Preached on the Third Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 6A), June 18, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.
Genesis 18:1-15
Psalm 116:1, 10-17
Romans 5:1-8
Matthew 9:35-10:8
The St. Paul’s Centennial Garden, where so many encounters with the divine take place.
This week, an unhoused neighbor and I had words. Neither of us was in a happy mood. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation. This is at least partly because it happened at the wrong time of day.
I’ve noticed that often I follow a daily emotional arc, in my effort to get ahead of the chaos that swirls around Uptown in these hard times. In the early morning I feel quiet, thoughtful, insightful, sometimes even serene. Then, at the proper beginning of the workday, I feel anger: a righteous anger, something akin to a “mama bear,” even though I am not a mama, strictly speaking. As the sun reaches its zenith, I feel more regulated and steady, working alongside staff and volunteers with level-headed reliability. For an hour or so in the mid-afternoon, I feel tired, in need of rest. Then I rally in the late afternoon and feel energized and in good humor, leading to a relaxing evening with follow-ups and a look at the next day’s tasks. That’s the pattern; that’s the arc. I’ve noticed that other leaders here at St. Paul’s follow their own emotional arcs, but I’ll let them describe their own experiences.
In any case, one day this week, an unhoused neighbor bumped into me during my mama-bear hour. Now, even at the wrong time of day, I rarely lose my professional composure, give or take an eye roll, and I did not lose it in this encounter. But I was, let’s say, stern, when the neighbor saw me cleaning up our property and was outraged that I was taking the debris that he thought was his. He chose to call me something designed to provoke a strong reaction, a dreadfully bad name, one I can’t even type out on my laptop, let alone repeat out loud. My response was a gruff “uh huh, call me that all you want,” and I continued cleaning up. That was it.
Not earth-shattering, no. Just a grumpy exchange. But I don’t like those interactions. I’m a pastor. I’ve been a counselor. I have training in reconciliation and communication. If there’s one thing I like the least in our mission work – apart from the staggering human suffering I see – it is the scarcity of positive, constructive conversations with our ministry partners who live outside. I wish we all could talk more, and really hear one another. And I strive to listen better myself.
And – I confess I harbor a somewhat ridiculous hope for stirring dialogue in our conversations around the neighborhood, for flashes of inspiration and insight, for a conversation that would jump off the page of a novel or be featured in a clip on Oscar night. I know this is all base vanity. Most everything outside these doors is grounded, concrete, earthy – because it needs to be. The countless people who live and work here need to address important practical concerns. That’s not to say it’s not spiritual work: quite the contrary. But God’s Spirit lies down in deep humility along these urban streets. Give someone a blanket, and listen to what they have to tell you, what they have to give you, hidden in a conversation about the basic needs we all have. That can be a top-of-the-mountain spiritual experience. It really, truly can. But you have to want it. You have to accept that the Spirit moves, but she moves down low, in the dust and dirt of the struggling neighborhood.
And that brings me to the real problem I was having in that gruff exchange with our neighbor. I forgot the wisdom of the Torah, where God’s people meet God in deep humility. Specifically, I forgot the teachings of our foremother Sarah. Just before a momentous encounter with the divine, she responded positively to Abraham’s hurried request, and she “made ready quickly three measures of choice flour, kneaded it, and made cakes.” This is Sarah’s grounded, concrete, earthy teaching: When an important encounter with the divine is about to happen, prepare food.
If God is coming, bake bread.
Sometimes, of course, the bread we bake to welcome the divine is not literally bread. But it’s often still food of some kind. In the spiritual work of recovery from alcoholism, for example, Sarah’s bread takes the form of hard candy. The practical AA literature suggests setting out a bowl of candy to help recovering alcoholics raise their blood sugar, and to give them something to do with their palettes. Much of a substance-abuse disorder is caught up in the bodily mechanics of drinking or using, and the hard candy gives the person a little bit of that experience – but safely. My favorite hard candy is grape Jolly Ranchers: for me, grape Jolly Ranchers are as holy as Sarah’s three quick-bread cakes. They help make possible my encounter, in sobriety, with the Holy Spirit.
Oprah has famously said that she grew up in a family that always placed food at the center, in every celebration, in every wedding and funeral, in every meaningful encounter. And who is Oprah but a contemporary foremother, teaching God’s people the basics of spiritual practice?
A friend of mine, someone far less famous than the matriarchs Oprah and Sarah but someone who, as a mother, comes honestly by the title of “mama bear,” told me this about herself: “I will always feed my children,” she said. She said this in the context of our conversation about so-called “tough love,” in which the parent sets hard boundaries with the teen or adult child when they are suffering from substance-abuse disorders, mental illness, and the deadly, untreated, comorbid diagnoses that so often lead people into unsheltered living on the streets. Strong boundaries matter: “If my child were ever to come to me off the street, demanding money for drugs,” my friend said, “I would not give her money for drugs. But I would feed her dinner. I will always feed my children.” This mother knows in her bones that food is the beginning of a spiritual path, a spiritual conversation, a spiritual connection with the divine. No matter what, she and her children will always enjoy this connection, together.
So again, here is the teaching: When an important encounter with the divine is about to happen, prepare food.
If God is coming, bake bread.
And so, finally, near the end of the week, a couple of emotional arcs after our grumpy conversation, I finally remembered the Torah. I remembered Foremother Sarah’s example. (And I remembered that people here at St. Paul’s buy Oreo cookies for me.) So I went downstairs, got a snack pack and two bottles of water from our SPiN storage room, and took them to the neighbor. And once again, whether I needed to learn it or not, I got the dull lesson that this mission is not about magic moments: the unhoused neighbor pointedly did not say thank you. I said, “Here are some snacks and water,” he took the snacks and water, he said nothing at all, and that was the end of our exchange. “You’re welcome,” I mumbled inaudibly (well, I dearly hope it was inaudible), and I suppressed an eye roll.
But then, but then! On Friday, late in the evening when I was greeting a new security guard we’ve hired to safeguard not only our property but the safety of so many of our friends who live outside, I ran into this unhoused person a third time. This time he asked me a question, beginning with the title “pastor.” “Pastor,” he began, and then he asked his question. We were at peace. The Spirit arrived. (Well, she’s been here all along. She was revealed.) The three strange beings who visited Sarah and Abraham at the oaks of Mamre: there they were, in our own labyrinth garden. We did not have a particularly memorable conversation, this unhoused neighbor and I. He is not capable of very many memorable conversations, which I say not to disparage him at all, but only to be realistic about his limitations as he suffers with so many untreated illnesses and losses. But the awful epithet was replaced with the word “pastor,” and for a moment I felt like a pastor – a shepherd – and I sensed that he was once again someone under my protection, and no longer a wolf that I snarl at when the morning sun stirs my angry defenses. And I was someone who could learn something from him, too.
Go, then, good shepherds, as Jesus has commanded us to go. “Cure the sick,” Jesus says, “raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons.” If Jesus were to say this in my hearing, I would add some commands: Go, I would say – and Go I do say! – Go, and cast out the demons inside you, not just the ones haunting others. And then hand out Jolly Ranchers, hand out snack packs, feed your wayward children, gather your family around a table laden with food, carry the gifts of food and drink forward to this Table; make ready quickly three measures of choice flour, knead it, and make cakes. An important encounter with the divine is about to happen. We must bake bread.