This sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour  preached at Emmanuel on October 8,  2024

“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” ~an excerpt from Mark 10:2-16 

Today’s reading from Genesis concerning marriage and from Mark concerning divorce are given a culmination in this reference to receiving the kingdom of God as a child. There are countless opportunities over the course of a lifetime both to marry and to divorce ourselves from people, ideas, social groups and vocations—all things we can hold dear and equally can estrange ourselves from. Through all of life’s changes and chances, the vulnerable child within each of us seeks nurture and yearns for reassurance.  Sometimes, to that child, the world can seem so lacking in both. And yet at other times, our world can seem to overflow with goodness and compassion.  Hurricane Helene’s devastation has given us cause and opportunity to see how caring and giving we can be when the need is so compelling. Heroic rescue efforts, heartwarming feeding programs and support for those grieving the loss of family abound just now.  Yes, there are also reports of scams, but they’re few in comparison to the overall outreach for good.  The reports of people helping people can move us to tears.  Equally moving, though in a different way, is the political discord so evident in our nation. We’re torn down the middle at the moment.  Surely, it’s not the first time, nor will it be the last.  But when our divisions as a nation become this palpable, the child within each of us has cause for concern.  The hopeful part of our dilemma right now, at least for me, is that we’re still talking to that vulnerable child within, reassuring him or her that it’s not only normal to feel anxious concern, it’s also healthy.  It’s healthy to want a better world for us and our posterity.  Jesus teaches we should love God with our whole heart, mind and soul; and that we should love our neighbor as our self. While these are challenging teachings to follow, they’re consistent with how most of us think the world should be.  We’d like to live in that kind of world and be that kind of person. And yet, throughout human history, we seem perpetually torn between a desire to subdue and conquer on the one hand, and a hope that equity, justice, mercy and love will prevail, on the other. Are we caught in a no-win dualistic dilemma?  Is there more than palliative relief from this relentless, conflicted drama; or, is this our destiny while here on earth? It’s the question that, intentionally or unintentionally, we answer with our lives. 

We can’t rise above the conflict.  We only can go through it.  It’s tempting to think we can avoid conflict.  You’ve probably noticed, the more you try to avoid it, the worse it becomes.  Jesus doesn’t avoid conflict.  He deals with it directly; and, he calls us with his life to do likewise.  We can skip it if we choose.  But the conflict will still be there…waiting…whenever we’re ready for it.  The small child within waits as well, hoping love will prevail. 

Billy Thompson gave that drama voice in a public way as a child.  Billy’s way of protecting his hope that love would prevail was to avoid a conflict with his father. Admittedly, a poor strategy…but he was a child, afterall, with little experience about options to avoidance.  The neighborhood of my childhood was well-aware of that strategy, because after Billy’s parents divorced and his father was awarded twice monthly visitation, Billy would run away from home the night before he was supposed to be with his Dad.  Catharine, his mother, would begin the phone tree through the neighborhood to alert us to the absence of her 10-year-old….and folks would begin the search for him in their sheds and playhouses—hiding places where he was usually found, asleep in his sleeping bag, snuggled next to a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread.   
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Catharine and her ex-husband, Todd, tried to get their son to talk about why he wanted to avoid his father, but he wasn’t talking. Catharine said Todd worked hard to create enjoyable activities for the times he shared with his son; and, the couple had afforded counseling for Billy around the time of their divorce, to help him deal with his thoughts and feelings.  Neighbors finding him asleep in their sheds and playhouses tried to talk with him, as well, hoping to understand his pain.  But Billy wasn’t talking.  As he got older he stopped physically running away, though emotionally he kept his distance from his father.   

But then something happened to change the unspoken conflict between father and son.  Catharine was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer.  Billy was sixteen.  Catharine’s spinster sister, Helen, came to live with Catharine and Billy during that time to help with all that needed to be done.  Helen would pick Billy up after school and drive him to the hospital to be with his mother, where he would sit by her side, holding her hand, until it was time to go home for the evening. Catharine fought a valiant fight; but, when it became obvious she was losing the battle, she asked to come home with hospice care.   

Near the end of her struggle she asked to see Todd to say goodbye.  The afternoon Todd arrived, my mother and I were visiting with Catharine and Helen and Billy.  Mother stood to leave when Todd entered the room, realizing the need for a private goodbye.  Billy stood as well; but Catharine said, “No one needs to leave.  Sit down.”  Her voice, which to that point had been barely above a whisper, was now strong and purposeful.  Everyone sat.  Looking evenly at her son she said, “It’s time for you to stop running.”  Billy looked a lot like a deer caught in the headlights at that moment; he sat paralyzed by her words.  “Tell your father what’s on your heart.”  Todd said, “Oh, Catharine, we’ll work that out…not now…”  But Catharine countered, “No, Todd.  Now. I’m out of time. Now.”  We sat in awkward silence.  Mother said softly, “Catharine, I really believe we should be going.  This is a family matter.”  Catharine smiled broadly saying, “Mildred, this has been a neighborhood matter since the first night you found Billy sleeping with a peanut butter jar in your tool shed.”  Everyone laughed. Except for Billy.   

It was then that Billy Thompson faced his demon in the wilderness of his soul. He stood, walked over to his father and said slowly, “I need for you to love me. But, I’m afraid you might leave me like you left her.”  Catharine said quietly, “Love is always worth the risk, Billy.”  And Todd wept, burying his face in his hands.  It was then that the small child within Billy Thompson saw what he’d missed.  Billy stared at his weeping father and said through tears of recognition, “You never left me did you? I left you before you could leave me.  But you never left.”  Catharine smiled and said, “At last….” and closed her eyes to rest.   She died several days later.

There’s a Billy Thompson within each of us, yearning to be loved, afraid to be loved, or perhaps more accurately, afraid we’ll be hurt.  As we’ve all, by now, likely noticed, hurt, and all that goes with it, is part of the human experience.  It’s how we respond that makes all the difference. 

The kingdom about which Jesus taught, the kingdom of Love, is here, now, in our midst, for those with eyes to see it.  We can either camp out in the toolshed with our peanut butter jars, or we can get on with it.  May we have the courage to choose love as often as we’re able.  It matters more than it may seem, especially just now.  Amen. 

©  Marion E. Kanour  

This sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour  preached at Emmanuel on September 1,  2024

“For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come...” 
--an excerpt from Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23 

Today’s gospel raises the question:  Is there a spiritually evil force the faithful must oppose; or, need we only concern ourselves with evil deeds, emanating from the human heart? If this evil force exists, are we meant to seek it out to destroy it if possible?  The stakes are far greater and the battle somewhat different if the Evil One is real.  Far better for the battle to be against evil human deeds arising from corrupted free will.  That battle, while difficult, is easier to wage.  Deeds are quantifiable and visible to all.   An evil force lurking in the dark is another matter.  A force must be discerned; and discernment can be misguided or manipulated.  Interestingly, evil deeds are often committed in the name of eradicating an evil force.  The Salem witch trials come to mind.   

Do we abdicate responsibility for our evil deeds by blaming the Devil; or does the Devil really make us do it?  And what about our God of Love?  Is that God less powerful than the Evil One; or is that God engaged in a cosmic battle of Good versus Evil, waged, in part, in the human realm?  If we look to Scripture for an answer, we see Scripture is conflicted on the subject. No definitive answer can be found there.   Not surprisingly, the Christian tradition has never spoken with one voice on this matter, either.  These questions aren’t original to Christianity, though. They pre-date Christ by many, many thousands of years.  These questions are human questions that have been speculated about in all cultures through time.  Every major world religion asks:  Is there a God?  Is that God active in our world?  Does God care what happens to us; or, is God merely an observer?  Is the Creator Good or Evil or both?  Or, are Good and Evil humanly-conceived categories having nothing to do with objective truth?   How shall we go about answering these questions? 

We begin asking these questions early in life, though we might not use those words.  I can remember being afraid of the dark as a child.  There was no childhood trauma associated with the dark that could account for that fear, and surely no reason I should have believed the boogey man was in the closet or under the bed.  But I did.  Back then, I knew the Evil One was real.  He was seemingly invincible in the dark, with powers limited only by my very active imagination.    The night my father first plugged in my nightlight, he told me the boogey man wouldn’t be back.  I was certain he was unaware of who the boogey man was.  How could a power so immense be afraid of a 20-watt nightlight?  But it was.  The boogey man never came back.   The next Sunday I’m told I reported this victory over evil to my 4-year-old contemporaries in Sunday School.  When the teacher suggested that God could send the Devil running if we prayed, I apparently announced, with the authority born of experience, that a nightlight was better than God.  When this was reported to my parents after church, so that they might help reinforce proper thought, my father laughed, saying, “There’s nothing wrong with her thinking.  She prayed and nothing happened.  She turned on the nightlight and got action.”  That story was told and retold many times during my growing up.  When mother told the story, it was usually included in a litany of proof of my religious decline, as encouraged by my father and grandfather.  The litany also included my questioning of the virgin birth in the middle of one year’s Christmas pageant performance.  When my father told the story, it was to illustrate that the cause of evil, or even the existence of it, was often a matter of perspective. 

It had been awhile since I’d thought of that family story when mother called that summer evening.  I was in Connecticut taking Hebrew in summer school at the time.  My father was in the final stages of his battle with a brain tumor and lung cancer.  Mother called to ask that I come home to console my father.  He seemed terrified she said.  Medication wasn’t helping.  Maybe I could do something.  I was unaccustomed to seeing my father’s fear.  But that June afternoon when I walked into their bedroom and looked into his terror-filled eyes, I at once remembered the boogey man.  It was a child’s fear that I saw in his face and the child in me responded, reminding me of the night a four-year-old was presented with a light that conquered evil.   I sat next to his bed and took his hand and told him I loved him.  My father gripped my hand and pulled me toward him and whispered his desperate plight, saying, “He’s back. What should I do?”  I knew immediately who was back, but I didn’t know how to make him go away this time.  “Where is he?” I asked, hoping for the closet or some other easily cleansed area.  But my father tapped his finger to his head, indicating the Evil One had made it into the inner sanctum.  For some reason that amused me and I laughed, saying, “Dad, it’s not him; it’s the brain tumor.  You’re safe from him.”  And then came the question I’ll forever remember.  My father looked at me with a child’s innocent trust and asked, “Are you sure?”  Holding his hand in mine, I said, “Do you remember the nightlight and the boogey man?”   He nodded.  Putting my face close to his, I asked, “Daddy, was the boogey man real?”  And immediately the terror left my father’s eyes. He smiled.  A big, broad smile.  And then he laughed, so heartily that mother came into the room to see her husband’s joy.   In six months’ time, my father was dead.   But during those six months, the boogey man never returned.   

Surely there are evil deeds.  Surely human beings can incarnate unconscionable evil.  But what about the Evil One?  Could evil exist in the world if the Creation didn’t serve as its conduit? Could love exist in the world without the Creation to give it form?  Is it arrogant or narcissistic to think it’s all up to us?  What is the message of today’s gospel and of our baptismal vows?  Our vows ask us if we will persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever we fall into sin, repent and return to God.  They ask if we’ll proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ, will we seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving our neighbors as ourselves, and will we strive for justice and peace among all people, respecting the dignity of every human being.  The answer the Prayer Book gives to us to say is, “I will, with God’s help.”  May we live into these vows as fully as we’re able, that we might turn on the nightlight for one another and give Love voice and form in our world.   

Todays sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour  preached at Emmanuel on the 8th Sunday after Pentecost, July 14,  2024

“The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her.”  ~an excerpt from Mark 6:14-29 

It sounds absurd, doesn't it? A woman is offered anything she wants by a powerful man. 
Of all the possibilities, she chooses to have another man beheaded. The powerful man, in a moment of bacchanalian distraction, has vowed to honor the woman's request in front of a room full of guests...so, rather than have the guests think poorly of him, he has another man beheaded. Surely this story has nothing to do with us, right? Except political violence explodes every day in our world, including at yesterday’s political rally where shots rang out, injuring Donald Trump and killing a bystander.  The shooter, now identified as a 20-year-old, was also killed. What are we supposed to do with these images of violence, besides observe with horror and disgust?  What did the guests at Herod’s birthday banquet do, do you suppose? 

Why do those in today’s gospel behave as they do?  Does the devil make them do it?  

Well, maybe.  But it seems to me fear, not evil, rules their hearts and minds....and that’s the tie that binds us to them...and us all to the Good News.  Herod is afraid of public opinion because public opinion is tied to his ability to govern; Herodias is afraid of losing power without her marriage to Herod; and the dancing daughter is afraid of her mother.  Together, the fearful trio is capable of great evil.  We are, too, when we allow fear to rule our hearts and minds.  Fear is loose in our world today—at a rally in Pennsylvania, in Sudan, Ukraine, Gaza…and sometimes in our own hearts and minds.  What can we, as a people of faith, do to neutralize hatred, fear and the violence they beget?  Are we helpless bystanders? Can we have peace in our own lives?  If by peace we mean a restful contentment with the way things are, then we probably have missed the point of Jesus’ life and teachings.  What if, instead, Jesus means something like these words written by Catholic priest and activist, Oscar Romero: “Peace isn’t the product of terror or fear, nor the silence of cemeteries.   Rather, peace is the generous, tranquil contribution of all to the good of all.  Peace is generosity.”  Jesus knew this kind of peace and lived it, even unto death on a cross.  He insisted with the full force of his life that this kind of peace is central to the peace of God.  Giving generously of ourselves isn’t measured by outward behavior only, though. Instead, spontaneous giving comes from an inner place of selflessness.  That’s the kind of peace Jesus gives us.   

It’s the kind of peace Joy Albert gave to our small group the night it seemed the world had gone mad.  No one was feeling very generous that night.  I was the chaplain-on-call when it all started.  Most anything can happen in a large, inner city hospital emergency room.  Grady Memorial, in inner city Atlanta, is where I learned that first-hand.   Still, some things startle the soul, even if you think you’ve seen it all.  I was asleep in the chaplain’s duty room when my beeper went off.  It was the ER.  I called.  An agitated nurse answered, “Come now.  Hurry.”  You sleep fully clothed when you’re on duty.  As I sprinted down four flights of steps to the ER, I wondered what I’d find.  Nearing it, I could hear shouting and then gun shots.  For a brief moment, I wished I could just go back to the duty room.  But then, I was in the midst of it—a full-blown gang fight in progress in the waiting room.  Atlanta police officers had been summoned I was told...but at that very moment there were only two Grady security guards trying to contain 8 or so very agitated members of opposing gangs.   The waiting room had been cleared to avoid injury to innocent bystanders.  The guards had their weapons drawn as did four gang members.  Several of the gang members were bleeding.  I didn’t see how this could end well.  When the Atlanta police would arrive, the tension would only escalate and result in more violence.  The conflict was well beyond the let’s-sit-down-and-work-this-out stage. I felt helpless—an impotent witness to the violence of the human heart.   What would Jesus do in a situation like this?  Was peace, of any kind, possible? 

My thoughts were stopped short by her voice. It boomed through the hallway announcing her arrival.  “Let me through” I could hear her saying.  And then her petite frame entered the doorway to the waiting area.  A gray-haired African-American woman wielding a cane in her hand marched herself into the middle of the mayhem and planted herself firmly between the two gangs.  Waving the cane in the direction of the security guards she said, “Put your guns away.”  Surprisingly, they did.  Then with hands on her hips she called each gang member by name and then said, “I know you and you know me, so you listen real good to what I’m saying.  Dr. King did not give his life for this.  Shame on you!”  “Stay outta this, Mama Albert,” one of the young men said.  “This ain’t none of your concern.”  Enraged, the elderly woman marched herself up to the speaker. Looking into his angry face she shook her cane and said through gritted teeth, “That’s where you’re wrong.  This is about all of us.  If it was just about you, I’d let you shoot each other until all of you were in a heap dead and your mamas would cry at your funerals and then we’d be done with you.  But it’s not just about you.  It’s about us--all of us.   Ain’t gonna be no-peace-no-where until you can get that into your heads and hearts.  You hear me, boy?  I mean, do you really hear me?”   The young man nodded, and began to put his weapon in his jacket pocket.  Her cane was lightning fast as it  struck his hand.  “Weapons on the table...all of you...do it now.  Then get out of here...the sirens are close.”  Eight guns were placed on the table.  The young men exited out the side door right before the police came in the front door.  Mama Albert said to no one in particular, “I’m getting too old for this,” and then looking suddenly tired, she slumped into a chair.  I asked for a nurse, who took her charge into a room for observation.  Joy Albert died that night from what was termed a massive heart attack.  Her funeral, held at Ebenezer Baptist Church, was filled to capacity with those honoring her life. 
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Is peace possible in the midst of our world today?  It is if you’re Joy Albert.  She insisted on it, with the full force of her being.  Her spirit overflowed with a peace that passes understanding.  She was brimful with the kind of generosity that births the peace of God anew in our world.  She rests in peace now; but she lived in peace while here.  We’re called to do likewise.  It’s about us—all of us.  Christ is risen indeed when we live our lives in this way.  May the peace of the Lord be with us all, that we might be conduits of peace for a world sore in need.  As followers of Jesus, this is our legacy and our sacred calling.  Amen.     
©   Marion E. Kanour 

Todays sermon blog post is a guest post from The Rev. Marion E. Kanour  preached at Emmanuel on the 7th Sunday after Pentecost, July 7,  2024

“Fear not, I am with thee; O be not dismayed!  For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid.”  ~verse 2 of the hymn “How firm a foundation” 

The choir is singing this beloved hymn, “How Firm a Foundation” as our Offertory anthem today.  In our current hymnal it has two musical settings, found as hymns 636 and 637.  It first appeared anonymously in 1787 in John Rippon’s popular hymnal. Some have speculated his friend Robert Keene assisted, but no definitive evidence exists. The original lyricist’s identity has been lost to history, though the hymn lives on.  

How many times since 1787 have our shared foundations been shaken?  Surely, every generation can claim more than one such pivotal experience. Some might even include the present moment in our nation’s history.  Families and individuals have foundation-shaking experiences as well.  Death, divorce, and life-changing illness readily come to mind.  At such moments, the faithful hope the words of the hymn are true—that whatever God may be, will be there for us.   So, is that your experience?  Think back on your own foundation-shaking moments.  Are the words of the hymn true, or is it just pretty to think so?   

We don’t always think about the words of the hymns.  As my mother used to say, “Just sing the hymn and stop thinking so much.” But then, my mother, as some of you know, was a person of unexamined faith.  Generally-speaking, she believed simply because she believed.  My father was a skeptic, but secretly a “believer wannabe.”   So, most of his questions of faith had a kind of “show me” quality to them.  Daddy wanted to believe; but he wanted proof, real proof not imagined proof, that God’s love still animates the world.  Mother never needed proof.  When asked how she knew with certainty that God was there, she’d respond with an exasperated, “I just know, that’s all.”     

Normally my parents stayed in these predictable roles; so, exceptions to the rule stand out in my mind’s eye.  The most noteworthy occurred at the time of a grouping of deaths in our family.  It seemed there was a funeral every other month for awhile.  First my mother’s mother; then my father’s father; then one of my father’s sisters.  I was eleven—old enough to understand what was happening, but young enough to be of little comfort.  
 
When her mother died, my mother didn’t come out of her bedroom for 3 days.  The funeral brought her back to the world; but, even so, she was clearly depressed.  Then the other deaths occurred.  I went to Pennsylvania with my father for the two funerals there; but, mother couldn’t bring herself to attend.   My father arranged for my mother’s sister to stay with her while we were gone, out of concern for her emotional welfare.   

It was an odd time for our family.  Usually, we spoke of everything so directly, but not this time.  Clearly death had everyone running scared.   

Finally, when it seemed the deaths had ended for awhile and Mother was beginning to seem stronger again, I took up the subject at the dinner table.  If you brought up a subject at the beginning of the meal, everyone knew you were serious about it, and it stood a good chance of getting an answer.  As soon as grace was ended I began, “Mom, how come if you believe God is with you no matter what you got so sad when everybody died? Did God mess up?”  My father got that “you go, girl” look on his face, so I knew I was on firm ground.  At first she tried the, “I was sad because I missed them” response, but the look in my father’s eye told me to press her further.  “But you stayed sad,” I said.   She could’ve dismissed the comment, but instead chose to tell me the whole of it.   She said she’d lost her sense of herself for a while—that everything she thought she knew about life suddenly seemed to be on shaky ground—that she’d been afraid of losing herself entirely—and that no matter how hard she prayed, God seemed absent.  That firm foundation we’re singing about today was missing altogether for a woman who’d never doubted its existence. 

Even at eleven I realized just how frightening this must have been for her.  Then she said something I’ve never forgotten.  She said it was my father’s faith that pulled her back to herself.  My shock must have been evident because my father smiled wry acknowledgement.  He said, “When I saw your mother like that, at first I was scared for her.  But then one night, I realized she was going to be okay, even though she didn’t know it yet.  I woke her up to tell her.  And then your Mama and I did what we don’t do very often. We prayed out loud together—actually I prayed—prayed that your Mom would know in her heart how much I loved her.  I prayed she’d know that love can only be shown in human form.  So, she was waiting for God to show her love, when God was already doing that—through my love for her.”  He smiled and then asked, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”  I nodded, but I was absolutely speechless.  Suddenly my world was disordered.  My faith-questioning, stoic father had helped my mother through a major crisis in her spiritual and emotional life through his faith and emotional accessibility.  I couldn’t have put those words to it at eleven—but I got the picture enough to be stunned by it.  
 
We didn’t speak of that event again until 22 years later as my father lay dying in a hospice room.  My father was having a bad night and was afraid, a feeling he rarely showed anyone.  Mother got in bed next to him and held him.  At first he pulled away, but then she said softly, “I’m returning the gift you gave me when I was so afraid—do you remember?”  My father smiled, nodded, and relaxed in her arms. 

“Fear not, I am with thee; O be not dismayed! I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand…”  We do this for one another.  We do this in places where Love can seem so absent—in refugee camps, in war zones, in prisons, in homes where violence prevails, for friends who are depressed, when we lose loved ones, for those in the grip of drug addiction.  In a myriad of places in today’s seemingly ever-shifting sands, we provide that firm foundation for one another…or not.   

Today’s gospel (Mark 6:1-13) shows Jesus is powerless where people won’t receive him.  His own hometown discounts him and are untouched by his healing message.  But, in the next village, they receive him and so he has the power to heal there.  Love will make a way, if we let it.   It’s the substance of that firm foundation we all seek.  That firm foundation of Love is within us as individuals and, I believe, is within the fabric of our nation as well. Because we are the nation.  May we remember who and whose we are, called by our baptismal vows ​to be that foundation for one another, that insofar as it depends on us, Love might prevail in our hearts and minds and our world.  Let it be so. Amen. ©  Marion E. Kanour 

It’s noteworthy that what most frightens Jesus’ disciples is that he’s risen.  
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Crucified, dead and buried they can handle; but risen is another story.   In fairness, they don’t have almost 2,000 years of retelling and discussing the story of Jesus’ resurrection behind them to help make sense of their experience of the risen Christ.  Their whole world view is suddenly and completely altered in the moment they accept that crucifixion need not kill love; when they realize that love can survive death itself, thriving so vitally that it can be touched and seen.  It’s that real, that present….that human.  That’s what scares them.  

We do have almost 2,000 years of retelling the story to help us make sense of our experiences of love.  Yet, love’s presence often frightens us, as well.  So does death.  How do we internalize this story that stands at the center of our Christian faith?    How, if at all, does this idea of the risen Christ impact our lives? We, too, can handle the crucified, dead and buried part; we know that reality.  But risen?  We may know the reality of temporary redemption; but full-time, permanent, victory-o’er-the-grave resurrection is another matter.  Isn’t it? 

It wasn’t for Nedra Lawler.  For Nedra, experiencing temporary redemption is the way the living can touch and see victory-o’er-the-grave resurrection.  Nedra wouldn’t put it quite like that, though.  She’d tell you a story and let you draw your own conclusion, because as she’d say, “that’s what you’re gonna do anyhow.”  

She’d have made a great preacher; well, she was a kind of preacher.  Her pulpit was the lunch counter at Gray’s Pharmacy in Norfolk.  She’d been the waitress there for more than 30 years by the time I was old enough to climb up on the bar stool for one of her cheeseburger, French fries and malted milk specials.  As kids, most of us first heard Nedra’s stories while in the company of our mothers.  My mother would sometimes go out of her way to have lunch at Nedra’s counter if she needed advice or a listening ear.  A visit with Nedra always seemed to brighten her outlook.   

My mother’s faith had no room or need for the kinds of questions that others may find essential.  Jesus’ resurrection was an undisputed fact of faith for mother.  But connecting the facts of her faith with the experiences of her life became increasingly challenging for mother after her mother died. Months after grandmother’s death, mother was still emotionally paralyzed by her grief.  The minister, neighbors and church friends had all been by to cheer her with frequency, but her despondency seemed intractable.  Finally, her physician, Dr. Hayes, prescribed an anti-depressant, which she never took. But filling the prescription at Gray’s Pharmacy gave mother the occasion to have lunch at Nedra’s counter and Nedra was what Dr. Hayes would’ve prescribed had he known the outcome.  Grandmother died in the first week in June and it was now late August as mother and I sat across the counter listening to Nedra say, “Your mama’s dying hit you real hard now, didn’t it.  ‘Minds me of the way I felt when ole White died.”  Mother inquired as to the identity of “ole White” and sniffed a little upon learning that her mother was being compared with a nag plough horse. 

“Nedra, I don’t think it’s quite the same,” she said stiffly.  Nedra, on the other hand, was insulted that mother didn’t properly value ole White and with one hand on her hip and a waving spatula in the other, sputtered back, “Now you listen here, that horse was like a mama to me; when she passed my world got so small there was hardly enough air in it for me to breathe.  Thought my heart would bust it was so full of hurt.   Nothing felt real anymore; it was like the whole world was made of cardboard.  My life had stopped; but the world kept going.  If I coulda whomped up the energy I’d a yelled at folks for going on as if ole White’s passing didn’t matter.  But as it was, I couldn’t do much of anything, ‘cept sit and cry.  Even when my tears quit running down my face, they were still there crying on the inside of me. Thought  I’d like-to-never get right.”  Suddenly mother was nodding vigorously and her lower lip was trembling, and it became clear that ole White and grandmother maybe weren’t so different after all.  Mother sipped at her malted milk to regain her composure and then said softly, “How did you get right, Nedra?”  It was an E.F. Hutton moment.  Folks at the counter who’d been politely pretending not to listen, suddenly looked up so as not to miss Nedra’s answer, which she spoke with deep tenderness, “Never did get over it, honey.  That’s how come I can touch your heart now.”  Mother said she was hoping for a different outcome for her own grief, but Nedra pointed at mother with her spatula again saying, “If the wound is deep enough it’ll rise again; that’s resurrection, honey.”   Mother stiffened again, “I hope you’re not comparing the resurrection of Jesus with a dead horse, beloved though ole White may have been.”  Nedra laughed so heartily that her large belly jiggled with pleasure, “Well, I don’t know what they teach at your church, but what they teach at mine is that resurrection is an everyday thing.  Deep wounds rise again; and when they rise, there He is, saying, ‘I’m still here; love isn’t dead.’  Now that’s resurrection, if you see what I mean.  You gotta look for the love, honey, but it’s there. It won’t bring your mama back, but it’ll soothe the pain of  the wound.”  For the first time in months, mother’s face crinkled into a smile.  “Thank you, Nedra,” was all she said, but Nedra knew she meant to say more, and patted mother’s hand saying, “Good to see you back.” 

“Jesus said to them, ‘Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts?  Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself.  Touch me and see.’”   

May we look for resurrected love whenever our deepest wounds surface; and may we touch one another’s wounds, when they are visible, so that together we might give witness to the risen love in our midst. 

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Proper 13, Year C
July 31, 2022
 
It is hard for me to think about greed without thinking of the character, Gordon Gecko,, and the mid 90s movie, Wall Street.  The role won Michael Douglas an academy award.  The classic scene shows Gecko at a shareholder meeting for a company he intends to grab in a hostile takeover.  Here is a transcript of what he says:
 
“The point is, ladies and gentleman, that greed -- for lack of a better word -- is good.
Greed is right.  Greed works.  Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit.  Greed, in all of its forms -- greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge -- has marked the upward surge of mankind.”
 
“And greed -- you mark my words -- will not only save [you], but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA.”
 
Gecko goes on to “succeed” through insider trading, acquisition of all manner of things, using up people and bankrupting others, and leveraging his wealth power to stand above all in his wake, including his protégé Buddy Fox.  In the Hollywood ending, greed does not save him.  His buddy, Fox, slyly flips on him and the system brings him to justice, exposing Gecko’s not so subtle mirage.
 
In 2010, there is a sequel, Money Never Sleeps, the trailer has Gecko getting out of prison and back to his old tricks.  The tag line is this: “Someone reminded me I once said that greed is good.  Now it’s seems it’s legal.”
 
Charlatans of all kinds never go away for good, rather they resurface with new angles, new promises, and the same old grift.  History is full of cautionary tales, but repackaged get rich quick schemes remain sly and enticing.  If the rules do not serve the huckster, the huckster gets in the pockets of those who can change the rules.
 
The Bible is not soft on this topic.  It is loaded with poems, stories, and all kinds of entreaties that expose that deep and destructive desire of our inmost parts to acquire, to have, and to achieve more without limits. 
 
I will admit here and now that, as remembered by my family, my first word was “more.”  In context, I was requesting for more green beans.  We all struggle with a need for security and survival over against the reality of empty and soul crushing material want.  If we cannot admit this tension, we need only to examine our bank statements to map our behavior and chronicle our choices.
 
When Jesus is asked to settle a family matter, a brother seeking an equal division of inherited assets, Jesus sees the question behind the question.  The backstory is that this must be a younger brother, because by right of custom, the older brother gets it all.  This man was not entitled to anything, and yet, he seizes on what he knows of Jesus community minded teaching, to suggest a rule change.  Really, with the human God right in front of him, this man plays the angle to his advantage.  He is so human it hurts.
 
Jesus does not play ball.  Instead, he tells of a rich person who is so good at his business that he builds bigger storage units to hold onto all of his stuff.  Having done so, the man says to himself that he can finally relax, and enjoy his insulation and isolation from need.  Time to party.  Sure, there will be people who see his large storage units, and come begging.  As they say when someone wins the lottery, they tend to find long lost family members.  But wealth brings power of choice, and with a fence, a gate, and a guard, the man can limit his exposure.  
 
Jesus plays it out with God saying to the man, well, this is the last day of your life, your preparation will only become the source of litigation for your heirs. The Brinks truck does not follow the hearse.  Might be good to have thought about richness toward God.  The phrase translated “rich toward God” is not a spiritual philosophy of more frequent meditation, it is a practical practice of seeing the suffering of God’s people and helping.
 
Jesus reminds us time and time again, the we are in this together in whatever time we have, with whatever abilities we have, and with whatever stuff we have.  None of what we claim to have, is not had at all, not ours for keeps.  Stuff is all fluff.  Rich toward God is rich toward needs of the suffering.
 
As a reader of obituaries, I follow stories of lives.  They are partial, with all of the messiness edited out, enumerating family members, achievements, memberships, and leadership positions.  And yet, I have never read about someone whose storage units are praised for their size, or their capacity to relax because they are all set.  In contrast, memorial gift opportunities point to some passion or interest ranging from pet rescue to disease research.  The last words tend to point to what matters.
 
What Gordon Gecko proclaims is that greed works.  Kudos to him for saying it, even if it is wrong, because all of us need to expose its folly.  It is not greed that works, is love that clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the human and Holy Spirit at work.  Our net worth was established at the cross.
 
So, do we need to go away feeling guilty?  Hardly.  The fact is we are all capable philanthropists.  Philanthropy is not a word that only applies to those with foundations and grant making cycles.  Philanthropy is our holy handling of stuff, meaning literally giving out of love for… Love has no need of storage space, has no expiration date, and infinite rate of return.  Getting may be fun, but giving is more fun, more generative, and more joy inducing.  Ask any kid who has made a “Best Dad Ever” mug and cannot wait until Father’s Day.
 
As one who has made buckets of money telling stories that scare us to death, the author Stephen King says it better, “All that lasts is what you pass on.  The rest is smoke and mirrors.”
 
Greed?  Love?  Go all in on Love and get rich.

​https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCyWBc2Cc5a7sSXwCtFn5F2g

The link above takes you to video of all of our services.

Lately, I have been experimenting with outlining sermons and focusing on the speaking of the sermon more than the written craft.  For this writer, this is a stretch, but it has been informative.  

When I have a mostly complete manuscript.  I will include it here.  I am happy for forward my outlines and notes of you so desire.  I may be reached at:
jthomas(at)emmanuelgreenwood.org

​Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Trinity Sunday
June 12, 2022
 
About once a decade, I go to an arcade.  Perhaps, I go because I have acquired too much money, or I have enjoyed way too much peace and quiet, or I crave the smell of bubble gum, popcorn, and sweaty adolescents. Even so, I was a child once, and I have children, so experiencing an arcade once a decade is about right.  After all, who does not love an old-fashioned game of Ms. Pac Man now and again.  I first played that game in a certain establishment on the Corner when visiting my brother in his first year at UVA.  My college was not so sophisticated as to have such modern electronic enticements.
 
There is a certain arcade game that I have only witnessed others playing called Whack a Mole.  The premise is rather simple.  There are six holes on a board.  The player wields a large rubber mallet, and when a stuffed mole head pops up, the player is to whack said mole head so that it retreats back to its lair.  It starts out simple enough, but as time passes the moles pop out of the holes in more rapid succession, testing the players whack ability.  Drummers play this game well, but inevitably, no mortal can whack all of the moles in increasingly rapid succession and the game is over.  It is great fun to watch, but rather pointless to play.  This is the nature of arcade games, designed to amp-up the endorphins with a siren call to stuff another quarter in the slot and give it a go.
 
The term Whack a Mole has entered popular relational and corporate consultant vocabularies as the game stands as a great metaphor for life.  No sooner have we solved one pesky problem; another one arises.  And sometimes even before one problem is sufficiently whacked, another one rears its pesky head.  This raises the question in my mind about the myth of restorative violence.  Hardly any problem that I can identify is resolved with a good mallet whack, and what do we have against little stuffed mole heads anyway.  I fear this is a dark commentary, but maybe I need to let that go.  Sometimes we just want to whack something.  This is why we play sports.
 
In the stately arcade that is the Church year, we have walked through, and past, Holy Week and Easter, taken a lively spin through Pentecost, and today, we reach Trinity Sunday: a whole Sunday dedicated to a theological concept, a foundation of doctrinal construction, the subject of many a Church council, a liberating and creative vision and understanding of God that is utterly incomprehensible, inspiring incomplete metaphors, and defying all logical explanation.  Welcome my friends, to theological whack a mole.
 
The Creator is, even in the beginning.  Jesus is as Creator is, even in the beginning.  The Holy Spirit is, even in the beginning.  God is one.  Creation happens using nothing to make everything.  Start the clock of time.  Jesus, who is Creator and is Spirit, enters time and place in creation, participates in the cycle of life and death, but does not die.  Creator/Jesus/Spirit cannot die.  But Jesus is fully human even though fully One too. Jesus is overheard praying to Creator, and seen teaming up with Holy Spirit, but they are never separate.  They always have been One, even as they tag team in moving the world around, talking to themselves.  The Three are one, but two of them take male pronouns (he) and one uses the feminine pronoun (she).  They are never inanimate, so they are never it.  If we isolate any one of these assertions, it only raises other questions about all of the others.  Welcome to Theological Whack a Mole.
 
For Trinity Sunday, the Collect of the day, the Canticle, the Epistle, and the Gospel are mercifully brief, but oh so gymnastic in their expression.  This is one instance where Holy Scripture reveals its limitations in giving language to Divine experience.  Apparently, the Church is ever too restless in its attempt to explain mystery.  Officially, we have been arguing about how all of this works since the year 325.  In reality, we have always wrestled with trying to make The Great One squeeze in shoe that is too small, and cannot be large enough.
 
This is not to say that the Trinity is not worth observing, naming, or celebrating.  In fact, doing so is good for us in order to realize, experience, and remember that whatever our concept of the Divine is, it is way too small, and we are way too limited in trying to get out heads around a matter of the heart, soul, and infinity.
 
Perhaps Trinitarian consideration, we can learn a thing or two from Whack a Mole.   First, what we see is never all there is.  As one expression of God emerges in our view, there are always others that will surface.  What we see and name comes and goes.  Sometimes, more than one expression of God surfaces even if we are focused on one in particular mole.  It is good to bring friends into the game because we can never see the whole board.  Finally, like the game, there is no winning.  We cannot get it right, hold it all in perfect tension, but unlike the game, time is just a mortal boundary.  This game is never over.  Rather than take up our mallets of particularity and closely held dogma, it is well that we just look, listen, and feel as much or more than we think.
 
Thus, me standing here trying to express, explain, or enlighten our understanding, is a fools errand.  In deference to the mystery, perhaps it is best to shelve our proverbial mallets and be quiet:  look out the windows, look at each other, listen for silence, feel the air, and know that the One is here, now, and always.  Game on.  …… Amen.

​Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Easter VI, Year C
May 22, 2022
 
The picture on the front of you bulletin today is one by a new artist.  He has broken free from all historical or established schools of painting.  The labels of classical, baroque, rococo, neo classical, romantic, impressionist, expressionist, cubist, surrealist, and any other defined style cannot be applied to this freer expression.  The painting is, really, fascinating.  It suggests movement and life without specificity.  Perhaps, we see body shapes, parts, trees and animals.  The color is rich, but not exaggerated.  The painting is eight feet high and twenty feet long.  Its painter grew up in Wyoming, and moved to New York, working as a museum janitor.  An art loving woman saw some of his work, spotted him 150 dollars a month to paint, and to offset her stipend, she kept or sold the paintings.  In 1943, $150.00 a month was decent wage.  Such a deal.  I said this artist is new, but that is a relative term when it comes to art.  The patron was a woman named Guggenheim, and she never sold this painting.  She gave it to the University of Iowa, as long as they would pay for shipping.  Its current estimated worth is 140 million dollars.  The artist is Jackson Pollock.
 
This is such a great story of possibility, precarity, convention bending, rule defying, profligate spending, and potential.  If Pollock were alive today, intellectual/creative property lawyers would have a field day, but the rules then were the rules.  Pollock never sought further compensation.  Once “discovered,” he made plenty of money with Guggenheim’s encouragement.  Though valuable and revered, Pollock’s his art does not fall into any particular and defined style.  The rule he brought about in his art is that there are no rules.
 
This is all well and good for art, but when it comes to the real world, we like to know the rules.  Rules give us guidelines, standards, and structure.  Rules tell us what to do, what not to do, and how to behave.  Many rules are conventional, implied, and passed along from parents to children.  Other rules have to be established, written, communicated, and enforced.  Rules range from basic expectations to codified law.  Consequences for breaking rules vary from social correction to sanction to specified legal ramifications.
 
Rules are great, except when they are inconsistent.  What the younger child can do on weekends tends to be more liberal than the older child was allowed.  In one of my schools, we did not have enough parking for all the students who could drive, so it was restricted to seniors only.  There was more acrimony about that rule than just about anything.  We like for rules to be fair, even though we all know that life is rarely fair.
 
Rules for landowning white people used to be different that they were for others.  Rules for men were different than rules for women.  Societal and legal changes are dynamic as culture changes.  As law and some culture changes, those who benefit from and revere the old rules tend to resist and fight changes.  Those in power like to keep it.  We could go on about that, and have some really heated argument.
 
The Church is loaded with rules.  Sure, we impose them on ourselves, but we band together hard to keep them.  We worship with certain words, certain texts, decently, and in order.  And hell hath no fury like Episcopalians reacting rule changes, to wit: the old fight over high church liturgy and low church liturgy, Prayer Book revision in 1928 and 1979, the ordination of women, and the ordination of gay people.  All of these resulted in breakaway factions, new denominations, complete with a new set of rules in a so-called effort to be more faithful, more pure, more right with God than the apostate folks they left behind.  At our worse, we litigate such matters in secular courts, at our best we laugh at ourselves, and accept difference and change as a sign of the Spirit moving us.  Rules help keep us together and rules tear us apart.  What do we do with that?
 
The last line of the Gospel we read today drops a crucial detail, and one we might miss on our way to settling in for a sermon about healing.  It reads: “Now that day was the Sabbath.”  The story is that Jesus goes to Jerusalem for a festival, enters at the Sheep Gate, and there is a spring fed pool there that bubbles up fresh water on a regular basis.  Because sheep going to market are washed in that water, it is filled with lanolin, a natural balm and salve.  People with all kinds of infirmities bathe in the water when it bubbles up, and the natural oils are soothing.  There is a man there who is ill and has been there for 38 years.  Jesus asks the man if he wants to be made well, which is a whole sermon for another day.  Right there and then Jesus says Stand up, take your mat and walk.”  The man does and we see this as a miracle.  I have to believe there is more to the story.
 
Then, there is that last detail: “Now that day was a sabbath.”  The religious rules were clear, fixed, and serious.  The Sabbath was a day on which work was forbidden.  All work.  Picking up a mat would be defined as work.  Healing someone would be defined as work.  Even today, the strictest of the orthodox in Judaism will not turn dials on the oven to make the roast, or punch an elevator button to go up or down.  It is a beautiful practice with some obvious down sides.
 
On the one hand, Jesus follows the rules.  He goes up to the Temple for the festival.  And on the other, he smashes the Sabbath barrier to heal and help.  This is not the first time and it is not the last.  He is clear and convincing in his explanation.  The law is a human thing.  Because we are apt to be selfish, inconsiderate, and wily, we need some order to live in community.  The law is good where it brings grace.  The law is an idol hinderance when it is wielded to subvert, separate, or prevent God’s blessing for all people, and even, the rest of creation.
 
We do not sit easy in interpreting this event.  We like to insert psychological analysis, and theories of change in the man who sat for 38 years playing aggrieved victim.  But what about the rules, Jesus, what about the rules?  Jesus tells us that he comes to save us, and yet, he goes to the cross, looking more like one needing saving than a Savior.  The Easter event, however, blasts us with fresh perspective, new thinking, and a completely broken old idea that death is the end.  Rising from death to life defies the rules.  We got that wrong.  So, what else do we get wrong?
 
Rules are stated with periods and exclamation points.  We need that punctuation to be clear.  Here, Jesus shows us the absolute value of the question mark.  Do we have to break some rules to set things right?  Jesus does.  As we are not Jesus, we are better off seeing life as free flowing art rather than paint by numbers.  Something beautiful can be recreated from old shapes and dynamic color.  Jesus does that.  God does that.  The Spirit does not follow rules.
 
We, my friends, are God’s work of art.  Amen.