August 13, The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

Proper 14A, 10th Sunday after Pentecost, August 13, 2017

Deacon Sue Nebel

Genesis 37:1-4,12-28; Psalm 105:1-6,16-22,45b; Matthew 14:22-33

This has been an unsettling week. . .and that feels like an understatement.  Belligerent, threatening rhetoric from the leaders of North Korea and our own country.  The very real fear of possible armed conflict with catastrophic results.  Then Friday night and yesterday, the news of the violent protests in Charlottesville, Virginia.  A painful reminder of the continuing reality of racism in our country.  Unsettling indeed.  Everything seems shaky and uncertain. Then what do we get for our Gospel lesson this morning?  Heavy winds on the Sea of Galilee.  Jesus’ disciples in a boat on the tumultuous water, gripped by fear.  It seems appropriate.

This morning’s passage from Matthew picks up at the end of last’s week’s reading: the Feeding of the FiveThousand.  The crowds are dispersing.  Jesus has gone up on the nearby mountain by himself for a time of prayer.  He has sent the disciples off in a boat to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. But things don’t go according to plan.  Strong winds come up during the night, making the water rough and battering the disciples’ boat. Early in the morning, Jesus starts out, walking on the water toward the disciples.  Seeing him, the disciples are terrified. They think he is a ghost.  Jesus calls out to reassure them.  Peter responds to his words, saying: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”  Jesus replies: “Come.”  Peter then gets out of the boat and begins walking on the water toward Jesus. It is all going so well, but then Peter notices the wind and is afraid, uncertain.  He begins to sink.  Jesus reaches out and pulls him to safety, admonishing him for not having enough faith.

It is tempting, when looking at this story, to focus on the most striking, attention-grabbing part: Jesus walking on water.  Putting our rational minds to work, we try to come up with an explanation of how Jesus manages to do this.  Or we can simply dismiss it as some kind of illusion caused by the emotional state of the disciples.  Quite honestly, I don’t have an explanation for how Jesus does this, but I am willing to accept the reality of the experiences of the disciples.  This is what they saw and they told others about it.  The story was carried forward in the oral tradition until it was finally written down. 

What is important in this story, in my mind, is the part about Peter.  Peter is the most visible of Jesus’ disciples.   He is the one who always speaks up.  He asks questions.  He blurts out what he is thinking and feeling. Peter puts himself out there; he takes risks.  And like most risk-takers, he sometimes fails. But through it all, Peter always wants to be faithful.  He wants to please Jesus.  He wants to meet Jesus’ expectations of a good disciple.  This is what is happening in the Gospel story. Peter does not look around at the other disciples and say, “Watch this. I’m going to walk on water.”  No. Peter focuses his eyes and attention on Jesus. He does indeed walk on water—until he is distracted by the wind and falters. After Jesus pulls Peter to safety, he chides him (gently I hope) for his lack of faith.

The good news here is that Jesus doesn’t give up on Peter.  He doesn’t tell him that he is a failure as a disciple.  He doesn’t dismiss him.  He simply tells him that, in this moment, he didn’t have enough faith.  He continues to value him and to love him.  In turn, Peter doesn’t give up on Jesus. He never quits.  Peter hangs in there. He keeps on trying to be faithful.  Sometimes he succeeds.  Sometimes, he fails.  But he keeps at it.  We can take heart from Peter’s example. We are all Peter.  We too want to be faithful.  We too want to measure up to the demands of discipleship.  Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we fail.  But we keep on trying.  That is what it means to be faithful. 

In my moments of feeling fearful and anxious about events in the world this past week, I admit I have wished for a heroic figure to appear on the scene. Someone to calm things down and make it all better.   That has not happened, of course. So I have done what I often do in times like this. I turn to a trusted person of wisdom and faith. Steven Charleston is one of those people. He is the retired Episcopal Bishop of Alaska and a Native American.  He posts reflections regularly on the Internet.  This is what he offered on Wednesday morning.

I went to sleep with the sound of sabers rattling all around me and I awoke to find the world still anxious about the threat of war. These are the rare moments in history when we all hold our breath. The historical limit to human leadership seems so clear when the push of a button can end that history. I have been praying hard that people keep talking before they decide to act impulsively. I know you have too.

May the Spirit do what alone we cannot do: restore a sense of calm, open up new paths of dialogue, give peace time enough to serve the cause of justice.

Charleston states the obvious: As Christians we should pray, individually and collectively. I am somewhat relieved that what he hopes for, i.e. that people keep talking before acting impulsively, seems to be happening.

But what else? How do we move forward?  How do we keep being faithful in the midst of all this.  What has emerged for me as I pondered that question in the middle of the night, is the word “fierceness.”   I know that it is the Holy Spirit’s doing, giving me that word.  I also know where it originated.  On my early morning walk a few days ago, when my mood was probably the darkest, a wonderful thing happened.  A blocks from my house, I saw some men with heavy machinery, digging a large hole in front of a house a couple of doors ahead of me.  Just then, I heard a child’s voice and looked to my right.  There was a little boy, probably about three years old, sitting on the front step.  He was fascinated by the men and their equipment. A thoughtful parent or caregiver had set his breakfast next to him.  There he was, happily eating his breakfast and talking to himself, as he watched the men at work. 

In that moment I had an overpowering rush of emotion, an intense affirmation of what I hold near and dear.  I love life.  I love this world that God created and that we try to maintain.  I love God’s children.  I don’t want life to be cut short by some nuclear disaster.  I do not want this world destroyed. I want peace and justice in the world.   I want that little boy sitting on his front step to grow up and become what he wants to be: someone who uses machines to dig big holes in yards, or whatever else.  I want it not only for him, a white child with all the privileges that provides.  I want it for all children. Whatever their skin color, their ethnic background, the country where they live now, or where they have lived in the past.  That was for me a moment of fierceness.  I carry the image of that little boy in my heartHe reminds me to live fiercely.  To care deeply.

The events in Charlottesville were shocking.  Whatever veil of unknowing or ignoring we had drawn across the reality of racism in this country was ripped to shreds.  The violence, the hatred, the use of Nazi signs and slogans.  All of it goes against everything Jesus teaches. To love one another.  To respect the dignity of every human being.  We have work to do.  We have to recognize and name racism.  In ourselves and in the world around us.  To join in efforts to eliminate it.  To keep on being faithful, as best we can.

                Fierceness.  Fierceness—and all that it means to me—is the word that is working for me right now.  I offer it to you, in hope that you can take it and make it your own.  If fierceness doesn’t work, I invite you to find a word that is better.  Remembering Peter, the word faithfulness comes to mind.  Or perhaps, the image of Peter himself might do.  And there is always the image of Jesus, urging us to continue the work he started.  Whatever you choose, embrace it.  Carry it within you, to push you to live fully, boldly.  To live, not live trapped in fear and anxiety, but to be fully involved in the work of faithful discipleship. To make this world a better place for everyone.  Everyone.

AUGUST 6, THE FEAST OF THE TRANSFIGURATION

Andrew Suitter

The Feast of the Transfiguration

Luke 9:28-36

Transfixed: Breaking the Silence

Augustine of Hippo, our beloved St. Augustine, once said, “Be what you see, receive what you are.” “Be what you see, receive what you are.” “Be what you see, receive what you are.” In his sermon about the Eucharist, Augustine penned these words about the bread we see raised up every week that we gather together.  He says,

Remember that bread is not made from one grain, but from many.  When you were being exorcised, it’s as though you were being ground.  When you were baptized it’s as though you were mixed into the dough.  When you received the fire of the Holy Spirit, it’s as though you were baked.  Be what you see, and receive what you are.[1]

One of the first times I ever attended an Episcopal church service, several things stood out to me. First, we had the struggle of juggling a bulletin, a hymnal and a Book of Common Prayer. Second, we had the struggle of juggling a bulletin, a hymnal and a Book of Common Prayer, all the while doing the calisthenics of genuflecting, sitting, kneeling and standing. I wondered what I was getting myself into.  Three, it confirmed for me that introverts everywhere might possibly dread the passing of the peace.  And fourth, and perhaps the most serious, is the sound of the breaking of the bread. 

This thing we experience together every week was for me, the first time, memorable.  The silence in the room was palpable.  Our eyes, transfixed by this bright Host being raised up to God, watch, and out of the silence comes this cracking, this breaking of the bread.  The silence continues as it is brought down, laid on the plate and we pause together for a brief moment.  “Alleluia,” the priest said.  “Christ our Passover has been sacrificed for us.” And we replied, “Therefore, let us keep the feast, Alleluia.”

I have never forgotten that experience, and I hope I never do.  The silence, the sounds of cracking and breaking, of this wafer becoming the body of Christ that is reflected in you and in me was somehow transfixed.  It was as if this Host brought me to attention, and snapped me out of this liminal space where my own problems seemed to go on the back burner. I was invited to sit in that silence, and wait to experience something holy. That silence might well have been the words we hear spoken to the disciples today.  A voice that said, “Hey, Listen. This is my Son.”

Be  what you see, receive what you are.

The transfiguration is a text that present us with the opportunity to imagine where is it in our own lives, God might be saying, “Hey, you.” Maybe it is to say, “I love you,” or “I have this taken care of” or, “this thing over here, this is what I am calling you to do.” It shows us the many ways God comes to us to confirm God’s own love for us, and God’s involvement in our lives especially when we do not always feel it, remember it, or believe it. 

What I have come to love about Luke’s version of the Transfiguration is that the disciples seem to have a certain familiar quality to them.  Sure they are set apart as disciples, but they too don’t always “get it.” They too do not always understand what is before them and miss what might be in front of them—and yet God still calls and equips them. 

Sometimes, we can’t get out of our own way.  We can become so focused on what we know, or on what we have experienced, that it is hard to imagine new ventures, new callings, or even the original one we set out on.    

This is what we see happening with the disciples in this passage.  Consider, Peter.  Just a bit before where we pick up today in Luke, it is Peter who just confesses faith in our Lord—and if we remember the Passion—we know it is also Peter who denies his faith—despite knowing all that he does.  And yet it is that same depth of knowledge and experience that eventually brings him back to faith. 

The two other disciples, James and John, who have more minor roles in this passage, seem to be along for the hike as part of the pack, and are described by Luke as being “weighed down with sleep.” If you have ever hiked in higher elevations, it is easy to imagine this.  Whenever I have hiked in Colorado or Utah, I notice that my body tires much more easily than in normal altitudes.  I have to drink more water, and push through the lingering dull headache that takes a day or two to go away.  Luke tells us the disciples pushed through their weighted sleepiness, and by doing so got to experience something amazing. 

The synoptic versions of this story, found in Mark, Matthew and Luke, vary in some regard.  Luke wrote his gospel with the knowledge of Mark’s gospel.  All three gospel accounts include Peter’s intention to build three dwellings for Jesus, Moses and Elijah, but only Luke is specific about the purpose of the group’s trip to the mountain, which was to pray.What stands out to me most about these disciples is that for as long as they have been following Jesus, and been engaged with the Hebrew scriptures, they still did not see what was before them. 

When Jesus appeared with Moses, and Elijah, Peter wanted to build a dwelling place for them and keep them around—despite knowing that what was to come for Jesus was not good.  Perhaps Peter was protective, or perhaps he was even afraid or just shortsighted. But one thing he teaches all of us, is that following Christ into the known and unknown can be hard without the grounding of a community, a Body of Christ, to walk these things out with us. It is often the community gathered here each week, this Body of Christ, that reminds us to keep going, to keep pushing through even if our faith or our courage is challenged.

Luke calls us, the community of the Body of Christ, to prayer.  Luke calls us to the quiet, to the places where we might have to push through, in order that we might hear from God. And graceful Luke reminds us that even when we do listen, when God does speak so clearly to our hearts, we still may not get things right on the first try or two—and that is part of our faith journey together. 

Be what you see, receive what you are.

Perhaps it was the Holy Spirit I felt that morning in my first Episcopal Service.  Perhaps it was the divine moving through imperfect hands and people, calling us to do holy things. 

In a recent conversation with my friend and seminary colleague, Claire Brown, she said something quite thoughtful about how striving for perfection in anything, especially our understanding of God, and our service to God, can blur the ways we can see and hear God at work in our lives.  Claire says,

Perfectionism is wanting not just a change of clothes and a walking stick for our mission, but also maybe some decent hotel reservations, a game plan, and a buddy system—at least Siri…Perfectionism is sending the hungry crowd away because we can’t try the hard new thing if we think we might fail.  Perfectionism, God help us, is trying to interrupt the epiphany and put a shrine around it so that we can control what’s happening or document it…[2]

Perhaps we live with these expectations from time to time.  Perhaps we, like the disciples, want to build a box for God.  Perhaps we too get overwhelmed, and unable to see maybe where God has been in the story all along, or where it is God is leading us in the future. 

Listen to the silence after the bread is broken.  It calls us back time and time again, and invites us to relationship with God and one another—as imperfect as we are—to break bread, to break new ground, and to offer our hands and our hearts to the work of our Lord that is loving and healing this world.  This is the body of Christ in action.  This is the word made flesh among us. 

Be what you see, receive what you are. Amen.

[1] http://www.stansleminstitute.org/files/Augustine/%20Sermon%20272.pdf Augustine of Hippo, Sermon about the Eucharist, numbered 272, found in St. Anslem archives.

[2] Conversation with colleague Claire Brown, thoughts around perfection and the drive to always get it right.