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SERMON, 12 NOVEMBER 2010
There was a time in High School English class when we read the “classics.” The book I particularly remember was “A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens.’ I was struck then, and am struck now, by its opening line
“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
Dickens’ novel is set in the darkest days of the French revolution. It is the best of times, though far from perfect, if you are English, dreadful times if you are French. Perhaps that’s Dickens’ point; the times are good or bad depending on whom you are. The good times come easy, don’t they? Compared to much of the world, and much of history, you and I have had many years of the good times of health and relative prosperity. The worries have been occasional and few and we have had lots of support to deal with them. Life has, for the most part, been good.
But there have been the bad times for much of the world. Ironically it has been the same time. I tend to awake and get up early and find, having read the paper, not much to do but watch the news of television. That is not the way to begin the day on a positive note!
I do not recommend going out into the day carrying a full load of crime, natural disaster, hurricanes, earth quakes, cholera, explosions. Such is the news; the alternative is to be told how overweight and out of shape I am because I do practice Zumba or own a special machine. The better alternative is probably to stay in bed.
Why do I tell you this? I do so because this morning’s readings speak of much the same situation and pose the same question; “how do we get through the bad times?”
Can you imagine sitting next to Jesus hearing him tell of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem? It’s the center of your life; God lives in there. Can you imagine hearing Jesus’ prediction of social disintegration, families torn apart, trials and persecution just for sitting there next Jesus? Bad times are coming, terrible times. Just where do you place your hopes; where do you turn for strength and support?
Where does this age, this time of ours, place it’s hopes? If you really believe the marketing you would say “technology.” The world, people will draw
closer together through technology and electronic communications. We are told that it is, aren’t we? Is it so? A little story: Happy and I were having lunch in a local restaurant recently. At the next table was a young couple. Both of them were texting someone throughout the entire lunch, never looking at each other or exchanging a word. They may have been communicating with somebody they weren’t even present with each other. We see it constantly, on the street, in cars, in restaurants, in stores, at the symphony. If two people who are seated three feet apart aren’t in communion with each other what does it bode for the bad times, where is the support and the strength. The question is, is the world made better; is life improved?
Did Father Ingeman say technology is bad? No, technology can do many things for us but there are things it cannot do; it is not the answer to the bad times. I cannot solve the problems of the heart. If not technology, what? I’m sure you know what I’m going to say. The only true lasting support we have, in good times and bad, is faith, specifically faith that God cares enough to share those times with us.
Long, long ago Isaiah looked on a nation shattered and destroyed by invasions, captivity, social disintegration and proclaimed that despite the darkness of the moment a time would come when all would be made right; that there would peace and justice and compassion and security. God‘s Kingdom would come. Has it come; in a way, yes. Slowly, slowly, to be sure it has come, even though early morning television may not bother to mention it. It hasn’t come through grand pronouncements or programs; it has come through the selfless efforts of individual Christians. It comes through your efforts; it’s that simple. It comes through your gift of time and talent and treasure to better God’s work here, beginning here and, like a ripple, carrying to the ends of the earth. Never think that what you can give is insignificant; it is the very foundation of what will, ultimately, dispel the bad times.
Paul said it best. “Brothers and sisters, do not be weary in doing what is right.”
SERMON : OCTOBER 24, 2010
I actually know that Pharisee. He isn’t here in this church, I hasten to explain. Why do I say he is a Pharisee? He never missed church, always sat in the front row and supported every cause or project that came along. All of which sounds truly commendable, doesn’t it? I thought so too but then one day I complimented him on his generosity and he replied “I am buying my way into heaven.” I thought he was kidding but he wasn’t.
So in this morning’s Gospel we have his ancestor, probably in the front of the Temple, loudly proclaiming his own profound piety, commending himself for the good works he does, all of which is for the benefit of those around him, but particularly for the benefit of God, because the Pharisee knows that God is keeping track of such things. The man is consumed by pride and is convinced that he will be rewarded. He is doing what the writer of Sirach, our first reading, calls a “bribe” in hope of gain.
In contrast there’s the Tax Collector; nobody likes tax collectors. Does God like Tax collectors; the man is not so sure. All he can do is confess his faults and sins and throw himself on God’s mercy. He cries for the undeserved, unearned compassion of God.
What do you suppose that Pharisee will do when he doesn’t get what he wants? What happens when he perceives that God is not rewarding him in the manner to which he feels entitled? What happens when God doesn’t accept the bribe? The man will be gone in a second, feeling rejected and unappreciated by God. His faith is conditional and ultimately self-serving and disappears like a puff of smoke.
Consider Paul and his letter to Timothy. You realize of course that for various reasons Paul was about as popular as a tax collector. Ironically, Paul was a Pharisee himself and probably as loud as the one in the Gospel. Paul was mistrusted, for good cause by the Christians at first since he had been really enthusiastic about persecuting them. Then, of course, when he became the great missionary for Christianity, he was rejected and abused by the Jews not to mention the Romans. Then too he could be truly abrasive and long-winded in his sermons even with his followers. Paul could be difficult.
When Paul writes “I have fought the good fight; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith’ he knows whereof he speaks. What has brought him through it all? He knows that it has been the grace of God and he knows, as does that tax collector, that he has done nothing to deserve it or earn it. His conversion was humbling, not exalting. It was so humbling that Paul never speaks of it; Luke tells us that Paul was thrown down and blinded. Perhaps something like that has brought the tax collector to the temple in humble contrition. Paul regains his sight, physical and spiritual, and sees that God is present in Jesus Christ, God’s gift to His Creation.
In this letter to Timothy, reflecting on what that has meant in his life, Paul tells us that he knows that God stands by those who stand by Him and that God rewards those who are truly, sincerely faithful. God knows sincerity when He sees it.
You see the unearned, undeserved gift of God to the tax collector and to Paul is ours, yours and mine. He has given the gift to us in the presence of Jesus Christ and in that gift we have a promise of salvation and eternal life. Life itself is a gift. We are called to return the gift, to give our lives to God as He has given to us, and do it as generously as we can.
Amen.
SERMON: October 3, 2010
Let’s talk a bit about “grace.” Grace, God’s grace, really is the subject of this morning’s readings.
Paul, in his letter to Timothy, tells us that grace was given to us before the ages began.
Given; grace is a gift from the creator God to His creation, of which we are a part and recipients. It’s not something earned or necessarily even deserved God chooses to bestow it
Before the ages; grace is implicit in God’s creation. Having created all things God says “…and it was good.” Grace reflects loving investment in what God has made.
Grace therefore is not to be earned by our good works. Rather, our good works are an acknowledgment of, and our grateful response to grace. They are “what we ought to do.”
In Jesus God’s eternal, unearned grace is given tangible form, a form that even we can understand. The abstract concepts of love, compassion and sacrifice can really be understood only by their demonstration. I think that love, compassion and sacrifice for us is a fair definition of grace; Jesus is their embodiment
We see love in God’s voluntary taking the form of our humanity, becoming fully one of us complete with our pains, cares, uncertainties and limitations.
We see compassion in the very presence of Jesus, preaching, teaching and healing those in physical or spiritual need.
We see sacrifice in Jesus’ death on the cross. There can be no Resurrection without sacrifice. Even if the story ended at the cross and we knew no more, the voluntary sacrifice for our salvation of one perfect, sinless being is the demonstration of God’s love and compassion. The empty tomb confirms it.
So, why are we here? We are here to celebrate God’s love, compassion and sacrifice; that is the very heart of the faith we profess, the very heart of the Holy Eucharist.
We are church with an incarnational theology; we see God’s presence and love for His creation in this world, not as an abstract ides but as a fact that is constantly demonstrated in our lives. We celebrate that sense of His guiding presence.
We celebrate God’s compassion for His children. We read of God’s healing words and healing touch and we know that His words and touch heal us and make us whole. God knows us well. God is one with us and one of us. His compassion for us springs from His incarnation, His humanity. God promises no smooth path through life, just that He will be with us to help us over rocks.
We celebrate God’s sacrifice in the crucifixion of His Son, Jesus Christ. If the word “celebration” seems inappropriate for such a painful event consider the level of love and compassion that led Him to the cross. Consider the gift given to us in death; the assurance of the forgiveness of our sins and the promise of life eternal. We give thanks, as best we can in our human limitations, each time we share the blessed bread and wine, not for the memory of something done long ago but for a gift and promise constantly made new. God’s sacrifice is real for us here, today, now.
Grace is unconditional, inexhaustible and never diminished. The Psalmist said rightly “ God’s mercies are new every morning.
How can we possible respond to such love, compassion and sacrifice? We are truly inadequate. We can do nothing to merit such grace. It’s not earned it is a gift.
We can only do what we ought to do. Our every word and action should say “thank you.”
SERMON 27 SEPTEMBER 10
There was a wonderful musical years ago called “Fiddler on the Roof.” It was set in a shtetel, a Jewish village in Russia called Anatevke in the late Nineteenth Century, the principal character being Tevye the milkman.
Tevye is poor, his life is hard and he’s a dreamer; he dreams of being rich.
One of his songs is “If I were a Rich Man.” He lives in a hovel, he dreams of a big house with real staircases but primarily he dreams of having prestige and being respected, dreams of having “a seat by the Eastern wall” in the synagogue. That’s where the rich men sit. They are symbolically closest to Jerusalem and, therefore, closest to God.
Tevye dreams that people would ask him questions about important matters, about Torah, the Law, weighty philosophical and religious things and take his answers seriously. He sings “…it wouldn’t matter if I answered right or wrong; if you’re rich they think you really know.”
In Tevye’s world, and in the world of all those Pharisees listening to Jesus, being rich indicates God’s special favor. Where do you suppose that idea came from?
It all began with a very simple statement made by God to Israel ”I will be your God, you will be my people.” That’s a promise to guide them, protect them and particularly to enrich them with land and crops and power and wealth, and lots and lots of people.
It’s quite simple to reason backward from that statement and say that if I am rich I must be very special in God’s favor; if I am rich it’s a sign. Cause and effect are reversed; it’s called reasoning Post Hoc, Propter Hoc.
By the same logic, if being rich proves that you are beloved of God, then not being rich is proof of the opposite; poor men such as Tevye or Lazarus must be rejected by God, otherwise they too would be rich. So, if God rejects them, who am I to contradict God says the rich man. The rich man sees himself with no responsibility toward Lazarus at all.
Of course he’s wrong. It’s a distortion of The Law, a distortion of the commandments, but by the time of Jesus it was a very old and generally accepted distortion. Even the poor people believed it. “If you’re rich they think you really know.”
Actually, in many ways Jesus’ teaching isn’t really so revolutionary. His teaching isn’t new; it’s a reassertion of things that had been known long ago and had been forgotten. It’s a calling back to a concern, a responsibility for others that had been at the very roots of the traditions of the Jewish people, a calling to compassion that had been supplanted over time by rationalized self-interest. When Jesus says that He has not come to abolish the Law and the Prophets, that not one line of all that is past will be lost, He is calling Israel to that ancient relationship to God and to each other. That’s a good message to hear once in a while. The world does tend to forget.
Many who were immersed in self-interest, such as some of those Pharisees, would not be swayed, even by the Resurrection, someone returning from the dead as the absolute demonstration of God’s compassion and care for His children that is the model for our care for one another. God’s care and compassion is without qualifications and conditions. That’s what He calls us to.
SERMON 11 JULY 2010
Some time ago I was given a copy of the book “Eats, Shoots and Leaves,” written by an English grammarian. I see you are thinking “Gosh, that sound like a fun read Father Ingeman.” The title, admittedly strange, has to do with punctuation, or more to the point, how the inexact use of punctuation can change the meaning of what we read. The author says that she saw an article, somewhere, about a panda bear, , that, if read as punctuated in the article, ate dinner, shot the cook, and left the restaurant, all because of a misplaced comma after the word “eats.” Apparently the comma inspired her to write a book and, as she developed the topic, she found all sorts of changes that we have probably not noticed or, at least, have not seen fit to challenge. Semicolons have disappeared and dashes are everywhere
Have you noticed that our use of words is changing, not just our punctuation. The word “likely” now takes the place of the old word “probably.” The word “raise” as in “raise the price’ is replaced by the word “up.” We now say “A whole nother” instead of “another whole.” Even Spellcheck questions “nother.” I am sure you can think of other creeping changes. There’s nothing earth-shaking about these changes; language is probably always changing and sometimes the very meaning of words becomes rather blurred and imprecise, which brings me to what this morning’s readings are actually about.
Somehow the words “wisdom” and “knowledge” have become synonymous in our vocabulary; we use them interchangeably and that, in any reference to scripture, is simply wrong. “Knowledge” means an intellectual familiarity with something, most often a familiarity with all the demands of Torah, the Law. “Wisdom” is an entire body of scripture that, in a biblical sense, is not the same as knowledge; wisdom is a code of behavior that makes life “pleasing to God;” Proverbs, Job, Wisdom of Solomon are all books classified as “Wisdom Literature.” They tell us how to live. The people for whom Luke wrote his Gospel would have known the difference; somehow we have lost it.
The young man comes to Jesus and asks “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus replies “What is the Law; what do you read?” In other words, “Do you have knowledge of God’s commandments?” The young man answers, correctly of course, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.” He is absolutely bursting with knowledge, but part two of his answer “Who is my neighbor” speaks to a woeful lack of wisdom. He knows the Law but knows nothing of what it truly calls him to do and to be.
Jesus doesn’t correct him; I imagine Jesus has great compassion for him; perhaps he sees a disciple in the making. Instead, Jesus tells him a story, a parable. It’s a very simple, straight-forward story; nothing hidden or difficult. It almost seems too obvious and perhaps that’s the point. Wisdom is obvious.
The story is familiar; the traveler is robbed, beaten and left by the roadside. A priest and a Levite, both Temple servants pass by and do nothing for him. You can be sure that the two of them were filled with knowledge and that was their undoing. They knew that if the man in the road were dead they would be unclean and unable to serve, unable to be in the Temple, until an elaborate ritual cleansing took place and that would be awkward and a lot of trouble. They hurry by.
The Samaritan traveler has no such reservations. He may or may not know about ritual uncleanness. If he does, he doesn’t care. He sees the need for compassion and he acts. That is “Wisdom” in the best sense of the word; that is doing what God would have His people do, care for one another. The Samaritan acts selflessly, he can gain nothing through helping a wounded stranger; he neither expects nor seeks anything in return.
The irony of it all is that of the three who saw the wounded traveler the two who might have been his neighbors pass by and the one who, by virtue of being a Samaritan could not, in the mind of Jesus’ questioner, be a neighbor, acts as one. In that moment of recognition, when the questioner admits that God’s commandment of mercy and compassion far exceeds the demands and strictures of Torah, The questioner slips from knowledge to wisdom.
Jesus tells him, and tells us today, “Now go and do likewise.”
Sermon 27 June 2010
And so we bid farewell to Elijah! We must admit that’s quite an exit, taken directly to God in a whirlwind as his servant, Elisha, looks on and sees “the chariots and horsemen of Israel.”
The point is, of course, that Elijah does not die; he goes straight to heaven and that is a pretty unusual occurrence. It’s almost as though Elijah is set apart from the rest of us for some special purpose, later.
I suppose Elijah was missed by some people. A few people, particularly the King, Queen and religious establishment, were delighted to see him go. He had been so difficult, so judgmental about things like breaking a few commandments, ignoring The Law, and worshipping other people’s gods. He had no ecumenical sense at all. He was so rigid about the morals of kings and downright dangerous if you were the priest of some other God.
There’s a sigh of relief in the house of the king; thank god, or gods, it’s over. But it’s not over; the mantle has been passed. The mantle was, you will recall, the hair of a camel which would be hard to forget. Elisha has taken up the role and the mantle of his master.
Elijah had been a man of the countryside, the wilderness; Elisha is not. Elisha is a city dweller with some means, some connections. To take up that role means that Elisha must make a choice, a life shaping choice.
Elisha can go back to living a life of the flesh, a life of relative comfort and self-gratification. He can seek power and wealth. There were then, and there are now, self-appointed prophets who spoke only what those in power wanted to hear. They were the antithesis of Elijah, but their life was easy.
Elisha can, like his master, follow a life of the Spirit, which means listening to, and speaking the words of, God. This is often not popular.
Elisha chooses the life of the Spirit. He slams the camel air cloak of Elijah into the Jordan and shouts “Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?” God hears him, God empowers him, God parts the river Jordan and sends him back to the people of Israel on his path of prophecy.
That’s the point of this morning’s Gospel. There comes a time to choose, a time to set priorities between the flesh and the Spirit. The hard sayings of Jesus shock and upset us and they get our attention. They all point to one thing, a choice between the flesh and the Spirit.
Calling us all to make that choice is Elijah’s purpose and Elisha’s purpose. And seven centuries later a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Elijah had the same purpose. He called all Israel from the banks of the Jordan from which Elijah had ascended and said to them “choose.” Repent, turn your life around and live in the Spirit and then go back to the people of Israel and speak the word of God. The mantle is yours now said John the Baptist.
He said it then and he says it now, today, the choice is ours.
ASCENSION 2010
The Mount of Olives is just east of the city of Jerusalem, in the time of Jesus outside the city, separated from it by the Kidron Valley. From the summit of the mount the whole city was laid out before the disciples, the walls, the gates, the pools and the Temple.
They had been there quite often as a retreat from the busy life of the city; separate yet close enough to be constantly reminded of their mission.
The Mount of Olives was Jesus’ place of meditation and prayer as His ministry unfolded. It was from the Mount of Olives that Jesus surveyed the city and called sadly “Jerusalem, Jerusalem.”
Now they are all on the mount once more, led by Jesus, hearing His final instructions, seeing His ascension to The Father, borne by a cloud.
Three of the disciples, Peter, James and John, must have been reminded of another mountaintop not long before, and of another cloud that descended upon Jesus, proclaiming His true identity, the Son of God; the cloud was then, and is now, the glory of God the Father enveloping Jesus.
It was on that earlier mountaintop, the Mount of Transfiguration, that their journey to this moment began. The journey had been through death itself, through Resurrection and now through reunion with the Father in glory.
When we speak of mountaintops we aren’t just speaking of a place, of geography. We speak of a spiritual meaning; mountain and mountaintops are both physical and spiritual places. Virtually all cultures have some tradition of a holy mountain or high place. There is a reason
The base of every mountain, be it a physical or spiritual mountain, the place where a climb or journey begins, is open and accessible to all. Then the climb becomes progressively more difficult. You can lose your way, make a wrong turn, get on the wrong path, and climb into danger; you can lose your footing and fall very far and very fast. The summit, the mountaintop, is only for those who overcome the obstacles and dangers of the way. At the summit the air is thin, the light is very bright and the view is spectacular. From there it’s one short step to the Father, to the presence of God.
So in this Easter season we, and the disciples, have had a Resurrection, 40 days of the presence of Jesus, and now the Ascension. The Resurrection proved to the world beyond any possible doubt that God can and does effect change in this world; that all things in this world, even death itself, are subject to His will.
The Ascension proves that Jesus is the Son of God. It is as simple as that.
Why the 40 days; it’s a long time, long enough, you would think, that the disciples, even the most obtuse disciple, to hear and understand the message and the significance of the presence of Jesus. They don’t; they still assume that God is concerned only with Israel; God’s plan is no more than the restoration of Israel to its former Davidic power and glory. I might add that if you are familiar with such Old Testament books as Samuel, Chronicles and Kings you know that God might not want to go through all that again.
Jesus has final, parting words for the disciples, words to be remembered by them and by you and me. God’s Kingdom is not restricted in scope, it is universal. They, His disciples, and you and I, will have, and have now, the task of bringing word of that kingdom to the world; Judea, Samaria and to the ends of the earth. This, Valdosta Georgia, is the end of the earth to one standing on the Mount of Olives.
EPIPHANY 2, 2010
In the mid-twentieth century the church was graced by the presence of Archbishop William Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury and arguably the brightest and most articulate Archbishop ever.
Temple was the author of many books; his interests ranged from the arts to philosophy to theology; he saw theology, specifically the Incarnation, God become one of us in our world, as the center, the center point at which all human experience comes together. For Temple, in the person and the truth of Christ’s presence in this world of ours, all things receive value, all things receive meaning, because the divine has become present in all things.
It sounds a bit intimidating; Temple was very bright. It makes sense.
Temple’s most popular, and least intimidating, work is “Readings in Saint John’s Gospel.’ It was published in 1939; it is still in print 70 years later. It’s popular because it’s accessible to us all. Temple speaks of the gospel in terms of our experience. Temple even presents the miracles of Jesus Christ, wondrous inexplicable events such as we have heard this morning, in our terms, terms of what those miracles should mean to us, which brings us to the question of just what we should make of this story of Jesus changing water into wine, His very first miracle at a wedding feast in Cana of Galilee.
It is a good story, a colorful story, over which scholars have exhausted themselves for years and years, pondering why this should be remembered as Jesus’ first miracle as well as such details as the number of days of the feast, the number of guests present and the size of the water jars; a firkin, which is the measure listed in the King James version of the bible, is, by the way, 8 1/2 gallons; that’s 51 gallons of water and a whole lot of wine, none of which concerns William Temple.
Temple spends no time on the details of the story, he goes directly to the point and that the real message of this story is that the presence of Jesus makes a difference; that the presence of Jesus takes what “is” in our world and in our lives and transforms it all into something new. How simple it is now that we say it.
This world, this life of ours, is a feast given by God to which we are all invited. Most of the time it’s nice to be included, nice to be here, although, as is true with many parties, it can have some very dull and trying moments; such is life. Or, perhaps we could say, such is life as long as we remain water. We are the water of the miracle in this story. Water is good and necessary, an absolute minimal requirement for our lives; we cannot live without it but, let’s be honest, water is not very exciting. Water is just water; we can add all sorts of things to it, but it really remains just water
The change in our lives comes when Jesus Christ is present in our lives. That is when water is no longer just water; that is when life can no longer be bland and changes that water, changes us, into something more, more exciting, more dynamic; we are transformed.
That is the point of the story.
CHRISTMAS 2009
In the cold winter nights of the far North there is a pale light that moves and shimmers in the northern sky, growing from the edge of the world to fill the sky with a radiance. It begins suddenly, one moment you walk beneath a star-filled, incredibly black sky, the next your eyes are filled with a light not of this world. Science may call it the Aurora Borealis, the northern lights, and explains that it is a disturbance in the ionosphere. The Cree people, a First Nation people of Canada, in their ancient wisdom call it “the dance of the Spirits.” Perhaps we might call it “the dance of the angels.”
It would have been like that, of course. To the eyes of shepherds, keeping their flocks on the Judean fields it must have been a night like any other, a night under a familiar unchanging sky with predictable stars under which they had lived every moment of their lives. Then, suddenly, that familiar sky dissolved in light, first one light and then myriads and myriads of lights, greater and brighter than the stars; angels shining, as they sang the birth of Jesus, and, perhaps, danced for joy.
Joy is the word; simple joy. No great star shines in the East for the shepherds; no ancient texts are to be consulted as to the portents in the sky. No far land must be sought to worship this newborn Messiah.
He is there, right there, for the shepherds. He is here, right here, for us, for you and for me. God, in His great love for us has given us the precious gift of the Incarnation, become one of us that we might be one with Him. That love is so great that God entrusts Himself to us, a baby born in a rude stable to a tiny, exhausted family of travelers for whom there is no room. God places Himself in our care.
We, you and I, are called to receive Him, to receive Him and to worship the one we receive. That is what we are about here tonight. In the midst of bright lights and shiny paper, tall trees and tinsel, carols and cookies, the greatest gift of all is there for us tonight.
You know, of course, that the angels still sing, there song never ends. Perhaps you and I can join the song, and, perhaps, dance with the angels.
WEDNESDAY 3 ADVENT
“Are you the one or should we look for another?” Even at this point is it possible that John has doubt about Jesus. He has seemed so sure that this man is “The Lamb of God, who will take away the sin of the world.” The Lamb of God, God’s anointed one, the Messiah.
If John has doubts, what would he need to convince him? Words won’t do it. John, and the people of Israel, have heard all there is to hear of promises, promises broken time after time. Centuries of “yes” that really meant “no.”
Jesus does not say yes or no; Jesus tells John’s disciples look around you, see what is happening. The blind see, the deaf hear, the lame dance and the mute can sing. Does that mean anything to you?
It’s from the prophet Isaiah. Isaiah speaks of restoration, restoration of the people of Israel after a long, long period of physical exile, captives in the land of Babylon. There will come a day when that exile will be over, the people restored to Zion, their spiritual home. It has been a long, long time. There will come a time when sadness will turn to joy and the very earth will rejoice, flowers blossoming in the hard rock of the desert.
In Jesus time the people of Israel were exile once again; a spiritual exile, not in Babylon but in their own land, captives of a faith that had become dry routine, estranged from the immediacy of God. John, and others, look with longing for a second restoration, a second return to their ancient relationship with God. They look with longing for a Messiah, an anointed one of God, to lead them, not through a physical wilderness of rock and sand, but a spiritual wilderness of dull, dead religious routine, to restore them to the joyous faith of a people and a world made young again. They look for a blossoming in the desert that is their hearts
The signs are there; Jesus invites John, and others, and you and me, to draw their own conclusions
ADVENT THREE 2009
Suppose someone came up to me and said “Have you heard what’s happening down on the river? I’ve heard that there’s this guy dressed up like a camel standing in the water saying ‘Come on over here and let me baptize you, like pour water on your head, then you should go home and live a better life.”
Would I drop everything and run off to see what that’s about, probably not.
First, I really don’t like crowds, I don’t trust them. Crowds are noisy and messy and they get emotional and excited about all sorts or irrational things.
Also, I am really not comfortable around strange people, particularly loud, impassioned fanatics in funny clothes. I don’t care what they have to say. They make me nervous.
So, I would say thank you, I think I’ll just stay away. I’m sure I’ll hear all about what happens in due time. I mean, seriously, why get involved; how important can it be? What could happen?
Thereby, I would miss the whole thing.
Can you imagine how many people must have felt like that; how many had some reason not to go to see and hear John? Can you imagine how many missed the end of an age and the beginning of a new world?
The new world began with John, the latter-day Elijah crying prophetically that the Messiah was come, that the time had come when every person, every single person, would stand in judgment, not by the standard of who they are, not because they are sons and daughters of Abraham, but of what they do in this world.
Isn’t it interesting that the people heard John and they hadn’t a clue about how to respond. “What are we supposed to be doing? Nobody has mentioned personal responsibility before.” They are conveniently forgetting centuries of warnings about just that by a succession of prophets on just that personal responsibility. It had been 600 years since Zephaniah had called them to “Save the lame and gather the outcast” if they really meant to do the will of God.
Now the time is up. John tells them plainly that right behind him, perhaps literally, stands the one who will judge, the judge in the deceptive guise of a young rabbi from Galilee. We can only speculate if John realizes that he is that close, in time and space, to God Incarnate.
Why do we read this story now, on this third Sunday in Advent?
I think it’s because we are approaching Christmas, the Feast of the Incarnation. We read it because we are so tempted to romanticize, even trivialize the Incarnation, the birth of God made human, into just a sentimental story of a baby and a little family and shepherds and wise men. It is a tender and beautiful story that speaks straight to the heart of us all. But if it remains no more than a tender story we can, if we are not very careful, lose sight of just who that is laying in a manger. The baby is no less than the omnipotent, omniscient God. The baby in the manger will grow up to be that one standing by John at the Jordan, both the judge and the savior of the world. More than that, in the Incarnation God entrusts himself to our love and care , entrusts Himself to us fallible and completely unreliable human beings, God accepts a state of being dependent on us.
Our faith in God pales before God’s faith in us.
Advent is the time to put The Incarnation in perspective, a time to contemplate the magnitude of God love and trust for each of us.
ALL THE SAINTS
What, or who, is a saint? We all know the names of quite a few men and women who have that official title. Some of them were Apostles, friends of Our Lord Jesus Christ, men and women who made enormous contributions to the spreading of the Gospel and the founding of what we call Church.
There are many, many more. Down through the centuries all sorts of people have come to the fore in moments of danger and stress and in moments of service, giving real, personal meaning to Christianity. We have some names but certainly not all of them. Some will never be known but never be forgotten before God. Some names come to mind immediately; names such as Francis of Assisi and Catherine, all sorts of Catherines actually, saints of all sorts from all sorts of places.
I received a book about saints several years ago. The book listed saints to be called upon in all sorts of situations. There is a saint for juvenile delinquency, Saint Dominic Savio, a Nineteenth Century young man who set himself up as a good example for the rude boys of his village and, remarkably, is not a martyr. There is a saint for physically unattractive people Sainte Germain Cousine who was rejected even by her parents, and a saint for hangovers, Sainte Bibiana; sounds like the Latin “bibulous” which means, of course, fond of strong drink. Who knew?
As I sit in my usual seat during the Eucharist I look out over our wonderful parish and thought what a joy and a privilege it is, and has been, to be here. My mind drifted back to the appearance of the church a few years ago; yellow walls, red carpet, white tile, a dark brown pulpit and rail and cylinder lights, and I thought of the physical changes we have seen together. More important, I thought of the many people who have made Christ Church what it is today, a loving parish family centered on the worship of Christ and committed to his service. It seemed that I could see some of those parishioners who are no longer visible with us still in the places they occupied over the years. It’s a curious truth that very often those places remain unfilled as though we have a sense that they are still seated there. Of course they are. Those are our communion of saints and they are many. Looking back over the twenty years that I have known Christ Church so many names come to mind; men and women, boys and girls whose lives have profoundly influenced those around them; models of what it means to be a follower of Christ. Should I name them? I need not because the list is too great and I dare say you might have names to add. It seems to me that they have taken their place in an unbroken line of servants of Christ stretching back to those few who heard His call and followed Him. They are still here, of course; some smiling upon us from their apparently empty places rejoicing in each successive generation at prayer and many seated today in our congregation. How blessed we are by their loving presence. As November begins we set aside a date, All Saints Day; in truth, every day is a day to celebrate the saints among us.
SERMON, 13 SEPTEMBER 2009
“Take up your cross and follow me” says Jesus.
Jesus might have added “Of course, if you do take up your cross you will have to put down whatever it is your carrying now, all the boxes and baggage that are so very precious to you at the moment. You really can’t carry a cross if your hands are full.”
And, of course, a cross is sort of cumbersome, not at all easy to carry, particularly if it’s heavy and you know it probably is.
And just exactly where are we supposed to go with this cross; just where is Jesus going? Frankly, He makes this cross-carrying sound rather unattractive. I think He’s sounding pretty scary with His talk about saving and losing lives, obscure but scary nonetheless.
So, perhaps, we respond “Maybe not now; maybe I’ll just see how it goes, thanks. I’ll get back to you.”
We are about to have a new Bishop of Georgia, the tenth since the Diocese came to be. He will be the fourth Bishop in my time as a Deacon and Priest. I am becoming historical. I had been saying “I’ll get back to you” to Jesus for about twenty years. Then there was Bishop Paul Reeves, the Seventh Bishop of Georgia, a burly man with a deep, rumbling voice, who you may remember. He had a way of fixing you with his gray eyes; “perhaps” or “maybe” were not acceptable answers to him.
I made an appointment at the suggestion of my rector to talk to Bishop Reeves about, “perhaps, maybe”, becoming a Deacon. I must add that Bishop Reeves had been a Navy Chaplain and he delighted in “pulling the chain” of an active duty Army Colonel, however, on this occasion, he listened with commendable patience and then said “are you prepared to leave the life of a lay person forever?”
It was the defining moment. My life was very comfortable, my career was at its peak, and yet it was so very, very clear that Jesus was calling me, personally, right then, to say “yes” and to follow Him.
Has the cross been all that heavy; not really because Jesus carries most of the weight for those who follow Him.
“Who do people say I am” asks Jesus? The same people who can’t quite pick up that cross, the same people whose hands are so filled by the past, by what has always been, they are the ones who say ‘John the Baptist or Elijah or one of the old prophets.” What has been must be now and will always be. They are blind to the future, to what can and will be, even though it is plainly before them.
“Follow Me,” says Jesus. Where are we going we ask? “Into the future’ Jesus replies. Don’t cling to the past. Life comes at you fast; pay attention or you might miss it
The life you may lose is the one you are living in the past, living as though today, tomorrow and forever will be nothing but the same; pick up your cross, follow me and lose that life and you will gain a new life, an eternal life.
SERMON: 8 AUGUST 2009
Elijah is not simply on a journey; Elijah is running for his life. He has just managed to offend the royalty and the religious establishment of Israel and he was in great danger.
It’s a good story. The king who was not a very good king had married Jezebel who worshiped the Baal gods of the Canaanites and, not being very religious himself, had let those become the Gods of Israel. Elijah, the great prophet of the Old Testament, challenged the priests of Baal to a contest which, of course, Jahweh won, and then killed all the priests. Jezebel, and therefore, the king found this quite unacceptable and so Elijah had fled south.
He’s hot and tired and fearful. Perhaps he really thinks “This is it; I can’t go another step.” Then he smell the most delicious aroma, fresh baked bread.
Have you ever walked into a real bakery that was filled with that smell of bread baking? It’s not just an aroma; it is absolute comfort. It must have some subliminal meaning, call up some memory from long ago, perhaps a memory of childhood and warm kitchens and long, peaceful days. Warm, chewy, freshly baked bread with a crunchy crust just melts in your mouth.
The angel said to Elijah “Hey, you have a long way to go and much to do so get up and have some bread and get on with your journey.”
Every Tuesday morning we have a Eucharist at Langdale House. We meet in the activities room; we set up a table with a pair of candles in front of a counter of all the craft projects. Two weeks ago I was celebrating for a small group and, as I elevated the Host I smelled freshly baking bread. Of course there was a bread making machine on the counter behind me, a machine with incredibly good timing; whatever it did it was right on cue.
Jesus said “I am the bread of life.” The bread of life means the promise of warmth and comfort and sustenance. If those associations come to us think how they filled the minds of hungry, tired, frightened disciples. They too were running, just like Elijah had run, from the threats of royalty and the religious establishment. They too would find moments of rest and refreshment in the shade of the trees of gardens.
Jesus tells them that, unlike the bread of this world, a bread that satisfies for the hour, the bread He offers satisfies forever; once eaten it drives away discomfort and fear and promises eternal life.
You and I are about to eat that bread here at this altar. We can bring to this altar all the doubts and discomforts that all too often fill our days and we can leave them here because we have His promise. We come to this altar to put down the burdens, the regrets and anxieties we carry; we go from this altar, back out into this world on the journey that is our daily life, carrying within us the presence of Our Lord, Jesus Christ.
Christ says to us, as the angel said to Elijah, “Get up and eat, or the journey may be too great for you.”
SERMON 5 JULY 2009
Have you ever experienced a real panic attack? Believe me, you would know it if you had. We all have moments of being nervous; this is far beyond nervous. This is when you feel warm and flushed, your heart beats really, really fast, your hands shake and the rest of you shakes and can’t catch your breath and you seriously contemplate either fainting or running away. Obviously, I speak from experience.
Long, long ago, when I took the first steps toward this life, a life in the church, I was turned loose on an unsuspecting congregation that stoicly suffered through the panic attack of a person who suddenly realized the import, the significance of what God was getting him into. The reading must have been painful to hear and to watch; there were whitecaps in the chalice from my shaking hands. Of course, the worst part came later; the thought that I had let them down and, perhaps, let God down. That’s a very painful thought.
I knew an officer of the British Army, the Queen’s Dragoon Guards, a very posh regiment, who was asked about the superb precision, the perfection of the guards on parade. He said they were like swans; above the water swans glide calmly and majestically, below the water their little legs are going like mad. A panic attack is when your little legs let you down.
We have a reading from Second Corinthians this morning. Paul speaks of an ecstatic vision, probably his own conversion and call, describing a confrontation with God. Then Paul speaks about having a “thorn in the flesh.” Paul never explains what that thorn might be and people have puzzled about it ever since. The most frequent explanation, speculation really, is that Paul was epileptic. Personally, I think it means that Paul was subject to panic attacks.
Now Paul was certainly an experienced public speaker. In fact Paul had a tendency to speak and speak and speak in public. The trouble with such people as Paul is that the listener becomes lost in the verbiage, submerged in a sea of words, smothered by well-polished, glib presentation. I think that Paul knew that in the moments of panic when all glibness vanished he was at his most powerful. Paul says “When I am weak, I am strong.” Paul knows that when God speaks through him his words are true and strong. Paul is content with weakness; he knows that at those moments God’s grace is sufficient to sustain him.
When God first called me to priestly ordination I had occasion to explain myself to Bishop Paul Reeves, Bishop of Georgia several bishops ago. We were walking under the great old oaks at Honey Creek. Bishop Reeves had been a Navy Chaplain in World War Two; he used to say that he and General MacArthur had liberated the Phillipines. He took pleasure in ribbing one who was then an active duty Army officer but this time he was silent and listened as I tried to express what was within me, struggling to find the words. I finally apologized for not being very clear. He replied “If you were clear, I would doubt you.”
That point is that when we are glib we may bet in the way of what God is saying and doing. God speaks not just to the ear but to the heart. The moment of panic speaks to the immense importance of what God would have us say.
Ezekiel says “Whether they hear or refuse to hear,” and we might inject whether spoken in clarity or panic, “they will known there has been a prophet among them.”
INDEPENDENCE DAY 2009
Two weeks ago our grandson Erik graduated from Hayfield High School in Alexandria, Virginia. Hayfield school is huge, at least by my standards. The ceremony took place in the gymnasium; we sat on bleachers, very tall bleachers, along with several thousand other parents, grandparents and assorted friends. It was packed.
Alexandria is, of course, a suburb of Washington. To say that the area is ethnicly diverse would be an understatement. There is a really rich and exciting mixture of peoples there, and in Hayfield and in those bleachers.
A Pakistani family was seated in front of us, all in what we would call their National Costume and they would call clothes. They were chatting in what I think is Urdu. Behind us was a family from Africa. Obviously at least one was attached to a representation of their African home, the others were, I think, in town for the graduation. The former was explaining everything in what was, perhaps, Swahili.
It was obvious that they were all absolutely delighted to be there. The school orchestra, a big orchestra, played The Battle Hymn of the Republic; I can tell you that no matter what language all those Pakistanis and Africans and others had been speaking, they really took off on “Glory, glory, halleluia.”
Does that sort of thing happen in every country? Can that sort of thing happen in much of the world?
I really wonder just what it is that can meld so many different people with such profound cultural differences into one happy, singing crowd. What is so different about this nation? What makes us attractive to others? No every nation needs an agency to deal with foreigners that won’t go home.
I know the cynical response that we hear all the time is that we have money; by the standards of most of the world, we are, even in a recession, really, really rich. Our world if filled with material goods; we have an incredibly high standard of living.
All of that is probably, but not uniformly, true but there is something else; there is an underlying truth about this country that allows such things to be true. It’s a philosophy, an ethos, a worldview.
We acknowledge the value and dignity of every individual; every individual. We say, and have said since the very inception of this country, that people, all people, have certain “inalienable rights;” life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, rights endowed by our Creator.
Endowed by Our Creator; given to each of us by God.
Those are “Inalienable” rights; rights that are not to be trifled with; not to be taken away from us under any circumstances. How much of the world is at the mercy of self-serving, capricious man or organizations?
We have the right to a “Life.” We do not see people as expendable. Life is precious; life is not to be wasted.
We have the right of “Liberty.” We can say what we please, go where we wish, read what we like, dress as we wish; we take all those things for granted while much of the world cannot even conceive of such freedom.
And we have the right to the “Pursuit of Happiness.” That’s not self-centered amusement; that’s self fulfillment, upward mobility, the chance to better yourself, the chance to do and to be what you will.
No, we are not perfect, but we know where perfection lies. It lies in the unwavering practice of these principles. And you can be sure that Pakistanis and Africans and all the peoples of the world know that too.
That’s the thought for Independence Day.
Sermon, Trinity 2009
The world is full of people like Nicodemus. They are questioners, perhaps they may be doubters; they are certainly people who want the details, people who want all the answers to questions such as “why’ and “how?” Apparently they’ve been around for a long, long time.
We have the original Nicodemus in today’s Gospel. He is a solid, dignified pillar of the community who is absolutely concrete; metaphor is completely wasted on Nicodemus. Perhaps that’s why Jesus speaks in metaphor, talks of water and wind and the spirit, stretching Nicodemus, trying to make Nicodemus think; and the response is, over and over, “how can that be?”
Which brings up an interesting question; how do you explain the wind? Even with all the maps and charts, the Highs and Lows and isobars, even with Jim Cantore and the Weather Channel, do we, in our modern sophistication, know where the wind comes from and where it goes? We feel it; we can see what it does; grass and trees sway, clouds move by in the sky, leaves rustle, but we cannot see the wind. We just know that it’s present.
Through the years there have been all sorts of attempts to explain the wind or perhaps better to say to explain the experience of the presence of the wind, which brings us to the subject before us today, Trinity Sunday. How do you explain a Deity that is three-in-one and one-in- three?
There have been some valiant attempts. I remember a cartoon in one of the less serious journals of matters religious; a priest in the pulpit is holding up a four-leaf clover. The caption was “Too late, the rector realized he had chosen an inappropriate illustration of the Trinity.”
Personally, I think the problem lies with the concept of explaining it at all. It’s those Nicodemus’s out there who want to nail down and make tangible something that is, in truth, a metaphor. The Trinity is like the wind. We can know its presence without explaining it. It’s something to be experienced.
Have you ever noticed that God gives us no name, that God makes no attempt at self-explanation? God simply “is.” We can only address what God does and that is a major task in itself.
God is the great, omnipotent, all-knowing creator of all things for all time. The words are mine, not necessarily those of God. The problem is that we have no words or even thoughts that can encompass such a God so we use familiar ones like “Father” and masculine gender, “He.” We simply have no other way of speaking of God; God is utterly beyond our feeble human comprehension, and God knows that.
How does such a God become real for us; how does such a God become known to us in terms we can comprehend? The great creator, God, does so by becoming one of us, human as we are, to live and die as we do. That would be Jesus Christ, whom we call “God the Son.” In Jesus God shows us first that God loves us beyond our comprehension, voluntarily putting aside Divinity to become human with all the joys and pains we all experience. And God dies as we do, actually far more painfully than we do to show sacrificial love, and is raised from the dead showing that God is truly omnipotent over death itself.
Of course God, knowing our human attention span, realizes that our memories aren’t really very good, that we tend to embroider and interpret things, adding our own agendas. God knows we need a reminder and that reminder is The Holy Spirit. It’s the Spirit that is present with us here and now, calling us, informing us, empowering us. It’s the Spirit that, if we listen, clears away the agendas we impose and reveals to us first who and what we are and who and what God would have us be. The Spirit is like the hot, burning coal that touches the lips of the prophet Isaiah, clearing his heart and mind and filling him with the power to speak holy words to the world.
It’s the Spirit that enables Isaiah and you and me, once touched, to say “Here am I; send me.”
SERMON, MAY 24 2009
Happy and I have family in Texas, principally in Houston and Fort Worth; I had the pleasure some years ago of celebrating the wedding of two nieces in Houston, actually Cypress Texas and, quite recently, that of a nephew in Fort Worth.
The Houston weddings were in a mid-size Episcopal Church; the Fort Worth wedding was not. It was in a real Texas non-denomination mega-church, it was enormous.
The service was in the church’s chapel somewhat larger than our entire church. Having a few minutes I thought I would take a tour of the rest of the complex. There was a lobby; it was called “gathering space” but it was a lobby; it was huge. There were three or four kiosks with Starbucks coffee. To one side was the entrance to the Christian Education space; it bore a clear resemblance to an amusement park.
Past the lobby, through one of many doors, was the worship space. The first thing to see was a console for electronics; lights, music and whatever else. It took up almost the entire back of the space. The place was huge; I would say it seated five thousand. Up front was a stage flanked by giant projection screens. There was a sort of lectern; no altar, no religious symbols of any kind. I must confess I couldn’t see how the church differed from a shopping mall or an auditorium, what set it apart from the world of everyday life outside its doors? Perhaps that’s not what they intended; perhaps the people who attend there simply don’t care.
I also thought about the church’s very antithesis, those who completely reject the world. In the extreme, there are still ascetic hermits in the forest, living on nuts and berries. We don’t see them because we are not supposed to see them. We see Franciscans who have given up most of the clutter of our culture and taken on a life of poverty. There are still monasteries; communities of deeply religious people who live simply with less. And there are the Amish, the Mennonites, out here in this world living very happily without automobiles, computers, electric lights, the latest fashions and all the stuff most of us cannot do without.
Once when traveling from Wisconsin to Georgia we stopped at a rest stop on the Ohio Turnpike from lunch. In the entryway was a machine to tell your blood pressure. There was a line of Amish men and women at the machine, all in their traditional clothing, all having their blood pressure checked. I have no idea how they got there; I did wonder if they actually had blood pressure living without the trappings of our age.
Jesus prayed that His Disciples, and that would be us, should be “…in the world, but not of the world.” We don’t really have much choice about the first part; we cannot deny the world in which we live, nor should we. If we do we run the real risk of becoming a quaint anachronism and, frankly, irrelevant. Attractive as the thought of dropping out might be, and sometimes it is, we, as Christians are not called to quit this world.
On the other hand, if our lives are so filled with the sights and the sounds and the materialism of the world around us, where is there room for God? How can we hear Him in the noise of our world; how can we feel His presence in the midst of the distractions. Where do we go if this is all there is?
There must be another way, another answer to the question “what are we doing here?”
It seems to me that you and I, as Christians, are called to community, not personal isolation. It is very easy to become isolated in this world, despite all our electronic contacts; we can isolate ourselves by withdrawing from the world; we can isolate ourselves in the midst of a crowd in the biggest church in the world.
Neither is our role, our purpose. We are here in this world to transform the world, not to deny it and not to be submerged in it; to participate in this world. It begins here, at this altar and it proceeds out there, beyond our walls, proclaiming that God is present in the lives of His children, that He is the source of all we have, all we are and all that we may be.
SERMON MAY 17 2009
I am sure I have mentioned before, perhaps quite often, that I went to seminary at Nashotah House in Wisconsin. Nashotah is not a large seminary, in fact it is probably the smallest in the Episcopal Church; it’s sort of remote in a rural area, situated between two lakes, all quite beautiful. It is self-contained and about as High Church as it gets. Consequently, the community is very close, the same faces at chapel, in class and eating together day after day; seminarians see a lot of each other.
Believe me, seminarians come in all sorts and sizes and persuasions even at Nashotah House. In my class there was a young man, I shall call him Z, from Minnesota, a true free spirit with his own unique perspective on life; we also had a man, I shall call him S, from as far from Minnesota as one can be in this country. He was the antithesis of Z, always in motion, never still, the poster boy for the word “uptight.” Z drove him crazy.
One day after chapel Z was in a dimension all his own and S could take it no longer . He bellowed “Why are you here?”
To his credit Z might have been offended, but he wasn’t. To his credit Z might have said, paraphrasing this morning’s lesson from The Acts of the Apostles, The Holy Spirit has been poured out even on people in Minnesota, but he didn’t. He just smiled. Maybe God smiled too, or maybe God thought “Didn’t I settle that point long, long ago?”
Jesus said to His Disciples ”You did not chose me, but I chose you.”
Have you been present at a Baptism? Have you felt the powerful presence of God as a person is baptized? I assure you, it’s true; God reaches out, reaches down and touches that person being baptized and, if we could hear His words says “This is my child.” Infant, adult, circumcised or Gentile’ it’s God’s volition and God’s action that makes us His own.
Peter knew that; John knew that. John tells is that “Everyone who believes that Jesus is the Christ is born of God. That leaves no room for our bias, our questions or our reservations about anyone. But belief isn’t just a matter of words; words come easy. Our identity as God’s children is shown by word and example and the example set for us, the one we are to follow, is Jesus Christ.
Our identity is right there in this morning’s Gospel. Jesus tells us “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” That, dear friends, is a tall order. It calls for unconditional love even of those who are not at all loveable, even those who are our very antithesis because, if we are children of God then, even if it beyond our understanding, so are they.
Year ago, in the previous Book of Common Prayer, of blessed memory, at the service of Morning and Evening Prayer we actually prayed for “All Sorts and Conditions of Men.” Today we would read “people." The entire church, everywhere in the world, prayed that prayer twice a day. What a powerful statement of God’s gracious will for His children.
To complete the story, I must add that in the course of three years at Nashotah S actually came to befriend Z, obviously God had something in mind for them. Z is now the Dean of a major Cathedral, and S is a Bishop.
EASTER 2009
Are you afraid of the dark; when I was quite young my family moved several times, new houses with new sights and sounds. Sleeping, or rather not sleeping, in a new bedroom, listening to the strange sounds of a strange house, for me it was the partly open closet door, black and ominous. It could have been the dark at the top of the stairs but we didn’t have stairs. It’s ok to say so; everyone is you know. Actually, it’s not really a fear of the dark, it’s a fear of what the darkness might hold, the unknown, the unexpected, the dreaded closet monster
The entrance the tomb; a black, gaping hole in the rock.
It’s morning, the sun has risen, another day has come, but that darkness remains. Women have come with spices to give a proper burial for a lost friend. They stop, they draw back. It’s unexpected; there should be a large stone barring the door to that tomb. Someone has rolled it away, leaving only the blackness in contrast to the morning light. They have no knowledge of what lies beyond that darkened entry, no knowledge of what has been unsealed by that stone that has been rolled away.
What do you suppose they expect? What would you expect? They expect death, the dead body of their friend and teacher, Jesus. Perhaps, in fear and trembling they expect their own death at the hands of the unknown that lies there in the darkness.
What would we do if we were standing there before that unexpected blackness. Would we have the courage to go farther, to enter that tomb?
They are courageous; it takes courage to go on, to face another day, to brave the double darkness of sorrow at the loss of their dearest friend, then to enter that dark tomb and to dare to be in the power and the presence of death.
What do they find? In the tomb they find light, dazzling light for their eyes in the presence of a young man in white, an angel in shining robes that illumines every corner of the rocky tomb.
They find light for their minds in a dawning realization that Jesus really has been raised from the dead by God, that he is not to be found there; that death itself has been conquered, powerless to oppose God’s will, God’s, God’s love.
Hey find lightness for their hearts in the expectation, promised by the
The angel that Jesus goes before them to Galilee, that He waits for them
There, that they will be once again in His presence, see Him, touch Him, hear His voice.
There is lightness in their steps as they run to tell the Disciples that the tomb is empty, Jesus is Risen; running in the light of a new day, a new world, a new faith that God’s love can and will transcend all human understanding; nothing, absolutely nothing can separate God from His children.
You see what happened. God, in His holy messenger has called them to “come and see” to wonderful truth of The Resurrection and told them to “go and tell” the world that “Christ is Risen.”
That is His call to us this Easter morning and every morning.
SERMON 29 MARCH 2009
Long, long ago, years before I had any thought of becoming a priest I was in graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania, the School of Allied Medical Professions. The course was Kinesiology, quite simply how joints work. It was the end of the semester, time for the final exam, and a group of us, about five as I recall, were studying together.
Looking around the table I could not help but notice that my notes were apparently far more complete than anyone else’s, three times a complete in fact. I remember being rather pleased with myself and thinking that those poor guys had really missed a lot. Then one of them, noticing the thickness of my notebook said something to the effect that “wasn’t it helpful that the professor had said everything three times?”
That was the moment that I realized that I am not an auditory learner. I do pretty well with pictures, and illustrations and I really do find demonstrations helpful; however lectures can, and often do, go right by without stopping. I suppose I am what would be called a visual learner. If I am supposed to grasp an idea or concept, show me.
I say this because it occurs to me that the entire Old Testament is case of auditory presentations to an entire nation of visual learners. Prophets give lectures. Sometimes they give brief demonstrations like walking around naked or lying in the Jerusalem streets but generally prophets talk, or shout at people. I think you would agree that the technique wasn’t particularly effective.
Jeremiah, long ago, proclaimed that God would put His law into the hearts of the people, that all the people would know Him which I take to mean do His will. Did it happen? I suppose people heard it, approved of the sincerity of the message and went on their way. It happened over and over. Visual learners need visual teaching; hence, the Incarnation.
Here is Jesus, the very embodiment of God’s will. Yes, he does teach and preach and tell stories and yes, there were those who understood it all but for the rest of us He demonstrated what it means to be truly a child of God. At His touch water becomes the best of wine; at His touch the blind see and deaf hear and the lame walk; at His touch the dead are raised. His touch is compassion and love itself, love of God for us all. Who could miss, who would not understand God’s presence in witnessing such things?
Who could fail to understand the true depth of trust and faith in God as Jesus gives Himself up to cruelty and the Cross in fulfillment of God’s atoning plan for the world? And who could fail to comprehend the power of God as Jesus is raised from the tomb and death itself is put to flight?
Of course we must have the scriptures, the Holy Gospel, if we are to understand our identity as children of God, understand our history and our theology as Christians, but for those of us who are not present at weddings with Jesus or walking with Him on Judean roads or standing at the foot of the Cross or before the empty tomb, there is the water of Baptism, the bread and the wine made His body and blood in the Holy Eucharist, things that may be seen and held.
Jesus says to us “Come and see.”
SERMON MARCH 22 2009
I have heard it said that it is the privilege of old age to become nostalgic, to reminisce and to tell stories. I hope that is true because I am about to become nostalgic, reminisce and tell a story, a story about my admittedly eccentric family.
Actually, my grandparents weren’t eccentric at all. They came to this country from Norway in the early years of the last century and settled in Chicago as did many, many Scandinavians. Somehow they were caught up in the emotional that was prevalent in the Midwest in those years. As I recall they actually had fifteen commandments, the usual ten that we all keep plus five; drinking, smoking, card playing, dancing and something called mixed bathing that was never adequately explained to me as a child.
I do not know what they thought would happen if they actually broke any of those fifteen commandments; I doubt that they expected flaming, poisonous serpents to fall on the northwest side of Chicago but there was certainly a precedent, it’s in this morning’s lessons.
That brings us to the people of Israel wandering around in the desert. We all know the story about how they came to be there, the story of Exodus, God rescuing them from slavery in Egypt, leading them out as His own free people.
We all know the story, however, they, apparently have forgotten. It didn’t take long. Now they are griping “We’re hot; we’re tired; we’re hungry; we’re not having any fun;” the phrase “are we there yet?” is for the future. It’s called ingratitude; it’s a failure to give thanks to God; it’s called a separation from God; it’s called sin.”
Sin has its price. Here the price of sin is a rain of nasty, flaming snakes but it could be many other things; we all have our own fiery serpents to deal with. The point being that although we may forget all that God has done, God does not fail to see what we are doing.
What is the antidote for fiery serpents; what is the corrective for sin? It’s the image that God raises up before their eyes.
Leaping forward, what, or who, for us Christians is it that is raised up?” It is Jesus, of course. Jesus was “lifted up” from the water of the Jordan and proclaimed by the Holy Spirit, proclaimed by God, to be the Son of God, the Divine Incarnate.
Jesus was “lifted up” on the Cross, sacrificing Himself for us, for you and me, in atonement for those sins, the sins of the world. He calls from the Cross “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.” He calls for forgiveness not just for the Jewish rulers who have brought Him there or for the soldiers of Rome but for us all.
Jesus is “lifted up” from the tomb in absolute, incontrovertible proof that God has power even over death itself, and that we, you and I, just as we share in the atonement share in the power of His Resurrection to eternal life.
Jesus is “lifted up” to the side of God the Father in His Ascension; He precedes us there as a foretaste of our own eternal life in the presence of God.
All of which is to say that “Our Lord Jesus Christ did not come into the world to condemn the world, but to save it.” He comes to save us all, even if we are wandering around in our own metaphorical desert, griping and forgetting what God has done for us, what God is doing for us every day.
It’s a gift; God’s Grace is a gift.. Paul tells the Christians at Ephesus “You have been made alive,” and we might interject eternally alive, “with Christ; saved by Grace,” saved by a gift from God.
“By Grace we have been saved through faith…and raised up with Christ, seated in heavenly places.”
All this is not a reward for our good works; we have been created to do good works. It’s our job. All this is the mercy of God, deserved or not, because He loves us.
ASH WEDNESDAY 2009
Each year churches receive a free liturgical calendar from The Church Pension Fund. The top of the calendar is always a cartoon, usually very pointed and accurate about the life of the church. This month, February, the cartoon is of a priest imposing ashes on a parishioner kneeling at the rail; the priest is saying “Remember you are dust, but a very high quality sort of dust.” The caption says it’s for those who feel that Lent is a “downer.”
We are dust, t you and I. The second story of The Creation in the Book of Genesis tells us that God reached down and scooped up a handful of dust, earth, and shaped and molded us; we are one with the earth itself, made of the same stuff. The name of our mutual ancestor is “Adam;” in Hebrew it means “earth.”
But we are not just earth or dust; we are not inert and lifeless. The God who shaped us and molded us breathed life into us, into His creation, and we became complete, we became living beings formed in the image of God, a mortal body of clay inspired, in the best sense of the word, by the creative breath of God.
We are God’s children. You and I were proclaimed to be God’s children at our baptism. We were baptized in water; we were sealed by the Holy Spirit, the sign of the cross was made on our foreheads in holy oil, the sign of our identity.
The mark of the oil faded quickly but the sign of the cross remained, indelible. We trace that sign again in Holy Unction when you are sick; we trace it again when you die.
On this day we trace that sign, not in Holy Oil but in ashes. The ashes are made from the palm branches that we waved last Palm Sunday as we proclaimed the coming of the Messiah. The ashes this day tell the world that we Christians; more important, they remind us of our identity and what it means to be a follower of Jesus Christ. We bear that sign proudly but not pridefully, there is a difference.
We proclaim our identity in profound humility, penitent that we know that we have not always lived up to our identity this past year, that we have not been what God wants us to be, that we separated ourselves from God. With this reminder we begin the forty days of Lent, days of reflection, meditation and self-examination. Lent is the season in which you and I commit ourselves to amendment of our lives; that’s not a downer, that’s a gift from God.
And it’s true; we are a high quality sort of dust.
SERMON 31 January 2009
Deuteronomy
18:15-20
Psalm 111
1 Corinthians 8:1-13
Mark 1:21-28
The synagogue is still there, or so it is supposed. Capernaum, and all that it contained is gone now. But the ruins are there at a place called Tel Hum in Arabic or Tal Nahum in Hebrew on the shore in the far northwest of the Sea of Galilee. There are two ruins that would be pointed out to you if you traveled there; one would be the stone foundation of a building known as the house of the Apostle Peter, the other is the synagogue.
Of course it has been changed over time. At some point columns of an ornate style were added as an improvement. They still stand at one side of the roofless ruins. Looking beyond them, looking beyond the centuries of change, you can see the foundation wall of the synagogue, perhaps the very one that Jesus knew, solid stone walls three feet thick.
The synagogue He knew was a substantial building in a substantial village. Try to see it in your mind; take a seat on one of the benches against the stone wall. The air is heavy with the dust of years of use: the light is from small windows set high in the wall, long slanting rays filled with the mist of that dust. You can hear the muffled sounds of the activity of the village beyond the thick walls. And it’s warm, comfortably warm, and you feel comfortable in such a familiar place with all your fellow villagers, and you feel a little sleepy.
Today there’s guest speaker, Mary and Joseph’s boy Jesus from Nazareth; apparently he’s relocated, new in town. Of course the Rabbi has to ask him to read and say something about the reading, that’s the custom, but it’s usually pretty bad, long expositions of the same things, over and over. Everything there is to say has been said before. The Scribes have said it all; Torah is a closed book. Just settle back and let the nice, comfortable sense of predictable comfort lull you. It can’t last all that long.
Today is different from all others. This Jesus speaks with authority, a new teaching filled with power, personal, immediate. This Jesus breaks the tradition of the Scribes, a tradition that one commentary calls “the prison house of quotation marks,” and speaks with personal conviction.
It’s astonishing. You are astonished; everyone is astonished.
So, the question arises, what has happened over these past several thousand years; why do we, as Christians not astonish the world with this message? Have we ourselves ceased to be astonished; have we placed this new message, this Gospel message from Jesus in “quotation marks?” Do we really understand what Jesus tells us?
Perhaps we just get it all out of the proper order, the proper sequence. Do you see what happens in that synagogue? First, it’s his teaching, the powerful, personal, experiential sharing of the Gospel and all that it implies for us all. What does it imply; that faith begins with a passive, receptive understanding that we are God’s children in every sense, that the key to our Christian faith is not first that we love but that we know we are loved.
Then, comes the healing, the driving away of demons, the act of giving witness to that love. It follows, must follow, that teaching so that any lingering “quotation marks” are erased.
The problem is that we leap right to the action and fail to take the time to savor Jesus’ teaching, we push right on, with the very best of intentions. Lest you think I just said that we don’t have to do anything with our faith, wrong; we are called to service, service of God in this world at this time, but, if we do not take the time to be filled with God’s loving presence, to really know His love, how can we possibly tell others about it. If we do not live with immediacy of God in our lives, how can we represent Him to the world.
It’s all here for us; Jesus’ teaching did not end that day in Capernaum. He is till teaching us today, calling us to listen, astonishing us with the experience of God, then sending us out to grapple with the demons of this world.
SERMON – EPIPHANY 1, 2009
“WHAT DID JESUS KNOW AND WHEN DID HE KNOW IT?”
Genesis 1:1-5
Psalm 29
Acts 19:1-7
Mark 1:4-11
I must confess that I have long puzzled over the point in this morning’s gospel, the question being why was Jesus baptized by John? I hasten to say that I don’t question that it happened, all four gospels agree on that point and that isn’t always the case, but I do wonder why.
I wonder why because the whole basis of John’s baptism, what John called the people to do, was repentance; straighten out your life, turn it all around, beg pardon for your sins, get right with God.
The puzzle for me is this: If Jesus is the Son of God, one in the three of the Holy Trinity, if Jesus is divine, of what must He repent? It would seem that He would have no cause to straighten out His life or turn anything around; He is sinless, He is right with God. Why, then, is at the Jordan that particular day?
Do you think that the Jesus at the Jordan knew, really knew Himself to be The Son of God? What do we know of the life He had led up to that moment; the gospels are almost silent on His childhood and youth, the first thirty years of His life. Perhaps we should assume that they were the usual years of a normal childhood of a Jewish boy of that age, growing up in the house of his parents, Mary and Joseph, going to Shul in his village, learning a trade, nothing remarkable.
There is one story concerning a journey to Jerusalem, to the Temple when Jesus is a young teen. Jesus is left behind when Mary and Joseph depart the city, sought for and found in the Temple with teachers who are impressed by His maturity and wisdom. When confronted by his parents Jesus replies that He has been in “his father’s house.” Much has been made of that brief statement, asserting it to show that Jesus knew Himself to be “The Son of God.”
On the other hand that would be the reply of any good Jewish boy; the Temple is the spiritual home of every Jew and God is the spiritual Father of them all. It does not necessarily mean that He knows His special relationship to The Father.
Paul, writing to the Christians at Phillipi says that God “emptied Himself,” better translated as “stripped off,” His divinity to be one of us, fully human but yet divine, a God who is fully human. While divine He was born an infant who must learn all things. Perhaps His childhood is the simple story of learning, slowly and sequentially, who He is and what His calling is in this world. That too is what it means to be human.
Perhaps the clues of His divinity slowly clarified a growing conviction of His special nature. As children we have to learn many things; not just how to walk and talk and read and write, we learn compassion, how to live in the company of others, we learn to be loved and to love.
Perhaps, like us, He had doubts. To be human, and Jesus was fully human, is to doubt. Even in the Garden of Gethsemane He doubts, even on the cross, He doubts. But the doubts never overcame His growing understanding of His identity as a beloved child of God.
Perhaps the conviction led Him to the Jordan and to the thunderous confirmation that He is the Son in whom the Father is well-pleased.