THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​I once worked with a congregation that sponsored a monthly food pantry. Folks would pre-register with evidence of household size and income so that the truck would arrive with enough food. We usually had a lot left over, with nowhere to store it. 

One day we had so much canned food left over that someone called a friend from a large charismatic congregation some twenty miles away. A man arrived in a cargo van, and we loaded the remaining cases into it. As he was preparing to leave, he told me, “We appreciate the food. We want to use it to get folks into the church so we can get them saved.” 

I was stunned. After he drove away, I thought, "We don’t need to get them saved. We need to find a way to tell them they are saved.” 

The eighth chapter of Paul’s letter to the church in Rome is the centerpiece of the Epistle. Paul sets the stage in the first four chapters as he describes the difference between observance of the law and dependence on grace. Chapters five through eight are one long crescendo following that preliminary discussion. It’s helpful to read those four chapters straight through in a different translation so our minds are stirred anew by Paul’s words. 

We take so much for granted. We hear each Sunday’s lessons from the same translation and mostly with the same ears as we’ve always done. We assume that what we’ve always thought we believed is true without questioning whether that is so. I began asking questions about that before I went to seminary; in fact, it was the answer that startled me and led me to believe my call to ministry might not be on the organ bench but in the pulpit. 

It’s no secret that I was raised in fundamentalism. I heard repeated altar calls that followed an hour or so of singing and testimony and then at least thirty minutes of hellfire and damnation preaching. I’m surprised there weren’t some primed to light a match somewhere so the smell of sulphur might cause us to think we were staring into the very fires of hell if we didn’t go get ourselves saved, maybe for the second or third time. 

My startling answer came when a minister, also named Paul, dared to tell a group of us the truth, much in the same vein as the apostle he loved studying. One of our group had been badgered by classmates at college, who told him that since he didn’t believe what they did, he couldn’t be saved. 

I have since described that way of thinking and what is truly spiritually abusive as so much “male bovine residue.” 

​Paul begins this section by saying, “Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” He begins to sum up his argument with today’s words: “Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” While Paul’s rhetoric can be difficult to understand, what he basically says is this:

There is nothing you can do, nothing you need to do, to earn salvation.

You are saved, in a relationship with, and at peace with God through the saving work of Jesus of Nazareth. Not because you earned it, but because that’s how much God loves you. That’s how much God desires to be a part of your life. You are one whom God felt worthy of dying for.

But it goes beyond that. You, I—we are ones to whom God offers the life of the risen Christ. Faith in Christ, made real by participating in the creative and creating work of the Word made flesh, still living among us, is the sign to others of the same life-giving love that we believe saves us all.

That means we don’t attempt or need to bribe others to come into our fellowship to get them saved. It means we offer them food because they are hungry. It means we offer clothing and soap and, yes, toilet paper, because they have enough, shall we say, residue to deal with because we live in and often support a system that wants to bury them under all that.

The life of the Spirit isn’t reserved for some future time and place we call heaven. The life of the Spirit is here, right now, waiting for doors to open through which we enter into that life by making room for the Spirit to enter into our own.

We don’t, and cannot, get saved. But we can live in the Love that saves us, which Paul tells us is ours because God desires it to be so. As the words so often spoken, and which we probably take for granted, tell us, our true offering in response to God’s gracious gift is to “walk in love as Christ loved us and gave himself for us.” That walk is our life in Christ. The gift keeps on giving. The Love is forever.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ At first glance, today’s lessons seem disjointed, unrelated. The first lesson sends me to Advent with a side of Georg Frederic Handel. The Psalm is reassuring, hopeful. The Epistle seems ready to remind us why we should feel guilty, while the Gospel simply wants to yell, “grow up!” 

There’s some doubt that the same writer penned today’s first lesson as the one who wrote chapters one through eight. Those chapters speak to a people fresh from exile, whose king coming to them could well have been Darius of Persia. Those returning from exile found a city in ruins. They depended on a benefactor for support and relief. Darius passed through Judah on his way to settle a dispute in Egypt, so he may have spent some time among those whom his predecessor, Cyrus, freed from the Babylonians. 

Today’s words, however, seem to speak more to the time of Alexander the Great, a couple of centuries later. Judah is threatened once again, and was occupied by the Greeks after they overthrew the Persians. Then along came the Romans and a second destruction of Jerusalem a generation or so after Jesus. 

People living in uncertainty often reach out for anything, or anyone, who can provide a sense of peace amid turmoil. Those living in Jerusalem during Jesus’ time lived in hope of a Messiah who would come from the lineage and tradition of David. Now, those who know that history will understand that David’s time was not all that peaceful. Only a generation later, with the death of Solomon, Israel was divided internally, perhaps setting in motion the conflicts that would ultimately destroy both kingdoms. 

Hence, Jesus’s admonition. John came living in austerity, and they complained about him. Jesus spends time eating and drinking with those around him and they call him a glutton and a drunk. Some complain because the Temple is only open when it’s not convenient, or the hymns are too long, or too many, or too few. And the Temple hours have changed, on top of all that! Some say they got nothing out of the sermon or the prayers or anything else, as if they were the ones being worshipped. It’s too cold. It’s too hot. All my friends are having fun right now at the beach or the park or the ball game or at brunch. 

The risen Christ hears a lot of complaints. And probably still wants to shout, “GROW UP!” 
We have yet to learn that our reason for being here is not about us. Worship isn’t about attendance; it is about attendING to the one we worship. Worship is not about receiving, but about offering ourselves in gratitude for what has already been freely 

given. Worship is not about numbers, but being present in the number of the redeemed who then go to do one thing. 
That one thing is to live in the expectation that God will come, that the risen Christ will be present among us, that the Holy Spirit will speak to us and through us as a sign of that very singular hope. 

That expectation is in Paul’s struggle to be a living apostle of Christ, especially when so many temptations lie close at hand to entice him away from the purpose of his life. He speaks of law and grace in ways that can be difficult to understand, but that we can all recognize as true in our own lives. 

Jesus gave us one task—make disciples. If everything else we say we do in his name doesn’t help us do that, then they are little more than a distraction. Maybe that’s why so many struggle. Our focus has become about buildings and programs and even competition with other parishes that we’ve forgotten not only how to make disciples, but how to BE disciples. 

In Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus tries to reveal the presence of God among his own people. After awhile, he turns in another direction and moves instead among outsiders, called Gentiles. Maybe he heard all the whining and complaining he could take, and decided to go elsewhere. 

I heard a story once that while leaving church one Sunday morning, a person was heard saying “I didn’t get anything out of that service today.” Pray that’s not the voice of God we hear, but that instead God hears our voices of prayer and praise and faith, and accepts our real offering of ourselves in gratitude for the hope God has given us in raising Christ from the dead. 
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That’s when the words of the Psalm begin to make sense. 

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ I once read a story about a state trooper who stopped a driver on the highway. When the trooper approached the car, the driver asked why. After checking license and registration, the trooper replied, “I saw all the religious bumper stickers and then the way you were driving and a few hand gestures. I assumed the car must be stolen.” 

This week brings many reminders and definitions of words like “liberty” and “freedom.” But today’s Epistle lesson reminds us that we are slaves in one way or another. We don’t like that word, slaves. We’ve heard a lot about it and might have toured scenic park-like settings or cemeteries where battles were fought over the right to own another human being. 

We continue to hear words of condemnation spoken about and toward those who live here as a result of that way of life. But you really have no right to complain about the presence of those whose ancestors were kidnapped and forced to move an ocean away from home for your own ancestors’ benefit and enrichment. 

Paul says we are all slaves. We all submit to the authority of someone, perhaps some entity. Paul contrasts being slaves to sin and being slaves to righteousness. If anyone wants to help me explain that, now’s your chance to step forward, shackles and all. 

We might declare ourselves to be free. But first we need to understand the meaning of the terms "sin" and "righteousness." Then comes the sometimes uncomfortable task of admitting which one we really choose for ourselves. 

One commentary I read mentioned a friend of the writer who is a slave to fashion. We don’t have to look beyond news headlines to find those who are slaves to wealth and/or power. Many enslave themselves to attention and prestige, and some of those are found in church pews on a regular basis. 

I remember a convention in another diocese where it seemed one or two persons submitted their names for nearly every position available. I didn’t want to hear about time management issues if they had won every election. I’ve seen the same thing happen with parish committees. Then I see the burn-out that follows. It could be what our Prayer of Confession refers to as “things done and left undone” all in the same action. 

My working definition of sin is “actively separating ourselves from the God who gives us life.” From that point we might develop endless lists of “sins,” including, as I mentioned recently, the purchase and eating of pretzels. As a former professor used to say regularly, "There's sin everywhere.” 

Sin is predominantly known by choosing to gratify only ourselves, serving only ourselves, and insisting that only what pleases us as individuals is acceptable. Sin denies the benefit of being in relationship with each other, a reciprocal way of life that seeks the good of and in the other as much as the pleasure of the self. 

The slavery of sin denies goodness in others, while the slavery of righteousness seeks harmony and benefit of living together in right relationship. That means everything from helping each other as we are able to not crowding and swerving around others because we haven’t yet learned that waiting longer at the next red light is not always a good and joyful thing. 

Slavery to righteousness is made known to us in the cross of Jesus of Nazareth. As Paul says in his letter to the Philippians, he became a slave—a slave to and for love to reveal who God is for us. 

Being a slave to righteousness means living in ways that reveal our slavery to and for love through how we live at home, in our communities, at work, and even what we call “at church.” Being a slave to righteousness is how we move from being “at church” to being the church—the Body of Christ continuing the life of obedience to the speaking of the Spirit, words taking on flesh, our flesh, in our own time. 

When we choose to be slaves to righteousness, we don’t need bumper stickers or sweatshirts or other banners and slogans to make it known. Others will know by the way we move through the highways of life in ways that seek the well-being of others as much, but no less, than we do for ourselves.

Nearly fifty years ago, we began hearing a designation known as the “me generation.” It describes a move away from communal relationships into a focus on self-interest. We’re living the results of that now that include everything from identity politics to the decline in religious attendance and participation. The rise in social and economic inequality and the almost instant choice of violence as a response to disagreement give evidence that our communal fabric is being torn to shreds.

Paul’s writing shifts our focus in his discussion of slavery to righteousness. He tells us we are baptized into the death of Jesus, resulting in our rising to the new life of resurrection. But Paul would not confine his words to what happens at our fonts. Our restriction of the effectiveness of that ritual to the actual event betrays our misunderstanding of its true meaning.

Our life as disciples of the risen Christ is an ongoing baptism into his new, never-ending life as we choose between the slavery to sin and slavery to righteousness. In other words, we opt to live in ways that deny the presence of God, or to live in the self-giving example of the One who humbled himself, even to death on a cross.

The very real life-or-death choices we make reveal our true master. The life we live, as individuals and as a faithful community, reveals whether we live in hope or the despair of fear. Choose wisely.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ Today we have two related but different job descriptions. One is from Jeremiah, who would probably win the title of “least happy prophet” in Hebrew history. The other is Jesus’ description of what it means to be his disciple. It’s not the pleasant prayer for unity we heard recently from John’s gospel. He tops it off with words about carrying a cross and losing one’s life. Don’t trample one another rushing to be first in line. 

Jeremiah uses words I sometimes wondered out loud during seminary. “You enticed me,” he laments. His job is to tell leaders what they don’t want to hear. As a result, he is imprisoned, beaten, starved, and otherwise treated inhospitably. But he can’t walk away, because the call to proclaim truth is stronger than the urge for self-preservation, and much more relentless. A God who never sleeps finds ways to speak even when we try to catch some shut-eye. 

Jesus knows how unpopular that call can be. By nature, truth is divisive when some try to deny it because it doesn’t speak to, but against, their own purposes. And when those deniers wield power, look out. I’ve been telling congregations for years, when religion and politics share living quarters, the end result is most always a crucifixion of one kind or another. 

Jesus warns his followers that they should be more concerned about the one who can cause everlasting punishment instead of those who might inflict it for a short time. I don’t want to take Matthew’s words literally this morning; those who do seem to be able to create enough hell for all of us. 

You might be wondering about all this. A former parishioner told me he liked it when I preached from the aisle without notes. But when I turned and walked into the pulpit, he thought, “Uh oh. We’re in for it now.” 

Several years ago, writings from Ezekiel found their way into the lectionary cycle. So I decided to read it again to gain some insights and context. A verse jumped out that I cannot forget. It’s the charge given to the prophet. God says, “If you speak the words I tell you to speak and they do not listen, their sin is on them. But if you do not speak my words to them because you fear how they might react, their sin is on you.” The big gulp came along long before 7-11. 

Fear is a big motivator. Fear of punishment causes many to obey rules and regulations. Thinking that the punishment will not come causes many to consider those regulations as mere suggestions, evidence seen on the highways around us. Others consider themselves to be immune because of status or wealth, and may get away with it for awhile. I’ll refer you back to Jesus’ words heard today and remind you that there are those who sometimes make me hope there really is a hell. It’s sort of a last resort, redefining the word “resort.”
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The call to discipleship is a call to relationship with God, a relationship that transcends fear and doubt, because it invites us to join with God in the ongoing work of creating a new life even while reconciling the old life with the new by forgiving and even just letting go of what no longer gives life.

We enter that relationship each time we come within these walls. It may often seem more like a social gathering of friends, but that only touches the surface. As we listen, sing and pray, and move to receive, we somehow find ourselves called into an intimate relationship with our Creator even as we make our own call for God in Christ to enter into our own lives.

The secret to all this is that we have to be willing to let the other in. We have to allow the continuing work of creation to transform, even transfigure us in ways we could never imagine. In the words of W. H. Auden in For the Time Being, the angel Gabriel says to Mary, “You must choose him who chooses you.”

To listen to the prophet, to hear and be guided by Truth, we must first let the prophet in. We must provide hospitality to inconvenient and unpopular words that will help us find our way to new life. It’s not easy, and might even be a bit painful. But the call to new life rings out from empty tombs. We just need to risk walking into them and admit that they’re empty.

To use some prophetic words, let those who have ears to hear, listen.

 The world is in turmoil. Threats from without and within stir up fear and anxiety. Relationships with neighbors seem to change with the wind. No one seems to know which way to turn, except to try and find ways to protect themselves and their position. 

Such is the scene in the kingdom of Israel in the eighth century BCE when the prophet Hosea addressed the concerns of the people. Actually, he addresses the concerns of God about the people God formed from the offspring of Abraham. Israel, the people whose name comes from their ancestor Jacob, have turned away from the God of their ancestors. And, as a result, God has turned away from them. 
To a point. 

It’s a perpetual struggle. Times of prosperity and peace are seen as gifts from God, a sign of God’s presence and favor. Then we begin to worship prosperity and peace as something that will go on forever, seeking more and more of it as a sign of our own righteousness. We fall into that category of self-proclaimed healthy people whom Jesus says don’t need a physician. He’s actually pointing out that those who claim to be correct in every way don’t need God. At least that’s what their actions seem to say. 

We do that today, carrying on a tradition that is alive and well in Hosea’s time. To borrow an old admonition, we “don’t drink or smoke or play cards or associate with those who do” so we can keep ourselves pure enough to make it to heaven. 

I once worked with a minister whose in-laws wouldn’t eat pretzels. They said that those who ate pretzels smoked, played cards and drank beer, which they didn’t do either. He told me that whenever his in-laws were coming to visit, he made sure there was a bag of pretzels on the kitchen counter. He was, shall we say, ecclesiastically ornery. That’s another tradition that continues, in case you hadn’t noticed. Speaking for a friend. 

Recent studies point to another tradition that continues in our culture. In the early 1970s, just over thirty percent of adults in our country claimed membership in what’s known as a Protestant mainline denomination. Now, that percentage is hovering at around nine percent. 

There are about as many reasons for this as there are professionals ready to sell us a book to tell us what they are. But during these past five to six decades, we’ve seen everything from scandal to hyper-politicization of religion in our culture. I occasionally get a phone call from someone interested in attending our parish. I get questions about hot-button political issues, which seem to want me to tell them what to think and to judge whether my words are exactly what they already think. I don’t remember a single question asking me about Jesus.

Yet, many seemingly successful congregations do just that. They cater to extreme positions, drawing in those who chastise others not just like them for what they believe they think or think they believe. All this as they claim to be on the “right” road to heaven. It can be a difficult journey, no matter which position you take, when on-coming traffic and even potholes are seen as evidence that hell is very close and must be avoided.

Jesus wants none of that. It’s just more evidence that, despite Hosea’s admonitions, we still haven’t learned the lesson that God comes to those who find themselves in need of God’s presence. Not to those who have everything they need to prove to themselves that God loves them as much as they love what they have.

The Pharisees, who try to ensure purity through strict obedience to Torah, challenge Jesus while he welcomes some who find themselves standing outside the law. Tax collectors were agents of the oppressive Roman government. The sick, the ritually impure, those who didn’t fit the requirements to enter the Temple for worship are those who join him at dinner. Keep in mind that at this point in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus has not turned his teaching toward Gentiles. That will come later.

So today I invite you to ponder the question we face with diminishing, even dissolving influence and resources in our time. Like in Hosea, the answer comes from words that acknowledge guilt, even while they assure forgiveness. The word of God always steers us toward conversion, which means turning from what draws us away from God to see who God always has been and still is for us.

That word is hesed, which means “steadfast love.” That is the point where God cannot, will not completely turn away from us. While we might want to make sure we make our way into what Matthew calls “the kingdom of heaven,” we lose sight that God’s steadfast love means that God will come to join us here, coming to the table where all sorts of sinners, like us, find a feast awaits.

Maybe we nine percenters have just been hanging out with all the right people too long. We work diligently to make sure that everything looks just right, that anyone looking on from just a short distance away will approve of those who gather with us. In many ways, our souls remain masked from impurity much as our faces were during the pandemic.

Jesus takes that impurity into himself when he sits with outcasts and sinners. The synagogue leader risks ritual impurity by coming into the room to plead for the life of his daughter. Jesus exchanges impurity for healing as a woman with a bleeding disorder touches the hem of his cloak. He does that again when he enters the room where a lifeless child is restored to the relationship of “daughter.”

The words of the Gloria proclaim Christ as the one who takes away the sin of the world. In Christ, we are restored to God’s intended relationship as daughters and sons. 

God’s steadfast love is graciously given to us, and as Paul will remind us, nothing can separate us from that love.

But we often seem to be separated from it, or at least far from it. Perhaps it’s not that God has turned away from us, but that we have turned away from God toward all those shiny things vying for our attention. We spend more time preening in front of our spiritual mirrors than we do reaching out to those still in need of the healing balm of God’s love.

When we look around, even flail about for quick solutions to the problems that vex us, remember the God who shows up when we finally turn toward the place where God has been all along.
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Again, I remind you who Jesus was to those in his own time. You know, outcasts and sinners. And, again, it’s time to stop hanging out with all the “right” people. Because when we do only that, we become by our own hand the outcasts and sinners in need of redemption.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ Whole sections of libraries are filled with books about the doctrine of the Holy Trinity. Another section in church history covers the Councils of Nicaea and Chalcedon. If you don’t mind, I won’t read those to you right now. 

Here’s what you might find helpful: we best understand the doctrine of the Trinity when we think of it as a relationship more than as an identity. I say that because it’s better to think of the Holy Trinity as a reciprocal living being than as three separate persons somehow also being one, even though that is also true. 

God the Father and Creator is One with Jesus, the Messiah, the Christ, the Redeemer, who is also one in and with God. The Holy Spirit, the Sanctifier, is one with and in each and both of those who are also one in and with the Spirit. That same Spirit is the presence of God and Christ in and with us as we worship, pray, and continue the work of creation, reconciliation, and redemption in our own time. 

Got that? It will be on the final. 

It’s a dance between God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit with all three leading as one, and in step with each other. It’s a dance that we all join as we gather to worship, pray, and work together. We’re still working on getting the steps just right, and occasionally step on our own toes as well as someone else’s. 

When we get that, we understand that the dance party isn’t just for or about us. Our life in Christ is to stop trying to be the belle of the ball, but instead to be a living invitation to those who have a desire to attend, but think they lack the correct shoes. And in case someone comes to the door with no shoes at all, be ready with a basin and towel and make sure they have clean feet. 
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And when we get that, it’s time to get down and boogie. 

​THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ Today marks the end of what used to be called Eastertide. The name of the day, Pentecost, means “fiftieth day.” That name doesn’t come from our use of it being fifty days after Easter Sunday. It’s older than that, which we can gather from Luke’s opening words in today’s first lesson. 

When the day of Pentecost came, he tells us. It’s an ancient Jewish agricultural festival, marking the beginnings of the Spring harvest. Life returns after the long winter, and signs of ongoing nourishment make themselves known. Hold onto that thought. 

Today’s Gospel lesson gives us a very different story. It’s the evening of the day of Jesus’ resurrection, not the fiftieth day after. The disciples gather in fear, trying to make sense of what they’ve heard that day in light of what they saw with their own eyes just a few days before. Again, life comes back, even after a grueling, horrifying week. But unlike seeds planted in early Spring for radishes, peas, and lettuce, this life emerging from the ground is not what they expected. 

Jesus says, “hey y’all” and then breathes on them. “Receive the Holy Spirit.” Then he gives them the quick start instructions to go along with the user’s manual he’s been trying to show them for a few years. 

So, who gets it right, Luke or John? 
It doesn’t really matter, does it? 

I say that because the Spirit makes an entrance a bit before day one. A wind from God hovered over the face of the deep. Wind. Breath. Spirit. Ruach, the ancient ones called it. A bit later, God breathes into the human’s nostrils the breath of life. Jesus breathes on the disciples. Luke describes a rushing wind, maybe like Elijah heard while hiding in the cave. 

Air gives life. The heart depends on getting enough oxygen to nourish its muscle and keep pumping. Let the oxygen levels get too low, and bad things start to happen. Air is necessary for speech, including those first words “Let there be light.” Yet, when the wind roars loudly, speech becomes difficult, hearing nearly impossible. 

We know that sometimes the air, the spirit we breathe is not healthy. We learned that lesson, again, the hard way during the Covid pandemic a few years ago. We also know that the spirit filling the air around us is often working to steal us away from the Holy Spirit that reveals God’s presence among us. The air, the spirit, seems heavy with the pollutants of greed, hatred, division, even self-worship and fleeting desire. We might call those “advertising” or, sadly, politics as usual. 

Okay, enough, um, “air.” 

​The point is not about deciding exactly when the Holy Spirit arrived. The point is that the Holy Spirit has been there all the time. You ask where? Reach out, and touch air. Inhale, then exhale. At uncertain and difficult times, gasp. Or, pause in the middle of turmoil and take a deep breath.

Paul tells us that the Spirit is the enabler of everything from our proclamation of faith to the good work that we do. It’s a reciprocal relationship. The Spirit enters, words and works of faith exit to reveal the Spirit’s presence. That is our sign, the revelation of the truth of our hope in the risen Christ. The Spirit is the source of our life, the work we do a celebration of a profound truth in its harvest. And it is the type of spirit we nurture within us that helps us determine whether the spirit we take into ourselves is from God. It’s why we need to continue to come together and hear again the words that lead us into truth—which is again, the work of the Holy Spirit.

God continues to come to us, continues to give the breath of life to us. And each breath is renewing, each inhalation and exhalation of the Spirit different from the last. And then, one day, the final exhalation will return the Spirit of life, mixed with our own spirit, back to the Creator and Giver of all life.
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It’s why we can begin and end this day with a full, Spirit-filled voice. Alleluia. Alleluia.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINGS

​ Last Fall, I began asking around about commemorations for the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. It’s a period of eight days that begins with the Confession of Peter on January 18, and ends with the Conversion of Paul marked on January 25. As you might imagine, some intervening celebrations and events meant those who had interest in that week couldn’t meet to make plans until it was too late to implement them. 

A couple of us then met and did what we could. You saw that happen on Ash Wednesday. We haven’t been able to progress beyond that. Yet. 

The idea of Christian unity is a good one if you simply ask about its favorability. When you start talking about what it means and how it might be accomplished, however, that’s a different matter. My first experience with that week came while I was music director for a large Roman Catholic parish. The pastor often joked with me that the prayer life of 1,500 Catholics was in the hands of a filthy Protestant. Then, one summer Sunday after the last of four masses, an older member of the parish asked when I was going to become a Catholic. Before I could answer, the pastor said, “He’s more Catholic than you are. Leave him alone.” But, on the day I was asked to speak at a weekday Mass about unity, I was told, "Be careful what you say.” 

The institutional church’s attitudes have challenged ideas of unity since the early years. The early church was divided into four regions—Antioch, Constantinople, Alexandria, and Rome—each with bishops teaching and providing oversight from those cities. Jerusalem, having been destroyed by the Roman army in 70 CE, fit in as it could. Several councils of bishops met to address faith issues and to define accepted teachings. But ecclesiastical identity politics kept true unity well beyond arm’s reach. That is, if you’re only talking about actual human arms. Spears, swords, and flaming torches were longer. 

At least one writer has concluded that when Mohammed saw the battles, both verbal and real, between warring factions of church leaders, he formed Islam as a religion that would show the world how to live together in peace. But like at creation when God formed humanity, it started to fall apart when a bunch of people were allowed as part of it. 

And so it seems today we have before us what I call Jesus’ one unanswered prayer. At least we haven’t become able to answer it the way he intended, nor in the way we would like to be able to admit. 

We began dividing over things like the presence of one letter in one word, but that one letter had great implications for our statements of faith. Simply put, it changed the Holy Spirit as “proceeding from the Father” to “proceeds from the Father and the Son” as we will say in a few minutes. 

Then it became over issues that affect everyday life. The church in Rome needed to raise funds to finish building St. Peter’s. You can find information on “indulgences” on your own, even as they played a large part in Martin Luther’s note he placed on the castle church door in Wittenburg in 1517. Johns Calvin and Knox, along with Ulrich Zwingli, figure into the mix of Reformed thinking. Then there’s that guy Henry. It can get complicated. 

While I appreciate different opinions and understandings of our shared faith traditions, our many positions have grown from a family debate into very real and often threatening positions regarding what is taught about salvation. I think the main result of all of these is to satisfy the tempter from the garden and the wilderness by helping us avoid Jesus’ true purpose as he prays. It’s too easy to fall into the self-created trap of making salvation dependent on what we do and what we say we believe rather than on what God has accomplished through Christ Jesus.

After all, who can tell me, or even better yet, show me, what it means to be one in Christ, even as God is one in Jesus and Jesus is one in God? That is the true meaning of Christian unity, an end that cannot be found in attempts such as the Elizabethan Settlement’s demand that all British citizens attend worship every Sunday using the approved Book of Common Prayer. Also, they had to enjoy the oversight of bishops appointed by the crown. By the way, not having to do those things is what the founders of this country meant by “religious freedom.” It isn’t about making it acceptable to hate those not just like us, as some recent efforts seem to be trying to do. But the foundation of this country could be said to depend in part on Christian disunity. Then there’s the thought that if it were to be a Christian country, prosperity in this young country would suffer because capitalism and Christianity can’t really share the same playground.

“May they be one, even as you and I are one" is what Jesus prays for. Discerning what that means and how it becomes real in all our lives is how we do what Jesus asks us to do at his ascension. Be witnesses. Not to his departure, but to his eternal, loving presence in the world he came, and continues to come to, to save.
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After all, we are some of the people God has made into Christ’s Church to be just that—witnesses to unity in and with Christ in God. Oh, in case you’re wondering, it’s not just for a week anymore. It’s forever.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

 ​ A friend said recently that if the Apostle Paul heard what was going on in our country and in our world, we’d be getting a letter. She said this because many of Paul’s writings are in response to current events and the early church’s straying away from Paul’s teachings. 

Today we’re on a journey with the apostle as he travels through Greece. He has moved away from Thessalonica and Philippi, where he faced challenges from religious authorities and even beatings and imprisonment. He finds himself in Athens, a city with no lack of places of worship. And, just to make sure all the bases are covered and no deity is left behind, there’s an altar dedicated to “an unknown god.” 

There’s nothing more troubling to a pantheon of deities than a god left standing in an ignored corner of Mt. Olympus. Not troubling to the other gods, mind you, since their only concern is being worshipped as much as possible. Just imagine not having paid tribute to the one deity that’s in charge of keeping all the milk from spoiling. Bummer. 

You might have noticed that Paul is well-versed in the Greek form of rhetoric. He takes a stand, speaks of it, then argues every point against it, revealing the inaccuracy of each one. Then, after using all our words in support of the alternative to prove that it’s false, he returns to his point to reinforce its veracity. Preachers have been parsing his words for nearly 2,000 years, and we still haven’t covered all the bases. 

Getting back to my friend’s statement, I wonder what Paul would say after taking a long walk through Wilmington, Delaware. 

He wouldn’t have to go very far to see the many places of worship, the altars where the faithful present their own sacrifices to please the gods. If he came by sea, he could not miss the shrines rising into the sky, their names writ large to identify themselves. Chase. Barclays. WSFS. Highmark. Nearby he would find arenas where worship is encouraged. Although Paul might enjoy a good game of baseball or football and the like, he might question the huge tributes paid to the gods of celebrity and athletic prowess. 

If Paul found himself strangely transported by air, he would find a demi-pantheon just across the highway and along his journey into town. He might wonder what a burger is and why it needs a king, then explain who the real King of life is. Paul might see billboards advertising other arenas of worship and even a few places with his name on the front with the added word “saint.” 

In his own words, he might ask, "Was I crucified for you? Is Christ divided, as you divide yourselves invoking his name?” That’s just for starters. He would then wonder, out loud, mind you, why we’re devoting so much of ourselves to maintaining idled spaces while so many of our brothers and sisters are forced to sleep in tents in a park. Then, just to make his point, he would join those in the park to help them mend and support their tents all while telling them about his own encounter with the risen Christ.

He would probably tell them, while showing us, that the really big tent, the only one that truly matters, is the tent supported at its center by a cross. It’s a tent of love intended to gather all the world into its sheltering embrace, where Love itself makes us God’s children together as one as the body of our risen Lord continues to become manifest in our own time.
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I wonder if those who hear Paul and trust his words to be true will find that truth all around them as they journey through their lives in this place we all call home. If not, he would remind us that salvation is likely not to be found on social media. Heaven help us if he starts addressing that place of worship.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ The lectionary for the Easter season always seems to be a bit confusing. The first three Sundays all have events that take place on the first day, the day of resurrection. The Fourth Sunday is always Good Shepherd Sunday. Then Sundays five, six, and seven feature lessons from what’s known as the Farewell Discourse in John’s Gospel.
 
Today’s lessons begin with the martyrdom of Stephen, a deacon who is known as the first martyr of the church. His example is supposed to give us strength; his faith is about trusting the God who raised Christ from the dead even as Stephen is pummeled with rocks as religious authorities stone him to death. 

You might have noticed the identity of the man watching the coat closet at this event. Luke, the writer of the Acts of the Apostles, tells us that those wielding the stones laid their cloaks at the feet of a young man named Saul. This is the entry of the man who will become known as Paul the Apostle into the story of the first-century church. 

The gospels for today and for the coming weeks help us understand Jesus’ words preparing his closest followers for his imminent departure. Today’s lesson takes place immediately after the scene in the upper room. Jesus has shared supper with his friends. He has washed their feet and given them an all-encompassing new commandment—the mandatum novum, as it is known, from whence we get the name for the day we hear it. Maundy Thursday. 

For us, it seems strange. While there are seven Sundays in the Easter season, there simply aren’t enough gospel lessons telling us of post-resurrection appearances of the risen Christ so that we have different lessons for all the Sundays in the three-year cycle. And so, the lectionary prepares us for a coming event. Forty days after the resurrection, Luke tells us, Jesus met with his disciples on a hilltop. He raises his hands in blessing and is raised into the heavens, a day we call the Feast of the Ascension. 

But there’s something else at work in today’s readings. Today’s Psalm is part of the same one chosen for the Feast of Saint Stephen. You probably aren’t aware of that because the Feast of Saint Stephen falls on December 26, when most of us have other things on our minds. Today’s Psalm is also identical to the Psalm the lectionary chooses for Holy Saturday, also a day when we are usually too busy to stop and take notice. Yet this Psalm contains a sentence that Luke quotes from Jesus as he hangs on the cross. I'll let you look for that on your own. 

All this raises a question in my mind. What do we do when it seems that God has gone silent or has even gone away? 

​For a long time now I've been thinking that we seem to be stuck in this Holy Saturday moment. Jesus is gone, and even though we know what is to come in just another day, we don’t seem to be able to move beyond this moment.

While we wait, while we wonder what’s next, there are many opportunities made available for someone or something to come and enter the void in our hearts, in our minds, in our faith. At least one of the temptation stories heard on the First Sunday in Lent tells us that the tempter went away to wait for a more opportune time.

We are living in that more opportune time.

Luke, Paul, Peter, John—all the writers of the books and letters we now call the New Testament—expected the risen Christ to return to earth in their own lifetime. Even now, some 2,000 years later, there are those still expecting the risen Christ to return in a triumphant, military-style victory in our own lifetime. Some are so eager for this moment that they decided to try to bring it about by creating the chaos, the conflict that they expect to happen at that time. Yet faith stands silently while we wait in this moment between Jesus’ departure and his expected return. What do we do?

We remember. We remember ourselves—join ourselves together with Christ in as many ways as we might find possible. That is what the word "religion" means. We join as ligaments join muscles to bone and to flesh for movement, for signs of life, so that even though we stand on this day and time in between, we find life.

The church, that life that Paul calls the body of Christ, is to live into the uncertainty of the moment, just as the risen Christ moved into the uncertainty of death and transformed it into life in ways no one else could do. We are called to live into Jesus’ admonition to Philip, who asked Jesus to show us the Father. I can just imagine the incredulity in Jesus’ voice as he wonders out loud, "Have I been with you all this time, and you still don't get it?”

Then comes the statement that we all fail to live into. Jesus says if you don’t believe because I tell you who I am, then believe because of what you have witnessed. Indeed, you will do what I have done and even more, even greater things than I have done.

I can’t tell you how many times I've stood beside a hospital bed, a grave, or a crying parishioner with the full understanding that I have yet to live fully into that moment. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up. But it does mean I still have a lifetime of work to do. Most of that work is to open myself to be in the time and place where Jesus can fill me with his promised Spirit.
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It’s good to know that I’m not alone.