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***

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom; 
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert; 
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirsty ground springs of water;
the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp,
the grass shall become reeds and rushes. 

Long ago now, more than thirty years ago, I lived on 21st Avenue South in Minneapolis, sharing an old house with a few college classmates. One day, the city pulled up the asphalt street in a repaving project. For several days, the earth was bare and exposed. I remember different colors of earth, from black to light ochre.

My friend Bronwen wrote a poem about it. She imagined the exposed earth giving a glorious sigh, breathing with sweet relief after its release from the hard petroleum pavement. The earth rejoices upon its liberation from oppressive human infrastructure. I think of C.S. Lewis in one of his children’s fantasies, when a river god rises up from his watery realm, chanting, “Loose my chains, loose my chains,” and then the liberating army does just that: they tear down a bridge built by a tyrant’s engineers. The free people triumph, and the land rejoices. The rivers shout with joy.

“Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: ‘May they prosper who love you. Peace be within your walls and quietness within your towers.’”

***

What do you really want? Really?

We all want lots of things, including the basics: real food, warm shelter, good music, good art. We want silence and stillness in this wild world. Maybe you want cookies with hot coffee. I surely do. We have a lot of cookies waiting for us at coffee hour.

But really, seriously, ultimately, viscerally – what do you really want?

When I talk about my career, I say that I really want reconciliation. I may say it often enough to try your patience. For a decade I ran a private therapy practice for couples, a day job that was all about relationship repair. The problem was, I didn’t like running a one-person business. It felt lonely. And working on one relationship at a time felt piecemeal, disjointed. So I changed gears and deepened my involvement in faith communities. I doubled down on being a faith leader. I’m okay with counseling couples, but I really want reconciliation in all its forms, so I want to see it happen in whole communities.

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God knows who you really are, who you truly are. God greets you in heavenly peace – the real you, the authentic you, your true self that others don’t completely know or fully understand, your true self that even you may not fully recognize. The true you belongs to God.

Other people often tell you who you are. And often enough, you may happily accept their judgment. For more than three decades, a number of people have been calling me “Uncle Stephen.” I am an uncle: I accept that identity, and hope to honor it with my nieces and nephews. As their uncle, I belong to them. But is “Uncle Stephen” truly me, in my essence? When God meets me and gathers me into Paradise, will God say, “Welcome, Uncle Stephen?”

Someone calls you mother or papa, Grandpa or Oma, and maybe your heart surges with delight: yes, that’s me. But is this identity truly you, in your essence? “I am somebody’s mother,” you may say. And so you are, to the depth of your very being. But — do you, in your essence, belong to your children?

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A poem by Seamus Heaney:

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water.
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each other's work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

***

We will gather again later this evening, in the dying of the year, in our burial garden, to pray for those we love who have died. We honor our grief, and their lives, with solemnity. We proclaim our hope with faith. And we make our song of alleluia with confidence, even if our voices break with the freight of it all.

Our earliest forebears in the Christian faith, those who knew Jesus personally and the couple of generations that followed them: they were especially concerned about the topic of death. Many of them had assumed that Christ would be returning in their lifetimes, so the deaths of the first members of the movement were alarming and upsetting. They had to reinterpret the Gospel. They had to make sense of how they were a people of the Resurrection who nonetheless experienced physical death.

And so they have left us tonight’s passage in the first letter to the Thessalonians, which may be the very oldest book of the New Testament, in which Paul deliberately, consciously tries to console the first Christians that the dead will rise again and meet them, with the Lord, in the air. We may or may not imagine trumpets and clouds, but we share their great hope, and we proclaim with confidence another consolation they gave us: The first Christians taught us that we meet our beloved dead even now, long before a great apocalyptic reunion. We meet our beloved dead here at this Table. At this Table, the great cloud of witnesses descends as we go up, and all are together for the feast.

Jesus said to them, “If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again.”

Sometimes, over the course of my life, I have kicked myself with frustration. I’m in a conflict with someone, and I give away the store. I sell myself down the river. I don’t stick up for myself. I lament my own cowardice. And then, deepening my frustration, I think of a snappy comeback two or three days later, far beyond the moment of confrontation when I could have really zapped my adversary with a great line. 

I think of this occasionally when people voice their frustration about weak political resistance during this apocalyptic time. In the Senate primary campaign in the state of Maine, two candidates are taking up familiar positions: an establishment candidate in her late seventies who seems like a safe choice but is hardly inspiring; and a young idealist with the common touch who stirs and inspires many people but has a controversial past, and a controversial tattoo. I read news reports on this and I think, “I’ve never been to Maine, but I’ve seen this play. I know how it ends.”

We could really use a win. And by “we” I don’t mean a particular political party – I really don’t. My parents formed me to belong to one party with the same loyalty my father showed to one car company; but at this point I just want to support someone, anyone who can reduce student debt and reduce atmospheric CO2 and reduce predatory business practices and reduce the toxic madness of social media and reduce voter suppression and reduce the cost of all prescription drugs and reduce the stratospheric housing prices that cause most of our urban problems and reduce the environmental threat of AI and reduce the violence, racism, transphobia, and misogyny in our culture. And then, on day two…

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Ellen is salt.

John is light.

We begin with salt. Salt is often overlooked, a little canister in your kitchen that hides in plain sight, but salt is everywhere. Just a half teaspoon develops the flavor of your soup, or your cookies. Salt is the base for medications. You use salt when making ice cream to lower the melting point of the ice. Salt preserves food; it de-ices roads and airplane wings. Our bodies require salt to regulate fluids and nerve impulses. We use salt in cleansers. You keep salt on hand for your healing bath, and to soothe your throat. Salt softens hard water. Life on earth began in the salty sea.

And so, in turn, consider Ellen, our salt friend: she is modest and receding, but her influence is everywhere. She draws alongside you with a word, or with her famous side-eye. She quietly reads a library of books and attends countless plays; then she turns that curated wisdom into a lifelong vocation of skillful companionship. She is the ‘fairy godmother’ for countless children and youth; she comes to the aid of foster families; she is a feminist whose chosen full-time job was raising three children; she smiles with mischief when a grandchild says something lightly salty – or whenever they say something that their lightly-salty Nana would have said.

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A reading from Lamentations.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for God’s compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion;
therefore I will wait for the Lord.”

We could use some good news. We could use a few compassions of God, freshly baked this morning. Flaky, luscious compassions: the mercies of God lovingly prepared for us, like a croissant with homemade jam and hot coffee.

We could all benefit from deep rest. I think it is both probable and likely that every person in this room is sleep-deprived.

Since our celebration in late June, when the bishop was here and we thanked everyone who made it possible to refurbish and rebuild this church, we have grieved the deaths of four people: Tom, John, Ellen, and now, just two mornings ago, our own Robin Jones. Please pray for his wife, Denise, one of our companions who prepares God’s compassions, new every morning. Denise is in our knitting group, the group of saints who keep neighbors warm during the cold and wet months. Denise is also one of our protestors, giving voice to the voiceless. Pray for Denise, as she grieves… and as you grieve.

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Last week, I watched a 2022 documentary produced and directed by the comedian W. Kamau Bell called “We Need to Talk about Cosby.” Now, these days, if you say you have deep thoughts and feelings about Bill Cosby, you are revealing that you are probably over the age of forty. My friend and former seminary classmate Josh is just thirty years old. I asked him, “Has Bill Cosby meant a lot to you?” He said, “No, not really.” But for me, as a teenager in the 1980s, I delighted in the many artistic gifts and achievements of Bill Cosby. I adored his sitcom, a colossal mega-hit that at one point attracted more than sixty million viewers. (Hit TV shows these days are lucky to reach twenty million.) But I remember “Fat Albert,” too. And “Picture Pages,” and its catchy theme song. I listened to Cosby’s comedy specials on my Walkman.

Bill Cosby was everywhere. He dominated popular-U.S. culture for decades. He broke barriers as an entertainer of color, even though he caused some controversy within the Black community because he essentially played by the white man’s rules. His consistently positive, disarming affect was criticized for papering over racial injustice. White folks could laugh along with Bill Cosby and go back to sleep. And now, forty years after the height of Cosby’s fame, when section 2 of the Voting Rights Act is under threat, we are painfully reminded every day that the nation is all too far from realizing the dream of Dr. King.

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Years ago, Andrew and I watched “Scandal,” a smart, gritty television show about a political “fixer” named Olivia Pope. Olivia solved problems for hapless politicians who had gotten themselves into hot water. I haven’t watched “Scandal” for many years now, but I expect it is almost quaint by comparison to our current political misadventures. 

In one memorable scene, the White House Chief of Staff, a world-wise political operator named Cyrus Beene, is speaking with contempt about members of the opposition. He condemns them as brutally as he can, finding a particularly devastating insult to throw at them: “These people,” Cyrus says, “These people actually believe in Angels.”

What fools. They believe in Angels?! Fluffy, feathery winged beings of indeterminate gender who flutter about, invisibly, in the clouds. And the clouds are dotted with harps, most likely. And there’s St. Peter, right out of a New Yorker cartoon, standing behind a lectern next to the pearly gates, reviewing poor souls to decide whether they’ll get into heaven.

“These people actually believe in Angels.” How ludicrous!

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“Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?”

Jesus advises the shepherd to just… leave the ninety-nine — to leave them in the wilderness. “They’ll be fine,” he seems to say. 

(Will we? Will we really be fine, out here, in the wilderness, while our shepherd runs off to find whoever that was who got lost?)

I realize I’m making an assumption at this moment that most all of us identify with the ninety-nine sheep who are not lost. And maybe you object: “I’m plenty lost,” you might be thinking. If so, that’s fair. In fact, I think we’re all encouraged to identify with anyone in this miniature parable, and tomorrow, we can identify with somebody else.

Some days you’re the one lost sheep (which means the shepherd is out looking for you). Other days you’re the shepherd trying to hold the flock together (which means you have to make some very hard choices, triaging the needs of people in your care). And then there are your days as one of the ninety-nine: you’re still where you were last year, or last decade, out here in the wilderness, with dozens of others. If you are one of the ninety-nine, what do you need, out here? I have some ideas.

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Now there was a garden in the place where Jesus was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

It was all very practical, very straightforward: They needed to bury their friend, and there was a new tomb right there, in the garden, at the foot of the cross.

A garden is a lovely place to lay a friend to rest, even a troubled garden that grows alongside a cross, which is an instrument of execution. And our garden? Our garden is every bit as practical and straightforward as the Easter garden: our garden, the Bolster Garden, is just down here, hugging this building. You can reach it by walking around a lovely rocky hillside covered with lilac and hydrangea and azalea bushes, with day lilies and ferns and rhododendrons. The remains of many dozens of our beloved dead are also resting there.

Now, the Easter garden, the one in Jerusalem, was next to the place where Jesus was crucified, as we just heard. And so our Bolster Garden, in turn, is next to this place, where we gather beneath this carved cross of the Crucified One, this place where we break the fragrant bread in remembrance of the Risen One. And when we break the bread, we recognize the risen Jesus among us, with us, around and between and through us.

Right here, next to this garden.

Click here to watch this sermon on video. Note that there is a brief bit missing, toward the beginning, due to a technical difficulty.

I could use a miracle right about now. How about you?

Would you like a miraculous healing? If so, I hear you. Just last Monday a longtime friend of mine told me that her husband is suffering a resurgence of cancer; and here at St. Paul’s we have a long list of people in need of physical healing. How about we just magically take care of all that?

But resuscitation from death is another miracle I’m interested in, like the raising of Lazarus from the dead. Now, I know that the raising of Lazarus is a deeply symbolic story that taps into mystical truth, not concrete, scientifically observable truth. And I know that mystical truth — the truth we discover on our journey of faith in God — is in many ways more important and more valuable to us than the facts we might learn from a news report. And I know that if the raising of Lazarus actually had been a literally factual story, nobody asked Lazarus how he felt about having to die twice. I know all of that. But I’m still a fan of literal returns from the grave. In fact, I would like to order, let’s see, one two three four five… How about ten of them, just to get started?

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***

Hail, holy Queen, mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious advocate, your eyes of mercy toward us, and after this our exile, show us the blessed fruit of your womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

Long ago now — in the mid-nineteen-eighties — my father, on a whim, bought a used dark-green Saab coupe. I remember it wasn’t expensive. But it was news of a difference. My dad always bought Chryslers, usually a Dodge van or sedan. The Saab was a lark, a fun step sideways for a straight-laced, silent-generation father of seven who sat on the state appellate court and pledged to his Lutheran church and generally did things conventionally.

And one day I foolishly, ridiculously rolled that Saab on its side and into a ditch. I wasn’t even supposed to drive it. I called and asked him if I could, and he said “No, I’ll be home soon, sit tight,” but I went ahead and drove it anyway, to take my friend to a nearby restaurant to apply for a job. She and I walked the rest of the way to the restaurant and I asked to use their phone, and I called my father. I told him what happened.

“Know this: if the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour.”

Jesus is … a thief.

Maybe it’s difficult for many of us to imagine the Son of Man, the Risen One, Jesus the Good Shepherd, as a thief. Just a few moments ago, we imagined God as a caring parent (“Have no fear, little flock”), and then we heard about Jesus as a loving master, happily coming home from a wedding party. (Of course, the master image is more complicated: a master — loving or not — can’t be a master without slaves.)

But then Luke the evangelist sharpens the imagery even further: Now Jesus is … a thief, arriving unexpectedly in the wee hours, not unlatching the door but breaking in. 

I wonder if the one vital thing you really need right now is to be part of a Minyan Tzedek.

‘Minyan’ is a Hebrew term for a sufficient number of people (historically, ten people assigned male at birth) to proceed with public Jewish worship. (For us Christians, it only takes two to make Eucharist. But there must be at least two.)

So that’s ‘Minyan.’ Next: ‘Tzedek.’ Tzedek translates as justice, fairness, righteousness, or integrity. I recall the days after Ruth Bader Ginsburg died: because she died on Rosh Hashanah, she was hailed as a Tzadeket — same root word as the one for tzedek. If you die at the Jewish New year, tradition says you must have truly been an honorable and just elder of the community. God kept you around for the whole year.

Now, put it together: a Minyan Tzedek is a gathering of righteous ones, or better understood, a gathering for righteousness, a gathering for justice.

Here at St. Paul’s we’ve recently formed a Minyan Tzedek we call the Community Action Working Group — a somewhat more, well, ordinary term. CAWG is their acronym. CAWG is a Christian gathering to be sure, but it is, essentially, a Minyan Tzedek, a gathering for righteousness and justice.

How do I know I can trust you?

How do you know you can trust me?

Building trust is difficult, particularly during these times when the advance of artificial intelligence coincides with open corruption in government, technology, and media; times when it gets harder to know what we know, and harder to trust what we’re being told.

Building trust can involve a lot of trial and error. If we must behave perfectly to build trust, then we will surely fail, because none of us is perfect. There is no such thing as a flawless parent, or a perfectly trustworthy friend, or a spouse who never, ever lets their partner down.

We don’t have to behave perfectly. But what do we need to do, to build trust?

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The writer and music critic Hanif Abdurraqib published an essay in The New Yorker this morning. He wrote about an extraordinary, truly unbelievable experience he recently enjoyed. It happened on June 28, a couple of Saturdays ago, at the Beacon Theatre in New York City. That same evening, many of us were here celebrating the notable accomplishments at this parish over the past three years.

But the celebration in New York, at the Beacon Theatre, was vastly more important and wondrous, by several orders of magnitude. Ramy Youssef was there: Youssef is an actor, comedian, and producer. His presence alone enraptured the largely-Muslim audience. Their souls were soothed and delighted by his humor, and in his essay, Abdurraqib shared some of the inside-group humor that rallies and strengthens Muslims in this time of spiraling Islamophobia.

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Every person contains multitudes. This is something of an axiom in current psychological circles. If you have a therapist, I imagine they’ve said to you at least once, “Which part of you thinks that?”. Your therapist is likely to ask this when you say something self-deprecating, or discouraging, or anxious.

Our vernacular language carries this belief about human nature — that we contain multitudes: “Part of me wants to get married,” you might say to yourself; “but another part of me wants to wait and see.” Each of us is an individual, yet there are smaller selves within each of us.

Some of our psychological “parts” are quite young, even pre-verbal. When something upsetting happens, one of our inner selves is triggered, urging us to fight, flee, freeze, or fawn. (“Fawn” is the impulse to charm or flatter someone you perceive to be dangerous.) When one of our internal parts is triggered, it’s usually because we experienced a similar trauma when we were much younger, and the current stressor reminds us of that old wound. The body remembers. A body part remembers.

Jesus said to the disciples, “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.”

Ten years ago, my uncle was dying of cancer. One of my sisters was his primary family supporter, making trips with him to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, about an hour from his home, to see doctors. The day came when they had an ultimate appointment, a moment of truth in his care: going forward, he would either keep up the treatments, or switch to hospice care. Because of his condition, it would likely not be – and, finally, it was not – a lengthy term of care.

My sister recalls asking him, “Do you understand what this means?” He nodded and said, “Yes.”

Uncle Ray was able to bear that truth.

They said, "Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves; otherwise we shall be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.”

To make a name for ourselves: That is one reason to build a city. Imagine the city – gleaming towers, splendid temples, a vast library, a thriving theater district, waterfront walking trails, shaded parks with benches for reading, playgrounds for children. Once we have built this city, and named it after ourselves, we will be known, we will be admired, we will inspire awe.

But then God will see all of this and drive us apart, confuse us, scatter us. Why? Because our city is beautiful, but it only exists for our glory. And soon enough we will want more glory: We will want to build an empire, and an army; we will want to launch rockets to colonize Mars. Why? To make a name for ourselves. To banish the thought of our mortality. To avoid the hard truth of our weaknesses. To avoid the ordinary, human truth of our vulnerability, and our finitude.