November 13, The Twenty-Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Isaiah 65:17-25

Kristin White

“For I am about to create a new heavens and a new earth,” the prophet says.

The People Israel are up against it in today’s reading from the Book of Isaiah. They’re divided and cynical. They have been driven into exile, which means they have lost the comfort and familiarity of their lives in the Land of Promise. So there, in captivity in Babylon, they have to find a new way to get along. They have to begin their lives again in a new and foreign place. Everything presents a challenge, everything seems like hardship, every hope seems lost. And the Israelites don’t trust their new neighbors…they resent them. 

In the year 597 BCE, the region of Judah revolted against the emperor Nebuchandezzar. The emperor responded by sacking the city of Jerusalem, burning the Temple, and sending Israel’s leaders into exile in Babylon. They left the land that God had promised them so many generations before, when a stranger took Abram out under a sky full of stars and promised to lead Abraham to a land that God would show him. The People Israel left the magnificent Temple they loved – not just that but they watched it burn – the very place that they believed to be God’s dwelling here on earth. They left their lives and their understanding. They left it all, and they left it for a long time.

Nearly forty years later, when Isaiah proclaims this message of God’s vision, the People Israel are up against it.

“For I am about to create a new heavens and a new earth,” Isaiah says.

“Be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating;

I will rejoice in Jerusalem and delight in my people;

No more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress.”

What a passage this is, appointed a long time ago for what would be the Sunday following the most divisive election season of my lifetime, and maybe yours.

And the thing is, nobody’s got the market cornered on chaos and divisiveness and resentment right now. We’re all in it. And we don’t know why, exactly, though lots of people have a great deal to say about their theories on that count. And we don’t know what comes next.

I heard an interview the week before the election about a working-class white man whose life has not gotten better in recent years. He dropped out of high school – which was a source of embarrassment and shame to him – but then he found a training program, and he learned the trade of welding. He found work with a livable salary in that job, and he did it for a number of years. He got married, had a couple of kids, one of whom has a learning disability. And then the crash of 2008 hit, and he lost his job as a welder. So he was out of work for awhile, and then he went through another training program, and found work again, though this time it was hourly instead of full-time, and at a lower wage. His family lost their health insurance with the welding job; then they found a policy through the Affordable Care Act, but then they couldn’t afford it. They lost their home, were in and out of homelessness.

The thing that stopped me short about this whole story was what the reporter said at the end: this man, this former welder, had tried to do everything right. Like I said, he was embarrassed by his lack of education, but he had tried to compensate for it by learning in other ways. And he and his family were really alone – they didn’t belong to a church, the reporter said; they didn’t have anyone to come around them, to champion their cause, to provide ideas and support.

They didn’t belong to a church, the reporter said.

And I thought – oh – have we forgotten that we belong to each other?

I hold that man’s story of exile, together with the palpable and profound fear I see in my own friends right now. A friend from high school now living in California had her Mexican–born adopted daughter come home from school on Wednesday to say that her classmates told her she was going to be deported. A lesbian couple who are very special to me are making legal arrangements to protect their parental status as two mothers of their beautiful infant daughter. Another friend shares stories of trans folks they know who are helping each other get passports right now in case they need to leave the country quickly.

And again, I wonder: have we forgotten that we belong to each other? How did we get so far away?

“I will rejoice in Jerusalem and delight in my people

No more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it,

            or the cry of distress.”

Isaiah shows up in the midst of an exiled and divided and resentful and frightened people, and shares the word of God. The word of God is capable of creating something new out of something that is very old. The world of God has the power to restore order from chaos. The word of God can make beauty where every single thing seems broken.

In the middle of the People Israel, Isaiah returns a word of promise…in concrete and practical fashion:

“God’s people shall build houses and inhabit them;

            they shall plant vineyards and eat their fruit.

They shall not build and another inhabit;

            they shall not plant and another eat;

For like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be,

            and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their               hands.”

I want that vision. I want that vision of safety and belonging, of a just return for the work of our hands, of a long life, and enough to sustain it. I want that. I want it for my friends who are American Indian and Black and Latino. I want that vision for my friends who are lesbian and gay and trans and queer. I want Isaiah’s vision for that welder who got laid off and who now finds himself really, really alone. I want that vision for your family. I want that vision for my own.

And I don’t know how we get back from the exile of our own fear, but I trust in the power of God’s promise and prophecy. I’m clear that I will struggle together but not fight for vindication. I will speak aloud the truth that I see, but I am finished with vilifying – on all sides. My dear friend Kate says this more eloquently than I can, as she preaches from her own pulpit this morning: “We have elected a president who I would never allow myself or a female friend (or my daughter) to be alone with. But I will be praying for Donald Trump in the weeks and years to come, and I hope you will too.”

When I was in discernment to the priesthood, I found myself praying with an image that would never have been something of my own choosing or creation. I found myself praying like this, with a posture of my own hands outstretched and open. It felt a little vulnerable and strange, and it also made sense. It forced me to imagine God placing things in those open hands of mine…and maybe taking them away, too.

Wednesday morning, I had an email from Meghan Murphy-Gill. She ended it by telling me that she is praying, palms up, looking for the paths.

Me too, Meghan.

So I will pray, and I will listen. And I will seek to live the promises of my baptism, which are the property of no party and which are subject to no election. And I hope you will too.

Because it’s time for us to find the paths, to find our way back to each other. It’s time for us to return from this exile we have created here in this great nation of ours. It’s time for Isaiah’s promise of “a new creation, where the heavens and the earth are no longer alienated.”[1]

Because I want that vision Isaiah speaks into a word of hope, with conviction, for us all:

“The wolf and the lamb shall feed together…

The lion shall eat straw like an ox;”

The vision that

“They shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain,

            says the LORD.”

[1] Nelson Rivera. Feasting on the Word: Year C, Volume 4. “Theological Perspective.” Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010. 290.

November 6, The Feast of All Saints

Luke 6:20-31

Kristin White

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Jennifer Baskerville-Burrows, brand-new bishop-elect of the Diocese of Indianapolis, preached at our friend Amity’s installation as rector of Grace Church, Chicago, last Tuesday. She talked about the walls of St. Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church in San Francisco. Now, those walls are painted with icons of saint upon saint upon saint – 90 of them – people both new and ancient, whose lives showed forth God’s glory: King David and Teresa of Avila and Francis of Assisi…Margaret Meade and Thurgood Marshall and Desmond Tutu. There are even some who would not claim the Christian faith – Gandhi and Macolm X, Anne Frank and Martha Graham, Abraham Joshua Heschel.

They’re all up there on the walls of St. Gregory’s Church, now; and they’re dancing – one hand on another shoulder, a foot lifted and ready to take the next step, hands clasped to join.

But they weren’t always there. In fact, it took a long time for them to be written into that space the saints now hold. In the time before, for the years and months that led up to their completion in 2009, those saints existed in blank space at St. Gregory’s, and then only as outlines. It took time for them all, the known and the less-well-known, to be written into that dance.

Today is the day, in the life of the church, that we set aside to give thanks for the lives of all the saints – those known and the less-well-known – who are written into the dance of our faith. You can see some of them here, drawn into our memory in glass that is both etched and stained: Augustine and his mother, Monica, who prayed for her son’s conversion a long, long time before it happened. Margaret of Scotland, and Polycarp; Andrew, and Anne.

Our saints will be spoken into our midst today as well, as we receive the bread and wine of communion, we will hear the names of those we love but see no longer, whose lives are imprinted on our own: mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, grandparents…children…friends.

And with the reading of their names, the memory of their lives etches itself in color among us once more.

“Blessed are you,” Jesus says, in the gospel passage appointed for our celebration of all the saints today. “Blessed are you. Blessed are you. Blessed are you.”

He comes down to the people, scripture tells us in the verses leading up to today’s lesson. This is not the Sermon on the Mount, as Matthew’s gospel tells the story of the beatitudes. Luke tells this story another way. He tells us that Jesus comes down from the mountain, comes down to the people and stands with them on a level place. They’re sick, after all, and hurting, and troubled by unclean spirits. And they try to touch him, because they know that he has the power to heal them. And he does. He heals them all.

Then he looks up.

“Blessed are you,” he says. “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom. Blessed are you who are hungry, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you, exclude you, revile you, defame you because of the Son of Man. For that is what they did to the prophets.”

And correspondingly, “Woe to you who are rich, and full, and laughing, and well-regarded.”

Finally, this last piece: “But I say to you that listen: Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Pray for those who abuse you. Offer your cheek and your coat and your things.”

Is that what our saints have done?

We all have stories of the ways they are written into our lives – in lightly chalked outline, or etched in color and glass and gold. And on this feast when maybe not so very much would separate us between the living and the dead, we remember their dance in our lives.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you, Augustine, who sought and sought and sought after truth, with your restless heart and your brilliant mind.

Blessed are you, Julian of Norwich, who promises us still that all manner of things shall be well.

Blessed are you, Patrick of Ireland, who bridged ancient mysticism and Christian faith to exalt God in the midst of our natural world.

Blessed are you, Elizabeth the First, who held the people of England together and forged religious peace by way of Common Prayer.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you, Marjorie and Thomas, whose team that saw a dream made manifest after 108 years of waiting, the celebration adorning your resting place outside in our columbarium.

Blessed are you, Kathie, who knew that it was good.

Blessed are you, Pieter, now rejoined to your beloved Miepje.

Blessed are you, beloved Caroline.

Blessed are you, Jim, your name written in chalk on the wall at Wrigley Field.

Blessed are you, Roy, and Georgia, and Fritz, and Brett, and George, and Rodney, and John, and Alfred.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Blessed are you.

Their names are written onto our hearts, and their dance illumines our lives. And by the gift of faith, by the icons of their lives and witness, we are reminded again: Jesus comes to the people. He stands with them on a level place. The people are sick and troubled and hurting. And Jesus comes to be with them.

“But I say to you that listen,” Jesus says to the crowds: “Love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Pray for those who abuse you. Offer your cheek and your coat and your things.”

We need those saints, all of them. The ancient and the new, the familiar and the less-well-known. We need their chalked outlines, their images etched in color and glass and gold. We need them written into our lives as they are. We need their light – maybe now as much as we ever have. We need their light and their dance.

And so today, let us pray those saints, every one of them, into our midst. Let us clasp hands and remember that we are not alone. And let us be the ones who listen to what Jesus says to the people as he stands with them there, on that level place: “Blessed are you. Blessed are you. Blessed are you.”

October 16, Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost

Genesis 32:22-31, 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5, Luke 18:1-8

Kristin White

“Be persistent,” the author of our second reading today says. “Proclaim the message, and be persistent, whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage, with the utmost patience.”

“This is what you do,” the writer of this letter seems to be saying: to Timothy and the people of his community then; and to us, now. “This is the way to stay on course, this is how to live as people who are trying to live faithfully.”

It’s easy to get distracted right now, easy to forget our need for persistence…easy to get discouraged.

And today’s gospel offers distractions of its own, as well, with its unjust judge who neither fears God nor shows respect for the people, with its widow who continues going before the unjust judge (who, the text tells us again, does not fear God, does not respect the people), this widow who persists – who asks again and again and again for justice.

My own mind wants to make sense of this parable, to make it logical and neat. My mind wants to draw parallels, to seek real-life examples of the unjust judge (not so difficult a task right now, it turns out), people in positions of power and responsibility, people who neither fear God nor respect the people. My mind wants to look for the persistent widows in action right now, people on the margins who speak and act with conviction regardless of the cost, who continue to push and to bother, who persist…until at last they wear that unjust judge down with their continual cry, until they bother him enough that justice is finally, finally done.

And that’s it, really, my mind wants to see the Right Thing done: to see some good sense made of it all. My mind wants a dose (perhaps a large dose) of humility dished out for that unjust judge, and (proportionately great) triumph for the widow.

There’s so much here theologically to be pulled apart, so many questions that we can understandably ask: Why is this judge so uncaring, so disrespectful? Who is the widow, and what justice does she seek, and what has her opponent done to upset her so much? Can we, really, like that widow, wear down unjust structures…can we bother the powerful and rude to the point that, if we’re just persistent enough, we, too, will get what we seek? And if God really does hear our cry, more than this awful-seeming judge, why has God not alreadygranted justice, and quickly?

What was it that Meghan said about parables, when she preached a few weeks ago? That they make mincemeat of our expectations?

As rich as this parable is, as curious as we might be, as much as we might decry the disrespect of the judge and champion the widow in her cry for justice, I want to draw our attention somewhere else today.

Remember, this parable is told as an illustration. It didn’t actually happen. Or, maybe it happens all the time. Either way, it probably wasn’t one particular event. The purpose of the story Jesus tells is to teach his disciples a lesson he finds important for them.

Look at the beginning of the gospel: Jesus tells the disciples a parable about their need to pray always, and not to lose heart.

Look at the end of the gospel: Jesus asks, “And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?”

And hear again, from the Second Letter to Timothy: “Proclaim the message: be persistent, no matter what; convince, rebuke, and encourage; show the utmost patience.”

“This is what you do,” the texts seem to work together to say to us today, at a time when distractions and discouragements abound. “Do not be distracted, do not be discouraged. This is how to stay on course, to live as a people seeking to live faithfully.”

Last Sunday at the reception celebrating the beginning of our annual giving campaign, I talked with someone who is understandably lamenting the deep unkindness and disrespect unfolding across the news. She was understandably wishing something better for the world that her grandchildren are growing up in right now.

We paused for a moment, and looked around. Folks were talking together and sharing good food as they watched children play. New members to the community were being introduced and welcomed by people who have been members of St. Augustine’s for decades. People were checking in with each other about what was going on in their lives – both the challenges and the occasions of joy – and sharing those with one another.

“This is the good news,” I said, as we looked. “This is the very thing we need more of in this world.”

Today is the day when it’s my job to preach about Everybody, by Faith: the theme of this year’s annual giving campaign at St. Augustine’s. We chose those words from our invitation to communion – welcoming everybody, everybody, everybody to feast from God’s table.

Because it takes everybody, for us to be most fully who we’re called to be as the Church – the Body of Christ – in this time and place. We don’t have time, honestly, for the disrespect of the unjust judge. Because we know enough to know that we need each other, in all our differences. We need the persistent offering of the gifts we have, for the sake of justice, for the sake of faith, in the hope that we will not lose heart.

Remember, friends, this is who we are:

We are a church that extends hospitality from this table to the table in our parish hall, where, in a couple of weeks, we’ll serve breakfast and dinner every day to people who take shelter here as they work toward a day when they will have a home of their own once again.

We are a church committing ourselves to challenging conversations about race, to bothering and wearing down and finally breaking those unjust structures that would divide the children of God from one another.

We are a church that takes care of each other, with visits and phone calls and meals and notes of encouragement and rides to the doctor, when those are the things that people need.

We are a church that cherishes and nurtures relationships between generations. We choose to spend time together, and we throw a good party, and we’ll have the chance to plan for more of those in coming months in our time together after worship today. And we’ll have the chance to continue in fellowship, rain or shine, at a barbecue and picnic later this afternoon.

We are a church filled with people who offer ourselves, as we are, before God in worship. We affirm and lament and bless and pray and intercede and give thanks and confess…and we sing.

So do not lose heart, friends. Because this is good news. You are good news.

Instead, join me in trying to follow the directions that today’s scripture sets before us, for people seeking to live faithfully: be persistent, whether the time is good or bad, proclaim and convince and rebuke and encourage, always with deep patience.

Offer the gifts you have to give, as generously as you are able, to support this good news we have to share, to build the kingdom of God’s promise.

Do not be distracted. Do not be discouraged.

Instead, pray as often as you can, and do not lose heart; that when the Son of Man comes, he surely will find faith on the earth.