Sean C. Kim
Pentecost VII
St. Mary’s Episcopal Church
7 July 2024

Many of you know I was born in Seoul, South Korea. I immigrated to the United States
with my parents, sister, and brother when I was eight years old and grew up in Independence,
Missouri. My mother, siblings, and I went back to visit Korea when I was thirteen, and then I did
not go back for 24 years. It wasn’t until 2001 that I went back, my first visit as an adult. I went
there for both business and pleasure. At the time, I was doing research on my dissertation on the
history of Protestant Christianity in Korea. I also went to visit family and friends. I was very
excited about the trip. In the days and weeks that led up to the trip, I reveled in the fond
memories of my happy childhood growing up in Seoul. What a homecoming it would be.
Well, the trip was not at all what I had expected. In fact, it turned out to be one of the
most alienating experiences in my life. To begin with, Korea had changed in the 24 years that I
had been absent – that’s a whole generation. In the rapid economic development of South Korea
in the late twentieth century, Seoul, the center of that development, had changed beyond
recognition. Gone were the quaint, charming neighborhoods that I remembered. And there were
so many more people – large crowds everywhere I went.

But it wasn’t just the city that had changed. I had changed, too. Although I could speak
the language and looked like a typical Korean, I clearly did not fit in – the way I dressed, the way
I acted. Even in my speech, people could detect that I was not a native. I used old, outdated
words and made frequent verbal gaffes. I’m in that category of Asian Americans who are
jokingly called bananas – yellow on the outside, white on the inside. During my two weeks there,
I had a string of unpleasant experiences: constantly getting lost in the big city, navigating rude
crowds and strange customs and manners, overwhelmed by the urban hustle and bustle.
Belligerent cab drivers, in particular, were the bane of my existence. I ended up spending a lot of
time by myself in the hotel room and counting the days when I would be back in the states.
During the trip, I came to the sad realization that Korea is no longer my home. I did not belong
there.

In today’s Gospel from Mark, Jesus experiences alienation and rejection in his
hometown. It’s his first visit to Nazareth since he began his ministry. By this time, word had
spread of his preaching and miracles. But far from a grand homecoming for a native son, he
confronts suspicion and hostility. The people of Nazareth ask among themselves: “Is not this the
carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, and are not his
sisters here with us?” And we read that “they took offense at him” (Mark 6:3). It seems to be an
example of the old cliché, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” The people can’t seem to accept the
fact that a great leader could rise from the humble origins of a blue-collar family in remote
Nazareth, away from the religious and cultural centers of the time. And perhaps there was some
jealousy as well. Jesus has become a famous itinerant preacher and wonder worker, while they
have to continue their mundane, anonymous daily grind of a Galilean peasant. Jesus is amazed
by their rejection of him, and their unbelief even limits his ministry there. We read that “he could
do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them”
(Mark 6:5).

Some of you may have had similar experiences with your hometowns. Isn’t there a
saying that goes, “You can’t go home again”? Your hometown changes. We change. Fond
memories remain memories; we can’t recreate the past. On the other hand, some of you may
have good relationships with your hometowns. I actually have some friends who have never left
the place of their birth, and they’re perfectly happy where they are. And then there may be others
of you who left your hometown to see the big world and then came back. Although my siblings
and I were all born in Korea, we kind of fit in this category. We were young when we left Korea
and we grew up in the Kansas City area, so we consider it our home. All three of us left for our
education, and my sister started a family and lived in New York for a while. But then we all
came back to Kansas City. We love it here. It is our home.

Whether we have a good or bad relationship with our hometowns, there is one place – a
home – that surpasses all others in the sense of belonging and meaning. That home is the Church.

The Church is our true home on earth.

As followers of the Lord Jesus, we belong to a new community, a new family that he
instituted during his ministry. Earlier in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus proclaims, “Whoever does the
will of God is my brother and sister and mother” (Mark 3:35). As followers of the Lord Jesus, we
are bound together by faith and love as siblings in this new family, and the Church is our home.
You may have heard that heaven is our true home, but the fact is heaven has already
begun for us here on earth. We don’t have to wait for death to experience what heaven is like.
There’s an old hymn. I think it’s either Methodist or Baptist; it’s not found in our hymnbook. I
used to hear it a lot growing up in the Korean church, and it has a special place in my heart
because we sang it at my mother’s funeral. It goes like this:

Since Christ my soul from sin set free,
This life has been a joy to me;
And ’mid earth’s sorrows and its woe,
’Tis joy my Jesus here to know.
O hallelujah, yes, ’tis joy!
For it is Christ that I enjoy!
On land or sea, what matters where?
Where Jesus is, my joy is there.

In the Korean version of the hymn, which is slightly different, the last line of the hymn would be
translated, “Where Jesus is, it is heaven there.” Where Jesus is, it is heaven there.

​As Christians, we believe that Jesus is present in and among us. Because of His Presence
in our lives, we experience the joy of heaven on earth. And the Church is where we most fully
experience His Presence. The Church is where we come every Sunday and during the week to
receive His Body and Blood and to unite with him and with one another. The Church is where
we come to rest and be refreshed from our daily labors. The Church is where we are empowered
to do His work of love and service in the world.

Like any home, we are not immune from tensions and conflicts among family members.
The Church is far from perfect. But we can never cease to strive to live up to our family values
of love, care, and respect for one another. We can never cease to reach out to our neighbors,
especially the poor and those in need. We can never cease to welcome all to our doors, regardless
of whatever differences may divide us. Love reigns in this home because Christ lives here.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit – Amen”
​
                People who know me well know that I spend a lot of time inside of my own head. It is a constant chatter and conversation between these two ears. The positive side of this experience is that I am comfortable being alone, I am my own best company. The negative side of this experience is that I can’t turn the chatter off and it can make sleep difficult. I like to take outdoor walks when the weather is pretty to sort through all the chatter and make sense of it. While in seminary I took a lot of these walks because I was given a lot to think about and sort through.

                One of my favorite places to take these walks is English Landing Park just north of here in Parkville. English Landing Park was the place where my husband and I shared our first date, and the Missouri river gives a lovely cool breeze. This park has a lot of trees. Through the years I began to pay close attention to these trees along the main trail. I named several of these trees, watched for when the park service would tag them, if they suffered storm damage or when the leaves began to change color in the fall and then bud out in the spring. My imagination goes wild for trees, and I find them to be a great comfort. I imagine they are symmetrical their tops mirroring their root systems – I imagine that trees might be the same deep under the soil as they appear to us in the sky.

                One of my favorite books is “The Hidden Life of Trees” by Peter Wohlleben. Wohlleben explores how trees feel and communicate with one another in elaborate and deeply rooted communities. When one tree flourishes, other trees around it flourish. When one tree suffers, other trees nearby notice distress signals and send “help” by way of nutrients to help aid in its restoration and health. Some species of trees even synchronize their reproductive cycles to ensure a season of new saplings and growth. Trees are magnificent evidence of a creation that is intimately woven together.  

                Peter, the author, describes a time in his life when he was an arborist and worked specifically with beech trees in a forest. To encourage growth in the forest he would “girdle” some select trees. Girdling a tree looks like stripping off a wide ring of bark which results in a tree that is unable to send nutrients from its foliage to its roots. Girdling starves a tree to death. The tree will eventually lose its leaves, allowing for more sunlight to reach younger shorter trees and the forest floor. Girdling is a brutal treatment for trees, the death of the tree is slow and painful to watch. Peter has regret for participating in this practice. To his amazement after several years of coming back to monitor those girdled trees he would find some of the beech trees more or less surviving because of neighboring trees sending help and nutrients through their shared root network. I often look to creation to see what it shows us about the nature and character of God. Trees are a wonderful place to observe the nature and character of God.

                Today’s gospel message brings us the stories of a woman and a young girl who were the recipients of great miracles. One woman is suffering from what could be described as a 12-year uterine bleed which rendered her ritually unclean and therefore unable to fully participate in her community and the practice of her faith. The other was a young girl who died at the age of 12. She died while the first woman was experiencing her healing miracle. In tandem, twelve years prior, one woman had entered a time of ritual impurity while the second was being born with life and vigor. The young girl died while the older woman was made whole again. There seems something meaningful in our gospel story about this juxtaposition. I don’t think it has anything to do with a capricious god who trades a good thing for a bad thing – trading life or healing for death, tit for tat. I think maybe these stories teach us something very important about the nature and character of God.

                When Peter Wohlleben the arborist was girdling beech trees, he had one simple goal and that was the preservation of the whole forest even if it meant death for a few other trees. The woman with the bleeding had experienced her own social “girdling”. She had spent her fortune on healers and doctors that brought no relief for her bleeding.  To add insult to injury she became sicker. She was a woman who at one time had wealth and protection, to be out publically, unaccompanied was not a cultural norm. She showed great bravery and desperation to touch a strange man’s robe. When she touches the robe of Jesus he suddenly stops and asks what seems to be a ridiculous question – “Who touched me?”  This was a ridiculous question because of the size and chaos of the crowd around him. He knew and experienced the miracle in tandem with the bleeding woman. Jesus felt power leave from him as the woman felt herself healed. The woman stepped forward, terrified and told him the truth. He gently calls her “daughter”, acknowledges that she has been made well and bids her to leave in peace.

                Brenee Brown in her 2015 work “Daring Greatly” described empathy. She determined that empathy involves listening, holding space, withholding judgement, emotionally connecting, and communicating the incredibly healing message “you are not alone”.  At their core, empathizers are co-sufferers who understand. Jesus showed many empathizing behaviors and gifts in this miraculous moment with the healed woman.

                Meanwhile, during this interruption of Jesus’ walking to Jairus’ house, Jairus’ 12-year-old daughter dies. When he arrives at the house with the dead girl, he is greeted with wails and cries of deep mourning. Jesus makes the decision to only allow a few people into the room with him and calls the girl to life while again using a name laced with fatherly affection. Jesus orders everyone in the room to keep this miracle quiet and to give the girl something to eat. The girl, brought back to life is not a spirit, ghost or apparition. She has been raised to life with wholeness.

                Typically these two stories are taught to reinforce the importance of having faith. I also think that these stories point us to the nature and character of a deeply relational god. A relational god who not only is the facilitator of miracles but experiences them along with humankind. A relational god of empathy who experiences suffering with humankind, not just passively observing humankind’s suffering. A relational god who feels the tugging of creation itself.

                Returning to the story of the girdled beech trees Wohlleben observed that death can be mitigated by the active relational existence that is inherent to the shared root network. Imagine if you will that we pass around a ball of yarn, weaving it in and out of our chairs and rows. One person might tug at the place that they hold and people throughout our yarn web would experience that tug and pull. We do not experience life in a vacuum alone but with others who are inside and outside of our circle of our immediate influence. When one experiences suffering or healing, we all witness those moments.

                Many of us have a perception of an impassible and immutable god. An impassible god is a god incapable of suffering or being acted upon by sources outside of itself. A god that somehow intellectually “knows” of our suffering but is beyond suffering himself. A god that computes the human experience of suffering like a computer translating data of 1s and 0s. A god that is aware that suffering exists and what it might demand of humankind, yet remains observant, distant, and unmoved.

                Many of you know that I suffer from chronic illness. There is near daily suffering of weakness, pain, fatigue, aches, dehydration and deep grief of being acutely aware of what I pictured my life and body to look like, how it could work and knowing how far short of that vision I had for my life I am experiencing. Grief is simply that space between what is hoped for and what is reality. I am very lucky that I have a great number of friends, many in this room, who have sat and bore witness to that suffering and grief. Grief demands a witness. I also have a god who not only gives witness to that same suffering and grief but experiences it right with me and holds space with me. Not beside me, as if removed from it, but with me, right in the middle of the mess and muck of disease and brokenness. Likewise, God experiences healing with me. God is not outside of me and removed, watching it from across the room, but with me in all the healing and wholeness that I am able to experience.

                Our network has the capacity to send healing nutrients to each other for regrowth and healing. Just like you imagined holding yarn in your hands and feeling the tug of one person pass through each of your hands, God more infinitely and more intensely feels those tugs for help and healing throughout all of creation. God experiences the suffering of girdled beech trees and the suffering of humankind. God knows and experiences suffering happening in all of creation. God is moved and responds. God empathizes.

                I grew up in a tradition where children’s Christmas pageants were an annual undertaking. Pageants consisting of pre-school angel choirs, bath-robed shepherds, costume jewelry spangled wisemen, and 5th or 6th graders with trusted maturity to play Mary and Joseph. If we were lucky – a real live infant played the part of Baby Jesus. There were weekly rehearsals all through Advent with a line-memorization countdown that culminates in a Saturday afternoon dress rehearsal fueled by Kool-Aid, cold pizza and off-brand sandwich cookies. In one of those pageants, we sang a song that included the lyrics of “Emmanuel, God is with us” and that is never more so real than what the woman with the bleeding experienced. God was with her in that moment, trading his power for sickness. When Jairus’ daughter is raised from the dead God gives a peek at the miracle of resurrection – again trading his power for death. And to be sure, these women weren’t just healed they were made whole. The bleeding woman was restored socially with her physical healing. Jairus’ daughter wasn’t a ghost, apparition or spirit, she was brought back to life in wholeness, even being told to eat as proof! The miracles aren’t just healing they are wholeness! God wants wholeness for us and the world. That is Good News!

                The church is one of God’s ways of being in the world. The church as an institution has done its own share of bark stripping and, on the flip side, also has the capacity to assist in healing and recovery. Friends, each of you are God’s instruments of healing and hope. We are beech trees girdled in our own individual and unique ways AND we have a root network that reaches deep and wide to help share healing nutrients to one another and the world beyond us.

                It is not enough to be aware of social justice issues. Injustice and suffering rob others of wholeness. There are people beyond this building who are not plugged into their own root networks. We, as a church, receive distress signals and are called to be co-creators with God of healing and wholeness.  The stronger and more vigorous our root system becomes the further it’s healing reach.

                This week may we go in peace. May we be exceptionally aware of an empathetic and relational God who is fully with us in both our suffering and our miracles. May we be exceptionally aware of others sending distress signals in their suffering. May we be exceptionally aware of our privilege to be so intimately connected and our opportunities to be a means of grace and presence for family and friends and our neighbors beyond our doors.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit – Amen”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy
Ghost. Amen.

When I was growing up in the First Assemblies of God
church in Choutea Oklahoma, I desperately wanted to be
a good Christian. So I read the Bible, daily and attentively.
The older I got, the more I concentrated on the Gospels,
memorizing long passages like the Sermon on the Mount.
I figured that if I did my best to follow the direct teachings
of Jesus, I couldn’t go wrong. I noticed that all three of the
synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) contain a
passage called “The Great Commandment.” It’s recited at
the beginning of almost every Mass here at St. Mary’s:
“Hear what our Lord Jesus Christ saith: Thou shalt love

the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul,
and with all thy mind. This is the first and great
commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt
love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments
hang all the Law and the Prophets.”

The remaining Gospel, John, contains a version called
The New Commandment: “A new commandment I give to
you, that you love one another.” Today’s Epistle reading
from First John can be read as a commentary on the
Great Commandment and New Commandment. Even
more, it can be read as a guide to love as the central
Christian practice.

As a teenager I realized that while other parts of the Bible,
even the Gospels, might sometimes be difficult or obscure,
THIS was a teaching that was simple and clear. It’s a
standard by which all the rest of Scripture can be
interpreted. St. Augustine said, “Whoever thinks he
understands the divine Scriptures in a way that does not
build the love of God and love of neighbor does not
understand it at all.”

In today’s reading, the First Epistle of John says, “Beloved,
let us love one another.” In last week’s sermon, Fr. Sean
told the story of heroic love shown by St. Maximillian
Kolbe, who exchanged his life for that of a fellow inmate in
Auschwitz. Fr. Sean also talked about the love we can

show in small ways in our everyday lives. This simple,
smaller way, this “little way” of expressing love and living
out our Christian calling was advocated by St. Therese of
Lisieux, a patron saint of St. Mary’s whose relic is on the
altar behind me. She wrote that something as simple as “a
word or a kindly smile, will often suffice to gladden a
wounded and sorrowful heart.”

This is so simple, yet, as you’ve probaby experienced, so
very difficult. Many of you know that I’m a barista at the
Nelson Atkins Museum. Before I open the coffee shop, I
like to duck into the back room, cross myself, say an Our
Father, a Hail Mary, a Glory Be, and then pray, “Oh my
Jesus, please help me to love you more and more every

day. And please help me to show your love to everyone I
meet.” Then I open the shop, and, during the course of the
day, I proceed to fail spectacularly. Invariably, I will be
annoyed by someone, I will be irritated by someone else,
someone will walk up to the counter five minutes before
closing and order four hot chocolates, a 16 ounce caramel
chai, and a 12 ounce half caf vanilla lavender, oat AND
almond milk latte, extremely hot. “You know,” they’ll say,
“hot enough to scald my tongue.” And while I may remain
professional, I’m not sure that in that moment I’m a shining
example of the love of God.

Trying to live up to this ideal, and failing, on a daily basis,
might be discouraging, but we are enabled to keep trying,

day after day after day, not by the success of our efforts.
Our ability to practice love comes from the fact that God
loves us. The Epistle says, “We love, because he first
loved us.”

This passage is full of images of the magnitude of God’s
love. “So we know and believe the love God has for us.
God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and
God abides in him.” God’s love is big enough that we can
live in it. We can make it our dwelling. We can rest in it.

The passage makes clear that love isn’t just “of God”, an
attribute that proceeds from God. God IS love. Love is the
Godhead’s very being and essence. In classical theism we

say that God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent.
Love is omniscient. It know everything...about you. Love is
omnipresent. It is everywhere. It is vast enough to live in
because there is nowhere else we can live. Love is
omnipotent. No power in the universe is stronger than its
power.

These sound like abstract ideas, but God’s love was
shown to us, in the flesh, in the incarnation, death and
resurrection of Jesus. The Epistle says, “In this the love of
God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only
Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In
this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us,
and sent his Son to be an expiation for our sins.” Jesus

poured forth his love for all humanity on the Cross. His
heart was wounded by the centurion’s spear, providing all
humanity a certain shelter. This image of dwelling in
Christ’s wounded heart has been widely used in
Christianity since at least the medieval period. “Establish
your dwelling in the amiable Heart of Jesus,” one saint
wrote, “and you will find unalterable peace and strength to
carry out your good desires

And just as Jesus offered himself entirely to us on the
Cross as an expression of his infinite love, offering his own
heart as a dwelling place, he offers himself to us in the
Eucharist at every Mass. St. Peter Eymard declared, “The
Eucharist is the supreme proof of the love of Jesus.” In it,

Jesus comes to us in a form that will allow him to
physically and literally dwell in us.

“He who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in
him.” We make this a reality at every Mass. Jesus offers
his wounded heart to us in the Eucharist, in the bread and
wine. We offer him our wounded hearts, our sorrowful, our
confused and troubled and angry and lonely hearts. We
offer “ourselves, our souls and bodies.” And in this mutual
offering, we , in the words of Eucharistic Prayer One, are
“made one body with him, that he may dwell in us, and we
in him.”

The image of us dwelling in God and God dwelling in us is
found throughout the Gospel and Epistles of John. It’s in
both of today's Johannine readings. When we dwell in
God’s love, and God’s love dwells in us, we are free to
attempt to offer that love to others, to succeed AND to fail,
and over and over and at the last, to return to God’s
infinite love for us.

Of this, St. Therese wrote, “[It makes] me think of a little
child that is learning to stand but does not yet know how to
walk. In his desire to reach the top of the stairs to find his
mother, he lifts his little foot to climb the first step. It is all in
vain, and at each renewed effort he falls. Well, be like that
little child. Always keep lifting your foot to climb the ladder
of love, and do not imagine that you can mount even the
first step. All God asks of you is good will. From the top of
the ladder He looks lovingly upon you, and soon, touched
by your fruitless efforts, He will Himself come down, and,
taking you in His Arms, will carry you to His Kingdom
never again to leave Him.”

Sean C. Kim
St. Mary’s Episcopal Church
Fourth Sunday of Easter
21 April 2024
​
            When I was young, I used to spend hours reading the Greek myths and legends. I was fascinated by the tales of capricious gods and the epic adventures of heroes. One of the most compelling stories that I remember from my childhood is that of Damon and Pythias. It’s not one of the more well-known Greek legends, but there’s a powerful ethical and emotional dimension to the story.

            Damon and Pythias are two close friends. Pythias is accused of plotting against the king and is sentenced to death. Pythias requests permission to go home to settle his affairs before his execution. When the king refuses, Pythias’s friend, Damon, steps forward and volunteers to be the hostage until his friend’s return. The condition is that if Pythias does not return, Damon will be executed in his place. The long wait begins, and the king suspects that Pythias will not show up. But when he does return, the king is not only surprised; he is so moved by the friendship of the two men that he allows both to go free. The story of Damon and Pythias embodies the ideal of self-sacrifice in friendship.

            In today’s Epistle reading from I John, we have a similar image of self-sacrifice: “We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for one another” (I John 3:16-24). As in the Pythias and Damon legend, here, too, we have the talk about laying down our lives for another. But there’s a difference. In the story of Pythias and Damon, it is one friend willing to lay down his life for the other. But, here in I John, the attitude of self-sacrifice is not limited to friends. It is a general statement, in which we are called to embrace the attitude of self-sacrifice toward all, friend or foe. Just as Jesus laid down his life for all, we, too, are called to follow him and lay down our lives for all.

Moreover, we are told that this is the definition of love: “We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us – and we ought to lay down our lives for one another…let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action” (I John 2:16, 18). In other words, Christian love is about laying down our lives for one another.

            For me, this is one of those difficult sayings in Scripture. It isn’t difficult to understand; the meaning is quite clear. But it’s difficult to implement and practice. Sometimes, I wonder why Jesus had to say some of the things that he did. Why does he have to demand so much of us? Why couldn’t our religion be easy, requiring little of us but giving us a lot of benefits? Well, friends, it doesn’t get any tougher than this: laying down our lives for one another.

            And yet as tough as it is, there have been countless followers of the Lord Jesus throughout the history of our faith who have done just that, holding before us models of Christ-like love. Some of you may have heard of St. Maximilian Kolbe. Fr. Kolbe was a Polish Roman Catholic priest and Franciscan monk, who was interned at Auschwitz for opposing the Nazis during World War II. When a prisoner escaped, the Nazis randomly selected ten men to be starved to death. When one of the men shouted, “My wife! My children!” Fr. Kolbe volunteered to take the place of the stranger, and the Nazis agreed to his request. He was starved for two weeks and then killed by lethal injection.

If you’re wondering what happened to the man for whom Fr. Kolbe died, Franciszek Gajowniczek, he survived the camp and the war and lived to the age of 93. Inspired by Fr. Kolbe’s sacrifice, he became a lay missionary. Fr.  Kolbe was canonized a saint by fellow Polish priest, Pope John Paul II, in 1982, and Franciszek Gajowniczek was there at the canonization. Fr. Kolbe’s feast day is August 14.

            We commemorate Fr. Kolbe and other saints because they carried out great deeds and lived extraordinary lives. They stand out among the rest of us. The Greeks have their heroes; we Christians also have our heroes. Few are called to the kind of heroic faith that Fr. Kolbe embodied. And yet we, as fellow followers of the Lord Jesus, are called to the same command to love by laying down our lives for one another.

            Laying down our lives doesn’t have to mean giving up our lives. Love doesn’t always require the ultimate sacrifice. We can lay down our lives for one another in other ways. Returning to our Epistle, we read, “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?” (I John 3:17).

            When we help a brother or sister in need, we are laying down our lives. We are giving up a part of ourselves – our time, our resources, our energies. In a way, it is a kind of dying to ourselves and living for others, as we take the focus away from ourselves and turn to those around us in love and service.

And I see this kind of self-sacrificing love everywhere in our community here at St. Mary’s. Just these past couple of weeks, I saw love in action when Fr. Larry and Jami Blakeley went to visit a parishioner, Chip Oldham, who had long been neglected and almost forgotten by the rest of us. He is featured in this week’s newsletter. I saw love in action when our parishioners took the time to join those who had lost loved ones to grieve and mourn with them. And week after week I see love in action when you pick up Blessing Bags to distribute to the homeless on the streets. I see love in action in the volunteers who labor in the kitchen to provide generous hospitality to our community and those in need.

             How about you? How will you lay down your life this week?

Sean C. Kim
St. Mary’s Episcopal Church
Second Sunday of Easter
7 April 2024


Psalm 133 is one of my favorite psalms. I like it so much that I have the psalm in Latin posted to the corkboard in my office at school. Ecce quam bonum et quam iucundum habitare fratres in unum! Oh, how good and pleasant it is when brethren live together in unity! What a treat it is to have the choir chant it so beautifully this morning.

One of the reasons I’m so fond of the psalm is because family means so much to me. My parents are no longer living, but I’ve always been close to my sister and brother and their families. We went to the same schools, even college and graduate school, and we currently live just minutes from each other. My family provides me with love and support. And among life’s greatest joys for me – and I’m sure this is true for many of you - is gathering around the table together as a family. Perhaps, it’s my Asian, Confucian heritage with its emphasis on the family. Or perhaps, it’s all the “Leave It to Beaver” and “Brady Bunch” reruns that I watched as a kid – and still do.

I’m also drawn to the striking poetic imagery of the psalm. Brethren living in unity is compared to “the fine oil upon the head that runs down upon the beard of Aaron, and runs down upon the collar of his robe” (Psalm 133:2). The oil is olive oil. These days, we use olive oil mainly for cooking, but in ancient Israel, it had multiple purposes. It was used as medicine to heal wounds or mixed with fragrant spices for hair and skin care. Apart from these practical uses, olive oil was also a symbol of blessing. Visitors to one’s home would have their feet washed and then have oil poured on their heads as a gesture of hospitality. And oil was used for the important purpose of anointing kings, priests, and prophets.  

In the Episcopal Church, we carry on this ancient tradition of using oil to anoint and bless. Every year during Holy Week, the Bishop blesses the oils for healing and anointing at what we call the Chrism Mass at the cathedral; chrism is the consecrated oil. This year, our parishioners Raja Reed and Jami Blakeley joined the Altar Guilds of St. Andrew’s and St. Paul’s to put the chrism into several vials for distribution to the churches in our diocese.  

The other image in the psalm is the dew of Hermon falling on the hills of Zion (Psalm 133: 3). Hermon was a mountain located some 125 miles north of Jerusalem and famous for its abundant dew. In a land that was dry throughout most of the year, the dew that fell during the night was an essential source of water.  The dew, like the oil, represents what is good and pleasant, a blessing from God.

And so, too, is brethren living in unity a blessing from God. It is the goal of our life together, as the family of God. We are called to live together in peace, unity, and harmony as sisters and brothers in Our Lord Jesus Christ. According to the great theologian and church father, St. Augustine, Psalm 133 provided the inspiration in the early church for the birth of monasteries, where monks, brothers in the faith, would strive to live together in unity.  

At the 8 o’clock service, Jan Brill, whom many of you know, reminded me of a joke that she had shared with me earlier. There was a monastery, where the monks took a vow of silence. The only exception was at Easter, when one monk would be allowed to express one thought. One Easter, a monk said, “I hate the food here.” The second year, another monk said, “The food is not bad.” The third year, a third monk said, “I’m out of here; I’m sick of all this conflict.” Interesting, this joke actually reflects a real situation we have here at St. Mary’s. Some of you have been to Conception Abbey. Raja, as well as Fr. Charles when he was here, hates the food there; I actually think it’s quite good, especially for dormitory food.

So, what about us today? We do not live as monks and nuns in a cloister but out in the world. And whether at home or work, we fall short of the ideal of unity in our daily lives. Who is free from differences and conflicts with those whom we live and work? Even in our churches, unity is elusive. We are divided by theological, social, and political issues, as well as interpersonal tensions and conflicts. As you know, I study and teach religious history. And so much of the history of Christianity, as well as that of other religions, is the story of division and conflict. This goes back to the very origins of our faith. Think of the arguments among Jesus’ own disciples that we read about in the Gospels and the controversies that rocked the early church.

Before I was ordained a priest, my clergy friends and mentors warned me how bad church politics could get. I didn’t believe them. I had been in academics a long time and had seen a lot of bad behavior – and I’m not talking about students. As those of you who have been education know all too well, academic politics can get pretty nasty, and I thought I had seen the worst. Well, I was wrong. I don’t know if church politics is any worse than academic politics, but, I have to say, I’ve been surprised. Perhaps, it’s because we have higher expectations for religious people, especially clergy. Or perhaps it’s just my naivete and ignorance. After all, the church, too, is an institution with hierarchies of power and authority. Why should it be any different?

Resolving conflict and building unity is hard work. Unity doesn’t come naturally. At our school, for instance, we have detailed codes of conduct and civility. The church, too, has guidelines and regulations, as well as training for clergy and staff. And yet no amount of rules or training can entirely rid us of division and conflict in our lives. It seems to be human nature. 

But, fortunately, as people of faith, we are not left to our own devices. We place our hope in Jesus, the ultimate source of our unity. Indeed, it is only in Christ that we can ever hope of overcoming the selfish desires and interests that divide us and achieve the unity to which we are called. It is Christ’s presence within us that guides us and gives us the grace to transcend our divisions and conflicts. 

Moreover, we can experience the perfect unity that Christ offers us each time we come together for Holy Eucharist; it is the supreme blessing of unity from God.

As we gather at the altar, kneeling side by side, we are able to lay down our divisions and conflicts, even if for a brief, sacred moment. We call this service Holy Communion, after all, because we share in common – “commune” with one another – the Bread and the Cup. In the words of the Apostle Paul: “The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a sharing in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a sharing in the body of Christ? Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we all partake of the one bread” (I Corinthians 10:16-17).  

The ritual acts of sharing the One Bread and the Common Cup are not mere symbols of our unity. We believe that in the Blessed Sacrament, we truly unite with one another in Jesus Christ Our Lord as one mystical body. And the body includes not just us here physically present in the Nave at St. Mary’s but all the faithful throughout the world, as well as the citizens of heaven. Christ in His Sacrifice brings all his followers together in perfect unity as one body. 
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So, dear sisters and brothers, come now to the Table of Our Lord. Let us gather as one family and share the Bread and the Wine in the Banquet prepared for us by Our Lord. For it is in the Mysteries of the Blessed Sacrament that we will receive a foretaste of the perfect and eternal peace and unity of that Heavenly City that awaits us. 

Sean C. Kim
St. Mary’s Episcopal Church
Easter Sunday
31 March 2024

Last Sunday, Fr. Bob Hutcherson in his sermon quoted from the well-known spiritual, “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” And Fr. Bob led us to the cross of Jesus to stand with his mother, Mary, his disciple, John, and others who were gathered to be with Jesus in his last moments. We grieved and mourned his suffering and death.

Today, we find ourselves in a different place – standing at the empty tomb. Today’s Gospel from Mark tells us that there were three women who went to Jesus’ tomb early in the morning carrying spices to anoint his body: Mary Magdalene; Mary, the mother of James; and Salome. To their shock and surprise, they encounter the empty tomb. Today, on this Easter Sunday morning, we join Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome in their witness of the Resurrection of Jesus.

You may have heard Christianity referred to as a Resurrection faith or Easter faith. What happened that first Easter morning two thousand years ago is the foundation of our Christian faith. It is the reason we are here. It is the reason we worship. It is the reason we pray. It is the reason we love and serve one another. We are people of the Resurrection.

Without the Resurrection, the movement that Jesus began would have ended in failure and shame with his death. It would have receded into obscurity, one of the many reform movements that rose and fell in Judaism. But Resurrection happened. And because of the Resurrection, the disciples who had fled and dispersed when Jesus was arrested and crucified came back together again to carry on Jesus’ mission to proclaim the Good News. The apostles dedicated and sacrificed their lives for the faith and established the early Christian communities. And from these apostolic foundations, the fledgling faith has grown into the world’s largest religion. Today, we are joined by 2.4 billion fellow Christians around the world as we stand together at the empty tomb and celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior.

Because of the Resurrection, we need not fear the power of death. As followers of Jesus, we believe that this life is not all there is. The saddest moments of my job as priest are when beloved members of our parish pass away. This past year, we had funerals or memorial services for Tom Rinehart, Maria Iskenderoglu, Ron Wiseley, and, most recently, Dick Herndon. At these services, in the midst of our grief and sorrow, we expressed our conviction, so eloquently expressed in the words of our Prayer Book, that in death, life is changed, not ended.  Life is changed, not ended.

Yesterday, at the Great Vigil of Easter, we renewed our Baptismal Vows. One of the reasons we do that is because Baptism is inseparable from Resurrection. In the words of the Apostle Paul, we are buried with Jesus by baptism into his death, so that just as Christ was raised from the dead, we, too, might rise with him to newness of life (Romans 6:4-5). In the Sacrament of Baptism, our old selves die, and we rise to new life in union with Christ. Hence, our physical death only marks a transition in this new life in Christ, a transition that will lead us to see him face to face and be reunited with our loved ones who have gone before us.

And while we are still on earth, we experience the new life in Christ every day, every hour. Our life is not the same when Jesus dwells in us, and we in him. As many of you know, my faith background is Presbyterian and Methodist. So, I grew up in the sober Protestant worship and piety of those traditions. But then when I went to college, I encountered the lively and vibrant music of Praise and Worship. And I’m going to show my age here – I was drawn, in particular, to the music of Bill and Gloria Gaither. Some of you may remember them. I mentioned the Gaither music recently to one of our younger parishioners from an evangelical background, and he pointed out that the Gaither music is pretty passé and that contemporary Christian music has gone well beyond it. Well, anyway, my first experience of it was new and refreshing. I love the traditional hymns, but the contemporary Christian music was different and also good. One of the first Gaither songs that I learned – and it’s still one of my favorites – is “Because He Lives.” I’d like to share a part of the song with you.

God sent His son, they called Him, Jesus;
He came to love, heal and forgive;
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives!
Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,
Because He lives, all fear is gone;
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living,
Just because He lives!

There’s a beautiful story associated with the song. Bill Gaither composed the music, and Gloria wrote the lyrics. At the time, they were a struggling young couple. Gloria was pregnant with their first child, Bill was ill, and they were facing economic hardship. In the midst of all the anxiety and stress, Gloria found peace and strength in her faith. This song is her testament.
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Dear sisters and brothers of the Easter faith, we sing today of our salvation and our new life in Jesus Christ Our Lord and Redeemer. He has conquered death and all the forces of evil that rage against us. He does not promise us an easy life, free of suffering and hardship. What he does promise is to be with us wherever we are. Christ’s presence fills us with the hope and strength to face whatever challenge may come our way. In our darkest moments, he will shed his light. In our most turbulent moments, he will grant us his peace. In our weakest moments, he will renew our strength. As Christ’s followers, we share in the victory and power of his Resurrection. Alleluia. Christ is risen. 

Sermon for the Great Vigil of Easter
St. Mary’s Church
March 30, 2024
Romans 6:3-11      Mark 16:1-8

When the three women of Mark’s Easter story approached the empty tomb that first Easter sunrise, their hearts and souls were already empty.

As a military chaplain I have accompanied another officer, or senior non-commissioned officer, both of us in uniform, while walking up someone’s sidewalk—sometimes even at sunrise—knowing that the person or persons in that house were about to have their lives changed forever.

“I regret to inform you, that your son (or husband, or father) has been killed as a result of hostile action . . .”    In an instant.  Sometimes before anything is said, normalcy, confidence, hope, and even dreams vanish.

A death always causes other deaths—not physical ones.  The death of dreams.  The death of hopes.  The death of companionships.  The death of some familiar social arrangements.  The structures of our happiness are damaged: income, the place we live, the things we do that give us joy often suffer, the trust we had in life.

Then there are the other “little deaths” that suck the breath out of our souls.   They begin with words such as:

 “The cancer is stage four.”  “Your brother has been arrested.”  “The company has been sold.”  “You no longer have employment here.”  One minute before, life with its routines, plans, and expectations.  Afterwards, heartbreak, worry, panic.

That was the state of the hearts, minds, and souls of the three friends of Jesus that approached His tomb that morning.
Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome didn’t have their lives changed in an instant.   They had watched in horror as the friend they had followed from back home in Galilee, who unlike other teachers and religious authorities of the day,  had welcomed them, along with his other disciples and confidants, as he healed people and talked about the kingdom of God—had died in increments, their own hopes and dreams as battered and bludgeoned as his tortured body, until he was dead, and so were their hopes and dreams and trust in the power and providence of God.

They had come to the tomb to give him a proper burial—to lovingly bathe and anoint his wounds and abrasions, out of their respect and love for him, and for their own need to do something.  Because those who are dead don’t need their wounds attended to. It was something to do when there was nothing else they could do, and because their ministrations might push back a little against the pain and emptiness they felt inside themselves.

They didn’t even know if they could do it!  The tomb had been sealed with a huge stone—a boulder.   More than  these three women had the strength to move.  In addition, maybe there would be soldiers of the Roman occupying army guarding the tomb, or religious Temple Police—because for reasons they couldn’t understand, their friend had been feared, and considered dangerous, by both the State and the Temple.

But they kept going anyway.  And surprise!  There were no soldiers.  And the stone had already been rolled away from the entrance!  They hurried their pace, thoughts rushed through their heads, none of them comforting.  Grave robbers?!  The Authorities?!  They wouldn’t leave him alone, even in death?

Setting foot inside the tomb they saw a young man.  He was wearing a white robe and looked out of place there.  Maybe even out of place to be in their country at all, or any known country.  He spoke to them.  “Peace, Sisters.  I know you have come to see the body of your friend, Jesus.  I tell you, there is no body!”  He gestures to a place on the floor where there are bloodstains and bloody burial wrappings.  “He has been raised from death.   Go!  Tell the disciples!  Tell Peter! Tell them he is on his way back to your neighborhood. Back to Galilee.   There you will see him, just as he told you he would.”
As Mark tells it, they ran as fast as they could out of the tomb.  They weren’t rejoicing, either. They were terrified!
Why? Up to that point there was still certainty in their worlds.   
A cynical certainty, but a certainty.

When someone has died they are dead.  Period.  You can bet your own life on it.  And when the Romans set about to put a person to death they got dead and stayed dead.   No way he could still be alive, no matter what the mystery man said.   Their last vestige of what anchored their lives in good sense and surety vanished along with their hope and dreams.  It warped their minds and upset their psychic equilibrium. 

NOW, The death of Jesus was THE end of an era for them.  The end of a golden time of community, love, and hope.  An end to their dreams.

The empty tomb and the news of a dead man who would be alive and waiting for them  in their old haunts was the end of the world as they knew it!   Natural law had been suspended.   What next?  Would the stars fall?!

Things didn’t add up and their psychic moorings had parted.  They could only flee in fear.  They didn’t tell anyone what had happened, because how do you speak of the undecipherable? 

However, they ran from the undecipherable to what they hoped was the known and familiar. They kept running until they reached Galilee. Mark didn’t record that in his Gospel, but other Gospels record appearances by Jesus in Galilee to the remaining disciples(Matt. 28:16-17; John 21:1 ff)—and were not these women recognized as disciples also?

Galilee was that which they knew, and had known, since they were children.  It was everyday reality to them. However, as in the empty tomb, their encounter with their Risen Lord, scars and all,  had to be anything but reality as they knew it.  The old neighborhood looked the same, but the world had changed.  Nothing was the same anymore.   They knew that, no matter what was reported on the local channel out of Tiberius, the consequences of death were defeated and evil deeds no longer had the last word in the affairs of men. But in the meantime, they hung out with the Risen Jesus, in the old familiar places, and God was present in Him and with them. They stood astride earth and heaven, between the known and the unknown.  It was their world, but it was not their world as usual anymore.

The Easter story is not just about the Empty Tomb and God’s victory over death and evil.  It is just as significantly about God instead being in Galilee, in human incarnation—in our shape and form.

God did not resurrect Jesus from the dead just so that we could one day go to heaven, but also that we should have His presence with us in the midst of the life we have still to live. 

Galilee symbolizes our common everyday life, the places where we work and play, raise families, partner in marriages, and enjoy friendships.  It is also a place of daily challenges, and the daily grind.  

I don’t know what has happened to most of the people I once tried to comfort after they had been given the worst possible news and felt their joy and their futures were sealed in a tomb.  But the ones I know about, despite grief they will always carry, have found hope, new dreams,  new relationships, and new joys in a life that goes on.  Whether they know that or not, it is the work of God.

God came to humanity to dwell among us as a Jewish carpenter named Jesus so that we may not only have life eternal, but also life that is shared with the Eternal, with God’s very self.  God continues to dwell among us in the humanity of those we love and who love us, and even in fleeting contact with strangers in the midst of an ordinary day, and, in despite our “little deaths,” that sometimes aren’t so little, gives us courage, joy, insight and meaning.  He will also appear to us in the faces of those who are poor, homeless, and, yes, even crazy, as He points out the situations and systems that neglect them.  
 
He heals, but He also interrupts, surprising us with his presence in unlikely or unexpected places, making something out of what we consider to be nothing.  We find that what we consider to be disasters to be God’s opportunity to reveal His power and presence to us.  He keeps appearing to us and offering Himself to us even when we have rejected Him in the past, worshipped other (usually secular) gods, and disappointed Him.  It can be frightening to be loved like that by the God of the Universe, but it is true!

As someone who often fails to notice the obvious, I offer a borrowed insight.   Christians have seemed to worship on Sundays from the very beginning of their gathering as Christ followers.  That was the day of the week in which Jesus was resurrected.  In the sacred calendar they were raised in, the Jewish calendar, Saturday was the holy day.  A day of rest.  Sunday was the first day of the work week.  So Jesus was  raised on the day that everybody went back to work.  The ordinary was sanctified by the extraordinary.  Our Resurrected Lord did not meet his friends and followers at the Empty Tomb, but back home, back at work ----in Galilee.

Where is your Galilee located?  It is wherever home and neighborhood is for you when you leave tonight.  On Monday it is at the keyboard, lathe, bedside, or shop. 

 I suggest that, right now, for all of us, it is here; at 13th and Holmes.

                                          --The Rev. Larry A. Parrish
                                             March 30, 2024 

Maundy Thursday
March 28, 2024
Sermon

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Welcome to the holiest of Thursday’s. Tonight, marks the beginning of the Easter Triduum, the most solemn and sacred time in the Christian liturgical year, where we suspend the ordinary routine of our lives to fully immerse ourselves in the meaning of the Incarnation. It is a three-day journey through the events that lead up to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, and each one of these days brings its own joy and sorrow. 
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Last week, on Passion Sunday, we celebrated Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem with shouts of Hosanna and the waving of palms. For Jesus’ followers, this was a time of joyful recognition.  It signaled the coming of their long-awaited Messiah who was going to restore the Kingdom of Israel and bring the Jewish people out from under the oppressive reign of Roman occupation. 

(Pause) But fast forward several days and the momentum shifts. As John sets the scene of the Last Supper, before Jesus departs from the world, he wants to leave his disciples with something to show the full extent of his love.   He does this through the humble act of washing their feet. 

In Biblical custom, the act of foot washing was seen as the practice of hospitality.  Sandals were the primary footwear, and the roads were dusty and, quite frankly, disgusting considering that livestock accompanied travelers wherever they went.  It was considered a lowly task, and certainly not one befitting a Messiah. But to understand the meaning of the foot washing that took place in the Upper Room on this night, we must consider Jesus’ intimate knowledge and love of his Father. Throughout his ministry, Jesus is portrayed as willfully moving towards his crucifixion, aware that he would suffer an excruciating death... yet he was committed to fulfilling his mission as part of God’s plan for saving humankind.

This was contrary to any notion the disciples had about how a Messiah behaves. So, imagine their bewilderment when Jesus began to remove his outer garments and knelt on the floor of the Upper Room and began to wash their feet.  Tonight, they are about to learn the meaning of Jesus’ words when he said, “my children, I will be with you only a little longer. Where I am going, you cannot come”.   The Gospels remind us that throughout his ministry, Jesus tried to forewarn his disciples of those things prophesied about his death, but in the Upper Room that night, Peter’s question, “Lord, where are you going?” reflects their confusion as well as their preconceived notions about who they thought the Messiah was. Clearly, in their limited understanding, their Messiah was more temporal than divine...more kingly than humble. But, it is on this night that Jesus, fully aware of his impending betrayal and death, demonstrates an extraordinary act of love and humility by washing his disciples' feet. What a shock to the disciples to see their Master posturing himself as a humble servant. 

 We often refer to this day as Maundy Thursday.  The word "Maundy" comes from the Latin word "Mandatum," meaning "command" or "mandate."  When Jesus washed his disciple's feet, his call to love one another was not merely a suggestion, but a mandate that to be a part of him and the Father, we must show love to one another.  It is so literally hard to love everyone, isn’t it?  But it is what Jesus call us to do. Remember, that on this night, Jesus already knew Judas would betray him and that Peter would deny him, but he extended them both the same gesture of love. When Jesus offered to wash his disciples’ feet, it was so opposite to their way of thinking that some initially declined his offer. Foot washing required humility on the part of both parties: the one willing to wash another’s feet and the one willing to have their feet washed.  Jesus was dispelling any notion of rank or caste among his disciples.

Foot washing is an act of intimacy. When Jesus washed his disciples' feet, he did it because these were his beloved friends that had followed him and believed in him, and he desperately wanted them to get the message that they must love one another to thrive. It is a reality in our own lives that when we are met with sadness or tragedy it is love that helps sustain us during our grief. This is one of the messages that Jesus was trying to impart to his followers. He knew that his departure from this world would require a strong community of support and love amongst his disciples and followers.

Jesus mandates us to love; but not only to love, but to love as Christ loves.  And that does not involve feelings.  More than a just a feeling or emotion, it is a choice.  We can choose to accept Christ’s gift of love and share it with others, or we can choose to reject it, but this is the point of Jesus’ commandment...to be a part of Christ, we need to choose love. This new commandment to love one another is the mark of Christian discipleship. It is not merely a strategy for survival, but also a way to build and expand the community of faith. 

In a few minutes we will be inviting those who wish to come forward to participate in the foot washing.  I don’t know about you, but I find this a difficult thing to do for several reasons. With very few exceptions, feet are not the most attractive parts of our bodies. Our feet, as we age, bear the signs of a lifetime of abuse. So, there is an element of shame in letting others see our feet, let alone wash them. It also brings a level of intimacy and closeness that is uncomfortable for some...i know it is for me. I remember the first time I had my feet washed, I was dreading the prospect. I was attending Maundy Thursday service at St. Augustine’s. I did not know the woman that was washing my feet, (pause) until she washed my feet. It is hard to explain the connection that happened between us, but the care with which she took to touch and wash and dry my feet, however uncomfortable it was for me, drew me close to this person. It helped me experience Christ’s love.  It was her choice, and it was my choice that we should be linked to one another through this simple act, and I won’t forget her. 

As this evening presses on, we move from the Upper Room to the Garden of Gethsemane to the eventuality of Jesus’ death on the Cross. But let us linger in this holy space for just a little while as we embrace the full weight of what it means to give love and receive love through Christ, because we know what tomorrow brings.  Amen.