Worship Schedule

DayTimeService
DayTimeService
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

St Luke's Episcopal Church
170 Councill St
Boone, NC 28607
828-264-8943

Sermons

Our Wilderness Wandering is Done!

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Easter Vigil—Year B; Exodus 13:17-18, 20-22; The Gospel of Truth 4:1-8; Genesis 1:1-2:4a; Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21; Ezekiel 37:1-14; Ephesians 1:17-22; Romans 6:3-11; Psalm 114; Mark 16:1-8 Video

Oh, what a night! Overflowing, abundant, rich in every way. We see it and hear it and smell it and touch it and taste it—Love is come again, life returns, resurrection.

 “Rejoice! Sing! Be glad! This is the night!” the Exsultet rings out. And just as our sacred story has wound us around on a long and hard journey this past week, so now our sacred story immerses us in a different journey—the journey of creation and liberation, the journey of dry, dead bones who yearn to breathe and live, the eyes of the heart now clear to see the hope that is our inheritance, baptismal waters refreshing parched souls.

It is a journey wrought at such great cost. Every liberation is full of struggle. Every new beginning depends on an ending. Every birth comes through sweat and blood and labor. Resurrection comes only after the old life has breathed its last. So, our celebration this night is grounded in this great paradox of dark and light, life and death, liberation and loss, joy and grief.

But out of the great paradox, the Great Mystery is born. Tonight, Jesus has passed over from death into life, and is pulling us back into life whether we want to go or not.

When I sit with people who are dying, I am often struck by how hard it is for a person who has leaned into life and often fought so hard for life, I am struck by how hard it is for them to turn on a dime and yield, surrender, give their life over so that they can cross over to the other realm and be born anew. But I think it is equally true that those of us who have leaned hard into this Lent and Holy Week and have become fully acquainted with the delusions of our False Self, the shape of our sins, our patterns of death, it is equally hard for us to shed our graveclothes and leap with Jesus into the joy and freedom and power of resurrection.

To fall into grace and life and joy is the ultimate act of surrender.

But tonight, this is the call, this is the invitation. Jesus has danced his way into life this night, and he’s extending his hand, yearning for us to take it, bidding us to join him in the dance, as well.

Tonight is the night of “YES,” which means saying “no” to whatever shame or fear or anxiety or anger or resentment or inhibition would keep us from taking the hand of our Lord and stepping out onto the floor.

Christ has broken the bonds of death and hell, and that includes whatever has kept us all bound up, that includes whatever hells we have inhabited, that includes whatever has weighted us down and held us back. It is all put to flight; it is all washed away; our innocence is restored; we are redeemed, and not by denying all that we have come to know of ourselves through our Lenten and Holy Week journey, but preciously, we are redeemed within all of that by the Love that makes all things new.

This is the Passover of our Lord, and all creation resounds with a cosmic “YES”“YES, you are worthy of this much joy, this much freedom, this much life,” says our God.

It is almost more than our hearts can hold, so don’t even try. Tonight, let it fill you to the brim, let it top over,             let it spill over completely and cascade into the world. It’s been a long forty days, maybe even forty years, but our wilderness wandering is done. We are all thirsty for joy, and tonight, our joy is finally complete. Amen.

 

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

April 4, 2015

Good Friday

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Good Friday—Year B; Isaiah 52:13-53:12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 10:16-25; John 18:1-19:42

This week that began last Sunday with such hope; this week that began with triumph and shouts of “Hosanna!” and a festival atmosphere has come to an ugly, violent, horrifying conclusion. And getting from there to here has led us through, what Cynthia Bourgeault calls, “the hall of mirrors.” All along the way, we have looked in various faces only to see ourselves reflected back. We have seen our courage, steadfastness, and faithfulness; we have seen our cowardice, our naked thirst for power, our vengeance and violence. We’ve anointed Jesus’ feet, and we’ve had him wash ours. We have stayed awake in the garden, for a bit, only to fall asleep in the end. We have hoped against hope that this ending would be different, and we have sold our hopes in bitter disappointment for 30 pieces of silver. We have pledged to stay true, only to throw that promise under the bus when it got too scary. We come limping into this day, exhausted by it all, wondering what else is there to say, what else is there to think, what else is there to do. We, like Pilate, come to this day with more questions than answers. “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth,” that’s what Jesus told Pilate. Pilate could only reply, “What is truth?”

Isn’t that what we all want to know? What is truth? What is true? What is the ground that holds firm beneath our feet? What can we stake our life on? What holds the center while our lives swirl around in chaos? What is the truth that changes everything?

There are so many words today, but in the end, the words fall silent, and there is only Jesus, God in the flesh, arms outstretched holding all the pain and suffering of the world, holding the beheaded and the beheaders, holding the bombers and those they kill, holding the victims of earthquakes and tsunamis and ferry accidents, holding girls kidnapped and their kidnappers, holding all the sin and separation and division, holding all the violence that we can do to one another and to all of creation, holding all of it, taking it into his being, holding it in Divine Presence so that nothing, nothing, nothing need ever be outside Divine Presence again.

If our False Self, individually and collectively, is responsible for nailing Jesus to that cross, the True Self is what gazes back at us in reply—“You can do everything in your human power to cut yourself off from my Love, and my Love will hold you still. Even down to despair and desolation and forsakenness, my Love will hold you still. Even down to your last dying breath and the sheer silence in the moment after, my Love will hold you still.”

God refuses to be kept apart from our suffering—no matter the source of that suffering, no matter the cause of that suffering, no matter if that suffering is understandable or incomprehensible or without any meaning whatsoever—God refuses to be kept apart from our suffering; God drinks the dregs of that suffering, and in taking that suffering into his being, God fills even that space with Divine Presence.

You can’t wrap your head around this kind of truth, you can only gaze upon it and let it change you from the inside, out. You can only gaze upon this cross and gaze upon your life and gaze upon the world, and not just with your eyes, but to stand before this cross with your arms outstretched so that your heart can gaze without obstruction.

So, please stand up. Close your eyes. Stretch out your arms wide. It feels vulnerable doesn’t it? In your mind’s eye, just keep gazing, not looking, gazing—gazing is a heart thing—gaze until your heart recognizes the Love that is beyond imagining that can hold all of it in its arms.

Look long enough, and you notice—the questions fall away, the gamesmanship falls away, the maneuvering falls away, the running stops—all that’s left is to follow where your heart is already being held. “What is truth?” then ceases to be a question you ask because you simply know, “Nothing, nothing, nothing can separate you from the love of God.” Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

April 3, 2015

Walk through this week

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Palm Sunday—Year B; Mark 11:1-11; Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 31:9-16; Philippians 2:5-11; Mark 14:1-15:47. Video

This day never fails to take our breath away. At breakneck speed, we move from triumph to desolation. We move from the Mount of Olives to that knoll outside the city walls, “the place of the skull.” We are always left asking, “How did it all go so wrong so fast? How did we get here?” And it is indeed a “we.”

Today, and all throughout this Holy Week, we are invited into a journey. We meet all these people along the way; we walk in their shoes; we look through their eyes; we tap into their hearts—and in so doing, we come to see ourselves more clearly. Some of what we see will shake us to the core as we examine the hidden places of our heart, those spaces that are broken and dark.

We touch our bravado and sheer cowardice in Peter who denies his beloved Lord.

We know the weakness of our flesh and our fickleness in the Disciples who can’t stay awake.

We move into deeper complexity when we see Judas’ broken heart and his retaliation against the one in whom he had placed all his hope. We know Judas more than we would like to admit. Anytime we move into the bright shadow, anytime we project our own power onto another, anytime we adore and idolize another, and then they fail to meet our expectations, oh, we can lash out with a vengeance and betray the one whom we adore.

We step into the crossfire with the High Priest’s Slave—in the wrong place at the wrong time caught up in currents not of our making.

And we touch our capacity to “out” someone as we sit around that fire with the Servant Girl.

We feel the pressure of powerful people pushing and pulling to say something we know is not true; we bear false Witness.

And our desire to please the higher-ups, our desire for order and control and status kicks into high gear as we follow the lead of the Chief Priests and Scribes and Elders.

The High Priest gives voice to our innate desire to hold onto our power and position, no matter the cost.

And Pilate pulls us into that place of political expediency revealing our capacity to sell-out because we can’t tolerate the risk of going against the prevailing wind.

Barabbas allows us to touch that place in us that is all too ready to let another take the fall.

 

And then, there are the smaller parts that reveal some of our most broken places—the Bystanders, the Passersby, the Crowd—all caught up in the mob mentality.

And the Guards and the Soldiers pull back the curtain on all the ways we have been desensitized to violence and all the ways we are capable of dehumanizing the other—these show us that part inside of us that is bloodthirsty; these Guards and Soldiers show us what it looks like when we abdicate our own moral decision-making for the sake of following orders.

But we must also note that some of what we see this week will shake us to the core for the sheer courage that lives within us.

The Woman who anoints Jesus’ feet shows us the best of our heart and what it looks like when we live with no armor and love wholeheartedly.

Simon of Cyrene helps us claim those times when we are thrust into the middle of something that we didn’t ask to be in the middle of, and yet, we stand firm and hold fast anyway.

The Centurion awakes that giant inside of us who can see the injustice and proclaim the truth at great risk, even if it goes against the grain of all of our training.

The place deep inside of us which is willing to risk our position to do the right thing is made manifest in Joseph of Arimathea.

And the Women, oh the Women who follow Jesus, they show us our own faithfulness; they show us our great capacity to be faithful to the end, no matter the risk, no matter the cost, because love will let us live no other way.

The Christ who lives in us rises up as we witness Jesus receiving, yielding, feeling exposed and abandoned, surrendering, trusting, standing in absolute solidarity with our suffering, broken humanity. As we watch him make his way to the cross, as we watch him stretch out his arms trusting the larger Love that would hold him in death, we touch our own capacity to be utterly transformed.

There is a temptation this week, and that’s to stay on the sidelines and watch this sad, tragic movie play out before us. But this week is a full-contact proposition.

There is one character in this story that we never pay attention to, but who caught my eye this year—that certain young man following Jesus, who is wearing nothing but a linen cloth. And when the disciples all desert and flee when Jesus is arrested in the garden, this young man turned to flee, too, and those arresting Jesus caught hold of the young man’s linen cloth, but he left that linen cloth and ran off naked.

There is a part of us that wants to flee this week and move as quick as we can to Easter because this week will strip us naked, down to our bare, raw humanity. But please, please, don’t run away. This week isn’t about naked emotional sentimentality; this week is about discovering the depth of God’s love that heals our hearts and gives us the courage to live wide-open from that place, knowing that our hearts will be broken, and knowing that they will also be made new. This week is about standing naked before God with all that we are—good, bad, redeemed, broken, and all points in-between—it is standing before God in the nakedness of all of that, knowing, trusting, that God will clothe us once again with love and grace and forgiveness and compassion, just as God has been doing since God first encountered our nakedness in that first garden.

Walk through this Holy Week with intentionality and watch as God weaves you a new set of clothes. Walk through this week faithfully, and come next Sunday, every fiber of your being will be radiant. We may fall apart this week, but God will knit us back together, and then, when we put on our Easter best next Sunday, it won’t just be about our outfits, but it will be about the resurrected hearts and minds and bodies and souls that wear them. Amen.

 

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

March 29, 2015

Seeing Jesus in the Other

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Lent 5—Year B; Jeremiah 31:31-34; Psalm 51:1-13; Hebrews 5:5-10; John 12:20-33. Video

Okay, we are one week out from Holy Week, and today the lessons are swirling.

In this last stretch of peeling away the layers of dust around our heart and soul, we’ve got all of these hopeful scriptures. Jeremiah reminding us that the days are surely coming when the LORD will make a new covenant with God’s people; a time, God says, when “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, ‘Know the LORD,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.” That is such good new! For hearts that are weary and battered and weighted down and frightened, to come into full awareness that God is written on our heart, and that whatever has blocked us from that love, whatever sin has been in the way, it is forgiven; our sin, our walls, our armor, these are not the things that God chooses to rememberGod only wants us to know that God and God’s love are written all over our hearts.

And then, psalm 51 comes along to remind us, just as it did on Ash Wednesday, that God is merciful and full of loving-kindness and that the divine M.O. is compassion. God is in the business of washing and cleansing so that we can see the truth and wisdom deep within us that God knows is there. God is hands-on when it comes to cleaning the dust off of our hearts and renewing our spirits, setting them right again when they have gone off the rails, and all of this is done so that we can hear once again and experience the deep joy that comes when you know that you and your dusty humanity are deeply, deeply loved and cherished.

And then comes Hebrews 5 reminding us that Jesus struggled with this path that was set before him just as much as we struggle with the paths set before us. He offered up prayers and supplications, not neatly, but with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death, and he was heard, though that didn’t save him from journey that would be his to make. But somehow, in that mystery beyond mysteries, as he moved through his suffering, he was made perfect, “complete” in the greek, and somehow, Jesus finding wholeness, even in his suffering, opens the way for us to find wholeness in ours. I don’t know exactly how it works, but you can see this in those who have undergone great suffering—there is a strength, there is a calm, there is a solidness. I saw it this week in someone who is moving through cancer treatments, strength just radiated from them; they simply glowed with that strength. It was amazing just to witness it.

And finally, we come to the story in John. According to the timeline in John’s gospel, Jesus has already completed his Palm Sunday procession. He is present in Jerusalem for the festival of the Passover. And some Greeks, read gentiles, want to see Jesus. They don’t feel worthy to ask for what they want directly, so they go to Philip and say, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.” He goes and finds Andrew, and together they go and tell Jesus. Jesus answers a little cryptically with the “hour-has-come” bit, and the “grain-of-wheat-that-has-to-die-if-it’s-going-to-bear-much-fruit,” and the “loving-your-life-you-lose-it-and-hating-it-you-keep-it,” and the “serving-Jesus-means-following-Jesus-and-following-means-going-where-he-goes.” It’s almost like Jesus is thinking out loud, and we’re just listening in, like he’s coming to terms with the fact that this is the hour, this is the moment; his journey has wound him to this place at this time for this reason. It will be the judgment of the world, the crisis point, when the ruler of this world won’t hold sway and God’s deep desire to draw all people in will win out. Somehow, Jesus being lifted up, in death and in resurrection, somehow this dance of suffering and dying and rising, somehow, all people will be drawn into that dance and find their wholeness in that rhythm.

And the thing is, gazing upon Jesus on the cross, gazing on that suffering and allowing yourself to share in it, the opportunity to do that is everywhere.

I heard a story driving to work Friday morning that feels like a living icon of how this works. It’s the story of how the running club from Midnight Mission Shelter and Addiction Center located on skid row in L.A. is running a marathon in Rome this morning. These homeless people might certainly be the Greeks that seek out Philip, living on the outside of the dominant culture, wondering if they can catch a glimpse of Jesus. Well, one of them was brave enough to ask, and he went to the judge who had sentenced him to prison, and he asked that judge to come down to the Mission.

The judge, a man by the name of Craig Mitchell, did, and from that encounter, a dream was born, to start a running club. Through that running club, people have found sobriety and health, but they have found so much more; they have found wholeness. One man, Ryan Navales, said of his friendship with Craig Mitchell, “He saw us for who we are. And he treated us like equals. That was important in those early stages. You know, trying to find some kind of self-worth and some self-confidence and some positive momentum in life.”

And Craig Mitchell said this, “A real boon to my own life is meeting people who have unique attributes, qualities, personalities, etc. and to partake of that. I won’t forget these encounters that I’ve had with these guys.”

Who is Jesus in this story, and where did he get seen, and how did he draw all people to himself?

The power of this story is that Jesus gets revealed, Jesus gets seen, when one guy had the courage to ask another to cross the great divide and come be in relationship with those who, far from being lifted up, had actually been discarded by society. And those men being able to see their own worth and strength mirrored back to them in the eyes of someone who entered into relationship with them, they came to see themselves the way that God sees them, and they were drawn back into life.

And in seeing Jesus in the weak and vulnerable, that judge came to see the Jesus who is strong that lives inside of that suffering, and that made the judge whole in a way that he had not been whole before. “To partake of that,” he said—that’s the very essence of communion; to partake of another; to participate in the essence of another’s life and being and to have them participate in the essence of yours; to feed on one another and to drink deeply of that shared cup of communion with one another—oh, that’s the moment when Jesus is lifted up, and it draws us into places and relationships and experiences of love that make our hearts new.

Where is Jesus praying, yearning, crying out loudly with tears to be lifted up, crying out to be recognized? Who is whispering in our ears, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus—can you help us?” or even more, “Sir, we wish you to see Jesus, will you come and let us show you where he lives?” And together, together, as we see one another, we come to see that it is Jesus who is doing the seeing; it is Jesus who is doing the looking—through our eyes to the other and through the other’s eyes to us, and in that moment of communion, we will see him lifted up, and we will find ourselves drawn into this love that truly saves our souls.

What has to die in us so that we can ask for our heart’s deepest longing—to see Jesus, to know God? And what has to die in us that we might go to the place where he is longing to meet us?

As you sit with these questions, remember, the answers are already written on your heart. On this 5th Sunday in Lent, all we are trying to do is clear away everything that keeps us from hearing that call of the heart. Amen.

 

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

March 22, 2015

John 3:16

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Lent 4—Year B; Numbers 21:4-9; Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22; Ephesians 2:1-10; John 3:14-21

Today begins one of my favorite seasons of the year. Any guesses? That’s right—March Madness! Which means that we will be treated to multiple basketball games in multiple arenas, which means that at some point over the next three weeks in some arena, we will see this sign (show sign)—“John 3:16.” What’s the verse? “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” I have never fully understood why this shows up at sporting events, especially, it would seem, at football games, but actually it shows up at all sporting events—basketball, golf, baseball, hockey, NASCAR—look, and you will see that sign.

And there is something about this verse as it is bandied about that makes a lot of us a little nervous. Why? What is that nervousness about? Why does someone publically proclaiming John 3:16 at a sporting event, or on a street corner, make us anxious? (pause)

I think we get nervous because we fill in the blanks, so that we read it to say, “And everyone who does not believe in him perishes and is consigned to hell.” In fact, isn’t that what the text says just a few verses later when it says, “Indeed…those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God?” And since we can’t square the God of Love in whom we believe with this perishing-consigning-someone-to-hell bit, when we see the sign, we squirm.

But this passage is central to the gospel, central to the good news of Jesus, so we can’t just dismiss it. Let’s walk back through it slowly and really unpack it.

First, the set-up. Nicodemus, a prominent Pharisee and leader of the Jews, read a really religious guy who is sensing that there is more to see and know of God that what he currently sees and knows and feels—Nicodemus has come to Jesus by night, because it’s a little risky to admit by day that you are a religious leader who is having a bit of faith crisis—trust me, been there, got that t-shirt. So, Nicodemus and Jesus have that rather odd exchange about the need to be born from above, born anew, born of the Spirit, or in the King James Version, born again. Nicodemus wonders how these things can be, and Jesus wonders how it is that a teacher of Israel doesn’t get it.

It’s in the midst of this exchange that we hear the passage for today.

First, Jesus [says] to Nicodemus, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”

What a weird image! But this serpent that Moses lifted up in the wilderness was a serpent that God told Moses to make and affix to a pole and when someone got bitten by a poisonous serpent, all they had to do was gaze upon this bronze serpent on the pole, and they would be healed—that’s the passage we heard from Numbers 21 earlier this morning. Okay, we have to park off to the side the fact that in that original story, it was God who sent the poisonous serpents among the people to bite them in the first place because the people had become impatient and were speaking against God and Moses. Let that rest to the side, and stay with the image of the serpent on the pole. This is the image on medical symbols. It’s a symbol of healing power. So, Jesus getting lifted up and affixed to the pole, Jesus on the cross, becomes an image of healing power, and believing in him opens up eternal life, opens up life that spans time and space, opens up life bigger than we can possible imagine.

Let’s work a bit with that word “believe.” “Pisteuo” in the greek—it can be used in that sense of “something you think to be true,” which looks a lot like intellectual assent, but it also means “to trust,” or “to entrust something to someone,” or “to be entrusted with something.” Intellectual assent is easy; intellectual assent actually asks nothing of my heart, but trust, oh my, that is an entirely different matter. Trust, at its core, is about vulnerability. Trust is inherently risky because you can betray my trust. To trust is absolutely a matter of the heart. When I trust you, I open my heart to you with no guarantees. Even if I wait for you to prove yourself worthy of that trust, there are still no guarantees because you could, at any point, violate that trust. The hard work of believing in Jesus isn’t intellectually believing this miracle or that miracle, but the hard work of believing in Jesus is entrusting my heart to his care, and allowing him to entrust his heart to mine. But when you take that leap of trust, that leap of faith, the vastness and wholeness of life to which the word “eternal” gives voice, that larger life begins, not upon the moment of death, but that life begins the moment you entrust yourself to this Son of Humanity and all that he reveals of God.

John’s gospel continues: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” The world, the world, for God so loved the world, the “kosmos” in the greek! God loves every aspect of creation, all of it. And God loved that matter so much that God was willing to enter into full solidarity with it in the flesh. God dwelling in perfect communion with the cosmos; God dwelling in perfect communion with our humanity. And everyone who trusts in that solidarity, again, they aren’t lost, but they are immeasurably found and find themselves falling into this bigger life that is bigger than the small life afforded us when we try to go it on our own.

Our sign holders often stop with verse 16 without mentioning verse 17: “Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.” God didn’t send Jesus to condemn the world, but in order that the world, the cosmos might be saved, might be healed, might be made whole, through him. So often, these verses are used to divide the saved from the not saved, but Jesus’s coming was, and is, for the healing of the world, so it can’t be bad news for half of it—it’s got to be good news for all of it.

And condemned is an interesting word. The greek word is “kreno,” which also gets translated as “to pass judgment,” but it also means “to separate,” “to select,” “to choose.” This is also the word that gives us the word “crisis” in English. which brings to mind “a decision point, a fork in the road, a critical juncture.”

And maybe this starts to get clearer in the next part of the passage. “Those who believe in him are not condemned; but those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God. And this is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light…”

This word, “kreno,” which at its root means “crisis,” gets variously translated in this passage as condemned and judgment, but here is what I think is going on. God didn’t send Jesus into the world to condemn it, to separate it, but to make it whole. Those who trust Jesus, those who entrust themselves to God’s unfathomable solidarity with our human condition, those who trust that commitment that God has made to us and to all of creation, those people know that they are not condemned, they know that are not separated from God, but are already in union with God and everything else. But those who can’t trust that communion, those who can’t allow themselves to experience that union because they can’t trust what Jesus has come to reveal, they are condemned already; they experience themselves and other people and everything as separate, cut-off from God and one another. And this is the judgment, this is the crisis, this is the moment of decision, this is the fork in the road, this is the crossroads, this is the critical juncture—are you going to throw your lot in with trusting you are one with God, OR are you going to live pretending that you are all on your own, lost in a great big universe.

And this crisis gets heightened because Jesus’ light is so bright, his communion with God is so palpable, his solidarity with humanity is so vivid and real, that when people are confronted with that possibility, many go right on loving darkness. Why? Why would we cling to our separate little selves living our separate little lives instead of entrusting ourself to this larger life? (pause) Well, when you entrust yourself to anything, you give up control, and our little selves, our individual egos, they will fight to the death, even do evil deeds, to protect that sense of control and power.

This passage from John 3—it brings us to a crisis point, to a fork in the road, to a place of decision—will we choose the God whose love is so vast that it takes in the whole cosmos, will we choose the God who throws his lot in with our human flesh, will we choose the God who has written communion into our DNA, OR will we hold out and hold back because we would rather have control than feel the vulnerability that trusting God inevitably entails? Contemplate truly giving over control and falling into the hands of the Living God and the word “crisis” is not too strong.

But oh, what is to be gained! A deep, deep knowing that God loves you and the whole world, the whole cosmos, and that revealing that love, living that love, making known that love is God’s beginning, God’s purpose, and God’s end, and that Jesus is the quintessential icon of that love. Well, when you know that, you want to proclaim it in the sports arena, and on the street corner, and anywhere else you stand to anyone who will listen.

John 3:16—it’s a love letter, and the Divine Lover is waiting for your reply. Amen.

 

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

March 15, 2015

Pilgrimage to Selma

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Lent 3—Year B; Exodus 20:1-17; Psalm 19; 1 Corinthians 1:18-25; John 2:13-22

I don’t normally wait until Saturday night to write my sermon, but I’m glad I did this week, or I would have had to rewrite it after yesterday. I have been so moved by our Selma Pilgrims. Twelve youth and three adults from this community, joining with another 45 from our Diocese, left on a bus late Friday afternoon to travel to Selma to be a part of the events and marches marking the 50th anniversary of the original Selma marches. I learned yesterday afternoon that c-span was streaming the event, and so I watched many of the speeches, including John Lewis and President Obama. In between speeches, c-span had folks calling in, and listening to those stories was both heart-breaking and powerful. I kept tearing up. There is something about these stories that is reaching into some tender place in my heart, and there is something about our youth, our St. Luke kids, being there that just makes me so proud, that something in how they have been formed in this place makes them want to go to that place and bear witness. So my emotions are close to the surface today, my thoughts are swirling, and this is one of those times when I just have to let what is in my heart pour out.

First, a word about pilgrimage. Before our group left on Friday, I told them a couple of things. I told them that I was so proud of them for making this trip. I told them that many of you wanted to go, but that you couldn’t; I told them that they were representing all of us who couldn’t go, and that that is how pilgrimage works. You always make the journey on behalf of those who can’t, and that comes with a responsibility. Then, we talked straight up about a safety plan if something went crazy during the march. Our young people prepared for this trip; they know what happened 50 years ago. So we talked about what to do if violence broke out and how to make their way back to the church where they are staying. Solemn counsel to give, especially when one of those going is your child. And I told them that as soon as they left the parking lot, that I would email all of you, and that you would be praying for them the whole time they were gone. Then we put them in a circle, and the parents made a circle around them. They held hands, and so did we, and we prayed over them for their safety and protection, and that their hearts would be opened.

And so, we, all of us, are on pilgrimage this weekend with those in Selma. And that is no small thing. One of you wrote me on Friday afternoon after reading the email I sent out and said, “WOW!!! It makes me weep, while at the same time very happy. How can that be?” I don’t know how that can be, but the same is true for me.

And I felt that as I listened to those speeches yesterday. And I felt it as I saw who was gathered there. President Bush and President Obama sharing a stage and embracing. Hosea Williams’ daughter, Elisabeth Omilami, and George Wallace’s daughter, Peggy Wallace Kennedy, both in attendance. Hosea Williams helped to lead that Bloody Sunday march, and George Wallace did everything in his power to stop it. And both of their daughters have powerful, powerful stories to share. A bridge named for someone who was the Grand Dragon of the Klu Klux Klan in Alabama, Edmund Pettus, is the icon for the power of nonviolence in the face of brutal, raw power. And this afternoon, our group will join thousands of others as they march across the Edmund Pettus bridge, and then, they will pay honor to the foot soldiers of those marches, those unsung heroes, ordinary folk, who came, and acted with such courage in seeking justice and furthering the cause of freedom. And they did it respecting the dignity of those who sought to strip them of theirs. It boggles my mind—such faith, such tenacity, such courage, such resolve.

Three marches. The first, on March 7, 1965, involved 600 and became known as Bloody Sunday. That march was organized in response to the killing of Jimmie Lee Jackson by a state trooper during a peaceful march in nearby Marion, Alabama. Yesterday, John Lewis recalled that Bloody Sunday: “The protesters marched two-by-two on the sidewalk so as not to interrupt the free flow of trade and commerce and traffic.” He recalled how peaceful and quiet they were. Then, the full force of Alabama state troopers and local law enforcement was unleashed upon them. Lewis recalls, “We were beaten and tear-gassed, but we didn’t become bitter or hostile.” John Lewis addressed all those gathered yesterday as “my beloved brothers and sisters”—not an ounce of bitterness is in that man.

 

The second march two days later on March 9 ended when Martin Luther King, Jr. turned the crowd back. They were in the process of seeking federal protection for the march.

The third march went on March 21 and spanned five days as they marched with federal protection to Montgomery 25,000 strong.

In between those events, on March 15, 1965, President Johnson made a speech to a joint session of Congress and introduced specific legislation that would become the Voting Rights Act.

And in-between Bloody Sunday and the march that made it to Montgomery, on the very day that President Johnson made his speech, March 15th—I was born. I had never pieced together this timeline until a few months ago. This past January, when I was home to see my Mom, I asked her what it was like to be pregnant and to give birth to me in the middle of all of this with this images coming across the TV. She gave me her permission to share her answers with you. She said she was horrified by the images she saw of the dogs and the beatings, but she kept thinking, “Why are they [the black people] stirring things up? If they just wouldn’t make such a fuss about all of this, this would all settle down. Can’t we all just get along?” She went on to tell me, “That’s not where I am now, but back then, that’s where I was—peace at any price.” And in March of 1965, my Mom was not alone in that. And 50 years later, echoes of that sentiment still reverberate across our country, maybe even in our own hearts as we confront the realities around race in our own day.

Why does all this matter? Why am I even talking about this in a sermon? Because transformation is at the heart of all of this; the tireless search for justice is at the heart of this; and because transformation and justice are at the heart of the gospel. I am talking about this in a sermon because the scripture, Galatians 3:26, calls out to us—“in Christ there is no Jew nor Greek, no slave nor free, no male or female, for all [of us] are one in Christ Jesus.” John Lewis said yesterday, “We are one people, one family, the human family—we all live in the same house.”

This matters because the God of Exodus who gives us the commandment is the same God who brings us up out of the land of Egypt and out of the house of slavery.

The psalmist tells us, “One day tells its tale to another, and one night imparts knowledge to another. Although they have no words or language, and their voices are not heard, their sound has gone out into all the lands, and their message to the ends of the earth.” This weekend, those days of March 1965 are telling their tale to our day; those horrific nights of our nation’s soul are imparting their knowledge to the long nights we are moving through still as a people coming to terms with race.

It matters because the cross is foolishness, and nothing is more foolish than practicing nonviolence in the face of horses and tear-gas and clubs. President Obama said yesterday, “What enormous faith these men and women had—faith in God and faith in America. [They] proved that nonviolent change is possible and that love and hope can conquer their hate.” And for those who marched 50 years ago, that practice of nonviolence was rooted and grounded in a Lord who stretched out his arms on the hard wood of the cross and absorbed all the violence that put him there, SO THAT, so that centuries later, ordinary people filled with faith could choose a different path, the way of nonviolent fearless LOVE. King and others wore Hawaiian lays in that final Selma to Montgomery march because Hawaiian lays symbolize peace, love, and compassion.

This matters because of the action that Jesus took in this morning’s gospel from John 2. When Jesus drives all the animals out of the temple, and pours out the coins of the money changers, and throws over their tables, this is no small act.

Okay, can we just pause and consider this little mind-bender—Jesus would have flunked the nonviolent training that those Selma marchers had to go through before they marched.

But let’s be clear about what Jesus did—this was a political act. Jesus was striking at the heart of the religious, political, and economic life of Jerusalem. Jesus was calling attention to structures, to structures that were crushing God’s people, and crushing them in that very space that existed to remind them that God dwelled with them. If Jesus went into the heart of the religious, political, and economic temple of his day, calling attention to the fact that what was going on didn’t square with the God who sets us free from slavery and longs for all people, especially the most vulnerable, to thrive, if Jesus entered that arena, so must we who follow in his Way.

Is that easy to do? No.

Is that fraught with all kinds of risk and potential for misstep? Absolutely.

Do we get to avoid it because it’s messy. No.

Do we need to heed the psalmist’s prayer

to be “kept from presumptuous sins” as we try to make our way?

Never have we needed that prayer more.

But this isn’t a partisan thing—that’s why I loved that President Bush was on that stage with President Obama. That’s why I love that John Lewis could thank Peggy Wallace Kennedy for being there. RACE IS A HUMAN BEING THING. And Jesus will not rest until we are ONE [see John 17].

We cannot heal the profound wounds to our heart, as a people or as a nation, until we touch the heart of our brothers and sisters and know that there is only ONE heart. The President was right to warn us of the twin dangers of “complacency” that would “deny the truth of the racism that still exists” and the danger of “despair” that says “we have made no progress.” The President continued, “To deny the hard won progress would be to rob of us of our agency and responsibility to change…All of us are called to possess our moral imagination. Change depends on our actions and our attitudes.”

This work, this work is at the heart of the gospel; it’s at the heart of our baptismal vows; it’s at the heart of the life that we have vowed to live as Christian people. This is not something that we can say, “We’ve done that; now on to the next project.” This is soul work, and it will take us deep if we’ll allow it.

Hosea William’s daughter, Elisabeth Omilami, closed with a powerful image, “What bridge is yours to cross?” President Obama echoed that theme when he addressed the young people in the crowd yesterday, saying, “There are more bridges to be crossed. It is you, the young and fearless of heart, that we are waiting for.”

And so, we end where we began. Our young people are fearless of heart, and they will come back with stories to tell. Will our hearts be open to receive them?

And as we feel their energy and field their questions about how and why racism and injustice still exists, how will our hearts be stirred?

Will we shy away from that conversation and try to keep all these realms of faith and religion and race and politics and economics and law and policy, will we try to keep all of these apart and safely compartmentalized, OR will we steer straight into the messiness of trying to see how all of these are connected and related AND how our faith needs to be woven throughout them all?

As our youth get inspired by honoring the foot soldiers, and challenge us to walk the talk, will we be willing to risk more for the sake of LOVE?

This weekend, they are getting a crash course on what it means “to respect the dignity of every human being”how deep into this journey will we go with them?

Yesterday, Rep. Terri Sewell spoke, a daughter of Selma herself and the first African American women to represent Alabama in Congress, and she told the story of Miss Amelia Boynton Robinson, matriarch of the civil rights movement. She is now 105 years old. On that Bloody Sunday, she was beaten and tear-gassed and left for dead. This past January, she was Rep. Sewell’s guest at the State of the Union address. People kept coming up to Miss Boynton and saying, “Oh Miss Boynton, we stand on your shoulders; we stand on your shoulders.” Miss Boynton finally said, “Get off of my shoulders—there is plenty of work to do.”

Our young people have carried us on a pilgrimage this weekend; may our feet now hit the ground, and may we not rest until we, across this land, are the beloved community that God longs for us to be. Amen.

 

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

March 8, 2015

Let Go of Your Small Life

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Lent 2—Year B; Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16; Psalm 22: 22-30; Romans 4:13-25; Mark 8:31-38

There is a rather significant piece of the story missing today in that part we just heard from the eighth chapter of Mark’s gospel. We’ve got to rewind and pick it up.

This story actually begins with 4 verses earlier where we hear this: Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” And they answered him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” And he [Jesus] sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

Okay. Got that? Peter—“You are the Messiah. You are the Man. You’re the One We’ve Been Waiting For.”Messiah”—that’s one loaded identity. For a people who had grown accustomed to foreign powers lording it over them and holding them down under their thumb, there was a whole lot of hope pinned to this “Messiah” who was going to restore them to the top place, to “winner” status, to the glory days when David was king and the kingdom was strong. Jesus was their ticket up and out.

So, what Jesus says next comes as a bit of a shock.

Then Jesus began to teach his disciples that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Wow! First, Jesus doesn’t claim the “Messiah” title for himself. He only talks about “the Son of Man,” and actually, the translation is “son of anthropos,” “son of human being,” “son of humanity.” Allusions to the Son of Man image from the book of Daniel aside—Peter elevates Jesus, but Jesus, Jesus claims absolute, total solidarity with all of humanity.

And that “the One” must undergo great suffering and be rejected by the elders, chief priests and scribes, and be killed—for Peter, this was anathema! Peter has the good sense to put on, what we might consider, his best southern manners; he knows not to call Jesus out in front of his disciples, so he takes Jesus aside, and privately begins to rebuke him. But Jesus would have none of it. He turns and looks at his disciples and rebukes Peter—even calls him Satan, the adversary!—and tells [Peter] to get behind him. And with a piercing clarity, Jesus declares to Peter, You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things. You think this is all about a climb to the top, you think this is all about regaining position and status. That’s the False Self, Peter. That is the way human beings move in the world, but that is not the way of God. Solidarity, Peter. Solidarity with God; solidarity with all of humanity. Position, power, prestige, privilege, status—this is the currency of the elders and chief priests and scribes; this is always the currency of those on top, and anyone who stands apart from these will suffer and be rejected and will be killed.” Remember, Jesus had wrestled with the temptations of the False Self in the wilderness. Jesus had made peace with the path that was his to walk. Clearly, Peter still had a ways to go. And probably, so do we.

And Jesus wants us to be crystal clear about the path that he is laying out before us. Unlike credit card companies and mortgage lenders, he is giving us the fine print up front and writ large. Hear the text again: [Jesus] called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “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 lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.”

There is a lot here. First, the paradox to end all paradoxeswhen you try to save your life, you lose it, and when you lose it for Jesus’ sake and for the sake of the gospel, you save it. Okay, I’m going to pull out my trusty Richard Rohr picture again. It seems we’ve got to keep going deeper down into this teaching. What if we think of this small self as our life? And when we think that this little life is what will save us, when we think that our roles and identities and accomplishments and failures, when we think that our positions and status and power and prestige and privilege are the things that make us whole, then we lose our capacity to discover and taste the wholeness that truly is whole, that wholeness that truly is worthy of the name “salvation,” that truly is the LIFE that is alive, instead of an imitation of life, which is what many of us settle for.

BUT, when we can lose this small life, when we can shed all these layers and masks, all this armor that we use to shore up this small life, when we can lose that and give ourselves over to simply abiding with Jesus and the good news of this unshakeable union with God that Jesus manifests so beautifully and that he promises is ours if we will just open our eyes to see it, when we can lose this (the False Self picture) and give ourselves over to this (the True Self picture), then we discover this wholeness that truly is LIFE. Remember, “save” is connected to “salvation” which is connected to “healing” and “wholeness.”

And we know it’s true—you can gain a whole lot by the world’s standards, and completely forfeit your life in the process. This is the ol’ it-looks-really-good-on-the-outside-but-it-is-painfully-empty-on-the-inside scenario.

And this LIFE that is rooted and grounded in union with God and Divine Love, you can’t give anything in return for it (the True Self picture). This world over here (the False Self picture) is always trying to sort out position, power, prestige, status, privilege—it’s always transactional; it’s always trading in this for that; it’s always measuring; it’s always keeping score. But this LIFE (the True Self picture), you just can’t give anything in return for it because IT’S ALL GIFT—all you can do is collapse back into it; all you can do is be awake to it; all you can do is be present to it, drink of it, share it.

This last piece is challenging. After a week of training in Brené Brown’s work on shame and vulnerability, I am not sure at all what to make of Jesus saying that those who are ashamed of him and his words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in glory. It does seem that adulterous and sinful accurately describe the world of the False Self—this little life does experience itself as cutoff, separate, and that self acts in all kinds of ways that miss the mark as it tries to assert its place.

And adulterous, well, the False Self does have a certain amount of allure to it, a certain amount of adrenalin; this world can be a real rush as you’re climbing the ladder and falling down and conquering it again. This True Self world is characterized by peace, equanimity, contentment; it is solid, but to this addicted small self over here, it might feel boring. It is tempting to forsake this union (the True Self picture), for the rush of this little life over here (the False Self picture). And when you’ve invested a whole lot of time and energy succeeding and climbing in this world (the False Self picture), then it’s pretty easy to look down on, to be ashamed of, this world (the True Self picture) where striving a) gets you absolutely nowhere and b) doesn’t even exist.

That much I can sort of make sense of, but I can’t get my head around the son of humanity, the One who LIVES in complete awareness of his union with God, I can’t my head around that One being ashamed of anyone when he comes in glory. The only way I can possibly get my head around this is to think of what shame is. According to Brené Brown, Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.” Maybe Jesus is saying that this False Self world is flawed because you can’t ever belong here, not truly, because it’s simply too unstable and insecure—it’s the house built on sand. For Jesus, true belonging happens here and only here, in union with God and with all that is (the True Self picture). But even this way of understanding this presses this out to the outer limit. I still don’t like Jesus using shame as a strategy for changing hearts. The research shows—shame doesn’t transform people; faith knows that only love, unconditional love, can do that.

So, let’s pan out just a bit. This exchange with Peter and the disciples and the crowd; it happens up at Caesarea Philippi—that’s about as far north as you can get in Israel, and this represents the farthest north Jesus travels in his ministry. Once he turns south from here, he is bound for Jerusalem. The cross of which he speaks here, in Caesarea Philippi, will become his lived reality there, in Jerusalem. I think it is quite possible that some more refinement (as in refiner’s fire) is yet to come for Jesus as he passes through the trials of being betrayed and denied, abandoned and forsaken. Something more is yet to be deepened in Jesus’ being—death and resurrection will do that—because when he emerges on the other side of all this—he doesn’t speak of shame, but only of FORGIVING LOVE (see the exchange with Peter in John 21). I would like to think that if Jesus were speaking these words from Mark 8 to Peter and the disciples and the crowds by the Sea of Galilee about 50 days from now, having lived through his cross, having given himself over to death, having yielded to resurrection LIFE, I would like to think that shame would not be his go-to strategy, but instead, only the language and way of RECONCILING LOVE and FORGIVENESS.

So, on this Second Sunday in Lent, what pieces of your small life are you trying desperately to save, and how are you losing your big LIFE in the process? And if you were to lose, if you were to shed, if you were to lay aside, if you were to loosen your grip on this little life, what wholeness might you discover in this larger LIFE that catches you when you finally turn loose and let go of this small life? What might you discover as you free fall into the hands of the Living God?

Saving is losing, losing is saving. It’s the paradox to end all paradoxes, but within it lies the path to the only LIFE worth living. Amen.

 

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

March 1, 2015

Wilderness, Temptation and the Voices of the False Self

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Lent 1—Year B; Genesis 9:8-17; Psalm 25:1-9; 1 Peter 3:18-22; Mark 1:9-15

This is the First Sunday in Lent which means its “temptation” Sunday. Every year on this Sunday, we hear the story of Jesus trekking off into the wilderness to do battle with this force called Satan (in Mark), the devil (in Luke), and the tempter and the devil (in Matthew). Each of these gospel writers relays the story in a slightly different way which opens us up to slightly different insights. This year, its Mark’s turn to tell the story, and what he tells is impressive, if for no other reason than its intense brevity.

Mark moves at lightning speed. We are only 8 verses into the gospel, when we hit this passage, and in just 6 short verses, we hear of Jesus’ baptism, his 40 days in the wilderness, and the beginning of his ministry in Galilee. That is crazy fast; that is crazy intense, but there is a power to all of this that Mark is trying to get us to see.

First, there’s Jesus’ baptism. In Mark’s gospel, it’s not just that the heavens open and a sweet little dove flutters down and lands on his shoulder—no, Jesus sees the heavens torn apart, literally “rent apart,” and the Spirit descends upon Jesus, and he hears that voice, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” We think that to hear that voice, “You are my Son, the Beloved,” we think that to hear that proclamation is a big warm fuzzy, but for Jesus, it was tumultuous. When the realms interpenetrate one another, when the vertical dimension of God intersects with the horizontal dimension of time and space, it isn’t always sweetness and light, but sometimes it comes to us with a force that shakes us to the core. To own that we are sons and daughters of God, to own that we are Beloved of God, that can turn your world upside down.

And that sweet little dove of a Spirit, thatSpirit is fierce, because the very next thing that Spirit does, and I mean immediately does, is drive Jesus out into the wilderness. Again, this “driving” is not a gentle nudge to Jesus to go do a little spiritual work on himself before he begins his active ministry—no, the word is “ekballo,” “to drive out, cast out, expel from society and family”—it’s got an edge to it, a sense of violence to it. It shares the same root as the word for “devil”“the one who throws apart,” think “diabolical.” We could spend a long time pondering what it means that it is the Spirit who throws Jesus out into the wilderness with a similar force usually exercised by the one we think of as opposing the Spirit, i.e. Satan or the devil.

And this wilderness. Oh, it’s a desolate, desolate place. It’s not thick and lush like our mountain wilderness. It is rocky and rough—think the surface of the moon but located out to the east of Jerusalem heading down toward the Dead Sea. Again, this word for “wilderness” carries a lot of freight. It is used to describe places that are “deserted, lonely, solitary, uninhabited. It is also used of people to describe what it feels like when you “have been deserted by others, or have been denied the aid and protection of others, or are bereft” of human connection. Described that way, that Judean wilderness just got a whole lot closer to home. This is a geography that our soul knows. It’s that space we sometimes inhabit where we are utterly, utterly alone, a space so desolate that not even the ones we share life with can inhabit it with us. Ever been there?

In that space, there is nothing there to insulate us from those things that we struggle with—both forces external to us and forces inside of us. In Matthew and Luke’s telling of Jesus’ wilderness sojourn, we hear about the three specific temptations that Jesus had to face. Mark is not specific. Mark only tells us this: “He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.” The temptations aren’t spelled out which leaves us to ponder, “Just what were the nature of the temptations that Jesus faced, and just what are the nature of temptations that we face?”

What are we tempted by? What is temptation about? What does temptation look like in our lives? Talk to me. What tempts you, and what is that about?

 “Temptation” is one of those big, heavy, kind of scary words, but in its simplest forms it means simply “to try whether a thing can be done.” I have been thinking a lot the last few months about the nature of sin and evil and where they come from, which means I’ve been way out in the deep weeds. This has been spurred in part by discussions in our Friday Book Study, our Youth Confirmation Class, and in the Adult Claiming Jesus Class. I don’t think any of us have unraveled the mystery of where this comes from at its source, myself included, but it is worth thinking about.

Okay, I need to pull out my little picture that I have been using in these classes, and I am indebted to Richard Rohr for this material. This is this False Self—this is when we think our small self—little “s” is separated from God. This “self” is really insecure and is always trying to make a place for itself. This is the “self” that gets all tangled up in roles and identities and masks. This is the “self” that judges and compares and always measures itself as one up or one down. This is the “self” who takes offense. This “self” thinks it has to do something to get to God, to be deserving of God’s love, to be acceptable to God.

Over here, we have the True Self. Here, the small “self” is in union with the big Self, with God. This self is never not connected to God. This has always been, is now, and always will be true, and this is true whether we are awake to this reality, or asleep to it. This “self” is infinitely secure, knows it belongs, and cannot be offended. This “self” cannot be thrown out of Presence because it knows it is in union with Presence.

We think our job is to get from here to here (from small “self” to God) when our real job is to get from here (False Self) to here (True Self); our real job is to be awake that this is our reality.

I think “sin” happens when we believe this separate “self” is who we really are. We feel cut-off, and our actions to shore up this “self” end up “missing the mark.” I think “evil” happens when this False Self becomes the only thing that we think we have and all this separation gets patterned into our hearts and minds and bodies, gets patterned into our actions and our relationships with others and with the world, and False Selves can come together into a collective False Self.

Okay, so what does all of this have to do with temptation, Jesus’ or ours? I think the root of temptation for Jesus, and for us, is the temptation to be thrown out of Presence and to believe that it is all up to us. And once we start down that path, we start believing that our False Self is the only way for us make a place for ourself in this world, and then, we are prone to all kinds of temptations, and we are off to the races in accumulating all the marks and masks of the False Self, reinforcing this sense that we are separate little beings having to make our way in this desolate wilderness we call life.

As we enter more deeply into our wilderness, as the trappings of our False Self start to get revealed for the ruse that they are, as our awareness sharpens and we tune into the voices of the False Self that are calling the shots, and, as we begin to hear the True Self whisper, “There is another truth, a deeper truth, there is another way to engage our life from a place of union with God and all that is”—as all these voices and whispers start to swirl together, we could fall prey to yet one more temptation—we could begin to feel like this is a battle between good and evil, a battle between the True Self and the False Self, but that’s just one more lie told by the False Self.

Jesus points to another way.

 “And he was with the wild beasts, and the angels waited on him.” Jesus didn’t destroy the wild beasts, he didn’t even oppose them. He was with them. What if these wild beasts are our deepest, most scary emotions that drive our actions—our fears and anxieties, our anger, our shame, our longings, desires, hopes, and unspeakable joys? Jesus doesn’t banish these wild beasts, he comes alongside and is simply with them. Jesus has a capacity to be with these wild beasts and, at the same time, to allow the angels of God, those “messengers” who whisper, “You are secure, you are beloved, you belong in me and with me, always,” Jesus allows these angels of God to minister to him.

This Lent, could we cultivate the capacity to be with our wild beasts, and at the same time, to hear the angels whisper, “You are secure in God?” How might that change our actions, how might that change our living, if we could do that in the landscape of our particular wilderness?

Jesus has to go through this process of wrestling with the voices of his False Self to own his True Self as a Beloved Son of God in whom God is well pleased. Maybe we have to sit in our wilderness and witness all the ways our False Self is trying to throw us out of Presence to finally collapse back into our True Self and know our union with God at the deepest level of our being.

All I know is that on the other side of this process, Jesus heads to Galilee proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” Maybe that’s just one more way of saying, Jesus had fully embraced his True Self, proclaimed at his baptism, and he wants every living thing to know how deeply they are rooted and grounded and held and loved in, with, and by God. It will take repentance, “metanoia,” to get there—“a going beyond our mind”—because our minds have been trained to believe that the False Self is all we’ve got.

And releasing our False Self will feel like dying.

But be compassionate as you move in and through your wilderness. Befriend your wild beasts. Let the angels of God minister to you. Come forty days from now, we will emerge from this wilderness, proclaiming the good news of God, not just with our lips, and not just with our lives, but we will proclaim this good news with our whole being because we will know that our True Self, beloved of God, is our deepest DNA. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

February 22, 2015

Tragic Gaps and Living with Our Whole Heart

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; Ash Wednesday—Year B; Isaiah 58:1-12; Psalm 103:8-14; II Corinthians 5:20b-6:10; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

There are some hard words in this liturgy. Words like “wretchedness,” “lamenting,” “hypocrites,” “broken,” “contrite,” “penitence,” “self-examination,” “repentance,” “mortal,” “dust,” “heart.”

Any one of these could set us back a ways, but all of them together could fall down upon us like a ton of bricks and knock us to the ground. Who of us can get out from under, let alone get back up from, that kind of weight? But maybe there is another way to look at this ritual that we do today, maybe there is another way to hear all these words that swirl around us. Let’s take it piece by piece and see what we can see.

There is an element of being crushed and broken by these words, but that is only because the armor around our hearts has grown so thick and so strong. That word that Jesus uses as he preaches in Matthew, “hypocrites” it means “pretender.” We are masterful “pretenders,” putting on mask after mask in our life, trying to meet expectations set by others, trying to attain way of being that is set by our culture, trying to knock back those whispers in our head that we have not been enough, accomplished enough, done enough, all the while moving farther and farther away from that whom God has made us to be. And in the dust up with those voices, we add layer upon layer around our heart.

And it is an arduous task to crack that shell, to examine our armor piece by piece, to intentionally take it off, to lay down our shields. But there comes a time in our lives when we realize that we can’t live with all this weight any more. It does not serve us, it does not serve God, and it does not serve our neighbor. Why does God want a broken heart? Because a broken heart is one that is tender, pliable. A broken heart is one that God can work with; a broken heart is one that can be healed; a broken heart is one that God can make new.

And all of these really hard to hear sort of archaic sounding words—“wretchedness,” “lamenting,” “contrite,” “penitence,”—they are just descriptors of what it feels like when you examine the gap between who and what you long to be and the reality of our lives. When I can touch that tragic gap between who I long to be as a parent, or spouse, or priest and all those times when my words are harsh and my actions are impatient and incomplete, when I can touch that tragic gap between my God-given and God-beloved humanity and the harsh, judgmental ways I talk to myself when it comes to my limits—well, “wretchedness,” “lamenting,” “contrite,” “penitence”—these words fit, because they all bear witness to the weight. I think of “wretchedness” as meaning “awful,” like you’re an “awful” person, but the word actually describes “the state of being deeply afflicted, feeling dejected, being distressed in your body or mind.” If you have ever touched the gap in the values to which you aspire and the values revealed by your actions, then you know what it means to feel wretched.

And when we touch that place, “lament” becomes the most natural expression in the world—when we touch that broken place, we need to go give voice to our grief and pain about those ways we have missed the mark.

“Contrite” is a word that speaks to that feeling of sorrow and regret that we feel when we fall short. “Penitent” is another word that gives voice to that pain and sorrow we feel when we have not loved with our whole heart.

So, all of these loaded words are like valves on a pressure cooker that let off the steam, the energy, that erupts when we are brave enough to look deep inside our lives and our souls and name those places and those ways where we have chosen armor and swords and shields instead of leading with an exposed, open, undefended heart. When we own how far we have moved away from that wholehearted place, it hurts. It hurts a lot. Today, and for the next forty days, we dare to examine the tragic gaps in our lives; we dare to name these gaps and grieve them—not in some sort of self-serving emotional guilt-and-shame fest, but in an effort, with God’s help, to lay aside our armor, and shields, and swords, and stand in the goodness and wholeness of our humanity.

Remember, “God hates nothing God has made;” “God has created us out of the dust of the earth;” “God knows whereof we are made;” “God knows we are but dust;” God knows we are human, mere mortals, with feet of clay. And when God created us with feet of clay, God proclaimed us “good.” Part of our reckoning with this day is the full embrace of the limits of our humanity and accepting that we are loved. Period. We armor up, put forward our shields, and draw our swords when we think that humanity is not enough.

There is one other piece that we have to mark on this day—and it has to do with our mortality. We receive these ashes as a sign of our mortality—as a sign of our capacity to die. There is the death we will one day die when we breathe our last and fall into the hands of the Living God, and there is the death that this liturgy calls us to today, and every day. To do the work of this Ash Wednesday and this season of Lent, we have to be willing to die; to die to our masks and all the ways we defend and guard our heart. The word “heart” is on that list of hard words because there is nothing harder than dropping down into our heart. We have to die to being in charge and in control. We have to die to our reluctance to be loved as fully and completely as God desires.  We have to be willing to fall into the hands of the Living God today, and to know that in God’s hands, our heart is safe; in those hands, we finally, completely, and absolutely belong.

In the end, both in this liturgy and in our lives, there is “absolution,”—another big, heavy word, but it means “to set free from an obligation.” In the end, all of this, all of this, is to set us free from the weight and burden of all those ways that keep us from living and loving with our whole heart. That’s all God wants—all God wants is for us to be able to live and love with our whole heart. If this season of Lent can help us move more to that place, then come Easter, we will understand how dry bones can live again. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC

February 18, 2015

It’s not about fitting in….

The Rev Cynthia K R Banks; Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany—Year B; Isaiah 40:21-31; Psalm 147:1-12, 21c; I Corinthians 9:16-23; Mark 1:29-39

Picture your toughest year socially in school. That year where you were struggling the most to figure it all out. Got that picture in your head? What grade was it? And as you tried to navigate that social minefield, what did you long for the most? To fit in. And so what did you do?

Okay, in my day, all the girls had those purses with the tortoise shell handles and the covers that you buttoned on, 4 buttons on each side—circa 1980. Anybody remember those? And you just had to have one of those purses if you wanted to fit in. The only problems was, I never had the right cover at the right time. When they had plaid, I had denim. When I got plaid, they were on to pastels. Oh, it was work to figure it all out, but I wanted to be “with it”, I wanted to be “cool”. Okay, and don’t think this goes away just because you become an adult.

So, this afternoon, I leave to go for a week-long training with Brene Brown. This past week, I went shopping for some jeans, because all mine had holes in them, and then I got a few casual shirts, because I want to look light and fun, and Julia, who has read The Gifts of Imperfection looks at me over dinner one night and says, “Mom, why are you trying to look perfect because this is all about imperfection—the gifts of imperfection, Mom?” Busted. Oh, it’s so much fun to get busted by your 11-year old. So, why am I expending all this energy on my clothes when I never spend energy on my clothes? Because I want to fit in. Okay, anybody else with me on this???

So, let’s jump over to our lesson today from I Corinthians. Listen to what Paul says, “For though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though I myself am not under the law) so that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law) so that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people.”

What does this sound like to you? It sounds like total people-pleasing. It sounds like a lot of changing yourself to fit in to me. If you’re a Jew, I’ll be a Jew, in order to win you over. If you are under those 613 laws from the Old Testatment, I’ll observe 613 laws, to win you over. If you are outside the law completely, heathen though you are, I’ll be a heathen, to win you over. If you are weak, even if I’m strong, I’ll be weak, to win you over. Whatever you are, I’ll become that, to win you over. So, what are we to make of Paul the greater fitter-in-er? There has to be more going on here.

Let’s dig a little deeper.

Remember that moment in school, or last week, when you really wanted to fit in? What is the need beneath that need? Brene Brown has rightly identified it—it’s the need to belong. The need that we all have to feel that we are loved and accepted, even more, it’s the need to feel that we are loveable and acceptable. Now, here’s the weird thing, and again, it’s Brown that first helped me see this. Our deepest need is to belong, and that’s a need that every human being has, and we think that the way to belong is to fit in. If we just fit in, we tell ourselves, then we belong. But belonging is that deep acceptance, by another, of who you are as you are, and if you change yourself to fit in, then the you that gets accepted by the group isn’t the you that is really you because you changed that you to fit in. Brown notes that the number one barrier to belonging is, what? You guessed it, fitting in.

So, there are two ways to look at what Paul is doing. One, he’s just trying to fit in all over the place, kind of like me and my tortoise shell purse. Two, he knows who he is in the depth of his being; he knows he belongs in the deepest most profound way possible; he knows who he is as one who is absolutely, totally, completely loved and accepted by God. He, in the words of Paul Tillich, has “accepted that he is accepted” without qualification. And, from that deepest place of belonging, he knows that he is absolutely connected to every other human being on this planet.

He belongs to them,

            and they belong to him,

                        because they all belong to God.

And from that place, he can try on any identity in the world. All those other identities—Jew, under the law, outside of the law, weak—they are just like clothes that you put on and take off. They aren’t who you really are. And it’s fine to put those identities on, as long as you know who your True Self is. Paul is secure enough in his belonging that he can move fluidly among all these different kinds of people. All these differences are no threat to him because he knows to what and to Whom he belongs.

Paul says, “I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.” “That I might by all means save some.”

 “Save”, “sozo”, to heal, to make well, to restore, to make whole.

Paul is reaching out to whomever by whatever means he can to help them know, “You belong, you’re connected, you are restored to the whole. All those things that you think divide you, they are nothing, just the trappings of identity, but your true identity, it is deep, it is unshakeable, it is secure, it is indissoluble, you belong to God, you belong to Christ, you belong, period.” That is good news. That is gospel. And when you help people to know that, you are swimming in blessing.

And once you know that you belong at that deepest most fundamental level, you are indeed under an obligation to proclaim and share that good news with others. Once you know that you belong at that deepest level, you are free in ways that defy imagination. Just imagine what it would be like not to be haunted by all the things we think we need to do to fit in, to meet other people’s expectations of who or what we should be. I don’t know that I can wrap my mind around that. Obviously, based on what I shared earlier, I still have a ways to go, but I have an inkling of what that freedom might be like, and every time I taste it, it is good. But with that freedom comes an obligation, a responsibility, to help others see and claim and taste and know that freedom for themselves—the freedom that comes when you know that your belonging is not in question.

Maybe so much of our conflict comes from trying to fit in and make others fit in before we extend our love and care and concern. What would be possible if we left fitting in behind and worked instead from that secure place of belonging that understands that we are already connected to the Source of Life and that our job is to help others see this and live from this deepest place of truth. What if we understood that our job is to help others get reconnected to the whole? Isn’t this what Jesus is doing when he reaches out and touches Simon’s mother-in-law and lifts her up and her fever leaves? Isn’t this what Jesus is doing when he reaches across some great cultural divide and touches the untouchable? Isn’t that touch the very thing that reconnects that person to the whole? Isn’t that what salvation is all about?

Simon and his companions found Jesus, “Everyone is searching for you.” Isn’t that just another way to say, “Everyone wants to belong.” And his reply? “Let us go on to the neighboring towns, so that I may proclaim the message there also; for that is what I came out to do. They have to know, you have to know, you belong. You are in me, and I am in you, and we are in God.

For all of us fitter-in-er’s, could there possibly be any better news than that?

Truly, this is the gospel that our hearts and souls long to hear.

Embrace this good news, and then be heralds of it,

by all means possible with everyone you meet.

Be a part of this great knitting back together

of the fabric of the whole. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks; St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC; February 8, 2015