In Praise of Doubt

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
April 15, 2007; 2nd Sunday in Easter, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(John 20:19-31) -- When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you." When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained."

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe."

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!" Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."

Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.
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You've heard me say before that it is unfair to speak of "Doubting Thomas." For me, he is "Grieving Thomas."

Go back one week -- to Easter Day. Just two days before Thomas had seen the brutal slow execution of his beloved friend and mentor Jesus. The scenes are vivid in his brain -- the brutal nails through his hands; the spear thrust into his side. The sense of grief is profound and overwhelming.

Thomas wasn't there when the other disciples experienced the appearance of Jesus risen and triumphant on Easter Day. They came to him with unbridled excitement, telling him "We have seen the Lord." But Thomas had not shared their experience. He knew what he had seen, and the happy words of the others sounded shallow next to the real physicality of the death of Jesus that he had witnessed. Unless he could see something of equal reality and power, his grief could not be allayed. How could someone else's happy words erase the horror he had lived through? He is Grieving Thomas; Hurting Thomas; Haunted Thomas.

Now, give credit to the other disciples. They did not say to Thomas, you just don't believe enough. They did not exclude him from their fellowship, alienate, screen, avoid, or ostracize him even though he did not share the faith that now energized them. He was part of the fellowship; he remained in the fellowship.

And good for Thomas. He stayed with them, even though he was different. Even though he didn't experience life as the others did any more, he received enough acceptance from them to stay. Although he was probably uncomfortable, he stayed with his friends. They made him welcome enough that one week later, the next Sunday, he was still there, and Jesus honored Thomas with a special resurrection appearance. That day for him, everything changed.

If you want to call him Grieving Thomas, on that day he had a vision of Jesus that healed his grief. None of the facts had changed. Jesus had still been crucified; the wounds were still there. But all the meaning had changed. Jesus' resurrection transcended the pain, evil, and death that Thomas had witnessed, and now everything was gloriously healed. Thomas grieved no more.

Or if you want to call him Truthful Thomas, he was a person who had the honesty and courage to claim his own reality, to speak his true emotions -- even if they were contrary to the prevailing opinion. Jesus honors his honesty. Out of Thomas' willingness to face his own dark struggle, he experiences Christ's presence so profoundly that he becomes the first person to utter words of worship: "My Lord and my God." He sees more deeply into the reality of the significance of Jesus than anyone else has thus far. His courageous honesty opened him to new and deeper truth.

But note this. It is the experience of Jesus as loving and compassionate which meets his doubt and gives him peace. That's important to remember. The experience of God as loving and compassionate produces peace. Upon that foundation, one can risk faith. You can trust when what you trust is compassionate love.

For centuries the Church has called him Doubting Thomas. Let's talk about that. I want to talk about doubt. Doubt gets a bad name. I've had people say to me that they thought about coming to our church because they see all the good things that we are involved in, but they hesitate because they are not sure that they believe enough. I've heard it over and over: "I'm not sure what I believe," they will say. I say, "Wonderful! You can belong before you believe." Wasn't that the gift the disciples gave to Thomas? He belonged even when he didn't believe. In fact, if you were brought up in the church as I was, most of us belonged before we believed. That is part of the power of the meaning of infant baptism.

Doubt is an essential component of faith. The opposite of faith is not doubt. The opposite of faith is certainty. There is always an element doubt and trust in healthy faith. To be a person of faith is to look around the world and to say, "Despite the presence of evil and tragedy and death, I trust in something good." It is the choice to go on living hopefully. We say that God is good; that God created all that is and said "It is good." Despite all, life is good. So, in faith, we choose to trust. We choose to act out of compassion and love rather than defensiveness and fear.

But you always know, in the back of your mind, you could be wrong about that. After all, life is hard, and people can be cruel. Human beings are fragile and can be broken. I might be one of those who could be broken. But, despite that, I'm going to trust, and go on.

The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty erases openness and kills the pilgrimage of growth. I had a college roommate Howard who put a bumper sticker on our refrigerator: "The Bible said it. I believe it. That's that." There was a lot that Howard refused to think about. Faith is not the same thing as acquired gullibility. People can and will believe the strangest of things, and bend or ignore the evidence to the contrary. Rigid certainty will cut off the pilgrimage toward truth. Certainty obliterates openness, and openness is necessary for spiritual growth and faith.

I am a natural doubter. I know some people who are natural believers. They don't struggle because they know intuitively. They are typically humble, gentle, and they remain very open. That's different from squashing doubt with certainty. But faith does not come easy for me. Yet after a lifetime of experiences like Thomas' -- experiences of love and compassion which brings peace -- I no longer actively struggle to have a deep faith and trust. It's just there. Maybe that's part of growing old.

But I have doubt. There are days when I feel challenged by the question, "What if it's all wrong?" What if Jesus was simply a nice Jewish religious enthusiast, who made a profound impact on others by his powerful love, his compelling teaching, and a personal impression that brought congruity to their lives? But his vision was too radical for the religious and political authorities, and they killed him. End of story. What if the resurrection was nothing more than the active imagination of his followers who insisted that they would continue to live out of his Spirit? What if that's all there is? I ask myself that sometimes.

If that were so, I would still follow Jesus as "my Lord and my God" because it is the best story going. I will give my life to that story, because it carries more meaning and value than anything else I have encountered.

The Jesus I follow is the incarnation in human life of divine love and compassion. I have some friends who follow a Jesus who is very different from that. They look forward to the day when Jesus will return and judge and destroy the earth. He will condemn everyone who hasn't declared allegiance to his name.

What if they are right? What if that's how God really is? Ready to destroy all who don't believe "right"? Then count me part of the revolution. That kind of god doesn't deserve my worship and allegiance. I am not going to worship a god who isn't at least as good as I am. Their god is a very bad god. Bad religion happens when people worship gods who are projections of their own darkness. True Christianity proclaims that Jesus is light from light. I'm holding out for that good God.

And what happens when we die? I confess I have almost no interest in that question. For me, Christianity is about life here and now. Jesus said "I came that you might have life and have it abundantly... so that my joy may be in your and your joy may be complete." My practice of faith is about living life abundantly, authentically, here and now. But what about after we die? The God that I have experienced is a God of such love and compassion that I trust God eternally. Whatever God wants after this life is fine with me. After all, there is no way for me to know anything concrete about that. Oh, there are some hints. And those hints are pretty encouraging. But if after we die there is nothing, I'm fine with that. I've been close enough to nothing in contemplative prayer to be at peace with returning silently to the all.

So, that's some of what I believe. I am your priest. I lead our prayers, teach, consecrate, bless. On a personal level I pray, study, and try to live a life of consecration and blessing. But I doubt. I have doubts. Not every day. But some days. Some days more than others. I don't stuff those doubts. I allow them to be there. From time to time they have led me into great discovery.

Thomas shows us what is important. It is important to be honest and courageous. It is faithful to confront and accept your doubts and to invite the risen Lord to bring you whatever you need to grow. Jesus honors our struggles and doubts. Jesus will come to us, and what Jesus will bring is what Jesus is -- love and compassion. Perfect love casts out fear. That is the kind of love that breathes peace upon us. I have seen that kind of peace present even in the face of great tragedy and evil. It is the kind of peace that changes the meaning of things like crucifixion and things like death. Thomas knows. There is enough love and compassion to bring peace even to our deepest grief and doubt. Our best contribution to that quest is our honesty and our courageous, open willingness to stay in the tension. God will do the rest.
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The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church
is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission,
please contact us at P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373

This sermon and others are on our web site at www.stpaulsfay.org
Please visit our partner web ministry also at www.ExploreFaith.org

Changing Diapers in Church -- Easter Sunday

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
April 8, 2007; Easter Sunday, Year C

(Luke 24:1-12) -- But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again." Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

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My best friend in seminary, Bill, was the assistant organist at our chapel. That chapel is a beautiful and holy place, the Chapel of the Good Shepherd at the General Theological Seminary on the lower west side of New York City. Behind the great marble altar is a warm and engaging statue of Jesus gently caressing a little lamb. Many generations of the church's clergy have been nourished in the presence of Jesus the Good Shepherd, gently presiding over that glorious altar.

One day, Bill was going in to practice on the organ, when he noticed a disheveled looking girl walking around the chapel. She was dressed in an old flannel shirt and jeans; she had long unkept hair, a knapsack on her back, and a baby in her arms. She looked a bit spaced out and hippyish -- one of those souls the world has passed by.

Bill, being a good, genteel Southerner, spoke to her gently, "Pardon me, but may I help you?"

She hadn't seen him yet. She looked up a bit startled. "No, I'm just resting," she said.

Bill nodded, and went to the organ to begin practicing as she sat down. After a bit, Bill realized that he had forgotten some music, so he went back into the office to find it.

When he got back, the woman was at the altar, her knapsack thrown on one side of it. As Bill looked closer, he could see, the woman was changing her baby's diapers -- right on top of the fair linen of the high altar of the seminary chapel.

At first, he was outraged. Who is this crazy girl? But then he calmed down, being a good Southern gentleman.

"Uhh, I don't know if you are aware," he said quietly to her, "but some people, if they walked in right now, might be offended at what you're doing; where you're doing that."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. And she quickly finished and walked out.

Bill went back to the organ bench, but he found he couldn't play. He began to think. What's so wrong with a lost and lonely girl with a helpless baby finding what was to her a logical safe place to change a diaper? It was comfortably high, the only sanitary spot in a filthy city. If the altar of the Christ, who was born in a manger because there was no other place for his mother to lay her head, can't be used for that homeless mother... He wanted to cry, ...for all the hurt, lost, lonely people. He wanted for them, and for that girl, the warm security of the lamb, nestled in the arms of Jesus overlooking the altar at the Church of the Good Shepherd. This altar was a safe place for him; why not for her?

That woman is all of us. It's a jungle out there. Life is difficult. Life is very difficult. There is so much suffering, even when it just looks like normal life. At home with kids and parents, or in an office with regular hours and paychecks. Life is so very difficult for most of us. It is incredibly demanding and at the same time limiting; too often cut-throat and competitive.

Within each of us is a vulnerable, infant life trying to emerge. Some of that is our soul just trying to be good or do good, wanting to connect that with something greater than ourselves. The most important part of us is also the most vulnerable. It is the part of us that wants to love and be loved. All of us are like a child who is trying to learn to trust and love.

We need secure places, clean places to protect that vulnerable childlike quality within us. We need secure place, clean places to connect us to the holy, the transcendent, the greater-than-we. We need enough caring so that we feel safe enough to love. Safe enough to be able to be who we really are, to drop our outer coverings, and simply be ourselves, especially when we feel soiled and in need of a change.

I think I know why Bill wanted to cry that day in the Chapel of the Good Shepherd. He knew that he had been safe in that place. He knew what it feels like to be a vulnerable, hungry child trying to learn how to love. He had been fed at that altar of the Good Shepherd. And now, he had made that altar a place of inhospitality for a lost woman and her child.

I believe that we are all pretty much alike -- we are all like weary mothers looking for a safe place to change our dirty diapers -- maybe a place to be nourished and fed a little -- so that what is most real and deepest within us, and therefore feels most vulnerable within us, can rise and live. We don't want to be frightened away with intimidating demands and dressing up and being good enough. We want to hear and know that we are accepted, and that we are welcomed to a safe place. We want a place where we can meet God and grow into becoming our real selves.

Each week I offer this open invitation: "No matter who you are or where you are in your pilgrimage of faith, you are welcome here; you are welcome at God's table. We like to say to people who are unsure whether this is a safe place for them, "You can belong before you believe." Those invitations are grounded in our belief that every person is created in the image and likeness of God.

I want people to know that this is a place where you can be safe; where you will be nourished and nurtured, because of the resurrection of Jesus. We want to live in the light of his life. We want to be like him, and if we are, people will know that they are welcome. Because Jesus said, "let the little children come to me and forbid them not, for to such belongs the Kingdom of God." That picture is in stained glass at the center of our gathering.

People will know they are welcome because Jesus reached out to all in accepting loving compassion. He dined at the house of the rich and religiously unobservant Zacchaeus, and he reached out especially to befriend and bless the poor. He touched the unclean lepers, and he healed those who were foreigners and strangers to his clan. He raised the child of a soldier from the occupying Roman army; he stopped the stoning of a woman caught in adultery; he promised paradise to the thief crucified next to him; he said "come unto me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." To some curious fishermen he said, "Come and see." To the spiritually curious he says, "Come and see." He fed the hungry, especially the spiritually hungry to whom he said, "I have food and drink that are not of this world." He accepted and loved all. The only ones he got testy with were those who were so certain of their own righteousness that they tried to cast others in the shadow of their goodness. The only ones he got angry at were those who oppressed the poor by abusing their power. He treated women with equal dignity as men; children with equal value to adults; outsiders and foreigners with equal hospitality as insiders. That's the model we are invited to live into; that's what we're trying to do in this community.

So I want this church to be a place of radical hospitality, because Jesus was a person of radical hospitality. And if that woman with her child were to wander into this beautiful holy chapel and rest for a moment; and if she were to notice that our altar is a clean place, high and wide enough for her safely to change her little child's diapers; and if our organist Charlie Rigsby were to walk in as she cared for her little one -- I know how big his heart is -- he would ask her, "How can we help you?"

And maybe he would offer her a hot, balanced lunch from our Community Meals program, or find medical care for her child through our health and dental clinic the Community Clinic at St. Francis House. If she were homeless, he might invite her to visit with one of our social workers at the Seven Hills Homeless Center that we started. She and her child might even become one of our first tenants in our new supportive housing facility nearing completion on Huntsville Road. Or if her heart were burdened, he might connect her to one of our priests or our deacon so that she might shed her burden just a bit. We would invite her to church where she will hear the story of another mother and her poor child. She would explore and celebrate with us, God's infinite grace, acceptance and love. She and her child would be fed spiritually with the prayers and music and fellowship of this place. They would be nourished with the Body and Blood of Christ, the sacrament that makes us one with Jesus and one with one another. She would come to know God and to know herself. She would come to know the God who dwells with her and in her and among us all. She would find peace.

That's what the resurrection of Jesus offers all of us. Peace. God has entered into every bit of suffering and alienation that human beings can experience. The cross is the symbol of God's embrace of our misery, evil and death. And what God does with all that is resurrection. New life here and now. New life grounded in the eternal. We are the community that lives in that light. No matter who you are, or where you are in your pilgrimage of faith, you are welcome in this place; you are welcome at God's table.

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

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The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission, please contact us at
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373

This sermon and others are on our web site at www.stpaulsfay.org
Please visit our partner web ministry also at www.ExploreFaith.org

The Gift of Suffering

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas

April 1, 2007; Palm/Passion Sunday, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

The Gospel is the Passion according to Luke -- printed at the end of the sermon

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Kevin Anderson is a psychologist. Several years ago he struggled with chronic pain that made it difficult for him to sleep or work. At about the same time, his father contracted a common skin disease from his dog, applied the recommended topical medicine, and "began a yearlong descent as his liver failed from the toxic effects of the medicine that was supposed to heal him." Kevin says that the combination of his father's strange illness and his own chronic pain "were darkness upon darkness, an experience of powerful powerlessness." (1)

He calls this period his dark night of the soul -- a personal hurricane. A friend who played an important part in his healing reminded him that his crisis "could be a painful transformation to a new and beautiful place." To symbolize that hope, she gave him a refrigerator magnet of a monarch butterfly. He says, "Though I couldn't see or believe it then, the image got through to me in a way that words could not."

The day arrived when Kevin's father told the doctors he no longer was willing to endure the five-times-daily dialysis that kept him alive. Outside the hospital room, Kevin wept, held in the embrace of his oldest brother Bob. "How can this suffering be?" Kevin asked. Bob's startling answer was, "It's a gift."

Something broke inside Kevin at that moment. He called it "a new awareness." He writes, "What felt to me like a singular tragedy -- losing my father -- in fact happens millions of times daily all over the world. Those who have suffered heartbreaking loss join the vast brotherhood and sisterhood of those who have been fired in the crucible of deep sorrow. We all get our chance to become intimately acquainted with grief. Suffering rips us open, and into that place flows compassion -- if we let it."

Fast forward several years to the Sunday before Labor Day, 2005. A physician friend called officials in Biloxi, Mississippi to ask how many medical teams were there five days after the storm. "None," was the answer. Kevin's friend quickly recruited some doctors and nurses, and when Kevin offered him some money to help support the trip, he said, "I have another idea -- come with us, we can use a psychologist." So, Kevin went along. And listening to his intuition, he packed a pocketful of butterfly stickers he found at a crafts store.

Arriving in Biloxi, he felt "like a soldier coming to a war zone." The doctor said, "It looks like a nuclear bomb went off down here. It looks ever worse than the tsunami." He had been there also.

Kevin felt somewhat intimidated by the enormity of it all. "Am I strong enough?" he asked himself as their plane prepared to touch down. He decided to approach the physical destruction of Biloxi "as an outward manifestation of the devastated place (he) had already visited in (his) own soul. Though he had never been in a disaster zone, it felt like familiar turf when he recalled his own dark night.

Kevin talked with hundreds of people in Biloxi. Most of them talked of their faith, and spoke of how people are more important than material things. Those who suffered the worst were "the ones for whom the storm had layered a new experience of darkness upon a life that was already in crisis because of drug or alcohol addiction, mental illness, divorce, or the recent death of a loved one. Kevin said, "I knew that turf too, and I remembered how the simple, compassionate presence of those willing to stand in the darkness with me had been so important to my healing."

For the first couple of days, the butterfly stickers in his pocket just seemed trite in the face of such suffering. But eventually he risked sharing one "with a woman who had lost her home in the storm just weeks after suffering a shattering personal tragedy." Life seemed "so dangerous and unpredictable" to her that she doubted she could ever experience normalcy. Kevin suggested to her that "her pre-Katrina caterpillar life would eventually transform itself into a winged life, but not without some time spent in the confusing darkness of the chrysalis, the only place where metamorphosis occurs." Weeks later she wrote him to let him know "she was hanging in, trying her best to be about the work of transformation."

Kevin says, "Whenever I used them, the butterfly images felt like tiny pebbles to fling at a Goliath of need, and I had no illusions that I was going to slay anything in a few days in Biloxi. But when, a few days later, I saw people I had spent time with and I asked them if they remembered what we had talked about, many smiled softly and said, "Yes -- the butterfly.

"My time in Biloxi helped me experience the truth of my brother's insight into the mystery of suffering. Because I had been ripped open by death and darkness and learned that suffering can be a chrysalis that precedes the gift of transformation, I was able to be serene and strong while being present to numerous human beings in acute hardship. As it turned out, then, I was strong enough to transform my own dark night into a drop of compassion for the ocean of suffering in Biloxi."

+ + +

On a hill outside Jerusalem two millennia ago, a young Jewish man hung in the chrysalis of suffering -- absorbing pain and evil and death into his deepest being -- responding only with compassion. "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." Hanging there so powerless, he looks a little like a tiny pebble flung at a Goliath of need. Today we stand before the anguish of this man's painful cross. Maybe we ask, "How can this suffering be?" Somewhere in the back of our minds we hear the words, "It's a gift."

That day outside their father's hospital room, when Kevin asked his brother, "How can this suffering be?" and he heard Bob's answer, "It's a gift," Kevin worked with those words, creating a poem called a nested meditation. A nested meditation takes a phrase and sits with it until it offers another line of conclusion. Then sits with that stanza until it opens to new insight.

Later that day Kevin wrote this nested meditation:

How can this suffering be?

How can this suffering be a gift?

How can this suffering be a gift?
Rip it open.

How can this suffering be a gift?
Rip it open,
and the heart floods with compassion.

+ + +

The cross of Jesus is God's simple, compassionate presence willing to stand with us in the darkness of our being. When Jesus gave us the gift of his suffering, his own heart ripped open to flood the world in compassion. May we walk the way of the cross, be transformed in the chrysalis of his tomb, and emerge into the butterfly life of resurrection, living in his love and sharing his compassion which will heal the world.

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(1) Quotes in this sermon are from Kevin Anderson, Katrina Meditations, published in Spirituality & Health, Sept/Oct 2006, p. 52-57.


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The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ According to Luke (23:1-49)

Then the assembly rose as a body and brought Jesus before Pilate. They began to accuse him, saying, "We found this man perverting our nation, forbidding us to pay taxes to the emperor, and saying that he himself is the Messiah, a king." Then Pilate asked him, "Are you the king of the Jews?" He answered, "You say so." Then Pilate said to the chief priests and the crowds, "I find no basis for an accusation against this man." But they were insistent and said, "He stirs up the people by teaching throughout all Judea, from Galilee where he began even to this place."

When Pilate heard this, he asked whether the man was a Galilean. And when he learned that he was under Herod's jurisdiction, he sent him off to Herod, who was himself in Jerusalem at that time. When Herod saw Jesus, he was very glad, for he had been wanting to see him for a long time, because he had heard about him and was hoping to see him perform some sign. He questioned him at some length, but Jesus gave him no answer. The chief priests and the scribes stood by, vehemently accusing him. Even Herod with his soldiers treated him with contempt and mocked him; then he put an elegant robe on him, and sent him back to Pilate. That same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each other; before this they had been enemies.

Pilate then called together the chief priests, the leaders, and the people, and said to them, "You brought me this man as one who was perverting the people; and here I have examined him in your presence and have not found this man guilty of any of your charges against him. Neither has Herod, for he sent him back to us. Indeed, he has done nothing to deserve death. I will therefore have him flogged and release him."

Then they all shouted out together, "Away with this fellow! Release Barabbas for us!" (This was a man who had been put in prison for an insurrection that had taken place in the city, and for murder.) Pilate, wanting to release Jesus, addressed them again; but they kept shouting, "Crucify, crucify him!" A third time he said to them, "Why, what evil has he done? I have found in him no ground for the sentence of death; I will therefore have him flogged and then release him." But they kept urgently demanding with loud shouts that he should be crucified; and their voices prevailed. So Pilate gave his verdict that their demand should be granted. He released the man they asked for, the one who had been put in prison for insurrection and murder, and he handed Jesus over as they wished.

As they led him away, they seized a man, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming from the country, and they laid the cross on him, and made him carry it behind Jesus. A great number of the people followed him, and among them were women who were beating their breasts and wailing for him. But Jesus turned to them and said, "Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For the days are surely coming when they will say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the breasts that never nursed.' Then they will begin to say to the mountains, 'Fall on us'; and to the hills, 'Cover us.' For if they do this when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?"

Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing." And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, "He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!" The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, "If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!" There was also an inscription over him, "This is the King of the Jews."

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" But the other rebuked him, saying, "Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong." Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." He replied, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun's light failed; and the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit." Having said this, he breathed his last. When the centurion saw what had taken place, he praised God and said, "Certainly this man was innocent." And when all the crowds who had gathered there for this spectacle saw what had taken place, they returned home, beating their breasts. But all his acquaintances, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.
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The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission, please contact us at
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373

This sermon and others are on our web site at www.stpaulsfay.org
Please visit our partner web ministry also at www.ExploreFaith.org

Burning Bushes

Sermon preached by the Rev. Lowell E. Grisham, Rector
St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Fayetteville, Arkansas
March 11, 2007; 3rd Sunday in Lent, Year C
Episcopal Revised Common Lectionary

(Exodus 3:1-15) -- Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian; he led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed. Then Moses said, "I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up." When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, "Moses, Moses!" And he said, "Here I am." Then he said, "Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground." He said further, "I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob." And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God.

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."

But Moses said to God, "If I come to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' what shall I say to them?" God said to Moses, "I am who I am." He said further, "Thus you shall say to the Israelites, 'I am has sent me to you.'" God also said to Moses, "Thus you shall say to the Israelites, 'The Lord, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you': This is my name forever, and this my title for all generations.

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There are moments when an experience changes our reality. Amazing moments when we glimpse deep things and begin to understand more clearly. As we reflect on those experiences, they shape us and they shape the direction of our lives.

Moses was just taking care of business -- watching his father-in-law's flock -- when something caught his attention. He stopped long enough with enough attention to let it speak to him. He encountered God. Out of this momentary experience he began to understand the nature of the Divine and his own sense of calling.

Moses continued to reflect upon the mysterious Name of God revealed to him in this experience. The Name is never adequately translated -- I am what I am or I will be what I will be. Moses begins his relationship with this imageless God who is radically free, holy and mysterious -- a God who cannot be controlled by incantation or magic or even prayer. This God listens to the cry of the oppressed and acts in history. Moses learns, God's passion is liberation -- to free the oppressed. From this experience at the burning bush, Moses enters into a relationship of trust with mystery. He will be able to walk into the wilderness trusting an imageless God who is radically uncontrollable. The history of his tribe, the people of Israel, will be shaped by this encounter.

There is a tribe of people in North America who have a story of a divine encounter. According to the Sioux legends, a White Buffalo once appeared from the sky and transfigured into a beautiful Indian woman. She gave to the people the seven sacred ceremonies, a holy peace pipe, and all of the ancient knowledge they would need in order to prosper peacefully. On her departure, she promised to return one day to purify the land. The birth of a White Buffalo calf would herald her return.

On August 20, 1994 a White Buffalo calf was born in Janesville, Wisconsin. Native Americans hailed the birth as a fulfillment of prophecy and a sign that the great Spirit would be returning to restore balance and harmony to this land. On November 26, 2006, the White Buffalo was struck by lightning and died.

Choctaw medicine pipe carrier David Carson reflected on this event: "What is the meaning of the White Buffalo's death by lightning? The old world is finished. The ancestors have sent a sign." Carson and his wife "divined" the following five guidelines as their reflection on this experience:

"1. Reconfigure your life by cutting away excess...
2. White Buffalo made the ultimate sacrifice of his life so we remember the sacred in all of creation...
3. Protect the earth and use technology in a more conscious manner...
4. Offer gifts and talents to be of service to the challenges of planetary transformation...
5. Do not feed dark thoughts..." (1)

These thoughts have inspired and directed Native people in the wake of a profound experience.

Mary, a young maiden living in occupied Israel 2000 years ago experienced a messenger from God. "You will bear a child who will be holy," was the message. It was a dangerous message for an unwed woman who was betrothed. Her good name and her relationship with her fiancé were at risk. Nevertheless, she embraced the message with an enthusiastic "Let it be." As she reflected upon her experience, she longed for the coming of a Savior for her oppressed people. She visioned that the lowly would be lifted up and the proud brought down, the hungry filled with good things and the rich sent away empty. She embraced the birth of this child as the fulfillment of the promises begun in Abraham and Moses.

When he grew up, Mary's child seemed to be the Messiah that so many had longed for. Peter and some disciples, Mary Magdalene and a troop of women followed him as he healed the broken and cast out demons. They participated in his work of reconciliation, especially directed toward the outcast and sinners. His radical table hospitality scandalized the scrupulous. He taught and fed multitudes. Being with his compelling, compassionate love felt to them like being with God. He proclaimed the coming of a new kingdom where life would be just and fair and generous, the way things would be if God were ruler and not the Emperor.

It didn't work out. The Emperor and the religious authorities would allow no rivals. He was brutally executed as a condemned blasphemer and capital criminal.

As Mary Magdalene, Peter, the apostles and Mary began to reflect upon their experience, they knew him and his cause to be alive and vital even beyond death. They "divined" guidelines as their reflection on their experience of his resurrection. Live free of fear, completely liberated even from fear of death. Continue the work of reconciliation, especially toward the least of these. Practice radical hospitality and know his presence in the feeding at the table. Heal the broken; unite the divided; live in his Spirit of love and compassion. Their lives were completely changed by their experience and by their reflection upon these events.

There are moments when an experience changes our reality. Amazing moments when we glimpse deep things and begin to understand more clearly. As we reflect on those experiences, they shape us and they shape the direction of our lives.

Everyone has these moments. You have had moments of resurrection, the visitation of a messenger, a lightning strike that challenges meaning, a burning bush that creates understanding. These things happen to all human beings, if only we are awake to the experience.

I've had these experiences. Many of them have found their way into sermons like this. I remember a time in my grandfather's tree when I looked into the complexity of the bark of the tree and it seemed to open into a vision that simultaneously included the smallest detail of ant, leaf, and limb as well as the blue clarity of sky, clouds and birds. It seemed like I could see everything at once. I remember a time in Centering Prayer where I disappeared in a timeless infinity where God was all and all was God. I recall many times of singing a hymn and looking at the faces in this congregation, feeling overwhelmed by love and gratitude. I have received communion and known myself being nourished by the very life of Christ and united to all humanity. I have watched someone die and felt the presence of complete peace. Maybe this sounds funny, but I have watched Mr. Rogers on public television speaking to my children and nurturing them with a gentle, Christ-like Spirit of wonder and goodness. These things have changed me, shaped me, and shaped the direction of my life.

You have your own constellation of experiences that have grasped your attention and shaped you. These things happen to us all.

When I am awake, these things seem to happen all the time. But mostly I'm asleep, or too preoccupied with my own flock-tending to even notice the bush is on fire.

I'll close with the help of Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small!
No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee,
But finds some coupling with the spinning stars;
No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere;
No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim:
And, -- glancing on my own thin, veined wrist, --
In such a little tremour of the blood
The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul
Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God:
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries,
And daub their natural faces unaware
More and more, from the first similitude.

* Bk. VII, l. 812-826

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(1) Miracle, published in Spirituality & Health, March/April 2007, p. 41

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The Mission of St. Paul's Episcopal Church is to explore and celebrate
God's infinite grace, acceptance and love.

For information about St. Paul's Episcopal Church and it's life and mission, please contact us at
P.O. Box 1190, Fayetteville, AR 72702, or call 479/442-7373

This sermon and others are on our web site at www.stpaulsfay.org
Please visit our partner web ministry also at www.ExploreFaith.org