we learn of Jesus’ idea of mission and hospitality.  Ambassadors for Christ, including you and I, are simply to be ourselves.  Evangelism Jesus-style does not involve great techniques of salesmanship. There are no special tools or gimmicks, no formula and or sales pitches for success.  Jesus’ disciples are commissioned to just be gracious, genuine people, sharing in both word and action the love of God. Jesus’ concept of hospitality is simple and clear: if you are the host, welcome the stranger, offering food, drink, shelter, attention, and protection; if you are the guest, receive what is offered with gratitude and thanksgiving.

Imagine being one of those first disciples.  Can you see yourself leaving home and going on such a mission?  Can you even talk to your next door neighbor, friend, or co-worker about the good news of Jesus or the realm of God?  Or imagine receiving one of those disciples in your home. Would you offer hospitality to a stranger who comes in the name of Christ?  It’s one thing to hear the Gospel proclaimed on a Sunday morning. It’s another to actually live the Gospel on Monday morning.

In light of what’s happening on the US-Mexican border, let’s think about Jesus’ instructions from the perspective of an immigrant seeking entry into the United States.  

Like a loving parent concerned for a child, Jesus says to those who are leaving home and coming to America:  “On your way! Go in search of a better life. But be careful—it’s a dangerous journey. Travel light. Be polite to those whom you meet along the road, but don’t loiter. Tread gently on the earth, picking up after yourself.  Receive the hospitality that is offered to you without complaint, and don’t neglect to say, ‘Thanks.’ Once you settle in a community, be a source of help, healing and hope. Be prepared for rejection, but know that in rejecting you, they’re also rejecting me.”

Imagine this gospel message from the perspective of our sisters and brothers (the vast majority of whom are Christian) coming from Central America (usually walking) to the US in search of asylum, protection, freedom, and relief from the violence, war, and economic hopelessness in their native lands.  Imagine this gospel proclaimed in detention centers, tent communities, migrant camps, and churches with undocumented parishioners. Like our immigrant ancestors, the hundreds of thousands of men, women, children, and infants coming to this country are not seeking to take advantage of us. Rather, they hope to start a new life among us.  

For over a decade, I served a church where the majority of my parishioners were immigrants, coming from the Caribbean, Latin America, and Africa.  Many of them were or had been undocumented for a period of time, and some had fled their homelands with only the clothes on their backs. Their first-hand accounts were often tragic and terrifying.

During those years, I would make an annual pilgrimage to Ellis Island as a way of connecting my congregation’s immigrant experience with that of my paternal great grandparents, who, like forty percent of all Americans, immigrated through what has been called an “island of hope and tears.” 

Walking the vast empty halls, looking at old photos, and listening to tape-recorded voices, I could hear and see echoes of my own immigrant heritage.  Reading the words of Emma Lazarus inscribed on the Statue of Liberty reminded me of what people have been willing to sacrifice for freedom, hope, prosperity and peace:  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

The immigrants who have settled in the United States — whether they were 17th century British pilgrims on the Mayflower; masses of European immigrants in the steerage of 19th century steamships; or recent arrivals from Asia, Africa, and the Americas landing at Miami, Newark, and Los Angeles airports, or crossing borders in Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico — have come to this nation bringing new hopes, new dreams, and new lives in search of freedom.  

For those who came to this land in chains, shackled in the bottom holds of slave ships, freedom became the quest after they arrived.  And for some, as the old spiritual reminds us, freedom came only with death.

What makes us all Americans is our quest for freedom.  When we’re seeking it, it’s all we can think of, and we are willing to take enormous risks for it.  Once we have it (especially those who have had it all our lives), most of us tend to take it for granted, and some of us want to deny it to others.

Undocumented immigrants, disparaged as “dangerous and illegal" by those who want them out of this country, present a moral dilemma for people of faith.  When it comes to immigration, the biblical values of welcome and hospitality have been discarded.

As people of faith, we must speak up and act.  I believe Jesus is calling us to educate, donate, advocate, and, yes, vote        

First and foremost, we must educate ourselves about immigration in this country. To be informed citizens, we need to learn about the history of immigration.  We need to understand the present crisis at the border: what is really happening and why it is happening. We also need to study both the root causes for the surge in world-wide migration and the vast and varied solutions for a just and comprehensive immigration policy.          

Once we are educated, we are called to act.  We can donate to organizations that provide assistance to immigrants on the border and in local communities and to NGOs working in countries of war, starvation and strife.  Some might feel called to volunteer their time and talent with such efforts. Others might feel called to offer an undocumented family sanctuary in their home. 

I know from experience that people of faith can be very effective advocates in this immigration crisis.  We can communicate with legislators and write op-Eds to our local newspapers. We can show up at demonstrations and vigils.  We can even bear witness at the border and at local ICE offices.

Vigils will be held across the country on July 12 as part of a national day of concern and action. I intend to show up, and I hope some of you will join me.

Details about local Lights for Liberty vigils across the country can be found online here.

Finally, when the time comes, people of faith can and should express their values at the polling booth.  That is how democracy works. We show up and vote.

Yes, we do have an immigration, humanitarian and political crisis.  And it’s not going away anytime soon. So, heeding the words of Paul’s letter the church in Galatia:  “Let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at harvest time, if we do not give up.  So then, whenever we have an opportunity, let us work for the good of all, and especially for those of the family of faith.” (Galatians 6:9)