Cookies in the Kitchen

 A sermon preached with the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland, California.

Well. What a year this week has been, huh?

These days following a surprisingly quick and definitive end to a deeply unsettling election season have surely felt different for each one of us, depending on our particular hopes and our particular expectations, But I will tell you from the conversations I have had with so many of you this week, there is, resoundingly, well-founded anxiety, fear and grief in the air. For me, these days have seemed to drag slowly and speed quickly, simultaneously. It has been … disorienting. There has been so much to absorb.

But I would like to share with you that within these disorienting days, I happened to experience one of those unforgettable moments. One of those moments when the presence of God is so heavy in the air, you can feel it with every sense.

On Wednesday night, after our 7pm service here at St. John’s, we had cookies in the kitchen. I stepped away for a few moments. And as I walked back through the narthex I heard … the sound of voices. Loud voices. Boisterous voices. Multiple conversations, going on at the same time. And I even heard laughter.

And it felt like the lights turned on. It felt like the music turned on.

Only in the holy shock of that moment did I realize the whole day had been muted — in color and in sound — right up to that point. The point at which I witnessed community gathered. Humans simply being together.  

It hit me like a holy bowling ball to the head (the Holy Spirit is like that sometimes), that in this time of deep polarization, isolation, and loneliness, a cookie party in the kitchen is an act of resistance against powers and principalities that would have us believe we are alone, and that misery is our only option. That would have us believe we are so very different from one another that peace is not possible; that love for all people is not possible. Has not, in fact, always been possible.

It is only longstanding human-made systems of sin and oppression that have convinced us otherwise. But we know something different here. We know the capital T Truth. And that truth, I promise, is not partisan. We do not receive it from talking heads on TV screens or hot takes on Twitter. That truth is not brought to us by algorith  The truth is brought to us in the Gospel.

The Gospel truth that tells us yes, Jesus rightfully praises the widow in our story this morning for her faith and generosity. But also has a stern warning for those who benefit from a political, social and economic system that consigns a woman like her to the kind of poverty that leaves a single penny to her name.

The Gospel truth that tells us yes, we celebrate with Naomi and Ruth that their immigration journey ended in safety. But we lament the human-made conditions that required a man, a marriage, and fertility, to ensure that safety.

The Gospel truth that tells us despite how alone we might be made to feel; despite those on both ends of the political spectrum, demanding round-the-clock misery; that there is community and there is joy available to us. There are cookies in the kitchen.

And don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting that we should spend days when the wellbeing and lives of humans are the line in a state of anesthetic sugar high. Not at all. I am suggesting that community and relationship, formed and fostered within the promises of our baptism, can prepare us and propel us to be the church we are called to be; to stand up against injustice, and to love, welcome and protect the most vulnerable and the oppressed; to hold together the differences among us.

This week Timothy Snyder, author of the book On Tyranny and Yale University historian, counseled that history tells us isolation feeds a sense of powerlessness that leads to despair and inaction in the face of injustice. And sometimes, we are made to feel isolated by design. So today, all of us here, are resisting that design.

Jesus knew this about us. Because, in another disorienting time when difficult days were ahead, Jesus and his disciples gathered in community. And he told them to continue to gather in community after he is gone. He told them to eat bread together and drink wine together. And to remember that he is present in those things.  

Jesus did not suggest this would make the times ahead different. Or that the disciples in their hardship and suffering and disappointment were relinquished from their mission and work in the world. But, on that night of tender feelings and fear, Jesus told them to gather. To eat and to drink together. And to know in this, that God is present with them.   

In a few moments, we will follow those instructions, when all -- and I mean all -- will be invited to take part in that holy meal of bread and wine.

This may not, for you, be a moment of “music and lights” turning on. But I pray you each experience, and continue to experience, something like that “cookies in the kitchen” feeling in these coming days, at your own pace.

On Wednesday, Presiding Bishop Sean Rowe wrote to all of us in the Episcopal Church. He said: “Through Episcopal Migration Ministries, we abide by God’s command to welcome the stranger, and since 1988, we have resettled more than 100,000 refugees through a bipartisan program with a strong record of success. We urge President Trump and members of Congress to exercise compassion toward the immigrants, asylum seekers, and refugees we serve and to know that, at every turn, we will stand for the dignity and human rights of all of God’s people.”

He continued, “We are Christians who support the dignity, safety, and equality of women and LGBTQ+ people as an expression of our faith. I pray that President Trump and his administration will do the same.” 

In Bishop Austin’s letter to our Diocese of California on Wednesday, he said, “I will continue to see all people, regardless of race, creed, voting preference, gender, education level, living location, or sexuality as fellow and equal members of the mystical Body of Christ that we participate in through grace. I will continue to advocate for policies and people that protect the dignity of every human being and that take seriously our care and stewardship of this fragile earth.

 But most of all, I will continue to look to God and the foundations of our faith when anxiety, fear, and opposition threaten to overwhelm me, and I will couple that deepening dependence on God with the conviction that, regardless of what is to come—if we face it together as a community—Christ will be among us”

Together, as a community. I am so thankful for this church; this community. And whether you are here for the first time or the thousandth time, you are part of this community. You are welcome here. Not only do I encourage you to remember to seek us out when you start to feel alone or powerless; I encourage you to invite others to step outside their pods of isolation and into the sacred resistance that is the power of community. 

Tell them there are cookies in the kitchen.