Sermon: Jesus Grabs Us

A Sermon preached in 

Christ Church, Grosse Pointe, Michigan
by The Reverend Vicki Hesse, Associate

The 10th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14, Year A)
13 August 2017

Listen here.

Lord, take my lips and speak through them; take our minds and think through them; take our hearts and set them on fire with love for you.

A few winters ago, my partner and I went dog sledding in Minnesota. The morning of our first run, our small group gathered together and learned how to harness the dogs, how to lead them (on their back legs), and how to call out GEE and HAW to steer the rig down the path.  As we talked inside, the 35 anxious dogs outside howled, barked, & pulled their chains in anticipation. Once we went out, all we could hear was a cacophony of canines. Pick Me! Pick Me!  the dogs cried, only fueling our anticipation for the upcoming adventure.  

Battered by the sound of barking, fingers frozen from 40-below temps, we wrestled the harnesses on the dogs, slid across the icy path toward the sled, spilled dogfood bowls, called out to each other. With frantic, barking, jumpy dogs hitched, the guides yelled and we jumped on board, released the sled tether and yelled “Hike Hike!”  

At once, the dogs pulled with the speed and strength and agility of an American Ninja Warrior, and we heard….nothing. The sound of sheer silence. Just barely audible ~ the sound of satisfied breathing, cantering paws padding through snow and the edge of the sled’s runners cutting through the ice.  

Today’s gospel text sets a scene of chaos with a mix of fear and anticipation. For the disciples’ boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land and the wind was against them. When they saw Jesus walking out to them, the power of their fear intensified.  The wind roared, the rig of the sails clanked back and forth, the disciples yelled, the overturned buckets and unleashed stays and clips banged on the deck. The wind howled in the hoods of their rain jackets. At last, Jesus yelled, “take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” 

At the invitation of Jesus, Peter got out of the boat, trying out a new authority conferred upon him.  He started walking on the water with the speed and strength and agility of an American Ninja Warrior and he hears…nothing. The sound of sheer silence. 

But then Peter noticed the wind, barely audible at first, and it crashed into his silent bubble – the strong wind, the noise, the chaos around him became his reality.  Peter was overcome by fear[1]. He cried out, “Lord, save me!” His fear was justified; it was a storm that fumed powerfully enough to sink the boat and drown the whole crew.  Peter had good reasons to be afraid.

And so do we (have good reasons to be afraid.) The fear is palpable: the clanging noise of North Korea and US escalating threats, the empty harvest buckets and record famine in Africa, the roar of climate-change-fueled storms sweeping across North America, the shroud of 1967 Detroit banging on the deck of our sense of identity, while a hurricane of fear storms through the state of Virginia as extremist groups gather in Charlottesville and clash violently with counter-protestors; all while, the waves of change seem to crash on the shore of our congregation in the midst of personnel departures.

We can be overcome by our fear. That fear can be debilitating, paralyzing us. The power of fear robs the family of God’s people of the abundant life that God intends.  We cry out, “Lord, save me!”

But that’s not the whole story, because immediately, Jesus reached out his hand and caught Peter. When Peter saw the conflict of the storm and heard the persecution of the wind, he began to sink under the power of fear. Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him, saving him and restoring him to his vocation. The wind ceased. The fear relented.

In the grip of Jesus, the disciples recognized that the power of God’s promise of flourishing life and steadfast love was the antidote to fear. “Truly you are the Son of God.”

Today, Jesus reaches out his hand and grabs us. Jesus makes the first move, grabbing us out of the chaos– not depending on us, not giving up on us, not waiting on us. Fears are often real. Fears are understandable. Fears are also debilitating.  

And Jesus grabs us, as his disciples, and demands we use the authority conferred on us at our baptism: to pray for peace and to be the embodiment of God’s love and justice. 

• That means speaking out against bigotry and hatred (and the violence that occurred) in Charlottesville. 
• That means denouncing white nationalism and white supremacy, both an affront to the Gospel born under the power of fear. Because racism is a sin. 
• That means praying for those injured or died in the violence and the safety of all who live in Charlottesville. 
• That means persevering in resisting evil, hatred, violence and prejudice in any form.
• That means taking measurable steps to build bridges and to be agents of our Lord's mercy, grace, truth and love.

For our story is not over – the future is open! For God is with us and for us And God is not done with us yet. Jesus catches us today and restores us to our vocation, calling out to us to do God’s work in the world, untethered from the power of fear and under the full sail power of God’s promise. 

Long Pause

Over the last three months, I have said goodbye to many people, places and things around Christ Church.  The fear of finality that comes with saying that is palpable.  Goodbyes are tough for me and this transition is no different, doling out an overdose of emotions that defy words.

Dr. Ira Byock, a palliative care physician, has coined a phrase[2] to help with goodbyes, “the four things that matter most.” These are: Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. Dr. Byock reminds us, “When we say the four things that matter most – or when we say goodbye, in whatever form – there's going to be real work involved.” Why? because these eleven words – they are not words. They are entry points for sacred connections.  They are admissions of our humanity. They are words made flesh of our incarnate God.

So, today, here are four things that matter most.

First, please forgive me.  In today’s Gospel, Jesus laments having to catch Peter, “you of little faith, why did you doubt?” He’s not rebuking, he is lamenting. The disciples had so much going for them, yet there in that boat without Jesus for the first time, they doubted, which grieved Jesus. This week, I felt convicted for the various ways that I have doubted the power of Love; how I might have gotten in the way of the gospel. 

Please forgive me for speaking in haste, for not meeting your expectations, for fostering a misunderstanding that still might not be resolved, for singing out of tune, for not speaking more prophetically, for “things done and things left undone.” 

God forgives me, this I know. +

Second, I forgive you.  I forgive you for any times that you might have doubted Love; for serious and for simple mistakes; for petty squabbles; for your outrageous hopes, expansive dreams, & brazen humanness; for challenging me to imagine greater, to love quicker, to grasp lighter; for things done and things left undone. God forgives you, this I know.+

Thirdly, Thank you. Thank you for being The Church. For gathering and sharing in each other’s company at times of joy and times of sorrow; for caring for each other with home communion, intercessory prayer, and listening with the ear of your heart; for risking looking weird by walking the labyrinth or praying spontaneously by candle light in Miller Hall when the power went out; for planting seeds of hope to invite/welcome/connect our community; for drenching me with profoundly moving Anglican choral music, for coming directly to me when we disagreed, for telling me your name at least three times before I got it. And so we especially thank God for calling us to serve together in this place, for this season.

And the fourth thing that matters most: I love you. I love you for being disciples on a journey with me. I love your for being my Christian sisters and brothers who love deeply and yearn to know God. I love you because Jesus loves you.  And that love knows no bounds.  That love arises from the One who loved at the dawn of creation.  That love moves in our tears and catches in our throat and spills out through our smiles. I love you.  God loves you.

Even when we doubt, and even when we say goodbye and even when we don’t have the words. Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you.

So be at peace with each other, be forgiving of each other 

and be extravagant with God’s love.

Amen

---

[1] Portions of sermon inspired by David Lose, “In the Meantime…” cited here on August 8, 2017.

[2] From November 2013 Interview by Krista Tippett, OnBeing, titled, “Contemplating Mortality” at this site: https://onbeing.org/programs/ira-byock-contemplating-mortality/

 

Sermon: Things That Matter Most

 

Sermon for September 27, 2015

Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

(proper 21B)

The Rev. Vicki K. Hesse

St. Philip’s In The Hills, Tucson, AZ

Lord, open our lips, that our mouth shall proclaim your praise.  Amen

Listen here. 

Over the last four weeks,

I have said goodbye

to many people, places and things

around St. Philips and the wider Tucson region.  

What has been difficult is

the finality that comes with saying that word. 

The finality that comes

in closing one season of life.

The finality that comes

from redefining treasured relationships. 

Goodbyes are tough. 

It’s been hard and emotional

and liberating and complicated.

So this week,

I turned to one of my favorite podcasts for solace:

Krista Tippett’s “OnBeing.” 

In 2013, she interviewed[1] Dr. Ira Byock,

a leading figure in palliative care and hospice.

He shared lessons from his clinical practice,

working with families

in the very personal and human event

called “dying.” 

In the interview, we hear his wisdom

for dealing with transitions

and how his approach applies

to any transformative experience,

whether in celebrating or in saying goodbye.  

And so he coined a phrase,

“the four things that matter most.”

The four things that matter most,

according to Dr. Byock:

Please forgive me.  I forgive you.  

Thank you.  I love you.

Byock said,

“…the times are that you easily can say

[the things that matter most]

include when you've just slammed on the brakes

and just narrowly missed getting killed

and you're shaking like a leaf

and you're in a cold sweat,

and everything just almost ended.

You pick up your cellphone

and it becomes really easy to call your partner

or your mother or father or your child

and just say those [four] things.”

And in saying these things, it just shakes us free.

When we say the four things that matter most –

when we have just slammed on the brakes

or when we say goodbye, in whatever form –

there's going to be real work involved.

Why?

because these eleven words – they are not words.

They are entry points for sacred connections. 

They are admissions of our humanity.

They are words made flesh in our incarnate God.

So, in this vein,

I offer “four things that matter most”

to you, today,

as we find ourselves slamming on the brakes

and shaking like a leaf, saying goodbye.

First, Please forgive me. 

In today’s gospel,

Jesus turned the focus on the disciples themselves. 

They had complained about a rival exorcist

and they had tried to stop that person. 

Jesus said, cut it out you guys,

because “whoever is not against us is for us.” 

The disciples wanted to show how great they were

by bringing judgment on outsiders.

Jesus wanted them to look instead

to their own behavior.

Jesus warned the disciples:

they are the ones in danger of doing harm. 

“Dudes,” he said,

“the problem is not folks outside of our group! 

Don’t worry about others; look at yourselves.

How are you getting in the way of the gospel? 

How are you, (with your hand, or foot, or eye)

a stumbling block?”

A stumbling block. 

All week I’ve been thinking about

stumbling blocks,

because from this gospel text,

I felt convicted for the various ways

that I might have created stumbling blocks;

how I might have gotten in the way of the gospel.

I may have spoken in haste. 

I may have not met your expectations. 

I may have fostered a misunderstanding

that still has not been resolved. 

I may have used insider language.  

I may have chosen wrongly.  

There are things that I have done

and things that I have left undone. 

And this is why we say the confession

every week. 

For God forgives me, this I know.

The great philosopher Lily Tomlin once said,

“Forgiveness means giving up all hope

for a different past.”[2] 

This means accepting that

the past cannot be changed

and at the same time

the past need not control our future. 

And so, second, I forgive you. 

I forgive you for any times that

you might have created a stumbling block.

I forgive you for things you have done

and things you have left undone.

I forgive you for putting me in the dunk tank. 

I forgive you for serious and for simple mistakes.

I forgive you for your outrageous hopes,

expansive dreams, and brazen humanness.

I forgive you for challenging me

to imagine greater, to love quicker,

to grasp lighter.

For God forgives you, this I know.

That being said,

I do not have to forgive you for being you.

The authentic you. 

The colorful, quirky you. 

The very human you.

You have been, and are, a gift,

individually and as a community.

Sufi poet Rumi once said,

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond. – Rumi

Rumi’s sense of gratitude leads us to

The third “thing that matters most:” Thank you

When I came here three years ago,

you welcomed me and my partner Leah

with expansive hospitality. 

You taught me about The Church,

witnessed my ordination,

endured my first sung mass,

participated in weekly communion,

risked showing up at Ashes to Go

and prayed with and for me.

You even told me your name

at least three times before I got it. 

You shared your gifts

beauty and art and music, and

your grace to catch each other when you fall.

You have continually proclaimed the gospel in your lives. Thank you. 

Thank you for not creating stumbling blocks

to me in ministry here;

By the grace of God,

you have made a launching pad.

And so we especially thank God

for calling us to serve together in this place,

with this congregation,

And we thank God for the intimacy of Jesus

and the inspiration of Spirit.

In closing, I offer the fourth

“thing that matters most:” I love you.

I love you for being the hands and feet and eyes

of Jesus in the world.

I love you for being Love,

for offering yourselves to this place

with generosity and care. 

I love you because Jesus loves you. 

And that love knows no bounds. 

That love arises

from the One who loved

at the dawn of creation. 

That love moves in our tears

and catches in our throat

and spills out through our smiles.

I love you.  God loves you.

Even when we stumble on our own blocks

and even when we say goodbye

and even when we don’t have the words.

My sisters and brothers in Christ,

You are signs toward God’s grace

and beacons of the Spirit

and entry points for sacred connections.

And through you,

God’s unbounded, expansive and steadfast love

will continue to cascade into your lives.

Please forgive me. I forgive you.

Thank you. I love you.

May you know, that nothing,

not even stumbling blocks,

not even goodbyes,

can separate us from God’s love.

So be at peace with each other,

be forgiving of each other and

be extravagant with God’s love.

Amen

---

[1] Cited at http://www.onbeing.org/program/contemplating-mortality/transcript/6045 on September 26, 2015

[2]Cited at http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/87427-forgiveness-means-giving-up-all-hope-for-a-better-past  on September 26, 2015