Sermons

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

Palm Sunday

            When we read about the disciples falling away as Christ walks the way of the cross, we hope that we wouldn’t be like Peter – that we would be smarter than to proclaim loudly that we’d follow Jesus wherever he goes but then immediately wilt and fail under pressure. These apostles, these messengers of the Kingdom of God, they deny and abandon Jesus.

            The conventional read of these disciples is that they’re afraid for their lives. They’re afraid that the political and religious authorities will turn the weapons of the law, the weapons of law enforcement, the weapons of courts and judges against them. The apostles see just how unjust the judges are, how cruel the religious and political police are, and how fickle the crowd’s affections are. Jesus is arrested under the flimsiest of pretenses – but that’s perfectly legal in the Roman Empire. Jesus is abused by those sent to arrest him – but he’s a poor criminal, so he doesn’t deserve respect and human dignity. Jesus is convicted in proceedings that are far from fair and sentenced to die – but because the powers that be have decided it, it must be legal and just.

            And yes, the disciples were terrified. The King they had heralded in a triumphal procession at the beginning of the week was being crushed under the force of the Roman Imperial government by the end. Did they expect that a healer who casts out demons and proclaims Good News to the oppressed and feeds the masses to pivot to a war machine? Did they expect him to switch and take up weapons and play by the Roman Empire’s playbook instead of following the Way of the Kingdom of God? Apparently so.

            Perhaps, in addition to fear, we should see another emotion in these disciples’ faces: embarrassment. What might they have been embarrassed about?

            Embarrassed that they’d bought into these teachings of Jesus. Yeah, yeah, he kept speaking about caring for the poor, healing the sick, and lifting up the oppressed, but really his goal was supposed to be about restoring Israel to its glory and overthrowing Rome, right? How embarrassing that Jesus really did mean what he preached.

            Embarrassed that they’d followed this person of Jesus all across the region. They’d been hoping for seats of honor in the Messiah’s new regime, and here this Messiah was, being dragged off to be crucified as a common rebel. Now that he’s just a criminal, who wants that?

            Embarrassed that they’d bought into the hype. Once the crowds had turned on him, it was clear that Jesus was cringe. Following Jesus would make them weird – he’s passe, yesterday’s news, and the reality of the Roman Empire’s military power crushed this dream. Instead of being hopeful, it’s obviously better to be cynical and just give up. Whoever has the most power wins, and it’s better to be on the side of the powerful than to be amongst the crucified.

            Now the scandal of the cross becomes clear. As Paul says in his first letter to the Corinthians, the cross is a stumbling-block and foolishness. The cross is a stumbling-block because we want a victorious Messiah who never knows defeat, and whose coattails we can cling to without any risk on our own. The cross is foolishness because we want to win, we want glory and victory.

            But the truth of the cross does not follow the rules of the world, the rules we follow. God opens up and empties, taking our full humanity on in Jesus Christ. Fully human, fully divine. Not clinging to power and glory, but taking the lowest place – and going lower than that. Taking the form of a rejected human being, taking a form that embarrasses us. He took the form of a slave in washing the feet of his disciples – and we remember that on Maundy Thursday. He took the form of a criminal in being legally executed by the lawful authorities on Good Friday. He took the form of our death itself.

            He takes upon himself our shame, our embarrassment. He is mocked by the soldiers, mocked by the crowds, mocked by the absence of his own disciples who are seemingly too embarrassed and fearful to stand near him. He is mocked by governors and kings and clergy. Jesus is mocked – Jesus takes upon himself our embarrassment.

            He takes on our embarrassment at actually believing the Gospel – that God loves us so much that God would take on our human flesh in Jesus Christ, to live among us, to preach Good News to overturn the heartlessness of the world, to heal and restore the downtrodden, to suffer at our own hands and to die out of pure, perfect love, to wash us clean in his blood and to give us new birth in his eternal life and to anoint us as his own.

            Because the world has long been embarrassed by Jesus. They want a Jesus who loves only a certain handful, who overlooks their grievous wrongdoing but magnifies the sins of the wicked. They want a Jesus who will let them stand gleefully victorious as they look on the suffering of others. They want a Jesus who will let them have their pleasure in private piety while closing their hearts to the needs of the many and the needs of those who are different from them.

            The world is not embarrassed by that Jesus – that’s why they invented that depiction of Jesus. The world is too embarrassed to follow the Jesus of the Gospels.

            But we who earnestly want to walk the way of the cross, we want to follow the Jesus proclaimed in the Gospels and shared through the centuries. We want to follow the true Jesus – that Jesus, the Jesus who was crucified, died, and buried … and who rose again on the third day.             This Jesus, this Jesus who takes on our embarrassment, our littleness, our failures, our foolishness and stumbling, this Jesus is the only lord, the only savior, the only Messiah, the only rightful king. None other than him. To follow him may make us an embarrassment in the eyes of the world, but the judgment of the world means far, far less to us than the love of Jesus Christ. The love of Jesus Christ is worth it all – worth the risk, worth the fear, worth the embarrassment. And he pours out that love abundantly on the cross. Let us follow him. Amen.

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

Lent 5C

It’s not often that a blurb of praise on the back of a book encapsulates the experience of the book in a way that lingers in the mind long after. In this case, it was a woman praising the author for the book’s raw insights into grieving and mourning for a parent. In her praise, she wrote how this book was like “messages in bottles, sent from an island I knew I would one day visit but that I hoped to stay away from as long as possible.”^[1]  She knew that one day she would be mourning the death of her parents, and thanked the author for giving her the gift of glimpsing into what her future would be like on that day.

            In reading that blurb on the back of that book, her words became mine. One day, I, too, will be unable to call up my parents or go home to see them. As the years go on, I know that the experience gets closer. My life will be shaken that day. The ones who nourished me and guided me and shared my entire journey of life will one day no longer be there walking with me in the world. One day I will have to say, “goodbye.”

Was it this kind of thought that was going through Mary’s head when Jesus said those words about his impending death? Did her heart stop like mine, wanting to say, “No, no, that can’t happen!” Something inside had urged her to take this expensive perfume from a far-away land, this perfume that would cost nearly a year’s wages, and something inside called her to anoint Jesus’ feet with it.

Something had driven her to uncover her hair in front of her guests and to wipe his feet with them. Something inside felt that no other perfume would have been good enough to care for Jesus’ dirty feet than this expensive one. In her heart she felt that no towel would have sufficed but her hair, even if uncovering her hair would be scandalous to the guests in her house. She anointed his feet, not his head. She didn’t want to anoint him like a king. She wanted to rub this fragrance on his feet that must be so tired after a long day. She wanted to show this wonderful friend of hers how much she loved him. She knew in her heart that loving him meant to love someone even greater. Loving Jesus brought her to love not just him but to love God through him.

Mary felt in her heart that she needed to do all these things, and now Jesus was telling her what was ahead for him: death and burial. In anointing his feet and wiping them with her hair, Mary had just helped prepare Jesus for his burial. His death was not far away on some island that she would one day visit. His death was close at hand, and she would be there to see that day.

            One day soon she would have to mourn this human, this one who had brought her brother, Lazarus, back from the dead. One day soon, the one who had power over life and death would experience death and leave her among the living. One day soon she would have to mourn this human being who was eating the dinner her sister Martha had prepared. One day soon she would have to mourn the end of his life, and here he was telling her that this day was coming sooner than she might have prepared herself for.

And yet the stinging reproach of Judas was still ringing in her ears. Why didn’t she sell this indulgent fragrance and give the money away to those who truly needed it, to those who really deserved it? Did she love this human being more than the poor? How dare she do this disgraceful and extravagant thing! How dare she love Jesus like this! The world ridicules such extravagant love. The world demands that limits be placed and that justice be done first.

            From Jesus’ lips comes her defense: Leave her alone, Judas! She bought this perfume for my burial. You will always have the poor to love, but I will not always be around for you to show me that you love me. In the moments after this extravagant act, the scent of the perfume hung in the air. The scent of Mary’s act of love filled the house for this dear friend who would soon no longer be there to walk with her and dine at her table, and the smell was heavenly like the incense offering at the temple. 

            Soon the disciples will find Jesus washing their feet. The master will soon be washing the feet of his servants, and he will call them friends and command them to love one another just as he loved them. Jesus washes their feet but does not anoint them with extravagant perfume. The extravagance of his love for them has been in sharing the journey with them, in teaching them, in caring for them. His love fills not just the air but the whole world.

            We all know that grief is a frequent companion in the journey. We wish it weren’t so. We wish that we didn’t have to say goodbye to people we love. We wish that death were vanquished completely now – that we had no need to fear, that nothing painful would ever happen again. I wish it weren’t so.

            Grief is a constant companion – and so is love. The love of Christ is a constant companion, if we watch for it, listen for it, let it flow into us and through us – and the love for Christ, the love of Mary for Jesus, that love of hers that drove her to anoint his feet and wipe them with her hair – that extravagant love that runs wild and impulsive – that love is a constant, too. We were made for love. To love, to be loved. Love one another that you may love Christ through each other. To love another person on this side of the grave is to smell the extravagant perfume with which Mary anoints Jesus’ feet. To love another person on this side of the grave is to let your lungs and body be filled with the love of God for this person and for all creation.

            May the love of Mary for her friend teach you how to love. May you love extravagantly. May your love for one another and for Jesus be even half as fragrant as Mary’s perfume – filling not just the house, but the entirety of your life, the entirety of the world. Amen.

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^[1] Barbara Brown Taylor. Foreword and back cover to A Sorrow Shared by Henri J. M. Nouwen. Notre Dame, IN: Ave Maria Press, 2010.

Good morning; we are almost to the midway point of Lent, and pray you all are enjoying our journey of courageously walking forward in our faith, reviewing, renewing, and repenting on this walk with Christ as we prepare for the Easter season.

Today, we read the parable about the prodigal son. This story in Luke follows the parable of the Lost Sheep and then the Lost Coin. One could deduce that this is about being lost and found. Fun fact, when I started this journey with my calling to the priesthood, my father, a devout Jesuit Catholic, would answer the phone, saying “my prodigal daughter”. I felt like that was a step up from what he used to answer the phone, saying my favorite daughter. Spoiler alert, not only am I his only daughter, I’m also his only child.

But this morning, let’s focus our attention on the complicated and deep relationship between Father & child in the Gospel story. This farmer, or rancher, is blessed with two sons.  He is blessed with helpful hands for general operations of his farm. He knows that he can leave a legacy behind. This father is fortunate, yet one of his sons didn’t want any part of it. He demanded his inheritance, and he tried to walk away from everything he knew, go explore the world and find a new destiny.

The son ventures off to far off lands, searching high and low, for a new way of living, a new life.  He didn’t make wise investments and squandered his inheritance. During the end of this journey of searching for independence, he spent all the money and needed to find work to sustain himself.  He started working at a pig farm. As you may or may not know, pigs are considered unclean in some faith practices, our brothers & sisters that practice the Jewish and Muslim faith do not eat pork. This shows us that the son was at the end of his rope, the last place he’d be working was at a pig farm for Gentiles. He is probably humbled. He is humbled to the point he wants to go home, he realized that he has made a mistake.  This is not who he wanted to be, not who his father raised him to be, and he is eager to be back with his community. He wants to go back home. He realizes he made a bad judgment call, running from the place where he is welcomed and loved unconditionally, and asks for forgiveness and repentance.

It wasn’t until I was discerning on this sermon that I looked up the meaning of prodigal. I just assumed it meant to come back, which is one of the definitions. However, the Hebrew word for prodigal is bazbezan, meaning extravagance, spending extravagantly, eating extravagantly, consuming extravagantly, over the top, and so it’s wasteful, glutinous behaviors. This parable reminds & encourages us, take the opportunity to repent, to change their behavior, and come back to God’s good graces.

In these current times, has there been a time where we wanted to run from the fold, to act out, or maybe, can we reflect on when we might be overconsuming. Can we think how we are living extravagantly? Can we believe that we might be consuming too much?

I can relate! In my early 20s after college, granted I was always heart centered, but was trying to live this larger than life dream in Washington, DC. (Hence why my father called me his prodigal daughter). I left the church because I saw the church being weaponized. I saw the church being stretched to its limits, and I wanted to go out and discover and seek a new way of living. To find another community. 

This semester, I’m taking Anglican spirituality & ethos. One of my newfound teachers, was a woman who wrote a book on mysticism in the Victorian era. Her name is Evelyn Underhill, and she pursued a deep understanding of one’s personal relationship of faith. She might sound familiar as I realize that she is popular in Anglican tradition. I was surprised to find out that she wrote most of her books on this topic of mysticism when she was not attending church. She was out there in the world, searching for her deep connection with God outside of Church walls. She spent most of her life searching for the meaning of her spirituality in her connection with God, but she returned to the church in her 60s. She ultimately realized that after trial and error, after searching, high and low, the way that she was able to create a deep understanding of her faith and spirituality was in this community, was in the tradition of the Anglican Church. She found it in the liturgy, in the music, and in the rituals that we experience every Sunday. Yes, we can find God outside these four walls, but she cemented her understanding and faith when she came back into the fold, to practice these century old traditions in community. 

What does this have to do with the prodigal son? Today’s gospel, the son that left had to go and live and experience this world extravagantly, outside of his community. Ultimately, he realized that what he was searching for and wanting was the community he had at home as well as the extravagant love of his father, the extravagant unbridled unconditional love that we experience in our relationship with our creator that we also get to experience when we come together in community.

We celebrate just as the father celebrated his son when he came back. Every time we come together, we celebrate and honor our traditions and our creator. We get to honor Jesus Christ for the life he lived, for His salvation, death, and resurrection. We get to take Holy Communion as we commune together and come collectively together at one table. We get to experience this unbridled love, no matter how far we might stray, no matter what we do that might not be a reflection of Jesus Christ’s actions within our hearts and Souls

It might be easy to forget that we are all God‘s children during these times. It might be easy for her to forget that we belong here as one, which means collectively in God‘s house as one nation, as we were reminded throughout the Old Testament that God is a savior of all nations.

I know personally that I have had to double down on my prayer practices this season because, Lord have mercy, I sometimes wanna stray; I sometimes wanna go out there and turn my face away from the unbridled love. We, as Episcopalians, as Christians, as Gods children, we get to invite God’s unbridled love to our lives. 

Like the prodigal son, he tries to go out and find his own way, his own path. Like the son, we hopefully get to remember to follow The Way. As Jesus asked us to do, to follow him. Follow his way of love.

We are encouraged to turn towards the sunlight of the spirit, towards our relationship with God. Wandering outward to find that inner peace with God.

Like the prodigal son, not only have we come back to the fold, but we were never lost. Sometimes I do need a reminder, a daily reprieve to remember that God’s love is infinite. And not forget that God’s love is extravagant, that our creator has brought us together as one, as the creator of All Nations. Now it’s up to us, to go forth, and show the world what extravagant love looks like not only inside these walls, but also outside these walls.

Amen.

Christina Cernansky

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

Lent 3C

            Our Gospel reading and our reading from 1 Corinthians sit uneasily next to each other. Paul writes in his letter to the Corinthians that we should be careful and faithful, lest we experience one of the catastrophes that happened to our ancestors. We should be careful lest we blaspheme and get bitten by snakes, build a golden calf to worship and be cut down. Paul is counseling us to be stay on the path, because the path is safe.

            And the words of Jesus today put a caveat on that. Terrible things happen to people, yes – but why focus on figuring out what their sins are? Are we trying to figure out what sinful thing they must have done to deserve their suffering? That’s a terrible thing to do. Were they worse than us – do we think we sit secure because, well, at least my sins aren’t that bad?

            You know how Jesus feels about judging others. When we judge others, we are focusing our attention on condemning them, not helping them. When we judge others, we leave an opening for our soul’s sense of justice to rot into vengeance and cruelty. Jesus counsels us repeatedly to be on the lookout for that temptation to judge.

            So, then, what do we do with what Paul says in 1st Corinthians?

            Maybe you struggle with how it seems like God is quick to strike down people for their misdeeds. I struggle with it, at least. Don’t do this, or you’ll get killed. Don’t do that, or God’ll get you for it. That sounds fearful and exhausting! I don’t want to end up a bad example for generations to come!

            Perhaps instead of focusing on an image of “God’ll get you for that!”, maybe we need to let ourselves think of the natural consequences for what we do; what happens as a result? When the Israelites start complaining and whining, they’re grumbling, murmuring: “This food’s terrible, I’m bored, Moses is a terrible leader, or maybe God dragged us into the desert to die.” St Benedict’s Rule points out that grumbling and murmuring are some of the most serious sins in the monastery. Grumbling and murmuring are in the top five sins that can be committed by a monk. Why is that?

            We should be grateful, sure. But Benedict’s worry isn’t that we should shut our mouths and be grateful for the pound of bread, the cooked vegetables, time daily to read, and the daily wine ration; no, Benedict worries far, far more about how the grumbling and murmuring tear at the community itself. It starts off as an annoyance at a thing, at someone’s behavior, and then it slowly escalates. Some gather together to share their grumbles, and more and more grumbling gets piled on top. Soon the grumblers decree that nothing is good, that everything is terrible, and that one person in the community is irredeemably annoying, irredeemably incompetent, irredeemably terrible. Instead of finding a solution, or finding a way to live with it, the grumbling just tears at the community’s life together.

            The message isn’t “be grateful or God’ll get ya!” but rather how grumbling and murmuring eat away at relationships.

            Paul wants us to be watchful, to be careful. “If you’re standing, make sure you don’t fall down. Everyone goes through this. Even as terrible things happen, God makes us stronger than we think, and God keeps working in us and through us.”

            But we should remember that this doesn’t mean that everything turns out all well and good in the short-term. We might not live to see it become better.

            Paul gets executed for proclaiming the faith – and still he trusted and hoped in God, and Christians throughout the ages have been fed by his preaching. He scattered seeds that took root and grew. Paul’s life was not easy – he knew grumbling and he knew persecution (both committing it and being victim to it). Paul kept moving forward in hope because God is good, and God is loving, and God can figure out something better than we can.

            So what seeds might we be scattering?

            Or, if we don’t think we scatter any seeds, perhaps because we’re not feeling particularly good about ourselves today, then maybe Jesus’ parable at the end of today’s reading is the image we need to take to heart. The gardener doesn’t scatter seeds around the tree – he scatters manure, and either it will make the tree healthier so it can grow fruit, or it’ll fertilize the soil for what comes next.

            God is faithful, God is good, and while we may not see the tree bear fruit, at least we are a blessing for the tree and a blessing for the soil. So whether we are good seeds or good …. Let us be good as God is good, and do what we can to be an example of blessing for ages to come. Amen.

The Rev. Joseph Farnes

All Saints, Boise

Lent 2C

            It wasn’t until a clergy meeting this past week that anyone had pointed out to me that Jesus calls Herod a fox, and then compares himself to a hen, and don’t foxes kill hens? Jesus is fully aware of the violence that will be inflicted upon him. He is not taken by surprise; the Pharisees who are trying to help Jesus are not telling him anything he doesn’t already know (though it is good to have examples in the Gospels of Pharisees being human and caring, instead of just being caricatured as “the bad guys”).

            My experience with hens is awfully limited, but from what I’ve seen, I don’t think a hen is just a passive, helpless creature. Hens can be affectionate – some even like being petted and held! – and they can be very protective of their chicks, too, and that protective energy can be awfully fierce. Chickens are not passive! In early medieval symbolism, chickens were symbols of military bravery because a chicken would fight against something bigger than itself. Chickens were not … chicken.

            If Jesus is comparing himself to a mother hen, what does that mean?

            Sometimes, I think, we imagine Jesus meek and mild and passive because we aren’t sure what to do with a ferocious mama hen Jesus. We aren’t sure what to do with the Jesus who can criticize Jerusalem and its leaders because what if he looks at *us* that way? What if mama hen Jesus turns to *us*, pulls down her mama hen glasses and says, “You need to knock that off and start acting right.” For some that would be intolerable. It would cause such distress that they would circle and cycle into all sorts of negative thoughts.

            If we grew up with a fear that love was conditional, then we might panic. We might start to think that Mama Hen Jesus pulling down those glasses was a sign that we were no longer loved, that we were being rejected. If we experienced deep betrayal, we might feel that suddenly the curtain was pulled back – that the love we thought we saw was a lie, and what was underneath was contempt for us.

            We bring our life experience into our relationship with God. From a psychological standpoint, our childhood view of our parents or parental figures can influence how we relate to God, and then our experiences since then can influence that, too. Do we feel secure in love – that even if we mess up, our parents, our spouse, our friends, and our Mama Hen Jesus can be mad at us and *also* still love us deeply? Or do we feel anxious, needing constant reassurance, hypervigilant for the first sign of anger? Or do feel avoidant, avoiding others because we’re not sure we’re lovable?

            And so when Mama Hen Jesus is calling out Jerusalem and the powers that be, or when Jesus is getting snippy, or when Jesus overturns tables and chases money changers and merchants out of the Temple with fiery zeal, do we find ourselves afraid? Do we start to feel distressed, panicky? We might rush to reassure ourselves, or seek reassurance from others that Jesus is only love, could never be angry, is only meek and mild and long-suffering and forgiving.

            We should pay attention to what makes us feel that inner distress, that inner panic. Maybe our inner sensors need to be recalibrated – maybe it’s time to learn that someone who loves us can also be mad at us, that mad is momentary and love is forever. Maybe it’s time to let ourselves feel complicated, even intense emotions without having to react right then – maybe it’s time to let the ripples on the surface of the pond rock the boat without us fearing that a tsunami will capsize the boat.

            It takes courage to do that. It takes courage to recognize that our inner sensors might need to be recalibrated because it means trusting that we’re going to be ok, and that our sensors will take time. It will take time to recalibrate because we can only work on that recalibration when stuff happens. It’s a moment of “oh, wait, I’m fine, I’ll pay attention to my breath.”

            We need to have that courage to be around Mama Hen Jesus’ fierce energy because we absolutely *need* Mama Hen Jesus. We need that fiery and fierce energy in our spiritual worldview.

            This past week some of you may know about the West Ada School District teacher who got in trouble for having an “Everyone is Welcome” sign in her classroom because somehow welcoming all children is “partisan” and “charged.” Well, it is sure charged – charged with Mama Hen Jesus energy! Mama Hen Jesus would 100% gather all children under those Mama Hen wings to welcome them, protect them, teach them.

            But then we need to think about that same Mama Hen Jesus energy looking at the folks who think that welcoming all children is an unacceptable message. That energy isn’t going to be felt as nice, sweet, meek and mild, now is it? That energy is going to feel very different. Those Mama Hen glasses are going to come down and it’s going to be a message of “You better knock that off and do right.”             We as Christians who read and cherish the Bible and the Gospel stories about Jesus know that the whole point of Mama Hen Jesus pulling down the glasses and speaking sternly is about getting a change of behavior. It’s not rejection, it’s not hatred, it’s not demonizing. That’s the way of the world, not the way of Jesus. No, Mama Hen Jesus wants all of us, every one of us, every one of them to knock that off and get gathered under those Mama Hen wings with all the rest of Mama Hen Jesus’ beloved little chickens.