I wish you could have been there (11th Sunday in Ordinary Time/3rd Sunday after Pentecost)
I wish you could have been there. To see the joy (there was so much joy) and to see one ordinary little congregation of rather average attendance--to see that nothing and everything had changed.
I'm preaching without notes here (left my bulletin on a table in the reception hall), so forgive me if I don't get everything exactly right.
The first thing I thought about when I came in this morning was where to sit. Left side or right side of the altar? Who was going to be serving communion on which side? (Oh, don't tell me you've never decided your church seat based on wanting to be communed--or to avoid being communed--by someone in particular! If you haven't, you are a far less shallow person than I.) I ended up sitting next to Jeremy Posadas, because he's close to my age (there aren't many people who are, at St. John's) and despite his formidable mind and considerable theological training (not to mention his role on the legal team during Pastor Bradley's trial), he isn't intimidating.
My second thought was that the church was surprisingly empty for this day of all days. Where were the hordes of media that had surrounded St. John's during the trial? (Although really, for them, good riddance.) Where were the scores of people who had sent letters and prayers of support? I had thought the church was going to be full to bursting, like it is on Easter Vigil when the whole Midtown community gathers in our sanctuary to rejoice together. "Christ is risen!" "He is risen indeed! Alleluia!"
But, on third thought, it seemed right. Attendance was a little above average. There were three pastors processing in, but they were all in a shambles of Ordinary Time green. This was a day of celebration, but it was also just another day.
Pastor Jane Fahey (PCUSA), Bradley's lawyer during the trial, preached a sermon that echoed this theme. Our texts were Isaiah 55:1-12, Psalm 33 (sung), 2 Corinthians 5:16-21, and Luke 7:36-50. Only the gospel came from the lectionary, and I was reminded of Elizabeth's church manifesto that I am blessed to have a church that follows the lectionary, except when it doesn't, and which takes seriously our inherited Scriptures.
Pastor Jane preached on the power of words: that "two little words" like "I'm gay" or "I'm partnered" changed everything in Pastor Brad's life and the life of our congregation, but they also changed nothing. How can this be? she asked. It can be because the things that are already true in the kingdom of God are not always the things we can see in our broken world. So Pastor Bradley and Pastor Darin committing to live in relationship with one another changes nothing in terms of really real, even as it changed everything in the eyes of the bishop at the time. Her other major theme was exile and return, pointing out that the Isaiah passage comes from a place of exile for the Israelites, and that God promises restoration, in which a change comes so that Things as They are Visible in the World shift towards Things as They Really Are. She ended with two words that changed nothing and also everything--"Welcome home."
I was blessed that we began our celebration service with a confession: that even in the midst of success and celebration, we have sinned--in dividing the world into "us" vs. "them," in giving up too easily on the work of justice, in getting so caught up in our joy that we believe the work is done. There were strong themes throughout of reconciliation and welcome for the marginalized of all kinds, including pointing out that there are those who feel marginalized by the ELCA's decision to allow partnered queer clergy, and that as the body of Christ it is our job to love/restore/welcome them, as well. I was struck by how much that was true to what I believe about the body of Christ: that the justice of God is healing and restoration for the oppressors as well as the oppressed.
Pastor Darin presided over communion, and sang a communion setting that was familiar to me from childhood, and so was powerful enough that I ended up on my knees for the consecration (our tradition is to stand). And then when Darin gave our typical call to communion ("so come, those of you who have much faith and those of you who would like to have more, those of you who have tried to follow Christ and those of you who have failed, those of you who depend on this sacrament and those of you for whom it is strange. These are the gifts of God for the people of God! Come, Christ invites you here."), I began to weep uncontrollably, and didn't stop until the service was finished.
Praise God who loves, forgives, and restores us, and who gives us freedom to be all ourselves (queer, feminist, crazy) in God's presence. And praise God who brings these two people I love, Bradley and Darin, my pastor and his partner, to a place where they can serve together, commune together, feed us and each other with the Body of Christ, with the Cup of Salvation.
Amen.
(This entry was originally posted on my Dreamwidth.
have posted comments there.)
I'm preaching without notes here (left my bulletin on a table in the reception hall), so forgive me if I don't get everything exactly right.
The first thing I thought about when I came in this morning was where to sit. Left side or right side of the altar? Who was going to be serving communion on which side? (Oh, don't tell me you've never decided your church seat based on wanting to be communed--or to avoid being communed--by someone in particular! If you haven't, you are a far less shallow person than I.) I ended up sitting next to Jeremy Posadas, because he's close to my age (there aren't many people who are, at St. John's) and despite his formidable mind and considerable theological training (not to mention his role on the legal team during Pastor Bradley's trial), he isn't intimidating.
My second thought was that the church was surprisingly empty for this day of all days. Where were the hordes of media that had surrounded St. John's during the trial? (Although really, for them, good riddance.) Where were the scores of people who had sent letters and prayers of support? I had thought the church was going to be full to bursting, like it is on Easter Vigil when the whole Midtown community gathers in our sanctuary to rejoice together. "Christ is risen!" "He is risen indeed! Alleluia!"
But, on third thought, it seemed right. Attendance was a little above average. There were three pastors processing in, but they were all in a shambles of Ordinary Time green. This was a day of celebration, but it was also just another day.
Pastor Jane Fahey (PCUSA), Bradley's lawyer during the trial, preached a sermon that echoed this theme. Our texts were Isaiah 55:1-12, Psalm 33 (sung), 2 Corinthians 5:16-21, and Luke 7:36-50. Only the gospel came from the lectionary, and I was reminded of Elizabeth's church manifesto that I am blessed to have a church that follows the lectionary, except when it doesn't, and which takes seriously our inherited Scriptures.
Pastor Jane preached on the power of words: that "two little words" like "I'm gay" or "I'm partnered" changed everything in Pastor Brad's life and the life of our congregation, but they also changed nothing. How can this be? she asked. It can be because the things that are already true in the kingdom of God are not always the things we can see in our broken world. So Pastor Bradley and Pastor Darin committing to live in relationship with one another changes nothing in terms of really real, even as it changed everything in the eyes of the bishop at the time. Her other major theme was exile and return, pointing out that the Isaiah passage comes from a place of exile for the Israelites, and that God promises restoration, in which a change comes so that Things as They are Visible in the World shift towards Things as They Really Are. She ended with two words that changed nothing and also everything--"Welcome home."
I was blessed that we began our celebration service with a confession: that even in the midst of success and celebration, we have sinned--in dividing the world into "us" vs. "them," in giving up too easily on the work of justice, in getting so caught up in our joy that we believe the work is done. There were strong themes throughout of reconciliation and welcome for the marginalized of all kinds, including pointing out that there are those who feel marginalized by the ELCA's decision to allow partnered queer clergy, and that as the body of Christ it is our job to love/restore/welcome them, as well. I was struck by how much that was true to what I believe about the body of Christ: that the justice of God is healing and restoration for the oppressors as well as the oppressed.
Pastor Darin presided over communion, and sang a communion setting that was familiar to me from childhood, and so was powerful enough that I ended up on my knees for the consecration (our tradition is to stand). And then when Darin gave our typical call to communion ("so come, those of you who have much faith and those of you who would like to have more, those of you who have tried to follow Christ and those of you who have failed, those of you who depend on this sacrament and those of you for whom it is strange. These are the gifts of God for the people of God! Come, Christ invites you here."), I began to weep uncontrollably, and didn't stop until the service was finished.
Praise God who loves, forgives, and restores us, and who gives us freedom to be all ourselves (queer, feminist, crazy) in God's presence. And praise God who brings these two people I love, Bradley and Darin, my pastor and his partner, to a place where they can serve together, commune together, feed us and each other with the Body of Christ, with the Cup of Salvation.
Amen.
(This entry was originally posted on my Dreamwidth.
have posted comments there.)