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

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 T

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

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, bu

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 lik

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 tha

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

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 paris

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

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 tw

SEVENTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2013 LUKE 15:1-10 It was a solemn day on the hillside. It always was when this tragedy played out, as it did this time every year. The sheep were now fully grown, no helpless lambs for the predators to pick off at will. The year was ageing, leaving the wolves with less easy pickings. The carnivores grew more brazen in their hunting, more obsessed in their staring at the sheep from the margins. A moment's carelessness by a member of the flock could be fatal at this time of year. The more experienced sheep looked at each other with knowing dread. The human had stopped his work, placed his staff on the ground, eased himself onto a bolder, removed his lunch from his cloak, and mentally switched off. It wasn't really his fault, the sheep reasoned, after all he had been watching them closely all morning. They could forgive his lapse in vigilance. It was what happened next they could not forgive. The hard-nosed realism of economics demanded the shepherd accept his loss, don't throw

FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 14:1, 7-14 This morning I'm feeling loved. It's been a gratifying week. The reason for my burgeoning self-esteem and my blossoming self-respect is that I've received several invitations in the mail. It seems people are really interested in me. Legions want the pleasure of my company. They all seem to truly accept me and value me for who I am. I've brought a couple of these invitations this morning so you can share my joy. Here's one reassuring me that I'm special and have been chosen. It even says it on the envelope, "Duncan H Johnston," (that is how much they care – they even included my middle initial). "You are among a select group of drivers." I've been selected. Handpicked. I am a chosen one. So I tore open the envelope, and there is my invitation. "Dear Duncan H Johnston. (There's that middle initial again.) We don't want you to miss another chance to get the value you deserve (can you feel the love?) At Amica we specialize in providing good drivers like you (H

FOURTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 13:10-17 Eighteen years. 216 new moons, 216 full ones. 940 Sabbaths. 940 walks of indignity; hobbling, shuffling to the synagogue to do her Sabbath duty, to worship the God of her ancestors, to thank the Rock of her meagre life, to beg for the mercy of Yahweh. The Lord of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, she repeated to herself, was gracious. The God of Sarah, Rebekah and Rachel, she tried to convince herself, would look with compassion on her. Yahweh, she argued against her better reasoning, loved her, treasured her, cherished her as a daughter. And so 18 Passovers came and went, 18 harvests were celebrated, 18 Days of Atonement passed through the fingers of her people. And still she kept the faith, still she stumbled her way to worship, and still she hurt. No doubt at some point, maybe during one day of excruciating pain, perhaps one week of utter despair, she had accepted the permanence of her disability. She possibly relinquished all hope of ever standing straight aga

THIRTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 HEBREWS 11:29-12:2 So, this morning I'm feeling pretty patriotic thanks to the performance of Team GB at the Olympics. You see, they are top of the medals table. No, not that medals table – the one that records, you know, medals, I mean the humility medals table, the near-miss medals table, the 'it's not the winning, it's the taking part' medals table. I'm talking about the table that records the number of fourth place finishes a nation achieves. This is really a thing, and the BBC actually features it on its website. How typically and infuriatingly British. And how typical and infuriating of Britain's public broadcasting service to actually keep a record of it. Compete hard, do well, allow people to think you are actually pretty good at your chosen sport, but don't do anything quite so vulgar as winning a medal. Coming first is so impolite. Such poor etiquette. So, well, American. (You know I'm being ironic, don't you? This is actually envy talking.) I mean, the last th

TWELFTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 12:32-40 The cruise from Westminster Pier on the River Thames to the Tower of London only took half an hour, but the effects on me have lasted a lifetime. I must have been ten at the time of that school field trip. Although I lived only 30 miles from the capital, I had never been to the Tower. But I'd listened to my history teachers, I'd heard the stories of traitors and tortures, betrayals and beheadings, mayhem and murder. I looked over the side of boat into the unwashed face of Father Thames – the same brown water that condemned men and women stared forlornly at hundreds of years earlier, as they made that same journey I, in my schoolboy excitement, was making. We arrived at the Tower and in the way that hildren do, I gazed, transfixed at instruments of slow death, and instruments of fast, like the chopping block where Ann Boleyn bade farewell to her head, or should that be where she bade farewell to her body? At the time, it was the gruesome stories and the bloody

TENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LK 11:1-13 I have a new best friend. I say, 'new', but actually they have been a close and intimate companion for quite some time now. They are the first place I turn when I need something, and they rarely let me down. Like any best friend, sometimes they surprise me, occasionally they frustrate me, but usually they give me the warm glow that comes from knowing I have profited from their presence in my life. It's Amazon Marketplace. Maybe it's the Scottish Presbyterian in me (thanks Mum), maybe it's coming from a small island which still had rationing just nine years before I was born, maybe I've just taken that whole Christian suspicion of extravagance a bit too far, but I buy an awful lot of things either second hand or at deep discounts. I can't remember the last time I bought a new book – at least a new book that was not a fraction of its original price. So, Last month I visited my best friend, asked for their suggestions for a good book on the topic I wanted to read abou

NINTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 Luke 10:38-42 I know it's happened to you, because it happens to me to me frequently. You are in a meeting, and the subject matter is less than riveting and your mind wanders to something much more interesting, and you don't hear another thing. Now just let me say that this never happens to me in meetings in Mt Calvary, not even vestry meetings. But it does happen to me in local meetings of clergy. There's that blood-curdling moment when my thoughts are a thousand miles away – on a beach, or up a mountain or at a sports stadium and I am dragged shockingly back into the room by the words, "What do you think, Duncan?" Now I have developed some foolproof coping mechanisms in that stressful moment. And telling the truth that you find this conversation boring, is not one of them. So, when this happens to me a in a clergy meeting I usually say, "Well, I think we consider what Jesus says in John's Gospel." And this always does the trick because Episcopal clergy don't know their Bibl

SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2013 LUKE 9:51-62 I really wanted a rug. A nice sandy-colored, modestly patterned, home-spun rug, the kind that adorned the camel I had ridden the previous day. But as I stood in the Tunisian marketplace my heart sank. There were so many to choose from, and so many vendors, each with pound signs in their eyes. They saw this out-of-his-depth British tourist nervously surveying their stalls, and assumed I was overwhelmed by the prospect of haggling over a rug. And they were absolutely right. I knew it was the done thing. They start absurdly high and I shake my head, make a face like I'm outraged, and begin to walk away. Then they call me back and make a new offer; I still play hard to get, so they keep coming down. I fake boredom and eventually they ask me what I want to pay. Then, when I tell them, they pretend to be deeply offended, and relate the story of their aged mother who made this rug by hand despite her failing eyesight and astronomical medical bills. And we end up meeting

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST 2016 LUKE 7:36-8:3 There's something about eating with people that opens up a world of beautiful things. It's no coincidence that when Jesus had his most intimate heart-to-heart conversation with his friends, he chose a meal as the setting. And it's no coincidence that in our Anglican tradition our worship is centered on a meal – the reenactment of that ancient supper. At dinner people lower their defenses, they let others glimpse their hearts. They let their hair down. The biggest perk of my job is that I get invited to lots of dinner parties. And sure enough, as we eat, so the hosts and other guests become relaxed, open up, and share things they probably wouldn't over coffee hour. This is where I get much of my sermon material. The sound of backpedaling is deafening. It's like the backwards Tour de France. People offer me more food and drink and even money in the hope that they won't become a sermon starter. So, if you receive an invitation to dinner from me just understand tha

She teetered her way into the corner of my eye, juggling armfuls of luggage, flapping her summer dress, and rustling a sandwich. She apologized for nudging my leg with a small bag, which she was trying to push under the seat with her foot. I assured her it was nothing, and she sat down, letting out a sigh of relief the way flustered shoppers do on commercials for tea, as they arrive home and sink into an armchair with a cuppa in their hands. It was last Tuesday, and we were on board the 5.10 from Penn Station, New York to Harrisburg. She told me she had been in the city for the Memorial Day weekend to visit her daughter and was now returning to Philadelphia. I had been at the World Stamp Show for the day and was now coming home, tired but happy, thinking about the postage stamps I'd seen displayed and wondering how it is possible that a tiny old square of paper can be worth millions of dollars. Being British I am not used to talking on public transport. Where I'm from it's frowned upon. No one has yet passed