Christmas I

Christmas-tide always immerses us in the contemplation of the Incarnation. It’s almost a crash course in reminding us what the Incarnation means, since we often forget it during the rest of the year, despite its lying at the root of everything else we celebrate during the course of the year.

There are plenty enough things in life to boggle one’s mind without taking on the mystery of the Incarnation. There’s also that struggle within the soul the desire to know everything or not to have all the answers.

I’ve used this example of that tension before: sometimes when I pick up one of my cats to listen to their purr, I wonder: ‘I really wish I understood how you guys do that.’ I also know that not even the vets and scientists haven’t quite figured out why cats purr and dogs don’t — they’ve gotten as far as determining that the purr has something to do with the blood circulating through their system but beyond that, they haven’t gotten too far. My next, almost immediate, thought is: ‘Yes, but if I know what makes you purr, then I will no longer consider it a mystery and some of my delight in hearing it will be diminished.’

So it is for the mystery and wonder of the Incarnation. We want to understand it, but at the same time, to parse it all out would then diminish the wonder it inspires in us. If we fully understood the Incarnation, for example, the artistic impulse to depict it might not have flourished for centuries and centuries. We might lose the genius of people like Hafiz, the Persian poet, who wrote: ‘God looked where in the world he might display his face. He pitched his tent in human fields, no other place.’

The book I chose to read to the children at the early service Christmas Eve consists of drawings of Jesus as a baby (appropriately titled, Baby Jesus). Granted, many of them are the early 1900s quasi-Victorian renditions of a blond, blue-eyed baby, but to cut the artists some slack, they were painting what they knew best — themselves. In another wonderful book on Jesus, The Faces of Jesus, written by Fred Buechner, page after page shows artistic renditions from all over the globe. It’s quite wondrous to see a Chinese or mahogany dark Jesus rather than the blue-eyed version (no offence). When all is said and done, there is no real way to capture Jesus — his being is a mystery.

The artists of the centuries know how to capture mystery. And so do we if we open our hearts to it. We have daily encounters with the Grace and Truth that has come into this world.

Even so, it seems hard to believe — the tragic events of this week in Pakistan with the assassination of Benazir Bhutto and the subsequent chaos with its scores of deaths underscore the struggle we have sometimes in recognising and believing that God has become incarnate amongst us to love us. We can believe in that desire when we look at a baby, but how do we find it in those who seek to do us harm? How do we believe in the Incarnation when faced with all the human frailty and brokenness that surround us — not just on a global level but as we look at one another sitting in these pews this morning and within ourselves? Where is God? Where is love?

Karl Rahner wrote: ‘God, you took up the very thing you wanted to discard. You began what we thought would end with your coming: our poor human kind of life, which is sheer frailty, finiteness, and death. Contrary to all our fond hopes, you seized upon precisely this kind of human life and made it your own. And you did this not in order to change or abolish it, not so that you could visibly and tangibly transform it, not to divinize it. No, you took upon yourself this kind of life, just as it is. You let it slip away from you, just as ours vanishes from us.’ (1)

That is the mystery — that the Word became flesh and lived among us, in all our limitations. In Jesus God took on our humanity, became a vessel of flesh so that we might understand and, in understanding, might be able to know and receive the love of God, which is this Word and Light made flesh in our silence and darkness.
God enfleshed, God present with us….

The Word, the Light from God becomes flesh and lives among us, full of grace and truth, reminding us that we, too, are meant for grace and truth, and that on a more simple level, we are not alone. God is with us.

God in Jesus discovers our humanity, so that we may in believable ways discover our divinity, our holiness and worth — it works both ways. God’s holy word among us helps us to accept our first birthing as well as our dying to new birth. Throughout our lives, we dance with this God of love, who became one of us in Christ. Sometimes we get it; sometimes we even see God’s love, sometimes we even see God in another person. It is in moments like these, that we understand that the Incarnation is God living a life, as one of us. We get that the human being is God fully alive. That living is love. And that love is eternal.

Fourth-century Prudentius, in his words that we sing in hymn 82, expresses this eternal love: Of the Father’s love begotten, ere the worlds began to be, he is Alpha and Omega, he the source, the ending he, of the things that are, that have been, and that future years shall see, evermore and evermore!

To which I respond with deep awe and gratitude: Yes. Yes, O God, yes.

END NOTE

(1) Karl Rahner, ‘The Divine Dawning,’ cited in Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas (Farmington, PA: Plough Publishing House, 2001). Found on Diocese of Washington’s web site Advent calendar, 14 December, 2004, or: www.edow.org/spirituality/readings_archive.html#1216.

The Feast of the Annunciation/Lent 5C

Over in a corner of the chapel at the Convent of Saint Helena stands a small statue of Mary, the same way we have our statue of Mary. The statue resides next to a stand of votive candles — candles that are always lit either by the sisters or by visitors. I have always been fascinated by this statue: her upraised arms, the expression on her face, her thick neck. And perhaps what has always attracted my attention is the thick band of material that wraps itself around her arms and chest. I do not know any stories about this statue — about its creator, or how it came to be, or who it is meant to represent.

On the lectionary sheet is yet another image of Mary. This statue comes from Bosnia [above]. Once again, I don’t know its origins or where it resides. But this Mary is a more somber Mary, her head bent down, the swooping line of her back and veil emphasing this position of humility and sorrow.

Yet, as I think of Mary, whom I think these statues represents (but not necessarily only Mary — it can represent all women), I begin to think particularly of how that band of material around her chest in the first statue and arms is so apropos. That band of material seems to be both the joy and the pain that come with the annunciation of the birth of Jesus: the ‘my heart will break’ sort, a joy or sorrow that is so intense that our chests constrict.

What of Mary? Mary has been thought of for too long as a passive vessel in whom God placed Jesus, simply the one who carried Jesus. Eastern Orthodoxy refers to her as the God bearer, the Theotokos. Later, historically, she becomes an icon of veneration as in ‘Hail Mary full of grace, blessed are you among all women….’ She becomes the intermediary for penitent humanity who begs her to have mercy ‘now and at the time of our death.’

Anglicans have always been a little squeamish about the emphasis placed on Mary. We speak of the ‘virgin birth’ but prefer not to get too far into a discussion about the ‘how’s and ‘wherefore’s. The Immaculate Consumption and the Assumption, so important in Roman theology, are not significant in our tradition. And for those few parishes named after Mary, we sit in an awkward place with a band of inhibition, even of apologies for our Marian devotion about our chests, just as the statue.

There is a place for Mary in our theology, however. Mary is a powerful, complex figure for us — actually a radical figure — and if we look at images of her throughout the four gospels, we see how she walks alongside Jesus in his ministry, and is one of the few who keeps vigil at the foot of the cross. Her prophetic words of the Magnificat — powerful because they speak of a time when the world as we know it is turned upside-down, powerful because they prefigure the significance of the cross — inspire us.

Mary’s powerful words stand in contrast with the archetypal image of her humility. Archbishop Oscar Romero, whose feast day was yesterday, wrote of her message that can be cast both in an understanding of humility as well as the words of the Magnificat:

A humble person is one who, like the humble Mary, says, ‘The Powerful One has done great things in me.’ Each of us has an individual greatness. God would not be our author if we were something worthless. You and I and all of us are worth very much, because we are creatures of God, and God has prodigally given his wonderful gifts to every person. And so the church values human beings and contends for their rights, for their freedom, for their dignity. That is an authentic church endeavor. While human rights are violated, while there are arbitrary arrests, while there are tortures, the church considers itself persecuted, it feels troubled, because the church values human beings and cannot tolerate that an image of God be trampled by persons that become brutalized by trampling on others. The church wants to make that image beautiful.

Just as the personage of Mary is complex, so is our celebrating the Annunciation smack in the middle of Lent. Hearing words so closely associated with the third Sunday of Advent is bound to cause us some cognitive dissonance. Yet how comforting it is to hear these words as we get closer and closer to Jerusalem and the cross.

On this fifth Sunday of Lent, I filter the words of the annunciation and the Magnificat through the story of the passion. Echoing in my head at the same time that Mary expresses her faith in the wonders of what God is about to do for humanity through her, is the nagging phrase that lingers: ‘A sword will pierce her heart, too.’ And, indeed, one will. When we remember some of the references to Mary in the Stations of the Cross, we find that Mary’s heart is, indeed, bound.

At the Fourth Station, where Jesus meets his afflicted mother, the biblical text reads:To what can I liken you, to what can I compare you, O daughter of Jerusalem? What likeness can I use to comfort you, O virgin daughter of Zion? For vast as the sea is your ruin. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. The Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of mourning shall be ended.

Later, at the Thirteenth Station as the body of Jesus is placed in the arms of his mother, we hear from the Book of Ruth.

Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by? Look and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow. My eyes are spent with weeping; my soul is in tumult; my bile is poured out on the ground because of the destruction of my people. ‘Call me no longer Naomi, call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt bitterly with me.’

It seems fitting for us to hear these words alongside those of the Annunciation. They are, indeed, that paradoxical band wrapped around our chests that constricts both Mary’s and our hearts. We sorrow yet, at the same time, we are called to exult in God’s everlasting mercy for us as shown by the cross.

We move closer to that cross, given that next Sunday is already Palm/Passion Sunday. Even that day is a paradox in its all too rapid celebration of the Christ, before it plunges into the sorrows of the passion. So much of our faith consists of those harsh juxtapositions.

As we remember the Annunciation, alongside our journey to Jerusalem, let our hearts proclaim, always, the greatness of our Saviour. And then, may we move beyond mere words to living out the words of the Magnificat to create a church and society where we value everyone’s worth and dignity.

Lent 1C

Every Lent, we begin by hearing the story of Jesus’ time in the desert, and how he resists the temptations of the devil. He goes to the wilderness, the place of desolation, struggle and trial. He enters not only the actual physical wasteland but also the wasteland of Massah and Meribah, into the entire Israelite wilderness tradition of temptation and trial. The accounts of Jesus in the desert speak of his fragility: he is tired, he weeps, he hungers and thirsts.

The temptations Jesus faces all address his relationship with others and with God. First there is the temptation to turn stones into bread. Jesus is confronted by the temptation to acquire economic power at the expense of others, to choose the path of economic provider, to be the one who could satisfy other’s demand for food… but to be in that role would mean he would have one over his neighbour, because there would be a hook there, the hook of power over someone else’s basic needs.

The second temptation asks that he perform a miracle, that he assert his spiritual power, using his spiritual resources to attract the support and devotion of others to the point of manipulation, to be a wonder worker. God would not be worshipped in this display of power; only Jesus’ capacities would be the focus of attention.

Lastly, Jesus confronts the temptation to acquire political power in exchange for idolatrous worship. He could become a political autocrat, a one-man show.

Each temptation represents a call to accept power, a call to distance himself from his neighbours and God. Jesus sees in the temptations the danger of accepting this personal power; instead, he takes what could be evil and offers the good of his power to the community. His power here is the Holy Spirit who nourishes the Christian community, who infuses it with the power of God working within it to perform spiritual miracles. Instead of turning stones into bread, Jesus gives of himself to be eucharistic bread. Instead of performing a miracle, in a spectacular display of power, Jesus creates a community that will be a spiritual force. And instead of becoming a dictator, Jesus walks with his community that will be committed to values of equality, and share to transform those forces in society that differentiate people unfairly. (1)

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Maybe it is a factor of growing older, but it seems to me as though keeping a Lenten discipline was far easier when I was a kid than now. I remember how my youthful piety tortured my mother for six weeks because I gave up everything with butter in it (don’t ask me why — I can’t remember the logic behind it). Did I think any more of Jesus because of my fast? I am not sure. I just remember how good it felt to hit Easter and I could put butter on my toast again.

Now it seems so much harder to take on some action of denial. Now keeping Lent means more a conscious attempt (or struggle!) to be silent, still aware, to listen to my heart at prayer, to find those moments of intersection of the holy and the daily and the daily with the holy and to enter consciously and willingly the desert spaces of my life. Maybe it is a function of my life, with its busy-ness, the time spent doing things when I really need to be still, but the idea of giving up something for Lent in quite the same terms as I did as an earnest seventh-grader just doesn’t ring true.

Maybe we need to remember Lent’s original purpose. It was two-fold in function but singular in purpose. Lent was a time for preparing newcomers into the faith tradition, a time to introduce newcomers to their future relationship with God. At the same time, as the Ash Wednesday exhortation in the prayer book reminds us, Lent was a time when notorious sinners sought forgiveness and were restored to right relationship with the rest of the community. In both cases, Lent was a time to sustain relationships — with God and neighbour.

‘Lenten disciplines and routine that call us to self-examination and interior meditation only strengthen our tendencies to bear up under life alone, or in silent communion with some distant deity. In a society already fractured and isolated, and among a people hunkered down in individualism, many of our customary spiritual disciplines serve not as preparation for life in community or the healing of our disaffections, but rather as exercise to extend our powers of endurance. So much of what passes for Lenten or other spiritual discipline renders us unfit for human companionship.’ These critical words written by Sam Portaro, Episcopal Chaplain to the University of Chicago, also contain grains of truth.

We are relational beings with one another and with God. We need one another. And God needs us. Rabbi Abraham Heschel believed that God created humanity in order to have a conversation with us, because God needed someone to share the wondrous stories of creation and covenant. And Heschel also believed firmly that it was dangerous to pray alone. One had to pray in community, too.

On a deeper level, according to writer Wendy M. Wright, ‘Lent is a time when we enter into the mystery of pain and brokenness, both our own and the world’s, to discover that we are not alone, that what seems hopeless is in fact hope-filled, that what appears dead can spring forth in life. It happens because we are embedded in a wider, more sustaining matrix of love than we can possibly imagine.’

If we are to fast this Lent or take on some discipline, then it should be the type of fast that Isaiah envisioned God desiring:

This is the fasting that I wish: releasing those bound unjustly, untying the thongs of the yoke; setting free the oppressed, breaking every yoke; sharing your bread with the hungry; sheltering the oppressed and the homeless; clothing the naked when you see them, and not turning your back on your own.

This citation from Isaiah 58, read on Ash Wednesday, is our presiding bishop’s mantra — she knows it so well that this summer at General Convention, when testifying to adopting a policy that would commit The Episcopal Church to giving 0.7% of its operating budget to support the Millennium Development Goals (a resolution that was subsequently passed), she was able to recite it by heart. It is one of those passages from scripture, along with the Beatitudes and Magnificat, that should guide us in our daily life, whether during Lent or any other time of year.

Isaiah describes relational activities, actions that bring us not only closer to our neighbour but also to God. So maybe Lent is more about finding the balance between personal and private reflection and engaging on a true, honest level with our neighbours, to try to bring about healing and integration to this broken world. That doesn’t mean that we never enter into the desert, but always, we emerge from that place of stillness to engage with the world. Each person must find his or her natural rhythm of time apart and time with community for both nourish us. Always we walk with our neighbour rather than uniquely by ourselves even though we spend time alone.

While the particulars may vary in how we approach this Lent, may we spend it and our life in the love of neighbour and of God… ‘because we are embedded in a wider, more sustaining matrix of love than we can possibly imagine.’

END NOTE
(1) Based on Kenneth Leech, We Preach Christ Crucified (Cambridge, MA: Cowley, 1994), 15-16.

Ash Wednesday

As I think about all the places and years I have kept Ash Wednesday and why it matters so much, I began to wonder about the particular rite through which we go today.

What is it about Ash Wednesday? Our speaker yesterday at clergy day works at Saint Paul’s Chapel, NYC. It survived the collapse of the WTC towers and now is a cross between a museum, shrine and worshipping congregation. He sighed when we talked about Ash Wednesday. Evidently there is a drastic increase of population in the liturgy at the time of the imposition of ashes: the congregation swells from 40 to over 250. He knows of a Roman priest who is sent to Grand Central Station to spend ten hours smearing ashes on people’s foreheads. Why do people want this reminder on this solemn day, this Yom Kippur or Day of Atonement of the Christian faith, of coming close to and accepting the brokenness that all of us as human beings share? Why do they want to united by those ashes?

What is it about having one’s forehead marked by ashes that invariably dribble down one’s nose? Thinking about that question makes me think about a conversation I had recently in which someone said that at their church, they are going to have a packet of handiwipes available for anyone who wants to wipe the ashes from their foreheads before they go back into the world. I remembered raging debates with a good friend in my grad school days. He always wiped off his ashes before leaving church; I always left them on. He said it was vain; I said they were a sacramental reminder of our mortality. We always ended these conversations at a draw, where neither is right; neither is wrong.

Still, we were onto one of the mysteries of today. Why do something that seems to contradict the gospel we hear for Ash Wednesday? What does it mean to hear that we practise our piety and then turn around and place such a visible sign of our frailty on our forehead?

Perhaps that is the whole point. Perhaps by placing those ashes on our forehead we are being asked to confront honestly what our faith is all about. Confronting what our motives really are. Confronting where our priorities in life are.

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In the gospel lesson for today Jesus talks with the disciples about the practise of piety. He urges the disciples not to practise their piety so that they will be praised by others, but to practise their piety in such a way that others will be helped and God’s name will be glorified. Throughout the lesson Jesus is concerned with the motives for the piety they practise.

First Jesus speaks to them about almsgiving. All Christians are to give so that others might have, but this giving is not to be done for the esteem of others. Don’t sound a trumpet in the synagogue (as apparently used to happen particularly when someone gave a large donation). Don’t do it for show but do it because that is part of living out one’s Christian faith, building up the kindom.

Jesus urges the same thing with prayer. Don’t pray in public places so others can see you. Pray not so others can see how prayerful we are, but so that God’s will might be done. Pray because we are called to pray. Pray because it sustains one another.

The same is for fasting. Don’t make it a public occasion but do it quietly. Anoint your head and wash your face because that is what you will do if you were preparing for a great feast. And you are — you are preparing for repentance which leads to joy in a new way of life, the great banquet feast in heaven to which we are all invited.
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Deeper than these simple instructions is the root issue of what it means to be a Christian. And that comes down to dying to oneself and being born to new life in Christ. That difficult word, renunciation, is not limited to Ash Wednesday or Lent; rather renunciation is a life-long, day-in and day-out effort. Renunciation is the giving up of oneself, of one’s desires, and one’s need for public affirmation, so that one can be made whole and new in Christ.

And so the ashes that are placed on our forehead which seem to clash with the gospel message of secrecy become a sign of what our Lenten and life-time journeys are about — the renouncing of those ways of life and attitudes, values and perspectives that go against our baptismal vows. Our Lenten journey, then, becomes a time when we are invited to reconsider how our daily life squares with our baptismal vows and work at putting them into right relationship. However we do it — whether through fasting, prayer, mourning those broken relationships and parts of our life, retreat, active participation in the rites of the church — we are called to consider the priorities and our motives that underlie our life of faith. We are called to let go of those idols, relationships, habits or whatever else gets in the way of our living out our baptismal vows.

‘Remember, my brothers and sisters, that you are dust and to dust you shall return.’ Remember that the dust we are is what will be made new at the resurrection. We are headed toward that moment when we will know that things which were cast down are being raised up, and things which had grown old are being made new, and that all things are being brought to their perfection through Jesus Christ. And it is that perfection, through the resurrection, toward which we are headed as we go deeper into the Ash Wednesday liturgy and Lent itself.

Last Epiphany

Epiphany 7

In 1997 the 72nd General Convention voted a resolution (A205) establishing the last Sunday of Epiphany World Mission Sunday. The resolution was quite simple:

Resolved, That the last Sunday of Epiphany of each year be designated World Mission Sunday, and be it further

Resolved, That educational opportunities be provided at every level of the church in preparation for the celebration of World Mission Sunday to increase awareness of and participation in world mission; and be it further

Resolved, That mission networks such as Companion Dioceses, parish linkages, voluntary missionary societies, and the Anglican and Global Relations Office of the Episcopal Church Center be urged to develop and promote resources for the celebration of World Mission Sunday.

The explanation was likewise short and sweet:

Every member of the Episcopal Church is a member of a missionary society, The Domestic and Foreign Missionary Society. Whether we understand the imperative of mission from the perspective of the Great Commission or the Great Commandment, or a combination of both, we are united in the one call to God’s mission in the world. As God sent Jesus into the world, we, too, are sent into the world. This resolution calls upon the church to hold up and celebrate our shared commitment and call to mission on a specific and common Sunday each year. It challenges congregations, dioceses, and provinces to learn about and become more fully engaged in God’s global mission.

Tucked away in the 2000 Blue Book, the book of reports of the Committees, Commissions, Boards and Agencies of the General Convention, is a wonderful summary of how we understand mission. The Standing Commission on World Mission affirms the primacy of mission in the church’s life. The report cites our catechism: [this mission is] ‘to restore all people to unity to God and each other in Christ.’ The SCWM has seen over and over again, through its missionaries how participating in mission transforms people’s lives as both missioner and host community are changed through a shared witness to Christ.

Perhaps the best presentation of how The Episcopal Church now understands mission is articulated in the SCWM’s 2003 booklet, Companions in Transformation: The Episcopal Church’s World Mission in a New Century. The report bases its understanding of Christian mission as our sending and being sent in Christ and being grounded in the missionary nature of God as revealed in Scripture. It says that

• God reached out to create communities of life in creation;
• with Israel and throughout history, God moved to restore people to unity with God, with one another and with creation;
• in Christ, God is still on mission in the world through the Holy Spirit.

The report says that ‘Missionary character is important at all levels in the church: in parishes and dioceses, individual missionaries and their supporters, voluntary societies, church-wide agencies and their leaders. And how we live out this missionary ethos has changed greatly from the days of Christians going to save the foreign heathens from their sins.

Here are some of the characteristics of a new understanding of mission that is based in…

• Companionship, a central characteristic of God’s missionary people. Both missionary and supporting community are transfigured as they experience the gospel life of their companion communities. Companionship in mission constitutes a shift from some modes of the colonial era, when sending churches in the Global North were sometimes confident that they had everything to teach and nothing to learn. The mission church may not be able to solve the anguish, violence and injustice suffered by the companion church, but simply being present in the place of fear, loss and isolation expresses the love of Christ.

• Witness ‘You are witnesses of these things.’ Witness in word means sharing the story of what God has done with us in light of the story of what God has done in Jesus Christ. Sharing our story with others must be a part of a dialogue in which we listen to the stories others share with us, whether from places of little faith or other religious paths.

• Pilgrim Episcopal missionaries see themselves today as pilgrims, growing in their knowledge of God, through the perspectives of the people to whom they are sent, learning as much as they share, receiving as much as they give. [T]he pilgrim motif opens the door to true mutuality in mission, where… ‘All are givers and all are receivers.’

• Servant ‘I came not to be served but to serve.’ Servanthood means listening to the stated needs of mission companions, looking for signs of God’s work in them, and collaborating with them in discerning how God is guiding the implementation of a mission vision.

• Prophet Mission pilgrims find their views of political, racial and economic relationships in the world challenged and transformed. Experiences of poverty, suffering, violence, alongside opulence, oppression and security often radicalise the foreigners, who then prophesy to the sending church, prodding it to delve more deeply into the systemic reasons why these inequalities exist. So Episcopalians are called to prophesy to their home church and guest church.

• Ambassador The missioner always is an ambassador of The Episcopal Church and that where they are, people look at them as representatives of TEC.

• Host ‘Let a little water be brought and wash your feet.’ Hospitality is central to receiving missioners here and offering it abroad. Hospitality means that we listen to what our companions say, offer them opportunities to experience the breadth of our church, and care for their needs.

• Sacrament All Christians are members of the communion of saints, and are members of God embodied in the incarnation. A Christian on mission is a sacramental sign of God’s mission to reconcile all people with one another and God in Christ. People and communities the missioner meets are also signs of God’s global presence.

This year’s World Mission Sunday focuses on the missionary world of Episcopal youth, ages 17-30, who serve throughout the world in a program created by the 2000 General Convention, Young Adult Service Corps. By 2006, there were at least some two dozen young adults serving around the world. The church hopes to have 110 by 2010. One of these missioners now serves on Executive Council and her time as a missioner in Panamá gives her a fresh view on how we do things here. Her insights are valuable.

So what does this all have to do with us in snow-bound Northfield? Perhaps our role as missioner can be best summed up in Psalm 99: ‘Let us confess God’s Name, which is great and awesome; God is the Holy One.’ If we are not called to go be a missioner far off, then let us be missioners close at home. If we can’t go abroad, let us support the charitable organisations and agencies that sponsor missioners and the work they do. Perhaps we can support Amy and Vince Zuninga, who are missioners in El Salvador. Or John Habeker who is a Volunteer in Mission in El Salvador. Or we can support Cristosal that is helping the Anglican Episcopal Church of El Salvador start a new mission outreach in the eastern part of the country (our bishop is there right now as part of this initiative). Or perhaps there’s a missioner you know. Or we can give to ERD or UTO. There are many, many ways in which we can support missionary work.

Why does it matter? Because you and I can counter the harsh truths as so beautifully expressed in hymn 573, written right after WWI, truths that still exist. Verses 2 and 5 of the hymn say in part:

Races and people, lo, we stand divided,
and, sharing not our griefs, no joy can share;
by wars and tumults love is mocked, derided;
his saving cross no nation yet will bear…

How shall we love thee, holy hidden Being,
if we love not the world which thou has made?
Bind us in thine own love for better seeing
thy Word made flesh, and in a manger laid.

You and I have good news to share! We are missioners, too, so let us be about the joyous task God has set before us, to reconcile the world in Christ and proclaim God's glory.

[roof dumps, the fallout from Wednesday's blizzard]

Feast of the Presentation (Candlemas)

A former Presbyterian, now Episcopalian, once commented on the Feast of the Presentation, saying, ‘I always associate the readings from the Feast of the Presentation, especially the one from Luke, with the burial office. Isn’t this feast kind of sad?’

That sounds like the perfect coffee hour question that seminarians used to have to answer in the General Ordination Examinations and it is a lead-in for the explanation I am about to give you.

The Presentation, or Candlemas, observed on February 2nd (also the midpoint of winter), should be seen as an important and fully integrated festival of the Christmas cycle. This is a feast rich in meaning, with several related themes running through it — presentation, purification, meeting, and light for the world. The several names by which it has been known in Christian history illustrate just how much it has to teach and to celebrate. It commemorates the fortieth-day wherein Hebrew law demanded that the first-born male child be presented at the temple with an offering of five shekels in order to ‘redeem’ or buy back the child from God.

The strongest attraction of Candlemas is the ‘bitter-sweet’ nature of what it celebrates. It is a feast day, and the revelation of the child Jesus in the Temple, greeted by Simeon and Anna calls for rejoicing. At the same time, Simeon’s words about Christ’s suffering are the most potent in all the scriptures and the liturgy of the Christmas and Epiphany seasons. Coming as Candlemas does at the very end of the Christmas celebration and in the middle of Epiphany, it becomes a kind of pivot in the Christian year between Christmas and Lent. In some places, the liturgical colour changes after the Eucharist at Candlemas from the white of Epiphany-tide to a more penitential colour as Lent approaches. (In the Church of England, this Sunday is already the Third Sunday before Lent as it would be in the 1928 prayer book.) That change doesn’t happen here though one’s eyes might focus more on the purple in the chasuble than the green or white on it.

So the former Presbyterian is not totally off in her assessment of the Feast of the Presentation. Simeon’s words of the canticle, Nunc Dimittis, used in Evening Prayer and Compline for the past 1500 years, do speak of a time of letting go, but they also speak of hope.

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In the feast of the Presentation we have a new winter encounter between God and the people of God in Jesus. But this meeting is between a helpless God-child and two old people who have spent a life-time waiting for the promises of salvation to be fulfilled. How often Simeon and Anna must have wondered if things would ever change or if they would die with the same fears and hopelessness with which they had lived all their lives. Luke presents both of them as waiting for God’s intervention and salvation of Israel. (We may feel the same way, wondering if there will ever be peace in figurative and real Jerusalem.) Simeon waits, by looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and Anna waits, by constantly worshipping in the Temple.

Even though the presentation of the infant Jesus is what drives the story, the emphasis on character shifts. Simeon, whose name means ‘hearing,’ is a ‘righteous and devout’ person who has been told by God that he will not die until he has seen the saviour for the people Israel. At the same time, it is the Holy Spirit that directs Simeon to the Temple on the very day that Jesus is there. By the time Simeon speaks, we have no doubt as to his authenticity.

Simeon’s words speak to the hope of a people oppressed. Simeon exclaims: Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel. What is radically different in his profession is that salvation is for all peoples, a light for the non-Jew and Jew alike. Jesus is the fulfillment, the reinterpretation of long-cherished hopes for a people that has spent so much of its history in exile. And Jesus is also the figure of hope for peoples living on the margins of society. At the same time that Simeon proclaims Jesus as this hope, this light, he also tells Mary that Jesus’ presence will create division, a source of dissention, and indeed the very sword that will pierce Mary’s heart.

Simeon sings the song of redemption as the completion of a life-time of waiting which has known the constant need of receiving the mercy of God to rekindle the light of faith. And while we might be inclined to think that Simeon’s song portends his death, he actually asks God to send him forth to proclaim this good news. Ultimately he is a dreamer of hope and he proclaims it as perhaps his last action.

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These days, at least for me, there seems to be precious little hope. The news from Iraq is unrelentingly awful. Yesterday’s massacre at the marketplace is just one more indication of the spiraling violence that is overtaking ordinary people’s lives. A priest colleague’s son is a helicopter pilot in the military and every time I hear of a copter crash, I rush to her blog to see if this time it was Jim. In our Anglican Communion, the fighting continues and there are archbishops who refuse to take communion at the same service at which our presiding bishop and a few others are present.

Where do we find hope? How do we not get sucked into the tsunamis of negativity out there?

There are many paths to hope, and in this season of the manifestation of Christ, it is logical to focus on light. Annie Dillard in Pilgrim to Tinker Creek wrote, ‘I cannot cause light; the most I can do is try to put myself in the path of its beam.’ Putting ourselves in that path is opening ourselves to God’s Spirit who will lead us to hope. Mother Teresa, who worked and lived in the wallow of human suffering called Calcutta, said, ‘There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter. We sometimes lose sight of this force where there is suffering, too much pain. Then suddenly, the spirit will emerge through the lives of ordinary people who hear a call and answer in extraordinary ways.’ You and I are those ordinary people. None of us know for sure how God is going to call us nor do we know how we will respond, but my prayer is that we will respond to whatever situation with hope… hope for others, hope for ourselves. My prayer is that we will put ourselves in the path of light, and take in God’s Spirit.

When Bill [our organist] heard that we would be observing Candlemas today, he was thrilled. He recollected how, when he was growing up, every person in the congregation would be given a Candlemas candle to take home to burn throughout the year. For those of you would like to, there’s a candle in the back for you to take home. Burn this candle (for as long as it lasts) whenever you need to be reminded of hope. It would be foolish, of course, to think that an eight-hour candle can carry you through the year, so when it burns down, find another special candle to help remind you of God’s spirit working in you, helping to put you in the path of light, where you can be an instrument of God’s hope, as well as peace.

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Simeon was a dreamer and a hoper. We have to be too. Even though there is plenty out there to drain our personal and national emotional spirits, we cannot surrender to despair. Like Simeon, we are called to find the hope that is in our midst. It can be elusive until we remember that the sword that would pierce Mary’s heart — Jesus’ death — became the means of our salvation. Through Jesus’ death we are redeemed; through Jesus’ death, we are set free for ever. That is our hope, the Christian hope and each one of us has been called to be a witness to that Good News — like Simeon.

[9.00 this morning, stained glass window reflection on the north chancel wall]

Epiphany 3C • 21 January 2007

The gospel reading this morning is the same one that was proclaimed in the National Cathedral on 4 November 2006 at the investiture of the Most Rev’d Katharine Jefferts Schori. Presiding Bishop Jefferts Schori preached on this text, clearly one that exemplifies her understanding of living out and proclaiming God’s reconciling and justice-seeking message to the world.

Jesus opens the scroll and reads a composite from Isaiah 61 and Isaiah 58. This portion is rich in overtones recalling verses of the Hebrew Scriptures and other parts of Luke’s gospel itself. The passage is carefully chosen because Isaiah 61 is what is known as one of the Servant Songs, those songs that have been later seen in light of Jesus. The figure in Isaiah 61 brings a message of redemption and of God’s deliverance to the exiles. Jesus goes a step further by declaring that he is the one who will bring about the dawning of the new age of salvation. Jesus ties in Isaiah 58 by meeting in love the needs of those who need God, something Israel had not done. At the same time, his words recall those powerful words of the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimittus.

Jesus reveals his mission of salvation as the Anointed One, the one with the message of good news. Preaching the good news is fundamental to Jesus’ ministry and to the gospel of Luke. He is light and liberator to the poor, captive and blind. He calls the community to a revolutionary way of showing God’s love for all and to offer comfort to those of God’s people who have suffered oppression. By asking the community of God to free the captive and give light to the blind, Jesus also asks the community of God to consider how it stands in relationship with people and societal structures. First most, the community is called to proclaim good news to the poor, release to the captives, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed, and a year of Jubilee, a year when all debts are erased and all are equal in God’s sight.

Amy Spagna, in a blog devoted to commentary on this particular passage, The Year of the Lord’s Favor [blogspot.com], writes:

For so many, this passage from Luke sums up both who this Jesus is, and “the mission of the Church.” Jesus is preaching — well, attempting to, anyway — in his hometown. He’s trying to tell the people who remember him jumping into mud puddles as a boy, and working in his father’s wood shop as a young man, what he’s really here to accomplish. He’s got a very specific job, which is to bring the good news of God’s love to those who haven’t yet heard or believed it, and to tell those who aren’t aware of it that God does indeed look upon them favorably.

Of course, they don’t believe it. What, Joseph’s kid, saying these things? Impossible. Impossible that God could give his blessing to the beggar on the corner, much less to anyone who isn’t Jewish. And yet, there he is, doing it anyway.

Throughout the Gospel accounts Jesus makes a point of hanging out with the slimy underbelly of1st-century society. The writers also take pains to point out that the slimy underbelly often has more faith than for which it is given credit. Take, for example, the story of blind Bartimaeus. Nobody who tossed a coin into his cup probably thought that a blind man, who was obviously paying the price for some sin or another, would have his sight restored simply because he believed enough to ask for mercy. Ironic, that a blind man saw and understood what so many others could not, until after the crucifixion: this Jesus was special, because the spirit of the Lord was upon him.

Not much has changed in the world in the past 2000 years. The slimy underbelly of society is still there, it still needs help from those in more privileged positions. So what are we gonna do about it? One of the less well-publicized outcomes of last summer’s General Convention was the focus both Houses directed towards the UN Milennium Development Goals. The MDGs are, if properly implemented, good news to the poor who so desperately need the physical resources they will provide. The MDG initiatives are also good news to those who are poor spiritually, who need the message we Episcopalian Christians bring: see, this thing is being fulfilled in front of you, today, in the here and now.

And what a chief messenger we have in Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori. She keeps saying that what we’re about in terms of mission is helping those who need it the most. Which is what “Gospel” is, really. As a friend kept trying to get across before he died, each of us is a gift that is meant to be shared, because there is always someone out there who desperately needs what each has to offer. Episcopalians have a heck of a lot of good stuff — that is, if we can stop bickering with one another long enough to see the blind Bartimaeuses of the world and offer that stuff to them.

We are the Lord’s appointed in this tremendous task. So let us join with Bishop Katharine, and proclaim by both word and deed that this is indeed the year of the Lord’s favor. [end quote]

As Amy Spagna wrote, ‘We are the Lord’s appointed in this tremendous task.’ Here, at Saint Mary’s, as small as we might feel sometimes, each one of us can make a difference. You and I are called to bring the message of God’s Jubilee (not vengeance) to Northfield and its environs, to our places of work and recreation, even to our families. It’s hard work sometimes but doing so is part of our commitment, as expressed in our baptismal vows.

Think about this charge of being a people of Jubilee as we move into our annual meeting. Think about how you in partnership with Saint Mary’s can be a reconciler, peace-maker, and instrument of God’s justice and favour here, now, always.

And may God who has given us the will to do these things, give us the grace and power through our baptism to perform them.

***

Though the photograph is from October 2005, the light is about what we saw this morning at 9.00 at our combined service. The deacon was sitting over on the left side and the reflection of the stained glass was highlighted by his white, white alb. It was one of those moments when I wished I had a bitty camera to take a photo because he was entirely bathed by stained glass window reflection. The most identifiable was a small green cross with purple edge. Really quite striking.

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I am truly catatonic and verbally kaput after annual meeting and then going to a wake of someone who was simply a nice, nice honest contractor, whom everyone in town knew, and who died of a brain tumour that was diagnosed right after Christmas of 2006. He was only 62. His daughter and son-in-law decided not to wait until this spring to get married and, instead, were married two weeks ago alongside her dying father's bed in the respite home where he was at the time of his death. May Brian rise in glory and may his family be gently held by God.

Though this town is 3000 (plus 1800 university students), it still has a small-town feeling. I always feel that when I go to wakes, whether they are ones at which I will be leading prayers or ones where I go as a community member, as in this afternoon. There is only one funeral home in town and after 13 years being here, each time I end up at one of these things, I get the sense of small-town 'Americana.' You see everybody; you chat with each other, in my case, I chat with the guy who owns the funeral home (a decent person), and you know that you will return again and again.

Where I grew up, we didn't and don't do wakes. It's just not part of our culture. In my family of origin's circle of friends, they simply do a service and then a gathering afterwards, usually back at the home of the family. So the open coffin, viewing at the funeral home the night before the burial was something new to me when I went into the ministry.

If I knew how to do such things, the way Mad Priest does, I would insert here Blood, Sweat and Tears song, 'And when I die...'
'And when I die, and when I'm dead, dead and gone.... there'll be one child here to carry on, to carry on.'

Epiphany 2C • 14 January 2007

We have a tendency to associate this gospel reading from John uniquely with weddings, partly because it talks about the wedding at Cana, and partly because it is an option for the service of Holy Matrimony. The creators of the lectionary, therefore, have placed alongside it the reading from Isaiah, which places the covenantal relationship between Jerusalem and God in terms of a marital covenant. But there is a greater depth and richness to the reading from John than marriage. The depth and richness speak to us about change and transformation, the change and transformation that come through Jesus Christ’s life, death and resurrection.

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It is thought that this story from the second chapter of John fits into a category of writings that is known as ‘miracle stories.’ The purpose of these stories was to present a series of stupendous miracles to convince potential converts that Jesus was the Messiah. In a peculiar way, it was missionary writing. Its basic idea was that Jesus was the prophet of the new age, recalling other holy men, Moses, Elijah, and Elisha. By evoking the Jewish prophets, the writer of the gospel of John hoped to convert first-century Greek-speaking Jews to Christianity. But this particular conversion was a difficult one: the Christians had already been expelled from the synagogue. The writer’s purpose was not only to convert outside people but also to force the Jewish Christians to stop concealing their faith. He resorted to using these miracle stories, expanding them with dialogues and discourses, and then he combined them with the passion story and resurrection narrative to make the larger point of telling these stories. The larger point of these stories is to explain Christ’s coming into the world (which we heard Christmas Day and the First Sunday of Christmas in the magnificent prologue to the Gospel of John) that brings about a crisis, a decision between light and darkness, truth and falsehood, life and death.

But this miracle story at Cana is simply bizarre! If, as a true miracle story, it is meant to edify and inspire, it falls short of the mark. The narrator does not even indicate that the guests were aware of the domestic crisis, the lack of wine at the wedding feast. Jesus snaps at his mother, distancing himself from her, even though she is the one who clues him in on the shortage. His response to her is puzzling: ‘My hour has not yet come.’ Even after the water has been changed into wine—something that happens but which is not attributed directly to Jesus — the guests still do not know that a miracle has happened: the steward knows he is sampling fine wine; the servants know where it came from, but no one says out loud what has happened. For some hearers even, it is troubling that the miracle focuses on wine rather than on a healing or like transformation.

Since this so-called miracle story is so strange, it calls us to look beyond the actual sign to the deeper meaning. It is here where we find the true story of transformation and change. On the surface it is water that is changed into wine. Deeper than that transformation is our relationship with God that is about to be transformed.

We are not to take the Cana miracle as a direct and complete epiphany of Christ’s glory. Though the evangelist accepts the reality of the miracle, it has a further symbolic significance, pointing toward what Jesus is to accomplish on the cross. Hence, his saying to his mother, ‘My hour has not yet come.’ It is not yet time for him to change the nature of our salvation. On the cross, the old order shall be replaced by the new. This is what the changing of the water symbolises. The real, final epiphany is the cross. It is hard for us to think already to the cross when we have just celebrated the nativity, but the cross is where our journey leads us. The gospel of John, the gospel of seven signs, of which this is the first, points us to the cross and then the resurrection.

At the same time that the sign — the changing of the water into wine — points us to the cross, it also reminds us of God’s sur-abundant generosity and grace. The wine reminds us of the messianic banquet which overflows with reconciling joy, where — in the words of Isaiah paraphrased — we shall no more be called ‘Forsaken’, our land shall no more be called ‘desolate’… because the Lord delights in us. Just as Israel hoped in its future and joyful relationship with God and one another, so do we.

Jesus is the agent of change. He is the agent of change in renewal of the church, us the baptised. Jesus, the crossroads between humanity and God, is the one through whom our relationship with God and one another is changed from despair to hope, from death to life. Jesus, God incarnate, is the one who reminds us of God’s generosity and grace.

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But, like Mary in this story, we have to trust… even when we cannot control or fully understand what is happening. And we have to let go of what we have in order to become something new.

This process of transformation happens on a personal and corporate level. Think of how you personally have changed over the past year. Think of how we, as a parish, have changed. Whether the change and transformation have been in our selves, our families, our circle of friends, or our parish, some of it has been intentional. Some of it has simply happened, outside of our control. Some of it we have liked. Some of it we have not. Think of what transformations there have been — positive ones. Think of where we have been able to let go of old thinking and ways in order to do something new and creative. Think of where we have been able to trust… for a large part of the process of transformation comes from that initial step of trusting in God. Trusting that all will be well. And that is hard to do.

There seems to be a knee-jerk reaction to the words, ‘change,’ and ‘transformation.’ I know‚ I have that reaction sometimes (I am rather feline in that respect). The word, ‘change’ seems to provoke a greater and, perhaps, more negative reaction than ‘transformation,’ which seems more gentle and less threatening. Yet, as I speak these words, I know that we, as a parish, will undergo changes and transformation over the next year. It happens every year; this process is something to expect, it is inevitable. People move away, others join us; some are born and some will die. The changes can be painful — no one likes loss. But change can also bring forth new life. That transformation is perhaps the harder thing to trust because it is less certain.

Transformation and change can be wrenching if there is no foundation. If the transformation of water into wine is happening for no reason, then it is meaningless. If there is no way to make sense out of the change and transformation, then it is pointless. But when we place the changes and transformations into the context of the salvation story, we are better equipped to deal with them, because the salvation story gives us firm ground on which to stand, even when things are shifting around us. The salvation story — God’s grace and mercy coming to us in Christ—is our firm foundation. With that firm foundation, we are better equipped to withstand the chances and changes of our lives, and to give thanks.

Remember all this the next time you have a glass of fresh, clear water or fine wine and give thanks….

[credence at the side altar before the 8.00 HE]

Epiphany 1 • 7 January 2007

The way the calendar falls this year, we have just flown through the season of Christmas, lingering only one Sunday instead of two, and just last night, we ended the twelve days of Christmas. Now we enter the season of Epiphany, called in the Roman tradition Ordinary Time once the first Sunday has passed. Epiphany is ordinary and extraordinary. During the Sundays of Epiphany, we celebrate the manifestation of Christ’s glory in the ordinary here and now of our existence. At the same time, we commemorate the extraordinary love of God that breaks into human realm, a love that leaves us transformed and transfixed. Epiphany is an in-between time, a liminal time when the veil separating heaven and earth can become most transparent and permeable. Finally, during the season of Epiphany, the readings remind us over and over that God understands the frailty of our humanity (our creatureliness) and longs to show God’s self to us in the person of Christ.

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John the Baptist returns to the scene in our lectionary, preaching a baptism of fire and repentance. Luke 3.1-20 summarises the ministry of John, completing the account begun in the first two chapters of Luke. The gospel portion we have just heard begins with a summary of his teaching, which includes a fiery prophecy in which John speaks of God’s judgement by wind and fire, and brief catechism wherein he speaks of the one who is to follow — one far greater than he.

Contrast this teaching of judgement and repentance with the teachings of the one following John. Jesus comes not to judge, but to invite even sinners to eat with him at table. Jesus’ message is one of God’s love and inclusivity, marked by the very heavenly words which onlookers to Jesus’ baptism hear: ‘You are my Son, my Beloved; with you I am very pleased.’ Those baptismal words signal the nature of Jesus’ ministry, a ministry that would reach out to the dispossessed, the foreigner, the widow, the orphan, the tax collector, and anyone who was not considered mainstream.

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You are my child, my beloved. What does it mean to take these words to heart and apply them to our daily life? What does it mean to see in one another God’s child, God’s beloved, even when we look at ourselves in the mirror?

One of the most poignant stories to come out of the long siege of Sarajevo in the early to mid-nineties was that of a reporter who chanced upon a child critically injured by a bomb that had just exploded. The reporter ran over to help a man who was bent over the boy. He asked the reporter, ‘Please help me get my child to the hospital.’ So the reporter flagged a taxi and the three of them set off to the hospital. En route, the man said over and over again, ‘I am afraid my child is dying.’ Once at the hospital, the child was taken to the ICU. The reporter told the man, ‘I hope your son is all right.’ ‘Oh,’ replied the man, ‘I’m not his father.’ ‘But you came all this way,’ the reporter said. The man looked at him and said, ‘Aren’t they all our children?’ (1)

Barbara Kingsolver, author of The Poisonwood Bible, tells a story of the flip side of compassion and caring for one another as God’s beloved. Kingsolver was travelling from New York to Madrid with her husband and young daughter. They hadn’t been assigned seats together so she begged her neighbour, ‘a forty-something New Yorker traveling alone,’ if she would take Kingsolver’s husband’s aisle seat in another row so that their plainly miserable daughter could stretch out across her parents’ laps. ‘No,’ snapped the woman, ‘I have to have the window seat, just like you had to have that baby.’ That response is so breathtaking that if I had been there, all I could think of is ‘Huh?’ Kingsolver admits that she didn’t come up with a good retort until two days later. (I am that sort of person, never coming up with something right away but it's probably for the best; I'd probably say something I would later regret.) She would have said, ‘Be careful what you give children, for sooner or later you are sure to get it back.’ (2)

And not just children. Be careful what you give others, for sooner or later you are sure to get it back.

Realistically speaking, there are times when we behave less than charitably with those around us, when we take it upon ourselves to judge others. Even Jesus had his moments of pique, though they were usually for a very good reason.

Nonetheless, as those made in God’s image and called God’s beloved, too, we should ask ourselves some questions such as…

When have I not seen God’s beloved in another person?

Even with those who are hard to love, you know, the prickly sorts, how can I better improve communication with them? How do I find a way to reach out to them as God’s beloved?

When have I failed to see in myself God’s beloved child and have chosen instead to look at myself as unlovable? When was the last time I heard God saying to me, ‘You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased’?

When have I failed to share this good news with others?
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As those marked and sealed as Christ’s own for ever in baptism, we have already been chosen and loved by God. And while it may be sometimes difficult to hear God’s voice telling us we are God’s beloved, we certainly are called to say as much to those around us. Our baptismal covenant gives us solid guidelines for how we can convey that message to a world that desperately needs to hear the gospel news of redemption through Christ.

Epiphany is a pilgrimage, a time when we follow the light to its source, Christ. We travel a path of mission, one which invites us to reach out to others and share with them the lodestar that keeps us centred, and which is due north of our spirit’s compass, Jesus the Christ, the Word Incarnate, God-with-us.

During this season of Epiphany think on the ways that you might share with others and yourself God’s simple words, ‘You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased’… for it is a message well worth repeating over and over.

END NOTES

(1) Told by G. Porter Taylor, ‘Roots and Wings,’ in To Dream as God Dreams (Athens, GA: The Green Berry Press, 2000), 14.
(2) Barbara Kingsolver, ‘Somebody’s Baby,’ in High Tide in Tucson (New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1995), 101, 103.


So here's the lavender bush out in the garden on 7 January and at the head of this entry, the parsley out from under the snow. Usually by now the two are at least six inches under the snow. Pitiful.

Epiphany 2007

It's the Feast of the Epiphany and it's about 60 degrees outside. Here's the scene from the rectory front porch. Note all the snow. The parsley is peeking out from under the snow in the garden. It's awful!

I know I got someone out in the blogosphere laughing because I was complaining about the lack of snow, and I know my sister out in Denver is sick to death of it, but I am pining away for it here.

People are out tapping the maples and making syrup. Grass is green. The records have been broken in many Vermont places with temperatures over the 65-mark, in one place breaking an 1890 record. And tomorrow maybe we'll get wet snow after midnight. But it's mostly rain, rain, rain for the next two days. Cheez.

El Niño, global warming, whatever. It shouldn't be 60 plus degrees on 6 January in north central Vermont.

I'll go take a walk this afternoon, in sandals, in tshirt, typical winter clothing for Vermont. And then we have a eucharist tonight for the Feast of the Epiphany. Sermon follows.

Epiphany 2007

This year everything seems to be on fast-forward. We have had only one Sunday of Christmas, and with Epiphany landing on a Saturday, one fewer service. Ash Wednesday lands early this year — 21 February and so we will breeze through this season that some people think is quirky, others call ‘ordinary time’ and for me, represents the turning of the year and the hope of new possibilities. I see Epiphany as the gentle progression from Christmas to Lent, almost a continuation of the inbreaking of God’s presence in the depths of winter, even though this year I would hardly call what I see outside as ‘winter.’

Epiphany means manifestation. During this season of light, we observe, in particular, the coming of God’s light through Christ. For those of us who travel these roads of transformation, Epiphany is a call and a challenge because it invites us to open our hearts to God’s light and to new birth.

So much of the Christmas story we take for literal truth. The stuff of Christmas pageants, the story of the magi has always captivated our imaginations. Though we are convinced that there were three magis, in actuality, we don’t know how many there were. The fun part of further story-telling, in fact, is who other magi might have been.

It seems as though the travellers from the east have been appropriated by all people in all times. Men and women from different countries have identified their ancestors in faith with the wise men of the gospel. Local traditions have the wise men coming from places as diverse as Iran, Afghanistan, India, China, the Philippines, the United Arab Emirates, and one legend even routes their journey through Europe. Even Christians with no possible claim on such traditions have identified with the journey of faith, the gift-giving, the gestures of homage and worship.

The magi, ‘wise men’ in Greek, were probably priestly sages from Persia, who were experts in astrology and the interpretation of dreams. What distinguishes them in Matthew’s narrative is their sincere and persistent search for the baby ‘born king of the Jews.’ While we might think they are wise, sophisticated travellers, what is striking is their candor and openness. Almost naive, they don’t seem to anticipate stirring up things by asking Herod the king about the birth of a rival king. Their inquisitiveness forces the troubled Herod to seek help from the chief priests and scribes (the first mention of them in this gospel) who, though aligned with Herod, produce the clue that leads to Bethlehem.

God guides the magi to Bethlehem. First a star in the east and then a text from the prophet Micah give them the direction to their goal. When it is time for them to leave Bethlehem, they are warned in a dream to take a different route home to avoid Herod. These strange outsiders do not stumble onto the Messiah as if by accident. They search with purpose and are directed each step of the way by God’s divine hand.

Their stay in Bethelehem is marked by great joy, by the worship of the infant Jesus and by the giving of gifts. They come prepared and seem to know what to do when they arrive. We are not given any reasons why the magi came and why they worshipped. Those reasons are less important than the importance of their response: they worship the King of Israel.

The accompanying texts of Isaiah 60 and Psalm 72, which we also hear, are the texts upon which this passage of Matthew is based, the scripture which Matthew seeks to demonstrate as fulfilled. In Matthew’s eyes the arrival of these non-Jews in Bethlehem turns out to be part of the divine plan, an accomplishment of promises made long ago. The magi, as representatives of all non-Jews, belong here in the company of those worshipping the infant Messiah. They, like the others, offer their gifts and themselves to the Christ child.

At the Christmas Eve service, I talked about some of the books I have read to the children over the years. In one, a little boy wants to follow the magi to the crib in Bethlehem. He works with his father to tend the gardens of Balthazar, Caspar, and Melchoir. One night the star appears and the magi know instantly what is it: ‘A great king is to be born!’ The adults tell him he is too young to go and that he has nothing to offer. The story then details all the people and gifts that they bear to Bethlehem: as the kings journey with their gift-bearing camels, nomads, bearing their best rugs join them. Next come herdsmen with their goats, olive growers with their jars of oil, farmers with their loaves of walnut-date bread, beekeepers with their jars of honey, musicians playing their bells, pipes, and drums, and shepherds with two white lambs, No one throughout this whole journey notices a boy with a small brown sack trudging along behind them in the dust and shadows.

When the whole contingent arrives at the stable, they give their gifts to the Christ child. When all have presented what they have, the boy steps out of the dust and shadows. He opens his sack, pulls out a small tree and presents it to the baby. The wise men realise that he has decorated it with herbs and spices tied with threads from the nomad’s rugs. They notice how he has strung silvery goat hair with walnuts and shiny dates, green and purple olives. The herdsmen, musicians, beekeepers and shepherds see little bells tucked between the branches of the tree and a tiny star, made from golden honey, nestled in fine lamb’s fleece at the very top of the tree. The baby reaches toward the tree and smiles and for the young boy, this is the best gift of all. (1)

As always, there are good questions that come out of these stories. This story asks us: of all the ordinary stuff of my life, the things and parts of my life that at times are discarded or seem useless, how do I weave them together to make an offering to Christ? How do I pick up what seems cast down and raise it up? How do I change that which I take for granted and make it into some wonderful? How do I let God’s grace and light fill my life so that I can be a gift myself to the Christ child?

Conversely, how does God take all the ordinariness of my life and weave it together into some thing wonderful and holy? How does God take that which lurks in the shadows and dust of my life and change it into something bright? How does God make my life an offering of service and peace?

During this season of Epiphany, of manifestation, may we open our hearts to God, the great Weaver, the Creator of all. May we trust in God to take the risk of opening our hearts to be made into something new and know that with the bits and pieces of our lives, God weaves something new and wonderful.

END NOTE
1 John Speirs, The Little Boy’s Christmas Gift (New York, NY: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 2001).

What a difference 24 hours can make

Yesterday we had a nice sunny day with about three or four inches on the ground, and soft snow on the tree branches. It was pretty, and finally made the outdoors look the way we want it to look at Christmas time and more often than not, it doesn't.

And then, at 5.00 this morning, sleet banging on the windows woke me up. It had started to rain or sleet or whatever after midnight. By the time I got up this morning at 7.30 to go over to the church to crank up the furnace for the 10.00 service, this is what I saw.

The ramp was covered by a nice glaze of ice. So was the driveway, front walk and steps to the church. And it was still doing something at 9.30 when I went over.

Needless to say, I did not have a huge congregation. One person showed up. Yet it was a lovely eucharist, just the two of us, both sopranos with clear, clear voices. We sang a capella the three hymns I had chosen (anticipating a small congregation), 'O God, our help in ages past' (St Anne), 'I want to walk as a child of the light' (Houston) and 'At the name of Jesus every knee shall bow' (Kings Weston). Singing together made me think of going to the convent of the Order of Saint Helena, Vails Gate, NY. Perhaps, too, since I went to a women's college, I enjoy the sound of women's voices.

As we talked about it afterward, once one gets past the initial sense of awkwardness at the intimacy of being at prayer with another person (and worrying whether or not one will get the responses right), worshipping in such a quiet way can be quite powerful. I was appreciative for my companion in prayer... especially because I wasn't quite in the mood for Morning Prayer.

I pitched the sermon I had prepared but I will post it FWIW. Instead, the two of us talked about the readings and shared some laughter.

As for the rest of the day, it has been very quiet. I fell asleep in a nap for far longer than I had anticipated and consequently blew it as far as driving back downstream to spend what's left of New Year's Day with compa. I also tweaked my back this morning, reaching down to pick a cat food dish off the floor, so have been moving a bit gingerly.

My thoughts and prayers go out to all seminarians who will start taking the General Ordination Examinations tomorrow. The GOEs are the Episcopalian equivalent of a bar exam and all-out mental and physical week-long sprint.

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Feast of the Holy Name 2007

Naming something or someone, a place, a newborn child, even a family animal, can be so difficult. Families will sometimes wait days before giving their newborn a name — despite having picked out several names before the child was born. Somehow when the moment comes for real, they hesitate. And for good reason. To name someone is to call into being aspects of that person’s character and essence — to find out who they are. (Conversely, one wonders at some of the wild names out there and what on earth the parents were thinking or not thinking when they gave a name to their child.) The importance of a name and its evocative power is exactly what this morning’s feast is about.

The lectionary makes us jump back again in time from what we heard yesterday. We have backed up from the cosmos to the shepherds going to worship the Christ child in the manger, seeing and marveling at him and then returning glorifying and praising God. Mary remains quiet throughout this portion of the story, having already declared her great hymn of praise, the Magnificat. Then the gospel readings ends simply with the statement that the child was called Jesus, the name given him by the angel before he was conceived.

In Hebraic thought, to name someone is to know that person’s nature. The passage from Exodus recounts how God reveals the divine name in a single word, Adonai, I AM WHO I AM. Not that we can fully know God’s nature, but in that naming of God’s self, God tells us a bit about who God is — being and life. Then to help us, God provides a summary of God’s character — above all, abounding in steadfast mercy.

Likewise, the name Emmanuel, God-with-us, reveals some of Jesus’ character, namely that Christ is with us and in us at all times for ever. By becoming flesh and dwelling among us, God Incarnate in Jesus, is more present, more real to us.
If the name of God is I AM, and Jesus is, God-with-us, what is our name? As those baptised in Christ’s name, it is ‘child of God,’ ‘Christ’s child.’ As children of the light, sons and daughters of God, we find Christ in one another.

Maggie Ross, an Anglican anchorite, once wrote that after we have received communion, we should bow before one another because each one of us has become a tabernacle, a dwelling for God.

Many years ago, in the same vein, someone wrote me the following e-mail in response to a sermon. I warned the person at the time that what was in the email might make it into the sermon and here it is, with permission granted way back when….
The email read:

‘I believe that Jesus comes to us all of the time because of the promise given to the disciples, ‘Lo I am with you always.’ We are given the Grace of Jesus’ presence in the Sacrament of Communion. We open ourselves to that presence.

‘…As you go and walk about in the days to come this week, how does Jesus appear to you? How has Jesus come to your life? More importantly the question is: How does Jesus come into the lives of the people you live with and meet along the way? How do others see Jesus come to them in you? What is the image of Christ? You are the image of Christ to people you meet. I am the image of Christ to people I meet.’

As those sealed and marked by Christ for ever, in whom Christ dwells, whose name we share, may Christ give us hope to look forward to the challenges of tomorrow; courage to face hardships without losing hope; faith so that the joy of receiving Christ into our lives will lead us to serve our brothers and sisters; appreciation for the gifts that we have received, that we may use them responsibly, daring to offer friendship, service and love to others; and the gift of Christmas throughout the year.

Christmas I • 31 December 2006


If you attend the late service on Christmas Eve, the morning eucharist on Christmas day and this morning’s service, you will have heard the prologue to the Gospel of John three times by now. It is an awesome piece of writing — not just for the language with its gentle repetition but mostly because the thoughts contained therein are too marvelous for us to grasp.

Isn’t it amazing that in beginning, God created humankind and then breathed the breath of life, God’s presence, God’s shekina, into our souls and bodies? You and I share that essence of life, that which the Hebrew scriptures call nephesh, a word that cannot really be translated other than essence of life. You and I share God’s presence in our very being, and you and I also share that animating breath of life that God has given us. You and I share that spark of life, the soul, which is the light that keeps us alive. It is amazing, isn’t it, that God, too, in Christ, shared the same?

Then there’s the wonderful language in the passage where it talks about the Word becoming flesh and ‘liv[ing] among us.’ The word translated as ‘lived’ means ‘tented,’ and it is the same word used in the Hebrew scriptures to describe God’s presence among the people: God is in the tent of the tabernacle; by the same token, Wisdom sets up her tent in our midst.

Eugene Peterson in his translation of the prologue to John puts this same phrase into a wonderful image: ‘The Word (otherwise called in his translation, ‘Word, the Incarnate One, as the Life-Light’) became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood.’ What a fabulous way of expressing God’s proximity to us — God has moved into the neighbourhood — God is around every corner I turn, in every home I see and in every person. When I think of God dwelling with us in this way, I can’t help but remember the narrow alleys of the neighbourhood around Sma Trinidad near San Salvador, with the 5000 people that lived crammed into that small neighbourhood. They are my brothers and sisters. They are your brothers and sisters. God is here in the neighbourhod, now, with us, in Jesus, in the Incarnation.

Why does God move into our neighbourhood and midst? Patricia Wilson-Kastner captures not only the sense of divine Love that lies in the Incarnation but also some of the themes of the gospel of John when she writes:

‘Jesus became flesh so as to show forth the love of God among us, a love which is not merely an expression of good will, but the power of an energy which is the heart, core, and cohesive force of the universe…. Christ is the human expression of God to us, and thus we must try to understand what God meant in Christ…. Christ is… the one who shows all persons how to live. As a human he shows us what human self-possession and self-giving are. Thereby Christ shows us the link between divine and human, the cosmos and its conscious inhabitants.’

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One of my favourite sights on Christmas Eve comes as the congregation lights its candles. This year, since a deacon was reading the last gospel, that is, the reading we have just heard from John, I was able to look out and consider the scene in a way I never have been able to do so before.

There was something incredibly poignant and moving to see your faces illuminated by a sole flickering flame. The congregation, as a whole, was still, listening to the proclamation of Christ coming into the world as the Light that enlightens the world. For the first time in all these years, I really saw you waiting for the light and, in your hands, as you held the light and with that little candle and its silly paper bobêche, that doesn’t do any good, you were holding hope.

As I looked at your illumined faces, I thought of the countless other people throughout the world and throughout time who have held a candle in their hands, hoping….

I saw faces lit by candles in the days after 9-11-2001 as impromptu shrines sprang up, particularly around New York City. I saw faces lit by candles on a very cold March night in 2003 as 1000 of us stood on the steps to the capitol building three days before the assault on Baghdad began. I saw faces lit by candles in the days following the tsunami two years ago, people in Banda Aceh. I have seen photos of people holding candles, as a sign of silent protest outside of prisons when they know someone will be executed. And on and on it goes, the universal human expression of sadness, community, seeking and mostly hope.

Why else would there be a website where you can 'light' a virtual candle that will ‘burn’ for 48 hours?

When I checked their homepage in the writing of this sermon, it read: 16,395 candles from 131 countries are shining.
The page then goes on to say:

In many different traditions lighting candles is a sacred action. It expresses more than words can express. It has to do with gratefulness. From time immemorial, people have lit candles in sacred places. Why should cyberspace not be sacred?

You may want to begin or end your day by the sacred ritual of lighting a candle on this website. Or you may want to light a birthday candle for a friend. One single guideline is all you need: Slow down and do it with full attention. From here on, you will be guided step by step. [www.gratefulness.org]

Yes, lighting a candle is a universal expression of seeking light and hope.

For us, the symbol of light goes beyond simply hope or remembrance. It represents for us, in the eloquent words of John’s gospel, the Light that has come into the world, the Word, in other words, Jesus, God incarnate. God, Light, Jesus, with us. That is what we remember today.

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God is with us, Emmanuel, and God will always be with us. We know where the story of the incarnation leads—it leads from the crib to the cross to the tomb and to the resurrection. While the resurrection may seem a long way off from Christmas, it is so deeply intertwined with Christmas as to be very close and present. It is the very hope upon which our faith stands.

Whether it is God pitching God’s tent amongst us, or dwelling in the neighbourhood, God in Christ is with us, loving us and showing us how to love one another. And God in Christ knows our struggles inside out from birth to death. How comforting!

God continues to dwell among us in our neighbours, our companions on the way. Realise we are all different, but we are all of God and we are all icons of God’s light. Christ our brother dwells in us. Indeed, we have seen God’s glory, full of grace and truth. For that, let us give thanks.

[two candles at Our Lady Chapel in the cathedral of Bayonne, France]

Christmas Day 2006


What can one ever really say after hearing the words of the Prologue to Saint John’s Gospel? What else do we need to say when those magnificent words sum up everything that this day is about?

As I thought about this morning, my soul kept returning to Psalm 19:

The heavens declare the glory of God,
and the firmament shows his handiwork.
One day tells its tale to another,
and one night imparts its knowledge to another.
Although they have no words or language,
and their voices are not heard,
Their sound has gone out into all lands,
and their message to the ends of the world.

This is a morning when the heavens and our souls declare God’s glory at the same time that we are brought to that small, still place at the centre of our lives, that place where God dwells.

The paradox of Christmas, shouting from the rooftops Gloria in excelsis, God is with us!, while reaching deep down within our souls to touch the Holy because coming close as we do to the Holy at Christmas silences our words, always confronts us on this day. It is a good contrast because it underlines the incredible paradox of what we hear and know in our hearts: in the words of hymns and poems, God came down from heaven to dwell amongst us in the form of a little child, an infant, who would grow up, share all the aches and pains that we human beings know, and who, one day, would also die as we do.

A colleague, the Rev’d Jennifer Phillips of Rhode Island, wrote a Christmas version of the Eucharistic prayer. I chose not to use it this morning, but her words offer another image of the Christmas, Easter and Eucharistic mysteries that all come together on this morning. (I will skip the words of institution.) You’ll see that her words echo mine, even though I hadn’t really looked at them closely until last week:

Holy God, our Source and Ending, Alpha and Omega,
we give thanks to you!
You have called all creation into being,
setting the earth on its foundations.
You have spread out the heavens like a tent,
and set a boundary to the seas,
you have filled the world with your creatures
and called all things good.

The heavenly beings are your messengers night and day,
and with them we sing and give glory to you:

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of power and might.…

In these latter days, God leaned toward the earth
and spoke to us by a Son, Jesus the Beloved.
Born of our sister Mary and the Holy Spirit,
guarded by our brother Joseph with fatherly care,
Jesus came among us as a baby, humbly born,
cradled beside the beasts and warmed by their breath,
human as we are, in need of human love.
Yet kings bowed down before him, bringing gifts
and emperors were troubled by his reign –
this Child in whom all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell.
This Word of God made flesh and full of grace
was sent to deliver us from our sin,
from the power of evil and the fear of death.

As a servant, Jesus emptied himself of might upon the cross,
and as the risen Anointed One is enthroned at God’s right hand to bring mercy and justice
to all the earth at the end of days.
Holy God, as you visited us in the birth of Jesus,
visit us now by the power of your Spirit…
Blessed God, shed your grace brighter than starlight on us
that we may bear your good tidings to all
and renew the weary world in your name:
the name of Emmanuel – God-With-Us,
to whom we give honor and glory in joy, now and for ever.

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When we leave this morning, fed not only with Christ’s body and blood, but also with Christ’s spirit, may we be able to pray, using again Jennifer’s words:

Mysterious God, we thank you
for feeding us with yourself;
and for making yourself known to us
in the holy child Jesus, the Christ.
Let us carry within our hearts your Holy Spirit,
that same Spirit which was in Jesus,
so that that we may help bring your peace to all the earth
in Jesus’ Name.

May we carry the Holy Spirit in our hearts, the same Spirit which was in Jesus, so we may bring peace to the earth. And may we find that peace within ourselves this Christmas and Christmastide.

[Christmas morning 2006]

Christmas Eve 2006

Every year, I try to come up with a storybook that I can show the children at the early service. The books I have used have varied enormously, hewing closely and not closely at all (such as Wombat the Divine) to the birth story of Christ. Some are serious; some are gently humourous. Some have worked, others haven’t and some I haven’t used.

What an odd-lot selection! There’s The Cat in the Manger, which depicts the nativity scene from the vantage-point of a feline.

Or there’s The Last Straw, narrated by a cranky old camel with gout and sciatica that is asked to take gifts to the newborn king. His burden becomes mountainous and when a child asks him to take a piece of straw for the king’s bed, he is about to give up right then and there. But he manages to plod forward, despite his gout, sciatica and whatever else, under the light of the star, to get to the manger where he collapses on his knees. When everyone else kneels, he thinks they are mocking him, until he realises that he is the one who set the example. When the new Christ child touches him on the nose, he decides there will be no burden he will shun again.

Another animal-narrated book, The Donkey’s Dream, tells the story of a donkey who dreams all manner of things, including how he carries a lady full of heaven. (Her robes even have stars in them.) Eventually he realises that the woman, and the subsequent birth he witnesses is not a dream, it is for real.

Perhaps it is easier for children’s authors to interpret this incredible story through a familiar (and not-so) animal’s viewpoint (as if we were to know). There seem to be lots of animal-narrated stories out there.

Then there’s the absolutely gorgeous (to this medievalist) book, The Little Boy’s Christmas Gift, painted in the style of 16th-century Flemish art of the Brueghels and Hans Memling, complete with gold-guilded drawings.

I am always in search of Christmas books that will depict Joseph, Mary and Jesus in races other than Caucasian (as the tendency still remains to paint them in our culture’s predominant race). There is a picture book, The Story of Christmas (based word-for-word on the Gospels of Matthew and Luke) where this trio looks distinctly Latino or Palestinian. I love it.

This year’s quest for a Christmas book to use at the early service, culminated in The Huron Carol. I have to say that there were a few sceptical faces this afternoon as I read it to the children because they couldn't quite picture Joseph, Mary and Jesus as North American First People but I assured them it was OK.

The Huron Carol is an actual song, written by a Jesuit priest, Jean de Brébeuf, who came to Canada in the early 1600s. He settled among the Huron, or Ouendat, people in what is now Midland, Ontario. Even though he was a missionary, he learned the people’s language and wrote, in Huron, this famous carol. He and his fellow priests, known as the Black Robes, and many of their Huron parishioners, were killed in a raid by the Iroquois in 1649. But generations of the Huron continued to sing this carol, and in 1926, Jesse Edgar Middleton, wrote his own version of the carol in English.

What is striking about this picture book is that all of the imagery is Native American. Mary clearly is Native American as are Joseph and Jesus. The angels as well have Native American features. Jesus is not born into a Middle Eastern house, but into a long house. The animals are those of the north: bears, foxes, moose, deer, eagles, raccoons, beavers, porcupine, elk, and wolves. Jesus is wrapped in rabbit skin and he receives gifts of fox and beaver pelt.

The last verse of the hymn says,
O children of the forest free,
O sons [and daughters] of Manitou,
the holy child of earth and heaven,
is born today for you.
Come, kneel before the radiant boy
who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
‘Jesus, your king, is born.
Jesus is born.
In excelsis Gloria!’

Maybe some will find this version of the nativity story heretical, but to me it is a lovely rendition of a universal story that needs to be translated across time and cultures.

While Christ the Child is universal for all, the incarnation of Jesus in each one of us has to be particular. Each one of us, made in God’s image, is but one tiny, tiny fragment of the wholeness of God’s body across time and space. I marvel at all the variations of the human face and find each exceedingly wonderful.

So if Jesus is depicted as Japanese, Thai, Middle Eastern, Sudanese, Brazilian, Canadian First Person, or any of the hundreds of ethnicities, races and nationalities that enrichen our world, all the better.

I am fascinated by authors and artists’ attempts to render this ineffable into story and image. How does one take all the hopes and fears of all the years and compress them into a picture book? How does one take all the human yearning and reduce it to four verses of a hymn?

As for you and me, gathered here tonight, past some folk’s bedtimes and in the prime of the night for others, what brings us here? How do we see Jesus in our eyes, imaginations and hearts? How do we translate into our terms the awesome mystery of the incarnation, God-with-us, Emmanuel?

And why do we look again and again for the Christ child?

For what do we seek? To have our burdens lessened? To come close to the Holy not because we understand why but because we are drawn in year after year because our souls instinctively yearn for mystery?

Do we come here because the pains of the world are too much to bear and we need to find some place to drop them, or some place, a larger reality to make sense out of them?

Do we come because we know that this yearly journey on this holy night is essential to our well-being?

For these reasons, for any other reason, for however you see Jesus, whether in picture and story-book form or hymnody, know that you are God’s dearly beloved, too. Know that God holds you and cherishes you. God incarnate has many faces and yours is one of them.

On this night when the star shines over the Bethlehems of our lives, both those of the nativity story and the one in the Middle East, know that it shines over us, too. For God has blessed us richly this night… and always.

[Photo is of the church Christmas Eve afternoon before the 4.00 PM service.]