Archives For Wedding

Here’s a wedding sermon I wrote, using (you guessed it) 1 Corinthians 13, for a ceremony I celebrated this weekend in D.C. at the Four Seasons. Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Bill Murray crashed my preaching. I got to chat with Bill but the highlight was getting to preside over the promises made by friends.

My experience tells me that wedding sermons are really for the married folk sitting in the chairs not the nervous bride and groom, sweating it out until I get to their parts. In that same spirit, I offer to you all. Married or unmarried, I think there’s some legit good news in this old, hackneyed text for those forever feeling the burden of expectation. And, of course, nothing comes fraught and laden expectations as love.

Here we go:

Since Jess and Austin chose a Kanye song for their wedding, I thought I’d offer a pop song for the sermon: “The Pina Colada Song.” Aside from the pleasures of picturing Steve Larkin yacht-rocking circa 1979 to more liquor than he’ll ingest tonight, that’s a terrible song!

Have you ever paid attention to those lyrics?!

I never did until I took my two boys to see Guardians of the Galaxy and “The Pina Colada” song, from Star Lord’s Awesome Mix Volume I, started to play while Rocket and company escaped from their galactic prison.

“The Pina Colada Song,” it’s original title is “Escape.”

Escape. As in, from Marriage.

“If you like pina coladas and walks in the rain…” Have you listened to this supposed love song?

The man and wife of Rupert Holmes’ 1979 #1 hit sound flip about forsaking everything Jess and Austin are about to promise one another tonight.

Each of them, unsuspecting of the other, takes out a Want Ad, searching for someone who is perfect for them, a companion who likes the feel of the ocean and the taste of champagne.

I guarantee that if Kathy Larkin stumbled across Steve Larkin on Tinder the ensuing dialogue would not be FCC friendly.  And I’m pretty sure if Steve ever reacted to having been found out by calling Kathy his “lovely old lady” we’d all be at a parole hearing tonight instead of a wedding.

It’s a song about two imperfect people on the precipice.

And if you pay attention to the lyrics there’s an ironic twist on what we mean by the term ‘soul mate,’ for when the imperfect spouses meet each other through the want ads, what do they do?

They laugh.

They say: “I never knew you liked getting caught in the rain…”

And then they laugh.

Each of them laughs at the imperfect other.

     On the one hand, Rupert Holmes’ “Escape” is an awful love song, a ballad about betrayal narrowly averted.

But on the other hand, Rupert Holmes’ hit single- maybe it’s a better marriage song than love song. After all, “Escape” is a pop song about being found out and being known in weakness is the very essence of marriage.

Like Jesus on the cross, the crucible of marriage strips you of all your defenses and disguises so that all your imperfections and insecurities are laid bare for the other to see.

Marriage is a risk that requires vows precisely because marriage makes you vulnerable.

Not only is being known in our weakness the essence of marriage, it just so happens to be the experience that sinners (i.e., humans) most loath. Like Adam and Eve hiding in shame, we spend most of our lives hoping to avoid being found out as the frauds we all are. Adam and Eve covered their shame with fig leaves. We do it by filtering our lives through a social media sheen, or by saying “I’m okay.”

The passion- as in, the suffering- of intimacy isn’t that I get to know someone as they really, truly are; it’s that I am known by someone as I really am. Marriage, therefore, holds a mirror up to you and reveals to you the stranger that you call you.

And one of the things marriage constantly reflects back to us is how far we fall short of the sort of love Paul commends in 1 Corinthians 13.

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     No doubt we’d all like a partner who is patient and kind and slow to anger and humble- I know my wife likes having such a partner.

But, if you think Paul’s love song is saying that you should be patient and kind, you should never be boastful or arrogant or rude, then it’s just a matter of time before what’s advice to you becomes an expectation on your spouse.

Your partner should be patient with you. Your partner should be kind to you. 

     As St. Paul says elsewhere, expectation always elicits the opposite of its intent. Thou shalt provokes I shalt not.

And so, in short order, your expectation produces resentment in your partner because love that is always patient and always kind is an impossible obligation to meet.

And it produces frustration in you.

You soon wonder why sometimes she’s quick to anger or envy.

You wonder why she’s not always patient like she should be; until, you start to see only what she is not and you stop seeing her altogether, such that you don’t even know whether she likes getting caught in the rain or the taste of champagne.

That way of listening to Paul’s love song (your love should be patient, you ought to be un-envious) is to hear it according to what Paul calls the Law.

     The Law is shorthand for an accusing standard of performance.

In the Bible, the Law is all those thou shalt and shalt nots. Be perfect as God is perfect, Jesus says. That’s the Law.

And the Law, Paul says, is inscribed in every human heart (Romans 2.15).

So even if you don’t believe in God or follow Jesus or read the Bible, the capital-L Law manifests itself in all the little-l laws in your life, all the shoulds and musts and oughts you hear constantly in the back of your mind, all those expectations and demands and obligations you feel bearing down on you from our culture.

There’s the Law of Social Media where you must crop out all your unhappiness and imperfection.

There’s the Law of Beauty where you’re measured against the standard of an ever-shrinking waist line you must attain.

There’s the Law of Parenting where your kids bento-boxed lunches should contain gluten-free, free-range, organic crustless goodness or you may as well be a slumlord in a Dickens novel.

There’s the Law of Weddings which we’re all obeying tonight.

And there’s the Law of Marriage-

The Law of Marriage which tells you that you and your partner ought to pretend your life is like the picture that comes with the frame, perfect, unabated bliss, and if you’re not happy all the time, there must be something wrong with the two of you.

Martin Luther said that the Law always accuses; that is, it points out our shortcomings.

And when we hear Paul’s love song according to the Law that’s just what it does.

When we hear 1 Corinthians 13 as advice or suggestions or, worse, commands, it just accuses us for how impatient and unkind and rude and conceited and quick to anger we know ourselves to be a whole lot of the time.

But Paul’s love song isn’t meant to be Law; it’s meant to be the opposite of the Law. It’s meant to be Gospel.

     It’s the Law that says “Be loving.”

     But it’s the Gospel that says “You are loved.”

And Paul’s song is the Gospel not the Law because the love Paul speaks of in 1 Corinthians 13 isn’t Jess’ love and Austin’s love. It’s Christ’s love.

Faith, hope and love abide, but love never ends…’ 

     For Paul, only Jesus, who was before creation and who was raised from the dead, is without beginning and end. He’s talking about Jesus.

“Jesus is patient, Jesus is kind, Jesus is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude.

Jesus does not insist on his own way.”

     This love song…he’s talking about Jesus.

Jesus bore all things, bearing in his body our shame.

Jesus believed all things. He did what we could not do, though forsaken he never lost faith.

Jesus endured all things, in our place, while we were yet his enemies.

The love Paul sings about in 1 Corinthians 13 is the love of Jesus, the love whose arms were stretched upon a cross so that your hearts, whether you believe in him or not, might be crucified by love.

     This love song isn’t the Law.

     It’s the Gospel because it’s not commanding you to love this way.

     It’s announcing to you that you have been loved this way.

You have been loved with a love that is patient and kind and slow to anger. This prior love of God- it makes the present-tense love between partners possible. This prior love of God, made perfect in Jesus Christ- it makes the imperfect love of husbands and wives permissible. The Gospel makes the imperfect love of marriage not only permissible but a kind of sacrament, a sign pointing to the perfect, prior love of God.

The Gospel frees you from the Law.

It frees you from all those shoulds, musts, and oughts that pop into your head. It frees you from adhering to anyone else’s standards for what your marriage must be. Because of the Gospel, you’re free to be patient and kind with one another, and you’re free to give grace when you’re neither patient nor kind. You’re free for your marriage to be nothing more and nothing less than who you are and what, together, you become. You’re free, in other words, to be ordinary because the most extraordinary thing about you has nothing to do with you.

Which means, the Gospel frees you from fear.

In marriage, you can be known in your weakness, unafraid, because the Gospel tells you that God knows the very worst about you and God loves you anyway and God has already forgiven you.

Which means, this love song, the Gospel, it frees you to forgive.

It makes it easier for you to forgive your spouse.

Because when you know the person you’re PO’d at has already been forgiven by God unconditionally, it feels more than a little stingy to keep holding your ledger in the red.

     As unlikely as it sounds, I think Rupert Holmes’ “Pina Colada” single is a wonderful song to marriage.

Because, after all, the rings Jess and Austin exchange tonight, what are they if not outward, visible signs of what no one else can see:

How flawed and imperfect we all are

And yet how God in Christ has answered the Want Ad posted in our souls

Has met us in our loneliness

Has found us out in our deepest failures

And by the happy joke we call Cross and Resurrection, laughed.

The rings-

They’re signs of the Gospel promise that Jess and Austin are imperfect people who are free to laugh with each other over those imperfections knowing that every mistake they make has already been mended by the crucified love of God.

And knowing that- it leads not to happiness but to joy. Amen.

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(Taylor and I inside a temascale in Guatemala circa 2010)

Here is my sermon for the wedding of Taylor Mertins and Lindsey Rickerson this weekend. One of the privileges of a long pastorate in one place- unusual for the United Methodist Church- is that I’ve gotten to see Taylor grow up and I’ve gotten to grow a friendship with him. He’s gone from a youth at church to a friend and now a colleague.

Theirs was a special occasion and so I offer it here too.

The texts were the Shema from Deuteronomy 6 and the ‘walking trees’ do-over miracle of Jesus with the blind man in Mark 8, a text only a seminary student would choose for his wedding…

 

It’s not often that someone like me gets to do a wedding for someone they know so well.

And I know Taylor pretty well.

For example, I know that if I can work a Kurt Vonnegut quote into this sermon today that that will be the highlight of Taylor’s wedding day- sorry Lindsey, but you know it’s true.

On any given week, I know which movies at the box office Taylor will want to go see, and I know that never will any of those movies ever stand a chance of trumping Taylor’s completely irrational love for the Wes Anderson film The Life Aquatic.

I know which novels I can recommend to Taylor that will get him to read every other novel by that author, and I know which novels will reduce Taylor to man-o-pausal tears.

I know that if you really want to upset Taylor and get his boxers in a twist then all you have to do is insist, with convincing seriousness, that NASA faked the first moon landing on a soundstage in Texas.

I even know that Sylvia, Taylor’s grandmother, isn’t happy that I just said the word boxers.

I know Taylor pretty well.

I know Taylor has sat back there at the sound board and listened to dozens of wedding sermons delivered by Rev. Dennis Perry over the years; and as a result, I know the bar for this wedding sermon is pretty low.

I know Taylor pretty well.

And I know that if you ask my youngest son, Gabriel, about Taylor, he won’t refer to him as ‘Taylor Mertins’ or ‘Rev’ or ‘Taylor’ or even my nickname for Taylor that Taylor hates so much that I can’t speak in this room.

No, I know Gabriel will say ‘my friend Taylor.’ That’s what Gabriel calls him.

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I know Taylor pretty well.

And though Taylor and Lindsey started dating just 3 1/2 years ago, I know Lindsay pretty well too.

I spent 8 days, 24 hours a day with Lindsey in Guatemala this past summer, which is more time than any Christian should have to spend with church people.

I’ve shared an outhouse with Lindsey. I’ve shared a sweat bath with Lindsey. And I’ve pitched mortar to Lindsey. So I know Lindsey pretty well too.

I know how incredibly shy and reserved and introverted Lindsey is. I know how she’d never dream of giving Taylor a piece of her mind or setting him straight, and I know that if you’re not at least smiling right now- I know Lindsey better than you.

I know Lindsey pretty well.

I know that Lindsey knows the best way to connect with someone is to ask questions of them, to express genuine curiosity and interest in them. Which sounds obvious. Until you start counting the number of people who actually do that.

I know Lindsey pretty well too.

I’ve seen Lindsey chop cement blocks with a machete so I know the hand Taylor reaches out for today is a steady one, one that can be trusted.

I know both of you pretty well.

Taylor, I’ve seen you grow up. I’ve seen you sing off key at a monastery in France, and I’ve seen you lead worship on a mountain top in Guatemala. And Lindsey, even though you speak pretty good Spanish, in Guatemala I’ve seen you convey more of your heart with your just eyes and your body language than with any words.

I’ve seen a lot of both of you. I know both of you pretty well.

     But the truth is-

     I haven’t seen the ‘you’ you truly are.

The truth is-

I don’t really ‘know’ either of you.

 I don’t know you to the degree we’re called to know and love God: with all our heart and all our mind and all our strength and all our soul.

To that extent, you’re both strangers to me.

    I don’t really know either of you.

    Of course, as any married person here can tell you, neither do you.

    Really know each other. Really see each other.

Like Taylor, I’ve taken hours and hours of counseling classes. But it’s in my own relationship that I learned the fundamental rule of marriage. I call it Jason’s Rule.

Jason’s Rule goes like this:

     You never really know the person you’re marrying until after you’ve been married to the person you’re marrying.

     You never really ‘see’ the person you’re marrying until after you’ve been married to the person you’re marrying.

As any Duke grad and divinity school girlfriend will recognize, Jason’s Rule is just a shameless rip-off of Hauerwas’ Rule: ‘You never marry the right person…because you never know who it is you’re marrying.’

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Whether you have a terrific relationship or a terrible one, Jason’s Rule- it’s fool proof.

You never really know and see the person you’re marrying until after you’ve been married to the person you’re marrying. And if that sounds scary, just consider that Jason’s Rule- like Hauerwas’ Rule- has an even more frightening corollary:

You are never as fully seen and known as you are seen and known by the person to whom you’re married.

Marriage isn’t just a process in which you discover who the stranger is that you’ve married.

Marriage is a process in which you discover who the stranger is that you call ‘you.’

If the fullness of what it means to love is to know the other with all our heart and mind and soul and strength, then to be loved means that our heart and mind and soul and strength are fully exposed and seen and known by another.

And God, that’s scary. Because it’s not often that our heart or mind or soul or strength measure up to our own estimation of them.

To borrow St. Mark’s image, until we’re seen and known by another in marriage the ‘you’ you call you is like a fuzzy tree walking around. And that’s terrifying. It’s why even the best marriages aren’t easy.

Of course, it’s also what makes marriage such a beautiful leap of faith.

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Because when we’re in love, before we’re married, not only do we have an incomplete understanding of the other person. We have an incomplete understanding of our self.

We bring in to marriage a self-image that’s been formed by the judgments and praise of people who don’t know us as well our spouse eventually will know us.

     tumblr_lghlcgx0z21qg9q39o1_400As Kurt Vonnegut says in Mother Night, “We must be careful about who we pretend to be.”

 

So as we live our lives with someone else, we discover that we’re not the same person we thought we were.

Because in a marriage, there’s not a lot of room to hide. Your heart and mind and soul and strength- they’re like ‘trees’ coming into focus.

     It’s not that there’s no secrets in marriage; it’s that there aren’t as many secrets as we would like.

It’s not just the other person’s flaws and imperfections that are revealed in marriage. It’s your own.

And even in the best of marriages, it’s not long before you’re thinking:

You don’t appear to be the same person I thought you were.

     I know that might sound like bad news, but it’s not. Not only is it not bad news, it’s what you’re promising to each other.

In fact, it’s why I think our Catholic friends are right to call what you’re about to do a ‘sacrament.’

As any seminary graduates here know, the definition of a sacrament is ‘an outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible grace.’ You need the outward, visible sign for it to count as a sacrament.

And so with the Eucharist, you’ve got the broken bread and the cup of wine. Check.

And with Baptism, you’ve got the poured-out water. Check.

And in Marriage, we’ve got…you two.

Check.

You two.

     Today you two become the tangible, sensible, seeable sign of God’s ineffable, incomprehensible, unseeable loving grace.

     You two.

     Today you two become one of our best opportunities to see and touch God. Today you two become a sacrament. Like the water in the font or the bread and wine on the table. And the whole point of sacraments is change. Transformation. Perfection.

We baptize to wash away and to immerse into a new life.

We don’t break bread and pass the cup hoping it will help us remain exactly who we are and neither do we give rings and give away our future hoping that that future will find us the same people we are today.

    Sacraments- visible signs of God’s invisible love- are meant to change us.

    Transform us. Slowly and over time.

     That’s why marriage is such risky business.

When Taylor married his sister, Haley, a few months ago, he had the them turn around to look at all those gathered in support of them. Today I want to do something like the opposite. I want you two to look at each other.

(Here I had a a couple groomsmen hold up a large mirror in front of them)

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     I want you two to look at each other because today the two of you are not just saying ‘I do’ to the person standing next to you, the person you’ve come to love and cherish and delight in; you’re also saying ‘I do’ to whomever or whatever that person is going to become, by becoming married to you.

     And that’s something that is unknown and unseen to the both of you.

That’s the risk you two take today, but as far as the Church is concerned it’s a beautiful risk.

It’s what makes this an act of faith.

The people you will be at the end of your life together, after your heart and mind and soul and strength have been known and seen by the other- the people you will be will not be the people you are right now.

Today, with vows and rings, you give yourselves over to be transformed by being seen and known by the other.

Today you covenant to let the sight and perceptions of the other shape you anew so that your marriage will yield different people from whom you are today.

By the promises you make today you become for us not just a sacrament, but a parable…of the love of God.

By your commitment to go forward with each other even though the way cannot be seen, will never be certain- you remind us of how God loves each of us.

     You are a sacrament.

     A sign.

     A sign that I hope will eventually change every one of us.