Breathing Together: A Conspiracy for Goodness

At the Cuttyhunk Union Church, I have the rare opportunity to deviate from the lectionary and preach on texts I otherwise wouldn't get to. This text DOES actually come up later this summer, on August 23, at least for those who use Track 1 for the Old Testament readings. It can be found here, Exodus 1:8-2:10. Below is a manuscript for the sermon I preached last night at the Evening ecumenical service. 

The Exodus story is one of the most powerful narratives in the whole Bible, both testaments! It’s the kind of script that can be easily adapted to film as well as to liturgy. How cool would it be to get someone like Charlton Heston to play Moses?

From the Exodus story comes the celebration of Passover, the central liturgical experience for our Jewish cousins. I hope many of you have had the chance to sit at the Seder table at some point with Jewish friends, where the story is remembered, and if not yet then perhaps find a way to do that sometime.

For Christians, Holy Week is set in the context of first-century Passover celebrations in Jerusalem. Jesus and his followers are pilgrims to the holy city, a story we remember every year in Holy Week, starting on Palm Sunday, and then continuing through the three holy days. On the night before he died for us, Jesus took the bread and shared the cup to breathe new life into this old tradition of the matzoh and God’s saving acts of liberation.

It’s a political story. It may not get taught that way in Sunday School curriculum but that doesn’t change the fact that this is a story about unjust power and how one resists power that corrupts. You can’t sit and break the matzoh and hear about Moses telling old Pharaoh to “let my people go” and miss that. In some parts of the Church we’ve been mixed up, though. I agree with those who say that partisan politics is not appropriate from the pulpit and I agree with those who say that God is not a Democrat or a Republican. I agree with the founders commitment to separate church and state. But that does not mean that religious faith is apolitical; it just means that religious speech is protected speech.

From the beginning to the very end of the Bible when the Lamb seated on the throne creates the new Jerusalem where there are no more tears and God’s will is done on earth as in heaven, there are political implications of choosing to follow God rather than human beings who overextend their claims on authority.

OK. Enough about Moses, who gets all the good PR. Tonight I want to back up a little bit to the reading we heard tonight, from the first two chapters of the Book of Exodus. There we meet six of seven courageous women, all of whom model wisdom, resilience, and faith as a direct challenge to Pharaoh’s tyranny. Moses deserves credit for leading the Hebrew people out of bondage and toward the Promised Land but let’s be clear: without these seven women there is no Moses.

They are, first, Shiprah and Puah, the two midwives who defy Pharaoh and save the lives of Jewish baby boys. They are Moses’ mother and his sister, who build a little ark to keep Moses safe and allow him to be rescued. Pharaoh’s own daughter and her maidservant directly resist Pharaoh’s edict and save Moses and then raise him as their own. When she happens to find Moses’ own mother and asks her to be the nursemaid, it’s pretty clear she knows exactly who this woman is and what she’s asking of her: to nurse her own child in the midst of Pharaoh’s own household. So that’s six, all of whom appear in tonight’s reading. Finally, there is Zipoorah, Moses’ wife, whom we have not yet met.

These seven women promote life and prepare the way for Israel’s exodus from Egypt. Without them there is no Moses to stand before a burning bush, no Moses to lead the Hebrew people across the Red Sea and toward the Promised Land. In their quiet work, these six women before us tonight resist and disrupt Pharaoh’s anti-creational, death-dealing abuses of power.

For tonight, I want to focus primarily on the first two of these seven women, these two midwives: Shiprah and Puah.

Notice again the subtext and pay close attention to the verbs. The law that Pharaoh has decreed is clear: kill the boys. All the Hebrew boys. The girls may live. Kill them before they have a chance to become little freedom fighters.

But the two midwives disobey the law. It turns out that even law-abiding citizens answer to a higher power, and if a law is unjust there is no requirement to obey it. This is why Jews and Christians have conspired together throughout history to challenge unjust laws. That doesn’t mean there won’t be consequences. That doesn’t mean the “powers that be” won’t go bonkers when one dares to challenge their authority. The women are summoned to report to the Pharaoh and they lie – presumably under oath. Those Hebrew women, they say, are just amazing! They give birth before we even get there!

The word conspiracy comes from two Latin words that literally mean “to breathe together.” The word has taken on a more negative meaning – we speak of conspiracy theories and of conspiring to commit a crime together.

But I want to call us back to that older, more literal meaning tonight. To breathe, together. We breathe in the Holy Spirit, the breath of God. Like the disciples in that upper room after Jesus is raised from the dead, he comes and breathes on them and they are changed. They are changed for good, to be more courageous, more wise, more faithful to what Easter is all about.

When we come here on a Sunday night, and we sing these hymns and we say our prayers, we are forming a conspiracy together for goodness in this world – a conspiracy to be a light that shines in the darkness, to be the salt of the earth, to be leaven that makes the whole loaf rise.

This conspiracy is not partisan. It’s not a Democratic or Republican thing. But it most definitely has political implications. It is about getting clear about who we belong to, namely the living God. All others who wish to claim our allegiance are pretenders to the throne.

Most of us want to be good citizens, at least I do. And on many days we can do that and still be faithful to God. But there come certain moments in our lives, and sometimes even moments in human history, when we are called to breathe in together to join a conspiracy of goodness and to obey God’s Word over human authorities.

In the midst of World War II, France was partly occupied and partly “free.” The French government, headquartered at Vichy, collaborated with the Nazis, mistakenly believing that one could cooperate with evil in order to live another day. But there was a small farming village called Le Chambon-sur-Lignon that made history by harboring some 5,000 refugees, most of them Jews, many of them children.

A good deal of sacrifice was involved. The village basically doubled its size as Jewish families found a safe haven. Families took in children and their parents, making them feel as though they were fellow “Chambonnais” going to school, working on the farms, sharing meals, and so forth. There was great risk involved. The village became a center for the forgery of documents. Illegal documents, according to the Nazis and the Vichy government.

Almost all of the Chambonnais were Huguenot Christians. France had persecuted Protestants heavily, especially during the eighteenth century. Those who did not flee, and those who were not put to death for their faith, survived in particular pockets of the country. Le Chambon was one such place. They kept the memories alive by meeting in worship, hearing the Bible preached by their pastors, and singing the psalms as well as folk songs that recounted their story. They felt a special affinity for the Old Testament and for the Jews. It was part of their theology. There is no doubt that they learned about Shiprah and Puah and those other five women along the way.

So during the Second World War, Le Chambon became the safest place in Europe for refugees from the Nazi horrors. Take that in for just a moment. Breathe in that truth. Breathe in that a little church in a little town did great things.

And here is something interesting, at least to me: the Chambonnais did not feel they were heroes. One of those born in Le Chambon, Pierre Sauvage, moved with his family to America, where he became a filmmaker. Out of curiosity about his origins, he did a documentary on Le Chambon called Weapons of the Spirit. When he returned to his birthplace with a film crew, he interviewed the somewhat reluctant villagers. Over and over he found that they did not think of themselves as courageous champions who had defied the Nazis. Instead, they quietly did what very few others could do, saving thousands of people from their oppressors.

Why? How? “It’s simple,” they explained, “love God and love your neighbor; that’s what Christians do.” That is all that we did, they explained. No big deal!

They conspired for the good, because that is what Christians do. They simply took the two great commandments seriously. Like Shiprah and Puah and those other five women had done all of those many centuries earlier.

These are witnesses to us, my friends. They inspire us to conspire against evil in our own time. They remind us what it means to be faithful in dangerous times. It can be scary, but it can also bring us clarity about who we are called to be, with God’s help. I worry that sometimes what keeps us from acting is that we think only of the big things. We raise up Moses at the Burning Bush and send him up on the Mountain to get the Ten Commandments. But never underestimate what seven women can do to change the world. Never underestimate what a little Protestant Church in a small village can do. Never forget that without Mrs. Parks and many like her in Montgomery, boycotting the buses and walking to work every day for 381 days, Dr. King’s “dream” is just good rhetoric.

To be the Church, we do sometimes need to take sides. Being non-partisan does not mean staying neutral. The meaning of our Baptism is to stand for justice over and against injustice, for dignity of every person over degradation. For love over hate, and for truth in a world of lies. We have to remember who we are and whose we are and live like that matters. It’s not easy, and we won’t all do it the same way. We won’t all agree every day on what is required of us but if it looks like being kind, and showing mercy, and loving our neighbor we can be reasonably sure we are on the right path. We come to a congregation like this one to remember our core beliefs so that in small and large ways we can practice those beliefs one day at a time on this Island and when we return home.

William Stringfellow was an Episcopal layperson who got all this. He wrote powerfully in the 1970s. I commend his writings to you, and close with his words, dear friends and then a brief time for silent reflection before we sing "Breathe on me, Breath of God."

The biblical lifestyle is always a witness of resistance to the status quo in politics, economics, and all society. It is a witness of resurrection from death. Paradoxically, those who embark on the biblical witness constantly risk death - through execution, exile, imprisonment, persecution, defamation, or harassment - at the behest of the rulers of this age. Yet those who do not resist the rulers of the present darkness are consigned to a moral death, the death of their humanness. That, of all the ways of dying, is the most ignominious.

 

Planting Tomatoes: A Sermon for the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

Today is the seventh Sunday after Pentecost and my last Sunday covering a clergy renewal leave (sabbatical) at St. John's, Northampton. The readings for this day can be found here.

I want to share with you today a new song by Lucy Dacus. I am going to spare you all because it’s my last Sunday with you by not singing it. Rather, I’m going to read it to you as a poem, and poems are almost always a kind of prayer. I think this is a kind of prayer. It’s called  "Planting Tomatoes.” (You can also listen to the song here.)

Planting tomatoes in the empty lot
Someone practicing saxophone down the block
And they are not good yet
They are not good yet

Picking flowers off the shoulder of the road
18-wheelers rushing by a little too close
Life is just a series of close calls
One day one will come to end them all

But before then, I've got some ideas
But before then, I've got some ideas

Coming together in a circle of hands
Gently pressing palms when the prayer ends
We all say amen
Say amen

Subtle pixelation of the world through the screened-in porch
I could sit here for hours
You've gotta live the life you're fighting for
You've gotta live a life you would die for

But before then, I've got some ideas
But before then, I've got some ideas

Hearing my friends laughing in the distance
I can't help but laugh along without knowing what the joke is
Can't help thinking that I am gonna miss this
Living in the moment, I can feel the moment passing

Now I'm older than you'll ever be
On a day you will never see
There is so much that I have not lost
Someday I know I will pay the cost

But before then, I've got some ideas
But before then, I've got some ideas
But before then, I've got some ideas
But before then, I've got some ideas

I could probably sit down right now and give you all a few moments to figure out why I’ve started there and if in so doing whether or not it’s helpful to you, if there is good news there for you. But let me linger among you a few moments longer and tell you how I connect this song by Lucy Dacus to today’s Gospel Reading. I know that my colleague, Rev. Anna, would likely be able to do this much better than I can, since she is the published gardener and I know she will be glad to rejoin you in a few weeks. But for today you’ve still got me, who is better with making a caprese salad than in planting and growing tomatoes!

In the thirteenth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus is talking about sowing seeds. He speaks often about seeds in his ministry. Mustard seeds that can grow into something much bigger. Tending to the vineyard so that good grapes can grow and yield good wine. He speaks of grains of wheat and of the harvest. Today he is speaking in parables which is his schtick. He’s saying that the soil where seeds are planted matters.

I try to stay focused on what is right with the Episcopal Church most of all and build on that. I’m committed to appreciative inquiry when it comes to personal spiritual growth and to congregational development. And then to also pay attention to what’s wrong and how we navigate that, manage that, change that. I try to look honestly at our little branch of the Jesus’ Movement and not to be too quick to judge other branches. Some days that’s harder than others. But I’m going to break that norm briefly, this morning at least a little bit.

We swim in the waters of American evangelicalism in this country and although that isn’t all bad, it impacts on us a lot. American Christians, even progressive ones, tend to know the Left Behind series about the end times better than we know the Book of Revelation. That’s a problem.

American evangelicalism has been around a while. Think Jonathan Edwards – ever heard of him? And the Second Great Awakening and sinners in the hands of an angry God. Think Billy Graham and “just as I am without one plea, I come…”

I’ve managed to be with you for three months and only at the very end mention Jonathan Edwards. In one place he said that “You contribute nothing to your salvation except the sin that made it necessary.” That’s pretty classic American evangelicalism. We are sinners, saved by grace alone. It’s not wrong – it might even be right. But it’s not the only way to tell the story of our faith.

Yet it’s in the water. And some branches of that part of the Jesus Movement have been overtaken by a more insidious problem: Christian nationalism. American evangelicals have been more susceptible to this, I think. But that’s a much longer sermon. I do think, though, that our vocation as Episcopalians becomes clearer as we learn to speak about our experience with Jesus of Nazareth, the one we claim to be the Christ.

What I want to notice with you today, though, is that the parable before us today is not about a one-time event. Seeds die and the moment they do, they begin a process of transformation over time. You don’t learn to play the saxophone overnight, nor get vine-ripe tomatoes overnight either, sings Lucy Dacus. And Jesus of Nazareth says that lots can go wrong when you plant seeds. But sometimes the stars align and there is the right mix of sun and rain and good earth and things grow and produce fruit.

And he says that we are like that. I don’t think this is pushing it too far: I think Jesus might even say that he doesn’t care so much about a day in one’s life when they may have accepted him as Lord and Savior as he cares about those who choose to take up their mats and walk, those who take up their crosses to follow him. The planting of the seed, including the seed of the gospel, matters but only as a beginning.

When we speak about a great cloud of witnesses, about the communion of saints, we are saying something very similar. If you want to know what it means to be a follower of Jesus then find someone who’s been doing it for decades, in whom the growth has been happening, someone who embodies the good news of Jesus because they have been intentional about it over time. And then ask yourself: what do I need to do to get to that place in my own life?

The Christian life is about practices over time that change us for good. Last weekend it was my honor to baptize Daphne here, among all of you. It’s the best thing I get to do as a priest and it never gets old, even after 38 years of ordained ministry. But that’s the beginning of a lifelong journey as Daphne and all of our young people, our children and our children’s children, try to navigate this  unsteady and confusing world. Including our young pilgrims headed off to bonnie Scotland this coming week.

I spent my junior year of college at the University of St. Andrew’s, situated on the North Sea, north of Edinburgh. There, I met my future wife, another American studying abroad. I also fell in love with the Scottish people so I was not at all surprised by the joy and love they brought to Boston during the World Cup. I pray that our young pilgrims will be changed for good there. I pray it will be a key moment in their journeys that began in their mother’s wombs, and that continued when a priest dabbed some water on their heads and sealed and marked them as Christ’s own forever with holy oil. They have been claimed and these folks now headed to Scotland are living into that calling, that claim on their lives. They are growing in the faith, into the full stature of Christ. Thanks be to God!

We Episcopalians know that Christian formation is a life-long process. We know God isn’t finished with any of us yet.

God is not finished with you, yet, St. John’s. We take the long view, and we do not lose heart. Seeds get planted but along the way the growth that we observe in ourselves and in others needs to be watered and fertilized and tended to if you want to get to full and abundant life in Christ. There are ups and downs along the way but by God’s grace there is an orientation to love. And love brings us close to the God who is love. That love that is God, and from God, sustains us for the journey. May it be so for you now and always.

Other seeds fell on good soil and brought forth grain, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty. Let anyone with ears listen!

 

250

On March 17, 1976, I turned thirteen years old. In November of that same year, a peanut farmer named Jimmy Carter from Georgia was elected to serve as this nation's 39th president, narrowly defeating Gerald Ford. 

In July of that same year, this nation celebrated our bicentennial. I was young, but I do remember it. I felt proud to be an American and hopeful about the future, even though these were far from glory days for our nation. We had come through the Vietnam War and Watergate. The world was experiencing the first Ebola outbreak in Africa. Inflation had finally dropped from double-digits to 5.76% but there had been gas lines in 1973 and more to come in 1979, triggered by events in the Middle East, especially the Iranian Revolution. 

Fifty years later, I am no longer a kid with my whole life ahead of me. It's tempting for 63-year-old men to be nostalgic about the past and hopeless about the future but I find myself struck more by the old adage that the more things change the more they stay the same. We face political and global challenges today not all that different from what we were facing fifty years ago. I do think that things are worse right now, but it’s a difference of degree, not kind. The human condition and the lust for power and control have not changed. 

I am still a patriot and I still love this country. But I am more aware of the toxic nature of nationalism which is not the same thing as love of country. I believe that nationalism is a distorted love, the tendency that leads to saying things like “my country, right or wrong” or “love it or leave it.” Nationalism insists that "God loves us the most" and is “on our side.” There is a great hymn of the Church that expresses the difference well for me:  

My country's skies are bluer than the ocean,
And sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine.
But other lands have sunlight too and clover,
And skies are everywhere as blue as mine.
Oh hear my song, oh God of all the nations,
A song of peace for their land and for mine.

I am certain I was singing that hymn in the Hawley United Methodist Church as a teenager. I am very fortunate to have been raised with a faith that could never be confused with Christian Nationalism: my Sunday School teachers taught me that Jesus loved the little children of the world. All the little children of the world, from every tribe and language and people and nation. On that score, at least, I count my blessings that I didn’t have to unlearn a narrow form of Christian nationalism as my life has unfolded.

One thing is certain: our country is in trouble. Maybe it’s always been on the edge of trouble. I know as a fan of Hamilton and behind that great show the book and the work of historians that 1776 was no picnic. And I was old enough in 1976 to know that we faced many challenges, as we do today in 2026.

Perhaps there are no easy times to be alive. With due respect to "The Boss" there are no “glory days” to go back to; rather, these are better days, as Bruce sings in another perhaps less familiar song. Or, at least these are the days we get to be good. This American experiment has always been a tenuous thing.

But I also believe that times like these can bring out the best in people, not only the worst.

I saw a meme recently that has stayed with me. Memes of course do not convey complex truths very well and real life is not a meme. But this one said that the World Cup reminds us that for the most part, most people across the globe prefer to get along and bring their passions to a soccer field, not to a killing field. People are by and large good; it’s the powers and principalities (and nationalism and human sin) that pit us against one other and insist that wealth and power are limited commodities and we need to take what we can. I was especially inspired of late by the Tartan Army bringing joy to Massachusetts and inspiring us all.

So I will celebrate 250, but in a subdued way. I am praying for peace and reconciliation which is holy work, Gospel work. I am praying that I can continue to be an instrument of God’s peace in a warring world, and contribute to the healing that is needed at this time to bind up the nation’s wounds. I give thanks for what has been but more importantly, I want to work toward what might yet be. God bless America. God bless the world.

America! America!
God mend thine every flaw
Confirm thy soul in self-control
Thy liberty in law!