Showing posts with label communion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label communion. Show all posts

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Sermon: Chasm.



A Sermon preached in 
Christ Church Grosse Pointe, MI
by The Reverend Vicki Hesse, Associate

The 19th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 21, Year C)
25 September 2016

May the words of my mouth and the meditations
 of all our hearts be always acceptable 
to you O Lord, our strength and our redeemer.

Listen here on SoundCloud.

Since his 1954 debut on the cover of Mad magazine[1], Alfred E. Neuman’s face has adorned the cover of all but a handful of the Mad’s 500 issues.  Alfred E. Neuman’s face is distinct: the jug ears, the missing front tooth and one eye a bit lower than the other eye. Neuman’s face that doesn’t have a care in the world, except mischief, and the publisher routinely combines Neuman with another character, such as Darth Vader or George Washington, or even Agent Smith from The Matrix.  After the first few years of publication, Mad magazine added Neuman’s now-familiar signature phrase, “What, me worry?” written below his face.

Intellectually uncurious “What, me worry?” captures the 8th century BCE life-of-faith run amuck that Amos critiques in today’s reading.  This apathy pervades the lifestyle that Amos condemns, which accompanies the decadent feast of revelry by privileged and powerful people, enjoying indulgences they can afford without a care in the world. What, me worry? Is at the crux of Amos’s rant. 

The people, “at ease in Zion,” claim to belong to the Lord and feel secure. They don’t care about the ruin of an entire population – the people of Israel…For context, think the clichéd image of Nero who fiddled while Rome burned, or Marie Antoinette who said “Let them eat cake” while the rebelling people starved. These people “at ease in Zion,” instead of using their power and privilege for the welfare of God’s people used their privilege for their own good.  What, me worry?

pause
I don’t really like Amos. He’s speaking to me. To us. He makes me wonder about my / our privilege: In what ways do my choices numb me from worry? How do I, too, participate in systems that ignore the oppression of people? 

When I turn on the lights, do I care about the connection of that electric usage to mountain top removal[2] happening in West Virginia? 

When I buy cheap mangoes from S America, do I understand the connection between my exotic tastes to the destruction of small farms at the heart of community life, whose downfall now forces those farmers to find work on farms in North America?

When I speak up in a meeting, do I notice the connection that some people will (sometimes) listen to a priest and silence their own important perspectives from a conversation – do I notice my power and privilege?

These choices that I make – that we make – around how we use our wealth and privilege have connections, have effects. Amos calls me – us – out with his prophetic voice to choose life.

This choice the core of the now familiar “This is Water” talk by David Foster Wallace, to which both Rev. Areeta and Fr. Drew referred in in previous sermons.  This is the core of awareness that is so real and essential but hidden in plain sight, like water in which fish swim: my wealth & privilege can numb me from worry. I don’t like Amos because it means I need to stay awake and aware.  Do you see what I mean?

The gospel offers warning about the cruel world of inequality.[3]  Jesus’ talk portrays a rich man who might have wondered, “What, me worry?” during his life on earth. 

His wealth & privilege prevented him from even seeing Lazarus or relating to Lazarus as a fellow child of God.  (Just for clarification, this was not the same Lazarus heard in other stories with Jesus.  Lazarus was a common name derived from the Hebrew, Eleazar, “God is my help.”)

In death, the rich man spoke to Lazarus without concern and assumed Lazarus would do his bidding even in the hereafter. The rich man was lost. His riches had stunted his compassion and created a chasm in his heart from the needs of others.  And so it may be for us – when we become complacent, without concern of how systems in which we participate affect others and especially those who are oppressed or marginalized already.  Luke and Amos call us, today, to stay alert – to choose to care – so that wealth and privilege does not insulate those around us.

Both these prophets’ message warn of a chasm forming around our heart.

To help remind us to take seriously Jesus’ point, we already have a handy device that most of us carry around in our wallet.  Could you please take out a bill from your wallet – any bill will do.  Or a coin, if you have no bills.  If you look closely on each bill or coin, there inscribed you can read four simple words of that reminder, “In God We Trust.”  Look at those words, imprinted in our currency during the civil war, inspired by the Star Spangled Banner during the war of 1812. 

If we do actually trust God, then we will take seriously God’s command to have compassion on those around us, to be vulnerable to each other, to see the face of Christ in our neighbor’s need. This week, I invite you to spend the bill you hold in your hand. Spend it with awareness, with choice, with concern, with compassion.

How does it reflect your trust in God?  Maybe this tangible sign can be less a “transaction” in your head and more a “transformation” of your heart.[4] Later this week, post on the Christ Church face book page or write me an email or note about how this spending opened you up to the needs of others.  How was your heart transformed by God as you entered into that need?

What is at stake today is the connection of our whole lives – our own wellbeing to that of others.  Jesus is calling us today: take care that our wealth, our privilege, our power, does not numb us to the need of our neighbors. 

We cannot say we have no need of you. 
We are not sufficient unto ourselves. 

Here’s a warning: As we become more responsive to the hurts, hopes and needs of others, we will become more aware of our own humanity- our own longings, vulnerabilities and insufficiencies.  At that point, we may also recognize God’s offer of manifest grace in Jesus Christ, the one who took on our human longings, human vulnerabilities, human insufficiencies in order to show us God’s profound love.

We, too, have Moses’ law and the prophets to teach us to care for our neighbor’s needs. And, we are confronted and become known by Jesus Christ each week at this table.  In that meal, when we see and know the One who died and rose for us, may we be shook awake from our numbness. 

And once awake, may we know how again and again God chooses to draw us back into relationship. God chooses for us life everlasting.

Amen

.




[1] Cited in Wikipedia, at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_E._Neuman  on Sep. 22, 2016

[2] See tool at this website: http://ilovemountains.org/maps

[3] Ched Meyers, “The Rich Man and Lazarus: Warning Tale and Interpretive Key to Luke”


[4] Inspired by a personal conversation with Rev. Areeta Bridgemohan on September 23, 2016

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Sermon: Jesus Fills



Sermon for August 23, 2015
Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost 
(Proper 16)
The Rev. Vicki K. Hesse
St. Philip’s In The Hills, Tucson, AZ
Listen to this sermon here.
Lord, open our lips, that our mouth shall proclaim your praise.  Amen
Pause 

I didn’t know I was hungry.

Years before I joined any church,
my friend invited me to the mid-week service
at Grace Cathedral in SF.  Church was his thing-
he was scheduled to serve as Deacon. 
I didn’t really want to go with him,
but he promised lunch in the city afterward. 

I didn’t know I was hungry.

Awkwardly, I walked into the big Cathedral. 
Looked like a big museum to me. 
We went into a side chapel.  Just three of us:
the priest, my friend the Deacon, and me.

They shared the readings,
talked a bit about the Gospel
and 20 minutes later, we shared communion.

I didn’t know I was hungry.

But, as the bread was placed in my hands,
my heart swelled up.
Rivers of tears flowed down my face,
through the lines in my mouth,
making Jesus taste salty. 

The wine touched my lips and in that little sip,
in that moment, I realized how hungry was. 
In that moment, Jesus filled me up.

I don’t remember our lunch in the city.

Pause
The GJohn does not recount the Last Supper,
but it bursts at the seams
with Eucharistic images.

Jesus continually speaks of himself as
“the bread of life”
And he invites his followers
to “partake of this bread.” 
Then he gets pretty gruesome, urging them to
“eat his flesh and drink his blood.” 
You don’t have to be a good Jew
to want to avert your eyes from such an image and
to cover your ears at such language. 
It offended many of his disciples;
they didn’t know they were hungry.

Author BBT said while Jesus had at his disposal
“… the conceptual truths of the universe,”
he did not give them something “to think about”
when he was gone,
he gave them concrete things to do
specific ways of being together in their bodies. 

He said, “do this in remembrance of me”
not “think about this.”[1] 

Jesus taught an in-your-face confrontation
with the incarnation.[2]
He spoke not of a disembodied spirit
but the opportunity
to encounter his flesh and blood.

In Hebrew, the expression “flesh and blood”
meant something like our,
“body, mind and spirit.” 
So, for the many disciples,
to receive Jesus meant
receiving his whole “flesh and blood”.

And this got their attention.
Many of them turned back.
Many of them complained.
Many of them were offended.
They didn’t know they were hungry.

And so it is with us. This teaching is difficult. 

The startling imagery of
eating flesh and drinking blood
cuts through our liturgical refinements. 

One of my colleagues tells a story of
saying the familiar words during communion,

“This is my body, broken for you.
This is my blood, shed for you,”

when a small girl suddenly said in a loud voice,
“Ew, yuk!”
To which the congregation
stared in a horrified way,
as if someone had splattered blood
all over the altar,
which was, in effect
something like what the little girl had done
with her exclamation.[3]

pause
Sometimes,
I think we ought to wrap the altar
with “caution” tape before Holy Communion.
Because
“when we receive Jesus, when we partake,
his life clings to our bones and
courses through our veins. 
He can no more be taken from our life
than last Tuesday’s breakfast
can be plucked from our body. 
And this is the ultimate communion –
the coming together,
the union of the Savior and the saved.”[4] 

And that changes everything, does it not? 
But sometimes
we don’t know how hungry we are. 

Aside from the gruesomeness of
eating flesh and blood,
the implications are difficult. 

For as we receive Jesus,
we cannot separate his life in us
from our life in him.  

We receive this precious sacrament
and take him into ourselves. 
It means we love one another as Jesus loves us.
It means we are called to deny ourselves
and take up the cross. 
It means we give up our possessions
and our obsessions.

When we receive Jesus, we become a disciple –
and that changes everything. 
It means we reach out and help each other.
It means we trust one another.
It means we seek reconciliation.
It means we feed the hungry, clothe the naked,
heal the sick, give water to the thirsty,
visit the prisoners. 
The implications are difficult.
We are offended.
Sometimes we don’t know how hungry we are.

Pause

Over and over in the Gospel of John,
Jesus offered images of himself
as the bread of life,
meant to strengthen and
encourage the community.

Seeing how many disciples turned back,
Jesus asked the twelve apostles,
“do you, too, wish to go away?”
And Peter takes the cue,
transformed in that moment by the offer so dear.
“Lord, to whom can we go?
You have the words of eternal life.”

In other words, Peter said,
You are the only one
who can satisfy our deep hunger.
You are the living God.
You are the one who holds us together.
You are the source of Love and Life.
Peter confessed how hungry they were
and Jesus filled them up.

And not only those disciples,
but generations of Christians.

For,
“The first thing the world knew about Christians
was that they ate together.”
At the beginning of every week,
Christians everywhere
celebrated the day the whole world changed and
toasted the resurrection.
They shared a meal and offered
prayers of thanksgiving,
or eucharisteo, for the bread and wine.”[5] 

St. Paul wrote to the Corinthians,
“when you gather to eat,
you should all eat together.”[6]
As they gathered,
they remembered Jesus’ presence among them.
Some early communities began
to send a piece of the bread from their communion service
to other gatherings of Christians
to be added to their meal. 
They knew how hungry they were and
offered that bread
to fill and strengthen the bond of unity
between all Christians,
like our Lay Eucharistic Ministers
do on 2nd and 4th Sundays.[7]


These early Christians
knew how hungry they were,
They knew that Jesus filled them up.

Does this offend you? 
Do you, too, wish to go away?
Are you hungry?

The good news is that even today,
Jesus strengthens and encourages our community. 
Jesus is the only one who can
satisfy our deep hunger. 
Jesus offers us his body and his blood
every week, every day, every moment.

When we receive Jesus
into our mind body and soul,
into our pain, struggle, and loss,
into our joy, enthusiasm, and hope,
when we receive Jesus,
we are The Saved in union with The Savior.
When we receive Jesus,
we know him in our body and our blood.
Jesus fills us with unmerited grace. 

And so we come to receive him. 
We come:
vulnerable, kneeling,
hands cupped and surrendering,
in a public confession of hunger. 
“The Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven”
and Jesus descends into our hands. 
“The Blood of Christ, the Cup of Salvation”
and Jesus slips into our lips.[8]

In response, we proclaim
that great mystery of faith –
Christ has died, Christ has risen,
Christ will come again.

Come, bring your deepest hunger,
and Jesus will fill you up to overflowing.

Amen


[1] Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar In The World: A Geography of Faith, (New York, HarperCollins, 2009), 44
[2] Inspired by Martin Copenhaver’s sermon “Eating Jesus” cited at http://day1.org/4043-eating_jesus
[3] Ibid. Copenhaver
[4] Ibid. Copenhaver
[5] Rachel Held Evans, Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving and Finding the Church, (Santa Rosa, Thomas Nelson Books, 2015), 125
[6] 1 Corinthians 11:33
[7] Ibid., Evans, 127
[8] Ibid., Evans 142-143