“Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”

 From James: We had been on this road to Jerusalem many times. We knew the landscape. We knew every little town along the road. Yet this time, as we walked with Jesus, things were different. Some of us had begun to grumble, to grow impatient with each other. All of us wondered if somebody had changed the rules of the game without telling us.

James and John believe they are more special to Jesus than are the other disciples. That is because Jesus has often included James and John in his inner circle. Of the twelve, Jesus took only James, John and Peter with him when he healed Jairus’ daughter. Jesus took only James, John and Peter with him up the Mount of Transfiguration. For three years, Jesus’ disciples have journeyed with him. The crowds have grown larger. The exchanges between Jesus and the Pharisees have sharpened. Now, as Jesus and his disciples journey towards Jerusalem, tension grows thicker with every step. James and John are uneasy.

Jesus had said some really strange things lately. Just the other day, he told a rich man that it is easier to get through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. When we asked Jesus about that, all he said was, “With God, all things are possible.” Then Jesus began talking about his death. He kept insisting that when we arrived in Jerusalem, someone would deliver him to the chief priests and scribes. Officials would condemn him to death. Mock him. Spit on him. Beat him. Kill him. And three days later, he would rise again. He just could not let this go.

 So the question that none of us dared to ask is this: If he knew the were going to kill him when he got there, why were we all going back to Jerusalem? John and I looked at each other. Did Jesus need to be reminded about this wonderful Kingdom of God he kept saying was close at hand? Did we need to remind him about his glory we saw on the mountain that day? For three years, John and I had been close to Jesus. In fact, we hoped that when Jesus finally set up this new kingdom, we would get important positions. Now all he could talk about was death. We needed to remind Jesus what was important.

James and John think they know Jesus. Yet the closer they all get to Jerusalem, the more they wonder. Increasingly, Jesus seems to see things the disciples do not see. He seems to hear things they do not hear. His conversations are more enigmatic, his responses more cryptic. Every day, Jesus’ face looks more weary. More pensive. More lined and drawn. Yet there is an unmistakable set to his jaw.

John and I approached Jesus. “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” But Jesus did not react the way we had hoped. Instead, he said, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?” Of course we were. We loved this man. We had left our homes, our jobs, our families, to follow him. If there was a cup to be passed around, we wanted to be right there. If there was a baptism, we didn’t want to miss it.  So we replied, “We are able.”

Yet somehow we knew we had done the wrong thing. Jesus looked towards Jerusalem with that look he gets when he sees something we don’t. When he hears something we don’t hear. When he knows something we don’t know. Then he said, “The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized; but to sit at my right hand or my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.”

We seemed to be talking past one another. Jesus didn’t understand us. We did not understand Jesus. Then the whole thing blew up. The other disciples found out that we had asked for places of honor. They were angry and wouldn’t speak to us. Then Jesus gave all of us a lecture about how if we want to be great, we must be willing to be servants. He said whoever wants to be first has to be slave of all.  Did we give up everything we had just to be servants? I didn’t think so. I didn’t get it. After that, Jesus walked alone, ahead of all of us. Wrapped in that beautiful seamless cloak his mother gave him, he strode along, his face turned towards Jerusalem as if the rest of us weren’t even there.

James and John did not understand Jesus. Neither do we. As human beings, we love honor and recognition. We like being powerful people—or being close to powerful people. We want to sit at the head table. We want lives full of comfort and privilege. Yet we forget that Jesus does not call us to an easy life. Jesus calls us to pick up a cross and follow him. Along the way, he challenges us to put God and others first instead of our own wants and desires. He challenges us to live the way he did: as a servant. Jesus continues to reorder power structures, to question the Church’s rules and regulations that can kill God’s love. Jesus’ unconditional love and servant ministry still stand in stark opposition to those in Church, society or politics who want to sit at the right and left sides of power, position and prestige. Jesus continues to stand at the margins of the church and society—in the first century and in the twenty first century. Jesus reminds Christians that “some of history’s most dastardly deeds have been done by those who claimed to be sitting on God’s right or left hand.”[1]

 In today’s gospel, James and John do not understand. Neither do the other disciples. When two people take their places on the right and left of Jesus, it will not be because of choice. That is because the ones who end up on Jesus’ right and left are two criminals on crosses at Calvary. Later, these disciples would understand. They would, indeed, drink the same cup as Jesus. In fact, James was the first of the twelve to drink that same cup of suffering. According to the book of Acts, Herod Agrippa put James to death by the sword in about the year 44 CE.[2]  John lived the longest of the disciples. According to tradition, John was exiled to the island of Patmos and lived to extreme old age. John drank a different cup: the suffering of a very old man who has watched his brother, his family, his friends die, one by one—many of them violently.  James and John finally understood the kind of servant ministry to which Jesus had called them. As their faith matured, they, too, drank the cup of suffering and the baptism of death with loving and courageous hearts.

Just like those first disciples, you and I hear Jesus’ call to servant ministry. This call is not to places of power, position and prestige. This call is to follow Jesus down a narrow road—even if it does lead to servanthood and suffering. What will our servant ministry look like today? That depends on the person and the situation. However, it always means that we give of ourselves—not in the sense of being a doormat—but with prayerful intention. It means that we always ask two questions. The first is this: “What can I do to bring the Kingdom of God, the Dream of God, into real places, in real time, today?  The second: “What must I give up in order to make this Kingdom of God real today, in my world?”

To become a servant in Jesus’ name means that your actions are more about God, more about your brothers and sisters, than about your own wants and desires. So this week, remember James and John, who—like us—did not understand. Remember Jesus, walking courageously towards death in Jerusalem. Then ask yourself what kind of servant ministry you can do this week to make the Kingdom of God come alive in your home, your office, this community, this nation and the world. Ask yourself what you can give up to make this happen. Then with courage, do it.  It’s the least we can do for the One who loved us enough to go to Jerusalem one last time. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Picture of road taken at Longwood Gardens by McJilton

Picture of basin & towel accessed at http://www.badgervillage.com/images/050404/2151wf.jpg

Picture of sculpture of Jesus washing feet (Dallas Theological Seminary) accessed through Google images.

[2] Acts 12:1-2.

Imagine the following scene.  It is a hot, sunny day. The pungent smell of olive trees in road-side groves fills the air. A man walks along the dusty road. About a quarter of a mile behind him, a group of men are engaged in a heated argument.

“Andrew, you couldn’t lead your way out of a fishing boat. In fact, I’ve seen you panic in the middle of a storm on the Galilee.”

“So what? That was ten years ago. Besides, I’m one of the first the Master called to follow him. He must have seen some leadership potential in me.”

“Well, I think I’ll make the best leader—after all, I know the Romans and how they operate.”

“Yeah, Matthew—what you know best is how to weasel money out of people. Maybe that’s why Jesus made Judas the treasurer.”

“Judas is too much of a hot-head to lead.”

“I am not! I just have strong opinions, that’s all. I know that if Jesus is the Messiah, he needs to get better organized so he can overthrow all those corrupt Roman politicos. Then we can take our rightful places. But I guess you think you’re the greatest, Simon.”

“Well, I was the first disciple he called. And I was the first one to tell him that we know he’s the Messiah. . .”

“Simon, you aren’t the greatest. Most of the time your foot is in your mouth because you say the wrong thing at the wrong time.” “Well, the Master keeps talking about how someone is going to betray him and the politicos are going to kill him. I’m telling you, we’d better get our acts together—and soon. Somebody in this group had better be ready to succeed him as leader.”

“Sh-h-h. We don’t want the Master to hear us arguing about this. Let’s get a move on and catch up with him.”

The world in which Jesus and his disciples live is one in which Rome rules. The emperor is worshiped as a god. An elite few have a lot of power. The gap between rich and poor is wide and deep. Religious leaders praise and support the government. This system of dominance is a two-layered one:  “the local domination system centered in the temple [is] subsumed under the imperial domination system that [is] Roman rule. As such it owes ‘tribute’ to the emperor, both loyalty and money.”[1] The disciples have now heard Jesus predict—for the second time—his betrayal and death.  Three of the disciples have seen Jesus in his glory, on the Mount of Transfiguration. They know that Jesus is the Messiah.  Yet they are confused about just what that means. The Messiah has always been a political figure. The Jewish people have always believed that the Anointed One will overthrow the political government, then restore the throne of Israel to its rightful place.

Yet Jesus does not act like a political revolutionary plotting against the government. Instead, Jesus teaches ordinary people how God comes to them in their everyday lives. Jesus heals people—he is not afraid to touch people who are considered to be unclean and untouchable. The lame, the blind, the crippled. Those with leprosy. Jesus sits down to break bread and drink wine with all sorts of folks—rich, poor, middle-class. Yet the disciples still don’t quite understand what it is Jesus has come to be and do. His second prediction of betrayal, suffering and death makes them uneasy. They understand just enough that they’re afraid to ask for an explanation.  They know he’s serious, but what will happen to them if he is killed? So out of their anxiety and fear, they argue about which one of them is the greatest.

That evening, in Capernaum, Jesus confronts them:  “What were you arguing about on the way?” We can almost see the disciples turn red and shift uneasily. We can see them looking down at the floor.  So the Master did hear them arguing after all. Jesus gathers them around. “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”  Jesus knows what society teaches: that only the powerful have value. If you have political power, wealth, military power, or family power, you make the decisions. You get the best seat at the dinner table. People wait for you, and they wait on you. The haves wield power over the have-nots. That’s the way it’s always been. Jesus challenges and subverts this view of power and authority.

Jesus teaches his disciples that true greatness is not about how well-established your family is in a community, your rank in the military, your position in political halls. True greatness as a leader is about how much you love and serve others—especially the have-nots.

To make his point, Jesus calls a child into the midst of the disciples. We think of little children as cute—(okay, most of the time). “However, the child in antiquity was a non-person. . .Children should have been with the women, not hanging around the teacher and his students.”[2] In the ancient world, “a minor child was on a par with a slave”[3]—in other words, they were property, owned by their fathers. Jesus’ point is clear. God’s idea of leadership is that one identifies, not with the powerful, but with the powerless. A real leader serves. A real leader washes the feet of others. A real leader speaks for, and takes care of, the vulnerable. Those who have no power, no status, no money.

Jesus teaches servant leadership with his life. Eventually, the disciples learn how to be servant leaders, but not until after Jesus is gone. As the early Christian church forms out of post-resurrection power, those who once argued about greatness are transformed. In the book of Acts we will see Peter and the other disciples modeling what Jesus has taught them. They preach and teach. They heal the sick and cast out demons. They collect offerings for widows and orphans. They have learned about real servant leadership. They have learned that a community of faith is antithetical to worldly power in its love, support, and care for each other.

Today, we do not see much evidence of servant leadership. What we see are political leaders—both Democrat and Republican—yelling, accusing, interrupting, and jostling for political power. Last Sunday, Kanye West, a hip hop singer and producer, rudely interrupted an award show to promote his own opinions about greatness. Within forty eight hours of each other, both Serena Williams and Roger Federer, top-ranking tennis players, swore at line judges because they lost their tempers.[4] And even worse than all of those examples, there are some church leaders who use their power and influence to preach hatred, division and destruction, all in the name of the Prince of Peace. Who’s the greatest?

Jesus was truly great, but not because he fit the world’s standards of great leadership. Jesus had no social standing. He had no money. He never held political office. The only crown this servant king ever wore was one of thorns. Yet Jesus was powerful because he knew who he was and where he fit within the will of God. He was willing to give up everything—even his life—to bring the dream of God’s love to reality on earth. And Jesus continues to challenge us today to stand against the dominating political, social and economic powers of our time. He challenges us to welcome all of God’s children into our midst. He challenges us to serve each other in humility and unconditional love—to think about others’ needs rather than our own selfish desires and ambitions. Jesus calls us today to live into our ministries as humble and loving servants. May we respond to his call. Out of Christian community, may we stand in the face of power on behalf of those with no power. May we speak for those who have no voice. May we work for justice for those who are ignored by the dominating powers of this world. And then, with this kind of servant leadership, we will truly honor the Messiah in whose name we pray. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures of road in Israel and ruins in Capernaum accessed through Google Images

[2] Pheme Perkins, “Mark” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. VIII, (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 637.

[3] Malina & Rohrbaugh, Social-Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels, 238 as quoted in Brian P. Stoffregen Exetical Notes at Crossmarks Christian Resources. Accessed through www.textweek.com on September 18, 2009.

[4] Dave Zirin, “The Nation: Double Standard for Serena Williams,” September 18, 2009, accessed at http://www.npr.org.

We remember that day.
On this dark day,
black umbrellas dot gray landscape.
Wind gusts, raindrops fall, tears flow.
The sweet, solo notes
from a violin weave
the wind, tears and raindrops together
in mournful lament.

We remember.
Yet how can we forget?
Slowly, they read the names
one by one by one
by those who remember.
Their names are spoken:
names of every language,
from every tribe, from every nation.

How can we forget?
The landscape of our hearts
gashed open one beautiful September morning.
The sun and blue morning sky
disappeared
into terrifying gray rain
of falling ash.
And the world plunged into deeper darkness.

How can we forget?
On the eleventh day of
the ninth month,
two thousand and one years
after the King of Peace
walked the face of this earth,
violence once again
spoke in the name of God.

Never forget this:
In the midst of black umbrellas in gray landscape,
in the midst of falling raindrops,
in the midst of the sweet mournful notes of Bach,
God continues to weep
for God’s children
who still hate each other,
who still speak the language of war.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton
Picture of burning World Trade Center and risen Christ accessed at Google images

The dog days of August are well upon us here in the Washington DC area. Someone has said that nothing is as hot as a Washington summer. While I’m not sure about the truth of that, I know that the official temperature right this moment (10:45 a.m.) is 87 degrees but according to weather.com, it feels like 94 degrees. Last night, when I got home from a meeting at church, I thought, “Good grief, I can hardly draw a good breath in this air.”

This morning, before I head to Va. Seminary (I’m helping to teach “Oral Interpretation of Scripture,” otherwise known as “Read and Bleed”), I have enjoyed a more leisurely morning than any other this week. I have lingered over my morning coffee in my little home that is (thanks be to God!) air conditioned. I have ventured outside to water my flowers that are looking a bit worse for wear in the waning days of summer. And I brought the recycling bin back onto my back porch after the recycling guys came by. Still to do: bring the empty garbage can back to its usual spot after it was emptied by the trash pick-up men in their big yellow truck.

This morning, I have some prayers in my heart. I share them with you.

As I water my flowers and my tomatoes, I am reminded that some of my brothers and sisters live in heat far worse than this, in living conditions that are a far cry from my comfortable ones. They will not have a gallon of water this day for them or their children to drink, never mind having plenty of water to water a garden. I pray that God will remind me of this truth and that God will provide water in the wilderness, somehow, for those who don’t have enough.

As I eat my cereal and milk (with fresh blueberries and bananas and dried almonds thrown in), I pray for those who will share one bowl of something with their entire family today–if they get that much. May God provide manna in that wilderness.

I pray for the women and children who live in terror of being raped or disfigured or killed by military in their own countries. May God provide a kind and genuine expression of love from some person today to those children of God.

I pray for the men and women who must make their living working on the highways, pouring asphalt or doing other very hot manual labor in this August heat. May they get plenty of water and some shade and rest today.

I pray for the men (I’ve seen only men in my neighborhood) who faithfully show up on Tuesdays and Fridays to empty my garbage, and for the guys who come every Friday to take my recycling. They do thankless jobs. God bless them.

I pray for those who do landscaping in this hot August sun. Many of them are from other countries, and no doubt some of them are illegal aliens who have no access to health care and who are fearful of being caught and deported. May God provide them safe haven.

I pray for those who wait tables for a living. May we who go to restaurants and cafes and diners realize that these folks work very hard. They do a real servant ministry for us. Look at their tired faces. Know that their feet hurt and they probably have several children at home. Tip them generously–they deserve it and God knows they need it.

I pray for the men and women in our military who must endure cramped quarters in an armored vehicle or work outside in very hot desert climes. May God keep them safe this day. And may God send some sign of comfort to their families back home this day.

We are the only face of Christ many people see. If the face and attitude we show is mean or irritable or stingy or entitled or arrogant, they will never encounter the living Christ. God help us to show the face of Jesus, even if the one to whom we show it doesn’t know who, exactly, the Christ is. That is irrelevant, I think. The Holy One is the Holy One. Real love is obvious. So may we be the face of Love this day to someone we don’t know and let God worry about the rest.

On Sunday night, I returned from a two-week vacation in Maine–hence, my absence from this blog. Being away from internet access was both an interesting and uncomfortable exercise. We were on Mount Desert Island, near the gorgeous Acadia National Park and so could make trips into Bar Harbor There, I used an internet cafe a couple of times just to check e-mail (and to delete the hundreds of spam I got!), but I replied to very few; I had imposed some self-discipline on myself to get away from all things routine during vacation. So other than some news that came across a good friend’s Blackberry, I was in a news vaccuum.

While in Maine, I took lots of pictures with the new Pentax camera my beloved gave me as a ten-year ordination anniversary gift. At some point during the time away, I realized that I was taking lots of pictures of water. Mount Desert Island has an incredible variety of kinds of water. The Maine coast is rocky, with volcanic rock that is black in some places and pink (granite) in other places. Depending on the time of day, the colors shift and deepen with the sun’s position.

But the water. . .there are the ponds that stretch like shaped mirrors and reflect mountain peaks, ponds where lily pads and frogs on lily pads sit in still, quiet splendor.  There are harbors that invite lobster boats, fishing boats, pleasure boats and yachts. There are waters roiled up artificially:  one day we bought tickets and took a U.S. Mail Boat to Great Cranberry and Little Cranberry Islands, so I enjoyed the summer sun and breeze, and the sight of blue water making its wake behind the boat.  And of course there is the ocean, in all variations of blue and black and green, with the white waves crashing against the rocks at Otter Cliffs–one of my favorite places in the world.

In Psalm 24, the psalmist writes this:  “The earth is the LORD’s and all that is in it, the world and those who live in it; for he has founded it on the seas and established it on the rivers.”

I love water, with all its variations in colors and presentations. As I took pictures of ponds, harbors, sounds, brooks, wakes and oceans, I was amazed at the incredible beauty of God’s world. God is such an exquisite artist, and it occurred to me that most of us are way too busy most of the time. We miss God’s artistry in creation. We forget to see the water, the flowers, the bees, the butterfly bushes, the cattails–all things we take for granted.

For these past two weeks, I was grateful for time away, to rest my body, to refresh my soul, to be with good friends, and to just BE.  I found myself grateful to be able to walk beside, or sit beside, waters that were sometimes still and sometimes moving, and to be a quiet observer of God’s Creation.

“The earth is the LORD’s and the fullness thereof. . .” Yes, it is.

Thank you, God for the depth and breadth and fullness and beauty of the waters. Bless those who work in the waters this day, for those who enjoy pleasure in it. Bring into the fullness of eternal life those who have, or will, perish in water. Bless those who just sit on a rocky shore or on a beach this day, those who quietly sit and marvel at Your beauty and glory of creation. Amen.

Text & pictures by McJilton

On Sunday, I did something I don’t do often–I preached extemporaneously. The only “notes” I used was my colleague Elizabeth Kaeton’s account, taken from her blog “Telling Secrets”, about the Prayer Vigil and March a group of people did last Wednesday afternoon in Anaheim.

I hoped that in a quiet morning hour, I could re-create the sermon on paper from my memory. This morning was the first time I’d had that kind of time, and so what follows is my attempt to remember what I said on Sunday morning.

Gospel: Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

There is a rhythm of life—one of ebbs and flows.  Most of the time, we are busy. In fact, we are too busy. We live our lives by our Day Planners or our Blackberries, and our days become frenzied. Even children are over-scheduled, with sports and music and groups with which they are involved.  Occasionally, it all becomes too much, and we have to draw inward, to go away, to have some “down” time and sit by the ocean or head to the mountains or just sit and read. We don’t do that enough, of course. But we need those times to go away and rest for a while.

 The gospel today addresses the ebb and flow, the rhythms of life. If you’ve been following our gospel lessons on Sunday, you know that Jesus had sent his disciples out in pairs on what we might call an internship. They have gone out, in Jesus’ name, to teach, to preach, to heal, and to cast out demons. Now they return to Jesus. We might imagine that they are like children coming home from an outing, talking to their parents about all that’s been done.  Master, we did what you told us to do. And you won’t believe what happened.  Did you know. . .?  And remember when we healed that man and he started walking again?  Do you remember. . .? 

Jesus sees that they have, indeed, been faithful to their tasks. He also sees that they are exhausted. Ministry takes a lot of attention and focus, a lot of time and energy. And so he suggests that they go away to a deserted place and get some rest.

 Unfortunately, by now, Jesus’ reputation has spread, and maybe now, the disciples’ reputations have also begun to spread. The crowds see them push off from shore, and because the Sea of Galilee isn’t that big in some places, the people could see where the boat was headed. So by the time Jesus and the disciples get to the other side, the crowds are waiting for them.

 Jesus does not castigate the crowds for following, nor does he send them away. Instead, Mark’s gospel tells us that Jesus “had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd, and he began to teach them many things.”  The word compassion is a powerful word, and yet in our own time, we often misinterpret it. We may think we are being compassionate when we bring canned food and non-perishables for LARS (Laurel Advocacy & Referral Services) for hungry and homeless folks.  We may see homeless people sleeping on park benches in D.C. and feel compassionate for them. We may look at Chris, the homeless man who comes into Wyatt Hall to play piano every Sunday, and we have compassion, or pity on him. But unless we’ve made Chris take a shower, none of us really want to sit next to him and have coffee, do we? In other words, we confuse compassion with pity, with an attitude of “poor soul. I’m better off than he is. I’m better than he is.” And we really look down on those to whom we give.

Jesus did not have compassion on people that way. Compassion, at its roots, does not mean pity. The German translation of this word gives us a better, truer sense of what it really means. “The German word for compassion is Mitleid—quite literally, ‘with-suffering’. . .Pity is something you can manage from afar—at a once-remove! Not compassion. You do not have compassion, really, unless you suffer with those to whom you refer. The precondition for compassion is unconditional solidarity with the ones for whom you feel it.”[1]

Jesus did not feel pity for people. He did not look down on people and think he was better than they. No, Jesus walked among the people. He went to the places where they lived and worked, where they begged on the street corner, where they lay in the shadows of the marketplace. Jesus, who was a faithful Jewish man, wore a prayer shawl with fringes. And he moved among people—the poor, the lame, the blind, the deaf, the lepers—and was with them. He was close enough to them to touch them, and close enough that they could touch him.  The ones who had been shoved to the margins of life could come close to this holy man. They had heard he had healing power, and so they figured that if they could just touch even the fringes of his prayer shawl, they would be healed. But that would never have happened if Jesus had not, literally, walked among them, close enough to be touched and to touch.

Yet Jesus knew about the rhythms of life. He had compassion on people, and yet he knew the importance of drawing apart, to pray, to be in communion with God the Father. And so we read in the gospels about many times when Jesus withdrew—either late at night or very early in the morning—to rest, to pray, to re-charge his spiritual batteries.

 So there is a time in one’s spiritual life to go out and do active ministry in the name of Jesus and there is a time to pull inward, to get strength and sustenance, to rest, to pray, to have communion with God. 

In our parish—as in many parishes—there is often disagreement about when we reach outside ourselves to do ministry and when we pull inward and take care of ourselves. Some folks think we need to do more outreach. Some folks think we need to take care of our historic buildings and focus on building up the community of faith inside.  However, both are important. We need both active ministry that reaches out beyond these walls and we need to strengthen the community of faith and be good stewards of the physical resources God has provided us.  There is an ebb and flow, a rhythm of our life together, and both are equally important.

 We need to remember, though, that Jesus did not sit around and wait for people to come to him. He walked among people. He did not hide behind walls or sit in a building. He went out into the world, into the marketplace, on the street corners, into homes for dinner. He was with people—all kinds of people.  So we are called to be like Jesus.

I would like to share a story with you, something that happened this past week. As most of you know, our Episcopal Church was meeting in Anaheim, California, for the General Convention. Ironically, the convention center was next door to Disneyland.  The other day, I was reading the blog of a colleague of mine (Elizabeth Kaeton from the Diocese of Newark)[2], and saw a connection between that and today’s gospel. A Prayer Vigil and March was organized by the group “Disney Be Faithful.” This group represents 2,150 employees of the three Disneyland hotels. “These workers clean the rooms, cook and serve the food, wash the dishes, and carry the luggage. Disney wants to take away from its employees union family health insurance. They also want to take away full-time jobs, forcing many into positions with no health insurance at all, no vacation and less than full rights.

“Disney’s net income in the first half of the Fiscal Year 2009 was nearly $1.46 billion. In Fiscal Year 2008, Disney CEO Robert Iger made $30.6 million.”

 Those who were going to march—mostly Latino people—asked Elizabeth if she would anoint them at the end of the march. Because Elizabeth is an Episcopalian clergy woman, she needed to make sure they wanted her to do this. Yes, they did. Why?  When she asked, the man replied, “While we are marching, some of the people from Disney will be standing by the sidelines, filming us as we pass by. They will use that film as evidence to get us fired or to have our positions eliminated or downsized. . .for the workers, this Prayer Vigil and March is a big risk. We need to be anointed for the work of justice, after this event, so that we will find the strength to go back to our jobs. Just a little sign from God that He will continue to be with us after the support of this event.”

 And so the group—hundreds of Episcopalians, including Bishop Mark Beckwith of Newark, Bishop Barbara Harris of Massachusetts, Bishop Gene Robinson of New Hampshire, and a lot of Episcopal priests, plus other religious leaders from that local area—prayed and marched. They carried thousands of signed protests with them. And after marching for two blocks, they arrived at the entrance to Disney World. A group of clergy were invited to come inside the gates, to meet with “Jim,” an official Disney representative.

 “A local clergy woman. . .handed the thousands of signed protests to him and Bishop Gene told him that if the demands of the workers were not met, they planned a boycott of Disney, that we would use our religious networks to assist them in their boycott until the event organizers told us to stop. Jim was very somber and respectful, thanking us for our concern and promising to take the petitions to the Disney executive officers.”

And then Elizabeth and the other clergy began to anoint people.  Her account of this is very powerful:  “I cannot put into words what it felt like to have people call to me, ‘Madre, Madre. Unteme! Unteme!’  People were pulling on my blouse, I hardly knew where to turn next, but I took my time, looking deep into the eyes of each person—adult women, men and little children—and anointed them in the name of the One who created them, the One who sustains them and the One who guides their feet into the path of justice and peace. ‘Gracias estan a dios,’ they said softly, thankfully.  Funny how that works. I anointed them, but I was the one who was blessed. And, transformed. And, will never be the same. That’s what happens whenever I encounter the living Christ in others.”

 My colleagues in Anaheim did what Jesus would have done. They prayed with people in solidarity. They walked with people in solidarity. They touched people and blessed them in their own life circumstances. This is what Jesus did and this is what Jesus taught us to do in his name.

St. Philip’s Parish is no longer just a church in its village of Laurel, Maryland, my friends. Laurel has grown beyond Main Street. We cannot be content just to take care of our historic buildings and hope people come in those doors.  We need to take the love of Jesus Christ beyond these doors, we need to go and be with people wherever they are in their lives. For if we do not go out to those who are hungry, if we do not go out and be with people who are searching for meaning in their lives, if we do not go out and find those people who are longing for community and love and acceptance, we will find ourselves taking care of a museum, not a community of faith. And I must tell you that I am not called to be the curator of a museum—those are not my gifts.

Jesus calls us this day to go out in the world, to be the presence of God’s love, healing, and reconciliation out there. In our daily lives. Wherever people need God’s love in their lives. It is there where we will most powerfully meet the living Christ. And then we will be transformed. Thanks be to God. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

[2] The following account and quotes are taken from Elizabeth Kaeton’s blog “Telling Secrets,” her Wednesday, July 15, 2009 entry and her Thursday, July 16 entry. For complete accounts, go to http://telling-secrets.blogspot.com/

We live in a world where power is sought, lauded, despised or feared. This week, we’ve seen several examples of power. In L’Aquila, Italy, twenty of the most powerful democracies in the world met to discuss global economic and political issues.[1] A second example: Pop icon Michael Jackson died. We witnessed a display of personal and cultural power—not to mention the power of the media. Over 1.6 million people entered a lottery to win tickets to Jackson’s memorial service in Los Angeles, California. As I watched the television coverage, I was stunned to hear one woman say that she and a relative “sold everything in our house to come here.”[2] That’s some kind of power. 

A third example of power this week: The General Convention of the Episcopal Church is currently meeting in Anaheim, California. Lay and ordained Church leaders have gathered to worship and to legislate the triennial business of the Episcopal Church. A number of bishops and archbishops from around the world—including the Archbishop of Canterbury—are attending. The hope is that by attending this Convention, Anglican bishops and archbishops will better understand the bicameral, and democratic process by which the Episcopal Church operates. Perhaps there will then be fewer divisions among us in the Anglican Communion.

At least two things are true about power. First, despite our best hopes, power can become an addictive drug rather than as a model of ethical or faithful living. Second, because of power’s potential for both good and ill, it is our responsibility—as global citizens or Christians—to hold each other accountable.

We have two examples in today’s scriptures of power. The book of Amos was written about eight hundred years before the time of John the Baptist and Jesus. During King Jereboam’s reign, Israel and Judah have enjoyed peace. Neither Egypt nor Assyria—world powers—threaten.  The old tribal systems of family and land ownership are unraveling, and a more wealthy—and powerful—elite social class rises. With all this power and upward mobility comes a disregard for God’s laws. The rich get richer. The poor get poorer. For many political and religious leaders, power has become an addictive drug, not a spiritual responsibility.

Then Amos appears on the scene. This herdsman, a vinedresser from the countryside, uses a plumb line to show that God’s people have forgotten God’s laws and the right way to live. Amos prophesies that Jereboam’s kingdom will end. Israel’s holy places will eventually lie in ruins. His people will end up as exiles, far from home. Amaziah, the priest of Bethel and the king’s official representative, reacts strongly and swiftly. He tells Amos to take his prophetic message and peddle it elsewhere. Amos refuses. Instead, he holds corrupt religious and political power accountable. Out of faithfulness to God, Amos speaks God’s truth, not the popular truth. Amos does not live to see the accuracy of his prophecy. However, two centuries later, in 586 BC, King Nebuchadnezzar II captures the Jewish people. They end up far from home as captives in Babylon.

Through succeeding centuries, you might think that the people of God would learn their lesson. However, we are sinful human beings. Despite our best efforts, we give in to the love of power, prestige and money. 

By the time John the Baptist and Jesus have begun their ministries, religion and politics are corrupt. Once again, truth must speak to power. The background: Marks’ gospel refers to Herod is not a king. Rather, Herod is one of four provincial rulers of the Roman Empire—a puppet ruler controlled by the emperor.  (This Herod is not the same one that was ruler when Jesus was born—that was his father, Herod the Great.)  

This Herod has a half-brother—Philip—who married a woman named Herodius.  Herod and Herodius have an affair, Herod divorces his first wife, then marries his half-brother’s wife. Herodius has a daughter from her marriage to Philip, whose name is Salome—although Mark’s gospel refers to her as Herodius, thus making the story even more confusing. (Are you keeping up? It’s better than a soap opera!)

Enter John the Baptist, who is well known for speaking truth to power. He tells Herod that he has broken God’s laws when he married Herodius. (A side note:  “The issue was neither the divorce nor the second marriage in itself; it was that it was a marriage to the wife of his half brother and so broke the biblical laws set out in Leviticus 18:16.”[3])  Herodius is furious at John for his prophetic meddling, but there’s a complication. Her new husband is intrigued by this prophet. Deep down inside, he knows that John is a holy man who lives according to God’s laws. Herod enjoys John’s preaching, yet he is torn between God’s law and his new wife’s desires. So he protects John for a while. 

Then Herod throws a big birthday party for himself. All of his courtiers, officers and powerful Galilean leaders are invited. The calculating Herodius has been waiting for a chance to get rid of this meddling prophet. So she sends her good-looking teenage daughter in to dance for Herod and his guests—probably a pretty seductive dance.  By this time in the evening, no doubt Herod has had lots of wine with his dinner. This entertainment pleases him so much, he swears to give the girl whatever she wants—even if it is half of his kingdom! Of course Salome is clueless, so she slips out to consult with her mother. Herodius has the answer. “The head of John the Baptist.” This is not what Herod expected, nor is it a request he wants to fulfill. Yet he is caught now in a terrible bin. He is not a strong ruler, even though he wants to look like he is. He is scared of Herodius. He has a banquet hall full of powerful leaders. He will lose face with his guests if he does not keep his vow to the girl. Yet he knows that if he beheads John the Baptist, he will both silence a voice of God’s truth even as he commits a terrible sin against God.

Not one person in that banquet hall protests or holds Herod accountable. And the one person who does hold him acountable is about to die. Herod makes a choice and uses his power poorly. In what must be a grisly scene, John the Baptist’s head is brought into Herod on a platter and given to the teenage girl. In turn, Salome hands the platter to her triumphant mother. This tragic story ends with John’s disciples coming to take his body, to lay it in a tomb—an eerie foreshadowing of the task that will face Jesus’ disciples in a few years.

As Christians, you and I hear the stories of Amos and Amaziah, John the Baptist and Herod. We may think there is little connection with our own lives. Probably not any one of us here today would claim the title of prophet or king, and while there is one priest in the house, she understands that power is best held when it is both accountable and shared. However, all of us must live daily with decisions we make—decisions that will lead us into closer relationship with God or not. Like Herod, we want some “measure of truth by which to guide [our] life choices.”[4]  Like Herod, we also often end up in situations that tempt us to compromise ourselves in order to gain power or to make more money or not to rock the boat. The choices we make may sacrifice family time for a career. We may give in to the whims of whiny toddlers or persistent teenagers just because we are too tired to hold a firm disciplinary line we know is right.  We may give in to spending money on ourselves rather than to give money to God’s work. We may know of something we individuals could do to hold members of Congress accountable, yet neglect to call them or write them—thus not holding political power accountable. In the Church, we can choose to make safe decisions rather than prophetic ones that speak God’s Truth.          

The question is this one: What kind of decisions do we make? Do the decisions that you and I make—whether in the halls of political, corporate or religious power, or in the halls of our homes—pull us inward into our own self-protective world? Or do our decisions push us outward to help reconcile and transform the world into one that looks like God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven? That question is ours to answer today and in the days ahead. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Pictures of Amos and the Beheading of John the Baptist accessed through Google images.

[2] As heard on CNN on July 7, 2009.

[3] William Loader, “Pentecost 6.” Accessed on July 7, 2009 @ http://wwwstaff.murdoch.edu.au/~loader/MkPentecost6.htm through www.textweek.com.

[4] David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor, Editors Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 3, (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 236.

In the summer of 2000, I went on a seventeen day trip to the Holy Land, led by Dr. Ellen Davis, my Old Testament professor in seminary. Four months before the trip, Ellen sent a lengthy e-mail which covered flight schedule, costs and passport reminders. Additionally, Ellen told us how to pack. Now I already knew about norms for dress, because I had been to Israel and Egypt two years earlier.  I knew that dress norms there are more modest than in the States—one cannot enter Moslem religious sites or Jewish religious neighborhoods with bare knees or shoulders. Nights in Jerusalem can be cool, so one needs a shawl or wrap of some kind. A good sun hat and sun glasses are critical in desert climates. And of course one needs a sturdy pair of hiking boots.  However, Ellen’s e-mail included more than basic packing tips:  “I would urge you to pack lightly. We will be staying several nights in a row at most hotels or guest houses, so you can do hand laundry, or even send things out (although this will not be an option everywhere.)”

I didn’t give too much thought to Ellen’s advice to pack lightly. No. I was already planning to buy the biggest suitcase on wheels I could find. The following week, Ellen sent another e-mail:  “During the last part of our trip, we will be staying at Notre Dame de Sion, a convent in a western suburb of Jerusalem. The streets are very narrow, so the bus will have to let us out at the bottom of a hill. We will have to walk up a rather steep hill about a quarter of a mile with our suitcases in order to get to the convent. Keep this in mind as you are packing.” 

Wait a minute! I knew we would be hiking on this trip. I knew we would have to take our own bags into the guesthouses. But hiking with our luggage? This was not part of my plan. I decided to re-think the suitcase thing. Perhaps less was more, after all. If you are forced to travel lightly and take only what you need—not what you want—what would you take?

This morning’s gospel addresses the same issue. Jesus asks the disciples to pack lightly and take only what they need.  Jesus has come back home to Nazareth, but his visit goes badly. He begins to teach in the synagogue and folks are astounded. “When Jesus preaches with wisdom and performs deeds of power, the people of Nazareth cannot see beyond their own limited view of him.”[1] The hometown folks do not host a festive coffee hour in Jesus’ honor. Instead, they taunt him. “Is this not the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his sisters here with us?” Their deliberate omission of Joseph’s name is a barbed reminder that they knew that Jesus’ mama was pregnant before she married Joseph.  Jesus responds in kind:  “Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.” Obviously some of the scornful are family members. So Jesus and the disciples go to other villages. 

The disciples have been traveling with Jesus for a little while. They have learned much already—probably more than they think they’ve learned. Now, Jesus sends the disciples out in what you and I would call an internship. Jesus tells the disciples to pack lightly and take only what they need: one tunic, one pair of sandals and a staff—to protect themselves from wild animals or to negotiate the rough desert terrain. They are to take nothing extra: no cloak for a cool, windy evening. No bread. No bag. No money. Jesus does not send them out alone, but in pairs. This is critical, as the long, dusty roads between villages wind through harsh desert terrain full of wild animals and robbers.

Jesus is not the only rabbi sending disciples out. In the ancient world, cynic philosophers travel around the country. In addition to a staff, these philosophers always carry a bag with extra provisions.  In contrast, Jesus says, “No bag.”  Others—religious pretenders—make their rounds throughout villages, taking money from people. Jesus says “No money.” For if they had taken money for preaching and healing, they could have been accused of being religious charlatans or magicians.[2]  Unlike other teachers or healers, Jesus’ disciples must depend completely on God’s provision. God will provide shelter every night—through the kindness and hospitality of strangers. Further, Jesus says they cannot choose between the Hilton and a Bedouin tent.    They must stay in the first home that offers hospitality and shelter. And what if they are rejected—a distinct possibility, given Jesus’ recent rejection by home town folks? 

Jesus says, “If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them.”  This response is an ancient “gesture of cursing a place. . .[and] clearing out even the dust under one’s sandals suggests an ever more thorough rejection than shaking out [one’s] garments or washing one’s hands. . .[This dramatic gesture serves as a] testimony before God that the town has refused to hear God’s word.”[3]

The gospel writer does not tell us the disciples’ reaction to Jesus’ traveling orders. No doubt at least one of them said, “But we’re not ready yet, teacher.” Or, “I can’t preach or teach or heal. Who does he think I am? God?”  All we know is that they obey. They pack lightly. They trust God to provide what they need when they need it.  Like John the Baptist, the disciples preach repentance. Like Jesus, they cast out demons and anoint the sick with oil.  In pairs, they venture out to do ministry with the authority Jesus has invested them.  They become, in some sense, extensions of Jesus. With their own personalities and talents, and with God’s power, they change the world with God’s love.

Today, in the Church, we talk a lot about the ministry of all the baptized—both lay and ordained people. Yet deep down, we still have a hard time believing that someone other than an ordained person can do ministry. Perhaps it is because we have bought a big bag with wheels and filled it with our own expectations—and fears—about ministry.  I can’t teach Sunday School—I don’t know enough about the Bible ,and besides, I have to be out of town too much. I might say the wrong thing to a visitor, so I just sit with my friends at coffee hour. I can’t invite my colleague at work to come to church with me—that’s too embarrassing.  And of course if none of those excuses fit, there is always this one: “That’s the rector’s job.” No, it is not. It’s your job—to represent Christ out in your world.

Many years ago, I did spiritual direction with a little Irish Catholic nun. One day, we were talking about the challenges of living out my Christian faith in the business world. Sister Maura said this:  “Sheila, do you realize that you are the only gospel some people will ever read? You are a laywoman in the business world. You get to walk through doors I will never have a chance of walking through. So, my dear, because of that, you are the fifth gospel.”

Jesus’ disciples were the fifth gospel. None of those disciples had academic or corporate credentials. Not one of them was ordained. Not one. They were just ordinary hard-working people with an extraordinary message that God loves us, no matter what. Two things qualified them for ministry: their love for God and their willingness to be the fifth gospel out in the world.  When Jesus says to pack lightly and take only what they need, they do that. So can you. 

Every one of us has a gift that is uniquely ours. You may not know exactly what that gift is, but if you are willing to take the first step in offering yourself, you will be amazed at what God does with you and through you. Just try this out: Shut your eyes and imagine yourself talking to Jennifer Toole about helping out next year with Sunday School. Or telling Betsy Welsh that you’ll help with Camp St. Philip’s the week of July 13-17. Maybe you could offer your gifts of compassion or a listening ear by being part of the Pastoral Care team.  Or you could stand at the door on Sunday morning and help welcome the stranger into our midst—just as people welcomed Jesus and his disciples. God’s love is proclaimed in simple, concrete ways by ordinary human beings. At home. At work. At play. Just remember, each one of you is the fifth gospel. Remember that this week, and live into that reality, to the glory of God. Amen.

© Text & Picture of hiking boots & backpack by The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Pic of Jesus & Disciples accessed through Google images at http://www.nickpage.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2008/03/1.jpg.

[2] The New Interpreter’s Bible, Vol. VIII, (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1995), 595.

[3] Ibid., 595.

Mark 5:21-43

This morning, we hear two stories about healing. As Jesus returns across the Sea of Galilee, crowds surround him, almost before he steps off the boat. Jairus, one of the synagogue leaders falls at Jesus’ feet. He begs Jesus to come and heal his twelve year old daughter, who is at the point of death. Now it is ironic that Jairus seeks out Jesus, because some of his colleagues —other synagogue authorities—are not happy with the amount of attention that Jesus is getting—and they are already plotting against him. So Jairus risks criticism and ridicule from his colleagues out of love for his child.

But on the way to Jairus’ house, something happens. An unnamed woman pushes through the crowd to Jesus. She has been hemorrhaging for twelve years and she is desperate. Despite repeated visits to all kinds of doctors, despite all the money she has spent, this woman has not been healed. She is not even getting better. She is continuing to lose something life-giving—her blood—and undoubtedly she is exhausted and weak. She is also considered to be unclean, according to Levitical laws. So the very fact that she is in a crowd of people is, in itself, a violation of Jewish law.  However, this woman has heard about Jesus of Nazareth. She believes that all she has to do is to touch this healer’s clothing to be made whole again. The ancient peoples possessed what we would call “magical thinking.” They thought that if someone had healing power, that power extended to their clothing, to anything they touched, even to the shadows they cast (think about holy relics).  

 However, Jesus is not just another local faith healer. Jesus is the Son of God. In human form, Jesus came to show us “who God is, and how God acts, and what God is like.”[1]  Perhaps another way to say this is to quote the opening verse from the Wisdom of Solomon which we have heard this morning:  “God did not make death, and [God] does not delight in the death of the living.”[2]  In other words, people die. And some people—because of chronic pain or disease—live constantly in the shadow of death. God, the creator of life, does not welcome this reality anymore than we do. So when this very ill woman pushes through the crowd to touch Jesus’ clothes, her hemorrhage stops immediately. She knows it.  So does Jesus. He knows that some divine healing power has been transferred. Immediately, he wants to know who has touched him. 

 The disciples—as is often the case—don’t understand. They respond to Jesus on a literal level.  Teacher, you can hardly move because of the crowds, and you ask who touched your clothes? But this woman understands. She comes to Jesus with fear and trembling. She knows she should not even be in the crowds to begin with. Furthermore, she has no money to pay this healer. What if he demands payment? Yet she kneels before Jesus and tells the whole truth. In return, he says, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” And by using the term “daughter,” Jesus establishes a personal relationship with the woman.

 Of course this interruption has delayed Jesus’ trip to Jairus’ house. Suddenly, some friends of Jairus show up to say that there’s no point in Jesus’ going to heal the twelve year old because she has died.  Jesus, the Son of God, is undeterred. Did he not say “Peace, be still” to the raging storm just a few days ago?  God’s power rules the elements of nature—whether they are the powers of wind, sky and sea, or the powers of illness and death. So Jesus continues on to Jairus’ house. When they arrive, they see mourners who have already gathered in the traditional custom of weeping and wailing publicly. So when Jesus tells them, “The child is not dead, but sleeping,” they laugh in his face. Jesus, the Son of God, is undeterred. He takes the girl’s mother and father and three disciples—Peter, James and John—and enters the room where the girl has been laid. Jesus takes her hand and commands her, “Talitha cum.” These words—retained in the original Aramaic—show us that the Greek writers believed in the literal healing power of Jesus’ words.[3]  In response, the little girl gets up, walks around, and eats some food to restore her strength.

 We read and hear these biblical stories about miraculous healings and miraculous resuscitations. Inevitably, we have questions that hang unspoken in the room. So if Jesus healed that woman who was dying and he brought a dead child back to life, why does he not heal me? Why can’t Jesus bring back from the dead my husband, my wife, my mother, my father, my child? I pray to God for healing. I have friends who pray for my healing. Is my faith not great enough that Jesus will heal me? Yet if we look at any of the gospels, we see that even with Jesus, there is no consistent pattern in healing events. Some people’s faith makes them well. Other healings seem to have no correlation to faith at all.  Jesus heals some people instantly. Others, he commands to pick up their beds and walk or to go to Jerusalem and show themselves to the priest. It is only their obedient actions which lead to healing  So sometimes people have to realize just how unhealthy they have been, in order to take responsibility for their own health.

 But we miss the point if we get caught up in who is healed and who is not. The writer of Mark’s gospel is trying to show us who Jesus is—the Son of God.  Jesus has come to show us “who God is, and how God acts, and what God is like.”[4] Remember that in the Garden of Gethsemene Jesus himself prayed that God would “take this cup from me.” Did God answer his prayer? No.    Ironic, isn’t it—that in the end, the healer could not heal himself, deliver himself or resurrect himself. Yet what mattered in the Garden of Gethsemene, as it matters in our own lives, is not whether we are literally cured of our physical, emotional or mental illnesses.  What matters is that we acknowledge that God is God and we are not. God alone has the answers, and we must live with our questions.

 What matters is that we understand what is most important—that is, our relationship with God. The unnamed woman in our story today knew that in order to be healed, she literally had to come close enough to Jesus to touch him. And by coming close to the Son of God, she was able to experience divine healing. It made her whole. It drew her into a personal realm where Jesus called her “daughter.”  You and I do not have the privilege of knowing the historical Jesus. We know Jesus through scripture and the power and presence of the Holy Spirit. We know Jesus in our brothers and sisters who love and support us in our community of faith. We know the Son of God through prayer—but not the kind of prayer that tries to convince God that what we want is what God wants.  As one writer notes, “Prayer is not simply a matter of bending the vector of divine will toward my will, my needs, and my hopes. More profoundly to ask something of God is to edge into deeper relationship with God. God’s mind may or may not be changed, but I—my mind and heart—may be.”[5]

 Maybe we are right to pray for a miracle. Or maybe we have missed some miracles because we are not paying close enough attention, or because a miracle is not what we had imagined it to be.  I believe we are right to pray for healing for ourselves and others, although perhaps we need to understand that we may not need to be cured. We may need to be made whole. There is a difference between the two. And for that to happen, perhaps we must open our eyes and heart, get out of bed and go find Jesus so we can be close to him.  It is only in that relationship with, the divine healer, that we will finally, and truly, be made whole. Amen.

 © The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

 Picture of woman accessed through Google images at  http://getfiredup.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/bleeding-woman.jpg

Picture of Jesus raising Jairus’ daughter accessed through Google images at http://www.imago-arts.on.ca/volumes/images/JAIRUS_DAUGHTER.jpg

[2] Wisdom of Solomon 1:13.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Ibid., Taylor quote.

[5] Ibid., Quote by Michael Lindvall.

Occasionally, I preach a sermon from the first person, taking the imagined perspective of one of the characters in the biblical story. Today’s sermon was one of those that seemed to be “so-so” after I wrote it and yet in the actual act of preaching in the community of faith, it came alive in an amazing way. As I preached this morning, I knew that everyone was with me in the story. And when I finished, the ground felt holy under my feet. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. . .and sometimes I know grace best in holy silence.

Mark 4:35-41

 (I invite you to listen to the gospel story today from the perspective of Simon Peter, one of Jesus’ disciples.)

I need to get something straight right from the beginning. This boat ride across the Galilee at night was not our idea. It was Jesus’ idea. Jesus had called twelve of us to travel with him around the area. I wasn’t exactly sure why Andrew and I had said yes to Jesus’ command to follow him. We just knew we could not say no. So we had left our fishing boat to follow this carpenter from Nazareth as he began to preach and teach and heal.

 It wasn’t very long until word spread about Jesus’ power, and crowds began to grow. People who were sick, crippled or possessed by demons were hungry for his healing touch. People were hungry for good news in the midst of their difficult lives. They heard that Jesus preached and taught the good news of God’s kingdom coming among them right here and now. Yet most of the time, Jesus used parables to teach. He didn’t often explain these short tales that illustrated universal truths[1] to the gathered crowds.

He waited until the thirteen of us were having supper around the fire to explain them. I have to admit to you that sometimes I didn’t understand the parables any better once he explained them, but I figured that in time, I would get it.

 One day, he had spent the whole day teaching about seeds sown on different kinds of soil, lights hidden under bushel baskets, seeds growing in the dark, and mustard seeds. That evening, he said to us, “Let’s go across to the other side.” We were a little surprised that he didn’t want to wait until morning. But maybe he just wanted to get away from the crowds. They had pushed and demanded his attention all day long. Besides, the Sea of Galilee was as smooth as glass as we pushed off from shore.  Some other folks joined us, so several boats headed for the other side.

Almost immediately, Jesus found a cushion in the stern of our boat, curled up, and fell asleep. But it wasn’t long before the clouds gathered. The wind picked up, then grew into a furious squall. Choppy waves grew into swells that began to lap over the sides of the boats. Now I am a fisherman. I had been in rough waters before. But never had I experienced such a sudden, violent storm. Within a few minutes, even the four experienced fishermen among us went from being concerned to being terrified. Suddenly, we were afraid we were not going to make it to the other side alive. It was as if the wind, the sky and the sea had joined forces and turned into a chaotic, evil force.

And where was Jesus in the midst of this raging storm? He was asleep! He got us into this mess and now he was sleeping like a baby in the back of the boat.  So we staggered back there, shook him awake and demanded, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?” But he didn’t speak to us at all. He stood up and looked around him. Then, as if exorcising some kind of cosmic demon, he spoke to the wind and the sky and the sea. “Peace! Be still!” In that very instant, the wind died down. The surface of the sea became as smooth as glass. Then he turned to us.  “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”                

We did not know what to say to him. Who was this man? We had heard good preachers and teachers in our lives. We had seen traveling holy men who possessed healing powers. But we had never, in our lives, seen anything like this. Who was this man, that even the forces of nature—the wind and the sea—obeyed him?  Suddenly, we were all terrified again—not of the storm, but of him. Only God can tame the forces of chaos and destruction in nature. Yet this carpenter from Nazareth had awakened, stood, and tamed the forces of chaos and destruction right before our very eyes.

Over the next three years, we would slowly grow to understand more about Jesus of Nazareth. Yet it would only be after his death, his resurrection and his return to God that we would really understand who he was. After Pentecost, the power of the Holy Spirit that had lived in Jesus would begin to live in us. In his name, we would teach, preach, heal and cast out demons. We would begin to tell the whole world that no matter what kind of chaos, fear and destruction there is in people’s lives, God’s love will always prevail.

Two thousand years after that stormy evening, you sit here listening to my story. Maybe you haven’t ever literally been in a boat in choppy seas. But my guess is that you have experienced difficult, chaotic—even terrifying times.  The truth is that for us as human beings, life is difficult. Our world has always been full of wars and conflicts. Drought, famine and floods threaten many of our brothers and sisters around the world. Some of you have struggled with economic hardships. Some of you have lost someone you love, and your grief may wash over you like raging waves washing over the side of a boat. Some of you have faced major surgery or medical treatments with dread and terror. Some of you struggle every day to live with the challenge of chronic pain or disease. Most of you are hungry for spirituality and community, so you come to worship. Yet in tempestuous religious seas, you may wonder if the institutional Church—especially the Episcopal Church—has surrendered to the demons of conflict and chaos. You may wonder whether we have totally forgotten a sleeping Jesus or worse yet, thrown him out of the boat.

I must tell you something that you must never forget. No matter how difficult times become, Jesus is in the boat with you. Darkness and despair may roil the waters. Chaos and confusion may whip winds into a frenzy. Yet the powers of death and destruction will not win. Fear will not win the day. Faith will win the day. And even if your faith is tiny—like that mustard seed Jesus taught us about—that’s okay. All you have to do is to call upon that bit of faith in the name of Jesus of Nazareth. With that, you can hold on to the mast of the boat, trusting that no matter how violently the storms rage, God will guide you safely into the harbor. It may not be the harbor you thought you were bound for, but God will be with you there.

In that knowledge, you can trust the peace of God that passes all human understanding. You can trust the power of God that will prevail in any circumstances. And most of all, you can trust the love of God that will surround and sustain you all the days of your life. Amen.

© The Rev. Sheila N. McJilton

Picture of  Sea of Galilee accessed through Google images (www.fairfield.k12.ct.us)

Other pictures by McJilton