Mount Calvary Sermons

FIRST SUNDAY OF ADVENT 2016 ROMANS 13:11-14
Last year I installed new windows in my house. I felt I had no choice. On windy days the draft would not just move the curtains, but even force the light fittings to cling to the ceiling for dear life, fearing they would be ripped out of their nests. It was only a matter of time before Jim Cantore would be broadcasting from my living room for the Weather Channel. Upstairs an entire window frame had succumbed to mold, shedding large lumps of wood. That window was a lawsuit waiting to happen. I had nightmares of some poor mailman, innocently going about his business, dropping off a parcel on my doorstep, and experiencing a waterfall of shards cascading onto his head. When Oreo, my cat, sat on the outside window ledge and meowed to come in he sounded like he was sitting on the inside ledge, so poor was the transparent barrier at blocking out sound. You could even hear hybrid cars pass. The only thing going for these windows is that they were see-through; which I guess is the point. But the other qualities that you want, like stopping the draft, eliminating traffic noise, and keeping in the warmth were simply not in the resume of my 35 year-old windows. So, I bit the bullet, figuring that the cost of replacing them would be much less than the damages I’d have to pay the mailman.

So, they came and replaced them, with all the glorious results I’d hoped for. My fuel bills have shrunk, my curtains don’t sway; and as for Oreo, well, he can sit on the ledge for hours meowing and I will hear nothing. Yes, I’m pretty happy with my new windows, even if he isn’t.

But I do miss one thing about my old ones – deadly hazards though they may have been, wasters of my electricity though they were. I can’t hear the sounds of nature
anymore. Just ask Oreo. I’m insulated, not just from drafts, but from cicadas; not just from cars, but from peepers; not just from builders pounding nails, but from the birds and the bees and the glorious choir of all creation. And there is one tiny, but mighty.... (Read the full Sermon here: Tweet the good News.pdf )

TWENTY-SIXTH AFTER PENTECOST 2016 PSALM 98
I made a trip to the Susquehanna this week. I was a man on a mission. I parked on the West Shore, and strode purposefully onto Market Street bridge and listened. Because I was all about listening. I stood many feet above the river, leant over the railings and turned my head sideways to the water to try to catch as many decibels I could. But the sound I was hoping to discern was drowned out by the traffic. So, I persevered, and continued my search to City Island, where I could be nearer the water and away from the cars and trucks.

I found a spot where I could be really close to the river, and I crouched down and listened hard. Of course, there are different kinds of listening. There’s the listening you do when the cabin crew on the plane are explaining the safety drill, i.e. not very much; the kind you do when you are sitting in class waiting for the teacher to stop droning on so you can go to recess, i.e. not at all. But this was real listening. Like, ‘turn off the TV, sit forward in your chair and truly take in what is said’ listening. Quiet, intent, passionate listening. (Long pause….) Nothing. Well, not quite nothing. There was a splosh, a splash, a splish, a slop, a bubble, a babble, a gurgle, a gargle. A squirt, a squelch, a squish. But I wasn’t there for those sounds. That’s what you’d expect to hear. The Susquehanna, the Nile, the Rhine, they all speak those same words. I’ve heard rivers talk a thousand times. Sometimes they crash, sometimes they whisper. What I was hoping to hear – for the first time in my life – was a river not speaking, but clapping. Clapping its hands. Leaving its bed, rising to its feet, and giving a rousing round of applause. But the Susquehanna simply muttered a few shallow, splashy sounds and continued its serene meander to the Chesapeake Bay.

So I wonder what it sounds like when a river claps its hands. When mighty waters are..... (Read the full Sermon here: New Day, New Song, New Spirit.pdf ) Mount Calvary, Camp Hill

ALL SAINTS’ SUNDAY 2016 LUKE 6:20-31
It was with great pleasure and immense relief that I opened an email this week from the Queen. I know that several of you also received it because you have told me. I eagerly opened it to read this majestic message:

To the citizens of the United States of America from Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. In light of your failure to nominate competent candidates for your President, and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately. I will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories. Our new Prime Minister, Theresa May, will appoint a Governor for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown dependency, the following rules are introduced
with immediate effect:
1. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'colour,' 'honour' and 'neighbour.' Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix '-ize' will be replaced by the suffix '-ise.'

2. There is no such thing as U.S. English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. 3. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers shows that you're not quite ready to be independent.

4. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left side with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric. Roundabouts will help you understand the British sense of humour.

5. The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) of roughly $10 a gallon. Live with it.

6. You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

7. The cold, tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager.

8. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every ten seconds or wearing full Kevlar body armour).

9. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

Is there anyone I have not offended? We still have 15 minutes and I don’t want to exclude anyone.

Now that I have set the context for this sermon, let me... (Read the full Sermon here: There will be a Wednesday.pdf ) Mount Calvary, Camp Hill

TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2013 LUKE 19:1-10
Sometimes he wished he were dead. That way he could escape the sneers of the people, that way he could avoid the judgmental looks, that way the pushing and shoving
and jostling he endured on the street would come to a merciful end. It’s not easy being the object of derision, he reassured himself. Not everyone had his courage. Your average man could not cope with the hatred that you are called to suffer. Take Jacob down the street – the Jacob who treats you with abject contempt, that Jacob who spits in your direction when you pass, that Jacob who once tripped you up and laughed over you as you lay helpless in the dust – that bully Jacob who does not have what it takes to stand up under the persecution you bravely face each day.

He tried to put a positive spin on it, pretend that the insults didn’t hurt, that the barbs didn’t sting. They were only words, after all. But argue though he did, he did not believe himself. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words … well, words cut like a knife.

Did they have no respect for his learning? Did they not understand his (Read the full Sermon here: Treetop Hideaway.pdf ) Mount Calvary Camp Hill

TWENTY-THIRD SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 18:9-14
Dear God. Thank you that I’m not like him over there. Lord, you have been so good to me. You made me a reasonable, thoughtful person. Thank you that I’m not one of those unthinking Christians –those Fundamentalists with their simplistic faith and their pre-Modern way of reading the Bible. Like him. Look at him, Lord. Such judgmental opinions, such arrogance, such pride in his own goodness. That’s the problem with his type of Christian, so full of themselves, so self-righteous. Like those pastors and priests with their petty rules and hateful dogma, who think that obeying the dead letter of religion is more important than people. Yes, Lord, thank you that I am not like him over there. I welcome outsiders, strangers, people who look and talk nothing like me. I’m not like him, that Christian, who makes alliances with politicians, giving up the purity of his faith in order to gain brief and meaningless power in this world.

And thank you, Lord, that I’m not like her over there. Oh, she thinks she is so openminded and good and loving and inclusive and welcoming. But she is just as selfrighteous and judgmental as him. For she, Jesus, has forsaken you. She denies your uniqueness. Thinks you are just one of many ways to God. Why she doesn’t even belong in a church. How can she call herself a Christian when she gives such honor to other religions? She’s so open-minded that her brain has fallen out. She’ll let anyone in the church. And as for morals, hers are no different from your average heathen. She is so into tolerance that she is dining with the devil and persecuting me who actually believes in something. Tolerance? She is the most intolerant person I know.

Yes, Lord, thank you that I’m not like either of them (Read the full Sermon here: Thank you God that I'm not like him.pdf )

TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 JEREMIAH 31:27-34
His name is Frano Salek, and he makes me smile. He is from Croatia, and he has a story to tell. So amazing is his story that you will possibly be shocked, and certainly moved. I predict you may even gasp by the end of it. It was in 1996 that Frano was driving along one of those twisty roads that snake around mountains when he encountered a United Nations truck, coming straight for him. He instinctively jerked the wheel to avoid impact and drove his Skoda through a crash barrier and over a 300ft drop. Somehow he managed to open the door and leap clear at the last second and landed in a tree which was clinging to the side of the mountain, while his car hit the ground, exploding on impact. I don’t know what went through his mind as he sat in that tree watching the flames dancing out of his car. He maybe remembered twelve months earlier when he was knocked down by a bus in Zagreb and walked away with only minor injuries. Possibly his brain dredged up that incident in 1970 when a faulty fuel pump from his new car spewed petrol over the hot engine and blew flames through the air vents, burning off most of his hair. Or perhaps he recalled that time in 1966 when he
was onboard a bus when it skidded into a river, drowning four other passengers, but allowing him to swim to safety with just cuts and bruises. Or even that incident in 1963 when was thrown out of a small plane on his one and only flight when a door flew open and he was sucked out. Later that day he woke up in the middle of a haystack with no serious injuries. Or, as he perched serenely in that tree he had a flashback to 1962 when a train he was travelling on from Sarajevo to Dubrovnik plunged into an icy river, killing seventeen people, and causing Frano to swim to shore with nothing more than hypothermia, shock, bruises and a broken arm.

Now there are two things we can learn from Frano’s extraordinary life. First, if he ever offers to give you ride, just say ‘no’. And second, if he asks to pick your lottery numbers, take him up on it. Because, Frano's story doesn't end with his seven neardeath experiences. In 1997 he won the equivalent of $1,000,000 with, get this, the only lottery ticket he has ever bought. But there's more. According to The Daily Telegraph, Frano gave away all his winnings to his family and friends, saying "money cannot buy happiness". And that, I suspect, is the greatest miracle of all.

If Frano was in fact remembering those scrapes with death, then he was quite unlike God. You see God can be so... (Read the full Sermon here: Stop all the clocks.pdf )

TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 17:11-19
That moment he put his foot into the bath of boiling water and watched it blister he knew he was in trouble. He remembered when he was a boy, touching a scolding pot and his mother shouting at him to run and put his hand in cold water. That did the trick forty years ago. This time there was nothing to relieve his dread, no ointment for his alarm, no balm for the horror. But it wasn’t the agony of the burn to his foot that now caused Damien’s distress. It was the lack of it. The deadness of his petrified nerve endings. The absence of pain that pronounced a death sentence.

Damien had grown up with a passion for God and a zeal for the suffering. He entered a monastery where he prayed every day that God would send him into the mission field to serve people in need. God looked with pride at the soul of Damien (how could he not?) and granted him the desires of his heart. And so in 1873 he set sail from his native Belgium to the Kingdom of Hawaii, to the island of Molokai. This tourists’ paradise was not the gorgeous playground we lust after today. At the end of the 19th century you did not want to go to Molokai. You were sent to Molokai against your will. You were banished to Molokai. You went there to die. You see, Molokai was a leper colony. A government-sanctioned quarantine island. Quarantine makes it sound less terminal, doesn’t it? You send your dog to quarantine to make sure she is not carrying any infectious diseases. You expect to be reunited with her when she is given a clean bill of
health. But, if you were sent to Molokai you knew you were never coming home. Leprosy was without cure.

Damien had been on Molokai serving the sick, praying for the dying, burying the dead, for eleven years when he.... (Read the full Sermon here: When atheists understand God's heart.pdf )

TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 PSALM 37:1-9
When I finally received the phone call I was devastated, angry, desolate. They were very, very grateful. Exceedingly grateful, and incredibly impressed. I was an amazing candidate. It’s just that I was not the most amazing. The other guy was even more suitable than me. They were convinced that God had a wonderful call for me somewhere, just not there.

I’d been waiting a week for that call. Every time the phone rang my heart would jump into my head and bang on the inside of my eyeballs. But they were the nerves of the best actor at the Oscars, who knew deep down he would be going with home a 12-inch golden man symbolizing his brilliance, yet understanding he had to go through the formality of other actors being briefly mentioned. The fake suspense made for good TV. So confident was I, that I started the week mentally measuring for curtains in the parsonage I’d be living in. I had begun to think about a couple of modest goals for my first few weeks in the parish – like, identify the most dearly held traditions I should venerate and who were the really important parishioners I needed to suck up to. (You didn’t realize clergy were so cynical did you?) I researched that part of the country online, spotting places to visit, finding restaurants, learning about the local sports teams, and, very importantly, memorizing their nicknames. That way I could chat confidently at coffee hour on my first Sunday and nonchalantly drop into the conversation, “How about those mongooses?” I could even call out in my first sermon, “Go banana slugs”. Yes, God was good, my future was rosy, my ministry fruitful.

And then came that call. I tried to convince myself that.... (read the full Sermon here: http://s3.amazonaws.com/dfc_attachments/public/documents/3228252/20161002_Live_with_abandon.pdf )

NINETEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 16:19-31
The journey on the London Underground from my apartment to the office where I worked was only 20 minutes, but that morning it seemed like hours. Anxiety will do that to you. It grabs the minutes and expands them until they are unbearably eternal. In the evenings, on my way home, the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails soothed me, rocked me gently towards, and even into, sleep. This morning, however, each clickety reminded me of the frightening task ahead, each clack taunted me.

The train station nestled on the edge of a pocket park on the north bank of the Thames, about 400-yards from my workplace. Three days earlier, as I strode that quarter mile, I noticed a young man sitting on the street, huddled in a blanket, politely asking for money from passersby. I was used to homeless people. It was London. It was 1990. I was so familiar with this sight that I became hardened to it. Blind, even. Apathy had grown scales over my eyes, so much so that that I’d grown accustomed to not seeing. But if there was one tiny piece of my eyesight that had not become obscured by apathy, this man wandered into it and forced me to behold him. He was wearing surprisingly good clothes; he spoke with an educated accent, he had the look of a stranger to a life on the street. He didn’t belong there. And I passed him by. The next day he was there again. And the next. And I passed him by. By now he had crawled inside my head,
had squeezed his way into my eyes and was chiseling away at those scales that time and apathy had grown. He whispered in my ear, bugging me with questions. Why was he on the street? Did he have a drink or drug problem? Was he mentally ill and unable to manage life in conventional society? Had he been abused or treated cruelly by his family and run away from home? Where did he come from? What was it like to be him, robbed of his dignity, his comforts and the basic human right to have a roof over his head and food in his stomach?

I needed to know. And so, after three days of.... (read the full Sermon here: I can't be bothered with apathy.pdf )

EIGHTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 16:1-13
I didn’t know what a Virginian was, but I knew my grandmother had a crush on him. I must have been five or six and she was, well, she was old enough to know better. He was tall, dark and handsome, wore a black cowboy waistcoat, sported a black cowboy hat, rode a white cowboy horse, herded multicolored cowboy cows, loved a cowboy girl, and kept law and order on his cowboy ranch. I didn’t know what all the fuss was about. But my grandmother had to watch him. Every week. It’s only in the last few years that I discovered the big deal with that 1960s Western, and the irony of a man from the East coast becoming a cowboy in the West; and being rather good at it. But like all good stories it was about relationships – a man and his friends, a man and his wife, a man and his son, a man and his workmates, a man and his cows, a man and his adversaries.

So, two weeks ago I made my personal pilgrimage to the land of the Virginian. Minus the cowboy accessories, but with two of my sons and my daughter-in-law. It was also about relationships. Because all good stories are about relationships.

In Jamestown it was the relationship between... (read the full Sermon here: The Good Crook.pdf )