Monday, October 01, 2018

He's Not One Of Us

“He isn’t one of us. Neither is she.”

We somehow seem unable to get away from tribalism. If you are a member of our tribe, well and good. If you’re not, you have to prove yourself, if that’s even possible.

We are all members of tribes of all sorts. 
Tribes meet deep human needs for bonding and affection.
Tribalism becomes dangerous
because it emphasizes commonality and is suspicious of differences.
Tribal identity is so deeply embedded in human consciousness that when any of us begins to dismantle the walls that separate tribe from tribe, anxiety immediately rises, sometimes to a shocking degree. People who have been taught to feel proud of the tribe they belong to don’t like it when that identity is threatened. We all belong to a great many tribes of different sorts. We’re Americans, and so we’re members of the USA national tribe. We belong to a religious tribe or tribes, a racial tribe, perhaps an ethnic tribe, a tribe of those who do a particular kind of work, a tribe that encompasses people who live in a section of the country, the fans of a sports team, residents of certain state, a particular neighborhood, and so on. All of these things make up the identify of the “I.” As in “I am an American, a Nationals fan, a Southerner, a man.” They don’t, however, have a great deal to do with who we are at our core. Most of those things that we think we are come and go, many are negotiable, some are exchanged rather easily, and none last past death.

That is what I think is at stake in the little snippet from Mark’s gospel about the “alien exorcist”[Mark 9:38-40]. It wasn’t what he was doing. It wasn’t about the Name in which he was doing it. The trouble was (for the disciples of Jesus) he wasn’t one of them.

Native American dance being performed in an Episcopal Church.
Times have changed since the first century. I remember a comment made by one of my professors forty years ago when I was in seminary. He said, “When the real ecumenical movement comes…” referring to the serious interaction between Christianity and other religions, which had only just begun to gather momentum in those days. Nowadays, there is enormous interest in the confluence and differences among religious traditions and practices. People gravitate to conversations about religious traditions for all sorts of reasons and with all kinds of agendas. And while such interest is broad, it is still a minority interest. Sometimes conventional Christians find themselves climbing the walls when other traditions seem to be competing with, possibly even altering or, worse yet, displacing the received norms of Christianity. I’m thinking in particular of a General Convention of The Episcopal Church several years ago in which Native Americans played a major role. To its credit, The Episcopal Church has a laudable track record of having brought Christianity to Native Americans without disparaging their own cultures and religious traditions. As a result, there are small but highly significant examples of Native American communities that identify as Episcopal, and who have brought their music, art, dance, food, and symbol systems into the wider Episcopal experience greatly enriching us. Some at General Convention, however, were reportedly scandalized and horrified at what struck them as pagan and certainly as non-Christian. That is not an example that exactly parallels the passage in the gospel about the alien exorcist, but it comes close enough to make the point: somebody is suspect if they appear to belong to a tribe other than ours.

Lest you think this is not a matter of some urgency, I want to tell you that my reading of culture these days is that it is imperative that we find as much common ground on which to stand as possible. Otherwise, fragmentation threatens to devolve into enmity and enmity into warfare on a planet that cannot stand much more stress among its human inhabitants. Means of killing whole populations are far too much available for us to imagine that ideological divides are just backwater eddies that can’t have momentous effects.

More to the point is who we imagine Jesus to be. I have little notion that in a small slice of a single sermon I can say much that would help you in revisiting your understanding of Jesus. But if I could say only one thing it is that if Jesus is indeed, as Christianity insists, the manifestation of the essence of God, then it is also true, even according to our own scriptures, that the essence of God pops up in every culture, clime, race, nation, and tradition. Jesus the man is or was a particular human being. Christ, however, is the phenomenon that is experienced across lines and boundaries, both in time and in space.

I’m saying nothing new here. Hear from the first chapter of the Epistle to the Colossians these words: “He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rules or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things and in him all things hold together.”[1] That is saying something far beyond one human life. It is a claim that what was embodied in this one human being, Jesus of Nazareth, was a universal power that touches and embraces all things. Everything holds together in him. So that is a theological statement, a faith claim. But clearly it is at odds with any attempt to make Jesus the private Savior of a select population. In confessing Jesus’ uniqueness, the Early Church expressly found in him the glue that bonds everything together. As the first chapter of John’s gospel says, “The light that enlightens everyone was coming into the world.” Jesus is not the private possession of a relatively small slice of humanity.

Mayan ritual in a Guatemalan forest
One day in about 1977, I opened my mail and saw a flier from a publisher that I didn’t know at all. It advertised a couple of books that caught my eye. I ordered one entitled Return to the Center by Bede Griffiths, a Roman Catholic Benedictine monk who had at that time lived in India for some time in a Benedictine community styled in the manner of a Hindu ashram. The book turned out to be a brief exploration of similarities of Buddhism and Christianity. Reading it began a new stage in my growth that continues to this day. I have experienced a chain of discoveries of the truth of Christ cropping up in all sorts of places and in unexpected languages. I’ve found Christ showing up in a pagan ceremony of the New Moon, expressed in other language, but acknowledged as old, crippling behavior was denounced and new openness welcomed, much as in Christian baptism.  I’ve found Christ showing up as I’ve shivered in a cold Guatemalan forest, warmed by a great bonfire, and have had hands laid on me and prayers offered in the language of indigenous shamans in a Mayan rite, not unlike the healing services that I hold as a Christian priest. The Truth of Christ is universal. That is not to sell short the beautiful particularities of Christian tradition as found in more familiar places, such as your favorite parish church. But the idea is not nor ever has it been how people who attach themselves here or there are better or closer to God than many others. Being a Christian does not mean believing that yours is the only faith or the best. Nor does bearing witness to the power of Jesus mean clobbering other people with a Bible and proving them wrong.

Sleep Blessing from a pagan source. 
Comparable prayers can be found in Anglican prayer books. 
Note the Trinitarian symbol in the above graphic.

Some people who have looked carefully at the way human consciousness operates have observed that the us-versus-them mentality is inherent in early stages of development. We pass through such stages in our pre-school and elementary school years. If the conditions for growth are present, we learn how to make allowances for others who think and believe differently from us. And if we continue to grow, we get on a path that brings us farther and farther towards the place that we begin seeing that not only we and other humans but also everything in creation actually is a part of a great whole.

There is a critical lesson to be learned in Jesus’ response to his disciples’ concern about the alien exorcist. “They who are not against us are for us.” That doesn’t mean that if some are against us we can drop all attempts at respect and reconciliation and proceed to fight back. But neither does it mean that if some are twisting and perverting the Christian faith, as indeed in my opinion is happening on a frightening scale these days, that we have to play nice and not push back.

Speaking of that, look at the next sayings of Jesus. What is the point of the gospel if not to reconcile people to each other and all creation with the God who actually manifests in every part of creation? If then we participate in dehumanizing persons, treating them as inferior, ignoring their suffering, disrespecting them no matter who they are, we are betraying and outright denying the very gospel that we affirm by being baptized Christians. Does it not send chills down your spine to hear “if any one causes one of these little ones to stumble, it would be better to have a millstone hung around your neck and be thrown into the depths of the sea?” Does that not ring a bell very clearly to the mass mistreatment of children in the name of the United States? In the name of the Church? And how do we so easily forget that vulnerable children that wring our hearts and move us with compassion grow up to be adolescents and adults who need to be loved and affirmed and fed and clothed and cared for as well? Can our compassion not extend to them?

Now you may see why these hyperbolic statements of Jesus that strike us as impossibly hard, even irrational, are meant to shake us out of our lethargy and to call us to full awareness of how necessary it is to grow, to change, to stretch ourselves to live this delightful, joyful, playful life of God that we simply can’t live without giving up our delusions, our enchantments with tribal gods, our fixations on prejudices and pride that separate us from our fellow human beings and cause us to depreciate creation. Is it painful to leave our comfortable positions? It is like cutting off a hand. Is it easy to revise our views of reality? It is like plucking out an eye, so hard it is. Is it difficult to learn to love those whom we can’t stand? You bet. It is like cutting off a foot on which we’ve stood for so long we can’t remember, so long that we’ve forgotten that to hate is to stumble and fall, though it masks as if it makes us taller and more powerful.

There is a story in the Orthodox tradition of a monk named Peter who was known for his irascible temper. He prayed and prayed for God to remove his anger from him. Finally he went into the church one day, confessed his terrible anger, asked for healing, and heard the Lord speaking words of assurance to him that he had been healed of his anger. Immediately on leaving the church, Peter came upon a man who had been an irritant to him for years and within seconds they fell into an argument and Peter lost his temper. Distraught, he turned around and went back into the church, fell on his knees, and asked, “Why, Lord, did you promise that I was healed only to let me again flare up in rage at someone?” And he heard the Lord pose a question: “Peter, you didn’t think that I would not give you the opportunity to use your new gift, did you?”

The Christian life is a life of growth. You have every day new opportunities to part with old ways, shed old behavior, get rid of thought patterns that really contribute nothing to your health and happiness, and live differently. It doesn’t happen in a momentary conversion in which you are made pure and perfect. It happens when each day you decide to use your new gift. Salt is good, and you are salt. Yours and my gift is to make life in the world taste better for all.

If we don’t do it, who will?

"Salt is good.  But if salt loses is saltiness, how can you season it?  You are salt."

A sermon based on Mark 9:38-50, preached on September 20, 2018, on Proper 21 (Year B) of the Revised Common Lectionary.

© Frank Gasque Dunn, 2018

[1] Colossians 1:15-17.

Saturday, September 15, 2018

Just As the Twig Is Bent, the Tree's Inclined; Or, the Value of Discipline

I don’t know it for a fact, but I’m reasonably sure that discipline is not a topic that generally appeals to people these days. Of course there are exceptions. Many of us value the discipline of learning a skill or an art, the discipline of running, or the discipline of regular yoga or gym visits.  Discipline generally doesn’t seem to be a bad idea if it is a way to manage ourselves the way we wish to be managed.  But if even for a moment discipline suggests something that somebody else is meting out, a punishment or corrective of some sort, well who does like that? 

And right off the bat that is a stumbling block for talking about something that in most contexts poses a problem but is integral to a truly spiritual life.  Such is discipline.  

Martin Luther
We are in that time when every third year we get a crack at reading the Letter of James.  Luther despised the Epistle of James, calling it an epistle made of straw.  Luther was on the wavelength of St. Paul, especially when it came to being saved by grace through faith.  He didn’t have any patience with James’s emphasis on works.  Frankly, I think that although James has only a few pages of the New Testament to his credit and Paul more than half of it, James actually won out as the major force in Christianity, which is almost always far more enchanted with works, behavior, practical approaches to everyday problems than with more abstract ideas such as “walking by the Spirit” or “putting on Christ through baptism.” 

I like Paul well enough, indeed very much.  But James serves us well by pointing to the actual practice of Christianity.  He writes in some depth about the human tongue, one of the more powerful and dangerous members of the body.  James gets a bit carried away writing about the tongue.  One wonders just what experience he had had with the tongue, his own or somebody else’s.  Chances are he had been the victim of some gossip line, or had seen others sliced to pieces by snarky so-called friends.  Compared to wild animals the tongue is more powerful than them all:  “no one can tame the tongue—a restless evil, full of deadly poison.”  Whoa!  Strong stuff there, James.  He immediately softens just for a split second to remind us that with our tongues we bless the Lord God.  Then he rapidly reminds us that we stick our tongues out and curse those made in the likeness of God. 

I seriously doubt that anyone would find that a difficult passage to accept as factual.  If you have made it as far as kindergarten, you have probably encountered some experiences that document what James is arguing.  But the issue is not so much what to do about the tongue as a weapon as it is to look at the larger picture of what a disciplined life really looks like.   James goes on to say much of what Paul says in his famous chapter on Love, or Charity, 1 Corinthians 13.  The way of Christ is the way of love, the way of humility, service, sacrifice, and deference.  James, like Paul, understands that, whatever social context in which we live, that society frequently rewards the opposite of those things.  Neither one, James nor Paul, was an American, but they might well have been talking about American culture in the 21st century.  Because in the grand scheme of things, this culture, whose tentacles now reach into every part of the globe, in many ways prizes competition over common endeavor, acquisitiveness over sharing, productivity over idleness, activity above passivity, assertiveness over dependence, self-protection over vulnerability.  In many of those ways we are no different from the society to which the New Testament writers addressed their letters.  Although there are many things to which we can point that paint a very different picture, at the end of the day the world is still driven by the forces that amass power rather than by those that give it away. 

You know all that.  It is impossible to be alive and awake in this world without knowing it.  Some of you indeed know it better than I. Those who crow about empowerment have little regard for the virtues and ideals of submission and passivity, both of which are integral to discipline.  Their skepticism is understandable.  It is unfortunately true that the powerless have often been given a big dose of praise by the powerful for kowtowing to the very forces that oppress them. 

The reason that I go into that much detail about what I think James is driving at, namely the way to live in accordance with the example of Christ, is that it is absolutely necessary to see that the disciple who follows Christ cannot do so without discipline.  Furthermore that discipline is for the most part counter-cultural.  If, for example, following Christ—which is another name for the deepest part of your soul, for the God that is is the God that lives in your very flesh—if following Christ entails cutting your ties with family, with friends, with peer groups and communities in order to be yourself and to do what you know you must do, don’t expect that all of those folk will stand up and applaud you.  They will do everything in their power to pull you back into the old familiar orbit.  Less dramatically by a hair, if you embark on a lifestyle that differs from the mainstream of your community, say, for example, by giving up a lucrative career in order to advocate for people who are political liabilities, you won’t necessarily get support and congratulations from your best high school buddy. 

And that brings us to the heart of the matter. It is called the gospel.  Listen to the fierce, daunting words of Jesus: “If any want to become my followers let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.  For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lost their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”  Disciples are those who follow Jesus, not those who merely worship Jesus.  To follow Jesus means precisely that.  And the stakes are pretty high.

In their amazing book, The Last Week, the late Marcus Borg and John Dominick Crossan trace the last seven days in Jesus’ life, arguing that what got Jesus crucified was his insistent advocacy for those oppressed by the collusion of the religious establishment with political power.  He was not despised and rejected by the common people, who heard him gladly.  He was despised and rejected by the powers that gripped the defenseless and toyed with the vulnerable ensuring that they were miserable.  That sounds harsh, but not nearly so harsh as the experience of being outcast, cut off, discounted, shunned, and shamed.  It was to those on the margins of health, wholeness, sanity, economic stability, and morality that Jesus reached the farthest and the most persistently.  Following him means doing as he did and going the way he went.  You are awfully lucky if you do all that and don’t lose some skin doing it. 

Let me speak plainly.  Because we are human beings, even at our most idealistic, we imagine that what Jesus is talking about or what Frank is driving at is actually what we already are doing.  If we are progressive, liberal, justice-driven Christians then what else is there to do but what we are doing?  If I were preaching today in some very different context, let’s say at a posh Episcopal church somewhere in suburban Alabama, I might rephrase that, saying something like, “if we are upstanding, respectable, morally conservative, responsibility-driven Christians then what else is there to do but what we are doing?”  Do you see my point?  I am convinced that the telltale sign of stale faith is self-satisfaction with who and what we are, to the point that we overlook the necessity of undergoing disciplines that transform us into true disciples.

Disciplines and practices abound. I actually have a list that I sometimes give to individuals and groups that I work with on which appear about thirty distinct practices that support a spiritually rich life.  Not all of them suit everyone, of course, and the list itself is partial.  Which ones fit us?  Which ones challenge us? I invite you to consider three.

I have found that a basic discipline for me, and I suggest you might try it, is making a daily intention, saying it out loud, perhaps even writing it down.  Keep it simple.  It might be the same thing for days at a time or perhaps for even longer.  I learned from a British woman who has lived for a long time in Mozambique that her neighbors in that African country habitually do one thing per day.  One thing!  We by contrast have our to-do lists and our reminders.  Well, not many of us are called to drop what we are doing and move to Mozambique, but we can take a hint from that practice.  Aim to put all your energy into one central intention.  And stick with it.

Another key discipline is to be courageous in examining ourselves by the standard of love that we see in Jesus.  This means building into regular observance a daily regimen of self-examination.  The idea is not to beat ourselves up about falling short but to discipline ourselves to be as honest as we can be about our motives and our behavior, not excusing or lauding ourselves, but being accountable for our attitudes and decisions.  Meditate, journal, reflect with a friend or partner, pray St. Ignatius’ examen, or review your baptismal covenant.  Any of those things can support the discipline of self-examination.

And a third one is, you guessed it, taking a cue from St. James and bridling the tongue. The nubbin that I want to say about tongue-taming is that the tongue actually takes its orders from the mind.  What we say, whether good or evil, originates not in the conscious mind but in the pre-conscious or subconscious mind.  There isn’t a lot we can do about managing what we aren’t conscious of, but we do have the option of feeding our inner lives with quality soul food.  To be honest, the biggest challenge for me right now is to wake up and do something besides look at my phone.  Why?  Because I can’t pick it up to see whose birthday it is on Facebook without running into a piece of news about some tweet that sends me into orbit. I cannot be centered, balanced, and focused on love if I spend much of the day hating Donald Trump and lambasting him to myself silently or to others with the full force of tongue.  I spent last week in a Zen center in New Mexico, during which time I was for the most part totally unplugged from twitters and posts.  Instead I was breathing, embracing others, listening, learning, and paying attention to my body. Breathing, yoga, and some other physical disciplines are working for me pretty well, much as did running daily for twenty-five or so years.  What works or might work  for you? 

Luther might find all this far too mundane, too “works-oriented” for his taste, and that’s just fine with me.  I love the speculative, intellectually reflective life, but there is a place where the rubber must hit the road if we are to go anywhere at all.  For years I wondered what on earth Jesus meant when he said that if I saved my life I would lose it.  I have finally come to see what he means, or at least I think so.  To follow him as his disciple is to live the way he lived, to love the way he loved, to confront others the way he confronted them, to risk everything including life itself in order to find the deepest part of yourself, the blueprint of your soul.  It is to live the life you are created to live.  Discipline is not for squelching yourself but for training yourself to be fully you.  Or, as Jesus put it, to lose your life in order to find it. 

A sermon for Proper 19 Year B on the texts James 3:1-12 and Mark 8:28-38.

© Frank Gasque Dunn, 2018



Saturday, August 25, 2018

But, By God, We're Here

Women in Alice Walker's The Color Purple, the musical

It seems in some ways that the ordination of women in The Episcopal Church is still relatively new. In other ways, it is difficult to remember a time when women weren’t ordained.

But I remember that time. Indeed I lived through the tumultuous years leading up to the ordination of eleven women in Philadelphia in 1974. I was ordained a priest in 1971 in my sixth month as the curate at St. Martin’s Church, Charlotte, North Carolina. St. Martins’ was the home parish of Carter Heyward, an exact contemporary of mine. Carter at that time was at student at Union Seminary in New York City and was in the forefront of women pushing the Church to ordain women to the priesthood. I myself had only recently come into the Church and like many converts, I espoused Episcopal traditions with gusto. One of those traditions happened to be an all-male priesthood. I don’t know that I was solidly against the ordination of women, but I certainly was no enthusiast for it.

One Sunday in early July, 1974, I preached a sermon on the gospel story of Jesus sending out his disciples two by two to places where he himself was going to come. I entitled it “Disciples That Go Ahead of the Master.” I preached this sermon never even thinking about or mentioning the hot-button issue of women’s ordination. Carter’s mother, Mary Ann, was in church that Sunday, as she usually was.  Ever the enthusiast for “the women,” as she put it, she immediately inferred that the sermon was precisely relevant to women’s ordination. She asked for a copy of it. News came out in several weeks that eleven women had been ordained to the priesthood in Philadelphia by three bishops. One of those women was Katrina Swanson, who co-authored the liturgy we are using today. Another was Carter Heyward. Mary Ann Heyward sent copies of my sermon to all eleven of those women. Within days, I think, each one of them wrote me a personal note thanking me for my support. And that is how I became an advocate for women’s ordination. 
The Philadelphia Eleven at their Ordination to the Priesthood
July 29, 1974

A year later, four more women were ordained in the Diocese of Washington in St. Stephen and the Incarnation Parish, known for its highly experimental liturgies, its unorthodox practices, its hit-the-streets-and-demonstrate-for-justice-and-peace mentality, and especially for its popular rector, The Rev. William Wendt. Father Wendt got into trouble with his bishop, The Right Reverend William Creighton, and was brought up on charges for which he was tried in a church court and ultimately reprimanded in the cathedral for his disobedience. 

I never imagined in 1975 that I would one day serve the parish of St. Stephen and the Incarnation. In 2015, I was in my twelfth year as Senior Priest there when we celebrated the fortieth anniversary of the ordination of the Washington Four. The three living priests who had been irregularly ordained returned for a special liturgy and celebration. The wonderful occasion brought together a host of people who had been directly affected in one way or another by that event in 1975 that had been so painful. The year before, Carter Heyward had come to St. Stephen and the Incarnation to preach when we commemorated the fortieth anniversary of the Philadelphia ordination. It was all a part of a year of commemoration  and celebration that left me grateful that I had lived through the struggle, but profoundly aware that I myself had been privileged to avoid any suffering of my own, and that for only one reason: I was male.

It is interesting to me that the first lesson chosen for this liturgy is the story of Abraham’s agony over not having an heir.  It is a story about trust, the theme of the entire Abrahamic cycle.  Trust is integral to faith.  But there is a sub-text to the story.  It is implicitly about an outsider, Eliezer of Damascus, Abraham’s slave who he thinks will be his only heir.  Eliezer is only mentioned in the biblical text in this connection, although there are rabbinical stories about him.  So in the background of this highly important story about the establishment of a lineage that was ultimately to become Israel, God’s own people, who in turn were to be a light that shown for all nations, there hangs the question about who along the way is left out. 

Several years ago a friend of mine introduced me to Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States. Howard Zinn was a professor at Columbia University. His history is history told from the underside, stories of the people who were the losers, like the Native Americans, like Africans forced into slavery, like common laborers of all races that rioted and frequently died for worker’s rights, like children who were working in factories under awful conditions prior to the passage of child labor laws. I was amazed on page after page to learn of things no one ever taught me in school. Nearly always the winners write the histories. They tell their own story about how they are powerful. They crow about what they’ve accomplished. Only recently have we begun to pay attention to the unsung heroes that have come from the ranks of minorities. And there are plenty of people who don’t like telling the stories of the so-called “losers” one bit.

But they are not they gospel and that is not how the gospel works. Like it or not, throughout the biblical story, God displays a preferential option for the poor and the powerless. It is not the rich and famous, but those who are the dispossessed, the marginalized, the forsaken who turn out to be the recipients of special divine care. That is what the Magnificat is about, Mary’s Song that we hear in the gospel today.  It reads like a manifesto for universal economic and social justice. Why? Because it is a manifesto for economic and social justice. Listen:

51 You, God, have stretched out your mighty arm
    and scattered the proud with all their plans.
52 You have brought down mighty kings from their thrones,
    and lifted up the lowly.
53 You have filled the hungry with good things,
    and sent the rich away with empty hands.
54 You have  kept the promise you made to our ancestors,
    and have come to the help of your servant Israel.

Mary herself, a woman, or, more likely a teenage girl, is the poster child for the powerless. She is female in a world dominated by men, young in a culture where age is revered and children discounted or ignored, a Jew without vote or office in a nation subjugated to a foreign imperial authority. 

"“Until you do right by me, I say, everything you even dream about will fail.” 
Last week I saw a production of the musical version of Alice Walker’s The Color Purple.  The climax of that story takes place at an Easter dinner when the discounted, abused, downtrodden Celie declares her independence and finally flies in the face of Mister, her oppressive husband, as she announces that she is going to leave him. Celie curses Mister, an act of amazing courage. Enraged at being defied, Mister yells, “Who you think you is? You can’t curse nobody. Look at you. You’re black, you're poor, you're ugly, you're a woman, you're nothing at all!” But moments later when she is leaving, she shouts back at Mister, “I'm poor, black, I might even be ugly, but dear God, I'm here. I'm here.”

It is not an accident that this all transpires on Easter Day. Sitting around the table is the whole cast of characters, all of whom, to a person, are walking in darkness and the shadow of death. That is the case with all human beings at one time or another. But even the most bedraggled of them sees and hears Celie claiming her power and proclaiming her freedom, and some, notably the women, take fresh courage. One laughs declaring she is home again, back where she once belonged and was brave. Another follows Celie’s example and declares that she too is leaving, leaving her narrow immature dependency to become the singer she believes she can be. That’s Easter. That’s resurrection. That is the story of the power of God that we know as Christ breaking the bonds of death and hell and rising victorious from the grave. It happens again and again and again in lives like Katrina Welles Swanson’s and Carter Heyward’s. In lives like Bill Wendt’s. In lives like yours and mine. 

Three of the Philadelphia Eleven Celebrating Holy Eucharist in Riverside Church, New York
October 27, 1974
L-R:  Alison Cheek, Carter Heyward, Jeanette Picard

And it will happen again in this nation of ours. Evil will prosper but for so long, but the cause of Truth will triumph. It is built into the fabric of the universe. And that fabric may be ripped and torn and trampled upon by the forces of darkness and destruction and death, but that fabric will be mended by the only force that ultimately breathes, namely Life itself. Truth and life and love will continue moving, however unsteadily and haltingly, until the circle of life becomes wider and wider to include everyone. The only ones excluded are the ones who exclude themselves. The mighty are cast down from their thrones not by some punishing god from a distant throne but by self-will dedicated to the self’s destruction. The rich are sent away empty not by the Spirit but by their own choice to refuse the Bread of Life, which is Truth and Justice, Mercy and Love. We have seen darker times and lived through scarier moments, many of us. And we may be poor, we may be black—or white, we may be ugly—or beautiful, but by God, we’re here, we’re here.

A sermon preached on the commemoration of the ordination of women in the Anglican Communion on the texts Genesis 15:1-6 and Luke Luke 1:46-55.

© Frank Gasque Dunn, 2018