Pastor Joe Britton
Memorial for Fr. Bill Easter
12 October 2019
“For you have died, and your life is hid with Christ in God.” (Col. 3:3)
You’ve probably heard the old Texas saw about the cowboy who is all hat and no cattle. To paraphrase that a bit, there are also such priests, who you might say are all alb and no gospel. But Bill Easter was not like that. He was the real deal.
Bill was a priest with a deep sense of the urgency and importance of the Christian gospel. You could tell it in the way he preached: short sentences made up of simple words (what I imagine Ernest Hemingway would have been like had he been a preacher rather than writer). Bill was known to begin a sermon by saying, “What I have to say is of such importance, that it will be brief.” Yet he spoke with a depth of learning that demonstrated that he had thought long and hard about what he wanted to say. He had an ability to give words new power by using them in unexpected ways: instead of the New Testament “kingdom of God,” for instance, he chose to speak of “the empire of God,” because he said, the empire of Rome was the bad news. But the empire of God, now that was the good news.
When I let my predecessor here at St. Michael’s Church, Fr. Brian Taylor, know of Bill’s death, he wrote to me that Bill was “a salty dog of a priest, feisty, with a warm heart and great sense of humor.” [He was notorious, I’m told, for telling off-color jokes at the annual Clergy Conference.] Brian continued, “His sermons were like that too, reflecting authenticity and passion, but often with a twinkle in the eye that suggested skepticism and a bit of mischief. He wasn’t afraid to take a risk, either. I always wondered, ‘What’s he going to say this time?’”
With a bit of luck, I was able to find in our archive recordings of two of Bill’s sermons, from the summer of 2006. And they certainly bear out what others have said. Explaining in one of these sermons why Jesus was so disliked by the establishment, Bill said “It’s because he was such a bum — coming after all from Nazareth, a real “nowhere’s ville;” from a poor family that didn’t even own land; pretending to be a rabbi in the synagogue when he had no education or training, and even shirking his duties to his mother!” Bill’s sermons often ended abruptly, with a concluding barbed comment: one of the recorded sermons, for instance, ended with his observation that, “I’ve come to the conclusion in my later years, that if the church should perish, it will be because of its terminal seriousness.”
Bill relished the image of Jesus as the itinerant rabbi, the rabble rouser, and I think Bill self-consciously followed in his footsteps. He especially identified with the character played by Jack Nicholson in the film, The Last Detail, where Nicholson is a Navy shore patrolman, defiantly proclaiming himself after a bar fight as a “fucking bad ass.” Bill also knew the importance of the political implications of the gospel, for instance preaching against the Vietnam War on the campus of Texas Tech at a time when that view was not well received. He knew that you can’t talk about God without talking about justice, and you can’t talk about justice without talking about politics.
And yet Bill was also a person of uncommon humility and compassion. Those characteristics came, I think, from the fact that he was all too aware of his own weaknesses, especially in regard to his own children. “We’re all a mixed bag,” he frequently remarked, and that keen self- awareness both made him able to empathize with those around him, and taught him to rely on God’s own mercy for us all.
One person wrote to tell me of a prayer he asked her to pray for his own wife, Kathryn, and her caregivers when she was terminally ill with cancer. He said to ask God “to give them skill beyond their training, wisdom beyond their education, and compassion beyond their inclination.” My correspondent wrote that she has prayed that prayer in many other circumstances, finding in it “profound comfort and hope.” She went on, “I do not know if it was a prayer written by Fr. Bill himself, but I do know that in a conversation that lasted less than a minute, I was given a prayer that has been like a pebble in a pond generating ripples all ‘round.”
Bill’s human understanding really came into its own in his role as a grandfather. Grandpa Bill loved to play with his grandchildren, and was thoughtful in finding things that appealed to them—paddle boats, mini-golf, and captioned videos when sound was not suitable.
And as you’ve seen memorialized here already, Bill was a Navy man. He was proud of his service in both World War II and Korea, and he always wore his Navy hat to church, coming in with on and then sitting down right over there before taking it off.
But above all, Bill saw his life—and all our lives—as caught up in the new life given in the risen Christ. In fact, in his written instructions for this service, he specified that there be a sermon “centering on the Resurrection,” so in fulfillment of his intentions I should shift from talking about Bill (which he would have found embarrassing anyway … just look at how short his self-authored obituary is), to talking about Jesus.
Because, you see, as a follower of Jesus, Bill would have had the conviction that even in his death, God is not done with him yet. As the old prayer puts it, “Death is only an horizon, and an horizon is nothing, safe the limit of our sight.” So eulogies are, in a sense, premature. Because the resurrected life into which Jesus leads and calls us means that beyond this physical life, and beyond the grave, there is still more to come—and not only that, but that the best is yet to come. We die, but our life is “hidden with Christ in God,” as Paul said in our first reading. Contrary to what is often said at funerals, we really have little if any idea of what lies on the other side of the grave—Jesus doesn’t tell us anything about that. But we do know that through Jesus we can trust that God did not create us as a fleeting, passing thing, but as a creature whose destiny is to know and enjoy the beauty and mystery and mercy of God.
We’ll sing about that mystery in the final hymn: “Lord! By the stripes which wounded thee, from death’s dread sting thy servants free, that we may live and sing to thee. Alleluia!”
But before we get to that, we have a few other things to which to attend: an affirmation of the faith by which Bill lived; prayers for him and for one another; and most importantly, the sharing of the meal that makes Jesus present to us, so that we may know ourselves to be present to him in his risen life. Bill would want us to do nothing more, and nothing less. Amen.
The Feast of St. Francis October 6, 2019
Luke 16:19-31 St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church
“The Discordance of it All: Francis, the Rich Man, Lazurus and Us”
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch
What is that gospel doing here? In this space? On this day when we celebrate the Feast of St. Francis and honor the life of the one who cast aside his cloak of privilege to live a life of service to God, one who embraced the leper on his path, one who gave his own coat to a poorly clad fellow soldier, one who loved tenderly all of God’s creation?
The discordance of it all
—the story of a the rich man living a life of conspicuous consumption,1 daily ignoring the poor man Lazarus lying at his gate, then enduring the torments of Hades while seeing that sore-infested fellow who, in life, had lain across his path now in the afterlife resting comfortably in the embracing arms of Sarah and Abraham; the story of that rich man’s pointless pleas for just a drop of water to relieve his eternal thirst; the story of a vast and unbroachable chasm dividing that rich man and Lazarus
—How can this be a parable told by Jesus, the one sent by God not to condemn the world but to save the world; the one who assures us that he came that we might have life and have it abundantly. What gives? And what are we to make of it?
In my mind, I play that story Jesus tells in different keys.
There once was a rich and powerful land home to a people clad in organic cottons and designer jeans; a people feasting on grass-fed beef and fresh kale and fingerling potatoes all the way from Idaho, their food washed down with boutique beers, crisp roses, and subtly nuanced reds. Boxes from Amazon lay at their gates.
There once was a woman—not rich but not poor—who lived in a comfortable detached house with a two-car garage. She had two kids—one played soccer; the other piano—she drove them to school, to games, to lessons; and she drove herself to work. Some weeks she drove a thousand miles and didn’t even leave her own home town.
There once was a planet. Folks called it earth. For years, for centuries, for millennia, it served its people well-providing them with what they needed to live in harmony with their host the planet earth—food and fuel and water to drink. Then the people began to hunger for more—more food, more stuff, more comfort. One day, that planet Earth looked around and saw that it was running out of food and fuel and even water to drink.
Each time I run that story in my head, I get stuck. That chasm, that vast divide, stops me cold. I can’t finish the story. I can’t escape the judgment that I hear.
Then I remember another story—a story from a different place, a different time, a different millennium.
There once was a young man who lived in a palace. Maybe not a palace. Maybe it was just a fancy villa. His father, a prosperous merchant, indulged him, providing him not only with what he needed but also all that he wanted. At first, he just wanted to party. Then, caught up in the romance of his time, he sought to be a knight. He got his wish. He became a knight—a knight sent off to battle. And when his town was defeated, he was held in an enemy dungeon for almost a year. Ransomed by his father, he returned home to a life of partying.
That young knight got another chance to venture off to war. This time he went off in armor decorated with gold and wearing a coat of the finest cloth. No mistaking him for some poor soldier. But this adventurer, this budding knight, never made it back to the battlefield. He was stopped in his tracks just a day’s ride from his home. The first night out he had a dream. In that dream, he heard God say “go home.” Go home he did.
You know the rest of the story. It’s the story of St. Francis. The story of a rich young man, an impoverished soldier, a leper, a crumbling church, and Christ speaking from the Cross .
The story of a rich man clad in fine brocades and soft linens.
The story of person crossing the vast divides of his day and our own as well.
The story of a man of privilege saying “yes” to God’s invitation to live lightly on the earth.
You and I, we live in a time marked by chasms as great as the one that separated the rich man from Lazarus. Divided by lines of class and party, alienated from those with whom we differ and from the earth on which we dwell.
How can we not feel just a bit uncomfortable with the parable we just heard? We know the times we look away from the deep need before our very eyes, the times we consume more than we need; we remember the vegetables we threw out because they rotted before we could eat them; we can count the miles we’ve driven when we could have walked or ridden our bikes; we remember the Amazon packages on our doorstep and we know just how they got there. We watch our glaciers recede and our oceans swell. We know that 100 degree+ temperatures in early October are not normal. And we know the cause. It’s okay to feel just a bit uncomfortable with this parable.
But don’t stop there. Don’t stop with that discomfort.
That is not the point of the parable. Jesus tells this story of Lazarus and that rich man and his kin because he wants those within earshot to amend their lives. It’s not a parable of judgment; it’s an invitation. An invitation to cross the divides of our lives. An invitation not unlike the one Francis received as headed off to yet another war.
An invitation offered over and over and over again.
An invitation to join in bringing about the reign of God. Now. In this moment.
An invitation to embrace.
September 29, 2019, The Feast of St. Michael and All Angels, "Michaelmas," Pr. Joe Britton, Preaching
29 September 2019
Pastor Joe Britton
St. Michael’s Church
Jacob said, “How awesome is this place!” (Genesis 28)
The philosopher Alan Watts once said, “This is the real secret of life – to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, to realize it is play.”
Watts might have fit right in here at St. Michael’s. He was British by background, giving him that lovely English accent that we Anglicans so admire. He attended the King’s School, right next door to Canterbury Cathedral. By his own assessment, Watts was imaginative, headstrong and talkative.
And at one point he went to seminary after emigrating to America, and then was ordained an Episcopal priest in 1945. But he turned rather quickly from that toward Zen Buddhism, and set about devoting himself to interpreting Eastern spiritual practices to Western audiences.
In any case, Watts had this idea, popularized in his book Play to Live, that we human beings thrive most when we understand our life’s activity to be a form of play, rather than of work. That is, being alive is essentially an activity that engages our imagination in the creative exploration of our innate wonder and joy, rather than in the fulfillment of social obligations.
Now, if Watts’ spiritual eclecticism is a little too far out there for you, we could turn toward something a bit more orthodox. The Catholic theologian Hugo Rahner (elder brother of the more famous Karl Rahner), explored in his own book from 1963, Man at Play, the ways in which even worship itself is more like children playing than otherwise. His point was this. What we do here in church has all the elements of play: story, song, imaginative response, movement, and so on. And just as grown-ups look on with pride and delight at children playing, so too God looks on what we do here with the same kind of joy and appreciation.
The Feast of St. Michael and All Angels, our patronal festival, is an occasion that especially calls to my mind this idea of play. In the biblical imagination, it seems, angels are used to describe a whole network of spirits who bask in the beauty and wonder of God—the proverbial angels of Jacob’s ladder, for example, about whom we read today. The idea of dancing angels has become a part of popular culture, and even the medieval mind famously asked the question of how many angels could dance on the head of a pin.
So let’s follow this idea of playing—dancing—before God in church a bit further, and see where it might take us. What might the idea of play tell us about what we do here together in church?
Well, in the first instance, it takes the pressure off of whether there is a right or a wrong way to worship. Just as children experience a great freedom in the way they play, so too worship is also something we create, even “make up” (if you will), as we go along.
And worship as play also puts the emphasis more strongly upon the dimension of story. Each time we gather, we are here to tell a story—some part of God’s story with us. So now two Sundays are ever alike, because each tells a different part of the story. The gospel reading is the most obvious example of that, because the gospels are themselves the story of Jesus, and within the gospels Jesus himself tells many stories, or parables as we call them.
But every other piece of our worship also helps to tell the story: the songs we sing, the prayers we offer, the silences we keep, the movements we make. Many of those elements repeat themselves week by week: part of the story we tell, for instance, is always that we are invited to sit down at table with Jesus, to know ourselves there to be one of his friends. Getting up and coming forward for communion tells exactly that story.
But other elements of the story change. Sometimes the story that needs to be told is of the way we fall short of friendship with Christ—and so we pause to confess our fault. Sometimes the story that needs to be told is of how we share a common faith with Christians of all times and places—and so we take time to express that faith publicly (as we will do here today, on this occasion celebrating our parish identity).
Worship thought of as play, in other words, has more to do with a drama performed in a theater than with a lecture given in an auditorium; and it has more to do with the movement and music of a dance hall than with the hush of a theater; and it has more to do with the noise and improvisation of a playground than with the regularity of a dance hall. Church becomes a place of imagination, wonder, creativity, and improvisation—rather than a place of propriety and restraint.
But even more importantly, worship as play affects the way we live the rest of our lives as well, for it returns us to our daily living with a different sense of our true self. As Rahner explores, the homo economicus of modern society—the human being defined by what he or she produces and consumes—blocks us from experiencing our authentic nature as homo ludens, the playing human being. Worship reminds us that we are not ultimately defined by what we have, but by the relationships we have with one another and with God, shaped by the time we spend in nonproductive activity, in other words, in playing. And just as children become friends by playing together, we become friends of one another, and of God, in play.
Last Saturday, we happened to have both a funeral and a wedding here at St. Michael’s. At the funeral in the morning, Entourage Jazz made a surprise appearance because one of the scheduled musicians was ill. And so, instead of the Pie Jesu, “Fly Me to the Moon” became the offertory anthem, bringing smiles and laughter to many a sad face. Later that same afternoon, Entourage Jazz and I joined up again downtown, in this case for a lively outdoor wedding. At the reception, as the musicians played “Fly Me to the Moon” yet again, the children just let loose, dancing enthusiastically and unselfconsciously to the rhythms. What a scene it was!
Times like those don’t just happen. They are the result of years of people like us being woven into the fabric of family, community and church by the time we take to be together without any other purpose than simply to know ourselves to be the holy common people of God. And that, I think, is what our stewardship team has in mind with this year’s campaign theme, beginning today: “A Gift to One Another.” What we are about in this community, is truly pure gift, not unlike the gift of play that children give to one another. And to paraphrase Jacob, with whom we began this sermon: “How awesome is that!”
15 September 2019
Pastor Joe Britton
St. Michael’s Church
Moses said to God, “Why does your wrath burn hot against your people,
whom you brought out of the land of Egypt?” (Exodus 32)
On last week’s cover, The Economist carried the title “Democracy’s Enemy Within.” The enemy it then identified inside the magazine, was cynicism. Around the globe, it argued, there is a growing phenomenon of a pool of resentment against institutions and social norms that reacts by being willing to tear the whole thing down. Better to have chaos, than an illegitimate order.
And then toward the end of the essay, there was this remarkable sentence that read like this: “The riposte to cynicism starts with people who forsake outrage for hope.” (Repeat)
Hope, of course, is not something that you can just turn on, like a water hose. Hope has to come from somewhere, or come out of something. It occurs to me that the kind of hope the editors of The Economist were calling for, is a hope that comes from changing the point of view with which one looks at the world. It is a hope that comes from focusing not on society’s corruption and inequality, but on the potential within. It is a hope that looks on human beings—any human being, every human being—as someone of infinite possibility, and treating them with the requisite concern and respect. It’s the same instinct that motivates the shepherd in today’s parable: rather than seeing a lost sheep as something to be dismissed, he goes looking for it as something to be found. Or the woman who has lost the coin does not write it off, but searches diligently for it, assuming it can be located.
In today’s reading from the Hebrew Bible, we find God too in a quite cynical mood. The people of Israel have only recently escaped their bondage as slaves in Egypt, and now they have already forgotten the God who liberated them by making for themselves an image of calf, which they now worship as a god. God is ready to tear them down—and angrily asks even Moses to leave him alone so that his “wrath may burn hot against them.”
But Moses won’t stand aside. Inside, Moses argues with God, in effect telling God that he has lost perspective. God has let the people’s spiritual corruption blind him to their potential to be God’s people—the very potential that God had seen in them and bestowed upon them in promising Abraham, Isaac and Israel that their descendants would be “like the stars of heaven.”
And Moses prevails. God has to admit that Moses has a point, and deliberately changes his mind “about the disaster he planned to bring on his people.” Of course, this is not the last time God will face the people’s infidelity, and the struggle between God and the people will go on … and on … and on. But what is striking is that God has a change of mind, making a choice to change perspective and see in the people their potential for holiness, rather than their current depravity.
Now, that’s the kind of choice that the editors had in mind when they wrote that “The riposte for cynicism starts with people who forsake outrage for hope.” The task of building and defending a society that honors and includes everyone starts with people who make a self-conscious, deliberate decision to see the world differently from the cynicism which is urged upon us, even by our own leaders.
And as Christians, we have a particular take on why such a decision for hope is reasonable to take. We can look on the world as Jesus looks on it, seeing everywhere people who are worthy of mercy and compassion. You might say, for example, that Jesus’ words from the cross, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do,” is the ultimate example of a choice to forsake outrage for hope. His executioners were not evil, they were ignorant. And ignorance can be overcome. That’s what Jesus does in the resurrection.
But there is an important corollary to the idea of gaining hope by looking on the world as Jesus does, and it is this. Because of what we believe about Jesus, there are certain things that we as Christian people refuse to believe about the world. We refuse to believe that any person is ever unworthy of our care and concern—even at the border. We refuse to believe that anyone is ever lacking in dignity—regardless of who they are. We refuse to believe material possession is an adequate measure of our worth—even in great abundance. We refuse to believe that raw political power is the endgame of our common life—but rather the cultivation of the common good.
These are the articles of Christian disbelief, and they are born out of the hope that we have based in seeing the world with the same mercy and compassion as Jesus. Faith, you see, is not just about what you do believe. It is also about what you refuse to believe. It is about setting your sights on a different course, forsaking outrage for hope.
Just out of curiosity, I typed into Google early this morning the words, “Is there any hope?”, maybe feeling the need for a little hope myself. You know what came up first, out of 2,370,000,000 results? A webpage entitled “19 reasons to have hope in 2019” from World Vision, a Christian-based humanitarian organization that works with children “in the hardest places to be a child.” And why do they go there? Because, they say, Jesus is there. Now that’s Christian disbelief: not matter how dire the circumstances, refusing to believe that Jesus is not present, asking for us to see things as he does and join him in caring.
When we gather each week here in church, therefore, it is not simply to be consoled or even supported. We come to be changed, to let Jesus argue with us in the same way that Moses argued with God—to convince us to change our perspective, or rather, to set it right again, seeing the potential that is in all of God’s creation, and so worthy of our care. Isn’t that what we prayed for in the psalm a few moments ago, when we asked that God would create in us a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within us? Amen.