Cat Goodrich
September 6, 2020
Faith Presbyterian Church

The Labor of Love
Matthew 18:15-20

126 years ago, there was a strike in Chicago.  Workers who built Pullman rail cars had grown weary 16-hour days and low pay, so they refused to work.  As the strike wore on, tensions rose.  After a month, the workers were joined by the powerful American Railway Union, who refused to handle Pullman cars out of solidarity.  When more than 100,000 railway workers wouldn’t connect the cars from one train to another, they essentially stopped rail travel across much of the country. 

Annual workers’ marches had been gaining popularity for more than a decade by that point, as a way to give working people a day off.  By 1894, about half of US states were observing a Labor Day, and there was pressure on Congress to make it a national holiday.  In the midst of the Pullman strike, Congress did – perhaps as a conciliatory gesture to the workers – and President Grover Cleveland signed it into law in late June of that year.  But a few days later, he sent federal troops to Chicago to quash the strike.  The workers were outraged, and after days of violent clashes, with thousands of angry people in the street, destroying hundreds of rail cars, a national guardsman opened fire on a crowd of demonstrators, killing as many as thirty people.[1] 

Labor Day has been, to me, a fun long weekend – the last hurrah of summer before school starts and fall sets in.  A chance to throw one more thing on the grill, and to eat as many ripe tomatoes as I can before they’re gone. 

But this year, I’ve been thinking about the origins of Labor Day and it’s changed how I feel about this weekend.  I’ve been thinking about the workers, many of whose names are lost to history, whose courage and commitment and collective action helped bring us things like an 8-hour work day, overtime pay, weekends, and anti-child labor laws.  Those regulations seem so basic, don’t they?  It’s hard to believe it took so much conflict and community organizing to ensure that kids weren’t allowed to work in coal mines, and that people deserved not just 8 hours to work, but also 8 hours to rest, and 8 hours for everything else.  That we had to come to blows in the street to protect people over profits.  Of course, we know this is still happening.  Everything old is new again.

The pandemic has brought to the forefront of our awareness the people who keep our economy and society running – those deemed essential workers.  Doctors and nurses, yes.  Police and EMTs and Fire fighters, of course.  But also the grocery store clerks and bus drivers, janitors and home health aides and teachers – people who often don’t make a lot of money, who may not have health insurance, whose jobs bring heightened risk of exposure.  Around 85 public school teachers and other employees of the NYC public school system died in the first wave of the virus.  More than 100 police across the country have died, making Covid the leading cause of death for officers this year.  And the United Food and Commercial Workers Union said in June that at 82 of their members, grocery store employees, had died after contracting the virus, with some 11,000 others affected.[2]

There are signs all over town thanking essential workers – I’m sure you’ve seen them, “heroes work here!”  The signs in people’s front yards thanking delivery drivers and postal workers and the garbage guys for their work to keep the economy moving.  In midtown Atlanta in April and May, and elsewhere too, people who lived around the Midtown hospital would break into applause at every shift change, cheering the exhausted nurses and technicians and cleaning staff as they left the hospital, their encouragement echoing between the tall buildings.  I don’t think they’re doing that anymore.  As the pandemic wears on, how are we continuing to show our appreciation and concern for those on the front lines?  The signs are nice, but they don’t seem like enough, with the risk involved.  I can’t help but wonder – How can we do better to love one another, to love our neighbors – especially in the time of Covid?

Reading these texts about conflict resolution, and hearing again the call to love one another this Labor Day weekend, it’s clear that these are not new questions.  Matthew’s community must have struggled with interpersonal conflict – hence this advice for how to navigate it within the church.  And they certainly came up against political and religious conflict as people living in an occupied land, and as Christ-believers in a largely Jewish religious landscape.  Jesus calls his followers to have courage in facing conflict – to engage with one another directly, speaking up when they feel they have been wronged, or if they see someone going astray.  And he describes an expansive, extensive process of engagement and open conversation to hold people accountable for their actions, and, if necessary, to invite repentance and change.  If we love one another, we must be willing to talk with each other and tell the truth.  Easier said than done, I know.

It reminds me of Paul’s words to the church in Corinth, so often read at weddings: “love is patient, love is kind, love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth.”

At a wedding, I’ve got to be honest, I often hear these words as domesticated and saccharine, but they aren’t.  And I think we could we go on to say, sometimes, love hurts…  We who are feeling the loss of loved ones, Jay and Carol and Maceo this past week, know this to be true.  Anyone who has had children or been part of a family can tell you that sometimes, love is hard.  Anyone who has walked alongside a beloved partner or friend through the pain of cancer treatment, or the fog of memory loss can testify that love can be very, very hard.  Loving one another takes effort, it takes time and energy.  It takes a willingness to be in hard times and places together, to confront one another and tell the truth. 

I have a pastor friend who talks about this when people join his church.  He tells them, don’t join if you think we’re going to be perfect.  We are not.  There will be conflict.  At some point, we will probably disappoint you.  But if you are willing to be a part of this church family – to show up and be engaged, to love one another despite our faults and shortcomings, to hold each other accountable and seek reconciliation when things have gone wrong, and to help make sure we get it right next time, then come.  Be part of this!  We will welcome you and love you!  We will support each other and hold each other accountable for what we profess to believe!  We will be the church together!

We live in such divided times, with our communities and even our families fractured along political fault lines.  The echo chamber of the internet has led us to such a painfully polarized place.  In the leadup to the last Presidential election, in 2015 and 2016, I remember hearing more and more of my parishioners struggle with how to handle political disagreements with friends and family members, particularly on social media.  After a close friend picked a fight with a family member on her facebook wall, one woman said, “I just don’t know what to do!  Should I confront her?  Unfriend her?  Or just let it go?  What she said really hurt me.”  I wish I knew to how to make navigating these painful disagreements easier.  If we take Jesus’ advice, we will speak the truth in love directly – offline—with those with whom we disagree.  We will do it one-on-one, and we will do it as church leaders, and if needed we will take it to the streets. 

If that person refuses to listen, “Let that person be to you as a Gentile or a tax collector” Jesus says – which doesn’t mean someone we ignore or ostracize.  Jesus spent part of his ministry reaching out to and engaging and eating with Gentiles and tax collectors!  I think this means that we are called into the fray, as individuals and as a community of faith, to love our neighbors by seeking to mend and repair, reconcile and heal the fractures that divide us.

And the testimony of scripture is that when we seek reconciliation, God’s power will be at work in and through us, making the impossible possible. 

Love takes courage, and it takes hard work.  I thank God it is work we get to do, together.

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[1] McKeever, Amy, “Labor Day’s surprisingly radical origins” National Geographic, 9/4/20, https://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/reference/holidays/history-labor-day/#close

[2] Redman, Russell, “UFCW: Over 11,500 grocery workers affected in first 100 days of pandemic,” Supermarket News, 6/26/20, supermarketnews.com.

Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church
August 23, 2020

Keys to the Kin-dom[1]
Matthew 16:13-20

The last church I served had a sexton named Kandi.  She was often the first person to greet you if you came in the back door, and she loved to ham it up for visitors.  “Welcome to First Presbyterian Church,” she’d say, “a home in the heart of the city.”  She was the longest serving member of staff by a long shot, having worked there for almost 20 years.  Kandi knew the building inside and out, like the back of her hand – and if you needed to find something, you only had to ask.  She wore black Chuck Taylor All-Stars and usually some kind of Alabama paraphernalia, and you could always hear her coming – because of her keys!  Kandi had every key to every door in the church on a big round keychain she kept attached to her belt, and every step would jangle.  Somehow, whenever a door needed to be opened, she would be able to find the right key … most of the time.  Still, there were plenty of unmarked, unclaimed, anonymous mystery keys – cups of them on her desk, a handful in mine, a box in our administrator’s office.  Keychains full.

It wasn’t a surprise, then, when I arrived at Faith and Diane handed me an enormous set of keys.  It felt right!  Churches have a lot of doors, a lot of locks!  We need a lot of keys!  But even then, I was not prepared for all of these, or these.  “We have a labelled keybox,” Mike Shirey said… oh my.  My favorite part is the layer of unlabeled keys on the bottom.  There’s a handful of unmarked keys in my new desk, and a large number of mystery keys on the keychain – big keys and tiny ones, brass and silver, some shiny, others worn, some labelled, others… I separated the few I thought I’d need and stashed the others, not ready to jingle down the hallway trying all the keys in each lock I come to.  I’ll figure them all out eventually!

These keys tell a story.  They tell of a church that is deeply loved, and cared for by people who want to protect it, keep the sacred space safe for we who gather here.  They also tell us a little something about those who’ve gone before…and the different iterations of community that have worshipped together in Faith.

But to me, these keys also remind me about how empty the building feels this morning, when it should be bustling with all of you lovely people.  Smelling like coffee and fresh flowers and candlewax!  These keys remind me how much we have invested in our physical space: how much time, energy, and resources we put into our church buildings – and how unusual this time is that we cannot safely gather here.  It’s a place you all have worked so hard to make beautiful, and keep secure.  It’s church.  And yet, it’s locked up tight.  The pandemic has shifted our understanding of so much – how and where we work, how we learn, how we connect with friends and family, how we grieve, and also how we worship.  It’s enough to make me wonder, who are we, as individuals and as a church, when we cannot gather?

The gospels often deal with the question of identity – who was Jesus?  Who were those who followed him?  How was he the anointed one, and who came before him to make him so?  What difference does it make for us, for we who want to follow him now?  Our passage this morning is a prime example:

When Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” They say, a prophet, reincarnated – John the Baptist. Elijah, Jeremiah.  They get part of it, part of who he is… he did come to teach and to transform and to call for justice.  But that isn’t all.  “who do you say that I am?”  he asks.  And only Peter gets it right.  Peter!  We should all take some comfort in this.  Peter was far from perfect.  The last time we saw him, he was so burdened by doubt, he sank into the sea.  And we know where Peter’s story leads, to denial, and fear, and abandonment.  Yet somehow, Peter gets this right!  There’s hope for us yet.  Peter calls Jesus the Messiah, the son of the Living God, and Jesus rewards him by saying, Peter, You are a Rock and on you I will build my church.

This is the first of only two references to church in all of the gospels.  The word is ekklesia, and may be more accurately translated as “assembly” – those who have been assembled or called by God into community.  And it is always a good reminder for me, as a professional Christian, to note that Jesus does not say – on you, Peter, I will build my church and worship will be on Sunday mornings around 11 o’clock, and the sermon will be no more than 20 minutes, and the pews will be wooden, and the music will be played on an organ and it will be spectacular.  None of that.  Jesus was an itinerant preacher; he built a movement of people who literally followed him from place to place.  Church, of course, came after.  And before it was parapets and pews and pianos, it was people.

The pandemic has truly hit home what we probably knew all along, what we affirmed with our wise young ones this morning – That church is not the building.  Church is the people, it’s you and me, Mike and Mercy and Melvin and Maddie and Marilyn and everyone else here too.  The community of the faithful, we who walk together, seeking to follow Christ and love one another.  Seeking justice.  Building peace.  Honoring God.

Jesus says to Peter, “I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.”  I know Jesus didn’t hand Peter a keyring like this one when he promised him the keys to the kingdom of heaven.  (don’t you wish he had, though?). It’s an apt metaphor: keys do lead to freedom… the freedom to come and go as you please, to open any door and close it again.  Keys can make you safe and secure… the feeling of checking to make sure the front door is locked before heading to bed for the night.  Keys can also liberate.  The feeling of your parents’ car keys in your hand as you head out the door, to meet friends, or even just to drive, windows open, wind in your hair, music blaring.  Freedom!  The keys to your very own apartment.  The feeling of turning the key in the lock of a business you built, and opening the door for the very first time.  Such possibility!

Of course, sometimes keys mean freedom, sometimes they don’t.  As easily as keys can set us free, and they can also shut us in.  Anyone who has been locked up or visited a prison can remember the sound the soul crushing clang and buzz of a gate being open or shut – the scrape of a metal key in a lock.

Keys aren’t so liberating if you’re the one who is locked in or out.  And the keys to my first apartment felt different than the keys to the first home I owned… since the housekeys came with a list of payments going out thirty years into the future.  Freedom, but with a cost.

The keys to the kingdom?  What did he mean?

Eric Barreto points out that when Jesus asks, “who do you say that I am?” he not only looking for a confession of faith.[2]  He’s also seeking to shape the community that will follow in particular ways.  Who Christ is forms who they are, and hopefully will inform what they do.  So when he offers the keys to the kingdom and the power to bind and to free, he is calling those who will follow him to continue his work: to heal and to cast out demons, and to share the gracious and liberating love of God.  The assembly of God’s people will bind up the world’s death dealing powers by the power of love in Christ, forgiving and freeing people from the burdens they bear.

And again and again, it happens!  Words of forgiveness and grace at the font unlock the burden of guilt and free us to live as whole, loved, forgiven people week after week.  Across the country, the church is at work to liberate and set free: In a presbytery in Idaho last year, churches pooled their resources to buy and forgive more than $1 million of crushing medical debt in their state.[3]  In St. Louis, those who attended GA two years ago gave almost $50,000 to pay bail and release folks from the local jail.  Through addiction and recovery programs, by advocating for refugees and asylum seekers, by proclaiming God’s life-giving love for all and embodying that love around an ever-expanding table – the people of God are working for liberation.

Everywhere we look, there is another person bound up by the death-dealing powers of the world.  Mass incarceration.  Grief.  Debt.  Fear.  Poverty.  Shame.  Addiction.  So much that needs unlocking.  It’s a good thing we have a lot of keys.

[1] Ada-Maria Isasi-Diaz is a Cuban-American theologian who coined the term, “the kin-dom of God.”  As a feminist and Latina, she rejected the oppressive hierarchy of a kingdom, and instead painted a vision of the family of God – the kin-dom – where we witness and are agents of God’s liberating work in and through our love for one another.

[2] Barreto, Eric, “Commentary on Matthew 16:13-20,” Preach this Week 8/24/14, from workingpreacher.org, http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2162

[3] Ferguson, Mike, “With a nod to John Oliver, churches are wiping the slate clean statewide,” Presbyterian News Service, 11/4/19,  https://www.presbyterianmission.org/story/church-presbytery-raise-money-to-wipe-out-medical-debt/

Rev. Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church
August 16, 2020

Canaanite Lives Matter
Matthew 15: 21-28

When I was pregnant with Maddie, I read everything I could find about what was happening to my body. It was hard to comprehend the changes both inside and out As my belly swelled and my bones shifted and it became a bit difficult to breathe I felt like a stranger in my own body some days. As the baby grew, books would inexplicably compare her size to progressively larger pieces of fruit…first a blueberry then a grape, then a grapefruit and a cantaloupe. I prepared for childbirth like I was studying for an exam. I took classes.  I did yoga.  Read books.  Hired a doula.  Talked to friends, my mother, my sister. As if having as much information as possible about what might happen would give me some control over the situation, which was, of course, impossible. But I read and I stretched and I practiced breathing and visualization trying to trust that my body knew what needed to happen and hoping that all would be well.

Something my sister told me, something that ended up being a guidepost for me through many, many hours of labor, was to expect there to be a point where I didn’t think I could go on. A time when I would be sick, and tired, and feel like the pain was too much, like I couldn’t do it anymore. That’s called transition, she said.  And that’s when you know you’re close. Just breathe. And then push.

I’ve been thinking about labor, about the work it takes to bring new life into the world, Because in this passage, this unbelievable exchange between Jesus and the Canaanite woman, Where she runs after him, screaming in the street, and he ignores her and then insults her and then… heals her daughter that word, the one translated “shouting” can also mean crying out, shrieking – and the one other time it’s used in the Bible, it means groaning with labor pains.

This Canaanite woman, she is crying out for help for her beloved child, but I have to wonder – is she also birthing something new as she challenges Jesus?

Can you see her?  The sweat on her brow, the pain etched in her face, hair wild with worry, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath and cry out.  Jesus and the disciples, they don’t know what to do with her, so they don’t want anything to do with her.  They are Jewish men, they shouldn’t be speaking with a Gentile woman in the street anyway, so they ignore her.  Hope maybe she’ll just go away.

But you can’t ignore contractions.  When the time comes, it comes.  And suddenly there she is, kneeling in front of him.  Sparring with him.  Pushing him to care.  To expand his sense of compassion.  To extend the table to include everyone.  To include her family.  To include her.

I’ve got to be honest.  This exchange is on a short list of things I wish Jesus had never said.  Their interaction rankles me, it provokes me.  It makes me want to say, “O no he didn’t…” The dogs, Jesus?  Really?!

Biblical scholars have tied themselves in knots trying to explain or justify why Jesus may have said this.  Was he testing her?  Was he being playful?  If he was testing or teasing, I don’t have much patience for it.  “Gentile dogs” was a pretty common slur in Jesus’ day.  And I’m guessing the woman didn’t appreciate being called that.  But her daughter was sick.  And what parent wouldn’t do whatever it took to seek healing for their child?  Risk humiliation?  It’s worth it, if the girl is healed.  But why does Jesus respond to her like this?!

I think Jesus was just being human.  He was tired!  He was travelling, in an unfamiliar place, toward the Greek cities of Tyre and Sidon.  These were coastal cities, just south of modern-day Beirut, in case you’re wondering, where that horrible explosion happened two weeks ago.  Remember Jesus had been up all night praying a few days prior, then instead of resting in the boat as his disciples crossed the Sea of Galilee, he was out walking on the water. Then they walked, northwest, with crowds following him, trying to touch his cloak, desperate for healing. Jesus was tired and worn out and had a moment that was all too human – the woman screamed out to him, and he snapped.

Have you ever said something and instantly regretted it?  Maybe that’s what happened.  But whatever the reason for his rudeness, he’s not off the hook.  Recent reckonings on racism and sexual harassment have taught us that regardless of your good intentions, what you actually do or say is what matters. And comparing this woman to a dog is a hurtful, harmful statement.  Jesus’ bias is showing, big time.

This is an interesting moment to be reading this text.  The outcry in the streets over the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and so many others, is building power to create real change – in some unexpected places. News outlets and nonprofits, colleges and universities, are being to be called to account for systemic biases that devalue and make life and work more difficult for BIPOC: from Bon Appetit magazine[1] to Jim Wallis and Sojourners[2] and my own alma mater, Austin College.

The sands are shifting – Organizations are being reorganized, recreated, maybe even reborn.  I wonder, where is the church in this?  Where is the company you work for, your family?  Are we listening to the multitude who are crying out?  And like the Canaanite woman, are we lending our voices to fight for healing for those whom we love?  Do we have the courage to demand change for a more equitable, just, and loving world?  Do we have the persistence to push for it?

When the Canaanite woman challenges Jesus, he doesn’t walk away.  He doesn’t double down and insult her again, or again say he came to save only Jewish people.  He finally hears her.  He is convicted by her.  And he changes his mind.  He heals her daughter.

The capacity to change is a gift from God.  The ability to learn from our mistakes, to change our minds, to admit when we are wrong, and to try to do better – these are part of being human.  One of the qualities historically ascribed to God is immutability – God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  The theory goes that if God is perfect, then why would God ever need to change?  But maybe one of the gifts of the incarnation is that God does change – God is changed, in relationship with us, just as we are changed in relationship with one another and with God.  Maybe that’s exactly what happens here – Jesus, fully human, fully God, realizes the extent of God’s love for the world –love that includes all people, no matter where they’re from, no matter who they love, no matter what they look like or the language they speak or what they believe or doubt.  God’s love that extends even to a Canaanite woman who is brave enough to challenge him, persistent enough to point out his biases, and demand that he change.

Maybe you can identify with Jesus in this story – either you have unexamined biases, or you are held back in some way by your sense of propriety or even fear.   Maybe you are just worn out and have said something you shouldn’t have.  It’s easy enough to do in this stressful pandemic time, people are so very tense, worried, stretched to the breaking point, ready to snap.

Maybe you are like the woman, so desperate for healing that you are willing to confront God herself to beg for a miracle.  Maybe you are so sick and tired of the lines that have been drawn around who is in and who is out that you dream of a place where everyone is welcome.  A world where there is enough for all, more than enough for children and especially for dogs.

Maybe you can identify with the disciples who don’t want to hear any of it.

The good news for all of us is that wherever we find ourselves in this story, there’s hope for us yet.  No matter how we might try to box it in, God’s power will not be contained.  God’s power would not be constrained by Jesus’ cultural bias.  It wasn’t held back by his sense of propriety; it wasn’t stopped by his exhaustion or even by his short temper or hurtful words. Despite all of this, God’s power healed the girl and changed Jesus’s understanding of who was welcome in God’s kingdom.  So we, too, can have hope that through us — sometimes despite us – despite our short tempers, or hidden bias, or hurtful words, God is at work – to heal and to mend, to reconcile and make new.

It can be hard to trust that this is true.  When your daughter, your son, your family and friends are the ones suffering.  When another unarmed black man was killed at a routine traffic stop in Georgia last week,[3] when the fires of racism continue to be fanned by people in power, when the pandemic still rages on, and even US Postal workers become key players in ensuring people have a right to vote… it is no wonder if we feel exhausted by it all, like the pain is too much, like we can’t do it anymore.  We can’t go on.  Everything feels so heavy, so dark.

That’s called transition, my sister said.  And that’s when you know you’re close.  Just breathe.  And then push.

Valerie Kaur is a Sikh activist who founded the Revolutionary Love Project.  She’s a human rights lawyer, a documentary filmmaker, an activist, and a mother who has been working to challenge injustice and build compassion in response to the unprecedented rise in hate crimes motivated by race and religion in our country since 9/11.  Kaur wonders what “if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb? What if our future is not dead, but still waiting to be born? What if this is our great transition? Remember the wisdom of the midwife. [Breathe and push].”[4]

The good news of the gospel is this… something new is waiting to be born in and through each one of us.  A table that is big and long enough for all of us.  A circle that is wide and unbroken.  A home where all are welcomed and valued.

So let’s breathe deep.  Trust that our bodies know what to do.  And then let’s keep pushing, together.

[1] Pashman, Dan, “A Reckoning at Bon Appetit,” on the Sporkful podcast, June 13, 2020, http://www.sporkful.com/a-reckoning-at-bon-appetit/

[2] Khan, Aysha, “Jim Wallace replaced as Sojourners editor after controversy over article on Catholic racism,” Religion News Service, 8/14/20, https://religionnews.com/2020/08/14/sojourners-jim-wallis-editor-sandi-villarreal-catholic-white-racist-editorial-independence-policy/

[3] Waller, Allyson, “Georgia Trooper is Charged in Fatal Shooting of Black Driver,” 8/15/20, The New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/08/15/us/georgia-state-trooper-charged-murder.html?auth=login-email&login=email

[4] Kaur, Valerie, “3 Lessons of Revolutionary Love in a Time of Rage,” talk given at TEDWomen 2017, https://www.ted.com/talks/valarie_kaur_3_lessons_of_revolutionary_love_in_a_time_of_rage/transcript

Rev. Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore
August 9, 2020

Deep Water
Matthew 14:22-33

On our trip to Maine a few weeks ago, we spent a blustery morning at Reid State Park – a gorgeous spit of land with miles of sandy beaches, along with rocky coastline for climbing and scrambling over, and tidal pools to splash through.  It was grey and windy, with threatening clouds overhead.  As we walked along the beach, bundled against the wind and rain, I watched a big catamaran with three sails make its way across the horizon.  It was moving swiftly, sails flapping, completely tossed about by the waves.  “Goodness,” I said, “I feel sorry for them!  I hope they make it back to shore safely!”  Dary shook his head and waved at the sea – “This?” he said, “This is nothing!  They’ve probably seen much, much worse.  Boats sail through rough seas all the time.”

 

I didn’t grow up around boats.  In North Louisiana where I grew up, boats were a novelty to me – canoes at summer camp, or swimming off a friend’s party barge in Cross Lake or Lake Bisteneau, the water as warm and dark as coffee thanks to the cypress trees.  Not Dary.  To him, boats were a way of life – his grandfather was a naval engineer, a ship builder, so Dary grew up visiting his grandpa at the shipyard at Bath Iron Works and sailing around Casco Bay with his family.  Growing up around boats, he knew – sailors, lobstermen, fisherfolk – they’re used to storms.  Getting tossed about by waves and wind is just part of life on the water.  They need to take weather seriously, be prepared for it, but they wouldn’t let it stop them.

 

Which brings me to this strange story about a boat of windswept disciples and Jesus walking on water.  The disciples were fishermen!  They should’ve been fine in a storm – being tossed about by waves and buffeted by wind – that was all in a day’s work!  No big deal.  And wind storms are common on the Sea of Galilee – they’re part of the normal weather pattern for that region.[1]  So why does Jesus come to them?

 

Are they in danger?  Does he come to calm the storm?  If the disciples are seasoned fisherfolk, accustomed to the dangers of a windy night on the water, what is Jesus doing?  He has fed the crowds with just five loaves and two fish.  He sends the disciples onto the boat, to cross the Sea of Galilee while he goes up the mountain to pray.  After a windy night, straining at the oars, the weary crew sees something out on the water – the figure of a man, walking.  But that’s impossible!  “is it a ghost?” they wonder.

 

In Mark’s version of this story, it looks as if Jesus is going to pass by the disciples completely – until the disciples call out to him.  In this way, it evokes the Old Testament passage that Ted read, one of my favorites, with Elijah in the mouth of the cave, waiting for God to pass by.  The prophet finds that God comes not in the storm, not in the wind, not in the fire, but in the silence.  As a still small voice.

 

Not so here.  Jesus comes to the disciples right in the thick of the storm.  I wonder if it’s because he knew that more storms were coming.  He knew the disciples wouldn’t have the luxury of waiting for silence to encounter God.  They didn’t have time to wait for the wind to die down, for the waves to stop crashing over the side of the boat.  There was work to be done! They needed to cross over the sea, to get to Gennesseret and the people who needed healing there. He knew they would have to face relentless waves of rejection and suffering, the jeers of the crowd and the condemnation of the priests, the scorn of Herod and Pilate.  And maybe even more than that, he knew the winds would keep blowing, the storms would keep coming – the winds of poverty and oppression, all the storms that beset faithful people living in an occupied land, all the fears that drive us apart.

 

See, the life of faith doesn’t stay safe on the shore.  Often, it leads us to crowds of hungry people, and into the deep, stormy waters of the struggle for justice, and into the long night watch of working for peace. All of it can feel like rough, uncharted sea.

 

One of the early Christian symbols was a boat – and it makes sense!  The first Christ-believing communities saw themselves as pockets of safety surrounded by threatening forces beyond their control.  The work of their house churches was to spread the good news and transport souls to salvation.  You may know that the formal term for the part of the sanctuary where the congregation sits is the nave – a word which has its roots in the Latin word navis, or ship.  Many beautiful old cathedrals and basilicas even have vaulted ceilings over the nave, that look like an overturned boat.  It’s an apt description!

 

So the waves are crashing against the side of the boat, the wind is blowing, the disciples are terrified, and Christ calls out, “Take heart!  It’s me! Don’t be afraid!” Every time an angel or an agent of God shows up in the Bible, they say, don’t be afraid… which makes me think being in the presence of God must be terrifying.  Makes sense to me that the rest of the disciples seem to hunker down in the boat with their life jackets on.  But Peter – Peter, Petros, the rock, risks stepping out of the boat!  He tries to join Jesus out on the water.

 

As soon as he’s out there, he realizes it’s not a good idea.  The wind is too strong, the waves too high.  What do rocks do?  They sink!

 

As Peter’s faith wavers, he cries out, and Christ reaches out to save him.  Somehow, together, they get into the boat.  Terror gives way to awe and amazement, and the disciples fall down to worship.  “Truly, you are the Son of God,” they say.

 

This year has felt like being tossed in a stormy sea, hasn’t it?  The waves have battered our boats relentlessly: waves of sickness and despair, uncertainty and anxiety, waves of anger and frustration.  I keep thinking about the poem by Stevie Smith, called “not waving but drowning” – there are a lot of folks who are in over their heads, who have grown weary fighting the waves and are overwhelmed.  Some are overwhelmed by loneliness, especially those who are made vulnerable by age or pre-existing conditions and must stay separated from friends and family.  Those who have lost jobs are weary, beset with worry about how to make ends meet, while congress is mired in debate. Those who have children are wondering how they’ll make it through another semester of working full-time without childcare or school.  Too many people are out way too far, not waving but drowning.  So what are we to do?

 

Everything points to staying in the boat.  It’s safer there, sure.  We know the boat.  There’s something to cling to.  But storms are a part of life. They can be dangerous but they also clear the air, refresh the earth, and if this story tells us anything, it’s that Christ meets us in the midst of them, saying Do not be afraid!

 

I’m still getting to know you all, but I *think* you are a little like Peter.  You seem to me like the kind of folks who are willing to step out of the boat, to take risks even when it’s scary.  To go beyond and outside the safety of your building, to wade into the deep water of listening to each other, of engaging your neighbors and trying to build bridges in a fractured community.  To stand together to face the winds of poverty and racism and sexism and discrimination with confidence that you do not stand alone.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  We aren’t called to be reckless, ignoring the weather report and leaping from the boat without first bolstering our faith and learning how to swim.  We need to take weather seriously, be prepared for it, and not let the storms stop us.  Because storms will come.  But when the waves are high, and our spirits are low, and our faith wavers – that is when he finds us, saying “Take heart!  I am here!  Do not be afraid!”

 

Seamus Heaney’s epitaph reads, Walk on air, against your better judgment.  It’s good advice!  I promise you that I cannot walk on water.  But I trust in the one who calls us to step out of the boat.  And I wonder what amazing things might happen when we find the faith to take that step together!  Thanks be to God.

 

 

 

[1] Karoline Lewis, “When We Can’t Walk on Water,” Preaching This Week, www.workingpreacher.com, 8/3/2014.

Rev. Cat Goodrich
Faith Presbyterian Church, Baltimore
August 2, 2020

Enough for Everyone
Matthew 14:13-21

The first meal I had in Mexico … the first meal that I remember anyway… was pozole, a hot chicken soup with hominy, bright with lime juice, spiced with chile and cilantro, and topped with creamy avocado.

I ate it, steaming, out of a bright blue plastic bowl, on a folding table, with a stack of tortillas kept warm in a dish towel nearby.  All around me, church folk were chattering – laughing and talking, greeting everyone who came through the door.  At the time, I didn’t understand much of what they were saying, but the sentiment – warm hugs and handshakes of welcome, the women scurrying about making sure everyone had enough to eat, kids running between tables making a ruckus, people passing bowls of soup and stacks of tortillas, laughing and joking and talking together… it was church.  Hospitality and welcome shared through food passed around the table.  Even though I was a stranger, who didn’t yet speak the language, I knew that somehow, I was home.

My first meal with my husband was a plate of mediocre pasta at Kramerbooks in DC… if you don’t count the pitcher of Guinness we shared a few days prior.  The meal didn’t matter.  The company was perfect.  My first meal with my church in Birmingham was a classic church potluck, complete with fried chicken, a few unidentifiable casseroles, three bean salad, deviled eggs, and homemade brownies.   With the PNC, our first meal started with an appetizer of onion rings, carefully fried by Peter Burger, eaten hot and crispy while standing in the kitchen together at Paula’s house.  I’m sure if you think about it, you can recall a few memorable first meals of your own.

Eating is what we do together.  Sharing food around a table, or a picnic spread out on the grass, is a central way that humans form and strengthen relationships, build community, and nourish our bodies and our spirits.  Feeding each other is one way we show we care.

So it is exceptionally strange that as we begin this adventure of being church together, we won’t be sharing a meal anytime soon.  I wish that things were different, that we all had made our way to church this morning with casseroles and cakes tightly wrapped, ready to be shared around tables downstairs after worship.

See, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.  Breakfast was a while ago, but not just that.

I’m hungry for community, for this community.  To get to know you all, to spend time with you around a table.  To know who prefers sweet tea, and who makes the best biscuits, using their mama’s recipe and a cast iron pan.  I want to brush elbows as we pass plates from hand to hand, to laugh and joke and talk together while kids run between the tables.

Are you hungry, too?  The news has been so achingly bad, so painfully sad, heartbreaking and rage-making for so long: case numbers surging across the country,
Sickness spreading like wildfire through retirement homes and summer camps, prisons and detention centers…
black and brown fox affected and dying from the virus at higher rates, not to mention at the hands of police and racist vigilantes,
federal agents snatching activists off the streets in unmarked vans, throwing tear gas to disperse peaceful protests,
in the past two weeks, the deaths of civil rights leaders Rev. C.T. Vivian and congressman John Lewis, and on Friday, the Rev. Steve Montgomery – a recently retired Presbyterian pastor in Memphis who was a champion of interfaith community building and social justice.

It’s too much.  Overwhelming doesn’t begin to cover it.  And some days it may feel like there’s not much we can do about any of it.

Some days we may feel like the disciples … there are too many hungry people!  We don’t have anything to give them, send them away, so they can go into the villages and buy something to eat.

But Jesus still says – You give them something to eat.  You give them something to eat.

Something you may already know about me is that I’m a mom. Dary and I have two daughters, Madeline, who goes by Maddie, and Gillian.  They’re 6 and 3.  Being a mom means that I can never leave the house empty handed.  We always bring a bag with us for parenting emergencies – a blue backpack with a change of clothes for both girls, a first aid kit, wipes, hand sanitizer, masks, water, and snacks – lots of snacks.  I like to travel heavily snacked.  My children expect this of me now so that at this point, it’s almost Pavlovian – as soon as we get in the car, they ask: can I have a snack?  Even when I’m on my own, I seldom leave the house without a bottle of water and a bag of almonds, or an apple, or a granola bar, because you never know…

So it is astonishing to me that a crowd of people, more than 5000 strong, would find themselves in the wilderness with nothing to eat.  More than 5000 people, grumbling, restless, excited to see Jesus but probably getting a little bit hangry.  How could this happen?  Was Jesus such an incredible teacher and healer, they stayed with him far longer than they intended when they left home that morning?  Did they get lost, or just lose track of time?

We will never know what miracle transpired that day.  Whatever happened, it was important enough for each of the gospel writers to include this story in their account of the life of Jesus — Matthew and Mark include it more than once.  This story was an essential part of the early church’s identity.  See, it shows us what the kingdom of God is like, especially in contrast to the rule of Rome.  This becomes obvious when we look at the story in context – in Matthew’s gospel, the story of the beheading of John the Baptist comes right before this one.  In case you don’t remember, King Herod has a birthday party and promises his daughter whatever she wants because she danced so well for him.  She requests the head of John the Baptist on a platter, and he gives it to her.  The senseless violence of the empire is on full display.

Contrast that with the feast in our story this morning: a simple meal of bread and fish spread out on the grass.  A meal where Jesus hosts, everyone is welcome, and there is more than enough food for all who are hungry.  In this meal, we glimpse the kingdom, where God’s power can make something out of nothing.  By juxtaposing these two stories, Matthew tells us: the world may be ruled by death-dealing powers, but God’s power gives life: healing, nourishment, and community.

For most of those hungry people out in the wilderness, it was probably their first meal with Jesus.  Can you imagine what it must have been like?  As people begin to grumble and become restless, Jesus tells the disciples, “You give them something to eat.”  “But we have nothing!  Nothing but five loaves and two fish,” they say.  “Nothing?” Jesus says, “I can work with that!”

This is my favorite part of this story.  Jesus doesn’t perform the miracle while the disciples watch.  He works with them and through them, charging and challenging them to find food and distribute it – YOU give them something to eat.

So, moving through the crowd, the disciples draw people into circles and seat them on the grass.  Suddenly, the hangry crowd becomes community:  Looking at each other, talking together, getting to know one another as they sit and watch the sunset.  As Jesus takes bread, gives thanks for it, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them, maybe those who did bring some snacks for the road are inspired to share with their neighbors.  Maybe as the baskets are passed hand-to-hand around the circle, someone takes less than they otherwise would have, so that there would be enough to feed the kids running around, making a ruckus.  As one commentator observed, maybe the miracle of this story has less to do with Jesus multiplying loaves and fish, and more to do with what happens to us in his presence: we’re inspired to love and care for one another.[1]  To share what we have.  To wear a mask and stay socially distanced.  And when we love and care for one another – we find the reign of God, the kin-dom of God among us!

At the beginning of July, the city of Prague in the Czech Republic ended months of lockdown.  To celebrate, the city had a feast.[2]  They made one extremely long table out in the streets, stretching far out in either direction, set with tablecloths and candles and bottles of wine.  Everyone brought something to share, and friends and neighbors and strangers all sat down together.  As the sun set, they shared a meal and toasted their city’s recovery.

I don’t know how wise it was for them to have a feast together so soon after lockdown – someone can check Johns Hopkins’ numbers and report back.  But it sounds incredible doesn’t it?  A community feast!

Friends, we are all hungry.  Hungry for community, for family we haven’t been able to see in months, hungry for real, live, in-person church.  I know we are.  There are hungry people all around.  People are hungry for food, they’re hungry for meaning, they’re hungry for work, hungry for healing, for an end to this pandemic, hungry for care, for justice, for an encounter with the mystery and wonder of God.

Yes, it can be overwhelming.  It may feel like we aren’t cut out for this.  But remember: God has no hands but our own.  And if we offer what we can, even if it feels inadequate, God will do great things through us.

We are about to celebrate communion.  I hate that we are not all together here in the sanctuary, coming forward one by one to share the bread and the cup and feast together at this table for the first time.  But if you look closely, you’ll see that this table stretches out in all directions, from here to wherever you are, right there in your living room, your front porch, your kitchen.  And the Spirit is here, blowing through this place, working through the miracle of technology to knit us together as one body, one community, one church, no matter how far apart we are.  Thanks be to God.

[1] Salmon, Marilyn, “Commentary on Matthew 14:13-21” Preach this Week, August 3, 2008,  http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=118

[2] Picheta, Rob, “Prague celebrates end of coronavirus lockdown with mass dinner party at 1,600 ft table,” CNN travel, 7/1/20, https://www.cnn.com/travel/article/czech-public-dinner-lockdown-scli-intl/index.html