"Freedom is coming. Jesus is coming. Oh yes, I know" - A sermon for Advent I

Share

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, November 30, 2014

Oh Freedom
Oh Freedom
Oh Freedom
Freedom is coming, oh yes I know

Oh Freedom
Oh Freedom
Oh Freedom
Freedom is coming, oh yes I know

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Freedom is coming, oh yes I know

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Freedom is coming, oh yes I know

Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Jesus is coming, oh yes I know

Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Jesus is coming, oh yes I know

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know Jesus is coming, oh yes I know

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know Jesus is coming, oh yes I know.
AMEN.

Oh yes I know, freedom is coming, oh yes I know.
Oh yes I know, Jesus is coming, oh yes I know

That song really could be the whole sermon this morning.

Now don’t get excited. You know me too well to know I’d let us off that easy. But I will tell you that on this morning, when you walk out of this Cathedral, that is the song I want on your lips, and that is the truth I want in your heart.

Freedom is coming.
Jesus is coming.
Yes, I know.

It is the first Sunday of Advent. It is the beginning of a new year. The beginning of a season of preparation for Christmas, of waiting, of expectation of the coming of Christ.

And we are ready for a new year.

The last year has been one unlike any I can remember. Unrest and invasions in Ukraine. One Malaysian airliner disappearing and another crashing. Israel and Palestine teetering on the brink of war. Ebola outbreaks. Syria and Isis.

Here in St. Louis we had one of the worst winters we can remember, the ongoing battle over New Life Evangelistic Center and how we are going to care for people struggling with homelessness, and, of course, the death of Michael Brown, and the outrage, division and conflict that has followed.

This past Monday night, for the second time this year, we watched parts of our beloved city burn on live TV. For nearly four months we have heard powerful, young, nonviolent demonstrators cry out that Black Lives Matter. We have heard terrible stories of the treatment of people of color at the hands of the police, which many of us have had to hold in painful tension with the relationships we have with beloved friends and family who are those police. And it is confusing and hard because so much of what is being pointed out about police is not about bad people but about good people caught in a bad system -- and that's a truth that convicts me, too.

We even try to go about our normal activities of life – shopping at a mall – only to be confronted with hundreds of people chanting and laying on the floor, and your priest is one of them. What is up with that?

We have had relationships strained, unfriended people on Facebook and some have even left this Cathedral.

It has not been an easy year. Can we just own that? That this has been hard? That this is hard for all of us? That we are tired? And that some of us have been tired for a long, long time?

And so on this first Sunday of Advent, we need this message of hope. We need this message of truth. We need to hear and in fact, we need not just to hear we need to sing in beautiful harmony

That freedom is coming
That Jesus is coming
And that yes, we know.

We are ready for a new year, and here the Gospel has some good news and, if not bad, then at least hard news for us. The good news is that a new year is coming. The good news is freedom is coming. The good news is Jesus is coming, yes we know.

But the hard news is if we are looking for this year to be easier than the last we may well be disappointed. Because just the way that a newborn child is not neatly delivered in a sheet and a bow by the stork but through the long, hard pains of labor, yes, we know that freedom comes into the world, yes we know that Jesus comes into the world only through pain and struggle.

This morning’s Gospel reminds us that Advent, this season of waiting for the birth of Christ, is not a season of blissful calm. It is labor pains.

Jesus said to his disciples, "In those days, after that suffering,
the sun will be darkened,
and the moon will not give its light,
and the stars will be falling from heaven,
and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.
Then they will see `the Son of Man coming in clouds' with great power and glory. Then he will send out the angels, and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

Following Jesus, waiting for Jesus is not for the feint of heart. It is not a prosperity Gospel of “Confess the Lord and riches will be heaped upon your head.” It is labor pains, which is why we never do it alone but together, holding each other’s hand even when it is being squeezed so tight it feels like it is going to come off.

Following Jesus is about being deeply engaged in the pain and the struggle and the conflict. It is about even as we prepare for the Word who became flesh and lived among us, ourselves being that Word in flesh that lives deeply among those who are most in pain, most rejected, most in need of the freedom that Jesus’ coming brings.

It is being in the midst of the pain and the struggle and the conflict, feeling it deeply, and not despairing but unfailingly singing our song of Advent, our song of hope

That freedom is coming
That Jesus is coming
And that yes, we know.

That beautiful song was not written and sung when times were good. It’s easy to sing songs of hope when times are good. The true beauty of that song is not the tune or the voices of the harmony. The true beauty of that song is that it was born out of one of the most beautiful things in all creation – the power of courageous love.

That song came out of the anti-Apartheid movement in South Africa. That song came out of a people who were being brutally oppressed, who were told that because of the color of their skin their lives mattered less, and who were in the midst of standing up and saying, “No more.”

That song came from the lips of leaders like Desmond Tutu who boldly stood up against the Apartheid government and told them that they had already lost. How’s that for courageous love? And then with a smile bigger than his tiny frame lovingly said to the enforcers of that regime “since you have already lost, we invite you to join the winning side.”

That’s hope. The conviction that even though the powers of the world are against us, that even though there is great suffering and it seems like the sun is darkened and that the moon will not give its light and that the stars are falling from the heavens and that the very powers in the heaven are shaken that the realm of God will not be stopped. That nobody can stop the revolution that we have prayed for, the revolution we pray God will bring every time we pray “thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

We are people of that hope. And we will not give up that hope and we will not run away from the struggle because we know the Son of Man is coming in the clouds with great power and glory.

We know that freedom is coming.
We know that Jesus is coming.
Yes we know.

And how do we know? Why do we hope? Why do we sing this song and even at our grave sing our song of Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah?

Because we have made a choice.

Together, we have made a choice to be people of hope and not despair.

Together, we have chosen to be baptized into the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Together, we have chosen to put our whole trust in the grace and love of one who was not born in a palace but in a stable. Born not as a king but as a refugee.

Together, we have chosen to take the name of Jesus, the name of one who did not grasp onto power but emptied himself, and who through deep, fierce and contentious love began a movement that turned an empire and indeed the world inside out and upside down.

Together, we have chosen to continue in the name of Jesus that work of bringing in the realm of God in this day and in this place. It is the hard work of a mother in labor and of the partner who stands with her holding her hand and helping her breathe, refusing to leave her side until together they celebrate with tears the birth of the new life they have brought into the world. And just like that labor, yes it is painful, but it is worth it. It is oh, so, worth it.

It is the first Sunday of Advent. It is the beginning of a new year. The beginning of a season of preparation for Christmas, of waiting, of expectation of the coming of Christ. We have been here before and we will be here again. And we do not hide from this moment. We do not flee from this moment. We greet this moment knowing that the outcome has already been determined, that the powers that would oppress have already lost, that all are invited to join the winning side.

We greet this moment together, hand in hand, and we praise God for it.

We praise God that God has given us each other so that in this moment we do not wait, watch and work alone.

We praise God that God has given us the opportunity to be both parent and midwife in this moment in history.

And we praise God that even though we might want to cry in despair, that together God instead has given us a song to sing. A song of joy. A song of hope. A song that is the love that will heal our city and heal our world.

And right now, all God is asking us to do is to trust in that hope and to sing. So would you please stand.

Now I know we are Episcopalians, and we might have convinced ourselves we can’t sing and we might have convinced ourselves we can’t dance. But I don’t believe it for a second. Because this is our song. It is in our heart and it is in our bones. So we’re going to sing it loud and sing it proud.

Oh Freedom
Oh Freedom
Oh Freedom
Freedom is coming, oh yes I...

Oh Freedom
Oh Freedom
 Oh Freedom
Freedom is coming, oh yes I...

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Freedom is coming, oh yes I...

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Freedom is coming, oh yes I...

Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Jesus is coming, oh yes I...

Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
Jesus is coming, oh yes I...

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
 Oh yes I know Jesus is coming, oh yes I...

Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Oh yes I know
Jesus is coming, oh yes I know.
AMEN.

"It's all about the body" -- a sermon for Christ the King Sunday.

Share

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, November 23, 2014

“`Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.' `Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.' And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life."
+
It’s all about the body.

This spring, Magdalene St. Louis will open its doors to our first group of women. This wonderful ministry, birthed out of Christ Church Cathedral, will give women who have endured lives of violence, prostitution and abuse two years of housing, wraparound services and, most important, a community of love and trust where they can rebuild their lives. Where they can make the transition from victim to survivor.

The women of the original Magdalene in Nashville know it’s all about the body. They know it because for almost all of them, their bodies were first sexually abused when they should have been playing CandyLand or building with Legos. They know it because before they were old enough to drive they were putting crack and heroin into their bodies to try to escape the pain. They know it because of the bruises on their faces and the broken bones that were never set received from years of life on the street.

More than anyone I have ever met, the women of Magdalene are my teachers, my heroes and my hope.

And they have taught me that it’s all about the body.

Regina was one of the first women to move into the first Magdalene house in Nashville, and she tells the story of one morning early in their community’s life together. One of the women was coming out of the shower and another was going in when an argument broke out.

“You need to go back in there and clean the shower,” said the woman going in.

“I already cleaned the shower,” said the woman coming out.

“Well it’s not clean. Go back and clean it again.”

“It is clean, and if you don’t like it, you can clean it.”

A third woman joined in, and the argument escalated into screaming.

“Well I’m gonna call Becca!”

“Go ahead, call Becca!”

Becca is Becca Stevens, the founder of Magdalene, and a few minutes later she arrived.

And when she did, she didn’t chew anybody out. She didn’t send anybody to their rooms. She didn’t try to negotiate a peaceful compromise.

Becca gathered the women together in a room with a big piece of paper, and on it she drew an outline of a woman’s body.

And Becca simply asked a question:

Who do we want to be? What do we want this community to be?

And it was all about the body.

“What do we want in this community?” Becca asked. “Write it inside the body.”

And they did. They wrote things like love … and trust … and hope.

“What do we not want in this community?” Becca asked. “Write it outside the body.”

And they did. They wrote things like drugs … and violence … and abuse.

What began as a vicious fight that could have torn the community apart instead became an opportunity for them to choose who they were going to be. To decide what values they would embrace and what values they would reject. To affirm that even though they were very different people, and that even though they were all deeply addicted and wounded and in the process of recovery. That even though they would continue to slip and act out of that addiction and woundedness, that they had the power to choose something different.

That love had the power to give them that choice.

That love had the power to hold them in that choice.

That love had the power to heal them. Each of them and all of them.

And that it was all about the body.

This is Christ the King Sunday, and, coincidentally enough as we ride this roller coaster waiting for the grand jury decision and living in deep anxiety and fear about its aftermath, our Gospel is also about a day of judgment. Our Gospel is also about a day of decision. Our Gospel is about Jesus holding a mirror up to us and asking the question that Becca asked that morning:

Who are we going to be? If it is all about the body, what is our body, the Body of Christ, the body of this city, the body of our world going to be like? What are we going to let inside the body and what are we going to keep out?

Are we going to be a body where the hungry get fed, where the thirsty get drink, where the stranger gets welcomed, where the naked get clothed, where the sick get healed and where those in prison get treated with compassion as beloved images of God? Will we be a body of justice and love? A body where we look at each other and see nothing less than Jesus the Christ?

Or will we be a body divided by privilege. Will we be a body where we say as long as I have mine, I don’t care if you’ve got yours? Will we be a body where the naked go cold while coats hang in closets, where children die of the flu for lack of one shot while we spend billions giving the wealthy one more month of life in which they will never see the outside of a hospital room?

Will we be a body where we build prison cells based on third grade test scores in poor and minority communities, where we imprison generation after generation of African-American young women and men, treating them like criminals just for how they look walking down the street, limiting their economic and educational possibilities and then acting like it is some innate moral deficiency when some of them turn to crime or slip into hopelessness?

Will we be a body of liberty and justice for some? A body where we look at each other and see “the other,” see someone to be feared, someone to be labeled, someone never to take the risk to truly know?

That is the choice that Christ the King puts before us this morning. And he doesn’t tell us “it would be nice if you did these things.” He tells us there are consequences, deep and abiding consequences to the choices we make. This morning Jesus tells us it is the choice between a life of heaven and a life of hell. Jesus looks us square in the face this morning and asks, “Who are you going to be?” “What kind of body, what kind of city, what kind of world are you going to be?” Make your choice. But know that one choice leads to life and joy, and the other choice as it has in our past will only continue to lead to pain and death.

We have heard this reading before, but for most of us, hearing it is not enough. For most of us, hearing it has been little more than an intellectual exercise, only a reminder to be a little bit kinder, to do a few more good deeds, to be a little more compassionate to those others in need.

That’s not what Jesus is saying. He is saying this is about life and death. He is saying this is about heaven and hell. He is saying this is nothing less than choosing what our future is going to be. But we can’t just hear that. We have to feel it. We have to feel the consequences of our choices deep inside us in a way that cuts us to the core and shakes the very foundations of our life.

Becca didn’t gather the women around the drawing of the body on their first day in the house. She didn’t call a meeting when everyone was feeling comfortable and say “OK, so what are the house rules going to be?” … or at least if she did, she discovered that’s not what forms the body. The wisdom and the choices that came out of that holy moment gathered around the outline of that body could not have happened and Magdalene never could have become the incredible community of transformation it has been for nearly two decades without the deep, terrifying and even rageful conflict that happened that morning.

Truly to choose to be that body of love and trust and hope, they had first to go to that place of pain and conflict and rage. They had to look it square in the face. They had to lean deeply into the conflict and the anger, feel what it was all about, feel the power it had to tear them apart, feel the power it had literally to take away their lives and their hope for the future. They had to feel deep in their bones the consequences of past choices and the consequences of their present answer and only then could they truly answer the question in a way that was not just about words but that could be about deep commitment to how they were going to live together for the rest of their lives.

Only after experiencing the conflict and the pain and the rage could they gather around the body and truly ask themselves is this who you want to be? Is this the body you want? Is this the future you choose? Or is there something else?

And so it is for us.

For the past weeks and especially the past days, anxiety and even terror has been building in St. Louis. We are anxious and even terrified over what the reaction to the grand jury decision is going to be. We have been told we are in a state of emergency and in fear we are bringing in soldiers, stockpiling arms, boarding up storefronts and surrounding buildings with concrete barriers.

And it's all because we – particularly people of power and privilege like me -- are terrified of the pain and the rage and the conflict. Those of us with power and privilege who are used to being able to control just about every aspect of our life are afraid because this all feels so much out of control. And so we are tempted to use the language of praying for peace when what we really mean is “please God, just make it go away.”

It cannot go away. It will not go away. It must not go away. And for me, it is a hard truth to hear, but it is deep truth. Although I have been and will continue to pray fervently that the reaction to this grand jury decision is nonviolent, if there is not an indictment, I do not pray that it is calm and peaceful. Because I listen to Jesus this morning, and his words are not words of peace and quiet and calm.

It is all about the body. And there is pain, there is rage, there is deep conflict and deep injustice in our body. We have been making terrible choices as a people for decades and even centuries, and those choices have real, human consequences and those like me who have used our privilege to shield ourselves from those consequences need to have those walls of privilege torn down and feel the pain, the rage and the conflict in ways that cut us to the core and shake our foundations.

I have heard so much talk about Truth and Reconciliation over the past months. But if you look at history, the places where truth and reconciliation has even worked a little bit have been places like South Africa and Rwanda where first everyone had to have an experience of the pain and rage wrought by segregation and discrimination and overprivilege and underprivilege. An experience of that pain and rage so profound that it gave them no choice but to gather around the body and ask those deep questions and make those deep choices about who they were going to be.

It took staring the rage and the pain and the conflict full in the face before they were forced to make choices that inevitably saved them from a future of pain and death and pointed them toward a future of life and joy.

The day is coming. It could be tomorrow. It could be the next day. It could be in one week or two. But the day is coming. It is a day of judgment. It is a day of decision. And if, as many of us suspect, it is a day of deep pain and rage and conflict, we need to know that yes, it may be terrifying but Jesus bids us not to flee from it but together to lean into it. Because the rage, the pain, the conflict are the labor pains that will birth new ways of being. As counterintuitive as it seems for the Prince of Peace, conflict is the birth canal through which Christ enters in.

And if conflict is the birth canal through which Christ enters in, then St. Louis has become the labor and delivery room for America. And the choice of what will be born here is up to us in this day and in this hour.

What has begun as a vicious fight that has the power to tear our community apart can become an opportunity for us to choose who we are going to be. To lean deeply into the pain, the rage and the conflict, to stare it full in the face, to let it cut us to the core and shake our very foundations and confront us with the decision of what way of life we will embrace and what way of life we will reject. To affirm that even though we are very different people, deeply addicted, wounded and in the process of recovery, that we have the power to choose something different.

To remember that it is all about the body.

And that instead of killing ourselves completely, we can gather around the outline of a body of a young boy who lay dead in the street for four and a half hours. And we can look across at one another, and we can see the pain and we can see the rage and we can feel the conflict. And we can look down at that body and not just see Mike Brown, but see our own child. We can look down at that body and realize that each and all of us are that body. And we can ask ourselves:

Who do we want to be?

What do we want in this body?

What do we not want in this body?

Love has the power to give us that choice.

Love has the power to hold us in that choice.

Love has the power to heal us. Amen.

"God has given us great things. We can do great things with them. It is entirely up to us."

Share

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, November 16, 2014

“For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.”
+
God has given us great things.
And we can do great things with them.
It is entirely up to us.

We know the story well. Three people are given great gifts. Two of them take what they are given, risk it boldly and turn it into even more. One fearfully buries his gift in the ground where it produces nothing, and in the end the gift is taken away.

We know the story well. God doesn’t give us gifts to bury in the ground. God gives us gifts to risk boldly for the glory of God. God yearns for us to trust in God’s goodness and love for us so deeply that we love one another and the world just as faithfully, just as deeply, just as boldly as God does.

We marvel at Jesus’ words: “For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away.” They seem strange and counterintuitive and yet they are true.

Jesus is saying: “Use it or lose it. Love with it or leave it. “

Jesus is saying God has given us great things.
And we can do great things with them.
It is entirely up to us.

This is my sixth year here at Christ Church Cathedral. Six years of finance committee meetings. Six years of chapter meetings. Six years of some version of the same conversation.

How are we going to make it work? How are we going to get by?

Make no mistake, we are not poor. Not by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But it takes huge resources to sustain and grow this cathedral. And every year, the same thing. We look at the projected income, and we ask how are we going to make it work? How are we going to get by? How are we going to keep the doors open and the lights and the heat on?

It is a conversation that is had by faithful people who year after year bear the burden of it, and it is a conversation that is absolutely not worthy of us. And I have led that conversation for six years.

Six years of having ministries and programs that far extend the reasonable capacity of staff. Six years despite all our talk of compassion and justice of not paying our building maintenance and security ministers even what is considered a living wage in the city of St. Louis. Six years of eating the seed corn of our building endowment just to keep these glorious old buildings from falling apart.

Of course, it’s been more than that. It’s been six years of getting healthier as a congregation and growing in deeper relationship with God and each other in Jesus Christ. Six years of reaching out in mission and ministry to St. Louis and bringing this city inside our walls. Six years of being the body of Christ outside these walls, showing downtown, St. Louis and the region that Christ Church Cathedral is an indispensible part of bringing us all together for the common good.

And yet this past Thursday at finance committee, we prepared to frame the same conversation for Chapter again. How are we going to make it work? How are we going to get by?

That conversation needs to end. That conversation needs to end right here, right now.

Right here, right now we need to hear the words of the Gospel.

We need to recognize that God has given us great things.

We need to trust that we can do great things with them.

And we need to own that individually and together, it is entirely up to us.

This is a moment of opportunity for us as Christ Church Cathedral. And when moments of opportunity are gone, they are gone. Jesus is calling us and our city is looking to us. And they are looking to us to lead. They're looking to us to gather the people of this region, in all our diversity, to work together for the common good.

Downtown is looking to us to help bring people together to transform the lives of people struggling with homelessness.

St. Louis is looking to us as a place that can be common ground where all can gather to bridge the chasms of race and class between us.

This region is looking to us to continue the role we have taken fighting for marriage equality and creating a place of healing for women who have survived sexual abuse and prostitution. Looking for us to not just flap our gums about the healing love of Jesus but to show ‘em what it’s all about.

Whether they use our language or not, in a time where people’s opinions of churches are at their lowest in our nation’s history, this whole region is looking to us as Christ Church Cathedral to be and to bear Christ to St. Louis by leading movements of transformation.

This is nothing new for us. In every generation for nearly 200 years, Christ Church has risen to and met this call. And God is richly equipping us for this today. But whether we will answer that call in this generation is entirely up to us. So what are we going to do? Who are we going to be? When the history of this extraordinary moment in time is written, will we as Christ Church Cathedral be a central player, showing people the love of Christ and helping birth a new St. Louis where all are treated as beloved children of God? Or will we be a mere footnote, one more church, one more people that buried its gifts in the ground and was more thermometer than thermostat, more timid spectator to events than bold shaper of the future.

Make no mistake, this is a moment of decision for you, for each one of us and all of us together as a Cathedral. And Jesus frames it for us perfectly this morning.

Will we be the servant who shrinks back in fear, who believes in an angry God that will punish us if we make a mistake? Will we be the servant who keeps our head down and stays safe and quiet and lets the moment go past?

Or will we be the servant who believes God equips us for great things and truly lives what we say in our mission statement, that at Christ Church Cathedral we proclaim the Gospel boldly. Not just with our words but with our actions, with our money, with our very lives.

Are we going to be a great Cathedral? We answer that question not by mere words. Not by just saying yes or no. We answer that question by what we do with what we have been given.

And it starts by making a commitment. It starts by making our pledge of money. For those of you who have already, thank you so much. For everyone else, the forms are on the table right over there. Because this is not an optional piece of being a part of this community. Whether you pledge five dollars or $50,000, each one of us simply just has to do it. We have to make a statement that we are putting our money where our mouth is and stepping out in faith to support what God is doing at Christ Church Cathedral.

If this thermometer stays half-full or even three quarters full, we are going to keep limping along, and that is just not acceptable. That is simply not worthy of the Cathedral God and our city is calling us to be. We have a pledge goal of 100% participation, and we must reach it. But even more than that, we have a financial goal of $427,000, and we have to reach that too. That means we have to give at a level that shows the depth of our faith and commitment. But it also means we have to go out and spread the good news of what God is doing here, and invite other people to be a part of it and to give to it, too.

On my desk are nearly 300 letters I am sending out this week. I'm not sending them out to Cathedral parishioners. I am sending them out to friends and colleagues all over this city and all over this country. I am telling them what God is doing here at Christ Church Cathedral, and many of them already know. And I am inviting them to be a part of it, because I am proud of who we are, I am excited to be a part of it, and I want to invite them to embrace the gift of being a part of it too. I'm inviting them to make a financial gift to Christ Church Cathedral, so that when we do the work of being the Body of Christ for the people of St. Louis, they know that whether they are Episcopalian or not, whether they come to worship here or not, they know they have a part in it, that they are a part of that body of Christ, too. And that they can take the same excitement and pride in it as we do.

We have to proclaim the Gospel boldly. If we are proud of who we are as Christ Church Cathedral. If we are proud of what we are doing. If we are proud of who God is calling us to be. Then we need to step up and say so and say it loudly. We need to invite people to join us here. We need to invite people to give of their money to support what is going on here.

We are at a crossroads moment in the history of St. Louis and the history of Christ Church Cathedral. A moment of decision. We are at a moment where we will either decide to live into the promises Christ is holding out for us, live into the challenge Christ is extending to us, or continue to limp along and slowly fade into oblivion.

And at this moment, we take our cue from no one less than Jesus himself. And that means we are not going to be afraid.

We are not going to be afraid to talk about money, because Jesus was certainly never afraid to talk about money. We are not going to be afraid to talk about justice, because Jesus was certainly never afraid to talk about justice. In fact, we are not going to be afraid to talk about anything, because Jesus was certainly never afraid to talk about anything.

But being a part of the conversation is not just about opening our mouths. Being a part of the conversation means having skin in the game. Being a part of the conversation means giving sacrificially to support the work of Christ in this place and our work in the community.

And yes, I know that can be uncomfortable. You may be uncomfortable talking about God. You may be uncomfortable about talking about some of the things we are doing here. You may be uncomfortable talking about money, and certainly many of us are. But nowhere in the Gospel does Jesus say, “Do this only if you are comfortable.” Jesus just says, “Do it.” Why? So we can be like him. So Jesus’ joy can be in us and our joy can be full. Jesus bids us to follow him, to love God and one another boldly and to make disciples of all nations not because it is easy, but because it is in doing what is hard and uncomfortable that changes who we are, that makes us into the greatness that is the Body of Christ.

In the parable of the talents, the servants who enter into the joy of their master are the servants who risk boldly, who step out in faith. We cannot hope to have what we do here mean anything to us or mean anything to the world, we cannot hope to enter into that joy ourselves unless we are willing to do the same.

God has drawn each and every one of us here for a reason. And that reason has nothing to do with shrinking back in fear, or taking the riches we have been given and hiding them in the ground. We have been called together at this hour in our history because Christ means to use us. And Christ has gifted us richly at this time in our history. And Christ is pleading with us to take what we have been given, to risk it boldly, and to love God and love this world with reckless abandon.

We must fill this thermometer, and we must fill this space. And unless we each individually take it on ourselves to do it, it will never happen. We must commit for ourselves and we must tell the world that it is all hands and all dollars on deck. Now is the time for all of us to gather at the foot of the cross and to lay our lives on this table. Not just a part of us, not just the part that feels safe and comfortable, but our whole selves, our souls and bodies and yes, our wallets. And doing it secure in the knowledge that God's love for us in Jesus Christ is deeper than we can possibly imagine, is more sure than we can possibly imagine, and can heal us in ways that we scarcely dare to dream. Doing it knowing this is how we enter into the joy of Christ.

For six years we have had the same conversation. How are we going to make it work? How are we going to get by?

That conversation needs to end. That conversation needs to end right here, right now.

Right here, right now, we need to hear the words of the Gospel.

God has given us great things.

And we can do great things with them.

It is entirely up to us. AMEN.

"In the midst of the anxious waiting, we say: 'Come, Lord Jesus.'"

Share

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, November 9, 2014

Everybody breathe in.
Breathe out.
Repeat after me:
Come, Lord Jesus.

Let’s do that again.

Everybody breathe in.
Breathe out.
Repeat after me:
Come, Lord Jesus.

One more time.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.
----
OK, before we really get going here, first I’ve got to stop and say: Seriously? This is the Gospel assigned for this morning? Can we just take a second and appreciate this?

In case you don’t know, our Sunday readings are pre-assigned in a three-year cycle. I could have told you 20 years ago what the Gospel for this Sunday would be. We don’t hand pick these. And yet on this day when we are all on high alert. When our whole region is moving rapidly into freakout mode as rumors fly everywhere about the exact day and hour the grand jury ruling in the Darren Wilson-Michael Brown case will be announced, what Gospel does the lectionary put before us this morning?

Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.

So can we just take a second and appreciate this?

Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.

Could there be a more perfectly chosen Gospel reading for us this morning? One that sums up better where we are as a St. Louis region right now?

Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.

Wow.

My first gut response when I read this was: “Thanks, Jesus. Got that covered.” We are well aware we don’t know the day or the hour, and it’s starting to wear on us. We have heard so many rumors and so many stories not just of when the day or the hour will be but what might happen when it comes.

As I’ve spent the past few weeks listening, I’ve heard many people predict mass demonstrations followed by a police crackdown throughout the region. I heard some one else predict the historic apathy of St. Louis will cause the reaction to be much more muted and other than a few hotspots in Ferguson, Clayton and Shaw, the rest of the region will not be affected.

I’ve heard from police who are working 18 hour days and stockpiling riot gear, who are tired of being yelled at and called racists and killers, who are tired of trying to calm worried spouses and children at home and afraid for the lives of their sisters and brothers in uniform.

I’ve heard from demonstrators who are preparing bandages and eyewash, who are tired of being treated like violent criminals when they have only been armed with signs. Young women and men for whom what they see as an inevitable nonindictment is about much more than just the facts of one case but just one more instance on top of another of black lives not mattering, and they have finally had enough of that.

I have heard from some of us who are tired and scared and wish this would go away and that I would stop talking about it already, and others of us who are saying it’s about time and are amazed this hasn’t happened sooner and this is just what the church needs to be talking about.

Everywhere I go, I hear anxiety and weariness and pain and rage … and it’s all focused on one moment in time, the moment of that announcement.

Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour? Thanks, Jesus. We’re way ahead of you there.

And yet…

And yet, there really couldn’t be a more perfect Gospel reading for this morning. Because yes, we are awake. And yes, we are living in this space of not knowing the day or the hour. And this Gospel reminds us in powerful ways how to be in this space.

This Gospel reminds us for whom we wait, how we are to wait and where this waiting will lead us.

And every step of the way, it involves taking a deep breath.

Letting it out.

And saying, “Come, Lord Jesus.”

For whom do we wait?

Like the rest of the region we are waiting for the ruling. But as followers of Jesus, that waiting is secondary. The core of our mission as a Cathedral is, “We seek a deeper relationship with God and each other in Jesus Christ.” And the story of the 10 bridesmaids reminds us that we are waiting and watching for Jesus.

And what does Jesus look like?

Jesus is the one who came because God so loved the whole world.

Jesus is the living Word made flesh that didn’t just pop in for a visit but dwelt among us as one of us.

Jesus is the one who breaks down every barrier that separates us one from another. Jesus is the one who cares less for her own life than for the life of the world.

Jesus is the shepherd who leaves the 99 and goes and searches for the one.

Jesus is the parent who welcomes back even the most prodigal, sinful child with incredible extravagance.

Jesus is the one who knows our deepest pain and Jesus is the one who desires our deepest joy.

What we are staying awake for, what we are watching for is Jesus.

As the anxieties of the world and the present moment swirl around us, we are not called to suppress our passion and pain, but we must keep our eyes on the prize, and the prize is we seek Jesus and the realm of God come on earth. We seek Jesus because Jesus draws us more deeply in relationship with God and more deeply in relationship with each other. And that is the dream God has for us all.

Yes, we are awake and waiting for the grand jury announcement. But that is not what we are watching for. Our ears are pricked and our eyes are trained looking for any sign of Jesus, any sign of love in the midst of hate, of courageous self-offering in the midst of fear, of hope in the midst of despair.

Our ears are pricked and our eyes are trained looking for any sign of Jesus and looking for him particularly in those whom we find most different from ourselves, who are most challenging for us to see as beloved images of God.

Who we are waiting for is Jesus. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Always.

And we have his promise that he not only will come but has always been here.

And so we take a deep breath.

And let it out.

And say, Come, Lord Jesus.

How do we wait?

It’s probably good to pause here and note that Jesus doesn’t say, “Freak out, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” He says “keep awake.”

That’s all. Just keep awake.

Anxiety and fear are never our friends. Jesus and the angels over and over and over again tell us “do not be anxious” and “be not afraid.” As Christians, that’s not because we think bad things won’t happen. It’s that we trust in the promises of Christ that no matter what happens, we will never be alone, never be abandoned, never be separated from the love of God.

Someone once said the difference between false faith and true faith is that false faith says, “do not worry; that which you fear will not happen to you” and true faith says, “do not fear, that which you fear may well happen to you; but it is nothing to be afraid of.”

We do not know what will happen when the announcement is made. It may indeed be what we fear. But we do know that no matter what happens, we will still have God, we will still have each other and we will still have Jesus. And we hold onto that. And that is what gives us courage. Courage not just to make it through the present moment and moments to come but to be Christ’s Body in the weeks, months and years to come.

So yes, we need to stay awake. But we need not fear. We need not be bouncing off the walls in panic. It’s true, we do not know the day or the hour – either of the grand jury announcement or of the coming of Christ -- but our posture is not freakout, our posture is preparation, watchfulness, waiting for Jesus.

Our posture is breathing in.

And breathing out.

And saying

Come, Lord Jesus.

Finally, this Gospel also tells us that the coming of Jesus, that drawing us more deeply in relationship with God and one another across all the barriers that divide us, is a long, long process. And Jesus is met by those who are in it for the long haul.

The foolish bridesmaids were only thinking about what was right in front of them. It was dark so they brought a lamp. They didn’t think about the next day and the next and the next. They had limited vision. They could only see as long as their lamp burns.

The wise bridesmaids were prepared. They knew that the fuel they had wasn’t going to be enough. They had to be prepared for when this fire went out to keep the flame going. The wise are ready for the long haul, realizing that the journey into Christ is a marathon not a sprint. That we need to be prepared for when the current fire burns out, that we need to still be prepared to meet Jesus then.

Watching for Jesus with extra oil is preparing for the long work of incarnation that will go on long after the grand jury decision and its aftermath is over.

Watching for Jesus with extra oil is remembering that when the cry comes out, “Look, here is the bridegroom!” the next words are “Come out to meet him!” Because the long work of seeking Jesus is not work that stays in here but that always ends with him calling us out there.

It is the long work of not just seeking Jesus across the chasms that divide us, but like Jesus dwelling with one another on the unfamiliar sides of those chasms because we truly are better together.

It is the long work of resisting the temptation to see the stranger as enemy and instead with great love and courage to reach across the divides and help one another be our best selves.

It is the long work of recognizing that even those whose actions are most offensive to us are still beloved images of God and though love demands we oppose injustice, the goal of Christ is never violent and abusive defeat of an enemy but always the return of a beloved child converted even as we ourselves need converting by the transforming power of Christ’s love.

It is the long work of being transformed by the renewing of our minds the reshaping of our hearts.

Of saying that there is not “my neighborhood” and “your neighborhood” but that together this is our city of St. Louis and living in unfamiliar places and learning to call them home..

Of saying that it’s not enough that some children in some neighborhoods can go to a great school, it has to be every child in every neighborhood going to a great school. Not just some children can walk down the street and not fear being targeted by police, but everyone’s child being able to walk down the street and not fear being targeted by the police. Not just some children can live in a world where they know they are seen as beloved children of God, but everyone’s child knowing and believing they are beloved images of God.

It is the long work of changing our hearts so that we care as much for someone else’s children as we do for our own because all children are God’s children, and that means all children are our children, too.

It’s long work because that’s not how we usually think. It’s long work because that’s not how we usually live. And even though that is God’s deep dream for us and we trust that dream will be reality some day, it’s going to take time. One lamp’s worth of oil just isn’t going to be enough. And that means we as a Cathedral community must prepare to be that people and place of justice, peace and reconciliation not just now but in the days, weeks, months and years to come.

Jesus says “Keep awake, therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”

I’m not sure there has been a more important time for us to hear these words.

For us to be reminded that we are not so much waiting for a ruling as we are waiting for Jesus.

For us to be reminded that we are not called to freak out in fear but trusting in Jesus, to stay awake in prayerful watchfulness.

For us to be reminded that no matter how much anxiety and energy around us is directed toward one moment in time that the coming of Jesus, that drawing us more deeply in relationship with God and one another across all the chasms that divide us, is a long, long process and Jesus comes to and through those who are in it for the long haul.

For us to be reminded in the midst of the shouting and the cries, in the midst of the tears and the silent fears. In the midst of whatever will happen in the days and weeks to come, our most important calling is to take a deep breath

And let it out.

And to say, “Come, Lord Jesus.”

And to be ready to go out and meet him when he does.

Amen.

"The Witness of the Past. The Ordeal of the Present. The Hope of the Future" - a sermon for All Saints Day

Share

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, November 2, 2014

Alice Stratton, you have no idea what you are getting into this morning.

There’s no way you can. All you know in the world is hunger, which brings your mother’s breast, and fear, which brings your father’s embrace. You know crankiness and cooing, peaceful sleep and rambunctious play. You know fits of crying and moments of wonder and learning in ways we can’t conceive because we can’t remember what it is like not to think in words.

Alice, Alice, Alice … you have no idea what you are getting into this morning.

Today is a day unlike any other in the church year. A day we celebrate that as Christ’s church even as we exist in the present moment, we are not bound by its limitations. A day when we celebrate that our God binds us together in three realities:

The witness of the past.

The ordeal of the present.

The hope of the future.

We began this day with names. Names like Wilbur DeVos, Isatu Koroma, Bill Baker, Michael Brown. We say their names not just in memory, not just in thanks for what was, but in conviction that they are with us still. As St. Paul reminds us that nothing, not even death can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus, we say these names in the knowledge that we are bound together with these saints and they with us for all eternity. That even as we stand on their shoulders, they are the angels and archangels and all the company of heaven who join us in singing “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, God of power and might. Heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest.”

The witness of the past is not just fond memory. It is our teacher and companion. It is the communion of saints who surround us, watch over us and sing with us still. It is the reminder that we are rooted in something much greater than just ourselves and this present moment.

The witness of the past is living memory that Christ’s church has and will endure. Because the past used to be the present. And the present is always an ordeal.

Our reading from Revelation today talks about, "the Great Ordeal," “the ordeal” writ large, “Ordeal” with a capital O. It is a time of tragedy, trial and persecution. John envisions it being just before the end of days, but we know it is ongoing. We know that every present has its piece of the ordeal. Every people, every generation has its share of the ordeal. And this Cathedral is no stranger to any of it.

Look around you at this Cathedral. We gather this morning in the same spot where people gathered in fear on December 7, 1941 and September 11, 2001. We gather where people of color used not to be allowed in, and where we sewed a banner that says “Our Church Has AIDS.” We gather where Martin Luther King preached and protesters once chained themselves to this pulpit. We gather where marriages have begun and loved ones have been laid to rest. Where people struggling with homelessness have found shelter and where some of the world’s wealthiest people have come when money could not slake their deep thirst for love and meaning. Where countless of the faithful and the not-so-sure-of-their-faith have knelt in prayer, in joy, in grief, in hope.

We as Christ Church Cathedral are as we always have been. We are as we ever shall be, a place St. Louis comes to pass through the ordeal. And that is certainly true today as we face the ongoing ordeal of our deep divisions of race and class and the truth that not all of us are treated as beloved images of God. It is true as we face the coming ordeal of a grand jury ruling we fear will tear us apart. But this is nothing new for us. We have passed through ordeals in the past, and we will pass through ordeals in the future.

As always, the choice is not to whether or not to go through the ordeal. The ordeal is not a choice. All must pass through the ordeal. The choice is how we go through the ordeal. The choice is who we will be as we go through the ordeal. The choice is who we trust we will have become when the ordeal is finally through.

In the letters to the churches earlier in the Book of Revelation, John tells us what it looks like to go through the ordeal as churches of faith. We see that a church faithfully passing through the ordeal is not a church where all is well. A church faithfully passing through the ordeal is living on the edge and feeling broken. It is giving itself away, not saving itself for tomorrow. A church faithfully passing through the ordeal is much more likely to be struggling than secure.

As the church, we know we are faithfully passing through the ordeal not when our attendance is booming and our budget is overflowing but when we are living the Beatitudes life. When we are poor in spirit, mourning and meek, hungering and thirsting for righteousness, merciful and pure in heart, peacemaking and persecuted, and reviled and slandered on account of Jesus Christ.

We know we are faithfully passing through the ordeal when we refuse to shrink back in fear because we trust the ordeal is not the end. Because we know the rest of the story. That after the ordeal there will be a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne of God, worshipping God day and night. And we will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike us, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be our shepherd, and will guide us to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.

Alice, you have no idea what you are getting into this morning. For this morning we are not just baptizing you into one church but three. This morning, you are baptized into the church of the witness of the past. And yes, you are certainly baptized into the church of the ordeal of the present. But the witness of the past and the ordeal of the present are always met by the hope of the future. The vision that even as we pass through the ordeal, the outcome is already decided. And so most of all, you are baptized into the church of the hope of the future, the church from every nation, tribe, people and language that will gather and sing around the throne. The church from whose eyes God will wipe away every tear.

And our ingathering, the offering of our gifts to sustain and grow this Cathedral in the coming year, the gifts of our very selves on this table, is an offering of that hope. The gifts we lay on this table today are nothing less than a defiant statement of the sure and certain hope of the future that is, was and ever shall be our song.

Yes, as always, we are in the midst of the ordeal. And ordeals tempt us to hoard for ourselves. Ordeals tempt us to trust in our own selves for security. Ordeals tempt us not to lean on God but to lean on our own understanding.

But we are the Body of Christ. We are people of hope who do not shrink back. And so we offer our gifts today as our act of that sure, certain and defiant hope.

An act that says we will not give in to the anxiety and fear.

An act that says we will not hoard for ourselves.

An act that says not only do we believe that we shall overcome, that we shall be gathered together singing around that throne some day, but that our conviction of this is so sure, that just as generations have done before us, we sing that song already and we will never, never, ever stop.

That’s right. We are the Body of Christ. And our hope is so sure, so certain, so defiant that we do not wait for the ordeal to be done to begin our song. Even in the midst of the ordeal we make our song – “Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, God of power and might. Heaven and earth are full of your glory. Hosanna in the highest.”

Alice, you have no idea what you are getting into today. Or maybe you do. Maybe you do more than any of us. Maybe you more than any of us know what it is to live in the sure and certain hope of this song of love and trust.

Because you trust hunger will always bring your mother’s breast. You trust fear will always brings your father’s embrace. In your parents and in this community you know what it is to have a shepherd guarding and guiding you. You know what it is to lift your voice in song, and you know what it is to have every tear wiped away.

Alice, maybe you know what this day is about more than any of us. And on this day we welcome you to the journey with us as our fellow pilgrim and even as our guide.

We anoint you with the witness of the past.

We baptize you into the ordeal of the present.

But most of all, we invite you to join us in defiantly singing the hope of the future. Where the many will become one, all tears will be wiped away, and from every nation, tribe, people and language all will gathered in song around the heavenly throne.

Amen.