5.29--Dirty Feet Evangelism Part 2: Welcome

Two weeks ago, we talked about how we are called to be dirty feet evangelists. We talked about how we are called to go out into the world and share the Good News of Christ’s victory over sin and death with everyone we meet. We talked about how this is the true work of the church in the world, a work that was commissioned by Jesus Christ Himself as Saint Matthew records at the end of his Gospel. We talked about how the church is defined by this and should be known by this—that true work of the church is not found in the budgets, or membership, or style of worship, or the building, but is instead found in the authentic outpouring of God’s love and grace into the world. And we talked about how this call means that we must get up out of our pews and into the world, where we cannot be afraid to get our feet a little dirty.

This week, we are going to continue the conversation. We’re going to talk about what happens once we have gone out into the world and have invited people to the church.

Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me!

"If you are angry, let it be without sin. The sun must not go down on your wrath; do not give the devil a chance to work on you."--Ephesians 4:26-27


Last year, sometime in late April, I downloaded an app to my iphone that I have sadly not used nearly as much as I should. The app is the Divine Office app, which offers the prayers, hymns, readings, responses, and blessings for each of the four prayer services that many Roman Catholic laypeople and clergy engage in daily. There is a morning, daytime, evening, and night prayer service. Sometimes, I go through the entire prayer service, taking time to offer up the prayers, quietly sing the hymns (if I know them), and do the readings. Most of the time, though, I just take the minute or two to read the Scripture lesson for each prayer time. Then, hopefully, throughout my day I will ponder upon them. 

What Am I Seeking? (AKA Riding the Wave of Life)

"But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness and all of these things will be given to you as well."
-Matthew 6:33

I have often felt--and said to many people--that my life is just one long surf after another. I just ride through life without ever really taking the time to figure out exactly where it is that I am going. There seems to be a master plan, and why fight it when I can instead enjoy the ride?

This has been used especially between one close friend of mine and myself to talk about my work ethic and educational drive. Because of my attitude about most things, it can easily come across like I do not work hard for my grades in school, that I tend to have great job opportunities fall from the sky, and that I do not really do anything to earn or deserve the good that comes to me. And while part of this is true--I am very blessed, beyond what I or anyone else realizes--I do work very hard and try to earn my place in both education and vocation.

5.15--Dirty Feet Evangelism Part 1: Go

His feet were always filthy. My brother Tomas ran Cross Country Track all four years of high school, and he was good. He went to state a number of times, both individually and as a part of a winning team, and although he rarely brought home the gold, he was still one of the fastest runners in Texas for a couple years. Running Cross Country is a dangerous endeavor, though. The course is not on a track, but instead goes up and down hills, over fields, down sidewalks, and pretty much anywhere else you can imagine. It is 3.3 miles, or 5 kilometers, of running, and the course can be as evil as the coach that maps it out. When it rains, the courses are muddy, and with everyone running over the same patches of ground, it gets churned up and the mud goes everywhere. It was not uncommon for Tomas to finish the course and be covered from the waist down in mud.

Hence the danger. With practices early every morning and meets every Saturday, it was a regular occurrence for Tomas to track an inordinate amount of filth into the house and the car on a regular basis. You knew when Tomas was home and where he was in the house because you could follow his trail from the back door. Mom would be furious, and after a while, she started making Tomas hose off his legs in the back yard before he was allowed in the house.

Celebrating Justice While Remembering To Love

I’m a big James Bond fan. I always have been. When I was little, I would pretend that I was a 00 Agent in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, and I would strut around my house, routing out the bad guys, thwarting terrorism at every turn, and trying to act as suave as possible while doing so. I had a small suction-cup dart gun that I would keep tucked in the waist of my pants so that any time an evil-doer came looking for trouble, it was trouble he found. I even tried to talk with a British accent—or Scottish one, depending on which Bond movie I had most recently seen—so I could be more like Bond.  By the way, Sean Connery is and will always be the greatest Bond. None of the others come anywhere close.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized just how violent James Bond really is. As Jess and I were watching one of my favorites, Thunderball, my lovely wife pointed out to me that Bond is ruthless! He even uses women as body shields! I thanked her for forever marring my conception of one of my childhood heroes, but I had to admit that she was right. James Bond is suave. He’s cool. But he leaves a long trail of bodies in his wake in every single movie.

And as a child I celebrated every single kill.

4.24.11--Easter Sunday Sermon

And they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

The earliest copies we have of the Gospel of Mark end here, at chapter 16 verse 8. These three women, Mary, Mary, and Salome, who were all said to have been ardent followers of Jesus, had spent the last two days mourning the loss of their friend, their rabbi, their Messiah. As the life was extinguished from his body that afternoon as he hung on the cross, so were their hopes extinguished. They had bet everything on Jesus, and had come up empty-handed.

And yet, they were not ready to let go just yet. Even in death, he was still beloved by them. He had done right by them in life, and so they would do right by him in his death. And so, they got up early that morning and headed to the tomb where he had been placed.

Now, in this day and age, women prepared dead bodies for burial. It was usually done quickly, as close to one’s death as possible, so that the body had as little time as possible to decompose before they completed their task. Jesus, though, died after sundown on the day before the Sabbath. They were not allowed to prepare him for burial, and so he was placed in the tomb still ritually unclean.

So these women were heading to what could easily be a very gruesome, very smelly body. But they loved Jesus, and they would do right by him. Their hope for a better tomorrow was lost; all that they had were their rituals, all that they had were the tasks at hand.

And yet, upon arriving at the tomb, they are greeted with an amazing sight: the boulder was moved away, the body of Jesus was gone, and a young boy was perched on top of the preparation table.

What is going on? What has happened? Where is Jesus? Who is this boy?

And before they can say anything, the boy speaks: “Don’t be alarmed. You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’”

What wonderful news from this strange, mysterious boy! Jesus is not dead! He has been raised! He is risen! The tomb is empty—well, except for the boy—the stone is rolled away, and Jesus is risen! The hope that they had lost, the hope that died on that cross with their teacher, had been given new life!

And yet they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

I would think that, having received such amazing news, they would have run as fast as they could to go and tell Jesus’ other disciples! To share with them the good news so that their hope might be returned as well!

And yet they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

Is this the Easter story that you remember? Is this the way you see it played out in your head every year? Can this be the end of the story?

Of course not. When most people, myself included, think of the Easter story, we think of the disciples running to the tomb and seeing the empty table. We think of everyone celebrating the resurrected Christ! We think of Jesus speaking to the women at the tomb and them mistaking him for a gardener. We think of Jesus appearing to His disciples in the upper room, on the way to Emmaus, at the shore of the Sea of Galilee. We don’t think of the first people to hear the good news running away, scared.

And yet they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

Why would they have done this? Why would they have kept silent about this news? Why would they have been frightened by the prospect of Jesus rising as He told them He would?

I don’t think that we can hold this against Mary, Mary, and Salome. They encountered the supernatural, and responded the way most people do when they encounter the supernatural. That is why every time an angel appears to an individual or a group of people, they always have to begin speaking with the phrase “Fear not” or “Do not be afraid.” Even our boy in the tomb uses the words “Do not be alarmed.” Encountering the supernatural can be a scary thing. So of course, after hearing that Jesus had come back from the dead, and after seeing a strange sight at the tomb, these women were afraid! They had every right to be.

To make matters worse, three days prior, they were cut to the core with the loss of their Lord. All of their hope had been wrenched away. Everything they had believed to be true seemed to have turned out wrong. Could they dare to hope again? Could they even for a second allow themselves the opportunity to think that things might not be as they seemed? Could they give their hearts away again, so soon after losing them?

And so they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

But this is obviously not the end of the story. I mean, the earliest accounts of Mark’s Gospel might end here, but we know today that this is not the end of the story. How could it be? We know the story. It got out. We might not know how it did, but we know that the good news of Jesus’ resurrection was shared with the world and His church grew and grew. The other Gospels give us accounts of this. They say that the women ran back to tell Peter and the other disciples. Others dashed over to the tomb and saw the empty table. Jesus appeared to many of them in different places and for different reasons. And then He ascended into Heaven with the promise not only to come again, but to be with us always, even to the ends of the age.

Word got out. The story spread. The good news was told.

I’d like to think that after the initial shock of their experience at the tomb, Salome and the Mary’s were able to breathe and think about what had happened. Maybe they had sprinted away, ran as far as they could, and while they were gulping in air and panting after such a hard run, they looked at each other, saw the glimmers of hope twinkling in each other’s eyes, and dared to believe that it was so. Maybe then they went to share with the men and women who had followed alongside them. Maybe then they had the courage to place their faith back in this man who was once dead but is now alive again.

Whatever happened, however the word got out, we have these three women to thank that we now have the story of the empty tomb. We know from their witness that Jesus the Christ is not dead, but was raised back to life by His heavenly Father.

And we have them to look toward as an example of how to live our lives.

Not only were they willing to see Jesus through to the very end, not only were they willing to risk their very lives to prepare His body for burial, not only did they see the empty tomb for themselves, but they shared the story even though they were frightened and amazed.

And so, we are called to do the same. We are called to hold onto our faith even in those times of life when it seems like the world is as dark and dismal as it could get. We are called to keep going even when it seems all hope is lost. We are called to be witness to the glorious work of the resurrected Christ in the world today. And we are called to share that story, no matter the cost to us.

Let us pray. 

4.22.11--Good Friday

This is my first shot at a narrative sermon. It is from the perspective of one of the Roman soldiers on duty at the cross.

It never gets any easier for me. Some people seem to be able to get used to it, grow accustomed to it. They seem… desensitized from it. It’s as if emotional calluses have formed around their hearts and they are no longer able to empathize at all with these poor unfortunate souls.

They can joke about it. They laugh through it.

They don’t seem to see the fear, the anguish… the pain in the man’s eyes. They don’t hear the cries for mercy, the screams that escape mouths. They don’t see the spasming muscles. They don’t notice when their grips slip because they are holding flesh that is torn open and slick with blood.

You’d think that they were friends at a feast, not soldiers at a crucifixion.

Maybe that is their way of coping. Maybe they realize just how brutal it all is, but they have to make light of it to keep from being buried under the weight of such a heavy burden. Maybe they have all been where I am, and they have found that they have to laugh to keep from crying. But try as I might, it never gets any easier for me. I can’t drown out the screams. I can’t ignore blood. I can’t find any humor amidst the horror.

So I do my duty to Caesar and to Rome. I crucify these insurrectionists. And the entire time, I keep my mouth shut and eyes forward, praying to the gods that I won’t have to revisit my last meal until I am alone and safely away from the judgmental eyes of my company.

Today we were put on high alert and we’ve been accompanied everywhere we go by an extra contingent. My commander, Centurion Gaius himself, has come out to oversee the crucifixion of this man, Jesus the Nazarene. I had heard the name whispered by passing Jews throughout the week. Everyone had. This man who would have himself raised as king, who would dare to challenge the Emperor Caesar himself, was getting what he deserved, just like those who came before him.

Why this heightened security, though? Why this enhanced military presence? Was he really so great a threat that this was all necessary?

He’s making his way up path now. He’s so beaten and bloodied that he’s unable to even carry his own crossbeam! I’m glad that I was able to stay in the background for his lashings and beatings. We have some really sick people in our company, some people that enjoy inflicting pain. I can’t stand it! I want to serve my country, I even want to be a Centurion some day, but I’ll never be able to do that to a living, breathing person! I don’t care if they are rebel scum…

I’ve been assigned the duty of nailing his left hand to the cross. There are worse jobs, but this is one of the few that mean I have to be right up next to the criminal. I have to touch him. My wife will have bloodstains to remove. Again. She doesn’t understand why I do this. She wants me transfer. Oh, I wish it were that simple!

I stand there with my fellow brothers in arms, watching him make his way to the place of his execution. Everyone around me begins to shout insults at him and spit at him when he is close enough. I just stand there, with the nails in one hand and the hammer in the other.

The nails are enormous. As long as the hilt of my sword, they start from an extremely sharp point and grow until they are thicker than my thumb. I was issued two nails. Only one is really needed, but there’s always the chance for a mistake. My supervisor joked with me on my first round of nailing duty, “We wouldn’t want you driving it too far in and his hand flopping off! Take extras just in case.” Nice joke, sir. I really needed that mental picture.

The hammer is heavy, and it always seems heavier right before I have to use it. My father was a carpenter. What would he say about this heinous use of a hammer? A tool that is used to create, to bring order and togetherness, used as a tool of torture, a tool of death… Would he be proud of his son, the Roman soldier?

Why is this hammer so heavy?

It’s time. My task is at hand. I hope it doesn’t take too many blows. Someone loops a cord around his wrist to keep his arm taught. I place the nail in position. I strike once, twice, a third time and it is done.

I step back as they raise him up. The vertical beam slides securely into place, and there he hangs, in the middle of two criminals that had gone up not even an hour earlier. How could this man be a threat to anyone? He looks sad. Pitiful.

Everyone around is taunting him. We stand at the cross for hours, and my comrades and the Jewish bystanders spend the entire time mocking him. Even some of their priests have come out for the soul purpose of laughing at this man, who is hanging there dying!

After six hours of it, he lets out a strangled cry: “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” I had to grab a nearby Jew boy and ask him what he had said. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Forsaken indeed. I hope I never have to feel that despair and abandonment. I hope my death is nothing like that.

And then, as he breathed his last, everyone seems to grow silent for the first time since venturing out to this accursed hill. Maybe everyone else is realizing just how horrible this act is. Maybe they see what I see.

Then my commander, Centurion Gaius, raises his voice and exclaimed “Yeah, sure. This was the son of God!” Everyone breaks out laughing. It’s pretty evident. When they look at the dead man hanging off of the cross, they see a humorous tale to share with friends back home.

That will never be me, though. All I see is this poor man’s limp body, up on the cross where I placed it. I can’t laugh. All I can do is pray that this will some day get easier.

Why is this hammer so heavy?