The Making of An Apostle

Montgomery Alabama. December 1, 1955 early evening. A woman in her mid-forties boards a bus. She carries herself in a dignified manner. You would not know from looking at her that she has been stooped over an ironing board all day. Her shoulders ache and her feet are swollen. She tasks a seat on the bus.

As the bus moves through the streets of Montgomery, Alabama, it fills with people on their way home from work. After a few stops, the driver turns to look at the woman. He tells her that she needs to move so that a white person can take her seat.

With one word, Rosa Parks changes the course of American history. Just one word, spoken quietly. She just said,

"No."

When the policeman came to arrest her, she told him that this did not make sense, that it wasn't fair. He told her that he agreed, it wasn't fair, but it was the law.

Later that evening, thousands of people would gather at a Baptist Church in a poor section of Montgomery. At that church, Dr. King would say, "There comes a time when people get tired of being trampled over by the iron feet of oppression."

There comes a time in the life of a person.


Two thousand years ago, one hundred and twenty people met together in a room. They all had known and loved Jesus and he was gone. After appearing to them in joyful encounters, he had been lifted out of their very sight. And they had no idea what they were to do next.

Peter addressed the group. "Jesus chose twelve of us but now there are only eleven. Judas Iscariot has left us for good. We must fill his seat at the table, so that there are twelve once more." The number twelve was sacred. There were twelve tribes of Israel. So there must be twelve to continue Jesus' work in the world.

Peter says, "We have discussed this matter and identified two men who could fill this seat. One is Joseph or Barsabas, sometimes called Justus, and the other is Matthias."

I can just picture Matthias, standing there in the middle of the crowd, thinking, "Who, me?

What about that guy over there?

I didn't know Jesus well enough.

I am not ready.

This could be a lot of work.

Where is the door?

There comes a time in the life of a human being...when God asks you to do something, to serve. And you must decide if you are going to step up to the plate.

The name Matthias is the same word as disciple in the ancient Greek. A disciple is literally one who learns, one who sits at the feet of a master and absorbs. An apprentice.

I believe that there are three basic stages in the life of a Christian. The first is baptism, when God opens the kingdom of God to us and our resurrection life begins. Though God welcomes us, we must spend a lifetime saying yes to that invitation.

The second stage is that of this disciple. When we realize that we want to devote the time and energy to learn about Jesus, to try to imitate him. So we attend worship, we study and read. In order for the discipleship stage to be complete, we must also join a small group of fellow believers, where we can honestly speak about our joys and sorrows.

Then, at some point, God will invite us into the third and final stage of the life of faith. This is the life of the apostle. The word apostle means one who is sent. The twelve were called disciples during Jesus' life on earth, but after his resurrection and ascension, they became known as apostles. Because God said, "Time's up. It's your turn. I need you to do my work in the world."

The invitation that the spirit makes for a person to become an apostle happens completely individually and often unexpectedly. Rosa Parks had no idea that she was to start a Civil Rights movement that would rage to the Supreme Court itself. Matthias had no idea he would take his place at the table. They were just being faithful when the moment came. It was just their time.

So we must study, pray, worship, give and watch for the moments when something is asked of us, when we are sent.

Helen was born and raised in Germany. At the age of 23, she fell madly on love with an American graduate student. When he asked her the marry him, she was thrilled. Then they moved to Cincinnati, Ohio.

At 23, Helen was living in a foreign country with a man who she did not know so well. Soon, she was pregnant with their first child. A baby girl, she was born healthy and extremely demanding. Helen felt both exhausted and alone.

As a baptized Christian, Helen knew enough to find a church. She loved that place. People held her baby and asked her how she was doing. She felt loved.

There was an apostle at that church. Her name was Sarah. Every week, she was sent by God not very far away, to the nursing home near the church. There she brought communion to people who were to frail to come to church.

At the nursing home, Sarah met Brigette. Brigette was an elderly widow. She had recently lost her husband. They had been married for over fifty years. After his death, Bridgette stopped speaking. The staff was at a loss and asked Sarah to pray for her. They happened to mention that Bridgette was born in Germany and her family had immigrated to the US when she was in high school.

As Sarah was praying for this silent woman, Helen's face came to her mind. She remembered the new young woman from Germany. So Sarah approached Helen after church the next Sunday and asked her to come to the nursing home.

And Helen had all the same thoughts as Matthias, "Who me? I am managing a toddler! I am exhausted all the time! Someone needs to care for me! Where is the door?" But Helen did not speak all these thoughts. She just agreed.

Helen entered Bridgette's room later that afternoon. In German, she introduced herself and told Bridgette how happy she was to meet her.

It was like a river of words exploded from Bridgett's mouth. She could not stop talking and crying in her native German.

Helen ended up visiting Bridgette every day. Bridgette found a reason to speak, a reason to live. And Helen learned how to be a good mother.

A moment will come for you too. The moment of an apostle. Will you let yourself be sent?

Abide in my Love

Anna sat on the back porch of her dream house. She and her husband, Malcomb, had finally succeeded in buying a home on the river. Her favorite thing to do was to go out on the back porch in the early morning with a cup of coffee, look at the river and watch the birds. She and her husband had a massive bird-feeder. It had many places for the birds to perch and eat. But without fail, every morning, the birds would get into a massive fight. They would flap and chirp and bite at one another in a desperate dance to compete for what they thought were the few spaces to eat. It was mass chaos as they made a racket flying into one another and squawking loudly. Anna would just sit back and laugh. They were such comical creatures, fighting and screeching when there was enough food and enough room for all of them.


When JD and I met we were both in a high-powered universe. He was a student at Yale Law School and I was about to begin at Yale Divinity School. The pressure to succeed in these places was high, you could cut the tension with a knife. Sometimes, we just wanted to flee.


We decided to go to Toronto, Canada, to visit a Christian community of handicapped people called L'Arche. There was a famous Catholic priest who lived there. He had given up a promising career at Yale and Harvard in order to live among the developmentally disabled. His story inspired us, so we went.

I will never forget sitting alone with Henri Nouwen as we described the stress of Yale, how everyone was competing for the best clerkships, the best jobs. He listened and then he smiled.

"All that competition," he said. "You know what I think that it is? It is just a group of people trying to be loved."

I thought about that. There we were squawking and butting heads for the few prestigious positions out there. And all we were really trying to do was to prove that we were worthy of being loved, worthy of being alive, worthy of being.

I had an uncle named James. He married into the family by marrying my fathers sister. He was handsome and smart, a history professor at Bowdoin College in Maine. He could tell great jokes and was always the life of the party. But underneath the smiles and degrees, he was deeply unhappy.

James suffered from depression. This was many years ago. We did not always know what to call it. Sometimes, my fathers sister called it melancholia, or sadness, bad moods. He would just disappear for days, go to some cabin, some far away place, lock himself in a room and listen to music until it passed. We would all beg him to stay, but he would go off, to try and protect the rest of us from his moods. But we were not protected.

One summer, we were all at a family reunion. James decided to return home early. Once he arrived at home, he went up to the attic, took a lot of pills, put on his earphones and some of his favorite music, and left us for good.

I can still see his three boys. They were so young at the time. And he just left them because he could not believe that things could get better. They stood by the car as their father drove away. Stay with us, they said. Just stay.

Jesus told his disciples to love one another. It is part of the Great Commandment. Love the Lord your God and Love your Neighbor as Yourself. But before he gives us this great commandment, he tells us something that puts the Great Commandment in perspective. He says, Abide in my love.

Abide in my love. The word in the ancient greek means to stay, to remain. Stay in my love. Stay with me, Jesus said. Live and remain in my love and all the rest of it will come easily to you.

When you were created, God made you out of love. God did not need you for company or pleasure, God was just dancing. God was just in love and you were the product of that love. But we separated ourselves from that perfect love and we abandoned God, leaving Eden and wandering all over the place, fighting for enough food, for enough love. When all the time, God made enough for us. There is more than enough love for all of us.

Did you know that your heart is so strong that it pumps enough blood in your lifetime to fill our sanctuary over 100 times? Your heart is powerful. And it is human. Can you imagine the heart of God, the capacity that the Divine One has to love you? Sometimes I wonder if we hide from Gods love not just because it is too bright to contemplate but also because we ourselves are more powerful than we realize. It is our own capacity to love God in return that scares us even more.

What would the world be like if we really trusted in God's love? We could feed every single human being on the planet. We could stop competing and maneuvering and discover that there is more than enough for all of us. Instead, we forget God's love. Quietly, we slip away into self-hatred. We forget who we are, who God created us to be. Our hearts sink into the mundane morass of daily living until we are no longer fully alive, no longer aware of the love of God.

That is why, Sunday after Sunday, as we approach the altar, I must say to you, "Lift up your hearts." Because we must rise to remember God's love. We must lift up our hearts to try, once again to dwell in that incomprehensible goodness.

We are like fishes swimming in the great sea looking for water. Just live in my love, Jesus says. Wake up to how much I have adored you since the moment you were born. Open your eyes. My food has been here for you all along. It lays before you at my table. There it is. There is enough for everyone.

Failure and Forgiveness

Peter loved Jesus. He loved him so much that he could not be separated from Him. He followed him everywhere and when Jesus escaped alone to a mountain to pray, Peter and the disciples would go searching for Jesus. When they found him, they would scold Jesus for worrying them, like some kind of neurotic mother of an adult son. He simply could not let Jesus out of his sight.


So it is hard to believe that Peter said these words,


"I do not know the man."


In the night before Jesus' crucifixion, when all seemed lost and the soldiers had come to take Jesus away, Peter denied him. Not just once, but three times. Peter was afraid and Peter failed. He failed miserably. After all his devotion and time and worries and questions, when the rubber hit the road, he ran and hid. He left his master alone to die.


I cannot imagine the agony he went through after his denial. The Scripture says that he broke down and wept. I can just picture it, a burly fisherman falling to his knees in the dark courtyard in Jerusalem, crying his eyes out. Crying because he failed.


What worse thing could you do than deny the one you love? Peter ruined his life.


Judas also failed Jesus by selling his friendship for gold and leading the soldiers to capture Jesus. But there is one crucial difference between Peter and Judas. When Peter failed, he did not despair. He waited. He stayed in his pain and in his failure.  Whereas Judas despaired and took his own life.


I have always believed that Jesus would have forgiven Judas, that even now, Jesus waits an eternity to break bread with Judas.  But Judas could not trust that forgiveness, not in this life.


I went to Oklahoma to speak this weekend. The Bishop told us a story about his childhood. When he was a very little boy, his mother would become violently ill.  The Bishop did not say what kind of illness took her, but he said that there were times, more than once, when his mother had to be rushed to the hospital. And the women of their small Episcopal church would come to his house, in the middle of the night, and they would care for him and his brother, fix them something to eat, tell them that everything was going to be OK, tuck them in bed. 


When the world felt like it was caving in, these women would come. And they would fill the emptiness and fear with their love. It is no wonder that when he grew up, he devoted his life to the church.


When everything fell apart for Peter, Jesus still loved him. Jesus loved Peter, even when he failed to stay. Even when he denied everything, Jesus still loved him and came back to him. For the Good Shepherd will always love the sheep, no matter how stupid we are. We can always turn around and come back to Him.


It was Jesus' forgiveness that changed Peter forever. Because once you realize that you have nothing to be afraid of, once you have realized that you already made your biggest mistake and God still loves you, then, well, then you are a force to be reckoned with.


Failure is not something to be afraid of. No, failure can be a great instrument of resurrection and forgiveness, especially if the one who fails speaks the truth and admits their mistakes.  Failure is not the adversary of Resurrection. Rather, the antithesis of Resurrection is despair.


If God can forgive and live eternally, then there is no reason for us to ever despair. And no decisions should ever be made when you are feeling bleak or hopeless. Instead, wait. Give it time and wait for the dawn.


When Peter saw Jesus on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, when he saw his Shepherd, he leaps into the water with courage and purpose, and from that moment on, he does not fail.


Listen to the Peter that we hear about in the Book of Acts. He is another person from the Peter of the Gospels. He is confident. He is faithful. He seems to have no questions but rather answers the questions of others. He even performs miracles in the name of Jesus.  He is changed forever by the power of forgiveness.


It really is that good, to be loved by God. There is nothing that God will not forgive. The Good Shepherd will go to the ends of the earth for the sheep. And once you know that, there is nothing to be afraid of.

Touch

 


Hundreds of years ago, a man lived a wild life. He loved women and enjoyed good wine. He relished parties and the good life. And his mother kept praying that he would find God. She told him whenever she saw him, "I am praying for you to find God." Most of the time, he shrugged her off, or just downright pretended that he hadn't heard her.

His mother grew ill and it became clear that she was going to die. Aware that she might not be with him much longer, her son started to listen to her.  She told him of how she was not afraid to die, that she actually looked forward to seeing the face of God.  She told him that the one thing she wanted was to see him come to believe.  So he began to really question her.  Did she really believe in heaven? Did she really face death without fear? What did she think it would be like?

Her son decided to be baptized. After his baptism, they went on a trip together. They were staying at a small inn, looking out the window to a beautiful garden, when something happened.  The man would later write about the experience and admit that it defied all words.  They were discussing heaven. His mother was saying how she longed to see God and he began to long too. They were talking about how beautiful it would be when, together, they touched it.  "It was as if we reached out and touched heaven," he would later say. Together, they touched the presence of God.

His mothers prayers were answered.  The young man would later become a bishop.  His mother would die with peace in her heart. Her son would go on to become one of the greatest theologians and teachers in all of Christianity. He would be known a St. Augustine.

Augustine and his mother touched heaven.  They did not explain it or analyze it. They touched it.

When Jesus appears to his disciples in the gospel of Luke, he startles them. They are in the middle of a conversation and he simply pops in. They are so scared that Jesus has to reassure then.

"Don't be scared," he says. "Touch me." 

Jesus does not answer questions like we have to do to verify our identity when log on to the computer.  He does not try to explain to them where he has been or what it was like to die and rise again.  He seems to know that these things are too far beyond the disciples.  Even if Jesus had tried to explain, they could not have taken it in. The Resurrection cannot be explained, but it can be touched.

"Touch me," he says.

Then Jesus does another strange thing.  He says, "Do you guys have anything to eat?"

They give him a piece of fish and he downs it, right then and there. He gobbles it up.

When they walked and ate on the Sea of Galilee, guess what they ate most of the time? Fish!  So, for Jesus and his disciples, this was the equivalent of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was comfort food.

When I am just plain hungry and tired, I make myself a PB&J. It makes me feel better. I don't know how, it just does.

Jesus told them to touch him and then he asked them for food and he ate it right in front of them.  Food that they all knew was good. Comfort food.

I went to Dallas this week to meet for the first time with some really incredible priests. I was invited to become part of a group called Urban/Suburban. The group was founded by some of the leading Rectors and Deans in the country during the Civil Rights Movement.  They gathered to support and strengthen each other in a time in which they believed that it was crucial for their churches to take a stand. They needed to know how to lead their congregations towards racial equality so they gathered alone to share each others pain. 

This was the first year that I have been invited. The Retiring Dean of the National Cathedral was there. Deans of the Cathedrals in Houston, Atlanta, San Antonio, Portland and Indianapolis were there, alongside Rectors of the largest churches in the nation.  We cried together and hugged each other and ate good food and debated things. It was really good, except for one part.

A visiting Biblical scholar came to speak to us.  He was combing through the resurrection accounts, talking about their similarities and differences, and he mentioned a woman that he had met who believed that she would get to bowl with her grandmother in heaven. (Evidently, her grandmother was quite the bowler.)  The Biblical scholar mentioned this woman and he laughed at her.

I could feel my blood beginning to boil. This man thought that her picture of heaven was inadequate, that it was child-like.  I said to him, "Do you really think that this woman was so ridiculous? Is your idea of heaven any more adequate than hers?"

Needless to say, I probably embarrassed the man, but I wonder sometimes if we intellectuals make things more complex than they need to be.  The fact is that we cannot know what heaven will be like. We only have visions from Scripture like the book of Revelation.  Jesus doesn't even try to describe heaven beyond very simple images like sitting down to a meal or walking through many rooms of a house.  Instead of trying to describe what is beyond us, he just tells us not to be afraid.  And to touch him.

Every single Sunday, when you come here to worship, you make your way down this aisle and you kneel in front of this altar.  Father Perry and I then place a small wafer in your hand.  Take this, we say.  Touch it. Taste it. We cannot explain heaven to you, but we can show it to you.  You can reach out and touch it. Open your hearts and wait for the presence of the Lord, a presence that passes all understanding, to reach out and touch you.  You will not feel that presence every time, but occasionally, when you least expect it, God will just show up.

When a tiny baby is frightened in the night, the best way to comfort the child is to hold it and feed it. Hold the child in your arms, touch the little one.  Then put something in its mouth. That way, the child will know that it is loved. No explanations can do what one small touch can do.

And when I go to the hospital, I always hold the persons hand. It is that touch that speaks more profoundly than all the words I could come up with. So simple and yet so profound.

When it comes to dying, we are like little babies in the face of the unknown. Maybe we will go bowling with our grandmothers, maybe it will be something else entirely. The truth is that we do not know and we cannot know the fullness of eternal life. Not with out limited minds, not with just our brains. 

So God has the priest touch our hands and God puts something in our mouths.

 Do not be afraid, Jesus says. Hold out your hands. Touch this wafer. Put it in your mouth.

 Don't be afraid. I am right here beside you. Just touch me.

For Kim

When we moved to Jacksonville, I was convinced that God was calling me to be the Dean of the Cathedral. This was all about me.

We moved into a rental home for the first six months here. As we were unpacking boxes, a woman came over with her grandson. They lived next door.  I introduced her to my three sons, including our youngest, Max, who was five.  This is what she said.

"My daughter, Kim, was diagnosed with aggressive cancer when her little boy was just a baby.  She is fighting for her life.  Ryan cannot have brothers or sisters. 

When I heard that the house next door was coming up for rent, I got down on my knees and I prayed to God. I asked God for a five-year-old boy to move in next door."

And there was Max, standing in our kitchen, exactly five years old.  

He and Ryan became best friends.

As the years passed, I watched from a distance as Ryan's mom, Kim, fought for her life. She and her dad would travel to Texas for the best treatments available. She would pick up her son whenever she could, plan great excursions for him even if she could not come. She was always bright and chipper on the phone. 

I later found out that she had been given six months to live when Ryan was a baby.

She died just three days ago.  Ryan is seven. And he will never forget his mom.

I have never seen love quite like hers before, a love so powerful as to defy the worst kind of disease for years. Her love is that of a mother, and it is huge.

When I found out that she died, I went for a run and cried hard. I cried for how unfair it is that she should die when I can run. I cried for her son and her parents and her husband. And as I cried, this feeling of fierce joy and love overcame me. I realized that Kim's love has grown and it continues to grow.

So she is my saint now, this woman who loves her son.  Ryan has the most beautiful voice. It seems to come straight from God. I have never heard anything like it in a child. It is as if the Holy Spirit pours out of him.

He was singing to her when she died.

And now, with all my heart, I believe that Kim lives. And she loves, forever.