Awkward Episcopalian

Proper 11B

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As some of you may know, I recently spent two weeks with about 10,000 of my closest Episcopal friends—including our own Alan Murray—in Austin Texas at the 79^th triennial General Convention of the Episcopal Church. Alan was an alternate deputy for our diocese, so he had a legislatively official reason for being there. I was there as a logistics volunteer, helping to keep all those great crowds—rushing about the whole region seeking Jesus as they were—welcomed and oriented to their tasks.

I was doing my own seeking, of course—we’re all always looking for something—although I didn’t know what it was at first. What I discovered at General Convention was that I wanted to touch the fringe of Presiding Bishop Michael Curry’s cloak. You know who I’m talking about: that obscure bishop from Chicago—as the press described him—who recently preached at some wedding in England. He’s a hero of mine, and I kind of did touch the fringe of his cloak, ultimately, albeit in the most awkward way. Although I’m not sure there’s a not-awkward way to touch the fringe of your hero’s cloak.

I hadn’t intended to be so awkward. I had already crossed paths with Bishop Curry many times in preparing for General Convention: I even sat next to him and talked with him through an entire meal. But unlike everyone else at my table, I decided not to ask him for a selfie. Give the man a break, I thought: let him eat his lunch in peace. I’m above all this selfie-seeking nonsense. Which, I should mention, Bishop Curry doesn’t think of as nonsense. For him, it’s evangelism. Every picture is one more image of the body of Christ in the social media sphere.

But no, I wasn’t going to bother the Presiding Bishop. How politely reserved I was, right? Until that night at St. David’s, the Episcopal Church closest to the Austin Convention Center, and hence host to many ancillary events. You might think of St. David’s as the Gennesaret of Austin; Gennesaret being a town on the edge of the Sea of Galilee that attracted many looking for healing. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but it is where I unexpectedly ran into Bishop Curry in a hallway. He was leaving a speaking engagement, so he was alone but for a single member of his staff. That’s when I spontaneously stopped him and gave him a hug; a full frontal, of the kind that our church actually discourages. And with tears in my eyes I said “I am so glad you are here with us.” And then, suddenly realizing the oddity of what I’d said, I course-corrected and said “Uh, I guess it’s your convention though, so I’m so glad to get to be here with you.”

I’m Episcopalian, so I don’t like to be impolite. I didn’t plan to be that awkward with the Presiding Bishop. I didn’t want to need that hug so badly. But the truth of the matter is, I am needy. I need to thank someone who allows themselves to be an icon of love. I need to be reconciled to siblings in Christ who are black and brown. I need a hero worthy of the title. I need healing. You do too. I may not know exactly what you need to be healed of, but I do know that deep in your heart you want to touch the fringe of the cloak of someone who shows you a better way to live in these dangerous and disturbing times.

Some people question the cost and inconvenience of The Episcopal Church’s General Convention. And in the abstract, I might be inclined to agree with them. Except that things happen when people are so close that they can touch each other. If we take our Bibles seriously, we know that whenever Christians gather—like at General Convention every three years, or like at Trinity Cathedral every Sunday—we are the body of Christ. We are here to heal each other.  And at General Convention there was healing and reconciliation happening all over the place. Thousands of Episcopalians—myself included—are now going home to tell about it. As Jennifer Baskerville Burrows—the first black female diocesan bishop consecrated in our church—preached, “what happens in Austin is not supposed to stay in Austin.”

So let me tell you about what I witnessed. I saw genuine lament and repentance expressed in worship, as in the opening Liturgy of Listening designed for people—principally women—who have been hurt by discrimination and abuse in the church. I saw vulnerability and joy in the Revival liturgy in, preached by Bishop Curry, in which 4000 of us were invited to pray for each other extemporaneously. I saw reconciliation expressed in the resolution for marriage equality, which—albeit a compromise—did promise the blessing of marriage in an Episcopal church to same sex couples everywhere. I witnessed the healing miracle of the Diocese of Cuba returning to its home in the Episcopal Church, 50 years after being separated in a hostile political climate.

As Paul preached to church in Ephesus, “Christ is our peace; in his flesh he has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.” People of God, I am a witness. I saw hostility broken and people reconciled. And I’m over whatever Episcopally-polite reserve I ever had: there’s good news coming out of our church! Christ has and will yet break down the dividing walls that separate us.

But here’s the catch: Christ breaks down division through vulnerability: in his flesh, as Paul expressed it. Jesus’ ministries of preaching and healing made his very human body vulnerable to the malevolent powers of his age; in his suffering and death he shared in the ultimate vulnerability of our nature. And in this is his invitation to us: when we become vulnerable to each other, we share in his nature. In the very kingdom of God that his presence embodies. We share in the healing that he is already effecting among us, even as we await the wiping away of every tear that is promised in the fullness of time.

In order to be healed, however, we have to actually confess that we are hurting. We have to own up to our need, as did the disciples who chased after Jesus in Gennesaret and ran ahead of him into the surrounding villages. This isn’t so easy for people anywhere, least of all we polite Episcopalians. But if I don’t want to bother the body of Christ with my grief or my guilt, however will can Jesus heal me? If you don’t want to share the sorrow of things done and left undone, how will you know that you are already forgiven?

We hurt, we are lonely, we feel shame, we long for something more. Can we tell these kind of vulnerable truths in church? Actually, our liturgy invites us to do so all the time: it’s in the prayers of confession and absolution, which lead naturally to the joy of the peace. But you and I know that it’s possible to say those words without letting them break our hearts, as they are intended to do. I’ve done it myself dozens of times. In the spirit of vulnerability, I ask you to call me on it if you ever see me distracted during the confession. Because to do so is kind of like sitting next to Bishop Curry and not asking for a selfie. God will heal our sorrow and satisfy our longing… when we ask for it.

This week I’ve been pondering the Biblical image of the shepherd, who appears in various guises in our readings this morning. Remember the 23^rd Psalm we just said/sang this morning: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not be in want.” It’s another prayer so well known to us that its familiarity might distract us. But don’t be fooled; not all shepherds have our best interests in mind. In times when Jeremiah’s condemnation of leaders who scatter the flock rings uncomfortably true, and when Jesus himself laments the lack of a trustworthy shepherd, it might just be time to renew our commitment to the leadership of one who is true. Let us listen to the voice of the Good Shepherd. Let us find and follow apostles who are worthy heroes. Learn from them. Touch the fringe of their garment. Let them spread a table before us, friends and enemies alike.

So with apologies to the psalmist, let me offer this prayer for you—

You who seek a sacred way,
make known your wants.
And your shepherd shall lead you
to the place of your rest
and still your troubled waters.
Lift up your hearts
above the dominion of death
and give your fear to the love
of the Holy One
who is among you and with you.
The table before you welcomes
friend and foe alike,
there will be enough
and an abundance left over.
Ask, then, for God’s goodness and mercy
and the house of the Lord
shall be your everlasting home.

Amen.