May 5, 2019 – The Rev. Canon Britt Olson

One of the ways Christians have meditated on Scripture over the years is by putting yourself in the place of the people in the stories.  Maybe you’ve done this as you’ve considered the story of the prodigal.  Am I more like the younger or the older brother?  Or in the account of Jesus’s visit to the house of Martha and Mary.  Do you identify more with Martha who is doing all the chores or Mary, who is reverently sitting at the feet of the Rabbi?

It isn’t often or even ever, that I can remember, that I’ve asked of myself, “Am I more of a Paul or a Peter?”  These two towering figures of the New Testament each have such rich stories and teaching associated with them.  Mostly we focus on either one or the other.  But once in the three year cycle of readings, we get this Sunday where the conversion story of Paul is read alongside the commissioning of Peter after he’s shared breakfast on the beach with Jesus.

For each man, the story is one of, if not the most significant event in each of their lives.  Both encounter the risen Christ, who speaks directly with them.  Both face turning points that mean their lives will never be the same.  Both are given new names.  Saul becomes Paul after his conversion and Simon becomes Peter, the Rock as Jesus has commissioned him.   These are the origin stories of two towering figures of the Church.  The great Vatican Cathedral is named for Peter and the famous London cathedral is named for Paul.  They are the most prominent of the apostles.

And yet, each of these vital stories about how they received their new identity and purpose begins with shame—deep, crippling, run away and hide under a rock shame.  Shame is the certainty that if people know this about me, I will be rejected, derided, pitied and abandoned.

Saul’s shame comes as a result of his arrogance, his certainty, and his self-righteousness.  No one works harder than he does to do what is right.  He is the straight A Torah student.  He is the most devout defender of the faith.  He is an up and comer who will overcome every obstacle to complete his mission.  His zeal is so great that he seeks out and imprisons anyone found to be following the Way of Jesus.  He plans to root out all support for the crucified, rabble rousing, blasphemous leader of this new sect.  His future is bright and clear.

Until.  Until he gets knocked down and blinded by a light from heaven and he hears Jesus asking him, “Why are you persecuting me?”  He enters a world of shame and pain.  He is completely vulnerable.  He has to be led around by the hand.  He cannot eat or drink.  Everything he thought was right turned out to be wrong.  Everything he took so much pride in turned out to be worthless.  Instead of being in control, he was powerless.  Instead of acting, he is waiting.  His career has come to a sudden halt.  His future is unclear.

And the person God chooses to lift him up, to care for him, to restore him to health and then baptize him was a simple disciple of Jesus, named Ananias.  Ananias risks his own life and safety to approach and minister to the man who has terrorized him and the people he loves.  God will use Ananias and Barnabas and countless other disciples who have far less learning and status than Saul to teach him, love him and bring him into the Body of Christ.

Peter’s shame runs just as deep as Paul’s but for different reasons.  He knew and loved Jesus.  He was the disciple who responded whole heartedly to anything Jesus asked.  He was all in.  He was present for all the major miracles, signs and wonders.  He had been renamed Peter, the Rock and Jesus promised to build the church upon him.  Right before Jesus’s death, Peter promised that he would never abandon him.  Everyone else may turn away, he said, but I will never deny you.

Until.  Until he did, not just once but three times.  Imagine his shame.  He can’t get over his weakness, the denials, and the self-incrimination.  It seems like his shame keeps him from fully experiencing and rejoicing in the resurrection.  He slinks away, back to Galilee.  He goes back to fishing.  When things don’t work out, he returns to what he knows even if it’s no longer fulfilling.  At least it’s safe.  At least he won’t screw this up.  After everything we’ve heard from Peter in the gospels, there are no recorded words of his after the resurrection until he is interrogated by Jesus on the beach.  He has gone silent.

Three times Peter denied Jesus.  Three times the risen Christ asks him “Do you love me?”  It’s almost too much for Peter.  You can hear his resignation and his implicit confession, “Lord, you know everything.”  “You know everything about me.”  “You know my heart, my failure, my desire, and my shame.”

Jesus does.  He knows Peter’s heart and Saul’s nature and the very depth of our being.  Jesus knows that we’d like to escape our shame, to run from it or hide away.  We want to find a way to fix our lives and then to turn around and fix everyone else.  We want to clean up the messiness and chaos around us and inside us.  We believe that if we just work harder, gain more knowledge and data and apply ourselves, we will get all A’s, succeed, produce and raise great children, and live our best lives.

If you’ve ever heard or read the social science researcher, Brene Brown you know that her studies about shame lead her to a startling and unwelcome conclusion.  Shame destroys connection with others and our best and true selves.  And, the only way out of shame is vulnerability.  In order to connect with others, we have to be seen.  We need to be known, to be called by our own name and not the persona we try to create.   It’s a terrific risk.  We will face the death of the false self.  We will have to uncover our wounds and to open ourselves to that which we cannot control.

And the only way, my friends, that we can do this is if we know and believe that we are loved and that we belong.  The gift and assurance Jesus offers to Paul and Peter in the darkest part of their shame is that he sees them.  He knows them.  And he loves them.  In spite of their failure and weakness, Jesus commissions them to a life of sacrificial love and wholehearted giving.  This deep sense of being loved and belonging to Jesus gives them courage to proclaim the gospel even when they are persecuted, rejected and ultimately put to death.

Amazingly, this confident sense of being who they truly are allows them to let these stories be told over and over again.  Their deepest shame is public record, which precedes them everywhere they go.  Their sharing of the good news, their spreading of the gospel is grounded in their own vulnerability and authenticity.

Shame cuts us off from one another and from our own core.  Shame can’t be numbed without numbing everything else inside.  Shame can’t be controlled or projected onto others without devastating consequences.  We can’t pretend that our shameful behavior doesn’t hurt others.

Shame can only be healed by connection, by honest reckoning, by forgiveness in a context of love and belonging.  Shame is overcome when we understand that there is nothing that can separate us ultimately from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Did you notice that both Paul and Peter are welcomed and fed as part of their redemption?  The mark of the Beloved Community of Jesus is that all of us are welcome at the table WITH our shame, failure, sorrow and wounds.  Everyone is offered the body of the living Christ, food for the soul and the cup of new life.  Connection is established at the table.  Belonging begins with shared bread and wine.

When we know ourselves to be loved and accepted we can no longer project our shame in judgement of others.  We no longer need to withhold compassion and forgiveness from ourselves or others.  We are free, empowered and courageous to answer the call of Christ and to walk in his way.

After some reflection, I’ve decided that I am more of a Paul than a Peter.  I prefer to be right and in control.  It’s going to take getting knocked on my butt for me to acknowledge my weakness and stop trying to take charge of everything.  Over and over it has been God’s grace in those who love and accept me in spite of myself that leads me into fullness of life.  Often I find Jesus in those whose lives seem most unlike my carefully controlled and organized one.  These are the ones who offer me forgiveness, compassion and belonging when I least expect it.  And it is often at a meal, daily breakfast at the Edible Hope Kitchen, Thursday parish lunch or our Sunday feast at the altar, that I know myself to be loved for who I am, in spite of my many flaws and that I belong in this community of faith, hope and love.

Amen.

 

 

Second Sunday of Easter, May 2, 2019 – The Rev. Canon Britt Olson

There are three traditions about this particular Sunday in the church year.  The first is that it is unofficially known as “Low Sunday” because many who showed up for Holy Week and Easter feel like they attended church much more often than their normal pattern and others get to Easter Day and figure they got all the high points and can take a break until next Advent!

The second tradition is linked to the first.  Often the preacher for the Second Sunday of Easter is not the Vicar or Rector.  Like many parishioners, the Vicar may feel like they did more than their fair share of preaching and leading services during Holy Week and Easter and they deserve a day off so they assign the preaching to an Associate.

The third tradition on the Sunday after Easter is that we always hear the story of Thomas and his unwillingness to believe in the resurrected Christ until he has the opportunity to touch the wounds in the hands and side of Jesus.  You may have heard me call Thomas the “patron saint of Episcopalians” although this is not an official designation.  It’s just that many of us who have gravitated to this denomination did so because it seems to be OK with asking questions and raising doubts.  We often hear that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but rather fear.  Thomas is definitely not afraid.  While the other 10 disciples are holed up behind locked doors, he’s out and about and as a result isn’t present for the first appearance of the resurrected Christ.

If you’re in church this Sunday it may be because you weren’t aware of these traditions, weren’t paying attention to the church calendar, especially like Thomas or were hoping that the Vicar wouldn’t be preaching!

Or it may be something else.  It may be that you’re here because you received new life in the Easter celebration or were inspired by the presence of the Spirit.  You may be renewed in your faith and fairly serious about following Jesus and living into Easter faith, hope and love.  You may be one of the fifty folks who showed up for St. Luke’s first Easter Vigil in a long time and were moved by the power and beauty of the liturgy, readings and sermons.

For whatever reason you are here this morning, I am so glad.  I am so glad to unpack with you the message of Jesus and the call to live into the resurrection.  We bring our doubts and our fears as well as our awe and worship and praise.  Together with Thomas we come close to Christ to touch his wounds, to hear his blessing of peace and to receive the Holy Spirit.

But how do we get close?  After all the resurrected body is no longer with us.  The miraculous manifestation of tongues of fire aren’t visible here today.  We are those who have not seen, but we want to believe.  We are those who ask of God, “Lord, help my unbelief.”  We want to be close to God, but often we feel so distant.  We can’t put our fingers in the nail holes or our hands in his side.  We can’t share a meal of bread and fish with him or hear him bless us with peace.

Distance.  It’s hard to bridge the distance of time, the distance of a different culture, the distance of separation.  It’s especially difficult to bridge the distance of privilege.

The privilege of distance.  It’s a phrase I had never really heard until this past Friday.  I heard it in a song.  The song was written and sung by a woman whose neighbor had been killed by recently armed campus security officers in Portland.  He was a father and grandfather.  He had stepped in to break up a fight outside a bar.  He was succeeding as the security officers arrived.  A few minutes later he had been shot dead.

Her kids had played with his kids.  They had shared block parties with him and his wife.  They lived in a decent neighborhood just a few doors down from one another.  They attended the same church.    They were close, good neighbors.  And he was shot dead.

But there was a distance between them.  A distance that she didn’t even fully comprehend or realize until he was dead.  A distance that she didn’t understand but he did.  A distance that got him killed.  In their church, his family was one of only two black families.  On that sidewalk, in front of the bar, he was the only person of color.  The distance between them was the distance created by privilege, the privilege of whiteness.  It is the privilege of not having to worry about being automatically considered a suspect because of skin color.  It is the privilege of not being automatically branded a threat because you are a black male.  And it’s the privilege of not having to think about these things consciously or unconsciously every minute of every day.  The privilege of distance.

Jesus breaks down that privilege.  At his birth, Jesus moves into the neighborhood.  He pitches his tent amongst us.  At least that’s the Eugene Peterson translation from the Message.  I think about that every time I pass one of the many tents dotting our city, in parks, on sidewalks, under freeways.  Jesus pitched his tent in the middle of suffering, desperate humanity.

Jesus doesn’t keep his distance, not from lepers, or foreigners, the diseased or dead.  He talks to prostitutes and heals menstruating women.  He shares meals with the despised and rejected and even shares a cup with the one who will betray him.  With Jesus, it’s all personal, it’s all close, it’s all real.  At the end he suffers the fate of the indigent, the petty thieves, the rabble rousers, the ones with no power to save themselves.  He dies a death so awful that only his mother and a few, mostly female followers can bear to be present during his suffering.

And then, when his friends are keeping their distance from everyone, behind locked doors, he breaks down every barrier, including that most permanent one, death to be with them.  He stands in the midst of them.  He invites them to come close.  He offers the sign of peace.  And when Thomas misses that opportunity, he comes close again, just for him.  He comes close enough so that Thomas can touch the marks of his wounds.

After that, the disciples have lost the privilege of safety and security.  They have touched the death of Jesus and been transformed by his resurrection into those who go out into the world with the message of this boundary-breaking love which destroys the walls we build between one another.

Oh we are an Easter people, a people marked by the cross and propelled by the resurrection.  We are a people who can no longer be ignorant of the distance that separates us from the suffering and crucified ones.  We can no longer offer our peace from afar, our thoughts and prayers, our check to help the needy.  We can no longer avoid getting our hands dirty and even bloody as we care for those who have fallen and bind up the wounds of the victims.  Because the Lord of life has breathed the Spirit upon us, we can no longer walk away from death or to keep ourselves racially and economically isolated.

It may not be safe.  As one commentator put it, “The apostolic movement is a political enterprise that lives in tension, if not contradiction with established order in the world.”  To abandon the privilege of distance is to become as vulnerable as the vulnerable.  It is to question and doubt even those we have been taught to respect and rely on.

When we get close enough to touch the wounds of Christ, we will find ourselves in direct contact with the poor, the hungry, those who are strung-out and mentally ill.  We may get to know drug users or even drug dealers.  We will be able to see and hear the stories of those who have been sexually harassed or assaulted.  We will bring flowers to the site of shootings and we will walk in protest when our community failing the vulnerable.

We will open our doors to those in need, and like we did yesterday, we will provide the space and opportunity for friends and family to mourn when their 30 year old, beloved Ryan has died on the streets after suffering from years of anxiety, pain and addiction.   We will join in mourning for Christian sisters and brothers in Sri Lanka and for our Jewish neighbors in San Diego.  We will find ways to proclaim and act like Black Lives Matter and confront the ingrained racism that even now keeps our congregations mostly segregated on Sunday mornings.

And we will do so, not because we are so strong, or principled or even woke!  We’ll do so because we have received the Spirit of God, the Spirit not of timidity but of courage in the name of Jesus.  We will act because we have touched the risen Christ in the bodies of our wounded sisters and brothers… AND IN OUR OWN WOUNDS.  We have seen the power of God to bring new life out of death and to redeem even the most hopeless situation.  Because of the love of Jesus, we will forgive and ask for forgiveness.

And we will know that “Resurrection means the worst thing is never the last thing.”  It won’t be our certainty, our strength or even our own courage that propels us from this place but rather the wounds of the Lord Jesus Christ who gave himself for us an offering and sacrifice to God on behalf of the world.  Amen.

March 24, 2019 – The Rev. Canon Britt Olson

There is a long tradition of mysticism in Christianity. It is a river that runs deep through the centuries and has been practiced by men, women and children from every time period, background and outlook. It includes famous mystics like St. John of the Cross, Julian of Norwich, the person who wrote “The Cloud of Unknowing,” and thousands of everyday folks who have had direct experience of the divine.

Mysticism is not just present in Christianity. It can be located in the rivers of Judaism, Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism. These are great rivers of tradition, practice and devotion. They each have their own separate identity and yet, the stream, the life-giving water that flows in each one mingles and recombines with others as river water evaporates into steam and cloud and then descends once again as snow, rain and hail.

In Judaism, one Rabbi who is fascinated by this strand in his faith is Lawrence Kushner. He defines a mystic in this way:  “A mystic is anyone who has the gnawing suspicion that the apparent discord, brokenness, contradictions, and discontinuities that assault us every day might conceal a hidden unity.”  That hidden unity is revealed as we understand ourselves ever more deeply to be located within God, part of the divine, in contact with a reality much larger than we are normally aware of.

I am not a mystic. I don’t do well with silent meditation. I’m happiest when actively “doing” something and less comfortable simply being. I’m more of a “Martha” than a “Mary,” paying attention to the practicalities, making sure the tasks are done. I’ve never had dramatic visions, heard the voice of the Almighty or been pulled out of this dimension into some higher, purer, spiritual plane. I’m an Episcopalian in part because Anglicanism is known to be a pragmatic, realistic sort of denomination, not prone to extremes (generally :).

For that reason, preaching on texts where there is direct, mystical encounter with the holy are very intimidating to me. The last time I preached was on the Feast of the Transfiguration, when Jesus goes up the mountain and is changed temporarily into glory. Today we’ve got another mountain top, but it’s Moses and the burning bush. These are overwhelming experiences. People and plants are transformed. The voice of God speaks. The very ground becomes holy and the people involved take off their shoes, they fall on their faces, they tremble. Nothing will ever be the same.

Sometimes we long for such a clear and unequivocal communication of the divine presence. We may even ask or demand God to show up, to answer us, to fix the desperate situation we face. We may try to earn or trick God into a manifestation through extreme fasting, long prayers or particular methods that have seemed to unlock mystical experience for someone else. We need direction, healing, proof that God is real and cares for us. We want answers to the question of why we suffer, why the world is in such bad shape and why God doesn’t intervene. Or maybe we were once touched by God directly and we wish for a repetition of that amazing event.

Yesterday I went looking for encounter. For me, that mostly means paying attention when I’m walking. Did I mention that I suck at meditation?  My top silent prayer record is less than 15 minutes. It’s a good thing I have a spiritual director who contributed a chapter to the book, Spiritual Direction for the Extrovert!  She’s the one who gave me permission to pray while walking. It seems to work for me.

There are some practices that set me up for a holy encounter while walking. When I walk while reflecting on Scripture it seems to help open my mind to a different kind of understanding. When I intentionally offer to God the people and problems I am concerned about, there is an attentiveness that seems reciprocated. All those everyday things that help nurture my relationship with God, like worship, prayer, holy learning, service to others, sharing the good news, confession and Sabbath rest provide support so that my eyes and ears can be open to receive God’s presence.

So I went walking in the Washington Arboretum. I was looking for azaleas in bloom, or at least cherry trees and some camellias. I was in search of fresh, green things and a good place for my dog, Sally, to stretch her legs. It turns out that it’s too early in the season and Azalea Way was still mostly bare twigs. It also turns out that our recent snowpocalypse punished the trees and shrubs in the arboretum. Everywhere there were downed limbs and broken branches. I had no difficulty observing the brokenness and damage of our world.

My head drooped as I surveyed the destruction and it bowed further as I thought about the crises I see on our streets every day from homelessness, drug addiction and mental illness. My heart was weighed down by the anger and disgust some people express towards those who are suffering in these situations and to those who are trying to help. I wondered how we could keep going here at St. Luke’s and in the Edible Hope Kitchen, caring for those on the margins, working to foster Beloved Community, seeking to love God and all our neighbors. How will we ever be able to develop our property in a way that fosters these values we hold so dear?  My walk was getting heavy and I was no longer looking around me.

This is when it’s good to have a very active, three-year-old black lab. She chased up a side path around the corner and I followed. As I rounded the bend, there was a 40-foot-high old magnolia. At the very top of the tree canopy were enormous purple/pink blooms, just being touched by the sun. I remember coming to the garden later in the season in previous years and seeing the remains of these blooms and being sad that I had missed the full flowering. But now, I was here! I was in this place at the right time. This great tree had put forth all its energy one more time into gorgeous flower. It was old and damaged and it was glorious.

I didn’t hear a voice. I wasn’t transported to another dimension. But the words of Scripture suddenly echoed in my brain. “I am.”  “I am” is here. “I am” is with you. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; the God of Jesus, Peter, Mary of Magdala and Martha; the God of all those who have gone before me is here. It’s the same message that Moses and Jesus heard.

It’s the same message for us. I have heard the cries of my people who are suffering. You are called to respond to them. I will be with you. With God all things are possible. I have the cattle on a thousand hills. I will be at your right hand. I will walk with you through desert, fire and flood. I will bring you and all my people safely home.

The holy one, blessed be God forever, is still active and present in our generation. Circumstances and situations may have changed but the vision is still the same. God has called us all to feast at the great banquet where everyone is welcome. God feeds us in body and soul so that we might feed others.

In just a few minutes, the spiritual pilgrims and companions for this year will be coming forward for the Rite of Welcome. Together we are walking this path, the Way of Love. We are called to “Turn, Learn, Pray, Worship, Bless, Go and Rest.”  This Rule of Life opens our ears and eyes and heart to experience God’s presence. As we welcome them, each pilgrim will be signed with the cross to recognize that every part of them is engaged in a holy journey. It’s not that the heavens will open up and the Spirit will descend like a dove, (although anything is possible and this is St. Luke’s, Ballard after all!)  It’s more likely that they will have fresh eyes and ears to see and hear God in their daily lives.

The gardeners had been active in the Arboretum. They didn’t immediately uproot the damaged plants. Instead, they had been tending them, propping up sagging limbs, clearing out dead branches, adding nutrients. Gardeners have eyes to see life where it looks like death. They remember the fruit and flower even in the dead of winter or the damage of natural disaster. They have hope for the following year.

This Lent, let’s let our good gardener loosen our hardened soil, pour into our parched soul the nutrients we need to flourish and feed us with the nourishment that will strengthen us to bear good fruit. Amen.

January 27, 2019 – The Rev. Canon Britt Olson

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me.  The Spirit of the Lord is upon us.  The Spirit has brought us to this place and this very day, the Spirit is at work to fulfill the promise and purpose of God.

This is a pretty bold claim.  It can so easily be misused by a preacher who confuses her own agenda with the movement of God’s Spirit.   It’s hard to argue when someone claims to be guided and informed by the Holy Spirit.  Sometimes it’s a way to whip up enthusiasm and excitement in the moment and on the surface without tapping into the solid, sustaining, movement of God that leads us through the highs and lows, the good times and bad, the joys and sorrows of the Christian life.

Each of us has probably experienced cycles of spiritual passion and growth followed by challenges, distractions, and disillusionment.  For many the difficulties, doubts, conflicts and questions end with either being “done” with Christianity or answering “none” when asked about religious affiliation.  Congregations experience these cycles and many would say that whole civilizations do as well.  The history of St. Luke’s tells a story of growth, conflict, decline and rebirth that has been repeated a number of times over our 128 year history.  There are times when we have been the center of revival and renewal for Seattle, the diocese and even the West coast and others when we could barely keep the doors open.

Today is my fourth Annual Meeting with you and again I say, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon us.”  God’s Spirit has brought us thus far by faith and will lead us on into a future that we cannot fully imagine.  It is a future filled with excitement and possibility and fraught with risk and anxiety.  There will be joys and sorrows, challenges and opportunities, setbacks and miracles.  It is life in the Spirit and it is not for the faint of heart.  The way of Jesus is rarely comfortable or predictable or easy but it is the way of abundant life with food for the soul and the cup of new life.

This is the year that St. Luke’s will undertake the development of the property we inhabit.  Since 1980 there have been no less than 4 property development plans that never came to fruition.  I’m certain that well-meaning and sincere people put energy and resources into those plans.  But for a variety of reasons, they never materialized.   And it would be fair to ask, what’s different now?  Why are we ready now to go forward now?  What’s changed?

It’s probably the same question the Israelites asked Nehemiah about the rebuilding of Jerusalem.  The city had been taken over by foreign armies, the protective walls broken down and the gates damaged.  The inhabitants fled or were taken away as slaves.  Once everything of value had been removed, only a small group of the elderly, the young and the disabled were left.  The former glory of the Holy City was gone.

Nehemiah had been taken away also and was serving a foreign government.  He heard about the plight of Jerusalem and brought it to the attention of the ruler who not only gave him time off to return to Jerusalem but provided some resources for a building project.  Nehemiah arrived and first had difficulty getting anyone on board with his plan to rebuild.  Once they agreed to start, they had to defend themselves from those who would steal or destroy their work.  Then, of course, they started fighting with each other.  Anyone who’s ever built or remodeled, will know how tempers can be frayed.  I’m certain it was tempting to give up and yet, despite all the challenges, this rag tag people of God, along with support from unlikely partners completed the task.

It’s an amazing accomplishment but that’s not the most important part of the story.  It’s what happens in that community that makes all the difference.  At the end of the construction phase, Nehemiah as the governor, politician and developer along with Ezra the priest and the scribes who maintained the history and laws of Israel called all the people together.  This was a people who had lost many of their traditions.  Over years of occupation and oppression they had forgotten their identity as God’s beloved, their purpose and the promises God made to them.

And so it was that Ezra began to read their story back to them.  He opened the Hebrew Scriptures and the riches of their faith poured out upon them.  They heard about the beauty of creation and how God made it good.  They were reminded of their deliverance from the army of Egypt through the Red Sea.  As the day went they heard the cycle of faith, faithlessness, forgiveness, redemption and rejoicing that had happened so many times for God’s people.

They were reminded of all they had lost or forgotten.  In the rebuilding of their city, their place was restored, but more importantly, so was their purpose.   The connection to their past kindled hope for their future.  They rediscovered a deep spiritual heritage as a treasure more precious than any building.  They wept.  And then they had a huge feast and celebration.

It was a shared vision, enkindled by the Spirit of God in Nehemiah that carried them through all the hard work, fear, struggle and risk to a place of gratitude and celebration.  The buildings, walls and gates are important but they were never the final goal.  What God had in mind was a people restored and forgiven, a community gathered together and flourishing, a space for everyone to be safe and cared for.

The church is not a building.  The church is the Body of Christ and is built of and by its many members.  We are united in baptism as “all are made to drink of one Spirit.”  We partake of one bread and one cup, nourished by the love of Jesus.  We exist, not for ourselves alone, but for the community, beloved of God and enlivened by the Holy Spirit.  The goal of our growth and development is the common good, which means we are in this for others.  We are called to care for the weak and lowly, those who are on life’s margins.  We share the mission of Jesus articulated in both the Hebrew Scriptures and the Gospel:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

The church is the Body of Christ and as has so powerfully been articulated:

“Christ has no body now but yours.  No hands, no feet on earth but yours.  Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world.  Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.  Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world.”

At this Annual Meeting and in meetings with the many people and groups who are part of our community we will be asking people to talk about how they experience the Spirit of God through St. Luke’s.  We may have to change the language for our more secular partners, but what we want to hear is how this place has been and can be a blessing to build up beloved community.  We need to hear from as many voices as possible.  By Easter we hope to have input from dozens or even hundreds of people who are touched and impacted by St. Luke’s.

This information will be gathered and summarized by members of the Property Stewardship Team (Mike Bigelow, Jane Frol, Bill Hoey, Christopher Mosier, Duke Vivian, Barbara Wilson, Susan Young and Dennis Tierney from the Episcopal Diocese of Olympia).  Their role is to advise St. Luke’s Bishop’s Committee and the Diocese, who owns this property, on a process of development that is consistent with the mission and vision of Jesus as it is lived out in this community.

After worship we will gather to participate in the visioning process.  I hope you will stay.  We need to hear from you if you have been a member for 40 years.  We need to hear from you if this is your first Sunday at St. Luke’s.  We need to hear from our guests at Edible Hope Kitchen and the businesses and residents of Ballard.  We will also be electing members to the Bishop’s Committee (Current Members:  Barbara Wilson, Senior Warden; Nathan Zetterberg, Junior Warden, Mike Bigelow, Julia Hunter, Duke Vivian, Bernadette Walcott, Susan Young and candidates, Alison Crowley and Suzi Spooner).  Finally we will be approving a budget for 2019 presented by our Treasurer, Jane Frol with Assistant Treasurer, Bill Hoey.

In the year ahead we will face obstacles.  There will be differences of opinion and setbacks.  But we have never been more ready to move forward.  God has brought us together and provided people who have the gifts we need to proceed.  We will have development partners to work with us on this large task. Each one of you has been given gifts for the building up of the Body of Christ.  The gifts vary and it is God’s Spirit who binds us all into one for the common good.

Before any decision is ever made, we will seek to be clear on our vision and mission.   Through it all we will continue to seek the Spirit of God and to discern the way in which we are to go.  Many of you know Nancy Rogers, who has been a member for over 40 years and began our feeding ministry over 30 years ago.  She has witnessed St. Luke’s cycles of growth and decline.  For the past few months she has clearly told me that we need to be in prayer as a church about our mission, vision and direction so that we can be led by the Spirit in this process.  I think there is probably a way for us to do this without having to all be in the same place at the same time and you can sign up to participate.

What we begin this year may take a few years to bring to completion.   We’ll be sure to have a celebration and I trust that we, like our ancestors in the faith will be able to sing, “The joy of the Lord is our strength.”  Amen.