Sermons from the Episcopal Church of the Redeemer The Episcopal Church of the Redeemer

I think we are all familiar with "Are we there yet?" In fact, I can't help thinking that the question, so familiar to family travelers, is an inborn genetic trait that is triggered one hour after the car leaves the driveway. Sometimes children even make a repetitive chant out of it, thus increasing its output a hundredfold before the parents put a stop to the noise. When I was young, my mom and dad piled me and my brother and sister into the car, and we headed out on our first trip to Disneyland in Anaheim, 400 miles from home, or eighty hundred miles if you're a kid.

After about 20 minutes traveling and every five minutes thereafter, we children asked the question that seems to be imbedded in all children's DNA, to be turned on when they go on trips: Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Finally, my father said, "When you see Sleeping Beauty Castle, you'll know." Finally, it happened. An eternal seven hours later, Sleeping Beauty Castle loomed up next to the freeway, and we knew. There was the Magic Kingdom. The final destination on our journey isn't the Magic Kingdom; it's the heavenly Kingdom of God. And our landing spot isn't Sleeping Beauty Castle. Instead, our new home will be what Paul calls "God's building" and what Jesus calls "my Father's house" with many rooms, where Jesus promised there is a place prepared for each of us.

I don't remember when I started seeing the oval decals on cars that say just 26.2, but for a long time, it puzzled me. I assumed it referred to a Bible verse, so I looked up all the "26.2's" in the Bible to see what message was being proclaimed. There was Exodus: "The length of each curtain shall be 28 cubits, and the width of each curtain 4 cubits; all the curtains shall be of the same size." 1 Chronicles: "Meshelemiah had sons: Zechariah the firstborn, Jediael the second, Zebadiah the third, Jathniel the fourth..." And then I came to the one I thought was the right one, from Proverbs 26:2: "Like a sparrow in its flitting, like a swallow in its flying, an undeserved curse goes nowhere." On the back of your car, that's the message for the guy who swears at you when you cut in front of him in traffic. I finally found out that it's the number of miles in a marathon and that the sticker is bragging rights you earn when you've run a marathon.

But don't blame me for thinking 26.2 is a Bible verse. I was raised with the number 3:16--John 3:16, that is, which I had to memorize at the church I attended in my youth, along with the books of the Bible and the 23rd Psalm

Are we, perhaps, a little bit afraid of Pentecost? And what the spirit? A couple of weeks ago,
our neighbors invited us to attend worship with them at their church. Word of
deliverance. I'd been there a couple of
times before, but this was my first outing there with my children. The band was poppin, the speakers were
blaring. The choir was on fire. Little
Arlo instinctively covered his ears when entering the space.



It was loud.
Seriously, three organs, I'm not sure, could hit this decibel. We swayed our hips and waved our hands in the
air, and we sang as the soloist led us in a gospel tune called You Are
Worthy. When the preacher got up to preach,
he both sang and spoke rhythmically from one to the other, like it was just the
most natural thing he had ever done.



I looked over at my boys to gauge their reception of a
preaching style quite different from my own.
This man was incredibly passionate.
And just watching him made me wish I were a bolder preacher. And then, he started speaking in
tongues. I looked at my children,
wondering how they might react. Now,
because of my work in the interfaith community here in Cincinnati, my kids have
been to synagogues and mosques and Buddhist temples and Sikh Gurdwaras, but
never before have they heard someone speak in tongues.



I bent down to Arlo and whispered, Are you okay? Yeah, he replied nonchalantly. I don't know why, but then I asked, Do you
understand what he's saying? Yep! He affirmed with great clarity, not a hint of
hesitation in his voice. Something I
myself could not understand seemed so natural to this little child.

Think of someone who is suffering from addiction, from depression, from loneliness, self-rejection, rejection by the world. Distress due to finances. Meaningless of life. Think of them as being tossed into the ocean. Do we not hold on to Jesus, believe in our God and Christ so that we can be a lifeboat to others.
By us sitting here, standing here, and being here, a community that believes in the power and love of God and Christ, I believe we're in a position to help others and be helped by others even those struggling in the ocean trying to stay afloat. Because let's face it, there are times when we fall out of the lifeboat and need help getting back in.
Amen? Being a set, being set apart from this world does not mean that we are better than anyone else. But what it means to me is that we have been given a gift to receive and live by and give that gift to someone else in need. So, as Jesus says, as you sent me into the world, so I send them into the world.

I don't know about you all, but I feel like I've had more than the usual number of encounters with geese this spring. Maybe you've had that experience too. Frequently as they're crossing a road... And if I don't see them immediately when I'm behind other cars, I will find that I'm experiencing considerable frustration.'Why are these people not moving?' I tend to cut my timing short and, 'why is this car stopped?' And then feeling very sheepish to realize that this car has stopped to allow some geese to waddle past. And frustration turns to appreciation at the other driver's respect for these geese and for tending to God's creation, including the waddling ones. It is the same phenomenon though, that anytime we are so tunnel-focused, we miss the larger picture. It's very easy to miss the larger picture and when something calls us to that larger picture, it is really a gift to change our perception and our engagement with the world.

A few years ago, when traveling anywhere was out of the question because of you-know-what, many homeowners thought of turning their own yards into destinations worthy of traveling to--and the staycation was born.

My backyard was a blank slate full of weeds. I wanted a place outside that was worth traveling to, a yard that reminded me of places I'd been to and loved--Clear Lake, the working-class resort of my early childhood with its woods and hammock; Olympic National Forest; Glacier National Park; the Japanese Garden in San Francisco and Spokane; and finally, Children's Fairyland in Oakland and anything Alice in Wonderland.

I'm too scrawny to dig a hole deeper than three inches, so I hired a landscaper to plant the trees I bought. In my usual getting-carried-away habit, I eventually ended up, in a medium sized backyard, with 2 redbud trees, 3 magnolias, 7 dogwoods, and 13 Japanese maples, all different.

After they were planted, I told the trees, "You're on your own." I didn't want to have to actually work in my yard. I'm all for no-maintenance gardening here. The trees had to take care of themselves. It was a transactional relationship between me and my trees. I give them dirt; they give me beauty, shade, and supplemental oxygen. I wasn't going to fuss over them, water them, hug them--or prune them. I'm not a gardener. I'm a stay-at-home tourist.