So, I have to admit that this has been a harder sermon to write than I had thought. This is the Sunday we dedicate the chapel and some other things to the honor and memory of Joan Axtell, and I thought I'd just stand up here and tell stories of Joan. But then that began to seem more like a funeral service, and I kept hearing her voice in my brain, saying, “You already did that once. Why keep doing it over and over?” I pushed back some on that, and I felt her give that exasperated look of hers, and I hear, “Well, whatever you do, keep it short. We have work to do.”

I normally don't openly steal sermons from myself, but given what's been going on in the church lately with clergy scandals and declining numbers and changing life patterns – and given what's going on it our civic life, with such intolerance, injustice, and wickedness, I wanted to take this opportunity to say to you here and now why I think we are so desperately needed. . . now more than ever. Some of you may have heard this sermon before, but I think it stands up to time. Fr. Brooks even named it. It's called, “The Ballad of Little Jimmy.” And it goes like this:

So, when I first started out as a seminarian, I did some time at St. Timothy's, on Signal Mountain, Tennessee, outside of Chattanooga. Now in Chattanooga, wealth and elevation tend to go hand in hand, and living on top of the mountain meant that, more likely or not, you got there through hard work, money, and success. St. Timothy's was a suburban church of well-to-do movers and shakers, and let's just say, that I had a fair share of skepticism as to what these people were all about. They were sure to be snobs, turning their noses up and all of the valley folk.

Way back in our first semester of seminary, Brooks and I were getting ready for our Old Testament class. We plopped down in our seats in the back row. He opened his Trapper Keeper and searched his bag for a pen when a friend of ours, Quinn, ambled up and started reading over his shoulder.

So, when I was a little kid, I remember taking trips to Florida with my mom and grandparents. We would load up in the Chevrolet, trunk packed to the brim, with a red and white chest cooler always packed for easy access. And off we'd go, down new fangled I-75, roaring down the shining highway, all the way to Treasure Island for a week of sun, sand, and shuffleboard.

So, what is enough? And I’m not talking about the 2002 motion picture thriller starring Jennifer Lopez.

So, when we hear stories like the one in John’s Gospel today, it is easy to believe miracles like this don’t happen any more. I mean, I watch folks working at the food pantry each week, and people are still coming. Emmanuel Church has remodeled some of its space to put in more cooler space to try to get folks the fresh produce that they so desperately need. And whenever I'm in Byrne Dairy or Tops, it's not all that unusual to see somebody shoplifting food. I'm sure some of it is just plain old thievery, but I'm willing to bet that some of it is desperate hunger. So it's hard to imagine a miracle like the feeding of the 5,000.

He said to them, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while.”

So, doesn't that sound good? I mean, who doesn't need some rest? Things are picking up again, and so much is happening.

So, y'all know how much I love my home town of Chattanooga. And there is a centerpiece of the city – the Walnut Street Bridge. It spans the Tennessee River and is now one of the longest pedestrian bridges in the world. It connects the restaurants and galleries of the Arts District to the restaurants and shops of the Northshore. On any given day scores of people can be found making their way across planning on a fun outing, putting the cares of the world away for an hour or two.

So, Jesus is sending his disciples out and he's ordering them to travel light. Just the clothes on their back and don't add layers. Trust in the journey he seems to be saying. Trust in me. Trust that I will take care of you as we move along.

So, many, many years ago, I was doing a road trip of the great upper western states. I saw myself as this clever young adult, headed off to discover the real America so that I could be even more clever (actually, irritating) when I got home. I was a new Jack Kerouac.

Sometimes it’s just a boat.

Today's gospel reading is one of those we all know by heart, and there is not end to the allegories that we preachers can come up with.

So, when I first started work at St. James, I met a guy named Garrett. Garrett was ...well … Garrett was a different sort of human being. First off, he was really scary looking. He was stocky, bald, gruff, and absolutely covered in tattoos. Not just some here and some there. But from the top of his head down to his feet. Chest, back, legs...even his face was covered in tattoos. If you've ever read Ray Bradbury's “Illustrated Man,” this is THAT guy.

So, the other day, Fr. Brooks texted me to fuss at me. I won't go into the details...suffice it to say, whatever it was he said I did, well, I did! He ended by asking if everything was alright, that he thought our relationship was a bit off. And I suppose it was. But here's the interesting part, or at least the part that matters today: I responded with a long text listing off all the reasons I could think of as to why this was so. Six reasons, to be exact.

So, the other day I was sitting in my home office preparing for an upcoming class on the Book of Judges when I happened to look out of my window out into the graveyard. Tomorrow is Memorial Day, and during national holidays, it's not unusual to see an larger number of cars pull up with people getting out to place flags or flowers or various and sundry mementos on this or that grave. It's always a bittersweet scene, love and loss always is. Time sometimes heals those wounds; sometimes it doesn't, at least not yet. And out of that window I can see a lot of people dealing with a lot of things. Especially around Memorial Day.

So, here we are. Pentecost. The birth of the church. And I have to admit that this may be my new favorite liturgical holiday. It wasn't always like this. To me, Pentecost was sort of the New Year's Day of the church calendar. But not this year.

So, years and years ago, I was a co-op student in chemical engineering, living in Midland, Michigan, working at Dow Chemical. And I had this roommate from the University of Cincinnati, Rob Schmidt, who was this awesome guy. Gregarious, fun, friendly. But he had this one fault. Well, not really a fault. Just a thing, I guess.

In the wilderness, outside of Jericho, there is a sheer wall of rock. It is called by Christians “The Mountain of Temptation,” the place where Jesus had his run-in with the devil. But the Jews have another name for it. As, you work your way along the top of the mountain, you come to a place where the terrain is cleft in two forming a gorge. It is a treacherous place, but even here life goes on. Even here, a narrow footpath works its way from the top down to the valley, where centuries of shepherds and sheep have wandered up and down it, moving from the barren mountain top to its secrets below. And the chasm is situated in such a way that you can only see clearly down to the bottom right when the sun is directly overhead. Only then can you see a shimmering down there of a stream as it trickles from somewhere underground to a tiny wadi or oasis. But the rest of the day, it lays hidden in darkness.

So, the Catos and I have an unspoken, unremarked tradition. I don't even know that any of us have thought about it until now. Monday (or sometimes Tuesday) is family dinner down here at my place. Thursday (or sometimes Friday) is family dinner up at their place. Nothing fancy, just dinner, some streaming of something, and some time with each other and the dogs.

Last week, someone asked me, “What is Lent all about really? I mean, why do we do this?” And I started thinking about that. Lent is a rough season. Lent always is a little rough.