Poised on the deck, line in hand, she
casts her bread upon the waters
and waits. Under the bridge,
birds echo and argue. The river
runs fast, but time has slowed
down, still water running deep.
I match my morning prayer
to hers, drawing out the psalms,
eking out the slow invitation;
waiting for a tug on the line,
some sign of life
on the other end.
The readings are for the fifth Sunday after Pentecost. Paul says, “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” (Romans 7:15) Jesus says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30). Will we choose to wrestle with Paul, or rest with Jesus?
Poor Paul had a problem. He did not live easily in his body. He found it difficult to live harmoniously with himself. Thank God, he concluded, for Jesus Christ, who says in the Gospel, “Come to me, all who are burdened; for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
Poor Paul; although he was thankful for the opportunity, he never did seem to find much rest.
Although actually, some of the commentaries[i] suggest that Paul did not mean, in this passage, what we think he meant; even that Paul was not speaking for himself, but for a humanity, born from the sin of Adam, which has yet to find its way into the grace of God. It is inconceivable, they say, that Paul, who knows the grace of God, who knows the love of Jesus, who knows his way to salvation should continue to condemn his body to death! The man who met his Lord on the road to Damascus knows that in that moment, his life changed course, and that he was diverted from death – that death he would visit upon his fellow men – that he was diverted from death into life.
And yet, we recognize for ourselves the dilemma described in Paul’s angsty arguments against his own will and actions. We know we shouldn’t check our phones while we are driving – but how many of our hands stray towards that siren screen, as though they had minds of their own, apart from our sensible will? We know we shouldn’t take one more drink, place one more bet, but our bodies seem to have other ideas than our sensible minds. We know that the spiral of negative thoughts, revisiting the same scenes over and over again will not change the past, nor help the future; and yet we find ourselves slaves to the voices in our heads that shout down the sensible voice of reason.
Come to me, says Jesus, all you who are weary and burdened; for I am gentle, and humble, and my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
So why are we still in that place, wrestling like Paul, or Adam, wanting to do the right thing when we have been made saints by our baptism, made holy by the holiness of God, sanctified and sent to share that grace with the world? Why isn’t it easier to live as a saint?
When Paul was taken aside from the road to Damascus, led blindly into the city and set down for three days to recover his sight, his journey was not over. It was diverted, his destination transformed from one of destruction – he was pursuing Christians to kill them at the time – to one of salvation. He ended up as the greatest evangelist to the Gentile world, spreading good news wherever he went.
His journey was not over. “Wherever he went” covered the Mediterranean world, which was a long way in those days. It included shipwrecks, arrest, trials and tribulations. It included in-church arguments, friendships and fallings-out. His journey, at the time of his conversion and diversion, was just beginning. And he was still human, prone to all of the failings and foulness, good intentions and bad choices that afflict us all.
Come to me, says Jesus, all you who are weary, for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
This, that Jesus offers, is not the image of the end of a journey. The yoke which joins us together, to share our burdens between us, between us and Jesus is used for walking together, not for standing still. The burden is light because of the way that it is carried, not because it has been laid down. Jesus is not speaking, this time, of a destination, but he is offering a way of walking the rest of the journey together.
It is a gentle and humble way of proceeding. It does not depend on punishment, or pain, but on encouragement and mutual assistance. It is gentle, dealing not in threats and beratements but in loving kindness, grace and mercy.
It is humble, seeking not to impose itself upon us, but courting us with its love, seeking not power but justice.
So what are we to do with those things that we do that we hate? If it is true (and I think that it is) that Jesus has already defeated the evil that besets us, then how do we live into his victory?
The greatest commandments that we have been given are to love God with all of our heart and mind, body, soul, and strength; and our neighbours as ourselves. It begins and ends in love. For those things that drive us crazy, drive us to drink, drive us to destruction – there is love. Perhaps it is the support of family and friends, perhaps of a more formal support group: AA, or a hospital-sponsored health program. It may be the community of the church; the small group comfort of a Thursday evening healing service, or the silent support of Centering Prayer. Is there more that we should be doing together, to ease the burdens, and lighten the yoke? Are there ways that we can support one another in this community, that we have not yet thought of or tried? Don’t be afraid to suggest them, for the yoke is easy and light when we carry our burdens in tandem, between us. The way of Jesus is not the way of singular struggle, nor of self-crucifixion. It is the way of gentleness and humility. It is the way of love; and love does not exist alone.
It is that assurance, of love, of gentleness, that we find at the altar, week after week. We say our confession – because the journey still involves sin – and we are assured of God’s forgiveness, week by week, day by day. We come in humility to find the most humble of offerings already set before us: the Body and Blood of Jesus broken open for us, for our salvation.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light, says the Lord.
Come to me.
_________________________
[i] The New Oxford Annotated Bible, third edition (OUP, 2001); The Oxford Bible Commentary (OUP, 2001)
Morning storm awakening shelved my plans
to swim; I traded in my impression of
an independent woman riding the waves
for one of a devoted wife and mother, cleaning house.
Clouded out, that other woman,
drowned out by thunder,
white-washed by lightning,
saving face.
This was published July 5th on the Episcopal Cafe.
The previous day, I had visited with my new friends: a refugee family from the Congo living in Cleveland. “There will be fireworks,” I told them. “Oh no!” The parents exchanged looks brimming over with buried memories. “We don’t like fireworks. In the war, they mean death.” That’s why I wanted them to be prepared, I told them. They would hear many explosions. It would be important to know that they are safe.
As the gunpowder smoke settles, and the stink of its breath is erased from the nostrils, Lamb of God, have mercy on those whose dreams are disturbed by the memory of death.
Read the rest of the prayer here.
Sunday morning, starting slowly;
Abbey bells blocked by insomniac dreams.
After three days of rising –
psalms at dawn in the abbey church-
this morning is for the tomb,
wrapped in winding sheets,
the womb of sleep.
But the breath of God paints
the surface of the water with music;
light playing loud rhythms,
riffing heart beats echoed
by the voices of the young,
sing dissonance into harmony
at the altar of resurrection.
A reminder that the views expressed in this blog are my own.
Dear NRA,
You do not have to arm yourselves against me. I am honestly bewildered as to why you are afraid of me, a middle-aged, moderate-radical Episcopal priest, mother, and cat-lover.
Even though I did attend the Women’s March in my city, and one in support of refugees and immigrants, 
and one to raise awareness of the horrific toll that gun violence takes on our children, our communities, our neighbors; even though I do my best to bother my elected representatives by phone, mail, email, or office visits whenever their decisions bother me; still, I am not sure why your recruitment video casts people like me as a threat, and seems so deeply to fear me. I am unarmed. I am peaceful. I am really quite harmless.
I have resisted the rhetoric of Nazi propaganda and Hitler, partly because I teach our children consistently not to call people names that are not their own; but also because, while I appreciate the lessons of history, our time is unique to us.
Broad-brush comparisons gloss over the dangers that lie, like the devil, in the details. Details like keeping the media in the dark about important decisions, and making idle threats in hopes of cowing independent and critical action; like promoting Islamophobia as public policy, or restricting women’s access to important medical provisions.
I don’t watch award shows, so I can’t comment on that part of your recruitment video. I have, as I mentioned above, attended a couple of demonstrations. As I recall, the Women’s March, which attracted numbers dwarfing the previous day’s Inauguration celebrations, was remarkably peaceful and positive. In fact, one of the most powerful demonstrations that I have attended in the past year was completely silent: non-partisan and hope-filled, it was the opposite of fear-mongering , and the antithesis of violent. I did not notice any guns on the nuns who hosted the demonstration of the power of love over fear.
I am not sure what the “clinched fist of truth” of your subtitles looks like, but I am willing to offer, in its stead, the open hand of blessing. One of the most-spoken phrases in the Bible, one often offered by the angels, is, “Do not be afraid.” I may be no angel, but you do not need to be afraid of me.
Sincerely,
Rosalind +
Jesus didn’t believe in universal health coverage. Not until a bold woman of native descent called him to account (Matthew 15:21-28).
Jesus was ready to stand on the strong and stable principles of citizens first, in-groups and out-of-pocket expenses. He had his speech locked and loaded, teleprompted told her that she must make way for those more deserving than her own sick child; that resources are scarce and must be rationed according to rank, relationship, and level of in-network coverage.
Do you know this story? Have you heard this biblical argument for ignoring the least able to afford to live – literally to live – in America today?
This, mind you, was not the woman, bereft of contraceptive coverage, who crept up to touch the hem of his robe to stem her incessant, intolerable bleeding (Matthew 9:20-22). That’s a whole other story. This is the one, the mother of a tormented child, demented to distraction by her pain, who called him out face to face at a town hall meeting.
“Even the dogs get to eat up the crumbs that fall from the children’s table.” She spat Jesus’ own prejudice back at him, turned her poverty into a privilege, proud of her disinherited heritage.
He tried ignoring her. Then, she was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.
I am an immigrant. I am a mother. I am a follower of Christ, and I am in awe of this woman with more chutzpah than Yeshua, more juice than Jesus, who converted Christ to compassion by confronting his prejudice and pricking his privilege into action.
I am not a politician, policy expert, or economist; but I have visited patients in my brief stint as a hospital chaplain who, in extremis, lost their extremities – toes, feet, and further – because they could not afford to keep up with their diabetic treatment and control. I have encountered too much despair, unmitigated by adequate mental health coverage until the crisis comes, and the 72-hour watch, if it is not already too late. I have sat in the underwear of the woman venting blood before contraceptive coverage became preventive care and saved her sanity.
I am an immigrant, and a woman, and a Christian. I have decent health insurance and I can access good care for my family whenever we fall sick. In this great country, God knows, I know of no one who deserves less.
For the sparrows that feature in this week’s gospel reading. This poem was first published by the Collegeville Institute’s Bearings. Coincidentally, today I fly to Collegeville.
I
Sparrow is packing heat.
He has taken up residence
atop a propane burner on the deck,
building his family into their nest;
an outrageously flammable construct.
We hold our fire,
keep our distance,
while sparrow, careless, kicks back.
Is this bald-faced contingency a design flaw, or
the conceit of a bird-brained genius?
II
Sparrow’s out foraging.
Tiny unseen beaks sing
improbably loudly
their repetitious repertoire
of faith, hope, and hunger
to the father.
III
Sparrow stakes his claim to the feeder
which I had bought, and filled, and hung;
beneath his scolding, I beat a retreat.
Unabashed, he faces down the scarlet cardinal;
unchastened by the chattering squirrel,
careless of the black-wigged crow,
the bold, brown ragamuffin knows his place,
beautiful in the eye of the Beholder.
IV
… and then he was gone,
without a word of thanks,
regret, or good riddance;
only the quiet absence
of a watchfulness I had grown
used to turning aside.
“As you enter the house, greet it. If the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it is not worthy, let your peace return to you.” (Matthew 10:12-13)
This is Jesus, instructing his apostles, sending them out to preach the good news of God’s love, revealed in the person of Christ. And in the midst of a world, like ours, at war with itself, he talks of peace.
He tells his disciples to do their own work of peace without worrying too much about whether or not it is worthy or wasted work. The work of peace, Jesus tells them, is never wasted. If it finds fertile ground, it will grow in those with whom you have shared it. If not, it will return to grow in you.
We know, in our present situation, how deeply the work of peace is needed. It is hampered, sorely, by our tendency to judge, to discern who is deserving of our peace, and who is not. But Jesus instructs us: do your own work of peace. Let your peace be upon any who will receive it, and if not, let it continue to grow in you. Do not be deflected from your own peace by any unworthiness of judgement or of faith. Do the work of peace.
We may, like Sarah, laugh to think that such an old and dried-up thing as peace could ever bear fruit; but then we would be underestimating the long arc of God’s kingdom, and the power of the Holy Spirit to provoke new surprises, new life, new laughter without notice.
How will we do the work of peace in a divided country and a divisive world? Jesus suggests, one household, one family, one greeting at a time. When you enter the house, greet it with peace – no exceptions. When you encounter a stranger, let your peace be upon her, without reservation. Choose to associate with those of a different race, generation, political persuasion – and let your peace be known to them, without price. Be as wise as serpents, and gentle and innocent as doves. If they are worthy, your peace will grow in them, and if not, it will continue to grow in you.
Peace is not passive, mind you. The work of peace is important and active and vital. Be as wise as serpents, and labour for the Lord. Spreading the good news of God’s love revealed in the person of Christ means bringing good news to the poor, and freedom to the captive; healing to the hungry, and life to the walking dead.
The work of peace means facing up to a justice system which operates in a system of injustice to keep the lives of men like Philando Castile cut short and lets loose those to whom his life mattered little. There can be no peace without justice; we have work to do.
The work of addressing gun violence – on Monday night, your Vestry talked about this very work, and then this week, on Capitol Hill, lawmakers were considering a bill to deregulate silencers for privately owned guns, even as their Capitol police protectors were running towards the sound of gunfire to save their colleagues from further damage and danger. The work of addressing gun violence is not about becoming quieter. It is loud and it is necessary, and it is the work of peace, to pound our assault rifles into ploughshares and our handguns into pruning hooks.
The work of peace is not a quiet, unassuming activity. It is on fire with the heat of the gospel, fuelled by the hard wood of the cross.
We spent the rest of the past week, some of us, learning about the saints at summer music camp. We heard of St Francis, who stripped away everything he had of privilege and background to address the poverty and inequality he saw around him, to protest the perversion of God’s kingdom that is promoted when some lives seem to matter more than others.
We learned about Mary, who said, “Let it be to me as the Lord has spoken,” and then turned around and sang a song of revolution, in which the proud are scattered in their imaginations, and peace falls upon the lowly and the humble.
We learned about Fanny Crosby, who was not content to praise God in hymnody and song alone, but who also pestered Congress to improve education for her blind students and for people with disabilities – doing the work of peace, which is the work of justice, with a song on her lips and steel in her heart.
This work of peace is not without risk. See, says Jesus, I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. Francis lost his family. St Cecilia lost her husband, her brother-in-law, and her life. St Ignatius was eaten by lions – these things can happen in the course of working for peace.
But for most of us, the risks are more modest: the risk of failing to grow the peace that is in us; of failing to share it. Of wondering, when things go wrong, whether there is more that we could or should have done to make a difference in this divided world; to do our own work of peace.
Let us make a new start this morning, sharing the peace that Christ has given to us, without reservation, indiscriminately. Greet someone new as we share the Peace this morning; let your peace be upon them, and let it be grown also in you. Practice peace on one another, that we may go out from this place in peace to love and to serve the Lord, to grow God’s kingdom one greeting of peace at a time, speaking peace out loud.
“As you enter the house, greet it. If the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it is not worthy, let your peace return to you.”
Amen.
As promised on Sunday, here is a metrical (8787) version of The Nicene Creed, closely adapted from the translation included in the Book of Common Prayer.
We believe in God Almighty,
Father of Creation, who
made all things in earth and heaven
that are seen, and unseen, too.We believe in one Lord, Jesus,
only Son of God, unmade;
of his Father’s love begotten,
through him all that is was made,God from God, true God from true God,
Light from Light, who’s always been,
before time from time eternal;
with his Father one true Being.Now for us and our salvation
he came down to earth from heaven;
by the Holy Ghost and Virgin
Mary he became a man.Suffered under Pontius Pilate,
crucified for us, entombed.
Three days later he is risen –
Scriptures told of his return.He ascended into heaven,
sits at God’s right hand on high.
He will come again to judge us,
king whose kingdom never dies.We believe the Holy Spirit
gave us life; will always be
with the Son and Father worshipped,
Three in One and One in Three.Spirit speaking by the prophets;
we believe the Church is one
holy, catholic, apostolic.
By one baptism guilt’s undone.We believe in resurrection,
hope of a new life to come.
We believe in God, Christ Jesus,
and the Holy Ghost. Amen.
Image: First Nicea Council Icon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
over the water 
