As some of you know, I grew up in a fundamentalist church in small town Texas. For the first twelve years of my life, my family were members of the Pruett and Lobit Street Church of Christ. Churches of Christ often name themselves after the street they are on, that being about the plainest and least liturgical way they can conceive of naming themselves. South Main Church of Christ; Missouri Street Church of Christ.
It has not been a quiet week. Not in the nation or the world, and not in my own heart and mind—perhaps you have felt that way as well.
First there was the news on Monday that the grand jury in Missouri would not indict the officer who shot and killed Michael Brown, and announcement that was predictably followed by riots, protests, and demonstrations.
Today marks the beginning of the season of nostalgia. This is not an official season, of course: you will not find it on any calendar, or in any table of liturgical observances. But it is a noticeable period that is characterized by a pervasive and unrelenting longing for things as they “used to be.”
Imagine, if you will, looking upon a married couple whose child has just died. To lose a child, they say, is one of the hardest things a human being can suffer, so your sympathy naturally goes out to the couple. You feel regret for their loss, a sympathy for their grief. But your sympathy is not the same as their grief: you can feel for them, but not entirely with them, for their loss is uniquely their own.
“Tell those who have been invited: ‘Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet.’”
In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
I don’t suppose I will be going out too far on a limb when I guess that for many of you our Gospel passage is your favorite Bible story. “Yes, Matthew, my mother used to tell me this story of the king killing the people and sacking their cities when I was a small child.” Or, “yes, Fr. Larsen, I too, like the king in the parable, have a highly developed sense of haberdashery and fashion propriety. Many times have I wanted to throw someone out of my party for improper attire. The courage of the king to do just that! Wow!”
On my first Holy Week as an Episcopalian, I remember coming to that somber moment when we chant Psalm 22. We used the Coverdale Version, which says, “Lord, save us from the unicorns!” This distracted my worship. I giggled as I thought to myself, “Check! God already addressed that request already—by not making them!”
Do you believe in unicorns? In griffins? How about in angels?
“May I never boast in anything except the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.”
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Today we observe the Feast of the Holy Cross. As long as I can remember, my family has celebrated this feast day, not because they know the feat but because it falls on September 14th each year, which happens to be my birthday.
Up the hill at Yale Divinity School, there is a framed drawing hanging outside the dean’s office of the Rev. Scot Sloan from Garry Trudeau’s well-known Doonesbury cartoon. Sloan was, of course, based on William Sloan Coffin, the fiery outspoken university chaplain of the 1960s and 70s, and in this drawing he is shown walking outside the Sterling Divinity Quadrangle.
Scrawled across the drawing of Sloan, in William Coffin’s own handwriting, are the words, “Lots of hope! – Bill”