July 30, The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

Kristin White

The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

Romans 8:26-39, Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

These are the weeds that grow persistently in the grounds of the rectory…

Dandelion: They’re everywhere, I know. And they spread quickly in both grass and flower bed. Like most little kids (and, let’s face it, big kids) are aware, it’s pretty fun to make a wish and blow those fluffy little seed pods out to propagate.

Ground Ivy: This has inhabited our back flower bed from the time when a tree lived there too, which somehow made that ivy less noticeable, at least to me. What I’ve learned, though, in the process of getting rid of it, is that pulling out ivy by root and tendril can be a very satisfying accomplishment.

Nodding Plumeless Thistle: These root themselves quickly, and they’re so sharp and prickled that -- and I'm speaking from personal experience, here -- you probably shouldn’t grab ahold of them without some nice tough gloves on your hands.

Lesser Celandine: These are sneaky. They look like buttercups, which seem so civilized and polite, but between those and the ground ivy, we have had to battle to recover our back flower bed.

Crab Grass: On germination, this shows up too much like the alyssum I planted on purpose last spring…but it’s soooo much more persistent…and so much less beautiful…and it infiltrates among the other things I planted on purpose: like five kinds of tomatoes, and the second round of scarlet runner beans from seeds we blessed here at our altar last year during Lent, and marigolds and nasturtiums and even some surreptitious, supposedly non-invasive morning glory vines.

So it’s frustrating, and maybe more than a little annoying, to plant this stuff I want to have grow, to pull weeds to make room, and then turn around a few days later to find still more weeds. Quackgrass. Purple loosestrife. Bindweed. Tree of Heaven.

One thing I have never, ever planted is a mustard seed. I haven’t ever heard of people working to nurture their mustard plants, haven’t known of gardeners to congratulate one another on an abundant crop of…mustard. Honestly, it seems a little strange.

I had to look it up, even, so my knowledge of mustard seed farming is limited only to scripture passages and online searches. Mustard plants don’t grow in neat rows, it turns out, they show up in a field and take over. So getting all excited about somebody’s mustard harvest seems a little bit like saying –“Hey, what a tall and fluffy field of dandelion puffs you’ve managed to grow, there, right in the next yard over,” as I hold my breath and wait for the next strong wind to blow.

One thing, though, that Jesus never, ever says in all of his parables, is this: The kingdom of heaven is like an heirloom tomato plant: add some compost and plant it in the sun, stake it just right and keep it watered, and it will yield predictable tomatoes, just like you expected…tasty with some salt and a nice crusty loaf of bread.

Jesus never says that.

No, Jesus’ kind of plant grows outside our expectations. It surprises and annoys and even frustrates us.

Honestly, the crab grass is driving me crazy.

And it feels like I just got all the bindweed out from among the sunflowers John planted next to our driveway; but when I came home from church yesterday there were twice as many weeds there as I thought I pulled last time.

So is that what the kingdom of heaven is like?

Persistent and sharp and annoying, always showing up in the places where we thought it had finally been rooted out?

Because honestly, I think that’s good news this week.

From the Russia investitagation, to the health care debates and vote and fallout, to the service of transgender people, to the Illinois state budget, to White House (ahem) staffing, to a speech at the Boy Scout Jamboree, to the North Koreans launching missiles, any piece of which could claim its own news cycle, instead each piece this week has converged in rapid succession, practically before we can take a breath and absorb the last. So in the midst of all that, a word that the kingdom of God will persist, and surprise, and reclaim with insistence, this gospel is good news indeed.

This is a week when I need to know that God’s kingdom doesn’t have to be coddled with compost and sunshine and just the right placement, but instead will come in and spring up and take over, maybe even spite of us...and surely outside the orderly rows where my own imagination might well place unnecessary limit.

This is a week when I need to know that all things really do work together, for good, for those who love God: ivy and rose, thistle and tomato, crab grass and coreopsis and cosmos and celandine.

In his letter to the Romans, Paul writes that the Spirit helps us in our weakness, interceding with sighs that are too deep for words.

Who will separate us from the love of Christ? he asks: hardship or distress, persecution or famine, nakedness or peril or sword? None of that, Paul promises the church at Rome, Paul promises this church in Wilmette today. Neither death nor life; neither angels nor rulers; neither things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth nor anything else in all creation; not one thing, finally, will separate us from God’s love.

Mustard seeds are tiny, to the point of going unseen. They invade, overturn what had been; they frustrate what we might have anticipated.

Is the kingdom of God like that?

Is God’s love, in the end, like that?

If so, I think that’s good news for a world that has exhausted its predictable outcomes. Our overly-cultivated soil needs to be transformed and redeemed in unexpected ways, maybe even subversive ways. Because left to our own devices, we will not transform ourselves. Left to our own devices, we cannot redeem ourselves.

But God can.

The same God who imagined mustard seeds in the first place, and then brought forth life and growth from them, a place where birds can find their landing place.

The same God who took a handful of dirt, shaped it into God’s very own image and likeness, and then breathed sacred breath into that first person.

That’s the God who calls us good, the God who calls us very good; the God who will allow not one thing to separate us from God’s own love; the God who promises to surprise us by bringing forth a kingdom greater than we can ask, more beautiful than we can ever imagine.

July 23, The Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Year A, Proper 11

Pastor Frank C. Senn

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Year A. July 23, 2017

Text: Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

We’re in the season of sowing and reaping—in our lectionary as well as in summertime.  Last Sunday we heard Jesus’ parable of the sower who spread seed all over the place.  Not all of it fell into good soil, but some did and produced a bountiful harvest.

Today Jesus follows that up with another parable (at least as Matthew presents them).  This time the seed has taken root and is growing but weeds are growing up along with the wheat.  The farmer suspects that an enemy has planted the weeds.

What do we do about evil in the world?  That’s the issue. We’ve had plenty of examples of that in the course of history and in current events.  You don’t have to think only about Al Quaeda to think about evil in the world.  We encounter instances of it in daily life.

Early Christians were concerned about living in an unconverted world with evil lurking all around.  Matthew addressed that concern in his community by reporting these parables of Jesus.   He often uses language of judgment, decision and division, sometimes producing terrifying scenes of condemnation.  Thomas Long describes them as "stark, uncompromising, unequivocal pictures of good and bad spiced up with plenty of weeping and gnashing of teeth." In response to our ancestors' struggle with the presence of evil in their midst (not so much why it was there, but what to do about it), Matthew provides pictures and promises to help them endure and persist, even if their little church, and the big world beyond it, seemed infected and flawed by "bad seed," the "weeds" sown by a power at odds with God's vision for the world.

Once again, Jesus is teaching the gathered crowd in parables (to get the hard of hearing to hear, he explained).  Later, in private, he explains the parable to his closest disciples, evidently leaving the crowd to wrestle on their own with his words, even as I guess we do today at the end of a sermon. Matthew provides the kind of explanation of the parable that is thought to be more often the voice of the early church seeking "the" meaning of the parable.

Barbara Brown Taylor reads parables not as direct answers to direct questions that we all have and want answered (clearly and specifically). Instead, she says, they deliver "their meaning in images that talk more to our hearts than to our heads. Parables are mysterious.... Left alone, they teach us something different every time we hear them, speaking across great distances of time and place and understanding."

Maybe parables are best left alone with their surprises, their punch lines, to challenge our customary thinking.  And that’s apparently what Jesus did when he told his parables to the crowds.

But Matthew includes Jesus’ own interpretations of his parables, given to the disciples in private.  We can’t ignore these interpretive passages because they are also part of the canonical text. And they do help to focus our interpretations so our thinking doesn’t wander all over the place.

Last week, Jesus’ interpretations of the parable of the sower alerted us, his disciples, to the things we are up against when we try to spread God’s Word.  This kind of realism is important for any who undertake the mission of the Gospel.

Today there is also an important clue in the interpretation that helps us to focus our thinking about the parable of the wheat and the weeds growing together.  Because our temptation is to think about wheat and weeds growing together in the church.  We tend to be so church-centered when we hear the parables of Jesus.  Maybe that’s because we heard them in church.  And so we ask, “What do we do about weeds in the church?”

But why do we assume that the weeds Jesus is speaking of are in the Church?  Because we do.  And then we must figure out who the weeds are.  Once we identify the weeds we want to do what the farmer in Jesus’ parable told his slaves they couldn’t do: root them up.  He told his slaves, “You don’t want to do that because in the process you’ll also root up the wheat.” 

Down through the ages religious communities have presumed that they could tell who are the weeds and have attempted to root them out.  Maybe they’re immortal people who don’t live by the standards of God’s Law.  Maybe they’re heretics whose teachings undermine the Gospel.  Maybe they’re just disagreeable people who undermine the harmony of the community.  Get out bell, book, and candle and have a rite of excommunication.

But the field in Jesus’ parable is not the church, it is the world.  He says so in his interpretation: “the field is the world, and the good seed are the children of the kingdom; the weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sowed them is the devil.”

So should we go on a crusade to root out evil in our society?  Religious groups and churches have done that too. We can’t organize crusades today like the Church did in the Middle Ages.  Some of those crusades, by the way, were not against Muslims in the Holy Land but against Christian heretics in France and Italy—or Muslims and Jews in Spain and Germany.  No, in a democratic, pluralistic society all we can do is form a moral majority and get out the vote and punish any politicians who don’t toe the Church’s line on various issues.  Surely we’re supposed to do something about evil and wrongdoing in the world and lifestyles and values that we perceive to be detrimental to the common good.

But that’s not the way it is in Jesus’ parable.  The farmer tells the slaves to let the wheat and weeds grow together until the harvest.  And then note Jesus’ interpretation: the angels will do the reaping and separate the weeds from the wheat, not us.  In other words, the final judgment is God’s business. And thank God that it is. 

Still, there is another way to look at this mix of good and evil, and that's to look within ourselves. Thomas Long writes, "It is easy for Christians to look through the church windows at the world and to think of ourselves as God's special insiders, the ones who will 'shine like the sun' in the end. We can relish with smug self‑satisfaction the thought of worldly types being rounded up at the great finale, collected like weeds and burned up in the everlasting fire. However, we are, ourselves, a mixture of good and evil. Sometimes we are faithful, and sometimes we are not...."

One of Martin Luther’s main teachings is that we are saints and sinners at the same time. Not sometimes saints and sometimes sinners, but always saints and sinners simultaneously. That’s why we can’t trust even our good works or become too self-righteous.   

Jesus' parable speaks of the burning of the weeds, as was customary in that time when weeds provided fuel for the fires (a good thing). It’s like bringing something good out of evil. It's Matthew's way of reading fiery judgment into the story, terrifying us even centuries later. But Thomas Long asks if we couldn't we see that fire as a purifying of all that "deadens humanity or corrupts God's world. Whatever is in the world, or in us, that poisons our humanity and breaks our relationship with God will, thank the Lord, be burned up in the fires of God's everlasting love."

Strangely, these can be vividly reassuring words, strengthening words, sustaining words for us today just as they were for the very first Christians struggling to survive against the odds of living in a world in which good and evil are mixed together.  Maybe we need to remember that "God sends both sun and rain on the righteous and the unrighteous alike.” If God shows such generosity of spirit, can we do any less?

Finally, a good word from an otherwise cantakerous man, the fourth century Biblical scholar

St. Jerome. “The words the Lord spoke ‑ "Lest gathering the weeds you root up the wheat along with them"‑‑leave room for repentance.”  If there is room for repentance, for making changes in the church, in the world, in ourselves, there is room for hope.  Amen.

– Pastor Frank C. Senn, Evanston, IL

July 16, The Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Year A, Proper 10

The Rev. Andrew Suitter

Texts: Isaiah 55:10-13; Matthew 13: 1-9, 18-23

Good morning, everyone!  I first wanted to say thank you for calling me!  I have been looking very forward to being here, and getting to know all of you.  I have to say that from the first conversations with Kristin, and then Joy and Gray, and now so many others, your welcome has been a gift to me, and the transition a good one.  Thank you and thanks be to God!

Now, before I get too far, I wanted to share some things I learned during seminary about new priests and pastors who are set to preach on their first Sunday in their new church.  It is a bit anecdotal, but when one is in this situation, the temptations ring true, and so, one must be careful not to fall into them!  

The first trap a new minister can fall into on their first Sunday at the pulpit, is to talk only about themselves and what led them to this place.  You know, where they are from, their family, their education, and spiritual autobiography, and more.  All seems to be going fine until people begin looking at their watches and lo and behold—no scripture has yet been talked about and its been 15 minutes! The second trap is to ignore altogether that one is new, and to touch only on the scripture lessons at hand.  New priests or pastors can often fall into this trap because honestly, who really wants to fall into the first trap?! And the third trap is to prepare one’s absolute best sermon, pulling out all the stops.  Memorable stories, meaningful interpretations, pulpit jokes, or fancy Greek and Hebrew passages translated into English—ending up with a sermon so long, and so full of data that once it has been preached, one is faced with two problems: First, who will ever come back?  And, second, since I’ve shared everything I have—what about next week?!

So—in an effort to be faithful to you, to share about myself, and to get into the preaching, I’ll say this about myself for now: I grew up in the state of Maine.  I lived with my mother and father, and have one older brother who only since adulthood, has become one of my best friends.  Grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins were a big part of my upbringing.  I ask your forgiveness now as I am not a cradle Episcopalian. I grew up in the Free Methodist and Nazarene Church traditions. In college, I studied Religion, Philosophy and Sociology, and for years I worked in social services or non-profit agencies.  I came into the Episcopal Church at a time when I needed it, and found the grace I was searching for and needed in my life—and not to mention I fell in love with liturgy. I spent six phenomenal years serving a community in Nashville, TN also called St. Augustine’s, which is where I began discerning my own call for holy orders.  I began my MDiv at Vanderbilt Divinity School in Nashville in 2012, and was ordained in the diocese of MO this past June. 

My hope is that through our time together, you will allow me the grace to serve as one of your pastors and get to know you.  It is inevitable that more of my life will come though in the sermons I preach, too.  One of the things Seminary teaches us is to look for God in the hindsight of our stories, and to preach that. I hope we can do some of that together!  It truly is an honor to be called here to join in St. Augustine’s story of loving and healing the world, and of growing as disciples of our Lord.  I look forward to getting to know you, having coffee with you, and learning how best I can serve you as pastor. 

Now, the lectionary has a way with lessons, and the Holy Spirit has a way with timing, because this week’s lessons offer some wisdom to me anyway, as I transition into the vibrant life of St. Augustine’s.  And so to start this portion of the sermon, I offer these words of poet Wendell Berry from his book, The Unsettling of America: Culture and Agriculture.

The soil is the great connector of lives, the source and destination of all.  It is the healer and restorer and resurrector, by which disease passes into health, age into youth, death into life.  Without proper care for it we can have no community, because without proper care for it we can have no life.[1]

In Matthew’s gospel today, we have the first of seven parables to come in the weeks ahead.  Parables are short stories that share a point or teach a bigger lesson. In this parable, Jesus goes out into the lake and sits in a boat to speak to the masses who have gathered on the shore.  And from the boat, he tells a story about a farmer, a sower, and what happens to the seeds he plants.  We know some will be eaten by the birds, we know some will fall into soil too shallow for healthy roots to grow, and we know some will fall and take root so perfectly that a harvest is sure to come.  

Many interpret this parable to be about the nature of our relationship with God—where if our soil is not good, then when God tries to work through us, God cannot. I think there is deeper meaning here because such an interpretation as it is, seems to take away the idea that God extends to us grace after grace, and turns God into something we have some capital on—that with some checklist—we maintain a healthy life with God. 

On the contrary, what might be at the center of this passage, is the idea that no soil by itself is always plentiful, fruitful, and healthy—and that together only will our soils, our gardens, produce a rich soil.[2] Beloveds, each of us, at varying times, embody these soil types.[3] It doesn’t mean that because our soil is shallow, that we are—it could just be that we are in a season of change, and working through the pains which hold us down. There comes a time even for beautiful, dark and rich soil to be turned over, to lay fallow, because it too needs a break.[4]

It is in communities like this where seeds become dreams, dreams become action that nurture the community and the world.  When we co-mingle our own soil, in whatever state it is, with one another, we grow in grace for ourselves and others, and we live deeper into the call that is to love one another.

I want to join the soil that is St. Augustine’s because this community grows amazing seeds. I want to co-mingle my soil with the soil that is St. Augustine’s because they are a community discerning where it is God is leading them.  I want to dig up rocks, and till where we are called, together, because our communal life matters. 

Isaiah, prophet to the world over, preaches a similar message—eerily applicable this week with all the rain our area has had.  He says, “Surely as rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater…so shall it be my word that goes out from my mouth…for you shall go out in joy and be led back in peace…as a sign that shall not be cut off.”[5]

A seed once cast into a church community I was part of, was the vision of Magdalene and Thistle Farms. Thistle Farms is a social enterprise that employs women survivors of trafficking, abuse and addiction to make holistic bath and body products.  Magdalene is the program house the women share where they practice their recovery and the process it is to piece back together their lives in a safe environment.

Being part of that community in Nashville for many years, I’ve heard the question asked: Why the Thistle? It is prickly, difficult to handle, and a weed.  What I learned from being part of this community, is that the thistle is one of the few flowers that will grow up through concrete sidewalks, under bridges, as well as on beautiful hillsides. What I learned is that thistles were often the only flower that graced the streets the women walked upon, the bridges they slept under, and the hallows where they were abused. For them, the Thistle became a symbol of grace—it became a symbol of God’s presence even in turmoil—and called for them to come home even when it felt like they had no leg to stand on, no soil to regrow their life. To use Isaiah’s language, the thistle reminded them God was not cut off to them, ever.

Beloveds, we serve a loving God, a beautiful sower, whose invitation to create with us, never ends. We are called to live this life together with God, as we sow and reap, laugh and cry, and care for one another. I could not be happier than I am to be here with all of you, as we seek to serve God, and become practitioners of Grace.  I ask that as we journey together in this season, you’ll let me become one of your pastors.  I ask that you pray for me, as I have been and will continue to pray for you, and that together, we see what God is up to in our lives and growing in the soil of this beautiful community. 

Amen. 

[1] Berry, Wendell. The Unsettling of America: Culture & Agriculture. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1977.

[2] Letters from the Farm: A Simple Path for a Deeper Spiritual Life, The Rev. Becca Stevens, Morehouse Publishing, 2015, Kindle Ed.  

[3] Commentary on Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23, E. Johnson, www.working preacher.org, July 10, 2011.

[4] Letters from the Farm, Stevens, 2015.

[5] Portions of Isaiah 55:10-13, NRSV.