Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Proper 17, Year B
August 29, 2021
 
Say your prayers and wash your hands, because Jesus and germs are everywhere.
 
We have that saying on a dishtowel.  These days you can get that saying on a mug, cup, bumper sticker, t-shirt, sweatshirt, soap dispenser, and all manner of signage of any size and font.  It is an old saying, but talk about a message meeting a moment.  The statement is not trademarked or copyrighted, so purveyors of cutesy ephemera have gone to town.
 
While the pandemic has left many desolate and ruined, it has opened up a whole series of new markets.  Once in short supply, masks are now everywhere.  They are right there with the tabloids in the grocery checkout aisle.  Instead of calendars and key chains, the institutions of higher learning I support have sent us logo branded masks, I am sporting a Virginia Seminary one regularly (Go Fighting Flamingos).  Covid tests were once the thing nobody could find and get in any timely way.  Now we can get in home tests by the dozen for free.  Restaurants now have very robust takeout and delivery services.  Temperature scanners are legion.  Zoom has exploded as the main platform for meeting.  The paper products aisle is crammed with new players in the market for paper towels and that previously coveted and horded toilet paper.  Our economic system responds quickly, but we are only a selectively clever bunch of humans.
 
And then, there is hand sanitizer.  Once scarce, it is everywhere and widely available.  In the earlier days of the virus, my pharmacist told me they had every bottle she had put out for customers was lifted at the rate of ten a day.  Finally, they put out a three-gallon container that would be really awkward to put in one’s purse or pocket.  Nowadays, we hardly have to carry our own, though we do.  Hand sanitizer is on every retail counter, in every office, and everywhere people with potentially dirty hands gather.
 
While we are creative and markets adapt quickly, the hand sanitizer thing is a telling obsession.  First, soap and water are just as or more effective as a disinfectant.  And, of course, once sanitized, there is no protective wall around our hands that lasts for hours.  Once we open the door, grab our wallet and keys, or scratch our nose, we are right back in the germ pool.  Though there is little to no evidence that the virus spreads on surfaces, that does not stop us.  When faced with something we cannot control, we arm ourselves.  It gives us the illusion of safety or immunity.  We cleanse to feel clean.
 
Please note, I am a rabid proponent of doing everything we can to protect ourselves and one another.  Washing hands is a good thing and always has been.  Wearing masks and keeping respectful distance is something we can do that is effective.  Even if the chances of our masked and distanced, twice vaccinated selves will spread infection is small.  It is a possibility, thus we do so because some are not able to be vaccinated, some are immunocompromised, and all of us are in this together as fellow humans, called to love neighbor as self.  This is not partisan, political, or philosophical.  It is Gospel.
 
After the last five weeks of John’s gospel taking us into the deep mysteries of bread and wine, body and blood, over and over, finally we have a lesson that we can get our hands on. It is all about hand washing.  Or so the uptight religious folks think.  Apparently, some of the disciples were seen eating without washing their hands.  For the Scribes and Pharisees, washing hands was not just a soap and water thing where you sing the happy birthday song to give it the time it needs.  For the super exclusive religious, hand washing had a whole ritual.  They had special prayers, special fancy pitchers and basins.  The in crowd practiced and believed that doing such ablutions were like the magic of hand sanitizer, giving them belief in their purity.  They believed that doing that “right” thing, made the righteous.  And more important, more righteous than others. 
 
Thus, some of the disciples were not eating with dirty hands, so much as they were not playing the ritualistic game of magical thinking.  Jesus supports them, telling their critics that uncleanness is not washed away in an external practice.  We are made right in looking inside ourselves, seeing where we think and do things that hurt or exclude people we ought to love.  Sin is not the devil on forcing us into vile behavior, rather, sin is an inside job working in our self-centric insecurities and greed.
 
The bigger idea of all our lessons for today is all about religion.  If our religion does not lead us to compassion and moves us to widen our embrace of all humanity, it is the wrong application of religion.  Believing the right thing is not the right thing unless our life shows the fruit.  If our so-called righteousness stifles the generosity, yields less empathy, and shuns diversity, we are confusing what we claim as right with what righteousness is.  If we have enough religion to hate, but not enough religion to love, we are using religion as a barrier, rather than inviting our religion to use us.  Righteousness is an outflow, not a set of practices that work some magic.
 
Granted, we do things in church that are ritualistic and repeated.  We do this to open our hearts and minds, not to close them down and shut others out.  The 20th century poets Edwin Markham put it this way: 
 
“He drew a circle that shut me out-
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle and took him In!”
 
Say your prayers and wash your hands.  Jesus and germs are everywhere.  True enough.  We cannot ever be fully sanitized souls this side of heaven.  We may not get right - or even righteous - at least not on our own.  But stick with it.  There are flashes of righteousness happening all around us, and sometimes, because of us, and through us.  Be careful out there.  The world is volatile and life is a chronic condition.  We can, however show up, wash up, be nice, and make good, knowing that we will have to do so again and again.  After all, even a life of love can be messy.  Amen.
 

​Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Proper 16, Year B
August 22, 2021
 
The late columnist, humorist and author, Lewis Grizzard, once wrote a book entitled Elvis Is Dead, and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.  While it was not great piece of literature, it was a funny take on nostalgia which, I would like to remind us is not what it used to be. 
 
I was reminded of his book as I read about the annual observation of Death Week at Elvis Presley’s Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee.  While I have made the pilgrimage to Graceland, and taken the Platinum Tour, Death Week goes to a whole different level.  Elvis fans show up in large numbers, bearing the August Memphis heat.  They dress up, hold candle light vigils, and on the fated day, make a somber walk to the eternal flame at the King’s gravesite to pay their respects.
 
For his eighth birthday, Elvis wanted a bicycle.  Coming from a poor family in Tupelo, Mississippi, there was no money for a bike.   Nevertheless, Elvis’s mother, Gladys splurged, spending $6.95 on a small guitar.  That changed everything.  Thank Gladys!
 
I am an Elvis fan because he was a fascinating blend of talent, opportunity, and a case study in how fame ravages all naiveté.   Elvis was a connector, a bridge builder, and an unexpected phenomenon.  He crossed rigid boundaries of class, race, musical genre, fame, and family.  His favorite place at Graceland was the kitchen, where he and his friends ate peanut butter and banana sandwiches.  Don’t knock ‘em til you have tried ‘em!  For sure, young Elvis had a rhythm all his own, moving those hips like nobody had done before.  His style was both ecstatic and scandalous, like most big changes.
 
Now, I do not want to go into a psychosocial or theological analysis of fandom, but most of us have time bound touchstones in our life such as music.  Whether that music is Frank Sinatra, Bob Dylan, Beyonce, or Taylor Swift, we connect certain soundtracks to important times in our lives.  The Texas folk singer, Nanci Griffith, died this week, and as I listened to her catalogue of music, I remembered many good times in my life.  I remembered some hard times in life too.  Most of all, I heard the poetry and rhythm of seeing and feeling deeply.  Of course, Nanci was no Elvis.  She did not have the flash, but her art is a touchstone all the same.
 
When Lewis Grizzard wrote about Elvis Death, he was both philosophical and wickedly funny.  Yet, even among the laughter, there was a well-articulated grief about love always including some loss along with it.  Time does not stand still.  People age.  All things fade. Then world presses in on us, and it is hard to make sense of it.
 
This has been a hard week.  As the virus resurges, people are frightened, suffering, and angry.  As disaster after disaster strikes Haiti, people are frightened, suffering, and angry.  As Afghanistan implodes and, people are frightened, suffering, and angry.  Fires continue to burn.  Tempers are hot all around.  Human fragility is on full display.  It doesn’t help that much of the public energy in response is to focus on blame, on self-interest, and rage.  None of that will be helpful.
 
To be a Christ follower is helpful, but it is difficult too.  It is hard to shake of the fight or flight instincts embedded in our DNA.  It is hard to shake a sort of globalized anxiety that leaves us suspicious, accusatory, and just plain mad.  Jesus’ Way asks that we shake off the dust of the world, and follow a new path where unity overcomes estrangement, forgiveness heals guilt, and joy conquers despair.   While all that sounds good, it is really hard to do.  Our hearts and minds are full.
 
We come to a serious inflection point in John’s Gospel today.  Speaking through the metaphors of body and blood, Jesus tells his followers that it is the “Spirit that gives life; the flesh is useless.”  Wait, what.  John started this whole thing out saying the “Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.”  Now the flesh is useless?  Hardly.  The flesh he refers to is the earthy kind: the finite and shot lived mercy of humanity versus the infinite mercy of the Creator.  Jesus own physical body is a container for God’s Spirit.  His fleshy, time bound, earthy body will not permanent.  It is the Spirit’s ongoing life that animates a new and eternal body that goes way beyond skin and bones.
 
“This teaching is difficult,” his disciples respond, “who can accept it?”  It is difficult for us too, requiring as complete reframing of our well-worn assumptions and instincts.  Sadly, many strike camp and take off.  They do not want to go the Way of love and peace.  They close the door on this Son of God business, but Jesus leaves it open.
 
He asks Peter, “do you want to leave too?”  And good ole Peter, the one who always addresses the elephant in the room, says “where would I go?  You have the words of life beyond just this life and we have come to believe that you are the Holy One of God.”  Of all of Peter’s great proclamations, this ranks highly and pushes us deeper into faith.
 
If not with Jesus and God’s Word of life, where will we go?  To the altar of self-help?  To the comfortable echo chambers of tribe or party?  To the competing gods of exclusion, self-righteousness, and material idolatry?  That might be easier and more comforting, but in the end, those are empty calories of spiritual nourishment over against the Bread of Life. 
 
All week some lyrics from my musical touchstone, Nanci Griffith, have rung in my soul.  “It’s a hard life, it’s a hard life, it’s a very hard life.  It’s a hard life wherever you go.  But if we poison our children with hatred, then the hard life is all they’ll know.”
 
We may not feel so good right now, and with good reason.  It is ok to be full, overwhelmed, and upset.  God does not call us to permanent positivity, or to wall off suffering.  God calls us to keep love alive, even in the face of loss.  There may not be enough water in our bucket to put out the fires, or quench all the massive thirst for justice.  But we can use our bucket to cool things off, to help somehow or some way no matter how small or simple.  Then, where will we go?  Not off alone and empty, but back to the deep well of the Word of Life --  that is God -- to refill, to refresh, and renew… the steadfast and ever-present Spirit within us.  Amen.

​Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Proper 15, Year B
August 15, 2021
 
Lizzie was three years old.  Each week she took her place on the front row with the rest of Mrs. Belk’s PreK-3s for Episcopal Day School’s weekly chapel service.  On the major feast days of the Church, we celebrated Eucharist, and as an orientation to this rite, I visited with the PreK3s before chapel.  I brought down some wafers and some wine.  I showed them the chalice and paten.  As a newly minted priest, I tried to explain Eucharist so they would know what was going on.  My big error was trying to “explain” the Eucharist, and my young charges kept me honest.  “Is that really bread?  Is that real wine?  Is that really a piece of Jesus?  Isn’t it just gross to drink blood?”  These students were on to something that adults think but do not ask.
 
I was stumped.  With a head full of theology, I was trying to convey an experience, poorly.  God love Mrs. Belk, a seasoned pro; she turned to the children and said “what do you think?”  This was my first and best lesson in becoming a teacher:  get out of the way, they know things.  Hands shot up all over the front row.  “I think Jesus wants us to remember him.  I think Jesus knows that we must eat and drink, and he wants to be food for us.  I like communion because it is special and because we get to move around instead of just listening all the time.  Jesus is here because we believe.”
 
Lizzie was clearly interested, but quiet and reflective.  I had explained that they could come forward for a blessing if they did not want to receive and they could cross their arms across their chest and pray with me.  When the time came for communion, Lizzie came forward with her classmates with her arms crossed.  Mrs. Belk went first.  I spoke the words: “The Body of Christ the bread of heaven.” and gave Mrs. Belk the bread.  Lizzie was next.  She was thinking, hesitated, then unfolded her arms, reached into the sanctuary with both hands, and looked up and into my eyes.  I want this, she whispered.  Yes.  “The Body of Christ, the bread of heaven.”
 
In its infinite wrestling with mystery, the Church and her theologians have an entire language for conversing about what the Eucharist is.  We have the Greek term anamnesis which is a liturgical remembrance that takes us where it points.  There is transubstantiation, which is big for Roman Catholic doctrine, that is the bread and wine literally become the body and blood of Jesus.  Ironically, in dialogue among Anglicans and Catholics, both affirmed the principle of transubstantiation, but then could not agree on its definition.  This is not to shade theological ideas or dismiss thoughtful conversation, it is just to say that being sure of something that is a matter of faith can be tricky, as our head cannot always take us where our heart needs to go
 
There is a running argument in the church about children and communion.  On the one hand, we should not cheapen the experience in being too casual or relative, and on the other hand arguing that a child does not understand what they are doing implies that adults do.  When any one of any age knows they belong, and seek to be part of something big and beyond mere explanation, when any one of any age reaches into the sanctuary hands and heart open to receive, Jesus is mightily present. 
 
Driving home the gift and grace of the Eucharist is where John’s Gospel takes us today.  This is his version of the last supper.  His words and images are meant to have shock value.  Eat my flesh and drink my blood.  How can this be they ask, and we do too.  We do not know it all, but we know that touch, and taste, and smell are powerful and evocative senses.  The words John’s Jesus uses have greater meaning than they do in English.  Bread is necessary, life sustaining, and holy food in Hebrew history.  God provided it in the wilderness and helped the people survive the desert.  Bread goes bad fast if it is not broken and eaten.  And wine is a common drink in a world with lots of bad water.  Blood is a big word as it is seen as the life force and energy literally pulsing in our veins.  Jesus tells his people that he comes to be in us and among us.  How can bread and wine become body and blood?  How can a rag tag bunch of imperfect followers become the body of Christ?  These things happen as gift and grace.  We do not control them, earn them, or define what God can and will do.
 
Back in that same school where I started as a chaplain, there was another kid who was new to any kind of prayer.  In one of our lessons, he said that he liked the prayers because they all end with “I’m in.”  He mistook amen for I’m in, and to be honest, that is not bad theology.  The word amen literally means so be it.  And if we listen to what we pray, and take it seriously, it may sound rote, but it is important.  To say amen is to say we are in, we affirm what we pray, and we challenge ourselves to believe what is hard or mysterious.
 
Very soon, it will be our turn to rise, come forward, and take in the very life of Jesus.  Whoever said that we are what we eat is right on.  These are the gifts of God for the people of God.  Are we in?  Yes. Amen.

​Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Proper 13, Year B
August 1, 2021
 
My first full sentence was this: “I want more beans.” Lest you believe I started out life as legume loving vegetarian, I am sure these were Great Grandmother Swope’s recipe, cooked to death beans with onion and a ham hock.  Our son, Sam’s, first sentence was “I want a donut, now.”  Our parish church at the time had fresh, hot donuts every week, and we had a robust children’s program.  Coincidence?  I think not.  Our daughter, Emily’s, first sentence was “No, no I do it myself.”  Clearly, we had some work to do on subject and verb agreement.  Janice is the last of six children, and with all of that noise, nobody heard her first sentence, hence her enthusiastic extroversion is well developed.
 
I am fascinated with developmental milestones in the life of children.  As an educator and teacher, I studied a lot on how people learn what they learn and know what they know.  As a priest, I remain fascinate with how all God’s children come to believe what we believe.  No two stories about that are the same.
 
What I do know is that as children grow and develop, they do what experts call: individuation.  Gradually, they move from dependence to independence, and an expert once said in a lecture that “adolescence happens when children become aware that they have something to hide.”  Hence there is the push me pull you relationship with so-called adults.  It is no picnic for the adolescent or the adult.
 
As I consider the first sentences of my family, I see how that individuation begins.  With words, we are able to express preferences, speak up for our wants and needs, and claim our personal power and space.  However, we have to get along in this world, so the first lesson in the sandbox is all about sharing shovels and buckets.  Those who are not good at that have a hard way to go… as senators and members of congress.  Occasionally we get it right, and good things happen when we do.  As humans we dance between asserting our will, and belonging to that which is great than ourselves.  This requires practice.
 
And speaking of human nature, the lessons of this week begin with some pretty unvarnished truth about the Israelites.  They are in the desert, finally free after more than 200 years of being enslaved.  They get hot, tired, and hungry and resort to whining.  “Moses, where there not enough graves in Egypt?  Why bring us here to die?”  Never mind the miracles of deliverance, the Red Sea parting, the pillar of fire to lead them, and when they get thirsty, they are led to fresh cool water flowing from a rock. God provides for them every step of the way.  And yet, the whiny Israelites say yeah, great, but what has God done for us lately.  In response, we hear of the abundant provision of bread in the morning and quail in the evening.  Even then, they become picky eaters – “Moses, what is this manna stuff?”  --and quail in the evening.  “Oy,” Moses says, “it is bread from God, enough to sustain you very well.”  They do not like being dependent.  They do not stop complaining for another 40 years.  Moses is a patient.  It is a good thing that God is too.
 
Fast forward to Jesus at Capernaum.  The day before, Jesus fed five thousand folks with five loaves and two fish.  He walked on water and calmed a storm.  Prior to that he has healed and helped and loved on everyone he meets on his way through all of Galilee.  And the people, ancestors of the Israelites, come to him with this: “What must we do to perform the works of God?” Jesus answered them, “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.”  Simple, nuanced, but clear.  And then, we get their yeah, but…  “What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing?”  Good grief, these folks never stop nit picking.  What complete whiners?
 
But then, they are us.  While the Gospel is revelation, it is also a mirror.  We want to believe, but we want to believe on our own terms.  We want to will of God to be done, so long as it matches up with our will.  Wwe want to serve God, but mostly in an advisory capacity.  In his epic work called Confessions, Saint Augustine, writes “Lord give me chastity and self-control - but not yet.”  The question of the day is what is holding us back? Where are we expecting God to do more and better for us, and in the process, forgetting everything God has done and is doing for us?
 
The reason I am fascinated with babies and child development is that they show us how to be dependent, spontaneously joyful, and content in being part of something large they do not understand.  It is wonderful when they can dress and potty and walk on their own, but there is a loss there too.  Those first words tell that story.  Perhaps that is why there are second children.  Islam has a beautiful teaching about sin called “the forgetting.”  They articulate that we know how to be dependent on God, we just get out in the world and forget.
 
This drives me to a Mary Oliver poem, encouraging us to remember.  It is called Don’t Hesitate.
 
“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
 
Remember: in our telling of God’s story, in the beginning there was a formless and desolate void.  God’s first words are “Let there be light.”  God sees that light is good, and God keeps on creating and creating and creating.  God still does.  Deep in the basement of time, at all moments of creation, and even now, God’s Word echoes.  Let there be… light, life, love, forgiveness, grace.  Can we be God’s children, lean in, and silence our own noise and to hear that?  What God done has for us lately is…  Everything.  To believe is to begin.  That is the first full sentence of faith.