Sunday, January 26, 2020

Follow Me

Do we associate "Follow Me" with Jesus or Social Media?
© Seth Olson 2020
January 26, 2020—The Third Sunday after the Epiphany

Isaiah 9:1-4
Psalm 27:1, 5-13
“Follow me,” doesn’t mean what it once did. Our incessant connection to social media has changed what we mean by “following” someone. No longer do we most closely relate this phrase to what Jesus said in this Gospel text from long ago. Now following refers to keeping up with family, friends, and neighbors; movie stars, celebrities, and sports teams; politicians, organizations, and world leaders. Some other media platforms even use this term to refer to keeping up to date with TV series, blog posts, and podcasts. Nowadays, the way people move from being acquaintances to being friends has everything to do with who and what we follow. So, who do you follow?

No, I don’t need to know your favorite celebrity pet on Instagram or the obscure British TV series you cannot get enough of, or the crazy uncle you recently un-followed on Facebook. What I really want to know is despite social and other media’s commandeering of the term, who do you really follow? Not on Twitter, but IRL—In Real Life.

Several years back someone much wiser than me wrote something about following that bears repeating. Richard Rohr, who is a Franciscan friar, a priest, and a writer, challenged readers to realize that Jesus never said, “worship me.” Instead Jesus repeatedly invited others, saying, “Follow me.” Presiding Bishop Curry (not to be confused with Bishop-Elect Curry) called Episcopal Church leadership to realize that the real action doesn’t just happen in our liturgy. Rather our true service begins at the end of this service.[1] We are to follow Christ out into the world—to do the work God has given us to do, to go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

To be clear, I am not suggesting we do away with our Sunday service. I would be lost without our worship, without the Church’s hymns and our prayers, God’s Word and our beliefs, confession and pardon, peace and Communion. It doesn’t get any better than this! However, we would be wise to remember that the root of the word worship is connected to worth. Or to make it into a question, “to what do we give worth in this world?” In this inquiry we hear resonances of my previous one—Who do you follow? Who do you follow and to what do you give worth in this world?

We can all give the Sunday School answer, on the count of three. 1-2-3… JESUS! I would guess that like me, everyone here wants to follow Jesus. That’s presumably why you are here. We all yearn to live life in Christ. Each of us desires to be one of his disciples. But in our world full of distraction and noise and brokenness, it can be difficult to discern what Jesus’ voice sounds like. We may aim to follow Jesus. We may seek to give Him worth, but how do we walk in His ways?

Before charting our own course or reinventing the wheel, it’s useful to look at how others accomplished what we hope to do. The soon-to-be-disciples from today’s Gospel lesson clearly heard Jesus and they followed him. Seems like a good spot for us to start.

Jesus in flesh and blood, went to Capernaum, walked up to some boats, and invited two sets of brothers to abandon their lives as fishermen. Sounds like a tall order, but they dropped their nets immediately! Jesus did this by saying, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” This sounds so ridiculous that we may wonder if it truly happened. Would you leave everything if a stranger invited you to follow?

Jesus though offered up a vision that these brothers could easily understand. He didn’t say to these fishermen follow me and I will make you farm for people. Jesus knew to whom he was speaking and what these brothers spent their lives doing. You might be wondering, “What about with us?”

How will God call us? We say: “I want to follow God, but how will I hear God’s voice and how will I know to follow Jesus?” God calling you and me and us is not as preposterous as it sounds. Hearing God speak doesn’t only happen in extraordinary ways, like Moses hearing a voice in a burning bush or Martin Luther meeting God in a lightning storm. God speaks in our daily lives—right where we are—like with these fishermen. God may not appear to us as a 1st century Palestinian Jewish teacher—he may—but more than likely, Our Savior will come disguised as something or someone so obvious that we find God is hiding right in front of us—hiding right within us.

The writer Parker Palmer put it this way, “Vocation [or God’s call] does not come from a voice ‘out there’ calling me to become something I am not. It comes from a voice ‘in here’ calling me to be the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given me at birth by God.”[2] God’s voice calls us to be who we truly are—to be the person God made us to be. Family, friends, and our church help us to clarify God’s call by listening with us and testing this truth within a beloved community. But, what does this look like in action? If only there were a recent event in our community, maybe like a bishop election, where we could see God’s call in action...

Wow, as usual God provides! For one of us this call has been a slow and steadily increasing persuasion. A persuasion to pastor our diocese, administer its staff, be a messenger of God’s Good News, to lead our church, and defend our faith… sounds easy enough, right Bishop-elect? One is not merely called to be a bishop, there’s too much there. One must be persuaded to heed God’s call.

At the risk of speaking for everyone here, we all share in the joy of this call for it is indeed our collective call for Glenda to serve as our bishop in this part of the Jesus Movement. You may be here this morning seeking to Follow Jesus because you heard Glenda say, “I hope to see you at Church.” This is one way that God’s call rings out in this time and place, but vocation is not something reserved for people who wear purple shirts.

On Thursday evening we celebrated the life of Doug Barnes. A member of the Homewood community whom I did not get to know well—except by the imprint he left behind here. Charles Youngson described Doug as a non-anxious presence, as one who was completely here, like there was no other place to be. Doug heard God’s call as an invitation to be. Moses knew God as “I am” and Doug made the “Great I Am” known by being fully present with us.

There are other ways in which you might hear God beckoning you to follow. You may hear Jesus asking you to be a voice for the voiceless, to serve the least of these, or to visit those in prison. You may be called to attend Cursillo or Kairos, to help lead our children or youth, or to join the many outreach and in-reach ministries here. Your call may mean a new career, a new ministry, or maybe simply a new way of looking at what is already here. Regardless of what it sounds like, each of us is called by God.

I would like to end by sharing the story of when I heard Jesus say, “Follow me.” And, I invite you to share with each other and with me how you have been and still are being called ... because in our personal callings we hear more clearly how God is calling us collectively to follow Jesus.

As a child and adolescent, people told me I would make a good priest. I didn’t buy it! The old matriarch of my childhood church said it, my family said it, and complete strangers even said it. I had some inkling of this calling because I was the kid who followed around his priest for career day. But, I tried to fight it! I even flat out told Bishop Marc Andrus, “No!” when he tried to get me in the discernment process during college. Like Parker Palmer’s quote, I had to realize the call within me not just out there, but in here!

The summer after I graduated college at Sewanee I was hired there to be the Lay Chaplain. For three years I had the gift of trying on church ministry—I could see if the call was in me. To mark that time as holy I decided to renew my baptismal vows. I had been baptized as an infant, which I don’t remember, and confirmed in the awkward years of middle school, which I try to forget, so this was the moment when I would truly take hold of my own mature relationship with God.

After months of preparation, the big day finally arrived. At the Great Vigil of Easter we entered a completely dark chapel that eventually beamed with the brightness of the Light of Christ. The baptisms, confirmations, receptions, and reaffirmations of baptismal vows were beautiful and transformative. I was floating on a liturgical high known only to a certain few, known as church nerds. The service then turned towards communion.

That night I had the pleasure of serving chalice. Standing on the nave altar platform I received the bread and wine, the body and blood. Then, I approached the altar to pick up the Schwartz Chalice, a giant fishbowl-sized silver cup. At the same time the congregation came up to gather around the large altar platform. I took the chalice to commune the first person. Who was kneeling there? My very first priest, Fr. Francis X. Walter and his wife Faye.

In that moment I was happy to see them. But, as I lifted the giant silver chalice back I caught a glimpse of some heavenly vision. There, in the reflection of that cup, I saw the Great Cloud of Witnesses. It still sounds crazy, but in that moment I saw not only those kneeling or standing there at the altar, but also too many to number, to name, or to know.

I nearly fell down. And, for a long time I did not want to talk about that night because it just didn’t make any sense. But, what I kept coming back to was that all of us make up the Body of Christ—we are all united by Christ’s blood under his covenant of love. That night, when Jesus said, “Follow me” the path led to gathering God’s people around God’s Table.

What is your call? What is our call? Jesus says, “Follow me.”—not only to this table, but beyond. May we take this table and its gifts out into the world—following Jesus and fishing for people. Amen.







[1] Matthew Oliver, “Worship or Works? Engaging Michael Curry and Richard Rohr” The Living Church. https://livingchurch.org/covenant/2016/12/14/worship-or-works-engaging-michael-curry-and-richard-rohr/ [Written: December 14, 2016, Accessed January 23, 2020].
[2] Parker Palmer, Let Your Life Speak. (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2000), 10.

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

New Year, New You?

Aslan the Lion un-dragons Eustace Scrubb

A version of this post appeared in the All Saints Parishioner the week of January 12th

Happy New Year! And, Happy New Decade! In the world around us, this means not only celebrations, but also invitations. These invites coming from gyms, financial planners, diet programs, home improvement stores, and many others essentially say: “It’s a new year and a new decade, so it’s time for a new you!” Not to burst your bubble, but I have bad news (I also have good news, so hang with me).

Every year, when marketing experts roll out ads for a new you in the new year, they are relying on a big, little lie we tell ourselves: "I can make myself new." On the surface, this statement sounds appealing. Having a new start is awesome, and we are all about new starts in the Jesus Movement. But, the trouble comes from believing we are the source of accomplishing this newness. Here's the bad news: we aren’t the ones who make life new. There is good news though...

In the crazy, mystical vision that John the Gospel Writer had on the island of Patmos, God spoke about newness. The Almighty One said, “See, I am making all things new” (Revelation 21:5). This is the good news! For God not only makes us in our individual lives new, but God also makes everything, everywhere new. So, you may be wondering, “We don’t have any part in this?” Well, we do and we don’t. Let me retell a story to help explain.

In C. S. Lewis’ fictional tale, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, a character named Eustace became a dragon by watching another dragon die and sleeping “on a dragon’s hoard with greedy, dragonish thoughts in his heart." We might think that being a dragon would be awesome, but several days later, Eustace was miserable. He wanted nothing more than to be made a boy again.

Late one night, a lion met Eustace the dragon, and told him to follow him up a high mountain where there was a giant well. Eustace yearned to plunge into the bubbling waters; however, he couldn't as a dragon. The lion told him he must undress first. What did this mean? Eustace had to shed his skin, like a snake. So Eustace tried as best he could to un-dragon himself by peeling away his scales. After three attempts, he saw in the water’s reflection that he was very much still a dragon.

It was then that the lion told Eustace that he could not shed his skin on his own—the lion had to help. So, Eustace lay on his back, and when the lion’s claws cut through his dragon scales, Eustace thought the lion had gone right to his heart. While it was the most painful thing Eustace had ever experienced, having the scales and skin fall away was the greatest pleasure too. All of a sudden, Eustace was a boy again. Then, the lion grabbed hold of Eustace and threw him into the restoring waters. There he was made new.

This lion’s name, as you may already know, is Aslan, and in this series, he represents Christ. Sadly enough, we are represented by characters like Eustace (perhaps that’s the real, bad news). Try as we might, we can shed layers of our skin, but we cannot un-dragon ourselves. That work of being made new must be done by God. How does this happen?

While none of us will turn into an actual dragon, all of us may become quite beastly and yearn for nothing more than to be made new by becoming our truest selves. Fortunately, we have a loving lion who comes to us. A lion who will tear right to our hearts to transform us into who we truly are.

We find that lion all over the place at All Saints. We see Him in the pews on Sundays and Wednesday mornings. There, we have opportunities to be made new by meeting Christ in the Word and in the prayers, in the songs and in the silence, in the confession and in the absolution, in the peace and in the offertory, in the bread and in the wine. Throughout All Saints, you will find other ways to be made new with, between, and through one another. Whether it is during a Taize service, an Oasis program, or a Sunday School class; going to Cursillo, volunteering to serve, or joining the Church through Episcopal 101, there are many ways that our lion-hearted God is inviting us to the well. 

How will Christ un-dragon you revealing your new, true self this year?

Sunday, January 5, 2020

What We Have To Give

This corny cartoon isn't the only thing wrong with how we tell the story of the wise men, but what is the message of their coming truly about?

© Seth Olson 2020
January 5, 2020—The Second Sunday after Christmas

There once was an Episcopal priest from New England who was visiting his wife’s relatives in rural Mississippi. It was the week after Christmas. Driving through the town the priest from up north was happy to see a Nativity scene still up even though it was the eleventh day of Christmas. The care and attention put into this particular Nativity scene made it so beautiful that the priest decided to stop, get out of his car, and examine it more. (By the way, if you are wondering, this is the sort of dorky things that priests do while on vacation.)

Upon closer examination the priest was surprised—not because of the shining Angel Gabrielle, nor the placid Virgin Mary, nor the stalwart Joseph, nor even the calm baby Jesus—no, the priest was surprised to see the three wise men wearing firemen’s helmets. Baffled by the magi’s appearance, the priest walked into the church office. 

Once inside he introduced himself, and in his thick Boston area accent asked, “Why are the three wise men in your beautiful nativity scene wearing firemen’s helmets?” At this question, the church administrator became quite upset with the priest. Disappointed she exclaimed, “You Yankees! You never did read or understand the Holy Bible!”

After trying to explain that he was himself a minister, the woman at the desk started digging around her shelves. As she did the priest told her that no firemen appear in the Bible, but the administrator persisted and finally found a copy of the holy book. She frantically flipped through its pages. Turning to the appropriate chapter and verse, she pointed her index finger at the right passage, then pushed it into the priest’s face. “Look! It says it right there, ‘The three wise men came from afar…’ ”

(BOO!!! That’s a terrible joke!!! And a joke about fire at All Saints… come on!)

Even if I tried to give up dad jokes this New Year, it would be impossible. You can take the dad out of the dad joke but you cannot take the dad joke out of the dad. I apologize. While we have no confession at this service, I assure you I will certainly seek God’s forgiveness for putting you through that. Speaking of being put through things, how about these wise men?

They came from the East. They traveled across many different lands. They were guided not by a map, but by a star. They dealt with the terrible and violent King Herod. Finally, they found the Christ child. But, after giving him the gifts, they couldn’t even go home the same way because of Herod. So, what is this story truly about? 

Yes, the part of the magi is an awesome addition to the nativity pageant. Sure, the wise men coming from the East gives us an intriguing angle to the Christmas story. Of course, seeing their dutiful traveling to worship the Christ child inspires many a Christmas carol. However, the story of the magi is not simply something sentimental, rather it is a story that points us to the Epiphany when Christ was made known to the world and it is a story that challenges us to wonder, “What do we have to give to Christ?” Before exploring the Epiphany and what we might offer to Christ, let’s take a closer look at some of the often missed details of the Gospel story about the three kings. 

First, like the three firemen in the story earlier, there is no mention of three kings in the Holy Bible. What? GASP! The text never states that there are three visitors from the East. We interpret that there were that number because these foreigners brought three gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh. What about these gifts? 

The gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh weren't just random things these visitors brought. Gold represented a kingly gift, as Jesus is the true king, not only of the Jews but of Creation. Frankincense represented a spiritual gift, and it is still used as incense to symbolize our prayers and praises rising up to the throne of heaven (wherever it mystically resides). Myrrh was a stranger gift. It would have pointed to the sacrificial gift that Jesus the Christ would later give to us. Myrrh was used to anoint the dead, and so for poor Mary she might have already seen this bittersweet gift as a foreboding sign of the life her child would lead. So this is why we think there were three of them, but we do not know the actual number of visitors, we also do not know if they were kings. 

The text literally calls these visitors magicians. What? Again, GASP! Now, this is not like we are substituting a visit from Queen Elizabeth for Penn and Teller, or Prince William for David Blane. Modern-day illusionists are not the type of magician of which this text was speaking. Still, these visitors from the East were different. Some scholars believe they were not monotheistic, nor were they part of the People of God. The magi (short for magician, by the way) took their cues from the splendor of Creation rather than the rigors of the Law, the Wisdom, and the Prophets. They may have even initially been pagan… GASP, a third time! 

Sometimes we cringe or grimace when we hear the word pagan. Culturally we have been conditioned to link it to people who do not believe in God. People who are godless heathens who are out to destroy the good work being done by Christians. However, the whole point of the Epiphany is that Christ is made known not only to God’s Chosen People—the people of Israel—i.e. not us—but also to the whole world—i.e. that is us. So while they may or may not have been three in number, and they may or most likely were not kings, and they could or could not have been pagan, these visitors from the East still do point us toward the Epiphany, and what we might give to Christ.

The Epiphany is a celebration of Christ’s light, life, and love being manifested to all people in the whole world. So, it is no wonder that the Magi are the poster boys of this celebration. For, if pagan magicians from the East could observe a star at its rising, follow it for 1,000 miles, deal with a dubious politician all so that they might deliver gifts and pay homage to God incarnate, who just so happens to be an infant, then that means God is able to work on everyone, everywhere. 

So, this is the truth about the Epiphany, it is a season when we recognize God’s eternal, unconditional, and limitless love in Christ reaching to the ends of the earth. That is the epiphany that we want the whole world to have—the moment when everyone jumps up and down in their proverbial lab coats shouting, “Eureka, I’ve finally discovered it for myself. God’s grace has hit me! Now, I’ve got to share it!” And this gets us to what we have to give.

One of my favorite Christmas hymns is “In the Bleak Midwinter.” It’s last verse begins: 
What can I give him, poor as I am? 
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb
If I were a wise man, I would do my part

I’ll finish the verse in a moment. What can we give Christ poor as we are? If we had been shepherds we would have brought our lambs for the young holy family to have. If we had been magicians from the East we would have brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. If we had been Mary and Joseph we would have cared for the baby Jesus. However, we are not any of them. We might not be poor in worldly standards, but we are poor in opportunity to be with Jesus in the way the shepherds, the wise men, or Mary and Joseph were. We do not live 2,000 years ago. We cannot travel to Bethlehem to actually see the babe lying in the manger. We are us, right now, so what do we have to give?

The last line of “In the Bleak Midwinter” points us to a gift we do have to offer regardless of when or where we live. That line reads, “yet what I can I give him—give my heart.” That’s the gift we can give to Jesus, and it is the gift our entire being yearns to give. Christ Jesus is Emmanuel—God who is with us. We may not give gold, but we give worth to Christ who is our king. We may not burn frankincense here, but we offer up our prayers and praises to Christ who sits enthroned at the Father’s right hand. We might not bring myrrh, but we celebrate Jesus as the Savior who came to free us from our sins. And in these ways we give our gifts of praise and thanksgiving to Christ, we give our selves, our souls and bodies to borrow the words from our Rite I Eucharist.

So, as we celebrate this Epiphany story—a moment when God’s eternal, unconditional, and limitless love was manifested in all the whole world, may we also see the many opportunities we have to give our hearts again to Christ. Jesus laid down his life to show us what that sort of giving looks like. May we know that in Christ Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross we are loved infinitely by God. May we always and everywhere give our hearts to God as God does to us. And may we share that same self-giving love with the whole world. Amen.