Archive for church decline

Avoiding Spin’s Web

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 10, 2018 by timtrue

spider-web-with-water-beads-network-dewdrop[1]

Mark 6:1-13

1.

Spin.

That’s what we do to the truth, isn’t it? We spin it.

Not so long ago I walked my dog to a park, where we sat for a while and people-watched. Two little boys were playing on a slide.

It was a parallel slide: two slides ran side by side. Here was the perfect opportunity for a race. But, no, instead, one of the boys was attempting to go down the slide correctly, to slide down from the top to the bottom feet first; whereas the other boy was standing on the slide, attempting to block the first boy’s way.

A sort of cruel game ensued: the boy attempting to go down the slide the right way would pretend to begin a descent; and the second boy would predictably jump over to that slide and block his way. The first boy would then quickly scurry to the other slide, the parallel one, trying to beat the second boy’s attempts at blocking him.

This pretend-jump-switch-jump dance carried on for a bit until, at last, probably frustrated, the first boy let go for a bona fide descent. But on the way down, as fate would have it, he collided with the second boy, who promptly fell flat on his face, connecting his lower lip squarely with the slide’s surface.

Well, my dog and I continued watching, maybe passing each other a sideways glance, certainly feeling a kind of tacit vindication, as the second boy, the one who’d been blocking the slide, rose to his feet, rubbed his lip, saw a spot of his own blood on the back of his hand, began hollering, and ran straight for his mother—who was on her phone and had witnessed nothing!

Finally, grabbing his mother’s arm and pointing, he cried out, “That boy pushed me!”

Spin.

Some people put their spin on things really well—so well that we pay them for it! We’ve even given these professionals a name: spin doctors.

So, it often works like this. Someone, or a group of someones, wishes to communicate an opinion. But this spin doctor doesn’t start there—with his obvious opinion. Rather, he starts with a premise that has a ring of truth in it; and he builds upon this premise towards his conclusion, his opinion, not through logic but through spin: the manipulation of the truth.

“That boy pushed me!” And we often end up believing him.

It’s an age-old tactic; the devil does it over in Matthew.

“If you are the Son of God,” he spins, “throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

Do you hear the ring of truth?

2.

Anyway, thisspin—is the backdrop to what’s going on in today’s Gospel.

Jesus has set out from his home town and begun his ministry. He’s called his disciples; he’s been teaching, preaching, healing, and casting out demons. And reports have reached his home town’s ears.

Imagine the excitement some of his friends and family must have felt.

Yes! One of our own has made a success of himself! Jesus has put Nazareth on the map!

Nevertheless, the neighbors soon began to whisper.

How could Jesus, the carpenter, the son of Mary, become a success? Why, he once made a few chairs and a table for me, sure; and they’re good enough quality in their own right. But he’s a carpenter, for crying out loud!—not a synagogue leader, a teacher, or a miracle worker. What gives him the right? How could anything good come out of Nazareth?

And the whispers grew; and the disdain spread; until today, when Jesus stops by for a home town visit: whatever excitement was once felt has now dissipated.

Spin has spun its web:

“And he could do no deed of power there . . . And he was amazed at their unbelief.”

3.

It seems Aesop was right: familiarity breeds contempt.[i] Or maybe Mark Twain, who expanded Aesop’s moral, was even more right: familiarity breeds contempt—and children.

But I want to push back a bit here, on this idea that familiarity breeds contempt. In a relationship—for instance, since Mark Twain brought it up, in a marriage—is it really familiarity that breeds contempt?

I rather think it’s something else. I rather think familiarity is the goal.

At least it is early on.

Most of you have been in some kind of romantic relationship—whether marriage or dating. And if you haven’t, you probably will be someday.

So, think back to the early part of the relationship, when you were first starting to feel interested in the other person—butterflies in the stomach, sweaty palms, sudden surges in your heart rate, whatever.

And then she actually gives you the time of day; or he unexpectedly asks you on a date!

Well, what comes after that? Isn’t it that you clear every free moment of your schedule to spend time with this other person? Dates become top priority. You call in sick—for that is what you are, you tell yourself, love sick—just to get another few hours with your soul-mate. And when you can’t spend time together in person, it’s a phone call or face time. . . .

Relationships, especially in the early days, are all about becoming familiar with one another—increasingly familiar.

Familiarity may indeed breed children, but it does not breed contempt! It’s rather the other way around. Familiarity breeds intimacy. Familiarity breeds love.

4.

What is it, then, that breeds contempt?

Psychotherapist and author Mel Schwartz answers:

When we honor one another we’re not likely to experience contempt. The disdain comes from not getting our needs met. It originates from a turning away from your partner and a relationship philosophy that more likely resembles a “me first” attitude . . . When we devalue our partners, contempt becomes very prevalent.[ii]

We devalue the other person, Schwartz says. Ultimately, we are the ones to blame.

Now, I’ll come back to this idea—of devaluing the other person. But, first, even though we are the ones to blame, I think spin can take a good deal of blame here too.

For what is it that tells us our partner no longer meets our needs? Why do we consistently put ourselves first, ahead our loved ones? Why do we devalue the very human beings with whom we once desired to be so familiar? Isn’t it the spin we hear?

Culture tells me I’m more important than anyone else. I tell myself I’m more important than anyone else—than my spouse, than my kids, than God!

Spin has spun its web.

And when we listen to it—when we are caught in its web—we no longer believe in the relationship; it becomes powerless.

“[Jesus] could do no deed of power there . . . And he was amazed at their unbelief.”

Whether with your spouse, your partner, your children, or your church, don’t allow spin to render your relationships powerless.

5.

So, let’s return now to the picture provided in today’s Gospel—and to this idea of devaluing the other.

Just like with the neighbors in his home town, Jesus once entered each of our lives.

Do you remember when you first met him? All was new. You maybe even cleared your schedule to get to know him better, to increase your familiarity with him, to love him.

But, again like with the home town neighbors, many of us have now lived with Jesus for a while. We’ve become familiar with him. The newness of our relationship has worn off.

Reports about his miracles and teachings have reached our ears.

Whispers have reached our ears too.

He’s not so great, we’ve heard; a wise man, maybe, but no more.

He supports family values, we’ve heard; he’s pro-life.

He supports liberal politics, we’ve heard; or conservative politics (take your pick).

He’s a feminist, we’ve heard; or he’s patriarchal.

His mission was a good idea, we’ve heard, but that ship has sailed; think of all the violence and other evils the church has practiced over the last two thousand years!

Can anything good come out of Nazareth, we’ve heard?

Spin has spun its web.

How do we respond?

There’s really no easy answer, is there? For the mind and heart work against each other: in your head, you know you should reject the spin and just believe in Jesus already; yet your heart tells you otherwise.

To make matters worse, today’s Gospel suggests that the more we struggle with unbelief—the more we listen to the spin—the less effective we render Jesus. In other words, the more we struggle with our unbelief, the more reason we find not to believe!

None of us wants that—in our heads! Yet that’s the heartfelt reality seen throughout the church today.

So, one suggestion: practice value.

Jesus has a lot to offer you—in the Eucharist, in preaching and teaching, in your own formation as a human being.

You once valued all this highly; you once spent a lot of time increasing your own familiarity with Jesus.

But now you’ve lost the sense of value in your relationship with Jesus.

So, like any other relationship, to retain or even increase its value you’ve got to work at it.

Pray, then, even when you don’t feel like praying. Attend church, fellowship with the community, study the Bible, volunteer in one of the many areas of need, and, yes, give money—even when you don’t feel like it.

Value your relationship with Jesus once again!

For, when you value your relationship with Jesus, familiarity leaves no room for contempt but increases intimacy and love; when you value your relationship with Jesus, you avoid getting caught in spin’s web.

 

[i] This moral comes from The Fox and the Lion. Mark Twain expanded on this moral in his notebook. Cf. www.twainquotes.com/Familiarity.html

[ii] Cf. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/shift-mind/201010/does-familiarity-breed-contempt

 

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Made for Humanity

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 3, 2018 by timtrue

moses

Mark 2:23—3:6

1.

Let’s do some Bible study. What is going on in today’s Gospel?

The passage begins with the words, “One sabbath”; an important detail.

The sabbath day was there in the beginning, a part of the creation story: God rested from creating on the seventh day; and thus humanity was to follow in God’s footsteps, et in saecula, saeculorum, amen.

Again, the sabbath day played an important role in the time of the exodus. The people were to gather only enough manna for each day; except on Fridays, when they were to gather twice as much so that they could rest on Saturdays, the sabbath.

And when Moses spent all that time up on Mount Sinai talking directly with God—well, one of the Ten Commandments was to remember the sabbath day and to keep it holy—you and your whole household, it commanded: dads, moms, brothers, sisters, servants, dogs, cats, livestock, aliens, strangers, and anyone else I forgot to mention!

So, “One sabbath” is a detail not to be glossed over.

Well, what happened on this particular sabbath? Two main events—and their fallout.

First, Jesus and his disciples are walking through a field of grain. And the disciples are hungry. So, casually, and quite naturally, they do what you or I might do when out on a Sunday walk: they reach out and grab a small snack and nibble on it. I mean, have you ever tasted a sunflower seed directly from the flower? Delicious!

And second, Jesus enters the synagogue and a man with a withered hand is healed! How awesome is that!

But there were some present who didn’t agree: Pharisees, the Bible calls them.

And we boo and hiss, for, really, even with the importance of the sabbath being a day of rest and all that, why should anyone oppose our man Jesus?

I mean—sheesh!—reading the text closely, I’m not even sure Jesus did anything! It wasn’t Jesus picking the grains and nibbling, after all, but his disciples. And as for the man with the withered hand, all the text tells us is that he was healed; it does not say that Jesus did the actual healing!

Kind of makes you feel like the Pharisees already had their minds made up against Jesus, doesn’t it?

Ooh, ooh!—and don’t you just want to call them out for this! The very end of the passage says that they left the synagogue and went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians (whoever they are), about how they might destroy Jesus.

Destroy? As in kill? Huh. To me that sounds a lot more like a violation of permissible sabbath day activities than healing a man with a withered hand!

But I’ve skipped right over Jesus’ main point, which is, as translated in our version of today’s Gospel: “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath; so the Son of Man is lord even of the sabbath.”

—though an equivalently faithful translation is this: “The sabbath day was created for humanity, not humanity for the sabbath day; so the son of humanity is lord even of the sabbath.”

We’ll come back to this point. For now, notice, Jesus never discounts the importance of observing the sabbath day; what he does say, however, is that sabbath observance is for our benefit and not the other way around.

2.

Next, before we move on to consider what this passage means for us today, I want to point something out: a prejudice that Christianity has been guilty of for most if not all of the last two thousand years; a prejudice that arose out of Bible studies like we just did. Did you catch it?

Jesus’ opponents here are Pharisees; what image comes to your mind’s eye when you hear the word Pharisees?

Probably a self-righteous guy who likes to wear flowing robes and stand on street corners saying loud and long prayers to be heard by passersby.

Probably a guy who tries to keep all 613 commandments of the Halakah, even if that means walking by a person in terrible need lying in a ditch on the side of the road; even if that means paying his tithe to the Temple rather than paying for services for his aging parents.

Probably a guy who conspires with other like-minded guys to figure out a way to murder a radical teacher before he influences the community too much.

Well, if one of these is the image that enters your mind’s eye, don’t be too hard on yourself. For these images come to us straight out of the New Testament, our Christian scriptures.

However, to be clear, there are other images of Pharisees in the New Testament, some neutral, some even positive—like when the apostle Paul boasts of being a Pharisee among Pharisees (a good credential, in his thinking!).

But, for whatever reason, we Christians have gravitated and hung on to the negative caricatures of Pharisees, and formed stereotypes, which have become telltale prejudices.

But—what if I was to tell you?—we do in fact have a modern counterpart to the Pharisee in the Episcopal Church. Do you know who I mean?

I’ll give you a hint: it’s not the priest. The Christian priest in charge of a congregation is more like a Jewish rabbi, in charge of a local synagogue.

Instead, it’s someone who has committed his life to serving God, someone who has taken vows, someone recognized by the community as being called by God to the office, someone who doesn’t get paid for what she does. Any guesses?

The vocational deacon.

That’s right! We don’t have a deacon here at St. Thomas. But if we did, that person would help at our Eucharists, preach from time to time, probably be in charge of all our pastoral care needs, maybe outreach too, and act as a liaison between the church and the bishop—all as a volunteer.

Do you know any deacons personally? The deacons I know are extremely committed to loving the Lord with their heart, soul, and mind; and to loving their neighbors as themselves. They give of themselves far and away above the call of duty, acting selflessly for the sake of the common good.

Now, if you have a clear image in your mind of a modern-day deacon, the next step is to replace your image of a Pharisee with this new image!

In other words, this ought to be the image that comes to mind of the people Jesus squares off with today: upstanding, well-respected, pious persons.

Changes things up a bit, eh?

3.

Anyway, what does all of this mean for us today?

Isn’t really the same old story?

Jesus and the Pharisees were all members within the organized religious establishment of their day. The Pharisees in the story wanted to refine and hone the system to the point of greatest efficiency—a lot like deacons, and many others of us, do in the church today.

We have our constitution, our canons, our bylaws, and our mission statements. We create customaries for our liturgies and propose resolutions at our annual conventions. We plan, scheduling our worship services to take place at specific times in buildings we build at specific locations. We say “Blessed be God” at some times of the year and “Alleluia, Christ is risen” at others. We train our acolytes to know the secret code.

Jews have 613 laws in their Halakah, sure. But we have our laws too, lots of them, written and unwritten, because we’re doggone good Episcopalians.

And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that! In fact, I don’t think Jesus is saying there’s anything wrong with that either!

The rub comes, however, when Jesus, in their midst, points to another, and maybe even a better, way of seeing things.

The sabbath was made for humanity, not humanity for the sabbath. The son of all humanity, Jesus, is therefore lord of the sabbath—and not the other way around!

Jesus is in their midst and shows them another way, a better way.

But the upstanding, well-respected, pious people oppose it.

4.

So, what happens when Jesus comes into our midst and tries to show us another, maybe even a better, way? Do our upstanding, well-respected, pious people—do we—oppose it? Have we, like the Pharisees in today’s passage, become too institutionalized to see it?

In his most recent book, Christian activist and thinker Brian McLaren writes:

Each generation faces some great work, some heroic challenge that summons its children to courage and creativity. The great work of this generation will be to respond to the quadruple threat inherited from previous generations: an ecological crisis that, left unchecked, will lead to catastrophic environmental collapse; an economic crisis of obscenely increasing inequality that exploits or excludes the world’s poor while dehumanizing the rich as well; a sociopolitical crisis of racial, ethnic, class, religious, and political conflict that could lead to catastrophic war; and a spiritual and religious crisis in which the religious institutions that should be helping us deal with the first three crises either waste our time or make matters worse.[I]

Four serious crises, according to McLaren, we are passing on to the next generation. Hmm. Quite a legacy!

Which concerns me: I want a better world for my children and grandchildren than I have known, not a worse one; but I’m not sure we’re any closer to realizing the realm of God here on earth than we were twenty-five, fifty, or a hundred years ago.

Not only do McLaren’s words ring with the sound of truth in my ears, which on its own is cause enough for concern, but also when my kids and I have discussions about the bigger things—meaning-of-life discussions—their anxieties about the future vividly reflect what McLaren says here.

Now, it’s no secret that today’s young people are leaving mainline Christianity in droves. We church leaders spend a lot of energy around the question why; and around the question of how to welcome them back in.

But I think McLaren spells it out clearly here. Young people see these crises we’ve left for them, and they’re saying, collectively, “Thanks a lot!” Young people see the church and other religious institutions and say together, “You’re not helping. And, um, actually, you might be making matters worse.”

What if this is Jesus in our midst? Through the collective voice of young people, is Jesus telling us a very important message today: that there is another way, maybe even a better way, to do church?

This time around, however, no one is conspiring to destroy Jesus. This time around, he’s simply leaving us without too much fuss. Jesus in our midst—young people—leaving the church in droves, feeling that organized Christianity is a waste of time—or, um, maybe worse.

And we just stand there, hands in our pockets, leaning up against the doorway, with a sad look on our face; and say, “Sorry to see you go; but when you’re ready to come back, we’ll welcome you with open arms.”

We’re missing the point. Jesus is trying to show us another, maybe even a better, way.

The church was made for humanity; not humanity for the church. The son of humanity, Jesus, is therefore lord of the church—and not the other way around.

___________________________________________________________________________

[i] Brian D. McLaren, The Great Spiritual Migration: How the World’s Largest Religion is Seeking a better Way to Be Christian. Convergent, New York. 2016.

The Housesitting Experiment

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 27, 2017 by timtrue

vintage-key-clipart

Matthew 16:13-20

1.

Authority is a curious idea.

Here’s what I mean.

Let’s say, for example, that Holly, the kids, and I are going away for a week on a family vacation. It’s June; the kids have just finished school; and we decide it’s a good time to get away for a spell.

Now, let’s say, too, that there’s a parishioner named Ulysses. (Is anyone here named Ulysses?) And Ulysses has a son, Virgil, who has just graduated from high school.

By this time I’ve been in Temecula long enough so that Ulysses and I have struck up a good friendship. So I ask, “Hey, Ulysses, would your son be interested in housesitting for us while we’re away? We need someone to take care of the dog, get the mail, water the plants, and so on. I’ll leave the fridge stocked.”

So Ulysses brings Virgil into the conversation, we discuss logistics, and agree to this housesitting experiment.

The day comes. We’re about to leave. Virgil arrives. I hand him the keys to the house, the mailbox, and the community pool. And we say goodbye.

Now, in handing over the keys, I’ve just given this kid a certain amount of authority. In exchange for feeding and walking the dog, getting the mail, and watering the plants, he has the place to himself for the week. The fridge is stocked with user-friendly meals and stockpiles of beverages for the underaged. TV, sound system, video game consoles, baby grand piano—they’re all his for the week.

But somewhere about midweek the cogs in Virgil’s mind jam. He’s been given authority over the house by me; so he decides to use this delegated authority—or, should I say, to abuse this delegated authority—by throwing a wild party for forty-two of his closest friends and associates.

Now, you and I—and Ulysses—all know what happens when forty-three fresh high school graduates get together for an evening of unsupervised fun. (For we were all fresh high school graduates ourselves once.) But Virgil hasn’t thought it through too well. The cogs were jammed, remember?

For starters, the dog didn’t get her walk that night. Instead, she somehow was fed or got into some substances that didn’t agree with her stomach. “I thought I cleaned it all up,” Virgil admitted later, “but, yeah, I guess the kitchen still smells pretty bad.”

Then, two of the Wii remotes ended up broken and somehow—“Don’t look at me!” Virgil said—the satellite dish had gone out of alignment.

There were footprints on top of the baby grand piano too, like someone had been dancing on it.

And, maybe worst of all, seventeen of the kids ended up in the community pool and hot tub, many of them freaking out the neighbors and otherwise calling attention to themselves because of their improvised swimsuits.

I said maybe worst of all because we’re allowed only six pool guests: now I’m in trouble with the Homeowner’s Association!

Finally, the cops showed up at about midnight, due to noise violations, they said; and the kids all went home, leaving Virgil alone with his thoughts and to clean up.

Needless to say, yes, Virgil abused the authority I’d delegated to him.

Now, let’s tease this scenario out just a little more.

We’re going to be having a conversation about all this, yeah? Virgil and I—not to mention Ulysses, members of the Homeowners’ Association, several neighbors, and maybe even the police—are going to sit down together over some beverages for the underaged and talk it out.

Maybe I expected too much of Virgil.

Maybe I should have been clearer in my expectations.

Maybe Ulysses should have talked through things a little more with his son ahead of time.

Or maybe, just maybe, Virgil should have acted with more maturity and prudence.

Yes, Option D, we all agree, is the best one.

Finally, let’s say a year rolls by—time has a way of healing past wounds—and Holly and I plan another weeklong family vacation. Do we ask Virgil to housesit again?

2.

Now, how do you think Jesus felt when he handed Peter the keys to the kingdom?

Peter! He’s that impulsive apostle.

A few weeks ago, on the Mount of Transfiguration, he’s the one who spoke first. Something absolutely mind-blowing had just taken place—Jesus turned bright as the noonday sun before the disciples’ eyes—and Peter, uncomfortable and awkward, broke the silence, speaking before thinking. The Bible even comments: he did not know what he was saying.

Two weeks ago—remember?—he was panic-stricken one moment and walking on water with Jesus the next.

And looking ahead, right after today’s Gospel, right after Jesus hands him the keys to the kingdom, Jesus actually calls him Satan!

Handing Peter the keys to the kingdom surely must have been something like handing the house keys to Virgil for a second time.

Yet Jesus does it anyway: Jesus delegates the authority of his very kingdom to Peter, the rock on whom he will build his church.

Peter will carry on Jesus’ mission. Peter will possess the power to bind and loose. Peter will begin a kind of apostolic succession that continues to this day.

And that’s because Peter is a rock. Peter is a solid foundation. Peter is nothing like the sand, unstable and uncertain. Right?

He would never do anything like deny Christ, right?

3.

Authority is a curious idea.

Was Jesus leaving his church in good hands when he delegated his authority to St. Peter the Impulsive?

But let’s think about the idea of authority.

What mom has ever acted perfectly in her inherent authority as a parent?

Did your mother always make the right decisions? Did she always allow you just the space you needed—not too little or too much; but just the right amount—to grow and mature from child to adult?

What about your dad? Like moms, dads possess an inherent authority over their children too, simply by nature of being a parent. Does that mean dads act perfectly, always and everywhere, as dads?

Or look at it this way. After becoming a mom or a dad, does a parent always make perfectly right decisions for her or his children? Do they never say a word to their children out of frustration, anger, or impatience?

Why, it’s ludicrous even to suggest it! We all know that such perfection is humanly impossible.

Nevertheless, each mother or father since time began possesses an inherent, God-given (if you will), authority.

It’s the same with bosses and employees; and teachers and students. Do bosses or teachers always make good and right decisions simply because they possess authority over their employees or students?

What about deacons, priests, and bishops? The road to spiritual authority, for most clergy I know anyway, is long and hard. Once they’ve earned it, does that spiritual authority then guarantee that they will lead and guide Jesus’ flock as faithful shepherds?

Not at all!

In fact, it’s kind of the other way around. Mistakes are the norm, not the exception. We humans are wired to grow and mature; and we make a lot of mistakes along the way. If wisdom and maturity were prerequisites, there would never be any parents, bosses, teachers, or clergy.

But someone’s got to carry on the mission.

And in the case of Jesus’ mission, that someone was St. Peter the Impulsive.

4.

Which brings up a very important point.

Earlier this summer my family did in fact take a vacation. (And, in case you’re wondering, yes, we did have someone take care of the dog; but, no, there were no wild parties.)

This vacation was a family reunion at Lake Tahoe.

Mealtimes were very revealing. I sat with different extended family members at each meal; and I never brought it up; yet, somehow, at each meal, the discussion would turn to religion.

That’s one of the byproducts of being the token family priest, I suppose.

Anyway, more often than not the person on the other end of the conversation would say something like, “Well, I don’t go to church anymore—gave that up a long time ago! But I am a Christian. I do believe Jesus is my Lord and Savior. And according to the Bible that’s enough. So why should I go to church?”

Have you heard these kinds of statements too? Statements like:

  • What gives the church the right to tell me how to live my life?
  • Pastors are just after my money anyway.
  • Who needs church at all? I’ll just go spend some time at the beach. That’s my church. That’s my Sabbath rest.
  • I’m spiritual but not religious; I worship God in my own way.
  • Besides, organized religion has done a lot more damage in the world than good: there have been far more wars fought over religious differences than for any other reason.

Well, the answer to this question—Why should I go to church at all?—is because church is where we find Jesus Christ’s authority on earth.

Of course, people today like to question authority. People don’t trust the church’s authority anymore. People want to question Jesus’ decision to hand the keys of the kingdom over to St. Peter the Impulsive.

But is it worth it?

To walk away from organized religion is to abandon the only institution that inherently possesses the spiritual authority of Jesus Christ. To walk away from organized religion is to make oneself a spiritual orphan. And who wants to abandon Mom and Dad?

Jesus did not delegate his authority to Christian radio; or to Christian authors; or to 501(c)(3) non-profit religious corporations; or to public education; or to a political party; or even to individuals like Paul, Apollos, Peter, the Pope, Michael Curry, Billy Graham, you, me, or any other single person. Jesus Christ’s authority rests only in his church, collectively; for the church is his body: where he has chosen to dwell on earth.

5.

But this brings up another very important point.

There are times when a family becomes so dysfunctional that intervention is necessary: abuse, neglect, and abandonment—to name a few examples.

Maybe church decline is a sign for our family, the family of Christ. Maybe people are leaving the church—maybe they do not trust organized religion anymore—precisely because the church has abused, neglected, or abandoned them.

Fair enough.

I have two things to say in response.

The first is to those who are thinking about running away: Don’t give up.

Yes, the church family is full of annoying siblings, moms and dads, teachers and bosses, and many other people who are growing and maturing and making mistakes all along the way. Nevertheless, the church is the institution on earth where Christ’s authority rests.

Jesus was patient with Peter, so much so that he handed the keys of his kingdom to him. You can be patient with Peter too. Don’t give up on your spiritual family.

The second response is to those who have already left the church: to those who feel the church has in fact abused, neglected, abandoned, or otherwise failed them; to those who feel they would rather be orphans than a part of our spiritual family. And it is this: Maybe you’re right. The church has fallen short. But why walk away? Can’t we at least talk about it?

This is my response to those who have left the church. But, of course, they’re not here! Because they’ve already left!

Which brings it all back to us, doesn’t it? We are left with something of a challenge, aren’t we? This challenge is called reconciliation.

How can we go out and find those who feel abused, neglected, or abandoned by the church? And once we find them, how do we begin the process of reconciliation with them? They’ve left the church already; so how do we get a conversation going with them?

Well, I don’t really know.

But I have a hunch about where to start.

Why not begin with Virgil, Ulysses, the neighbors, the offended members of the Homeowners’ Association, and the police? Why not begin with those we already know?

And so, yeah, Virgil will be housesitting for me again this summer.

Transfiguring Decline

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 13, 2017 by timtrue

My inaugural sermon at St. Thomas of Canterbury, last week, Transfiguration Day, August 6. just so happens I was able to touch on a lot of themes that characterize my ministry.

Luke 9:28-36

1.

Today is Transfiguration Day.

Imagine what it must have been like on that actual Day of Transfiguration for Peter, James, and John.

Who was this man, Jesus, exactly?

Yes, he’d called them away from their routine lives, offering a message of hope, redemption, and salvation. His was a good message. And convincing! So they’d left their routine lives and followed him.

And they’d witnessed him teaching, proclaiming good news to the oppressed and marginalized. They’d seen him perform miracles. Why, they’d even seen him raise a person from the dead!

But, really, was Jesus any different than the string of other messianic figures who’d popped up from time to time in the ancient world? Surely he wasn’t really God himself! He was a great teacher, a profound spiritual leader, and a healer. No doubt about it! So, godly, yeah! But God himself?

He leads these three disciples up a mountainside. And near the top, something spectacular, amazing, wonderful, and terrifying happens. Jesus, this great, godly, spiritual friend and leader, actually lights up!

What? How does a person light up? How does a person, shrouded in the darkness of a cloud, suddenly become illuminated brighter than the noonday sun?

And then, that voice! “This is my Son,” it booms, “my Chosen; listen to him!”

So, the disciples are left with few options. Either, one, they’re going insane; two, they’re dreaming; or, three, this man Jesus, their spiritual leader, teacher, friend, and healer, is actually who he says he is; and he is actually doing what he says he’s doing.

If we go with option three, Jesus is not merely a man, not merely another messianic figure to rile up an oppressed world; but he is actually God incarnate.

And that means—if we go with option three—that means he is accomplishing what he said he would. Namely, he is ushering in an entirely new age. The old is passing and the new has come. The kingdom of the old world, of humanity, is fading into darkness; whereas the kingdom of the new world, God’s world, is becoming more and more apparent, all around us!

What an exciting day for me to begin my tenure at STC! Transfiguration Day!

2.

One of the last sermons I preached was on Trinity Sunday, June 11. So, naturally, in preparation for today’s sermon, I’ve been drawing connections between the two, between the Trinity and the Transfiguration.

An important connection stems from the relationship within the Trinity.

Consider this: if God is Trinity—one-in-three and three-in-one, as our theology maintains—then God has always been this way. Always! As in, before the cosmos was ever created; as in, after the cosmos is fully transfigured into the new heavens and earth. God has always been three-in-one and one-in-three—outside of time and space, inside of time and space, always!

That means God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—has always and will always be in relationship!

Well, what do you imagine this relationship to be like?

Do you imagine that it is characterized by one boss and two subjects? Does the Father employ the Son and the Holy Spirit to do his bidding?

If so, I imagine there would be disagreements, arguments, fights, and other kinds of divine drama taking place continuously. I imagine the Christian Trinity would then begin to look more like the Greco-Roman pantheon, where, for example, the lesser god Hermes deceives and manipulates the greater god Zeus in order to get his way.

But that just won’t do. For that understanding of the triune God—hierarchy—actually contradicts the definition of three-in-one and one-in-three.

Instead, the Trinity lives and dwells together in perfect unity, in perfect harmony, co-equally, and co-eternally. God, the Trinity, is love.

Huh. Sounds like something some ancient guy named Jesus once said, eh?

And that—that perfect harmony, unity, and co-equality—is what Jesus said he was doing. The Kingdom of Heaven, which Jesus in his incarnation was ushering in, invites us to be a part of the very Trinity.

3.

Now, the early church seemed to catch on to Jesus’ message—right up until the turn of the fifth century or so.

The early church called together ecumenical councils—meetings of bishops all over the world, as far as Christianity had spread—to hammer out theological differences.

You know what the chief focal point of these councils was? The Trinity.

And from these councils a statement of faith has descended to us, largely unchanged; a statement of faith whose primary theme is the Trinity; a statement of faith we still confess together weekly.

We call it the Nicene Creed.

But around the turn of the fifth century, things began to change in the church. One bishop began to feel more important than another. And so he became the archbishop. Another responded by calling himself another fancy term: metropolitan.

One Christian city—or center—called itself more important than another. Oh, they were all important, to be sure. But one had to be in charge, after all. I mean, come on! It’s simple common sense. For all that Trinity, Pie-in-the-Sky idealism, we can’t really function in co-equal relationships after all, can we? One archbishop must be in preeminent authority over all other archbishops and metropolitans. One archbishop must be the, shall we say, Papa, aka Pope?

And so, around the turn of the fifth century, church government became hierarchical.

Just like ancient Roman government.

And thus, then, the church looked more like ancient Rome—with its emperor and senators and equestrians—than it did the Trinity.

But I thought Jesus was ushering in a new era, an era of harmony, unity, and co-equality.

I thought his followers would no more be subject to the oppression of the secular establishment, like the hierarchical structures of the Roman government.

I thought, too, they would no more be subject to a religious establishment which capitalized on fear to dominate its subjects.

I thought the Transfiguration was not simply about an individual man being transformed before the eyes of a few other individuals.

I thought, instead, the Transfiguration was about fundamentally altering all of the cosmos: about transforming the world from darkness to light, from death to life, from oppression to liberation; about eradicating hierarchy so that all humanity—no, all creation!—should dwell together in unity, harmony, and perfect love; in that divine dance that is the Trinity!

4.

At one point in my Trinity Sunday sermon I asked my audience to imagine what church might look like today if that turn-of-the-fifth-century change had never happened.

What if the church had continued to develop its theology and understanding of a co-equal, co-eternal Trinity? What would it mean for our liturgy? What would our music sound like? What would our art look like? What would our architecture feel like?

These are good questions for us to consider too. For today, as in the day of Jesus, a transfiguration is taking place. And it’s affecting you and me, STC, the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego, mainline Christian denominations in the US, even Christianity all over the world.

Church isn’t what it was forty years ago. Attendance is down. People who do attend aren’t attending for the same reasons they used to. Church no longer satisfies the social longing it once did. Missing church is no longer the social taboo it once was. On the pragmatic side, people aren’t giving as much as they used to.

All this leaves church leaders (like me) scratching our collective head. What about rents? What about missions? What about our dues to the diocese? Is our way of doing church still sustainable?

It’s a kind of transfiguration. Around the world on this Transfiguration Day the church is experiencing a profound change.

Very interesting that my first Sunday celebrating at STC is Transfiguration Day, eh?

So: Transfiguration Day is about much more than the transfiguration of an individual man—a good teacher, spiritual leader, and healer. Jesus’ Transfiguration destroyed all ideas of him being anything less than God incarnate.

Transfiguration Day is also about the church’s transfiguration.

It’s time to destroy all ideas that we are anything less than a divine institution. It’s time to leave behind the old models—the old hierarchies, the top-down leadership, the idea that “Father knows best,” and so on—and return to the even older models of Trinitarian relationship, of divine dance, of harmony, unity, and love.

Adopting a Classical Cosmology

Posted in Homilies with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2017 by timtrue

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Ascension Day

1.

Since coming to St. Paul’s and the Diocese of San Diego, I’ve become keenly aware of the mainline American church’s decline over the past four decades.

Many parishes, including ours, have endured splits. Attendance and pledges have dropped significantly. Thousands of churches have closed their doors, given up, and walked away from their mission.

Here are just a few startling statistics from episcopalchurch.org demonstrating the decline in our denomination from 2005-2015:

2005                    2015

Total number of congregations:     7,635                    6,996

Active baptized members:              2.37 million         1.92 million

Average Sunday attendance:           830,706               614,241

These statistics yield an unnerving observation. Over the past decade the Episcopal Church’s average Sunday attendance has dropped by 26% and the active baptized membership has dropped by 19%; yet the total number of congregations has dropped by less than 9%. So: membership is dropping twice as fast as congregations are closing, a trend that is not sustainable.

And, thus, at the risk of sounding like a prophet of doom, I offer this prediction: the Episcopal Church will have to close many more congregations and sell off many more properties in order to reach a point of sustainability once more—even if the decline in membership plateaus!

Sad, I know. And worrisome! I mean, what if we—St. Paul’s—ever reach a point where we just can’t afford to keep the lights on anymore? Will the Episcopal branch of the Jesus Movement in Yuma be forever cut off? And, is there anything we can do about it?

2.

Well, yes, there is something we can do about it. But before I tell you what, permit me to digress for a bit into the realm of ancient Greek cosmology. It is Ascension Day, after all; so why not hear what Plato had to say about the ascended bodies in the heavens—the sun, moon, and stars?

To begin with then, the ancient Greeks viewed our world as very unstable: our world—where we walk, talk, and otherwise live our lives—is subject to constant change.

This continual instability is readily apparent in the four elements of which our world is comprised: earth, water, air, and fire.

The order of these elements is intentional.

Earth is the heaviest. Take a handful of soil or a stone and throw it into a pond. What happens? It sinks.

Water, next, rises from the depths only as high as the air above it will allow. Or, on the flipside, rain falls; and rivers flow downward, to the sea.

Air is the element where we humans dwell—we humans, ourselves a complicated mixture of earth, water, air, and fire.

And fire, as we all know, rises through the air: it tries to escape the dominion of the air to reach its source, the sun.

Earth, water, air, fire. This is our world. And it’s constantly changing.

Earth seeks to go into the sea and sink to the bottom, where it can join the deepest pillars of the universe.

The sea itself—the water to which all waters flow—is at constant war with itself, rising and falling daily in what we call the tides. And have you ever tried to sail across it? It can be fiercer than the greatest navy; or smooth as glass. Talk about bi-polar!

Air is similarly unpredictable. It varies its temperature daily, up and down; and fluctuates vastly more broadly with the seasons—not to mention the rains, thunderings, lightnings, and tempests that so often infect it.

And as for fire, just light one and watch what happens! Anyone can see that it is trying to escape upward, back to where it belongs, back to its rightful home.

The world we inhabit is in a state of constant flux, change, even chaos.

Yet something curious happens when we gaze into the heavens: the flux, change, and chaos seem to diminish and even disappear.

Now, the planets are admittedly tricky. Take Venus. Sometimes she’s the morning star; other times she’s the evening star; and still other times she’s nowhere to be found. She can be unpredictable—which is why she’s a she and the other planets are all hes. Still, the same can be said, though to a lesser extent, about the others—Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. Nevertheless, there seems to be some rhyme and reason to the planets, even Venus, much more so than the chaos that surrounds us in our daily world; we just haven’t figured it out yet.

But as for the sun and the moon, well, we know what they’re all about. We can predict when the sun will rise and set; and his exact path across the sky on any given day. And, though she seems to follow the sun’s lead, we can say the same about the moon.

And beyond them? Ah, yes, the stars; the most certain, fixed, and stable things we know.

— For the ancient Greeks, all generation and corruption happened in the sub-solar region of the universe; whereas, on the other hand, the celestial region was uncorrupted, unchanging and perfect.

3.

Next, consider today’s lectionary. It tells the story of Jesus’ ascension: that day, forty days after he rose from the grave, when he commissioned his disciples to carry on his mission, instructed them to wait for the coming Holy Spirit, blessed them, and rose from their sight into the heavens.

I died and rose again, he told them.

And now I am rising to the Father, he said.

He will send the Holy Spirit soon, he said, to carry on the work I started.

In other words, he said, the Father and the Holy Spirit are in on it too: my mission, that is.

And they dwell in the heaven of heavens, he said.

Where I soon will dwell with them, he said.

We three are uncorrupted, unchanging, and perfect, he said.

My mission therefore cannot fail, he said.

Even when people reject me, he said.

Even when mainline American church membership declines, he said.

Even when congregations must close and properties must be sold, he said.

My mission cannot fail.

The Church—with an upper-case C—will prevail. Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again. His Church—his mission—will persevere to the end.

4.

Ancient Greek cosmology teaches us a lot about our faith.

Though things might seem to be falling apart right in front of our nose—though membership is declining and we find ourselves lamenting the “good old days,” whatever those were—we follow a Leader who is uncorrupted, unchanging, and perfect. Our ultimate mission is one that will not fail.

At the same time, however—on the other hand—ancient Greek cosmology reminds us that everyday life is in fact full of change, transition, flux, instability, maybe even chaos.

Our mission is to share the Good News in such a way that yields transformation: transformation of individual lives into the perfect image of Christ; transformation of communities into the corporate Body of Christ; transformation of the realm of the world into the realm of God.

Indeed, just in its definition, the word transformation implies change, transition, flux, instability, maybe even chaos.

But the Episcopal Church has largely become an established church: with established buildings and established properties and established vestments and established liturgies and established music and established traditions—

Ever wonder if our message to the world is that we’re already transformed, nothing more needed, thank you very much?

If transformation is indeed our mission, why should we ever expect those we’re hoping to reach to meet us on our terms—to adapt to our traditions?

If the Church’s decline over the past four decades confronts us with anything, it is with our need to change. The way we’ve always done church, in all its deep richness, is no longer sustainable. As ancient Greek cosmology shows us, our world is just too unstable.

5.

So, is there anything we can do about it?

While it is true that the Episcopal Church and other mainline denominations have been in steady decline for the past four decades, it doesn’t have to be so for us, here, in this particular parish called St. Paul’s.

You see, here’s how decline happens.

Change makes us uncomfortable. So we try to avoid it, to control our world so that we are confronted by the least amount of change possible.

But change will happen. Long-time parishioners grow old and pass away. People get mad over a matter of theology and leave—along with their pledges. New people come—hopefully! Volunteers come and go. Staff members come and go. Rectors and bishops come and go. Change is inevitable.

When we try to avoid or ignore change; or when we try to control our environments so that we are confronted by as little change as possible, since we can’t avoid it altogether we effectively put change in the driver’s seat.

And change is a bad driver! When we let change drive us around, decline is inevitable.

On the other hand, what if we accept the truth that change will come? Or, better yet, what if we are intentional about making changes ourselves? What if we are proactive—if we actively plan for and make changes and prepare for their effects?

Then we put St. Paul’s in the driver’s seat.

And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be a driver than a passenger.

Anyway, putting it all together, in order to combat decline in the church—in order to continue with Jesus’ mission of transformation—we must adopt an ancient Greek cosmology.

That is, we must embrace the uncomfortable idea that everyday life is full of change, transition, flux, instability, maybe even chaos; and, at the same time, we must fix our vision on the uncorrupted, unchanging, perfect Trinity and Christ’s mission to transform the world.