This sermon was preached on May 3, 2015 at Grace Episcopal Church in Medford, MA. The texts for this sermon were: Acts 8:26-40, 1 John 4:7-21, John 15:1-8, and Psalm 22:24-30.
Yesterday, I was officially confirmed as Episcopalian along with a group of teens from our church and one other adult. When someone asked me the other day whether getting confirmed with the Episcopal Church was a recent hasty decision I had just made, I thought of this passage with Philip and the eunuch.
Led by the Holy Spirit, the apostle Philip encounters an Ethiopian court official struggling to understand scripture from the Prophet Isaiah. The eunuch asks him, "I don’t get it. Who is the prophet talking about?" Philip explains the good news of Jesus Christ to the eunuch, starting from the scripture in front of them, meeting the stranger where he is and guiding him to Christ. And the eunuch gets it right away and, just like that, wants to become a Christian.
Was that a hasty decision? Considering that the apostles were being hunted and killed for their beliefs left and right at that time, Christianity does seem like a dangerous team to jump on board with. Does he really know what he is getting into here?
Perhaps the triumph of this story, though, is that the court official does learn everything he needs to know. Maybe receiving the answer to the question his heart was asking was enough. Who is this story about? Perhaps the beauty of this conversation is that the eunuch simultaneously realizes that the scripture he is reading is about Jesus and that it's about him, too. He comes to know through Philip and the Holy Spirit that he is part of this story of salvation. And that knowledge isn’t enough for him—he wants to live it, too. Diving headfirst into the waters of baptism, the eunuch also dives into the story he just heard, into the good news--wholeheartedly and without fear. "What is to prevent me from being baptized?" I am part of this story and this faith. Help me to live it, too.
The thing is, for me, my confirmation yesterday felt more like a public acknowledgment of the careful exploration I've been doing since August than a hasty decision. When I first really considered joining the Episcopal Church, I tried to learn all I could about the denomination's theology, history, and political controversies. I wanted to know exactly what kind of team I would be joining. I borrowed book after book from Noah, feeling a need to make an informed decision--a need I notice was conspicuously absent from the eunuch's approach.
Somewhere along the way, though, my attitude toward confirmation started to shift. Perhaps it was the scriptures I studied for sermons, or the fascinating discussions I had with many of you about God, or maybe it was simply the act of taking Eucharist, week after week. My internal debate over confirmation was no longer about answering the question, "Whose team am I on?" It became about the slow realization of my answer to the eunuch's question, "Who is this story about?" It became about declaring to myself, my community, and to God: this story of salvation is about Jesus and it is about me. I am part of this story and this faith. Help me to live it, too.
So how do we live it? We could live it by continuing to ask, "Whose team am I on?" I felt the heavy weight of that question this week as my heart broke for Baltimore over and over again. "Whose team are you on?" The rhetoric around the Baltimore protests seemed to scream. "Are you with the oppressors or the oppressed? With the thugs or the public servants?"
We could live it in the way of the world: Hurting others because they hurt us first. Refusing to see their humanity because they denied our humanity first. Tearing apart what we feel never truly belonged to us because they tore apart our lives and dreams for decades first. Threatening with helicopters and riot gear and guns because their expressions of rage and exasperation on the streets threatened us first. Both of us seeing each other as darkness and evil to be feared because each of us saw each other that way first.
We could live it the way of Christ: Loving because he loved us first. Allowing perfect love to cast out fear fueled by punishment and vengeance. We could live is the way Christ asks us to live it: Abide in me as I abide in you. Live in my story as I live in yours. We could live it asking: Who is the story about?
This story is about Christ, and it's about us. Christ was abiding in Baltimore way before the media got there to report on the riots, way before the death of Freddie Gray. He was there in the midst of decades of poverty and violence. He was with every mother who has ever lain awake in fear that her black son will die at the hands of a gang or by a police officer's bullet. He was with the white police officer shooting hoops with the neighborhood kids long after his shift had ended, with the pastor working to build a stronger sense of community amidst chaos and deprivation, with the father struggling to find a second job. He was and is abiding in the hearts of everyone yearning for a way out of stories of fear and violence and into the story of love and resurrection.
And Christ abides here, in us, in Medford. We find his story here, too. This week I found him standing with recovering heroin addicts and those who love them demanding access to medicine that makes resurrection possible. I found him sitting cross-legged with the Tibetan and Nepalese community of Medford, being present to their grief. I found him in nursing homes, and classrooms, and crowded T stops.
We are baptized Christians because we know we are part of this story, this pain and suffering of our brothers and sisters around us, this hope that conquered the grave. We know and we know we are called to more than knowing, but to being and doing and affirming the vows we made to each other every day.
Who is this story about? The Bishop asked us, yesterday. It's about Christ. It's about me. It's about us.
Yesterday, I was officially confirmed as Episcopalian along with a group of teens from our church and one other adult. When someone asked me the other day whether getting confirmed with the Episcopal Church was a recent hasty decision I had just made, I thought of this passage with Philip and the eunuch.
Led by the Holy Spirit, the apostle Philip encounters an Ethiopian court official struggling to understand scripture from the Prophet Isaiah. The eunuch asks him, "I don’t get it. Who is the prophet talking about?" Philip explains the good news of Jesus Christ to the eunuch, starting from the scripture in front of them, meeting the stranger where he is and guiding him to Christ. And the eunuch gets it right away and, just like that, wants to become a Christian.
Was that a hasty decision? Considering that the apostles were being hunted and killed for their beliefs left and right at that time, Christianity does seem like a dangerous team to jump on board with. Does he really know what he is getting into here?
Perhaps the triumph of this story, though, is that the court official does learn everything he needs to know. Maybe receiving the answer to the question his heart was asking was enough. Who is this story about? Perhaps the beauty of this conversation is that the eunuch simultaneously realizes that the scripture he is reading is about Jesus and that it's about him, too. He comes to know through Philip and the Holy Spirit that he is part of this story of salvation. And that knowledge isn’t enough for him—he wants to live it, too. Diving headfirst into the waters of baptism, the eunuch also dives into the story he just heard, into the good news--wholeheartedly and without fear. "What is to prevent me from being baptized?" I am part of this story and this faith. Help me to live it, too.
The thing is, for me, my confirmation yesterday felt more like a public acknowledgment of the careful exploration I've been doing since August than a hasty decision. When I first really considered joining the Episcopal Church, I tried to learn all I could about the denomination's theology, history, and political controversies. I wanted to know exactly what kind of team I would be joining. I borrowed book after book from Noah, feeling a need to make an informed decision--a need I notice was conspicuously absent from the eunuch's approach.
Somewhere along the way, though, my attitude toward confirmation started to shift. Perhaps it was the scriptures I studied for sermons, or the fascinating discussions I had with many of you about God, or maybe it was simply the act of taking Eucharist, week after week. My internal debate over confirmation was no longer about answering the question, "Whose team am I on?" It became about the slow realization of my answer to the eunuch's question, "Who is this story about?" It became about declaring to myself, my community, and to God: this story of salvation is about Jesus and it is about me. I am part of this story and this faith. Help me to live it, too.
So how do we live it? We could live it by continuing to ask, "Whose team am I on?" I felt the heavy weight of that question this week as my heart broke for Baltimore over and over again. "Whose team are you on?" The rhetoric around the Baltimore protests seemed to scream. "Are you with the oppressors or the oppressed? With the thugs or the public servants?"
We could live it in the way of the world: Hurting others because they hurt us first. Refusing to see their humanity because they denied our humanity first. Tearing apart what we feel never truly belonged to us because they tore apart our lives and dreams for decades first. Threatening with helicopters and riot gear and guns because their expressions of rage and exasperation on the streets threatened us first. Both of us seeing each other as darkness and evil to be feared because each of us saw each other that way first.
We could live it the way of Christ: Loving because he loved us first. Allowing perfect love to cast out fear fueled by punishment and vengeance. We could live is the way Christ asks us to live it: Abide in me as I abide in you. Live in my story as I live in yours. We could live it asking: Who is the story about?
This story is about Christ, and it's about us. Christ was abiding in Baltimore way before the media got there to report on the riots, way before the death of Freddie Gray. He was there in the midst of decades of poverty and violence. He was with every mother who has ever lain awake in fear that her black son will die at the hands of a gang or by a police officer's bullet. He was with the white police officer shooting hoops with the neighborhood kids long after his shift had ended, with the pastor working to build a stronger sense of community amidst chaos and deprivation, with the father struggling to find a second job. He was and is abiding in the hearts of everyone yearning for a way out of stories of fear and violence and into the story of love and resurrection.
And Christ abides here, in us, in Medford. We find his story here, too. This week I found him standing with recovering heroin addicts and those who love them demanding access to medicine that makes resurrection possible. I found him sitting cross-legged with the Tibetan and Nepalese community of Medford, being present to their grief. I found him in nursing homes, and classrooms, and crowded T stops.
We are baptized Christians because we know we are part of this story, this pain and suffering of our brothers and sisters around us, this hope that conquered the grave. We know and we know we are called to more than knowing, but to being and doing and affirming the vows we made to each other every day.
Who is this story about? The Bishop asked us, yesterday. It's about Christ. It's about me. It's about us.
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