Use White This Sunday

On the Transfiguration mount, Jesus’ “face shone like the son and his clothes became dazzling white.” The event we read about on Sunday was a moment when something special happened, and it was made manifest in visible form for the sake of the disciples (and for us). Depending on how you think of the Transfiguration, the divinity of Jesus came up from the inside and spilled out onto the surface or maybe the divine light from heaven beamed down on him highlighting his uniqueness. Either way, the miracle is depicted in specifically visible terms—shone like the sun, dazzling white, appearance of Moses and Elijah, a bright cloud.

We are visual people. Seeing is believing. In this case, though, believing is seeing as the first words of the lesson emphasize: “Six days after Peter had acknowledged Jesus as the Christ, the Son of the Living God…” This story seems to be a response to Peter’s recognition. Regardless, seeing and believing are linked in the human experience. We see it. We believe it. Rarely are those two things separate.

For the last several Sundays, our altar hangings have been green to depict the season after the Epiphany. We were white for Christmas and then for the first Sunday after the Epiphany, but then we switched to green. Next Sunday, we’ll be purple as Lent will have arrived. We’ll stay purple (or red, depending on your tradition for Holy Week) until Easter comes, when we’ll switch back to white again. But this Sunday comes with an option: green or white.

Usually, I’d stay green. So what if it’s the last Sunday after the Epiphany? It’s not a feast in and of itself. It’s just another Sunday.

But it’s not.

This year, we’re switching to white, and I’m pretty excited about that for two reasons. First, we’re celebrating the gift of a new set of altar hangings, Eucharistic vestments, and all the items that go with them. They were given to our church by a family in memory of a man who loved our church and loved worship, and it seems fitting that we’ll have a complete and matching white set for the first time in a good number of years. We’ll consecrate them (set them apart for exclusively holy use) this Sunday at the offertory.

Second, the altar hangings, stoles, and other vestments remind us of what the disciples saw on that mountain top a long time ago. White is the color we use when we celebrate God shining through into this world. It is the color of the incarnation, when God became flesh. It is the color of the empty tomb, when God broke through the barrier of death. For those reasons, it is also the color for baptisms and the burial of the dead and All Saints’. We use white when we remember a saint who revealed to us a little bit more of who God is. White reminds us of what God is showing to us: a glimpse at himself. This Sunday we read about God shining through the person of Jesus, making himself known to us in a moment of revelation. We prepare to bury our alleluias and enter the penitential season of Lent. Easter is still a long, hard ways off. Isn’t it right for us to pause this week and let the bright glow of God shine through?

The Future of the Episcopal Church

I'd guess that most of the readers of this blog come here because they're looking for a way to think about the lessons for the upcoming Sunday or reflect on the Daily Office lessons. During General Convention, the audience changes dramatically as most of what I write has to do with the ins and outs of that body's work. Although General Convention is still a long ways away, it's time to begin talking about it.

The Task Force for Re-imagining the Episcopal Church has released its second study paper. This one is on governance and administration, and you can read it here. (Unlike so many "study papers," this one is worth a read.) It offers huge, sweeping changes, which seem to be on the right track. It invites us to imagine a church that is structured differently--actually, not all that differently, just smaller--but it's worth engaging in the dream. Instead of huge, unwieldy bodies like a 40-member Executive Council, the church would be administered by smaller, slightly less unwieldy bodies like a 21-member Executive Council.

In particular, I draw your attention to three proposals (in addition to the Executive Council change, which I just pointed out).

1. General Convention gets smaller, leaner, and (to use the word of the last Convention) more nimble. Fewer deputies is a nice gesture (not sure how important that is), but far more important is limiting all legislation to a tightly defined list of topics, which you can read in the paper. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! We don't need to be debating (or even considering) most of what comes out in the Blue Book. Some of it is important. The proposal to offer Communion to the unbaptized is worth considering (and rejecting, but that's another post). The question of whether same-sex relationships should be blessed is definitely worth considering. But we shouldn't waste our time debating whether the Palestinians and Israelis should make peace with one another. Yes, that's important, but it's beyond our scope.

2. The roles of the Presiding Bishop (PB), President of the House of Deputies, Secretary of the General Convention, and others might get changed. The paper asks what might happen if we asked our PB to be a bishop instead of a CEO and hired someone else to run the Domestic and Foreign Missionary Society (which is to say the church). That might make a lot of sense. Sometimes institutions need leaders who are better at visionary work than administrative work. Sometimes dioceses need pastors instead of business executives. But, usually when that happens, he or she brings in a team to do what he or she can't do alone. In theory, that's how the current system is set up to work, but it doesn't seem to be. Also, at this point, it's hard for me to imagine that kind of change actually happening--that the stakeholders would give up that kind of authority. (The same can be said for all of these changes, but this one seems particularly unlikely.)

3. Almost all of the Standing Commissions are eliminated. As a member of one of those that would be cut, I can't say enough what a good idea this is. Yes, there is important work to be done, but as the working paper suggests, let's define that work at General Convention, call for the creation of a group to carry out that work, and then have that group disband after the work is done. Otherwise, we get in the self-perpetuation business. That's where we're stuck right now--working to exist simply for the sake of existing. And that's not gospel work. Instead, that kind of attempt actually gets in the way of the important work that needs to be done. I think we often confuse the importance of the subject at hand with the rationale for having a Standing Commission to work on that work. For example, I'm on the Standing Commission for Lifelong Christian Formation and Education. All of us--and by that I mean every Christian I know--agrees that Christian formation is important. It's the business of the church. No one thinks we should stop doing it. But just because Christian formation is essential doesn't mean the Standing Commission should be spending any time, energy, or money trying to do it. I believe that there are more efficient and effective ways for our church to do gospel work than the Standing Commission structure, and I'm glad to see there's a recommendation that we consider significant changes.

Ultimately, though, this is a proposal. And, when things get specific--when members of Standing Commissions find their work going away--unanimous votes like the one taken to establish this Task Force don't happen. But at least we're talking about it. And I hope the momentum continues through the next General Convention.

A Little Tap on the Shoulder

A little tap on the shoulder is sometimes all it takes to bring us back to reality.

A parishioner told me that he was in church a few weeks back and lost track of where he was. He remained kneeling after the Eucharistic Prayer had been finished. In that quiet, intimate moment, he was transported to another place—not literally or even metaphysically or mystically but mentally. Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. He looked up. The pews in front of him were empty. Everyone had already gone up for Communion. A kind passerby wanted him to realize that it was past time for him to get up and head to the altar rail. In that moment—with that touch—he rushed back into the present, and proceeded with the rest of the service.

Matthew is the only gospel writer to include an element of touch in the Transfiguration story, and we get a chance to relish that little detail in this Sunday’s gospel lesson. Mark and Luke tell the same narrative, but they leave out the bit about “But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up and do not be afraid.’” That’s my favorite part of the story. It makes it so real. It helps me understand just how far the disciples had travelled in their minds and in their spirits. Jesus himself had to come and tap them on the shoulder to bring them back to reality—to remind them that it was time to carry on. And, when they looked up, awakened from their trance, everything was back to normal. Jesus was standing there, looking at them, saying, “Come on, guys. Time to go.”

Allow yourself the chance to be transported in this wonderful story. It is a moment when a little bit of heaven comes to earth and invites the observers to be transported back into heaven. Eventually, of course, someone has to come and tap you on the shoulder. Your mother has to wake you up from that pleasant dream. The gentle shake has to bring you back to your senses. The cares of the physical world have to come back. But for a moment—at least a moment—let your mind and soul wander away. Escape the limitations of this world. Dwell in heaven as long as you can. Enjoy being somewhere else. Eventually, the tap on the shoulder will come.

Re-Learning to Wait

It’s hard not to preach on the Transfiguration when it comesup in the lectionary, which is pretty often. It’s all the power and wonder and amazement packed into a succinct little story. It’s divinity and humanity all together in one. It’s Law and Prophets and Jesus and the Father. It’s Peter looking pretty foolish. It’s an impossible secret that’s worth keeping if you can. But I think the better lesson to preach is the reading from Exodus and here’s why.

Waiting is hard, and it’s getting harder. When was the last time you sat and did nothing but wait? I don’t mean play with your smart phone while you’re waiting. I mean sit and wait and nothing else. A doctor’s office with no magazines. A restaurant table with no crackers or bread. A barbershop with no television. Just you and the wait.

These days, answers come quickly. There are some people in my parish who send me an e-mail and, if it takes me longer than an hour to reply, they either call or stop by to make sure I received their e-mail. The next time you’re at a red light, see how long it takes before the car behind you honks after it turns green. The next time you call a customer service line, time yourself to test how long you’re willing to sit on hold before you start complaining about the quality of service. We just don’t wait anymore.

The Lord said to Moses, “Come up to me on the mountain, and wait there.” So he did. And, after he climbed up on the mountain, the Lord’s glory settled on the mountain in the form of a cloud, and Moses just waited. He sat there for six days just waiting. On the seventh day, God finally got around to Moses, and he called to him out of the cloud.

The rest of the story—a devouring fire and tablets of stone and forty days and forty nights—is pretty interesting, but I don’t want to lose sight of what really matters: waiting on the Lord. Moses waited on the Lord and was content to wait and wait and wait. That’s not very productive. If I spent a week just waiting on something—even God—I’d be in trouble…with my wife, with my kids, with my vestry, with my staff. Waiting isn’t valued in our society any more. Life is too busy. We’re all too important. We don’t have time to wait.

Lent is a time of waiting. (Yes, I know that’s what Advent is for, but let me get away with this. I’m on a roll.) We set aside forty days for listening to the Lord. We give things up and take things on, and the real value of this is so that we make space in our lives for God to enter in. “Darn!” we say to ourselves, “I really wanted that piece of chocolate.” And, in that moment, we remember why we’ve given it up and what we’re waiting for (Easter) and there’s (hopefully) spiritual value in the experience. Lent is countercultural. It says we’ll live on less. It says we’ll take our mortality and sinfulness seriously. It says we’ll depend on God and not on ourselves for our salvation.

So, preachers, think about focusing on Exodus. Don’t get suckered in by the fancy laser light show on the Transfiguration mount. Instead, wait quietly and patiently for the Lord alongside Moses in Exodus. Stress to your congregations that there’s value in waiting. Fight the uphill battle of those who’d rather play with their smart phones that sit in silence for 2 minutes. Their spiritual lives depend on it. And so do the spiritual lives of preachers like me.

Staying Connected with Matthias

Today is St. Matthias day. It’s a feast when we remember someone about whom we know almost nothing. We know about Judas. We know that the early church had to figure out what to make of the one whom Jesus welcomed into his inner circle yet who betrayed Jesus into the hands of his enemies. Peter makes a speech in Acts 1:15-26 that explains (sort of) that Judas’ treachery was foretold in scripture and that one of the men (his word) who had been with them since the beginning (defined as the baptism of John) needed to replace him. Prayers are said and lots are cast, and Matthias is chosen to be enrolled with the other eleven. And that’s about all we know about Matthias.

The gospel lesson set for this day (John 15:1, 6-16) seems to be more appropriate for acknowledging Judas’ betrayal than celebrating Matthias’ accession. Jesus said, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned…If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love.” Abiding. Remaining. Staying attached to the vine. Keeping his commandments. Staying plugged in.

I most often hear these words when I am taking Communion to someone who cannot come to church because of illness or surgery or age or mobility problems. The rite for “Communion under Special Circumstances” provides four different readings from John’s gospel account, one of which is taken from John 15. Most often I read two or three of the selections. Occasionally I’ll only read one. Sometimes I bring Sunday’s gospel lesson with me and read it instead. But I almost always read the passage from John 15.

Why do I bother to take Communion to shut-ins? I’m less interested in sacramentalism than Christian community. Receiving the species of the Eucharist is important to me, but I’d rather have a connection with the congregation I’m from than chew on a stale-ish wafer and sip a tiny amount of cheap port. But sharing that bread and wine—the body and blood of our savior—isn’t just a solitary (or in the case of the priest or Lay Eucharistic Visitor bringing it a binary) experience. When we take Communion we are a part of the Christian community. We have our place in the vine reemphasized to us. We are following Christ’s commandments to “do this in remembrance of [him].”

How do we stay plugged into the body of Christ? What does it mean to be connected with the vine? How do we avoid being pruned back and thrown into the fire (a la Judas)? Part of that is remembering that we belong to something—to someone. We have a place. We are a branch. We are connected. Wandering off by ourselves too far from the body can lead to trouble. We stay connected so that we might flourish. 

Fearful Prayers

There’s an interesting prayer in today’s Old Testamentlesson (Genesis 32:3-21). It’s the story of Jacob returning to his homeland across the Jordan. He had spent the last twenty years serving in the house of Laban, his kinsman, and now he was headed home. Knowing that his brother Esau had good reason to quarrel with him, Jacob sent messengers out to tell Esau he had come back with much property (hint, hint: I’ll share it with you if you welcome me peaceably), but the messengers returned saying that Esau was on his way and was bringing 400 men with him.

Uh oh. That sounds like a fight. So what does Jacob do? Well, several things—as we’ll see in tomorrow’s lesson. But the first thing he did was pray:

“O God of my father Abraham and God of my father Isaac, O LORD who said to me, 'Return to your country and to your kindred, and I will do you good,' I am not worthy of the least of all the steadfast love and all the faithfulness that you have shown to your servant, for with only my staff I crossed this Jordan; and now I have become two companies. Deliver me, please, from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau, for I am afraid of him; he may come and kill us all, the mothers with the children. Yet you have said, 'I will surely do you good, and make your offspring as the sand of the sea, which cannot be counted because of their number.'”

The prayer has a beautiful, human desperation to it. It follows an interesting back-and-forth of reminding God how he got in this mess and asking God to help him. “You told me to come here…so please don’t let him kill us…you gave me all this property…so please don’t let it go to waste…because you are the one who promised to take care of me”

If you go back and read the story of Jacob and Laban, you’ll see that they are stories of Jacob’s patient faithfulness and God’s supernatural vindication. Every time Laban tries to trick Jacob, God intervenes so that Jacob wins. The reader has sympathy for Jacob. Because of a wedding-chapel switcheroo, he’s been working for 20 years to get what he should have received far more quickly. And the reader has seen how God will provide for Jacob. And the only person who doesn’t seem to see it is Jacob.

Fear is a powerful thing. Jacob even names it in his prayer: “Deliver me, please…for I am afraid of him.” Fear. It robs you of what you really know. It makes you worry about things you have no reason to worry about. Whom is Jacob reassuring through his prayer: “O God…who said to me, ‘Return to your country…?’” God doesn’t need to be reminded of his promises the way we do. When my son says to me, “You promised to let me play with your cell phone,” he does so because I have forgotten. When I say to God, “Don’t forget your promise,” I do so because I am forgetting. Fear can wipe out faith. Prayer like this is a reminder that God is God. It helps nudge fear out so that faith can take hold again. It reminds us that we are on the path that God has given us. God is in control. God is faithful. I have nothing to fear. And prayer helps me see that.

The Problem with Language

The problem with figures of speech is that sometimes they don’t work. When I try to convey a complex idea—whether explaining to my children what makes a rainbow or explaining to our congregation how Jesus’ death and resurrection affect our relationship with God—I like to use images, metaphor, parable, analogy. Sometimes they work. Sometimes one or two persons leave with a slightly better sense of how the thing in question works. But sometimes they fall pretty flat. People leave asking me about the metaphor rather than the thing I was trying to point them to. Usually, you can tell by the look on the audience’s face whether the image has worked.

In today’s gospel lesson (John 10:1-18), Jesus seeks to convey to his audience the depth of God’s love for them that has been expressed through his life and upcoming death and resurrection. So he starts with a parable: “Anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit, but the shepherd is the one who enters by the gate. His voice is the one that the gatekeeper and sheep both recognize. He brings them out and goes ahead of them, and they follow him because they recognize his voice. Do you understand?” But they didn’t. John tells us that “Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.” So what does he do? He tries again.

Let’s make this a little plainer, he says. I am the gate for the sheep—me. Those who came before me are the thieves and the bandits, but I am the gate. Got it? No good? How about this? I am the good shepherd—the one who lays down his life for the sheep. Sound better? The hired hand—that’s those other people—the ones who scatter when the wolf comes. I am the good shepherd—the one who gives everything he has to take care of his sheep. Yeah, that’s what I meant all along.

As a preacher who often struggles to get his point across, it’s funny to me to see that Jesus experienced that once or twice. But should we be surprised? Jesus wasn’t looking for new ways to package an old story. He was breaking new theological ground. Imagine trying to convey for the first time that the awesome, unknowable, unsearchable creator of the universe was reaching out for a personal, one-on-one relationship with each of his children in the same way that a shepherd would lie down in order to save the sheep? What a reversal of images! We are the ones who are supposed to give up our lives for the God we serve. What is this news that God might give up something so precious for us?

Language itself is metaphor. When I say the word “cheeseburger,” it evokes a reaction within each of us. My mouth starts watering. A vegetarian’s stomach sours. Either way, you can see it. Maybe you can even smell it or taste it. But all I’ve done is say a word—a word that we all associate with something tangible. “Ceci n'est pas une pipe,” the artist René Magritte asked us to consider. Even the gigantic image of a pipe is not actually a pipe. Still, unless you’re holding a pipe or a cheeseburger, all we’ve got are images or pictures or other metaphors to get that idea across.

The eternal truth that God is love is hard to wrap our minds around. God’s son—the eternal Word—came down to earth, incarnate as a human being, so that we might understand a little bit better what it means for God to love us like that. Jesus is the good shepherd. But what does that mean? What does it mean that God loves us with love we can barely imagine? If it takes a lifetime to understand, don’t be discouraged. If the preacher throws at you one image after another in an attempt to help you see how much God loves you, be patient. Hopefully, prayerfully, eventually, you’ll hear those words in a way that gives you the confidence God is trying to instill. That confidence is what we call faith. Faith is knowing what God is trying to tell us. Live an entire lifetime in the company of the one who shows us God’s love. Learn what it means to be loved like that. Let that love fill you and transform you and give you faith.