​Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Easter IV, Year A
May 3, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
I have always been interested in livestock.  Maybe it is because my grandfather Thomas tended a herd of cows on the family farm, and I always wanted one as a pet.  Even now, I am drawn to the pastoral setting of fields and beasts.  Fortunately, I have a gorgeous, agrarian drive from home to just about everywhere I go.  I have been known to stop and take pictures of cows, horses, sheep, goats, donkeys, llamas or whatever I see, and bring them home for show and tell.  They always seem to look so thoughtful and practical, pointing onto the wind, lying down before a big rainstorm, or finding shade and grass even at the extreme edges of captivity.
 
During part of a college summer I spent in England, a friend and I hiked from town to town in the Lake District, and all of the trails meandered through farmer’s fields where there were thousands of sheep on seemingly endless hillsides.  That is the setting that launched William Wordsworth, Samuel Coleridge, and the other Romantic poets into ecstatic, nature fueled reverie.  Thinking about it makes me use words like ecstatic and reverie.
 
Even then I took lots of animal pictures.  English sheep are so well fed, and moppy looking in the dank gray drizzle that settles on just about everything.  Even though there are legions of them and regular thru hikers in their fields, it is not that easy to get a good close up.  In the days before digital pictures, I wasted lots of rolls of film catching sheep’s backsides as they ran out of the frame, and out of my way.
 
There were shepherds of a sort.  They were not the young angelic looking ones we see in the nativity scenes from the Bible, rather, they tended to be old, crusty men in layers of woolies and thick soled wellington boots.  We would see them in the pubs at night, nursing pints of bitters, and looking at us as suspiciously as their sheep did.  Each one of them had lots and lots of sheep, and they wandered the perimeters of the rock walled fields keeping out the odd fox or feral dog. 
 
What was so interesting to us was how the sheep followed, just the one person.  They could tell that particular caretaking person’s voice, their whistle, or even their grunts.  Centuries of collective instinct, passed from ewe to lamb in whatever sheep school there is, must have taught them to stay close to the one who looks out for them.
 
Today is known far and wide as Good Shepherd Sunday.  For this preacher and Christ follower, it is a sentimental favorite.  It is the Sunday we sing The King of Love my Shepherd is and we recite the ever-popular 23rd Psalm.  The scriptures we read have inspired really great ‘Jesus as the Good Shepherd’ art too.  Google “good shepherd art,” and you will get thousands of examples.
 
We love this image because it is peaceful, comforting, and pastoral in all senses of that word.  Even before Jesus, we have lots of Old Testament shepherd characters and stories.  King David started out as a lone shepherd.  All of the patriarchs and matriarchs maintained flocks of sheep for food, clothing, and used them as practical vehicles of wealth and prosperity.  Caring for the flock was a matter of life and death necessity for most of those old biblical folks.
 
Like the poets, we can get caught up in romantic notions of these beasts, and derive comfort from the protective care that Jesus, the “great Shepherd of the sheep” provides.  As most of us have moved away from such agrarian roots, we do suffer a sort of ‘nature deficit disorder’ in our full understanding of the image.  To reify and recapture the breadth of this metaphorical meaning requires a little sheepolgy.  This Sunday, annually, provides an opportunity for that too.
 
While we are apt to get the shepherd role for Jesus, we are not as apt to understand the corollary, that is, that we are sheep.  And here is where a deep dive into sheepology is helpful, if not humbling.  There is a reason that sheep have learned to follow the shepherd and to listen for the shepherd’s voice and guidance.  It is this: they are not naturally smart.  Apart from being particularly smelly and overwhelmed with matted fur, sheep do not have much in the way of defensive capability.  They have no claws, no fangs, or particularly frightening roar.  Their panicked and cacophonous bleating only serves to tell a predator exactly where they are.
 
About the best they can do for defense is to run away and clump up together so the predator can pick out the slowest or fattest one and leave the rest alone.  In extreme danger, sheep tend to scatter, and that leads to no good.  Sheep have been known to run off cliffs or fall into deep ravines.  I will let you do you own interpretation of sheep and the parallels to human nature.  It is not such a flattering exercise.
 
Even so, the best defense is a good offense.  If they stay close to the one willing to risk life and limb to protect them, if they go where that more enlightened mind leads, and if the way they do so, is to recognize that caretaker’s voice, then they have the best opportunity for peace and safety.  Here again, I will let you draw your own conclusions about this image and our current state of our own health and safety, but the best nugget of the day is that deep and insightful listening for God’s voice the best instinct. 
 
With all the talk of vectors, droplets, and risk factors, the one phrase that gets me in all of this is so called “herd immunity.”  That one takes us to the elemental level of the beasts that we are, or could be, if we scatter in all directions and do not take care of each other.  There has to be some balance between reckless freedom and cowering fear.  It comes from accepting our sheepness and knowing the limitations of going all of this alone.
 
The gospel does not advocate herd immunity, but H-E-A-R-D immunity: heard immunity.  That kind of peace and safety comes from listening to the most basic tenet of our baptism: seeking and serving Christ in all persons, loving our neighbor as ourselves.  Hearing that call is practicing H-E-A-R-D immunity.
 
There are immense challenges and there will be plenty more as our economy shifts and whole swaths of our fellow humans will need basic, living resources.  We can be about each other and seek creative solutions.  That is the voice need to hear.  That is the direction we need to follow.  Blame, shame, and acrimony, will not serve any good purpose.  Seeking just, mutual, and loving care and concern will lift us all, and brings us safely home.
 
In those great hymnic words:
 
Perverse and foolish oft I strayed
But yet in love he sought me,
And on his shoulder gently laid,
And home, rejoicing, brought me.
 
When we hear the voice that sings that song, we are practicing heard immunity
 
Amen.

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Easter III, Year A
April 26, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
A while back, I spent a whole month in the Holy Land.  As anyone who has been there will tell you, it changes everything about how you encounter stories from the Bible.  To see the hillsides by the Sea of Galilee, it is not a stretch to see how Jesus could use them as natural amphitheaters for preaching and teaching.  To see the gates into the Old City of Jerusalem, we can see how people could pack in together for Jesus to parade in on a donkey.  In the bustling, narrow streets on a busy Friday, we made the same walk that Jesus did from the Praetorium to Golgotha, only he carried a weighty cross.  There is something about the sensory and visual experience of a place that fuels imagination and memory gives the narrative a different dimension.
 
We do not have to go to the Holy Land to claim sacred spaces of memory.  Lots of places are sacred: our childhood homes, school campuses, and generational home places.  Our family has been going to the same beach in South Carolina for most of my life.  We have built memories there even as it has changed, and we have changed.  Our little kids ran around on the same beach in swim diapers where we once brought our now spouses to meet the family.  With the wind and the waves as a persistent soundtrack, and the sand as common ground in the passage of time, we reflect and remember.  It is a place where we can look back, look around, and look forward and see the shapes our lives have formed.
 
Church is one of those places for many of us.  Church is where we marry, bury, and baptize.  It is where we go to pause, to ponder, and to pray.  It where we go to be changed and become who we hope to be.  Kathleen Capshaw recently Facebook shared a 2008 video of Emmanuel’s Vacation Bible School.  Many of the children in there are young adult high school graduates and current college students.  It is an incredible timepiece.  No matter when we came to it, our church place is a container for valuable memories and visions of who we are and how we are.
 
Even though we cannot be in that space together right now, the place is still there.  We are taking care of it and keeping it ready for more life and memory.  If you miss it, take a drive through and walk the grounds.  The dogwoods are in full bloom and the spring flowers are at their peak.  If we cannot have Easter together, we can see Easter life happening as the earth awakes and makes itself new again.
 
On our last day in the Holy Land, we studied the Gospel story we read today.  And like we had done with many of the Jesus stories, we set out to experience the place see the context of the narrative.  There was only one problem.  Nobody knows where exactly Emmaus is.  Its location has been lost in history.  We read that it is about seven miles from Jerusalem.  That’s it.  We went to some places seven miles from Jerusalem, and found a monastery, a vineyard, and the ruins of a Byzantine church.  They were all nice places, but did nothing to connect us to the story or its context. 
 
As we prepared to leave the Holy Land, the ambiguity of this journey served as a valuable object lesson.  We were preparing to go our separate ways, and make our way of faith in our own places and spaces.  And we reflected, we realized that Jesus did not appear to the disciples in Emmaus.  He joined them on the road to Emmaus.  He met them along the way.  As they walked, he taught them about the power of God’s word to some truth.  When they rested, Jesus’ identity came clear.  When they fed their hunger and quenched their thirst, Jesus blessed it all as he had done before.  Symbols became reality.  A risen and refreshed relationship with God came into being.
 
With all kinds of energy, they ran back to Jerusalem, covering all of the distance they had traveled all day in an hour of urgency.  There, they met the others, compared stories, and found that Jesus had met them all in their various places.  He had shown up, refreshed and alive in their lives.
 
It really isn’t about the place after all.  A trip to the holy Land is great, but with the risen Christ, whatever ground we inhabit is made holy.  We can woe and lament about missing out on sharing the sacraments, and that is a loss, but a sacrament is an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.  Jesus feeds our hunger and quenches our thirst as we recognize God’s presence and activity wherever we are.
 
I do not mean to say that we don’t need our precious sacramental gifts.  We need the milestones of baptism and Eucharist to help us remember and sanctify life.  But holiness can break into anyone’s life, and any time, and in any place.  The realization we are given today is that all of life is grace.  God is not contained or limited to properly appointed spaces or churchified wording.  We do church to sharpen our vision of the rest of our life.  We do church to remember to remember.
 
So, in your own home place, for now, break some bread.  Drink deeply remembering the well of God’s love.  In doing so, we might quiet and order whatever fears we have in our hearts, touch the heart of God and lift up our lives to hope.
 
Even now, we are on the road, together.  Amen.
  

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Lent V, Year A
March 29, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
Why?  Why would God visit this particular illness on us, an illness that targets those who are most vulnerable and fragile?  Why?  Why would God give us the gift of one another, only to make being together the main thing we cannot do to counteract the spread of this disease?  Why God?  With all of the world problems we are already fighting, why would economies be decimated, stripping us of the wherewithal to respond?  Why God? Why?
 
I would be a lousy faith leader if I did not address that elephant in our room.  And I am not here to provide easy answers or produce trite or formulaic words in response to real and serious questions of our faith that our current circumstances raise.  That being said, the Word of God often addresses the problem of human suffering, and today we are given a story that helps us unpack where we might find God even in the middle of a hot mess.
 
Lazarus, along with his two sisters, Mary and Martha are some of Jesus’s best friends.  He stays with them whenever he is in town.  And while Jesus is elsewhere in the region, Lazarus gets sick.  They send word for Jesus to come, but he delays going to their house for several says to preach, teach, and heal where he is.  Before he can get there, Lazarus dies, and then and only then, Jesus decides to go back and see them in Bethany.  It should be noted that Bethany is close to Jerusalem and the leaders and crowds there are looking to capture Jesus, so going back there is risky at best.  Nevertheless, he goes.
 
Where is God in the midst of human suffering?  As God in humanity, Jesus goes right toward it.  And that is an important point to realize.  Far from being some random and removed sky God, the God of our faith shows up to be present for those who are hurting, suffering, and even, dying.
 
Before he even reaches the house, Lazarus’s sister, Martha, goes out to meet him.  And Jesus catches her anger immediately.  “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died…” Jesus tells her that he will live, and she gives him a little more sass.  Yeah, sure, “he will live in the resurrection on the last day…” But we get that she is no less mad at Jesus for handing out healing for others and not being there for one of his best and most faithful friends.
 
This is an important exchange and John makes sure we hear it.  In the midst of suffering, God is not only present, but God can take our anger and our rage at things we cannot control or understand.  Jesus does not tell Martha to get lost and God does not tell us to do so either.  Instead he goes with her to see her sister, Mary.
 
While Martha is the pragmatic, get things done person in the family, and most families have that character, Mary is the sensitive one in the bunch.  She is the weeper, and the mourner who wears her feelings on her sleeve.  She, too, gives Jesus a piece of her mind saying, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died…” These are the exact words Martha said, but Jesus does not even attempt to reason with her.  He goes with her to the tomb, and as Mary weeps, Jesus weeps with her.  It is important to know that the Greek term John uses is not merely shedding a tear, the word he uses connotes what I call the ugly cry: the kind that renders us a sloppy, snorting, and inconsolable puddle.  As God in person, Jesus meets her where she is and goes there with her.
 
Finally, he tells them to roll the stone away from the tomb.  Pragmatic Martha protests, telling him that Lazarus has been dead for four days and there is a stench.  The King James translation is the best.  It simply has Martha say: “He stinketh.”  If we were tempted to think of this as some mythic or symbolic tale, this little detail beings it back to reality, to the earthy messiness of death.  Here again, God in person goes there, to the real fleshy rot that befalls all of us at some point.
 
And then the tragedy turns to comedy.  Jesus commands Lazarus to rise and come out of the tomb, and as he does, he is tripping over all his mummy costume.  Even renaissance art depicts this as an awkward and funny scene.  Finally, Jesus commands them to unbind him and let him go. 
 
We never hear anything else about Lazarus.  We do not know what he did with the life he got back.  Poets have often mused that he might not have been pleased that once dead, he was brought back to the suffering and pain of the world.  We do know that he did die again at some point, and surely, he was raised to life with Jesus in new and larger way.  After all, Jesus really loved him.
 
The problem of being human is that with all of the goodness, the beauty, and the pleasure of being fully alive also comes pain, suffering, and perhaps hardest of all, uncertainty as to how it all fits together.  We tell these stories to remember and know that God cares deeply for those God loves.  We tell this story to see that our anger and grief is known, felt, and heard.  We tell this story to see deeply into Jesus as God with us, as the One who, in God’s good time, will unbind us and set us free to be and be most fully alive in God.
 
This is also part of a larger and longer story where Jesus himself will suffer and die at the hands of human folly.  But not even at that will Jesus leave us to suffer alone or forever.
 
On this third Sunday of the Covid-19 lockout, our world is suffering.  We are seeing the worst part of being human right up next to some of the most beautiful expressions of human connectedness with people are feeding others, caring for the sick and dying, and racing to put all of the best minds to work, seeking medical and logistical solutions.  The bonds of our common humanity are so much before us that we will never deny the essential nature of community.
 
And if nothing else helps, let me say this.  I love you.  I am just as scared and unsettled as many of you.  The best thing going for me and for all of us right now is the sure and certain hope of God’s deep love for us too.  This is why God comes to us in Jesus.  This is why God continues to create a world of breathtaking beauty.  This is why we will stick together to divide our sorrows and multiply our joys.  Whatever is to come, we will come out on the other side with a deeper appreciation of life and a mandate to savor the all moments of Grace that much more.
 
And now more than ever we know:
 Life is short.  And we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who make the journey with us.  So be swift to love and makes haste to be kind.  And may the blessing of God Almighty: Father, Son and Holy Spirit be with you and remain with you forever.

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Lent II, Year A
March 8, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
He said he was “born again.”  In 1976, Jimmy Carter, the democratic nominee for president spoke about his faith in ancient, but loaded terms.  His declaration sent news people toward theological dictionaries, biblical texts, and histories of the movement.  Remember that back then, the term news media was not operative.  The news was consumed as print, morning or evening, or as a half-hour broadcast from trusted people like Walter Cronkite.
 
Carter had been Governor of the state in which I lived.  He had a buttery smooth accent, a big, toothy smile, and a great American story.  He was a Naval Academy graduate who had served on a nuclear submarine.  When his father died, he came home to Plains, Georgia, and made his family’s peanut farm successful.  His mother, Lillian, had joined the Peace Corps at the age of 68 and had worked tirelessly for desegregation in South Georgia.  He had taught Sunday school at Maranatha Baptist Church regularly.  He seemed to be an antidote to the Washington machine of connected cronyism and whatever unsavory webs of power and influence that Richard Nixon had spun.
 
When he was elected narrowly, the world met a different kind of American.  In the middle of the Cold War, he favored peace initiatives over parallel armament.  He established cabinet level departments of Energy and Education. The great scandal of his inauguration was that, during the parade, he and his wife, Rosalind, got out of the car on Pennsylvania Avenue, walked and (gasp), held hands!  Can you imagine?
 
By all counts, Carter’s presidency was a mixed bag.  His idealism and relatively liberal ideas, for the times, failed to take hold.  Later, Walter Cronkite dubbed him the smartest president he had known, but not all that effective.  In the end, his one term ended with the sweeping Reagan revolution, and history is still figuring it all out.
 
I once heard Carter speak in Atlanta the late 90s.  He was generous and humble.  He told us that being President was not his greatest call in life.  He said he believed God had called him to grow beyond that office and use his influence to serve causes of peace and justice.  And boy has he.  He is a well regarded international peace broker, he has helped Habitat for Humanity become a national and global force for decent housing, and he and Rosalind have leveraged their own fortune to eradicate the guinea worm in Africa: a disease that caused blindness and formerly incapacitated roughly 3.5 million sufferers.  It is now 99.9 percent gone.
 
Carter maintains that he is still a born again Christian, despite the baggage the term carries.  At the age of 95, and having confounded cancer twice, he still teaches Sunday school every other week at Maranatha Baptist.  His still speaks of his faith as the principal guiding light in his life.  While many others who call themselves born again adhere to more strict and fundamental tenets, Carter does not.  He has evolved in his acceptance of women as faith leaders and his acceptance of those who are gay as full members of the body of Christ.  Not long ago, as his congregation disaffiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention, Carter held that he was born again, again, citing the call to be inclusive, welcoming and understanding in the name of Christ.
 
The whole concept and language of being born again comes to us in the story of Nicodemus, who comes to Jesus under the cover of night.  Nicodemus is a trusted religious and political leader that finds Jesus compelling, but cannot quite go all with him, at least in public.  He brings his intellectually learned mind to a conversation, trying to understand.  Jesus talks about the wind and its mysterious comings and goings.  He speaks of the mystery of himself as God’s body for the world.  He challenges Nicodemus to get out of his head and stop seeing life as a dual reality where faith and reason are mutually exclusive.
 
And here we get the football poster, most quoted of all bible verses: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”  The born agains love to quote John 3:16, but equally or more important to our born againness is John 3:17:  “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”  Therein lies the heart of the call and the challenge for us to fling open the doors or our faith.
 
Getting born is precarious business in this world.  And for anyone who has been present for birth, it is equal parts difficult and miraculous.  I remember the delivery rooms of our children as sacred spaces of being part of something and being witness to something all at once.  The idea that it can happen to us again defies logic, but also makes complete sense to anyone whose life has been changed through instances of impact, brilliance, or light.  The work of saving us has already been done.  We are reborn when we get that, accept that, and live into it with a whole and full heart.  Sometimes, we have to get born again, again.
 
We can only surmise what Nicodemus did with all Jesus gave him to ponder and practice.  While he receded into the darkness, Nicodemus appears again when Jesus is on trial and advocates for them to meet the man in person.  Perhaps he hopes they will see what he saw and cut him loose, but he could not stop the tide of recrimination. And finally, he stepped out into the light and went to the cross, witnessing the tragedy and helping Jesus get a proper and relatively extravagant burial along with Joseph of Arimathea.  Like most of us, he was a work in progress.
 
While some may have taken over the title of being born again Christians, and given that title baggage and stereotyping, it is an apt descriptor for all of us to embrace.  Rightly taken, it is not a ‘one and done’ proclamation we make about ourselves, rather a grace filled opportunity to keep our faith and practice lively.  And perhaps we can look through the Jimmy Carter kind of lens, appreciating that God is not done with us, and God is not done with the world.  Jesus Christ is born again and again and again in us, as we rise and stand for him and with him, today.  Amen. 

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Lent I, Year A
March 1, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
I was not prepared for the beauty of the place.  Having spent three days in a hotel ballroom attending a conference, I was glad to get outside and see a part of California I had never visited.  I had been told about a Holy Cross Monastery that took in guests, and I planned to tack a few days onto my trip to visit and retreat.  As I followed the map, I found that I was driving up and up the hills outside of Santa Barbara.  And when I arrived at the monastery, I discovered that it had been an estate belonging to the Huntington family whose fortune was vast.  As it turned out, on of the sons of the railroad, mining, and oil baron had become a monk and procured the place for his order.  I had not done my research, only following the advice of a good friend, so what I expected to be spartan was far from it – at least at first.
 
A robed brother, Robert, met me at the door, showed me to a sparse room.  He told me that silence would be observed from evening prayer through to lunch the following day, and that there was not cost for me to be there, but I would have a work to do all morning in exchange for my room and board.  Spiritual direction was available in the afternoons when we could speak.  Other than that, we worshiped in the chapel five times a day.  My room had two books: a Bible and the Rule of Benedict.
 
Now, I am a priest of the prayer saying and Bible studying ilk, but I am also verbal and curious about people and more than a little fidgety by nature.  I was to be in silence for half the day?   I was to work with no conversation or verbal direction?  This is not exactly a hardship, but for me a neophyte to this kind of strict observance, I had no idea what I would do, or how I would do with all of this.  My normal mode was multi-tasking, working through a busy schedule, accomplishing tasks, and talking with people for most of the day.
 
After I unpacked, I met my spiritual director, Brother Clement, and told him of my anxiety, seeking a plan and goals for my retreat.  Instead, he asked me about my life, what burdens I was carrying, and how God might be speaking to me in this time of my life.  It was a great conversation.  He was a great listener.  But there was no plan, no list of readings, no spiritual exercises to work.  I had all this time.  “What do I do now,” I asked?  “Just pay attention,” he said.  And then he left the room.
 
I fidgeted for an hour and looked around.  Finally, it was time dinner: a simple buffet.  I was excited to meet the brothers and the others that were on retreat.  The food was hearty, fresh, and delicious looking.  In took my place in the middle of a table of eight.  But when I sat down, there were no introductions or conversations.  Instead, one brother began reading from a book of Benedictine devotions, something about waiting on God.  When we were done, they cleared the table, did the dishes and it was time for Evening Prayer.  They sang beautifully and slowly… and then we were in silence.  Wait, I thought, who are these people?  Why are they here?  What will I be doing in the morning? I fidgeted for an entire evening, read from the rule of Benedict, and began to understand, a little.
 
I was up early for prayers, then to breakfast, where we remained in silence.  I made some granola and fruit and when I looked up, yogurt and milk and a spoon were in front of me.  I poured some coffee from the carafe and when I finished, cream and sweetener bowl were in front of me.  I ate quickly, eager to get on with the morning, but everyone else ate slowly.  I was looking at my food, but the rest of them were looking up and around, anticipating how they would help one another.  When I was done, I sat and waited and waited while all were served and had eaten.  A bell rang, we cleaned up, and then went to sing Morning Prayer.  When that was over a brother motioned for me to follow and we went into a garden.   He took a rake, and gave me a rake, and he started cleaning a bed for spring planting.  I watched and then went to another bed and did what he was doing, for hours.
 
Finally, we broke to bathe and have noon prayers, then lunch.  Finally, I could speak.  Finally, I could find out who all of these people were and what they were doing here.  Brother Clement sat next to me. “Before you speak,” he said, “remember just to pay attention. That is the only reason you are here.  That is the only intention for your time here.  Just pay attention.”  I never did meet the others or talk much with anyone except Clement.  I guess they were all just paying attention too.
 
I never begin a season of reflection without thinking about Clement’s direction.  He explained that it came from centuries of contemplative theology and practice.  He saw right through me and cut to the simplest and most basic direction.  I did not have to know everything.  I did not have to relate to everyone.  I did not have to establish my place in their order.  Clement told me to be a human being rather than a human doing.  I still struggle with that.  I know I am not alone.
 
We embark on a Lenten season together, hearing our annual recounting of Jesus time in the wilderness.  We hear of the devil tempting him with pleasure and comfort, status and prestige, and finally with power and absolute dominion.  And Jesus passes on all of the worldly posturing and functioning in favor of being a vessel of servant leadership.  This is not a lesson on how to avoid or deny temptation.  As the old country song says “Lead me not into temptation, I can get there by myself.”  Instead this is a window into how radically different God’s priorities are than the those we might embrace. 
 
As Jesus let’s all of that go, the invitation for us is not to contort ourselves in complex disciplines or give up so much that we will win the holiness contest.  Lent is a chance for us to peel away the layers of aspiration and activity that use as a mask to project purpose or importance.  Lent is a reflective season for us to see ourselves as human beings rather than human doings, so when do what do, we act thoughtfully and with non-reactive intention.
 
The good news for us is that we are here.  We were able to make it to this space this week.  We are taking this time and this moment the stop the spinning world of confused priorities and frenetic activity to be with Jesus.  The best direction I ever got was not an action plan, a series of spiritual exercises, or a moral makeover.  It was the simple direction: “Just pay attention.”   

​Do not be afraid?
Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Last Epiphany, Year A
February 23, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
“Don’t be afraid, this won’t hurt a bit.”
 
How many of you heard that as a child just before you got a shot or had blood drawn?  I know I did.   Nobody was fooling anyone, because the received tradition of transferred wisdom from older siblings and good friends had already warned us that the “this won’t hurt a bit” business was all a ruse – a code word – for ‘this is going to hurt but I don’t want to tell you,’ or ‘I believe you will believe me the medical person as an authority figure and live in blissful denial of impending agony or blood-letting  just because I say it won’t hurt a bit.’  Maybe if they call it booster, they thought, kids would not know what was coming.  But kids are not so easily fooled.
 
Back in the day, I am not sure that medical folks gave much thought the inner workings of childhood anxiety, anticipation, or their basic intelligence.  All I know is that, thankfully, from my time to the time our children went to the doctor for immunizations and check-ups, some progress has been made. 
 
As you may know, I live with one who is on the front lines of pediatric medicine.  She gives lots of shots and draws lots of blood in her line of work.  And because she has been known to bring the flu shot home for me, I know her to be a pretty good shot giver.  Through more thoughtful training and intuitive compassion, she goes about the whole process carefully.  First, they focus on telling them about all they are doing to help them be well.  They only focus on what they are doing at the moment because anticipated pain can be much worse than that momentary stick that is over one it is felt.  And if the child asks, they tell the truth, but go about it quickly and carefully.  It helps that there is an ice cream store next to the office and the promise of reward, with the parent’s permission, is really helpful.
 
One of the realities of modern life is that we receive and process more information than ever.  Technology has given us many gifts, but its shadow side is that we are on the receiving end of all that might go wrong, thus, our consciousness is flooded with threat assessments: to our health, our safety, our way of life, and our future.  There is nothing wrong with being informed and making good decisions for our health and safety, but for sure, anxiety, depression, and worry is as bad of an epidemic as all of those external threats.  Thankfully, we are learning more and more about how connected our emotional and mental health are to our overall well-being.  The stigmas surrounding such disorders and diseases are fading as we appreciate and realize that most of us are directly or indirectly affected.  The anxiety and depression spiral has been part of my own landscape and I am grateful for the help I get, and have gotten, to name it and work with it as but one of life’s challenges.
 
“Do not be afraid, Jesus tells his disciples.”  He does this more than once, in fact, he says it 33 times in his life and ministry.  It always gets my attention, because there has to be more, and there always is because he is always responding to something that is deeply troubling or difficult.  If we take the one line, it rings hollow as something akin to ‘this won’t hurt a bit.’  But Jesus never says it as a stand-alone panacea or a shallow advice to distract or deny pain or struggle.
 
Today’s delivery of “do not be afraid” happens as he has withdrawn to a mountain, retreating from the grueling tour of teaching, feeding, healing, helping, and then, being threatened with bodily harm from those who he troubles and upsets.  Even Jesus needs a break, so he leads them to a place apart – a mountaintop.  Mountaintops are important places all over the Bible.  They tend to symbolize a time and place of closeness to God.  Moses got the ten commandments on Mount Sinai, the prophet, Elijah is taken up to God in a whirlwind. 
 
In this encounter, God is not some far off mist or thunderous wind.  Here, God’s light and image is infused in Jesus himself.  Moses and Elijah are there too.  And the words that come from heaven “This is my Son, the beloved, listen to him” are the same words that came at Jesus’ baptism.  What they see is that Jesus is not just as god as the biggies, Moses and Elijah, he is One with God.  The disciples fall on their faces in fear, because in all of holy history, it is not good to see God directly.   “Get up and do not be afraid,” Jesus tells them.  In effect he says you can see God because you see me.  And with that, the whole cosmology, the whole picture, the whole image of God changes.  God is Jesus for us to know, to love, and to follow.  This whole business is called transfiguration: a re-figuring, a re-calculation of how we see, know, and understand God.
 
As they return to their work in the world, Jesus tells them not to tell people about all of this until he is raised from the dead.  Why?  Because Jesus is in this for the long game.  He knows that in the short term, it will look like he is defeated and that God’s love will be overcome through the machinations of human fear, hate, and recrimination.  And he knows that there will be pain and anxiety and confusion for those he loves.
 
When Jesus says do not be afraid, he never stops there.  And he never says this will not hurt.  As human, he knows how it feels.  As God, he knows that pain is only temporary and joy is never far from the horizon.
 
To be honest, we have lots of fears.  We have lots of worries.  We are not in control.  The reason we look to Jesus and the reason we come to Church is to remind ourselves and to remember that we are always in God’s presence, to remember that we are always part of God’s wider picture of life, and that even when pain happens, it is not going to last forever.
 
As we go on our way, I close with the words of a Mary Oliver poem.
 
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 happens 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.
 
Amen.

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Epiphany VI, Year A
February 16, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
Can you believe they did it?  I mean, they have no regard for history.  They went about it unilaterally too.  They just abused their power and authority and did it.  Never mind that it has international ramifications.  The rest of the world looks to us for guidance and stability – for standards of fairness and due process.  They know that fully half of us cannot abide by their actions, but they went and did it anyway.  Can you believe they did it?
 
They did.  In 1973, Major League baseball allowed for the American league to apply the designated hitter rule whereby one player from the field can substitute a batter, making it possible for pitchers, in most cases, never to have to step up to the plate and bat.  Can you believe they did it?
 
And then, they did it again, with no respect for history.  This time, they were more clever and more devious, trotting out a bait and switch kind of trial period.  But there were international ramifications.  Others look to us for good order and continuity.  When they did it, they risked scrutiny and scorn and deep division.  Never mind all of that.  In 1979, they changed the Book of Common Prayer in the Episcopal Church.  Can you believe they did it?
 
Of course, I am exaggerating outrage to make a point and sometimes a story is the best vehicle to soften the blow of truth when it lands in the room.  And I could go on to minimize the upset and acknowledge that baseball has continued in all of its peculiar glory with a compromise of the designated hitter rule.  I could also point out that the old chestnut of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer in the Episcopal Church was preceded but the first in 1552, with substantial revisions in 1559, 1604, and 1662.  And, somehow, the Church has managed worship, grow, and weather all kinds of changes.  My father likes to say that nostalgia is not what it used to be.
 
Nevertheless, the hard truth has landed on us in the exclamation point of our lessons for the day.  To deny their heft or skirt their direct application to our common circumstances would be safer, but doing so would miss the point entirely.  We continue to have a serious problem with them.
 
In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus goes straight at them: murderers, arguers, adulterers, divorced people, false witnesses, and those who swear profanely.  St. Paul goes after them: the jealous, the judgmental, the quarrelsome and those who are smug and self-satisfied.  Even Moses goes after them: the hard of heart, the hard of hearing, and those who serve the myriad of false gods the world sets up as superior to the One God.  Clearly, they are lost.  Clearly, they do not know what is right and what is wrong.  Clearly, they are headed for deep trouble – unless they amend their ways.
 
For those who are paying attention, it is painfully clear that our nation, our culture, and our whole system of public discourse is fragile and fractured.  They have substituted labels, soundbites, and tweets for face to face collaboration.  They have given into division, fear, and hatred as tools for building support and rallying their followers.  They have sidestepped all of the traditional and normative habits of respect and decorum, sinking to defiance and derision to signify their power and influence.
 
The problem of today’s texts is that we have to read them whole.  We have to listen to what else is said and what else is implied in them.  For sure, murders are wrong, but Jesus reminds us that we have murderous rage at times.  For sure adultery is sinful, but we have unruly wills and affections, even if they do not come to action.  For sure, we can bend the truth toward our own liking.  We love to pass judgment to make ourselves feel better than others, and let’s be honest about the false gods of beauty, wealth, power, and status that we chase like my dogs chase squirrels.
 
We have a problem alright.  And it is this: they are us.  They. are. us. 
 
Somewhere in our souls, we have allowed our vision, our understanding, and our feelings to become bifurcated.  It is not new, but it has become more strident as problems to be solved, and issues to be debated are more and more complicated and nuanced. 
 
So, it goes this way.  We identify with a tribe.  We champion loyalty to the tribe.  We dismiss all those who are not in the tribe.  We allow a double standard that makes it ok for the leaders and the voices of the tribe to say and do things we would find unconscionable if those outside the tribe do or say such things.  And then, we insulate ourselves from the others, seeking comfort in echo chambers of information and like-minded indignation.  If we get to thinking yeah, they do that.  If we are thinking yeah, that is their problem, we are, suddenly, part of the problem.
 
There is a solution.  It is really difficult.  But it is not out of reach.  Moses puts it this way: “Choose life.”  St. Paul puts it this way: “you are God’s field, God’s building” in this world.  Jesus makes it personal: “first, be reconciled with your brother or sister and come to terms with him or her before you get to the place of judgement.”
 
The way of Christ is the way of love, and love overcomes division every day of the week.  We do not have to play by tribal rules.  In Christ, there is only one family and nation: that of God.  They are us and we are them.  As David Zahl says in his book, Seculosity:
 
"We always lose when we keep score. No one wins when we play the blame game.  Whatever cliché you prefer, the truth is plain: self-justification and love don’t mix, not over the long haul. Love, at its core, transcends emotional bartering. It cannot flourish when one or both parties feel like they’re always playing catch-up or in danger of  getting fired."
 
When I consider the value and witness of Jesus people in this time and place in our world, I believe with all of my heart that we are the people with the language of love, the heart for reconciliation, and the umbrella of grace to counter the current tide of anger and division.  It may be true that some will continue shouting, but they will lose their voice if we do not respond.  It may be that others continue in tribal warfare, but we can opt out of that worldview and render it inert.  We can come side by side and should to shoulder in confessing that we are not perfect or purely righteous, but we have a clue as to how to love even when it is hard.  What the Church offers the world is this: our witness to the Truth.  The Truth is love in action, and in that action, nobody loses.  Wouldn’t it be great if the world would look upon the Church and say: Can you believe they did it?  They showed us the way of love, and it saved us.  All of us.  Can you believe it?

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
Epiphany V, Year A
February 9, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
Upon deep reflection and with the benefit of hindsight, it was not a really good decision for me.  At the ripe old age of eight, I wanted to head way up North, to the mountains of North Georgia, and spend a whole month at Y camp.  My older brother had gone and reported it to be alright; better than staying home, cutting the grass, weeding the tomato garden, and sweating out the summer heat in a home where my father did not really believe in air conditioning.  Nobody made me go.  I asked to go, and my best friend, Cole Barks, wanted to go with me.  So, with all of my belongings neatly packed in an old army trunk, and my name sewn into the back of every stitch of clothing, I joined the pioneers of Cabin 2 for great summer camp adventure.
 
Soon after arrival, I learned that the brochure was not completely accurate.  Yes, we did sleep in cabins with mountain breezes wafting about, but really, they were just screen porches stacked floor to ceiling with triple decker bunk beds.  18 little smelly boys were stacked into Cabin 2 like cord wood.  Yes, we did have campfires and sing songs.  Some were about Jesus.  Most were about the size of the mosquitoes and other camp miseries.  Yes, we did eat family style in a big dining hall, but we had to try and eat everything, including cream chipped beef on toast and piles of mealy and tasteless black-eyed peas.
 
As it turned out, Y Camp was not one of those tony resort kind of camps.  It was more like boot camp as we woke to a clanging bell at sunrise, reported for calisthenics, cleaned the cabins for inspection, and engaged in athletic competition all afternoon with other cabins for the privilege of having a scoop of ice cream for desert.  Losers got nothing.  What was purported to be a community rooted in the Lord of Life was more like Lord of the Flies, at least for me.  We were there to get tough and become men.  What I became was more spiritual.  I prayed often and earnestly – for deliverance.
 
In the family archives, my letters home have been preserved.  There is one in particular that stands out, not doubt because of my tidy eight-year-old handwriting and my eloquent prose.  It reads: Dear Mom and Dad. They made me write this postcard before they would let me eat supper.  Love, John.  P.S. I hate camp. 
 
I had a few good times and made some friends at Y camp, but mostly, I remember the scourge of homesickness.  Perhaps I learned some resilience, and clearly, I did not starve to death.  But when I did come home, I never ever not once ever complained about cutting the grass, weeding the tomato garden, or the anything about the sweltering heat.  I learned that home was good and boredom could be cured more easily than homesickness.
 
Fast forward five years and I was becoming a dorky teenager.  I had joined the boy scouts and gone on some campouts, and I was part of the church youth group, where the fellowship was loving and helpful in navigating the vicissitudes my adolescent quest for identity.  I did go to camp again in North Georgia, only this one was kinder, gentler, and coed.  The camp I attended was my diocesan church camp, Camp Mikell.  It changed my life.  It was grounded in a life of Grace where the worth and dignity of each child was celebrated.  We called the place one step closer to heaven.  Even the food was good.  I went on to work there as a volunteer counselor for several sessions.  I spent two summers working at another diocesan camp in West Virginia.  The summer before I went to seminary, I worked for Shrine Mont here in Virginia and found other members of the same loving family.  To this day, many of my best and most enduring friendships trace back to camp friends.  Upon deep reflection and the benefit of hindsight, it was a really good decision for me to give camp another chance. 
 
We celebrate Shrine Mont Sunday here and all over our diocese today to support and encourage its critical ministry.  While some see it as a retreat to a place apart, I believe time spent there is a journey into being exactly who we are, and a space to delight being together.  With a mix of praising God, playing for the joy of it, and reveling in creation, camp gives balance to being, and helps us learn to see God at work in the world.
 
As soon as Jesus had gathered his disciples, mostly fishermen and other earthy folks, he sat them down and told them how God sees them.  “You are salt,” he says, given for the world to bring life flavor and zest.  “You are light,” he says, to reflect the light of God even in the dark places.  Jesus’ followers are not to be sniveling and groveling sycophants, they are empowered immediately to be bold and belonging in God outright.
 
Notice that Jesus does not say “You could be salt if you were just a little better person.”  Or, “you might be light if you get your act together be more missional.”  The lesson is a declaration.   The disciples are already beloved, chosen, and sent, just because they are children of God.  Imagine, knowing all of our preexisting conditions in being human, God choses to love us and calls us to be our deepest and most authentic selves for the sake of the world.  What Jesus says is that God uses you you and will use you as you are, for the sake of the kingdom  You are more than enough.
 
In a world that holds up all kinds of false idols of beauty, status, and power, it is essential that we claim and own Jesus’ counter cultural voice, seeing every human as beloved, worthy, and precious.  And because there persist voices of shame, fear, blame, and because messages of our inadequacy and not enoughness are so prevalent, we need spaces and places where we and our children can be and become where all of those worldly lies are pushed to the side in favor of grace.  If we are serious about formation in faith, we need to provide home base, a touchstone for what is really real, and promote community that walks the way of love intentionally.
 
I love that the Church holds up camp as it does.  It is one of the most authentic things we do and for sure, it has lasting and powerful impact in shaping lives.  It is salt.  It is light.  It is God’s grace packed into powerful experience.   And in a twist of really great timing, today, we do one of the other things we do that have lasting impact.  Today, we baptize Florence Margaret Oborne, holding her up as beloved.  Claiming the Church as her home base as well as ours, and we remind ourselves of the basics of seeking and serving Christ in all persons, loving her, loving ourselves, and loving one another, just as God does.
 
So, to get us ready, we pray the Shrine Mont camp prayer.  They shout it in call and response.  I invite us to give it a go.
 
God loves the world! (God loves the world!)
God loves us! (God loves us!)
God loves you! (God loves you!)
I love you! (I love you!)
God loves me! (God loves me!)
I love me! (I love me!)
Thanks be to God!  (Thanks be to God!)
Amen! (Amen!)
Aaaamen! (Aaaamen!)
​

Emmanuel Episcopal Church, Greenwood, Virginia
The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple
February 2, 2020
The Rev. John Taliaferro Thomas
 
Last Sunday was big.  It was big because Steve Bragaw brought us the Word from the pulpit, big because it was the annual meeting and we were able to report some pretty good news, and big because we had two hundred pieces of chicken they were either devoured or sent home in baggies to make for the second best meal of the week.  Last Sunday was really big because we welcomed John Savage home again from an extended set of surgeries and recovery that kept him from his beloved role as verger.  In talking about his recovery, John said that he loved being at Emmanuel Church so much, that things did not seem really right until he could get back here – his spiritual home.  I treasured John’s love for us and for the Church.  I treasured his advice and encouragement.  When we faced a challenge or need, John always said: “Just ask for help.  We are here for you.”
 
With all the talk of shrinking mainline congregations and the erosion of Sunday morning as a sacrosanct time slot in busy lives, it is important to remember the particularity of the gift we have in being here – in belonging here.  All week, Emmanuel did the work of the Church at its best in palpable prayers, and an outpouring of love and support.  People checked on Doris, on one another, and, even, on me as we began to internalize the rough news of John’s passing.  “Just ask for help.  We are here for you.”  I could not get that out of my mind, even, as the long tentacles of connection reached back from former clergy, diocesan leaders, and other friends from far away.
 
I am not sure how people handle the big challenges in life without church.  It is not that church provides all the answers, just that we have the capacity and inclination to sit with each other in challenging times.  As my first clinical chaplaincy mentor said “don’t just do something, stand there.”  Sometimes we are bound together through scriptures, and in the sacraments, and other times we do it with coffee and casseroles.  An old Lutheran pastor friend calls Campbell’s cream of chicken soup the pastoral glue of Church.  When things get tough, belonging to this rag tag assembly of good folks is pure healing balm.
 
Perhaps it is not coincidental that the gospel for today is about Jesus’ family showing up at the Temple: their Church.  It was the Jewish custom that 40 days after birth, the mother and child turned up for ritual prayers: the presentation of the child, and the mother’s rejoining of the faith community, having been at home with her newborn for that set period.  For all kinds of reasons, that made sense for them.  Mother and child were stronger and more healthy, ready to show off the child to the wider community, and give thanks for a safe delivery. 
 
Sometimes we forget that Jesus belonged to his own version of church – the local synagogue.  There, he engaged in rites of passage, celebrated holy days, and went to Torah school to learn of God and God’s story with his people.  That was his first community.  He did not conjure images of a loving, Creator God out of nothing.  He came from a lived tradition of faith.  And this passage is the pretty much all we hear of Jesus until he is fully adult, about 30 years old.  Somewhere in there he came to know his saving role in being one with God.  What we do know is that right out of the chute, he was recognized as one set apart: fully human and fully God all in one.
 
When Jesus was presented, old man Simeon was hanging around the Temple with a particular eye toward the full union of God and humanity.  The long-held belief that the Messiah, the Savior God, would come was lodged deep in Simeon’s heart.  Likewise, 84 year-old Anna was there too, perhaps she was the original church lady, never leaving the temple, but praying constantly for God to come to her people.  We do not know what they saw or what God revealed in the child, but they were convinced immediately that this Jesus was the One for whom they waited, and change was coming for sure.
 
Luke tells this story because he knows that it is prudent to listen to the wise and faith-filled elders, because they have enough history and closeness to God to call things like they see them.  Mary and Joseph knew Jesus’ identity in God.  The Wise men saw it too.  Now, Simeon and Anna join the list.  Their realization is enough mystical and spontaneous and intuitive to have the ring of a holy happening.
 
We come to Church to discover and rediscover that the ancients saw and knew: that God is near and never stagnant.  God’s love affair with the world is always unfolding.  The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus was not a one and done event in a faraway place.  The dynamic continues as Jesus life infuses ours.   The tragedy of his death is played out as we subvert anything that is good and of God, and the resurrection, that is an ongoing thing too, as God redeems what is broken, and gives us loving companionship and help in finding our home base.
 
Sometimes it is not easy to see God at work, or make sense of what befalls us in this life.  Other times we receive a holy happening, an “aha,” an epiphany, where loose ends connect and, like Simeon and Anna, we get it, even if only in a brief moment of clarity.
 
At the moment Simeon saw Jesus for the first time, Luke records his song.
 
            Lord, you now have set your servant free
            to go in peace as you have promised;
            For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior,
            whom you have prepared for all the world to see:
            A Light to enlighten the nations,
            and the glory of your people Israel.
 
It is a song that has been set to music.  It is a prayer we use in Evening Prayer and Compline services.  It is sourced in deep faith and hopeful revelation, comforting to us who can weary of the chances and changes of this life, helping us see over the horizon of now and into the eternal life of God.
 
You all knew John.  You know, without a doubt, that he loves us and loves the Church, even now.  Can’t you see him joining the communion of saints, singing Simeon’s song as he goes to the light, only looking back to remind us: “Just ask for help.  We are here for you.”   Amen.