Cam Miller

19 B Pentecost: Change – want it

October 3, 2021 by Cam Miller

SERMON TEXTS
Psalm 8 and Mark 10:2-16

“Change” by Rainer Maria Rilke
Want the change. Be inspired by the flame
where everything shines as it disappears.
The artist, when sketching, loves nothing so much
as the curve of the body as it turns away.

What locks itself in sameness has congealed.
Is it safer to be gray and numb?
What turns hard becomes rigid
and is easily shattered.

Pour yourself out like a fountain.
Flow into the knowledge that what you are seeking
finishes often at the start, and, with ending, begins.

Every happiness is the child of a separation
it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming
a laurel,
dares you to become the wind.”

Why indeed, do you (God) bother with us?

I have asked that so often at night
as I look into the umbilical channel
between me and God,
between us and it,
between known and unknown.

I’ve asked why bother with us
in the early light
shimmering on the lake
piercing the squint
protecting my eyes
from glistening jewels
dancing before dog and me.

I’ve asked why bother with us
in sermons,
though quietly,
shyly, between the lines.

Why would God bother with us —
dust mites of star dust
on some anonymous planet
in a small solar system
and an even smaller galaxy?

As a species
we are like, as Agent Smith says
in The Matrix,
more like a virus than
a mammal.
But hey, individually we’re kind of cut.
Look at us.

Sticking with that image for a moment,
I think what so much of the sacred text
is trying to tell us is, “You can change.
You need to change. Here is how you change.
Don’t be a virus upon the planet.
Don’t be a virus that destroys other species.
Don’t be a virus that infects other humans
with your dark matter
and your corrupting influence.”

Wow, put like that,
because we are in a pandemic
and we see how easily a virus spreads,
maybe it will cause us to take a second look at ourselves,
and our species,
and at what we are and how we act.

Psalm 8 and the Rilke musing
are much more compelling to me right now
than unpacking Jesus’ seemingly
retrograde teaching on divorce.
But those verses left to themselves
are nasty and unsettling
for anyone connected to a marriage breakup.
But I would remind us
we have left Jesus in the dust many times.
”Turn the other cheek.”
”Sell all you have and follow me.”
”If your eye offends, pluck it out.”
”Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Ha! ”Love yourself.”
I could go on and on and on
naming the simple teachings of Jesus
that are both ignored and refuted
by capitalism,
militarism,
consumerism,
tribalism…and us.

The fact is, we do not pay that much attention
to Jesus and in indeed,
it seems like those who preach about him the most
pay the least attention to him.

All of which is to say
that I don’t really want to spend a lot of time
unpacking this gospel
any more than I wanted to unpack
last week’s “if your hand offends, cut it off.”

But…I will do a drive-by unpacking.
You may remember my talking about this before,
how the question Jesus was really being asked,
was whose side is he on — Hillel or Shammai?

The two great Teachers of Israel
from the previous generation
dominated theological thinking in Jesus’ day.
They had argued about the proper justifications
for divorce.
It was not a matter of if,
by why.
At stake in this argument,
at least in part,
was how the wife was to be treated.
Though neither Hillel or Shammai
saw husbands and wives as equals.

Jesus, as usual, didn’t side with either one.
He cut his own path through the thicket.
He changed the nature of the conversation.
He basically said, by implication,
”Look, you may have a legal means for divorce,
but when two have become one,
then separate,
it is an amputation.”
He is recognizing the trauma of divorce.
Some say he is trying to protect women.
Some say he raising Genesis above Deuteronomy.
Who knows.
We don’t really know
any more than we know why God
would bother with us.
But now I want to go back to change.

”Want to change. Be inspired by the flame
where everything shines as it disappears.”

Oh my, Rilke is so brilliant.

Want to change.
Want it.
Not tolerate it
or come grudgingly into it.
Want to change, inspired by the fire.

Yes, change involves loss
which is why we hate it.
But resistance to change
involves decay — as in, we decay
as we actively resist the change
that is inviting us into the fire.
”What turns hard becomes rigid
and is easily shattered.” Rilke warns.

“Every happiness is the child of separation
it did not think it could survive.”

Every happiness
is the child of separation
it did not think it could survive.

Every day
we have the opportunity to wake up
and change.

Every day.
Every day we can ask ourselves
if we are just trying to hang on
and keep what we have
or if we are letting go.
Our every instinct is to hold on
and clutch what we have
and what we know
and not let go of anything
we don’t have to.

But that is the posture a virus.
It is the holding on
and grabbing more
and making sure no one gets what’s ours
that turns our species from cute mammal
to death dealing virus.

I don’t have any special tricks
or magic
for how to let go
or more precisely, how
not to resist change.
I’m only a preacher —
I can only tell you what’s on the cue card
I was given.

But what I know
is that more than any other spiritual practice,
becoming open to the flame
that makes everything shine as it disappears,
is the most important.

I also know
that much if not most
of our religious tradition
has been geared toward holding on
and clutching what it had.
I believe that is why it is decaying
instead of leading the way forward.

It really does come down
to how we think,
and how we frame our lives
and the world we live in.
Will we wake up in the morning
and clutch what we have
and fret about what we might lose?

Or, will we wake up
and decide
to be open
and trust-fall into the change
in and around and among us?

Mammal or virus?
I truly do not know why God would bother with us
but I do know God does,
and I do know that God cares which we are
and which we become.

18 B Pentecost: Admitting to Iconoclasm

September 26, 2021 by Cam Miller

Reflection on the readings for 18 Pentecost (Revised Common Lectionary)

I apologize
but you are going to have to pay attention
if you want to follow this sermon.
It is a sneaky, snaky,
winding road of switchbacks
before landing at the end.

But it isn’t that long either,
if you want to start making your shopping list.

I say my own version of “Let the words of my mouth,
and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable to you…”
every week before I preach.
I do it as an act of reverence.
Not because God needs my preparation or openness
to do what God is going to do.
But because I need the reminder.
I need the humility.
I need the willingness to step-aside.

That psalm
strikes me as the Psalmist
desperately trying to convince himself
that what he has been taught,
and what he has been taught to teach others,
and how he has been taught to see reality…
is absolute true.

It is a shield against doubt.
It is a shield against arrogance.
It is a shield against the brain worm
let loose in his thoughts
by an experience that he is pretty sure
goes against
what he was taught.

Now I raise a doubt on behalf of the Psalmist
with the voice of biblical scholars scowling at me
in my own head.
The thunderous wisdom
of Walter Brueggemann
delivering the Psalmist’s context
and point of view,
and reminding us that is our job
as preachers is likewise to open the text.

But instead
I am psychoanalyzing the long dead poet
unable now to speak for him or herself.
Standing over the open casket
I am pontificating on what the Psalmist thought.
In seminaries,
at least the academic ones,
we are taught to enter Scripture
with certain tools in hand:
Form criticism
to identify the period and source of a text;
Literary criticism
to analyze the voices and purposes of a text;
and Historical criticism
to raise up awareness of the world behind the text.

I am no scholar.
I have always leaned on the critical work
of other people.
But I have developed my own tool
with which I come to the text.
I call it NOW criticism:
how does our current worldview —
our Sitz im Leben (situation in life)
as academics would call it —
read the text?

How does ”who we are”
shape what we receive from the text?
I reverse the telescope
to listen to the text through our ears
and through the filters of our context.

Clearly the Psalmist today
was affirming the statutes of God.
Torah is “perfect
sure
right
clear
pure
true…gold.”

Now I should just stop and say
that this is considered a big-deal-psalm.
According the commentary I referenced*:
C. S. Lewis thought Psalm 19
was the greatest hit of them all.
And while those famous German biblical scholars
of the mid-20th century
decided it was really three separate psalms
written in three different periods
and stitched together over time,
NOW it is seen to be one psalm
with three movements,
the middle movement we read today.
*Working Preacher, 9/20/12

You see, I am a little out of my depth here.

I do not know much about the psalms
even though I took a whole semester course
on the psalms, taught by the very popular dean
of my seminary.
Everyone swooned over getting into that course.
I was bored to tears.
All I can remember about it
was how hard it was to keep my eyes open.

That could have been a hint to me
way back then,
about NOW criticism.
Beautiful metaphors
and rhythmic strophes
can’t make up for post-modern
”iconoclasm.”

I am an iconoclast. I own it.
It is what my experience,
living life in our world, has made me.

Literally, iconoclast means “image destroyer.”
But more deeply
it means someone who challenges
settled beliefs,
and who opposes the veneration
of religious images and icons.
That sounds like me, right?

Iconoclasm gets a bad wrap
because of figures like Oliver Cromwell
(whose wife, by the way, may be in my family tree)
but my take is that reality —
our experience — is the great iconoclast.

It is our experience, reality itself,
that contradicts the theoretical notions
we have about how the world,
life,
families,
society,
and God work.
Whatever image we have
of the nation
the law
the bible
love…it will be broken
because not much in life
conforms to what we believe about life.
So the Psalmist in Psalm 19,
wonderful poet that he was,
was prescribing a formula
into which he declares all of life fits.
No, there is not one crack
in this form, he declares.
Not one porous glitch
through which doubt can leach.

Oh, but wait.
He does ask, “Who can detect errors?”
To ask may be to acknowledge
that some doubt exists.
But immediately he pleads to be forgiven
from this hidden crevasse in which the smallest doubt
may be wedged.

He pleads to be healed
and not given over
to the dark, questioning voice deep inside.
The Psalmist, and much of religion,
offer a hardened sarcophagus
of the Lord’s laws and decrees
into which we all fit
and will be protected
from the unreality of doubts
and counter-narratives.

But you see, I think the world
has been turned
inside out
since the Psalmist lived.
It is now the voice of faith,
if that is what we wish to call it,
that is hidden deep inside
like a piece of gold tooth
broken off
and lodged into a fold of tissue.

All around us,
everywhere,
reality is now defined by cynicism,
materialism,
and grief practiced as a kind of vicious nostalgia.
Petty beauty,
grandiose humanism,
fame,
celebrity,
unconscionable wealth,
previously unheard of gluttony,
holy worship of science and technology,
and militarism as if from a nightmare —
all now describe the world
in which the Psalmist once lived.

To doubt our reality —
prescribed by social media
news media
political rhetoric
and commercialism — is to be an iconoclast.
To doubt reality
as it is prescribe today,
is to be that niggling voice
buried deep inside the gut
that has a counter-narrative
written in the heart.

I say, “whoever is not against us is for us.”

Now I could make sense
out of Jesus’ barnstorming diatribe
about cutting off hands
and plucking out eyes,
but only if I stand on my head
while balancing two trays of tea and crumpets.
In other words,
it is not worth it.

To make sense of that snippet
in a gospel given over to a God of mercy
more than a God of justice,
requires all kinds of rationalizations
and biblical criticism
that I just do not think is worth it.
At least not today.

Instead, I want to address it
through NOW criticism.
NOW criticism would remind us
that the gospel is not a verbatim court recording
of Jesus’ words and actions.
Some of what is in it
does not make sense
and some of it simply does not
match up with our experience of the world.
Not only that, it is not our job to make sense of it all.

Instead, looking at those readings today,
I will remind us of “who we are.”
We are people who have not just one lens,
not only two lenses,
but three lenses.

We have the ancient texts
we explore for the wisdom
that can be mined within it.
It isn’t all gold,
but it has gold in it.
Ancient sacred texts are our first lens.

We have a second lens,
which is tradition.
It is what have we learned together as a community
over time — over millennia in fact.
It is a reflective lens
through which we also mine wisdom
via the text of historic community.

Finally, we have a third lens,
which is reason and experience.
What does our ability to think
and imagine
and wonder
and learn
tell us about our experience?

These three lenses —
scripture, tradition, and reason or experience —
offer us a vision of reality
given by our theological tradition
in The Episcopal Church.
The Psalmist had his lens
and Mark, the first gospel editor, had his.
We have ours,
and it allows us to be an iconoclastic community
with a counter-narrative
to the one prescribed —
whether by ancient poets and preachers
or by the world all around us

We are not stuck
with what we hear from social media
and news media
and political and ideological rhetoric
and scientific or technological over-reach.
We have lenses through which to process all of that
and break it down.
Break it down,
strip it away,
dig beneath the assumptions
and find the gold.

But we do not swallow any of it whole —
not the Psalmist, not the gospel,
and certainly not
the cultural and political miasma.
We are not limited to what we are told
by the loudest voices around us.
We are not limited to scripture alone.
We are not limited to prescribed ancient traditions.
We are not limited to what we see and hear
in any given moment.
Instead, we have a generous spectrum
through which to see and view
the vast landscape of life all around us.
We need to use it all.

And then, once we do,
and we have exhausted ourselves
at any given moment
with the search for gold,
we step back.
We take a slow deep breath.
We ask God to bless the words of our mouths
and the meditations of our hearts,
so that some little gold nugget of truth
may be known
in us
and through us.

Well, I warned you it was a winding road.

16 Pentecost: From A to B (or dying again, and again, and again…)

September 12, 2021 by Cam Miller

There is something about September,
even when it has been years since you were
in school or had kids in school, that is so fresh.

To me September feels more like the New Year
than January 1…or Advent 1 for that matter.

I don’t know how to launch into this gracefully,
so here goes: I know we all think we are special.
I don’t know if that is a Western thing,
or an American thing,
or a human thing,
but we all think we are special —
even if we think we are a terrible person
we think we are an especially terrible person.

Whether you are unemployed at the moment
or a corporate executive;
whether you are a teacher of children
or a child of teachers;
whether you are of Italian ancestry
or your genes are rooted in Tanzania;
whether you eat sushi from expensive restaurants
or Mac ‘N Cheese from a box;
we are all on our way
from A to B
and there is only one way to get there.

Now we all have different ideas
and names
for “A” and “B.”
And that is what this sermon is about –
indeed, that is what today’s Gospel is about
and what religion is all about
not to put too fine a point on it.

When we hear stuff like Jesus predicting
he will be rejected and killed and suffer,
and that he supposedly wants us to do the same,
that is,
deny ourselves,
find a cross, and
follow him into oblivion,
that is the A to B path
being recommended by the gospels.

Now let me add a caveat
included in Marcus Borg’s “Reading the Bible Again, for the First Time.”
He tells of being at a Christian seminary somewhere
when a guest speaker, a Hindu,
offered an interesting response
to such gospel language.
In particular, it was to Jesus purportedly declaring
that HE is
“the only way
and the only truth
and the only life.”

“It is absolutely true” the Hindu said,
“that Jesus is the only way.
And that way – of dying to an old way of being
and being born into a new way of being –
is known in all of the religions of the world.”

You see, it is a universal A to B.

It is an example of Jesus’ abundant reversal sayings
that are rough paradoxical wisdom
that every one of us knows from experience,
but which we would rather not know
and look away from.

Dying to an old way of being
and being born into a new way of being
is a universal human wisdom
that is echoed in particular
at the heart of the Christian Gospel.

But please, let’s not be literal-minded.
Just because the text says, “take up your cross
and follow me”
does not mean
we have to go looking for ways
to be persecuted.
And most especially
it does not mean the myriad
assortment of pain and suffering
we all experience – as if the cross
is a symbol of random tragedy.

This saying gets bastardized
and trivialized
when we talk about our arthritis
as a cross we have to bear.
Or our domestic partner’s slovenly habits
as our cross to bear.
Or our children’s discipline problem’s
as our cross to bear.
Or any one of the standard and normal
difficulties that we humans encounter
in the course of our every day lives.

Dying to an old way of being
and being born into a new way of being
is about choice.
It is about choices we have the opportunity to make
that subvert the way the world is organized
and which helps the transformation of the old order
to a new place.

Whether it is our own resistance to being transformed,
or the resistance of those with power
who use that power to repress justice,
dying to an old way of being
and being born into a new way of being,
is about becoming agents
of transformation.

The cross we have to bear
is not about our personal pain and suffering,
it is about our willingness
to become agents of personal
and social transformation.

Please allow me to repeat that,
because it is so counter-cultural:
The cross we have to bear
is not about our personal pain and suffering,
it is about our willingness
to become agents of personal
and social transformation.

It is about our willingness
to become midwives of death
and the mothers of new birth.

Peter’s horrified reaction to Jesus’ A to B, is typical.
We want to be comforted.
We want some assurance
that all this effort will give us some safety
and some personal protection.
We want our religion
and our god
and our church to calm our fears,
cradle our pain,
caress our grief,
erase our scars,
forgive our crimes,
heal our remorse,
and generally make us feel better.

Peter’s response is our response:
“Hey, man, what are you talking about?”

But the stunning wisdom we behold
underneath this ugly text,
tells us that the God
who invites us to die to the old —
an old way that is keeping us from being transformed into the new —
is not the least bit deterred by our fear,
or our pain,
or our anxiety
or even our death.

If I am even close to understanding this text,
then the God who we come to worship —
while not desiring our suffering
or encouraging our pain —
does not consider they are a barrier to our efforts
to bring justice into life.

I don’t mean to over-emphasize this point here,
but it does seem kind of important.

Most of the prayers I offer to God,
are petitions for God to intervene somehow
on behalf of other people
or myself,
and for the relief of our pain and suffering.
But I get the distinct feeling
from this very core gospel text,
that such things
are not really at the heart of God’s concern.
Rather, that in giving birth
labor is expected
and pain
has a function in delivery.

If I listen to this wisdom,
and don’t get angry because I don’t like it —
which I don’t — then what I hear
is that much of our pain
and much of our suffering
is unfortunate
but a natural course of events.

This excludes, of course, the pain
and suffering we inflict upon one another.

If I am hearing this wisdom right,
then I can imagine God saying to me:
“Cam, I feel your pain, I really do,
but your pain is beside the point.”

”Listen, I hear your fear,
and I know, I really know,
that fear is difficult to move beyond,
but that is your task.”

”I know you hurt, Cam,
and I know, because I hurt too,
that it gets hard to see beyond your own needs,
but that is what you need to do.”

“Cam, I know you are very sad
at the loss of so much which was familiar to you,
and I really do know
what grief and sorrow feel like,
but don’t use that to hold back the tide
of transformation
which is something I have set in motion.”

“Remember Cam, I have searched you out
and known you…
I really have
and I really do.

So you need to know
that your life is found in death,
and that all those things you cling to
need to be let go of.
And you need to risk the death
of what you care about
in order to gain the life you imagine.”

That is just my imagination:
what I imagine God would say to me
in a way I could understand.
Inside this ugly text of the gospel,
is a stunningly beautiful wisdom:

To be transformed
and be born into a new way of being
we have to die to our current way of being.

If you don’t like this painful wisdom
seek not the Buddha,
for he will tell you that
before enlightenment
much death comes first.

Seek not an escape from this wisdom
through Hinduism,
because the cycle of life is an endless dying
to the old in search of the new.

Seek not an escape from this wisdom
through Islam, for death is the doorway to relief.

Seek not even the science of Physics
for it will tell you
that energy is transformed through death –
over and over and over again.

In fact, I suspect this wisdom
is what we are looking for in coming here.
Not because we cherish suffering.

Not because we necessarily believe Jesus
died for our sins.
But because intuitively,
experientially,
every one of us knows
that there is only one way
to get from who we are at this moment
to the person we have always wanted to become.

That way,
in one way or another,
includes a death.
Not a physical death
but a letting-go-death of the things
we hold onto that keep us from transformation.

I don’t know what that is for you —
it could be an obsession with power
dependence on alcohol
drivenness for beauty
an endless lust for pleasure
a bottomless hunger for success
a penchant for absolute security
even the toxic nectar of resentment —
but to the extent that they keep us from being midwives of justice,
and hold us back
from a personal transformation
that has called to us through the years,
is the extent
of the death that awaits us.

This ancient and homely story
we tell over and over and over again
through the centuries,
is a metaphor for the wisdom
that aches inside us all.
It is universal.
It is the way from A to B.

15 Pentecost: Jesus Repents

September 5, 2021 by Cam Miller

Texts for Preaching: “The Greatest Grandeur” by Pattiann Rogers and Mark 7:24-37
For the video version, scroll to the bottom

Jesus escapes.

The story begins with an escape.
Jesus runs away from his life, and he escapes.
Remember that as
we savor that delicious poem.

I do not know what the greatest grandeur is, do you?
It certainly could be
the reptilian dance of the purple-tongued sand goanna,
but I am more inclined to end up
where Pattiann Rogers ends up:
in wonderment above that one fathomless moment
we have yet to live.

“But the dark emptiness,” she writes,
“contained in every next moment
seems to me the most
singularly glorious gift,
that void which one is free to fill…”

Hot dog! That’s a great,
spectacular,
spiritual place
to arrive:
the void which we are free to fill.

I can’t ever forget watching that moment
when it was at my father’s death.
It was a moment of stunning sensation
of no more moments.

At his side,
holding his hand,
watching the pulse in his neck, when suddenly
it got markedly slower,
and smaller, and
just melted into stillness.
He had no next moment.

For all of us there will be a moment
with no next moment,
and that intuitive knowledge
makes each ‘next moment’
the most glorious grandeur there is.

Now most of us, most of the time,
simply stumble into the next moment
sleepy-eyed and half-unconscious.
We just slog through it because…
well, because it is there.
We miss the grandeur of it all.

And then something happens
and we wake up…
we wake up in the moment
and instead of something we are plowing through
the moment opens up, inside of us,
like a succulent red tulip
blooming in the morning warmth.
The moment wakes us up
and we are alive!
It is a stupendous grandeur — that next moment of ours.

But now back to Jesus
and his escape, which, as we will see,
has a double-meaning.

You may not have picked this up,
or remembered the context of this story,
but Jesus has taken off again.
He likes to do that, especially in Mark’s gospel,
and it makes his friends so angry.

One of my children,
I won’t say which one in order to protect the guilty,
used to love to run away in big stores
and hide.
He was three or four, and very mobile.

The worst day
was in a huge Burlington Coat Factory
when he decided to escape
and hide in a rack of thick winter coats.
The joy of his very ‘next moment’
was the source of terror in our ‘next moment.’
Perhaps some of you remember
that special kind of terror.

Anyway, Jesus escapes.
He takes off, leaving his friends and associates
in the dust.
He runs away to Tyre, which by the way,
was a prosperous Roman port city.
I am not saying it was Cancun
but maybe it was
in relation to the pus and blood
of filthy, needy people
that was his usual scenery.

Jesus escapes and sneaks into a house,
because, as the text says,
he did not want anyone to see him.
So he is hiding out,
reading a good book,
or eating pizza with his feet on the coffee table.
Get the picture?

Then some stranger bursts in.
Stop and think about that.

He is finally alone
and taking care of himself,
and settling into the arms of the moment
like you fold into a hammock.
Then an unknown woman walks in the door
asking for help.

Okay. We got that picture.

But then there is a whole other layer
to Jesus’ consternation.
He is suddenly alone in a house
with an unknown and unrelated woman.

Even today,
even in our free and open society,
a well-known public figure,
a religious figure no less,
cannot be found alone
in a home with an unrelated
person of the opposite sex.

In Jesus’ day, the taboo was more powerful
and more dangerous
than you and I can possibly understand.
It violated an untold number of religious purity laws
as well as the rigid moral caste
of a tightly stratified society.

It was bad all the way around.

Never mind that he went there to escape,
and to escape people like her.
No matter that he went there to be alone
to recover from people like her.

Never mind that he went there to get away
from people like her – and people
like you and me.
You know, needy people.

Then, on top of all of that,
she wasn’t even Jewish.
She wasn’t even Judean.
She was foreign.
She was a Gentile — alsop like you a me.
In other words, a dirty gentile.

Actually, dirty Gentile is a redundancy.
Gentiles are by nature dirty.
A Gentile was the source of ritual impurity,
and she was the source of moral impurity as well.

Don’t touch,
don’t speak,
don’t acknowledge anyone like her.
That was the rule
and the expectation.
And Jesus, before this encounter,
seems to be mired in that thinking.

If we imagined that Jesus was free
of that sort of bigotry,
as if he somehow lived by 21^st century
North American norms and values,
this story will correct that assumption.

In this story, if we listen,
we can almost hear Jesus thinking:
“Dirty, filthy, pig-eating, gentile;
interrupting my quiet time;
risking my reputation;
begging for special treatment…”

Let’s pause here and remember
that the grandeur in each of our next moments,
is not that they promise to be filled with goodies
like some fat piñata,
but that the next moment
is full
and waiting
to be opened.
What we find there may not be warm and fuzzy
but it likely can wake us up
and even save us from ourselves.

To get what is going on in this story,
I ask you to put aside your disbelief in healing miracles
if you are someone who simply can’t imagine
that kind of supernatural wonder.

When she asks Jesus to save her daughter,
Jesus calls her daughter ‘a dog’ unworthy of scraps.
Now Christians usually come to this story
with an overlay of bizarre dogma
that Jesus was perfect,
and they twist and contort the story with rationalizations
and say he was testing her faith,
or some equally unlikely proposition.

But if we come to the story without doctrine,
and really listen to it,
that is NOT what the story tells us.

The story tells us that Jesus’ knee-jerk reaction
is his own bigotry.
She has poked a whole
in the wasp nest of nastiness
that resides inside Jesus,
just like the ones that reside inside you and me.
Woe to those poor slobs
who unknowingly poke a hole
in the cyst of bigotries and prejudices
that have attached themselves to one of the chambers
in our heart.
Whoever it is, is going to get it.

So now listen to the story with that background.

There is nothing noble in this situation,
for the woman or for Jesus.
Anyone who has known danger to his or her child
knows the unnatural terror
that grips you in that moment.
You do not think or act according to any rules,
you just do what you need to do
to take care of your baby.
Puff up or slink,
beg or demand,
you do what you need to do in that horror-filled moment.
So the Syro-Phoenician woman who has no name,
probably because a privileged man wrote this story,
goes into the house
to ask a perfect stranger for help her.
Jesus is likely her last resort.

It says she ‘begs.” She begs at his feet.

Jesus, who is angry and resentful,
tells her that she and her daughter
do not deserve what he has to offer.
It is the ultimate blaming the poor
for being poor.

The only thing that could be colder
is the way he says it:
“…it’s not fair to take the children’s food
and throw it to the dogs.”

Jesus is telling her that in the scheme of things,
under the universe of God,
it would be ‘unfair’
for her daughter
to get what he has
because she is not one of the deserving children.

He does not even make the scarcity excuse
that there isn’t enough to go around.
Some people get some and some don’t –
you know, the Capitalist argument.
Instead, he says,
it would defy the laws of nature
for him to help her daughter.

Some of the people I knew in El Salvador
had a special kind of scorn they hurled
toward some rich people.
“His dog is fat,” they would say
with a scowl.
What they meant
was that he cares more about his dog
than other human beings who are hungry.

Well, Jesus tells the woman
her daughter is a dog.
The woman is brilliant.
In spite of whatever bitter anger
she may have felt,
instead of spitting in his face she says,
“Yes, sir,
but even the dogs get scraps.”

Now we get to see what makes Jesus Jesus.

Whatever his weariness,
whatever his prejudices,
whatever his bigotries,
whatever his dogmas and theologies,
whatever his grief,
whatever his sorrow,
whatever his own poverty,
whatever his own shadow of dark demons…
he opens himself to the grandeur of that moment.

Suddenly he sees himself reflected in her eyes.
Suddenly he hears himself echoed in her voice.
Suddenly he knows he has been deeply corrupted
and immediately
he turns around
and changes direction.

And by the way, that is the original meaning
of the word, “repent.”
Repent means revolution –
to turn around
and to change direction.

Right there and then,
in that moment
and on that spot, Jesus repents.
A revolution takes place in Jesus
and he changes inside and out.

In fact, if we pay attention to the story,
it says that he leaves Tyre
and goes to the Decapolis –
which was a series of ten Gentile cities.
In opening to that moment
with the woman he had never known before,
he suddenly explodes into a whole new realm.
He suddenly goes where
no prophet has ever gone before…
and we are where we are today as a result.
Dirty, filthy, pig-eating Gentiles
that we are, each
with our own wasp nest of prejudices
forming a cyst of bigotries
upon our hearts,
because of Jesus we know there is an alternative.
Because of Jesus we know we are not condemned
by the demons
that will always inhabit us.
We can decide something different
and a revolution awaits us
if we open to it.

I think that is even greater
and more amazing
than the reptilian dance
of the purple-tongued sand goanna.

That’s all I got. Amen.

14 Pentecost: We see your inscape

August 29, 2021 by Cam Miller

As you may know,
I just spent a week back in the Midwest –
Michigan specifically, and like here,
it is green and luscious from all the rain.

Traveling through corn and soybean fields
flattens the horizon.
Then you get “Up North,”
as they call it in lower Michigan,
where glacial hills and lakes thread through
the Boreal forests.

Passing through the land
and being near where I walked
and fished and played as a child and youth,
seeing the darker, richer soil of Ohio
beneath the longer, flatter, endlessness fields of crops,
and crossing the greater distances — all of it —
opened me up inside
like eucalyptus awakens the brains
with a rush of air.

I had not been to that part of Michigan
for fifteen years.
We saw a young man
running up the hill I used to run up
and Katy said, “Hey look! That was you thirty years ago.”

So returning to the Song of Solomon
and Mark’s story that “It’s not about soap,”
was a bit of a jolt.

Every image in the first two readings
derives from the passion of living large
with one another
in the Garden of Earth.
There is no hint of control.

There is no sense of safety.
There is no modulation of tactile sensation.
There is no neat square frame around love
and hurt and pain
to allow us to pretend that loving
is a safe sport
in which injury is rare
or wounds unheard of.

Then there is the the gospel story.
It reveals a deep fissure in our religion.
It is a conflict that extends at least 3000 years
into the past.

It is a bitter argument
that has hardened
into a kind of Hatfields-and-McCoys divide
witnessed in Judaism and Christianity.

There are such terrible fractures in Buddhism,
Islam, and Hinduism too,
but I’m too much of an outsider there
to speak about them.
In every religion I know anything about
there is a deep division between
purity and prophecy
regardless of what they are called.

It is a snarling, bitter, rarely polite argument
between priests and prophets.
In ancient Israel
it was the struggle between religionists
that emphasized personal moral purity
practiced through ritual, worship,
and the rules of morality,
verses those who were fierce champions
of prophetic demands
for more equitable distribution
of wealth, power, and resources.

To over simplify it, do we “get right with God”
by going to the Temple and sacrificing a pigeon or lamb,
and never eating shellfish or pork?

Or do we “get right with God”
by sharing your resources with those in need,
and agitating those with power
to use their power
to create a human community
that more nearly reflects the love of God?

I have heard Evangelical preachers say,
and I quote,
“Our God washes filthy hearts to be perfectly clean.”
And I have heard sermons elsewhere
about how the Church needs to do right
by the LBGTQ community.
The conflict between purity and justice
is alive and well 3000 years later.

The hand and pot washing referred to in Mark’s story
is not about pandemic hand-sanitizer,
or whether we use Dawn or Seventh Generation,
or wash by hand or in a dishwasher,
or use antibacterial or lavender oil soap.
It is about ritual hand washing
and separating pots and pans
that cook dairy products
from those that cook meat products.
They didn’t know about bacteria and microbes back then,
it had to do with maintaining ancient purity laws —
as in, ritual moral purity.

Clearly Jesus isn’t big on regulating his disciples,
perhaps he didn’t keep those rituals himself –
although it is impossible to say from the story.
But ritual purity was not a priority for Jesus.
Rather, social purity was much more important.
“Fornication” in his day,
among Judeans of the first century
referred to engaging in prostitution.
I am guessing that the social effects of prostitution
upon women
would likely have concerned him far more
than individual sexual behavior.

But what he is saying is this:
What we do with our body,
how we engage other people in relationship,
the ways in which we conduct business,
the means by which we make our money,
how we treat other people…
all of our external behavior
flows from the condition of our internal life.

In other words, and this is what he wanted us to hear:
the landscape of our lives, what others see about us,
is shaped by the inscape of our mind or soul.
Deep space, where we live alone with God,
is the generator of external action.

It is true that WHAT we do
begins to shape who we ARE, inside over time.
But WHAT we do
begins with who we are — inside.

But here is a paradoxical little twist for Jesus,
one that Jesus could not have articulated
since the world in which he lived
was dramatically different from ours:
The environment AROUND US
has the power to shape
who and what we are as well.

The environment around us
has the power to shape who and what we are inside.
If we live our lives
in completely protected environments —
whether it is a human climate zone
like a Mall
or an air conditioned house,
or it is a gated community
that protects us from social diversity,
or it is a lifestyle
in which we simply do not encounter
those who are forced to live
extremely unprotected —
then we will begin to fall asleep, inside.

I am not saying it is impossible to stay morally awake
in a protected environment,
but it is much more difficult.
The more protected we are
from the storms around us,
and I mean that literally as well as metaphorically,
the sleepier our inner-mind becomes.

The sleepier our inner-mind becomes
the more diminished our senses become.
I am speaking here
of our spiritual senses.

You didn’t know we have spiritual senses
in addition to our physical senses?
I am talking about
compassion,
imagination,
intuition,
and reverence.

They are senses — tentacles
that reach beyond us and feel the world around us.
Just as our perception is diminished
when we lose the acuity of
taste, smell, hearing, sight or speech,
when we lose the acuity of
compassion, imagination, intuition, or reverence
then our experience the holy in life
is diminished.

I am not suggesting we all go live in a shack
or pitch a tent tonight in a vineyard,
but I am echoing Jesus’ warning
that when we fall asleep inside
because of extreme comfort and security,
then we not only endanger others by our sleepiness,
but we also diminish our own senses
and ability to experience what is truly valuable
and makes life worth living.

You do not need me
to tell you how to awaken inside,
nor am I an expert on how to do it.
All we need do
is take a few steps out of our comfort zones
wherever we have encircled ourselves in them.
That will make us uncomfortable.
Heck, the pandemic has made us all ill at ease.

All we need do
is practice shutting off the grid
of humanly regulated environments
from time to time.
That will make us uncomfortable.

All we need do
is engage in relationship
with people who are not like us,
or who we imagine are not like us,
and that will make us uncomfortable.

Actually, and I will end with this,
we do not really have to go looking for weapons
to poke through our comfort zones,
all we need to do is acknowledge and focus
on the discomforts
we already have within and around us.
Health problems,
emotional turmoil,
identity issues,
work or vocational concerns,
relationship struggles,
neighborhood problems or squabbles,
and just about any issue or dimension
of public life in and around us.
All of that, when we focus on it,
will awaken us inside.

We get seduced by so many offers
to ignore or deaden
what lives within and around us,
but if we simply allow ourselves
to see
and hear
and feel
then we will awaken
and be led to something new.

Being solidly in the prophetic mold,
Jesus poked and prodded and pushed
his contemporaries
outside their comfort zones
in order to help them see
with new eyes,
and envision with new imaginations,
and feel with others
who they had long felt distant from
or repulsed by.

I hope that coming here
and being with one another,
does a bit of that: poking,
and prodding,
and pushing us
outside our comfort zones.

Here is a little mantra for your week,
from an unlikely source for me to be quoting,
the Chinese Evangelical preacher, Wang Weifan.
But he nailed it when he said:
“The boundaries of the Spirit
depend on the narrowness or breadth
of the heart.”

“The boundaries of the Spirit
depend on the narrowness or breadth
of the heart.”

Leave the protected environments
that keep us comfortably asleep,
and get UNcomfortable
in order to grow the breadth of our hearts.

19 B Pentecost: Change – want it

18 B Pentecost: Admitting to Iconoclasm

Reflection on the readings for 18 Pentecost (Revised Common Lectionary)

16 Pentecost: From A to B (or dying again, and again, and again…)

15 Pentecost: Jesus Repents

Texts for Preaching: “The Greatest Grandeur” by Pattiann Rogers and Mark 7:24-37
For the video version, scroll to the bottom

14 Pentecost: We see your inscape

Trinity in Time of Pandemic

Visit “savetrinity.org” which tells the exciting story of historic re-use striving to be born. You can help us save this magnificent building by visiting savetrinity.org and signing a letter of support! Thank you.

Like us on Facebook

Staff and Vestry

Newsletter

Links

Site Navigation

Share this:

Reflection on the readings for 18 Pentecost (Revised Common Lectionary)

Share this:

Share this:

Texts for Preaching: “The Greatest Grandeur” by Pattiann Rogers and Mark 7:24-37 For the video version, scroll to the bottom

Share this:

Share this:

Visit “savetrinity.org” which tells the exciting story of historic re-use striving to be born. You can help us save this magnificent building by visiting savetrinity.org and signing a letter of support! Thank you.

Newsletter

Links

Site Navigation

Texts for Preaching: “The Greatest Grandeur” by Pattiann Rogers and Mark 7:24-37
For the video version, scroll to the bottom