Crossing to the Other Side

Matthew’s account of Jesus walking on water (Matthew 14.22-33) is a simple story that, like much of the Bible, has several layers of meaning. Jesus told his disciples to “cross to the other side.” They launched the boat, and Jesus went off to pray. Then the waters got rough. The disciples saw Jesus walking on the water across the waves toward the boat and thought him to be a ghost. But Jesus insisted that he was not a figment of their imagination. 

When Peter put Jesus to the test, Jesus called Peter’s bluff and invited him into the water. Peter got out of the boat and walked toward Jesus. The wind came up, though, and Peter got scared. He started to sink. With an outstretched arm, Jesus caught him, saying, “You of little faith — why did you doubt?”  

I really like this story, especially the opening line: “Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side.”  Have you ever been told to go to “the other side,” to take a risk, to leave your comfort zone, or to experience life from another perspective? 

That is precisely what Jesus asked his disciples to do. He told them to cross the water, to journey to a foreign land, an unfamiliar place. He also sent them alone, promising to meet them on the other side. 

That, my friends, is what’s happening to many of us now.

Together, the COVID pandemic, the economic crisis, and the socio-political upheaval of our times are challenging us to go to “the other side,” with the promise that God will be with us on what seems like a dangerous crossing and will meet us on what might feel like a distant shore.

Significant crossings are difficult and fraught with danger and challenge. When we cross to “the other side,” we may encounter external danger, but the real danger is that we are confronted with our true nature, facing directly into our own fears and moving through them, not around them.   

That’s what the Black Lives Matter movement is about for white people. We are called to go to “the other side” and acknowledge our whiteness and our white privilege, to face the systemic, structural racism we have imposed upon our brothers and sisters of color.  And in facing both our white privilege and our nation’s systemic racism, we are called to confront not only the hate, bias, inequities, danger, and pain that black and brown people have faced in a racist society but also the internal racism that we hold in our bodies and souls.  

The Black Lives Matter movement calls white people to face our own demons.  

When we cross to the other side, we journey like a submarine down into the deep water toward the confusion, chaos, and doubt of our brokenness. Yet in such crossings, we discover our wounds enveloped by the healing waters of compassion. In the depths of our internal doubts and fears, we find the love that will not disappear or die.

Isn’t that what’s happening during the journey of these days as we face confusion, chaos, doubt, and fear?

 In Matthew’s story of crossing to “the other side,” there are lots of wind and waves. This seems so appropriate for our times because we are indeed sailing in very stormy and rough waters. Like many of you, there’s a part of me that is frightened. I fear getting COVID or giving it to someone I love. I worry about the economy, the food supply, and the environment. I’m concerned for the future of organized religion, education, small business, art, and music. And I am scared of a president who seems out of touch and out of control. 

However, though I’m frightened for our nation and for the rest of the world, I’m also hopeful. It’s as if we’re on the precipice of something new and exciting. I believe that we are poised in a moment of reset, re-calibration, and re-alignment, standing on the edge of a new beginning. This crossing--as painful and frightening as it has been, still is, and will continue to be in the coming days--is nonetheless essential for human wellbeing, perhaps even for the survival of our world.  

A new world is being created in the rough waters of this time of pandemic and upheaval. God is inviting us not only to cross to the other side but also to get out of the boat and wade into the troubled and scary waters.  

I ask you, then, to think about how you might offer hope to this frightened world. How might you be a sign of God’s promise? How might you demonstrate in word and action that you are a person of faith--faith in the goodness of creation, faith in the beloved community, and faith that when we walk with God in justice, kindness, and humility, together we can do more than we could ever imagine?

Seize this moment as a gift to be shared, knowing that in God life is understood and makes sense; that your life is accepted with all of its hope, all of its promise, and all of its challenge; and that you have the courage to face whatever you have to face, today, tomorrow, and then some.

From Scarcity to Abundance

Matthew’s account of the Feeding of the Multitudes (Mt 14:13-21) is one of my favorite Bible stories. This episode in Jesus’ ministry teaches us to take what we have, give thanks to God for it, divide it among the gathered community, and discover that there is always enough to go around. In fact, there will be more than enough —  leftovers for those who don’t make it to the table. 

What is commonly called “the miracle of the loaves and fish” can be compared to a potluck, only much more. The teachings are the same: the combination of community, sharing, and faith leading us from scarcity to abundance. In some ways, that is the very essence of Christianity.

Potlucks can take place only in a community. They can’t happen alone. They are, by their very nature, a community event. Certainly, there will be private moments in a Christian life, but for the most part, our Christian living takes place in the context of community. The community takes what we have to offer, and the community gives back what we need.

Potlucks are about sharing. The miracle of the story of the loaves and fish is that by his own behavior Jesus taught people to share what they had, and there was enough. Think about how he orchestrated the feast. He told the crowd to sit down on the grass. Then, he took what he had (actually what the disciples had), looked up to heaven, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to the disciples to distribute among the people.

Here’s what I think happened. When the disciples began distributing what they had to offer, others came forward to share what they had to offer. Surely some of the 5000 people gathered had brought a basket or sack of food with them; some of them were probably on the way to and from the market. Others probably had a piece of bread, cheese, or fruit in their satchels. In those days, few people left home for a day in the countryside without something to eat. It would have been foolish to leave home so unprepared. After all, there were no McDonald’s restaurants on the highway.

So when Jesus lifted up his food to God and instructed the disciples to pass it among the crowd, people came forward with their offerings. “I have a little cheese; I have a loaf of bread; I have an orange; I have a bit of wine – let me share this as well.” And when the people shared, there was enough to eat, and there were leftovers.

Potlucks are about having faith that when we share what we have with the community, there will be enough. Once again, it is the principle of abundance versus scarcity: a radical, deviant,  creative principle that if practiced can change both individual and collective life on this earth. The story of the bread and the fish summarizes one of the most essential teachings of our Lord. That’s why it’s found in all four gospels!

When Jesus lifted the bread and fish up to ask for God’s blessing upon it, he was taking a risk. He didn’t know for certain if there would be enough. However, he had faith that there would be enough. That’s what it’s all about: faith that there will be enough--enough food for the meal, enough money for the budget, enough time for the project, enough of whatever we need to fulfill our obligations to ourselves, our families, our communities, our world, and our God.

And here’s the kicker, the punch line. Jesus always asks more of us than we think we have to give: more love to offer when we’re running on empty; more tests to take when we’re exhausted; more mouths to feed when the pantry shelves are bare; more bills to pay when the checking account is empty.

Bring to me what you have, Jesus says. Bring me your skills and weaknesses; your strengths and fears; your burdens, challenges, and responsibilities; your hopes, dreams, and convictions; your past, present, and future. Bring it all to me, and I will make you adequate. I will make you enough for whatever you have to face, today tomorrow, and then some. 

 Like many during this pandemic, I miss eating with others. While I am profoundly grateful that I have enough to eat, a safe place to eat, and a loving partner with whom to eat, I miss eating breakfast and chatting with neighbors at my local diner. I miss catching up with colleagues over a leisurely lunch. I miss gathering family and friends together at dinner parties. I also miss potlucks, especially church potlucks, complete with jello molds, potato salad, and fried chicken. 

And I miss the Eucharist, blessing and sharing bread and wine with people with whom I might not otherwise dine at a breakfast, lunch, or dinner table. 

Reading again one of my favorite Bible stories this week, I remembered all those times around the table. As I long for the day when we can re-gather, I renew my vow to share my time, talent, and treasure with others, believing Jesus when he says there is more than enough of me and you and our collective resources to go around, believing his promise that if we will share what we have, not only will there be enough, there will be leftovers.

May it be so!

Is it Time to Change Course? Thoughts on Faith, Justice and Community

Many years ago, a clergy colleague said to me, “I’d rather be in communion with Christians from different denominations who share similar values and theological understandings than with some in my own denomination.” I responded that I would rather be in a relationship with people of different faith traditions who share similar values and perspectives than with some Christians. 

As the pandemic is having a profound impact on organized religious life and as the current civil rights movement is bringing all sorts of people (religious and non-religious) together, I have been thinking about that conversation. When people ask me what I value the most about my experience and education at the Union Theological Seminary in New York City, I respond that it was the diversity of student backgrounds, life experiences and theological perspectives accompanied by the shared values of justice, love and inclusion and an understanding of the wideness and breadth of God’s mercy. I came away from seminary believing that God is known by many names and revealed in many ways, and that different denominations, even different faith traditions, have more in common than not. 

As I watch the church struggle to survive, I wonder if we really need so many denominations or even so many religions. I wonder if people would be more spiritually fulfilled gathering with those who share common values and world views rather than denominational or religious affiliation. 

Throughout my career, like most of my clergy colleagues, I worked hard to grow the Episcopal Church, promote Episcopal identity, and raise up new generations of Episcopalians. That was a big part, often the most measurable aspect, of my job as a parish rector and cathedral dean. Once, I accidentally carried the red attendance book out in procession instead of the red Gospel book. At my ordination, I vowed “to conform to the doctrine, discipline and worship of the Episcopal Church,” and whenever I strayed from that message I was reminded of my obligation — and sometimes even reprimanded.

If these were ordinary times, this week at my summer congregation The Chapel of St. James the Fisherman in Wellfleet, MA, we would celebrate our patronal feast. From the prophet Jeremiah: “Thus says the Lord: I am going to break down what I have built and pluck up what I have planted.” (Jeremiah 45.4)

What if God is breaking down the church, plucking up all of our various denominations because we have lost sight of the essence of our faith? What if God is challenging us to reform Christianity into a different expression of the way of Jesus?

As Phyllis Tickle observed in her book The Great Emergence: How Christianity is Changing and Why: "About every five hundred years the empowered structures of institutional Christianity, whatever they may be at the time, become an intolerable carapace that must be shattered in order that renewal and new growth may occur." Ultimately, this good Episcopalian argued that as a result of what she calls a “cleaning of the attic,” a new and more vital form of Christianity is created, and the faith spreads.

My former bishop, John Shelby Spong, speaks of it as “a new Christianity for a new world.” If nothing else is happening as a result of this pandemic and social upheaval, we are likely witnessing the birth of a new world order.

I wonder if God is saying to churches, synagogues, temples and mosques — “I need you to become something new. I need you to be houses of prayer for all people, not just your denomination. I need you to prioritize collective action over doctrine and organize together for social, racial, environmental and economic justice. I need you to provide worship and opportunities for community, education and service that bring my good news of justice, love and mercy to all who seek it — even if that means letting go of the way you’ve always done things.” I think God is inviting the community of faith on a radical and transformative journey. How will we respond?

What Seeds Are We Sowing?

Last week, we heard the parable of the seeds. This week, we are invited to consider the parable of the sower. For those of you who don’t have a bible handy, here’s what Jesus had to say:

The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’

These words from the 13th chapter of Matthew (13:24-30) sound like they might be written for the current world stage of politics, most especially our own country.

As a parish priest and cathedral dean, I always tried very hard to be non-partisan in the pulpit. However, as a pensioner and retired preacher waiting out the pandemic and watching the concurrent economic crisis, political upheaval and civil rights movement from my front porch, I can’t help but read this week’s gospel portion with a political lens.

I can’t help but ask: Who is sowing good seeds in our field, and who is sowing weeds among the wheat? I also can’t help but wonder: How much damage to the crop will be done by these weeds? How are we going to collect the weeds and burn them? And who is going to lead the reapers and harvesters? In other words, how are we going to manage the damage being done to our nation, who’s going to lead us out of this mess, and what must be done to harvest the wheat and destroy the weeds?

Writing from a city that has been deeply affected by the virus, the economic crisis, the political upheaval, and systemic racism — I can’t help but wonder how we will repair the damage. What I do know is this . . .

The 2020 election really matters; and every voice must be heard and every vote must be counted. What I believe is this: Every person and every life matters, but no life matters until and unless all black lives matter. What I hope is this: The Spirit of God — whom we call by many names and come to my many paths — will enlighten, empower, and embolden all of us to ask the right questions, listen carefully to the answers, seek the common good, and vote with faith, hope and a commitment to justice for all.

What do you know? What do you believe?

And what do you hope for as you wait out the virus and watch the world from your porch?

Hard, Shallow, Thorny and Good

This Sunday’s gospel portion is the familiar parable of the sower, the seeds and the soil.  The story, as it is told by Matthew (13:1-23), is located between stories of rejection and opposition. It wrestles with the question — where does the Gospel (or any new idea) find a hospitable environment for acceptance and growth?

The parable involves a sower of seeds, a farmer who according to modern agricultural standards would not be considered very wise in his planting style.  But to his listening audience, it all made sense.  Whereas we spend a lot of energy preparing the soil for planting, first century Palestinian farmers scattered their seeds and then plowed the ground, sometimes hitting rocks, bad dirt and dormant thorns.  As Jesus explained to his listeners, there are four kinds of soil — hard, shallow, thorny and good — each yielding a different response to the sowing.  

The parable reminds us of the necessary conditions for both physical and spiritual growth.  Jesus understood the difficulties and obstacles to growth.  In his hometown rejection, Jesus himself had experienced hard ground.  When his disciples lost faith in a storm at sea or doubted the validity of his words, Jesus encountered shallow ground.  He ran into thorns when the religious authorities tried to choke out his message.  And yes, his seeds of wisdom often found good and fertile soil, ripe for the planting.

You and I also know about sowing seeds and bearing both the joy of success and the heartaches of failure.  If nothing else, COVID-19 is teaching all of us this lesson in new and profound ways.  Just think about retailers, restaurant owners, educators, musicians, church leaders, first responders and medical professionals.  Everybody's learning how to adapt to this “new normal” — some with more success than others. 

At the end of the parable is the account of a miraculous yield.  The opposition might eliminate the majority of the seed, but out of scarcity emerges remarkable abundance.  Once again, Jesus calls his followers to be trusting planters of life and love, recognizing that God’s vision will be planted, nurtured and harvested in unexpected, broken and desperate places and situations — even our current COVID pandemic, economic disaster, civil and political unrest, and climate crisis.

So this week, as you weed and water your garden or sit in one more zoom meeting, as you read the news, make yet another adaptation to your daily routine, wear your mask, and keep your social distance, think about how you can spread seeds of justice, hope, love and mercy.  Recognize that in every place and everyone is potentially good soil.  Learn how to deal with opposition and temptations.  Don’t worry too much about the results.  Don’t waste your energy in points of resistance; move on and kick the dust off your shoes.  Realize that some will prepare the soil, others will plant the seeds; some will weed and water, and others will harvest.  And believe with all your heart, soul and mind that in the end, if we’re lucky, our world will realize new and miraculous growth — maybe even a surprisingly abundant harvest of good.