Go See all the t-shirts and enjoy them, won't you?
October 23, 2004
Carver's Ts > A New Section of T-Shirts by a Seven Year Old
Go See all the t-shirts and enjoy them, won't you?
October 07, 2004
Homily » October 3, 2004 » Blessing of the Animals » St. Mark's Lutheran Church
Shalom,
In case you need reminding, this is the blessing of the animals. At my house, we share our lives with two dogs and a cat--Pretzel, Sadie, and Swiper. And though these animals have never come to us and asked us to increase their faith, I'm going to use them as an entryway for understanding both the apostles' request and Jesus' response from our Gospel reading.
Would you describe your animals as faithful? I'm going to take a leap here and answer for you by saying that yes, they are. But how can we describe the faith of a pet? To whom, or what, is a pet faithful? To you? To each other? To God?
Does a pet's faith rely on a belief in your existence? (I sometimes question, actually, whether the cat believes I exist outside my ability to put food into her bowl.) Do you think that your pet believes you will always provide for them?
I don't think that. The way our dogs act at suppertime, I wonder if they thought I might never feed them again.
This year we brought a new dog into our home--Sadie. She loves to play fetch, to chase the ball as fast as she can run, to catch the ball mid-bounce if possible, and return it to us just as quickly.
Sometimes, when I throw a ball for Sadie, if it doesn't go where she expected it to go, she can't find it. Once it stops moving, it's as good as lost. She searches the grass willy nilly, not making much progress toward the ball (she's more of a herding dog than a scent dog). When she tires of looking for it, she returns to me, hoping I still have it, that I've tricked her and will throw it again. But I don't have it. I point toward the ball. "It's over there," I say.
You know what Sadie does, don't you? She looks at my finger. At my hand. At my gesture. Instead of following the direction of my finger out toward the ball, she refuses to take her eyes off me.
"Go get it," I say, "No! Over there!" I say.
I try to keep myself from saying, "You stupid dog."
The more I yell and point and sigh and shake my head, the less she seems to understand that I don't have the ball, that it left my hand and it's thataway, Sadie.
But Sadie and I don't really speak the same language, no matter how much I may think she understands what I'm saying to her, no matter how many dog books I may write. She understands me in a very different way than I intend when I speak my ridiculous human language to her; she only truly understands when I take her out into the field and show her where the ball has been hiding. She picks it up immediately, even if I am already reaching to pick it up myself, and she puts it into my hands and steps away, waiting for me to throw it again.
So here are the apostles, playing their favorite game, and they say to Jesus, "Increase our faith." And Jesus points to it. "Go get it. It's over there."
I like to think that maybe Jesus was trying to keep himself from saying, "You stupid apostles."
Instead he tells the apostles, "If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, the mulberry tree would obey you." Now I like to put myself in a row behind the apostles here, trying not to look at Jesus' pointing finger as he shows them the way, so I sit there thinking he's telling us, maybe, that we just need that little bit of faith. A mustard seed. It's so tiny. Is that really all I need?
The danger, of course, is to look at this passage and think that Jesus was telling the apostles that they didn't even have faith the size of a mustard seed. But there's something else going on here. When Jesus follows up by asking if the apostles if they expect a servant to come in from the fields and be anything but a servant, shouldn't we we step back a few moments and wonder, do we ask anything of the mustard seed but that it be a mustard seed?
We expect that the mustard seed will become a mustard plant. The mustard seed cannot be what it isn't. It is true to itself-to God's creation. So long as the mustard seed does not try to grow into the mulberry tree, it is being faithful to God's creation.
Thus the servant in God's house is faithful by being true to his or her own nature.
Shakespeare put it this way:
Shakespeare was a pretty smart guy. So long as you are true to yourself, you will be true to everyone else as well. God resides with you in the form of the Holy Spirit. You must let the Holy Spirit guide you. You might say, "but I don't hear that voice inside myself." But you don't need to hear voices to know when you are being true to your nature. You know when you are being true to the spirit, when you are being true to yourself as God created you.
Sadie, when we're playing fetch, watches me, fully aware that eventually I will show her the way to the ball. Our other dog, Pretzel, is true to herself by fetching the ball once and taking it to the far corners of the field, never letting me have the ball back in the first place. Swiper, the cat, climbs trees and hunts for mice and wonders what all the fuss is about. They are not so much faithful to me as they are faithful to themselves as God's creations.
To be faithful followers of Christ, the apostles, as well as you and I, have to be true to ourselves as God's creations. I like to think that when the apostles asked that Jesus increase their faith, this was good news to him. It was not the amount of faith that he found important, but the mere presence of that faith. That the apostles were asking Jesus to increase their faith meant that they were already being true to themselves, faithful to their creation, seeking out a faith that, though they didn't quite understand it, had already taken residence within themselves.
This kind of faith likely has as much to do with loyalty as it does with belief. And so long as we continue to turn our faces to God and ask forgiveness, so long as we continue to ask questions and worship and share our meals with Christ, we may not have all the answers we're looking for, but we will continue to have faith.
This is important, of course, for those of us who sometimes wonder-as the apostles did-if we have enough faith. It's good news for those who feel they've lost some of their belief, or that they've lost their faith altogether. Your concern for your own faith is enough to prove that your faith exists, and so long as your faith exists, you are sheltered by the grace of God.
"Increase our faith," said the apostles. Or rather, "Where's the ball? Where's the ball where's the ball where's the ball?"
Jesus, no doubt, was pointing back toward them. The faith was inside them-as much in their asking for it as in their belief in it--as it is within you. Perhaps the next time you kneel at the altar rail and accept the host, you will be tempted to lick your pastor's face in thanks. If this is the case I would remind you that the traditional response, though not as apparently demonstrative, is quite sufficient.
Amen.
In case you need reminding, this is the blessing of the animals. At my house, we share our lives with two dogs and a cat--Pretzel, Sadie, and Swiper. And though these animals have never come to us and asked us to increase their faith, I'm going to use them as an entryway for understanding both the apostles' request and Jesus' response from our Gospel reading.
Would you describe your animals as faithful? I'm going to take a leap here and answer for you by saying that yes, they are. But how can we describe the faith of a pet? To whom, or what, is a pet faithful? To you? To each other? To God?
Does a pet's faith rely on a belief in your existence? (I sometimes question, actually, whether the cat believes I exist outside my ability to put food into her bowl.) Do you think that your pet believes you will always provide for them?
I don't think that. The way our dogs act at suppertime, I wonder if they thought I might never feed them again.
This year we brought a new dog into our home--Sadie. She loves to play fetch, to chase the ball as fast as she can run, to catch the ball mid-bounce if possible, and return it to us just as quickly.
Sometimes, when I throw a ball for Sadie, if it doesn't go where she expected it to go, she can't find it. Once it stops moving, it's as good as lost. She searches the grass willy nilly, not making much progress toward the ball (she's more of a herding dog than a scent dog). When she tires of looking for it, she returns to me, hoping I still have it, that I've tricked her and will throw it again. But I don't have it. I point toward the ball. "It's over there," I say.
You know what Sadie does, don't you? She looks at my finger. At my hand. At my gesture. Instead of following the direction of my finger out toward the ball, she refuses to take her eyes off me.
"Go get it," I say, "No! Over there!" I say.
I try to keep myself from saying, "You stupid dog."
The more I yell and point and sigh and shake my head, the less she seems to understand that I don't have the ball, that it left my hand and it's thataway, Sadie.
But Sadie and I don't really speak the same language, no matter how much I may think she understands what I'm saying to her, no matter how many dog books I may write. She understands me in a very different way than I intend when I speak my ridiculous human language to her; she only truly understands when I take her out into the field and show her where the ball has been hiding. She picks it up immediately, even if I am already reaching to pick it up myself, and she puts it into my hands and steps away, waiting for me to throw it again.
So here are the apostles, playing their favorite game, and they say to Jesus, "Increase our faith." And Jesus points to it. "Go get it. It's over there."
I like to think that maybe Jesus was trying to keep himself from saying, "You stupid apostles."
Instead he tells the apostles, "If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, the mulberry tree would obey you." Now I like to put myself in a row behind the apostles here, trying not to look at Jesus' pointing finger as he shows them the way, so I sit there thinking he's telling us, maybe, that we just need that little bit of faith. A mustard seed. It's so tiny. Is that really all I need?
The danger, of course, is to look at this passage and think that Jesus was telling the apostles that they didn't even have faith the size of a mustard seed. But there's something else going on here. When Jesus follows up by asking if the apostles if they expect a servant to come in from the fields and be anything but a servant, shouldn't we we step back a few moments and wonder, do we ask anything of the mustard seed but that it be a mustard seed?
We expect that the mustard seed will become a mustard plant. The mustard seed cannot be what it isn't. It is true to itself-to God's creation. So long as the mustard seed does not try to grow into the mulberry tree, it is being faithful to God's creation.
Thus the servant in God's house is faithful by being true to his or her own nature.
Shakespeare put it this way:
This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Shakespeare was a pretty smart guy. So long as you are true to yourself, you will be true to everyone else as well. God resides with you in the form of the Holy Spirit. You must let the Holy Spirit guide you. You might say, "but I don't hear that voice inside myself." But you don't need to hear voices to know when you are being true to your nature. You know when you are being true to the spirit, when you are being true to yourself as God created you.
Sadie, when we're playing fetch, watches me, fully aware that eventually I will show her the way to the ball. Our other dog, Pretzel, is true to herself by fetching the ball once and taking it to the far corners of the field, never letting me have the ball back in the first place. Swiper, the cat, climbs trees and hunts for mice and wonders what all the fuss is about. They are not so much faithful to me as they are faithful to themselves as God's creations.
To be faithful followers of Christ, the apostles, as well as you and I, have to be true to ourselves as God's creations. I like to think that when the apostles asked that Jesus increase their faith, this was good news to him. It was not the amount of faith that he found important, but the mere presence of that faith. That the apostles were asking Jesus to increase their faith meant that they were already being true to themselves, faithful to their creation, seeking out a faith that, though they didn't quite understand it, had already taken residence within themselves.
This kind of faith likely has as much to do with loyalty as it does with belief. And so long as we continue to turn our faces to God and ask forgiveness, so long as we continue to ask questions and worship and share our meals with Christ, we may not have all the answers we're looking for, but we will continue to have faith.
This is important, of course, for those of us who sometimes wonder-as the apostles did-if we have enough faith. It's good news for those who feel they've lost some of their belief, or that they've lost their faith altogether. Your concern for your own faith is enough to prove that your faith exists, and so long as your faith exists, you are sheltered by the grace of God.
"Increase our faith," said the apostles. Or rather, "Where's the ball? Where's the ball where's the ball where's the ball?"
Jesus, no doubt, was pointing back toward them. The faith was inside them-as much in their asking for it as in their belief in it--as it is within you. Perhaps the next time you kneel at the altar rail and accept the host, you will be tempted to lick your pastor's face in thanks. If this is the case I would remind you that the traditional response, though not as apparently demonstrative, is quite sufficient.
Amen.
Homily » October 5, 2003 » Blessing of the Animals » St. Mark's Lutheran Church » Spokane
I've been meaning to post my homily from this year's Blessing of the Animals at St. Mark's Lutheran Church, but before I do that, I'll post last year's. Enjoy.
Shalom
I remember several years ago when we took the new member class, pastor Finch mentioned that one of the traditions of the Lutheran church allows members of the congregation to preach. What I didn't realize at the time was that he wasn't just teaching us, he was warning us.
Go ahead and laugh. You may be next.
Truly, when I was asked to give the homily for blessing of the animals weekend, I was honored. After I'd said yes, and after I gave it some thought, and after I tried writing the homily the first two or four or eight times, I wasn't quite sure if I should feel so honored anymore.
Instead I started thinking, "why me?"
At this point you may be asking yourself the same thing: "Why him?" I suppose the answer is that I'm writing a book about dogs. My book is titled You Are a Dog, and will be out in October of 2004 from Harmony Publications, a division of Random House. Pastor Finch wanted to be sure that I mentioned my book, so now I have. He's very excited about the publication of my book-probably more than I am.
My Story
So I've known about this homily for weeks. I've been trying to write it for weeks. And, as often happens with me, what it took for me to finish it was to just get out of my own way and write it.
Even so, I'm not very good at going into any new experience completely blind. I like to have a lot of research materials at hand, even if I never use them. So when preparing this homily, I spent a lot of time researching what made me think I was qualified (other than Pastor Finch's enthusiasm, that is).
Mostly what I found in my research was material telling me how the liturgy and worship service requires the participation of the parishoners. You know what I mean. Call and response. Singing the hymns. Sharing the peace. Fellowship. Etcetera. Everyone in this room participates in the liturgy. So even when I'm not giving the sermon, I'm just as important a participant as the pastor.
As I read these words, I found myself saying, "yeah, yeah, whatever." I thought I was looking for something else. Something more powerful. More to the point.
I guess I figured that if I examined the Lutheran Book of Worship long enough, eventually I would find "Terry Bain may give the sermon during the week of blessing of the animals" printed there.
I probably don't need to tell you that I didn't find those words.
Here's part of my problem: I didn't grow up in a church. I was not particularly comfortable the first few times I sat through a worship service. Some things, such as the sharing of the peace, were extremely difficult for me. "You mean I have to interact with these people too?"
I used to mark time the same way my kids do now: "when we get to communion, we're almost finished." I used to check my watch a lot.
If you find yourself checking your watch right now, I won't hold it against you.
Even though I didn't grow up in a church, I feel truly blessed. Everything in the service was new to me, uncomfortable or not. Most everything still feels a little new. Standing up here talking about newness feels very very very new. But I got to experience the importance of the different aspects of the liturgy, of worshi--for the first time--as an adult. I still remember the first time one of the liturgical songs made it home with me. I was making coffee, and suddenly I began to sing: "Now the feast and celebration, all of creation, sings for joy."
Does something ever happen in your life and you say to yourself, "This is God talking to you?"
This is what I said to myself while singing over my coffee grounds: "Aha! I knew it. That's how they get ya!"
Apparently I was more concerned with indonctrination than salvation. Also, I obviously hadn't yet had my morning coffee.
Since that time I've found myself singing a great deal. And I've given myself over to it. If it's indoctrinination, then so be it, because I have a feeling that it isn't a matter of one thing or the other. Indoctrination and salvation. I get the salvation part regardless.
Does that make sense? I get the salvation even if the liturgy is simply burned into the pathways of my brain. And why is that?
Because we are saved by grace.
Because we live the worship every moment of our lives. When we are in church, grace is with us. When we are at work, grace is with us. When we are on the golf course or on the slopes, grace is with us.
And it's the only way, really, that I get to stand up here and say anything to you. Because I am not equipped with any special superhero powers. I cannot save you. Our able pastors cannot save you. Even you yourself cannot save you. Because you are saved by the grace of God, by the peace that passes all understanding.
When I stood up here and greeted you, I did so with the Hebrew word "Shalom," which, when translated simply and literally, means "Peace." But as you may know, rarely do words, especially ancient biblical words, translate so literally and simply. Shalom is no exception. "Shalom," I say, and I mean to say "Peace," but I mean a peace that passes all understanding. I mean a peace offered by God in the living form of Christ. When we share Christ's peace I will say "Shalom," and you will know I am wishing for you a kind of peace that I do not even understand... a kind of peace that is beyond me, that is beyond you, that is beyond all of humankind.
I didn't start writing about all this. I started with the animals. I started with the book I'm writing. What I've come to realize while writing such a book is that much of what we see in the biblical texts is lived in the lives of the beasts in our homes, whether they know that's what they are doing or not.
I will speak of dogs here--it's what I know. In many ways, I live my life as they do (though I am human, so I still have my undoglike weaknesses).
Our dog, Pretzel, does not greet me as others greet me. She comes to the door and gives me every ounce of her attention. She reports directly before me. She licks me and reminds me that nobody loves me like she does. She runs to me, then runs to Carver and Sophia and Sarah. She puts her head down and leaps up and carries on as if drunk or mad. What she appears to feel is a kind of joy that I have very rarely felt myself. Perhaps at the birth of my children have I felt such joy. On my wedding day. Yes, then, absolutely. But this dog feels and shows it to me daily. "You're home!" she says to me, "You're home! Oh thank God you're home!"
If I were to put a name to this greeting, what would I call it?
I would call it Shalom.
If Pretzel comes and wakes me at five o'clock in the morning, licking me in the face, I push her away. If I push her away, she comes back twice as eager. If I push her away once more she is twice again as happy to see me.
When I am gone for a very long time, for days or weeks at a time, Pretzel loves me when I return.
When I have left her outside in the rain or the sleet or the hot hot sun, she loves me.
When I yell at her to get off the sofa or to stop biting the wheel of the lawnmower, she loves me.
She responds to my touch with love.
She responds to my ire with love.
She responds to my love with love.
She responds with love.
Do I deserve any such love? I do not.
If I name this love, what will I call it?
I will call it grace.
Jesus blesses the children not because they need or want a blessing, but because they are wide open to it. They are not fighting one another to gain access to a blessing. Most of the time they are just present, blessing us with all the reminders of our weakness and humanity.
And we bless our animals today not because they need it. We bless our animals because the rest of the year, if we are paying attention, they can remind us of how to live moment by moment in the presence of Grace, with the promise of Shalom. Today we bless our animals because every other moment of the year, they bless us.
What qualifies me to speak in front of you all today? I do not know. I will never know. It is shalom, and it is a peace that passes all understanding.
And so, my wish for you, for your children and parents and animals and all those who love you and who you love, would be only this:
Shalom
Shalom
I remember several years ago when we took the new member class, pastor Finch mentioned that one of the traditions of the Lutheran church allows members of the congregation to preach. What I didn't realize at the time was that he wasn't just teaching us, he was warning us.
Go ahead and laugh. You may be next.
Truly, when I was asked to give the homily for blessing of the animals weekend, I was honored. After I'd said yes, and after I gave it some thought, and after I tried writing the homily the first two or four or eight times, I wasn't quite sure if I should feel so honored anymore.
Instead I started thinking, "why me?"
At this point you may be asking yourself the same thing: "Why him?" I suppose the answer is that I'm writing a book about dogs. My book is titled You Are a Dog, and will be out in October of 2004 from Harmony Publications, a division of Random House. Pastor Finch wanted to be sure that I mentioned my book, so now I have. He's very excited about the publication of my book-probably more than I am.
My Story
So I've known about this homily for weeks. I've been trying to write it for weeks. And, as often happens with me, what it took for me to finish it was to just get out of my own way and write it.
Even so, I'm not very good at going into any new experience completely blind. I like to have a lot of research materials at hand, even if I never use them. So when preparing this homily, I spent a lot of time researching what made me think I was qualified (other than Pastor Finch's enthusiasm, that is).
Mostly what I found in my research was material telling me how the liturgy and worship service requires the participation of the parishoners. You know what I mean. Call and response. Singing the hymns. Sharing the peace. Fellowship. Etcetera. Everyone in this room participates in the liturgy. So even when I'm not giving the sermon, I'm just as important a participant as the pastor.
As I read these words, I found myself saying, "yeah, yeah, whatever." I thought I was looking for something else. Something more powerful. More to the point.
I guess I figured that if I examined the Lutheran Book of Worship long enough, eventually I would find "Terry Bain may give the sermon during the week of blessing of the animals" printed there.
I probably don't need to tell you that I didn't find those words.
Here's part of my problem: I didn't grow up in a church. I was not particularly comfortable the first few times I sat through a worship service. Some things, such as the sharing of the peace, were extremely difficult for me. "You mean I have to interact with these people too?"
I used to mark time the same way my kids do now: "when we get to communion, we're almost finished." I used to check my watch a lot.
If you find yourself checking your watch right now, I won't hold it against you.
Even though I didn't grow up in a church, I feel truly blessed. Everything in the service was new to me, uncomfortable or not. Most everything still feels a little new. Standing up here talking about newness feels very very very new. But I got to experience the importance of the different aspects of the liturgy, of worshi--for the first time--as an adult. I still remember the first time one of the liturgical songs made it home with me. I was making coffee, and suddenly I began to sing: "Now the feast and celebration, all of creation, sings for joy."
Does something ever happen in your life and you say to yourself, "This is God talking to you?"
This is what I said to myself while singing over my coffee grounds: "Aha! I knew it. That's how they get ya!"
Apparently I was more concerned with indonctrination than salvation. Also, I obviously hadn't yet had my morning coffee.
Since that time I've found myself singing a great deal. And I've given myself over to it. If it's indoctrinination, then so be it, because I have a feeling that it isn't a matter of one thing or the other. Indoctrination and salvation. I get the salvation part regardless.
Does that make sense? I get the salvation even if the liturgy is simply burned into the pathways of my brain. And why is that?
Because we are saved by grace.
Because we live the worship every moment of our lives. When we are in church, grace is with us. When we are at work, grace is with us. When we are on the golf course or on the slopes, grace is with us.
And it's the only way, really, that I get to stand up here and say anything to you. Because I am not equipped with any special superhero powers. I cannot save you. Our able pastors cannot save you. Even you yourself cannot save you. Because you are saved by the grace of God, by the peace that passes all understanding.
When I stood up here and greeted you, I did so with the Hebrew word "Shalom," which, when translated simply and literally, means "Peace." But as you may know, rarely do words, especially ancient biblical words, translate so literally and simply. Shalom is no exception. "Shalom," I say, and I mean to say "Peace," but I mean a peace that passes all understanding. I mean a peace offered by God in the living form of Christ. When we share Christ's peace I will say "Shalom," and you will know I am wishing for you a kind of peace that I do not even understand... a kind of peace that is beyond me, that is beyond you, that is beyond all of humankind.
I didn't start writing about all this. I started with the animals. I started with the book I'm writing. What I've come to realize while writing such a book is that much of what we see in the biblical texts is lived in the lives of the beasts in our homes, whether they know that's what they are doing or not.
I will speak of dogs here--it's what I know. In many ways, I live my life as they do (though I am human, so I still have my undoglike weaknesses).
Our dog, Pretzel, does not greet me as others greet me. She comes to the door and gives me every ounce of her attention. She reports directly before me. She licks me and reminds me that nobody loves me like she does. She runs to me, then runs to Carver and Sophia and Sarah. She puts her head down and leaps up and carries on as if drunk or mad. What she appears to feel is a kind of joy that I have very rarely felt myself. Perhaps at the birth of my children have I felt such joy. On my wedding day. Yes, then, absolutely. But this dog feels and shows it to me daily. "You're home!" she says to me, "You're home! Oh thank God you're home!"
If I were to put a name to this greeting, what would I call it?
I would call it Shalom.
If Pretzel comes and wakes me at five o'clock in the morning, licking me in the face, I push her away. If I push her away, she comes back twice as eager. If I push her away once more she is twice again as happy to see me.
When I am gone for a very long time, for days or weeks at a time, Pretzel loves me when I return.
When I have left her outside in the rain or the sleet or the hot hot sun, she loves me.
When I yell at her to get off the sofa or to stop biting the wheel of the lawnmower, she loves me.
She responds to my touch with love.
She responds to my ire with love.
She responds to my love with love.
She responds with love.
Do I deserve any such love? I do not.
If I name this love, what will I call it?
I will call it grace.
Jesus blesses the children not because they need or want a blessing, but because they are wide open to it. They are not fighting one another to gain access to a blessing. Most of the time they are just present, blessing us with all the reminders of our weakness and humanity.
And we bless our animals today not because they need it. We bless our animals because the rest of the year, if we are paying attention, they can remind us of how to live moment by moment in the presence of Grace, with the promise of Shalom. Today we bless our animals because every other moment of the year, they bless us.
What qualifies me to speak in front of you all today? I do not know. I will never know. It is shalom, and it is a peace that passes all understanding.
And so, my wish for you, for your children and parents and animals and all those who love you and who you love, would be only this:
Shalom
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