A Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Sunday, September 25, 2022

By: David May, Rector

There is a phrase I remember hearing a lot when I was growing up. I heard it from parents in the neighborhood. And I heard it a lot from my mother. Maybe you’ve heard it too. Maybe you’ve even used it yourself. It goes like this: “If you don’t stop [fill in the blank], you’ll put your eye out!” That fill in the blank could be almost anything, sword fighting with sticks, bombing each other with acorns, flinging Matchbox cars over homemade ramps. My mother was a thoroughly reasonable person and was rarely stampeded by emotion, but the number of things that she thought might result in dire consequences to one’s eye was immeasurable.

I think I understand her perspective a little better now after having raised kids of my own. And I’ve also learned that my mother’s use of exaggeration is actually grounded in a very old method of teaching. Hyperbole or exaggeration to make a point, is a perfectly acceptable method of instruction with a long and proud history. The rabbis of Jesus’ own day used it. In this style of teaching – often using stories or examples – one draws clear distinctions between good and evil, righteousness and injustice, darkness and light. These rabbis, and subsequent teachers through the ages, were smart, sophisticated thinkers. They knew as well as anyone that there is infinite complexity and nuances of gray that we deal with in this world. But we can get swamped by all that gray sometimes. Exaggerated storytelling can clarify what’s at stake and get us back on track.

So with my mother, her “put that stick down or it’ll put out your eye” was in a proud tradition. Even though I still might want to counter with an appeal to my general past record of trustworthiness in not having put my eye out to date or my growing desire for more freedom. She knew that I needed to be disarmed first. Complexities could be dealt with later.

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A Sermon for the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Sunday, September 11, 2022

By: David May, Rector

 

I think we could be forgiven for getting a little lost in the swirl of events – both near and far – that are going on all at once right now. Though it seemed like she could possibly live forever, Queen Elizabeth II has died and with her death the world has lost a visible, living connection to a much older and different world is gone, and probably more than that has been lost with her passing. Today is also the 21st anniversary of the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, a tragic and traumatic day that changed the world. When I watch the documentaries of that day (which has become almost an annual ritual for me) I still find myself saying, ‘what is happening?!’ in the present tense as if its still happening. Trauma operates like that, leading you back to the feelings you had when it first happened. Psychologists tell us that is because we are trying to get back to that original time and place, like retracing your steps, to find something that you know you’ve lost.

Nearer to home, today is the first nearly normal Kickoff Sunday for us in three years. There are children who the last time we saw them were being carried around in their parents’ arms and who today are walking around just fine on their own. And talking. For the past several months here at church, I’ve seen us try to pick up where we left off before the pandemic with limited success. For starters, that’s because we just lost contact with all of those regular routines and habits that shaped our life before and kept things rolling. So, we’re finding new ones, or trying to.

And nearer still to home, to right here, right now, we’re going to take time to dedicate and bless these new green hangings that are a gift from Georga Williams to the church in loving memory of her mother. We received these hangings from England just before the pandemic and with church closures and all the rest haven’t had the chance to thank God for Agnus Dyson Smith represented by this gift. But this is one dropped stitch that we can go back and pick up.

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A Sermon for the Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Sunday, August 21, 2022

By: David May, Rector

 

I don’t know about you but sometimes I lose touch with what I’m doing and why. I lose the thread. Maybe you do too. Let me give you an example to describe what I’m talking about. I once served on the board of a community development non-profit on the Northern Neck. We were about an hour or so into our regular board meeting. I realized I had no idea what we were talking about or why. I had no idea where we were headed. So I just sort of blurted out, “I’m sorry, but where are we? Why are we doing what we’re doing?” It just kind of came out and I instantly wanted to apologize. The board chair looked at me in sort of a funny way and then he said, “Right. Me too. Let’s just stop and take some time to talk about our mission and why we’re here.” God bless him for that.

It happens, in all kinds of areas of our lives. With whatever it is we’re doing, you can lose touch with why you’re doing what you’re doing. Here’s another example to prime the pump.

We had an occasional practice in our household particularly when our sons were growing up that we called (somewhat ominously) ‘A Family Meeting’. It didn’t happen very often, usually when we were all too busy, stretched too thin, and were mostly ships passing each other in the night. And, that our lives had gone like that for way too long. What happened was we called a family meeting, and then the four of us would sit around in a circle on the kitchen floor and talk. This get-together would start off with a sort of ‘airing of grievances’. We each got a turn to say whatever we wanted to say and the rule was no one could butt in. And then after we’d all kind of gotten our gripes and resentments and complaints on the table and out of our system, we moved on to part two where each of us answered the question: what are the things that matter to you most?’ Like, ‘I want you to know I love you’, ‘I want us to be together more often’. Things like that. And then we’d covenant with each other to support each other on those things. It only happened four or five times over the course of 15 years or so but it was how we picked up the thread and got back in touch with why we were doing what we were doing, namely being a family.

Sometimes, I see Jesus whole ministry with us being something like that, where in word and deed his life confronts us with ‘why are we here?’, and why are we doing what we’re doing?

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A Sermon for the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

Sunday, July 24, 2022

By: David May, Rector

 

I spent time at the Missionaries of Charity house in Kingston, Jamaica about thirty years ago with about two dozen college students on a three-week mission trip.  Some of you may have already heard me talk about this place before.  It’s funny – in the course of a life – what a few days here and there can do.  The Missionaries of Charity is the Roman Catholic order of nuns founded by Mother Teresa.  Their job is to care for the least of the least.  Their job is to see the face of Jesus in the old man dying of cirrhosis from decades of drinking who no one in his family can tolerate anymore.  Their job is to show God how much they love him by taking care of those who’ve slipped through the cracks (or been pushed through) who have no one and nothing left.  That’s the job they do that we all talk about and marvel over.  They would probably tell you that their job, mostly, is to pray.

We volunteered at the Kingston house while we were there and did whatever the sisters told us to do.  We swept and mopped floors.  We put fresh sheets on beds and helped prepare and serve meals and clean up after.  Things like that.  Whatever the sisters told us to do.  They were amazing.  The sisters were from all over the globe: brown and black and white.  They were young and old.  They were from Europe, South America, Asia, North America – a little community of the Kingdom already gathered as a sign of what God is up to in the world.  It was an amazing, amazing place.  It’s hard to describe.  There was so much brokenness and pain – so much suffering; so much that showed that this world is not the way that God means for it to be.  But all that brokenness was side by side with the radiant grace of Jesus shining through, transforming everything.  It was just stunning, literally. It took you breath away.  I could see how you would give up everything to live like this.  But I also knew that we’d be leaving in a couple of weeks – which makes it easier to think about giving up everything.  These women, on the other hand, weren’t going anywhere.  This was just their normal life.

Several times in the course of a day, the sisters would finish whatever it was they were doing, wash their hands and face, straighten their habits, and silently walk up the stairs to the second-floor chapel to say their prayers together.  The first time I figured out what was going on and where they were going, I fell in line behind them.

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A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

Sunday, July 10, 2022

By: David May, Rector

 

We are now fully underway into the long season of the Sundays after the Day of Pentecost.  This season takes up almost half of the year and focuses on the brief few years of Jesus’ earthly ministry, and what it was like to be with him in that short time and what he did that made life bloom.  The liturgical color for this season is green.  You don’t have to look far to understand what the color green symbolizes or why the Church clothes itself with this color this time of the year.  Just look out the window.  Green means that something is alive and growing.  This is our great growing season.

Sunday by Sunday in this long green growing season, the gospel stories place us in the company of Jesus, with people like us.  With people who are positively smitten with Jesus and love what being in his company does – to overcome what seems unovercomeable.  Listening to Jesus – as we do Sunday by Sunday – his first disciples see that his trust in them could make something of them.  They had gone out when he told them to, to help people; and in doing that they found God.

As a starting point and a place to grow from, he told them to go out like lambs among wolves.  Look, sure, you may get eaten from time to time, but never mind.  You will also find God.  These stories in this long, green, growing season can show us how to be lambs and not just more wolves and how to find God.

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