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.

Living On a Prayer—A Sermon Wholly Void of Bon Jovi, Though

You may be wondering what you're doing here on a Sunday; don't I preach on Wednesdays? Surprise! I preached this sermon this morning to the good people of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, usually the home of my seminary classmate The Rev. Jeremy Serrano. 

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I bring you greetings from the Belfry, your Lutheran-Episcopal Campus Ministry to UC Davis and LEVN, the Lutheran-Episcopal Volunteer Network, part of Episcopal Service Corps. I spend my days, and many of my weeknights, with a handful of young folks who are living in Davis temporarily.

Some of them are UC Davis undergraduate students, here for a few jam-packed years studying and socializing, looking for a place to step out of the fray for a moment and meet people who “get” them.

Some of them are UC Davis graduate students, continuing their academic journeys in more specific ways, looking for a place that’s decidedly not buzzing with the near-death experience of cutthroat exams.

And some of them have graduated from colleges around the country, and are living in half of our little yellow duplex for 11 months, serving in local non-profit organizations and attempting to create intentional community together.

Sure, we’re the place you can definitely find a Lutheran pastor and an Episcopal priest, but we’re a place that invites more questions than it provides answers.

As a young adult myself—yep, I also fall into the under-30 demographic of the folks involved in our ministry—I feel right at home in this place of transitions and learning experiences and questions. We gather each week for worship and for dinner—nothing says “young adults” quite like free food—and we stay connected in the in-between via Facebook and emails and iMessage emoji. It is my duty and my joy to be among this particular genre of the communion of saints.

Since we gather on weeknights instead of on Sunday mornings, my colleagues know that I am a pretty safe bet for a Sunday morning supply gig. Pastor Jeremy and I were at PLTS at the same time, and so at a recent First Call Theological Education gathering in Arizona, he invited me to be here this morning. I always jump at the chance! It is such a delight to get out into the synod on Sundays like this one, to commune with the good people of congregations like yours. 

In campus and other young adult ministries, we are keenly aware of the wider network of congregations and ministries that we serve alongside, because our community members came to us fairly recently from somewhere else, and we do our best to successfully launch them to what’s coming next. We are so grateful for the home parishes of our students and LEVN volunteers—places like this—who raised them in the faith and sent them off to college and beyond. We know that you send them off in the hope that they will grow in faith and in love and in service to God and to one another.

As you have sent and continue to send your young-adult family members and members of your parish off to college or their next great adventure, we know that you are praying for them and wishing them well. We know that you have entrusted them to us, and with God’s help, we care for them and guide them through their time with us. Keep them coming, and we’ll keep them going.

In this season of Easter, all of us have been reading through the Acts of the Apostles, encountering the stories of Jesus’ friends who continued the work after his death, resurrection, and ascension. It’s our same cast of characters from the gospels, those pesky disciples with their impertinent questions and constant bickering and general misunderstanding of the whole point.

In this week’s story, they have come together one final time with the risen Christ, and—for old times’ sake—still aren’t totally sure what’s happening. “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” they ask. Their risen Lord replies, as usual, as I imagine it, with a sigh: “it is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority.”

But! “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:6-8). In other words, “no, but that doesn’t mean never, so continue what we’ve started.”

A weird part about the season of Easter is that we are sort of in a paradox of Jesus being risen and not-yet-risen, depending on which reading we’re talking about. In this reading from Acts, Jesus has already been killed, then raised, and now is ascending to heaven. But in our Gospel text for this morning, he is awaiting arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane. In both scenes, he is with his friends, talking to them and to God about what has happened and what is going to happen.

We could go back and forth for a while, probably, about whether or not the apostles are adequately prepared to do what God needs them to do. We could go back and forth for an even longer while, probably, about whether or not we feel adequately prepared for what God needs us to do. Jesus sits in the garden and prays for his friends, and we follow in all of their footsteps. It is comforting to me and perhaps comforting to you to know that on his last night of life, Jesus prayed for us. And, certainly, the risen Christ remembers us, as well.

In this Gospel According to John, Jesus prays, “Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf” (John 17:7-9).

Jesus is praying on behalf of his friends and on all people whom God has given to him, all those whom God has created to be God’s people—Jesus’ 12 friends, and the women, and you and me. In his prayer, Jesus asks God to protect us, so that we all may be one, as Christ and the Creator are one. What a lovely sentiment, and a deep challenge. “If the emphasis on unity can be seen in Jesus’ prayer, then we can conclude that he was aware that keeping his beloved united” was not going to be easy. And that, “without cohesion, they would not survive.”  [1]

As Christians in the United States of America in 2017, we are being pulled in many directions by many powers and principalities. We are seeing play out on the local, national, and global stage, just how many choices we have. We are a nation of many. We are a nation of native peoples, and of immigrants, and of the descendants of immigrants, and of the descendants of enslaved people. We are many metaphors of community—a melting pot or a salad bowl or a dazzling bouquet of every kind of flower—none of these is one, stagnant, stationary thing. The unity in Christ that we proclaim does not insist on sameness.

Perhaps this prayer of Jesus gives us an opportunity to consider what that unity means. We know that as the trinity is three and is also one, we, too, are millions and are also one. I hear this prayer as a sincere petition for unity, but not for uniformity. For us to sing not in unison but in harmony. For us to be individuals-in-community. We, the body of Christ, are called to be a living and breathing and dying and rising organism—changing and growing and reforming from age to age.

We are interacting on a routine basis with one another here in this building and church buildings like it; we are engaging with our families, friends, co-workers, neighbors, and acquaintances in the good work of the Gospel and in all manner of things; we are encountering strangers on the road and in the grocery store and at the gas station and in the post office and any number of seemingly mundane scenarios where the truth of our community resides.

As we go about our days, are we living as the witnesses to the resurrection that Jesus has sent us out to be? 

Are we recognizable as the body of Christ?

In order to live deeply into our call as the body of Christ, we need to live out the example set for us by Jesus in this week’s Gospel text. We need to pray. We need to pray, and we need to get serious about it. As disciples in the present, we must “offer prayers on behalf of the universe in which we are privileged to live and our neighbors with whom we share it.” [2]

We know this, in theory. We have prayed several times together already since we arrived this morning, and we’re not done yet! There may be words of prayer we know by heart. There may be prayers we grew up saying, and maybe even still say! There may be times of the day or times of our lives we feel more inclined to pray. There may be whole seasons of our lives during which we cannot even fathom putting anything together that even remotely resembles a prayer. 

Often, when we are struggling, we reach out to friends or family members and ask them to pray for us—before a medical procedure, or when we’re waiting for news (good or bad), or when we’re trying to make a big decision, or when we’re just feeling kind of lost. It feels wonderful to hear you’re being prayed for, doesn’t it? And when someone dear to you is in need of prayer, it feels good to say, “I’m keeping you in my prayers”—whether in person or in a Facebook comment, right?  

Has there ever been a time when you’ve said you’d pray for someone and then, well, sort of just...didn’t? Or maybe you were going to, and then before you got a chance, you did the 4000 other things you had on your to-do list and then suddenly the friend told you the results of the thing you were supposed to be praying about—maybe even said, “thanks for your prayers!” and you just sort of...let it go? Let me tell you, we have all been there. And if you haven’t, you can be the first to teach us all how to cement our prayer lives into action.

I am not your regularly-scheduled preacher, and I do not have the capacity to follow up with you next week, or the week after that, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t set you a challenge before I sat back down. Our deep and abiding task is to, like the apostles before us, constantly devote ourselves to prayer.

Consider how you might embody that devotion. Consider how you might take very seriously the prayer requests you receive, and the prayers of intercession we offer later this morning, and the prayer that Jesus taught us that we’ll say—as we have said 1000 times—during the Eucharist.

Pray for one another. Pray for yourself. Pray for your pastor. Pray for the people that you see suffering in your community and around the world. Pray for the people you see experiencing great joys in your community and around the world. Constantly devote yourself to prayer.

Whatever that looks like. Whatever words you say, or don’t say; whatever actions you take or don’t take; whatever movement of your body feels like a prayer to you—or perhaps your body needs to try residing in a prayerful stillness. Laughter can serve as a prayer, and tears can serve as a prayer.

Perhaps, through this constant devotion, we will begin to recognize that our whole lives are prayers. And for that, thanks be to God.

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[1] Samuel Cruz, “Commentary on John 17:1-11” for Working Preacher.

[2] Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Prayers for the Coming Week

Breathe — An Audience-Participation-Required Sermon on Peace

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.

Let’s all take a few deep breaths. A few counts in through your nose and then out again. And again. It’s May, y’all. Can you believe it? Don’t let that heart rate jump back up! Another deep breath.

You probably have a lot to worry about. Whether it’s school—we’re nearing the end of the year! Or work—finding a job, keeping your job, doing your job well. Or money—earning money, saving money, spending money smartly. Or your relationships—good ones with friends or significant others, not-so-good ones with maybe soon-to-be not friends or significant others, roommates, classmates, coworkers. Or your future—what’s next for you? What does the summer hold? Or your family—if they’re nearby or far away, healthy or struggling, supportive of you or a little more challenging. I can understand why we need to sit here, tonight, and take deep breaths together.

And, you know, Jesus knew about a few of those things. No, he was not a UC Davis student or a LEVNeer, but he was a human person. He had parents and siblings and friends. He had politics to lament about and looming wars to furrow his brow. He had a community whose livelihood concerned him. And he lived his adult life with a bunch of dudes who never stopped asking nervous questions. One declarative sentence could hardly escape Jesus’ mouth before Peter’s hand shot into the air with whowhatwhenwherewhyhow tumbling out of his mouth. You can just see Jesus' nostrils flare, eyes close, deep breath in and out before he replies.

This week, the question-asker is Judas. No, not that Judas. There are two, apparently. Just before the text for this week’s lectionary, this other Judas asks “But Lord, how is it that you will reveal yourself to us?” Jesus gives a classic response—not exactly answering the question, and pivoting back to his important talking points about the constancy of God. “Those who love me will keep my word,” he says, “and my father will love them.”

Easy! Love and be loved! Now, I don’t want to mislead you. I don’t want you to think that what I’m saying is that, if you are a Christian, you will never have to worry about anything ever again. If only! But what I can tell you, is that, as a beloved child of God, you do not ever have to worry about your beloved-ness. You are always beloved by God. About that, my dear ones, do not let your hearts be troubled.

A professor from PLTS wrote a book about the Gospel According to John, and he had this to say about today’s gospel lesson:

“The teaching of Jesus is certainly not a self-help program, a path to a tranquil inner life immune to the ills and cares of a troubled world….Jesus is surely a teacher of powerful truth and transformative knowledge, but his teaching and life focus relentlessly on God’s astonishing agape enacted on the cross.”

There are a few weeks each year where I prepare a sermon on a text that is speaking right at me. You who have known me for a little while have noticed that I spend a lot of time planning, anxiously anticipating, playing through worst-case scenarios in my mind. Today, I stand before you and repeat the words of Jesus I so often forget to hear—”do not let your heart be troubled” and “do not be afraid.” Every week, I proclaim “the peace of the Lord be with you, always” and you obediently reply “and also with you.” We say that because right here, in the 14th chapter of the Gospel According to John, Jesus says, “peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you.”

So let’s take him seriously today. We’re going to do something a little unusual. I have these papers for you, and we’re going to take five minutes, silently, and I want you to write down—not for the group, just for me to read—all the things that trouble your heart. All the things that you’re carrying around right now that make you afraid. You can write your name on it if you want me to know, but you can also stay anonymous. They can be small things, big things, personal things, global things, anything. I’m going trade you. I’m going to take these pieces of paper from you, on which you’ve written things I can pray about, things you want to just get out of your head. Things you want to hand over. And I’m going to give you a different piece of paper, in exchange. One that reminds you that the peace of the risen Christ is with you, always. So everybody get a paper and a pen, excellent. Five minutes starts now.

I bought this image from WordsxWatercolor; you can, too!

And now, here. As you go in peace, take this with you. Stick it to your bulletin board, put it by your desk, put it in your planner or binder or wherever you spend the most time forgetting that the peace of the risen Christ is always with you.