Mary of Teck, the wife of King George the Fifth, was the Queen of the United Kingdom from 1910 to 1936. She lived just long enough to see her granddaughter accede to the throne in February 1952. Mary is portrayed by the actor Eileen Atkins in the popular Netflix drama, “The Crown.” Reclining in her bedroom, ailing from lung disease, Queen Mary teaches Queen Elizabeth the fundamentals of monarchy: what it is, what it is not, and what the young queen must do as she begins her long reign.

Elizabeth is concerned about her new role and her duties (or lack thereof) as the nation responds to a major crisis — a toxic smog that paralyzed London in December of 1952, leading to thousands of deaths. She wonders if, as sovereign, she is entitled to interfere politically to direct or contradict the elected government, which initially appears to be woefully unresponsive to the challenge. If the crisis is mishandled, isn’t she answerable to the public, just like her ministers? Shouldn’t she do something? And if she fails to act, shouldn’t she have to answer to her subjects for that failure? Queen Mary’s advice is to remain quiet, to do nothing, to simply stand stoically as an icon of divinely-ordained monarchy. Here is what this dramatic television show imagines that Queen Mary said to her granddaughter:

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“This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”

Since 2018, I have sustained a daily text string with three seminary friends — Sam, Claire, and Chip. Our foursome came together when we were summer chaplains commuting to Mary Washington Hospital in Fredericksburg, Virginia. Our bond deepened when we stopped for chocolate shakes at Arby’s on our way back to Alexandria, and then listened to “My Favorite Murder,” a true-crime comedy podcast. We are now, I think, friends for life.

Sam and Claire now have two children each: Sam is the father of Mac and Rixey; Claire is the mother of Ruth and Sophia. Chip and I are, well, “childless cat ladies,” I suppose.

This past week, the four of us texted about the resignation of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, whose episcopate was brought down by a child-abuse scandal. We are all Episcopal priests now, so naturally we have all followed this story, more or less, and have formed opinions about it. 

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Dear friends,

My heart is heavy with grief and exhaustion. But my job is to preach the Good News, the Gospel, God’s glad tidings of justice and peace. 

I'll get to that, I promise. But we can’t just jump to the cheerful things. This is a profoundly frightening time. Many, many people are in danger as a result of our national election. And of course it’s not just the election. We are facing so many overlapping crises right now. We are worried for the safety of women, persons of color, and transgender persons. We watch with outrage as warfare kills innocent people. We can’t even trust that our kids are safe from deadly violence in the classroom. And of course, through all of this, we feel traumatic anxiety about climate change and extreme weather.

I sometimes feel like I’m suffocating under heavy blankets of fear, anger, and aching sadness. And not just today, not just last evening: I’ve awakened in the wee hours quite often, for many years now, worried about all that’s happening, all that could happen.

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“Any [fool]1 can burn down a barn.”

This is a line from a movie, a quarter century ago. “Any fool can burn down a barn,” says a presidential candidate in the film, “Primary Colors,” a fictional take on a national election, nineteen-nineties-style. (Elections were different back then… but also not all that different.)

I have often recalled this movie line in the past few weeks and months. We’re on the brink of another critically important national election, another civic event with countless innocent lives hanging in the balance. In this time of polarization and catastrophic warfare, it’s easy to conclude that there are two kinds of people, two ways of being, two basic human natures. You can either be a wise person who builds barns, or you can be a fool who burns the barn down.

Now, of course, I want us all to be barn builders. But it’s much more complicated than a good/bad, wise/foolish, angel/devil binary: Each of us has the capacity for both: We all know how to build things up; we all know how to burn things down. Our behaviors and choices are usually a confusing, confounding mix. There is a battle raging inside each one of us: our essential human nature, made in God’s image, wants to build things up, but our broken, self-centered, ‘shadow’ self wants to burn things down. And our spiritual lives often determine who prevails.

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I speak to you as any foolish woman would speak.

That’s right. I’m standing next to the wife of Job, right at this particular moment. I stand next to her in defiance of her suffering husband’s dismissive remark. He snaps at her, saying, “You speak as any foolish woman would speak,” and I’m on her side. She seems to find the problem of innocent suffering intolerable, and if God doesn’t answer for it, then she is not about to just shrug her shoulders and say, “Thy will be done.”

Girl, same.

It’s all too easy for Christians, it’s easy for all people of all faiths, or no faith, to minimize the problem of suffering. But our tradition offers authentic empathy, too. C.S. Lewis, the Anglican scholar and theologian, reflected memorably on the awful pain of human grief, and how that pain deepens when it appears that God is absent, or uncaring. "Meanwhile, where is God?” Lewis wonders. “...Go to [God] when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence.”

Jesus said to her, “I AM the Resurrection and the Life.”

I want five more minutes with my father. I just need five more minutes. Now, I am relieved to say that we really are at peace, me and my dad, following his death last November. My wish for five more minutes is not debilitating, not terrible. But I just want one more chance to say a few good things to my father. And while we’re on the topic of personal grief, I would need many more minutes to catch up with my mother, to meet her now, now that half of my own lifetime (and counting) has unfolded after her death. My mother never met Andrew. In certain important ways, she never met me.

Jesus does not directly speak comfort to me in these reflections of mine about my departed parents. Jesus doesn’t speak simple comfort to any of us who are grieving today for our departed brother in Christ, Tracy. Jesus simply but complicatedly says this to us: “I AM the Resurrection and the Life.” He does not say, “Oh, you’ll get your five minutes, and more, with your beloved dead.” And he certainly does not say, “Oh, there is no death; death is an illusion.” We Episcopalians say — and will say this very afternoon — that in death “life is changed, not ended,” but that’s as far as we’ll go on minimizing the sting of death.

It’s understandably not far enough for many people.

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“[Jesus] rebuked Peter and said, ‘Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’”

What are divine things?

What are human things?

I will start with some human things, and hopefully a new understanding of divine things will emerge from them.

Here’s a human thing: I am setting my mind on candidates up and down the November ballot. So far, I feel good about my decisions. I’m supporting a growing slate of candidates not because they have all the right answers or do all the right things, but because I am persuaded that they are the candidates who will listen to friend and foe alike, and who will submit to accountability in moments of failure or wrongdoing. They are far from perfect and will always need loyal opposition, but I am confident that the world will be a healthier place if they’re in the city hall, the courts of law, the governor’s mansion, the halls of Congress, and the White House. If they lose, I will be deeply disappointed. In one case, I may feel utterly devastated.

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One of the members of our parish has a terrific job title. This is my opinion of course, and you may disagree. When I told him one time that I love his job title, he seemed unsure how to respond — I think he’s just a self-effacing person who hasn’t really dwelled on the idea that there are “terrific job titles,” so my comment may have caught him off guard.

But even if you haven’t ever focused on the topic, I’m sure you can think of some grand job titles: Chief Justice of the United States; Supreme Allied Commander, Europe… Or how about this whopper: Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Metropolitan Archbishop of the Province of Rome, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God. That’s all one job title. 

(By the way, my favorite part of that particular title is — no contest — “Servant of the Servants of God,” a job title we all receive as baptized Christians. You — you are a Servant of the Servants of God. Your baptismal certificate is your business card.)

But even Pope Francis, in my view, must tip his miter to our sibling in Christ, Ian, whose job title is … wait for it … Director of Fights and Intimacy. Ian works in the theater as an actor and director, and I just can’t get over this title he sometimes holds: Director of Fights and Intimacy. 

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Everyone knows that Mary Magdalene is important. She is called “the apostle to the apostles.” In the Good News according to John, as we just heard, she is the trusted source, the eyewitness who announces the Resurrection, the savvy visitor to the garden — the new Eve in the new Garden of Eden — who stays long enough to work out who this wondrous and unsettling stranger truly is. She also stays long enough to weep in the new Eden, carrying into the heart of God our human grief, our human anguish, our human lament at all the death and destruction that haunts us, all the injustice that surrounds us, all the violence that grieves us.

Mary Magdalene is important.

But Mary has not enjoyed an easy path to prominence in our faith tradition. She has not been celebrated as enthusiastically and as often as Peter, who gets his own Resurrection appearance in John, a story appended to the fourth Gospel by a later editor. Now, I happen to love that encounter of Peter with the risen Christ. I love that story so much that it is inked forever onto my right arm. I revere Peter, our first bishop, the keeper of the keys, one of just three apostles we claim to be the strongest voices announcing the Resurrection: Peter, Paul, and Mary.

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The amateur athlete Kathrine Switzer registered for and then ran the 1967 Boston Marathon. Her coach said he would help her run the race if she could complete the full distance in their training runs. But he warned her that, in his words, “No dame ever ran the Boston Marathon!” Switzer didn’t hide her female identity at the starting line, even wearing lipstick and refusing to remove it when one of her teammates warned her that she’d be ejected from the race. 

What happened next is told in a 2017 article on the CNN website: “A few miles in, [Switzer] saw a man with a felt hat and overcoat in the middle of the road shaking his finger at her as she passed. Then, she heard the sound of leather shoes, a distinctly different noise from the patter of rubber soles, and knew something was wrong. 

“[Switzer wrote in her memoir,] ‘Instinctively I jerked my head around quickly and looked square into the most vicious face I’d ever seen. A big man, a huge man, with bared teeth was set to pounce, and before I could react he grabbed my shoulder and flung me back, screaming, “Get the hell out of my race and give me those numbers!”

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I am married to a cook.

This is such a familiar, such a basic fact of my existence, I sometimes fail to focus on it. Andrew has been feeding me for nearly twenty-five years. Since the year 2000, for thousands of evenings, Andrew has prepared food for me to eat. On many Saturday mornings, he bakes biscuits.

I wash and fold all of our laundry; Andrew prepares all of our meals. This has been a clear, firm division of labor for us.

In my last call as a priest, I spent two evenings a week overnight on Bainbridge Island. A Grace Church family generously gave me their little above-the-garage apartment to use. It did not have a stove. All it offered was a toaster oven and a microwave. I would cook an Amy’s pizza, or reheat an entree from the grocery store. I fed myself in college-dorm fashion. My food had calories and nutrients, and often enough it tasted okay. But it was not two important things, two things Andrew’s cooking has become in our household.

My humble solitary meals in that apartment — in contrast to Andrew’s cooking — were not eucharistia, and they were not koinonia.

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Do you know the song, “Frankie and Johnny”? I would rather not sing it to you — the music of Jimmie Rodgers lies a bit outside our splendid Anglo- Catholic tradition, and outside my own stylistic abilities, and anyway I have no guitar up here with me, and couldn’t play it if I did — but I’d like to offer you a spoken sample. I think I can recite portions of “Frankie and Johnny” as a compelling story. Terrible, sad! But — compelling. Here goes.

Frankie and Johnny was sweethearts,
oh Lord how they did love
Swore to be true to each other,
true as the stars above
He was her man, he wouldn't do her wrong

Frankie went down to the corner,
just for a bucket of beer
She says, Mr Bartender
has my loving Johnny been here
He's my man, he wouldn't do me wrong

I don't want to cause you no trouble,
I ain't gonna tell you no lie
I saw your lover an hour ago
with a girl named Nellie Bligh
He was your man, but he's doing you wrong

Frankie looked over the transom,
she saw to her surprise
There on a cot sat Johnny,
making love to Nellie Bligh
He’s my man, and he's doing me wrong

Frankie drew back her kimono,
she took out a little 44
Rooty toot toot, three times she shot,
right through that hardwood door
Shot her man, he was doing her wrong…

This story has no moral,
this story has no end
This story just goes to show,
that there ain't no good in men
He was her man, and he done her wrong

Here ends the reading.

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Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to [Jesus], “There is a child here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was a great deal of grass in the place; so they sat down, about five thousand in all. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated.

Loaves of bread.

Loaves of bread made from barley flour, which even the poorest households in first-century Palestine could afford.

God’s dominion revealed to us in the distribution of cheap but good bread, broken skillfully, handed carefully from person to person, until everyone has eaten their fill.

God’s dominion as the breaking of bread.

God as Bread.

I can see it.

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She despised him in her heart.

Girl, preach.

Michal is a bystander, not meriting much more than a brief afterthought in the story of King David’s accession. But there she remains, in the story. If we don’t include Michal, we won’t have all the story we need.

I have often come back to Michal over the years, in my reflections. She is an aging member of the new king’s growing harem of wives, a has-been daughter of the deposed king, a bit player in a colorful royal drama that still shapes our worldview about leadership, government, humanity, and God.

King David is still leaping and dancing before the Lord, even now. King Charles the Third – consciously or not – borrows ideas and imagery from King David’s world-changing reign. And our own presidential contests carry many of the same dramatic themes forward in our own nation, as we all, like Michal, look out of our windows at our political leaders, and at all their friends and foes, with deepening dismay.

Yes, King David and Michal are still very much among us.

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My mother Nancy, throughout her life of nearly fifty-nine years, probably did not run or jog more than a very few miles, and all of them in her very first years of life. She contracted polio as a child, and suffered serious post-polio syndrome. Just before her death, she reflected on the topic in her last conversation with one of her grandchildren.

“What do you think I will do first when I get to Heaven?” she asked her then-four-year-old grandson, John. He replied, “I don't know, Nana, what do you want to do?” “I want to run,” she said. “My mother told me that when I was a little girl I ran everywhere, ran down the stairs, down the block, to school, to the neighbors, everywhere. And then when I was eleven I got sick and couldn't run anymore. I miss that, and that's the first thing l'm going to do because I know that in heaven my body will be fixed and I will be able to run as far and as fast as I want to.”

In heaven my body will be fixed.

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I am getting older.

This, of course, is literally true of everyone and everything. The youngest dog in my home is nineteen months old — a powerfully fabulous age for a dog, with most of the growing pains and training restraints of puppyhood receding into the past, and many years of frolicking and bugging the older dogs lying blissfully ahead in the future. Yet this energetic yearling is, like you and I, getting older. Even now I can all too easily imagine his gradual senescence, his frailty in the teen years, his grievous death.

From a dog’s perspective, I have not reached my teen years, but I think it’s fair to say I’m almost a canine tween. So I scheduled a routine exam this past week with my new primary doctor, and we went over everything. At one point he casually mentioned that we should review a couple of topics because, he said, “You’re over fifty and you have some issues.”

That’s fair. I am over fifty and I have some issues. I am getting older.

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Lately I’ve taken a deeper interest in bad guys. But then, they’ve always captured my imagination. After all, as many of you well know, I spend a lot of time on the theological topic of remorse, the idea that our life of faith is about all of us getting better. (Maybe it’s my background as a psychotherapist, or my background as a Lutheran: those identities will always be alive in me.) 

For whatever reason, I’m intrigued and inspired by the notion that in our life of faith, we’re supposed to learn things, improve our behaviors, turn from our bad attitudes, repent from our selfish impulses, grow in maturity, stop hurting our neighbors … in short, we’re supposed to get better. And if that means we need to talk about scary or repellent topics – topics like sin – well, it’ll be worth it. Look at the devastation around the world: our faith offers humanity a robust solution in the form of human redemption and restoration.

But I hasten to say that I’m not talking about shame. I’m talking about sin and remorse, about forgiveness and reconciliation. We discard shame as the abusive and damaging emotional hell that it is, and we simply get in touch with our common human need to get better, to improve, and – always with God’s help, always with God’s power – to reveal God’s own image and likeness that shines from our essential identity as ethical human beings.

All of that fascinates me. 

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Have you ever been at a party and wanted to find a quiet corner, in the shadows, where you could collect your thoughts, breathe, and be invisible for a while? (I know that for some of you here, you may have never not wanted to do this while attending a party.) This may be true even at a fun or lovely party: imagine a party that offers good food, pleasant conversation, and a truly relaxing evening with friends; even there, you might want to step away for a while.

I invite you to step out of the party (good or bad) of your busy life, out of the party of noise and chatter around our parish, and (if just for a few moments) out of the dubious “party” of dust and heat and anguish in our troubled world. I invite you to step out of all that, and spend some quiet time with the image on the cover of today’s bulletin. This is a painting of the encounter of Jesus and Nicodemus. It was painted by Henry Ossawa Tanner, in 1899, in Jerusalem.

I have had the experience of being awake in the wee hours in Jerusalem, and even the experience of being on a rooftop deck in the Old City, like the one in Tanner’s painting. Jerusalem has a desert climate where, I discovered, it is not reliably cool and pleasant outside except after sunset, or before dawn. I wonder if, centuries ago, Jerusalem at night felt like it does now: a warm but restive city, asleep but fitful, quiet but restless. Cities throb and bustle and hum, and some cities never entirely shake off that energy, even at four in the morning. Jerusalem is like that. It is lovely, but it feels a little haunted, a little harrowed, and more than a little sad.

Can a city have a guilty conscience?

One evening last November, one of the twelve evenings my father spent in the ICU at Fairview Southdale Hospital, in Minneapolis, I enjoyed a short conversation with the nurse who was coming on shift, and preparing my dad for a quiet night. The nurse was up and down, typing on the computer keyboard, tapping the beeping IV keypads, checking hoses, repositioning my father on the pillows, dashing in and out to get supplies and run other errands.

As he worked I asked him questions about the monitor tracking my dad’s breathing pattern. I apologized for bothering this medical professional in his duties. “Oh, I’m happy to answer your questions,” he said, with a genuine smile. “It’s part of why I’m here.” He pointed to the jagged line tracking my father breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out, above the ventilator’s constant, underlying rhythm. The line changed color when it crossed different thresholds.

“You see here?” the nurse said, pointing to the line where it stayed down in the color green. “This is a breath that the machine did all by itself, and Gary rode the vent.” “He ‘rode the vent’?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered. “It means he let the machine breathe for him. I’d actually like him to ride the vent a little, tonight,” the nurse continued. “Riding the vent lets him rest, and when he rests, his lungs can heal.” The nurse paused. Then he said, “Of course we don’t want him to ride the vent all night. It’s also good when he tries to breathe on his own. That’s part of healing, too.”

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While he was going and they were gazing up toward heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. They said, "Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven?”

I think I know why.

When my father died late last November, and in the early-December aftermath, for a while there, it felt like old times. All the adult children of our family patriarch came together, with all our old shoes. By “all our old shoes,” I mean all our old ways of relating, ways of being, ways of being together. I know how to talk to my brother John, for instance, the way I know how it feels to wear an old shoe. I’ve known John from the beginning of my life. If he walks into a room, I’ll say, “Hey,” and we will need no more of an elaborate greeting than that. 

And so it went, last November, and into December, as we said farewell to our dad and laid him to rest alongside our mother. We remembered immediately who we were, who we had always been.