THE REVEREND E. WAYNE HOLLINS

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 Every seminarian hears words describing their future task, words which combine opposites into a single purpose. “Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.” 

Such is the case with the Apostle Paul in today’s Epistle lesson. It’s part of the second known letter from Paul to the church he founded in one of the more wealthy and sophisticated cities of his known world. Yet, Paul faces opposition from others, and we know some are itinerant preachers who either teach something different from what Paul taught, or might even use words to denigrate Paul himself. There may be some professional rivalry going on, or perhaps simply different understandings of the same message. 

Whatever it is, Paul questions the faithful in Corinth about their doubt in him. He seems to have heard of the boasting of his rivals, and claims that he can boast about himself much more, but doesn’t want to do that. It’s almost like saying “it goes without mentioning” just before you go ahead and do the mentioning anyway. 

So Paul tells a story. It’s about a “friend” (wink, wink) who was taken up to the heavens where the “friend” heard and saw things that cannot, or must not be described. And to keep from boasting about this so-called relationship, Paul reminds his readers that he’s talking about a “friend.” Wink. Wink. 

What he doesn’t say is that he dares his rivals to beat that one, and even if they can, Paul reminds everyone that boasting isn’t what it’s all about anyway. This is not an “I win, you lose” proposition. Paul’s gospel, his message to all the churches, is that in Christ, all are made winners, if we must use that word at all. And, Paul would say, we are made winners by the one exposed to the world as the biggest loser of them all. 

Jewish tradition speaks of one who is crucified as being an abomination to God. However we look at the cross, we are reminded of that teaching while also remembering who we say died that way. Talk about comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable. Usually the same person at the same time. Understanding the what of the cross while accepting the why is perhaps just one of the thorns in our own side. 

There is some comfort in knowing that Paul, and even Jesus sometimes had difficulty getting their work done. Today’s Gospel lesson is also told by Luke, who says that Jesus angered the people of Nazareth to the point that they wanted to throw him off a cliff. So instead of all the wonderful miracles they might have expected from the hometown boy made good, Jesus meets their consternation with what was probably even then a well-worn saying: “A prophet is not without honor save in his own
country.” Then he moves on to more fertile soil in which to sow the seeds of good news. And he tells his disciples that moving to fertile soil might also mean making sure you don’t carry the, um, fertilizer of others with you. 

We are the recipients of these words. Can we hear them for what they say, not just some two thousand years ago, but today, without rejecting them because they make us uncomfortable? Or will we get defensive and say with the people of Nazareth, “Just who does he think he is?” 

We are taught to present ourselves from a position of strength. We adore those things that project strength, whether it be the kind of house we live in, the car we drive, the trophies on the mantles, the pictures of well-dressed and smiling families taken well before the metaphorical gravy is sent flying across the Thanksgiving table. Personally, I’d like to see the slide show or at least a travel guide from Paul’s friend’s trip to the third heaven. Alas, for now I’ll have to let my imagination provide that. 

We’re not so quick to own the thorns in our own side, despite our tendency to identify them if they are something or someone “other.” Paul’s difficulty may be known to the Corinthians, but we don’t have a clue despite centuries of speculation. And it doesn’t matter. Because the thorn we need, the discomfort we require so often, is a reminder that God is God, and we are not God. 

Paul’s last statement in today’s lesson says more than words on a page. After boasting somewhat about not boasting, and being rather cryptic about some difficulty, Paul says what really matters. 

You see, the story we have to tell isn’t really about us. We’re not here to market ourselves as the biggest, bestest parish in the diocese. We’re here to tell those around us about Christ, and to be the body of Christ that continues to provide healing for the many afflictions of our time. We don’t always know how to do that. But, like Paul, when we are weak . . . . 

We don’t like to consider our weaknesses. Yet, when we consider our strengths, we often find hidden inside them our weakest points. Consider Paul’s “when I am weak, then I am strong.” Our strength in weaknesses comes from those two words, “I am.” I AM is what Moses heard from the burning bush. “I am” so many things to you, Jesus tells us in John’s Gospel. 

Scripture is filled with stories of weakness being overcome by the presence of the one who said ehyeh-asher-ehyehi, “I will be what I will be.” And so, in weakness we find ourselves amazed that the One who spoke those words to Moses is with us, joining our true selves in times when we are most human. 

It’s time to stop imitating the people of Nazareth or any rivals to the good news that may be close by. It’s time to admit and own our weakness, and to be comforted by the nearness of the One who said to Moses, ehyeh-asher-ehyeh, and identified himself so many times in John’s Gospel, ego eimi. I AM. And let God be who God will be so that God’s work shown to us through Christ Jesus might stay with us, calling us his home, completing his work among us. 

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE HOLLINS
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 There are several fairly easy paths to follow with this morning’s lessons. But this day is not an easy day, nor is the path we follow. 

One day I met my family at an all too familiar location. We gathered to say goodbye to my mother’s last brother, one of four. As I spoke with some cousins I had not seen in years, my aunt came up and gave me a hug. Then she said, “this is just so hard.” Despite many months of illness and declining health, the finality of this moment was overwhelming. Without thinking, I said, “It’s supposed to be hard. Giving up someone you love is not supposed to be easy.” 

It’s even worse when life is turned upside down and a child is taken before the parents. Life just isn’t supposed to work that way. I have had to stand with parents facing that awful moment, somehow finding the strength to say those words from our commendation rite, “even at the grave, we make our song Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” 

I learned a different perspective on what those words mean as I sat at the bedside of a young man whose life tragically ended. I sat in the hospital room with his brothers after their mother declared she couldn’t stay, not even in the building. One brother asked permission to play a song he had recorded on his phone. It was Leonard Cohen’s Alleluia. 

We sat together as monitors slowly tracked the departure of his brother from this life and I heard the words “a broken alleluia.” I understood then that at these moments, there is no alternative to a broken alleluia, for it comes from hearts that too are breaking. 

Grief touches so many aspects of our lives. But we are taught, and perhaps conditioned, to deny grief. We dress it up with appropriate lighting, surround it with flowers, and pictures and videos of happier times. But the heart knows what the brain might try to deny. Life is forever changed. Even if we can turn and walk away, we are not the same as we were when we entered. 

So much of our denial is our futile attempt to recreate a happier past, whether or not it is remembered accurately. I sometimes wonder if that denial isn’t also a seed sown by an adversarial being, planted in our culture to prevent us from taking the path to new life that is already laid before us. 

We lack a vision of that path. It may be clouded with tears, masked in confusion. We may have to sit patiently for awhile until the fog clears and we can see more than a few steps in front of us. Or, we might just have to take those first hesitant steps, having faith that we really are not at the edge of an imagined cliff. 

That is the story set before us this day. It’s difficult, in that the way to new life most likely leads us somehow through the pain of death. That is what Jesus tries to show us, that is the struggle of the woman who stretches with all her remaining strength to just get a slight touch of the hem of life itself. 

Those who passed this way before us may be like the father of the little girl in today’s Gospel. They may be pleading with Jesus to come quickly to us, to make things different from what they are, to enter into the most difficult time and place we’ve had to experience. 

The words come. “Get up.” Are we ready to do just that? Can we do the hard part and let go of old pains, of present uncertainty, of obscured visions of a future? Are we ready to get up and rise to the new life Christ promises, not just in some future time, but right here, right now? Are we ready to trust our illnesses of mind, body, and spirit to the Word made flesh? Can we let go of the crosses that want to keep holding us in death so that we might walk out of the tombs we create for ourselves? 
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There are hard, difficult questions. Faith calls us from broken alleluias into endless praise. That faith is God, not just something we have in God. The One who declared what was created as “good” keeps reaching into our tombs to call us into the goodness of abundant life. 

Letting go of many aspects of church life is not easy, even if we admit that we’re just not able to do all those things anymore. The alternative to letting go is frustration and burnout, often resulting in the falling away of those who worked so diligently to keep the former things from passing away. 

On Wednesday of this past week, The Right Reverend Sean Rowe was elected and confirmed to be our next Presiding Bishop. In his address to the House of Deputies gathered at General Convention in Louisville, Kentucky, Bishop Rowe included a quote from Thomas Merton’s Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander: 

“In a time of drastic change one can be too preoccupied with what is ending or too obsessed with what seems to be beginning. In either case one loses touch with the present and with its obscure but dynamic possibilities. What really matters is openness, readiness, attention, courage to face risk. You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith, and hope. In such an event, courage is the authentic form taken by love.” 

Letting go of a past we cannot change, and of our desire to control the present and the future is what allows us to participate in the new things God wants to accomplish in and for us. Letting go means those things that were so meaningful are trusted to a redeeming Love that is capable of accomplishing so much more than we can imagine. Letting go can also mean that God multiplies those things, transforming them and us into faithful people who are part of the continuing, and good, creation of life. But that is God’s decision, something we do not and cannot control. 

Are we ready for the uncertainty of what that looks like? I hope so. I pray so. And I hope the future generations that come into and through this place will look back on our hard, our difficult times and say, “it was good. Alleluia.” 

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE HOLLINS

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 I’ve mentioned to you some of what our recent diocesan clergy retreat was about. We gathered over a period of three days to listen and discuss a book written about the last book of the Bible, the Revelation to John, sometimes known as The Apocalypse. The author of the book about the book, Dr. Michael Battle, was with us to lead the four sessions we held during our retreat. 

I’m not sure that the discussion went exactly as planned, as our gathered assembly had a wide variety of experiences with the words written by John in exile on the Mediterranean island of Patmos. Some confessed an avoidance of the book altogether, because, let’s face it, some of it is quite strange and can be terrifying. Some of the milder, more assuring passages appear as our Epistle lessons during the Easter season. That will happen next year. Cue the theme from Twilight Zone. 

A few months ago, a friend re-posted something one of her friends posted on Facebook. It said, “If the Apostle Paul could see the church in America today, we’d be getting a letter.” At the beginning of our retreat, I met our bishop in the hallway and said that I wondered what John of Patmos would write to the church in Wilmington, Delaware. After all, you’ll find he already wrote to the church in Smyrna. 

Take a close look at what Paul wrote to the church in Corinth, a part of his second letter is today’s Epistle lesson. Paul can’t seem to emphasize enough the urgency of the time. “Now is the day of salvation! Now is the acceptable time!” “Get it now while supplies last!” Wait. Paul wouldn’t have said that. 

Contemporary readings of Revelation interpret John’s writing as a threat, following up with an urgent “get yours now before time runs out” message. There’s a whole series of books and quite a few movies based on the “Left Behind” interpretation. The real truth of that is it’s best to leave behind those books and movies. 

There is no end to wannabe prophets who look to every conflict, every suspicious act to point to a sign of the end of the world. I even raised the issue this past week in the context of trying to schedule an appointment with a doctor before that day arrived. I’m still waiting to see which comes first. 

During our retreat, I commented on the section that talks about a war in heaven, with Michael fighting the adversarial angel, who gets thrown down from the heavens. Jesus, in an apocalyptic section of Matthew’s Gospel, says something similar. In Revelation, the scene seems to occur at the same time as creation, putting the adversary, named Satan or the devil, on earth. To get revenge, those first humans, created in God’s image, are tempted and lured away from God. But the work didn’t end there.

The work of the adversary is to restore to chaos that which God called into order, and then said it was “good.” The war John retells in Revelation is on-going. But, just as it was in the beginning, the battle is within us, and works from within to spread its message outside ourselves. 

We do that in the choices we make. We reveal our inner thoughts, our presence of or our lack of faith, in times of chaos and uncertainty. We often find ourselves in the same boat with Jesus’ disciples in stormy seas, as unsure of who we are even as we find ourselves in the presence of the one who says, “peace, be still.” We forget that the Word made flesh spoke those same words “in the beginning.” That’s who Jesus is for us. Yet, the master of chaos and destruction keeps challenging us to answer the question of his and our identity. Paul says it well when he states that we have died with Christ so that we might also live with him. Some think that’s only in a time to come, ignoring Paul’s “now is the time, now is the day” statements. 

For those of us who need reminding, there is good news in John’s Apocalypse. That comes interspersed with visions of throngs gathered with God, but ultimately at the end, when, in my interpretation, Eden is restored. God’s dwelling place is on and with God’s created world, with God’s people, and finally, finally, chaos and destruction are themselves destroyed forever. 

Heaven and earth are joined together as one. Perhaps Paul or John will write us a letter telling us how that might come about here in Wilmington. Then again, maybe they already have. 

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE ROLLINS

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 In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a year filled with elections. Mexico was in the news last weekend, India this past week, and England is just around the corner. And within our own borders, the, shall we say, “aroma” of electoral possibility fills the air. And there seems to be enough warming of that air to alter anyone’s climate. 

One of the perks of studying Holy Scripture is the discovery that what might feel new to us isn’t really all that new after all. Ever since Moses left a bunch of former slaves on the east bank of the Jordan River, humans have looked for leaders who seem just like them to get a sense of direction. Joshua filled that role for awhile. Then there were judges, and some of the better of those were female. Then some early prophets came along. 

But the prophetic nature isn’t something passed along by genetic disposition. Samuel did well on his own, but his sons don’t follow in his footsteps. So the descendants of those led by Moses look around at what other people have, and decide they want a king. Samuel isn’t happy about that, but God says it’s okay. They’re not really against Samuel. Their real disagreement is with God. But, God gives Samuel permission to tell them they should really be careful what they ask for. They just might get it. 

As kings go, it’s still up to a prophet to anoint the one who will occupy the throne. That remains true today. Queens, kings and emperors or empresses are anointed by the highest religious authority in the land. It’s more of a way of being able to claim divine intervention or selection, mind you, but as our Gospel lesson reminds us, questioning whether that’s true might get us into more trouble. Despite the proclivities of many who claim to speak for God, God seldom uses a PA system to blast current news so that everyone can hear. 

Samuel tells those who have depended on his word for years just what will happen when they have a king. You’d think that his history of honest prophetic speech would carry some weight, but they’re afraid of what life might become without Samuel, so they start rejecting his words while he’s still standing there. 

So Saul is anointed King of Israel. Things go fairly well for awhile, but then Saul becomes paranoid and starts raving, seeing enemies all around. Thank God there are no tapes. I’ll leave the result of all this until next week, when we hear about Samuel’s next steps after God changes God’s mind and regrets naming Saul as king. And, yes, God changes God’s mind. Ponder that one for a week. 

All decisions have consequences. One dramatic consequence appeared during the reign of Israel’s first king, and continued as long as they had kings. Rivals came forward, even sibling rivalry, often taking lethal forms. Saul’s paranoia led to his downfall, and David’s anointing as King. David’s son, Solomon, succeeded him, but not after another son made his own claim to the throne as David lay on his deathbed. After Solomon, two of his sons set up rival kingdoms known as Israel, the northern kingdom, and Judah, the southern kingdom. 

So when Jesus tells his accusers “a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand,” all they have to do is remember their own history to find the truth in that statement. Most political entities since the time of Jesus won’t have to look too far, either. And that includes our own, which I sometimes wonder if it will continue to exist longer than I will. 

We are quick to identify ourselves in negative terms. We explain who we are by declaring that we’re not the other. We separate ourselves from our siblings in the faith by pointing out that we do things differently. We’re traditional. We’re conservative. We’re liberal, or progressive. We’re Rite One or Rite Two, or Anglican instead of Episcopalian. Orthodox or not. Seldom do I hear the word Christian, and it left at that. With all those other labels, and I’m speaking only about our denomination, Christian may be the most difficult to claim because our words contort themselves to avoid the chief indicator Jesus used to declare who we are, and are to be known. 

This is nothing new. Paul faced the same divisions in the church he himself planted in Corinth. It’s the old “where two or three are gathered there will be four opinions” stuff we laugh about, but is a painful truth too often present. 

So I’ll ask a question I often use to reorient a discussion. Where is God in the choices we make? Given what God said to Samuel about Israel wanting a king, the answer is likely on the sidelines, like a father watching his children play their games, hoping they all survive this part of it without severe injury. 

Ultimately we all too often see God exactly where the whole world can see God, according to scripture. Crucified, hanging on a tree, while most everyone else goes on about their business. And yet that same God comes to us, desires to be with us, to help us choose God instead of the gods we create for ourselves: to choose life by offering life to others, to heal pain and division by admitting and openly showing our own scars, to offer bread and wine to a hungry, thirsty world. 

That is where we find ourselves united—with each other in and across denominational and institutional differences, with the grace to admit that all differences do not require the death of a relationship—united by the Spirit that gives life to all of us and that unites us with God. 
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A kingdom divided against itself cannot stand. Admit that truth and our places in it. Then, let’s show the world what a kingdom united with itself, with others, and with God, can be. 

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE HOLLINS
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​One Sunday back when I was an organist, I finished the postlude and was standing at the doorway to the men’s robing room. That door was on the way to the fellowship room where coffee hour was well under way. A person whom I did not recognize approached me, as I was the only person in sight still wearing vestments. She introduced herself as a visitor, and then said, “where I come from no one leaves the nave while the candles are still burning. They’re supposed to be praying. Yours are still burning, and everyone else left.” 

It seems the acolytes became occupied with other things and forgot to extinguish the candles, which was a fairly common occurrence there. And Altar Guild folks hadn’t gotten around to that part yet. Anyway, my response was “Then you should still be in the church praying.” Needless to say, she made it to coffee hour before I did. 

Later on, as a priest, I served a parish that had the same ideas. I thought about asking the acolytes to not extinguish the candles after the service ended, because it was a place known as the most angry parish in the diocese. I wanted to tell them that the candles would keep burning until they treated each other with the same respect as they treated candles. I’ve grown a bit more of a spine since then. 

Today we have lessons that seem to offer opposing views. Our first lesson, from Samuel’s early days, seems to say that if we don’t follow the rules, then bad things are going to happen. Then, in the Gospel lesson, Mark seems to tell us that some rules were made to be, if not broken, at least somewhat bent. 

It’s an issue we have faced since the 1979 Book of Common Prayer was published. Whereas the “old” prayer book was fairly straightforward in many of its rubrics, the one we have now uses that nebulous word “may.” The Celebrant may say whatever words follow. The people may kneel or stand for any given prayer. While we are known for our pew aerobic exercises, the rubrics, or instructions, give us some flexibility. Individual parish traditions may have established some guidelines, but there’s that word again. Since we’ve gotten rid of the rope line at the door, not everyone has the same experience. 

Now that I think of it, perhaps putting a rope line at the door might cause passers-by to consider there’s something here worth standing in line for. There is, but we haven’t done a good job of getting that word out. But then we might need bouncers as well as greeters, which means some of you would need to spend more time at the gym for appearances’ sake. More rubrics. 

Today’s Gospel is Mark’s first mention of religious authorities aligning themselves with political authority in order to do something with this non-conformist from Nazareth. Jesus has questioned (in public!) their strict rules about Sabbath observance, even though picking a few grains of wheat from the stalks while walking by is very different from harvesting the whole crop. But, then, the Pharisees are looking for something to complain about, something they can use against others to point out their own superiority. 

Then Jesus uses a mysterious phrase that would get everyone’s attention. He calls himself the “Son of Man.”  Other evangelists use this title for Jesus. And we spend a lot of time trying to figure out what it means. It’s not new for us, just as it would have been familiar to anyone in Jesus’ time who studied and taught the scriptures. The title Son of Man has apocalyptic meaning, as it reaches beyond our understanding of family relationships into an expression of one whose identity reaches beyond mortal experience. 

There seems to be a lot of confusion around the title “Son of Man.” Sometimes it just means what it says, a child of a human being. But I’m going to wander into some speculation as I wonder whether the phrase sometimes means more than that. Hebrew Scripture usage of the phrase “son of man” often refers to a heavenly being who protects in times of danger, or of one who delivers a message. You might think of angels, and, indeed, that is the term used by many of our English translations of scripture. 

Then there are more dramatic events. As a child I often heard of three men who were punished for not obeying the order to worship false gods. The story is in the Book of Daniel. The three men are Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Those are Babylonian names given to them during the exile under King Nebuchadnezzar. They are bound and thrown into a furnace where the fire is stoked to be seven times hotter than normal. It's so hot that the accusers who get close enough to throw the men into the fire are themselves killed by the heat around it. To this day I’m not exactly sure whether this story was taught so often so we might be faithful, or what might happen if we disobeyed. More rules. 

But these three are not harmed. They are seen walking freely in the fire, and accompanied by a fourth being, who is sometimes called a “son of man.” This is a messianic figure who arrives to provide protection from the flames, a result so effective that after they walk out of the furnace Shadrach and friends don’t even have a faint aroma of barbecue. 
So when Jesus uses the title “Son of Man” about himself, is he pointing out to his accusers that their complaints are actually against his true identity, and therefore against God? 

As we will hear in coming weeks from Samuel, and as scripture tells us time and again, our strict adherence to rules and rituals might often reveal that we are in opposition to God. And while doing that, we are doing the opposite of what Paul tells the Church in Corinth. We proclaim ourselves instead of proclaiming God. We announce to others that grace is not as important as strict obedience. We turn that sixth day of creation on its head, attempting to create others in our own image. And we break commandment number one. We worship a god we create, instead of being a faithful child of the God who creates all life. 

And when we find ourselves in that position, then how we obtain food becomes more important than whether the hungry are fed. When we hold fast to regulations and rituals, there is no room for healing and wholeness, and the whole body begins to wither in imitation of the man’s hand shown to Jesus that day in the synagogue. 

There is an often overlooked sentence near the end of John’s Gospel. It comes in the farewell discourse, when Jesus is giving his final teachings to his followers before his arrest and crucifixion. In effect, Jesus says that he’s given his disciples all they’re able to handle at that point. But there’s more. That “more” will be given by the Holy Spirit when Jesus’ disciples are ready, or, actually, when the Spirit is ready to give it to us. As our own history shows, the Spirit is often more ready to give than we are to receive. 
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Does this mean that everything new is from God? Probably not. But to reject something, or someone, because of newness or distinct differences is only one way of protecting ourselves from seeing God at work with us. It is our way of looking at the Son of Man as just another person instead of hearing and seeing with eyes of faith. Devotion to candles is no substitute for living relationships of grace and forgiveness. 

There’s a purifying fire waiting for each of us in some way. In the Spirit of the Son of Man, may our presence in it be our path to true freedom, our lives after it be signs of the presence of the living God.