Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral at 8 am on Easter Sunday March 27, 2016.
Jesus said to her, ‘Mary!”
In the name of the risen Christ, Amen.
Jesus said her name.
Mary.
There is something powerful about saying the name.
Names are about identity. Names are about value.
Names help us honor people but more than that they make it harder for us to dismiss people. They make it harder to turn people into faceless statistics or anecdotes.
Not, “someone got killed last night” but “Mary got killed last night.”
“Someone” is anonymous, not worthy of our attention or care.
Mary is somebody’s mother, daughter, sister, lover, friend.
When we baptize, we say the name.
Mary, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
When we bury, we say the name.
We commend to Almighty God our sister Mary, and we commit her body to the ground.
When Jesus calls us, he says the name.
Mary stood weeping at the tomb.
At first, Jesus said “Woman.” And she did not recognize him. She did not recognize him because she knew that Jesus saw her as more than just “woman.” More than just one interchangeable part among legions.
Jesus said, “Woman” – a functional label and then asked a functional question “whom are you looking for” to which she gave a functional answer “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him.”
And then Jesus said her name.
Mary.
Mary.
Mary.
And she saw that it was Jesus.
And the tears stopped. Or maybe they continued all the more.
And she dove into Jesus’ arms.
And she knew that Jesus who was lost was not lost at all.
She knew that Jesus who had died had risen again.
She knew that against all hope, against all odds, against all possibilities that she had seen the Lord. and that the hope, the light, the life he brought was for her.
All because Jesus said her name.
Mary.
Mary.
Mary.
We can believe in the joy of Easter. We can believe that Jesus died on the cross. That his body was laid in the tomb. We can believe that on Sunday morning, the stone was rolled away, and the body was gone. We can believe that he appeared to his disciples, and that he really did rise from the dead.
We can believe everything about Easter, and still it doesn’t matter unless we believe it is for us.
Unless we believe that the love that was so powerful that even death couldn’t kill it is for us.
Unless we believe that Jesus says our name, too.
Now I can tell you that he does.
I can tell you that as you stand weeping. As you wonder if it’s all been worth it. As you wonder if any of your life means anything. I can tell you that as you grieve over loss and pain and death in your own life that Jesus is standing there with you calling your name.
I can tell you that Easter means that Jesus is standing with you in your tears and saying:
Keith
Kris
Elizabeth.
Sharole.
I can tell you that, and I absolutely believe it. And maybe me saying it will help. Maybe you will even believe it, maybe you will even trust it, too.
But Jesus didn’t think that was enough. Jesus told Mary to go and tell the other disciples what she had seen. But he didn’t leave it there. He appeared to the disciples and said “as the Father has sent me, even so I send you.” He appeared to Peter on the beach and said “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”
Being Easter people isn’t just believing a proposition. It isn’t just saying “Christ is risen, Alleluia!”
Being Easter people is being sent as Jesus is sent – into a world full of people sure they are being forgotten. It is loving as Jesus loves – deeply, passionately, individually.
Being Jesus is about saying her name.
This glorious morning, I hope you hear Jesus saying your name. I hope in whatever state you came into this space, you hear Jesus meeting you right where you are and calling you by name. Not only in the Gospel reading or in the prayers or in the smell of the lilies … but in this community.
I hope you hear Jesus saying your name because you have taken the time to share it and someone here has taken the time to learn it.
I hope you leave this place having heard Jesus say your name and remembering how that felt. Remembering how it feels to be honored by your name and not dismissed as faceless or anonymous.
And having heard Jesus say our names, I hope we take this Easter joy out into the streets, out into our lives. I hope we are sent as God sent Jesus. I hope out of love for Christ we feed Christ’s sheep.
I hope we remember the power of the name.
And that when we meet someone in pain, we say her name.
And when we see someone in poverty, we say her name.
And when we see someone sitting in brutal loneliness, we say her name.
And when we see someone abused, when we see someone who has been profiled and targeted, someone who has rejected and defamed, someone who has been reduced to a class, a gender or a color we say her name.
When we hear someone has died, we do not let her pass anonymously into the arms of God, we say her name.
There is something powerful about saying the name.
Names are about identity. Names are about value.
Mary stood outside the empty tomb. But Easter didn’t begin until Jesus said her name.
Remember the power of the name.
The power of the name to make the invisible visible.
The power of the name to bring the hopeless hope.
The power of the name to turn a faceless them into an exquisite us.
Jesus said her name.
Jesus says your name.
And if we are to be the body of the Risen Christ, we must say each other’s names as well.
So that when we do, each person, named and loved, will know that against all hope, against all odds, against all possibilities that she has seen the Lord. Amen.
Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral at the Easter Vigil, March 26, 2016.
The light of Christ! Thanks be to God.
We began this night – about six or seven hours ago – on the steps of this Cathedral.
The steps of Christ Church Cathedral are a threshold. They are a hinge. They are the place where the world meets the church and the church meets the world.
If what we do in here has no relation to what happens out there – then there is no point to any of it.
If what happens out there has no relation to what happens in here – then there is no hope for any of it.
Standing on that threshold, that hinge between the church and the world, we can see the glorious $70 million renovation of Central Library, the $110 million renovation of the Park Pacific. We can see a refurbished Lucas Park with a great shiny playground, and we can hear the activity of the restaurants and street life on Washington Avenue.
We can also see evidence of the deteriorating infrastructure of St. Louis, where the water main outside the Cathedral has broken three times already this year. We see a sign we put up asking people not to congregate on those same Cathedral steps when we are not open because they had become a place where people were meeting at night to sell K2, the newest cheapest street drug. We see where members of this community who have nowhere else to lay their heads curl themselves into the alcoves of the Cathedral for makeshift shelter at night.
Standing on our Cathedral steps, we can gaze up at a penthouse apartment and gaze down on a concrete cot.
Standing on our Cathedral steps, we can hear the glorious sound of organ and the sweet sound of choir and the shrill sound of sirens and the sharp sounds of street arguments.
Standing on our Cathedral steps we see and hear and even smell the entire spectrum of humanity. All our glory and all our shame. All our success and all our failure. All our wonder and all our brokenness.
And standing in the midst of it, the words we sing this night are the words this Cathedral proclaims every day and every night.
The light of Christ. Thanks be to God.
For nearly 150 years, Christ Church Cathedral has stood on this space. When the cornerstone was first laid, this was a place for the wealthy and powerful. Lucas Place, the first private neighborhood in St. Louis, extended west along Locust Street. But by the end of the 19th century, the neighborhood had changed and St. Louis with it. The wealthy and powerful had moved west and most of the neighborhood churches had moved with them.
Except Christ Church Cathedral. We stayed.
We stayed in the heart of this city because the Gospel doesn’t follow the path of comfort. We stayed because as this neighborhood changed, one thing didn’t change – the need for Christ’s presence in it. The need for a place and a people to proclaim:
The light of Christ. Thanks be to God.
This is the night, we sing. God, this is the night when you brought our fathers and mothers, the children of Israel, out of bondage in Egypt, and led them through the Red Sea on dry land.
This is the night, when Christ broke the bonds of death and hell and rose victorious from the grave.
How blessed is this night, when earth and heaven are joined and we are reconciled to God.
As darkness falls this night, we sing:
May Christ, the Morning Star who knows no setting, find it ever burning – he who gives his light to all creation and who lives and reigns for ever and ever.
The light of Christ. Thanks be to God.
St. Louis is in trouble. We are in a Lent, a deep desert time, that seems to have no end. We are being called the most dangerous city in America. For decades and more we have been one of the most segregated metropolitan areas in this nation. For the past two years, our deep racial divides have been broadcast for all the world to see and yet so many in our own city still refuse to open our eyes to see them ourselves.
Our schools are failing. Food deserts are expanding. Drugs and guns are everywhere. And we spent nearly $17 million on a plan to build a stadium for a team that didn’t even want to be here and a mount a campaign to repeal a tax that provides more than a third of this struggling city’s budget.
There is an appalling lack of leadership and vision in this city. An appalling unwillingness to come together to do anything but cheer for the Cardinals and refurbish the Arch grounds. An appalling unwillingness to come together and let basic human decency and care for the common good trump political expediency and the grab for the quick vote or the quick buck.
It is especially appalling because there are amazing, wonderful people in this city. Compassionate people. Brilliant people. But we have allowed ourselves to become hostage to our own parochialism. We have allowed ourselves to let a social Darwinism run amok become the defining and driving economic and cultural force. Our approach to our deepest problems increasingly is for those of us with power and wealth to try move away from the problems or move the problems away from us. To say not “we’re all in this together” but instead “Hey, I’ve got my own problems … that race, crime, poverty, education, unemployment, deteriorating buildings thing you all have in the city … good luck with that.”
It is not worthy of us. It is not worthy of a great city. It is not worthy of a great people. It is not worthy of us as images of the living God.
We began this night on the steps of this Cathedral.
The steps of Christ Church Cathedral are a threshold. They are a hinge. They are the place where the world meets the church and the church meets the world.
If what we do in here has no relation to what happens out there – then there is no point to any of it.
If what happens out there has no relation to what happens in here – then there is no hope for any of it.
The salvation history we hear this night is the story of God never giving up on the people even in our darkest hours. It is the story – OUR story – of triumph. Of liberation in the face of slavery. Of life in the face of death.
St. Louis is in trouble. We are in a Lent, a deep desert time that seems to have no end. And yet after we hear the long story of God’s faithfulness, as sirens wail outside, we throw on the lights and we cry "Alleluia! Christ is Risen! The Lord is risen indeed! Alleluia!"
St. Louis is in trouble. And this is the night. It has to be. I don’t know how many nights we have left to keep these lights on.
This is the night when we rededicate ourselves to doing what Christ Church Cathedral at our best has always done –
defiantly standing against self-interest and parochialism,
defiantly standing against the clamor for the easy vote and the quick buck,
defiantly standing with those who are most oppressed, most targeted, most ridiculed, most marginalized
calling all people to come together for the common good
working together to solve our problems and not just pushing them around so they are out of sight and out of mind of those of us who could actually do something about them, not just pushing drug dealers away from our steps but actually addressing the underlying issues of hopelessness, mental illness and poverty that create the demand for drugs.
Not waiting for leadership to somehow emerge from somewhere else to name our inequities and injustices and call us to a greater justice, a greater equity, a greater common purpose but taking that mantle of leadership on ourselves.
Standing on those Cathedral steps – joining heaven to earth and earth to heaven -- staring into the darkness this is the night we with one voice defiantly cry “The light of Christ. Thanks be to God!”
The salvation history we hear this night is the story of God never giving up on the people even in our darkest hours. It is the story – OUR story – of triumph. Of liberation in the face of slavery. Of life in the face of death.
It is the story that reminds us that there is no darkness so deep that the light of Christ shining through us can’t dispel.
It is the story that reminds us that there are no bonds so strong that the victory of Christ cannot break.
It is the story that reminds us that there is no despair so great that the hope of Christ cannot dissolve.
This is the night when we – not just the congregation that gathers here on Sunday, but all of us in this city and around this diocese -- continue to write the next chapter of that story. When in the midst of darkness we ask God once again to send God’s saving power into our lives, to liberate us from all that binds us, to heal all that wounds us and to shine a light from this place and from each one of us that will touch the hearts of all St. Louis.
Sisters and brothers, we are here tonight to commit a revolutionary act.
We are here to stand up when we are told to lie down.
We are here to sing in the face of terror.
We are here to weep when we are told to smile.
We are here to lament when we are told to just shut up and go away already.
We are here to claim a story that was meant to end us, a story that was meant to kill us, a story that was meant to terrify us into submission – we are here to claim it as our life, our strength and our victory over the very forces that would see us cower before them.
Friends, just by coming together in this place, we are committing an act of resistance, an act of revolution.
And the revolution will not be stopped.
This Good Friday night, we hear the story of how Jesus was executed by the state in an act of terrorism. That’s what it was, you know. Crucifixion was state sponsored terrorism. It wasn’t just about killing someone. If you were a Roman citizen and the state decided it wanted to kill you, there were quicker, more private, more humane ways it was done. No, crucifixion was reserved for the oppressed and occupied people. Crucifixion was reserved for the people who needed to be kept in line, who needed to be put in their place.
The purpose of crucifixion was not just state sponsored murder but state sponsored terrorism. To kill someone so horribly, so publically, so gruesomely, so terrifyingly that nobody else would dream of raising their voice or anything else against the empire. Crucifixion was torturous death on the grandest public stage. And the message of crucifixion to the masses was clear and unambiguous:
We have the power. You have none.
Be very afraid. Because you are next.
The purpose of crucifixion was to terrorize the people.
The purpose of crucifixion was to stop the revolution.
And Jesus? Well Jesus was a revolutionary. Jesus was a revolutionary because he took those most on the margins, those most abandoned, most despised, most oppressed, and he put them in the center and said “What would you have me do for you?”
Jesus was a revolutionary because he spoke truth to power and not just any truth but truth that exposed the lies and frauds of the powerful. Truth that set the powerless free.
Jesus was a revolutionary because he tore down the idols and false gods that were set up to control and enslave the people and lifted up the militant nonviolent love of the one, true God whose only dream is to liberate the people.
Jesus was a revolutionary because he loved in the face of hate, he embraced in the face of exclusion, he brought life in the face of death.
Jesus was a revolutionary and revolutionaries are dangerous. Revolutionaries are a threat. Revolutionaries can change hearts with a touch, can topple empires with a word. Revolutionaries can bring down the mighty from their seats and exalt the humble and meek.
Jesus was a revolutionary.
He reminded people that even though Caesar’s image was on the coin, that God’s image was on them.
That even though the state told them their lives didn’t matter, that God said their lives mattered more than could be measured.
Jesus turned his face toward Jerusalem, toward the chief priests, the scribes, the Pharisees and the centurions and proclaimed in a loud voice that the whole damn system was guilty as hell but that he knew that they would win because the people united would never be defeated. Jesus was a revolutionary.
And Jesus did what revolutionaries do – he took to the streets. That’s right. Jesus and his followers shut down a highway … one of the main roads heading into Jerusalem. And they shouted Hosanna! Hosanna! Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets? Jesus was a revolutionary.
And Jesus did what revolutionaries do – he went to the center of power.
That’s right.
He went right into the temple and said, “How dare you take this place, this place that belongs to the people. This place where the very presence of God meets the people on whom God’s image rests. How dare you take this and use it for your own power and privilege. How dare you use it to oppress and imprison God’s very image. And knowing that people matter far more than property, that economic damage is insignificant compared with the horror of the oppression of an entire race of people, he overturned the tables and made a whip of cords and drove the moneychangers out of the house of God. Jesus was a revolutionary.
Jesus was a revolutionary, and revolutionaries are dangerous. Revolutionaries must be made an example of. Revolutionaries must not only be killed, they must be killed so horribly, so publicly, so gruesomely, so terrifyingly that nobody else would dream of raising their voice or anything else against the empire.
Jesus was a revolutionary, and so he was crucified because that’s how you stop a revolution.
Or so they thought.
But the revolution did not end.
They turned the crowds against him and had them shout: “Crucify him! Crucify him!”
And the revolution did not end.
They whipped him and they beat him and they spat on him.
And the revolution did not end.
They strapped a beam to his back and made him walk with his last ounce of strength to his own public execution.
And still the revolution did not end.
They pierced his hands and his feet with nails and his side with a spear. They gave him vinegar to drink and put a mocking sign over his head. They scared his disciples, other than a few incredibly brave and faithful women, into cowering in the shadows. And when they were done, when they had finally killed him, they sealed his broken, lifeless body in a tomb, rolled a stone over it and put a guard outside it just to be sure.
And still the revolution
did
not
end.
Why?
Why didn’t it end? The state did everything right. They beat him. They pierced him. They humiliated him. They drove the people in terror into hiding. It should have worked. Why didn’t it end?
Because the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.
Why didn’t it end?
Because instead of fearing a crucified Christ, we proclaim a crucified Christ… Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God.
Why didn’t it end?
Because You. Can’t. Stop. The Revolution.
Friends, the revolution continues. And the powers of hell will never prevail against it. And the truth we proclaim tonight. The truth that has always been true since that terrible day on Calvary. The truth that can set us free. The truth that will either loose our chains or bind them tighter is this:
The only thing that can stop this revolution is us.
The only thing that can stop this revolution is if we abandon the Gospel and cross of Jesus the Christ.
The only thing that can stop this revolution is if we decide we care more about respectability than justice.
The only thing that can stop this revolution is if we decide we care more about being a friend of the state than being a prophet to the state.
The only thing that can stop this revolution is if we decide we care more about safety and survival than standing with Jesus.
And whom does Jesus stand with? Whoever is most oppressed. Whoever is most targeted. Whoever is most ridiculed. Whoever is most marginalized.
That’s where Jesus is. That’s where Jesus is right now. And the question before us this night. The question before us this night where we hear this story that is supposed to terrify us but instead inspires us. The question before us this night is if that is where Jesus is, with the oppressed, the targeted, the ridiculed, the marginalized.
If that is where Jesus is…
Where.
Are.
We?
We gather tonight to sing the blues at this crossroads of Good Friday. And it is well that we should. It is well that we should because there is much to lament.
In the words of our sister, Traci Blackmon, "we lament the acceptable invisibility of black children, of black babies.
"We lament the criminalization of poverty and of people who do not have access to excessive resources.
"We lament that we live in a nation and a city where it is acceptable for many to have a whole lot and for many more to not have enough
"We lament that black girls and black boys get a substandard education and then get blamed for not being able to get a job.
"We lament that neighborhoods are criminalized and villainized because they are populated by black people.
"We lament that black boys and black girls living in poverty are not able to have recreational resources and facilities, and then because they are still brilliant and ingenious, they create their own collaboratives on street corners and in alleys and in streetways, and then have those areas victimized and villainized and criminalized."
And that's not all...
We lament that we support a rabidly insane culture in this nation that sells power to black people and fear to white people in the form of a gun.
We lament that state sponsored terrorism is alive and well in the mass incarceration and extrajudicial killing of young black women and men.
We lament that economic slavery is alive and well as people and municipalities with power and privilege squeeze the labor out of black bodies through suppressing minimum wages and through balancing municipal budgets on their backs.
We gather tonight to sing the blues at this crossroads of Good Friday. And it is well that we should. But not only because there is much to lament, but because we as the church are at a crossroads. And the question before us is the old blues question of the crossroads:
Will we make a deal with the devil or will we stand with the Christ?
When the killing of Michael Brown and his body lying in the streets for four and half hours finally drove me out into the streets – and I say finally because I went out there much, much, much too late. But when I did, I met incredible young black women and men who got in my face.
They were not impressed with my color or with my collar.
They told me that my talk was cheap. And they had had enough of that.
They told me that I had been in my church praying while they were out there dying. And they had had enough of that.
They told me that I had been caring more about preserving my respectability and policing their profane language than about working for justice and ending the profane conditions in which they had been living. And they had certainly had enough of that.
They said, “You want to help? Then don’t come out here and preach at us. Come out here and stand with us. Stand against the tear gas and the rubber bullets. Stand against the pepper spray and the riot gear. Stand up and speak out. Amplify our voices. Do your white folk work. Give away your power and let us lead.”
We gather tonight to sing the blues at this crossroads of Good Friday because we as the church are at a crossroads. And the question before us is the old blues question of the crossroads:
Will we make a deal with the devil or will we stand with the Christ?
Jesus is a revolutionary … and he is alive and well. He is out in the streets right now. He is standing up and he is shutting it down. And he is waiting for his church to get it together. He is waiting for his church to leave the comfort of our buildings and to get out there and join him. To toss Caesar’s coins back in his face, overturn tables and start making whips of cords. To meet oppression with militant nonviolent love.
Jesus is a revolutionary … and he is alive and well. And he is standing where he always stands, with the oppressed, the targeted, the ridiculed and the marginalized.
Jesus is a revolutionary … and he is leading the fight for freedom. And he bids us to get out of our comfortable pews and join him.
The devil is telling us to play it safe. The devil is telling us that if we play it safe we can keep our buildings and our reputations. That people in high places will say nice things about us. That we can keep our seats of honor at banquets and places of privilege in the public square.
Jesus is telling us those things are nothing but finely gilded prisons and they have been keeping us bound for far too long – and that we need to have had enough of that.
Jesus is a revolutionary … and he is telling us that we need to lay it all on the line because truly we have nothing to lose but our chains.
We gather tonight to sing the blues at this crossroads of Good Friday because we as the church are at a crossroads.
As we tell the story of the cross, will we celebrate that together we can leave everything behind and carry that cross with him and with each other, counting all things as loss compared with the surpassing excellence of knowing Christ Jesus our Lord?
As we hear the nails pounded into his flesh, will we celebrate that the worst the world could offer could not stop the revolution then, and that the baton is being passed to us?
As we see his body laid in the tomb will we proclaim with one voice that that body is us, that the tomb is not the end, and that this party is just getting started?
As we leave this place will we go not to the comfort of our homes but into the streets. Will we not hoard power for ourselves but give it away to a new generation of young, black, queer, profane leaders. Will we live in such away that even agents of the empire will, like the centurion, look on us and say “truly this is the Son of God?”
Because, friends, that is who we are.
We are the Body of Christ.
We are the revolution.
And as long as we remember that, the revolution will never be stopped.
Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Maundy Thursday, March 24, 2016.
For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.
From our earliest moments, almost all of us know how to do two things.
We know how to breathe and we know how to eat.
The first we do on our own. We suck in great lungfulls of air and then let out loud cries, still traumatized and fearful from the transition from the womb into the outside world.
The second we can’t do on our own. We need someone else. A mother. A father. A nurse. A midwife. Someone who can put us to the breast or to the bottle and then almost always, instinct takes over. We begin to suckle. We begin to feed.
For most of us, feeding – and the sensations that come with it – being held securely and womblike, the warmth of skin on skin – are our first experience of love, of acceptance, of safety. More powerful than any words, we get the message – this is for you. You are not alone. There is another to sustain you.
To protect you.
To love you.
Or alternately, not.
Feeding and being fed is the central act of being human in community. It is why every major celebration, be it a birthday or a wedding or a funeral or a graduation, involves communal eating. It is why families eating together are directly correlated to them living well together. It is why Thanksgiving dinner can be a glorious celebration or a treacherous minefield. And it is why eating disorders and the body shaming that so often accompanies them are so destructive.
Because eating cuts to the heart not just of how we survive but our very feelings of worthiness to survive.
Feeding and being fed is how we include.
Feeding and being fed is how we exclude as well.
Our earliest and most deeply ingrained purity codes revolve around sex and food – two acts that are about intimacy, biological drive, creation, sustenance and even deep celebration and joy. Two acts that that can be used to wound and destroy as much as they can be used to heal and restore. Just as historically human beings have included and excluded based on sexual norms, we also include and exclude based on what foods we eat and on whom we allow to sit at table.
Feeding and being fed are what defines who “the us” is. Because on a primal, embodied level, feeding and being fed are how we say not just “this (an item of food) is for you” but “this (the community) is for you” as well.
The table defines the community. The community is defined by the table.
What is eaten. Who is served.
What is not eaten. Who is not served.
Who is embraced. Who is shamed.
We see this today here at Christ Church Cathedral. Before we gather at table for the Eucharistic prayer this evening, I will remind us that “this is Christ’s table and all may approach.” Some may choose to approach to partake in the food. Some may choose to approach and receive a blessing. But all may approach.
We make a powerful statement by this invitation. One that is rooted in our scripture and the historic faith of the church that God so loved the WHOLE WORLD that God became human in Jesus the Christ and gave himself up not just for some of us but for all.
Tonight, we hear one of the earliest pieces of Christian scripture – the account of the last supper in Paul’s first letter to the Church in Corinth. Paul hands on to the community what he received from the risen Christ, “that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’”
It is one of the most profound and defining pieces of theology in all of history. Jesus as the host of the table saying that he is both the server and the meal. Both the one that provides and the sustenance itself. Both the giver and what is given.
This is my body that is for you, you plural. All of you.
This cup is the new covenant in my blood. No longer the blood of the Passover lamb for the liberation of just the people of Israel, but as Paul knows as much as anyone the blood of the lamb of God for the liberation of all people, Jew and Gentile, woman and man, slave and free.
The Eucharist is the great equalizer. The great unifier. That all may be one as the Christ and the Father are one through the power of the Holy Spirit. Not just a meal, not even just a liturgy but the very ground of our being.
As St. Augustine said to those gazing on these holy gifts: “Be what you see, receive who you are.”
If only it were that easy.
If only it were as easy as saying all may approach.
If only it were as easy as all of us coming together around this table like Dr. Seuss’ Whos down in Whoville singing on Christmas morn.
If only it were as easy as just saying “here, lay your life on this table and receive new life in return.”
If only it were as easy as just saying “be what you see, receive who you are.”
But it’s not. It isn’t now and it wasn’t then.
Paul relays these words about the Eucharist to the Corinthians not because they are doing it right but because they are getting it wrong. The Corinthian church is a struggling church. They are struggling with division and diversity. They are struggling with competing agendas. They are struggling with strong appetites and preferences and the powerful gravitational pull of human frailty.
Just before the reading we heard this evening, just before Paul hands on this story of the meal that he received from the Lord, Paul writes this:
“Now in the following instructions I do not commend you, because when you come together it is not for the better but for the worse. For, to begin with, when you come together as a church, I hear that there are divisions among you; and to some extent I believe it. Indeed, there have to be factions among you, for only so will it become clear who among you are genuine. When you come together, it is not really to eat the Lord’s supper. For when the time comes to eat, each of you goes ahead with your own supper, and one goes hungry and another becomes drunk. What! Do you not have homes to eat and drink in? Or do you show contempt for the church of God and humiliate those who have nothing? What should I say to you? Should I commend you? In this matter I do not commend you!”
There are some bad table manners going on in Corinth. Because the people of the church in Corinth are forgetting. They are forgetting that this meal is not about them, not about the individual, the needs and wants of the one. They are forgetting that like the love of Christ itself, this meal is always about the love that is always reaching outward, always giving of itself, always caring more for the other than for itself.
The Corinthians are forgetting that when they eat of this bread and drink of this cup, they not only remember Christ they are re-membered – literally knit together as the body of Christ themselves. That they are given for the life of the world. That, as former Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams preached, when you are receiving the bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ, you must have excellent peripheral vision. You must see the people being fed on either side of you and ask Jesus not just to feed you but to make you a part of feeding them as well.
The Corinthians are forgetting that the bread and the wine were just one part of that meal. That “after supper, Jesus got up from table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. And that when he was done he said, ‘So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet” you also ought to wash one another’s feet…. I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you’ – intimately, passionately, with my body, with my blood, touching the dirt on your feet and caressing them with love – ‘Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.’”
There are some bad table manners going on at Corinth because they are forgetting not only that Jesus is both server and meal. Both the one that provides and the sustenance itself. They are forgetting not only that Jesus is both the giver and what is given … but that as the Body of Christ…
So. Are. They.
And so we gather together this night to do the most primal act of human community. To share a meal. But not just any meal. A meal where Jesus offers us bread and wine and says “this is for you. I am for you.” A meal where we are bid to have excellent peripheral vision and to gaze on our sisters and brothers and be what we see and receive who we are and say one to another “this is for you. I am for you.”
And like the Corinthian church we are struggling church. We are struggling with division and diversity. We are struggling with competing agendas. We are struggling with strong appetites and preferences and the powerful gravitational pull of human frailty.
And, thankfully God is infinitely patient.
Because like those Corinthians, we struggle with our table manners. We struggle because we are so human. We struggle because we forget. We forget that this meal is not about us, not about the individual, the needs and wants of the one. We forget that, like the love of Christ itself, this meal is always about the love that is always reaching outward, always giving of itself, always caring more for the other than for itself.
Like those Corinthians, we forget that when we eat of this bread and drink of this cup, we not only remember Christ, we are re-membered – literally knit together as the Body of Christ ourselves. And that we need the full diversity of all God’s children truly to become that Body. And that as that body, we do not exist for ourselves but we are, just like Christ, given for the life of the world.
Tonight we commit a revolutionary act. Tonight we remember and are remembered. Tonight we invite all to the table and say “This is for you. I am for you.” Tonight we are what we see. We receive who we are. Tonight we wash each other’s feet and touch and caress and love the long, hard journeys we each have traveled.
Tonight we hear the story, and break the bread and share the cup and we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes. Tonight we remember that Jesus is both server and meal. Both the one that provides and the sustenance itself. That Jesus is both the giver and what is given. And that as the Body of Christ…
Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Wednesday in Holy Week, March 23, 2016.
Very truly I tell you. One of you will betray me.
I wonder if this wasn’t the most painful part of the passion for Jesus.
More than the nails.
More than the spear.
More than the fear.
Betrayal.
Betrayal is a pain like no other.
Betrayal is deep and searing.
Betrayal is crushing and disorienting.
Betrayal turns us inside out and upside down. It takes that which we trusted most and turns it against us. Takes the warmest embrace of safety and turns it into the coldest steel blade piercing our heart.
Judas was one of Jesus’ closest friends, one of Jesus’ most intimate confidants.
Jesus had said “follow me” and Judas had followed. When things got rough and others had left, Judas had stayed.
In all the world, there were only a handfulof people that Jesus truly trusted, and Judas was one of them.
And Judas betrayed him.
Not some nameless informant.
Not his traditional nemeses the chief priest and the Pharisees.
But Judas.
His friend.
The betrayal is perhaps not only the most painful but the most overlooked part of the passion.We are drawn to and repulsed by the horror of the nails and the spear, but we are also removed from that. Most of us will never know that horror. For most of us, the cross is symbol and metaphor.
But betrayal?
Betrayal is one of our greatest fears. Betrayal is one of our deepest pains.
Betrayal is what keeps us up at night.
Images of our lover in another’s embrace.
Sounds of a treasured friend whispering against us across a restaurant table.
The moment of revelation that that supportive hand on your back was actually holding a knife.
Betrayal leaves scars that run more deeply and heal more slowly than any other wound.
Betrayal robs us of trust.
Betrayal makes us question our lovability, our worthiness, our very sanity.
Jesus was betrayed. Betrayed by one of his own.
And because of that, for us this Holy Week, there are at least two truths of which we can be sure.
The first is that Jesus knows that pain. That means if you have been betrayed. If you have known that pain. If you are haunted by those images and voices, you can know that you are not alone. That you share that pain with the one who bears all our pain, Jesus the Christ.
That doesn’t make the pain go away. It doesn’t even make it hurt less. But it does mean even in the searing pain of betrayal, you will never be alone.
The second is that Jesus didn’t stop loving.
Betrayal makes us ultimately vulnerable … and so betrayal tempts us to close up. To not let anyone else in. To not give anyone else the opportunity ever to hurt us again.
Betrayal tempts us to close ourselves off. To not trust anyone else with our love lest that love get turned against us in betrayal once more.
Jesus was betrayed with a kiss. And he responded with a kiss. He felt the pain, bore it all, and continued to love, loved all the way to death, even death on a cross.
Today as we prepare for the end.
Today as we prepare for the final meal, the washing of the feet, the loneliness of the garden and the agony of the cross.
Today as we stand on the precipice of the great three days, let us hear this story and remember.
Remember that Jesus was betrayed.
That Jesus was betrayed and stands with us bearing the pain of all our betrayals.
That Jesus was betrayed and pleads with us to stand with him in all our vulnerability.
That Jesus was betrayed and it was not the end. It was only the beginning. Amen.
Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, March 13, 2016.
What honors God?
Over and over again in the Gospels, Jesus raises the question: “What honors God?”
He asks it of Pharisees and Sadducees. Of disciples and detractors. A week from this Thursday night in Gethsemane, with his life in the balance, he will even pose it to God herself.
Not “What do I like?”
Not “What makes me feel comfortable?”
Not “What is the easiest?” or “What makes me feel strong and superior?” Not even “What makes the most sense?”
But “What honors God?”
What makes the divine heart dance? What makes the divine voice shout for joy? What makes the divine eye beam with pride?
What honors God?
It’s a hard question to answer. Because God is love, what honors God is always about love, and there isn’t a messier, slipperier creature in heaven or earth than love.
We know that, don't we? We know from our own experience that love doesn’t make things easier and simpler. Love makes things harder. Love complicates everything. Love makes things really, really, messy.
And so sometimes the only way to start. Sometimes the only way to try to answer the question “What honors God?” is to start with what doesn’t. To start with the places where the very stones beneath us cry out: NOT THIS.
That’s how I felt on Friday morning.
On Friday morning I stood with some other members of our Cathedral community and a small group of others outside the Peabody Opera House. We had come to stand in support of our Muslim sisters and brothers and against the hatred and fearmongering of Donald Trump, who two days earlier had declared on national television that “Islam hates us” – using his considerable pulpit to mischaracterize and sow fear about that ancient religion in the hearts of millions of Americans.
The line for the rally was thousands of people long. It wound around blocks. It was old and it was young. And periodically the crowd would break into a chant of:
“Build that wall.
“Build that wall.”
A huge crowd of people, many of them in their teens and 20s and even children who couldn’t be more than five years old pumping their fists in the air chanting:
“Build that wall.
“Build that wall.”
And I was filled with an overpowering sadness. A sadness that seemed to well up not only from deep inside but even from beyond my body.
This was not about political disagreement. This was not about Trump or Cruz, Clinton or Sanders. This was not even a spirited debate on immigration policy. This was about human beings, created in the image of God, gleefully -- gleefully proclaiming that other images of God were less than they were. That other images of God were to be feared and hated because of the color of the image of God they were, because of the name of the God they worshipped, and because they had dared to raise their voices and demand our nation actually live up to Emma Lazarus’ plea to “give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
I was filled with overpowering sadness because I could feel God weeping for all of God’s children in that moment.. How broken we are. How trapped in false dichotomies of us and them. How those on the margins instead of being embraced were being pushed further and further and further out.
And I thought of Jesus’ question, “What honors God?” And in that moment I was sure of one thing.
Not this.
Not this hatred. Not this fear. Not this building of walls and sharpening of swords.
What honors God?
Not this. Definitely, not this.
And as I stood there with “Not this. Not this. Not this.” pounding with every beat of my heart, I was tempted to despair. I really was. The chanting crowd seemed like a tidal wave and how could we stand against it.… and then I remembered the Gospel reading for this morning.
And I was filled with hope.
Because I remembered Mary’s answer to the question.
I remembered what honors God.
In this morning’s Gospel, Jesus is at the most vulnerable point of his life so far. He has traveled long and far and loved so boldly that he knows that powers of the world are preparing to take him out. His ministry is over. All that is left for him is the journey into Jerusalem to die.
And so he takes refuge with those dearest to him. With Lazarus, Mary and Martha and yes, with Judas. And that’s where a scene unlike any this side of the Song of Solomon and Fifty Shades of Grey plays out.
Mary takes a pound of the most expensive perfume. Now this ain’t something she got from ISmellGreat.com. This is like Chanel Grand Extrait -- $4,200 an ounce. The whole bottle is worth an entire year’s salary. And Mary doesn’t just dab some on Jesus. She slips off his sandals, and takes his feet – feet that are dirty and dusty and cracked and sore from walking so many miles – she takes his feet and cradles them in her hands and then lavishly pours all the perfume all over them and lovingly massages those feet with her long fingers digging deep into them until both her hands and his feet are glistening wet and yielding to the touch.
Then looking at him lovingly, she caresses his feet over and over again with her long hair, soaking up all the perfume until her hair is dripping and his feet are dry and soft and radiant.
And the fragrance of the perfume fills the room, overflowing into the nostrils of every person at the table – and probably into their shocked, gaping open mouths as well. Captivating them in this dance. Because that’s what it is. An extravagant. Passionate. Loving. Dance.
This is not an ordinary act of hospitality. This is extravagant. This is intimate. This is sensual.
This is Mary, Jesus … for God’s sake, get a room!
Jesus is facing his death. He is about to go into Jerusalem where he will be betrayed and beaten, crucified and killed. And Mary meets Jesus at his most extreme marginalization and vulnerability and loneliness. And she meets him not with fear or anger or hatred – but with deep, slippery, sensual, messy, extravagant love.
Love that is unexpected.
Love that flouts conventional wisdom.
Love that offends sensibilities and defies purity codes.
Love that can be mistaken for nothing else but divine love, the same passionate, extravagant love that will lead Jesus out that door and place those same feet on the road to Calvary.
Why?
Why would Mary love Jesus so extravagantly?
So passionately?
So messily??
Because that’s what honors God.
What honors God is when deep pain is met with extravagant love.
What honors God is taking the best we have and meeting Christ at his most vulnerable knowing that the face of Christ always rests on those who are the most vulnerable, are the most marginalized, are the most condemned.
What honors God offends our sensibilities. It seems impractical, even crazy.
It is O’Henry’s Gift of the Magi.
It is the “with all that I have and all that I am, I honor you” of the marriage service.
What honors God is loving one another the way God loves us, the way God loves you -- extravagant, passionate, intimate, crazy, wild love.
And no wall shall ever stand against it.
And what does this love look like? It isn’t always clear. It looks different in every situation because love is always personal and contextual. But we do know it is always costly and it is usually uncomfortable to be around. It is the love of the poured out perfume. It is the love of the journey to the cross. It is the love of healing on the Sabbath and putting your body in the dirt between the woman on the ground and the crowd holding the stones.
It is a love that risks ridicule and that means we will always have those voices inside and out that are telling us we’re crazy just as we’re giving it away.
It is the love of standing with our Muslim sisters and brothers, even putting our bodies between theirs and an angry mob – just as many Muslims have done time and again forming human shields around Christians in the Middle East.
It is the love of seven women and men staging a 39-hour filibuster to try to beat back a vicious LGBT-hating bill this week on the floor of the Missouri State Senate.
It is the love of greeting a parent struggling with a restless child in worship with a look of joy and understanding instead of annoyed scorn.
What honors God? That’s for us to figure out. But it always looks like love. Extravagant, overwhelming love.
Here at Christ Church Cathedral, when I think of what honors God, I think of evensong.
Here at Christ Church Cathedral, evensong is a feast for the senses. The beauty of this space as night is falling. Soaring anthems offered by the choir. And to top it off, when it’s all done, Myrna Wacker, Dave Lawson and the St. Martha’s Guild lay out a spread of some of the most sumptuous gourmet hors d’oeuvres you have ever tasted.
We don’t pack the house for evensong. We get 50 maybe 75 people. But what I love is seeing those of you who are living in the deepest vulnerability come off the streets often carrying all your possessions with you, come in and fall into a chair. I know from our conversations that the moments of beauty in your life are often few and far between. And I see you close your eyes as you let the music wash over you.
And then after the service is over. I see you come to the table where this amazing feast, this heavenly banquet is laid out – and in a world that seems to begrudge you even a bologna sandwich or a bowl of soup, a world that will soon enough ask you to sleep on hard concrete instead of a soft bed – I see you partaking of food that explodes with rich flavor, finally a feast worthy of you as images of God.
Every time I see it, I think of this Gospel passage. Because it us as a Cathedral taking the finest that we have and offering it to those among us who are most vulnerable.
It is us as Christ Church Cathedral at our best.
It is love that is unexpected.
It is love that flouts conventional wisdom.
It is love that offends sensibilities and defies purity codes.
It is what honors God. And in our blessed humanity we do it so imperfectly that it is important to hold up the glimpses when we get it right.
Because this is how we fight the fear. This is how we fight the hatred. This is how we fight all that stands opposed to God’s dreams for us, all that makes Jesus weep over all our Jerusalems. By asking and living this simple question:
What honors God?
It is the question that brings out the best in us. It is the question that will tear down walls and build up bridges. It is the question that will lead us into holy trouble and scandalous joy.
And so we need to remember to ask it. Again. And again. And over and over again.
When you came in this morning you were given a bracelet that says, rather predictably, at this point: “What honors God?” I hope you’ll put it on. I hope you’ll wear it even for this one week as we with Jesus turn our face toward Jerusalem. Wear it as a reminder not to ask ourselves “what would Jesus do?” but rather “what would I do for Jesus?”
To ask ourselves in every situation we face: What honors God?
We will not always agree on the answer. And that won't be anything new for us at Christ Church Cathedral. But Jesus asks us to wrestle with that question and to have that conversation -- even if the conversation is just with ourselves or just between us and God. When we are presented with a challenge, be it the diversity of race or class in our community, the challenges of our budget, the fussiness of a child or expressions of our sensuality and sexuality; the crowd chanting hate or even the guy cutting us off on interstate 40 to reach beyond our personal preferences and momentarily offended sensibilities to ask ourselves and one another and God in that moment:
“Ok, but what honors God?”
What does pouring expensive perfume over Jesus’ feet and wiping them with our hair look like in this situation?
What does recognizing that the person in front of me is the very image of the divine and that I am not only called but given the gift of opportunity of loving this person extravagantly look like?
What does passionate, crazy, purity-code busting, conventional wisdom flouting, scandalous, I can’t believe you said that, I can’t believe you did that love look like?
Over and over again in the Gospels, Jesus raises this question: “What honors God?”
Not “What do I like?”
Not “What makes me feel comfortable?”
Not “What is the easiest?” or “What makes me feel strong and superior?” Not even “What makes sense?”
But “What honors God?”
It is our job to name it.
It is our joy to live it.
It is our deepest destiny to show it to the world. Amen.
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