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Powerful Questions

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Good Friday—Year A
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm 22
Hebrews 4:14-16; 5:7-9
John 18:1-19:42

This day is a day of powerful questions. Some arise from the texts we hear—
“Whom are you looking for?”
“Am I not to drink the cup that the Father has given me?”
“You are not also one of his disciples, are you?”
“What is truth?”
“Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?”
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

And some arise from our own hearts
“Why does this innocent man whose only crime was to love, why does he have to die?”
“What does it mean to say that Jesus died for our sins, and what does saying that say about God, about Jesus, about us?”

Some of these questions have answers, some do not.

Whom are we looking for on this day? As everything goes horribly wrong, we are looking for God. Where is God when the innocent suffer? Where is God when someone is unjustly charged, convicted, and executed? Where is God when the religiously powerful collude with the politically powerful to ensure that everyone’s power stays intact? Where is God when truth is slippery?

Where is God when, in our fear, we strike back with violence? Where is God when, in our fear, we deny the One whom we have loved and followed with all of our heart? Where is God when given a chance to change course and release the Lord of Love, we cry “Crucify him!” instead? Where is God when you can’t find a shred of God’s presence anywhere and your reality leaves you feeling totally and completely forsaken?

Where is God on this day? Firmly, wholeheartedly, completely immersed in all of these questions, in all of these actions, in all of these relentless why’s that haunt us—not as an answer, but as sheer Holy Presence that knocks us to the ground with the force of Life and Love that will not be denied.

When those who’d come to arrest Jesus declare that they are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus responds with “I AM,” not “I am he,” but simply “I AM.” The great I AM is here. The God whose name is “I AM WHO I AM, I WILL BE WHO I WILL BE, I AM BECOMING WHO I AM BECOMING”that God manifests the fiercest of steadfast love by simply declaring, in the face of all that would deny that love, “I AM.” Which makes it all the more painful when Peter responds to the question of whether or not he is one of Jesus’ disciples with the consummate denial of Presence, “I am not.”

Where is God? Telling all of our human impulses that long to retaliate to put our swords back into their sheaths; committing with body and spirit, mind and heart to the cup of nonviolence. And though that commitment will be tested to the max, in the end, when Jesus cries, “It is finished,” the ways of violence will rest in his outstretched arms and be buried with him that we might be released from this spiral of death.

Where is God? In the voice of the one who cries, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” When the Word made flesh gives voice to those words, the gap is closed forever and even the most Godforsaken places of our human journey are filled with Divine Presence. There is NOWHERE we can go—in life, in suffering, in death—that Jesus has not gone before us and imprinted with the power of his Divine Presence, so that when we enter our Godforsaken places, that Presence is waiting to embrace us and hold us—in those spaces when words fail us, the Word made flesh simply holds us.

Why does Jesus have to die? Because when God took on human flesh in Jesus, God went all-in with the entirety of our human experience. To say “Jesus died for our sins” can so easily turn God into a tyranical father who had to be appeased by the pure sacrifice of his beloved Son to make God fall in love again with a depraved and hopeless humanity.

Today is not about winning God’s love back; today is about revealing the depth of God’s love for the whole human enterprise.

All the forces that would separate us from God—our hunger for power, our insatiable desire for esteem, our obsession with our own security, the violence we inflict, the innocent suffering that wrecks us with despair—each of these is a nail that goes into Jesus’ flesh. Each of these swirls in the cup that is his to drink, and drink it he does, completely into his being.

Jesus will stretch out his arms in complete love, not retaliating, but yielding.

The darker sides of power don’t know what to do with a love that simply loves in return. But this is the love of the great I AM. Divine Presence has planted itself in the center of suffering, and there Presence will remain, even unto death.

We come looking for answers on this day, but we are given something much more powerful—the Word made flesh who gives his living body and his dying breath that we, and this suffering world, might know the Presence of God that will never, ever let us go. Amen.


The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
April 14, 2017

Carving Out the Tomb in Our Hearts

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Palm Sunday—Year A                               (video link)
Matthew 21:1-11
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14-27:66

I never can move through this day without a serious case of whiplash. It all happens so fast, too fast. How do we get from spreading our cloaks on the ground and waving our palm branches like crazy and shouting “Hosanna!” doing a little victory lap down the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem, how do we get from there to “Crucify him!”

It all turned on a dime. We turned on a dime. It happened a step at a time. We didn’t intend to end up here, but steps add up, and when it was all said and done, the One we loved, the One we followed from Galilee lay dead in a tomb, stone rolled in front, sealed for good measure.

Today, we get the whole story crashing over us like a wave. It assaults our senses. It strips away any pretense of what our humanity is capable of. Humanity is capable of great courage—Simon, who carries the cross; Joseph of Arimathea, who tends the body and holds that space for dignity in death; the women who can’t stop following and sit vigil outside the tombhumanity at its most noble.

And humanity is capable of horrible choices and evil actions. And we are always a mix of both. It’s important not to lose sight of that capacity for courage, but it’s equally important to let a hard, hard truth settle into our bones—humanity is also a mess.

Whether it’s the way we sell-out for 30 pieces of silver, or our propensity to be asleep to what is actually unfolding around us, or the bravado that promises to stand fast that runs away at that first hint of trouble; whether it’s that painful moment when we deny our deepest commitments, or that even more painful moment when we realize that we’ve just denied our deepest commitments; whether it’s the stock we put in the power of the sword to keep us and our loved ones safe, or the stock we put in our tradition so that we don’t have to accommodate love that won’t act in the prescribed way; whether it’s the choices we make that are politically expedient, or the inability to listen to that intuitive voice calling us not to move down this path of inevitability; whether it’s all the mocking and all the insults and all that putting down that gives us that strange sense of feeling superior, when it is all said and done, this humanity that’s a messthis humanity, it’s our humanity.

If we don’t allow this day to touch that place inside of ourselves that knows we are fully capable of all of these choices and actions, then we’ve got no chance to experience the unbelievable good news that rests in this week.

And that good news only gets revealed as we peel back layer after layer after layer of those aspects of ourselves that settle for power and control over presence and the love that simply flows, those aspects of ourselves that settle for esteem and affection over love, those aspects of ourselves that settle for safety and security over engaging the world with arms wide open, heart fully exposed.

The only way to rise to the life that God longs for us to know, the only way to be born into the love that is beyond what we can fathom or measure is to die to all the ways our small self tries to plot and control and secure its own place.

Make no mistake, our small self will fight to the death this week to keep a hold of the reins, but as we move through these rituals—as we allow the scriptures we hear to sink into our bones, as we feel the rhythm of the actions, as we allow the silence to settle over us, as we anoint and lament and ask for healing, as we wash feet and eat bread and drink wine and strip the altar down, as we descend into darkness and wait, little by little, a tomb is getting carved out of the stone of our hearts; little by little, space will open up; little by little, a spark will ignite, a seed will shed its skin, and deep in the hidden places, something new will start to unfold.

None of us likes to confront all that is laid bare this week, but there’s no getting to Easter without this journey.

So, hold on, tap into your deepest courage to carry the cross, don’t fear the death that will surely come, follow all the way to the tomb, acknowledge all the shadowy places along the way, and then, wait and trusttrust that when that stone gets rolled away       one week from today, we’ll already be down the path dancing in the life that is to come.  Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
April 9, 2017

Come Out of the Tomb

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Lent 5—Year A                                              (video link)
Ezekiel 37:1-14
Psalm 130
Romans 8:6-11
John 11:1-45

These are powerful passages today, and hard ones. There are things to be revealed, and places that are going to leave us wanting. Today, it’s about the big questions. Death, life, power, presence.

In both Ezekiel and John, there is death, very real death. So much death in Ezekiel that bodies have decomposed and all that’s left is a valley of dry bones. There is no possibility of life in a valley of dry bones.

In John, Jesus gets word that his beloved friend Lazarus is very ill. Jesus was very close to this family. Lazarus’ sister, Mary, had anointed Jesus’ with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair. They get word to Jesus that Lazarus is really sick; they need Jesus, and yet, Jesus decides to stay where he is for two more days, and in that length of time, Lazarus dies.

And this raises the first hard question for us—why didn’t Jesus hightail to his friends? Why did he withhold his presence from people he loved? He can say that Lazarus’ illness isn’t going to cause death, and that all this is for the glory of God, but those words ring hollow when your loved one is on the verge of death. And Jesus seems to make the calculation to stay based on the fact that he thinks Lazarus isn’t really going to die, that Lazarus is just sleeping. But Jesus got it wrong. Lazarus did die. And somehow, even from a distance, Jesus knew it.

Jesus then makes the decision to go to his friends. His disciples don’t like this plan. His friends live in Judea, and things had not gone well for Jesus in those parts—people had just wanted to stone him in Judea. But Jesus couldn’t not go. He’s got to go awaken Lazarus. His disciples are like, “Well, if he’s asleep, then he’ll be alright. We don’t need to go. Jesus gets really real with his disciples—Lazarus is dead. We’ve got to go deal with death.

 Jesus doesn’t even make it to the village before he’s confronted by Martha. “Lord, if you’d been here, my brother would not have died.” They then go a little abstract for my tastes. She says that she knows that God will give Jesus whatever Jesus asks of God.

Jesus promises that Lazarus will rise again.

She says she knows that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.

Jesus proclaims to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” Jesus asks her, “Do you believe this?”

She says she does and that she knows he’s the Messiah, the Son of God.

From where I sit, Jesus being the resurrection and life is small comfort when your brother has died, and Jesus took his sweet time getting there.

Martha goes to her sister Mary and tells her privately that Jesus had come and was calling for her. Mary got up quickly and headed out to meet him. There’s another group of people that also head out with her—and this may be the first act of resurrection—those people who’d just been trying to stone Jesus. Yep, when they heard about Lazarus, they came to console Mary and Martha. When tragedy strikes, those things that divide us just don’t seem to matter as much, and we can meet each other, broken-hearted human being to broken-hearted human being.

Again, Jesus hasn’t even made it to the village yet when Mary meets him. Mary wastes no time speaking her mind, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Her grief gets to him. Her tears spring his tears. Jesus asks where they’ve laid him. Then they said, “Lord, come and see.” Wow. Just as Jesus said to those first would-be disciples who asked him where he was staying, now Mary and Martha say to him“Come and see,” and that makes Jesus weep. Now, he has to follow.

They get to the tomb, and this completely undoes Jesus—he’s greatly disturbed, deep inside, his spirit is indignant. Death is an affront to Jesus, too.

He tells them to take away the stone. Now, it’s Martha’s chance to get really real. “Lord, already there’s a stench because he’s been dead four days; did I say ‘four days,’ it’s been four days.

Jesus isn’t deterred. He’s got to open up this tomb of death. He needs Martha and Mary to trust him. Maybe he needs to trust himself. It’s one thing to proclaim “I am the resurrection and the life;” it’s a whole other thing to take away the stone that unleashes that stench of death and dare to call what has died back to life.

They took away the stone. Jesus looks upward, he thanks God for having heard him, he makes known to God that he’s always known that God hears him, but he tells God that he needs to say it out loud, for everyone around him to hear, so that they can trust that God sent him. God is not some faraway, distant God. God sent Jesus straight to this wrenching, stinking place of death to bear witness that God is here.

When Jesus had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

And many of those folks who’d previously wanted to stone Jesus, many of those folks who’d come out with Mary, when they saw what Jesus did, they placed their trust in him.

And this is where it gets hard again. It all works out fine for Lazarus. He dies, and Jesus brings him back to life again, after four days dead. That didn’t happen for my dad 26 years ago. We were crying out for Jesus to come. We were praying that God could bring him back from multiple codes. Jesus didn’t call him out of his tomb after four days. And I know, that in this room today, I’m not alone in thinking these kinds of thoughts.

I cannot tell you why Lazarus gets to live and my dad, or your loved one, did not. I can’t tell you why, sometimes, miracles happen, and other times, they do not.

I do know that, while Lazarus will live today, there will come a time when he is laid in that tomb and the stone will stay in place.

I do know that if I fixate on Lazarus’ resuscitation, I will miss understanding the heart of resurrection.

And that rests in the proclamation that Jesus makes to Martha—“I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” Somehow, the life embodied in Jesus is bigger than death; somehow, when we trust in this life he bears, we are knit into a life that transcends our mortal bodies and this mortal earth and tombs of death; we are knit into a life that transcends the realms.

The thing about death is that something in me dies, too. It doesn’t matter if it’s the death of someone I love, or the death of a relationship, or the death of a dream—something in me dies, too. And when that death is sealed away in a tomb, it’s all too easy for me to get buried right along with that death. We take our pain, our grief, and we try to seal it away. And day by day, that pain starts festering, and we get more and more bound up, unable to move forward, unable to live again.

Jesus weeps with us in our grief. Jesus stands outside our tombs. Jesus commands the stone to be taken away. Jesus is not afraid of the stench of our pain. Jesus commands us to come back out into life again. And Jesus commands the community gathered to unbind us, so that we can let go of that which has died; Jesus commands the community gathered to help unwrap all those places where we are so bound up, so that we can let go and live again.

Sometimes, we are those dry, dry bones that doubt if we can ever live again. God can breathe life into our dry, dry bones, and though we can’t fathom the possibility, we will dance again.


These stories today, they’re not about resuscitation; they’re about resurrection. They are about trusting that we can live again when death has wrecked us. They are about trusting that the life we share with the Presence of God made flesh in Jesus holds us when death has snuffed out all the light and our hope has died. They are about trusting that no matter how much we’ve lost and how much it stinks and how much everyone else holds their nose around our pain; these stories about trusting that Jesus isn’t afraid, Jesus won’t leave, he won’t let us stay bound up in that pain, and he’s called the community to do whatever it takes to unbind us, so that we can live again.

We’ll never have the answers to the hard questions about miraculous resuscitations, but resurrection is deeper than the questions. Resurrection promises that, even amidst the pain of our sorrow and despair and anger and relentless why’s and what if’s, resurrection promises that there is a Life and Presence that is bigger than death, and that Presence promises us, always, “I am holding you, and all that you’ve lost, and I won’t ever let go.”  Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
April 2, 2017

To See or Not to See

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Lent 4–Year A                                   (video link)
I Samuel 16:1-13
Psalm 23
Ephesians 5:8-14
John 9:1-41

Oh, Jesus is playing in the mud again, and that is always going to create a mess that is uncomfortable for those of us who like things neat and tidy.

Jesus is walking along, and he sees a man who’d been blind from birth, and in that time, people saw such a physical condition as an indictment—somebody somewhere did something to cause this. It was someone’s fault; it had to be someone’s fault. The disciples ask the question that was on everyone’s mind, “Rabbi, who sinned, the man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Somebody’s to blame, “So Rabbi, who?”

And in the first act of healing, Jesus refuses to play the somebody’s-got-to-be-to-blame game—“Neither,” he says, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned.”

Can we just pause and take that in? Jesus refuses to fix blame for this man’s condition. It’s painful enough to be blind, but really, how does blaming the parents or the man help, other than to give everyone else the illusion that they can actually keep such a condition or illness or painful circumstance from happening to them? If it’s a matter of sin, then if you don’t sin, nothing bad will ever happen to you, right? So, how’s that strategy work out in the real world? Not at all. All that fixing blame does is isolate the ones who are already suffering—in this case, the man and his parents.

And, we know, the blame game isn’t just a 1st century phenomenon. We may not want to confess it, but when we see a tragedy, there is something in us that wants to assign fault. We don’t like that we do this, but we do it all the same. Why? Because to acknowledge that some things, many things, are beyond our control, to acknowledge that some things just are is to acknowledge our utter vulnerability in this world. And we will cling to our narrative for dear life rather than admit we don’t have control, even though clinging to that narrative of blame will actually rob us of the life we are trying to protect.

So, Jesus knows that there’s some work that he, and God through him, have to do to get our eyes opened, and not just our eyes, but also our hearts. There’s some revealing that’s got to happen; there’s some serious light that needs to be shed.

So, Jesus spits on the ground and makes what with his saliva? Mud. And he spreads the mud on the man’s eyes. Okay, stop, what? Ewww groce. But the mud is important. Really important.

Okay, children, what two things do you need to make mud? Thank you—dirt and water. Adamah, the ground. Water. And oh, we just got catapulted back to Genesis 2 when the waters were springing up through the ground, springing up through the adamah, making delightful mud, and God plunged those divine hands down into the mud and lovingly shaped and formed that human creation called a-dam.

With the water of his spit and the ground, Jesus makes mud and spreads it on the man’s eyes to take him back to his Source—“You aren’t just a man born blind consigned to a life of begging; you are created by God’s own hands, you bear divine breath in your being. Before anything else, you must remember who you are as God’s own creation.”

And then, Jesus tells the man to go, wash in the pool of Siloam (which means Sent). First, the man has to remember who he is as a divine creation, and then he is Sent down into the waters, and what happens in the waters? Who else was Sent down into the waters? Do you remember? “You are my Son, the beloved, in you I am well pleased.”

Yes, the man washed, and yes, he came back able to see, but it was about a whole lot more than getting the mud off his eyes. Having remembered that he was God’s own creation, he had to remember that his creation is beloved; the sum of his existence isn’t “the man who was born blind;” it isn’t “the pitiful blind man who begs”—no, he is a beloved son, one in whom God is well pleased. And having washed in those waters, the man can see again from a place that is both whole and holy.

And the story could have stopped there. Wouldn’t that have been a great ending? Oh yes, that would have been a great ending. Is that ending of the story? Oh no.

The neighbors saw, and those who remembered him as a beggar saw, and they were curious, really curious. There was an established order in their world. There were seeing people and blind people; there were sinful people and good people, and this shattered the established order of things. They just couldn’t square it, so they debate, “Is it really him?” “Yeah, I think it is.” “No, it’s not him, it’s someone like him.” For some, this just won’t do because that means the rules by which they have navigated the world just shifted. For others, they were unsettled, too, but in an immensely hopeful way. If the rules weren’t so fixed for him, maybe, just maybe, something could shift for them, too.

He kept assuring them, “I am the man.” And that hopeful curiosity won out, at least for the moment, and they asked him, “How did it happen? How did it happen for you? How were your eyes opened?

 And he told them about what the man called Jesus did. He told them about the mud, and how Jesus spread the mud on his eyes; he told them about going to that pool of Siloam and washing, and how he regained his sight.” And then, they really were curious—“Where is he? Where can we find him?” The man who’d regained his sight didn’t know.

And in that space of not knowing, the drive to get the world back in order grabbed the reins. They didn’t go searching for Jesus; instead, they carted the man off to the authorities who would get this sorted out. The religious leaders question the man about how he regained his sight, but their brains couldn’t fathom it. It didn’t fit the box.

Some of the leaders zero in quickly on the fact that Jesus performed this work on the sabbath. They said Jesus wasn’t from God because he didn’t observe the sabbath. Others couldn’t dismiss the fact that this man could indeed see—they gave Jesus more latitude because you just can’t perform these kinds of signs if you’re a sinner.

The leaders were puzzled so they said again to the blind man, “What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened.” The man said, “He is a prophet.”

Did you catch that? The man’s eyes are opened, but they still can’t see him as anything other than a blind man; they can’t see him as beloved son of God created by God’s own hands.

So, the religious leaders head down road #2 to try to keep their worldview intact. They don’t really believe that this man before them was born blind and has now received his sight. They call the man’s parents and grill them—“Is this your son, who you say was born blind? How then does he now see?” The parents are afraid of challenging these leaders—“What would happen to them if they went against the authority?” They settled for the elegant dodge—“We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind; but we do not know how it is that now he sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age. He will speak for himself.”

So, the leaders call in the man born blind a second time. They beg the man to give Jesus down the river—“Give glory to God! We know that this man, i.e. Jesus, is a sinner.” 

The man simply stood in the truth of his experienceI don’t know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” Oh, the leaders are so frustrated, they just can’t square this with their worldview—“What did he do to you? How did he open your eyes?”

Now, it’s the man’s turn to be frustrated, and he goes a little snarky—“I’ve already told you and you wouldn’t listen. Why do you want to hear it again? Do you also want to become his disciples?”

That enrages the leaders; then they reviled the man, and they pull out the authority big guns—“You are his disciple, but we are disciples of Moses. We know that God has spoken to Moses, but as for this man, we do not know where he comes from.”

The man calls them on their twisted logic. They can twist and turn this all they want, but he knows what he knows. “Here is an astonishing thing,” the man says. “You do not know where he comes from, and yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners, but he does listen to one who worships him and obeys his will. Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.”

But rather than let their narrative change, rather than let their worldview expand for other possibilities, rather than admit they might be wrong, the leaders double-down on their authority, and dismiss the experience of the man entirely. They answered him, “You were born entirely in sins, and are you trying to teach us? Who do you think you are? And they drove him out.

Jesus heard that they had driven him out, and he went and found him, and asked if he believed in the Son of Man?” He answered, “And who is he, sir? Tell me, so that I may believe in him.” Jesus said to him, “You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he.” He said, “Lord, I believe.” And he worshiped him. Grounded in his experience, the man could let his heart leap and trust in the Son of Man who stood before him.

Jesus said, “I came into this world for judgment, to distinguish, so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.”

Some of the [religious leaders] near him heard this and said to him, “Surely we are not blind, are we?” Jesus said to them, “If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘We see,’ your sin remains.”

And in that last sentence, Jesus circles back to where he began. The blindness is not the sin; the refusal to let what you see shift, change, expand—that’s the sin.

If we bog down in the miraculous nature of the man’s cure, we will miss what Jesus is really driving at in this passage. Yes, this man was cured of his blindness, but his healing was so much deeper. To begin with, his healing came in understanding that his blindness was never a matter of sin; his healing came in returning to the blessed Source of his creation; his healing came in going down into the waters and remembering that, while he may have been blind and he may have begged, he wasn’t a blind beggar, but he was, is, and always will be God’s beloved son; his healing came in the growing confidence to know what he knows and to stand firm in his experience of Jesus; his healing came in letting his heart trust that deep knowing and leaping into relationship with the One who showed him that it was okay see all that he sees.

And those who claim “to see”, they can be so daggone blind, clinging to narratives and authority just to keep a worldview intact, just to maintain the illusion that we are in control of our lives. We can twist logic, we can blame, we can dismiss, but none of these strategies will keep vulnerability at bay. All these strategies do is keep us separated from one another, keep us locked in battles with God, keep us from seeing all the unbelievable ways that God is working God’s healing power in our lives and in the lives of those around us.

Where have you allowed someone else, or allowed yourself, to assign blame for some tragedy that has befallen you or someone you love?

Where are you needing to be reminded of your divine creation at the hands of God? Where are you needing to be Sent into the waters to recapture your core identity as God’s beloved son or daughter?

Where are you turning to the authorities instead of trusting in your Godgiven experience and deep knowing? Where are you clinging to your narratives instead of letting them expand and change? And if you start to trust what is being revealed to you, what do you fear you will lose?

This story ends with all kinds of choices—do we wish to have our eyes opened, OR do we wish hold fast to the security of what we “see”?

Having our eyes opened is going to get messy, but oh, the mud will be worth it to be created anew and see as we have never seen before. Amen.


The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
March 26, 2017

Thirsting for the Living Water

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Lent 3—Year A                   (video link)
Exodus 17:1-7
Psalm 95
Romans 5:1-11
John 4:5-42

Everybody’s on a journey today. The whole congregation of Israel is journeying on through their wilderness by stages. Jesus is making his way from Judea back to Galilee by way of Samaria. A Samaritan woman treks out to a well in the heat of the noonday sun. And what do all of these travelers have in common? They are tired. They are in need of rest. They are thirsty.

Let’s drop down a little deeper.

So, the people of God have moved on from the wilderness of Sin and have set up camp in Rephidim. And they are tired, and they are thirsty, and they are whiney, and they are agitated, and they are in a quarreling mood with Moses. And the people of God move from “we’re-in-this-all-together” to “Give us water to drink”—sort of a demanding tone. And Moses gets a little defensive, both on his own behalf and on behalf of the LORD—“Why do you quarrel with me? Why do you test the Lord?” The people are having none of Moses’ defense. They are thirsty, and they are in a complaining mood, and they come right back at Moses—“Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our livestock with thirst?”

Oh, that hits Moses right where he lives. Can you imagine the voices that must have been raging in his head—“Why did I bring these people out here? What possessed me to think that was a good idea?” And the deadly, “This is all my fault.” And Moses starts to get sucked down the shame vortex.

But in a profound act of resilience, Moses had the awareness to cry out to the LORD—“What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me.”

And God heard that cry, and God instructed Moses to go on ahead with some elders, and to take that staff that he’d used to strike the Nile, and that God would be standing there in front of him on the rock at Horeb. God made Moses a promise—“Strike the rock, and water will come out of it, so that the people may drink.”

Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel, and he called the place Massah and Meribah, because the Israelites quarreled and tested the Lord, saying, “Is the LORD among us or not?”

What were the people of God thirsty for? (pause) Water, yes, but something much deeper, and much harder to confess—“Is the LORD among us or not?” That is a daggone haunting question. When healthy young women have complications and babies don’t survive, “Is the LORD among us or not?” When we can’t hardly figure out how to talk with our neighbor, talk with our fellow citizens, “Is the LORD among us or not?” When children go to bed hungry in this country and die of famine in Africa, “Is the LORD among us or not?” When we struggle to articulate a notion of the common good that is truly held in common, “Is the LORD among us or not?” When we don’t know what to believe, or whom to believe, and it all just seems too much, and Egypt starts looking really good, we know that we are thirsty to know, “Is the LORD among us or not?”


Whose cry was it that got God’s attention—was it Moses’ cry for help, or was it the people’s thirst, or was it both? The people of God were thirsty, but not just for water; they were thirsty to know that God had not abandoned them. God didn’t just give them water, but God stood before them on that rock; God gave them Presence, God’s Presence, and  when Moses struck that rock, that rock on which God stood, the water for which they longed flowed. All the quarreling, all the testing, it didn’t make God go away; it brought God close—sometimes, you’ve got to cry out to God about how thirsty you are if you are to discover the water your soul is looking for.

Then, there’s Jesus. He’s decided to leave Judea and return to Galilee because he’s heard that the Pharisees are saying that he’s baptizing more people than John, though the gospel writer tells us that it’s not really Jesus doing the baptizing, but it’s Jesus’ disciples doing the baptizing. Oh, the first century version of comparing our stats on the parochial report—and while our denomination wants to know these statistics, Jesus clearly does not. He heads back for Galilee by way of that no-man’s land for upstanding Jews—Samaria. He comes to the village of Sychar, and it’s midday, and it’s hot. He’s plum tuckered out by his journey, and he plops down by a well, and not just any well, but Jacob’s well. And he’s thirsty.

And then there’s the Samaritan woman who comes to the well at midday. Okay, the only reason you would come to the well at midday is because you can’t come in the morning when all the other women came to draw water. She is a triple outcast—a Samaritan, a woman, and a woman of whose manner of living wasn’t acceptable to the rest of the community. You think she’s thirsty?


So, a very long exchange unfolds between Jesus and the woman. They cover the territory of well-known social norms, norms which they are breaking—how it is that a Jewish man is asking her for a drink? Jewish men don’t share things in common with Samaritan women. They cover the territory of the proper place to worship—is it on the holy mountain in Samaria or in Jerusalem? They cover her rather complicated personal history—a history that, in every other instance, isolated her, but somehow didn’t present a barrier to Jesus.

And somehow, both Jesus and the woman forget about the water in the well because the living water is flowing. It wasn’t the particular words of the conversation that healed her; it was the fact that they were engaged in conversation at all. It was something beyond all words; it was the Word made flesh in him. When she said to him, “I know that Messiah is coming…When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.” Jesus simply responded, “I am, the one who is speaking to you.” The english translation says, “I am he,” but that’s not the greek—the greek simply says, “I am.” Jesus gave the woman his Presence and his Presence runs deeper than Jacob’s wellJesus’ Presence is Presence itself—the Divine I AM of Exodus 3 and the burning bush and the rock at Horeb—the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end.

Once the woman encountered that Divine Radiant Presence in Jesus, she left her water jar and ran into the city to tell anyone who’d listen that she’d met the one who’d told her everything she’d ever done—and this was unbelievably good news, because in his Presence she was more than her history. Her thirst to be seen, her thirst to be seen as more than the narrative that people, and she herself, had constructed about her, her thirst to be seen as the beloved daughter of God that she was, one in whom God’s image dwelled richly—that thirst was quenched, and she was made whole.

And that brings us to Jesus’ thirst on that hot day. It, too, was for more than water. He thirsted to cross all the boundaries of ethnicity and gender and religion. He thirsted to pour out his compassion and Presence as living water. He thirsted for connection. He thirsted to let his love overflow, knowing that when that love is flowing, he is more than satisfied. No wonder, when his disciples tried to urge him to eat, he responded, “I have food to eat that you do not know about…My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work.”

On this third Sunday in Lent, for what do we thirst? Where are we feeling cutoff, isolated? Where have our narratives, both those we’ve constructed about ourselves and those which have been projected onto us, and those we’ve projected onto others, where have our narratives separated us from our neighbor?

As we make our way through this wilderness before us, journeying by stages, where is our hope fading and what nostalgic memory of Egypt are we holding onto       that is starting to look seductively good?

What is the thirst beneath all of our thirsts? What is breaking our hearts, causing us to cry out “Is the LORD among us or not?” What is the living water for which our souls long?


On this third Sunday in Lent, can we let down our guards and take off all pretense that we’re just fine and come clean before God, and one another, with the truth of just how thirsty we are?

Can we muster the fierce courage of that Samaritan woman and come to this table with our hands outstretched, eager to hold the Presence of Jesus in our hands, eager to drink his being into ours, knowing, trusting that this is the well given to us; this is our place of encounter with the great I AM, this is the living water from the deep well that will sustain us this day, and tomorrow, and all the days to come.


And then, having drunk of this living water, can we leave whatever water jars we have lugged here this morning, can we leave our water jars here, and run back to our cities, and to our circles, with the awareness that we, ourselves, are vessels full of living water. Can we be extravagant in pouring this love out into all the parched places that are so thirsty?

Can we be heralds of the good news that there is a Presence strong enough to hold our narrative, and all the narratives flying around, and that freedom will come in getting real honest about the narratives?

Can we trust that if we keep “doing the will of him who sent me,” if we keep trying “to complete his work,” if we keep working to cross the boundaries and reconcile what is divided and repair the breaches that are all around us, can we trust that, as we do this, we, too, will discover the food that so clearly, to the absolute amazement of his disciples, filled Jesus’ soul?

It’s a thirsty doggone time in the life of our little St. Luke’s community, and in the life of our world, and our cry rises up, “Is the LORD among us or not?”

But just as God stood on the rock at Horeb, and Jesus met that Samaritan woman at the well, God stands before us now, and Jesus is waiting to meet us at this well.

“Take, eat, drink this, all of you”—the living water is flowing deep beneath our feet, and all around us, and beyond us, and between us; the living water is yearning to pour itself out and yearning to be received.

The great I AM is holding us all, whether we see it or feel it, or not.

Drink in this Presence,then, go, share this living water with every thirsty soul you meet. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
March 19, 2017

Stretching to Follow our Lord

The Rev. Deacon Greg Erickson–Lent 2—Year A                 (video link)
Genesis 12:1-4a
Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17
Psalm 121

We are God’s beloved and that is enough

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Lent 1—Year A                              (video link)
Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7
Psalm 32
Romans 5:12-19
Matthew 4:1-11

Lent came roaring in on Wednesday with the first day of March and ominous clouds and a 30 degree temperature change and gusty northwest winds. The weather whiplash seems a rather fitting way to mark this seasonal shift spiritually. Bye-bye glorious mystical mountaintop of last Sunday where God proclaimed once again that Jesus was his Beloved Son; bye-bye, cool waters of the Jordan River in Matthew 3 where Jesus has just first heard God declare him to be God’s Beloved Son, one in whom God is well pleased. No, those Ash Wednesday winds have catapulted us straight into the wilderness and a whole host of temptations.

It is one thing to hear that you are God’s Beloved; it is a whole other thing to believe it, to really believe it and trust it.

But before we get to what Jesus, and we, are wrestling with, we’ve got to go back to the very first temptation—oh, Genesis 3 and that crafty, crafty serpent.

God has created ‘adam, the human of the ground, and has put him in the garden with great generosity and only one itty, bitty boundary. God has given ‘adam meaningful work, purpose; God has told ‘adam, “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.”

And remember, at this point, the woman is not even on the scene. Right after God sets the boundary with ‘adam, God figures out that it’s not really good for ‘adam to be alone—he needs a helpmate, he needs a companion. The cattle, the birds of the air, the beasts of the field—they aren’t quite the helpmate ‘adam needs. ‘Adam needs someone who can go toe-to-toe with him.

God creates the woman, and a relationship of complete mutuality, reciprocity, and equality is borne, and the text tells us, “The man and the woman were both naked, and were not ashamed.”

Then, comes the exchange between that crafty serpent and the woman, and that serpent’s craftiness is shrouded in subtlety.  “Really,” the serpent begins, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’?” The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden; but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.’”

Okay, could we pause here? I would like to know how clearly ‘adam explained this directive from God to the woman because she wasn’t actually present when this conversation between God and ‘adam went down. Did ‘adam communicate all of this clearly to his companion? Or, was there a bit of, as we say, “a failure to communicate”? Did the woman get that sense of God’s complete generosity when God told ‘adam, Every tree of the garden is yours for the eating, save this one tree?” Did she take that generosity for granted? And why did she intensified the boundary that God had set—in addition to not eating it, you couldn’t even touch it?

 Okay, temptation 101, what is the quickest, surest way to make something completely enticing. Yes, tell you that you can’t even touch it.

But this serpent is crafty, and a master of subtlety. “But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not die; for God knows that, when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

Oh, that is just downright irresistible. “You will be like God. God doesn’t want you to be like God, knowing good and evil.”

So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves.

The woman and the man didn’t die when they ate of that fruit, or did they? They didn’t physically die, but something in them did die. What died? On one side, their innocence died. On the other side, they lost their capacity to move through this world without that painful self-consciousness that we all carry. Before this event, they were naked, read completely vulnerable, and they could move easily through the world wide-open. Now, they knew that they were naked, they were aware of their nakedness, and so begins the process of covering themselves. Knitting together that very first piece of armor in the form of a loincloth to cover that deep sense of vulnerability.

Professor Jay Johnson has argued that the very first temptation to humanity is not the fruit that is such good food, and such a delight to the eyes, and that superfood of wisdomthe first temptation is much more subtle than that. He contends that the first temptation is tempting the woman to be like God, which answers a much deeper and darker fear, and that’s that our humanity, our simple humanity, is not enough. “The first temptation,” Johnson says, “was thinking our humanity wasn’t enough.” We can’t be content to just be human beings.

Jump forward to the temptations that Jesus faces today, and by virtue of the fact that we have been baptized into his body and declared Beloved sons and daughters, temptations that are surely waiting for us, too.

Over and over, the devil tells Jesus, “If you are the Son of God, if you are the Son of God…” Jesus is tempted to doubt that he’s a Beloved Son, and on an even more subtle level (there’s that ol’ crafty serpent again), that being a Beloved Son is just not enough.

The devil, diabolos—the one who would throw us apart, like throw us apart from our deepest, Truest Self—that devil keeps whispering in Jesus’ ear, “Oh, that Beloved  Son identity, it’s just not enough. You’ve got to do some serious dressing up of that identity. How about putting on some “idealized identities”1. Why not try Miracle Worker, Total Truster, Benevolent King? Your True Self isn’t enough, Jesus. You’re not extraordinary enough, you aren’t trusting enough, you aren’t powerful enough. Jesus, Beloved Son is not enough. You have to be more.” And that tempter whispers that last temptation in Jesus’ ear, “I can give you more. I can make you more. Then, you’ll be enough.”


Can you hear echoes of that crafty serpent, that tempter whispering in your ear? What idealized identities are you tempted to put on when you feel shaky about your core identity as a Beloved Son or Beloved Daughter? When you are struggling to trust that being Beloved of God is plenty enough, what messages do you hear and what behaviors are you tempted to sew into loincloths to cover your naked vulnerability?

Beloved Son, Beloved Daughter, it doesn’t seem like much to go on, but it’s everything. In fact, it’s the only thing that is absolutely secure.

Jesus knew that, and at some level, we know that, too, but we have to circle back again and again to drop down into that core identity as Beloveds of God. It’s a naked place to stand, and the pull to dress it up in some way is almost irresistible. But the devil’s promises ring hollow—they promise the world, but they don’t satisfy, not really, because they’re just the trappings of the False Self that’s trying to dress itself up to make itself acceptable to God, instead of collapsing back into the glorious good news that we’ve already been accepted. Our task, as Paul Tillich preached so long ago is “to accept that we’ve been accepted.”

These temptations will come—they came to Jesus, the come to us. But the fact that Jesus has walked this road before us means that we’ve got someone to guide us back, always, to the only identity that matters—Beloved Son, Beloved Daughter, and the absolute truth that THIS IS ENOUGH. You are Beloved of God; from that center, you are always enough. You don’t have to be God; you just have to believe, trust, accept that you are Beloved.

Live from that place, and you will feed hungers that stones turned to bread never can. Live from that place, and you will bear people up when they fall. Live from that place, and you will be a window into the kingdom of God where all the kingdoms of the world beat their swords into plowshares and feast together at the table.

That serpent may be crafty and oh so subtle, the devil may try to throw us apart from our deepest Truest Self, but Love has already won, and he has called us know, in every fiber of our being, that we are Beloved no less than he.

Believe that, trust that, accept that, and start whispering that good news into every ear you can find. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
March 5, 2017

1The phrase “idealized identities” is borrowed from Dr. Brené Brown’s work on shame triggers.

Rend Your Heart

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Ash Wednesday—Year A                             (video link)
Joel 2:1-2; 12-17
Psalm 103:8-14
II Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Oh, we know this day is coming. Surely as the calendar turns its page, we know Ash Wednesday is going to come around again, but I don’t know that we are ever ready for the way this day breaks upon us like a wave, and all of the sudden we are swept off our feet and carried to places we may not wish to go. But it is good, and it is necessary that we allow this day to confront us in all the ways that it does so that we can get beyond the distractions of life, so that we can remember that we are more than the masks we present to the world.

And let’s be clear, while the lessons and the psalms and the Litany of Penitence are going to pull back the curtain on all of our behaviors with piercing clarity, really, this day is all about the heart. Jesus, quite rightly, warns us of the dangers of parading around good, pious, penitent behaviors—giving alms, praying fervently, fasting—changing the exteriors, but leaving the interior landscape of our hearts untouched. The danger is that we act religious and feed the insatiable hunger of our ego, reinforcing our small self who clamors to look good, hoping beyond hope to be acceptable to God. Hypocritepretender in the greek, the actor. We all have a hypocrite who lives inside of us; we all have a pretender, but God knows that we’ve got to get beneath those surface layers, got to get through our defenses, got to get through all these ways that we guard our hearts.

And God has complete and utter compassion for us, knowing how hard this journey will be. The LORD is full of compassion and mercy, slow to anger and of great kindness…For he himself knows whereof we are made, he remembers that we are but dust. God remembers pulling that dust into being and breathing the very breath of life into our bundles of dust. God knows whereof we are made, but God also understands that all roads forward must pass through the heart.

So, the prophet Joel is blowing the trumpet in Zion; he’s sounding the alarm on God’s holy mountain; he’s sanctifying a fast; he’s calling a solemn assembly; he’s gathering the people—the aged and the children, the infants at the breast and the bridegroom and the bride, the priests, the ministers of the LORDeveryone. And the prophet proclaims, “Yet even now, says the Lord, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing.”

Rend your hearts. Rend—to tear, to tear open, to make wide, to make large.

In his book Healing the Heart of Democracy, Parker Palmer makes this distinction between the heart broken apart and the heart broken open. He says: “If you hold your knowledge of self and world wholeheartedly, your heart will at times get broken by loss, failure, defeat, betrayal, or death. What happens next in you and the world around you depends on how your heart breaks. If it breaks apart into a thousand pieces, the result may be anger, depression, and disengagement. If it breaks open into greater capacity to hold the complexities and contradictions of human experience, the result may be new life…”

Palmer continues, “What shall we do with our suffering…Violence is what we get when we do not know what else to do with our suffering. But when the human heart is open and allowed to work its alchemy, suffering can generate vitality instead of violence…When the heart is supple, it can be ‘broken open’ into a greater capacity to hold our own and the world’s pain: it happens every day. When we hold our suffering in a way that opens us to greater compassion, heartbreak becomes a source of healing, deepening our empathy for others who suffer and extending our ability to reach out to them.”

Rend your hearts. Allow them to be torn open. Allow them to be broken, but let them break open and not apart. Let them be torn open so that they may be widened and enlarged.

I have been thinking for weeks about a story I heard on the BBC that occurred at Dulles Airport. It occurred on January 28th, that Saturday when people flying into the United States and people from the seven Countries of Particular Concern were being detained and protests erupted in airports across the nation. And just for a moment, please, set aside the bigger issues in play here, and just hear this story of what happened between two people.

An Iraq army veteran named Jeffrey Buchalter had gone to Home Depot; he was reflooring his foyer at his home in Maryland—he got back home and the tv was on, and he saw protests happening in the New York airports. Something stirred in his heart. Jeffrey felt that the Iraqi translators had enabled him to get back home alive. Jeffrey had suffered several wounds in combat, including a traumatic brain injury and several shrapnel wounds; he’d spend two years in Walter Reed Hospital. He’d been awarded four purple hearts. He gathered up his two young children and drove two hours to Dulles Airport.

He found an Iraqi man named Alaa who’d been waiting for his wife, Jenin. Alaa had worked in the embassy in Iraq and had been given an immigrant visa; his wife was a green card holder returning home to the US; she’d been detained and questioned for hours. Alaa was upset.

Jeffrey made his way to Alaa; he just wanted this man who was having a bad experience to experience something good, but he also wanted to give something to the man that was important to him. So, Jeffrey’s young son stepped forward, with his dad by his side, and gave Alaa one of his dad’s most treasured possessions; the boy gave Alaa his dad’s Purple Heart. That act of generosity and kindness blew Alaa away—he said that it was the most precious gift he’d ever received in his life, and that it would be on display in his home, and that it would also be a story, a story that he would keep telling. A tear in Jeffrey’s heart broke him open and enabled him to step forward and offer a precious gift that would be balm to Alaa’s broken heart. That exchange between strangers changed both of those men, and their families, forever.

And that story changed me; it did something to my heart. Just the image of offering a Purple Heart—a medal awarded to a wounded soldier. Jesus says, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Jeffrey understood that in his bones. He may not have even known he understood that until he handed his Purple Heart over, but his soul had grasped that truth long before he got in his car and drove two hours to that airport.

Could we take this Lent as a time to come to terms with our broken, wounded hearts? Could we rend our hearts and explore the contours of the tears all across them? Could we trust that exploring our broken hearts doesn’t have to break us apart, shattering our hearts into a thousand shards slicing everyone in our path as they fly, but rather, could we trust that exploring this brokenness can make our hearts supple, soft, can break them open, allowing them to pump love back into the world again, enabling us to offer our wounded hearts to one another that the wounds between us might be healed.

God, Jesus—they can’t do much with hard heart. A broken heart broken open—that can change the world.

Allow the rending to occur. Don’t fight it. Explore the tears and wounds to your heart. Entrust your heart into the Master Healer’s hands. Let him guide you as you come to terms with your particular wounds. And as your heart breaks open, and is made wider, and grows larger, know that a well of life is springing up from within you that is full of power and light and love and life.

Then, sit in awe as the wave that broke over you and threw you down becomes the water that carries you forward in a flow of compassion and mercy.

Rend your heart, place those wounds and tears in God’s hands, and then let God show you how to offer your wounded, open heart as balm to this hurting world. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
March 1, 2017

Waiting in the Cloud

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks–Last Sunday after Epiphany—Year A                            (video link)
Exodus 24:12-18
Psalm 2
II Peter 1:16-21
Matthew 17:1-9

Here we are—the last Sunday after the Epiphany. And what an interesting group of scriptures we have as we take one last look around before descending into Lent.

Lots of mountains today. In Exodus, Moses has said “yes” to God’s invitation to come on up the mountain where God will give Moses the law and the commandment which God has written for their instruction. It’s interesting, but the first instruction that God gives Moses is to come up the mountain and wait there. Simply wait. After instructing the elders to wait at the bottom for him and his assistant Joshua, Moses heads up the mountain and waits, and the cloud covered the mountain, thicker than Blowing Rock fog. The glory of the Lord had descended upon that mountain, and the cloud covered it for six days.

Sometimes the glory of the Lord descends upon us in a way that we can’t see the nose in front of our face. It is completely disorienting, and we can’t tell which way is up or down or east or west. Sometimes, God has to completely disorient us, so that God may completely reorient us. On the seventh day, God called Moses out of the cloud. Now the appearance of the glory of the Lord was like a devouring fire on the top of the mountain in the sight of the people of Israel. Moses entered the cloud, and went up on the mountain. Moses was on the mountain for forty days and forty nights. To those below, the glory of the LORD was like a devouring fire—lots of light and heat. To Moses, it was just the disorienting cloud. But when Moses emerged from that cloud, he was ready to receive what God had to give him. And yes, it would take 40 days for Moses to hear, and receive, and understand the instruction.

Our lives and world are swirling these days. It may feel like me are being tossed to and fro on a sea, completely unmoored. This is not a comfortable space to inhabit, and far from promising us peace, God calls us to come on up the mountain and intentionally place ourselves in the cloud where we intentionally lose all our bearings. God calls us to wait there, so that we can receive the law and commandments, so that we can receive instruction, without trying to manipulate it to our own ends. In urgent and anxious times, God says, Wait, this is going to take time to unpack—maybe 40 days or so. You cannot rush this. Patience, Moses. Patience, Cyndi. Patience, brothers and sisters. Clarity will come, but not necessarily on your timetable.” Oh, this is hard work.

And then we skip over to II Peter where we hear this: You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts. First of all you must understand this, that no prophecy of scripture is a matter of one’s own interpretation, because no prophecy ever came by human will, but men and women moved by the Holy Spirit spoke from God.

Be attentive. Focus on the lamp shining out in a dark place. Again, patience. Yes, it is dark, but our instruction is to wait in the dark, to be attentive to our hearts, to trust that the day will dawn there, that a morning star will rise there, and then, it won’t matter how dark it is outside because the lamp will be burning bright in our hearts, and that light will follow us wherever we go. And Peter reminds us, quite rightly, that no prophecy of scripture is a matter of one’s own interpretation. The prophets do not act on their own will, but speak from that place of alignment with God. The prophets are the mouthpiece of God to speak God’s comfort and compassion and steadfast love and challenge into the circumstances of our world. It is always a slippery slope; it is easy to confuse the interpretation that arises from my will with the one that is arises when I put in the hard work of waiting with open hands and open heart and open mind and open spirit. Do you get the nuance? One is pushed from my end—it has that energy of forcing and urgency; the other arises; the other is received like a gift—it may still possess the energy of action, but that action will be arising out of solid, grounded place; an action arising out of alignment, instead of agenda. It’s tricky, which is why Peter counsels us, “Be attentive.”

Then we come to the mountain in the gospel. It’s six days later. Six days after what? Six days after Jesus has had that exchange with the disciples up in Caesarea Philippi about who they think Jesus is, and though Peter gets the “A” for saying, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God;” Peter flunks when he rebukes Jesus when Jesus spells out that being the Christ, the Son of the living God means suffering at the hands of the religious people that should have gotten his mission, and being killed by them, and then, just when he might have gotten some peace and eternal quiet in the tomb, lo and behold, he would have to rise again.

Peter didn’t like the scenario that Jesus had spelled out, and Peter told Jesus to knock it off about such things. Jesus held his ground—called Peter “Satan” and went on to say that anyone who would come after him would have to take up his cross and follow him—that those who try to save their life will lose it, and those who lose it for Jesus’ sake will find it. And Jesus then posed a piercing question, to Peter and to us, “For what will it profit if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life?”

It’s six days after that exchange. And the first interesting thing to notice is that while Jesus told Peter to get behind him and called him “Satan,” Jesus didn’t banish Peter to outsider status; Jesus didn’t shame Peter, make him sit in a corner, or demote him to lesser discipleship status. He told Peter to get behind him which put him in a position to follow him up the mountain, along with James and John.

And Jesus was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”

 Oh Peter, he’s so trying to get this right. So trying to get this nailed down. He got the Christ thing right, and then he got it wrong when he tried to limit what it means to be the Christ, the Son of the living God. He gets that the law, Moses, and the prophets, Elijah, are central to Jesus; he gets that Jesus has a particular relationship with these two strands of the tradition that is holy, and he wants to do the only thing he knows to do, enshrine it in even more holiness. The english says three dwellings, but it’s three booths, three tabernacles to be exact, three tents to hold the holiness of God. Peter is blown away by the holiness before him, and he wants to fix the location, contain it, locate it in time and space. Why? Why do we human beings always try to contain holiness? I don’t know, but in tumultuous times, maybe we try to contain it so we’ll always know where to find it when we so need it.

But while Peter was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” God was on to the game, so it’s time for a little cloud-time, throw Peter and James and John into the cloud to completely disorient them, so that God can completely reorient them—“Peter, don’t try to fix, contain, the law and the prophets, even Jesus himself. He is a living, breathing, beloved Son—listen to him, listen to his life, listen to what he does and what he says and who he eats with and who he heals and who he lifts up and who he challenges. Don’t turn him into a monument—be in relationship with this beloved Son of the living God.”

When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, “Get up and do not be afraid.” And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.

It’s an awfully scary thing to let go of our tried and true containers; it’s scary to let go of getting God located in our time and space so we know right where to find God when we need God; it’s a whole other thing to know that Jesus is going to be on the move and that our relationship with him is going to be constantly changing and evolving and pulling us deeper, deeper, deeper than we ever thought we go could go. Moses, Elijah, law, prophets, even Jesus—known quantities. Beloved Son of the living God quite free of our tabernacles—ooooh, that throws us in uncharted territories.

As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, “Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”

And not only are we being thrown into uncharted territories, but Jesus is going to ask us to sit with this vision a good long while before we post it on our facebook pages. Just like God with Moses, Jesus asks us to wait. We won’t be ready to act on this vision of transfiguration, we won’t know what to do with this radiant Majestic Glory of God, as Peter calls it, that completely changes the countenance of Jesus until we understand what it means to die for the sake of love, and to rise for the sake of a love that is stronger still.

Jesus will not let this go—we have to make the journey that starts this coming Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, and see it through Palm Sunday and Holy Week and Good Friday, all the way to the Easter dawn—only then, will we understand that transfiguration changes us from the inside, out and once that glory’s grabbed ahold of us, there’s not a tabernacle holy enough to hold that glory in. It yearns to shine for everyone to see, but only when it’s been tempered by a good healthy understanding of the suffering that comes when you go all-in with love, even loving those who would rather nail that love to a cross than to see a love that could extend its arms that far and that wide. There is something in us that has to die and rise again before God can trust that kind of Majestic Glory in our hands.


So, where is God calling you to come on up the mountain? Where is God calling you into a place of complete disorientation where nothing is clear, so that God can completely reorient you? Where, in your anxiety, are you wanting to get all this law, prophet, Jesus, God stuff nailed down and contained so that something will be exactly where it’s supposed to be when you need it the most? And where is God calling you to let all that go and trust this relationship with Jesus who is living and breathing and always evolving? And then, can you sit with this vision until you come to a deeper understanding of what life in relationship with him really means?

If you feel yourself in a fog these days, know that something deep, something mysterious, something that will take time to comprehend may well be afoot. If you’re afraid, know that Jesus is going to touch you in a way that a booth, a tabernacle, never will. “This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” And what is the first thing that Son says? Actually, it’s an enfleshed word—with that gentle touch, and those words that can calm our heart and still our swirling anxieties, he says, “Do not be afraid.”

Take those words in, sit with the vision, follow him on the journey that stretches ahead—die with him, rise with him, and then, you will understand, it never was just about Jesus’ transfiguration, but it was also, always, about our own. Amen.

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
February 26, 2017

Jesus and the Third Way

The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks- Seventh Sunday after the Epiphany—Year A       (video link)

Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18
Psalm 119:33-40
I Corinthians 3:10-11, 16-23
Matthew 5:38-48

Jesus is dancing us through the Sermon on the Mount, moving effortlessly between the highly personal and intimate interpersonal to the intensely communal and political, and today, he leads us into the heart of his radical teaching on engaging the powers-that-be with the power of nonviolence.

I am indebted to Walter Wink and his little book Jesus and Nonviolence: A Third Way for helping to illuminate these scriptures that are otherwise so mystifying. And, though I’ve shared this teaching before, this is one of those teachings that we need to circle back to over and over—it’s a foundational teaching of the Jesus way and so needed in our time.

So, let’s plow in.

Jesus said, “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.

First, Jesus is holding up the standard of the ancient law—“an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” Retaliation in equal kind. And actually, this law in the Old Testament was meant to protect people from vengeful retribution where the retribution might by worse than the originating crime or injury. But once again, Jesus takes the ancient standard and ups the antedon’t retaliate at all. Do not resist an evildoer. And again, evildoer is someone who brings toils, annoyances, perils; one who causes pain and trouble. Do not set yourself against them; do not oppose them. Huh? Aren’t we to fight injustice? Not quite, we are to strive for justice, but in the very energy of fighting you empower that which you are striving to transform. Jesus has another way.

 We’ve got to understand how this striking on the cheek thing works, or we will do as so many Christian preachers have grievously done and counsel people to go passive in the face of abuse. The only way someone could strike you on the right cheek, in that culture, was to do a backhanded slap with the right hand—you can’t use your right fist, because the nose is in the way, and you can’t use your left hand because it was used for unclean acts. A backhanded slap was by definition about one person having power over another and about humiliating the one with lesser power. So, when Jesus counsels turning and offering your other cheek, your left cheek, this was not an act of passivity, but an act of standing firm and claiming your full and equal status as fellow human being. First, as you turn your head, your eyes meet, and that is a deeply humanizing moment, and then, to strike your left cheek, the aggressor would be forced to use his right fist and thereby acknowledge you as an equal.

And the direction on giving your cloak to someone who is suing you for your undergarments, well, Jesus is just brilliant here. Matthew and Luke disagree on the order here. Luke says if they’re suing you for your cloak, give your undergarment, too, but Matthew goes a step further and says, if they’re suing you for your undergarments, give them your cloak, too. What is at stake here? Well, the poor often only had their garments to give as collateral for a loan, but the law required that if you’d given your cloak as collateral, that the person from whom you had borrowed money had to return it at sundown so you could be warm as you slept. It’s rotten enough to ask someone to give their cloak as collateral, but in Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is saying, “It’s even worse than thatthey’re suing you for your undergarments! So, don’t stop there; hand them your cloak as well”—which would leave you what? (pause) Naked, that’s right. And nakedness in that culture was a big taboo, and the shame fell on the one gazing upon the nakedness, not the one who was naked. In one brilliant step, Jesus has revealed the moral bankruptcy, the absolute exploitation of the whole economic system of loans in that culture.

And then, going the second mile. A Roman soldier, a member of the occupying force, could force a civilian who had no power to carry his pack for a mile, but not for two. Again, this was humiliating for the occupied people, but to fight a Roman soldier was out of the question. So, carry the pack the second mile became Jesus’ elegant third way. A) It exposed the Roman soldier to severe military penalties because the rule was one mile and no more and B) It exposed the Roman soldier to ridicule from his buddies—“What, you’re not strong enough to carry your own pack?” and no Roman soldier wanted to be ribbed like that. Again, the person with no power has found a way to hold fast to the human dignity of which the system of subjugation was fervently trying to strip him.

At every turn, Jesus is showing people how to resist without standing against, how to hold fast to your dignity as a beloved son or daughter of God when the powers-that-be are trying to strip it away, how not to replicate the very system of retaliation that people of the Jesus way are called to transform. And this is crazy hard. Retaliation is so much easier; it’s the default of our primitive brains. And when we’re really stuck in our primitive brains, we don’t even stop there—we go straight for vengeful full-on retribution, forget “eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth.”

But lest we start to get puffed up with the sheer elegance and brilliance of Jesus’ third way as a tactical coup on those who hold the power, Jesus is going to drop us right back down into our hearts. Ancient standard, up the ante.

But before we get to the up the ante part, let’s revisit the ancient standard of loving your neighbor because Leviticus unpacks that for us this morning: You shall not hate in your heart anyone of your kin; you shall reprove your neighbor, or you will incur guilt yourself. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.

Leviticus would remind us this morning that this loving stuff extends far and wide and close and near. Kin is anyone in your tribe—sometimes translated as “fellow countrymen.” Oh, this just got really relevant—thank you Leviticus! You shall not hate in your heart your fellow countrymen. And reproving your neighbor is more complicated than it sounds—it’s not only about correcting them, proving what is right, but the hebrew word also possesses this sense of reasoning together with them. And you reason with your neighbor, you risk the conversation, because when we don’t risk the conversation, then we are complicit in this sin of separation, then we bear this sin of separation together.

Leviticus will not let us up for air—no taking vengeance, no avenging your feelings against any of your tribe, your kin, your people, your fellow countrymen. In fact, you don’t even get to keep your anger like a prized possession, like really it’s a word that’s repeated in hebrew—you really don’t get to keep your anger; you don’t get to guard yourself against these your kin, but you shall love your fellow-citizen as yourself, as a part of your own being. Ouch—bye-bye caricatures of people paraded across our tv screens, radios, and social media. That’s where God starts us in Leviticus. That’s the ancient standard, and now, Jesus is going to up the ante.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

Are you kidding me? Love my enemies? Pray for those who persecute me? This is what it means to be children of God? God has care and concern for the evil, the annoying, the ones bringing all this pain and trouble, God has concern for them and the good? God has concern for those who are living their lives in alignment and in right relationship and those who could care less about living in alignment with God and make a mockery of right relationships? I have to love them? I have to greet them? I have to be perfect as God in heaven is perfect? Are you kidding me, Jesus?

And with those kind and compassionate and piercing eyes, Jesus looks at us, loves us, and says the hard thing—“Nope, I’m not kidding. What I am asking you to do is that hard; my way is that radical.”

And this being perfect is not about perfection like we think about it—it’s not about being without mistake or error—it’s teleios—it’s a word that comes up a lot in theology. It’s the endgame, it’s when something is brought to its end, wanting nothing to be complete; it is utter integrity and the capacity to live that path of integrity, what we call virtue. And here’s the really bad news—it’s full-on, full-grown adulthood, that fullness that comes with age, otherwise known as MATURITY.

Oh man, Jesus is calling us to grow up, really grow up into the full stature of Christ. Jesus is calling us to look out upon this world with compassion, to understand that those we would call enemy are no less beloved of God than we are. We need to love and pray for those (fill in the blank) people that get on your every last nerve, those people who make your blood boil, Jesus is telling us we need to love and pray for those people and to know that that love is sourced from God’s heart emanating from within us. Jesus is calling us to put on the mind of Christ and love from a place so much deeper and broader than we could possibly imagine.

This doesn’t mean that we don’t engage matters of injustice; Jesus certainly did. It’s just that the water from which we drink as we thirst for justice comes from a far deeper well, from a place where the living water flows, from a far deeper place than our culture is offering us right now.

It doesn’t matter if we are doing the right thing if our hearts are still wanting to stick it to our enemies. We may achieve a human end, but it won’t be a divine one. God’s heart has room for the enemy, and when we meet our enemy there, there is the possibility that we will both be transformed.

This teaching is not for the faint of heart; this teaching is about the utter and complete transformation of our heart, and as we start to understand the enemy is our kin, and our kin is our neighbor, and our neighbor is our very own self, well, there is no end to the transformation that God can work then.

Yes, in solidarity with Jesus, we are called to third way acts of nonviolence in the face of injustice and power differentials, but our first step in the radical way of nonviolence, as Jesus embodies it, will be in the radical expansion of our hearts that can hold a place at the table for even our enemy.

No wonder people take the easy way of dualistic-plain-ol’-in-your-face opposition. Fighting, fleeing, freezing, appeasing—all of these are far easier than coming alongside neighbor, kin, enemy and dwelling together with them in God’s heart until both they and we are transformed. But truly, this is the only way big enough to move into the peaceable kingdom that God yearns for and that we all long to inhabit.

Today, let God do a radical number on your heart, and then move out into the world with courage as you seek to walk in Jesus’ third way. Amen.


The Rev. Cynthia K. R. Banks
St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Boone, NC
February 19, 2017

This interpretation of Matthew 6:38-41 has drawn on the teaching of Walter Wink in Jesus and Nonviolence: A Third Way. I want to give credit where credit is due, and this morning, the credit is his.  Please read his book.