Worship Schedule

Sunday8:00 amHoly Eucharist Rite I - Chapel
Sunday9:00 amChristian Formation
Sunday10:15 amGlad News/Sad News
Sunday10:30 amHoly Eucharist Rite II - Sanctuary w/Music
Monday6:00 pmCentering Prayer and Study
Wednesday12:15 pmHoly Eucharist with Healing Ministry

St. Lukes Blog

St. Luke's

Community Page

Organization Page


Job and his “friends”

The Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost—PR 23—Year B; The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
Job 23:1-9, 16-17; Psalm 22:1-15; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31

Today is not the gospel of sweetness and light. It is rough from the get-go.

Job is smack dab in the middle of his complaint. Remember the story…Job is upright and blameless. Satan and God have a bet on how long he’ll stay upright and blameless if he starts to suffer. He goes through multiple calamities losing all of his material goods and even his 10 children. Still, he’s an unbelievably loyal, faithful subject to God. Then, Satan talks God into a little bodily affliction, those loathsome sores, and those sores send Job right over the edge. For the next 35 chapters, Job goes round and round with his friends, who are lousy friends indeed. They keep trying to pin all his suffering on him. He must have done something wrong because bad things just don’t happen to good people. Or, his kids must have done something wrong because bad things just don’t happen to good people. Bad enough that the innocent guy has to suffer, but he even gets blamed for it by his friends. Tragic.

job and friendsWell, today, Job turns his complaint toward the heavens. “Today also my complaint is bitter…Oh, that I knew where I might find him…I would lay my case before him, and fill my mouth with arguments. I would learn what he would answer me, and understand what he would say to me. Would he contend with me in the greatness of his power? No; but he would give heed to me. There an upright person could reason with him, and I should be acquitted forever by my judge. If I go forward, he is not there; or backward, I cannot perceive him; on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him; I turn to the right, but I cannot see him…If only I could vanish in darkness, and thick darkness would cover my face!”

Translation: “If I could just talk with God, if I could just get my case in front of him…I have a load of stuff I want to say! If I could just talk with God, if I could just ask him, ‘Why? Why? Why is all this happening?’ –then I’d know why I am having to go through all of this. God wouldn’t flatten me. God knows I am a good guy. No, God would be in this conversation with me. If I could just talk with God, I know I could reason with him. And he would declare my innocence. But I can’t find him. I want to talk to God so badly, but I can’t find him. No matter what direction I go, forward, backward, left, right, he’s not there. I can’t perceive him, I can’t find him, I can’t see him, I can’t even catch a glimpse of him walking away—nothing. No matter where I turn, God is not there, nada, nothing. I just wish that it would be so dark that I couldn’t see at all, at least then I wouldn’t have to see the fact that God is not there.”

I think this is what despair looks like. Ever been there? Ever had something happen to you that seemed totally unjust, so not fair, some suffering, some brokenness that was beyond your ability to understand or comprehend, something that you just couldn’t make sense of? Have you ever wanted to hold God accountable for your pain? Have you ever wanted to pin God’s ears back, to lay your case out before him because you need for him, and for the world, to know that you don’t deserve this, that nobody deserves this? Have you had a season when you desperately needed God, and yet you couldn’t find God anywhere? And what’s worse, if you have ever known intimacy with God, and then, God is just gone—you see, you know, what you don’t have. That’s despair. That’s dark, and in that place, vanishing seems like a pretty good option.

Most human beings, at some point in their life, maybe at more than one point in their life, they get to this place.

What do you do? What do you do when it has all gone horribly wrong, and you can’t find God anywhere? We want to do something, anything, to get the suffering to stop.

“What must I do to inherit eternal life?” said the man to Jesus. Jesus answered his question with a list of “to-do’s,” but those didn’t do the trick. You see, it’s not about doing anything.

“You lack one thing; go and sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When the man heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.  Jesus turned around and looked at his disciples, “It’s so hard. It’s so hard to enter the kingdom of God. It’s so hard for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle then to give up that one thing that we’re attached to, and our attachment makes it impossible to enter the kingdom. You can’t open your hands or your heart to receive the gift when you’re still clinging.”

The disciples were astounded, “Then who can be saved?” Jesus looked at them with love and possibility, “For you, for mortals, for human beings, it’s impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.”

Peter, blessed Peter, he jumped in, “Look, we have left everything and followed you, family, friends, jobs, everything.” Jesus said, “I know, I know, and for you, and those others who have left it all, you will know an abundance, a fullness, in this life, beyond your imagining, and in the age to come, eternal life—you will know eternal life because you will know union with God.”


That rich man, he thought it was about doing something to receive the gift of eternal life. It’s not about what we have to do to experience union with God; it’s about what we have to give up. It’s not about doing something, it’s about giving up whatever’s in the way. For that man, it was his riches. Why? Because sometimes, when you have material resources, you can begin to believe that it is all up to you to make your way in this world, and from there, it’s not hard to leap to the thought, “And it’s up to me to make my way to God.” We can’t earn our way there. Not through our money, not through our adherence to the commandments, not through an upright and blameless life. Suffering will come, and that suffering doesn’t mean we’ve lost God any more than our successes mean that we have gained God’s favor. What saves us? Giving up. Surrendering. Throwing ourselves on the mercy of God. Giving up on our incessant need to understand and have answers and figure it all out. What saves us? Leaving it all behind. And the “it” is different for each one of us.

What is the “it” for you? In the words of Jesus, “What is the one thing that you lack?” What is the one thing that is standing between you and God? What is the one thing that is keeping you from experiencing union with this Divine Presence that yearns to have you “come away, my love,” as that lover of the Song of Solomon cries out. What is that stone that is keeping you from waking up and walking out of your tomb into light and life? What is keeping you from knowing what resurrection is in your heart and body and mind and soul? And what will it take for you to let that one thing go?

Ultimately, we can’t will God to reveal God’s face. There are times when it all goes dark. But just because we can’t see God, doesn’t mean that God is not there. The mystics of old named this way of knowing God the via negativa—it’s when we know God in what God is not. Yeah, I know, it’s a paradox and an obnoxiously obnoxious paradoxical paradox at that. But in those times of deepest darkness, in those times when we can’t see God, there is still a place we can turn.

And The Letter to the Hebrews show us where that place is.

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin.” And who is that high priest? It’s the same one who cried from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me…” Jesus knows what it means to hit the absolute depths of human despair—Jesus knows what it is to be Job.  And that “yet without sin” part—what does that mean? I think “sin” means “separation.” If we take the leap that Jesus bore full divinity in his being, that his humanity was fully infused with divinity, that divinity dwelled in him at a cellular level, then, he was without sin, he was without separation, in his being; he was one. I believe that Jesus drank the dregs of human anguish, absolutely, completely; when he cried that godforsaken cry, he had no hope—no hope of resurrection, no hope of light, no hope of joy, no hope of life—he wanted to vanish into the darkness…And yet, because of who he was in his being, because he bore divine life in his being, because of his oneness, that human anguish and despair was brought into total, absolute, communion with God never to be separated, never to be out of union with God again. That despair and anguish was brought into relationship with God in a way that can’t ever be undone. Ever. Sisters and brothers, that’s why The Letter to the Hebrews can say, “Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

Grace, mercy, Presence, these are the treasures that await us when we give up that one thing, whatever that one thing is, that we’re clinging to. Maybe we hold onto it for dear life because we fear that if we let it go, the darkness will swallow us whole, but even the darkness is filled with the Presence of God. We can’t fall through the bottom because Jesus’ arms are stretched out even there waiting to catch us.

If you can’t find God, fear not. Your human condition is still in perfect union with the Divine, whether you can feel that union or not. All that is left for you to do is fall into the arms of the Living God. Give up. Surrender. Leave behind whatever is standing in your way from taking that leap, then approach the throne of grace with boldness. The life you’ve been waiting for, the life you’ve been yearning for, the life that Jesus is inviting you to, that life begins when you leave your “it,” whatever “it” is, behind and leap into the darkness knowing, trusting, that somehow, some way, you will be caught by the Presence that lives even there. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
October 14, 2012

Say YES!

Year B, Proper 21; Mark 9.38-50; The Rev. Beth Turner.

From the beginning of the Christian movement, followers of Jesus have struggled to be generous in acknowledging the good that others do and not to be concerned when they “do not follow us.” In today’s gospel, John, who, with Peter and James, constitutes Jesus’ inner circle basically tattles on an outsider—someone “not following us”—who is doing ministry in Jesus’ name. No way can this happen, says John. I mean, we can’t just stand around willy-nilly letting people change the world for the better when they have not been authorized by you to do so? Seriously, who do these people think they are?

I wonder: How many times will Jesus have to tell us human beings to mind our own business?

Jesus: John, it’s not your place to call dibs on doling out God’s healing power, or to check papers to ensure the people who offer it are registered members of the Jesus Club. Oh, no, says Jesus. Whoever is not against us is for us.

Surprise. It appears that something important is going on here, and it’s bigger than the church. A welcoming spirit, attentiveness, generosity, and healing come from God and are not ours to manage and ration.

These teachings reveal a broad definition of a follower of Jesus—that being a follower is determined by what a person does and why she or he does it. It seems that Jesus is saying that people can follow him without necessarily belonging to the community of his disciples.

Us: John…boy did he tell you! I guess that does it for Jesus’ sermon on power grabbing is a no-no. Well, no…maybe not.

It’s pretty clear that John’s worry is indicative of his previously displayed need for power and prestige. Remember that audacious request to sit beside Jesus in Eternity? If that weren’t over the top, now he is asking, “Jesus, what would happen if everybody started doing things in your name?”

Us: And the problem is?

If John had truly been concerned about maintaining the integrity of the Jesus movement, we might not blame him for his question. But John’s concern was preserving his own power. The conversation Jesus wants to have is about the transforming potential of life in community. Preserving the power of his inner circle? Not a priority. If others are doing good deeds, their actions should to be affirmed.

But hold on a minute. We all know that community is a place of identity, a place where people have a sense of belonging because they are known and recognized. Communities shape values and provide cultural norms.

It’s a fair question: How do communities practice intimate fellowship with others without losing their defining distinctiveness?

A strong community is a good thing. It enhances the lives of its members. Communities provide protection and support. But there are risks in a strong community. A strong community may become so focused on itself that it loses the capacity to relate to those outside.

As an Episcopalian, I can be pretty smug about how self-aware, how PC, I imagine myself to be. I’m pretty darned sure I don’t participate in the kind of inwardly focused communities that knowingly or unknowingly exclude others. Our church has struggled mightily and with great intention and intelligence in order to become the remarkably inclusive body we now are. After all, we meet regularly at grand national conventions and pass elegantly worded resolutions. We have appropriate pride about our habits of welcome and inclusion.

Yet the church community is bound together not just by common interest or mutual enjoyment but by convictions about the fundamental issues of human existence: what we believe most deeply, what gives value and meaning to our existence, under what obligations we live, how we define and achieve the good life, who we are. Take for example, our Baptismal Covenant in which we affirm our commitments to peace, justice, and the dignity of every human being.

I have this theory about the church. As long as our primary gathering place is here (in a building) we are protected from some of the more nuanced tensions between being inclusive and being exclusive. Think of it. What would it mean to “take it to the streets,” actively affirming the journeys of people outside the walls of an institutional church as they, like us, seek God and a deeper knowledge of God? What would happen if we began to gather in 3rd Places, at least as often as we gather here?

Sociologists tell us we need three anchor points for our lives, the first being home and the second being work. The equally important third place is a public place of diverse community. When gathered in a “third place,” people of all walks of life are brought to the same level. If there is any hierarchy, it is based on quality of conversation and insight, not social position.


Most of you know about the opening of our new campus ministry setting. It’s called 3rd Place. It’s proving to be both a blessing and a challenge. Somewhat to our surprise, we’re grappling with questions like “What is essential? What is, who is, the body of Christ, really?”

We might ask whether we are tuning in to the spirit of Jesus in the world? And when we see it, hear it, taste it, smell it—do we actively join that spirit? Do we know deep, deep down that fully embracing others is gaining rather than losing the integrity of our own traditions? Do we know we all lose when we do not stretch to open our arms wide?

After pulling John up short for his unwillingness to welcome the outsider, Jesus has some harsh warnings for his more established followers who set up checkpoints for those seeking to find their way toward faith. In vivid language he warns that “it would be better for you if a great millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea.”

Some scholars dismiss Jesus’ warnings as hyperbole and go so far as to tell us to lighten up and stop worrying about his dramatic, even frightening, admonitions against being a roadblock to the seekers in our world.

I do not think this is mere rhetorical emphasis. Not at all. I don’t think we can overstate Jesus’ urging us, pushing us to run the risk of vulnerability when relating to those who are not officially part of our community. There are very real consequences both for the community and for the person doing a good deed in God’s name. When we don’t trust and “Just do it!” the fact is everyone loses.

I remember the first week we opened the doors of 3rd Place.

A student walked in and rather bombastically announced that he was a business major and had connections to some pretty good bands. “I’m not really a Christian he said, but I can get them to play here, and we could give all the money from a cover charge to charity.”

A young woman, an artist, enters and boldly joins a planning meeting in our sitting area. We’d never seen her before. She tells us she is a metal worker, and that she could make us some candleholders, adding, “I like the idea of something I create having a special purpose.”

A group of friends (banjo, fiddle, guitar players) sing and hold a “worship jam” on Tuesday evenings, late after our regular program. We feel stretched by creating a space for a more traditional language of faith but welcome their voices anyway.

Once we opened the doors, we felt a whirlwind of energy and passion from so many. We felt “love,” really. And we’ve been practicing saying YES.

Yes, you may meditate here on Monday evenings. You and your drums are welcome here. Yes, please put your art supplies on these shelves; you are welcome to tape your pictures on this wall. Yes, we’ll have a Bible study on radical hospitality. Yes, we’ll reflect on the meaning of this song, your song, any song. Yes, we’ll travel as a group to the upcoming poverty simulation. Yes, a business class on the spirit of creativity and innovation may meet here on Wednesday. Yes, we’ll share bread and wine and remember Jesus each week. Yes, you may hang your peace flags here. Yes.

It continues to be a little overwhelming but we’re practicing saying yes—YES—to all that we recognize so clearly as the spirit of Jesus.

It feels as though we are on holy ground. There is even the sense that describing this to you is a bit disrespectful. The people I’ve mentioned are our friends, and we are experiencing these new friendships as inseparable from our own growth and transformation. We need each other. These connections are happening on mutual holy ground.

As 21st c. followers of Jesus, we are being called to a vocation of relationship. We often call this the vocation of servanthood. But I think Jesus would push us even further toward the more mutual vocations of relationship and, above all, of friendship.

Jesus neither needs nor wants bouncers guarding the door of our traditions and institutions. Rather, he invites us to notice, and to join in, what he’s about in the third places, in the whole wide world. The early followers of Jesus didn’t have a creed or a codified set of prayers. They did not all worship in the same way. They had some form of baptism and some forms of prayers over bread and wine, and that was about it. They didn’t have many of the religious traditions that today we call “Christianity.” Truth is, they were following Jesus by the seat of their pants. In some ways, so are we. Yes, we’re in uncharted territory. But, thankfully, Jesus is not.

You know, the days we feel most vulnerable may be the days we are doing something right.

Let’s say our prayers. Let us pray that we listen to Jesus, that we hear his urging to say YES.

Say YES. Jump right in. Come and see. Embrace every seeker as your own friend and a friend of God. Don’t worry about who gets credit for doing good. Don’t idolize your religion. Have mercy…

…for God’s sake.

…for your own sake.

…for the sake of the whole world.



About that plucking out the eye thing

One of them came in wet with a millstone and a rope
knotted around his throat gasping for air having dragged
the damn thing up from the bottom of the river
where he once was baptized a while back
because he had cursed at a child for high pitched screaming

Another came in with her right hand
hacked off—she was left-handed—
and she dripped crimson drops all the way
down the hall to Jesus’ living room
admitting she had used the missing appendage
to flip someone off in traffic for cutting in

One more limped in with a lopped off foot
in his hand and he dropped to the floor sobbing
because he had tripped someone in line
in front of him to get a better seat
at Bonnaroo this year to see [Mumford and Sons]

Then there was the disciple who had an eye patch
and fumbled her way through the door
having glared at her next door neighbor with
a bitchy stare because she looked so freaking good
in that new dress and those shoes with red soles
and wished she would trip and tear her ACL

They gathered around Jesus, each face
with a seriousness that puzzled the good Lord
except for the one with the plucked out eye—
it was hard to look puzzled with the patch and all.
He looked at them and said,
holding back an uncharacteristic chuckle:

For God’s sake, stop damaging yourselves.
You know I was kidding, right?
Have you heard of hyperbole, people?
Just don’t do those mean things anymore
and if you do, say you’re sorry, make amends, and move on.
Lift up the lowly and respect the helpless.
It’s just not that hard.
Come on, folks!  Get over yourselves!
You’re not that bad, and you’re not that good.

And then they ate supper and he taught them
many more things that they misunderstood.

– Michael Coffey

Let Wisdom show us what it means to be friends of God….

The Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost—Proper 18—Year B; The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
Proverbs 1:20-33; Wisdom of Solomon 7:26-8:1; James 3:1-12; Mark 8:27-38

I am going to say upfront—this is not a sermon. I don’t even know what to call it. We’ll just call it me talking to you as your priest and pastor. This has been a hard week. Starting with this circle of St. Luke’s, there is a lot going on in our little community of faith right now. Sometimes, we go through seasons where we are fully aware of the pain around us—someone is ill, someone is dying; we can see that. Other times, we go through a season when there is a lot of pain, but it’s the kind of pain you can’t see, burdens known only to those who bear them. We are in one of those seasons where we actually have a whole lot of both. We, as a community, are holding a lot right now. Please, please be gentle with your brothers and sisters; there is much on many hearts.

And then, in the middle of the week, the world exploded. I must admit, I have been several days behind this news this week because my focus has been on our community, but slowly, I am catching up. I am still processing what has happened. I think we all are. I read through the events in TIME magazine yesterday. Friday night, I watched the 13-minute YouTube video of the movie trailer for Innocence of Muslims, the biopic (I had never even heard of that word—it’s a biographical movie), it was this biopic about Muhammad that sparked this violence. And somehow, Terry Jones, that pastor from Florida that promoted the burning of the Koran on the 9/11 anniversary in 2010, is back in the mix—a fan of this film. He created a video that put the prophet Mohammad on trial. Innocence of Muslims has been around a little while but didn’t make a splash until Morris Sadek, an Egyptian-American Coptic Christian picked it up and mass posted it on an Arabic-language blog leading up to this anniversary of September 11th.

As I watched it, I kept saying to Jim, “This has to be a hoax.” It was that bad. It was a really, really, really bad movie from a movie production standpoint, but it was also inflammatory and offensive at every turn. If you could think of all the things that would be unbelievably offensive to a faithful observant Muslim, this movie had all of them. I tried to imagine how I would feel if someone made a similar movie about Jesus. This movie trailer was a match to a fire.

Now hear me clearly, I absolutely condemn the violence that got unleashed. To react to this abhorrent film with violence is buying into this whole avenge-revenge-myth-of-redemptive-violence worldview that is perpetuating the hate and rage and violence that is killing us, all of us. The taking of the innocent lives of Ambassador Chris Stevens and his colleagues at the American Embassy is wrong, WRONG, and it is tragic beyond belief, especially since Ambassador Stevens had actually worked closely with the leaders of the uprising in Libya who were seeking a different way for their country. We have diplomats all over the world that really do believe in diplomacy; they put it on the line every day in often dangerous parts of the world. We are grateful for their service, and we grieve their deaths.

And I am especially grieved, I don’t even know if that is the right word, I am sickened by the fact that religious hatred is at the root of this. There are radical extremes in each religion, and they are fanning the flames of hatred all over the world. And we have to raise our voices and condemn the hate. There has to be room in this world for all of us, and this will not be so until we stand up and say, “No more.” Christians need to call Christians to account. Muslims need to call Muslims to account. Jews need to call Jews to account. These incendiary actions are not the true heart of Christianity, or Islam, or Judaism. But if we are not proclaiming what that true heart is, those who are perpetuating this hate will fill the vacuum, and this past week shows us what the carnage looks like.

We need the wisdom figure that we hear about today in Proverbs. Hear what Proverbs says, “She is crying out in the street; she is raising her voice in the squares. She is crying out at the busiest corner and at the entrance of the city gates.” The scoffers, the fools, they have always been there, and when their voices are the only ones heard, panic, calamity, distress, anguish—these are what ensue. We must seek her counsel. Wisdom of Solomon reminds us, “For wisdom is a reflection of eternal light, a spotless mirror of the working of God, and an image of his goodness. Although she is but one, she can do all things, and while remaining in herself, she renews all things.” Could it be that wisdom lives in each of our traditions, secure in herself, renewing all things? Wisdom continues, “In every generation she passes into holy souls and makes them friends of God, and prophets; for God loves nothing so much as the person who lives with wisdom.” No tradition has a lock on this—there is no triumphant doctrine here, only holy souls willing to receive her. “She is more beautiful than the sun, and excels every constellation of the stars. Compared with the light she is found to be superior, for it is succeeded by the night, but against wisdom evil does not prevail. She reaches mightily from one end of the earth to the other, and she orders all things well.” This is not the God of vengeance that seeks to destroy, a God whose face that, as Christians, we have to admit, is there in our tradition, but this is the God that has been there all along, a God whose face has been hidden, the feminine face of God who only seeks life for all of God’s creatures. We need this God now. Because James has it right—the tongue is a fire and it can set the world ablaze. We are seeing this all too clearly. Hear James, “But no one can tame the tongue—a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God. From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so…,” so says James.

We must seek Wisdom, we must stand up to those who spew hate, and reach out in love to those who are its target, be they Muslims, Christians, or Jews, or people of no belief at all.

This really is about learning how to love the other, and honest to goodness, we don’t know how to do that in this world. I was privileged to spend all day yesterday in a workshop with several members of our community and several members of the Junaluska community. We have been at this work for two years now, and we just knew it was time to take a step back and look at our relationships with one another. Part of the day was spent in racial caucauses. White people talking with other white people about what had gone well, and where the rubs where; black people talking with our black people about what had gone well, and where the rubs were. Some of that feedback was painfully, painfully hard to hear. With the best of intentions, we still do things that hurt each other deeply. But we are committed to the long haul with one another, and we are committed to learning how to be with each other. We are committed to confessing what we don’t know, we gave each other permission to call us on the ways we blow it, and we are committed to giving and receiving one another’s forgiveness. This is hard work, but this is what we are called to do. This is the labor that gives birth to wisdom.

This week has been overwhelming, on every score. I don’t have it all worked out in my head. It’s too much, but I do know this. God is weeping, longing, yearning for us to reach out to one another. Jesus is hanging between heaven and earth holding all the pain of this week with us. He didn’t strike back with violence, but with forgiveness and with a life that death couldn’t defeat. I know it looks like evil is winning the day, but the scriptures promise us that evil will not ultimately prevail. Bring all the brokenness of this week and lay it on this altar. And when the bread, when Christ’s body, breaks, know that all this brokenness is somehow taken into his body—and there, he holds it. He doesn’t fix it, he doesn’t resolve this tension in favor of one over the other, he just holds it—and somehow, all this pain will be transformed—somehow the brokenness becomes the very bread of life.

And as we leave this table, full of the bread of life, let’s double down and search out Wisdom. Let’s let her show us what it means to be friends of God and friends of one another. Let’s join her and reach out mightily from one end of the earth to the other because we’re just not going to make it if we don’t. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
September 16, 2012

Choose the Third Way

The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost—Proper 17—Year B: The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

Proverbs 22:1-2, 8-9, 22-23; Psalm 125; James 2:1-10, [11-13], 14-17; Mark 7:24-37

Tis the season for VISION! We have just come through two weeks of political conventions. The Republicans put forth their vision and explained why the Democrats’ vision is a failed one. The Democrats put forth their vision and explained why the Republicans’ vision is a failed one. Different visions about the role of government and the role of the private sector. Different visions of the economy and what will make it grow. Different visions on all manner of things. Are you seeing double vision yet? Is your vision getting blurred? It’s a lot to make sense of.

Well, today, we hear from a third party, The People of the Way, as those early Jesus followers were called; today, they put forth their vision in the Letter of James. The belief part of the platform has not been finely wordsmithed; in fact, it’s a little suspect, but the action pieces, wow, they’re the foundational planks in this platform.

Acts of favoritism—did not make the platform—they are mutually exclusive with belief in our glorious Lord Jesus. If we are paying more attention to the person who comes into the assembly with gold rings and fine clothes, if we are pulling out a chair for them, while we are telling the poor person who’s wearing dirty clothes to stand over there or sit at our feet, then we are guilty of making distinctions among ourselves—we have become judges with evil thoughts.

God has chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith, to be heirs of the kingdom that he has promised to those who love him.

We have dishonored the poor; this platform is calling forth our better angels. There is no place for oppression by the rich—such oppression is blasphemy against Christ’s name. The People of the Way are circling back to that prophetic tradition of their forebears, as parties often do. Their recent ad proclaims, “The rich and the poor have this in common: the LORD is the maker of them all. Whoever sows injustice will reap calamity, and the rod of anger will fail. Those who are generous are blessed, for they share their bread with the poor. Do not rob the poor because they are poor, or crush the afflicted at the gate; for the LORD pleads their cause…” The Book of Proverbs approves this message.

But we, The People of the Way, are to fulfill the royal law, the royal law according to the scripture, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Not as much as yourself, but as yourself. Your neighbor is not the object of your good will, but your neighbor is an extension of your very being. Your neighbor is you, which makes your neighbor not an object outside of you, but the subject reflecting you. You are inextricably bound together. If you show partiality, you commit sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors…What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,” and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.


This is the platform of The People of the Way. No favoritism, no partiality, equality, mutuality, loving your neighbor as your very own self, walking the walk much more than talking the talk, faith must be worked, not just spoken. And this platform is addressed not just to individuals, but The People of the Way also, always, address communities.

Jesus adds a couple more planks to the platform of The People who follow his Way. Boy, in the backroom, that Syrophoenician woman really gave it to him. Jesus was headed a whole other direction—this Way was only going to be for the children of Israel, but she stood up to him and debated him, and won. No, the grace and healing and kingdom that Jesus came to inaugurate, it had to be for everybody, even for a Gentile, even for a woman. That debate changed Jesus, transformed him.

When he came back into the Jewish territory, he headed straight to the Decapolis, a gentile region. He met a man with stopped up ears whose words made no sense—he commanded, “Be opened…I had to be opened, now you be opened.” And immediately the man’s ears were opened, and he could speak plainly.

Sometimes, our ears get stopped up and we can’t hear Jesus’ call.

Sometimes, our hearts get stopped, and we can’t feel compassion.

Sometimes, we are talking our heads off, but it’s not good news that’s coming out of our mouths, but gobbledygook from some other vision. Jesus adds this plank to the platform of The People of the Way, “Be opened,” so you can hear and love and show mercy and proclaim the good news that God longs to be proclaimed.

The people who saw Jesus heal that man couldn’t stop talking about it, even though Jesus told them not to. Jesus doesn’t want us to talk about it; like Nike, Jesus wants us to “just do it.”

The People of the Way have put forth quite a platform. If we will allow our ears to be opened, it will challenge every vision that is put forth around us, every vision. The only thing that remains to be seen, is if we, the local affiliate of The People of the Way, will adopt this platform as the central, defining VISION for our lives.

As with all party platforms, the devil is in the details. When I looked up that idiom, “The devil is in the details,” I found out that that phrase derives from an earlier phrase, “God is in the details,” and so it is. God is in the details, and it will be up to us to incarnate, to put flesh and blood on this vision.

As we move forward, let us embrace this platform in every aspect of our lives, in every relationship, in every decision, in every circle in which we move, in every encounter, in every minute of every day.

May this vision open us and shape us, and then propel us forward to fulfill our call—may we show no partiality, no favoritism.

May we be people of radical equality, radical mutuality, radical inclusion, radical commitment to the poor, radical engagement with our neighbor.

May we, The People of the Way, show mercy, extend compassion, and live the royal law of love. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
September 9, 2012

Let go of the things you need to release.

The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost (9-2-2012)—Proper 17—Year B; The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
Song of Solomon 2:8-13; Psalm 45:1-2, 7-10; James 1:17-27; Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

Today, we have one of the most gorgeous passages ever in Song of Solomon.

The voice of my beloved! Look, he comes, leaping upon the mountains, bounding over the hills. My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag. Look, there he stands behind our wall, gazing in at the windows, looking through the lattice. My beloved speaks and says to me: “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.”

It’s an old, old, old Israelite love poem between two people head over heels in love. Read the whole book—it’s steamy. One wonders how it ever got in the Bible, except for the fact that from the earliest of times, this was interpreted as God pining for God’s beloved people. Can we dare to imagine God leaping and bounding over mountains and hills, peeking through the lattice to catch a glimpse of us? Can we dare to imagine God calling us, “my love” and begging us to come away and dwell in this lush space overflowing with abundant life? This is God as pure passion yearning for us, throwing all decorum to the winds.

Contrast this with what we hear in Mark’s gospel. There we get the Pharisees and the scribes pinning Jesus’ ears back for the behavior of his disciples, who, apparently, also lacked decorum. It seems that the Pharisees and scribes noticed that Jesus’ disciples weren’t washing their hands before they ate. Have you ever done that? Eaten without washing your hands??? Oh, the scandal! This wasn’t just a matter of hygiene for the Pharisees and scribes, this was a matter of tradition“of doing things decently and in order,” as St. Paul liked to say. I might note that Episcopalians have turned “doing things decently and in order” into an art form.

So, it seems that the Pharisees and scribes had this tradition of washing their hands before they ate, washing things from the market, and washing cups, pots, and bronze kettles. Not sure about non-bronze kettles, but traditions aren’t always logical. In fact, traditions tap something deep, deep in our psyche, something deep in our hearts. Traditions tap into our deepest feelings; they make us feel secure. Change traditions, and people want to stone you. Just try to leave mashed potatoes and water for Santa Claus, instead of milk and cookies and see what happens.

Traditions are about our heritage; they’re about knowing who we are and where we come from. It is our tradition to gather each week and share bread and wine—and we do it by following a tradition that is 2,000 years old. Traditions aren’t necessarily bad. They help us locate our place, especially in a world that is changing at light speed. In many ways, I am a traditionalist—I don’t much like change, just ask my husband; I like “to do things decently and in order”—it’s how I find stillness in a world that is always moving. Traditions have helped me to shape my life in a holy way.

But here’s the rub. We can get so attached to the tradition, that we lose sight of the holy impulse that established the tradition in the first place. We can put so much weight on the tradition, that we crush people who just can’t follow it, who just can’t get with the program. For instance, we could berate people who don’t come to worship on Sunday, never making allowance for the fact that maybe they don’t come to worship because they have to work on Sunday, or it’s the only time all week long when they can rest. We can lose the forest for the trees. We can get so attached to our traditions that we feel good and secure, maybe even smug and righteous—we’re doing everything right, but, but our hearts have grown cool. In all of our keeping the traditions to perfection, we have lost that first-love feeling, that feeling of being passionately, head-over-heels-in-love with God. You see, the thing about passion is that it’s rarely containable. It spills over in all kinds of ways, and when it does, it is rarely “done decently and in order.”

We can so easily teach our human precepts as doctrines. We can so easily abandon the commandment of God—which is so simple—love God, love your neighbor as if your neighbor were a part of your very self—we can so easily abandon this great commandment and hold to our human tradition.

Why do we do that?

Maybe because love is a much harder road to follow than adherence to what is expected. Love will often beg the question, ask for an exception, push us into new and unchartered territory where tradition has not yet had the chance to be established. Oh, it’s so unsettling.

And there’s also a dark side to tradition. The masquerading tradition. The tradition that can mask the most unholy of motivations and behaviors—Jesus lists just a few: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. Tradition can mask these darker aspects of our beings—it, and we, look oh so good on the outside, but on the inside, something is rotting.

And none of this would be all that important if it weren’t for the fact that this is the very conversation the Church, Church with a capital “C”, is in at this point in our history. This is the heart of the matter.

What traditions are good and holy that we must retain or we will lose the heart and soul of who we are?

What traditions can be modified so that they can once again orient us to the holy?

And what traditions have actually gotten in the way of our loving God and loving our neighbor and loving ourselves as passionately as God wants us to love?

This tradition stuff is important because it’s how we as human beings orient our life to that which is good and holy and lifegiving. Traditions, like most everything else, can cease to bring us life, and when they do, we need to give them a good burial and await the resurrection of some new way that will once again awaken our hearts.

But how will we know what needs to stay the same, what needs to change, and what needs to be thrown overboard?

We can tease out a few principles of discernment from our lessons today. First, from the Letter of James, if the tradition is only engaging our head—if we are “hearers of the word” only—and it’s not pushing us to action—if we’re not “doing the word”—then we’re off-track. If we are not engaged with others, especially “the orphans and widows” and all those who live at the margins, if we’re not engaged with these who mirror Christ to us, who remind us who we are in our core, then we’re going in the wrong direction. If our traditions are fitting too comfortably with the world, then they are probably not reflecting the radical ways of love lived out by our Lord. If we are numb to the passionate love that God has for us and for all the world, if we are numb to that Song of Solomon passion, we can be pretty sure that we have set our sights far too low, settling for human tradition alone and forsaking the greater love that God yearns to make flesh in our lives.

Please hear me, I am not saying that we need to ditch all of our traditions—my goodness, I would be lost, lost, without them! But I do believe that we are in a difficult time, a time when we need to rethink everything that we are doing, both in the church and across our lives, and hold it up to the standard of love of which Jesus speaks. Does this tradition help us grow in that love, or not? And then we have to be willing to modify, or even let go of, those traditions that hinder that love, and reach for, or even give birth to, those traditions that will draw us more deeply toward that love.

This is the best of times and the worst of times, and at the very least, an immensely unsettling time.

But what does Jesus always say to us in such times, “Do not be afraid…Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.”

It’s a whole new day.

Jesus will give us the courage to let go of those things that we need to release.

Jesus will give us the wisdom to modify those things that need new life breathed into them.

Jesus will give us the vision walk in new ways, just as he has done all along, new paths that will let our hearts soar, even as our feet are firmly planted on the ground.

Wherever this whole thing is going, one thing is for sure, we follow one who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and he will orient us in the way we need to go. Amen.


The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
September 2, 2012

Let go of offense

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–The Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost—Proper 16—Year B
I Kings 8:[1, 6, 10-11], 22-30, 41-43; Psalm 84; Ephesians 6:10-20; John 6:56-69

Tough passage in the gospel today. I don’t think Jesus took the Dale Carnegie Course on “How to Win Friends and Influence People.” Actually, he did his best to offend his listeners. So, he’s in the synagogue in Capernaum talking to a Jewish audience, and here is how he begins—“Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them”—yuck—and then, he goes on to refer to himself as “the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, i.e that “manna stuff,” and they died. But the one who eats this bread,” i.e. me, “will live forever.” It’s bad enough that Jesus leads with an image of cannibalism; that’s hard enough to swallow, but Jesus goes on to usurp, to appropriate to himself, one of the core, foundational images of the Jewish people. This is not how you win friends and influence people.

When many of his disciples heard [this], they said, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” “Does this offend you?” Jesus asks. He knows that he has hit a raw nerve.

How about us? Does this offend us? If Jesus walked right into St. Luke’s this morning and said what he said in that synagogue in Capernaum, how would we react? Would our stomachs get queasy? Would the hair on the back of our necks stand up? Would our 21st century rationalism brush this aside as total bunk, just one more sensational, soundbite metaphor? Would we cry with the disciples, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?’ And would we hear Jesus say in return, “Does this offend you?”

Well, Jesus, in a word, “yes”—this is offensive. It assaults all our sensibilities. But let’s hit the pause button. Let’s sit with our offendedness, just for a while. What’s at the root of this offense? Why are we so offended? What’s the nerve that Jesus has just hit? I don’t think it’s the “cannibalism” nerve or even the “insult-to-our-ancestral-story” nerve. I think that’s all surface noise. No, there is something much deeper at work here. Any guesses?

I think it has to do with intimacy and our utter terror of being this intimate with Jesus. If you feed on Jesus, if you partake of Jesus, if you consume his being, you abide in him, you will be a part of him and he will be a part of you—not as a theoretical construct or an intellectual belief, but he will be intertwined so intimately with you that you and he can’t be pulled apart. Just as God took up residence in Jesus (John 1:14—“and the Word became flesh”)—Jesus will take up residence in you. Now that sounds all nice and flowery and poetic, except for one thing—if Jesus starts to live in us, then our life is no longer our own. And for us, as the rugged, independent, individualists that we are, that’s a hard pill to swallow, even harder than cannibalism. This is the part that’s offensive—because if he’s living in us, if his being and our being are one, then we’re going to live differently and talk differently and act differently.

Ephesians gives us a glimpse today of what this begins to look like. First of all, we learn that the real battle isn’t with flesh and blood people—it’s with spiritual forces. Think about all the spirits out there that are destructive—the spirit of greed, the spirit of divisiveness and dissension, the spirit of hatred, the spirit of cynicism, the spirit of seething resentment, the spirit of scarcity, the spirit of fear, the spirit of despair. Think of all the forces that get to swirling around these spirits. They can take on cosmic proportions and manifest in truly evil ways. And how would Ephesians have us combat these forces? With a whole lot of armor. But the armor of God won’t give us guns and bombs and weapons of mass destruction. The armor of God looks like this: standing firm, a belt of truth around our waist, a breastplate of righteousness, a breastplate of right relationship. For shoes—whatever makes us ready to proclaim what? The gospel of peace. A shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Did you catch that? These spirits that we encounter, they are throwing arrows at us—through Christ, we don’t fight them, we catch them with a faith that takes away their heat. We have a helmet of salvation, a helmet of wholeness. A sword not to kill, but of the Spirit, not a sword to destroy, but the word of God to pierce our own hardened hearts. A sword to slice through all the false choices so that a third way might be revealed—not the way of either/or, but rather, that creative both/and. We pray in the Spirit, we keep alert, we persevere, making known with boldness, the mystery of the gospel. Not the 100% certain no-questions-allowed truth, but the mystery of the gospel. The mystery of the good news of Jesus Christ whose love is big enough and broad enough and deep enough to contain all the forces of darkness in this world. He opened his arms to receive those flaming arrows, and he quenched their fire with his love. Unlike the armor we normally put on, the armor of defenses and preemptive shots across the bow, this armor is going to leave us pretty exposed.

That’s what we’re signing up for if we let his being become one with ours. Are you ready to sign on? It’s the kind of vision that we hear from Solomon this morning—even the foreigner’s prayers are heard by God. We can’t play the game our-God-is-better-than-your-God anymore. I think we find Jesus’ words offensive because we are flat out terrified of what it will mean if we really let him live through us, if we really let him speak through us, we are terrified of what it will mean if we really touch all that he dares to touch, if we really love all that he dares to love. It is going to completely and utterly change us and our lives.

And so we have a choice. The disciples had a choice. And some of them turned back and no longer went about with him. That had to be a sad moment for Jesus. He turned and looked at the twelve, he turns and looks at us, “Do you also wish to go away?” It was pretty quiet, each one contemplating their options. Simon Peter finally broke the silence, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God.”

They didn’t know a lot, but they had been around Jesus long enough that they had come to believe and know, not that Jesus was the Jesus we meet in our credal confessions, but that Jesus was simply the Holy One of God. Those disciples just knew in their hearts and in their souls that Jesus was of God—they couldn’t spell that out in doctrine, but they knew it and believed it nonetheless. They knew that his words were life for them. They knew it. And they knew that they would be lost without him. He had gotten under their skin, which is what incarnation always does. He had taken up residence inside of them; they had nowhere else to go.

As anyone who has ever been in a deep relationship will tell you, you only discover the most exquisite gifts of intimacy when you plumb its depths, and that will cost you everything. At that point, your life is no longer solely your own.

Today, you and I, we’re invited to move through our offense, to risk losing our life as we are swallowed up in this Life, in his Life, which is so much bigger than our own. Today, we are invited to take Jesus into the heart of our being, so that we can begin to learn what it means to let his heart live through our being.

“Do you also wish to go away?”  

“Lord, to whom can we go? You have the life for which we long.”


The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
August 26, 2012

Be more than kind out in the world.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks –The Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost—Proper 14—Year B
II Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33; Psalm 130; Ephesians 4:25-5:2; Mark 6:35, 41-51

This morning’s story from II Samuel is nothing short of tragic. These are a lot of messed up, immensely human people adding brokenness upon brokenness upon brokenness.

Context is important.

Remember from last week, David stole Bathesheba from Uriah, and put Uriah in a position where Uriah would undoubtedly be killed, which he was. For this horrific chain of events, God promised that horrific brokenness would come upon David’s house, which it did. The child of David’s liaison with Bathesheba died. One of David’s sons, Amnon, committed a horrible sin against his sister, Tamar (again, for the R-rated version, read II Samuel chapter 13—it is chilling). Another of David’s sons, Absalom, was enraged by Amnon’s violation. Absalom waited, and in due course, with great premeditation, killed Amnon. Absalom then fled, afraid for his life.

So, King David has lost two children to death, has a third child who has suffered a horrible injustice, and a fourth child who now lives in exile. David’s heart is heavy indeed. Absalom eventually finds his way back into the presence of the king and then plots a revolt. In the ensuing battles, father and son’s armies are pitted one against the other. But David’s heart has been broken so many times; he wants his commander, Joab, to deal gently with the young man Absalom. In the battle that follows, Absalom is riding on his mule when the mule goes under the thick branches of a great oak tree. His head got caught in the branches and he was left hanging there, but he was still alive. One of Joab’s men saw this and reported it to Joab. When Joab heard that Absalom was still alive, Joab was furious; he went out with three spears and thrust them into Absalom’s heart. Joab’s ten armorbearers surrounded Absalom, struck, and killed him. When news came to David, his heart broke yet again. He was inconsolable. He wept. All he can do is grieve for his son, Absalom.

It is tragic. So much brokenness. Wrong compounds wrong compounds wrong, never adding up to a right. And while I in no way ascribe to the author of II Samuel’s theology of cause-and-effect, which basically says that our missteps and our misdeeds cause God to visit unbelievable suffering upon us, while I don’t believe that; I do believe that when we sow seeds of brokenness, we reap the fruits of brokenness.

There is so much in this story. Incredible family dysfunction. The myth of redemptive violence—if Absalom could just avenge what happened to his sister Tamar. If Joab could just avenge Absalom’s act of rebellion. And where does it all lead? Death and more death. Brokenness and more brokenness.

This is all pretty drastic and pretty graphic, but do we not participate in these dynamics in our own lives? Think about the most conflicted relationships in your life. Where have you sown seeds of brokenness? Where can you identify this never-ending cycle of hurt-revenge in your own relationships? Where have you been triangled into a conflict and found yourself taking sides, thereby participating in the hurt-avenge cycle? We may not kill, in fact, but we can kill with our words, with our stoney silences, we can kill by withdrawing our affection, our presence. And how do we participate in this myth of redemptive violence on the collective scale? Is this not the source of most war—hurt-revenge, hurt-avenge? Is not this myth at the root of the violent shootings we have seen recently—Aurora, Colorado, the Sihk Temple in Wisconsin? However twisted, do not the shooters somehow believe that this violent act will redeem something or avenge something?

But the beliefs that fuel this myth start so much earlier. Maybe that’s why Paul tells us in no uncertain terms, “Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you…and live in love.”

The end of the road is a violent act, but the beginning of that road rests in bitterness and wrath and anger that becomes a habit and a way of life, that simmers into resentment, that moves into wrangling and slander and malice, and, in no time, becomes a runaway train. We cannot allow these seeds to take root in our souls, and when an injustice is perpetrated against us or against someone we care about, it is so tempting to go there. But just look at the way the Sikh’s have responded, with peace and love and prayer. Or remember the Amish response when Charles Robert shot ten of their little girls at that schoolhouse in Lancaster County in Pennsylvania? Within six hours of the shooting, members of that community expressed forgiveness and words of grace to the widow of Charles Roberts; later that day, they went to his parents and expressed words of forgiveness and support. Money poured in from around the world for the Amish—they decided to give a portion to the Mr. Robert’s widow and his children. The Sikh’s, the Amish, the very people that our society considers to be so “other”, they are showing us what it means to live in kindness, to have tender hearts, to live forgiveness, to live in love.

With so much hate around us, with so many calls to diminish one another, with so many examples from those who lash out in anger against anyone who looks different or holds a different belief or perspective, how are we walking in kindness and living forgiveness? How are we witnessing to the core values of our faith; how are we witnessing to our baptismal vows? How are we “seeking and serving Christ in all persons?” How are we “respecting the dignity of every human being?” How are we “persevering in resisting evil” and when we recognize that we have given into bitterness and wrath, when we recognize that our anger is bleeding through all of our words and actions, when we see that all we do is wrangle, bicker, argue, when we recognize that we are participating in slander and malice, how are we then “repenting of these behaviors and patterns and returning to the Lord?”

We may not be able to stop a crazed shooter, but we can stop these seeds from taking root in our own hearts, and we can call one another to our better selves, and we can stand with those who are targets of such hate. The cycle of violence can only be broken when we do not allow these first seeds to take root. This cycle will only be broken when we name the myth of redemptive violence for what it is, a myth that is a lie.

Our only hope is to feed on the One who broke this cycle on the cross. Jesus did not respond to the violence that nailed him to a cross with revenge, but he responded with forgiveness—“Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing.” He spread his arms wide-open and kept his heart tender and exposed, and he held all that rage and anger and jealousy and fear until its power drained away and all that was left to rise was love and life. That’s the bread we are invited to eat today. That’s the bread that will change our hearts. That’s the bread for which this world is starving.

So, our work is cut out for us. We’ve got to examine our lives and our relationships. We’ve taken vows in our baptism to live a certain way—how are we doing with those vows? We’ve got to look deep within our own hearts and deep into the heart of our society, and we’ve got to gaze on the cross and let Jesus show us a different way

Amidst so much brokenness, amidst so much death, feed on the bread of life. Take him into your body, into your mind, into your soul, into your heart—let his compassion look through your eyes, let his tender heart beat within yours, let his forgiveness manifest in your words and in your actions. He gave his life so that we could go a different way. Stop the cycle, now, here, today, in your own heart, in your own life. Feed on the bread of life, and then offer this life, now made flesh in you, as bread for the world. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
August 12, 2012

Thou shalt not covet.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks –The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost—Proper 13—Year B
II Samuel 11:26-12:13a; Psalm 51:1-12; Ephesians 4:1-16; Mark 6:24-35

I have a confession to make. I love Veggie Tales. For those of you who have not been around children in recent years, these are the Broadway Musicals of animated vegetables. And my all-time favorite Veggie Tale is King George and the Ducky. In the story, King George, who is a talking cucumber, has this obsession with cute, little, yellow rubber duckies. His country is embroiled in the Great Pie War and all he wants to do is lounge in his bath with his rubber ducky. His able assistant, Louis, keeps trying to get his attention. After all, if the kingdom is at war, shouldn’t the king be paying attention? Eventually, King George gets out of his bath, and while wondering around on his balcony, he spies a beautiful, gorgeous ducky floating in a bath on a rooftop in the lower part of town. King George wants that ducky—it’s beautiful, and he wants it. There is only one problem—it belongs to Thomas. The king’s assistant, Louis, is confused. “But you already have a duck.”

King George responds, “What are you saying? That I shouldn’t have it?”

Louis backs up to a huge cabinet, throws open the doors, revealing hundreds of duckies, and reminds the king, “You already have quite a few duckies.”

And in the line to end all lines, King George responds, “Those are yesterday’s duckies.”

Louis persuades King George that he just can’t go in there and take Thomas’ duck because then other people would think that the king would come and take their stuff, and well, you just can’t run a kingdom that way.

King George agrees, so he plots with his General, Cedric, to send Thomas to the front of the Great Pie War, and then he tells Cedric to have everyone else to step back. General Cedric responds, “But sire, he’ll get creamed,” which is exactly what King George wants.

While Thomas is off at the front, King George and Louis sneak off in the dead of night and swipe Thomas’ ducky. Just as King George is admiring this ducky (which Louis thinks looks like all the other duckies he has and which George vehemently denies), Cedric walks in with Thomas, now a war hero, who’s really woosey because he really did get creamed at the front of the Pie War. George conceals the ducky until Thomas is whisked away.

Just as King George is about to enjoy his bath, in walks Melvin, that slightly odd wise man who shows up every so often to tell the king things. Melvin has come to tell the King a story, flannel graph and all. And, in good Broadway fashion, Melvin breaks into song.

There once was a man, a very rich man, he had a lot of sheep, he had a lot of lamb,

He threw a lot of parties, he was dapper, he was tan, there once was a very rich man.

King George breaks in and thanks him for his story to which Melvin responds:

 Wait just a minute, my story isn’t done, it’s about two men and I’ve only mentioned one.

 There once was a man, a very poor man, he had next to nothing, just a little lamb.

But he loved it like a son and he fed it from his hand, yes there once was a very poor man.

 Then one day, there was a guest at the house of the rich man.

What did he do, have you guessed, to feed the guest of the rich man?

 King George reasons, “Well, let’s see, he had plenty of sheep so he could just share one of his sheep, not a problem.”

Melvin shakes his head, “He took the lamb of the poor man. He took the lamb of the poor man. The rich man took, to feed his guest, the very, very poor man’s lamb.”

 King George is incensed. He questions Melvin, “What? Is this a true story?”

 Melvin replies, “As surely as I stand before you today, my story is true.”

 King George rages, “Who is that man? Tell me. To take the lamb of the poor man when he had lots of sheep and the poor man only had one! Man, for his cruelty, he will spend the rest of his days locked in my dungeon! Who is he?”

 Melvin solemnly sings, “Oh King George, you are that man.”

Melvin then spells out the parallels to the whole ducky thing. As the reality sinks in to King George, he asks what he must do. Melvin tells George to ask God’s forgiveness, and to ask Thomas’ forgiveness, and then King George must make it right.

King George does just that, eventually drawing a royal bath for Thomas and restoring his rightful ducky to him.


It’s a brilliant retelling of the story we have today, except the stakes are a little higher in II Samuel. For King David, it was a matter of taking another man’s wife and sending her husband to the front of the war so that he would be killed so that David’s indiscretion would not be found out. I’ll leave you to read the explicit details in II Samuel chapters 11 and 12, but check it out sometime—court intrigue at its best. Showtime and HBO can’t top this.

When the prophet Nathan confronts the King with the very same story that Melvin tells, Nathan makes it clear that God gave David everything, rescued him from the hand of Saul, gave him Saul’s house and Saul’s wives, the houses (read kingdoms) of Israel and Judah, and if that had been too little, God would have given that much more. But noooo, David had to go and have Uriah killed so that he could take Uriah’s wife.

Just an aside, we need to have a whole other conversation one day about how the women are handled in these stories—traded, given, stolen, possessed—but that’s a conversation for another day. Just need to note it.

So, when is enough, enough? How many duckies does one need? How many wives does one need? What is it about somebody else having something that sparks an obsession in us to have what they have? Why do we covet what we do not possess and are restless with what we do have? Why are we not content? And what is it about taking from the one who has so little that is so immensely attractive?

I ran across a story recently that still has me scratching my head.

In 2007, the six Walmart heirs had wealth equal to the wealth of the bottom 30% of Americans combined. By 2010, the combined wealth of these same six heirs was more than the bottom 42% of Americans combined. At a time when the Great Recession sent many Americans into a negative wealth position (13 million Americans now fit that description), at a time when the wealth of the average American declined from $126,000 to $77,000, the six richest Walton’s collective wealth rose from $73 billion to $90 billion. One more image to complete this picture—in 1983, you would have to combine the median wealth of 61,992 families to equal the Walton family wealth. In 2010, it took 1,157,827 families to do the same.

This story from II Samuel is as pertinent today, as it was almost 3,000 years ago. And if we have ears to hear, the scriptures will pin our ears back good about the income inequality that exists among us in this country and across the world.

But it’s easy to point fingers at the Walton’s and miss the log in our own eyes. I think the most haunting line in this whole passage is when Nathan turns to David and says, “You are the man!”

What if we stand where David stands? What if Nathan is telling us this story? What if we recognize the blatant injustice of this story, and what if Nathan then turns to us and says, “You are the man! You are the woman!”

Where have we taken from the one who has so little? Where have we coveted what did not belong to us and plotted to possess it, all the while not being content with what we have? Where do we continue to rob the poor man? How are we complicit?

A huge piece of this is economic—yes, the Bible mentions wealth, poverty, and the poor 1,900 times—but it is not only economic. We covet in many ways. St. Paul lays out a list of gifts that Christ gives to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for the building up of the body of Christ. Apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors, and teachers. How often do we spy a gift in someone else and want that gift for ourselves, never noticing the gift that God has given to us, never developing that gift in ourselves, never being content with the gift we, in fact, already possess, never even acknowledging that we have been given a gift to use for the sake of the world?

These are all hard, soul-piercing questions, and I can’t resolve their answers in this sermon. Sometimes the call is simply to sit with the questions and let them pierce our hearts, and then our tender and open hearts can move us to change. St. Paul reminds his listeners that “we must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness and deceitfulness scheming. But speaking the truth in love, we must grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ.” It all flows from Christ; he holds it all together, and when each part is working properly, the whole body thrives.

So, the call today is first to identify those places and those ways where we “are the man, the woman” of whom Nathan speaks, to see what it is that we covet and who we are robbing in the process, to look at all those ways we deny what God has given us because what we see in another looks better. The call today is to acknowledge that we can no longer dodge our responsibility to work to build up the whole body, we can no longer dodge our responsibility, like children often do, but it’s time to grow up into the likeness of Christ, and it’s time to speak the truth in love to ourselves, to each other, and to the world.

Pretty tall order—this will take a lot of discernment and no small amount of courage. But remember, Christ is the head of this Body and the Holy Spirit dwells in us richly; if we consent to this hard work, God will supply what we need to turn our lives and the life of the world around.

It’s the very first step that is the hardest to take, the one we are called to today, and that’s to confess that “we are that woman; we are that man.” Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
August 5, 2012

Person of the Covenant: Eucharist

By Karl Doege….

The last post commented on the “person of the covenant” as set forth in the Sacrament of Baptism liturgy. It was stated that all baptized Christians are Persons of the Covenant, and that their behavior and priorities are governed, ideally, by the promises made at the time of baptism. Among the priorities named in the Baptismal Covenant are “fighting against the forces of evil,” and “following and obeying Jesus as Lord.”

The present post will set forth the implications of Eucharist in the life of a “person of the covenant.”

The term “Eucharist” is taken from a Greek word meaning “thanksgiving.” At his final meal with his disciples, Jesus, taking bread and wine, blessed and gave thanks for the bread and wine. He distributed these “creatures” to his disciples, instructing them to “do this in remembrance of me.” (Not unimportantly, Jesus also told his disciples that his body and his blood were present in the bread and wine.) Accordingly, when the priest, who in any sacrament represents the “persons of the covenant” (and even those not of the covenant) who are present, he/she is doing as Jesus wishes, i.e., blessing and giving thanks for the elements, and for the presence of Jesus (in some fashion) within the elements. The priest then distributes the bread and the wine to those who wish to partake of them. Thus, all who participate in this Eucharist participate in a service of thanksgiving according to Jesus’ instruction.

Mostly, we all know about this – at least everyone who is reading this is quite familiar with most or all of the above. The point to be emphasized here is the role of thanksgiving in the Eucharistic liturgy, and implications of thanksgiving for stewardship. So, as this is being written, a short study of the verbiage of the “Eucharistic Prayers” in the Book of Common Prayer is taking place in order to find language therein concerning what we ordinarily think of as “stewardship.” What does our Eucharistic liturgy say about why we should be thankful and how we must show our gratitude.

In Eucharistic Prayer A, (p.363), we ask that God would make us holy (“sanctify us”) so that we may “serve you in unity, constancy and peace.” (I interpret this to mean that it is our prayer to learn to live into our baptismal covenant.) But mostly Prayer A seems to be about atonement. I’d rather move along.

In Prayer B, (p.368), we give thanks for God’s blessings, namely, God’s “goodness and love which you have made known to us in creation; in the calling of Israel to be your people; in your Word spoken through the prophets;” – (referring to Jesus). (Note the capital “W” in “Word.”)] We also read, “. . . you have brought us out of error into truth, . . . out of death into life.” (These words have deep, symbolic meaning.)

In Prayer C, (p.370), we acknowledge God as Creator and remember how God has “blessed us with memory, reason and skill.” We thank God for the blessing God gave us in the person of Jesus. We ask that God “open our eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us.” We ask for solace and strength, for pardon and renewal. We ask that our community of faith might be as “one body, one Spirit in Christ.” We note that our grateful response to the fulfillment of our prayers must be “that we might worthily serve the world in [Christ’s] name.”

Prayer D, (p.372), addresses God as “Fountain of life and source of all goodness,” who made all things and filled them with blessing so that they might rejoice in the splendor of God’s radiance. We acclaim God’s wisdom and love, our being that is formed in God’s image, our role as stewards of God’s creation, God’s guiding love – even in spite of our waywardness. We thank God for guidance into wholeness by the words of the prophets. We praise God for the role model of Jesus (which we are to follow) who proclaimed the good news of our own healing, freedom to prisoners, joy to the sorrowful. We note that our response to all these great blessings must be our own resurrected and victorious lives. (The Prayer Book says it this way: “. . . and rising from the grave, destroyed death, and made the whole creation new.” (p.374)

So all of the Eucharistic Prayers emphasize a grand view of the many blessings we have received from God – for which we give thanks in response.

The Eucharist is not yet done: not until we give our verbal response to the reception of the bread and the wine. We say: “Send us now into the world in peace, and grant us strength and courage to love and serve you with gladness and singleness of heart; through Christ our Lord. Amen.” (p.365) Or, “. . .send us out to do the work you have given us to do, to love and serve you as faithful witnesses of Christ our Lord.” (p.366) Eucharist has renewed us with strength to continue to live into our role as “persons of the covenant.”

Eucharistic liturgy is the way we enumerate our blessings and indicate to ourselves and to God the manner in which we will respond to them in gratitude. That’s the point of it all.

Through this sacrament we receive strength and renewal to love and serve: to be good and faithful stewards. Through this sacrament, we acknowledge that the bread and the wine are not just for us alone but, through us, they are for all of God’s creation.

Eucharist is a reminder that we are to be Good Stewards of all that God has given us, and that we must participate in God’s work in the world – because we are baptized and we are thankful.

Indeed, we are Persons of the Covenant!

The Person of the Covenant

Karl Doege, July 2012

Dr. Walter Brueggemann strongly supports the concept of tithing. He describes the “person of the covenant” as someone who understands tithing as a means of returning to God something that is owed to God for God’s many blessings. He cites Malachi 3:8ff in support of this position: “Will anyone rob God? Yet you are robbing me! But you say, ‘How are we robbing you?’ In your tithes and offerings! You are cursed with a curse, for you are robbing me – the whole nation of you! Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, so that there may be food in my house, and thus put me to the test, says the Lord of hosts; see if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you an overflowing blessing. I will rebuke the locust for you, so that it will not destroy the produce of your soil; and your vine in the field shall not be barren, says the Lord of hosts. Then all nations will count you happy, for you will be a land of delight, says the Lord of hosts.”
            How’s that for a biblical text that supports the concept of the tithe?

Yet, surprisingly, the scripture quoted above does not substantiate a biblical command to tithe. Rather, this scripture refers to a “tithe of a tithe.” The biblical text is critical of the Levites for not tithing from the tithes they receive from the other tribes ofJudah. The Levites, it seems, should be giving a tithe of all they receive, from the other eleven tribes, tithes they receive for their own sustenance. This “tithe of a tithe” is given in support of the members of the priesthood who are descended from Aaron and have no other income. So, in fact, it is the Levites, not the common Israelites, of whom the Lord is being critical.

Maybe I’m splitting hairs by thinking such thoughts. But maybe not.

I am not learned enough to critique Dr. Brueggemann – a preeminent biblical scholar – on this subject of tithing. He supports the concept of tithing, and so doI.But Dr. Brueggemann does not, in his address to the 2010 plenary session of TENS, (see previous post), cite a scriptural text mandating the tithe from all Israelites, (which subject will be discussed in a following post).

(Tithing is generally regarded as a biblical mandate. But it seems that there is some debate about whether tithing is scripturally mandated and, in the Stewardship page entitled “Resources,” you can learn of books, by (reportedly) biblical scholars, who argue that a mandate to tithe is not supported by scripture. I have not read any of the books, though I obviously must read one or more of them to become better informed about this issue. Indeed, the very idea that tithing may not be supported scripturally comes as a complete surprise to me.)

But here’s a way of seeing what a “person of the covenant” is all about, and how the “person of the covenant” responds to the terms of the covenant. The following comments support, at least, the concept of fighting against the forces of evil while following and obeying Jesus as Lord. How might such principles, found in the baptismal covenant, be translated into terms related to liberal giving and good stewardship practices?

Here’s how:

All baptized persons are “persons of the covenant,” – the Baptismal Covenant – which poses the question, “Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God?” (BOCP, p. 302).

There are lots of “spiritual forces of wickedness” out there, and most of them encourage us to pay attention to our own needs. They encourage idolatry of self. Something of these spiritual forces can be seen in just about every advertisement that pops up on your cell phone, iPod, or computer: “Buy one of these,” “you need this.” On every billboard you will find something that encourages you to spend money on yourself or your family, that suggests that you can buy your happiness. On the other hand, I challenge you to find an ad that encourages you to give liberally in support of those who have so little that they cannot function, the homeless, the destitute, the hungry. A “person of the covenant” fights against spiritual forces that promote idolatry of self or anything else that does not contribute to God’s work in the world. The “person of the covenant” fights mightily against the tyranny of consumerism.

Also: “Do you promise to follow and obey Jesus as your Lord?” Jesus is the unchallenged human example, for Christians, of what it means to lead a “covenantal life.” He’s the author of the “Parable of the Sheep and the Goats,” (Mt. 25:31ff). He’s the one who demands not just our money, but also our selves, our souls, 100% of all we are – at any time and anywhere. (See “The Widow’s Mite,” (Lk 21:1-4), the “Story of the Rich Young Ruler,” (Lk 18:18-23)) Accordingly, if we are not fighting against “spiritual forces of wickedness,” – spiritual forces that encourage each of us to idolize our own wants and put them ahead of God’s agenda – we are not following and obeying our Lord.

That’s part of what it means to be a “person of the covenant.”

The other part will be the subject of the next post – the “person of the covenant” as set forth in Eucharist. Indeed, it is Baptism and Eucharist that mark all Christians as being “of the covenant.”

(I guess it might be appropriate to say that Christians are a subset of “People of the Book,” and that these two sacraments mark the major difference between Christians and the other religions of the Book – namely Jews and Muslims.)

I hope you didn’t finding reading this post too burdensome.

Ta ta for now.