THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

“Fear not, little flock, for it is the Father’s good pleasure to give you the
kingdom.” These words of Jesus are meant to instill hope and relieve anxiety as he
“sets his face toward Jerusalem.” His followers, his “little flock,” have a pretty good
idea of what awaits him, and maybe them, when they get there.

The phrase “fear not” is said to appear in some form in scripture 365 times.
Personally, I haven’t counted, so I’ll take the words of others as true. That means you
get to be afraid once every four years, unless it’s at the turn of the century, when there is
no leap year. Maybe leap day is the one day every four years when God goes fishing.

There are legitimate reasons to be afraid. But many times we allow fear to
overwhelm us and prevent us from finding a way through a difficult time. You know,
maybe if we don’t say it out loud then it won’t be true sort of thing. Acting in response
to fear is one way to ensure our fears actually come to fruition, because they can be at
the very heart of our decision-making process.

In one way, fear can be the opposite of faith, or might even become a substitute
faith. Fear might be a sign that we’ve lost faith in God, especially when we work to
overcome fear by ways that diminish life, whether it be our own or for others. Fear can
be a manipulator, a way others use to cause us to bend to their will. It has been an
effective tool for winning many elections.

Fear can also cause us to forget the next part of Jesus’ sentence. “It is the Father’s
good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” Not just “good pleasure,” but Luke’s words
mean “great delight.” Think about those times when you’ve given a gift to someone
who expresses surprise or joy in receiving it. It makes you want to do it again, even if
you want to take some pride in your altruism. Take a little time later on to ponder the
humble joy of being altruistic. Go ahead. Feel a bit of what God feels in the gift of grace
toward us.

So, you might ask, and even if you didn’t, just what is this “kingdom” God wants
to give us?

It seems to depend on our understanding of the word “basileian,” which is the
Greek term Luke uses that is always translated as kingdom. We understand kingdom to
mean a geographical area under the dominion of a king, a person of royal lineage who
by birthright inherits the right and responsibility to rule that area. Most recently, we’ve
witnessed the transition from Queen Elizabeth II in England to King Charles III, her
oldest son. His oldest son, William, will succeed him, and his son, George, will follow
suit.

1Greek literature traces the meaning of basileian to Homer. He uses it to describe
the role of Penelope, the wife of Odysseus, who is gone for twenty years. She rules in
his stead, and her decisions are seen as his own. There are those who think Odysseus is
dead, since he’s been gone for so long, but she denies her suitors and continues to act
faithfully in his name. Eventually he returns home, and finds her faithfulness to be an
everlasting tribute to their fidelity to one another.

Sound familiar? The early Hebrew prophets denounced Israel, and eventually
Judah, as faithless spouses to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Hosea announces
the infidelity of Israel in graphic terms that in former times would cause much blushing
and cases of “the vapors.” But if you remember the opening words of our marriage rite,
you’ll get the connection. Holy Matrimony, we say, “signifies to us the mystery of the
union between Christ and his Church . . . .”

In the last book of scripture, The Revelation to John, the church is referred to as
the bride of Christ. This expands the description of God’s people found in the Hebrew
prophets, where God asks what caused them to stray and worship other gods, even
though, as God says, “I was their husband.”

So let me put this in contemporary terms. In effect, what Jesus says is that God
wants a faithful companion who will act and live in God’s stead—in God’s name—to
care for all God has created. In more intimate terms, we need to go back to Genesis and
the work of creation, where God breathes into the nostrils of the created human being
and gives it life. That life is part of God’s life, emanating from God’s own being.
So “fear not, little flock, for it is the Father’s pleasure to give you the kingdom”
really means that it is God’s delight, God’s joy, to give us life, and even more than that,
to share God’s life with God’s people. It is God’s delight, God’s joy, to see the people
Isaiah says are named “Mine” living as fully human while also continuing God’s work
of creation, of giving and sharing abundant life, with all that and whom God has
created.

This means that we are engaged in a mission, a people with a purpose that
transcends walls and street addresses and geography. We are engaged in theosis, a term
meaning that in some mystical way, we embody the presence of our Creator. How that
happens is up to God; it is God’s gift to us as a people. We do not become God, but we
remain fully human even though some regard celebrity status as godlike. When we
embody the presence of God, we become engaged in God’s eternal life, right here, right
now. And, to bring us back to earth, so to speak, it is the answer to our familiar prayer,
“your kingdom come.”

In case you’re wondering, that is why we’re here. Our buildings, programs,
liturgies, and everything else, are just commentary on our life with God and our living
interpretation of the life of God, and serve to answer whether our prayers, and our
lives, continue in the faithfulness to our eternal spouse, our husband, our God.
When we live into the fulness of what that means, why, it could be like heaven
on earth.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​Sometimes I find myself in a gathering where someone else is the host. If the
gathering includes a meal, someone will say it’s time to say grace. Everyone gets quiet,
waiting for the prayer—not the words—the pray-er, which usually means they’re
probably waiting for the professional to speak up.

Not wanting to intrude on the host, and also a bit curious about how others pray,
I stay quiet, and then that person will say a few halting words, or ask if I would offer a
prayer. Sometimes I wish they had asked, because someone has prepared a prayer so
long that the turkey gets cold and the jello salad begins to lose its shape. Admit it.
You’ve been there.

Jesus’ disciples ask him to teach them to pray. Two versions of what we call
“The Lord’s Prayer” can be found in scripture. Today we get Luke’s version; the other
is in Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount. Neither of these are exactly what we use in our
liturgies, and if you’ve attended services in other denominations, you’ll hear some
differences there as well.

Some say trespasses, others say debts. The International Commission on English
in the Liturgy, formed in the renewal movement of the sixties when Roman Catholics
moved from using only Latin, came up with the words we’ve recently been saying.
This has resulted in a bit of controversy, both theological and from the “thou shalt not
change” folks. In one parish, a person objected because he said, “only God can forgive
sins.” I referred him to Peter’s first letter and to Jesus’ own words near the end of
John’s gospel. Then there’s the thought that when we say “I forgive you” it’s actually
God at work through us. Another sermon, another time.

Let’s take a look at Luke’s words, starting at the beginning. The Greek word is
pater. Father, we say, in a way sounding like a very formal, even timid approach. Jesus
isn’t that formal. And in case you haven’t noticed, he’s not timid, either. The Aramaic
word is abba, and doesn’t mean the Swedish singing group. “Papa,” he says. Our more
familiar word might be similar to what a former co-worker taught her daughters to say
when they wanted their father to grant a particular request. “Don’t use the regular
word ‘Dad.’ Instead, say ‘Daddy’ and say it like the little girl he wants you to keep
being.” And yes, they’re still married.

Imagine wanting to ask your own father something, or just wanting a
conversation. You don’t use his formal name, and you don’t approach in fear or
apprehension. You know you are loved, and that he wants only your benefit. Imagine
that, even if it wasn’t or isn’t true in real life. What you ask may not be to your benefit
1and he may deny it, but you are still loved. Prayer, after all, is not a business
transaction.

This is not two friends greeting each other, although friendship may have some
of the same qualities. This is about a more intimate relationship. Abba. Papa. Daddy.
You don’t use a name, because that name is special, or as Luke and Matthew remind us,
holy. Remember rule number 3.

I once visited a parishioner who entered the hospital due to a problem that led to
a more threatening diagnosis. She was a busy professional who worked as a lobbyist,
and the legislature was due to begin its annual session. All the things she had on her
list were named, and after listening for a bit, I reminded her that getting well needed to
be at the top of that list. “What do you need just for today?” I asked. “After all, that is
what we pray for when we say ‘give us today our daily bread.’”

She stopped and thought about it, and then began to name those who could
shoulder some of her load while she focused on treatment and recovery. That would be
important in the long run, as treatment went on, but recovery did not. Having said
that, healing did occur in a few different ways, including making sure her relationships
with friends and family were the best they could be in the time she had left. And when
a very expensive treatment was found to be ineffective and state law said it must be
discarded, she used her professional abilities to change that law so that others might
benefit from what was left, the changed law now bearing her name.

I wonder if believing, and living, those words “give us today our daily bread”
would help us in our anxious times if we said instead “give us what we need for today
and we’ll deal with tomorrow when it gets here.”

Luke pulls the old switcheroo on us when we stop to think about his words
regarding forgiveness. “Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those indebted to us.” Part
of the law of Moses required that every seven years every loan, every debt, was to be
forgiven. Not after seven years had elapsed, but say, if next year was the appointed
seventh year, then the slate is wiped clean for a loan made this year just as it would be if
the debt was incurred five years ago. There would be quite a rush on mortgages and
car loans at the point of year 6.5. Of course, in today’s economy the interest rate would
be about 500%, unless the part of the law of Moses that forbids charging or receiving
interest is also remembered. There seems to be no rush to carve that one in granite and
place it on the courthouse lawn.

It’s not easy to forgive. It’s nearly impossible to forget. Consider what we could
face if the one we call Abba, Papa, our Father, remembers how long we’re able to hold a
grudge. Again, Scooby Doo. Ruh roh.

Jesus’ disciples, and indeed the writers of the Gospels, thought that the return of
Christ was imminent and that God’s reign would be established during their own
lifetime. Before that arrival, though, there would be many struggles for power and
control. By the time of Luke’s Gospel, near the end of the first century, much of this
2was taking place. Jerusalem is destroyed, its inhabitants scattered. Roman occupation
ruled with a heavy fist and iron boot, with burning crosses lighting the highways.
Those crosses weren’t just wood. The bodies of those crucified would be covered
with tar and set alight. It didn’t matter if they were still alive.
​
“Do not bring us to the time of trial” is a way of saying “save us from the evil
around us, help us to remember who, and whose we are.” In other words, help us to
not give in to the fear others use to make us capitulate to their demands. Keep us from
bowing to the god of prosperity and greed that demands we forsake those in need
among us. That takes us back to our beginning words, to the very reason why we can
pray in confidence. Abba. Papa. We converse not in fear, but with the very source of
our life, a life founded and lived in love. Because of that, we can live in love, pray in
mutual love and then, as our familiar words remind us, “walk in love as Christ loved us
and gave himself for us, an offering and sacrifice to God.”

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Take a moment, if you will, and think about the last person you expect to meet in
heaven. Or maybe it will be the person you really don’t want to meet there. Go ahead,
go with your gut, your first response.

Got it? Now think about your response when you hear Jesus tell you that this
person is your neighbor, and, to borrow the label given to today’s parable, “good.”
Luke tells us that Samaritans and Jews do not hold things in common. That is
the understatement of the year whenever it’s read. After the death of Solomon, two of
his sons set up rival kingdoms—one based in Jerusalem, called Judah, and one known
as the northern kingdom in Samaria, called Israel. The northern kingdom is the location
of Jacob’s well, and to those who live there, a central place of worship equal in
significance to the Temple in Jerusalem.

About eight centuries before the time of Jesus, prophets such as Amos, Micah,
Hosea, and the first one named Isaiah warned the northern kingdom, Israel of the error
of its ways. Those errors included neglect of the poor, mistreatment of the aliens living
there, and assorted manifestations of idolatry. Hold the writings of those prophets
alongside today’s daily news.

The Assyrian army attacked Israel and destroyed the kingdom before heading
toward Judah. Judah was spared that time, but those left in the ruins of Israel were
forced to intermarry outside their faith. So, in the eyes of the Judeans, they were not a
pure race of people according to the law of Moses. Unlike Judah after the Babylonian
exile a few centuries later, the northern kingdom was not rebuilt.

The two groups—Samaritans and Judeans, now known as Jews—became not
only rivals, but bitter enemies. I’ve been told by one rabbi that in the first century, if one
met the other on the road, they were each sworn to try to kill the other.
So, when a young lawyer meets Jesus and professes his obedience to the law, he
lays a trap for Jesus. Little does he know that Jesus knows a trap when he sees it. When
Jesus defines the word “neighbor” as a culturally sworn enemy, and, therefore, as one
whom the lawyer is commanded to love by the same law he proudly confesses to keep,
he finds himself caught in his own trap.

Consider that as you imagine another scene. You’re standing in the hot sun on a
desolate hillside when you hear the words “Father, forgive them.” You look up and see
eyes focused on someone holding a hammer, another a few extra iron spikes. Then they
move and focus on you. And me. And on that person we least expect to see in heaven
or really don’t want to meet while on earth.

Many of us live in or have lived in neighborhoods where those living around us
looked and spoke just like us. In some cases, neighborhoods were designed and
marketed as suitable for those who looked and talked alike, ensuring some that their
definition of neighbor would be comfortable and self-assuring.

Now those distinctions, those divisions might be more along lines of economic
status, as housing costs and property values are often designed to make those
differences evident to any who might otherwise hope to live nearby. Homeowners’
associations help enforce some of these distinctions, because property values are more
important in our culture than truthfully answering the question “who is my neighbor”
with the reply, “everyone Jesus died for.” Everyone is the only real answer to that
question.

So, to turn the familiar Fred Rogers question to the flip side, we might go ahead
and ask “will you be my neighbor?” At the same time we ask it, though, we must also
ask “may I be your neighbor?” And no matter what the answer is to either form of the
question, continue to show mercy, offer healing and consolation, even share the
uncertainty that new relationships bring to our lives. Listen to the stories new
neighbors have to tell, and share your own. Most of all, let the story of the merciful love
and grace of God be the foundation of it all.

The world has its fill of how to make enemies. The lawyer testing Jesus asks
“who is my neighbor.” Jesus’ response at the end of the parable tells him to go and be a
neighbor to find the answer to his own question. The Body of Christ, the followers of
the living God, exists to make neighbors so that everyone might share in the identity
Jesus offers to all. That identity? Friends.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Recent studies have revealed what many of us already knew. Church attendance
is down—way down. In our diocese, we gathered just a few weeks ago as a
congregation met one last time for worship in its familiar building. At our recent clergy
conference we were told about one that closed a few years ago who gathered for the
deconsecration of the building two days before its sale was final.

Some of you here remember a time when pews were comfortably filled, even
when they weren’t cooled to an accepted temperature. There may be some who also
remember wearing suits and hats and gloves on those occasions. Many continue to look
around and ask “where is everyone?”

That doesn’t seem to be a question that Jesus cares to answer. Instead, Jesus
might ask a question that gets more to the point. But then, he probably wouldn’t even
ask the question. He would just make a statement.

“The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few. Therefore, ask the Lord of the
harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.” We just sang a hymn that echoes what we
call “The Great Commission.” Matthew puts it this way: Go and make disciples. Luke’s
version is a bit more subtle while also getting down to business. Go on your way.
Don’t worry about what you will take or what you will need. Those who welcome you
will take care of that.

But . . .? But what? What if they don’t? Where will we eat or sleep? Don’t
worry about that, Jesus says. If they don’t welcome you, they’re really rejecting me, and
what’s more, they’re rejecting God. Let God handle that. Just know that when they
welcome you, they welcome me, and they welcome God. Tell the story. Do my work.
Heal the sick, send a few demons packing.

Do you understand what Jesus’ words mean? When we’re doing God’s work,
telling the story of grace and forgiveness in whatever form we use, it’s not just us doing
the work. God is with us, God is there. This also means that our work is not about us.
It’s about God. Otherwise, we substitute ourselves for God, and violate rule number
one.

We—all of us, not just the ordained—are laborers whom God sends into the
harvest. We walk into some fields that are plowed and ready for planting, and some
that are rocky and overgrown from years of neglect.

A few weeks ago I said to a couple of our members that I thought it was time that
we started collecting dust to form into human shapes. Some might call that getting back
to basics, to the beginning. My comment was that the more traditional method of
forming human beings didn’t seem to be working as well as it used to.

The baby boom many of us grew up in was an unusual time. Birth rates grew at
an astounding pace. Jobs seemed to be created out of raw firmament and houses and
schools sprang up on what was once mostly farmland. The house I now live in is in one
such development that sprang up in the mid-1980s. Then, the second wave of births
was expected as baby boomers married and had children.

That was how congregations grew. But birth rates declined, and many opted to
not have children at all, even if they got married. It seems we need to find a different
way of creating children.

You might think that strange, but what I mean is that we need to rediscover what
it means to create children of God, or, to use Matthew’s words, make disciples. So-
called church growth programs don’t really work, and I believe God turns away from
them because they focus on the wrong thing. We aren’t laborers for a harvest to gather
bodies into our empty pews. We don’t make disciples of budgets.

Instead, we are called to live our lives as a revelation of God’s presence with us.
The name chosen for this place, Immanuel, is so much more than a sign on the corner.
It is our reason for being, our purpose. Our task is to live in such a way that the Spirit
of God that wafted over the waters at creation, that gave and continues to give life, is
our invitation to join in the community of believers. We are created in human flesh,
then re-created (Paul uses the word “adoption”) in the waters of baptism. Perhaps,
when we come to the full revelation of who we are as children of God, we will finally
understand what it means to be both created and begotten.

We are sent into a harvest to tell the story of a God who appears in human form,
and in some way to be the evidence of God’s presence, the revelation of the risen Christ.
This is the same God who calls life into being and sustains that life by being part of it.
The presence we carry, that really carries us into the harvest field is that of a Creator
who gives life where sickness and death threaten to take it away. It is a story of One
whose presence stands firm in faith in the face of cruelty and oppression. It is an
acclamation that, even when it seems all is lost, God shakes new life out of the death-
dealing ways of the world.

We don’t have to fight evil, except when it tries to take control of our own lives.
We can stand in the strength of the risen Christ and announce that God has already
overcome sin and death, standing with the faith of Jesus that holds true to this day. The
adversary, Satan, Jesus calls it, wants chaos to overshadow that truth. And when we
give in to chaos and its fuel, anxiety, we risk doing Satan’s work and not the work of the
new day Christ gives us.

Because this day is the day of the new age declared on a lonely hill outside
Jerusalem. It is the day where the strange fruit on a desolate tree blossomed into new
life. It is the day when evil itself remains fallen, overcome by the unending power of
the life of the living God.

Laborers for this day are still needed. Are you ready to sign up for the work
given for us to do? The joy of new life for us and for all who welcome the story that is
ours to tell depends on your answering “yes.”

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​ You will be hearing the word “liberty” a lot this week. You’ll also be hearing a
lot about how that liberty is gained, along with phrases like “freedom isn’t free” and the
like. Most of what you will hear is not biblical, and at most only marginally Christian.
Paul speaks a lot about liberty in his letter to the Galatians. Primarily, he
counters some who came to Galatia after Paul introduced them to the way of Jesus.
These new teachers tell the Galatians that in order to be saved, they must enter into the
same covenant of Abraham and follow the law of Moses.

Paul is furious that some have adopted these teachings, despite what he taught
them. After venting some of his anger, he reiterates what he said in the beginning. He
reminds the Galatians of the source of their true freedom as well as defines what that
freedom means to them.

Many want to define freedom as the liberty to do what you want when you
want. That attitude just raises Paul’s blood pressure. He reminds them, and therefore
us that following Jesus isn’t just a “get out of jail free” card. That’s not what baptism is
about.

It’s also not about ensuring our way through the pearly gates, as if the time
between baptism and death is a libertine free-for-all. That idea isn’t new; it led many
during the first centuries of the church’s life to wait almost until their last breath to
receive baptism, because if you sinned after baptism, then it couldn’t be repeated and
you were doomed forever. I don’t know if there were any who woke up in eternity
saying “oops, misjudged that one,” but the mind wonders while it wanders.
“For freedom Christ sets us free.” Free to be free. Free for what?

Today’s Gospel doesn’t give us any warm, fuzzy answers. Jesus is moving out of
Galilee on his way to Jerusalem. His disciples try to tell some Samaritans about him,
and face rejection because of the deep enmity between Samaritans and Judeans. That
goes back to the destruction of the northern kingdom of Israel during the time of the
first prophet Isaiah, some seven centuries before Jesus’ time. When we get to it, we’ll be
reminded of the shocking quality of the Good Samaritan parable. It’s like telling
extreme followers of either political party that there are good folks on the other side,
and not just those who agree with us after they’ve done something that just seems
wrong even if they support us or our side of the issue.

Christ sets us free to be in relationship with those who might be outcast and
avoided because of who they are. “Foxes have holes and birds have nests but the Son of
Man has nowhere to rest his head” means that, in effect, God is a wandering, homeless
being seeking refuge, which is to be found in the hearts and communities of believers.
But Jesus doesn’t accept refugee status as being free for himself. What he is free to do,
by his example and his crucifixion, is reveal to us just how we all too often treat our
homeless God.

But there’s another aspect to the freedom Jesus gives. His death on the cross and
his resurrection from the dead by God’s hand sets us free from fear of punishment,
allowing us to do the right thing for all those whom Christ died to save.
He sets us free to love.
​To love those whom our culture despises.
To love those who think themselves unlovable because others lack the Spirit of love.
To be blunt, Christ sets us free by loving the hell out of us so that we find the freedom
to stop living in and even creating hell for ourselves and others.

And when others try to sustain that same fear, that hell on earth through threats
and outright retribution, Christ ultimately sets us free to live forever in God and God
living forever in us.

And, finally, the Son of Man has somewhere to rest his head along with the foxes
and the birds. Those in whom the risen Christ lives, whom he sets free from fear of
death, are free from sin that wants to keep us enslaved, which the only thing sin can do
because sin itself is never free, in any sense of the word.
​
So how and where do we find that freedom? In the same way Christ did—by
offering freedom to any and all whom sin enslaves, despite the diligent work of some
who cannot accept true freedom and keep denying it for others. We are only free when
we find ourselves at liberty to offer and allow freedom, even if we think some don’t
deserve it. Because if they don’t know true freedom, neither do we.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Each lesson today presents a variety of topics for the preacher. And, since we
come to these without the “back story,” we could spend a lot of time building up to
where we want to be. It’s a good thing that it’s summertime, and none of us have
anything to do for the next, say, 50 hours.

Now that the high holy days are completed, we return to the Gospel of Luke and
the story of the demon-possessed man in the Gerasene region. He lives in caves on the
eastern side of the Sea of Galilee, a geographic distinction that tells us Jesus, for the only
time in Luke’s Gospel, goes into Gentile territory.

The interpretations of this story are, to borrow a term, legion. The man, who
remains unnamed, is almost unrecognizable as a human being. You might compare
him to the creature Gollum from the Lord of the Rings, a being changed from the human
once known as Smeagol. He is a hobbit by birth, but his obsession with the ring of
power changes him, to his destruction on many levels.

We can make much use of our time talking about the pigs. They are an obvious
sign that this is not Jewish territory, and that their presence means they are also a vital
part of the livelihood of the residents. The response to the pigs’ failed attempt to
imitate Esther Williams or Michael Phelps contributes to that conclusion.

A bit of ancient Middle Eastern mythology is at work here. Evil spirits were
believed to be intolerant of water, as it would lead to their destruction. I can imagine a
whole evening’s discussion about baptism beginning with that idea. Or, you can let
your mind wander over to the scene where the Wicked Witch of the West is dissolved
in The Wizard of Oz. It’s a whole other discussion of that movie’s slightly hidden
purpose to be a parody of religion itself. It also presents the pigs as having the wisdom
to do what’s necessary to rid themselves of demons, something human beings don’t
seem to be able to do.

I come to today’s Gospel with a bit of puzzlement. The demons know who Jesus
is. His companions on the boat aren’t quite so sure about him. Jesus asks who the
demons are as if he doesn’t know. Another aspect of ancient thought comes to the fore.
By calling someone by their proper name, we exercise not only familiarity, but often
assume a position of authority over them. Notice that idea when we call those with
some authority over us by their given name, even a nickname, and not by title, which
recognizes their authority. I’ll refer you back to commandment number three to begin
that discussion.

That leads me to wonder whether we might be able to name the demons in our
own lives who know very well who we are. We each have many identities in our
1relationships with others. Son, daughter, husband, wife, aunt, uncle, grandchild, sister,
brother, friend, neighbor. You get the idea. Those identities help us navigate our
relationships and act appropriately while living in them. Names are different. They go
to the core of our being and remain with us throughout and in every aspect of our lives.
I’ve sometimes questioned what that means to the choices made in changing names
because of the marriage relationship. Again, only the beginning of that discussion.

There is a name given to us that we often forget. It was given to Israel as a
reminder when they were much farther from their home than in today’s Gospel. Li-
attah. Mine. It’s a name given to us in Holy Baptism when the priest marks us with a
special oil, called chrism. The words you are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and
marked as Christ’s own forever are said at that time. Isaiah’s words are from God—I have
called you by name. You are Mine. Capital M. It is a name given to us by God, whom we
call Father, at our rebirth in baptism, much as our own names are given to us by our
parents at birth.

Legions of demons want to obscure that name by replacing our God-given name
with their own. Hatred, greed, selfishness, jealousy, power, wealth. The list goes on. It
might also include “past-clinger,” whether it be fondly remembered or manifest as a
growing anger. All of these want to prevent us from living the truth of our name given
in Baptism. Christ’s own. Mine. A name given at rebirth, a name of promised new life.
The waters of Baptism are a sign of our redemption by the same God who spoke
to Israel by the waters of the Euphrates and that cleansed a wild man by the sea of
Galilee. The font stands at our entrance here to remind us not just who we are, but
whose we are by virtue of God’s word made present in the sacrament.

We carry the presence of the One by whom we are named when we offer
compassion and healing and new life wherever we find ourselves stepping out of our
safe boats. It can be overwhelming at times, and not everyone will join us in agreement.
After all, sometimes the demon of self-preservation, often referred to as “the devil we
know,” causes us to reject the healing love found in the risen Christ.
​
And when that happens, and all else fails, follow the lesson in today’s Gospel.
Return to the font, remind yourself of your baptism and its sign of the removal of all
that stands between us and God. In other words, in some life-giving way, be the pig.

One of my first seminary courses was Church History. Near the end of the first
semester, we re-enacted the Council of Nicaea, held in 325. Constantine was the
emperor, and he had recently declared Christianity an accepted religion in the empire.
However, friction remained as a threat to the pax Romana, because rival sets of belief
caused real fighting among many followers of the Prince of Peace.

The result of the council in 325 was the framework for what we now call The
Nicene Creed. At issue was the nature of Christ. Was the man Jesus of Nazareth both
human and divine, or was he human and made divine at the resurrection or ascension,
or both, or was he always divine and somehow only appeared to be human flesh? Real
battles ensued over how those questions and related ideas were answered, and the
council hoped to settle the issue once and for all.

In that seminary portrayal, I played a major part. I was Arius, a presbyter who
held that Jesus was only human, not coeternal wih God, but created by God. The
Arians among those gathered found themselves the losers when the final votes were in,
and Arius was declared anathema, and banished from the sacramental life of the
institutional church. It’s important to note that, while much biblical and revelatory
foundation for what we say we believe is true, the “official” documents were decided
by a vote among gathered leaders. Some may wonder whether God had a vote, or even
paid attention. The lasting qualities of the outcome suggests that the answer is yes.
Later on, when Arian-friendly leadership returned to the institution, Arius was
to be reinstated into the life of the church. However, on the night before he was due to
receive the sacrament again, he was poisoned and died. So, as you can tell, the work of
the council didn’t really settle things in everyone’s mind. Contentious politics didn’t
develop in our own time. Indeed, several centuries lapsed before actual military action
forced what’s called “Arianism” to the sidelines.

It was actually a bit fun being the chief heretic at that re-enactment, and
occasionally, still is. I do try to avoid blasphemy while tip-toeing through the tulips of
heresy, mind you. I think that’s an important distinction to be made.
Having said all that, let’s take a look at that creed we now take for granted, and
see if there’s still something to be learned from the words we often say without really
thinking about them.

One of the more important phrases comes at the beginning. “We believe in one
God . . . .” As opposed to the older Apostle’s Creed, this one speaks of community. We
believe, not “I” believe. Setting aside the meaning of belief itself, the next important
word is not God, but “one.”

Scripture tells us time and again that there are many gods. The life of Israel is a
continual struggle with their devotion to rival gods. Indeed, their name, Israel, means
“strives with God.” You can read through the historical books of Kings and Chronicles
and find them straying from the God who brought them out of Egypt. The Psalms, too,
point us to the knowledge that there are many rivals to worship of the God whose name
first given to Moses is, “I WILL BE WHAT I WILL BE.” Take an honest look at how we
treat, even revere some we call celebrities, or political or business leaders. In some
communities, especially poorer ones, that applies to anyone who seems wealthy. We
haven’t strayed too far from ancient Israel’s worship of the baals. We’ve just renamed
them.

But we say believe in ONE God. Emphasis on “one.” Then we go on to confuse
things by naming aspects of this one inclusive and expansive God by how we know this
one God, including in three persons.

We believe in one Lord. This title, given to Jesus of Nazareth, the risen Christ, is
carried from an ancient name for the God of Israel. In order to avoid taking the proper
name of God in vain and keep the third commandment, a word, Adonai, is used in
Hebrew scripture. We see it translated in our widely used version as LORD, using small
capital letters for the word. You’ll see that in this morning’s first reading and the
Psalm. That way of writing “Lord” is also used to indicate a different Hebrew proper
name for God—Elohim, although then it could be for the word “God” instead of Lord,
reading as Lord GOD. It keeps proofreaders off the streets and out of trouble.
​
Our creed, therefore, states a belief that Jesus of Nazareth is the cosmic Christ
who existed with God before creation, and who not only reveals, but is the activity of
God, as things happen when God speaks at the moment of creation itself. It’s what
John’s Gospel points us to with his words, “In the beginning was the word, and the
word was with God, and the word was God.” Whole sections of libraries exist with
attempts to explain what that means. Then God speaks again, and another book or,
eventually, a whole new shelf is added.

The Creed goes on to begin to explain who Jesus, the Christ, is. Then there are
statements about the Holy Spirit whose work continues to reveal God’s presence in the
world and in our lives. Particularly, the Creed points to that work as seen in Christ’s
church. The origin of the Spirit became a later issue in the church, resulting in the
East/West schism in the eleventh century.

We can spend a lot of time debating whether the Creed means the institutional
church or the body and community of individual believers. But there are always those
who will channel their inner Torquemada, so some caution might be advisable. That
leads me to a question that I continue to try to answer. Which is more important—what
we say we believe or what God has done before those creeds were developed?
I think you know the answer I lean on. It’s related to Paul’s statement in Romans
regarding the faith of Abraham and the giving of the law. In a nutshell, the earlier
event is what saves us. The later writings help us by guiding our lives, but they alone
cannot save us. That is Paul’s point in today’s second lesson.

Constantine tried to keep the peace. We all know how that worked out. That’s
due to the practice that, in order to be part of the institutional church, one had to adhere
to a statement of faith. That became more important, in the eyes of many, than the
work accomplished on the cross of Jesus and God’s answer to all that by raising him
from the dead.

My hope is that this will lead to further discussion. For now, as I said earlier, it’s
still sometimes fun to be the heretic.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

It is observed that we live in what’s called a “post-truth age.” About a decade
ago, a senior advisor to the president stated that they had “alternative facts.” That same
president is back in office, and throughout his public history has kept a whole fact-
checking industry in business. It may be his greatest contribution to employment
numbers.

While many are alarmed at these statements, they’re not all that new. It’s not
like the last decade suddenly saw the immediate arrival of those alternative facts.
We’re here today because that same process tried its best to undermine to activity of
God, made known in Jesus of Nazareth. And we can celebrate today because God
revealed a truth beyond any of those alternatives.

Jesus prepares his disciples for his departure from them. In John’s Gospel, that is
through his death. He appears a minimum of three times after his resurrection, and we
have heard those stories this year. He says he must leave so that the Spirit of Truth can
come, who will speak to Jesus’ followers, continuing his teaching as time goes on.
It’s that part of today’s Gospel that often gets overlooked, or, in our quest to hold
onto what we’ve been taught and experienced, ignored. The result of that, as it is in our
political climate, is conflict.

“The Spirit of Truth . . . will lead you into all truth.” Jesus tells us later in this
farewell discourse. “The Advocate, whom [God] will send in my name, will teach you
everything . . . .” Jesus refers to the Advocate, sometimes called Paraclete, the promised
Holy Spirit five times in this discourse. In other words, there’s more to this life of
discipleship than what was covered in confirmation class.

I once taught a class I called Episcopal 101. We covered the time frame from the
English Reformation up to recent history. At that time, debate was raging over the
consecration of Gene Robinson as a bishop. In my parish, the debate continued over the
ordination of women, even though our diocesan bishop was female. Now, they have a
gay bishop diocesan, whose husband is their priest-in-charge. The Advocate continues
to define “irony” for us.

Look at our history as a nation. This weekend, now known as Memorial Day,
came about as “decoration day,” a day of mourning when the graves of soldiers who
died in the Civil War were visited and flowers placed upon them. Now, it’s the
beginning of summer, with cookouts, fireworks, and other celebrations that serve to
distract us from the pain and destruction of war, which makes it easier to start new
ones. The nation’s longest continuous Memorial Day parade, which may have a few
small groups of veterans of previous conflicts marching in it, is more of a two- to three-
1hour advertisement of where to buy stuff. I know this because it lined up in front of the
house where I lived for four years. They have learned something true, though. After
many years of, shall we say aromatic missteps, they put the horse brigades at the end of
the parade.

Some might point out that Jesus says there are things the disciples just aren’t
ready for, and the Spirit will fill them in when they’re ready. So, what if we’re not
ready? That’s when we might create alternative facts to try to isolate us from the truth.
That leads to more conflict among ourselves. It also puts us in conflict with God.
Let me add that we don’t always know whether current events are from the hand
of God, and the teaching of the Holy Spirit. When the early church began to rise,
leaders of the Hebrew faith met in Jerusalem to discuss what to do about it. Many
wanted to stop it. But one leader, Gamaliel, who happened to have a student named
Saul, now Paul, said to his friends, “If it is not of God, it will not last. But if it is of God,
and we oppose it, we could find ourselves opposing God.” We’re about as far from
Gamaliel and friends as they were from Abraham. So it’s probably safe to say God’s
hand is at work as both continue side-by-side.

Truth is not always convenient, nor is it always comfortable. But we follow one
who said of himself, “I am the way, the truth, the life.” To deny truth is to deny Jesus,
which in turn is to deny God. To deny truth, in effect, makes us atheist, at least in part,
despite our self-imposed claims to identities. I say “in part” because when we make up
our own truth, we make the case that we are, for ourselves and those who want to
follow us, our own god.

We are called to speak the truth in love, which means that we speak words that
are true, with the intention that those words build us all up and bind us together in the
truth of the love of God. Truth is not self-serving, meaning to condemn others and
make us superior. Truth’s intention is to be life-giving, even when its words expose our
guilt and the error of our ways.

Conflict is the evidence that not every side wants to admit Truth. There is no
“agreeing to disagree” when it’s just an avoidance of an uncomfortable truth. And
allowing room for all to believe what they want to believe does not allow the insistence
that others believe the same. God’s truth, revealed by the Advocate, the Paraclete, the
Holy Spirit, lives outside individual belief.
​
In short, if it is of God, it is true. Alternatives, to our lives as disciples of Christ,
are revealed as nothing more than self-serving lies, and show that we only worship
ourselves. And that’s the truth. I’m going to resist Lily Tomlin’s exclamation point.

THE REVEREND E. WAYNE ROLLINS

Today’s lessons echo some we hear throughout the church year. The first lesson
from The Acts of the Apostles recounts a story we often hear on Easter Sunday. The
second lesson is similar to some we hear during Advent, and then possibly at a funeral.
And the Gospel contains an omitted section of the Maundy Thursday gospel.
All three have a common thread. In fact, it’s the thread that runs through all of
Holy Scripture. That thread is faithfulness.

Peter is called before church leaders in Jerusalem. It’s sort of like being
summoned to the bishop’s office. Or, perhaps more generally understood, to the
principal’s office or those dreaded words some of us heard as a child. “Just wait until
your father gets home!” Sorry about those flashbacks.

Peter is charged with answering an accusation that sometimes begins with either
“we’ve never done it that way before” or “we used to do it this way.” The charge? He
baptized Gentiles. He didn’t take time to circumcise the males, or put them all through
catechism. What he did was witness the presence of the Holy Spirit in those Gentiles
before he even baptized them, and decided he’d better catch up to what God was
already doing.

Peter had just gone through a couple of change of life issues himself. First, he
stayed with a guy named Simon, whose profession was a tanner. Simon handled the
bodies and skins of dead animals, coming into contact with blood. That made him
unclean. That also made it possible that guests in his house were unclean. Then, Peter
fell asleep before dinner, but he was hungry. So he dreamed about food. Not roast
lamb with couscous and a side of potatoes and tabouli. He dreamed about scorpions
and snakes and other creepy crawly things he wouldn’t find on the local kosher buffet
or salad bar.

“What I have declared clean you shall not declare unclean,” says the Voice of
God to Peter. So, rather than being faithful to his traditional teaching, Peter is changed,
converted, if you will, into faithfulness to this new thing God is already doing.
John, in exile on the island of Patmos, has a vision of the new Holy City of
Jerusalem. We have a more contemporary vision of that city before us. Both draw
upon traditional understandings and familiar structures. But there’s something
different about it all, beginning with one basic understanding. The city John sees is
something God gives, not something made by human hands or planned by
contemporary architects and artists.

1The city that God will give is based on a foundation laid by Jesus himself when
he met his closest friends for supper just before he was arrested. Today’s Gospel picks
up just after Judas leaves the room, albeit with a full stomach and clean feet.
Jesus gives the mandatum novum, the new commandment. He goes so far as to
tell his followers that they will be known by how they live this commandment. Not
about how they followed a set of rules, or demanded that others do the same. “Love
one another as I have loved you. By this they will know that you are my disciples, that
you have love one for another.” I happen to believe that he was still thinking about
Judas when he said that.

Now, before we turn love into just another law that we have to follow, let’s
consider it instead as the foundation for who we are and all that we do. We have stories
about how others have done that in preparing for us to follow, and not just for
themselves. The image in front of us grew from a desire springing from John’s words
about God being the light of the new Jerusalem, “a golden light, [with] clouds that
would symbolize the joyous feeling of life over the Holy City.”

Our faithfulness, our real faithfulness, is to the God who is Alpha and Omega,
who was and is and is to come, who said to Moses “I AM WHAT I WILL BE.” Future
tense. We are called to be faithful to that God who isn’t finished creating us yet. Our
faithfulness is, therefore, to who we will be and to where we are going. Having said
that, I can imagine some conversations might yet begin with “we used to . . .” or “we
never did it that way . . . .” Sometimes those sentences can give us something on which
we can build. But, too often, they tend to serve as a means to control or stifle the Holy
Spirit, and we find ourselves standing at another buffet of scorpions and snakes. I don’t
really care if they do taste like chicken. And I’m hoping there isn’t time to prepare a
special paté for coffee hour.

How do you imagine the new Jerusalem? What would Wilmington, Delaware
look like if we lived that idea, based in love for all creation in the same way God loves it
and all who live in it? I ask these questions because the new Jerusalem is to be our way
of life as followers of the crucified and risen Christ. The new Jerusalem is found where
Jesus’ followers bear his cross of love, and help shoulder that burden when others find
it too heavy to carry for themselves.

This isn’t a yellow brick road, and we don’t need to concern ourselves with the
false prophets behind the curtain. We follow the true and living Lamb of God, and we
carry the light of that life into the darkness of our own time. We don’t grow weary of
waiting for the new Jerusalem and try to build it ourselves through judgement and
legislation. We live the life of the new Jerusalem as the godly alternative to those
attempts.

That is who we are, and we are known because the Holy Spirit speaks to us and
works through us to reveal the light of God’s love to all who live in the despair of
darkness. God’s gift is the New Jerusalem, where God’s people are the embodiment of
Love itself, for the healing and consolation of those seeking the new world that God creates
​as the place for our future life in God’s eternal presence.

THE REV. E. WAYNE ROLLINS

​The Fourth Sunday of Easter is designated Good Shepherd Sunday. All three
years of the lectionary cycle contain Psalm 23, and the Gospel lesson is always a portion
of the tenth chapter of John, where Jesus says “I am the good shepherd.” The day is
rich in symbols, and we have enough hymn settings of the Psalm to overfill our
bulletins. And, if you want, you can search our own windows for shepherd images and
symbols. Just not now.

Scripture contains the word shepherd almost from the beginning. It is the task of
Joseph, Jacob’s youngest son, the one of technicolor dreamcoat fame. It’s also the role of
another son, the first victim of sibling rivalry. Abel is a “keeper of herds,” which
implies sheep and other animals. And, of course, there’s David, Jesse’s youngest son, a
shepherd boy anointed to be king over Israel when the Saul project reminded Israel to
be careful what they prayed for.

The ritual sacrifices from the time of Abraham onward often used a lamb as the
offering. The Passover sacrifice instructs the slaughter of a lamb, whether from the
goats or the sheep.

Lambs are known to be some of the most passive animals in domestic use,
unless, as I’ve been told, that lamb grows up to be a ram, an animal that seems to take
its name quite seriously.

I’ve often wondered why a lamb, seemingly so innocent and docile, is the
appointed animal for so many ritual sacrifices. Of course, cattle, oxen, and birds are
offered, too, along with grain and incense. But when it comes to the most important
sacrifice, that of Passover, it’s a lamb. No substitutes, only the instruction to share with
a neighbor if that family cannot afford a lamb.

After the death of David’s son, Solomon, and even with Solomon himself, sibling
rivalry tended to overshadow the role of shepherd into one of individual power.
Solomon was nearly kept from the throne by a jealous half-brother, and then his own
sons’ rivalry resulted into dividing the kingdom into two parts—the north called Israel
and the south, Judah. That division never healed, in a large part because rulers
concentrated more on holding power than being shepherds of the people. As we know,
that tendency continues to lead many into temptation.

Shepherds are seen as expendable, their defenses weak. They wander from place
to place as newer, fresher pasture is needed. They have only the shepherd’s staff,
crooked at one end to help pull a wandering sheep back to the herd, and blunt on the
other to push away an attacking wolf. Other than that, they are powerless, at least at
first sight.

Jesus says the sheep know their shepherd, and the shepherd knows the sheep.
There is strength in numbers, especially when those numbers gather as one with their
shepherd in the lead.

And the good shepherd is the one who cares at least as much for the sheep as for
his or her own status or power. I say at least, knowing that when Jesus claims the title
as Good Shepherd, he is ready to sacrifice all for the benefit of the sheep in his charge.
And, somehow, the sheep know and trust that to be true, even if they don’t yet realize
that could be their own path.

The image before us today is of the sacrificial Lamb of God, slain for the salvation
and redemption of the world. He is the one appointed as the true, the Good Shepherd
for God’s people, the one who holds power, wisdom, and might in part because he
knows what it’s like to be the lamb. He is the one who enters our suffering by suffering
himself, so that we might be joined to him not just in that, but in his life lived forever in
the presence of God.

So, the images before us today, of lamb, of shepherd, of victim and victor, are one
in the same in that they are the very image of the one true God, the one in whom we
profess our faith and place our trust. He is the one who invites us into his life, even in
death, to be transformed, converted, if you will, into the transcendent immediate
presence of this same Lamb who promised to be with us always.

The Good Shepherd opens the door for sheep of all nations, of all types, to enter
into the fold of eternal life. He promises to guide us into all truth by caring for us, even
by becoming one of us in ways that invite us to care for others in the same way he cares
for us. So, like the Lamb of God, we are invited to be both sheep and shepherds,
sometimes all at once, sometimes only one at a time. It’s when we find we are only one
of those that the risen Christ just might appear in the form of the one we are not,
reminding us of who we are called to be by virtue of our baptism into his death and
resurrection.

The image of the innocent docile lamb has one more function. It is a way we
often don’t see God, yet it is the image of God presented to us in the cross. The
innocent, defenseless one goes willingly to the sacrifice, because that’s what it takes to
do the work of salvation for all that is created by the same one in the power of creation.
The Good Shepherd, the very image of our Creator, uses both weakness and power to
give us life. As the image of both shepherd and sheep in our own time, we are called to
do the same—not only for ourselves, which is idolatry, but for those who know only
weakness and the oppression of those who seek only power.
​
The Good Shepherd stands before us as the Lamb that was slain. The life of
Christ’s church is known in how we translate that image into life-giving, life-nurturing
truth for all who seek it.