Thanksgiving Day

Deuteronomy 8:7-18, Luke 17:11-19

Bryan Cones

Last Sunday as I was leaving church, I got a text from my partner, David—three exclamation points. When I opened the text there was a picture, of this, a small brown egg. But not just any brown egg: It was the first egg from our most recent flock of hens, and with it comes the promise of going outside every day, and finding two or three or four or even five eggs from the hens who live in our backyard. And the wonder of finding yet another egg never gets old.

I could say that about our whole backyard “farm” as we like to call it: Four raised vegetable beds, a berry patch, and an extra bit of dirt where David, hilariously, grows a patch of corn. And from it we get every year hundreds of onions and carrots, piles of peas and green beans, and so many raspberries and blueberries that our freezer is full and we haven’t bought a jar of jam in two years. Even now the last greens of fall are still alive under a plastic tunnel. And did I mention tomatoes and butternut squash?

The harvest is so ridiculously abundant that we end up giving tons away. When we went on our camping trip this summer, I asked my neighbor, a former coworker and now parishioner, to please come and take anything she wanted, because so much would go to waste. And she did—loads of beans and tomatoes. And because it was even too much for her family, she pickled green beans and tomatoes, which she then gave back us to enjoy—what earth had given deliciously transformed by the work of her human hands and human mind.

That little postage stamp of a city backyard has become for me an image of what we are celebrating today on Thanksgiving: the ridiculous abundance of creation that has the capacity not only to feed us, all of us, but also preaches a better sermon about the capacity of God to give than the one you are hearing right now. And what a marvelous image of God’s self-giving, what we call “grace” in the Christian tradition. A Franciscan friend once preached about God’s relentless giving in the image of a fruit tree, of a God so eager to give us good things that creation is constantly pushing it out toward us, starting in the roots of an apple tree to squeeze out an apple on the other end, and not just one apple, but bushels and bushels on a single tree.

And then there is energy that powers it all, the light from the sun, which a spiritual director I once heard likened to the grace of God: a relentless engine of light and energy going in every direction. And just a small portion of that solar power falls on our planet moves the air into wind and weather, the heat of which draws up water to create rain, and the light of which is the foundation of the life that feeds us. God’s hunger to give is all around us, and above us, underneath us, in my case, in my back yard, even coming out the back end of a chicken. And lest we think that all of this is just for our benefit, the psalmist reminds us that God’s generosity is meant for every created thing.

So what is our response? What acts of thanksgiving might we take part in today? Obviously we could begin by acknowledging this great gift with our heartfelt thanks, like Leper No. 10 in today’s gospel, apparently the only one who recognized the source of his healing. Perhaps he could be our patron saint today, opening our eyes to the many riches God is pouring out upon us, right in front of us.

Perhaps we might also see God’s generosity as an invitation to partner with God in magnifying and transforming the gift. As our first reader Bill Doughty pointed out to me yesterday, and as he proclaimed today in that first reading, living in the Promised Land required human effort too, copper to mine, and crops to plant and harvest, grapes to ferment into wine—it wasn’t all just lying there. I would be a bad partner indeed if I didn’t acknowledge that the abundance of my backyard farm has a great deal to do with the gardener, David, who sees his work in the dirt as part of his partnership with the Holy One who planted that first garden in Eden. And those pickled green beans didn’t come that way on the plant: No, that was the result of Meghan’s partnership with what earth has given, now remade by human hands.

And then there is the “giving” part of Thanksgiving: While it may be obvious that the blessings of God flow without measure on all the earth, like the sunshine itself, it is equally obvious that these gifts aren’t shared in such measure. Our partnership with God is not just in magnifying the good things of creation, but in seeing that these gifts make their way in just measure to all for whom God intends them. And I’d propose that’s not just for the sake of justice, though that would be reason enough, but also that we may share with God the joy and pleasure of seeing how these gifts are transformed by those who receive them. In that way, perhaps, we may participate in the givingness that is the very nature of God, and so enjoy with God the wonder of beholding the full flourishing of all that God has made. 

November 15: Twenty-fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Daniel 12:1-3; Hebrews 10:11-14, 19-25; Mark 13:1-8

Bryan Cones

I wish I could stand here today and tell you that Sunday church is a place of safety, a kind of shelter from the storms of the world, an hour when we can close those doors and shut out the sometimes horrific things we human beings do to each other, or a place where we can forget about the suffering that bad luck or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time can bring.

I wish I could tell you that grace of God and these four walls and this beloved community could protect us from the destruction rained down in Paris, or from the funeral last Tuesday of a 9-year-old boy targeted in an alley in Englewood, or the random shooting of a beautiful young woman from Evanston, or even from the more everyday sorrows of cancer or disability or grief.

I wish I could tell you that being good, and following Jesus, and saving plenty of money for retirement and living in a nice community and being a responsible citizen could guarantee that nothing bad will happen to you and will keep your children safe.

I wish I could tell you that because I’m your pastor, and I love you, and want the best for you, and I want all that for myself and my family as well. But I can’t tell you any of that, because I'm your pastor and I love you, and because we all know it’s not true, and I wonder if that’s one of the reasons we come here on Sunday.

I know it’s not true because a few years ago I visited a neighborhood in Syria called Yarmouk in Damascus, bustling with blocks and blocks of low rise apartments and shops, and full of beautiful, kind, hospitable, cultured people, eager to become friends and to make peace together. I know that neighborhood now to be a smoking ruin, completely destroyed in a suicidal civil war.

I know it’s not true because of a 45-year-old friend of mine, a handsome, funny, thoughtful and exceedingly kind person, a man devoted to his partner, who has always done good work, and is a model citizen, and was diagnosed with cancer not two months ago, and is now in hospice and hopes he might make it to Thanksgiving.

I know I’m not the only one who can give examples like that, who can testify that life isn’t safe, and that being good and going to church and believing in God don’t guarantee protection from any of the dangers of the world.

But even if I could get up here and lie to you, and tell you everything will always be OK, these three readings today would expose me immediately. All three of these scriptures were written for days like to today, for times like these, and for people like us, when the world seems to have gone completely mad, and the faithful are wondering just what God is up to, if anything.

The gospel makes it sound like Jesus is foreseeing the Temple’s destruction, but the community of the gospel writer, 30 years later, has already heard the news: Jerusalem is a smoking ruin, just like my Syrian neighborhood, razed to the ground by an earlier group of thugs in a breathtaking assault meant to inspire terror all around.

Daniel’s community, just 200 years earlier, was reeling from the tyrannical rule of the Greek empire that preceded the Roman one, complete with the unrelenting desecration of the Temple and the abuse of human beings that would shame even ISIS.

And the preacher of the long sermon we call the letter to the Hebrews, which we’ve been reading from these past weeks, decades after Mark, is pleading with her beleaguered community, whose members are about to throw in the towel, because, despite the resurrection, nothing has really changed. The Temple is destroyed, Israel’s hopes are dashed, and the Christian community itself is now under threat.

All these believers are asking the same thing: What’s the plan? How is God going to rescue us? When is Jesus going to come back and fulfill his promise? When is all this going to be over? And Jesus really isn’t much help: It’s just going to get worse, he says. “These are just the birth pangs.” So don’t expect him to parachute in anytime soon.

So is there any good news to be had? Anything helpful at all? Of all the places we could look, it’s the writer of Hebrews, one of the weirdest books of the New Testament as far as I’m concerned, who finally at the end of her long sermon gives the best counsel. It boils down to something like: Remember your baptism and keep coming to church. In other words, don’t give up on being Christian.

Remember your baptism: For us, perhaps, it means a constant return to the baptismal covenant we all renewed just two weeks ago at Grace LaRosa’s baptism.

It means remaining faithful to this fellowship, this Sunday gathering, to coming here week after week for a taste, in the words of the Bible and the sacrament of the Eucharist, a taste of the world that God wants for all of us.

It means resisting evil, whether in the form of grotesque violence, or in the hidden fears and hatreds that feed it, which are alive and active here in Wilmette every bit as much as they are in Chicago, or Paris, or Syria, or anywhere there are human beings living together.

It means proclaiming in word and example the Good News of how God is transforming the world, of how in Christ God has changed even death into life.

It means serving Christ in all persons—all persons, everybody, everybody, everybody, no matter where they are from or how they got here, or how they worship God or even if they do, or if we agree with them or even if we like them.

It means striving every day, striving in the ways that God provides to us, for justice and peace, and for the dignity of every human being.

Finally, the preacher to the Hebrews says, we must “provoke” each other to these good things, not let each other become discouraged and overwhelmed, even to get after each other when we do. Christian life, after all, is a marathon, not a sprint, and sometimes we just have to gut it out.

Because God really does have a rescue plan for the world, a path to the new creation God wants for us. The thing is: We’re it. It’s us, it’s the church, at least in part, the continuing presence and power of Christ in the world, God’s community of first responders and relief workers, reconcilers, healers and peacemakers, even provocateurs, whom God has called in Christ to take part in the renewal of the world. And it’s through the everyday bits and pieces of faithful living that God is bringing forth God’s dream for creation.

None of this, of course, will keep us safe, or comfortable, and in fact it may be both dangerous and challenging, but it sure seems to me something worth living for, and maybe even dying for. 

October 25, Twenty-second Sunday after Pentecost

Mark 10:26-52

Bryan Cones

Last weekend, while at home for my brother’s wedding, I watched a lot more football and baseball than I normally do. I also watched a bit more daytime TV, more Good Morning America and Rachel Ray, than usual. I was mesmerized by what I was seeing: During football and baseball, about every third commercial was an advertisement for one of two fantasy sports websites: FanDuel and DraftKings. They were particularly intense: Both promised big prize money, both left the impression that playing fantasy sports could change your life, or at least you would have a lot of fun you weren’t otherwise having. After I had seen the commercial 50 times, I was wondering if I shouldn’t go ahead and sign up, since if I used the promo word “punter” FanDuel would match my $200 with $200 of its own.

Good Morning America was an experience of whiplash: First there was generous coverage of the plight of an NBA athlete, Lamar Odom, who not only has the misfortune of being related by marriage to the Kardashian family, but also suffers from serious addictions that left him drug-addled, injured and unconscious in the kind of establishment that is only legal in Nevada. Following immediately on that story was “news” of a new, FDA approved injectable chemical that acts like a sponge inside your face, lifting aging skin and helping users appear to be more youthful. It turns out that wrinkles aren’t the problem so much as facial drooping.

Then NFL football commentator and talk show host Michael Strahan appeared not only on his show Live with Kelly Ripa, but immediately after on Rachel Ray, selling his new book, Wake Up Happy, in which he shares his own tips to happiness. He also has a new clothing line that can help you look happier, too, no matter how you feel.

These examples are all parodies of our society’s vision of the “good life,” notable more for the vulgarity of the portrayal than for their basic accuracy. We can find the good life in the excitement of the game, or in the rush of a get-rich-quick scheme, the pleasure of experiencing how what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas (though not always), or in looking younger than you are, or in the celebrity status that draws the eyes of millions to your life’s drama, with focus on every titillating detail, or brings fans eager to lap up your reflections on your success.

These are all examples from a certain pop culture range—and perhaps those are not the particular distractions that tempt us—but I think we could look at any kind of media and find ample expressions of these same visions of life, whether in the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal or in Forbes or Sheridan Road magazine, or even driving up and down Sheridan Road, or on the screen of any of our mobile devices, where our heart’s desire may only be a click away. What they have in common is reliance on appearance, on illusion and fantasy, with little substance to provide a vision for the kind of life that God wants for human beings.

Which brings us to today’s gospel story, a parable about a person with impaired vision, and how he comes to see clearly again. It may be tempting to imagine that this story is not really about us, because Bartimaeus is described as blind, though any of us that wear glasses or contacts would probably be considered “blind” in the ancient world. But this gospel story is at least in part about impaired spiritual vision, coming after Jesus’ disciples have over and over again failed to understand who Jesus is, and what his mission entails, and the place his mission must end. It’s the outsiders, such as Bartimaeus, who get it.

I see in these contemporary examples similar parables, images of how our cultural blinders bend the divine light of reality and prevent us from seeing things as they are, or, worse, propose visions of the good life that are in fact terribly destructive to us when taken to extremes. These contemporary example have got me wondering how my own vision gets distorted, and what it would take to get it corrected so that I can see again? What would it take for any of us to see more clearly the life God has envisioned for us? What might we ask Jesus to remove from our field of vision so that we could see clearly the life God proposes for us?

I can say for myself that I was grateful to have as a contrast to all that my brother and sister-in-law’s wedding, where I was surrounded by many couples, including my parents, who by grace and faith had chosen the vision of commitment and fidelity in the practice of Christian marriage. I was inspired by my brother and sister-in-law’s courage as they made their promises to each other, and as we who had gathered with them made our promises too. Their wedding reminded me of the importance of community of practice in keeping my vision clear, when there are so many other lenses out there that might seek to impair my sight with an alternate view.

That got me thinking of this community and our own practices of seeing clearly: of gathering here Sunday by Sunday to examine ourselves by the light of scripture, and by the divine vision of the world proposed in this eucharistic meal.

I see in this assembly examples of people who seek to live that vision, and notice in myself the desire to cultivate relationships with people who are for me examples of clarity. Perhaps we cultivate those relationships in the practice of gathering on Tuesday nights with “modern men of faith,” or at a Saturday morning Bible study, or by taking time out each week to knit a prayer shawl, or read and discuss a book online.

Or maybe we find that clarity in service together, by welcoming our Family Promise guests this week, while also asking clarifying questions about why our society tolerates conditions that leave families without safe housing. Maybe such practices leads us to a Wilmette Village Board meeting about affordable housing in our community, or a press conference about gun violence, or a demonstration about peace or economic justice.

“Your faith has made you well,” Jesus says to Bartimaeus. It strikes me that all these practices are indeed practices of the faith that makes us whole and well, that help us keep our vision clear, and that like Bartimaeus we have this role in our healing: to commit ourselves over and over to the practices that help us to recognize the distortions around us, and to have clarity about what God is calling us to. I wonder if, at our best, that’s what Christian churches, and our church, might be for the world around us: a community always asking Jesus to help us “see again,” practicing the faith that heals, always seeking clarity as we follow the way of Christ. 

October 11, Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost

Amos 5:6-7, 10-15; Mark 10:17-31

When I was chaplain at Northwestern Hospital, one of the big events of the year was Nurses’ Day, a celebration and recognition of the work of nursing. We chaplains had a table where we offered a blessing of hands. We would usually ask the nurses which unit they worked on, and then offer some blessing appropriate to that unit. The last nurse who came to me that day was a little different: She had been a nurse in direct care on a unit, and later had gotten a MBA and become a nursing administrator, specifically working with budgets and cost control. As we prayed about her work, I remember praying something about her care for and shepherding of money. Afterward she noted that she had never heard a prayer that specifically mentioned money before, or had asked blessing on her particular work, as if working with money were somehow unworthy of prayer.

I was thinking of her as I was reading the story of the rich man, because one of the standard interpretations of it might explain why that nurse had never received a blessing about her work with money, and maybe reflects a common Christian presumption about wealth, one that might be getting in the way of hearing what the story of the rich man might be saying to us.

In my head, that interpretation goes something like this: If you want to really follow Jesus, and I mean really follow Jesus, you have to sell what you have or give your possessions away, and be a wandering beggar for the sake of the reign of God, living totally on faith and trusting that God will provide. That’s what the serious Christians do anyway: they become medical missionaries, or join a volunteer corps at home or abroad, or enter a monastery or convent, or an intentional community of social workers— all worthy vocations by the way. What you don’t do is save too much money, or have investment accounts, or shop at the mall, or heaven forbid, spend all your time working with money—as if Jesus said it would be really hard for an accountant or a mutual fund manager or a banker to enter the kingdom of heaven.

Of course, like today’s rich man, not everyone can really do that, so the rest of us try to make up for it by trying not be too materialistic, sharing the money we have, maybe making a nice pledge to the church or to charity. Maybe we try to find ways to support those “serious Christians,” while still feeling more or less guilty about not being super hardcore followers of Jesus.

Now I am probably just working out my own salvation there, revealing my own insecurities and assumptions about what it means to follow Jesus. But I think it’s not uncommon to boil this story down to the basic “moral” that wealth and possessions are more or less corrupting, and serious followers of Jesus do their best to limit contact with material things, which is one reason why my nursing friend had never heard a prayer blessing her work with money.

Now I’ve found that when I think I know what some passage from the Bible “means,” it’s a good idea to go read it again because I am probably missing something important. For example, even though Jesus highlights how hard it is for a rich person to enter the reign of God, he goes on to promise Peter and the disciples a “hundredfold” of all that same stuff now and in the future. Who needs a hundred houses? Much less “brothers and sisters”? Maybe this teaching is a bit more complicated.

When I reread this story this week, what struck me was the basic response to Jesus’ teaching: The rich man was “shocked.” Jesus’ disciples were “perplexed,” then “astounded.” “Who can be saved?” they start asking.  After all, the rich man in Mark is not like those wicked wealthy and powerful people the prophet Amos is denouncing in the first reading. He’s not defrauding the poor, or taking their land, or cheating them of a fair measure of grain, as the rich were doing in ancient Israel.

On the contrary, Mark’s rich man is a paragon of Israelite virtue: He is keeping the covenant perfectly, and like any righteous Jew was probably giving some of his wealth as alms for the poor—just like the Torah says he should. In fact, if he got rid of his wealth, he wouldn’t be able to do that anymore; he would actually be less righteous than before.

Mark’s rich man hasn’t done anything wrong— in fact, it seems he has done everything right, and everyone there would see his wealth as a sign of God’s blessing on his righteousness. Even Jesus is moved by his example: “He loved him,” says the gospel, or “Jesus’ heart warmed toward him.” And then Jesus bursts his bubble: “You lack one thing: go, sell what you have, and give to the poor.” In other words, what you think is a sign of your righteousness actually has nothing to do with it. Your wealth is not a blessing for you; in fact it is holding you back from the life you seek. And everyone is shocked, perplexed, astounded, because Jesus is questioning their basic belief: If you do good, God will make sure you also do well.

Now before I go looking for a spiritual lesson here, I don’t want to let us off the hook: Jesus is talking about wealth and possessions, about the danger of having too many (or even any at all), and about the obstacles to full living and a just society that too much wealth in the wrong places can bring. Jesus was familiar with the prophet Amos, whose words to my ear ring as true now as they did then. It can’t hurt us to let the sting of Amos’ denunciations and Jesus’ warnings unsettle and disturb the common American wisdom about wealth: that more is always better, that money is the key to security and happiness, or even a sign of God’s favor or of the virtue of the person with the money.

But to let this story be just about the rich man and his wealth would also leave those of us who aren’t rich off the hook. Perhaps Jesus’ advice to the rich man was specific to him, and I wonder if Jesus might have advice for each of us about what it means to follow him. What might Jesus say to each of us if we came asking what we must do to follow him more closely? Is there anything about ourselves we cling so tightly about what makes us worthy or righteous or good that we would be shocked, perplexed, astounded, if Jesus told us it was getting in the way of to following him? What is it that I hang my hat of virtue on? What would it be like to let it go or give it away?

After all Jesus has called all of us to be “serious Christians,” whether we are bankers or teachers or stockbrokers, or health care workers or priests or full-time parents. And rather than wanting us to feel guilty about not measuring up, Jesus is inviting each of us instead to enter more deeply into the gospel path of life and freedom. So what would Jesus ask you to do or to let go of, so that you could have life and have it to the full?

September 27, Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

James 5:13-20, Mark 9:38-50

Bryan Cones

I occasionally hear from folks, both Christians and people who are not believers, that they don’t find the Bible very helpful. It doesn’t correspond, for example, with what we know about the Big Bang or evolution. It’s primitive and violent, it’s patriarchal and sexist. And people use it in ways that hurt and exclude others.

Often I have to admit some of those things are true: We should definitely not go looking for the grand unified theory of physics in the Book of Genesis, and I don’t think I want to rely on some of Paul’s writings for guidance on relationships between men and women.

On the other hand the Bible is full of such good, everyday advice. Take our reading from the letter of James, for example. I could see some of James as an advice column in the Tribune or online:

Dear James, I’m feeling cheerful. What should I do? A Happy Disciple

Dear Happy, If you are cheerful, sing songs of praise. XOXO, James

Dear James, I’m suffering. I guess Jesus was serious about that whole “taking up your cross” thing. What should I do? Stuck on Good Friday

Dear Stuck, If you are suffering, you should pray. The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective. XOXO, James

Dear James, I’m sick. What should I do? Nauseous in the Lord

Dear Nauseous, If you are sick, you should definitely call for the elders of the church and have them pray over you, anointing you with oil in the name of the Lord. The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise you up. Hope you feel better. XOXO, James

 In fact the whole letter of James is a gold mine of good, practical advice for Christians—just read it. I’m sure he would give Dear Abby a run for her money.

Then there is Jesus in today’s gospel. Now sometimes he can be helpful:

Dear Jesus, I saw someone else doing good works in your name, and she wasn’t an Episcopalian, and I doubt she’s even baptized.What should I do? Eminent Episco

Dear Eminent, Don’t be such a snob. How about minding your own business? You think I only work in the Episcopal Church? That would not be a good business plan. XOXO, Jesus

 But then there’s the rest of today’s passage: Dear Jesus, I’ve noticed my left eye keeps wandering over to that really cute guy on the first row, who is not my boyfriend and is actually going out with someone else, but I think I’m going to go for it anyway. My right eye more or less behaves. What should I do? Hot and Bothered in History Class

Dear Hot, Gauge out your left eye and throw it away; better to have to wear an eye patch in heaven than to be hot, and I mean really hot, with both eyes. XOXO, Jesus

Dear Jesus, I convinced a straight-laced friend of mine to try pot to help him loosen up. He really liked it and now wants to get high every day. He’s neglecting his family and I think he might lose his job. What should I do? High on Christ

Dear High, You did what? Find a large stone, tie yourself to it, and jump off Navy Pier. I’ll see what I can do about the mess you made. XOXO, Jesus

Maybe we shouldn’t try to get Jesus his own advice column yet. These sayings of Jesus from the gospel are probably among those other passages people find unhelpful: Jesus may have been exaggerating, or even telling a joke, but to contemporary ears he seems weird, even violent, and his advice keeps ending with the threat of hell. Just the kind of thing that turns my friends away from the Bible.

So should we just write off these awkward, difficult passages? Or is there a way we might reach across this 2,000-year divide and discover something useful for us, a way to translate what sounds weird into words to live by? Take the order to cut off that offending body part, lest we end up in a living hell. I’ve been blessed to know many Christians who have shared their stories of addiction and deliverance, of the literal hell that drugs or alcohol made for them. Some have shared how they had to cut off from themselves that craving so that they could live again in freedom. Jesus’ advice doesn’t sound strange to them at all.

Or perhaps we’ve all had a relationship or two that had to be cut off: a friend or romantic partner, or even spouse or family member who was just a bad mix for us, or maybe they were cruel, and so we had to bring that relationship to an end. We literally had to cut ourselves off from that person.

Or take the millstone: I admit I’ve had some conversations about how unhelpful the Bible can be, but I’ve had a lot more about how unhelpful the example of this or that Christian has been. I think it’s fair to say the gospel has suffered more damage from those who claim to follow it than from anything that’s written there.

Pope Francis is a great counterexample here: He isn’t saying anything about immigration or the economy or the environment that popes haven’t been saying for more than 100 years: It’s his example, his style, and his tone, even where he lives, that’s what’s preaching the good news, and people are responding.

Which brings us back to our gospel passage: There is a question in there, the kind we might need advice about: What does it mean to live life in Christ? And there are some basic, useful answers in there: Don’t get so full of yourself that you can’t see God working outside your little group. Be a good example of the gospel, and don’t lead anyone else astray. Some things lead to death and some that lead to life; it’s important to know the difference and make good choices if you want to live that life that God calls you to.

But the details? No Dear Jesus for us. That we have to do for ourselves; but luckily we don’t have to do it by ourselves. That’s one of the reasons why we are all here working it out together: just like the church that James addressed, and the one Mark was writing to. And I feel pretty confident between the Bible and Jesus, and the examples of the people around us, we can put together some good advice and guidance about what it means to live as those “in Christ” in the here and now.

September 20, Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Mark 9:30-37

Bryan Cones

One of the things that I learned fairly quickly when I came to St. Augustine’s is that the window behind me of Jesus welcoming children, is particularly beloved. I have especially heard from parents that this icon has been a great source of comfort in times of worry about children, or even when parenting itself seems too difficult. It’s always nice to that Jesus has our and our children’s backs. I doubt our own love for this image is unique in churches: This picture of Jesus caring for and protecting children has inspired Christians across the centuries to treasure not only their own children but everyone else’s as well.

I wonder if today, however, we might use our imaginations to break the glass of this particular Victorian image—I promise we’ll try to put it back together again. But putting this image of Jesus and the children back in its context might give us another view of what it’s trying to say to us. After all, the saying about the children comes at the end of a passage in which Jesus has been predicting his death, and has just had to straighten out the disciples again, who have been arguing about who is the greatest.

I imagine when the disciples saw Jesus picking up this child, who probably was not as clean and well cared for as our children in the window, they were a little less moved than we might be. The idea that following Jesus might mean babysitting—the very essence of women’s work in the ancient world, which probably hasn’t changed all that much—probably threw a bit of cold water on these male disciples’ aspirations to greatness.

Being great in the ancient world, after all, meant being rich, and having relationships that could help keep you that way. It meant being invited to dinner and inviting others, so that the web of relationships around you grew stronger, a community of patrons and clients with clout who might protect you and help you ascend the social ladder. Jesus, on the other hand, was placing at the center a child, barely a person, with no real social value at all, much less clout. It wasn’t even highly likely that the child would make it to adulthood. Children were socially useless, at least until they could start working in the household. And yet it is to such as these that Jesus calls his disciples, that Jesus calls us, to welcome.

Given the way children are treasured now and in this church, it might be helpful for us to imagine the folks Jesus might take into his arms today, those “socially useless” human beings who don’t bring anything to the table of greatness. Of all things, our slow-moving state budget crisis came to my mind: I have found it interesting to note how quickly, even without a budget, folks with connections, who exist in that beneficial web of relationships, who have “clout,” managed to keep on getting paid: unions could muscle out the payroll for state workers, parents could demand the funding for the schools, those with access to the courts or who can pay good lobbyists, they are mostly still getting paid.

Which leaves only a small pot of money to fight over, 10 percent of the total. That last $3.5 billion held hostage to politics is mostly money used for people outside all those webs of power: people with cognitive differences and developmental disabilities, people living with chronic mental illness, adults experiencing homelessness, women and children in danger of violence at home, teens with heroin addictions, and education for the youngest and poorest children. Not the sort of people who can do much for anyone, and yet surely among those whom Jesus calls us to place at the center of our ministry.

I don’t think that’s an easy thing, any more than it was an easy thing for those first disciples to see Jesus cuddling a small child as an example of “greatness” in the reign of God. So how do we cultivate that welcome Jesus is calling us to? A friend who is preaching on this same text today decided to make the heart of her homily a simple invitation to imagine ourselves for a moment as the child in the story, not with all the talents and relationships, experiences and degrees, that contribute to “greatness” in this world, but at our most “useless,” especially with those parts of ourselves that we hide or deny because they are not welcome in our world of "greatness." She then invites us to experience ourselves as welcomed by Jesus exactly as we are, in our wholeness rather than our usefulness, and to welcome ourselves with that same fullness, and to really believe that to do so is to take part in the divine pattern of welcoming that reveals the reign of God.

My friend Kara said she believes that until we can do that, until we can believe that it is we who are being welcomed, it will be hard, maybe impossible, to welcome those to whom God is sending us. Returning to our window, that may mean looking through it again, and seeing not clean, anonymous Victorian children, but ourselves whom Jesus is welcoming, that we may also welcome all those whose images are never etched in stained glass.

September 6, Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Mark 7:24-37

Bryan Cones

I always feel a bit bad for the man healed in the second half of today’s gospel story: It seems hardly anyone ever notices him—he’s always upstaged by the incredible encounter that precedes him. That story, of the Syrophoenecian woman, is startling to me because it seems to reveal a particularly unattractive side of Jesus: instead of the compassionate teacher of so many beloved images, we get a dose of ancient ethnocentrism, religious exclusivity, even ancient sexism. What would you say about a man who calls a woman and her sick daughter from an ethnic group other than his own a “dog”— even if, as scripture scholars might point out, he might have used a word more like “puppy”? Would any of us here allow a stranger to refer to our sick loved one that way?

What’s even more incredible about the story is that it’s not the woman who is the “foreigner” in this case: It’s Jesus who is outside of his homeland; he’s the migrant, the outsider, the foreigner, traveling through Gentile lands and Gentile cities, presumably to preach to Jewish communities there. And yet, when a local woman, a native, hearing of this outsider’s healing power, comes asking for help for her child, Jesus insults her in a way that would make Donald Trump blush—except The Donald would have to repeat the insulting things he said about Mexican immigrants on the other side of the Rio Grande.

The sheer outrageousness of Jesus’ reaction to her request makes this woman’s response all the more intriguing to me. It would be easy to imagine her (and I can imagine myself) reacting in kind: “Then go back to where you came from, you self-righteous jerk. While you’re at it, maybe you should also go … <insert language too strong for a Sunday morning>.” You get the idea. I, for one, would understand that reaction.

But instead of being reactive, this woman gets creative, transforming Jesus’ insult into an argument in her favor. “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” And her creativity surprises Jesus—he even applauds her argument—and her daughter gets healed. And, arguably, so does Jesus, who at least has a new understanding of his mission.

Creative, rather than reactive: What a gift this ancient woman could give to this constantly reacting world. I think I caught a glimpse of her this week as I read stories of other migrants and foreigners, all those thousands gathered in Hungary, trying to get West. In the midst of all that reaction against them, even as they were insulted by having numbers written on their arms, or lied to about where the trains were taking them, or surrounded by police in riot gear, as if they were criminals, and not victims and refugees desperate to save their families, thousands of them showed her creative spunk. They didn’t riot or fight or throw rocks, they just started walking again, along the highway, a sea of people making her argument with their bodies: We are people, too, and we deserve at least the scraps from Europe’s table. And before you knew it, the busses came, and they had won their argument, at least for now.

Creative, rather than reactive. What would it be like if we were able to employ her wisdom in our own efforts to engage the problems of the world? How might our politics be different? How might our creativity guide our response to racism or sexism, or to violence or homelessness or hunger or poverty, if we could sidestep the reactivity that is so baked into our culture of instant responses on Twitter, or Facebook, or the 24-hour news cycle. What would that look like? It might reveal as surprise that heals the world.

How about in our personal lives? I’m hoping I’m not the only one here who has a relationship or two so locked in patterns of reaction—old arguments, bad habits, hurt feelings—that it’s sometimes hard to imagine things any other way. Does anyone else have a relationship like that—maybe at work, or with a family member? Maybe like that man in the second part of today’s gospel, we discover that our reaction is so strong we are not really able to hear that other person anymore, or we find that we are no longer able to speak in ways that allow us to be understood. What would it be like to pause in that next encounter, to remember this ancient woman, to allow our reaction to pass, and to discover a creative response?

Perhaps with Jesus and the Syrophoencian woman, and the man who could not hear or speak, we would be surprised by the healing God is longing to reveal to us.

August 9, Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

1 Kings 19:4-8; John 6:35, 41-51

Bryan Cones

Poor Elijah must really have been having a bad day.

It’s hard to tell from this short passage what has been going so poorly for this great hero and prophet that he is ready to curl up and die. It might be helpful to remember that we are joining Elijah in the middle of his story. This part of his story started with a great contest between Elijah, the prophet of the God of Israel, and the prophets of the Canaanite God Baal, imported by King Ahab of Israel along with his Canaanite wife, Jezebel, who incidentally gets all the blame for the king’s behavior. The contest ends with a victory for Elijah, in which God sends fire from heaven in answer to his prayer. To the victor go the spoils, so Elijah then kills all 400 of those Canaanite prophets—he was a warrior prophet after all—and the king and his queen are understandably angry and so have been pursuing Elijah, which is how we find him under the broom tree.

Elijah is running away, and with good reason. He’s probably a bit angry with God, too, since he is suffering for doing what God told him to do. He’s at the end of his rope, and he’s ready to throw in the towel.

How you ever felt like Elijah? Have you ever felt like running away? Maybe you did. Did you ever get angry when what you felt like was the right thing to do blows up in your face, or when you had to face the consequences of something you have done? Maybe you know what it’s like to be angry with God. Maybe you’ve also been ready to throw in the towel, like Elijah. What was that like for you?

Which brings us to today’s story: Instead of letting Elijah die, God sends a rescue mission. There is an angel and miraculous food: bread and water, enough for a 40-day hike. God still has plans for Elijah; there is more to his journey. And so Elijah gets up and goes on his way, knowing more or less where he was going—but maybe not what for.

Have you ever experienced your own angelic intervention, your own messenger from God to encourage you? Maybe someone knew just what to say at just the right time. What has sustained you in your own wilderness times? Maybe you have discovered strength to get up and carry on, even knowing that there was still a long road ahead. What was that like for you?

There is an end of a sort to Elijah’s story: He arrives at Mount Horeb, where he experiences God in a most unexpected way: not in a great wind, not in an earthquake, not in a fire, but in the sound of sheer silence. And in that experience God reveals to Elijah the prophet’s purpose, and gives Elijah his marching orders for his work. It’s a turning point for Elijah—a new moment of clarity.

Have you had a moment like that, when things finally make sense, or you begin to see more clearly the road you have been traveling or even the purpose of your journey? Maybe you had your own silent moment with God, when you realized you had never really been alone, and all along God was drawing you to where you belong. Maybe you discovered guidance for your next steps. What was that like for you?

Which brings us back to how we get from here to there, how we go from wandering or fleeing to following where God is leading you, how we go from desperate and exhausted to nourished and ready to travel, how we come to arrive at the place where God wants us, so we can experience our own moment of clarity. What is the food that sustains us in all those moments, the same food that nourished Elijah?

Jesus proposes in the gospel that he is that food, that feeding on his wisdom, in the community of his followers, feeding “on him,” is the nourishment that God sends. From the beginning of the church we Christians have seen in this eucharistic banquet that food, food for runaways and wanderers, food for the desperate and exhausted, food for those on their way, food that can sustain us to the end. This food not only satisfies our hunger, it is also the sign of God’s own hunger to nourish us, the same manna the fed the Israelites in the desert, the same food that sustained Elijah, the bread that Jesus shared with those who followed him. It’s the same bread.

To eat this living bread is to join our story to their stories, and the story of all God’s people. All of our stories of running away, of wandering, of finding the road, of discovering God's place in our path join Elijah's and the Israelites and Jesus and his followers. In sharing in this bread, we are really fed by God just as they were and really participate in the story of God’s people, because our many stories become part of that story, too.

Even more, our sharing in this living bread creates us as the church, the people who feed on the living bread of Jesus, the people who share God’s hunger to nourish the world and to nourish each other on this long journey. And all of us, wanderers and runaways, searchers and those who think we know where we are headed, wherever we are on the way, we belong here, both to be fed and to feed each other.

What is it like to be a part of this church, to be a part of the story of God’s people, to be nourished here by Jesus, the bread of life, and also to share God’s hunger to feed others? What is that like for you?