Devils and Dandelions: Being Wheat in a World of Weeds - A sermon by Matt Haines

Proper 11, Year A- St. Andrew & All Souls' Episcopal Church, Portland

• Wisdom 12:13,16-19
• Psalm 86:11-17 
• Romans 8:12-25
• Matthew 13:24-30,36-43 

Not long ago, I was walking through my front lawn and saw a dandelion which had gone to seed. I was instantly transported to my childhood when I would take the cottony flower in my hand and blow with all my might. WHEW; it was so fun to watch those little white specks take air. I felt so powerful. One day though, my grandmother watched me do this and called me over to her. She explained that I shouldn’t do that. I argued that it was so fun. She agreed that it looked fun, but she explained that these little white specks were actually bad seeds. These seeds caused weeds which smother the good flowers and the vegetable garden, and even ruined the lawn. I felt terrible because I thought I was doing something harmless, but now I had helped to ruin things. She smiled and said "It’s ok; you didn’t know. Besides, you are a good kid."

Thirty years later I still wonder sometimes, "Am I a good kid?" We all ask that question don’t we? What does it mean to be good—what does it mean to be evil?

Jesus’ parable of the "Wheat and the Chaff" (MT 13:24-30, 36-43) uses similar imagery. There is a field and an enemy had come by night and seeded weeds therein. The followers of the "evil one" planted weeds which threatened to smother and kill the wheat. The servants in the parable wanted to help by pulling out the weeds in order to save the wheat. The master said not to for fear of destroying the good with the bad—a sort of agricultural collateral damage. Jesus warns against this method when he explains that his followers were to be the good plants and that the angels would sort through the harvest at the end. Our job is simple, be the good kid. In other words, be the good seed.

Wait a minute! Aren’t we morally obligated to pull the weeds to protect the good seeds? Jesus’ answer—‘no’! It doesn’t work that way. Pulling weeds in this context is murderous to the good plants as well, and frankly it is the work of others. It is the work of angels.

An unknown counter-protester at a Westboro Baptist
Church demonstration in February of 2008
PHOTO CREDIT: Terry Ross (flickr.com/qnr)
Used by Creative Commons License. Some rights reserved.

I would like to offer a real world example of this—Pastor Fred Phelps. He is that Westboro Baptist preacher in the cowboy hat who would picket the funerals with graphic signs and slurs stating that "God hates___" (insert the blank with a slur here). He and his followers blamed gay people for every possible ill and misfortune. He saw his job as pulling out the weeds (gay sinners) to protect the wheat (the non-gay righteous). For the LGBTQ community, this man was perhaps the most self-righteous and singly destructive soul of the past several decades. He started by protesting the funerals of people who died of AIDS and told their grieving families that God was happy that their loved one died and that he was happy that they were now in hell. Then he focused on people who died due to antigay or transphobic violence and yelled to all in ear shot that "God hates___" (insert the blank with a slur here). He picketed churches and schools that showed mercy to gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people. (It became almost an honor for a while to get picketed by these fanatics. It meant that you were doing something nice.) Finally, he started picketing those soldiers who had fallen in battle. Their 'sin' was merely serving a country which tolerated certain people. "God hates___" (insert "America" here). This man and his church had decided that they saw evil weeds which needed to be plucked and they felt commanded to do so.

These misguided people felt powerful casting bad seed and pulling up the good. They claimed to possess the knowledge of good and evil. Incidentally, that was the original sin! Eating the fruit of the tree of knowledge banished Adam and Eve. The evil one tempted them to be equal to God in this way. The second sin, fratricide, happened soon thereafter. We are in danger of killing our brothers and sisters when we appoint ourselves to weed the garden. We become like old Fred Phelps.

So what are we to do in the face of sin and evil? What do we do about the weeds? First of all, we need to stop blowing the dandelions we encounter in our daily lives (no matter how fun it is). We all encounter evil such as: gossip, rumors, suspicion, violence, oppression, injustice and prejudice. We have many opportunities to spread sin—we are called to stop. Remember that bit about wailing and gnashing of teeth? We must leave the dandelions alone!

As seeds of good we are called to be fruitful. We are wheat called to nourish the world. We are not to be the seeds kept in the barn of last week’s gospel. We are called to out-number the weeds. How do we know that we are indeed good instead of evil? In the Wisdom of Solomon we are given insight into this reality.

Although you are sovereign in strength, you [God] judge with mildness,
and with great forbearance you govern us;
for you have power to act whenever you choose.
Through such works you have taught your people
that the righteous must be kind,
and you have filled your children with good hope,
because you give repentance for sins.

- WISDOM 12: 18-19  

God judges with mildness: we don’t get to judge at all. The righteous are kind. If we are not kind, it is a pretty good chance that we are not sowing the good seed. We are either spreading weeds or pulling out good seed with the bad (Remember, we are supposed to be the wheat!).  God gives us hope though repentance. When we find ourselves being unkind, we need to repent. That is our hope.

Incidentally, some of the most beautiful ways I have ever seen this happen were grace-filled responses to some of Fred Phelps’ protests. Groups of people dressed as angels often came to these picketed funerals and surrounded the messengers of hate with their wings and sang hymns to drown them out, allowing families an opportunity to grieve surrounded by holiness. Bikers on Harleys—perhaps even a few "Hell’s Angels"— escorted the hearses of fallen veterans, drowning out hateful slurs with their engines of love and support. Notice how they did not pick the weeds; they planted more good seed to surround the weeds.

You may have heard that Fred Phelps died this year. He was a complex man. It turns out he started his career as well-respected civil rights lawyer. He had also previously run for public office as a Democrat. Yet, he turned in a different direction.

Late in his life, his church family turned on him. The church which he founded actually excommunicated him. His heresy--wait for it--was attempting to bring more kindness to the way church members and leaders treated one other. Is it possible he had some hope in repentance after all? The elders were unable to see any good seeds in him as they weeded their own weird little garden. As he lay dying, one of his sons--who had left the church years ago-- remarked that the church elders had taken away the only thing that brought his father joy. They held no funeral for him. You see, pulling weeds is tricky!

"Dandelion 2"
PHOTO CREDIT: lc shinazy
Used under Creative Commons License
Some rights reserved

When old Fred Phelps died there were a lot of mixed feelings in the communities which he had hurt. In fact, I have not fully been able to address my own hurt by his brand of Christianity. Yet I was touched by a certain response of people who understood how to sow good seed. These people simply stood outside the Westboro church with a sign. It read, "We’re sorry for your loss". How profound!

"We’re sorry for your loss". Kindness and mercy was offered by the very same folks this man hurt for decades. They could have felt powerful blowing dandelions in his lawn. They could have self-righteously pulled such weeds out of their community garden. Instead, they were examples of nourishing wheat. They planted seeds of love to surround the weeds and trusted in their own kindness, God’s merciful judgment and the harvesting skills of angels.

Looking around the world we can see that a lot seems to be going to seed. Evil is afoot and the weeds seem to strangle the good seeds. We know what to do. We are to wait for Jesus and the angels to sort out the wheat from the weeds. Meanwhile, we are to grow and become righteous and nutritious for a hungry world around us.

Jesus said, "Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!"

Let us use our ears to hear! Amen.

Matt Haines is Integrity's Vice-President for Local Affairs and active in the Diocese of Oregon

The Rev. William H. Terry: "Not Peace, but a Sword"

Jesus said to the twelve apostles, "A disciple is not above the teacher, nor a slave above the master; it is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher, and the slave like the master. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household! So have no fear of them; for nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops.

Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows. Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven.

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household. Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it."

- MATTHEW 10:24-39

That was the Gospel reading for the day on June 22nd. I have taken the liberty of underlining key ideas or passages that support my thoughts and formed the words of my sermon on that Sunday. While contemplating what appears to be a Jesus that is out of step with our 21^st century idealization the ironies of this brief encounter tumbled upon me. The Gospel opens by warning of those demonizing a household that preaches truth and the integrity and also for those who follow the master of the household. Even then Jesus brings stark attention to the most profound intimacy that the God, creator, has with his creation – "even the hairs of your head are all counted" so fear not.  Well and good and consistent with whom I think or we think of as Jesus and then the image, like a glass, is shattered! "Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword." This loud and one-time proclamation can either be ignored and discarded because it does not meet our fantasy of the soft and air-brushed Jesus with the little children or the lamb. Or, it can be dealt with on its terms, not ours.

I would like to suggest that the "sword," a tool of division, destruction, and violence, is in fact the sword of righteousness, truth, and justice. It also is a sword that singularly stands as a symbol for the ensuing divisions that arise out of justice work. Even then the sword of Jesus is at once a sword of profound counter-cultural charity. It can and often does cause pain. The question then may be asked what sort of pain?

The violence of peace making is worked out in ways that sometimes daunt us. By nature, I am sure that most think that if we offer goodness and kindness we should and will receive goodness and kindness in return. Even Jesus admonished his disciples, at one point, to leave towns or homes that did not reciprocate with "peace." Somehow we believe that we are owed a kindly return for our kindness. In that very thought there is a kind of arrogance that permeates works of justice and mercy. It is that sense of immediate gratification of being nice, doing justice, and in so doing all will be well. The reality is this doing justice work is messy, hurtful, and difficult.  

This sword that Jesus speaks of can indeed cause pain and hurt, even suffering. When I have encountered anger and outrage and it is met with softness and kindness one can almost see the ensuing discomfort, and depending on the person, fear. Yes, even fear. When hostility is met with grace it does not know what to do: confusion of the unexpected. There is nothing that abusive language and hostility can do against charity, respect, and dignity, which rob hostility of its very basis of power. What hostility expects is to be met with hostility. That is the way of the world. Have you ever observed a quiet discussion escalate to a hostile argument and perhaps beyond? Why? Precisely because the ego must dominate, we must be right, we must prevail or our own sense of self is somehow damaged. As perverse as this may seem, I believe it to be true. I also believe that the more desperate the circumstances of people the truer this is. Compound that with a lack vocabulary, often the case with persons in poverty, and the argument translates into action when words fail. What is that action? Often that action is worked out as violence.

I once offered kind words to a very hostile and angry woman. I kept up those kind words no matter what she said. I asked her about her. She rebuffed the inquiry. "You don’t give a damn about me!" But I kept on. She did not relent, she kept at it, anger upon anger and it was as if each kind word were heaping burning coals upon her head. In the end she was exhausted and almost broken. She was broken by sword of dignity and justice. Perhaps she will heal and in healing be changed. Meeting anger and hostility with charity and kindness can be daunting for the giver and for the receiver. It is most counter cultural for us all.

The Rev. William H. Terry

I endorse--and am known to endorse--the full inclusion of LGBT community into the life of the Church. As they say, "all of the sacraments for all of the people." I once met a man who was, by many measures, a good man. He tried to be a "good father, churchman, and citizen." He worked hard and made a good living. His daughters went to a good college. 

This man was white, lived in a grand house in a conservative village and attended church regularly.  He too is an Episcopalian. He was my host for sermon invitation in this small north Louisiana town. Over coffee one morning we started to chat. It was the usual polite conversation and pedigrees that passed between us. You could almost see the check list: long hair "X", Navy veteran "√", family man "√", Rector of St. Anna’s Church ("the Gay Church") "X" and so on. But in the end, I guess I passed muster.

My host looked up at me with a degree of resignation and even anger and blurted out that he was sick, just sick of the way the LGBT community "hijacked" his church. "Anyone can do what they want but those people hijacked my church and forced those changes on me." He told me the story of when he first heard of an openly gay man being ordained Bishop who was in a committed relationship. "I wanted to throw up" he said. I took all of this in and I had that moment. You know the moment when everything slows down; you withdraw totally into yourself, and desperately look for a moment of clarity in the midst of the clutter of words and emotions. Fact, my very dearest friend in the entire world is gay. Fact, most of my circles of friends are gay. Fact, about one third or more of my parish is gay. How do I respond? To ignore his tirade and avoid the issue is quite southern and quite pleasant: denial. With that comes guilt usually later on. I can rationalize that by saying I was being a good guest. I just let him vent. He’ll never change.

Alternatively, I can get on my steed of self righteousness and argue about equality and even go into the scripture passages and from whence they came and make a Biblical case. That would back the guy in the corner and ultimately end up repelling him. It would further disenfranchise this man who is hurting and feeling betrayed. So how would the sword of justice fall upon him?

I simply said, "I understand. Your world was set, the rules made, and somewhere along the line the rules all changed. That has to seem like a betrayal. But you know the greater church did vote, so it wasn’t "them" it was us. Yet, I know that the world you depended on has changed." He paused, looked out at the distance and wondered. His anger had no more target, his sense of betrayal was acknowledged. He was validated yet his rant was not affirmed.

Yes, if we follow the mandates of Jesus, if we move to His beat and his story we will encounter divisions. Families will be set against one another: a mother against her son a father against his child, or parents against other relatives. So, often I see in social media proclamations regarding sexuality or poverty. The arguments going back and forth become ever so rancorous! A person working at our church has a daughter who is a lesbian. Distant family members will make posts about praying for her and all like her that they will be "fixed." How to respond, not betraying ones daughter, is a question often asked. You answer with a sword! The division will be what it will be. Meet it with the calmness and charity of righteousness that knows that you are proclaiming the gift of Jesus. Swords like this can hurt the enemy. Swords like this can and should be raised. Jesus was not an air brushed soft eyed savior. Around the hem of his garment was mud and dirt, his shirt filled with sweat, his brow burnt by the sun, his hands likely rough; he carried a sword not to bring peace but division. 


The Rev. William H. Terry is the Rector of St. Anna's Episcopal Church in New Orleans, an Integrity Proud Parish Partner.

Mary Ray Worley: Personal Connections and Transformations

I was pleasantly surprised this week to read about Senator Rob Portman's change of heart regarding gay marriage. A few comments I read expressed regret that it required a personal connection—Portman's son is gay—for him to reevaluate his position. But I contend that nearly all of our best and most important transformations are prompted by personal connections. What was once theoretical becomes immediately, achingly personal, powerful enough to blast through our preconceived, long-held beliefs. We can all be glad that Portman was willing to let his personal connection to his son change his beliefs. Many of us know of parents who are unmoved and unsupportive when their children come out. Thank God for those who do better.

Few people are able to effect such metamorphoses only on a theoretical basis. It's a big reason why the personal really is political. And it's why, with fewer and fewer gay people staying in the closet, more and more of us are being transformed by those personal connections, to the extent that marriage equality is indeed beginning to look inevitable. These days we all have friends, cousins, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, mentors, and heroes who are gay. If your heart is open to them, then it is necessarily open to marriage equality and justice. Such is the nature of the personal connection.

"Our calling is not to cross boundaries,
defy restrictions, or escape compartments.
 It is to embrace a universe
that does not admit their existence."

"Our Calling," artwork and quotation
by Ricardo Levins Morales.

For example, when I was younger, I was an enthusiastic evangelical Christian (whereas nowadays I'm a mild-mannered, unassuming Episcopalian). I believed that homosexuality was wrong for the simple reason that people I loved and trusted told me it was wrong, and I didn't have any better information than that. One of my very best friends also believed what we were told; only for him, it was anything but theoretical. Because he was gay.

I met Patrick in high school when we were on the newspaper staff together. I went to the same university Patrick did, and seeing as how he was a year ahead of me, he took some pleasure in showing me around the big U. We did the obligatory bar-hopping tour, and he introduced me to the very exciting if somewhat daunting Plato system—my very first encounter with a computer! He was brilliant and funny and always kind. He studied Hebrew, Greek, Japanese, Russian, and Arabic just because he enjoyed learning them. He learned American Sign Language and rode a unicycle all over campus. I affectionately called him Petruchio (the romantic lead in The Taming of the Shrew). He was my very best friend from 1974 until he died at the tender age of 32 in 1987.

When I had a religious conversion experience in December of my freshman year (1974), I took Patrick along for the ride. He came to church with me and joined the same Christian group on campus. We had known each other—very well, I thought—for maybe eight years before he told me about his sexual conundrum: he was attracted to men. I was shocked. No one had ever come out to me before. It was totally outside my sphere of experience or understanding. Still, neither of us questioned what we had been taught.

"Our Spirit" is an organization which
provides LGBT youth with affirming
faith-based messaging via web video.
Click the image for more information.

Patrick struggled mightily to resist temptation, and he despised himself because he wasn't able to change. I will never forget him dissolving in anguished tears on my couch. His "failures" consisted of loveless, anonymous sexual encounters, after which he would castigate himself and resolve to do better. It was a nasty, vicious cycle of torment and self-loathing. Only a few months before he contracted HIV, Patrick said how lucky he was not to have come down with some dread disease. Obviously, his luck didn't hold.

Patrick moved to Texas a few years before he died. The first time I went to visit him there we were both struck by how nice it was to be with someone with whom we didn't even have to finish our sentences to be understood. Then he told me about his diagnosis. Back in those days, HIV was a swift death sentence. I went to Texas to visit him twice before he died.

The first time I saw him after he was diagnosed with AIDS, I was stunned by his appearance. He looked like a concentration camp survivor. For the first half hour or so I was with him, I found it difficult to breathe, as though I'd been struck on the back and had the wind knocked out of me. The change in him was so hard to process. While others shunned him, feared contagion, and worried about sharing a salad with him (I kid you not!), I cooked enormous amounts of food for him because I noticed that no matter how much I put in front of him, he ate half. I cleaned his bathroom and organized his cornucopia of prescription drugs. I never considered doing anything less. This was my Petruchio. What else could I have done?

I read as much about AIDS as I could get my hands on (most notably, And the Band Played On, by Randy Shilts) in the vain hope that understanding what was happening to Patrick would help me cope. I ran interference between him and his mother. When he lapsed into a coma during the last month of his life, I insisted that his mother hold the phone up to his ear for ten minutes every day so that I could prattle at him, whether he could actually hear me or not. Finally, I picked out where he would be buried and made arrangements for his funeral (the first funeral home I called didn't want to handle someone who had died of AIDS).

Patrick died on July 12, 1987. For years afterward I was furious with God, not because Patrick had died but because he died what seemed to me to be a small, miserable little death. He was in denial about his impending death right up to the end. He never faced himself or his disease. But to me he was so precious, so beautiful, so extraordinary. He deserved so much better. I know now, too, that I was uncomfortable with Patrick's rejection of his gayness, even though I wasn't ready to fully accept it either.

During that time, I began experiencing what is sometimes referred to as cognitive dissonance—my experiences didn't jibe with my beliefs. I talked to some friends who were gay and asked them obnoxious, personal questions like "Do you still consider yourself a Christian?" and "When did you realize you were gay? What made you think that?" I knew a lesbian couple whom I loved very much (still "hating the sin while loving the sinner"). I realized one day that I liked them very much as a couple, and I couldn't imagine them in relationship with anyone else. Gender didn't really even seem to come into it. They were just right for each other.

"Inclusiveness" Window,
McKinley Presbyterian Church,
Champaign, Illinois

The "Inclusiveness" Window at
McKinley Presbyterian Church,
Champaign, Illinois, was
installed in 1997 in honor of my
late mother-in-law, Carolyn
Juergensmeyer Worley, longtime
member of McKinley's Social
Action Committee and a
woman with as kind, generous,
and accepting a heart as anyone
I've ever known.

To our knowledge, this is the only
stained glass window devoted to
inclusiveness as a theme in America.
Symbols abound and the most
dramatic is at the top. A pink
triangle set against a white Celtic
cross recalls the suffering and
repression of GLBT persons at the
hands of the Nazis in Germany in the
30’s and 40’s. Also included are
the rainbow flag, an AIDS ribbon,
and male and female hands
clasping one another and supported by the
hand of God.

In 1991, I moved to Madison, where I began attending an Episcopal church, still pretty mad at God and still confused. There I met Clay, who was our choir director. I learned not long after I met him that Clay was married to his partner, John. When I went to their home, I looked through their wedding album. It was oh-so-ordinary. And lovely. I finally thought to myself, "Well, maybe in an ideal world, people wouldn't be gay. But since when was this ever an ideal world?" I was still processing, still questioning, and not quite ready to fully embrace and celebrate "the gay," but no longer willing to judge or reject just because I was taught to.

I found myself wishing with all my heart that Patrick could have been able to enjoy what Clay and John had: a loving, committed, fulfilling relationship. How vastly better than furtive, anonymous, life-threatening sexual encounters followed by weeks of self-loathing and unremitting remorse. I loved being with Clay and John, because I found their love healing and comforting. I let go of the last of my reservations in the shelter of their love for me and for each other.

In 1997 Clay started Perfect Harmony, Madison's gay and gay-friendly men's chorus. I got to sing the part of Dorothy for "Over the Rainbow" in their very first performance. Imagine being the only woman singing with a chorus of 25 men. It was glorious! At many of the Perfect Harmony concerts for several years after that I got to sing either solos or ensembles with the men. It was thrilling. One year I sang "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" and leaned a little extra on the line "Make the Yuletide — gay," to the audience's delight. Clay said to me at one point, "You know, most of the audience probably thinks you're gay." The thought hadn't occurred to me. I paused for a moment, smiled, and said, "Cool! I'm honored." I think you could say that by then my transformation was pretty well complete.

As it happened, Clay also had AIDS, only by that time treatments were much better, so he lived with his disease for ten years (instead of Patrick's ten months) before he died. And John, Clay's husband, was a nurse, so Clay was very well cared for during his illness. I got to visit him the day before he died. "You're going to die too, you know," he said to me. I assured him that I knew. He also told me he'd look up my friend Patrick when he got there, wherever "there" is. I still love the thought of them meeting each other.

The day before he died, it seemed like the veil was already disintegrating for Clay and he could see well beyond it. He faced his death with courage and even joy, ready for whatever came next. His funeral was one of the most beautiful church services I've ever been to. Because he had picked out all the hymns and the readings, his presence was palpable. I felt so close to him. His was a good, courageous death, unsullied by self-loathing and recriminations. It was the perfect counterpoint to all that had distressed me so deeply about Patrick's death.

I'm no longer angry at God. I celebrate both Patrick's life and Clay's. I'm grateful that God made them exactly as they were. Had they not been gay, they would not have been themselves. And who they were is one of the greatest gifts God has given me. I have been enriched beyond measure by knowing and loving them. And I'm so grateful there was more to the story of "the gay" than what I was first taught. I have had the remarkable experience of personal connection, transformation, and love. I wish Senator Portman—and his son—much joy as they navigate the experience of connection and transformation together.

Mary Ray Worley is freelance copy editor and a member of Grace Episcopal Church in Madison, Wis., where she leads the music at the noonday Spanish service. She blogs at http://worleydervish.blogspot.com, where this was originally published.

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Integrity encourages the use of personal narrative like Mary's to gracefully engage those who are struggling with the concept of LGBT inclusion in the church.  We offer workshops across the country to equip individuals and congregations to do this work.