Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you always.
A bittersweet moment in time, dear ones, to sit down and write my last sermon for this community. We have been through a lot, collectively, over these years, and there is much to say. And, of course, The Belfry continues apace, after me, just as it has for the last several decades. It will be different, next year, and the year after that, and the year after that. New students will arrive in the fall, and some of you will be here to welcome them. And as the new pastor settles in, you’ll work together, with the help of God, to create community inside this little yellow house and out.
So what can I offer you, each of you, this particular iteration of the Body of Christ at The Belfry, as you gather here in this place at this time—the first time we’ve gathered, and the last? I can tell you what I know to be capital-t True: you are a beloved child of God, as you are and as you are becoming. I can remind you of the promises made to you by the God who creates you, the Christ who liberates you, the spirit who accompanies you. That’s what I’m tasked with, as a called and ordained minister of the Church.
The scripture assigned for this week starts at the beginning, in the book of Genesis. Not the beginning beginning, where it says “in the beginning” but still in the beginning-ish.
Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg, my favorite rabbi that I only know from the internet, says that the stories of Genesis are the stories of differentiation. “That is, it’s the story of moving from oneness—the unformed void, wind over waters—to a world of created things. Of birds and beasts, humans and trees. Of differentiating ourselves from our family, becoming our own people. Of leavetaking into the unknown in order to become who we need to be.”
These myths—and by myths, I mean stories we tell about truths we know—have helped us and our ancestors before us to know who we are and how we came to be. The people of God, for as long as there have been people of God, have been telling stories to each other about how they have experienced God at work. They have told stories about births and deaths, unity and strife, war and peace, scarcity and abundance. All the while, God is present. God is present within and among God’s people, shaping us for a good and just and merciful and joyful common life.
We have, throughout time, used and abused these stories. We have used these stories and our interpretations of these stories to include people and exclude people. To welcome and to banish. We have built, across the globe and across the centuries, a whole cultural narrative that hinges on our place in these stories.
I hope that as you have spent time at The Belfry—whether this is your umpteenth liturgy at this little yellow house, or you joined us online for the first time earlier this year, or something in the middle—you have heard enough stories to know that your story is part of God’s story.
That you know that you can dig into the stories of scripture and ask questions, offer critique, wonder out loud. That, within these stories, you can find the words for whatever it is that you’re experiencing, and be comforted by the idea that someone—in fact, many someones—spoke up to our God about that, too. And perhaps you can celebrate, alongside all of God’s creation, all the good that God has done for us. And that, when you encounter words of scripture that make you question some deep assumption or tradition of our society, you can be challenged to grow and change and build the Beloved Community here and now.
I am also struck this week by our situation in Pride Month, the time when we celebrate queerness in our communities and tell stories that are alternative to the dominant way of being in the world.
I wonder if, as you heard these stories from scripture today, you wondered about belonging, or relationship, or family. In the Gospel reading, specifically, when Jesus’ mother and brothers are cited as a reason for him to change his ways, he redefines what it means to be family.
Our queer siblings have been doing this for centuries, defining for themselves what it is to be loved and to belong. For Jesus, it is not simply relationships of blood or proximity that make family, but shared devotion to the will of God. As he asks, simply, “who is my parent or sibling?” in this story, he is really asking us a broader question of whose siblings and neighbors we are in the kindom of God.
We, who are siblings in Christ, are called to build up the family of God based on our shared values, stories, truths, and experiences. It may be that some people with whom we share genetic material or a childhood household are also people with whom we share values, stories, truths, and experiences.
But it may be that you have found, during your time in Davis, that your family of origin is perhaps not the fullness of family in your life. You may have chosen additional—or alternative!—people to call your family. It may be challenging or uncomfortable to engage with your family of origin or explain to them who you are, now that you have been away from them for some time. They may want you to remain the person you were.
But I hope that you have heard from this pulpit, and from our prayers, and from our songs, and from our discussions, that we are always being made new, always being re-formed, co-created. You are a beloved child of God, as you are, and as you are becoming.
As I leave here, I hope that I have done my part, that you have received and ingested these truths of God’s promises, as the Apostle Paul wrote in tonight’s reading from Corinthians, “that the one who raised Jesus to life will in turn raise us with Jesus, and place you with us in God’s presence...that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow!”
I hope you know these truths, and that these truths have made you free. That God has liberated you and me and all of us from the power of sin and death! Yes, we are mortal, yes, Paul writes, “this physical self of ours may be falling into decay”—such a way with words, that guy—but we do not lose heart! We are renewed day by day.
Because I have now gotten into the habit of homilizing and then hearing from you, I can’t just close with something tidy and finite. Even in the before times, our life together at The Belfry has never just been a one way street, where the pastor dispenses wisdom to you, the empty vessel.
I received so much from each of you as I have had the privilege and blessing to be in ministry with you. You have challenged me to wonder about big questions with messy answers. You have shown me what faithfulness and compassion and community look like in practice. You have ensured that I get “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing” stuck in my head all the time.
You have formed me as a pastor and as a person, and every community I serve in the future will benefit from what you have taught me. I appreciate you so deeply, and am astonished that I have had the opportunity to accompany you and your fellow students these last six years.
And so if you have questions, please ask them. If you have reflections, please share them. Let’s wonder together, once more.