Last Sermon preached at Gethsemane. Jan 13, 2013
The Rev. Aron Kramer
First Sunday After the Epiphany
January 13th, 2013
I feel like John, John the Baptist that is. I feel like John
might have felt at the transitioning of his ministry into Jesus’ own. Surrounded
by expectation surrounded by people who thought he was it, he was the guy. John
was baptizing and healing, preaching and teaching, and had a reputation to go
with it all. Then Jesus comes and you hear from John this shift, something
about being unworthy, and unquenchable fire. There’s a little bitterness in
there. You have to imagine, that as the heavens were torn open, and that
amazing sound, or voice comes from heaven, you have to think that John was
hiding in the corner thinking to himself, “Why didn’t I think of that!”
Of course I am a little off, John was probably much more
gracious and generous than I can imagine, after all, he is John the Baptist. So
maybe it’s not so much John that I feel like, maybe I feel more like one of
John’s disciples. There was great expectation around John, people wanted him to
be the Messiah, wanted him to give them all they needed for their lives. People
clung to the idea of John, and the words that he spoke. They made him their
savior; their chosen one, only to see it all come crashing down at his
premature death.
We find out later in the Pauline letters that there is often
a disconnect between Paul and his understanding of Jesus as the Messiah and the
people he runs into who were disciples of John the Baptist. John’s disciples, those
who never decided to follow Jesus despite John’s urgings, put up a significant
fight when it came to giving up their belief, their discipleship to John and
shifting it towards Jesus.
But, as I think about this Gospel, as I think of the human
emotions that John must have felt at the river where he was baptizing all those
people, I remember a sermon preached here on one of the first Sundays I
attended Gethsemane. It seems that as I wrote this last sermon, as I thought
about endings, all I could bring to mind were beginnings. The sermon preached,
the one I remember, was a sermon preached by the Rev. James Snyder, your
interim priest of sorts, who walked with you after Sandye Wilson left and
before I arrived.
Jim stood here at his own transition, knowing he would not
be back all that much and preached a wonderful sermon, a letter to the Vicar,
so to speak, where he asked me to remember that we are all vessels, vessels for
the Holy Spirit. He looked at me, he looked at all of you and he said, “Aron is
not your messiah, Aron is not your savior.” Then he looked at me and said,
“Aron, you are not their messiah, you are not Gethsemane’s savior.”
Looking back on those words, I am sure I lost track of that
very important fact, as perhaps some of you may have lost track of that message
as well. I sure wished I could be the savior of Gethsemane, wished I could move
us into sustainability and greatness. When Bishop Jelinek asked me to come
here, he said to me, “Aron, if you succeed at Gethsemane you will be able to go
anywhere you want.” I didn’t quite understand what he meant at that moment, I
think I know now what he meant, but his words sure didn’t help keep that
messiah complex at bay.
It’s possible I feel like John because I know deep in my
soul that I am not the Messiah, that I am not the savior. I also know that I
wanted to be that, I wanted to save this place. I, at many points lost the idea
that I was simply preparing the way, always speaking, baptizing, loving, but not
saving. I am not the savior of this place, not of anyone here, not of the
world.
I am simply a human being, a child of God, made to glorify
God in the world to the best of my ability. Made by God to be fully alive,
filled with the Spirit and overcome with the abundant love God has for me, and
for the entire world. And when I forgot those things, it wasn’t long before the
brokenness of my life, brought me back on track. It was through life events
such as Eliot’s near death and his fight with Leukemia that reminded me of who
I was. It was the struggle of a broken marriage resulting in a divorce and my
own challenges that were never fully understood, shame that went deeper than I
thought and effected more of you than I could imagine. These are the things
that knocked me off my pedestal, knocked us down from our high places.
We are all human, I am human, and I am grateful for that. I
look around this sanctuary, indeed, as I wrote much of this sermon I sat in
those wonderful orange chairs over there absorbing as many memories as I could
this past week, thinking about all the stuff I didn’t accomplish. All the
things I wanted to do, but now, will not get the chance. But as I began to be
filled with a little despair, despair about work not completed, about work not
fulfilled, about relationships ending, I was drawn to this table, this altar.
This one here where so many sacraments have been shared, so many words have
been spoken, so much love has been felt and shared.
I was reminded of one thing that we did do really well
together. We, together, tore open the exclusive barriers, the walls, and the
limitations that the Church and the world has placed on this table and we together
created a hospitable environment and a welcoming community that has changed the
face of this Church.
When I was ordained, The Rev LeeAnne Watkins preached at my
ordination. Her sermon I have mostly forgotten unfortunately, but what I do
remember has had a lasting impact on my ministry, on the very vocation I have
lived, and on the core of my own humanity. LeeAnne preached about the
importance of guarding the Eucharistic table. She said it was of the utmost
importance that I, as a priest of this Church guard this table with my very
life.
Now, many of you may find that a bit odd, some of you come
from traditions where that is exactly what was happening, the table was
protected from those deemed unworthy to participate in the life of the Church.
Some of you come from places where the table was only open to those who would
believe exactly as the rest of the community believed.
But LeeAnne wasn’t speaking of the exclusion that has been
created around our Eucharistic feast; no , she was speaking of something much
more difficult and much more dangerous and much more uncomfortable. She was
asking me to guard the table from those who would prevent anyone from coming to
it. She was preparing me to guard with my life this table against all those who
believed you had to be perfectly worthy, or a dutiful follower of Christ in
some certain and narrow understanding of the word follower, in order to be
welcomed at it.
Little did LeeAnne know, and little did I know, that I would
come to understand the meal we share together at this table as the most
important and most vital part of our humanity and core to my understanding of
the abundant love that God has for all of us.
Together we have done this work, of this I am certain, we
have held open the iron curtains that are placed in front of this table to
prevent people who are deemed unworthy from participating in the life of this
community. We have torn open the limitations set upon Christian membership,
upon belonging by being sure that this table, this altar is a place of respite,
a place of love for anyone who seeks to eat with us.
It is this task that I entrust to you as I leave this
community of faith. For it is, I believe, the only way the Church today will
find its way towards wholeness. We must guard this table against all those who
would claim it to be an exclusive club. We must guard this table from those who
wish to place regulations, and expectations upon it. We must guard this table
from being limited in any way to those who are in the world.
And how do we guard it? How do we protect it? Not in the way
you might be thinking. We guard it by welcoming everyone to it. We guard it by
taking it to the streets, letting it get dirty, letting it get beat up. Not
worrying about who places their grubby hands on it. Not fretting about who
might do what with it. We guard it by welcoming everyone, every single person
that ever walks through these doors. We guard it in the same way that God has
foolishly and crazily and ridiculously blessed each of us. By offering it to
anyone and everyone who wishes to eat with us.
How we guard this table is how we also guard our own hearts,
which is the rub. That is why it is so vital to understand our worship in such
a poignant way. If we put limitations on who can come here, than we put
limitations on who we allow to love us and who we allow ourselves to love. It
is so easy to think that Sunday morning is the only place where hospitality is
vitally important. Placing expectations on who is a good member, who I like and
who I don’t like only leads to exclusion and a cold heart. When our hearts are
open to everyone, so is our table, and we are fully alive.
After John baptized all the people, Jesus came to the river
and there Jesus was baptized. And as Jesus was baptized, the heavens were torn
open. And the Spirit descended upon Jesus and a voice was heard to say, “You
are my beloved, with you I am well pleased.” Dear ones, this is what we are
called to do, we have been baptized by the Spirit, we have been welcomed into
the Body of Christ, our work is to tear open the iron curtains of exclusion
that surround this table and surround our own hearts and lavishly, and
foolishly share with everyone that same blessing. It is vital that each of us,
and everyone in the world for that matter, hear it.
You are my beloved, and with you I am well pleased.
You are my beloved, and with you I am well pleased.
You are my beloved, and with you I am well pleased.
Thank you all for the ability and the opportunity to
minister with you. You are my beloved, and with you I am well pleased, I pray
that you will be pleased with me.
Amen.
Comments