today's thoughts: ecumenism

What does it matter what a person believes or not? We are saved by grace through faith. Works DO NOT MATTER. Through faith. Crap. Does that mean what a person believes does matter? But what is doctrinal belief than the written works of men to quantify and qualify God into understanding? FAITH is not work. A set of bleliefs is HUMAN WORK. Faith can BE work. But it is not WORKS. Beliefs are works. Works like opuses. Works like dissertations. Works like... well, works like college, really.
Faith takes work but is not a work.
Beliefs systems are works. They are defined by actions, by words (which are works, actions), defined by humans and human things. Faith is of God. Works, bleiefs systems, denominations, sparations, deliniations, sects, synods, religions, separations, schisms, and all else in between... those are human inventions for the comfort of human ways. And yes, while they are indeed sometimes necessary for the continuation of human faith (faith without expresion dies), and the deliniations mayeven be holy Spirit-inspired... separation is NOT of God. God is like a herd of wild mustang roaming across the plains... doesn't know or care if they are in Wyoming, Utah, or Nebraska... it's all the same field. We are all the same people to God. Expressed in different ways, or, better put: VIEWed in different ways.

Which is all well and good, but what does that mean for ecumenism? What does that mean for Christian unity (or human unity for that matter)? There is the key question.

But what really is the questions is: what is the point of ecumenism. What is the goal toward which unity is aimed. It is NOT an option to try to make one, single relion/denomination out of the entire world. That's just ridiculous. There are too many cultures and languages and classes and systems and.... well, it would take a god to bridge all those layers into one whole. Oh, wait. God does. 

But what is the point? For, me, I see the point as tolerance. Tolerance, tolerance, tolerance. Not ignorance, not people saying "well they believe such-and-such, which is WRONG!" Because what does "wrong" mean in a religious context. Well, usually (from what I've seen), it means that the person who is wrong is going to hell.
And, for that matter, what is "heresy" except the A's saying the B's have got it all wrong and are going to hell for it. So the A's kick out the B's, burn their villages and corner them in a castle for two years until they all walk into the fire, just because they couldn't agree on a silly little thing like how much money to give the leader of the A's, or whether or not B women could hold religious positions.

I'll say this once, and I'll say it again:

JUST FREAKING LOVE EACH OTHER ALREADY PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sermon (the first)

So... I probably should have posted this ages ago, but I guess I always thought that I did and never actually did. Anyhow. It's the first sermon I gave this summer, way back in June.

The readings were:

1 Kings 17:17-24

Galatians 1:11-24

Luke 7:11-17

A few weeks ago as I was talking to a friend on the phone, we began to discuss her husband's interesting antics. He was busy wrestling a 20 lb bag of Tidy Cat into a backpack. As she watched him struggle in this endeavor, she and I discussed what possible reasoning he could have for doing this. Was he testing the size and the strength of the backpack? Was he planning to kidnap the cat to his office for an extended period of time? Finally, he explained that he was simply going out to exercise and needed the extra weight, and that with the backpack zipped, only his wife and I would really know what he was carrying. 

How often do we find ourselves doing exactly that? How often do we take something unsightly or embarrassing or painful and hide it away in a bag that we carry with us? How often do we pack away the hurt of being in a relationship that just doesn't seem like it's going to work? Or the confusion of feeling alone or abandoned? How many lost dreams do we shove to the bottom of our bags, convincing even ourselves that they don't exist? How many times do we close away our grief, pretending we have recovered from a loss, even when we haven't? 
In our scripture readings today we heard the stories of two grieving widows who lost their only sons.
In our gospel lesson, Jesus and his disciples were headed to a small town that really isn't known for much of anything, and they were stopped by a funeral procession. They probably felt much the same way that drivers do today when having to stop for a funeral. They may have been wondering how long it would take for them to get on the road again, how much would this delay their schedule, and so on. And maybe they begin pushing their way through… when Jesus stops. Probably not too happy with this further delay, I can almost picture the disciples trying to urge Jesus along so they can make it to their destination before it gets too late. And then Jesus says, "Do not weep." What? Come on, Jesus, it's just a funeral, they happen all the time, what makes this one so special? 
Here we have a woman, known only to us by her position as a mother and a widow, who has lost her only son. In those days, a woman was taken care of by her father until she was married, and then by her husband. If she was fortunate enough to have a son that could take care of her once her husband died, her son then became her supporter. This woman had lost her one last support, and would most likely become impoverished, alone, and excluded from society. What sort of burdens was she carrying down the road that day? Loneliness? Grief? Fear? Jesus saw that in her. "Do not weep." A wisp of hope for her to set her burdens down on. And a command that would probably have been reacted to with confusion. 
Why not weep? She just lost her only son, she has no support… of all the people in that funeral procession, she has every reason to cry. And then Jesus doesn't just give her words of encouragement, he takes away her reason for weeping. Jesus raises her son from the dead, giving her back what she had lost, restoring her sense of balance in the world, easing the burdens from her shoulders. Because God in Jesus knew her burdens and knew what those around her could only imagine. It would be well known to the other mourners in the funeral procession how difficult life would be for this woman, and presumably they were sad at the loss of the young man as well. But only Jesus could really know what she was carrying with her to the full extent that it was affecting her. 
God knows what hurts us. The difficulties we carry in our hearts, the burdens we haul in our backpacks and what rain storms have drenched us, adding more weight than we ever thought we'd have to carry. God sees us walking down the street in a crowd of people and knows what inner turmoil we bear and what each forward step means to us and costs us. 
Yet what about the other widows that day? What about the mothers whose sons stayed dead? What about the funeral processions that Jesus didn't run into? What about the burdens that went uneased? What does the story of the widow of Nain mean for them? For us? Is it telling us, oops, sorry, you missed it, Jesus isn't exactly walking around in a robe these days, you'll just have to deal with your backpack on your own? No, not at all. The widow of Nain is both a reminder of the past and a hope for the future. 
Our first reading today told nearly the same story: a widow looses her only son, only to have Elijah, a messenger of God this time, and not Jesus who is God, raise him from the dead and restore hope. The people Luke wrote his gospel to would have been very familiar with the stories of Elijah, including this one. Our gospel is a retelling, a remake of a favorite movie, reminding us of the God who sees and knows, of the God who restores and heals. Our gospel is also a promise for the future: a foretaste of the cross when a different son will die and rise. A promise that God does see into our backpacks and the into smallest corners of our hearts and God hears our silent cries and knows our deepest pains. It's a promise that our God who sees and knows will restore and heal each and every one of us of each and every grain of sand we carry. 

I am here at St. Paul's for an internship this summer as a part of a program designed to help young adults figure out if they want to be pastors. I am learning by participation and observation what exactly it is that pastors do all week. And while this is now only my second Sunday here at St. Paul's, I have already learned quite a bit about what a pastor's life is like. 
Once, what now feels like long ago, I thought that pastors just spent their entire week writing a sermon for Sunday, visiting and meeting with people and committees, and maybe writing an article for the church newsletter. And yes, all that definitely happens, but there are also electrical, air conditioning, and elevator people to talk to, youth group trips to plan, vacation bible school to organize, and always the random but not infrequent other crisis to handle. I will admit that I spent quite a bit of time sitting at a desk this week. (Sermons aren't all that easy to write, it turns out.) But any previous ideas I had about pastors sitting in their offices all day have gone. Pastors are busy people. And I, at least, think it's pretty cool. 
Jesus stopped outside Nain to comfort a widow. Any day there might be a widow of Washington who needs comforting. Or a runaway youth. Or any other burden-bearer who sees our steeple and seeks solace. And that's what your pastors do all week in and around and during the "other stuff" of air conditioning repairs and summer event coordinating. 
And that is really what we are all called to do. Jesus stopped on the streets outside a city to comfort a woman in pain. Would you stop on your commute to comfort another person? To ease the weight of their journey?
God doesn't sit in the office all the time either. God doesn't only hear about the rest of the universe through lonely phone calls or the internet. God doesn't watch someone else's interpretation of events on the television or TiVo screen. God doesn't just watch the news or report on the news; God is the news. God is where the news happens and God is where secrets hide and where tears are born and where hugs begin, God is where grief is masked and where Tidy Cat is hidden in backpacks. 
It turns out that my friend's husband is getting ready for a backpacking trip with his brother and needed the extra weight to get ready for the trip. His backpack is making him stronger, and making him able to be a help for others on the trip. We don't ask to haul around incredible loads that make travel difficult. But we have them, nonetheless, and we hide them. By bearing these loads and not giving up, and by helping others to bear theirs, and by remembering and relying on God's promise of hope and comfort, we become stronger. Because God does know. And God does hear. And God does raise up. Amen.