"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.