Keep On

Sermon

There is an old Chinese proverb which teaches us that you cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair. I think that sort of sums up what Paul is saying in these verses from the last chapter of his letter to the Philippians.

Of course Paul did not know this proverb unless there really is a multiverse that can bend time and space. Paul did not know this particular Confucian wisdom, but he had plenty of his own wisdom to share, especially about how to live in joy amid the sorrows of life.

Sometimes it does seem that Paul was a bit oblivious to the depth of sorrows in life, what with commending us to rejoice in the Lord always, and not to be anxious about anything.

Paul, could you not foresee that intractable conflict in the lands where Jesus lived and walked and taught? Could you not imagine the horrific weapons and warfare we would create that would kill thousands with the push of a button? Didn’t anyone in your time live with or die from cancer? Were there not pandemics in the first century? How dare you tell us to rejoice always and not to worry about anything?

Then I remember that Paul was writing from a prison cell, or more likely, dictating this letter to a trusted friend. He was isolated from everyone he knew and loved, and there is no joy in loneliness. From that cell he would be condemned to death, and surely the form of that execution, and the suffering and pain, brought him great anxiety. Still, he says, “Rejoice!”

Several years ago, when we still lived in Wisconsin, Gregg and I went to hear the English bishop and scholar N. T. Wright speak, and he told this story that gets to the heart of things. It was a time when the Church of England was in the paper all the time because they were debating whether women could be bishops. Dr. Wright, who, as a bishop was a member of the House of Lords, was traveling from northern England to London for a meeting of the House of Lords. And he was in his bishop outfit – purple stock, pectoral cross. He stood out in a crowd.

He gets off the train and hails a cab. The cabbie asks him where he’s going and then says something along the lines of “rough times for you.” The bishop nods. And then the cabbie says, “Well, the way I see it, if Jesus Christ is risen from the dead, everything else is really just rock ’n’ roll.”

I think Paul would have liked that, if he knew what rock ’n’ roll was. Next to resurrection, everything else pales in comparison. This life, with its overwhelming joys and unbearable sorrows, is not all there is. God has promised us more. Maybe that’s what enabled Paul to say “rejoice” again and again and again.

We can choose to rejoice because we have so many reasons to do so; we can choose not to worry because worry is misuse of the imagination; we can choose to be gentle with those around us. As Professor Dumbledore once taught the young Harry Potter, “It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” But we don’t just have the wherewithal to make those choices; we have to cultivate our lives in a particular way so that we have the perspective to see those birds of sorrow and protect our heads.

The teachings of our faith tradition help us cultivate our living. Belief is not about intellectual assent to ethereal ideas but about how we live. In her book The Spiral Staircase, Karen Armstrong writes, “Religion is not about accepting twenty impossible propositions before breakfast, but about doing things that change you. It is a moral aesthetic, an ethical alchemy. If you behave in a certain way, you will be transformed.”

Paul gives us the ingredients for that behavior: whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable. Those are the things we are to pursue, in our work, in our play, in our relationships, in everything. Those are rock ’n’ roll.

As this is my last sermon here at Westminster, I’d like to share with you some stories of the ways you all have been true, and honorable, and just, and pure and pleasing and commendable. These stories show who you are, and as Maya Angelou once said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

One of the first memorial services Gregg and I attended here was for Penny Shuping. Penny was the adult daughter of Ralph and Melissa, and she had Down Syndrome. She was a fixture here at the church, with her love of pink, and the “Hallelujah Chorus” on Easter, and so much exuberant joy. She loved Star Wars, and at her memorial, Michael played the theme for Star Wars as the postlude. That’s when I knew we had landed at a very special place. That was true love that set aside our artificial standards of what was appropriate and offered a gift from the heart.

Our first Christmas Eve here, Gregg missed the late service as it’s really, really hard to find a babysitter at 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve. I was leading the service with our former associate pastors David Hutchinson and Laurie Newman. They were presiding at the communion table, and as they led the Great Prayer of Thanksgiving, I heard an unwanted sound. Someone was throwing up. Not violently, but enough. My head had been bowed so I very subtly opened my eyes and confirmed. A young man in the fifth pew, sitting on the center aisle, was sick.

Well, this was my first Christmas Eve, and Laurie and David were the ones with their microphones on, so I just let them take the lead. And on they went as if nothing had happened. Then it was time for the people to come forward to receive the elements.

One of our blessed members had taken it upon himself to take care of things. And there he was in his beautiful suit, with a tub of water and some rags, cleaning up after the young man who had left. People came up and walked around him as he cleaned, as if nothing had happened. At the end of communion the man who had been cleaning up took communion last, so that he would not spread any germs. That was an honorable thing to do.

During the pandemic, the presbytery offered matching grants for congregations that would partner to do something to help the community. We partnered with our friends at Rose City Park Presbyterian Church and raised enough money for Northeast Emergency Food Program to be able to create a new staff position to meet the needs that were growing exponentially.

You have been so generous with the Pastor’s Discretionary Fund, and because it’s all confidential, you have no idea the number of people inside and outside the congregation who have not had their power turned off, who have bought a new (but previously owned) car, who have been able to make a necessary move because we were able to help them with a bill.

You hosted people living in their cars in our parking lot. You continue to remind folks driving down Broadway on Wednesdays and Sundays that Black lives still matter. You helped to make Barbie’s Village a dream come true. All those things are just.

You allowed me to officiate at the first wedding of two women in this sanctuary, and then eight years later, you came in one Sunday to see trees in the choir loft, a reminder that the day before our beloved Jason and Greg were married in this sanctuary, and you rejoiced. What a pleasing thing that was and is.

I could go on and talk about hanging hundreds of origami doves from the sanctuary ceiling or sharing the bread of life and the cup of salvation in a drive-up communion in our parking lot when COVID prevented us from gathering. I could wax eloquent about my love of our memorial receptions, when we get out the silver and offer our best homemade cookies so that those who are grieving know they are loved and cared for. I could retell the story of the time when Janet and Doug crammed one hundred pillows in the back of their Prius to take to a shelter.

Thank you, Westminster, for living your faith in all these beautiful ways. And now, keep on doing them.

A parishioner in a former church once told me something I have never forgotten. She said, “I never choose a church because of who the pastor is. I always choose a church because of who the congregation is.” Pastors come and go. Some stay longer than is wanted, and some leave sooner. We clergy types are always trying to work out God’s call to us, not without some fear and trembling, and we discern where and when we are supposed to come and go to the best of our ability.

The real secret is this: the church doesn’t really need pastors. If we all had the time and the inclination, the congregation could take care of all the stuff, the mission and service, the hospitality, the teaching, the caring. But you all have real lives that are filled with your own jobs, and your families, and your own callings, so you get pastors and other staff to help lead in this place.

Be good to those folks, to Gregg and Lindsey and Jun and Eliz and Debbie and Michael and Leslie and Anne and Bamba and Steve and Olivia and Paula and Alaina and Jonathan. Their love for you and for their work sustains them. Let them know you appreciate all they do, all that is seen and especially that which is unseen.

Keep on doing the good things; God will continue to be with you, no matter who is up here in the pulpit.

I thank God for calling Gregg and me to serve as your co-pastors, and I thank God for calling me out of this place to some unknown adventure. I thank Gregg for his support and encouragement in this step. And I thank each of you and all of you for the privilege and joy of serving you.

To the glory of God.