Words made flesh: Joining Jesus in the life of skénoó - a sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, Dec. 27, 2015.

In the name of love

What more in the name of love

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

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It’s been nearly 40 years since Paul Hewson, David Evans, Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen got together for the first time in Larry’s kitchen in Dublin, Ireland.

40 years since four teenagers who individually had limited musical proficiency and seemed like they were nothing special first realized that together they might be something special.

40 years since the beginnings of what would become U2.

Since that day in 1976, U2 has become the longest-continuously running and most successful band in rock n roll history. And in those nearly 40 years and close to 2,000 concerts only once have they not taken the stage together – November 26, 1993 in Sydney, Australia when Adam Clayton was too hung over to take the stage. Afterward, the band sat him down, lovingly and angrily got in his face about how he was self-medicating his depression with alcohol, helped him get into rehab and he hasn’t had a drink and they have never performed apart from each other ever since.

How have they stayed together? How has U2 survived the forces that have torn other incredibly successful bands apart. How are they as they end their 15th concert tour, arguably stronger and more creative than they have ever been.

Lead singer Bono will tell you it’s because drummer “Larry Mullen cannot tell a lie. And his brutal honesty is something we need in this band.” They will talk about a shared commitment never to be satisfied with their success but to risk and experiment and remake themselves continually in the hope of getting even better.

And then Bono tells this story:.

Bono (left) and Adam Clayton

“It was 1987, somewhere in the South. We’d been campaigning for Dr. King – for his birthday to be a national holiday. And in Arizona, they’re saying no. We’ve been campaigning very, very hard for Dr. King. Some people don’t like it. Some people get very annoyed. Some people want to kill the singer (“the singer” is how Bono refers himself). Some people are taken very seriously by the FBI, and they tell the singer he shouldn’t play the gig, because tonight, his life is at risk, and he must not go onstage.

“The singer laughs. You know, of course we’re playing the gig, of course we go onstage. And I’m standing there, singing “Pride in the Name of Love,” and I’ve got to the third verse (which is the verse about Dr. King being shot and killed), and I close my eyes, and I know I’m excited about meeting my maker, but maybe not tonight. I don’t really want to meet my maker tonight. I close my eyes, and when I look up, I see Adam Clayton standing in front of me, holding his bass like only Adam Clayton can hold his bass.

“And you know, there’s people … who tell you they’d take a bullet for you, but Adam Clayton would’ve taken a bullet for me – and I guess that’s what it’s like to be in a truly great rock and roll band.”

This morning we hear another song -- the song of the Gospel according to John:

In he beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The Word was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

In a world of statistics and prose, the prologue to John’s Gospel is a love song. It’s not the historical context of Luke, full of “when Quirinius was the governor of Syria” or the mechanical “now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way” of Matthew.

John sings a song of the cosmos.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The Word was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.

All politics might be local but God is cosmic. The observable universe is at least 91 billion light years in diameter and is nearly 14 billion years old and God is God of all of it. We are a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck,

and yet..

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

Think about that for a second. Think about the size of the universe. It’s 93 million miles even to get to our sun and cosmically that’s like walking across the street to Tim Horton’s to get some donut holes. And God is the God of all of it.

And yet …

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

And the word John uses for dwelt is an important word.

It doesn’t mean just drop in for a visit.

It doesn’t even mean just move into the neighborhood.

The Greek word for dwelt John uses here is ἐσκήνωσεν (skénoó) and it means to spread your tent over someone. It means not just staying with someone but enfolding them, standing between them and danger. Saying there is nothing out there you will ever face alone because “I will always be standing right next to you and in front. Always right next to you and in front.”[1]

It’s Adam Clayton standing in front of Bono ready to take a bullet for him during the third verse of Pride.

It’s the band loving Adam enough to get in his face about his depression and alcoholism even though conversations like that can break up the best of families.

It is a commitment to brutal honesty and never to put personal achievement over what we can do together.

When John sings that the Word became flesh and dwelt, and skénoó with us, John is proclaiming the deep and soul-exploding truth that even though we are a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck in this vast 91 billion light years wide universe among who knows how many other universes, the God that created and continues to create it all chose and still chooses to go all in with us, to stand right next to us and in front, and to never, never, never, ever leave.

In the name of love
What more in the name of love.

That is the gift of Christmas. God’s gift of the divine self. Not just dropping in for a visit but dwelling with us, skénoó –ing with us, covering us, loving us enough to take a bullet for us and loving us too much not to speak the truth to our face. It is God standing with us and saying “sink or swim, succeed or fail, win or lose, pride or shame, I am with you today, tomorrow, forever.”

And God has two more words for us in this pledge of love. In this pledge of dwelling. In this pledge of skénoó .

The Word made flesh gazes up at us from the manger this morning and says two words:

“Join me.”

This Christmas gift is not meant for us to keep to ourselves. In fact, that would be the deepest blasphemy. This gift of Godself, of the divine presence who broods over the world like a mother over her children reminds us that this is the image in which we all were created and this mission is our deepest joy as well.

That just as God stands with us in our deepest pain and most frantic anxiety. Just as God meets us where we are most isolated, most closeted and most rejected, we are invited to do the same for this world into which Christ was born.

To go into the heart of the most agonizing pain and paralyzing fear.

To go to the places that are the furthest out and the most rejected. To the people that the world views as completely inconsequential and not mattering at all.

To go to the places that as far as the world is concerned are as useless as a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck and not just drop off a care package with a few things to make life a little more bearable.

Not just drop in for a visit and an encouraging pat on the back.

But to dwell there, to skénoó there. To not only with our lips but with our lives enfold those who dwell there, stand between them and danger. Say that there is nothing out there you will ever face alone because “I will always be standing right next to you and in front. Always right next to you and in front.”

What does that look like?

What does it look like not just to hand out pastries and eggs to those among us who are hungry but truly to skénoó together?

What does it look like not just to keep this space open for those among us who have no place to go but truly to skénoó together?

What does it look like not just to say “Black Lives Matter” but across the lines of race and class truly to skénoó together?

What does it look like not just to denounce Islamophobia and homophobia and transphobia and misogyny and so on and so on and so on but truly to skénoó together?

I don’t have a simple answer for us today. But I do know that if we are to be the church of the one who became flesh in Jesus, we get to find out. I do know that if we are to listen to the cry from the manger this morning to join the Word made flesh in becoming flesh in new ways and new places ourselves, we get to find out.

I do know that like the Word becoming flesh, this mission will lead us out of our comfort zones into places of unfamiliarity, vulnerability and risk. That like the Word made flesh, this mission invites us to dismantle “us serving them” models of ministry in favor of building Beloved Communities together. That like the Word made flesh we must be willing to sacrifice power and privilege, resources and respectability, safety and security to stand with one another in truth and solidarity and love.

What does it look like to live the skénoó life of God? I don’t have a simple answer but I know it is giving up a life of safety for a life of self-sacrificing love. It is recognizing that in the words of Dr. King until we have found something we will die for we are not fit to live. It is realizing that in Christ true greatness lies not in how much we accomplish or how much we acquire or how faithfully we preserve but in how deeply and fully we are willing to give up ourselves - even our very lives - for one another.

Bono said, “You know, there’s people … who tell you they’d take a bullet for you, but Adam Clayton would’ve taken a bullet for me – and I guess that’s what it’s like to be in a truly great rock and roll band.”

That’s what it’s like to be a really great church, too.

The Word became flesh and skénoó among us, showing us what true greatness looks like.

The Word became flesh and skénoó among us, and we have seen her glory, full of grace and truth. And from her fullness we have all received grace upon grace.

The Word became flesh and skénoó among us … and lying in a manger, the Word made flesh in Jesus invites us to do the same. Amen.

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[1] Will McAvoy to Sloan Sabbith in Season 1, Episode 6 of “The Newsroom” by Aaron Sorkin. (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2299127/)

"What are you waiting for?" - a sermon for Christmas Eve Night

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Christmas Eve Night, 2015.

And God said to Godself: “What are you waiting for?”

You know, we should do this more often.

Seriously, it shouldn’t just be once a year that we come together in the middle of the night, when the rest of the world is asleep.

I tell my teenage boys that “nothing good happens after midnight” – because I’d rather they be home safe in bed so I’m not up worrying. I really have to stop saying that to them.

Because the truth is wonderful things happen in the middle of the night.

The deepest conversations.

The most profound revelations.

The most passionate love.

The middle of the night is when prose turns to poetry and statistics turn to song.

The middle of the night is when we are haunted by ghosts of the past, and enticed by hopes of the future.

The best questions come in the middle of the night.

The best questions come in the middle of the night.

And this night is no exception.

For us fully to appreciate what happens this holy night, we need to know the backstory. We need to know that the child born this night in Bethlehem has been a long, long time in coming.

We need to know that this birth comes after millennia upon millennia of God loving us from afar, dancing when we returned that love and agonizing when we rejected it.

We need to know that this birth comes after millennia upon millennia of God watching us turn against God, betray God’s trust, and turn against one another.

We need to know that this birth comes after millennia upon millennia of God staying distant and safe, letting prophets and sages deliver God’s messages of love. Until one night, deep in one night, as the world sleeps below, God has the deepest conversation, the most profound revelation of the most passionate love.

And God asks the divine self a single question:

“What are you waiting for?”

I have to believe that is the question God asks the Divine self before the incarnation, before the angel comes to Mary, before this holy night is pierced by the baby Jesus’ first cry.

“What are you waiting for?”

It’s a question all of us come to at some point in our lives – and often more than once.

What are we waiting for?

What are we afraid of?

Why are we holding back?

We always have reasons. There are always reasons to wait. Reasons not to do the bold thing. Not to do the courageous thing. Not to make the grand act of love.

It will hurt.

It could cost too much.

Think of what I have to lose?

I wonder if God wasn’t thinking the same thing. Being born, becoming human is such a risk. Loving so deeply to give yourself body and soul to someone is such a risk. What if they reject me? What if it hurts?

What if? What if? What if?

And the truth is, when God becomes human in Jesus, all these things do happen and yet still – and indeed because of all these things -- it is the deepest truth, the most profound event, the most passionate love in human history.

God asks Godself “What are you waiting for?” And God is not the only one. The question is ever on our hearts as well.

“What are you waiting for?”

It comes to us in the middle of the night. And when it does, our powers of rationalization are literally paralyzing.

We convince ourselves that playing it safe is the best practice. That long-term sustainability is more important than truth-telling and that discretion truly is the better part of valor.

We sell our souls not in grand gestures for glorious prizes, not at the Crossroads for the soul to play the blues. No, we sell our souls a little bit at a time…

Each time we say it is smarter to hedge our bets and keep our distance.

Each time we hide in the safety of the crowd.

Each time we shrink away from having the conversation that lays our heart bare.

We sell our souls a little bit each time we hold ourselves back for some better opportunity down the road, and in so doing miss the opportunities for true greatness the present moment has in her hands.

Well, Christmas is God having enough of that.

Christmas is God refusing to stay safe, keep her distance, and miss that opportunity.

Christmas is God going all in and standing in solidarity with our fragile humanity.

Christmas is God not fixing all the brokenness in the world, not magically solving every problem but saying “I’m going to be with you deep in the midst of it, this night, every night, forever. “

Christmas is God saying “What am I waiting for? Now is the time for love. Now is the time for truth. Now is the time to go all in. This love can’t wait any longer. This love can’t be lived from far away any longer. I’ve got to get down there. I’ve got to be with them. I don’t care about the danger. I don’t care about the risk. I love them too much to be away from them one second longer.

“Now is the time.”

I think about how many times I have thought playing it safe was the smart thing to do. And then I look at the Gospel, and I realize that playing it safe was not in Jesus’ playbook. Playing it safe is not in God's playbook.

If playing it safe was God's operating system, we would not be here this night. There would be no Christmas -- and there would certainly be no church. Christmas happened because God turned to the divine self and said, “What am I waiting for? What am I afraid of? Why have I waited so long to go all in? ”

And Christmas begs the same question of us. For all that conventional wisdom tells us to play it safe and hold back and make sure we live to fight another day, Christmas tells us that tonight is that night. That now is the time.

Christmas asks us “What are we waiting for?”

It’s not like there is any shortage of brokenness in this world for us to throw ourselves at in love and healing and it’s not like we are not up to the task. My God, we are the body of Christ! We are made in God’s image and loved beyond measure. Through Christ, we are capable of infinitely more than we can ask or imagine. And yet, we convince ourselves that we’re not. We convince ourselves that we cannot make a difference. We forget that we are people of this holy night, the night that Christ was born.

This holy night reminds us that the way we love is not from a safe distance but dwelling intimately with one another, no matter the danger, no matter the risk. In the heart of the danger. In the heart of the risk.

This holy night tells us that the way we love is not fixing all the brokenness in the world, not magically solving every problem but saying “We’re going to be together deep in the midst of it, this night, every night, forever.”

This holy night invites us to look at all the places we are holding back, all the places we are afraid, all the places we are waiting until we know how to do it exactly right, until there will be no cost or ramifications, until the odds will be in our favor -- to look at all those places and to remember that the proudest histories of those who dared to follow Jesus are histories of those who looked at themselves and said, just as God does this night, “What am I waiting for?”

Christmas is not about giving a small gift.

Christmas is not about a simple act of generosity.

Christmas is not about playing nice for a day and then going back to business as usual.

Christmas is about us looking at ourselves in the mirror, and like God in the incarnation saying “What are we waiting for?”

There is a world out there, a world of oppression and division, of hopelessness and hunger. And there is a world in here, too – a world inside each one of us – a world of dread and fear, a world where we hide our true selves from one another for fear of judgment and suffer in silence rather than risk rejection. And this night we are given the gift of life and the gift of opportunity to love all of it – the world out there, and the world inside each one of us -- into a different place, a better place, a place of freedom and forgiveness and joy.

Why are we holding back?

What are we waiting for?

Wonderful things happen in the middle of the night.

The deepest conversations.

The most profound revelations.

The most passionate love.

The best questions come in the middle of the night.

And this night is no exception.

We have the gift of the greatest love the world has ever known. This night is born a Bethlehem a child who is Christ the Lord. His song is on our lips and his love is on our hearts and there is a world out there and many worlds in here waiting for us to meet him and bring him near.

Wonderful things can happen in the middle of the night.

What are we waiting for?

"The church must be the headlight. Not the Taillight" -- A sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral at 8 am on Sunday, December 13, 2015

Stir up your power, O Lord, and with great might come among us.

The church must be the headlight. Not the taillight.

John Lewis knows a lot about trouble.

The son of sharecroppers from Troy, Alabama, as a teenager, John Lewis listened to Martin Luther King on the radio and decided to dedicate his life to making trouble. And thank God he did. Because trouble is what made John Lewis great.

He organized lunch counter sit-ins in Nashville. He was a Freedom Rider and chair of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, one of the architects of the March on Washington and led protesters across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma.

He was arrested more than 40 times and beaten, sometimes severely, more often than that. All before the end of his 25th year. All before he had served even one day of his nearly 40 years representing Georgia’s 5th District in Congress.

Earlier this year, Representative Lewis was speaking to a group of pastors and other church people about the church today. About how the church has become pacified and self-concerned, respectable and removed.

And as he paced restlessly across the stage, he recalled the hero of his youth and reminded the audience that this was the church that King faced, too. That much of Dr. King’s energy was spent trying to wake up a church that believed God smiled on their docility. A church that had domesticated Jesus into a passive champion of the status quo, preaching a love that was about staying quiet and out of the way.

The church had to be woken up then, Lewis said. And the church must be woken up now. As he noted the young people taking to the streets and risking arrest to fight for human rights across our nation, Representative Lewis said: “I believe it’s time for the church to get in trouble as well.”

“I believe the American church is too quiet,” he said. “and it’s time to speak up and speak out. To find a way to get in the way. To get into trouble, good trouble, and necessary trouble.”

The church is fueled by the Holy Spirit, Lewis said. And we become great when we let the Holy Spirit do her work. We become great when we let the Holy Spirit stir up her power and with great might come among us and when we are not afraid to step out in that Spirit with grace, faith and love.

And not just step out but lead.

That’s right, we must not just fall in behind in the relative safety of the crowd, walking steps that have been made safe by others’ sacrifice and risk. As the church of Jesus Christ, we must make those sacrifices and take those risks ourselves, blazing the trail into a world where the ground has not been prepared for us. Where despite John the Baptist’s pleadings the mountains were not made low and the valleys lifted up, the pathways were not made straight and the rough places smooth before the Word became flesh in Jesus of Nazareth.

“If we want to build a loving community,” Lewis said. “We cannot shy away from the responsibility to lead.”

“The church must be the headlight not the taillight,”

The church must be the headlight not the taillight.

I think John Lewis and John the Baptist would have gotten along just fine.

John the Baptist also knew a lot about trouble. Long before his head ended up on a platter, John the Baptist was getting into trouble, good trouble, and necessary trouble.

This morning, he is surrounded by people who are coming out to hear him. They are fans. And John has a peculiar greeting for this crowd of potential followers. He calls them a “brood of vipers.” He asks them, “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come.” He tells them to “Bear fruit worthy of repentance.”

Now, I would say as a church growth strategy, this leaves a lot to be desired, except John the Baptist wasn’t interested in growing numbers. John the Baptist was interested in making disciples. John the Baptist was interested in preparing people to follow Jesus, the one who was coming to baptize not with water but with the Holy Spirit who stirs up her power and with great might comes among us and leads us into trouble, good trouble and necessary trouble.

This is not “How to win friends and influence people.” This is shock therapy. This is the toughest of love. This is John the Baptist saying, “Wake up people! A great light is coming into the world, a light that the darkness cannot overcome. A light of the best, deepest, most life-changing, soul-sating love the universe has ever known. A love that is for me. A love that is for you. A love that is everything we’ve ever dreamed of, a love that is our heart and soul’s desire but that demands our heart and soul in return.”

John is saying “Wake up, people! A great light is coming into the world. And there is a choice to make.

“Are you going to live this love?

“Are you going to be this light?

And you gotta make the choice. You cannot just rest on who you have been in the past, stay in your comfort zone and think that is enough. God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham.”

It is the Advent of the Christ. And Jesus is coming. And he will baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire. And it is the baptism we as the church have chosen. And if we are, in the language of our baptismal service, going to turn to Jesus Christ and except him as our Savior. If we are to put our whole trust in Christ’s grace and love. If we are to follow and obey Christ as Lord, John the Baptist is clear this morning that we have a choice to make.

A choice between safety and risk.

A choice between standing on the sidelines and leading the charge.

A choice between following the world and following the Christ.

A choice between being a headlight and being a taillight.

John Lewis and John the Baptist have the same message: Now is time. Time for the church to wake up. To speak up and speak out. To find a way to get in the way. To bear fruit worthy of repentance. To get into trouble, good trouble, and necessary trouble knowing trouble is always what makes the church great.

John Lewis and John the Baptist have the same message: Now is the time. The church must be the headlight. Not the taillight.

And so when politicians and pundits tell us we should greet refugees with slammed doors rather than open arms, now is the time for us to stand up and say “No! That is not the love of Christ.” And so we join with our sisters and brothers at Central Reform Congregation to adopt and welcome two refugee families into our city not just to nod toward compassion but as a first step to a broader partnership of radical hospitality for all.

The church must be the headlight. Not the taillight.

When Donald Trump and his supporters spew hate against people following the ancient faith of Islam, now is the time for us to stand up and say “No! That is not the love of Christ.” And so this morning, you can take one of these postcards and write a message of love to our Muslim sisters and brothers at the Islamic Foundation of St. Louis as a first step in our commitment to beginning a deepening relationship of love that will stand against the demonization of these beloved children of God.

The church must be the headlight. Not the taillight.

But that’s just the beginning.

When the people cry to John the Baptist: “What then should we do?” How do we shine our halogens ahead blazing the path, and not just bring up the rear of history’s parade? Here is what John says.

He says to the crowd: "Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.:”

He says to the tax collectors, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you."

He says to the soldiers, "Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages."

Three different groups of people – the crowd, tax collectors and soldiers – people at every level of collaboration with a dehumanizing, oppressive, occupying Roman State – ask John how do we accept this baptism, how do we become this headlight … and the answer John the Baptist gives to every single one of them is economic and it is personal.

Yes, it is absolutely about making a stand and saying the words, but it is also about choosing a way of life – individually and collectively – that is concerned not with building up wealth and power for ourselves but creating a beloved community of equity and justice for all.

What then can we do?

We can be a headlight not a taillight.

We can not only with our lips but with our lives reclaim the historic role of the church as chief lobbyists for the poor and the marginalized, not negotiating accommodations but demanding transformation and even dismantling of economic systems intentionally constructed so that some have a whole lot and others do not have enough; where greed is rewarded and wanting is justification enough for having.

What then can we do?

We can be a headlight not a taillight.

With our own life as a Cathedral, by how and where we invest our money, by our insistence that this space doesn’t belong to some but belongs to all, by giving away one of our coats every time we see we have two, we can give St. Louis a glimpse of our best future, of what Jesus’ vision of the beloved community can be right here, right now.

And so as our city prepares to build a football stadium while Black parents in North St. Louis City and County struggle to graduate their children from the failing schools White parents like me can escape from. In the face of this economic injustice will the church, will this church be a headlight or a taillight?

As we continue to pour millions and even billions in investment and tax breaks into the city’s central corridor while north St. Louis City and County are given crumbs off the table … will the church, will this church be a headlight or a taillight.

As income inequality spikes to levels not seen in a century, as north St. Louis becomes a broader and wider food desert, as the region continues to dump people struggling with homelessness on downtown St. Louis and considers that a viable solution to a moral crisis, as people of color throughout this country continue to get left off the major wealth escalators of property ownership and access to reasonable credit, as we continue to deny a minimum wage that even approaches a living wage…

Will the church, will Christ Church Cathedral, will we care more about our own survival or will we continue to say we care more about the life of all God’s children. Will the church, will Christ Church Cathedral, will we care more about keeping people comfortable or will we continue our call to shape disciples of a Jesus whose love has very little to do with comfort?

Will we speak up and speak out? Will we find a way to get in the way?

Will we get into trouble, good trouble, and necessary trouble?

Will we bear fruit worthy of repentance?

In this moment of history, with so much of it happening right here around us, will the church, will Christ Church Cathedral, will we be a headlight or a taillight?

This Advent, we are reminded once again that a great light is coming into the world. It is God’s love for us, and the Good News is this incredible love meets us where we are, and accepts us just as we are – nutty and brilliant; messed up and beautiful; clueless and creative. But God’s love for us is too deep and passionate to leave us as God finds us. God’s love is too great not to give us the chance and in fact beg us to choose to share in that greatness ourselves. To know the joy of John the Baptist. To know the joy of John Lewis. To know the joy of Jesus giving self for the life of the world.

The American church has been too quiet, and now is the time to speak up and speak out. Now is the time to find a way to get in the way. Now is the time to get into trouble, good trouble, and necessary trouble and my hope is we are just getting started.

The church is fueled by the Holy Spirit. And now is the time to let the Holy Spirit do her work. Now is the time for us to mean every word of the collect of this Third Sunday of Advent and bid the Holy Spirit stir up her power and with great might come among us and not be afraid let her lead us out into the world with grace, faith and love.

Now is the time. The axe is lying at the root of the trees.

Now is the time to bear fruit worthy of repentance.

Now is the time to live the surpassing love of God in Christ.

Now is the time for the church to be the headlight, not the taillight.

AMEN.

"Hearing John the Baptist in a world that forgives nothing" - a sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral at 8 am on Sunday, December 6, 2015

“He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.”

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“We live in a world that permits everything and forgives nothing.”

My friend Becca Stevens said that to me once, and it’s stuck with me every since. Turns out she was quoting a Roman Catholic Archbishop, Cardinal Francis George of Chicago.

“We live in a world that permits everything and forgives nothing.”

It’s true, I think, on both counts. Our society is becoming more and more permissive – and we can argue whether or not that is a good thing. Frankly, it’s probably a lot of both. But it’s the second piece of that quote that truly resonates with me.

We live in a world that forgives nothing.

We live in a world that is increasingly merciless. Where we get hammered for every mistake or wrong word or sin of omission or commission. We certainly see it in the political sphere where a slip of the tongue can end a career and where candidates are not allowed to evolve in their opinions or, God forbid, even change their minds lest they be called flip floppers and panderers, a symptom of a near-total breakdown in trust.

But it’s not just there. Increasingly most everyone I know is more and more afraid not so much to make a mistake but to have their mistakes discovered. The mantra of our society seems to be “Do whatever you want … just don’t get caught.... Because if you get caught, we will bury you!”

And so we live in a country where half of married women and 60% of married men will have an extramarital affair in their lifetimes … and yet we are brutally unforgiving when one comes to light – particularly to women.

We live in a country where 64% of men view pornography online at least monthly and pornography makes up about a third of all global internet traffic, yet instead of asking how we can help with an addiction, we cast out as a perverted pariah any man who is discovered with it on his computer.

There are similar statistics for other destructive behaviors. And our mercilessness has devastating effects. Because we live in a world that forgives nothing and that makes almost no allowance for human fragility, our own sin and brokenness is consistently driven into closets and underground in fear.

And that not only sends us into death spirals of shame, it cuts us off from resources and communities that can help us. It keeps in the darkness what only the light can heal.

It is into this merciless world that John the Baptist cries this second Sunday of Advent. And his cry is at once terrifying and liberating. He is proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

What John is inviting the people to. What John is inviting us into as an act of preparation for Christ in our lives flies in the face of this world that permits everything and forgives nothing. Because what he is inviting us into is a radical change in how we approach our own sinfulness.

John is inviting us to come out of the closet as sinners.

Baptism is a communal public act. So when John proclaims a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, John is inviting us to publicly own our sins and admit our mistakes, to proclaim publicly all those places where we have fallen and continue to fall short, to stand up and say to the world. “Hey everybody – we screwed up.”

But it’s more than that. It’s more than just “Hey everybody – we screwed up.” It’s “Hey everybody – we screwed up and we don’t want to do this anymore. And so we need help.” And yes, the first step is acknowledging we have a problem.

Repentance is about radical change of life. It is about recognizing that of course we fall short, of course we make mistakes. And that when we keep that sin hidden in the darkness it only grows in power.

But when we bring those mistakes, when we bring our sin and brokenness out of the darkness into the light, it doesn’t need to hold us hostage anymore and its power fades. And we don’t need to be imprisoned by the fear of an unforgiving and merciless world discovering our shortcomings and instead we can accept each other’s help and healing. We can form relationships of support and accountability to live new and different lives. We can say commit to something different together with one loud voice saying “We will, with God’s help.”

That is what a baptism of repentance is. It is coming together in Christ’s name and just being dead honest with each other about where we have screwed up and where we are screwing up, affirming that doing wrong doesn’t make us bad, unworthy and unlovable people, and supporting each other in leading a new life.

And that means it is also about forgiveness. It is about trusting that we are made in God’s image and that each of us is beautiful and good and that we need never, never, ever fear losing that, never fear losing our goodness, fear losing the incredible love God has for us. And that yes, we mess up in ways large and small. We make the same mistakes over and over again … and then we also find brand new and incredibly creative mistakes to make. We make mistakes because we are human and though we are in the image of God, we simply do not have the perfection of God.

And in these mistakes, in our sins, if we can own them and together commit to a new life, we can trust that we actually are forgiven. That in this merciless world that permits everything and forgives nothing, there actually is mercy and forgiveness out there for each and all of us.

And that we don’t need to be ashamed.

And we don’t need to hide.

And we actually can be free.

John’s invitation indeed is both liberating and terrifying. It’s liberating because we all long to be free of the burden of carrying our sin in silence. We all long to be free of praying that nobody find out what we have been trying so hard to conceal. We all long to be rid of the voice that says “Oh, if only they knew, you wouldn’t be loved … you wouldn’t even be liked.”

We long to trust in the truth of forgiveness – but our experience of the world is so powerful, we are terrified to try. We are terrified that if we reveal even a little we will be cast out forever. We are terrified that even though God might be forgiving our fellow human beings seem far less likely to be.

We are terrified because we have been burned before and we don’t want to be burned again.

John’s voice crying in the wilderness is one that will take great courage for us to follow. It will take us having the courage to believe in the midst of a world that permits everything and forgives nothing that we can be honest about who we are. That we can take off the masks and tear down the facades. That we can confess our sins and find instead of the wagging finger of judgment the loving embrace of Christ, helping us to overcome our sin and together to lead a new and better life.

Becoming this community of forgiveness will not happen in a grand gesture. It will not happen with us all suddenly pouring down to the riverside for some giant mass conversion. It will happen one encounter at a time as we speak the truth to one another with trembling voice. As we risk to trust one another to hold us in compassion and mercy instead of condemnation and judgment. As we inspire each other with the courage of our own truth telling and give each other permission to do the same.

This second Sunday of Advent, John the Baptist invites us to come out of the closet as sinners. To say with one voice “Yes – we screwed up and we keep on doing it.” To trust that despite all the evidence of our lives to the contrary that there is love and forgiveness out there for us all. Amen.

"Stand Up and Raise Your Heads" -- a sermon for the First Sunday of Advent

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on November 29, 2015

‘People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.’
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All this has happened before, and it will all happen again.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent.

Today we begin again to tell the Jesus story, the story of God’s epic love for humanity. The story of a love so strong, so deep, so wide that it could not be contained or kept separate from us but had to be with us as one of us.

Today we begin again to tell the Jesus story. The story of a God whose solidarity with us and love for us is greater than any fear.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. And like children at the feet of our grandmother, just after she has closed the storybook. Just a week after we have seen Pilate wash his hands and seal Jesus’ fate, we cry out “Again! Again! … Tell the story again!” And with great patience and love she relents and smiles sweetly and says:

“OK, just one more time.”

Today is the first Sunday of Advent and we begin again to tell the Jesus story. Not because we don’t know it. But because we need to keep hearing it. Because like the retelling of the story itself, we need to be reminded that God’s overflowing passion for us wasn’t a one-time event. That the Good News of God in Jesus Christ is reborn again and again and again.

That indeed all this has happened before. And it will all happen again.

And that with every retelling, with God’s help, we can trust in its truth in this telling just a little bit more than the last.

The story begins in an all too familiar place.

Jesus says:

“There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

It’s been nearly 2,000 years since Jesus said these words and yet in every retelling in every year since, we have been able to look around us and say “How did he know?” How could he describe this day so perfectly? Because we look around us, and this is exactly what we see.

There is distress among the nations. It feels like we are in a time of gathering darkness. And the people’s reaction to it … is fear.

The world is a fearful place right now. Fear is a commodity that is being sold to us -- and everywhere people are buying.

Fear is sold to us so we will buy guns. Fear is sold to us so we will fund prisons.

Fear is sold to us so we will continue to believe that people who are Christian need to be protected from people who are Muslim.

Fear is sold to us so we will continue to believe that people who are White need to be protected from people who are Black and Latinx and Syrian.

Fear is sold to us so we will not see the humanity in one another and then object to the dehumanizing way people different from us are treated.

Fear is sold to us so we will elect and empower the same people who are telling us both to be afraid and that they are the ones who can protect us and then charge us for the pleasure.

Fear is sold to us because fear is big money. Fear is big power. Fear is what keeps those of us who are wealthy rich and those of us who are poor in chains.

We see it all around us. We feel it in our hearts. On the earth there is distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. And people are fainting from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world. And it seems the very powers of the heavens are being shaken.

And we are tempted to join them. We are tempted to lose hope. We are tempted to buy the fear.

We are tempted to keep our heads down. To not stick our necks out. To not speak up for fear of being shouted down. To find a place of refuge and safety and hole up there … just until the storms pass … only the storms never really ever seem to pass, do they?

We are tempted to buy the fear. And then we remember. We remember that we are not people of the world but people of the Story. And so we say “Again! Again! … Tell the story again!” And we hear the nations in distress and the people fainting from fear and foreboding and the heavens themselves being shaken. And just at the moment we are about to join them. Just at the moment we are about to buy the fear, we hear Jesus' next words:

"Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."

We hear the story, and we remember. We remember what is planted deep inside us, the heart of the God in whose image we were made.

We remember that we are not people of fear.

Yes, we see what is happening around us.

We see the roaring of the sea and the waves.

We see violence and degradation.

We see the cause of evil prospering.

But that is not all we see.

Because we are people of the Story.

And people of the Story don’t keep our heads down.

People of the Story stick our necks out.

People of the Story speak up even if we will be shouted down.

People of the Story don’t look for a place of refuge and safety to hole up until the storms pass.

We are people of the Story, and we stand up and raise our heads.

And because we do, we see what others do not see.

We see Jesus.

That’s right.

We are people of the Story. And we stand up and raise our heads and when we do, yes we see the storm clouds gathering but in those clouds in power and glory we see the Son of Man. We see Jesus.

It’s not that the darkness fades away or the nations are no longer in distress.

We still see what is happening around us.

We see it but we do not keep our heads down. We stand up and raise our heads and in the midst of the darkness we see a great light. A light of love. A light of power. A light of hope.

We stand up and raise our heads and we see our redemption drawing near.

We stand up and raise our heads and out of the darkness we see the light of Christ.

And because we see the light, because we see Jesus, the world can sell all the fear it wants but we are not buying. Not today. Not ever.

We are not buying the fear because the hour is coming and now is when Jesus is coming into the world. And when we stand up and raise our heads, we see Jesus breaking through everywhere.

In individual acts of compassion.

In communities welcoming the stranger.

In volunteers tutoring after school.

In young people standing in front of store entrances crying “not one dime until there is justice for all.”

We see Jesus breaking through in the perseverance of the love that Kurt and Richard have for one another as at long last we bless their marriage today – a love that is greater than the fear so many have had and still have of that love.

As the darkness gathers and the storms rage and the nations tremble, we stand up and raise our heads and we see Jesus in a million lights that cannot be extinguished, in movements for justice that will not be stopped, in a perfect love that casts our fear.

All this has happened before, and it will all happen again.

Today is the first Sunday of Advent. Today we begin to tell the story again.

Today we look around us and yes, we see deep darkness, but that is not all we see.

Today we join together and when we are told the darkness is too deep, when we are told to duck and cover and cower, instead together we stand up and raise our heads because our redemption is coming near. Together we stand up and with one voice sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” knowing that Jesus is not only on his way but indeed he is already here.

People of the Story, rejoice and sing for this is our time.

All this has happened before, and it will all happen again.

The world is trembling. Same as it ever was.

The world is buying the fear that so many are selling. Same as it ever was.

But same as it has been for countless generations of the faithful, in the midst of despair, we who believe in hope, in the midst of darkness we who believe in light, in the midst of slavery we who believe in freedom will not rest until it comes. And hope, light and freedom are coming riding on a cloud in great power and glory. Hope, light and freedom are coming in Jesus and no power will stand against it.

People of the Story, though the skies look dark, rejoice and sing. It is the Advent of the Christ.

Stand up and raise your heads.

Our redemption is drawing near.

"Go ahead ... worry!" -- a sermon for Thanksgiving Day.

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Thanksgiving Day, 2015

Jesus says, “Don’t worry about it!”

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Don’t worry.

You wouldn’t necessarily think so, but this morning’s Gospel is one of the more fraught passages in holy scripture. And it’s because of our complicated relationship with those two words:

Don’t worry.

When someone is telling us not to worry, a couple things are usually going on.

The first is, we are worried. We are anxious. There is something that is troubling us and we are nervous and feeling out of control and fearful. And we’re feeling that strongly enough that other people are starting to pick up on it . Or maybe the circumstances are so obviously troubling that they are kind of doing a preemptive strike on our anxiety.

The second is, most often the person saying “don’t worry” to us … that person isn’t worried. They are feeling OK, in control. But all is not well for them. Our feeling worried … or their anticipation of our anxiety in the situation … is starting to make them nervous. Maybe it’s making them feel bad, or powerless … or maybe they are tempted to anxiety themselves and they don’t like that feeling.

Whatever it is, often the anxiety, the worry we are feeling and expressing is making them uncomfortable, so they want to remove it. They want it to go away so they can feel comfortable again.

It's not that there isn't genuine compassion there, but so much of the time the driving force is that feeling of discomfort.

And so the words come out.

Don’t worry.

It’s OK.

It’s going to be just fine.

Words of hope? Sure. But mostly words that are designed to soothe. To take the uncomfortable feelings and make them go away because they are making other people uncomfortable. And that’s a real problem … because feelings don’t just go away. They get suppressed. They get repressed. And when they do that, they fester. When they do that, they tempt us to think the feelings are bad and that maybe we are bad or weak or somehow “less than” for having them.

When I was working as a hospital chaplain one of the best pieces of advice I got was this:

When someone is crying or expressing anxiety or other emotion, it’s important that they be allowed to feel it! In fact, it’s important that they not only be allowed to feel anxiety or pain or fear but that they feel supported and protected as they feel it.

And because of this there are two things you should never do:

First is, when someone is crying or trembling or feeling pain, fear or anxiety, never pat or rub them on the back. We learn when we are babies that when someone pats or rubs us on the back they are wanting us to be quiet, to stop crying, to stop expressing whatever emotion we are expressing. Instead, any touch should be safe touch of support. Cradle their head. Put a hand on their elbow, gently supporting and lifting up.

Second, never say “Don’t worry.” Because no matter how sound the theology behind it, we interpret “Don’t worry” as worrying being bad and we being weak or faithless or even bad ourselves for doing it.

Frankly, most of the time, “don’t worry” just is about as helpful to those who are worrying as “don’t be hungry” is to those who are starving or “don’t be devastated” to someone whose child has just been killed.

So it’s problematic when we hear Jesus saying “Don’t worry.” Not because these aren’t good and true words of hope but because much of our experience of them is about others trying not to bring us words of truth but to suppress our own troubling emotions for the sake of their own comfort.

And it’s especially problematic on a day like Thanksgiving where the cultural expectation is so high for us to be joyful and thankful. But the truth is, on days like today when we truly are thankful for what we have, we are also painfully aware of what we lack. We are painfully aware of the broken relationship, of the empty seat at the dinner table, or maybe of the fact that we have no one to share a table with at all … or maybe of the fact that we don’t even have a table at all.

To just hear Jesus out of context spouting “don’t worry about your life” can seem cruel on a day like today. It can feel dismissive and denying and make us feel unworthy and less than.

And so on this day particularly, this Gospel reading needs a little redeeming. And that starts with remembering that Jesus was never one to be uncomfortable with our feelings. That Jesus was never one to pat us on the back and say “shhhhhhh” when someone started to cry. That starts with remembering that Jesus shed tears at Lazarus’ grave, trembled in anxiety in the Garden of Gethsemane and absolutely freaked out in fear of abandonment on the cross.

Jesus says don’t worry about our lives not because worrying is a sin or because our anxiety makes him uncomfortable. Jesus says don’t worry precisely because he is not going to run in fear and discomfort from our anxiety and pain. Jesus says don’t worry because he is the Word that became flesh and didn’t just pop in for a short visit, and then when things got uncomfortable glanced at his watch and said “look at the time!” and headed out the door … but dwelt with us and stays with us in all our anxiety and pain and brokenness. Jesus says “don’t worry” because he is the same Jesus who would stand with his disciples and say “Remember, I am with you always even to the end of the age.”

Jesus says “don’t worry” not because there isn’t anything to worry about but because in all those things we never have to worry about being alone. Jesus says “don’t worry” because he is modeling a way of life that is not about spouting platitudes to one another for our own comfort but actually hanging in with each other, actually being the assurance that we won’t go without food or clothing. Setting the foundation for the first church where “All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.”

Now that is something to be thankful for!

The irony of how we’ve applied this Gospel today is those of us who are in comfort have too often used it to disengage from the very human anxieties and worries that come from our deepest wounds and disparities … the very places Jesus intentionally leaned into the most and dwelt the deepest.

The irony of how we’ve applied this Gospel today is that we have used it to take anxiety, pain and fear and suppress it instead of doing what Jesus did – own it, feel it, and let it motivate us to be people of healing, creators of equity, and crusaders for justice.

The irony of how we’ve applied this Gospel today is that too often we have used it as an excuse to shut down one another’s pain and anxiety instead of resting in it together, using it to grow deeper in love and understanding and ultimately to become the Body of Christ that is the eventual path to every fear being answered and every tear being wiped away.

So this Thanksgiving, let’s hear this Gospel differently. And instead of hearing Jesus say “don’t worry” and patting one another on the back saying “shhhhhh….” Let’s cradle each other’s heads and put a supporting hand under each other’s elbows. Let’s say “worry, fear, cry, rage” – do it all you want and we’re going to be here and we’re going to be the presence of Christ holding each other and feeling with each other and knowing that these feelings are not going to be our last but that they must be felt if healing is to come.

Because holding each other in love, holding each other in discomfort, holding each other no matter what comes – that is the kingdom of God and God’s righteousness. And if we seek to live that first, everything else truly will be given to us as well. Amen.

"God is about liberation ... and we are too." -- a sermon for Christ the King Sunday

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, November 22, 2015

There are two stained glass windows directly above me. Some of you can see them. Most of you can’t. But I am aware of them every time I climb into this pulpit.

They are a couplet, side by side, both designed and executed by Emil Frei’s studio here in St. Louis. They pair two scenes – one from our Biblical story and one from American history. The most western window depicts Moses delivering the children of Israel from slavery in Egypt, and the companion window shows Abraham Lincoln freeing the children of Africa from slavery in America. The quatrefoil above the window has the Chi Rho symbol … the first two letters of Christ’s name in Greek.

For more than 60 years, these windows have been a part of this Cathedral, a reminder of a truth that our ancestors in this space believed so strongly they insisted it be literally imprinted on this very building. That it become physically a part of this Cathedral so that it would last even when their generation had gone to dust and was lying beneath our chapel floor.

And that truth is this:

God is about liberation.

God is about setting people free.

And if we are followers Jesus. We are too.

As we read scripture, we find that God is inconveniently and maddeningly consistent. God unfailingly stands with those who are oppressed, God unfailingly stands with those who are enslaved, God unfailingly stands with those who are cast out and vulnerable and wounded and told their lives don’t matter and God does it every single time.

The people of Israel were suffering and dying in slavery, a slavery they were bound into for no other reason than they had to leave their own land or starve to death. And God looked down on them and God, yes God took a side. And God did not take the side of Pharaoh. God did not take the side of the enslaver, of the oppressor. God said:

“I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey.”

And God said these things not to a general with an army but to a shepherd who couldn’t even say a complete sentence without stuttering. God said “Hey you, Moses. You who is so sure you are nothing special. You who is standing there wondering if you are going crazy because you’re hearing a voice come out of a burning bush. You will stand in front of Pharaoh, and you will tell the most powerful person in the world what to do. You will stand before Pharaoh and you will say ‘Pharaoh, let my people go!’”

And when Pharaoh turns all his worldly authority on you. When Pharaoh says, “Who the hell are you? Who gives you the authority to even presume to stand before me?” Well that’s when you say, “Pharaoh, I have authority that you on your throne in your grand palace cannot even touch. Pharaoh, my authority comes from one so great I dare not even utter her name.

“The great I AM is who sends me with this message to you.”

And Moses did it. And the great I AM delivered. And the people were set free.

If only that were the end of the story. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

But that was not the end of the story. Because sin endures and slavery re-emerges.

It’s centuries later, the people of Israel were again bound in slavery. Only this time they were prisoners in their own land. The Roman Empire had colonized them and terrorized them. And once again, God was watching. And God looked down on them and once again God took a side. And this God became human in Jesus not as a prince in a family of royalty but in a child born to a family forced to leave their home at the whim of an occupying government.

And in this morning’s Gospel, we hear that child, that Jesus, all grown up, standing as Moses did before the throne, but this time not as God’s messenger but as God herself. And like Moses before him, Jesus challenges Pilate saying, “Your authority means nothing to me. My kingdom is not of this world, and I will not be bound by its rules.”

“I am here to testify to the truth. And the truth is that which is cast down is being raised up. That which has grown old is being made new. Those who are enslaved will be set free. And this world, this world which is so far from what it should be, so far from the dream of God for God’s people, this world will be restored to the vision that birthed it in creation, and you may break this body but there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

Jesus sealed his earthly fate with those words. Pilate washed his hands and sent Jesus to his execution. But God’s passion for liberation could not be stopped, and the Jesus movement could not be killed. And the Jesus movement helped bring down the mightiest empire the world had ever known.

If only that were the end of the story.

But sin endures and slavery re-emerges.

And the window above us reminds us that centuries later, when a perversion of the Jesus movement supported the kidnapping of black bodies and bringing them to this country where our economy was built on the labor tortured out of them, God once again took a side. And the true Jesus movement, planted in the hearts of leaders like Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln once again stood up for liberation, and once again God’s children who were enslaved were set free.

And so we come to today. We sit beneath these windows and we hear the story of Jesus standing before Pilate, and we are reminded that God indeed is inconveniently and maddeningly consistent. That God unfailingly stands with those who are oppressed, God unfailingly stands with those who are enslaved, God unfailingly stands with those who are cast out and vulnerable and wounded and told their lives don’t matter, and God does it every single time.

Nearly 2,000 years later, WE are the Jesus Movement. And our history is written in scripture and etched in these windows and implanted on our hearts.

Nearly 2,000 years later, the torch is now passed to us. We are the heirs of Moses. We are the heirs of those who brought down Rome. We are the heirs of the great emancipators who stood up against what Frederick Douglass called “the corrupt, slaveholding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land.” Who stood up and said, “The Christianity of the slaveholder is not the Christianity of Christ.”

Who stood up and said, God is about liberation.

God is about setting people free.

And if we are about Jesus. We are too.

Nearly 2,000 years after Jesus stood before Pilate, the torch is now passed to us, the church, the Body of Christ. And like generation upon generation before us, we grasp that torch with trembling hand. We are weary. We do not relish standing before Pharaoh or Pilate. Like Moses who said with stuttering tongue, “surely not me.” Like Jesus in Gethsemane praying that the cup would pass from him, sometimes we wish that someone else will pick up that torch, someone else will step up and say the words and take the risk, someone else will stand in front of the throne. Like Harriet Tubman who feared for her life and Abraham Lincoln who feared for the Union, we stand in history’s gaze sometimes desperately wishing history would look somewhere else.

But sin endures and slavery re-emerges. Taking new forms with each new generation.

Sin endures and slavery re-emerges, and we are in the midst of slavery again today.

It is the slavery of educational, economic and a multitude of other disparities that keep people of color bound in an America that may be post Jim Crow but far from post-racial.

It is the slavery of women making 78 cents for every dollar men make – and much less for women of color – and that they make it amidst continual harassment, double-standards and threats of losing their livelihood should they stand up to demand justice.

It is the slavery of pundits, politicians and people who echo “the corrupt, slaveholding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land” as in the cloak of Christ they deny hospitality to refugees fleeing oppression and war.

It is the slavery of those among us who are trapped in homelessness in a world where you can’t get a job if you don’t have an address and you can’t get an address if you don’t have a job.

But it’s even more than that.

It is the slavery of body image, of believing beauty is tied to a cultural image of how we should look instead of beauty being living as the image of God in which we were made.

It is the slavery of the American doctrine that life is an economic transaction and our only worth is based on what we can produce.

It is the slavery of every voice we let oppress any child of God. Every voice that tells a child of God she is less than. Every voice that tells a child of God to sit down and shut up. It is the slavery of every voice that tells a child of God that her gift is less valuable, her dance is less delightful, her heart is less precious than another’s.

It is every way that is that should not be. Every way the lie of our powerlessness convinces us cannot be changed. Every way estrangement overcomes unity, guilt threatens forgiveness and despair overshadows joy.

And in the face of each and all of these, as the world tempts us to surrender, we come together and remember that God is about liberation.

That God is about setting people free.

And if we are about Jesus. We are too.

That in the face of every enslavement each new generation creates, we as followers of Jesus get the best job in all creation. In the face of every enslavement, we get to be nothing less than liberators sent in the name of Jesus not just into the palaces of government but to the boardrooms and the bedrooms, the dinner tables and the office cubicles, the boarding houses and the investment houses to proclaim that God is still alive and God is still faithful. That the cry of the people on account of their taskmasters is heard, that the suffering is known, that deliverance is at hand and that we are the Good News of Jesus Christ, the Good News of getting free, the lobbyists for the poor, and the unfailing, inconvenient, maddening eternal presence of God with the oppressed in this moment in history.

How the people of God have followed God’s path of liberation in the past is written in our scripture and etched in the windows of this Cathedral.

How we the people of God, the Body of Christ will follow it today and in the days to come is this very hour being written on our hearts. The torch is being passed to us, and though our hand might be trembling Jesus is there to steady our hand, to stand by our side and in the moment of truth to give us the words to say.

Because God is about liberation.

God is about setting people free.

And because we are about Jesus. We are too. Amen.

"You need to fail spectacularly at something important." - a sermon for the 24th Sunday after Pentecost

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, November 8, 2015

“You need to fail spectacularly at something important.”

It’s been 20 years since my seminary spiritual director, Vicki Sirota, said those words to me. They come back to me nearly every day of my life.

And they terrify me as much today as they did then.

“You need to fail spectacularly at something important.”

You want to know a secret about me? Failure terrifies me. I even know why. Because the thing I believe so deeply about each and every one of you – that you are made in God’s image, that you are beautiful and good and that you are infinitely loved. That thing that is so easy for me to see about each and every one of you … I struggle to trust it about myself.

Instead, way too often, I believe that my goodness, my lovability is tied to what I can produce, what I can accomplish. Instead, there’s this big piece of me that even as I urge you to believe in God’s love for you that has not yet learned fully to trust in the grace and love of Jesus Christ. To trust that Jesus was talking to me, too, when he said to his disciples “and I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.” To trust that Paul was writing to me, too, when he assured that nothing could separate us from the love of God. To trust that God was talking to me, too when God said, “you are my beloved, in whom I am well pleased.”

And so I think my goodness, my lovability is something that can be lost, and that if I screw up, if somehow my offering is not good enough, if I fail spectacularly at something important, I will have to come face to face with the fact that maybe I’m not good and lovable after all. Maybe all those things are for other people but not for me.

I share this because I wonder if even a part of you feels the same way. Fears that your worthiness is rooted in something other than how God made you wonderful and beautiful and good. That no matter what you tell yourself in your brain, even a piece of you deep inside believes that it is what you produce, or whether other people like you or agree with you or think you are worthy that determines your beauty and goodness and lovability.

So maybe it’s just me who feels this way, but my hunch is … not so much. My hunch is that many of us, maybe all of us, struggle with this. That this fear of failure and rejection that will just affirm all the voices of unlovability and unworthiness inside us is the lonely battle we fight inside every day of every week of every year. And it is a lonely battle that we fight in isolation because revealing it, revealing that which feels so much like weakness, would risk the very rejection we most fear.

It’s why I look at this morning’s Gospel and I am in awe of the woman in the temple. I am simply in awe of her. I am in awe of her strength. I am in awe of her courage. I am in awe of her willingness to be vulnerable and honest about who she is and what she has to offer.

Think about the scene. People are making gifts to the temple treasury – and the fact that Jesus can tell that “many rich people are putting in large sums” means this is not a sealed offering envelope where you can’t tell what’s inside. This is a public act for everyone to see. And if it’s a public act, you just know that people are making comparisons. They are seeing who is making the largest gift and they are making value judgments and equating it with goodness and faithfulness. And they are exchanging knowing glances and cutting whispers.

And many rich people are putting in large sums. The standard for success and worthiness and faithfulness is being set. And I can just see the woman standing in line, looking at the measly two coins worth only a penny in her hand. And she knows that not only can she see that her gift does not come close to measuring up to the others but that as soon as she gets to the treasury everyone else will see it too. As soon as she gets to the treasury, everyone will see how much she falls short.

The amazing thing about this story is that this woman, already looked at as less-than-human as a Jew by the colonizing Roman forces, already sentenced to second-class citizenship by her gender, already abandoned in the death of her husband. This amazing woman who is told in every aspect of life that she doesn’t measure up, is laying herself open for even more rejection and abuse. This amazing woman is about to take an incredible risk of vulnerability. The second she reveals her gift, she will be opening herself up to ridicule and scorn. Her gift is so small. How could this possibly be good enough? How could she possibly be good enough?

And yet she does not turn away. She walks right up to the treasury, in the same line with people who look so much more impressive and who are so much more powerful than she. She walks right up to the treasury and puts in her two copper coins. Says, “This is me. This is the best I have to offer. This is everything I have. And I’m putting it out there in love. So think what you will. Say what you will. Do what you will.”

Her two coins defiantly clink into the treasury and are swallowed up in the mass of other gifts as if they were not offered at all. Compared to the other gifts, her two coins are the very definition of insignificance – of failure. And for that second, all the eyes are on her before they are drawn away by offerings and people much more outwardly impressive. Before she too slips back into the insignificance and failure of anonymity.

And in that moment, Jesus does single her out. Jesus singles her out not for ridicule but for praise.

“Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on."

Jesus singles her out for not just praise but exaltation because she gave out of her poverty. And in that one act Jesus turns her from object of ridicule to model of discipleship.

Giving out of poverty is not just about money. It's about having the courage to act out of our vulnerability, out of our fear, out of our weakness, not just our strength.

Giving out of poverty is risking failing spectacularly at something important. It is daring to walk up to the person whose spouse has just died or who has just received a cancer diagnosis or who is sinking into depression and just be with them even though you feel absolutely inadequate, have no idea what to say and are terrified that anything you do say will just make it worse.

Giving out of poverty is about joyfully lifting your voice in song when you fear you cannot hold a tune. It is getting out on the dance floor when you have no clue what you’re doing.

Giving out of poverty is about standing up for what you believe in against important people with eloquent arguments, sharp tongues and powerful friends.

Giving out of poverty is about daring to trust that our goodness is not based on the approval of others, our success in their eyes or what we can produce, accomplish or even in the failure we can avoid. Giving out of poverty is about taking the leap of faith to trust that even if we fail, even if we fail spectacularly, even if we fail spectacularly and everyone points and stares and whispers cutting words under their breath that not only our gift but we ourselves are treasured as beloved and good by the God who danced the day we were born and has never and will never stop.

Vicki told me that what I needed to do most is fail spectacularly at something important because it is when we do that – when we are totally bereft of any other outward approval … when by every metric of success the world deems important that we have absolutely fallen flat on our faces … when our measly two coin offerings disappear as if they were never there leaving the crowd to wonder if we even put anything in at all. It is when there is no one else’s approval to seek or cling to that maybe, just maybe, we will realize that we don’t need any of that anyway. That just by being born, we are irrevocably good and irrevocably worthy. That no matter what, we are still God’s beloved child and that God simply delights in us. Delights in me. Delights in you.

As I read this morning’s Gospel, I wonder. I wonder if the woman heard Jesus’ words. The Gospel reading doesn’t say. I want to go back to the Temple that day and when Jesus says those words, I want to run up to the woman and say “Did you hear that? Did you hear what Jesus Christ, the Son of God said about you? Did you hear what Jesus Christ, the Son of God said about how amazing you are, how your two coins was the best offering ever? Did you see the look of admiration in his eyes and delight in his voice.”

“Did you see how he looked on you with such deep love?”

I hope someone did that. Because if someone did that for that woman, I can’t see how it would have done anything but change her life forever. If she were to know what Jesus thought of her and her offering, I can’t imagine there is any risk she wouldn’t have been willing to take for the rest of her life, any love she would not be willing to offer. If she were to know what Jesus thought of her and her offering, I can’t imagine she would have been anything less than unstoppable and invincible the rest of her life. Because she has failed spectacularly in the eyes of the world and knew that Jesus loved her not only anyway but because of it.

The Apostle Paul tells us that we are called together in Christ as a family of fools. We are people foolish enough to trust that perfect love can cast out fear and that being vulnerable unto humiliating death on the cross is the ultimate strength. We are people foolish enough to risk looking like absolute idiots and failures. We are foolish enough to believe that what we really need to do is not build our resumes, secure our respectability and keep people saying good things about us but put ourselves out there even if we fail spectacularly at something important.

In Christ we are a family of fools and the woman in the temple is our patron saint. We believe that our voice, no matter how shaky and halting, makes a difference. We believe that our labor, no matter how unskilled, makes a difference. We believe that our gift, no matter how small, makes a difference. We believe that the one hanging on the cross can bring down the empire. We believe in the impossible. And we stand together not in our strength but in our weakness, in our vulnerability.

And if we each can’t hear that voice of Jesus singing to us a lullaby of love, then we amplify it for each other in those moments of courage. When we have the courage to offer our meager gift, to risk failing spectacularly at something important, we get to amplify Christ’s voice for each other. We get to go up to each other and say, “Did you hear that? Did you hear what Jesus Christ, the Son of God said about you? Did you hear what Jesus Christ, the Son of God said about how amazing you are, how your two coins was the best offering ever? Did you see the look of admiration in his eyes and delight in his voice.”

“Did you see how he looked on you with such deep love?

The point is we try. We keep giving. Even when we are unsure, especially when we are unsure, we keep trying. We keep giving. We keep reaching out in love even when we’re not sure what love looks like. Even when we don’t know what words to say. Even when we’re scared to death the words we say might be the wrong ones. Even when we’re scared to death that people might point and stare and laugh.

We try. We keep giving. We keep loving. And through it all we try to trust and we help either other trust that our goodness, our lovability is not tied to what we can produce or what we can accomplish but to something much less fleeting and much more secure. To trust that Jesus was talking to us, too when he said to his disciples “and I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.” To trust that Paul was writing to us, too, when he assured that nothing could separate us from the love of God. To trust that God was talking to us, too when God said, “you are my beloved, in whom I am well pleased.” Amen.

"Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you." -- a sermon for the 22nd Sunday after Pentecost

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Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, October 25, 2015

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

Say that with me. Will you?

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

Again.

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

Again. Louder.

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

Now turn to someone near you and say it.

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

Again.

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

Once more.

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

If there are ever words we needed to hear, it is these.

If there are ever words we needed to say, it is these.

And the good news is, we get to hear them.

The better news is, we get to say them.

And the best news is, they are some of the truest words ever spoken.

We can take heart.

We can get up.

Jesus is calling us.

In this morning’s Gospel. In one story. In fewer than 10 sentences. Jesus gives us a model for our entire lives.

Jesus and his disciples are leaving Jericho. And as they are leaving, they pass Bartimaeus, a blind beggar, sitting by the side of the road. And when Bartimaeus hears that it was Jesus passing by, he takes an incredible risk. Hoping beyond hope that this might be someone who could help him, he cries out “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”

And what does he get for crying out? Nothing … and worse.

Some ignore him, either not hearing or pretending they didn’t hear.

Others turn to him and tell him to just shut up.

If there was ever any doubt in his mind that his life didn’t matter. If there was ever any doubt in his mind that his place was on the outside looking in, there it was.

Even Jesus doesn’t have any time for him.

Jesus has more important places to go and more important people to see.

Jesus is not about him.

Except Bartimaeus will not be denied.

He cries out all the more, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.” And the scripture says three words:

Jesus stood still.

Jesus stops dead in his tracks. Stops everything that he was doing. Stops the entire crowd that is following him. Stops the entire movement that is headed toward Jerusalem. Why?

Because of the call of one blind beggar.

Jesus stood still.

And then he says, “Call him here.”

And then the disciples say those words:

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

These are no ordinary words. This is not “ahh … it’s alright, come on over.”

Take heart. Take heart is the Greek tharsei. It means “Be bold.” It means “Have courage.”

It is the Greek version of the word Moses spoke to the people of Israel when they were pinned between the advancing Egyptian army and the seemingly uncrossable Red Sea. “Have courage. Stand firm and see the salvation of your God!”

“Take heart” is a clarion call of courage in a time of incredible crisis. It is a word of hope when all hope seems lost.

It is life where there seems no future but death.

And then “Get up.”

This isn’t just “on your feet.”

This is “Awaken!”

This is “Get woke and stay woke!”

This is the translation of the word Jesus spoke earlier in Mark’s Gospel to the little girl who had died. The one to whom he said “talitha cumi” which means, “little girl, get up.”
Get up.

Get woke and stay woke.

Literally it means come back to life.

“Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.” Means you who are in the deepest despair. You for whom all seems lost. You who have been left to die. Wake up. Get woke and stay woke. Come back to life. Find life where you were sure there only was death.

Why?

Because Jesus is calling you.

Could there be a more glorious message?

Could there be a more glorious message to hear?

Could there be a more glorious message to shout?

And yet all of it would mean nothing if Jesus didn’t make good on the promise. And that’s why the best news of all. Better than hearing it. Better than saying it. The best news of all is what happens next.

Bartimaeus throws off his cloak. He throws off his cloak because Jesus has called him and he is no longer a beggar. He will no longer be identified and categorized and commodified by that label. He is Bartimaeus, which literally means “son of honor” … and having had courage and been awoken, he comes before Jesus and Jesus sees him for who he truly is – not blind, not a beggar, not an outcast, but a child of honor, created in the image of God, beautiful and sacred and powerful … yes, powerful.

And Jesus shows just how powerful. Because Jesus places Bartimaeus in the center of the community and says “What do you want me to do for you?”

If that question sounds familiar, it’s because we just heard it. We just heard it on the lips of James and John last week when they were not crying “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” but “Jesus, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” Only Bartimaeus is not looking for power and privilege and glory. Bartimaeus is not looking to be exalted over others, to sit on Jesus right or his left. Bartimaeus is looking for equity and justice. Bartimaeus is looking for that which has for a lifetime segregated him from a life of dignity finally to be healed.

And so Bartimaeus says, “My teacher, let me see again.” And not only does Bartimaeus see, the scripture says “he follows him on the way.” No longer an outsider and an outcast. No longer a “them” to the disciples’ “us,” Bartimaeus, child of honor, follows Jesus on the way to Jerusalem. On the way to the heart of power. On the way to the cross.

For the past two months, Jesus has been giving us this same message.

We have heard him say “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Then the next week, we heard: “The Son of man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” Then we heard: “If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off… and if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off … And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out.”

And then the next week, Jesus moved from preaching to meddling because he started talking about money and said: “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

And then last week, Jesus said: “whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all.”

And now this morning, just before he enters Jerusalem, just in case we have – in the best tradition of the disciples – absolutely not understood a single thing he had been saying. Just in case we still think this Jerusalem trip will end on a throne at the palace instead of hanging on a cross, in fewer than 10 sentences Jesus’ Gospel gives us the very model for our lives as his disciples in the story of Bartimaeus.

Our job is not to cultivate wealth.
Our job is not to cultivate power.
Our job is not to cultivate respectability or goodwill or anything else this world values.

Our job – except no, it’s not out job. Our JOY is to seek out those among us who have been most cast aside, who are right now crying out for basic human dignity, equity and justice.

Our JOY is to hear those cries.

Our JOY is to hear those cries and stop what we are doing and to be the voice of hope that says you are not alone, that you are not shouting into an empty wind. That although the odds are stacked against you and the Egyptian army is at your back and all that lies in front of you is a seemingly uncrossable sea, that there is more than hope, there is the sure and certain hope of the resurrected Christ that even death on the cross could not stop.

Our JOY is to stop what we are doing and turn to those beautiful children of honor among us crying on the side of the road and say again and again:

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.
Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.
Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

And then our further joy is that we get to be the community that puts their needs at the center. That takes those who are most ignored and oppressed and says: “YOU get to set the agenda.” And then we get to listen deeply to the needs and concerns of those who have been listened to the least. And then our joy, our great joy is to use everything that Christ has given us to make that healing, make that equity, make that justice happen so that these beautiful children of honor can take their rightful place not as second- third- or fourth-class citizens but as fellow one-class travelers on the road we travel together.

And because this is what we get to care about. Because we get to care about being faithful to Jesus’ model of bringing the outcast into the center. Because we get to trust that we are all children of honor and that we already have the only thing that really matters and can never be taken away – the love of God given us in creation and confirmed in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Because of this, we are freed from caring about anything else but being faithful to that Jesus, being faithful to that call.

And that means, we get to not worry. We get to not worry so much about our own survival. And we get to worry not so much about our $300,000 deficit and how we are going to maintain these buildings and all those other things that might cause us to shrink back in self-focus and in fear. And we get to worry not so much about what’s in it for us because in the love of God in Christ we already have what we need the most.

Because when we hear and when we say “Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.” All we have to be concerned about in that moment is hearing and bringing the healing, life-giving, bold, courageous, get woke and stay woke best news ever of justice and equity and life of Jesus Christ to life in the world and then being a part of making it happen.

This is who we are called to be as Christ Church Cathedral, and this is the road we are on together. We are on it with the work of the cross-class conversations ministry and the Cathedral housing partnership. We are on this road with the work of the pursuing racial justice ministry and opening this space up to and becoming a part of the movement for black lives.We are on this road with our support of the women of Magdalene St. Louis and with our longtime celebration of those among us who are lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender as beautiful children of honor in this place and in this world.

We are on this road by keeping this space open every day for anyone to enter and get some rest and pray and worship God in the beauty of holiness. We are on this road together whenever we sit with each other and become a safe place to share an experience of rejection and to shed a suffering tear.

We are on this road together simply by continuing to show up together and love one another as we struggle with what in the world does it mean to follow this remarkable and difficult and extraordinary call of Jesus when so many among us are lying by the side of the road crying out “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”

Next week, we will bring the pledges of our financial gifts to this Cathedral for the coming year and we will place them on this table. Our challenge is that what we give will not be motivated by what we get out of Christ Church Cathedral or a fear of what might happen to Christ Church Cathedral or even in gratitude for what God has done in our lives personally.

Our challenge is that in our prayers and in our conversations with those with whom we make decisions about money we will ask this question:

As we seek a deeper relationship with God and each other in Jesus Christ, are we as Christ Church Cathedral faithfully following the call of Jesus Christ? Are we following the call of Jesus Christ who bids us hear a world crying out for mercy by the side of the road and tell those who are most outcast among us: “Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you!”

That is the criteria by which we as Christ Church Cathedral are worthy of support.

That is the criteria by which we as Christ Church Cathedral are worthy of survival.

“Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.”

You who are in the deepest despair.

You for whom all seems lost.

You who have been left to die.

Wake up.

Get woke and stay woke.

Come back to life.

Find life where you were sure there only was death.

Why?

Because Jesus is calling you.

Could there be a more glorious message to hear?

Could there be a more glorious message to shout?

Could there be a more glorious life to live?

People of God. Children of honor. Let this be the song on our lips.

In here and out there.

For us and from us.

Today. Tomorrow. Always.

Take heart. Get up. Jesus is calling you.

Amen.