Monday, September 5, 2011

A sermon for the 12th Sunday after Pentecost

Preached by the Rev. John Good at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, Sept. 4, 2011 

The old adage says, "Nothing is certain but death and taxes." Those "old adagers" had a pretty dim view of what we can expect in life. Most of us don’t want to die, and we’re not too tickled about paying taxes. But have you ever considered that the "old adagers" who linked death with taxes may have unwittingly demonized taxes? I would agree that most of us dread death. But can the same be said about taxes? Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendel Holmes famously said, "Taxes are what I pay for civilization." Without taxes we would not have the infrastructure of a civilized nation: schools, roads, airports, railroads, navigable rivers, power lines, clean water, waste disposal, street lighting, security, and many other shared benefits.

I have begun this sermon with a reflection on taxes because today I am joining a significant number of other preachers around Missouri and all over the country who are using this Sunday before Labor Day to bring the concerns of working people to the pulpit. This year organized labor in Missouri has asked us to focus on the morality of the Missouri Tax Structure. I want to be up front about this, because this is a political issue and I know some of you think politics has no place in the pulpit. But God is not apolitical. Today’s reading from the Hebrew scriptures is about how God became political to end the immorality of Pharaoh’s oppression of the Hebrews in Egypt. It is the beginning of the final chapter of Yahweh's political contest with Pharaoh to free his people from slavery. It is the story of the Passover in which God finally resorts to extremely violent methods to accomplish his victory.

I believe that when moral issues have political dimensions, God wants his people to get politically involved. The tax structure of any state always involves moral judgments because important values determine the rate at which the state will collect money from its citizens. Needless to say, Christian values are not always the values that inform and shape the taxation policies of the states, including Missouri.

As Paul says in our second lesson for today, the bottom-line-value of Christians is love. "Owe no one anything, except to love one another" he wrote; "for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The [ten] commandments…are summed up in this word, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law." When Paul defines love as not doing wrong to a neighbor he has identified justice as an important aspect of love. If we permit our government to do wrong to our neighbors, we have forsaken the value of love by being complacent about injustice. We have not kept our baptismal promise to "strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being."

Our country does wrong to our neighbors by not taxing ourselves enough. Taxes do not only pay for the infrastructure which benefits all of us, they also pay for human services like health care, unemployment benefits, food stamps, and other welfare programs that benefit the citizens who have been left out of the country’s prosperity. With the percent of people living below the poverty level increasing year by year during the current recession, low taxes cannot adequately fund the so-called "safety net" that these marginalized Americans need to survive.

Of the developed nations of the world, only four of them tax themselves less than the United States.1 We appropriate only about 27% of our nation’s gross domestic product in taxes. The average slice of gross domestic product collected in the other 30 economically developed countries is 36%, with most European nations collecting more than 40%. In our low tax nation, only five states tax their citizens less than Missouri, and only four states spend less per capita on all government programs.2 In trying to balance state budgets and reduce our nation's deficit, American politicians would rather find ways to reduce government spending than add more revenue through taxation. Forty-one U.S. Senators and 236 members of the House of Representatives have signed a pledge never to increase taxes in any way.

I think politicians who refuse to consider increasing taxes have become obedient to the chief idol of our nation—the American Dream. They believe the American Dream is achieved by individual effort and not by cooperative action, even though no one can possibly achieve the dream without help from the infrastructure provided by taxation. The idol inspires the belief that money belongs to the individual who acquires it and should be shielded from collection by the government, even though starving the government will make it less able to guarantee the liberty, security, and educational resources individuals need to make money. The idol emphasizes individual responsibility for taking care of oneself and condemns those who can't of being lazy, even though our economic system has failed to sustain enough jobs for all who want to work. Finally, and most important, the idol of the American Dream justifies selfishness at the expense of love of neighbor.

Instead of defining morality by America's idol, we who follow Jesus define it in terms of the kingdom of God, the community of the beloved and the loving. As Paul says, the commandment to love our neighbors means at least that we will do no harm to them, but even more than that, it calls us to care for them. Those who worship the idol argue that the state should not compel that kind of love, that it is up to individuals acting on their own to care for their neighbors. However, as Frank Schaeffer reveals in a recent book,3 for the last 1000 years Christian leaders have seen government as the medium through which Jesus' disciples work together for the common good. The Bible repeatedly emphasizes the government's responsibility to provide justice for those who are oppressed and exploited. Jesus, himself, criticized the Pharisees, the political elite of his time, for "[tying] up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they, themselves, are unwilling to lift a finger to move them" [Mt. 23.4]

While the din of the idol worshippers seems to be drowning out the voices of the kingdom at the present time, more and more of God's advocates are urging us to increase revenue through taxation instead of starving the government through spending cuts. They argue that the government needs resources to supply the basics of civilized societies and care for those who have been marginalized by our political, economic, and social systems. They understand that taxes are not the pariah the idol worshippers contend that they are, but the moral approach to making justice a key component of loving our neighbors.

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1
The Tax Policy Briefing Book, Tax Policy Center of the Urban Institute and Brookings Institution, (taxpolicycenter. org)

2
"The Tax Tale: 50 State Comparison" in JSOnline: Milwaukee, Wisconsin Sentinal Journal, http://www.jsonline.com/news/wisconsin/89702927.html

3
Frank Schaeffer, Sex, Mom, and God, (Philadelphia, 2011)

Sunday, August 28, 2011

"Sacred Ground" - a sermon for the 11th Sunday after Pentecost



Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, August 28, 2011  
 
How many of you have ever been to the Grand Canyon?

I grew up in Arizona, but it wasn’t until I was in third grade that I made it there. And I was with my Mom and my grandma. And I remember so vividly the first time I stepped up to the edge of the South Rim and looked down. I think for the first time I felt awe. (not “awwwww” but “AWE.”) Awe is that mix of deep beauty and fear. Awe is what happens when you are confronted with something real and deep and big.

Experiences of awe like standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon astound and scare us. They fill us with wonder and fear. When we step up to big deep places, we feel a connection with those big, deep places inside of us.

And we want to be quiet, but we’re uncomfortable enough with the awe that we’re actually a little relieved when a car comes up or someone tells a joke. It returns life back to our illusion of control.

If you were here Thursday night you might have met two amazing women named Sheila and Katrina, who came with Becca Stevens from Nashville. They are graduates of the Magdalene program, and amazing series of communities that save the lives of women who have deep histories of abuse, prostitution, drug addiction and violence. The communities are the way God does the healing. And if you were here for the Making Disciples conference yesterday in Schuyler Hall, you heard them tell their stories.

Sheila was six when the first of a series of her mother’s boyfriends and husbands began abusing her. By age 14 she had run away from home and was using drugs and selling herself on the street. And from that came the seemingly endless cycle of arrest, jail and being back out on the streets. And then she heard about the Magdalene program and at first it just seemed like a way to cut short some jail time but when she got there she realized – and it was so hard to believe it – that this was about deep love being for her, deep love that could lead her through the hard, hard work of healing. Deep love that could save her life.

I saw her tell this story in front of more than 100 people in Schuyler. With trembling voice and lots of “ums.” She was scared because it was her story and it was full of so many things that we shame each other for – sex, drug use, imprisonment, running away. Yet the people in the room were gifted with the grace to be willing to receive and see and hear. To not be the people who bring the boom box to the Grand Canyon. And because of that we sat transfixed, in awe.

We were in awe of Sheila’s courage to be that vulnerable.

We were in awe because her story was so real. And we realized the deep beauty in it. And that the stuff that we are most afraid of revealing – the stuff we look at ourselves and count as failure and cringe in shame and bury deep so no one else will see or hear of it. That stuff was the heart of the beauty. Because that stuff, our cries, is the heart of our deepest beauty – when we have the courage to share and when others have the grace to receive.

Isn’t it ironic that what we fear most is our deepest beauty? That we hide our deepest beauty. Isn’t it tragic that our world takes that stuff of our deepest humanity, our deepest wounds, the stuff that could be our deepest beauty and shames us for it, tells us to bury it deep, tells us to believe that because it’s there we are each less than beloved by God?

We were in awe because Sheila’s story was so real and it touched our deep, real stories that we hardly ever take out for a walk to get some air. And the tears we shed were not pity for another, they were the truest tears, when deep beauty and deep pain meet and we feel the presence of God and something in us says “It’s OK. It’s safe enough. You can let go and let it out for a second.”

And Schuyler Hall became sacred ground. Because it was there we met beauty and pain within and without. It was there we felt the power of God.

I love this morning’s story from Exodus. Because it is so deeply true.

The first thing we notice is that Moses doesn’t have to take some special pilgrimage to find God. God was right there where he was. He just had to turn aside and stop and notice.

The second thing we notice is why God is present. God is not on a sightseeing trip. God is present because where our pain is, God is. Listen again:

Then the LORD 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, to the country of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites. The cry of the Israelites has now come to me; I have also seen how the Egyptians oppress them. So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt." But Moses said to God, "Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?" He said, "I will be with you; and this shall be the sign for you that it is I who sent you: when you have brought the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God on this mountain."

Listen to the verbs:
-I have heard their cry.
-I know their sufferings
-I have come down to deliver them
-I will send you
-I will be with you.

I have heard, I know, I have come down, I will send, I will be with you. That is God’s eternal chorus to us. All the stuff we hide. All the stuff we’re told to be ashamed of. God looks at it and says that is where I will be. That is what I will heal. I have heard. I know. I have come down. I will send. I will be with you.

And then our response, our acknowledgment that we know God is present and that we want not to wallow in our pain but to let God heal and deliver us out of it, is that we will worship. The sign is we shall worship God on this mountain.

God’s presence is where the cry of the people is. Where the reality of life’s rubber hits the road. Where we bring all that stuff that keeps us up nights, that ties our stomachs in knots, that makes our shoulders sag, and our heart afraid. All of those things that we think “Oh, if they found out they wouldn’t like me. If they only knew, they wouldn’t let me be in a place like this or sit at table with them.” Where that is, God is, and it is holy.

The third thing we notice is how God tells Moses to receive God’s presence. Take off your shoes. God has to tell Moses this because often that’s not our first reaction when we see the presence of God. Our first reaction is often fear and uncomfortability. The presence of God is a fearful thing so our first reaction is often to avoid or to try to make it go away. Moses hid his face out of fear. We have to be reminded, when God’s presence emerges, when we see the burning bush, DON’T GRAB THE FIRE EXTINGUISHER and don’t run away. Stay right there, and listen, and behold, and take off our shoes and tread gently. And be with God in that space. Just be.

And then together, we can follow God as God does the healing.

I will deliver
I will send
I will be with you.

The elements, those amazing verbs of the Exodus story are the same verbs that Sheila used to describe her life.

-God heard her cry.
-God knew her sufferings
-God came down to delivered her from the streets
-God sent her into a new life
-God has been and always will be with her.

And the same is true for all of us. God meets us as we are but does not leave us as we are . There is no wallowing in pain in the Exodus. And there is no endless wallowing in pain for us. God didn’t come down and stay with the people in Egypt but led them on a hard journey of looking honestly at where they are and looking honestly at how they got there and then helping them chart a course and walking with them into a new and better land. As Sheila says, you’ve got to deal to heal. We’ve got to deal with where we are and how we got there if we’re going to let God get us to that new and better land. You’ve got to deal to heal.

And that means we have to let the fire burn openly and honestly and know that we will not be consumed. Know that even though none of us can heal ourselves and none of us can heal each other, that we have a God who hears and knows and delivers and sends and is always with us. And that is all we need .

And that place where God meets us. Where God is revealed in the midst of your pain and mine. That is the church. That is who we can be for each other. That is who we can be for the world, one life at a time. We can be the place in our lives where we let that deep beauty, that deep stuff inside that we fear, where we start to let it out. But the only way we can be that place is if we remember. If we remember that what the world counts as shameful, God looks on with compassion. And to take our shoes off as we walk on the most sacred ground in creation. The ground of each other’s stories. The ground of each other’s lives.

If we remember that we can’t fix each other but together we can look for the God who hears, knows, delivers, sends and is with us, knowing that God can heal anything.

If we remember that we are not destined to stay in Egypt but that we are destined for a new and better and promised land. And that the journey of healing and deliverance will be long and hard but that God will guide us there together if we will follow. And though we, like the people of Israel, will stumble and fall and complain and chase after other gods, God will always be with us an urge us on the way.

And this will be the sign of our life together. That we will gather here, together, in honesty and fear and beauty and awe. That we will gather here each Sunday on this mountain and worship.

Amen.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

"Bad Moon Rising? Bring. It. On." -- A sermon for the 8th Sunday after Pentecost

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, August 7, 2011  

Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side… When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And the disciples turned to each other, and began to sing:



I see the bad moon arising.
I see trouble on the way.
I see earthquakes and lightnin'.
I see bad times today.


[Chorus:]
Don't go around tonight,
Well, it's bound to take your life,
There's a bad moon on the rise.


I hear hurricanes ablowing.
I know the end is coming soon.
I fear rivers over flowing.
I hear the voice of rage and ruin.


[Chorus]
All right!


Hope you got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.
Looks like we're in for nasty weather.
One eye is taken for an eye.


[Chorus]
[Chorus]
In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen

It’s all we hear these days. There’s a bad moon rising. The hurricanes are blowing. The end is coming soon.

We see it everyday. Big bad numbers are everywhere – a $14 Trillion dollar national debt. Unemployment hovering around 10%. The Dow falls 500 points in one day.

And everyone is looking for the magic answer … and everyone is so sure that they and they alone have the silver bullet that can save the day. Cut spending. Raise taxes. Cut taxes. Raise spending. Keep pulling different levers and pushing different buttons until we find the magic formula that is going to make it all right, that will calm the sea again, that will make America the mythical land of overflowing prosperity once again.

It’s easy for us to get frustrated at the people in Washington, but we’re doing the same thing ourselves.

Here at Christ Church Cathedral, we’re looking at a $55,000 deficit. And as I sit with Kris Reppert and the finance committee and Grace and Anne and the Chapter I know I want to find that silver bullet, too. I want to find that magic formula that’s going to make it all right, that will take away our fear, that will return us to the mythical glory days of Christ Church Cathedral. Cut the budget, raise more pledge income. Increase spending to try to increase attendance. The temptation is for us to pull the exact same levers and push the exact same buttons here.

And it's the same thing for each one of us. Every year it feels like we’re trying not just to do more with less but even to just try to break even with less, right? And so we’re all looking for the magic formula. How do we get more money, and cut expenses. How do we make it balance out. Mostly, as we watch the news and as we watch our own bills pile up and as many of our jobs become more and more tenuous, we want someone to snap their fingers and make it all OK, help us believe we can be confident and unafraid, that our children and grandchildren will enjoy the mythical epic prosperity that the rest of the world looks to America and aspires to.

This bad moon has been rising for awhile. The storm has been brewing and it is now starting to whip up real good. Although some of us have been feeling those winds and waves a lot longer than others of us. But now there aren’t a lot of people left who aren’t looking at the dark sky and feeling nervous. Who aren’t feeling tossed by the waves and worrying if the ship is going to make it.

There’s a bad moon rising. And it’s been rising for awhile. Because here’s the truth. The truth is the math hasn’t worked for a long, long time. Here in America, we are 5% of the world’s population and we’re responsible for 30% of the world’s consumption of resources. You just can’t keep that up indefinitely. It’s only a matter of time before the bills start coming due.

The truth is, our American lifestyle is not sustainable economically, it’s not sustainable environmentally and it is not sustainable morally. And here’s the thing… There is no silver bullet. There is no magic combination of levers pulled and buttons pushed that is going to bring a new day of superabundant material prosperity. Not for our nation. Not for Christ Church Cathedral. Not for your household or mine.

And let me tell you, we don’t want to hear that. The last major American politician who tried to even start to tell us the truth about this was Jimmy Carter and every politician since saw what happened to him and has said, "I'm not trying that again!"

And so we elect leaders who tell us what we want to hear. That this superabundance of wealth is our birthright as Americans and that it will return again. That it is absolutely sustainable if we swallow whatever magic economic policy pill they happen to be offering. That it is “those other people” who are the problem – they’re the ones. They’re the flies in the ointment and if we could just get rid of them we could all live in the land of plenty once more.

Some use soaring rhetoric that lifts our hearts and many, many more demonize and divide and tempt us to cower in fear, but none of them are telling us the truth.

And the truth is that we are 5% of the world’s population and we’re responsible for 30% of the world’s consumption. You do the math. So, be my guest. Cut taxes. Raise taxes. Cut spending. Raise spending. Knock yourself out. Unless we address our own addiction to consuming, our own addiction to a lifestyle that is unsustainable on every level, in the long run, none of it is going to matter.

And, at first blush, that’s really scary. It’s scary because for most of us, this lifestyle is all we’ve ever known. It’s how we judge our own worth. Our success and failure. We can’t imagine living any way that’s significantly different. Not only do we not have any easy answers, we’re not even sure what questions we should be asking. We don’t even know where to begin.

And so the voices that tell us they have the magic answer are really tempting to listen to. The voices that urge us to care only for ourselves and to build high walls around our houses, our incomes and our savings accounts no matter how great the need is elsewhere ... those voices are so tempting to listen to. The voices that tell us to be afraid and run away and stick our heads in the sand are so tempting to listen to.

But there is another voice. A voice not only older than the storm but older than the very sea this storm is tossing. A voice that knows as fierce as this storm is, it cannot touch the power of God. A voice that sees the sky darken, the waves roll and the winds blow and says just three words.

Bring. It. On.

And that brings us to this morning’s Gospel.

This morning’s Gospel finds the disciples just like we are. In a boat in a storm.

Now for these disciples, it isn’t 2011. There’s no GPS to guide them or coast guard to bail them out. Jesus, the guy who put them on that boat and sent them on this journey, is off on a mountain somewhere praying. As far as they can tell, they are all on their own. Which means if that boat capsizes, they are done for. It’s all over.

And morning begins to break, and Jesus walks toward them on the water and all they can think is “People don’t walk on water” so they grasp for any explanation that makes even a little bit of sense and they settle on “it must be a ghost!” And that scares them all the more.

And what does Jesus say to them? Do you remember?

Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.

Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.

So let’s press pause there and recap.

Like us, the disciples are in a boat in a storm and they’re scared. That’s OK. That’s natural. Storms are scary. And even when they see Jesus coming, their first reaction is not to recognize him and to be even more afraid. That’s OK, too. That’s natural. That’s human. Our fear doesn’t make us bad people. It makes us human people. It’s what we DO in the face of fear that makes all the difference.

And here’s what Jesus doesn't do in the face of fear – in the face of theirs and in the face of ours. What Jesus doesn’t do is immediately calm the storm. He doesn’t say the magic word, pull the lever or push the button and make it all OK. Instead he just stops and stands there, stands there on the place they fear the most – in the middle of the storm itself and he calls out to us, as we clutch to the sides of the boat:

Take heart. It is I. Do not be afraid.

And then Peter has one of his moments of incredible inspiration. Peter devises the perfect test to see if this really is Jesus. Because Peter knows the Jesus that looked at the 5,000 and said “you give them something to eat” wouldn’t just stand there in the storm, he would say, nuh-uh-uh-uh-uh … you’re coming out here with me. Jesus doesn’t tell them don’t be afraid because he’s going to protect them or help them run away from the scary stuff. Jesus says "Bring. It. On." He tells them “don’t be afraid” and then charges right into the teeth of the scariest stuff there is.

So Peter says, “Jesus, if that’s really you, yeah ... OK ... Bring. It. On. Command me to come out onto the water with you.”

And you’ve gotta believe Jesus was smiling right then. Peter, my man, my rock, you get it. Bring it on. And so he commands him to get out of the boat and Peter delivers. Peter does what to anyone else watching seemed crazy. He got out of that boat and started walking on the water toward Jesus.

We tend to remember this more as a story of Peter’s failure. We remember him taking his eyes off Jesus and fearing and starting to sink. And that’s a real shame. Because this isn’t a story of failure. This is a story of the power of "bring it on." The story of someone who believed even for a second that we have the power to face any fear, to do what seems impossible. Sure he faltered and fell, but man, he got out of the boat. The man walked on water! He proved what we are capable of when we keep our eyes on Christ.

Jesus meets us where we are but if we turn our lives over to him, he will never leave us as we are. If we, like Peter, ask him to, he will always invite us to look into the storm and join him in that chorus of Bring. It. On. He will always invite us step out of the boat and join him right in the midst of the stormy sea. He will always invite us to charge together into the teeth of our fear – so that we can truly discover that we can walk on water. That we don’t need the safety of the boat. And that even though the storms are blowing all around us that we can take heart and not be afraid.

We all see the bad moon rising. And if all we do as a Cathedral and all we do as individual followers of Jesus in our own homes is play the game the way everyone else is, then we are missing a once in a generation opportunity to live the Gospel and proclaim it to a nation that needs to know there is a different and better way.

Right now our nation is running scared. You see it on Wall Street. You see it everywhere. But we see Jesus in the middle of the storm, so we can link arms and step out of the boat that everyone else is clinging to in fear. Step out and run toward him, right into the heart of the storm. Because we believe Jesus is both our destiny and the one who has our backs, we can feel the wind and waves swell around us and we can say with one voice:

Bring. It. On.

It means that while we’re looking at our own budget we get to set our eyes on Christ, to read scripture deeply, pray deeply and listen deeply for his voice on one another’s lips. We get to look for new ways to be not just the church but new ways to be Americans. Ways that look Jesus full in the face and invite him to command us out onto the water. Ways that invite him to challenge even our most deeply held assumptions of what we need not only to be Christ Church Cathedral but to be members of this American society. And as long as I am your dean, that is the path we will seek. It is not the path of the quick fix or the easy answer, but we don't want those paths. those paths are not worthy of us. Those paths aren't worthy of a people who can walk on water.

I tell my kids that courage isn’t being unafraid. Courage is being afraid and doing it anyway. Courage is looking at moments of fear not as moments of personal weakness but as moments of opportunity to reach down deep and find out who we are and whose we are.

Beloved, I have no magic words, silver bullets or miracle cures for us. All I have is our trust that this moment is here to teach us that we are images of God and we belong to Christ. And that walking on water ain’t no thing. I can’t tell you how to walk on water and maybe before we get iit down, we'll start to sink a hundred times and a hundred times have Jesus lift us up and put us back in the boat and shake his head and smile and say “when are you going to get this?” But we’re going to keep stepping out of that boat. We're going to keep heading into the storm. And we're going to find a new way of living for ourselves and for the world.

We see a bad moon rising?

Well, Alleluia.

Bring. It. On.

Amen.

Monday, June 20, 2011

"...and Jesus said, 'Get over yourselves." -- A sermon for the First Sunday After Pentecost (Trinity Sunday)

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, June 19, 2011 

The eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. And Jesus came and said to them, 

“Get over yourselves.”

In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, AMEN.

What did creation sound like?

Astronomers like my dad talk about “the Big Bang.” And then you get all those “if a tree falls in the forest questions about it.” Was it really a sound? The creation story we heard this morning doesn’t even mention sound at all. It’s all about the visual. Day by day passing. Light coming from darkness. Land from water. Gradually all that we know as creation appearing on the scene.

Well, I don’t know what creation itself sounded like, but if I had to guess what the moment before creation sounded like, it would be something like this:



Isn’t that a great sound??? It is the chaotic sound of potential … of anticipation. When you hear that cacophony of instruments tuning and then the baton tapping ... and the pregnant pause … you just know that something beautiful is about to be created. Because each instrument has finished focusing on itself. From now on they will be watching only the conductor and listening deeply to each other … because that’s the way the beauty of the symphony is created.

If there was a soundtrack to the creation story in Genesis, it would begin with that sound. And the music that followed would be the most brilliant and harmonious ever written.

Because that’s what our creation story is. It is a story of God bringing order, harmony and deep beauty out of chaos. And every step of the way, God echoes the refrain.

And God saw that it was good.

It was good.

It was good.

Until finally God is finished and steps back and says,

yes, Yes, YES! … that is VERY GOOD.

Every time I hear this story, I wish we could just push pause when the reader is finished. Because it all goes downhill from there. But at that moment, that precious fleeting moment, all is as it should be. It’s the “for one brief shining moment it was Camelot.”

God is at the center of all existence, and not only is all creation very good, all creation knows it is very good, in fact knows and believes it so much that it doesn’t worry if anyone else knows it, doesn’t worry about having to individually prove its goodness to itself or anyone else. And like that orchestra, with eyes trained on the maestro and listening deeply to each other, all that is left for all creation is to create beautiful music for all eternity.

The ultimate

…eternal

…jam.

But that’s not what happened, is it? Because we know the rest of the creation story. We know how sin entered in with that tempting serpent saying, “but you could be like God.” You could be at the center. You see, the fall isn’t about creation becoming evil. What God creates as very good is always very good. The fall is about us forgetting that.

The fall is about all humanity falling away from a God-centered harmony of believing in and celebrating our goodness -- to a self-centered insecurity of doubting our goodness, of fearfully needing to put ourselves at the center above God and all others. The fall is about the fall from resting in the strong, loving arms of the divine to huddling around the fragile, fearful shells of our own egos.

The problem isn’t that we became evil. The problem is we forgot that we are good.

But God didn’t forget us. God kept reminding us, and God kept urging us to remind each other. And God gave us a beautiful gift of a word. A word of remembrance.

The word … Bless.

Now the word “bless” doesn’t make something good any more than the fall made anything evil. The word bless literally means “to speak well of” … to say “this is good.”

The word bless is God’s gift of remembrance to us. So that whenever we see something that is very good, whenever we see something that reminds us that we are good, reminds us that we can live without fear, reminds us that all we have to do is keep our eyes on the maestro and listen deeply to each other and create amazing beauty. Whenever we see something like that we bless it. We say in the name of God, “this is very good.”

And the rest of the world looks at it and says “Ah … I remember…. That’s what that looks like. That’s what we all can be. Isn’t that beautiful. How can I be like that. How can I remember that I am good, too.”

It’s why we do house blessings. Not to bestow some magical spell of protection but to affirm the holy desire of the people who live there to open their home up in hospitality. And so we bless it and them and affirm, “this is good, this is very good.”

It’s why we bless animals every Feast of St. Francis. To point to the loving, faithful companionship they give and affirm “this is good, this is very god.”

It’s why at this Cathedral we bless unions of self-giving love between two people. To point to the Christlike laying down of lives for each other they are about and affirm, “this is good, this is very good.”

Someone asked me why we stood out there in the sea of 65,000 racers at Race for the Cure blessing them with holy water and I said because where there are people giving themselves up for the sake of love and healing, the church needs to be there saying “this is good, this very good”.

We forget that is our job sometime, but it is. Somewhere along the line someone got the idea that the church was here to turn bad people into good people. Not true. As the church, we are here to remind us that we are already good, and that we don’t need to lead these fearful, hoarding lives of those who doubt their own goodness.

It’s not hard. Here’s how we do it. Here’s how we do our work of blessing.

Get aspergelium and get out of the pulpit.

Who here gave an hour of their time this week to help others? -- You are blessed. You are good. (apserge with holy water)

Who here spent time yesterday playing with a child? - You are blessed. You are good. (apserge with holy water)

Who here did something you don’t like to do to show your spouse or partner you love them? You are blessed. You are good. (apserge with holy water)

Who here gave time or money or prayer to this church or someone in this community this week without thought of reward or recognition? You are blessed. You are good. (apserge with holy water)

Think for a second. What is blessed. What is good in your life? What is blessed. What is good in our lives. Have you blessed someone recently? Have you heard a blessing for yourself?

We are a blessed, beloved community but we are more than that. We are a community of remembrance. Of reminding each other that we are blessed and beloved. Of reminding each other that God made us good and that we don’t need to focus on ourselves but we can live fearless lives focusing on God and listening deeply to each other and creating beautiful, beautiful music together.
And that brings us to the Gospel reading for today. The eleven disciples are with Jesus on the mountain and in Matthew this is the first and only time they will see him after the resurrection so Jesus has to be brief and not pull any punches. And so here is what he says:

“Hey … Get over yourselves.”

Ok, so that’s a rough translation. But that’s really what he is saying. He says “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

All authority in heaven and earth has been given to me, Jesus says. The battle is over. Christ has risen from the dead. The goodness can’t be held down. You don’t need to worry about yourself anymore. Worrying about yourself is for people who doubt their goodness. Worrying about yourself is for people who doubt God’s love for them. Worrying about yourself is about people who are afraid they will be left without. Get over yourself. That’s not you. You are my beloved – now and to the end of the age. And I am reminding you now and always that you are good. That you are blessed. But that reminder isn’t just for you. As Dahn Gandell said last Sunday, “Transformation not shared is wasted. “

So Go. Get over yourselves and go and make disciples of all nations. Go remind everyone that they are good. You see, there is a whole world out there that lives in fear and that is crying in pain and that has forgotten that they are good. That has forgotten that they don’t have to concentrate on themselves, but that they can take their gaze off themselves and put it on God and listen deeply to each other and create beautiful, beautiful music.

One of the biggest mistakes the church ever made was taking this Great Commission and turning it into a fearful, self-righteous message of “convert or die.” That’s not what Jesus is telling us. He is looking at us with great love and saying, “Get over yourself.”

We’re not sent out with the message “convert or die” but “wake up and live.” We’re ready to play this song. All we have to do is remember that we are very good, and because we are we can set your eyes on Christ, listen deeply to each other and have our life be a symphony. Have our life be the ultimate, eternal, jam.

If there was a soundtrack for the mountain top that day. If there was a soundtrack for us as we prepare to head out from this place into the world, this would be the sound we hear.



Beloved, we are tuned and ready to play. We are very good. We know we are very good because God says we are very good. And because we remember that, we can keep our eyes on Christ, listen deeply to each other, and create incredible beauty together.

The baton is tapping.

What amazing music will flow through us next?

AMEN.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

"Go Crazy, Folks, Go Crazy!" - a sermon for the Sixth Sunday of Easter


Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, May 29, 2011

“In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me."

One of the most damaging things about extremists is they make us feel safe.

OK, that sounds weird, so let me say that again.

One of the most damaging things about extremists is they make us feel safe.

Here's what I mean. Take the Ku Klux Klan or the people from Westboro Baptist Church that picket and shout hateful things at funerals. We can look at them and say. “We would never do the things they do. We'd never burn a cross on someone's lawn or picket a funeral. In fact we'll be the first ones to stand up and say how awful those things are.” And because we're not like that, we can tell ourselves that we're not racist or prejudiced. They make us feel like, in comparison, our own prejudices are tame and acceptable. They make us feel safe and secure and OK with the idea of an acceptable level of prejudice.

The same thing with those Wall Street CEOs who are reaping big bonuses and buying their 5th and 6th homes while more and more people are slipping into poverty. We're not like that. Now secretly part of us might wish we were, but since we're not, we can look at them and feel like, in comparison, our own consumption is tame and acceptable. That even though the money I spent on an iPad could have sent 10 kids to school for a year in Ghana, I can feel safe and secure with how I am living.

And then there's that guy who predictably mispredicted the rapture and has now come out with his adjusted prediction for next October. How many of us laughed at and made jokes about him? And there were some pretty good ones out there. And we could make the jokes and laugh because we looked at those people and said, "well, we're not THAT." And in fact, if you're like me, as the jokes and ridicule really got going, and as they expanded from just joking about him and his followers to some people lumping all Christians in the same boat with him, maybe you had the itch to make sure people knew that we weren't one of "those kind" of Christians. You know, the crazy kind. We were the kind that were with those laughing at him, who were smarter than all that. We're the rational, measured kind of Christian.

You know, Episcopalians.

Except here's the thing. While the Klan and Wall Street CEOs and hedge fund managers make us feel safe with our own levels of prejudice and consumption, the crowd that was predicting the rapture and people like that herd us as Christians into a different but equally perilous place of safety. A place where because we can say "Well I'm not a Biblical literalist or a fundamentalist." Because we can say, "No way, I'm not one of these people who believes the world is just 6,000 years old and that God ‘hid the dinosaur bones to test our faith.’" Because we can look at an extreme and feel safe in telling ourselves and others what we're not, we more and more shy away from or even loudly disavow one simple, honest, and absolutely central fact of our faith – and that is this:

To a world that demands tangible proof and rationality. Our faith, our church, our very presence here this morning … is crazy.

It just is.

Any way we slice it, any way we try to rationalize it. Any way we try to dress it up – and believe me, theologians have been trying to do that for centuries. The center of our faith -- not even just that God exists but that God became human in Jesus Christ and that God is right here with us in real and powerful ways today through the Holy Spirit – to anyone who doesn’t see with eyes of faith, that looks not only unprovable but yeah, just really crazy. And what's nuttier still is we hear in the Gospel this morning that this is by design. Jesus says to his disciples, "in a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me." You are going to see something that the rest of the world will not be able to see. Something that could either be called revelation or hallucination, depending on where someone is standing. You will be challenged to be a people who say not only "we believe in all things seen" but "we believe in all things -- seen and unseen.”

For us, that's an invitation to be called what the disciples were called by just about everybody -- crazy. And living in a world that more and more values the rational and sees belief in anything else as superstitious and primitive, that puts us in a real bind. Because we really don’t want people to think we're crazy. Its not comfortable, its not fun and, frankly, we have a lot to lose. When people start thinking you’re crazy you can lose friends and family and respect and even your livelihood … and who wants that?

So we try not to talk about it. And we as Episcopalians have gotten really good at this stuff. We've gotten great at pointing out the extremists and with more than a little edge of superiority joining in the laughter at them… and all the while ignoring the fact that sure, even though we absolutely weren’t among those who believed the rapture was happening that frankly, the things we will stand and say in a minute after "We believe" in the creed aren't that far off from those folks in blowing the top off a completely rational world's weird-stuff-o-meter.

And so more and more, little by little, we've gotten really good at hedging our bets. More and more we focus not on the unprovable things we believe but on tangible things we can do. Things like feeding the poor and working for justice. Good things. Worthy things. Things we should be doing. But also things that are rationally defendable apart from faith. Things we can talk about and focus on without giving people an opening to call us completely Fruit Loops.

But the truth is that the heart of our faith – the reason behind why we do all these things, what makes us the church instead of just another do-gooding nonprofit… in the eyes of a world that demands evidence and rationality, the heart of what drives us the heart of our faith sounds absolutely crazy! And in our nervousness and fear as we more and more shrink away from the big crazy at the center, that big crazy that starts with "I believe in God" and "I believe in Jesus Christ, God's only Son, our Lord." The more and more we shrink away from that, the easier it is for us to rationalize away all the other little crazies that come from it. And soon our faith has become safe and acceptable and nothing that anyone would ever ridicule us for. And with it we have lost the very thing that makes us different. The very thing that makes us makes us the church of Christ. The very thing that makes there be any point to us existing at all.

Here's how it happens…

Take the story of the rich young ruler, who asked Jesus what he needed to do to get eternal life. Sure, Jesus' answer was "Sell all you have, give it to the poor and come and follow me." But smart people realize he didn't really mean that literally. If you look at things rationally, he couldn’t possibly have meant that. Everyone knows it was a metaphor! That's what rationalization and our fear of the crazy lets us say.

Except, no ... if we’re going to really be the church and not be just another safely acceptable do-gooding nonprofit, we have to say that it really wasn’t a metaphor. When we hear the story of the rich young ruler, the answer isn't "No, Jesus didn't really mean that." but “Yeah, Jesus really did mean that and the problem is it sounds crazy and it is so hard.” The answer is “yeah, we really are supposed to do that. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. God, I want to be that person who says yes, I will sell all I have and give it to the poor and follow you, but instead I really am the person going away sorrowful because I have many possessions ... and who will continue, by the way, to rule and be respected -- in the world of the rational.”

We shrink away from the big crazy at the center and all the other little crazies that come with it because we’re afraid of being called crazy but also because the things they call us to are so hard. Washing the world's feet … is hard. Standing in a public space and saying "We believe" and then saying a whole bunch of fantastic, unprovable things … is hard. Letting go and trusting our lives to a God we can't definitively scientifically prove even exists … is hard. And that's why Jesus, sitting with his disciples says, look, I can’t make it less hard, but I can promise you I won’t make you go it alone. That's why Jesus says, "I will not leave you an orphan." This is too hard for you by yourself. I will stay with you and I will gather you in a community where you can help each other and let me help you do this.

And if we are going to be worthy of being the church, if there is going to be a reason for us to be here beyond just providing some social and cultural services, we have to not only not be afraid of the crazy, we have to run to the crazy, celebrate the crazy. We have to live the crazy … and not expect anyone else to understand.

In January, your Chapter decided to take $120,000 of the bequest we got from Clarence and Zua Pope … that’s 10% of what was left after we used much of it to pay off our debts – to take it and dedicate it to outreach. This past Thursday, Chapter accepted the recommendations of a faithful, prayerful, hard-working group – Miriam Jorgensen, Tom Edelman, Thom Gross, Celeste Smith, Heidi Clark, Alice Stanley, Eli Anderson, and Robert Kamkwalala to take that $120,000 … and give it away.

That’s right. We’re going to just give it away. $120,000. And, yeah, we’re going to give it away to some amazing organizations who are going to do wonderful things with it. We’re giving it away to an Anglican Mission Hospital in Malawi where it will mean the difference between life and death for some of the world’s poorest people. We’re giving it away to The Bridge, Centenary United Methodist Church’s fantastic organization down the street that is one of the primary caregivers for our sisters and brothers living in poverty right on and even inside our front door. We’re giving it away to Doorways, an assisted living facility for people living with HIV/AIDS, to Places for People, which helps find housing and care for people with mental illness and to the LGBT Center of St. Louis and to the St. Louis Crisis Nursery and the Alzheimer’s Association of St. Louis and a group on the Pine Ridge reservation where our J2A group went last year and to the Treehouse Wildlife Center and Episcopal City Mission and Grace Hill and the school in our companion diocese of Lui in Sudan.

We’re taking $120,000 ,and we are giving it away. And there have been some who have said that’s crazy. Some have said it’s crazy to give $120,000 away when we’re facing a budget deficit ourselves. Some say it’s crazy to give $120,000 away and not hold some of it back when some opportunity for outreach might come up next week that we might love to have some of that money to fund.

And if you’re one of the people who think it’s crazy for us to give this money away, my only response to you is that you are absolutely right. You bet it’s crazy. It’s crazy to give away that much. It’s crazy to trust that much that God will provide for us if we give to others. If we see as the rest of the world sees, it makes no sense whatsoever. In a nation where storing up treasure on earth is virtue and insurance is a $2 trillion industry, giving away money while we are in deficit and just trusting that if a need comes God will provide is absolutely nuts.

But if all we are doing is seeing as the world sees, then we should close up shop anyway. We should take this beautiful building and give it to someone who can use it as a concert hall and we should just liquidate our assets and give them to the tornado victims in Joplin.

It is crazy to give this money away, but guess what? We are here to be crazy. It is our greatest joy to be crazy. To see what the world cannot see. To do strange, crazy, impossible things because “we believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth.” And we need to give this money away not so much for the great good it will do but for the sake of our own souls. Because it’s too easy for us to forsake our high calling and instead chase after the safety of the rationally defendable. Because it’s too easy for us to forget that what the world says is crazy – trusting in God and giving our lives away -- is actually what we’re supposed to be about.

Because our salvation lies not in being safe and acceptable or just one more do-gooding nonprofit, but in actually being the church. Because we're not supposed to be like everyone else and run from the crazy, but instead when people throw that label of crazy at our feet we will pick it up and wear it as a badge of honor.

So, in God’s name, what crazy thing can you do … today? AMEN.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Dive for our keyboards or fall to our knees?

Sometimes this week, I've felt like the only person who hasn't issued an missive or tweeted or posted a Facebook opinion about the death of Osama bin Laden.

It's certainly not for lack of opportunity or invitation or even time.

Like a lot of people, I first found out about it on Facebook when a whole bunch of status updates started announcing it. So I climbed into bed and turned on CNN and watched it all unfold.

And then it began. The tidal wave of reaction ... and reaction to the reaction ... and so on and so on. There were the people celebrating his death ... and there were the people chastising the celebrating ... and people chastising the chastisers ... and theologians or all stripes weighing in with incredible certainty in their tones ... and people saying exactly what this meant to the ridiculously named "war on terror" and what it meant for Obama's presidency ... and so on and so on and so on.  Twitter reported that "more than 4,000 tweets per second were being sent at the beginning and end of Obama's speech."

The next morning, the Gen X clergy listerv I'm on had lots of reaction along this line. The one I was waiting for and that particularly stuck with me was my friend Vicki's ... because not only is Vicki a fairly conservative Republican (different from me!) but, more to the point, her fiancee was on the Pan Am jet that was brought down by terrorists over Lockerbie. What I got from her message made a lot of sense to me -- "don't tell people what they *should* be feeling or how they *should* be reacting."

I began to read the missives that started being issued by my fellow cathedral deans. And I began to feel like,  as the new Dean of Christ Church Cathedral, I should write something myself. But I couldn't. Well, that's not right. I could have. But it just didn't feel right. And part of it was not only that I didn't have a pat and easily tweetable response, but every time I thought of trying to write something I would wonder "how is this not just adding to the noise?" And the certainty of everyone's statements was making me feel really uncomfortable and yet I felt this pressure to weigh in ... a pressure that I pretty much have resisted.

So five days later, I'm just beginning to pray and sort through where I am on bin Laden's death. And it's not full of certainty. And it's not simple and easy to tweet.

I am sad.

I am sad at any death. I am sad when violence is seen as an appropriate solution. I am sad at the brokenness and sin that leads to people like bin Laden doing the things they do and that lead us to using violence against him. I am sad that the people who are his victims in some ways have wounds reopened by this. I am sad that this is leading to a new round of American exceptionalism. I am sad at the resurgence of blood-lust that events like this send into the streets, calling us not up to the better angels of our human nature but to our baser, animal instincts. I am sad that flashpoint events like this draw us like moth to flame to expressions of easy, cheap patriotism that not only avoid but incriminate any who try to take an honest look at the real reasons why others in the world might look at us with fear and loathing. I am sad wondering what my friend Mohammed in Iraq is thinking of us right now and if his own loathing of America is being stoked even further.

I am empathetic.

I am empathetic for the people who have suffered much at bin Laden's hands and the joy and relief they feel. I feel for the people who have been hit hard by any number of other things -- the economy, racial discrimination, etc. -- who are using this as an opportunity to have some kind of celebration about something, to "feel good again." I have empathy and intellectual respect for the pragmatists who state with certainty that just as Dietrich Bonhoeffer was right to work for Hitler's death, there is justice and even greater good in murder sometimes. I see what they are saying and understand why they might feel as they do ... even if I don't believe or feel the same way myself.

I am relieved and hopeful.

I am relieved that what seemed like an interminable manhunt for him can finally end. I am hopeful that the President will take this opportunity to draw down our military presence in Afghanistan. I am hopeful that we can use this to move past the 9/11 mentality that has turned all Muslims into suspects and enemies in the eyes of many. I am hopeful that Jon Stewart is right that this, combined with the relatively peaceful revolutions in places like Egypt, will signal that groups like Al Qaeda are done and that the new voice of change in the Arab world is the voices of the young people in the streets calling for democracy.

I am resigned and cynical.

I am hearing the words of Gandhi that "an eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind" and that this will just be one more chapter in the seemingly endless cycle of violence. I am readying myself for disappointment that the President's real instinct for peace will be shouted out by the tremendous monetary interests invested in war that he believes he needs to please to get re-elected. I am doubtful of our own ability to learn from history and not continually repeat it.

And no, I'm not trying to be politic and give everyone something to agree with me on. I am genuinely all these things and probably many more. Even though it is not good messaging or marketing or what some people would view as "strong leadership," I am genuinely filled with conflicting emotions and it seems best just to be honest about that. If it matters to you at all where I am with all this, well, this is where I am right now. I don't know where I will be tomorrow or next week or next month. But in the eyes of the world, I don't think that matters ... because we will have moved on to the next shiny thing. And people will be reacting to it ... and reacting to the reactions ... and so on ... and so on.

So more than anything, I am wondering what has become of reflection instead of reaction. As someone who wants to proclaim the Gospel, do I have to conform to the speed-of-light pace of Facebook, Twitter and CNN? Do I have to come up with a 140-character or less opinion that I can broadcast immediately while we still have people's attention? Is that just part of being a dean ... or a priest ... or a Christian ... today?

Maybe it is. But I don't think so. Maybe the witness we have every time a major event happens isn't diving to our keyboards but falling to our knees. Maybe it isn't just being the faith-based version of the reactive cable news pundits but inviting people to join us in a place where we can "be still and know that God is God." Where we remember that "God's ways are not our ways and God's thoughts our thoughts." Where with Elijah, we realize we don't find God in the whirlwind and the fire and the noise but in the "sound of sheer silence."

I think about our life together at Christ Church Cathedral. We are a diverse group of diverse opinions and backgrounds and experiences. I get challenged by different views pretty much daily and I'm pretty much at my worst when I react immediately to them. But I find when I turn them over in my heart and mind. When I take them to God in prayer. When I probe deeper in conversation. When I reach for a wisdom that is greater than our own and look for God in that "sound of sheer silence" ... I begin to change. I begin to let God change me through you. I begin to become something different. And I think that something different is more like the Body of Christ.

There are some things -- many things -- I have no problem giving an instant reaction to, for good or for ill. I don't need to stop and think about whether women being used in prostitution is bad or whether a lunatic planning to burn a Koran is something that should be condemned. But often .. even most of the time ... the world is more complex and interesting and nuanced than that. And that's where the world really needs to stop and turn away from the whirlwind, flame and noise and listen for the still, small voice of the divine. And that's where I pray we can take the time to fall to our knees, listen deeply, love deeply, and reach for the wisdom to channel it.

in Christ's love,

Mike+

Sunday, May 1, 2011

"The Peace of Christ be always with you." -- a sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter

Preached by the Very Rev. Mike Kinman at Christ Church Cathedral on Sunday, May 1, 2011

The peace of Christ be always with you.

And also with you.

“The peace of Christ be always with you.”

And also with you.

“The peace of Christ be always with you.”

And also with you.

It's pretty much a reflex, isn't it. An automatic response. I think it's just human nature. Part of how we're wired. We can take the most profound things and through sheer repetition, turn them into just this reflex response.

When we leave the house each morning:

"Love you."

 "Love you, too!"

And we don't even think about how much it means until that spouse or partner is gone or the child has grown and has moved away.

“Take care of yourself”

"You, too."

It’s just a throwaway line until someone we love is in an accident or is diagnosed with cancer ... And then we realize how much we really mean it. You are precious and fragile. Take care of yourself. Please!

And then there’s this one: The peace of Christ be always with you.

And also with you.

It’s easy for it to turn into the churchy version of the captain turning off the fasten seatbelt sign. Bing. You are now free to move about the church - until we begin our final descent into the Eucharist.

Except ... somehow not here. Here at Christ Chirch Cathedral we have an instinctual sense that this isn’t some throwaway line. There is an energy and urgency and a joy to the peace here. And that’s how it should be. Because the peace is not just a halftime whistle. This morning we hear Jesus say, “Peace be with you.” three times. And it's not just his way of saying, "Hey ... Whassup?" He’s letting the disciples and us know what kind of community we are supposed to be with one another.

You see, the word for peace here is the Greek word eirene. Eirene is better translated as harmony. And it’s not just just an absence of conflict but something incredibly active. You gotta work for it. Like singers in a choir who have to listen deeply to each other so their different voices can blend into beauty, the peace of Christ happens when we listen and work together to create something far more beautiful than we could on our own or just with voices in our own range.

The peace of Christ isn’t just passively tolerating each other in that false virtue of “you can be who you are … over there … and I can be who I am … over here … and we’ll just stay out of each other’s way.” No, it’s when we actively seek out those who are most different from us, those whom we have the most conflict with, and get right in each other’s faces and say “I am not letting you go. Because God has put something in you that I need to be whole. And God has put something in me that you need to be whole.”

The peace of Christ is hard. It’s hard because it goes against this deep instinct we have to avoid conflict by gravitating just toward people who are like us. After all, it’s so much easier that way. We imagine everyone can be happy and nobody gets hurt and God knows it’s nowhere near as messy when we all basically agree and nobody makes anyone else too uncomfortable. And certainly in a world where we all have enough challenges without seeking out new ones, that kind of thinking and living can be really, really tempting.

But that kind of peace, the kind that is just a segregated absence of conflict is not the peace of Christ but a false peace. And we have seen what it does.

It is the same false peace that led to nearly a century of Jim Crow and so-called “separate but equal” laws in this country. That led to the formation of churches like All Saints in North St. Louis when people of color came to churches like Christ Church Cathedral and were told, “wouldn’t you be more comfortable over at your own church over there.” When it was never the comfort of the black people that was the issue. It is the quest for the same false peace that gay and lesbian people still hear in many other churches of “you’d probably be happier at the Cathedral or Trinity.” It is the quest for the same false peace that leads us in our worst moments to throw nasty looks at the two-year old who is who is just being a fidgety two year old in worship or to sigh and shift away from the person who has spent the night on the street. This makes me uncomfortable, so it's best for everyone if we just keep our distance from each other.

But that peace is not the peace of Christ. And we know it. We know it because almost all of us have chosen every Sunday to drive past churches that are closer and more homogenous that this one to come to a place where we really are a glorious mixed bag of different ages, races, tastes, classes, sexual orientations. You name it, we’ve got it, we ARE it! But yet even though we have chosen to be here, we are still so subject to the temptation to reach for the false peace. To even in this diverse community gravitate toward just being with a subset that is most like us. To segregate into interest groups and to lobby against one another to get the ministry or the liturgy that most suits us.

And left to ourselves, I wouldn’t expect anything different. It’s human nature. But as I’ve said so many times before, Jesus meets and loves us as we are, but Jesus never leaves us the way we are. Jesus didn’t go into that locked room where the disciples were huddled together in their little like-minded subset and say, “It’s OK, I love you. You can just stay here and I’ll drop in and visit once a week.” No, he said, “peace be with you. As the father has sent me, so I send you.” Go out into the world that is different and challenging and risky, and seek out the gift that otherness has for you and give the gift your otherness has for them. Create the harmony that only comes when very different voices are blended together.

I am convinced that is Christ’s dream for us as his beloved community. It is the peace of Christ. And it is exquisite harmony that comes from the hard work of loving, listening and being deeply engaged with one another. It is coming together in all our blessed difference to embrace the holy habits that shape us as Christians – the habits of prayer, worship, study, service and stewardship. It is coming together in all our blessed difference to lay down our lives and agendas for one another and for the world.

It is why we have a group now working on tracing our history with race at Christ Church Cathedral. It is why we have an oral history project group forming to learn to capture and tell the stories and history of the diverse peoples of this Cathedral. And it is a big part of why, three weeks ago, I announced that I was seriously considering consolidating our Sunday morning from three services to two, and indeed starting on Pentecost, June 12, that is what we are going to do.

I had someone say to me, “I just don’t see what problem you are trying to solve with this!” And if you feel that way, I really get it. Because on one level, everything might seem just fine the way it is. There are ways that our current Sunday structure keeps us in peace, blissfully separate but equal, able to spread out and choose not to be as challenged or shaped by each other’s “otherness.”

But it in the end that is a false peace that is not worthy of us. In the end, that is a song that will fall far short of the harmony we are capable of singing. And so the past three weeks I have tried to model what I believe Christ calls us all to do. I have listened deeply to you. I have prayed A LOT. And I have set a course that I believe is the best for embracing not the peace of the absence of conflict but the Peace of Christ. To come together and most fully become the diverse and challenging and beloved community that Christ dreams for us

Starting June 12, at 8 o’clock, there will be a Rite I, said service in Bofinger Chapel. At 10 o’clock, there will be a Rite II, choral Eucharist in the Nave, with a separate liturgy of the Word offered in the chapel for children with everyone back together for the Eucharist. And beginning the fall, in between the two, from 9 – 9:45, there will be opportunities for all of us of all ages to participate in Christian education.

For those of you who have been with us the past two summers this will be very familiar and thats no accident. We've discovered that coming together like this works. Its just that when fall comes, this year, we're going to keep on doing it.

But there will be some new things. The 8 o’clock service is being moved because what we are doing in worship is coming together as a community. And where we are a community of 25, we can come together better in a space that seats 40-50 rather than one that seats 350-400. If that service outgrows the chapel and gets to the point where we are regularly reaching 80% capacity, we’ll move it back to a space that fits it better.

You spoke with a loud voice that you far preferred a later start time than I had proposed … with Christian education in between the two services. That’s great, and I’m happy to make that shift. But coming together not just for worship but for Christian education – for learning about our faith, learning about how we can support each other in those holy habits of prayer, worship, study, service and stewardship. That’s not some optional extra but a huge part of us learning how to live our faith … how coming here on Sunday becomes not just a quick hit of prayer and worship but an ongoing experience that changes who we are.

Amy, our Sunday School teachers and Nancy Kinney and the Adult formation committee are committed to providing excellent chances to come together learn from one another and grow in our faith. With this new structure for Sundays there should be no barriers for anyone participating. And it's important for us to. And so I look forward to seeing you there.

Finally, the Chapter and many of you spoke loudly about three things to do with our new principal service, which will be at 10 am.

1) That the liturgical style and music build on the strength of our wonderful music program.
2) That we be open to a greater diversity in music that reflects the diversity of this community.
3) That we more greatly embrace the presence of children and youth in church, including additional "Rules of Respect" for how children should be welcomed.

I loved hearing this from you because not only are these things possible and exciting, they are about just this kind of coming together Jesus challenges us to embrace when he stands among us and says “Peace be with you!” How can we take our diverse strengths and talents and let God use us and them to create expressions of deep beauty.

I am entrusting Amy to work with Pat Partridge and others to craft a liturgy that embraces all of this. Not some lowest common denominator worship that tries to please everyone and ends up muting our best gifts but an expression of worship that helps us look deeply and fully at one another – particularly at those of us who are most challenging to each other – and to offer the best of that to God.

Be not afraid! We’re going to have fun figuring this out. And we’re going to learn from each other and we’re going to learn about one another. And yeah, it’s going to be messy at times, and yeah, there is going to be conflict. But that’s OK. Because there is no conflict we can’t love each other through, no height of harmony we cannot attain if we remember to keep coming together each week and seeking out those whose otherness is our greatest gift.

If we remember to keep doing what we do best … looking each other in the eyes and joyfully embracing each other with the words that are among Christ’s greatest gifts to us.

The peace of Christ be always with you.