Hear a short recap of the Sunday service:

Watch the 11 AM Celebration of the Holy Eucharist

Watch the 6 PM Community Eucharist

The written version of the sermon is here:

Every year on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, we hear a Gospel reading that reminds us of Jesus as the Good Shepherd.  As far as sheep farming might be from some of us, there’s something almost archetypal about the idea of a shepherd as being strong, kind, watchful, pursuing the lost, binding up the wounded, eager to gather in more sheep (and goats, too.) One of the Church’s best children’s education programs is called the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, because its developer, steeped in the wisdom of the Montessori method, understood that very small children get the concept of a shepherd who loves them and calls them by name.

A loving shepherd empowers us to be loving and to share that love. We see that in our continued readings from the Acts of the Apostles, as Peter and the other disciples move about healing and preaching. They get into trouble, but they’re undeterred. They know the Good Shepherd and they know the Good Shepherd knows and loves them.

The simplicity of a child’s faith is in that classic poem by the English Romantic poet William Blake. Blake has a child ask,

Little Lamb who made thee
        Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
         Little Lamb who made thee
         Dost thou know who made thee?

I sometimes wish we lived in such a world of streams and meads in which everyone had clothing of delight, softness and safety. 

As I pray about the ongoing shootings and gun violence in our country—the shootings by crazy, disturbed individuals, as well as the shootings by police—I watch some of the British crime shows with wonder as I notice that most police do not carry weapons.  Not only does that mean there are fewer police shootings, but it also reminds us that the UK has fewer citizens who understand gun ownership as an extension of their identity.  Can’t we go back to easier days? Or as Rodney King asked—with the hopefulness of a child, “Can’t we all just get along?”

We know the answer is more complicated.

Psalm 23 reminds us that we sometimes walk in the valley of the shadow of death, that evil exists, and there will always be those “who trouble us,” enemies….nevertheless (and there’s faith in that word, nevertheless) THOU, O Good Shepherd, art with us.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus also is clear-eyed about the pasture.  Thieves and bandits try to climb over the fence. Strangers try to mislead. Some just want to kill and steal and destroy. There will be wolves, and hired hands who are unreliable. These are Jesus’s words, not the cynical notes of my faith. Jesus should know, after all, because he is the sacrificial lamb, who gives his own life for the clearing away of death and evil and injustice. By identifying as the victim, Jesus has turned the system inside-out.  Yet, nevertheless, Jesus calls us by name.

And what’s even better is that the folks we see and know as those within the fold are not even the half of it. “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.”  We don’t know exactly who Jesus means—maybe it’s the Jews who have not understood his coming. Maybe it’s the foreigners. Maybe it’s the cynical or the doubtful, but whoever they are, Jesus’s comment seems to suggest that we never give up praying for others—for their conversion to love, for their healing and hope, and for their joining us in everlasting life.

Literature professors, poets, and people far smarter than me will say that for one to really understand William Blake’s poem, “The Lamb,” one also needs to read and keep in mind, the parallel poem, “The Tyger.”

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

In other words, how could a benevolent, loving God, a God who creates and loves little sheep, also be the creator of something as vicious, cold, and killing as a tiger?  What was God thinking? Was this a mistake? Where do we place evil in a world in which we insist on good?

It comes back to those shady characters Jesus mentions in the Gospel, doesn’t it?  This side of heaven, there will always be thieves, murderers, and swindlers.  But the Good Shepherd continues to lead, to love, and to call us by name.

If you recall the first stanza of Blake’s “The Lamb,” you recall the child asks the sheep, “Who made you?” In the second stanza, the child speaks with the wisdom of faith and assurance, answering their own question:

Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,
         Little Lamb I’ll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
         Little Lamb God bless thee.
         Little Lamb God bless thee.

Blake has two different poems to express the Christian dilemma of good and evil, of light and dark, of hatred and love existing in the same world. We are not to despair. We are never to give up.  But to keep listening and following our own name, as Jesus calls us. We’re called to keep working and praying for the conversion of the world, as the Good Shepherd has a lot of other sheep and much bigger pasture. (Our beloved Sheep’s Meadow in Central Park will be magnified by the thousands and millions in heaven.)

The choir sings the beautiful Bairstow paraphrase of Psalm 23 on our behalf a little later (but we’ll sing it ourselves before too long,)

And so through all the length of days
Thy goodness faileth never;
Good Shepherd, may I sing Thy praise
Within Thy house for ever.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Hear a short recap of the Sunday service:

Watch the 11 AM Celebration of the Holy Eucharist

Watch the 6 PM Community Eucharist

The written version of the sermon is here:

St. Francis, the 12^th century holy man and preacher, who confounded people in his day and in ours, had a difficult relationship with his own body. Like many religious, for most of his life, he privileged the life of the spirit—a relationship with God, a deep and steady prayer life, outreach and compassion with the poor, and in fact an identity with the poor—he valued that life over the tedious, boring, day-to-day maintenance of his own body. In fact, as St. Francis referred to all of creation as a sister or brother, he referred to his body as Brother Ass.  Brother Ass was like a mule or a donkey—necessary for getting work done, but stubborn, burdensome, and sometimes with a will of its own. The body, Brother Ass, for St. Francis, was to be endured.

Some think that when Francis was young and held as a prisoner of war for a time, he must have contracted malaria, which returned from time to time throughout his life. He had stomach problems and may have had an ulcer. He had eye problems that were given painful treatments that didn’t help. Add to this that Francis pushed himself, and was often emotionally isolated from the very community he had inspired.

One day, later in life, Francis was fussing about his body, Brother Ass. He asked a brother what he should do, and the young brother helped Francis see that Francis offered kindness, compassion, and mercy to all of creation, EXCEPT for his own body.  And yet, that body had given him the means to be of use to Christ in the first place. Shouldn’t he show his own body a little compassion? Francis heard these words as straight from God, so said to himself, “Cheer up Brother Body, and forgive me; for I will now gladly do as you please, and gladly hurry to relieve your complaints!”   (The Remembrance of the Desire of a Soul, Ch. 160, FA:ED, Vol 2, p. 383.)

We give thanks for the Resurrection of the Body of Christ, and that means that we also should give thanks for the existence of our own bodies.

In the first reading we heard this morning, from the Acts of the Apostles, Peter has just healed beggar who was disabled. But the people want to try to understand it, justify it, or explain it.  To them, Peter says, “Here is life renewed.” “Faith in [the name of Jesus Christ] his name itself has made this man strong, whom you see and know; and the faith that is through Jesus has given him this perfect health in the presence of all of you.” The healing power of the resurrection has found a home in this man, now able to walk around and praise God.

In the Gospel from Luke, Jesus again appears to his disciples. He breathes on them and they receive the Holy Spirit, but when the disciples seem baffled by all of this, Jesus brings them back to earth by asking for food. As if to prove that he is more than a ghost or a spirit, Jesus is hungry and wants to eat with them. And so they eat fish right there. Jesus then explains that they are witnesses to all that Jesus has done and said, and are meant to carry on this work of healing and forgiving and renewing people in the love of God out of Jerusalem into the whole world. And they will be doing this with their bodies.

Some years when I reflect on this Gospel of Luke, I like to talk about how the Holy Spirit is given in this passage and how that works alongside the Spirit’s movement on Pentecost.  But this year, I hear the Spirit reminding me that Jesus took his body seriously, and we take ours seriously, as well.

One might think that during a pandemic, we would be hyper-focused on our bodies and doing all we can to avoid getting a virus.  But as we joke about the Covid-15 a lot of us have put on (the extra pounds through stress eating and worry and lack of movement), a lot of us spend increasing amounts of time interacting with people through screens.  Though we are communicating more than ever (and that has blessings) we should never lose sight that we are embodied and Christianity is an embodies faith.

Our eating and drinking together, our shaking hands and hugging—we have missed and we mourn. But let’s not pretend they’re not coming back. Of course they are. We can say things in silent proximity that are simply impossible to convey through a screen, an email, or a phone call. These are good substitutions when we can’t be together, but let’s never forget that they are substitutions.

At every celebration of the Holy Eucharist, we remember how Jesus shared a meal with his disciples and transformed that meal by saying that in the blessing, the breaking, and the sharing, he was also sharing his body and blood with them. In Holy Communion, we share in Christ’s Body and Blood, and gain a bit of that Resurrection Spirit into our bodies.

Jesus healed and brought new life into the bodies around him.
St. Francis eventually came to show compassion to his body.
And we, too, are called to be good stewards of the bodies God has given us.

The point of this sermon is not that anyone would feel guilty about mistreating their body or feel shamed in any way.  But I hear God’s Spirit calling us to remember that we are given these miraculous bodies to learn from and to live with. How might we show compassion to ourselves? How might we take better care and be better stewards?  How might we invite God’s healing and helping power to make us stronger and more faithful?

The Collect of the Day invites reminds us of how the disciples recognized Jesus in the breaking of bread. May our eyes be opened, as well, so that we might behold the risen Lord and allow him to redeem our bodies, minds, and souls.  Amen.

Hear a short recap of the Sunday service:

Watch the 11 AM Celebration of the Holy Eucharist

Watch the 6 PM Community Eucharist

The written version of the sermon is here:

People sometimes get frustrated with the Episcopal Church and the fact that our tradition offers a lot of room for interpretation.  Especially confused (and sometimes angered) are those coming from other traditions, in which doctrines and beliefs are more clearly defined. I think of some of the standard questions such as:

Do Episcopalians believe in the Real Presence of the Jesus in the Sacrament of Holy Communion?  Well–, many do, some don’t, and most probably don’t worry themselves too much about it.

At what age should children be baptized or begin receiving Communion?  It varies.

How many Sacraments are there, anyway?  Seven or just two?  Well, as our Catechism (way in the back of the Book of Common Prayer) puts it, there are “Two great sacraments” (Holy Baptism and the Holy Eucharist) and there are other “sacramental rites” which include confirmation, ordination, holy matrimony, reconciliation of a penitent, and unction.  “Although they are means of grace, they are not necessary for all persons in the same way that Baptism and the Eucharist are” (p. 860).

I know this kind of language drives some people crazy.  I also know that it makes our job a lot harder if we’re trying to explain our faith or our tradition.  But I’m grateful for the breadth and generosity of our tradition.  It means there’s room for me.  There’s room for you.  There’s room for just about everybody because God understands we come to faith differently.  God made us that way.

Some people’s faith depends upon signs. Others believe in Jesus without a sign. Some need miracles. Others don’t. Some have faith that is weak, some strong. Some have shallow faith, some have deep faith. These different kinds of faith can be seen especially when we look at the various reactions to the resurrection.

 On this second Sunday of Easter, as we continue to reflect on the resurrection and its meaning, we can notice where we are on the spectrum of faith and doubt, and we can be encouraged by the different ways the first followers of Jesus came to believe.

Think of those first witnesses and how they responded to Jesus:

Mary Magdalene had faith that took her to the tomb and she saw the risen Lord through her tears.

The two disciples were walking to Emmaus talked to a stranger.  Their faith led them to extend hospitality, and they saw the risen Lord in the breaking of bread.

Some of the other disciples were fishing on the Sea of Galilee. Their faith led them back to work, and they saw the risen Lord in the midst of their work, and when they reached land, he made them breakfast.

As we heard in today’s Gospel, when some of the disciples seemed to lose faith, they hid out in a locked room and tried to sort things out. But even there—or perhaps especially there in the midst of their fear and worry—the Risen Lord appeared to them, too.

For Thomas the Apostle, it wasn’t enough to hear of the resurrection from Mary Magdalene. These stories all sounded like wishing thinking, or people letting their emotions and hopes get the best of them. Thomas needed more.

And while we tend to describe Thomas as having a lack of faith—for Thomas, this simply IS his way of faith. It is a way that takes nothing for granted.  It’s a way that is willing to struggle, to look for truth deeply, to weigh the evidence, and only then, move forward. In fact, it’s really Thomas’s DESIRE for faith that moves him forward.

Peace be with you, Jesus says. And Jesus offers himself—the resurrected body still bearing the wounds. The story doesn’t tell us if Thomas actually touches the wounds. There is room for our imagination. Artists through the ages interpret this scene differently.  Some show Thomas actually poking his finger in the side of Jesus.  Others show a distance between Thomas and Jesus.  But that distance is important to remember.  It’s the same kind of distance as the one shown between God and Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  It doesn’t represent separation.  It represents movement toward the other.

What crosses the distance is desire, what bridges the gap, is God’s desire for us, and our desire for God.

Too often, I think we hide our desire—to desire shows vulnerability, need, and the admission that we’re not complete within ourselves.  It’s easier for us (individuals and churches) to show a veneer—doctrines, rules, regulations, barriers, and hurdles.  This is why so many people have made a distinction between what they perceive as “religion” (the rules and doctrines that confine and judge) as opposed to “spirituality” (an openness to creativity and curiosity about God.) At our best, the Episcopal way (especially) encourages both a religious practice and a spirituality that grows and changes over time.

Thomas Merton wrote a prayer that points to the space between us and God, the space in which we grow and move towards God.  His prayer asks,

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Like with Mary Magdalene, like with Thomas, our desire is enough.

The Luke version of the Passion contains a scene that should always be at the heart of  Christianity.  One of the criminals who is being crucified with Jesus asks him from the cross, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  And Jesus tells him, “Today you will be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:42-43).

It really is just that simple.  Christ is risen for us all and reveals himself to all who look for him, who hope for him, who desire him.

Christ is risen for the tearful. Christ is risen for the bold. He is risen for the dishonest and lazy, the broken and beyond repair.  Christ is risen for those who are afraid, and he is risen for those who doubt.  The Lord is risen for us all. Alleluia.

Hear a short recap of the Sunday service:

Watch the 11 AM Celebration of the Holy Eucharist

Watch the 6 PM Community Eucharist

The written version of the sermon is here:

There’s a lot of fear in this Gospel.  Mary Magdalene and the other women are afraid they won’t be able to move the stone away from the entrance of the tomb where Jesus has been buried.  But then they see the stone already moved, and their fears change.  Stepping inside the cave-tomb, they see a young man—maybe an angel—and now they’re really scared. From him, they learn that Jesus is not there.  He has been raised and is going on ahead.  

The women stumble out of the tomb terrified, amazed, and fearful.  The scripture says that at first, “They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”  But then an amazing thing happens, Mary Magdalene finds the other disciples and becomes the very first Christian preacher as she tells them what she has seen.  The other disciples don’t believe her, (They think she’s been smelling too many Easter lilies, or maybe she’s gotten into the poppies) but she keeps on. 

What’s happened to her fear?  Was it replaced by faith?  I don’t think so.  I think her faith surrounded her fear, the faithful fear and fearful faith commingled, and the two become an even more powerful witness to the risen Christ.

Throughout scripture people are confronted with angels, messengers from God, and on occasion, God himself, and each time the first words are “Do not be afraid.”  “Fear not.”  And so, on one hand, it’s clear that we’re not supposed to be full of fear, eaten up by it, paralyzed by it, defined by it.  

Sometimes FEAR can be that acronym some people use where F.E.A.R. represents Forget Everything and Run.

That’s one option. But if we think about the many times in scripture that God or an angel or Jesus says, “Fear not,” those words come in the midst of action that has already begun.  The person visited has NOT run away, but there’s STILL fear.  God says, “Don’t be afraid,” all the while, knowing, understanding, perhaps even sharing a little in our experience that even with faith, we may still have some fear. 

What this means, I think, is that God calls us not to be fearful, nor to be fear-less, but to be a little of both, to be fearsome.  

Fearsomeness is the quality of being able to cause fear, to instill fear, but it also carries with it a slight sense of one’s still being afraid. F.E.A.R. can also stand for Face Everything and Rise.

As a church, we’re called to be fearsome.  Even though so-called “organized religion” gets a lot of criticism, we can quietly and faithfully offer our experience.  In the face of corporate greed and economic amnesia, we can be speak out.  And if we aren’t heard at the ballot box, we can make the voice of faith heard at the cash register.  We can be fearsome, if we allow the Holy Spirit to ignite us.

As a parish, we’re called to be fearsome—to get more deeply involved in our community and city, to take on more creatively the issues that are on our front doorstep as well as on the other side of the world, and to try to be a parish that is open and welcoming to all, even when the souls that present themselves may not be exactly like us.

As individuals, we’re called to be fearsome.  Granted, I don’t sit at your desk and I don’t work with your colleagues, have your boss, or deal with neighbors, coworkers, inlaws, or family.  But I know this:  Fear can be a means of avoidance, and if we avoid too much of life, we’ll miss the miracles.   

In today’s New York Times, the Rev. Esau McCaulley articulates this idea of being fearsome as he ponders the place of faith and Easter as we move through the pandemic.  He writes

To listen to the plans of some, after the pandemic we are returning to a world of parties and rejoicing. This is true. Parties have their place. Let us not close all paths to happiness. But we are also returning to a world of hatred, cruelty, division and a thirst for power that was never quarantined. This period under pressure has freshly thrown into relief the fissures in the American experiment.

As we leave the tombs of quarantine, a return to normal would be a disaster unless we recognize that we are going back to a world desperately in need of healing. For me, the source of that healing is an empty tomb in Jerusalem. The work that Jesus left his followers to do includes showing compassion and forgiveness and contending for a just society. It involves the ever-present offer for all to begin again. The weight of this work fills me with a terrifying fear, especially in light of all those who have done great evil in his name. Who is worthy of such a task? Like the women, the scope of it leaves me too often with a stunned silence.  (“The Unsettling Power of Easter,” New York Times, April 4, 2021)

We’re called to be fearsome with the love of Christ.  This resurrected love that faces down death itself can help us in the face of all our fears.  Asking Jesus for help, to hold on to us in the face of fear, is the first step. Then, after the first or second step, when we’re scared again, we can ask him to speak to those fears, and move us a little further ahead. And on, we go.

This is the life of faith—not in opposition to fear, but moving through fear, just like we move through joy, and sadness, and gratitude, and heartbreak—even through death—until we, with angels and archangels, saints and martyrs, all those we have every known and loved, the holy and unholy of every age, and—when we, too, experience Resurrection.

Alleluia! Christ is risen.
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.