Marsh Chapel Sermon Archive

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 17: 1-10 

Click here to hear just the sermon

Our field work is no substitute for our domestic duties. 

Your outside, outdoor application of mind and body, in profession or employment or work, is not a replacement for the hearth, the home, the heart, the power of the dinner table, the beloved, the family—kinder, kuche, kirche, as Luther might have put it. 

 You cannot claim reference to bank account, degrees and honorifics, achievements and merit badges, when faced with a required response to the dominical claim upon relational duties.  It will not help me in the long run when I affirm a full bank account or a long list of peer reviewed articles or a world championship of whatever sort, if they are meant to cover over what matters, counts, lasts and has meaning, if they are meant to avoid grace, care, kindness and…well…love. 

My dear one, your field work is no substitute for your domestic duties. 

Says our Lord Jesus Christ, both to an ancient struggling church, and to you and me on World Communion Sunday: Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from ploughing or tending sheep in the field, “Come here at once and take your place at the table”? Would you not rather say to him, “Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink”? Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, “We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!”  

The dinner table and all its conversations and claims make no allowance for a borrowing from the day’s own trouble.  A prayer is said, the dishes are passed, a conversation—glorious, golden, rhythmic, improvisational, personal, intimate, perilous, demanding, real, and so utterly human—a conversation emerges.  Something is said.  Something is heard.  The table has its own realm and kingdom, its own royalty and citizenry, its own claim and call.  Call it the power of the dinner table.  

Three years on into the twilight—perhaps—of Covid, we have missed a step or two, lost or forgotten our dinner table habits.  We have grown cold to the clink and charm of fork and glass.  We have become rusty, out of shape, flabby both in the form of host and of guest—so interesting in older English, the two are almost the same word.  We have been rightly busy with our field work, ploughing and shepherding, works and day jobs and zoom screens and all.  So, we have not been prepared to…be prepared.  To be ready to…prepare supper…put on our apron…serve the service of eating and drinking.  After all, we still try to assert, in the teeth of the hurricane gale—an image we have in mind as in prayer we remember those suffering now in Florida– of this deceptively minimal saying of the Lord, that, well, we had a good day at the screen—didn’t we?, on the zoom—didn’t we? by the click click-ometer of the internet—didn’t we?, in our day job—didn’t we? Didn’t we? 

 Not so fast, Jesus says, not so fast.  

 Not so fast, says Mr. Wesley, not so fast. 

 Not so fast, says our own true and hard experience, not so fast. 

 Not so fast says life, presence, freedom, experience.   

 Not so fast, says God, not so fast. 

 Do what is commanded, says Jesus.  Conversation is a means of grace, says John Wesley (as real and powerful as sacrament, as prayer, as Scripture, as fasting)—a conveyance of grace.  Our late Covid experience is a hunger and thirst for–what satisfies hunger and slakes thirst.  The real hunger.  One does not live by bread alone, but by every word… 

There is an orb of reality, a realm of being, a place unto itself, around the common table, after the day’s own trouble, the power of the table, that will not be supplanted, outsourced, erased, minimized, or disregarded. 

And here we are.  At table, a table as big as all outdoors, and a table that spans the globe, and a table that serves a World Communion, a world communion.  And here we are.  Morning has come, the board is spread, thanks be to God who gives us bread, thank God for bread.  And the power of the table, the dining table, is just here—conversation–a saving, intervening power, especially for us, we who are coming in from the field work of 3 Covid years, without it.  And here we are.  Conversation is where imagination and memory dance.  Conversation is where one feels and says ‘I love you’.  Conversation is where the strict arts of listening are raised from the dead.  Conversation on the street, at home, along the park bench, before church, after church, outside church.  There is nothing more human, nor more healthy, nor more saving than a good conversation, which by nature begins in the unexpected and ends in the unforeseen and trails along in the mind for days to come. 

 A conversation starts, somehow.  A conversation travels, somewhere.  A conversation ends, sometime.  After three years of screen, of zoom, of facetime, of text, of email, of distance, of attention to quasi-spaces, electronic spaces–to which nuance, humor, personality, humanity, and connection go to die–we have been returned to the land of conversation.  Praise God from whom all blessings flow.  There is a robust magic in conversation, whereby John Wesley named conversation a means of grace, alongside prayer, Scripture, sacraments, and fasting. 

 In conversation, there abides, or lurks, the lasting possibility of heart to heart communication, heart by heart communion.  That potential seizes you, not the other way around.   You are longways into a talk with an old dear friend, and of a sudden, you realize, you intuit, just how much that friendship means, a friendship planted and grown in conversation.  You are gathered before dinner, and the children, coaxed, begin to sing the songs of memory, of history, of Zion, of nation, of upgrowing.  The folksongs, the hymns, the partner songs, the spirituals, the camp fire rounds, multiple rounds, give off an invisible glow, a kind of verbal hearth.  You sit with two colleagues who are also combatants.  There is an opening, and a joust, and of a sudden—unplanned, unexpected, unforeseen—one shatters the other with a truth spoken and heard.  The shattering is not in the end a mendable one.  Some things, like some malignancies, you can never cure, but you can manage.  They are manageable but not curable.  They can be managed, managed to ground, even though, unseen, the malignancy remains.  In conversation, in the magic of conversation, such hard and dark and difficult truth can surface.  Be careful with the shattering, in the moment and in the meantime and in the memory and in the future.  You realize afterward, that one loved one, in one seemingly innocuous conversation, was trying to say something, something like, I am worried about this medical procedure, and I think I may, well, I think I may not make it…  But the clues and hues and dues and schmooze are too indirect, too subtle, and you miss the marrow and meaning of the talk, only to recall it, only to get it, later, much later, too late.  You are in a meeting, and all of sudden the temperature shifts, and sunlight and warmth become cave darks, stalactites and stalagmites.  And the conversation flickers, withers, and dies.  Something is in there.  It would be utterly invisible and inaudible by zoom.  But in conversation, in presence, with embodied silence, and incarnate body language, you see and hear:   She is really hurting.  He is really angry.  I am really in over my head.  They want something they really can never have. 

 There is a saving power, a saving grace in conversation.  It costs nothing to listen, except time and risk.  And it costs nothing to speak, except time and risk.  Could you say that in another way?  What I hear you to have said is just this.  Do you really mean that, or do you mean half or double that?  It sounds to me like you are wandering around Robin Hood’s barn, and that makes me wonder why you are wandering like that.  When you say that, who do you have in mind?  Why do I have the feeling that you have a feeling about this?  Let’s talk about this again someday. There is a healing power, a healing grace in conversation.  Most people can in time solve their own problems, if they just have someone to talk to about them, who will really listen to them ( said Dr. John Hertel, Cornell University, 1979). 

 Pastoral ministry, cut to the chase, is the pursuit of an excellent 20-minute sermon a week, a twenty-hour task, alongside 25 genuine conversations a week.  The rest, all other ground, is sinking sand.  Most current schools of theology have still some faculty left who know pastoral conversation in person.  They are not ordained.  They have no ministerial experience to speak of.  They have not invested the time in listening to become adept at listening because their work and future depend on speaking and writing.  (They are largely introverts, usually extreme introverts, for whom human presence and engagement are profoundly enervating and exhausting.  Far better the buffers of libraries, books, papers, lectures, classes and grades, than the direct encounter with another heart.  I and Thou.) But through it all, they remember the grace of conversation, the saving intervening grace of conversation.  Likewise, most denominations and churches have at least some leadership left, a few circles of ministerial wisdom shared in conversation about…conversation.  Seward Hiltner, Homer Jerdigan, Henri Nouwen, Ann Belford Ulanov are not with us any longer, and not with us to remind us that the most the important things in ministry are the one on one things (said Bishop Joseph Yeakel, 1982).  Pastoral ministry is visiting and preaching.  Ministry is preaching. (It’s easy, as a generation ago Mike Royko said of his job to write a weekly newspaper column, ‘it’s easy, just sit down at the typewriter–and slit your wrists’.)  Pastoral ministry is conversation.  Ministry is conversation.  (It’s easy, just sit down and listen until the cows come home.) 

 The minister, the baptized Christian, for ministry is born in every baptism, and is emphatically not confined to ordination, the minister is part bull fighter, part heavy weight boxer, part private detective, part spy.  At stake, for all, is lasting health, personal salvation, individual growth, spiritual integrity, and the chance, the fleeting chance, to experience being alive before we die.  The cape ripples and the saber rattles.  The prize fighter dodges, weaves, ducks, swings, retreats, advances.  The PI looks through the back window, checks the mail in the mail box, notices the water still dripping from the faucet, puts two and two together.  The one disguised behind enemy lines smiles, demurs, nods, remembers, and then will try to bring home a truth, the truth in hand, without getting caught.  But these arts are practiced, sharpened, conveyed, by one pastor and another…in conversation. 

 Every hour spent on a machine is an hour spent apart from conversation, and so apart from full real life itself.  Your field work is no substitute for your domestic duties. Walk with a friend.  Sit for intercessory prayer.  Call somebody on the phone.  Set a lunch date.  Offer a coffee.  Receive with happiness the unannounced visitor to your office.  Steer the conversation, when you can, away from doing and out onto the broad meadow of being.  Keep a journal.  Write a sermon.  Craft a poem.  Design and experiment.  Take on some painting, some gardening, some creative craft, a piano lesson, beginning French or Swahili. 

 My grandmother grew up on a dairy farm near Cooperstown. Some of you have heard me mention her before. She graduated from Smith College in 1914.  She taught school and married later in life, raising three daughters.  She spent her later life in a modest Syracuse home, surrounded by piles of books, mounds of newspapers, and letters written or to be written and received, often long ago.  She and her college roommate wrote each other a letter once a week from graduation until death.  She feared no conversation, and celebrated all conversation, no matter how middling or shallow or tiresome.  Famously, she was thrilled, overjoyed, to have the Jehovah Witnesses come into her Methodist living room, on their mission.  She loved to talk with them about the intricacies of Leviticus.  She always wanted them to stay longer than they could stand to stay.  They left worn out, bedraggled, dog tired, exhausted, and utterly defeated.  

People do not always know what they think and feel until they say it, until they say it to someone they know is listening, someone who really cares. People do not always know what they think and feel until they say it, until they say it to someone they know is listening, someone who really cares.  This is not psychiatry, not psychotherapy, not formal counseling, nor any other of the—very wonderful and endlessly helpful and so much needed—forms of care.  This is conversation, a means of grace. 

 A conversation starts, somehow.  A conversation travels, somewhere.  A conversation ends, sometime.  After a year or three of screen, of zoom, of facetime, of text, of email, of distance, of attention to spaces, electronic spaces to which much goes to die—nuance, humor, personality, humanity, and connection go to die–we have been returned to the land of conversation.  It is World Communion Sunday!  Praise God from whom all blessings flow!  There is a robust magic in conversation, a means of grace, alongside prayer, Scripture, sacraments, and fasting. 

Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from ploughing or tending sheep in the field, “Come here at once and take your place at the table”? Would you not rather say to him, “Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink”? Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, “We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!”  

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Liberal Biblical Theology of St. Luke: Fall 2022, The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 10.2.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 16:19–31

Click here to hear the sermon and cantata

Dean Hill:

Especially throughout the COVID summers, we came to rely on the radio, its classical music and occasional weather and news, for our summer technological engagement with the wider world, out in the woods of Empire State.  Alone in the earlier mornings, when the fitful restlessness of work life gradually abates, as it can over time if we give it time, sometimes there is momentous moment. 

 The announcer said something about Debussy, whom I remember from required (back in the days of required courses) college introduction to music.  Therein we sat on a carpet and listened and were tested later on baroque, classical, romantic, impressionist and modern music.  The French name made a mark.   

Then onto the radio waves came a light, flowing harp beauty.  It was a shimmering beauty, light and alluring, quiet, gentle, unlike really anything I could remember hearing before.  The host named the piece as an Arabesque, perhaps the second such from Debussy, though I may have mistaken that.  The lake breeze lifted the notes, and there was throughout the room for a few fine minutes a shimmering beauty.  For two summers and more we could not sing together, or perform together, or worship together, in COVID. We will never any longer take the thrill of congregational and choral singing of the hymns of faith for granted.  These are beautiful moments. 

Like its cousins, truth and goodness, such a beauty leaves a mark, makes a lasting mark, a beauty mark you could say.  Time stops.  Imagination awakens.  Troubles recede.  You are caught up in something larger than yourself, as sometimes happens in religious experience too. 

In this radio carried music, it seemed to this untrained ear, there rose and fell a kind of oriental melody, a lightness, a veiled impression.  And it seemed to me that the better person to listen was the kind of person listening in this moment, who has no formal musical education, other than that incurred through spouse, family, and various church organists and choir masters.   

 It is the ear, often, rather than the eye, voice rather than face, the audible invisible, that carries an uncanny power.  The triumph of the invisible over the visible.   

 It happens that my mentor Bishop Joseph Yeakel died in this same summer time week.  He taught us: you can only preach what you know…the one on one work is the most important ministry…your staff need to be creative and loyal both…people remember what you do more than what you teach...most of us need more reminder than instruction 

His contemporary, a long-retired minister, had a dream the night before, before he knew of Joe’s death, that he had been asked to preach at the memorial, but had not prepared a sermon.  Dreams are such strange things.  Invisible, shimmering, beautiful, too. 

 Across the radio waves again, Dr. Jarrett, we assemble our listenership.  With joy and peace in believing, with joy and peace in the true, good and beautiful.  For what, this Lord’s Day, shall we most listen? 

Dr Jarrett's section is not available.

Dean Hill:

In these weeks we listen also to, and soberly remember, Jeremiah. 

The prophet Jeremiah excoriated his people, hoping against hope to keep them in faith along. For four decades he challenged, criticized, and vilified his beloved country, and its leadership, and its people.  They heeded him not.  

Jeremiah exclaimed: False prophets deceive people with their optimism.  The temple has no efficacy in and of itself.  The true circumcision is not of body, but of mind and heart.  Even the Bible can lead astray: Even the Torah may become a snare and a delusion through the false pen of the scribes. 

Notice some of the themes from the sixth century bce:  Deportation, false optimism, betrayal of heritage, forgetfulness of history, ineffective leadership, personal failings which damage the nation, turning of a deaf ear toward the voice of God. “For my people are foolish, they do not know me; they are stupid children, they have no understanding. They are skilled in doing evil, but do not know how to do good.” 

Jeremiah, whom we have heard in the background of our worship and preaching for some weeks, speaks to us again. today.  He warns us, he warns us, week by week he has warned.  And then, remarkably, in today’s reading, he stakes his life on hope, an unseen hope, a powerful hope of what may yet be. May his memory, just here, truly help us. 

The beauty of the music this morning is itself a sort of baptism of hope.  We sometimes long to take a spiritual shower, to bathe ourselves in the living waters of grace, faith, hope, life, and love.   Especially, it might be stressed, on any college campus today, the need for spiritual cleansing is continual.  We need both judgment and mercy, both honesty and kindness, both prophetic upbraid and parabolic uplift.  And we get them, thanks be to God, in Jeremiah and in Luke.  But look!  They come upside down.  In a stunning reversal, kindness and gentle hope are the hallmarks of our passage from Jeremiah, while wrath and hellfire explode out of Luke. 

Listen again to the voice of the prophet, one of the great, strange voices in all of history and life, one of the great, strange voices, in all of Holy Writ.  Jeremiah.  All is lost, in Judah, as Jeremiah addresses Zedekiah the King.  You will be a slave in Babylon, King Zedekiah.  You will be given into the hand of your sworn, mortal enemy, and so too will be the fate of your city, your temple, your people, and your country, King Zedekiah.  But. Nonetheless.  Nevertheless.  And yet. These are resurrection words. But. Nonetheless.  Nevertheless.  Still. Even And Jeremiah put his money where his mouth is.  Or was. 

With his beloved country in ruins, Jeremiah does something great, something remarkable and hopeful and great.  Jeremiah buys a plot of land.  One day, a long time from now, he muses and prays, there will be some manner of restoration: ‘I cannot see it.  I cannot hear it.  I cannot prove it.  Sometimes I cannot believe it.  But, hoping against hope, I will buy some land, and someday, somebody, somehow will use it’.  This is faith:  to plant trees under which you will not sleep, to build churches in which you will not worship, to create schools in which you will not study, to teach students whose futures you will not know—and to buy land which you will not till.  But someone will.  Or at least, that is your hope.  You have done some things this fall.  You offered a morning prayer.  You attended to worship. Good for you.  You sent a check to support something or someone.  Good for you.  You went and volunteered to make contacts and calls. Good for you.  You spoke up and spoke out, regardless of the fan mail, family disdain, and other costs.  You did something.  Will it make a difference?  Who can say?  But it does make a difference, for you, if for no one else.   

Go.  Go.  Go and buy your little plot of land. 

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

-Dr. Scott Allen Jarrett, Director of Music

posted in Dr. Scott Allen Jarrett, Director of Music, The Bach Experience, The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 09.25.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 16:1-13

Click here to hear just the sermon

Greetings to you on this international student Sunday! I am very excited that we are able to return to this tradition of recognizing our international student population this year, for the first time in three years. The start of this school year has been a return to more normal operations – as the Dean has said on multiple occasions you can feel a certain buzz in the air that hasn’t been present for a while. That includes having gatherings together, seeing each other’s faces, and having opportunities to connect with one another. As we come together in worship, we have the opportunity to hear the scriptures together, to learn together, and to refuel ourselves to go out into the world and share God’s love with others. 

That being said, this week’s gospel is a doozy. I mean that with all sincerity. If you feel lost having just heard or read it to yourself, you’re not alone. What is going on in this scripture passage? We get a clear “lesson” from the parable at the end of the reading – “You cannot serve God and wealth.” But what is going on in the rest of this story? It seems less clear than many of the parables we’ve heard before. I am not joking when every commentary I read for this week’s gospel said that this was an especially difficult passage to preach on, mainly because we are trying to read something out of context. We aren’t as familiar with the economic goings-on of the first century. We don’t know if there is deeper meaning in why Jesus tells this parable and what the author of Luke’s gospel intended in adding it to the scriptures. In fact, many commentaries I consulted suggested there were up to seven different approaches you could take in trying to interpret this scripture, but that no one is really sure what the original intention may have been. It’s much easier to speculate as to why this story is present in an academic commentary than it is to bring the text to life in our current context, but we’ll find our way through together. 

So, let’s start with a summary because the text is confusing upon first reading. There is a manager who reports to a rich man. His job is to collect what is owed to the rich man, but he hasn’t been doing it. The rich man effectively fires him because he hasn’t been doing his job, which would appear to be a reasonable justification to fire someone. We don’t know why the manager hasn’t been collecting what is owed to the rich man. The thought of losing his job puts the manager into crisis mode, a bad situation. He realizes that if he really does lose his job, he will be required to either do hard labor (which he claims to be unfit for) or to beg (which he is too proud to do). In this crisis situation, he must find a way out. 

The manager devises a plan – if he goes to the debtors and offers them a lower amount of what they owe, they may be more willing to pay it. Not only that, but they may be grateful to the manager for the reduction he has offered them. If he is to lose his job, these people are possibly the ones whom he will need to rely on for his survival. An expectation of reciprocity, a little “I’ll scratch your back if you will scratch mine,” fuels his deal-making. What originally seemed like a dead-end crisis becomes a win-win-win situation. It turns out, even though the manager has not collected all that is owed to the rich man, the rich man is happy with the way the manager handled the situation. Imagine that! The original reason that the rich man had fired the manager was because he was not bringing in the earnings the rich man though he deserved, and the rich man is still not getting all that he thinks he deserves from the situation. However, the rich man seems to better understand what the manager is doing to secure his job. If the rich man were to go back to the debtors and request the remainder of what he thinks he is owed, the debtors might not be so happy with him. The manager has now flexed his own power in creating a situation where the rich man must accept what he is given or else he will look bad to his debtors. In his response, the rich man praises the manager for being a shrewd business person.  He’s proven some level of trust to the rich man. Conversely, the debtors are happy with the manager and the rich man because they owe less money and will perhaps be more cooperative with them in the future because of this gesture. Win-win-win. 

All’s well that ends well, right? I mean Jesus even seems to suggest to the disciples that they can learn a thing or two from the manager about how to utilize shrewd or prudent behavior to their advantage. It’s not what we would expect Jesus to say, given the myriad of examples of how his parables work. What’s strange about this passage is that it’s not like a typical parable from Jesus. Usually when Jesus is telling a parable, there’s clear exemplars of one position or another. They provide examples of what God’s kingdom looks like, what justice and righteousness on earth could appear to be. But here, it almost seems as though there is no exemplar for behavior. If anything, it gives us a view of what everyday human existence looks like. The manager is making a way in a bad situation. The way he chooses ends up benefiting everyone, but it’s definitely not grounded in ultimate justice or righteousness. If anything, his shrewd behavior seems to be motivated more by self-preservation than a sense of what is right or wrong. He is looking toward his future alone instead of being stuck in the present moment in making a plan for himself. 

It is our instinct to protect ourselves in moments of crisis. When faced with the unexpected, it’s often hard to see past the circumstances of the immediate moment to think clearly. Sometimes all we want is to fix the problem immediately, whatever it is so that the crisis will stop. Most times, it’s not that simple to accomplish. Like the manager in the story who weighs his options if he really has lost his job, occasionally we are led on a somewhat precarious path of making the best out of what we’re experiencing. It is often also true that in these crisis situations, we receive help from the most unexpected places or in unexpected ways. For us, we remember that even in those lowest moments, we are not alone, but that God’s grounding presence abides with us. 

In our existence as human beings on this planet, as social creatures who must make their way through ups and downs in the context of other people’s behaviors, we have complex matrices of negotiation and decision making that we must undertake. Not one of us operates in the extremes of good and bad. Instead, we are constantly negotiating the realities of our lives. Our own needs, our commitments to others, and our faithfulness to God. It’s messy and complicated and a lot harder to live out our values than it is to claim them. Our interactions with others are never 100% neutral. Even though we might not want to think of ourselves as been shrewd in how we deal with others, there are times when the expectation of reciprocity motivates us to act in certain ways. We do favors for others, sometimes selflessly, but sometimes with the knowledge that the favor will be returned. “You owe me” we might say to a friend or a colleague upon assisting them in a crisis situation. Or we feel indebted to others for the favors or kindnesses they’ve shown to us and are more willing to assist them when they need it in the future. In crisis situations, it’s good to know who your friends are. 

Similarly, we might try our best in a situation that’s difficult to negotiate, but feel our efforts weren’t enough to solve the problem. There have been many times in my life when I’ve felt that I could have done so much more in a tricky situation. Upon review with a friend or a loved one, the refrain of “you did the best you could, given the circumstances.” There are many big-picture issues in our world today which might make us contemplate whether we are doing enough to meet the moment. Global issues, like the suffering created by the war in Ukraine, climate change, and participation in exploitative economic practices create anxiety and worry. We may feel like Jeremiah in today’s Hebrew Bible reading, crying out in the grief we feel about our earthly situation. When God is not centered in the community, all hope of establishing the kingdom on earth fails. 

An important thing to remember in this story is that we are talking about two different economies. The economy of earth, the children of this age, and God’s economy, the children of the light. As has been reiterated by so many of the parables Jesus has told during his travels to Jerusalem in Luke’s gospel, the kingdom of God is quickly coming, but it does not operate under the same systems which human beings have created for themselves. What the disciples can learn from the example of the manager is that they do not have to be victims of circumstance. They can change the systems that exist in order to establish new patterns of relationship. Essentially, that is what Jesus is teaching them to do through his ministry. God’s kingdom is all about dismantling the human-created patterns of behavior that cause harm and oppression to establish justice and righteousness. Even if the manager is not setting out to completely overhaul the economic system he is beholden to, in his small way he has altered the relationships that exist within that system. By making friends with the debtors and reducing what is owed, he establishes a relationship of trust and reciprocity with them, not merely a transactional relationship. 

We return to the lesson we are supposed to be learning from this parable, that one cannot worship or serve both God and wealth. This phrase might evoke a sense that Christians are not to be concerned with money; an idealized version of discipleship in which one is not tied to the economic practices of this world. However, for most Christians that’s not possible. We are human beings who exist in the world and we have vocations that require us to operate in the economic systems of our communities. However, as Christians, we should understand that the wealth, power, or privilege we might possess in any given situation are to be met with humility and generosity of spirit in witnessing to the needs of others. For as quickly as wealth or power can come, it can also be lost just as quickly. Our understanding of wealth must rest in a deeper commitment to justice. Rev. Verity A. Jones, in a reflection on this passage from Luke states this: 

Despite all the potential ethical and practical pitfalls and dangers of wealth accumulation, Jesus is suggesting in this reading that it is possible to manage possessions and money in ways that can lead us into life with God. The key, the starting point for knowing how to do this, is to know the endpoint -- to know what life with God is like. And if we use possessions to gain that life with God, Jesus may commend us, as he did the dishonest manager in the reading. Being shrewd, in this case, means using what we have for God's purposes, rather than squandering what we have for no gain at all.1 

Although the manager’s motivations for why he helped lower the amounts owed may not have been purely aligned with the mission statement that Jones puts forth in her assessment of what we are to take from the text, the point is that even small actions like these can help in moving toward what God’s kingdom looks like. 

You probably heard the news story this week about the asylum seekers who unexpectedly landed in Martha’s Vineyard after being sent north by the Governor of Florida. Viewing Martha’s Vineyard as a beacon of wealth, this attempt to either embarrass or prove a point about sanctuary communities for immigrants not really being prepared seemed to backfire. Even though the summer population of the island does tend toward wealthy, in the off-season, the island is populated by a small community used to supporting each other through the winter. The community, gathered around St. Andrew’s Episcopal church where the migrants were housed, provided aid for the mostly Venezuelan group at a moment’s notice. A situation in which no one was prepared for what was to happen – not the immigrants themselves, who had been promised housing, jobs, and help with immigration when they arrived in New England, nor the community who had no advanced knowledge of the immigrants arrival. However, they were able to make the best out of the situation that they could. It wasn’t perfect; the community couldn’t guarantee the asylum that the immigrants were searching for, but they provided for the basic needs of this small group in a moment of confusion and desperation with what they had. It may not have been perfect, but it provided relief and aid in a complex situation. 

Today’s gospel teaches us about the patience required for us to make a way that leads us toward justice in our complex world. When crises arise, we do the best we can with the situation at hand, remembering our faith and acting prudently. Our faith in God provides the only relationship which requires nothing from us, but we cannot live our lives with the expectation that all actions we undertake will be completely selfless. We should feel called to reflect on what we have; what wealth, what power, what influence we can muster in shaping the relationships around us toward God’s purposes. If we can find ways to make our systems more just, so that people and our world are not exploited, we can inch toward the reality that Jesus foretells in God’s kingdom.  

Amen. 

-The Rev. Dr. Jessica Chicka, University Chaplain for International Students

posted in The Rev. Dr. Jessica Chicka, University Chaplain for International Students on 09.18.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 15:1-10

Click here to hear just the sermon

“Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

Perhaps it is fitting that this week’s lesson presents Jesus, in his primary colors, not as teacher of righteousness, but as savior of sinners. One whose joy comes in finding the lost.

We long for, hunger for, good news, in a time of loss. Come September 11, a nation remembers 3,000 dead 21 years ago, a time of loss. Come Thursday afternoon past, the globe remembers the decades of selfless life and service of a Queen, and now grieves the death of a global Queen, a time of loss. Institutions near and far experience transition in leadership, with a sense of loss. A denomination reels from the shocks of sudden and coming division, and there is loss. A freshman, class of 2026, away from home for the first time, feels loss. You can feel lost in a time of loss. As Queen Elizabeth said in 1997: We have all been trying to cope in our different ways. It is not easy to express a sense of loss, since the initial shock is often succeeded by a mixture of other feelings: disbelief, incomprehension, anger and concern for those who remain (NYT, 9/9/22). Entering the autumn of 2022, together, for all our losses, we are intent on sewing together again, knitting together again, the fabric of our common life. Jesus’ parables tend to remind us, through thick and thin, of what matters, lasts and counts. As today. Those who follow and heed him, as we are trying to do, can rejoice in that: joy in the presence of the angels of God.

This Sunday, this year, ‘September 11’ we remember both in the opening prayers and in the sermon for today. Our bulletin for the day, as in other years, lists the names of those BU men and women lost on that tragic day, 9/11/01. In 2011, we telephoned the families of those who died that day, to express our continued remembrance of them, and our shared sense of ongoing mourning and grief. They were some of the most memorable pastoral conversations of my time here at BU thus far. Boston University memorial services have been held every five years at Marsh Chapel and on Marsh Plaza (2006, 2011, 2016, 2021). The service for 2011, held on the Plaza, included in leadership President Robert A. Brown, Robert Pinsky

(former Poet Laureate of the USA and current BU faculty), the University Chaplains, and the Marsh Chapel choir.

In addition, throughout this past week we have joined with others in welcoming a new class of students, the class of 2026. Throughout this past week on campus there has been a palpable, shared, expressed desire to connect, to know, to invite, to welcome. You make it evident right now in our service of worship. You all have more than done your own part in this: an opening brunch, a chaplains’ meeting, a Marsh Chapel matriculation service, the University Matriculation, a first class day breakfast, a greening of the dorms, a midweek worship service, a co-curricular programs fair, a religious life fair, a garden party, choir practices and auditions, staff gatherings, a completed term book, a reception for theological students, a big Saturday SPLASH, barbecue luncheon today following worship, and many individual greetings, conversations and prayers. All this in aid of helping, supporting, and guiding 18-year-olds toward places, spaces, and gatherings wherein they will be ‘found’, wherein they will find themselves at least in part, wherein there will be a shared joy, a heavenly joy, an angelic joy, joy in the presence of the angels of God.

St. Luke encourages us with a word about finding the lost. It is notable that here, in this congregation and listenership, the numinous oddities of language in Luke 15 you do understand and use. We hear you use these great words, and use them well. One says to his son, in the pew, as the Scripture is read, “I remember—a parable is a story with a message, and I remember that Jesus always taught using parables. He taught by telling stories. These parables were set in the countryside, and were about people and about justice. Jesus taught adults with simple stories.” You understand ‘parable’. Someone else, driving home today, interprets the word ‘joy’ for her rider: “Joy is God’s delight, given us by God’s spirit. Joy is one of the footprints, hallmarks, earmarks, landmarks, benchmarks of the Holy Spirit. What pleasure is to the body, joy is to the soul.” I might have thought that ‘repentance’ would throw you, but no. In the choir, disrobing, an alto tells a bass, “Repentance means to turn around, to head home, to dust off and try again, like that story about the son and the pigs.” And angel, you might add, means messenger, and presence means joy, and heaven means the message of the presence of joy. Then, at Monday evening community dinner, talking to a theological student, an engineering student might ask the definition of sin. The response: Well, it literally means to miss the mark, but it has two parts. First is the personal part, ‘lust, gluttony, avarice, sloth, anger, envy, pride’. Or as Howard Thurman would say, ‘cutting against the grain of

your own wood…listen for the sound of the genuine, listen for the sound of the genuine…you are the only person like you, just like you, that the world has ever seen…listen for the genuine inside you’. Second is the pervasive part, the gone-wrongness in life. Sin is the power of death, throughout life. Sin is the condition of life under which treachery takes place. Sin is the absence of God. Sin is an orb of confusion in the world. Personal, pervasive. Well said!

We could add, sin is personal like that expressed in our epistle, 1 Timothy. Jesus comes for others, as 1 Timothy said, “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the foremost”. When one is lost, as here and also in the later account of the Welcoming Father, one can become anxious, depressed, dislocated, and alone. Someone found is the cause of inexpressible delight, joy. Including the lonely, discovering the dislocated, reconnecting with the disappeared—these moments provide a heavenly joy, (vs. 7), a consequence of the discovery of the lost we are intent on sewing together again, knitting together again, the fabric of our common life.

We could add, sin is pervasive, like that expressed in our reading from Jeremiah. Sin has a corporate, expansive, even institutional reality. We mistake its power, if we see it only, say, in personal life. That of course is real, and true. Sin is like the advance or retreat of a great thunderstorm, a frontal advance, though theological not meteorological. Sin is like a city blacked out, a power far beyond any individual lamp turned down, any individual light switch hit. Sin is a shadow, the one great shadow. Whatever is not of faith, is sin. And that is quite a lot in this world. Sin is all that mutes the voice. Do we blame sheep—hardly by the way a comprehensively intelligent beast--for getting lost? It is his nature. Do we blame the coin—inanimate, hardly noticeable—for getting lost? It is Isaac Newton’s gravity at work. But we only see sin clearly when we are ready to see it, by revelation, and often only once we have left its borders behind. Like all lasting reality, we know it in retrospect.

Sin is what Jeremiah, in all the autumn readings of 2016, was warning us about, what we could and would not see in the coming religious, cultural, social and ultimately political condition of our country. It is hard but saving to have Jeremiah with us again all fall this year. Sin is what Jeremiah was warning us about in all the autumn readings of 2019, what we could not see in a coming pandemic, and an unprepared infrastructure and a mendacious national leadership, and ultimately, touching home right in these pews, the

deaths of a million just in our own land. It is hard but saving to have Jeremiah with us again all fall this year, and to hear his harsh warning again today.

That is, the power of sin vastly surpasses any individual, human attempt at cure. Individuals may behave morally or immorally, usually some of both. But corporate, pervasive sin lives on, as R Niebuhr taught so long ago: “Man’s capacity for justice makes democracy possible, but man’s inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary”. Sin is that ‘inclination’. And, “if social cohesion is impossible without coercion, and coercion is impossible without the creation of social injustice, and the destruction of injustice is impossible without the use of further coercion, are we not in an endless cycle of social conflict?” Sin is that ‘impossible’.

As Wesley said, “sin remains even when it does not reign.”

We have much to do to wrestle with pervasive sin, with the global challenges of pollution, Putin, pandemic, prices, prejudice, politics, and pain. Jane Addams said it of our nation, but her insight now fits our world: “The blessings which we associate with a life of refinement and cultivation must be made universal if they are to be permanent. The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain, is floating in midair, until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life”.

Jesus’ parables tend to remind us, through thick and thin, of what matters, lasts and counts. We smile to recall Queen Elizabeth saying and repeating, as was remembered this week, ‘our determination to do the right thing will stand the test of time’. As today. Those who follow and heed Jesus, as you are trying to do, can rejoice in that. Daniel Marsh was one such. Boston University has had ten presidents since 1869, and the chartering of our school. Five were Methodist Ministers—Warren, Huntingdon, Murlin, MARSH, Case. The other five—Christ-Janer, Silber, Westling, Chobanian and Brown—were a lawyer, a philosopher, an historian, a physician, and a chemical engineer. Daniel Marsh came in 1926 from the Smithfield Avenue Methodist Church pulpit in Pittsburgh, and retired in 1951. In 1968 with his second wife, Arline, he was interred here in the chancel of Marsh Chapel, a long time by the way before cremation and columbaria were widely practiced. He built the buildings to the left and right of us, and he built the chapel later named for him. But he did so through thick and thin. A lack funds. A great depression. The second world war. Post war inflation. But he persevered. He wanted this great university to have at its spiritual, geographical, historical, architectural and

religious center, a chapel, devoted to gathering the lonely, healing the broken, comforting the afflicted, afflicting the comfortable, and especially, especially, finding the lost. He wanted the partnership of the gospel—the fellowship, sharing, commonwealth, partnership of the gospel to be spoken and lived, that those lost might be found, that those enmeshed in sin and death and the threat of meaninglessness, might be discovered, embraced and loved. Until her passing in autumn 2019, his daughter, Nancy Marsh Hartman, was in church in the front pew every Sunday—that is every Sunday, teaching others by example how to sing, sing lustily, the hymns of faith in the Methodist tradition. She could tell you about pursuing what matters, lasts and counts, through thick and thin. You know she must smile from on high, to see her chapel filling up in the autumn of the year. She would remind those in, or entering, ministry, that the minister is present for those who are not yet present. She would ask, without speaking, who is not here, not yet here who yet could be? She would whole heartedly share the sentiment of Queen Elizabeth, Christmas 1957, I cannot lead you into battle, I do not give you laws or administer justice, but I can do something else, I can give you my heart (NYT 9/9/22)

You beloved come from a long line of warm-hearted people. In the spring of 1973 at Ohio Wesleyan University, a small Methodist college for small Methodists, the telephone rang in the hallway of the TKE fraternity. You know that the telephone was invented in a Boston University laboratory by Alexander Graham Bell about 1880, a beautiful, human, vocal mode of discovery and communication. No one answered because, well, it was early morning. The phone was across the hall though and without voice mail to interrupt, it continued. Bleary eyed, I woke and answered. Is that you Bob? This is Professor Freiburg. Your biology final exam began 10 minutes ago. WHERE ARE YOU? The next ten minutes witnessed the fastest bicycle ride on Sandusky Street in recorded history, and the taking of the one empty seat and the taking of a last test in a great course by a beloved teacher, one who cared enough to find the lost. God is at work in the world to make and keep human life human, but good in history never comes without humans at work on it, without a faithful people of warm heart.

Hear Good News: Entering the autumn of 2022, together, for all our losses, we are intent on sewing together again, knitting together again, the fabric of our common life. With confidence. Our 10th President Robert A. Brown used that word, confidence, Latin con fide, ‘with faith’ this week: “I think we’re just a very different University today, not just for students, but for faculty and staff, too,” Brown says. “We’re much more mature. We’re

much more confident… I think the best is yet to come.” Jesus’ parables tend to remind us, through thick and thin, of what matters, lasts and counts. As today. Those who follow and heed him, as we are trying to do, can rejoice in that: joy, joy, joy.. in the presence of the angels of God.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Liberal Biblical Theology of St. Luke: Fall 2022, The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 09.11.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 14:25–33

Click here to hear just the sermon

Gracious God, 
In this holy moment, a day of new beginnings: 
We summon the better angels of our nature to sit quietly before you in gratitude. 
For the gift of your love to inspire us in our freshman year, to quicken us to try, to join, to sign up, to get out, we are peacefully thankful. 
For the gift of your presence to sustain us in our sophomore year, to strengthen us to continue, to persevere, to stay up, to move on, we are simply thankful. 
For the gift or your power to embolden us in our junior year, to encourage us to achieve, to give, to change, to travel, to grow, we are spiritually thankful. 
For the gift of your peace to illumine us in our senior year, to steady us to plan, to finish, to complete, to leave, we are personally thankful. 
Help us to love what is lovely, to be present to what is real, to find strength in what lasts, and to know peace in what honors, but surpasses, understanding. Help us to listen to our lives, to learn deeply from our own experience. 
Inspired by your love, sustained by your presence, encouraged by your power, confirmed by your peace, day by day our life before you flows on in endless song. 
Empower us we pray to listen to our lives, with keen care to listen to our lives 
For the privilege of these coming few days, these fast four years, we are thankful. Amen. 

Beloved children of God, hear the Gospel, so befitting Matriculation, the Gospel According to St. Luke in the fourteenth chapter and the 25th verse. 

Count the cost.  Ahead of time, count the cost.  By way of illustration:  in business, and in war.  And in everything in between.  Count the cost.  How could we not think this morning of those suffering the terror of warfare in Ukraine?  How could we not think this morning of those—so regularly the least, the last and the lost—suffering the jolts and tides of inflation and coming recession? 

Do the arithmetic, study the detail, count. 

You, careful listener, you recognize that Luke 14: 25-33 is not Jesus talking, but Luke writing.  You realize that Jesus left no written record, like Socrates in that.  You recognize that he spoke Aramaic, not Greek, and whether or not he was literate.  You recall the arithmetic of his life, death and destiny, the years 4bce to 33ce, and the distance of those from our reading, Luke 14, in 85ce, at the earliest (some would date Luke much later).  What we hear this morning is, in the first instance, not the voice of Jesus but the composition of Luke.   Of course, and granted, there will be traces of Jesus’ voice, along the way, particularly in Luke 9-19, especially, and especially there in the parables, his own mode of teaching, without which nothing.  In all, though, and on the bigger whole, this is not Jesus’ voice but Luke’s writing.  This makes all the arithmetical difference in the world, these 50 years and 2 opposed forms of rhetoric. 

Now, it may be, gazing again at the bulletin, or ruminating on the remembered reading of the Gospel, the high-water mark of our worship each Sunday, you begin to wonder, to ponder, to question.  Good.  We learn most from the questions we ask, and most of us most of the time need more reminder than instruction. Sitting in the balcony, seated with your family, pondering whether to join the choir, or whether to return to Chapel for dinner or study.  Perhaps these are your questions, or some of them. 

Why this discussion of hatred, when the Gospel in other clothing is centrally about love?  Why this denigration of family, when the family is one of the protected entities in the Decalogue, the ten commandments:  protection of truth, of communication, of speech, of worship, of family, of life, of property, of marriage, of law, and of commerce?  Therein, whence the rejection of life itself, when otherwise the Gospel acclaims life, having life, and having life in abundance?   There seems to be some counting and accounting needed. 

More so:  What is the mention here of the cross?  Jesus in this narrative, in these chapters, is preaching, teaching, healing, going about in Galilee and Judea a free itinerant prophet.  All of a sudden, here comes a word from much later, ‘cross’.  Was Jesus making a prediction that only he could see and understand?  Or is this a clue to the fountain and origin of this passage, the church’ struggles and the mind of Luke?  Cross?  Cross?  I thought we were sharing parables and blessing children and rounding up disciples.  Moreso, the cross is ‘one’s own cross’.  The writer seems to assume that all will get the reference, including you, and me, to the cross.  How all this talk about the cross when Jesus just now in Luke is teaching in parables and healing the sick, a long way from Jerusalem and ‘the cross’? 

Even more so:  How is it that all of a sudden, everyone around Jesus is expected to be a monk?  Ridding oneself of all, all, not most, not much, but all possessions?  All.  That’s at a lot, even in an era of tunics, ephods, camels, donkeys, sandals, fishing, shepherding and travel by foot.  All?  What is transpiring here? 

Nor does this seem metaphorical, in a way that some current preaching would likely choose.   Hatred—well, you know, not exactly hatred but mature self-differentiation.  Life—well, you know, not exactly life in the sense of breath and nourishment, but in the sense of deep meaning.  Cross—well, you know, not exactly crucifixion in the bloody and excruciating physical sense, but self-discipline, more in the sense of yoga.  Possessions—well, you know, not in exactly the form of car, home, bank account and pension, but in the sense of a general materiality, of not letting your possessions possess you.  No, actually Luke 14 does not seem or sound metaphorical at all, regarding hatred, life, cross, or possessions.  It sounds literal, actual, straightforward enough. 

To faithfully interpret these kinds of verses we shall need in the next generation—your generation—a full and fulsome liberal biblical theology.  Maybe one or three of you will invest in such work. 

Forgive what is only an interpretative guess, even less than that, yet after many decades of hearing these harsh words, even in Luke–the Gospel of peace, the Gospel of love, the Gospel of church, the Gospel of freedom—these are phrases that sound like the esoteric, ascetic, anti-worldliness of the emerging gnostic movement.  It is as if here, in Luke and Matthew, by way of Q, some measure of the enthusiastic pessimism, the bodily asceticism, the turning away from the world which we know in full in full Gnosticism, has grown up alongside the gospel, wheat and tares together sown.    There are strong parallels, almost identical, in the Gospel of Thomas, a gnosticizing document of about the same time as Luke. And there are strong parallels in Poimandres, a fully gnostic document of about the same time as Luke (Fitzmeier, Anchor, 1064). 

Uncompromising demands regarding self, regarding family, and regarding possessions may well be part of the life of faith, warns Luke out of the gnostic shadows of his sources.  He warns us as we come to faith.  He reminds us of the gift of faith. Like all serious engagements, this spiritual one is not be entered into lightly, but reverently, discreetly and in the fear of God.  ‘Jesus counsels his followers not to decide on discipleship without advance, mature self-probing’.   It is as if Jesus is saying, ‘come along, I want to make this for you the hardest decision of your life’. 

So.  This may mean that the struggles under this passage of Holy Scripture, our sufficient rule of faith and practice, are from 85ad, not 30ad.  That there is in the emerging church a set of conflicts that require some arithmetic, some counting and accounting.  How much home, how much away?  How much kindness, how much honesty?  How much self-affirmation and how much self-abnegation?  How much materiality and how much spirituality?  Before you set out, to go to college or to take a job or to move in together or to get married or to sell the farm or to go to war or to build a tower, well, you might want to…do the math. 

St. Luke wrestled with formational questions in the first century: For whom is the gospel? What are the definitive texts? And especially, who shall hold authority?  What, How, Where. And Who? Here Luke wrestles with these costs and their accounting.  “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up,” said Paul.  

Aristotle taught us to attend to the true, the good, the beautiful. In the late fourth century there emerged a good, great leader of the church, Ambrose of Milan. In just eight days he went from unbaptized layman to Bishop. His rhetorical skill, musicianship, diplomatic agility and attention to the preparations for Baptism provided the power behind his lasting influence in Northern Italy.  

The greatest teacher of the earlier church, Augustine of Hippo, came to Milan a non-Christian. From the influence of Ambrose, he left baptized and believing and worked a generation to set the foundations for the church over a thousand years to come.  

Ambrose inspired Augustine.  A quiet, humble, modest, reserved, shy, gracious, mild-mannered, self-effacing, understated person, a plow horse not a show horse.  A plow horse not a show horse. A lot of progress can be made when we do not linger too long over who gets the credit.  

Some years ago, we went to a church meeting near Canada on a very cold night. It was led by our Bishop. For some reason I was not in a very happy mood, nor was I very charitable in my internal review of his remarks that evening. I do not recall his topic or theme. I remember clearly seeing him help to move hymnals, borrowed from other churches for the large crowd, so they could be returned. Snow, dark, long arms carrying a dozen hymnals into the tundra.  

Think of someone you have known who  properly counted costs, who lived with heartfelt passion for the common good, who lived in selfless ways, a ‘person for others’, to cite Bonhoeffer.   

Every one of us has some influence. If you have a pen, a smart phone, a computer, email, a tongue, a household, a family, a job, a community—then you have some influence.  

Who taught you, by precept and example, how to use it? How much of what you picked up needs keeping and how much needs to be put out on the curb?  

A simple passion for the common good of the servants of God is at the heart of faithful living.  What is new?  Here is what I need you to do for me.  What should I pray for you?  This is what we learn when we listen to our lives.   

This was the phrase Frederick Buechner, an exemplary chaplain of another era, who died last week, tried to summarize his hundreds of sermons and 95 years of life:  listen to your life.

Gerson wrote: When the late Frederick Buechner — novelist, preacher, Christian apologist — was asked to summarize the single essential insight of his prolific writing and speaking career, he would respond, “Listen to your life”.

“If indeed there is a God,” he explained, “which most of the time I believe there is, and if indeed he is concerned with the world, which the Christian faith is saying … one of the ways he speaks to us, and maybe one of the most powerful ways, is through what happens to us.”… “Pay attention to moments,” he said, when “unexpected tears come to your eyes and what may trigger them.” He was talking about those sudden upwellings of emotion we get from the sublimity of nature or art, when we see a whale breaching, or are emotionally ambushed by a line in a film or poem. We are led toward truth and beauty by a lump in the throat.  (M Gerson, WAPO, 8/22/22). 

May what Paul wrote of Philemon be said of us: When I remember you in my prayers, I always thank my God because I hear of your love for all the saints and your faith toward the Lord Jesus. 

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in Matriculation, The Liberal Biblical Theology of St. Luke: Fall 2022, The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 09.4.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 13:10-17

Click here to hear just the sermon

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves.  

Her name was Mozelle Cogman Goins.  She was born in Macon Georgia in 1902.  As was the norm in some parts of the south.  Education for African American students ended at the eighth grade so that a woman could join the domestic work force.  Not one to follow in the steps of convention Mozelle applied to the incoming class at the University of Detroit Law School entering in either 1919 or 1920. She arrived for her first day of class and came into the office to register and was met with a “deafening silence” a direct quote from her grand-daughter Pat Rencher.  Nevertheless, they allowed her to attend class.  After her first year she was told that some of her papers were not up to par.  Not to be deterred she rewrote and submitted those papers, and the Law School allowed her to advance to complete her second and third year. 

 The Detroit Free Press published the 1923 graduating class from the U of D Law School and Miss Cogman was among the graduating class.  However, the story didn’t end well.  A week after the picture was published, she was called into the office and told she never completed her assignments from her first year and therefore they would not confer her a law degree. 

She later married, owned a dress shop, worked for social service agencies and remained active in community affairs.  After a conversation with Pat this week we realized that Mrs. Coins and my grandmother Eunice Gunther Lowery were friends and very active in the Detroit African American community.  My friend Pat recalls the law books that were in her grandmother’s library and how people would stop by the house for consultation and advice. 

 Detroit attorney Leslie Graves tried in the 1980’s to petition U of D Law School to grant her law degree.  The school only gave a commendation but no degree.  Currently The Hon Kathey Gilforf is leading an effort to confer the degree for the class of 2023 which is the “Year of the Woman.  Mrs. Coins passed way in 2002 at 100 years old.  A pioneer and a trailblazer whose story deserves to be lifted up and acknowledged.  

 Cole Arthur Riley writes in her new book “This Here Flesh”. You cannot tell the story of injustice without telling the story of power. Injustice has survived by cowering behind the guises of morality and ethics. And that power, which is stolen, malformed, or inequitable will, no matter how well intentioned, always cast its weight in the wrong places. This is rarely accidental. Injustice has survived by cowering behind the guises of morality and ethics. She goes on to quote the Civil Rights activist Bayard Rustin “When an individual is protesting society’s refusal to acknowledge his dignity as a human being, his every act of protest confers dignity on him.”  

 I don’t know if the expression “we made it through” is an apt description to describe this historical event.  However, there are still people who to this day generations later who are still figuratively carrying the weight of the world, the weight of daily injustices and micro-aggressions, the weight of grieving young people, the weight of this week trying to get to your job on-time if your only options are to get to work in the Orange and Green line trains.  What I do know is that people will always come together in the face of injustice, to support each other, cook for each other, hold each other, cry with each other, hold space for each other when on some days that was all that is all we can offer.    It is love and an awareness that no one should have to shoulder anything alone that keeps them together. 

 If you’ve been here or have listened the past several Sundays, you know that our Hebrew Bible readings have been proclaiming harsh and judgmental words from the likes of Amos and Hosea, from Isaiah, and this morning from Jeremiah.  While this morning’s reading describes the call of Jeremiah to be God’s prophet (despite Jeremiah’s protests that he is too young for the job). Jeremiah himself describes that job given by God (which will unfold in the coming chapters of the book named for him) this way: “See today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and pull down, to destroy and to overthrow….” 

Please notice something else in this morning’s reading from Jeremiah, the last phrase. “…to build and to plant.” We sometimes forget that the prophets in their harsh language were calling the people of Israel back to lives faithful and responsive to the will of God. Using Jeremiah’s imagery, we must remember that “plucking up”, “pulling down” or even destroying and overthrowing in God’s Garden are actions that need to happen before new growth that Jeremiah talks about can occur. 

 I want us to try something this Sunday.  You know they say that when we are tense, we tend to hold our shoulders up near our ears.  So, try this, hold your shoulders up to your ears in a tense position.  Then try to move your head to the left, now to the right.  It’s hard right?  Now try and move your body, to the left, to the right. It’s hard.  Now let go with an exhale. 

 There is an expression “he / she/ they look like they are carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.” What we just did was an example of that statement.   

When you are carrying the weight of the world it is hard to move. 

 We don’t know what weight the bent over woman was carrying: perhaps she was the victim of some sort of oppression, perhaps her binary pronoun did not match their non-binary authenticity, perhaps she was the victim of domestic abuse.  If it wasn’t for the fact, she was bent over she would just have been another woman going on with her day-to-day activities.   

 But Jesus noticed that she was carrying the weight of the world and had been for so long that people assumed that she had an infirmity.  But Jesus sees her suffering and he heals her on the Sabbath.  Notice here that Jesus approaches the woman.  Not the usual healing stores of the infirmed approaching Jesus for healing.  

In the second half of the Gospel the woman recedes from the narrative, and we move into Jesus’ encounter with the leader of the synagogue. It’s not the healing that concerns the leader of the synagogue, it’s that Jesus heals on the Sabbath day. 

The Sabbath was meant to be a complete day of rest as God had rested on the 7th day.  No work was to be done, no farming, no fishing, no shopping, no cooking, no healing.  The leader was caught up in the when’s and the where’s of the letter of the law by pointing out that this was not the day.  Pick another day to heal.  But Jesus saw the same law much differently.  The law did not trump God’s action when it came to God’s children especially this child of God, the daughter of Abraham.  From where Jesus stood, what better way to honor the Sabbath than by setting a captive free? 

 This is why he came after all.  Early on in Luke’s Gospel Jesus made know his work in the world as he read the words of Isiah: 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. Luke 4:18-19.  

 The invitation that Jesus gave the woman who was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders is the same invitation he extends to us today. 

Jesus says: Stand up!  Breathe and let your shoulders down with whatever the weight of the world that you are bearing. 

 He invites us to stand up and be transformed, and to be released from the things that leave us bent over, feeling low and less than, to be released from whatever bondage messes with our self-worth and our self-esteem.  We are invited to come from out of the shadows and valleys, and into the light of God’s amazing and healing love. 

 So many times, we try to put our best foot forward and never let on how burdened we may really feel.  Some of us come into a place of worship with our brokenness and we feel that if we keep a smile on our faces and pretend that everything is alright no one will ever know the weight that we are facing.  Once inside places where we think we are safe we still are unable to look up and see the world around us.  We may feel alone or forgotten.  We may struggle to see and remember that God is present.  But like the woman who stood tall in the synagogue that day, we are the children of a loving and caring God.  God’s grace working among us and through us helps us to stand up straight. 

 This summer I served as a delegate for The Episcopal Churches 80th General Convention.  A triennium convention that was delayed for a year due to COVID.  A convention which historically been held over eight days was compressed into four days of legislation and as a self-described church nerd I was so to speak in my element.  There were two important and moving highlights from General Convention.  The first was the expedition of the late Right Rev. Barbara C. Harris, the first female bishop in the Anglican Communion and who served as Bishop Suffragan in the Diocese of MA. It was moved that Bishop Harris who passed in 2020 be included in the episcopal calendar of Lesser Feasts and Fasts.  The historical significance of this is that General Convention usually doesn’t add people until 50 years after their death. 

 The other important piece of legislation was the creation of a fact-finding commission to research the denominations’ role in the federal boarding school system that separated generations of indigenous children from their families and cultures in the 19th and 20th century.  These actions come as U.S. Interior Secretary Deb Haaland kicks off “The Road to Healing,” a national listening tour in which the secretary will hear from survivors of boarding schools in the United States. 

Convention members heard testimonies from clergy who had officiated at funerals for children whose remains had been repatriated from the former Carlisle Indian School in Pennsylvania.  Others spoke of pushing the city of Albuquerque to acknowledge that children had been buried beneath a public park constructed on the former site of a Presbyterian run boarding school. 

 Still others shared their experiences as survivors themselves, or descendants of survivors.  Ruth Johnson of the Navajoland Area Mission attended two boarding schools – an experience which is still hard for her to speak about.  She spoke about being ill and being beaten and she ended with “I could have easily been one of those who didn’t make it home.”  

 To quote Bishop Mark Lattime of the Diocese of Alaska, “This is important work, and it’s for all of us.” “You might think your diocese doesn’t have a history with boarding schools with Indigenous people, and – while that might be true- there isn’t a diocese in this church that doesn’t have a history with Indigenous people.” 

 I want to tell you: there is no day, week, hour or moment that the God who formed and created us does not see our plight or hear our cries.  Our God energizes us and gives us hope no matter what trail, burden, or injustice we might face.  And God gives us one another to share in that hope. 

 I would like to stand before you and preach that we are beyond being bent over carrying the weight of the world but we all are aware that recently we have witnessed firsthand the actions of the weight that is being pressed down on innocent children, the weight being pressed down on those who feel that they are not heard, the weight of families whose loved ones have died as a result of guns violence.  We are never in a position in God’s eyes to oppress another, belittle another, scare or gaslight another or to act like another is less than.  That thought that it doesn’t happen here, it won’t happen here, it doesn’t apply to me disconnects us from the love of God and from our neighbor. 

 Like so many prophets known and unknown, past and present, like Jesus himself, we have been put on this earth so that we might find a way to ease one another’s pain and release from bondage and set them free, to raise up people and children who will stand tall knowing that they are precious children of God and worthy to share in God’s love. 

 It was a Sabbath day when the bent over woman was told to stand and stand she did and she praised God. 

With God’s help, any day is a good day to help others to stand. 

Amen 

Benediction: 

God loves you. 

Beloved people of God, forth from this place and share God’s love with others. And now may God’s grace, peace, joy and love abide with you now and forever. Amen 

-The Rev. Dr. Karen Coleman, University Chaplain for Episcopal Ministries

posted in The Rev. Dr. Karen Coleman, Chaplain for Episcopal Ministry on 08.21.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 12:49–56

Click here to hear just the sermon

A written text of this sermon is currently unavailable.

-Mr. William Edward Cordts, Friend of Marsh Chapel

posted in Guest Preachers on 08.14.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 12:32-40

Click here to hear just the sermon

A written text of this sermon is currently unavailable.

-The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel

posted in The Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill, Dean of Marsh Chapel on 08.7.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 12:13–21

Click here to hear just the sermon

Have you ever used a litmus test? A litmus test is a test using a special colorized paper. You dip the paper into a liquid and the color of the paper will change to blue or red, depending on whether the liquid is an acid or a base. The blue part of the paper will turn red if placed in something acidic and red paper will turn blue if placed in something basic. Many schools use the litmus test as a hands-on science experiment for students. It’s a relatively easy science experiment for kids that is still fun.

The term litmus test is used more broadly as a way of determining whether something will pass or not. It is widely used in politics, especially concerning court justices and presidential candidates. Hot button issues can be polarizing litmus tests which supposedly determine party affiliation or other meaningful political information. A lot of times certain issues become a sort of litmus test for things like dating, friend groups, or voting. Litmus tests are also used in churches. What is a sacrament, how often should communion be celebrated, and do you baptize or dedicate an infant? Calvinism or Free Will? Depending on the results of a litmus test during a sermon, we might tune in more closely or think harder about what we should have for lunch. The simplicity of a litmus test is helpful for making quick decisions. It recognizes that our pre-judgements often shape how we experience what is going on around us.

As a science project, a litmus test is straightforward. The results are either acid, base, or neutral. The paper shows the results of what is present. It is a fairly objective process; however, when the idea of a litmus test gets applied to other realms, like politics and theology, the process becomes much more subjective. That means that our experiences, identity, and other elements factor into the process. The results are rarely as straightforward as acid, base, or neutral and almost always some element of choice is involved. The subjective element allows for nuance and situational aspects to be accounted for, but too often the limitations of subjectivity are taken as objective fact. What I mean by that is something grounded in the perspective and experience of a person is taken as truthful constants; rather than, as something interpreted from a particular point of view. Interpretation always extends from who we are. It extends from our points of view, even as it comes back to shape our point of view. What we see in a text or in life, is partly influenced by our experiences of life.

To give this a concrete context, think about the national debates over what is currently written about in history books, especially with regard to race and racism. States and school systems around the country are banning and altering curriculum in dire dystopian fashion. On the one hand, this is wrong, untrue, and harmful. And on the other hand, it is actively shaping the point of view of younger generations so that their experiences of the world are marked by a certain understanding of the world and events. When I was in high school, a history teacher made it a strong point that the Civil War was not fought over slavery. We were told multiple times that slavery was not the cause of the Civil War. We lost points on essays and exams if we claimed otherwise. We were told the Civil War was fought “to preserve the Union” and over “States Rights.” To use this litmus test from history is to lose all nuance and complexity over past events while allowing a present system of injustice to persist.

The stakes are high when it comes to history books, which is why the conflict is so important and strong. The danger is not only misinformation but a complete inability to engage truthfully with the past so that present oppression can continue. Prior point of view largely impacts present understandings and experiences of the monuments. And this is where the metaphor litmus test breaks down a bit. Because of elements like choice and experience, a litmus test outside of science it is not simply a means of determining acid, neutral, or base. It is often a choice to interpret the information or experience filtered through prior beliefs. The metaphor litmus test is popularly used as a way of testing beliefs or views on a matter. In practice, the litmus paper interacts with a solution to show you what type of solution is present, but in everyday practice, the litmus test actually reinforces preconceived beliefs to avoid honest and difficult engagement. While there are necessary reasons for this detachment, especially the survival of people constantly threatened by policies and views of others, there are consequences. Rather than deny point of view, experience, and subjectivity, we can account for the ways they influence us as we engage in discourse, especially the ways we approach differences.

Colossians 3:11 says, “In that renewal there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free; but Christ is all and in all!” While some of the particular markers of identity may not be readily recognizable to modern readers, the summary solidifies the point. “Christ is all and in all.” Some have taken to interpret this text as a denial of earthy identity. The only identity that matters is that which we have in Christ. Others have cited this text as a defense of color-blind approaches to race and racism which deny the significance of race or the presence of modern racism. For these approaches, difference is an obstacle that gets in the way of unity. In a vacuum, these approaches might have more merit than detriments but in our actual context, they have more detriment than merit. They become a litmus test, a tool which denies difference an opportunity to flourish. They also deny subjectivity to marginalized people and creates maladaptive identities in those with power. Our unity in Christ does not come at the cost of diversity and uniqueness. In fact, it is our differences and uniqueness which lead us even further into the divine mystery. At the same time, our unity and diversity in Christ also does not claim that all experiences of the world are equal. Some, lead toward justice and equity, while others lead toward hate and oppression. Perhaps, a better litmus test for politics and theology would be one that determines whether the course is loving or not. If only it were that simple…

The prophet Hosea lived in a contentious time in Israel’s history. He was a contemporary of the prophet Amos, whose words against the rampant social injustices are so strong. Amos denounced those who hoarded wealth unjustly and those who participated in harmful economic policies which kept the poor in poverty. Amos was especially critical of those who did so with a veneer of theological legitimacy. Those who built large barns off the backs of the poor, all the while, referring to their wealth as evidence of God’s blessing. Jesus’s parable, and Hosea’s message to these people are similar. That which is given, can be taken away and God desires justice not sacrifice. God desires faithful obedience not gifts that are lessened by how they were acquired. Hosea warned that the Assyrians would be a means of God’s justice for the injustice he witnessed. Where Amos rallied for social well-being and justice, Hosea emphasized faithfulness and knowledge of God. Two prophets, each revealing a part of God’s heart. Each complementing the other and trying to guide a people to live justly.

As you know, Old Testament prophets were not people who possessed crystal balls that could predict the future. They were God’s messengers, often in words and deeds. They discerned the word of the Lord and passed it along to the people. But this was an interpretive enterprise. The life of the prophet, the experiences of the prophet became a part of the interpretive process. The prophets were not passive people who recorded a voice they heard from beyond but active interpreters of their historical and social situations in light of their understanding and encounters with the Divine. The Word of the Lord came to them, but they were intimately involved in discerning and interpreting the Word. More often than not, the prophets of the Old Testament responded to their social and historical situations rather than making predictions about the far-off future. This means that prophets were far more human than popular imagination can make them out to be but also that we are invited to the same interpretive activity of the prophets. We interpret and discern the time we are in, in connection with others and the faith of ages past.

By nature of their inclusions in our Scripture, it can be easy to miss that the prophets were not always accepted by the people. They did not always champion popular views and they frequently engaged in polarizing prophetic ministry. What Hosea claimed of God was not readily accepted in his day, partly because there were other prophets who made opposing claims to Hosea. It is not surprising that a study of the prophets shows that often the most popular prophets, those who do not have books named after them in the canon, were the ones who predicted good things for the people and required very little change.

Some of these other prophets made their claims by virtue of other deities, like Baal as the Hosea reading says, but some prophesied differently from the canonical prophets and still in the name of YHWH. When we peer beneath the surface of our prophetic literature, we see communities in tension over how to interpret the times and God’s involvement in the world. We see different voices, sometimes even competing voices vying for legitimacy. Just as those who put the biblical cannon together had to ask, which prophets authentically spoke for God, we too have to discern between the myriad of voices in the present who claim to speak about God in our time. This is no easy task.

Hosea’s prophetic ministry began around 745 B.C.E. The book which bears his name utilizes many metaphors to discuss the relationship between God and God’s people. Metaphors are helpful in that task because we need something which helps us describe in human speech something that is greater than human speech. While still limited, metaphors help us grasp the mystery of the divine. Hosea uses the parent-child metaphor for God and Israel throughout the book and in the passage we read today. “11:1 When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.” The passage continues to note the ways God nurtured the people of Israel. Mention of Egypt and the Exodus, teaching Ephraim to walk, holding the people in arms, and providing healing.

We see that Hosea claims God is not only a parent to Israel but a good parent. A parent who loves and cares, a parent who helps develop the child into adulthood. God is faithful in steadfast love for the people. Hosea draws from the covenant tradition here. His imagery is either a reminder or a further development of God’s covenant with Israel in the wilderness after Egypt. “I led them with cords of human kindness, with bands of love. I was to them like those who lift infants to their cheeks. I bent down to them and fed them.” This is the level of care that many would desire from their God. Love, care, and nourishment. If you have taken care of a parent, child, or pet perhaps you can relate to the connection between love and care.

But, Hosea also claims that the people were not steadfast in their faithfulness to God. “11:2 The more I called them, the more they went from me; they kept sacrificing to the Baals, and offering incense to idols.” Because of their unfaithfulness, Hosea warns the people that they will return to Egypt and that Assyria will rule over them. Hosea speaks of God’s love and God’s steadfastness but also of impending wrath and destruction. Hosea sees the historical rises of Egypt and Assyria as a real threat to Israel but interprets it in light of his understandings of God’s desired faithfulness. In other words, Hosea interprets the international scene from theocentric and Israel-centric standpoints. He engages the past and the history of the people to interpret the present.

When I teach this passage to Old Testament students, we take a long pause here to discuss the connection between history and the present with God’s action. Many students are quick to embrace Hosea’ theological methodology, connecting events around him with beliefs, and engaging the times with God. Sometimes these events are specific and other times they are more general. Such efforts, I think are commendable. Because I believe God is active in Creation, I too want to make sure my beliefs and theology reflect the possibilities opened by that posture.

However, after some time, I like to play the devil’s advocate with them. I bring up examples of pastors who have made claims of God in the aftermath of events like Katrina or Supreme Court cases which I assume are in opposition to the student’s beliefs about God and Creation. They usually see the difficulty. When Christians claim God is not bound by the pages in a book but active in the world, much can be claimed of God that is not noble, true, and right. When Christians claim the totality of Euro-American centric theologies, even ones grounded in the genuine experiences of those peoples, harms take place. But then the question rises, how do we discern the word of the Lord among the cacophony of those claiming to be prophets?

There is no litmus test to determine definitely just as the people of Israel had no litmus test to determine a true or false prophet. It is one reason; we speak of being cautious while making universal claims about God and all the unknowns. With the biblical witness, we have the advantage of time and those who have discerned for us in the past. We look back as modern interpreters who can discern and interpret God’s activity over the course of hundreds and thousands of years. Scripture guides us through the past and offers direction for the present. I do not think we should not be tempted by approaches to Scripture that claim to speak absolutely about absolute matters. Scripture does not speak in one voice but in many. It is among its many voices that we are called to witness the work of the Holy One. This invites us to discern, the multiple voices and traditions present within our tradition, even as we recognize that not all voices are good. Just as ancient Israel had to discern which prophets to listen to, we too are invited to this process of holy discernment among the myriad of voices claiming to speak for God today.

Perhaps, a key to a healthy Gospel is not so much the absolute surety of a litmus test but an openness to keep dipping beliefs and experiences into the living water as a means of being transformed into God’s likeness. It might mean we need to change pre-conceived notions and deeply held convictions, but it might just start us on a journey to a more equitable and just world. Led by the hope of the Gospel and the presence of the Holy Spirit.

-The Rev. Scott Donahues-Martens, PhD Candidate, BU STH

posted in Guest Preachers on 07.31.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »

By Marsh Chapel

Click here to hear the full service

Luke 11:1-13

Click here to hear just the sermon

On a Sunday in February of 2019 my hospital pager went off when I was sitting in my home. My wife and I rarely watch the Superbowl, but the Patriots were playing and we lived in Quincy. It was half-time and the ICU requested that I come in to see a dying patient and support the family. I made the trip in and said a prayer outside the ICU doors. You never know what exactly you are stepping into in a situation like this. I found my way to the room, opened the glass door and moved the curtain. The room was decorated with Patriots gear and filled with people wearing Patriot’s Jersey’s. An older patient lay in bed with a large Patriots blanket. I thought, “well this visit might be a bit different.” The family expressed their thanks that I had come but rarely took both eyes off the screen. At the same time, they were attentive to their loved one. Frequently speaking, squeezing hands, and sharing a memory during a commercial. By the time I arrived, it was the third quarter. We watched the game for a while. Talking during commercials and downtime—gasps, and squeals during plays. The patient going in and out of consciousness but was surprisingly alert for end of life.

At one point I said, “Big fans,” “How could you tell” was the response. They shared that watching the Patriots together was a family ritual. They lived near the stadium and frequently went to games in person or gathered in someone’s house on a rotating schedule. It seemed that this family ritual would not be interrupted even at the end of life. This family ritual helped us navigate the end of life situation. I chose not to fight it but embrace it as a part of our end of life ritual. Eventually, the fourth quarter came and while everyone mostly watched the TV screen, I kept an eye on the other screen in the room. The screen which recorded vitals. Aware that the patient might not make it to the end of the game, especially with the stress of a 3-3 tied Superbowl, I asked if we could do the prayers they requested during a commercial. The family came fully to the reality of the situation at that moment and said yes, but someone did request I put in a good word for Tom Brady while I was at it.

We prayed and read the commendation of the dying liturgy, which includes the Lord’s Prayer. The family participated and recited many of the familiar prayers, especially participating during the Lord’s prayer. Prayer was also a family ritual. One that was passed down from generation to generation. Another familiar path in an unfamiliar time. One that connected them to each other and to God. By the time we finished, what would be the Patriot’s touch-down drive was in full swing. The room anticipated that this could be big and celebrated with great enthusiasm when they scored. Lots of high fives, lots of “did you see and they are going to do it.” Because the drive started during our prayer, they told me I had to stay to watch the rest of the game with them. They didn’t want to risk it, they said. I stayed. We watched the game and the Patriots won. The family celebrated, smiles on the patient’s face whose eyes were more often closed than not toward the end of the game. The next day, I discovered that the patient passed not long after I left, still surrounded by loved ones, still basking in the ritual of gameday, and the practice of prayer.

On my drive back home from the visit, I reflected on how the ritual of prayer and the family’s gameday rituals intertwined. They worked together in this instance. I thought about the liminal space between the sacred and secular that ritual can mediate. End of life is a fragile liminal space. Patriots and prayer were reminders of the family bonds in that space. Like a child who brings a favorite stuffed animal or toy on a long trip, the familiar can guide us when we are in unfamiliar territory. Part of the depth of meaningful rituals is the way they imprint in our consciousness when engaged with intentionality.     They become a sort of grammar for our lives. Not the feared grammar of elementary school but like the way of first learning to speak.

When we first learn to speak as, we hear words recited by others, mostly unsure of their meaning. Infants, babies, and toddlers hear a variety of words every-day for months and years. They hear them for a long time, sometimes even trying to repeat words with coos, grunts, and garbling. Eventually it comes together, and the sound of words comes out, even if adults do not fully understand. Then, little by little, the words make more sense. Intention and meaning become clearer. Full sentences eventually come and the connection between speaking about what is in the world around us becomes even stronger. Just as we learn to speak through practice, through use, our faith rituals are also embraced through practice and reflection. We learn the Lord’s prayer by practice and reflection. We embrace it through the memorization of words and the enactment of their meaning in the world.

The Lord’s Prayer is a familiar prayer. Most of us can recite it by heart. We’ve heard it, read it, and hopefully lived it in one way or another. In many ways, it is a paradigmatic prayer of Christian prayer practices. It is frequently one of the first prayers memorized, either intentionally or learned through weekly use. While the memorization of the prayer is one way of internalizing the meaning of the prayer, the significance of the Lord’s Prayer should not words alone. Rituals are rarely about the words alone. Do not get me wrong, the words matter. Words matter and written rituals are frequent examples of words that do something. Like a couple who says I do at a wedding to enter into marriage, the Lord’s prayer changes how we relate to God, the world, and each other.

For many of us, we learned the Lord’s Prayer as it is recorded by Matthew rather than Luke. Luke’s account is different. When I come to Luke’s, I have to slow down. I have to remind myself to read the words on the page because my mind so quickly jumps to Matthew’s account. If I do not read slowly, I miss the differences, especially because most of the differences are subtle. They would likely go unnoticed if not for the ingrained memorization of Matthew’s account.

Like other sections of scripture, ancient manuscripts themselves do not always agree on the words of the prayer, in both Matthew and Luke. Lines are different, some lines that are considered stock to us seem to be later additions. The changes are illustrative of one of the first Latin phrases many in theological studies learn, lex orandi, les credendi which means, the rule of prayer is the rule of faith.    The rule of prayer is the rule of faith. What we pray shapes what we believe. Pray can be a form of primary theological speech, not just secondary reflection. Prayer is a crucial element of the grammar of Christian faith because it is a central practice. It is a practice which connects us to each other, Creation, and God. Prayer tells us what we think about God and the world. It has a way of reflecting our core beliefs and values. And, as the ancient Church taught, , lex orandi, les credendi. Prayer shapes our beliefs. Prayer shapes our attitudes. Prayer not only informs it also forms. It forms our beliefs, values, and actions.

Luke’s account of the Lord’s prayer places the Lord’s prayer in the context of Jesus’ own prayer life. Jesus was praying in an unnamed place and the disciples requested Jesus teach them to prayer as John taught his disciples to pray. Luke situates the Lord’s prayer in Jesus’ prayer life but also underscored the catechetical nature of the prayer. It is an example of how to pray and what to pray.

Following many Psalms, the prayer begins with honor to God’s holy name. “Father, hallowed be your name.” Jesus prays to God, the father. The prayer then moves to welcome God’s kingdom coming. “Your kingdom come.” Missing, although present in some ancient manuscript’s the line “on Earth as it is in Heaven.” Nonetheless, this line is truly, one of the most radical prayers in all of scripture and one that is incarnated, to small degrees, every time we allow the Lord’s prayer to shape our lives and situations. To pray for God’s kingdom to come is to recognize our common need for the divine. It recognizes our dependence on God’s love and activity. It is also a call for Christian unity. We desire God’s Kingdom not our kingdoms.

A petition for daily bread. “Give us each day our daily bread.” The grammar of Greek here is interesting. Give us daily bread—each day. The bread is daily bread, the request is to have it each day. Daily bread each day. Perhaps, a reminder of when the people wandered in the desert and relied on God for mana. Mana came each day but it was daily mana you could only collect what was needed because it spoiled. Storing mana led to spoiled mana. Praying for daily bread is a reminder that God is Creator and Sustainer.        The prayer shapes us attitudes around sustenance and possessions. Another radical value formed through this prayer is contentment with what we have rather than the insatiable desire for more. To rely on God for daily bread is to trust.

A few months ago, my two year old and I were in a rhythm every morning. He would wake up and almost always ask for Blackberries for breakfast. It was a new food item to him and quickly became a lasting favorite. We only give him a couple at a time, and it was fun to watch the enjoyment on his face while he ate them. On one particular morning, I woke up well before he did, so I put the blackberries at the table where he sits on his placemat. But without thinking, I left out the plastic container from the story on the counter. When my son woke up, he ran out and he saw the Blackberry container on the counter. He immediately started asking for blackberries. I tried to get through to him that I had already gotten him some, that they had been washed, and that they were ready for him to eat at the table. He was so focused on the containers on the counter though. No matter how many times I told him that I had already given him some and that he could just go to the table to get them, he just kept reaching for the containers. He couldn't see his portion which was ready for him because he was so focused on what he didn't have. The Lord’s prayer is a Christian practice that helps shape contentment. It enables us to see what God has given us and what God has worked around us. It is easy to miss what we have longed for stuff that we do not really need but nonetheless holds power over us. Daily bread is a form of contentment.

The Lord’s prayer moves from physical sustenance, daily bread, to forgiveness. ^“And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.” First, the forgiveness of sins from God, then the language changes from that of sin ­amartia to debt opheiló. The Lord’s prayer reminds us that we need to be right with God and we need to be right with our neighbors. The term, Opheiló, debt initially carried more legal and economic weight than moral implications. While not exclusive to Luke, we see Luke’s emphasis on human social relating here, especially connecting social relating with economic relating. Luke consistently reminds us that how we interact with other people, and how we interact with money are directly connected, further emphasizing the need for contentment. The communal language is also present throughout the prayer. Give us, forgive us, as we. Community

The final line in Luke’s account is “And do not bring us to the time of trial.” We are so used to saying, and deliver us from evil that it is hard to stop there. Some scholars see this line in cosmic terms while others see it as more mundane. Is it some present hardship, or a final ultimate battle? Many scholars argue it is not a request to avoid hardships altogether but a request for God to see us through hardships and trials. A request that even when the valley of the shadow of death is near, God is present with us with rod and staff to comfort us. Like the Gettysburg address, the Lord’s prayer is short but every line conveys depth.

A popular understanding of prayer is as a means to influence or shape God. This is one view that is supported by Scripture but another view of prayer reminds us that God shapes our through prayer. Prayer is a guide which invites being shaped, like clay in the hands of the potter. Prayer places us into the hands of the potter.

The Lord’s prayer is Catechetical, which means it was used to teach the early followers of Jesus what to pray and how to pray. This use of the Lord’s prayer continues today. It is taught in catechism and Sunday school rooms. The prayer informs us.

The Lord’s prayer also became liturgical. It was recited in worship services. It was used in baptism and the eucharist. We recite the Lord’s prayer when we gather for worship. The prayer forms us.

The prayer is also enacted through faithful living. These are not only words on a page but an invitation to live into the reality of God’s kingdom on earth. The prayer is performed by living. Inform, form, and perform. Each captures different uses and facets of the familiar prayer.

The passage in Luke continues with a lesson on the importance of perseverance in prayer. which Jesus summarizes by saying, “So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. ¹⁰ For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.” Ask, search, and knock. Inform, form, and perform.

-The Rev. Scott Donahues-Martens, PhD Candidate, BU STH

posted in Guest Preachers on 07.24.2022 at 11:00 am

No Comments »