It Is Time Now For Prayer—A reflection for the Davis Interfaith Thanksgiving

As advertised, I am Pastor Casey Dunsworth. I’m ordained in the Christian tradition through the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, the largest Lutheran denomination in the United States. I serve at The Belfry, a little yellow house on A Street, home to our Lutheran Episcopal Campus Ministry to UC Davis. I also direct a program called LEVN, the Lutheran Episcopal Volunteer Network, a year-long faith-based service corps for recent college graduates.

Being in ecumenical ministry—two different flavors of Christianity living in harmony together—is a delight and a challenge. We have similar postures and practices for many facets of our life of faith, and we also diverge in several places. One of my favorite things about the Episcopal tradition, which I’ve learned from being adjacent to it for four years now, is that they believe that the way you pray shows what you believe. They have an important prayer book—the aptly-named Book of Common Prayer—which, ostensibly, contains all of the prayers, scripture readings, and orders of service an Episcopalian might ever need. While this is not my tradition or posture, I appreciate their consistency and the way they honor the church that has come before them as they continue on the way.

As a Lutheran, I agree with the Episcopal idea that the way we pray shows what we believe about God. How we communicate with God and what we expect to receive from God say a lot about who we think God is. Martin Luther, the 16th-century “founding father” of our tradition, was a man of many, many, many words. It is a bit ironic, in fact, that Martin Luther is quoted as having said, “the fewer the words, the better the prayer.”

In the Christian tradition and the Jewish tradition before it, we have always been in conversation with God. Our holy scriptures are teeming with thanksgivings, laments, joys, sorrows, celebrations, grievances, discoveries, questions, and answers. The beauty of our scripture is the richness of this language. One of the blessings of the modern Christian life is that so much has already been written and prayed and proclaimed, that the inspiration we need is likely within those pages. And it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows! There is real, deep angst in the words of our sacred texts. The people of God for generations have cried out in joy and in grief.

Two of my Lutheran clergy colleagues, Tuhina Rasche and Jason Chesnut, have a project whose titles I’ll let you Google later, but whose subtitle is “To convey a visceral Gospel, we must sometimes use visceral language.” When we pray, we need not self-censor. There is perhaps nothing we can say that God cannot hear.

Whether we want to “Praise God with trumpet sound; praise God with lute and harp! Praise God with tambourine and dance, with strings and pipe, with clanging cymbals; Let everything that breathes praise the Lord!” (Psalm 150:3-6 ish)

Or if we want to groan, “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul,  and have sorrow in my heart all day long?” (Psalm 13:1-2)

Or if we want to “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me praise God’s holy name.” (Psalm 103:1)

Martin Luther is also quoted as saying that those who sing pray twice. For me, personally, this is most certainly true. Singing praise or lament, singing by myself or in community, there is no experience holier. At the Belfry, before we sing and pray together on Wednesday nights, I remind everyone that God asks of us a joyful noise, not necessarily a beautiful one, and so everyone should feel welcome to sing out.

And why, then, do we pray? Søren Kierkegaard is a famous Danish Christian philosopher, and Lutherans claim him ever so carefully, as he was born into a Lutheran family, but later denounced the State Church of Denmark. Somewhere along the line, he wrote brilliantly on a number of topics and, most meaningfully to me, wrote these words: “the function of prayer is not to influence God, but to change the nature of the one who prays”.

When we pray, our petitions do not coax God into action. Our prayers engage us more deeply in the communities for which we pray; in the relationships for which we pray; in the world for which we pray.

...it is time, now, for prayer. I will invite you to participate as you feel moved. Each petition, or section of the prayers, will have a theme. I will say the phrase, “and, for this, the people pray,” at which time you can speak aloud for the room to hear, quietly to yourself, or silently in your heart.

Let us pray. Good and gracious God, we come before you this evening in gratitude for our lives, our communities, and our freedom. As we enter into this Thanksgiving Week, we remember all the people, places, and things for which we are grateful.

For this fragile earth, our island home. We pray for the enjoyment, care, preservation, and restoration of our environment. We pray for the creatures of the seas and skies, forests and fields. We seek your wisdom as we discern the courses of action necessary for the sustainability of life. We grieve for all those affected by wildfires and lingering smoke. And, for the earth, the people pray…

For our leaders; locally, nationally, and internationally. We give thanks for those in authority who wield their power for liberation, equity, and joy. We remember the courage of your prophets, who spoke truth to power. We seek your wisdom in our own leadership, that we may be accountable to one another and to you. And, for our leaders, the people pray…

For our communities; our siblings, parents, cousins, friends, and all whom we love. We pray for the safety, welcome, and celebration of all whom we encounter, that we might invite more and deeper cooperation. We grieve relationships that are painful, are ending, or are beyond repair. We give thanks for our communities of faith and shared values, that we embolden one another to live fully. And, for our communities, the people pray…

For peace; in our hearts, in our homes, in our schools, in our public squares. We pray for an end to violence, war, oppression, and degradation. We pray for those who are fleeing violence, that they may find safe harbor. And, for peace, the people pray…

We know, O God, that you are the healer of our every ill. We give thanks for healers in our communities, of our minds, bodies, and spirits. We grieve that which cannot, in this life, be healed. We pray for healthcare providers, researchers, faith healers, prayer teams, and all those who contribute to our wholeness. And, for healing, the people pray…

For our ancestors, elders, saints, and all the dearly departed. We give thanks for their lives, their witness, their teaching, and their blessed memory. We name aloud those we love who have died.

Into your hands, gracious God, we commend all for whom we pray, trusting in your mercy. By the many names you are known, we pray, Amen.

Father Abraham -- Matthew 10:24-39

Genesis 21:8-21

Romans 6:1b-11

Matthew 10:24-39

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. Amen.

When I first read through today’s scripture, I was like, “whoa.” Some really seminal stories from our tradition, for sure, full of meaning. I don’t know how much you all know about sermon preparation, but I was thinking, immediately upon reading these foundational words that it’s a good thing I get to consult thinkers besides myself for this sermon this morning. It’s a good thing that the only resource available to me is not just these words on these pages and the thoughts in my head, but rather the words that surround these words in this whole book, and the thoughts in the heads of all those who have come before me in faith. That extreme is also overwhelming, but it’s a huge relief. This is probably not the first sermon you’ve heard on these texts, and it probably won’t be the last—which is also great, because now there’s no need for me to rattle off everything you ought to know about Abraham and Isaac and Ishmael and Sarah and Hagar and Paul and Jesus and…the gang’s all here. 

So, where to begin?

Let’s begin in the Family Center, just across the way. It was there, nearly 20 years ago that I first learned the Sunday School song “Father Abraham” during Learning Circles one morning. “Father Abraham, had many sons. Many sons had Father Abraham…” If you know it, you’re welcome that it will be in your head now, forever. The next line is “I am one of them, and so are you,” but this ancient story also produced my first experience of feminism, as my friend Elizabeth Limbach sang, instead, “I’m not one of them, cuz I’m a girl.” The song ends, “So let’s all praise the Lord.” Let’s. 

Praise the Lord that we are here together this morning!
Praise the Lord that the sun is shining!
Praise the Lord that we are mostly happy and mostly healthy!
Praise the Lord that when we are mostly unhappy and mostly unhealthy, we are not alone!
Praise the Lord for old friends and for new ones!
Praise the Lord for ends and for beginnings!
Praise the Lord for adventures and for homecomings!
Praise the Lord for struggles and for reconciliation!

I know this is a Lutheran church, but can I get an amen? A hallelujah? Praise God. Okay, awesome. But now let’s take a look at those texts. 

We know these characters well. We’ve heard their stories and we vaguely remember their names and what lessons God taught them and what lessons that teaches us. But what, really, do we do with this part of being one of Abraham’s “many sons”? 

Just to recap, this story is the end/beginning of the struggle between Sara, Abraham, Isaac, Hagar, and Ishmael. Sara and Abraham had no children and were very old—like a few hundred, because that’s how ancient storytelling works—but God had promised that they would have descendants as plentiful as the stars. So Sara agreed that Abraham should father a child with Hagar, their slave, so that he’d have offspring. God promised to make of that son, Ishmael, a great nation, too. And then Sara got miraculously pregnant and had Isaac. Two heirs to the lineage of Abraham, two promises from God. Uh oh. 

So, in the portion we heard this morning, Sara demanded that Abraham banish Hagar and Ishmael, because there was no way that the two boys could share in the promise of God. That had never happened before and it wasn’t about to happen now, apparently. 

This story is an easy allegory for the ongoing struggle between the Abrahamic traditions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—that have followed. Though separated, Isaac and Ishmael—and we—must live together in the extended family of God. A Rabbi named Arthur Waskow writes that Isaac and Ishmael—and we, descended of Abraham, too—are a “cloudy mirror to each other.” The problem is not that we are so different, but that we are so similar. 

For the Israeli/Palestinian crisis, it is impossible for both groups to reconcile that they “love the same land.” God has promised this land twice—to Isaac and to Ishmael, to Jews and to Arabs—because God wants all of God’s people to “live out their particular pattern of holiness” in an embodied, planted, rooted, earthy, place. 

Rabbi Waskow does an incredible job of giving Christians the lay of the land in this millennia-old war—and then offering us a specific place at the table. [If you want to know more about this, specifically, I can point you toward Rabbi Waskow’s essay. If you want to know more about this, in general, I can point you toward Pastor Daren and his PhD research.] 

The great thing that Rabbi Waskow gives to us is this deep wisdom: As Christians, we’ve weaseled our way into weird positions—some us are Christian Zionists, more zealous even than most Jews about their right to inhabit the land we call holy, condemning Palestinians as aggressors and terrorists; some of us are aggressively Pro-Palestinian, claiming that the land was unlawfully given to the Jews as a sovereign state, with no regard for anyone’s holiness. We insert ourselves into arguments about Jewish tradition and Muslim tradition, meanwhile, we notice not the log in our own religious eyes.

How can we, then, as complex people of complex faith affirm all of the above—Jewish, Muslim, Christian—“children of God in the body and spirit of Abraham”? 
Sorry if you’re expecting an answer. This is not a question for one sermon or one church or one nation—but we are better for it if we wrestle with these big questions again and again and again. Together.

We’re going to do some things wrong—we’re going to grab at words as they tumble out of our mouths, wishing we could stuff them back in there before anyone heard them. It happens. 

In Paul’s letter to the Romans, he acknowledges that the stakes are pretty high. I just love the abrupt start of our portion this morning. Right off the bat, he’s like, “Should we continue to sin in order that grace may abound? By no means!”—if any of the high schoolers are playing sermon bingo this morning, I hope “sin” and “grace” are on your card. But I don’t know about that, y’all. Martin Luther says “Sin boldly! Trust and rejoice in Christ even more boldly.” A fun thing about having so many “fathers” of our faith is that even they disagree sometimes, and we get to draw our own conclusions, taking theirs into consideration. What fun! I’m with Marty on this one. Grace abounds. Be who you are, unafraid of what pieces of you others may name as sin. Speak truth to power. Speak the truth to one another in love. Err on the side of saying so. Grace abounds. 

This brings us to the third confusing text of the morning, the Gospel. Jesus is talking about slaves and masters and teachers and Beelzebul and secrets and dark and light and bodies and souls and then sparrows…? (Congratulations, by the way—you are of more value than many sparrows. I’m putting that on my résumé.) 

These verses are meant to be reassuring, but I’m not reassured. Shelley Douglass, who’s part of the Catholic Worker movement, is with me on this one. “Who wants to lay down their life?” She asks. “Baptismal death is comfortably symbolic; we’d prefer to leave it that way.” 
The part of this dying to life paradox that is comforting, after all, is “not that we won’t die, but that if we die for [Jesus’] sake, we will live again. Like Jesus, we will live a transformed life.” 

Sometimes, in this transformed life, we’ll run into those hard conversations and insolvable riddles and those foot-in-mouth moments. We’ve been warned by Jesus in this text that we’ll be set father against son, mother against daughter, in-laws against in-laws—families might be torn apart. That’s a huge risk. That’s some bold sinning we’re about to do. 

But Shelley Douglass continues to keep it real, writing, “We cannot know as we begin to act what the outcome will be. We can only know that as we respond to the mercy shown to us by showing mercy, we invite the death of our former selves. And we believe—sometimes barely—that when the dust has settled…we will regain our lives.” Mmm. 

And so my favorite prayer that Martin Luther wrote seems like the ideal way to draw this to a close: “Lord God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Amen. 

Publicly Accountable Note-to-Self

Hi. A few stories, confessions, and revelations and stuff to put on "paper" for when I forget my commitments.

In high school, I was like "I want to be a youth director" because I loved BLCYM and Jonathan (our youth director) and so, naturally, wanted to keep that forever. It's where I met my best friend, and so obviously it was the best thing out there. Typical.

Then, sophomore year of college, I met the CLU Campus Ministry, and the CLU Religion Department, (and then the Secular Student Alliance the next year) and the world of interfaith dialogue swept me off my feet. Somehow, I forgot about the life of youth ministry I'd loved. Going to seminary for the express purpose of cruising on to a PhD and being a professor and activist and all-around brainiac took center-stage. With it, the idea of parish ministry and youth, in particular, got shunted to the back burner as "less than" my newfound academic pursuits. That kind of thing was for people without higher education, I'm sure I said.

The first two years of seminary kept this ball rolling pretty hard. School is basically my favorite place, y'all, and the idea of staying there forever, reading and writing about the world seemed like the ultimate life. Being in the Bay Area, the crossover between academia and activism is pretty easy. One week, for one class, our homework was to attend an Occupy protest and write a theological reflection about it. I mean, really. Hashtag Berkeley.

And every time a fourth-year said something about, "well, once you've done internship," I just rolled my eyes for hours about how out-of-touch with reality parish ministry had to be, compared to my awesome worldview and stuff. I am so ridiculous sometimes, you guys.

The first few months of internship, I fought tooth and nail to make it reinforce my ideas. I was like "yep this proves this life isn't for me" every time something wasn't the coolest or the most academic or the most liberal or whatever. I AM LITERALLY INSUFFERABLE.

I'm a week away from completing my internship, as I write this. My project (a required part of the intern year) was helping to articulate a budding ministry of advocacy. We met with a cool guy named Brad, the Rocky Mountain Synod's advocacy director for the state of Colorado, who helped us figure out how to be in relationship with our legislators. We met monthly to learn and plan; we attended a legislative prayer breakfast; we attended Faith Advocacy Day for Colorado; I attended Ecumenical Advocacy Days, a long-weekend event in DC; I preached about being advocates for justice; we watched documentaries; we wrote our legislators; we encouraged the congregation to have opinions about things like the death penalty and other issues of criminal justice reform. It RULED.

Simultaneously, in the last 11 months, I have gone on two weekend retreats and two week-long trips (one service, one camp) with the high school and middle school youth here at Holy Trinity. We also had a girls' overnight for Dia de los Muertos, and I taught confirmation once, and I often hung out with the high school kids during their Sunday morning education hour, and I'm the captain (lol) of our "HTLC Heroes" team that's hitting up the ColorVibe 5K this Saturday. They're so cool.

And not only are they so cool, but the camp staff that I met on our trip to Joplin and our week at confirmation camp were so cool. I forgot to mention how much eye rolling I did in college and up until a month ago with regards to camp. Sorry to those I love deeply (in particular Ben and Kelsey) who love camp deeply -- I don't know if you even knew I was such an ass.

And I read Eboo Patel's book Acts of Faith, and dove headlong back into thinking that the way to change the world is through young people. And, especially, by having important conversations and interfaith conversations and serving together and advocating together. That it's definitely important to foster advocacy among adults, but that the damage future generations could do to each other will be much more easily avoided if our young people don't grow up in a world of ignorance and misunderstanding and hate, in the first place. And somehow in the mix I encountered and entered the 99 Collective, a group of young adults who are committed to transforming the world through young people, through the church. Who'da thunk.

So, now, as I go forth into the world in peace, back to my academic Berkeley life for my final year of seminary classes, I'm making some out-loud commitments.

I'm registered for classes that I think will make me a better pastor, advocate, ecumenical and interfaith partner, and innovator in what I see as the future of the Church. And I'm hoping that by putting these words out to you, that, round-a-bout February, when you see me forget myself and roll my eyes about something someone says about youth ministry, that you slap me upside the head and make me read this whole post out loud.

And, after all of that, when I graduate in May, I'm moving to DC because that's where I think the action I want in on is taking place, right now. And I sure hope that the bishop of the Metro DC synod wants to call me--even though what I'm looking for in a call is a little more than the plug-and-play into and existing situation that we see throughout the ELCA. I'm hoping to be multi-vocational, and I'm hoping to help bridge the gap between the church and the rest of the world. I want to be an advocate, and I want to effect change in the lives of young people, and I want to do it from the pulpit, and the hospital room, and other houses of worship, and the steps of the capitol, and the university campus. And maybe even from summer camp.

Because writing a paper full of "the answers" is cool and all, but actually being with people is probably significantly more effective. And follows a lot better in the footsteps of our main man, Jesus. Which, after all, is kind of what I signed up to do three years ago.

Don't let me forget it.