The Rainbow Flag: Why?

Over the green grass of my church, St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church, a new flag waves--the rainbow flag.  Most of the parishioners are thrilled with our flagpole, which now flies the American flag, the Episcopal Church flag, and right below it, the rainbow flag, symbolizing support and love for the LGBTQ community.  Since we hoisted the rainbow, however, the church leadership has fielded a few questions.  Most notably this question, “We are an Episcopal Church.  We have a gay, married bishop.  We have a liturgy for same-sex marriages.  Everyone knows we are inclusive of all types of people.  Why do we need to wave a flag?”

"Why?" is a difficult question.  It implies that I understand the roots of a problem, the antecedents behind behavior, the motives of a man.  “Why?” implies that I can explain the reason behind something.  Although I could tell the story of how I mentioned the flag to our priest, Fr. Tim, who said, “If you buy it, we can fly it.”  Then, I mentioned that conversation to another friend, who graciously purchased the flag on her own.  Then, the vestry discussed it, debated it, and decided to fly it.  The story of the grassroots desire to fly the rainbow doesn’t really explain, “Why?  Why does a church dedicated to loving others, serving the community, and enacting social justice have to advertise it?”

My answer, my friends, honestly, is that I do not really know “Why?”

• I do not know why people have never heard of Christian churches who affirm and celebrate ALL people, regardless of race, sex, or sexual orientation.  But they haven’t.
• I do not know why people unfamiliar with churches assume all Christians are against gays and lesbians.  But they do.
• I do not know why people who call themselves Christians can judge and hate people based on who they love and yet claim to “love the sinner and hate the sin.”  But they do.
• I do not know why leadership in certain churches wouldn’t allow my gay and lesbian friends to be ministers, lay-leaders, or to teach children.  But they won’t.
• I do not know why church leaders would tell a gay person that he or she is welcome, as long as he or she is celibate, or doesn’t “flaunt their ‘gayness’.”  But they do.
• I do not know why outspoken religious leaders spew hate-filled rhetoric proclaiming eternal damnation based on who a person loves.  But they do.

• I do not know why people tell my friend’s children that they are not welcome in “this club” because their parents are two men.  But they do.
• I do not know why people leave dead cats and feces and other disgusting and degrading things on the porch steps of two men raising their adopted daughters together in a loving family.  But they do.
• I do not know why any church founded on the principles of Christ’s love would have to advertise loving the marginalized and the oppressed.  But we do.
• I do not know know why there is ignorance, bigotry, and hatred of people based on who they were born to be and who they love.  But, there is.

My friends, there are people longing to find Christ’s love in a welcoming community, people who have been hurt by Christians, people who are afraid that they and their families will be judged, people who have been denied, marginalized, oppressed, and hated by Christian churches for the “sin” of loving another person.  I do not know why my LGBTQ brothers and sisters have had to endure such bigotry and hatred.  But I do know that they tell me their hearts lift and tears of joy well in their eyes when they see the rainbow flying proudly over a house of God.  Although I wish it were just an unnecessary adornment, a redundant symbol of a long-won war, it is not.  There are still people marginalized and discriminated against, and I am proud to see the rainbow flag flying over the green grass of St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church.

The Ridiculous Joy of Easter

People say there are Good Friday Christians and Easter Christians.  If so, I am firmly in the Good Friday camp.  I came back to the Christian church during Lent, longing for austerity,  structure, and sacrifice in my spiritual life.   That year, the Good Friday liturgy broke my heart open and grace streamed into it.  Since then, I anticipate the catharsis of Good Friday with a sorrowful longing.  As I weep in the darkened, black-draped sanctuary and grieve for the hate that humanity commits upon itself, God sloughs away the calluses of my soul and I feel the pain of all the victims.  Good Friday breaks my heart open to empathy for the least of these--I emerge, more raw, more vulnerable, and more loving.

The grief of Good Friday feels more natural to me than the celebration of Easter Sunday. I have a difficult time connecting with the joy.  Part of it is personal history.  Easter was the last time I saw my father alive.  In 2005, we spent the holiday together during his 18 month-long battle with cancer.  I knew he was weakening, but he was still in strong spirits with good quality of life when I left him.  A few days later, he couldn’t walk.  The tumor on his spine paralyzed him.  A few weeks later, the cancer overtook his body and he lost the fight.  So, for me, Easter begins a period of mourning that concludes on May 7, the anniversary of my father’s death. Every year since, I attend church, I sing, “Christ the Lord has risen today”; however, I fear I lack that “Easter spirit”.

If the spirituality of Easter is a challenge for me, the secular celebration of Easter seems absolutely ridiculous.  Admittedly, in my regular life, I’m somewhat of a party pooper.  I dislike most celebrations that require more planning than a casual beer and burger with friends. Easter is a big loser on the cost-benefit party analysis.  I am supposed to color eggs which I do not want to eat, hide eggs which I do not want to look for, and purchase candy which will only make me fat.  Not to mention that the Easter Bunny is full-on weird.  Why on earth does a bunny deliver eggs?  It is embarrassing that the culmination of the Christian faith is reduced to a middle-aged man in a bunny suit distributing candy.  I prefer my holidays dignified, or at least a little less bizarre.  This year, however, my Easter eggstravaganza is in full force.  We will baptize my youngest son, with all the pomp and circumstance that entails.  I am up to my armpits in Easter this year-- all the spiritual and secular celebration:  hymns, Easter lilies, baptisms, christening outfits, new clothes, Easter bunnies, egg hunts, food and drink.  I just can’t escape the festivities this time and somehow, I wonder if it’s all meant to be.  Perhaps this is the year that I find my “Easter spirit”, that my Easter Grinch heart grows three sizes.  

This is the year we celebrate my adorable little son, the joy of my life that I didn’t know I needed until he arrived.  This is the year I celebrate surprise, the life of my newborn baby, and the life I have found in the resurrection of Christ Jesus. If I had my druthers, my life would be routine, predictable, and follow a prescribed plan.  Work, family, church, and other pursuits would fit nicely into my schedule.  I could look ahead for the next ten years or so, crossing items off my to-do list as I plod through the days.  No need for fanfare or disruption.  But, God doesn’t give me my druthers, God gives me a life.  Life doesn’t fit into my google calendar and my budget spreadsheet. Life is messy, joyous, and ridiculous.  Life is unpredictable blessings--snotty-nosed, sassy-mouthed, sleep-depriving, adorable, loving blessings.  Life takes my organized, predictable satisfaction and raises the stakes. Life sprinkles my contentment with craziness.  Sorrow and joy disrupt my plans, and in the eye of the disruption, in the midst of the ridiculous, in the heart of the disbelief, I find God.

I expect that Easter didn’t fit into the plans of the disciples, either.  They thought they were getting a messiah who would defeat the Romans, not a martyr crucified as a criminal.  If the tragedy didn’t make sense, the triumph was absolutely mystifying.  Christ was back, but he still wasn’t liberating Israel.  He was liberating souls, which is much more difficult to understand, much more ridiculous.  I can imagine Peter and his friends saying, “OK, now we have a risen Lord.  What do we do with him?”  Even for believers, Easter requires a leap of faith, faith that God loves ALL the sinners, faith that good will continue to defeat evil, faith that, in the face of discord and hatred, love still wins.

Perhaps this is the year when my sorrow turns to joy, when I allow myself to come out from the Good Friday mourning clothes into my Easter bonnet, when I lay down my grief over the death of my father and take up my joy in the birth of my son.  After all, Easter isn’t just one day of gladness and gluttony.  When that stone rolled away, it didn’t roll back again--the world was changed forever.  Perhaps Easter celebrations are ridiculous because Easter itself is ridiculous.  It is completely ridiculous that the God of all creation would love the silly, selfish human race enough to become human incarnate.  It is completely ridiculous that this God would then allow those misguided, scared, selfish human beings to kill him.  It is completely ridiculous that this God would descend into hell and rise again, resurrected in form, whole in body, to restore grace to all those who are lost.  We don’t worship a God that makes sense, that sticks to the routine, that follows the rules; we worship God in Jesus Christ, who surprises us with an embarrassment of ridiculous riches in the grace of Easter.

Laying Down the Privilege of Denial

“The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice.”  --Martin Luther King, Jr.  All I can say is, “Dear God, may it be so.”  Lately, I doubt that this is true.  After the Charleston church shooting in June 2015, my doubts overcame my hope.  People say that systemic racism will never change until white people become angry.  My friends, I was angry--angry, frustrated, and impotent to make any positive change.

In my frustration, I wrote these words, “How can I help?  I am stricken by these events.  I am listening and begging for answers, because I don’t understand how to help the problem.  I grew up in a predominantly white area, I live in a predominantly white neighborhood, worship in a predominantly white church, and work in a school with a predominantly white staff.  Of course, I believe I'm not a racist, but I benefit from my pale skin and blue eyes, from my middle-class upbringing, from a society built upon the backs of slaves and oppressed minorities.  I bear the guilt by virtue of my lucky birth.  When I interact with the police and other law enforcement, I meet respect and helpfulness, not suspicion and fear.  My children will not be called “thug” or “ho” based on the color of their skin.  My male children will not have to learn how to submit to the police in order to stay alive.  As a white person in a white-dominated culture, I cannot truly understand the struggle of minorities.  I cannot get out of my own skin to experience it.  How does a privileged white person address the racism that is pervasive and corrosive in our culture?  How am I complicit?  How can I help?” l http://lindaloumiz.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-thy-enemies-reaction-to-charleston.html

Last November my church, St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church, hosted a 2.5 day training in analyzing systemic racism through Crossroads Anti-Racism Organizing and Training. http://crossroadsantiracism.org/  The Episcopal Diocese of Chicago hosts these trainings twice a year for clergy and laypersons.  I attended the training to try to gain some knowledge, and through the knowledge, to gain some power to help.  I knew it would be difficult, disappointing, and heart-wrenching to contemplate my white privilege in the face of hundreds of years of oppression of my fellow human beings.  I knew it would bring up my own biases.  I didn’t know it would be so healing and empowering.  

One of the phrases our trainers used to set the tone for the workshop was “We are called and carried here”.  Called and Carried--I love that phrase.  I was called into this work through injustice and hatred, through my ignorance, frustration, and impotence.  I was called by the lessons in social justice learned from my family, my teachers, my ministers and priests, and my friends.  I was called by the long arc of resistance to oppression, by seekers of justice, and by those who face hatred with love.  Something called to me that there must be a better way, there must be someone else fighting this fight, there must be hope.  So, I answered the call.  I began reading and talking with people, and I found out about some trainings and programs.  I met some people who honestly believe they can dismantle systemic racism--what an amazing idea!  I reached out to friends who might want to join the fight.

Called and Carried:  called into the fight by those before me and carried forward by those with me.  During the process of organizing this training, we ran into some major obstacles.   I spoke with one of the trainers, Derrick.  As I explained the roadblocks and my inability to overcome them, I vented my frustration and anger.  “This is something that should happen. This is something that I need to MAKE happen.  Why isn’t it working the way it SHOULD?”  I am used to accomplishing my goals and I expected this event to fall into lines with my plans.   Derrick’s answer was, “Linda, we are talking about dismantling racism here.  It’s not going to happen in the next three months.  These things take time.”

These things take time, years, decades, generations, but there is no time to waste.  Before the training, I thought I had a concept of white privilege, but now the scales have truly fallen from my eyes.  My husband says I see everything as a matter of race now--he’s right.  That’s because so many people do NOT see things as a matter of race.  White America has the unique distinction of oppressing classes of people with almost complete deniability.  There is always another explanation for racial discrimination, “It’s really a matter of income disparity.”  “The problem here is lack of respect for authority.”  There is always a defense, “I don’t ‘see color’.”  “I have many black friends.”  There is always a way for white people to remain blameless while we are complicit in a system of oppression that has spanned 400 years of slavery, genocide, abuse, and marginalization of people of color.  The greatest white privilege is the privilege to deny it all.  That is the privilege I freely shed now.

I cannot wake up tomorrow and become a person of color in order to understand the struggle of existing in a racially biased world.  I am not going to move my family to an impoverished neighborhood to experience the lack of safety people live with there.  I am a product of a flawed system, who has benefitted from pale skin and blue eyes, a nuclear family that valued education, an excellent public education system, fair student loan rates, and accessible employment.  Yes, I have worked hard to get where I am today; I have sacrificed, made responsible choices, and lived within my means.  So have millions of other people, and not many of them have the advantages in life that I have, as a regular middle-class school teacher and married mother.  Many, many people work hard, my friends; it is time to admit that hard work does not always pay off.  It is time to admit that the deck is stacked, the dice are loaded, the game is rigged.  It is time to put down the rose-colored glasses of denial and pick up the lens of clarity.

Today, I am ready to join the fight, and the first battle is within my own perception.  I am ready to see racism and the pain it causes.  I am ready to see white privilege and the disparity it causes.  I am ready to stop denying and begin changing it.

JEEsus... and Nadia Bolz-Weber

“God gathers up all our sin, all our broken-ass junk, into God’s own self and transforms all that deal into life.  Jesus takes our crap and exchanges it for his blessedness.”

--Nadia Bolz-Weber, Accidental Saints

It’s no secret that I love Nadia Bolz-Weber; I’ve been raving about her for a couple of years now.  I’ve given copies of her books to most of my friends and relatives, I quote her regularly, and I call her my theological super-hero.  The thing I love most about her is not her sarcastic wit, her tattoos, or her foul-mouth (though I do enjoy all of those things).  The thing I love about her is her love for Jesus.  She loves Jesus to an embarrassing degree, and not just Jesus, some Jewish rabbi from the first century who may or may not have been born of a virgin and may or may not have been divine and may or may not have been resurrected, not just some historical, non-mystical, progressive, liberal spiritual teacher, but JEEsus!  She talks about the kind of JEEsus save us, the kind that shows up in our darkest hour to light the way, that knocks us down when we are prideful, that lifts us when we have fallen.  She talks about the kind of JEEsus that came to this world to save the sinners, and continues to save them to this day.  She talks about the kind of JEEsus whose grace envelopes us all.

If a person scratches the surface of the tattoos, the sarcastic delivery, and the swearing, he will find an orthodox Lutheran pastor desperately proclaiming the Gospel of our Lord to the world.  Nadia is not challenging traditional theology, overturning traditional liturgy, or questioning traditional Christian beliefs.  Rather, she is challenging us to return to the REAL gospel, of loving our enemies, even those we hate, like Adam Lanza, the man who murdered innocents at Sandy Hook Elementary School.  She is challenging us to confess our deepest sins, not just the sins of addiction and betrayal, but the every-day sins of pettiness and selfishness, in order to feel the redemptive grace of Jesus Christ.  She is challenging us to work for the Kingdom, not because we are holy and wholesome, but because we are all fallen, forgiven, grace-filled sinners that God has chosen to love.

Take up the challenge and see Nadia Bolz-Weber at St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church in Antioch, Illinois on July 16, 2016. Tickets $40 for both morning and afternoon sessions. Buy before Jan. 31 and get a free lunch. http://www.ignatiusantioch.com/calendar-of-events.html

Resolution for 2016: Allow God to Love Me

My only resolution for 2016 is this:  I resolve to stop trying to prove I’m good enough.  I’m encouraged in this by Nadia Bolz-Weber, who posted this on Dec. 31:  My yearly reminder: There is no resolution that, if kept, will make me more worthy to be loved.  Like so many other people, I have a sort of compulsive need to prove I’m good enough.  It doesn’t come from a lack of parental love as a child, or a competitive sibling, or an upbringing that insisted on overachievement.  I have loving parents and a supportive sister, and I clearly knew unconditional love as a child.  

Why is love so difficult for me to accept?  Fr. Tim, my friend and priest once remarked, “It seems like you had loving parents.  I don’t know where this comes from, but you have a hard time allowing yourself to be loved.”  I didn’t know why either, until I read these words in Nadia Bolz-Weber's heartbreaking book, Accidental Saints.  As she tells a story of her failure to love a parishioner as wholly as she wished, Nadia says, “This is why being loved, really loved, can sting a little, reminding us of all the times we have loved poorly or not at all, all the ways in which we have done things that make us feel unworthy of real love.” (Bolz-Weber, 2015, p. 126)

Tears rolled down my face as I read those words.  That was exactly it! I tried so damn hard to prove I was good enough because I couldn’t forgive all the times I was clearly rotten.  I thought if I lived a wholesome life, volunteered for charity, worked for social justice, and gave money to the right causes, it would make up for all the shit I have done.  Like the time in the fifth grade when I bullied a girl on the playground so badly that she punched me in the face. I stood there, shocked  and crying, indignant and victimized (when I was truly the victimizer).  The teacher didn’t even feel bad for me; she said, “I’ve been watching you and you deserved that.”  A person who bullies someone else must not be worthy of love.  Not to mention all the little betrayals, the gossiping, the posturing, the playing the victim, the everyday crap that takes me away from God--the everyday, mediocre sin.  If I keep screwing up, how can I forgive myself?  How can God really, really forgive me?

This is why I need Christ.  You see, no matter what I do, I am just a forgiven sinner, saved by grace, saved to learn to love others as I love myself.  That means that I have to learn to love myself.  I tried to fix myself.  I tried to be a Buddhist.  I tried yoga and martial arts and meditation.  I learned mindfulness and I watched my thoughts and I breathed through my emotions.  But I was still a jerk, many more times than I wished to be.  I figured I must not be good enough, right?  I continued to chase any promise to become “better”, until I exhausted myself.  One morning, falling down on the bathroom floor in anxiety and frustration, I gave up.  I told God, “This is the best I can do.”  God loved me anyway--and it hurts.  It’s been a few years since that bathroom-floor epiphany and I’ve learned a few things, but unconditional love still hurts.

It hurts when the love fills in the cracks in my soul, when the love mends the torn places so they are stronger, like scars.  It hurts when I have to really look at my failings honestly, and learn to love myself in spite of them, just like God does.  It hurts to admit that I’m not going to be a better person, a more enlightened person, a kinder person merely due to my own efforts.  I know the dark, dirty spots in my soul and I can’t fix them by living a better life.  I can’t make myself into the person I long to be.  But it’s OK, because Jesus can; he loves me as I am and he loves me enough not to leave me as I am.  Jesus loves me, this I know, even when I’m really, really hard to love. Only the grace of God in Christ can shine the light in my soul’s dark spaces; if the light burns, I am grateful for the sting.  This year, I resolve to allow myself to be loved by the grace of God in Jesus Christ.

Bolz-Weber, N. (2015).  Accidental saints:  Finding God in all the wrong people.  New York, NY:       Convergent Books.

Christmas--a Nugget of Meaning within the Madness of the Season

I’ve been accused of “not liking to celebrate” by some of my friends.  I am a certified Grinch when it comes to most holiday or seasonal traditions throughout the year:  Easter egg hunts, pumpkin carving, apple picking, visiting Santa, Elf on the Shelf, Valentine’s parties, and all the other obligatory activities that Facebook and Pinterest insist I complete in a calendar year.  My friend, Lauren, describes my problem as having a bias towards authenticity; she says I have issues with anything I perceive as contrived or pretentious.  

I come by it honestly.   My family didn’t indulge in photo ops and obligatory celebrations. If we picked apples, it was to eat them, not to take cute pictures.  If we saw Santa, it was to ask for that special gift that we knew our parents couldn’t afford to buy for us without a special occasion.  My father put it best when he gave me advice about training horses, “Linda, everything you do must have MEANING to the horse--and in life.”  He passed on his belief that anything worth my time must have an underlying meaning, a true authenticity, something that actually feeds the soul.  It is difficult to find that nugget of meaning within the trappings of our materialistic society.  When the stores blast “This Christmas” and scream about Black Friday sales, how do I find the grace of the incarnation of Christ?

The traditional nativity story is a big of a stumbling block to me. Most educated people realize that Jesus of Nazareth was most likely not born on December 25, in a stable, in a manger, attended by shepherds and wise men.  Most people realize that the birth narratives in the gospels are either missing or contradictory and that our traditional “Christmas story” is an amalgam of all the gospel stories, condensed in time, elaborated, and cleaned up into a lovely ideal of virgin birth in a sweet-smelling stable.  The mother is radiant, the baby doesn’t cry, and little boys come and play drum solos for him.  It’s beautiful, but even as a fiction, it is a little unbelivable.  I love Jesus but I am confused by the stories of his birth.  What does a fervent, but educated, Christian make out of all of this fantasy?

This year, I had the singular experience of giving birth to a baby during Advent.  I felt the agony of waiting, through days of early labor, feeling the birth pangs near and dear in my own womb.  As my own mind withdrew to the width and breadth of my swollen belly, turning inward towards the contractions, seeking the inevitable pain which brings great things to bear, I felt Advent acutely.  I felt the frustration of waiting and the fear of the effort to bring the glorious end to bear.  Whether Mary’s long journey to Bethlehem and birth in a stable was fact or fiction, that story had new meaning to me this year.

The effort of a woman about to deliver a child is a special mix of anxiety, longing, frustration, and fear.  I longed for release from pregnancy, worried over the timing of the birth (would I be ready, who would help me, who would watch my girls while we hurried to the hospital), and feared but longed for the inevitable pains and effort.  This was my third pregnancy, so I knew that it hurt, that it was work, that it was messy and scary and unpredictable.  Feeling all of this so closely, the nativity story began to take on a new light.  One way or another, Jesus Christ, the King, was born in the same way as every other baby.  Whether in a house, a cave, a stable, a hospital, all babies are born through the power of a woman’s body, the singular effort of a specific mother, shared by the nature of all women throughout all the world.  Every birth is at once specific and particular, and universal.  The King of Kings arrived in this world, naked, screaming, covered with amniotic fluid, attached to his mother by a cord, helpless and vulnerable, through the strength of his mother.

We often talk about how much God loved the world when he gave his only son.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much the world loved God.  Jesus came to the world as a baby, and babies need to be loved into being.  If a baby is not hugged, cuddled, and loved, that baby will not thrive, even if all his material needs are met.  Regardless of exactly how and where Jesus Christ was born, he grew up into a healthy young man.  Excuse me for being fanciful here, but if Jesus grew up into a grown man, I believe someone loved him as he grew.  Someone must have bounced him when he was colicky, sang him to sleep, kissed his boo-boos, educated him.  Just as God loved the world into being, when Christ was born in a particular, specific time and place, those particular, specific people loved him into being.  God so loved the world that he let the world love his son.

For me, this Christmas, that is the nugget of meaning.  As my newborn baby cries during the nights, as my three-year-old needs me to wipe her runny nose, as my six-year-old needs my help with her Legos, I have the gift of loving these children into being.  For me, the love doesn’t come in the form of Elves on Shelves, or elaborate Christmas cookies.  For me, the love comes singing Christmas hymns as my children drift off to sleep, in the quiet night-time bed checks, in the sticky-fingered hugs, and the lop-sided home-made gifts.  Those little moments pull me out of my frustration at commercialism, at my lack of funds to provide the newest, fanciest toys, at my impatience and my weariness.  Those little moments remind me that my job is to love the world, because the world loved God.

How do you find ways to love the world this Christmas season?  Where is your nugget of meaning?

Living in the Servant Kingdom

This is the text of a sermon I gave today, during Morning Prayer, at St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church.

Today is Christ the King Sunday and we’re supposed to make something of all this kingly imagery.  

We hear about how Jesus was given dominion over all the earth and sits on the throne of heaven.  

We hear about how he will come again from the clouds, how he always was, he is, and he will be the king and deliverer of the earth.  

We wear fancy robes and carry a golden cross and kiss a golden book and make fancy gestures.  We kneel and genuflect to the king.  

We pray, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”

Personally, I long for a God of power, that will set things right.

A God that will heal my hurts, punish the guilty, save the refugees, dismantle institutional racism, make the village support our resale shop, and balance our budget.  

I long for a King, and what I get is that guy--the one hanging from the cross, hanging in disgrace, his arms outstretched in love, praying to forgive his murderers because “they know not what they do”.  

We get Christ the King.

Christ Jesus, who, when questioned by Pilate, answers him with sarcasm.  

When Pilate accuses Jesus of calling himself the King of the Jews, a statement that is clearly sedition and treason to Rome, Jesus answers, “Is this what you think?  Or did others tell you this?”  It’s like he’s checking his sources.

Pilate dodges the question, answering, “I’m not a Jew, so how would I know?”  Jesus continues in a sarcastic tone, “If I were a King, don’t you think someone would be here defending me?”  It’s as if he’s saying, “Dude, if you think I’m a king, I am no king like you’ve ever seen.  I mean, can you even imagine a king allowing himself to be treated this way?”  

And, Pilate can’t imagine it.  He can’t understand what Jesus means, how could his Kingdom not be in this world, why is he not defending himself?  

Pilate cannot conceive of a servant king, he cannot conceive of the true power of Jesus--the power of sacrifice and love.  

We are all a little bit like Pilate sometimes.

Robert Farrar Capon, one of my all-time favorite theologians, talks of Luther’s idea of Jesus’s left-handed power, the power of sacrifice and love.  

Pilate (and the rest of the world, then and now) thinks of power as straight-line power, the power to make things happen, to make people do your will.  

Straight-line power works well on things and on impersonal systems, but it falls short pretty quickly with people.  

I can force someone to obey me, but I cannot force someone to love me.  

Jesus knew this; Jesus used left-handed power, relational power, power that, instead of subduing others by force, took a beating itself.

Jesus died, forgiving his killers, and immense power was in that forgiveness, but it was a power the world had never seen and still struggles to understand.

Today we hear the story of a kingdom, not of this world’s straight-line power, of oppression and violence, but of left-handed power, of service, of love.  

This is the kind of kingdom we get with Jesus.

We get the God who showed up as a helpless baby to poor, displaced, refugee parents.  

We get the God who washed the feet of lepers, Samaritans, women, and prostitutes.  

We get the God who resisted the devil’s temptation to power, the God who fed and served the poor, the God who came to save the sinner, and the God who died a disgraced prisoner in a painful, shameful death and then rose to defeat even death by his surrender.  

What does it mean to be citizens of that kingdom?  

What does it mean to use relational, left-handed power, rather than dominating, straight-line power to accomplish our work?  

When faced with this question, I feel about as dense as Pilate was.  

Although I have Jesus Christ and thousands of years of Christian theology, liturgy, and saints to guide me, I struggle with it.  

I am a human being and I want things to go my way--I want to win.  

I don’t want the God who forgives his tormentors; I want the God who rains down destruction upon my enemies.  

Human beings don’t like to give up our power, so we make structures to protect it.

In the church as well, we make structures to protect our power.  

We set up plans, committees, congregations, deaneries, dioceses.  

We ordain deacons, priests, and bishops, so we know there is someone in charge.  

We have been hearing the story of a servant kingdom and the healing power of love over fear for 2000 years;

But, we still cling to our hierarchical power structures.  

Structures aren’t all bad, of course; we need some sort of structure to get things done.  

Even Jesus had some sort of structure with the disciples; the early Christians had some sort of structure to their organization.  

How can we do this structure without grabbing on to the power for dear life?  

How should our leaders lead us into submitting to God’s will, rather than imposing our own?  

Well, my best answer is, “We do it together.”

My friends, we are not here by chance; we are called and carried into this place and into this work.  

The kingdom of Jesus is not of the earth; it does not dictate, threaten, or force us into action.   The Holy Spirit called me to St. Ignatius a few years ago, through the books I read, the signs I saw, and the websites I found.  

Jesus called me into a relationship with him and a relationship with the people here.  

But the call didn’t end there.  

Fr. Tim called me into leadership, and my fellow parishioners carried me forward.  

Here I stand before you, a lay-leader, called and carried into this moment, asked by our ordained priest to speak to you.  

What is the difference between Morning Prayer with a lay-person and the Eucharist with a priest?  

Really what is the difference between ordained people and all the rest of us?

Here on Christ the King Sunday, where we are living in the servant kingdom, why do we set our leaders apart?  

Honestly, at first I had no earthly idea how to answer that question.

Being a good Episcopalian, I looked to the BCP, to the Rite of Ordination of a Priest, and I found this line, “In all things, you are to nourish Christ’s people from the riches of his grace.”  

A priest is set apart in order to nourish the people.  

An ordained priest is a vessel for the Holy Spirit.  

An ordained priest is the sacramental image of the Holy Spirit working within us all.  

Just as the bread and the wine in the Eucharist is a sacrament for the grace that fills us at all times,

just as the water of baptism is a sacrament for the grace that fills us at all times,

the ordained priest is a sacrament for the priesthood that fills us at all times.  

A concentrated sacrament that brings us a visible focus--a re-presentation--of the presence of grace already within us.

The priest shines a sacramental spotlight on our own priesthood--calls us and carries us forward.

An ordained priest is a sacrament of the Grace of God within all of us, the grace that cultivates our hidden strengths, challenges us in moments of weakness, supports us in our doubts, and rejoices in our joyfulness.

A priest isn’t better than others, more holier, or closer to God, he just has a slightly different role in the kingdom.

Through the grace of God, an ordained priest calls us and carries us and empowers us to call and carry each other.

In the servant kingdom, the collaborative kingdom, the abundant kingdom, we are carried forward by each other through the grace of God.  

When we fear that we don’t have enough supplies, people, and money to pull off Vacation Bible School, Joanne Kriens steps forward with a generous donation and we all come together to make magic for the kids.  

When we fear that our new Grab a Slab event will fail, the entire church steps forward with donations of baskets, time, and money, and carry the event into success.  

When we fear that we can’t make the anti-racism training work, the Diocese, the Lutherans, the school systems, and our own parishioners step up to carry us forward into a transformational experience.  

When we fear that the village will shut down our resale shop, more than 30 people show up to support our ministry and carry us forward into success.  

Our Lord Jesus Christ calls us into faith.  Our priest--the vessel and sacrament of the grace within each of us--calls us into action.  

That grace spills out upon all of our people (friends, parishioners, community members), who carry us forward with purpose.

It’s no wonder that Pilate didn’t understand Jesus’s kingdom; it is a holy mystery.

Wrapped up in the image of glory, encrusted with triumph and dominion, right at the heart of power, is the heart of sacrifice and love.

The King we worship washes his followers feet.  

The King we worship loves the sinners.

The King we worship forgives us.  

The King we worship calls us into service and love, and the citizens of that Kingdom carry us into glory--to serve the “least of these” and therein see the face of our Lord and King.

Amen.