I’ve always loved maps.  I remember doing a map exercise in 7th grade with Mrs. Cerrini where we had to start in our hometown and describe how to get to another location in Michigan.  We drew the other location out of a hat.  My group got Copper Harbor a small town at the highest tip of the Upper Peninsula,  and the place furthest away from where we lived in Southeast Michigan.  We aced it.  But I’ve never been there, and there has always been a mystique about this place for me. I love the outdoors.  The pictures I’ve seen online are fantastic.

 I think the resurrection can be like that.  We talk a great deal about it, but do we experience it?

Based on Luke 24:1-12

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

            I can’t even begin to imagine the range of emotions experienced by these women who had followed Jesus all the way from Galilee, these Christ-followers.  Luke tells us that on Friday they saw the tomb and how his body was laid, and that they prepared the spices and ointment for Jesus.  They rested from nightfall Friday to sunset on Saturday to observe the Sabbath.  And then early on Sunday morning, just as the sun was breaking over the horizon, they made their way back to that tomb, carrying those spices so they could take care of Jesus’ body.

The others had scattered, of course, fearing for their lives. But these women, Mary Magdalene, and Joanna, and Mary the mother of James and the other women, couldn’t care less about the Roman soldiers or the religious authorities.  They had followed Jesus all the way from his hometown, and they weren’t about to abandon him now.  They wanted to honor him the best way they knew how, to take the time to anoint his broken body with those spices and offer their prayers as they gave him back to God.

So they came bearing those gifts, much like the Magi who came at the start of Jesus’ life, to honor him.  Grief surely turned into uncertainty as they arrived at Jesus’ tomb only to discover the stone rolled back.  And then almost immediately that uncertainty transformed into horror when they looked in and saw that his body was no longer there.  They cried out, “Why? Why would anyone do such a horrible thing as to steal his body?”

And then suddenly, two men in dazzling white appear.  Shock.  Alarm.  “Why do you look for the living among the dead?  He is not here, but he is risen.  Remember how he told you that he must be handed over and crucified and on the third day rise again.”

They are perplexed.  Could it be true?  And then it dawns on them.  They do remember; Jesus did say that.  He did tell them that he was going to die and rise again.  They didn’t understand it then, they thought he was talking in metaphors, but it must be true, right?  His body is no longer here.  He must have been raised just as he said.  And then a flash of unbelievable joy.

They head back with tears of happiness streaming down their faces.  Just wait until the others hear this! They will be overcome with great joy to learn that Jesus is alive!  The women quicken their pace in order to hurry and tell the other disciples, the men who are hiding.

They rush in to the place where they’ve been gathering together since Friday, and the words start rushing out in their excitement.  They’re out of breath, speaking over one another, and the other disciples have to slow them down having just one of them speak.

“He’s alive!” one of those women says.  Blank stares from the others.  Incredulous looks.  So they start over, more slowly, telling them everything that had happened.  Nothing doing.  Those guys aren’t buying this story.  They stood off in the distance, but they saw him die.  They saw him when his tortured breathing stopped and his head collapsed on his chest.  They know he died, that he’s not alive.

Those women feel the disappointment and anguish rising in them. They look at one another, stunned that the others won’t believe them.  They see a couple of the men quietly whispering to one another, and then looking at them.  They hear someone say the words “it’s just an idle tale,” and then one of them begins to cry.  “Why won’t they believe us?” they whisper to each other.  Hurt, disappointment, disillusionment.

Peter alone finally leaves the place where they are staying.  He can’t believe their words, but he must verify it for himself.  So he runs over to the tomb and finds just the linen cloths just inside, but nothing else.  And he is amazed.

Sometimes when we hear unbelievable stories from others about the amazing things God has done for them, we approach them skeptically.  After some time we determine that these stories are merely fantastical—the person telling them is much too excited—so we take them with a grain of salt.  It isn’t that we don’t believe God can do amazing things, it’s just that we have never experienced them ourselves.  Besides we can’t muster up enough chutzpah, or enough disbelief in reality, to imagine that such miraculous things can take place.  So we politely dismiss the stories in our minds, while slowly smiling and nodding to the crazy person talking to us, trying to get them to finish up with their story so we can get on with our busy day.

Who would believe that God can save marriages?  Or that after praying for that person riddled with cancer, now the doctors can’t find anything?  Or those parents with the troubled teen that has had a turn around, surely that isn’t true.  We learned long ago that people don’t change, that even the idea of new life isn’t real, it’s not practical, because Jesus doesn’t really work that way in our day and age.  So we’re doubtful, cynical.

In his writings, C.S. Lewis compares discussing the things of God to reading a map.  A map is useful in describing things, like showing you the outline of a the shore. The creeds are helpful in describing God, for example, and in showing collectively what many have seen as attributes of God.  It’s just like a map, really.  But while maps are useful for getting you to your destination, it cannot begin to prepare you for what’s in store.  A map’s outline of the Acadia shore in Maine cannot prepare you for the breathtaking beauty of being there, of hearing the waves crash in on the rocks and having the salty spray hit you in the face.  If all you look at is a map, you’ll never experience the heart-pounding beauty.

Sometimes the same is true with God.  Perhaps you are here this morning and thinking, I’ve had quite enough of maps, thank you very much; I want to feel the spray.  I know the creeds, or what others have said about Jesus Christ, but I want to experience it myself.  I want to encounter the risen Christ because I am uncertain.  The whole thing seems like an idle tale.

Maybe you’re here this morning and are staring down great difficulties.  Maybe you’ve become estranged from a child or a spouse.  Perhaps you are in bondage to addiction or anger or fear and you think there is no way out.  It’s possible that you’ve been attending church for years but inside you feel that your faith is dead.  While others have had experiences with living God, you’ve never had those encouters or haven’t had them for a very long time.

Or perhaps most of all, this talk of new life, of experiencing the risen Christ seems to you to be nothing more than idle chatter.  Words that must be endured because you’re expected to be here, and you really just want the priest to hurry up so you can get on with the rest of your day, and head over to Tavolino’s for your Easter Brunch.

I want to say as emphatically as I can that Jesus came into this world to free us from those things that weigh us down, to forgive our sins and to bring us new life.  Experiencing the living Christ does not mean that we give up our identities, our deepest and truest selves; it was God who made us to begin with.  Rather, encountering Jesus brings us healing, reconciliation and wholeness; it allows us to be the people we were created to be: our best selves.  When we stumble upon Jesus–or maybe when he stumbles upon us—it is like being at the ocean for the first time and feeling the spray of the water as it crashes in on the rocks, rather than just tracing the shoreline on a map with our finger.

That’s why we gather on this day, and why we come to this table: to experience the risen Christ.  Jesus wants to “help us embrace the mystery of salvation, the promise of life rising out of death.”  May we “hear the call of Christ” and be given the “courage to follow it readily.”[1]   May we proclaim with joy the good news of the risen Christ, and may we experience Christ anew this Easter season, for he is risen, jut as he said.

Alleluia!  Christ is risen!

Saturday after sunset we began our journey into Easter by gathering around a fire pit and kindling a flame in the darkness.  We then lit the Paschal candle, and smaller candles held by everyone, and moved into the darkened tomb of the church.  We baptized 3 adults, a teen, 2 older boys and finally a baby boy as part of our celebration of moving from the darkness of death to the light of resurrection.  My sermon from that night, the first of Easter.

Based on Exodus 14:10-31

On this most holy of nights we hear the stories of God’s deliverance, of God’s redemption of the people of Israel. We tell these stories as we gather in the darkness to remember that God has offered salvation before and continues to do so, especially in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

As the people of Israel stood on the edge of the Red Sea, they feared for their very lives.  They began complaining against Moses—and against God—because they could have stayed in Egypt rather than die on those watery banks.  Much earlier, God had heard their cries for help to be delivered from the slavery they experienced under the oppression of Pharaoh.  God sent Moses to free the Israelites, and Moses came before Pharaoh begging for their release so that they might go and worship the Living God.  Pharaoh refused; he liked having the slaves to accomplish his immense building projects.

So God began sending the plagues.  You may remember them from Cecil B. DeMille’s “Ten Commandments” with Charlton Heston (which, by the way, we are currently missing; it’s on ABC tonight and runs till 11:45 if you’re interested).  First the water was turned into blood, killing fish and other aquatic life.  Then there were plagues of frogs and lice and flies.  Each time Moses came back to Pharaoh, and Pharaoh declared that if God would remove the plague, he would free the Israelites.  Each time, the plague was lifted, but then Pharaoh changed his mind, thinking he was more powerful than God.

This continued through the other plagues: disease of the livestock, boils, hail, locusts, and darkness.  Each time the same: Pharaoh promised to release the people of Israel and then reneges. Until finally God resorts to the ultimate plague, the death of the firstborn.  On that night, God instructed the people of Israel to kill a lamb and to place the blood from that lamb on their doorposts.  Then God told them to roast that lamb and eat it with unleavened bread and prepare to depart.  During that night, an angel of death came into the land of Egypt and whenever that angel saw the sign of the blood he passed over the house, knowing that the people inside belonged to God.  But those who didn’t have that mark lost their firstborn child to death.  This deliverance became known as the Passover of the Lord, a celebration among our Jewish friends even to this day.

Pharaoh, mourning the loss of his own son, called Moses to him and released the children of Israel that very night so that they could go and worship YHWH.  This conflict, we must remember, was between God and Pharaoh, not between Moses and Pharaoh.  And God only resorted to violence as a last option because Pharaoh’s heart was hardened.

But Pharaoh had second thoughts and chased after the Israelites with his chariots in the morning.  As the Egyptians advanced, the Israelites moved as close to the water as possible.  That’s when God brought deliverance; the Red Sea was parted and the people walked across on dry land.  Then the chariots of Egypt tried to follow only to have the waters crash back in on them.  Miriam—Moses’ sister—in her exuberance begins to dance and sing about the deliverance God has given to them.

In the Jewish Hasidic tradition, the story gets told of this scene playing out on the earth while angels watched from the heavens.  As the dancing and singing began, some of the heavenly host took up their tambourines as well, joining in the celebration.  “’Wait,’ says one of them, ‘the Creator of the universe is sitting there weeping!’  They go to God.  ‘Why are you weeping when Israel has been delivered by your power?’ ‘I am weeping,’ says the Creator of the universe, ‘for the dead Egyptians washed on the shore are somebody’s sons, somebody’s husbands, somebody’s father.’”[1]

While on this night we speak with joy of God’s deliverance, let us not become people who believe they have earned this deliverance, or that we are somehow special.  Yes, tonight we will gather around the waters of baptism and proclaim our Easter joy, but this is not due to something we have done.  God gives this gift of deliverance freely, and we should approach the grace of God with a sense of humility. And we were reminded in the prayer after our Exodus reading that the deliverance of the Israelites was “to be a sign for us of the salvation of all nations by the water of Baptism.”  We went on to pray, “Grant that all the peoples of the earth may be numbered among the offspring of Abraham, and rejoice in the inheritance of Israel.”  All nations, and all people.  God desires to bring deliverance from evil and death and destruction to every human being.

One of my great joys as a priest is to bring people together to explore the faith, to ask questions and to learn about God from one another.  These past months have been filled with that as Victor and Julia and John joined with three others both this past fall and then this Lent to explore the faith.  We’ve spoken at length about the way of Jesus, his call to love and serve others.  We’ve discussed how frequently the church is more concerned with self-preservation than in true discipleship.  We’ve discussed how many in the church have used guilt as a motivation to good works, rather than relying on the love found in Jesus Christ and the desire to share in that love that leads us to a new and transformed life.  Fear-fueled guilt does not lead us to Christ, rather it leads to a feeling of privilege when we do all the right things, or to lives of timidity when we mess up.  Jesus came to bring us life, which he offers us as he delivers us from the power of sin.

That is why we are gathering to baptize Hunter and Chris and Nick and Cameron and John and Julia and Victor.  To provide an outward and visible sign for an inward and spiritual grace that has been taking place for some time.  God has been working in the lives of these seven people, drawing them closer to the life of love and freedom and peace and forgiveness that God has planned for them.

That is certainly a reason for rejoicing this evening.  We rejoice with these seven, and the many others entering the waters of baptism tonight around the globe, recognizing that God continues to bring deliverance.  God loves us—and all of the people of the world—deeply, and God longs to bring us peace.  May we all experience that this Easter as we encounter the risen Lord.  Amen.

Each year on the Friday before Easter we gather on the most solemn day of the year for Christians as we contemplate the death of Jesus. The challenge is not to rush to Sunday yet, but to really think about its meaning. My sermon from the powerful liturgy we had last night based on St. John’s Passion. 

Good Friday — 2013

Last year on Good Friday, I received a phone call from my sister informing me that my dad had 24-48 hours to live. There wasn’t much I could do.  As a solo priest, I couldn’t drop my responsibilities for the holiest time in our liturgical year and head out to be with my family.  I planned for a conversation with my dad late that evening when I could at least say a goodbye if we weren’t able to see each other again in this life.

And then I came to the foot of the cross and heard the Passion read and watched as the Lord I loved deeply died.  Never had the pain of Jesus’ death seemed so real to me.  Never had I felt the loss so acutely.  I could barely keep my composure as I led this congregation in that liturgy.

When I called him after the service, I told my dad how much I loved him, and he told me how proud he was of me.  I apologized that I couldn’t be there with him, but he told me not to worry, I had people to minister to and he was surrounded by so many who loved him.  We prayed together and then I told him if I didn’t see him again in this life, I looked forward to seeing him in the next one.

As most of you already know, my dad died late in the evening on Easter Day last year, as Melissa and I raced to be home with him.  We made it as far as Buffalo, NY.  Still a good 6 hours from Detroit.  He went to be with the Lord on the Day of Resurrection.

However, I do not want to jump ahead to Easter, as the reality of Good Friday is much too strong.  I am certainly not the only one in this room to lose a parent, and I am probably not the only one who has missed standing by the bedside of a loved one who is in their final hours.  I know many of you have experienced loss as well, and have been beside those you love at their death—something I have experienced both with my Mom and for parishioners.  Whether we are together with family or if we are waiting for a phone call to bring us the news, experiencing the death of a loved one stuns us.

Mary, the other women, the beloved disciple and the others who were present at Jesus’ death are trapped by feelings of helplessness.  Even those who fled the scene out of fear are shrouded in a sense of powerlessness. They know Jesus will die; the question for them is simply how long must they watch him hang from that cross.  They look on this one they have followed, the one they cherish, as he slowly languishes.

St. John the Gospeler wants us to remember that this is what love looks like.  “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”  It was Jesus who uttered those words after sharing his last meal with the disciples;  he said them only a few hours before he was strung up like a criminal.  He went on to say, “I no longer call you servants, I call you friends.”  The word “friends” is the Greek word philos which finds its root in the Greek phileo or “love.”  These friends are beloved.  They love Jesus because they seek to keep his commands, and he loves them more than they can imagine.

It is no wonder then, that Jesus tells Pilate this his kingdom is not of this world.  Jesus is not bound by an earthly perspective to save his own skin first.  In this worldly kingdom of ours we watch our own backs, and then, maybe once we’re all covered, we’ll help out a family member and possibly a friend.  But then they owe us big.

Not so with Jesus.  He gives his life freely for his friends because of his deep love for them.  He wants them to be known as the beloved of God and so he offers himself.  Jesus came to bring life, but it is only in passing through suffering and death that this life is offered to us.  Jesus’ work in this world was incarnational.  With human flesh, he loved, ate, cried and was tempted, yet he performed miracles and signs to show his divine nature.  The work he came to do on this earth as God incarnate revolved around love and life and showering us with those things again and again.  Jesus healed the sick and spoke words of encouragement; he turned water into unbelievable wine.  He raised the sick, and showed mercy and care and told wonderful stories.  All to bring life and love.  To show any who would follow him what God is truly like.

One commentator writes, “Because Jesus is human, because he can and will die, he can reveal the fullness of God’s love in ways never before possible, because he reveals God’s love in categories that derive from human experience.  In his death, Jesus gave up what human beings hold most dear—life—and he gave it up because he chose to do so in love.  Jesus lays down his life in love for those whom he loves, and the meaning of both ‘life’ and ‘love’ are redefined.  Life becomes an expression of love, the ultimate gift.  Love, love unto death, becomes the only true source of life.  Jesus’ gift of his life on that cross is the ultimate gesture of generosity and grace.  It is, indeed, pure gift—not required of him, but offered by him, so that we may understand the full extant of God’s love for the world.”[1]

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whosoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.”  Love.  It is before us in poignant reality on this day as we take our place among Jesus’ beloved at the foot of the cross.  With his death we remember the death of those we have loved so much, wishing we could have taken away their pain.  Through Jesus’ gift, we recognize that death certainly was not in God’s plan for us, and that he offers us fullness of life.

Jesus finished the work he came to do.  He died for us; he gave himself.  We need only to receive his gift.  As we weep at the cross, may we know that through it we can find grace and eternal life.  Amen.

My sermon from Maundy Thursday (Maundy from maundatum — Latin for commandment because Jesus gives us a new commandment to love one another).

May this Holy Season fill you with both love and joy.

___________________________________

They were all there; all of the disciples of Jesus had joined with him for this meal.  They’d come from all walks of life—the fishermen and the tax collector, the twin and the zealot—and they had followed Jesus for nearly three years.  So when he told them he wanted to share a meal with them before the Passover, they came and sat around the table with their rabbi.

I wonder if they had a clue about what was to come.  They must have noticed the rumblings from the religious officials looking for a way to put Jesus to death.  The tide had been turning.  Of course, the way Jesus had caused a stir at the temple just a few days before, turning over the money changers’ tables, certainly fueled the bloodthirst of those who wanted Jesus gone.

Probably none of them knew that this would be the last night that Jesus would be with them.  Not even Judas, who was likely trying to force Jesus to rise up as a revolutionary against the powers that be.

But Jesus knew.  Our gospeler tells us outright.  “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father,” and so he wants to leave his disciples with one last object lesson.  He got up from the table during supper, and stripped off his outer cloak and took a basin filled with water and began to wash their feet.  Jesus washed those closest to him, including Judas who would betray him, and Peter who would deny him, and James and John who would fall asleep and the others who would scatter at his arrest.  He knows all this is coming, and yet he still reaches down to take their dust-coated feet and washes them.

How can he do this?  How can Jesus take the feet of those he knows will fail him and wash them?  How can he leave them with this message of love, when he knows they will disappoint him that very night?

John Donne, poet and priest in the Church of England who became the Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in 1621, wrote a magnificent poem simply titled “A Hymn to God the Father.”  He writes in the first stanza, “Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, and do run still, though still I do deplore?  When thou has done, Thou hast not done, for I have more.”

I have no idea what Donne’s sin was that enticed him again and again to turn from the love of God.  But I can say I’ve seen this sort of thing in others—and if I’m honest, in myself.  A sin that so easily besets us, that even when it seems to no longer has power over us, it appears once again to haunt us all the more.  Anger or greed or the self-righteous attitude or the hurtful looks or the wandering eye.  And we wonder if God will forgive that sin again even though we’ve done it before.  Will God forgive that very thing that we despise and hate in ourselves and wish we could somehow shake fully from our lives?

Robert Redford directed the superb film “Quiz Show” based on a true story.  It depicts an intelligent and charming man, Charlie Van Doren, who became a contestant on to the popular game show Twenty-one in the late 1950s.  Charlie came from a renowned literary family and taught English at Columbia University.  He was a natural on the show, a quiz that asked questions of two contestants, each who sat in a sound proof room trying to get 21 correct responses.  Neither had any idea how their opponent was doing, if he was close to getting to 21 or not.  But as a contestant, Charlie learned the game was rigged.  Before one of the live shows, he had been shown a question beforehand even though the questions had supposedly been locked in a vault.  Charlie said he wanted no part in a rigged game, but then that same question was asked of him, and he did a double-take.  And rather than calling them out right then and there, he answered the question correctly, even though he hadn’t originally known the answer.

After this, Charlie got enticed by the large amounts of money he could make answering trivia questions, and his integrity flew out the door.  He soon began receiving all of the questions ahead of time and beat a great number of contestants.  Millions tuned in to see him display his amazing intellect and charming disposition, although it’s all a sham.  Before too long, former contestants begin to talk, and a congressional lawyer investigates. Finally the whole thing unravels.  Charlie is ultimately  ashamed of what he’s done, the disgrace he has brought on his family, and in being called out for his lack of integrity.  He is chastised before Congress, loses his job and becomes known not for his charismatic personality but as a greedy man without any scruples.

Sin is not pretty.  When we fail to do the things we know we should do or when we do not stop ourselves from doing the things we know we should  not do, we push ourselves further from God.  Jesus knew his disciples would desert him that very evening as he washed their feet; that they would deny and betray and flee.  But he still got up and took off his outer cloak and grabbed a towel and a basin.

Yale Divinity professor Lenora Tubbs Tisdale writes, “We will watch in wonder as Jesus’ response to this inner circle that has disappointed him over and over and over again is not to chastise or scold or punish, but to take a towel and a basin of water and gently wash the ugliness of each one in turn.  We will remember that the Communion table is a place where we can come—time and time again—to have our own ugliness lovingly touched and washed clean by Jesus.”  That’s the beauty of this tender night.  That Jesus wants to wash us, to show us deep love even when we do things that hurt him.  He wants to clean us, and bring us back to his presence.  He does not chastise but offers us a chance to return to that place that we have desired, to be in his presence, to come home.

Will we let him?  Will we let others show us his unbelievable love in spite of our ugliness?  Can we allow our feet to be washed recognizing that Jesus knows us more intimately than anyone else, even more intimately than we know ourselves, and still he shows us love and forgiveness and mercy?  The water and the basin are here, and Jesus is too.  Will we trust him with our very selves in order that we may be cleansed from all that stands between us and God?

(c) Stck.xchng user dyet.

I studied English in college, specifically composition and rhetoric, but I had a good dose of literature thrown in there too.  I love imagery in writing, and the way it helps explain and broaden what’s being said.  Jesus throws out a doozy this week when he calls Herod a fox then refers to himself as a hen.  It’s quite an image and that really led me this past week when I wrote this sermon.

Lent 2C—Luke 13:31-35

            A family of foxes used to live in our subdivision in Colorado.  They took up residence in the backyard of a foreclosed house, a mom—technically a vixen, although that word has been taken over to mean something else entirely these days—and her 3 or 4 kits.  Sometimes they would play in the street together as I drove in to work in the morning.  Other times I’d see her coming back from a nearby field with breakfast for her family.  One cold day, after the kits had moved out on their own, she spent the entire day in our backyard enjoying the warmth of the sun.  Not too long after this, she came up to our deck, looking into our house through the patio door, no further than 4 feet from where I stood in the family room.  She remained transfixed there for a long time looking at me while I gazed at her.  “Foxy” we called her.  Late the next spring, almost a year since I had first seen her, animal control officers were at that house.  Seems someone had called her in.

Foxes are sly and clever, or so we’ve been told.  And we were reminded in the film “Fantastic Mr. Fox,” about the nature of foxes.  In one telling seen, Mrs. Fox (named Felicity) has just learned her husband has been sneaking off at night to raid the local farms for food.  She’s visibly upset.   “Twelve fox years ago, you made a promise to me, while we we’re caged inside that fox trap. That if we survived, you would never steal another chicken, turkey, goose, duck, or a squab whatever they are, and I believed you. [starts to cry] Why? Why did you lie to me?!  Mr. Fox: Because I’m a wild animal.” [1]

We know what foxes are like.  While I had been transfixed by having a fox in the neighborhood, someone else had the sense to call animal control.  Foxes are wild animals.

“At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, ‘Get away from here for Herod wants to kill you.’ He said to them, ‘Go and tell that fox for me, “Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow and on the third day I finish my work.”’”  Jesus knows exactly what Herod — this is Herod Antipas, the son of Herod the Great (he of our Christmas Story)—is capable of. He beheaded John the Baptist to save face.  He is not to be trifled with.  And the Pharisees appear to be in cahoots with him.  Jesus says to them not so subtly, “You tell that fox for me,” recognizing the path they are beating to Herod’s palace.

The message Jesus wants sent to that fox named Herod surprises me.  He wants Herod to know that he’s going to keep doing the work God has given him to do.  Casting out demons and curing people.  Jesus will continue to bring wholeness to all who want it as long as he is alive.  Today and tomorrow and the third day, they are all connected with Jesus’ ministry, to who he is.  And Jesus, it seems, is no wild animal.

After he finishes the message for foxy, he details with more clarity just who he is.  “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!  How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”  A hen?  Jesus is talking about a fox, and he responds by referring to himself as a hen?  You think an eagle would have been better.  In Deuteronomy God is described like that, “As an eagle stirs up its nest, and hovers over its young, as it spreads its wings, takes them up, and bears them aloft on its pinions, [so] the Lord alone guided him.” (Deut 32:11-12)  Or maybe a lion, “They shall follow after the Lord, who roars like a lion; when he roars, his children shall come trembling from the west.” (Hosea 11:10).  But a chicken?  That’s all Jesus has got?

Priest and author Barbara Brown Taylor writes, “[A] hen is what Jesus chooses, which — if you think about it—is pretty typical of him. He is always turning things upside down, so that children and peasants wind up on top while kings and scholars land on the bottom. He is always wrecking our expectations of how things should turn out by giving prizes to losers and paying the last first. So of course he chooses a chicken, which is about as far from a fox as you can get. That way the options become very clear: you can live by licking your chops or you can die protecting the chicks.

“Jesus won’t be king of the jungle in this or any other story. What he will be is a mother hen, who stands between the chicks and those who mean to do them harm. She has no fangs, no claws, no rippling muscles. All she has is her willingness to shield her babies with her own body. If the fox wants them, he will have to kill her first.

“Which he does, as it turns out. He slides up on her one night in the yard while all the babies are asleep. When her cry wakens them, they scatter. She dies the next day where both foxes and chickens can see her — wings spread, breast exposed — without a single chick beneath her feathers. It breaks her heart, but it does not change a thing. If you mean what you say, then this is how you stand.”[2]

Whenever I read “the third day” in the New Testament, I immediately think about the resurrection.  Most times, the writer intends to make that connection.  But this time, Luke is talking all about Jesus’ death.  “I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work.”  The day Jesus completes the task given to him is the day he forms the words, “It is finished,” with his last breath.  The cross is not to be seen as inconsistent with the work Jesus does in this world, but the culmination of it.  Even though he’ll be splayed on that cross, it’s not a win for the foxes of this world, but proof of the love Jesus has for us like a mother hen.

The problem is, of course, that we like foxes.  We like their sly ways, and the things they say that make us think they are on our side.  We think they can be reformed, that they’ll stay out of our chicken coop, but we’re wrong.  They’re wild animals.  So while we’re listening to the crafty talk, they’re working on a plan to get a meal.

I wish it weren’t so.  I wish that we weren’t so enthralled with the foxes of this world, the promises they make of how easy life could be if we just trust them.  But I’ve seen how destructive it can be, like when a person falls for someone else who is not their spouse thinking that this person will bring them joy that they can’t find at home.  Or the ones who turn to the bottle to find easy answers to complicated problems or to drown out the sorrow.  The promises of a life full of ease and joy without any personal cost.  Those are crafty lies given to us by the foxes out there—our culture, the evil one, those that would pull us far from the love of God.

But Luke wants to remind us that foxes are only looking after their own desires, and that deep and abiding love comes at a cost.  Which makes Jesus’ lament all the more powerful.  He wants to keep us safe from the world of foxes, from the pain they bring.  Because they’re just licking their chops looking for their next meal.

Which is what happened with Jesus.  But unbeknownst to that fox and the others around him, that was all part of Jesus’ work to bring healing to us all.  Yes, he was devoured, but that was still part of his work, an act of love.  For us.  He gave himself to the foxes of this world so we could be given the chance for life.  Because, whether they know it or not, as one commentator put it, “the foxes are not in control as much as they think they are,” because “there is a true and living God.”[3]  And that other third day is coming.  Amen.

The holy season of Lent began yesterday with an invitation from the church to acts of spiritual disciplines.  But why we do those acts — what is our motivation behind them — is really important.  Our reading yesterday from the prophet Isaiah really homes in on what God expects.  I must admit, it was a good reminder for me of what Lent can offer us if we focus not on our own spiritual journey for our own sake, but for the sake of others.

Ash Wednesday 2013— Is. 58:1-12

Isaiah receives these words from the Lord about God’s chosen people: “Day after day, they seek me, and delight to know my ways…they delight to draw near to God.”  And yet, these people ask the Lord, “Why do we fast, but you do not see?  Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?”  “Look,” the Lord says, “you serve your own interest on your fast day, and you oppress your workers.”  In other words, you make this all about you.  But the Lord continues on to describe the fast he requires, to loose the bonds of injustice, to let the oppressed go free, to see the naked and cover them, to share a meal with the hungry, to “be available to your own family.”[1]  That’s what God desires more than anything else.

Biblical scholar Thomas Currie puts it this way, “[W]hat makes God’s ‘fast’ remarkable is not its social or political or economic sensibilities but its reckless self-forgetfulness.  ‘Why do we fast, but you do not see?” is the question of an anxious idolatry eager to make God ‘useful,’ worshipping God for the sake of something else, in this case, one’s own salvation.  Lusting for such a possibility was the great threat that continually confronted Israel and continues to tempt us today in both liberal and conservative garb.  All desire the power to save themselves.  All.”[2]

At the beginning of this holy season of Lent we must ask ourselves whose interests we are serving by our intended religious piety over the next 40 days.  We may have already decided that we will give up meat, or chocolate, or perhaps read a Lenten devotion once a day or be more faithful in church attendance, which are all fine endeavors, but are we merely hoping to save ourselves through these actions?  Do we expect to get into God’s good graces through some trivial self-denial?  If God’s desired fast is about “reckless self-forgetfulness,” then how do we transfer our focus from ourselves to others?  How do we see what God intends for us through fasting?  God declares that such a fast is about others, the hungry, the homeless, the poor and naked, and even our own families.  Our self-denial isn’t about the significance of our own spiritual journeys; it should be concerned with the other, with those who are not us.

This is a question, ultimately, about community.  God desires for us to experience the freedom in life to see others not as stepping-stones, or things to be used for our own good, but as children of God.  When we reduce others to labels, to names based on their economic situation or nationality or political ideologies or the color of their skin, we dishonor them, and we also dishonor ourselves.  By concentrating on ourselves, even our own longing for God, we miss the opportunity to draw closer to others who bear God’s image.

Philosopher Martin Buber expresses this quite well by comparing what he calls an I-It relationship with an I-You relationship.  When I interact with someone, if I see only their house, or the way they can help me achieve my goals, or as an obstruction to the rest of my day, I see that person as an It.  I’m not present with them.  I get angry, or jealous, or dismissive towards them.  My heart is hard.  The opposite way, of course, is to enter into a relationship at that moment, to see them as an equal, to be concerned about them as human beings, as someone God loves.  The person is no longer an It to me but a You.  When I do this, I am set free from my own self-focused desires to a place where life can be fully experienced.

That is what God describes at the end of our lesson from Isaiah.  If we fast as God desires, “then you shall call, and the Lord will answer.”  “Then your light shall rise in the darkness, and your gloom be like the noonday.  The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.”   If we enter into deep, life-giving relationships, our yearnings will be filled—not in selfish or self-serving ways—but through the very thing God “delights” in, “the life shared together.”[3]

I invite you during this sacred season of Lent to fast in ways that draw you closer to “the other” in your life.  Deepen your connections with your spouse or children by sharing meals together, or making time for conversations, or taking walks together.  Maybe you could, as was recommended by a children’s book, sort through your old games and puzzles, take them to an assisted care facility and spend an hour playing a game with an elderly person who is craving connectedness with another person.  Perhaps you could sign up for a turn at the Food Pantry, or Project Just Because in Hopkinton.  Or you could possibly make a coffee date with someone here at St. Mark’s whom you’ve never gotten a chance to know.  Is there a co-worker that could use a friend?  Schools and libraries are often are looking for tutors.  The possibilities are truly endless.

If we fast these next 40 days from looking inward and begin looking outward, then we will truly be prepared for Holy Week.  Ash Wednesday is leading us to Christ’s Passion, as Thomas Currie puts it.  The cross is “the place where God’s fast pours itself out for the sake of the whole world.  There God’s fast becomes our food, and we are set free to sit at table with others whom we have not chosen and would never choose, to eat and even delight in this fearful mercy.”[4]  May it be so.  Amen.

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Sports teams like playing for the hometown crowd because they are the people who are your loyalist fans. They stick with you through thick and thin (unless your a Red Sox pitcher and doing that whole chicken and beer thing).  They know all about you, which is both good and bad.  They may expect you to be better than you are or to show them some favors if you have them available.

Jesus is back in Nazareth for the first time since his ministry began.  You would think that going into the synagogue on the Sabbath to pray wouldn’t be such a difficult thing, but alas it was.  Here’s my thoughts on Jesus and that hometown reception and what it might mean for us too.

Epiphany 4C — Luke 4:21-30

The lectionary committee—the people who picked the lessons that we read each week—didn’t do us any favors today with our gospel.  Last week we read the first part of a gospel passage from Luke, where Jesus had just returned to his hometown of Nazareth and gone to the synagogue to worship.  You may remember that he read from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”  I say all of that to remind you of where we are, because the lectionary plops us right in the middle of the story,  where Jesus says, “Today, this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”

But did you catch what happened next?  We think that the people got mad at him, and called him names, but they didn’t.  If you look closely at the text, Luke tells us that they are amazed at his gracious words.  The home town crowd is in awe of him.  But Jesus pushes on them a bit. “Surely you’ll say, ‘Doctor, heal yourself,’ and ‘Do here in your home town what you did in Capernaum.’”  Jesus predicts what they will say, how they will respond to him.  They might like his gracious words, but Jesus suspects that they’re really in it for what they can get from him in terms of miracles or favors.  “We love our home town hero, so let’s see some of those healings!”

Are they just overly proud of Jesus’ success, and hope to see some of the benefits since they knew him first?  “This is Joseph’s son!  We know him!  Maybe we have the inside track to God!  Yippee!”

But Jesus tells them quite specifically that he doesn’t play favorites.  He does this by reminding them of these two stories from Israel’s past about Elijah and Elisha.  While the people in Nazareth probably knew the stories cold, let me refresh your memory a bit.

First Elijah.  There was a drought in the land of Israel because King Ahab followed Baal, the idol worshipped by his wife Jezebel, and they encouraged the people of Israel to worship Baal too.  Baal was the god of rain, fertility and agriculture, so the way for the living God to prove that Baal was not as powerful as God was to cause there to be a drought in the land, so that’s what happened.

During this time Elijah fled for his life because Jezebel wanted to kill him.  While hiding, he ran out of food.  The word of the Lord came to him, telling him to go to to Zaraphath in Sidon, that is, to Gentile territory.  Elijah learned that God had commanded a widow to help feed him.  So he headed out.  And when we arrived, he found a widow gathering sticks.  He asks her for water, which she agrees to bring to him, and then bread.  She replies, “I don’t have any bread—only a handful of flour in a jar and a little olive oil in a jug.  I am gathering these few sticks to take home and make a meal for myself and my son, that we may eat it—and die.”

Elijah tells her that if she brings him some bread that she and her son will not die.  Instead, God will work a miracle and the flour and oil will not run out until the Lord sends rain on the land.  So she brings him the bread, and then she and her son and Elijah eat from that jar of flour and that jug of oil for many days, just as the Lord had told her.  And she was a Gentile woman cared for by the God of Israel.

The other story, the one about Naaman the leper, begins with this general in the Syrian Army looking for a cure for his leprosy.  He learns from his wife’s servant girl that there is a prophet of the God of Israel might be able to heal him.  Naaman requests permission from his king to go to the king of Israel and ask for this healing.  After getting the okay, Naaman travels with a large entourage and wagon full of gifts for payment.  He finds his way to the prophet Elisha’s house, but Elisha doesn’t even bother to come out of his home to meet Naaman, sending out his servant instead.

Naaman is told by that servant to go wash 7 times in the Jordan River, and then he would be healed.  And while this is an easy task, he gets annoyed because Elisha himself didn’t come out and because the Jordan is a muddy river and it’s in Israel.  One of his hired hands tells him that he’s being foolish, so he comes to his senses, goes and washes and is cleansed.  Because of the miracle, Naaman chooses from that day forward to worship the Living God, even asking Elisha for pardon ahead of time because he will have to go to the temple of the Syrian god Rimmon and bow before the altar there.  Elisha pardons him, and he heads back home.

That’s a long way around for Jesus to make a point, but he feels that he needs to say this because he’s not going to play favorites.  In fact, he lays out clearly that his mission is to the ones forgotten by society, the ones imprisoned, and the blind and the poor and the oppressed.  And while he could have found some supporting evidence in Israel’s history of a prophet helping the least among the people of Israel, he goes for these two interactions with foreigners.  And not only that, but Jesus uses  Naaman as an example, a man who will continue to go to another god’s temple because of his position in the Syrian empire.  Jesus is sent to proclaim good news to ones like that and not just to the home town crowd.

So when they hear this, Jesus’ friends and neighbors there in Nazareth, they lose their heads and go into a blind rage.  They get up and drive him out of the synagogue and force him to the brow of a hill so they could hurl him off the cliff.   They lost their heads simply because he wasn’t going to play favorites and because he wanted to bring the good news to all people.

For those of us who are regulars at church, Jesus is our hometown hero. We’re the ones who’ve known him the longest, and expect him to act on our behalf.  We are faithful, aren’t we?  Doesn’t that count for something?  Surely that must mean an extra blessing or two coming our way, right?

In Disney’s retelling of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the gypsy woman Esmeralda while eluding capture under false pretenses, finds herself in the cathedral and declares sanctuary.   Being in that holy place, she sings this heartfelt song to God.

I don’t know if You can hear me
Or if You’re even there
I don’t know if You would listen
To a gypsie’s prayer
Yes, I know I’m just an outcast
I shouldn’t speak to you
Still I see Your face and wonder…
Were You once an outcast too?

God help the outcasts
Hungry from birth
Show them the mercy
They don’t find on earth
God help my people
We look to You still
God help the outcasts
Or nobody will

Parishioners 
I ask for wealth
I ask for fame
I ask for glory to shine on my name
I ask for love I can possess
I ask for God and His angels to bless me

Esmeralda 
I ask for nothing
I can get by
But I know so many
Less lucky than I
Please help my people
The poor and downtrod
I thought we all were
The children of God
God help the outcasts
Children of God

It’s so much easier to believe that God will play favorites, that there will be some sort of special attention we’ll receive if we stay at this Christianity thing long enough.  And so when God seems to bless someone else, especially someone who doesn’t look like they have a relationship with God, we have tendency to get envious.  Esmeralda is right, we all are the children of God, and Jesus came for all of us to experience life, and especially those who are not experiencing much of life at all.  The poor and the captives and the blind and the oppressed.  The ones so often forgotten in our world, Jesus comes to proclaim to them too that it is the year of the Lord’s favor.

Not that we shouldn’t hear that message as well.  But I think most of us should begin at a place of recognizing how Jesus has already come and worked in our lives.  We have an opportunity to begin at a place of gratitude, at acknowledging the ways in which we are no longer captive or blind or oppressed.  And then we can take part in the joy that can come when we share that good news on behalf of Christ with others, with the ones who are destitute and on the fringes of society because they have been forgotten by the world.  We must remind them—and we must remember ourselves—that none of us has been forgotten by God, and the only reason that none of us is God’s favorite is simply because all of us are.  Amen.

This past Sunday was a glorious day at St. Mark’s as we shared together at our Annual Meeting the call God is placing on us to make disciples. And it’s a call that I think is certainly not just for those of us who wear a collar.  Paul’s words to the Corinthian Church show that no one gets a free pass from being an active part of the Body of Christ.

So that’s what I spoke about in my sermon on 1 Corinthians 12.

______________________________________________________________________________

What does it mean to be the Church?  What does it mean to be the Body of Christ in this time and in this place?  That is the essential question before us today as we gather on Annual Meeting Sunday.  How are we to live into this notion of St. Paul’s that we are all members of the Body of Christ?

But I must begin at the thought that often precedes that question, the one where many ask if they are indeed members of the body.  It’s a question because we often do not hear that we are vital to Christ’s body, or we assume that only the professionals who’ve gone off to divinity school, or have prayed for most of their lives, are worthy of living for Jesus.  That the rest of us do not matter, that we have little to offer, and even if we did have something to give, well, it wouldn’t make much difference.

The Corinthian Church must have been saying the same thing because Paul goes off on a tear.  This is so important theologically about what it means to be the Church that I want you to hear it again from the Message Bible.

“You can easily enough see how this kind of thing works by looking no further than your own body. Your body has many parts—limbs, organs, cells—but no matter how many parts you can name, you’re still one body. It’s exactly the same with Christ. By means of his one Spirit, we all said good-bye to our partial and piecemeal lives. We each used to independently call our own shots, but then we entered into a large and integrated life in which he has the final say in everything. (This is what we proclaimed in word and action when we were baptized.) Each of us is now a part of his resurrection body, refreshed and sustained at one fountain—his Spirit—where we all come to drink. The old labels we once used to identify ourselves—labels like Jew or Greek, slave or free—are no longer useful. We need something larger, more comprehensive.

I want you to think about how all this makes you more significant, not less. A body isn’t just a single part blown up into something huge. It’s all the different-but-similar parts arranged and functioning together. If Foot said, “I’m not elegant like Hand, embellished with rings; I guess I don’t belong to this body,” would that make it so? If Ear said, “I’m not beautiful like Eye, limpid and expressive; I don’t deserve a place on the head,” would you want to remove it from the body? If the body was all eye, how could it hear? If all ear, how could it smell? As it is, we see that God has carefully placed each part of the body right where he wanted it.

But I also want you to think about how this keeps your significance from getting blown up into self-importance. For no matter how significant you are, it is only because of what you are a part of. An enormous eye or a gigantic hand wouldn’t be a body, but a monster. What we have is one body with many parts, each its proper size and in its proper place. No part is important on its own. Can you imagine Eye telling Hand, “Get lost; I don’t need you”? Or, Head telling Foot, “You’re fired; your job has been phased out”? As a matter of fact, in practice it works the other way—the “lower” the part, the more basic, and therefore necessary. You can live without an eye, for instance, but not without a stomach. When it’s a part of your own body you are concerned with, it makes no difference whether the part is visible or clothed, higher or lower. You give it dignity and honor just as it is, without comparisons. If anything, you have more concern for the lower parts than the higher. If you had to choose, wouldn’t you prefer good digestion to full-bodied hair?

 The way God designed our bodies is a model for understanding our lives together as a church: every part dependent on every other part, the parts we mention and the parts we don’t, the parts we see and the parts we don’t. If one part hurts, every other part is involved in the hurt, and in the healing. If one part flourishes, every other part enters into the exuberance.

 You are Christ’s body—that’s who you are! You must never forget this.”  (1 Corinthians 12:12-27, Message Bible)

We are all vital to the work of God in our world.  That’s what the Church is about, of course, the missio dei, the work of God, in redeeming all of creation.  It’s not about our beautiful building, or the programs we run, or even our budget.  Don’t mishear me, because all of those things can be used to help equip us to play our vital roles in God’s work.  But if they only bring us here on Sundays so we can be consumers of spirituality, if we take part at St. Mark’s only to see our friends, or because we always have, and we don’t go out into the world and take part in God’s mission work, then we are really just wasting our time.  St. Mark’s is here in order to form us as disciples as we experience, learn about and worship the living God.  We can then in turn go out to make disciples who proclaim the Good News of Christ.

Jesus tells us what his Good News is when he reads that ancient scroll from the prophet Isaiah. “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”  That’s the work Jesus did as he moved among the Jews who lived under the Roman Empire 2000 years ago.  We now as Christ’s body, all of us, must continue that work as we move among our fellow Americans who live under the oppressive culture of materialism.  We are all vital to that work.  From our children to our seniors, we all can share in spreading the love of Jesus Christ in this world and proclaim by word and deed the good news of God in Christ.

Let me address a couple of things.  First, our budget.  Most of you have seen the letter sent out by our talented finance team that laid out the details of our projected $50,000 deficit for 2013.  They worked diligently at making cuts that would not significantly weaken our mission while also seeking to be good stewards with the gifts given to us.

When asked about this, my response is simple: As we move into the future we must work harder to make St. Mark’s a worthy recipient of our charitable giving.  We should, each of us, engage in the mission of God and help St. Mark’s to further become a place that makes disciples and engages our world and is vital to our community.  We need to focus on our desire to Connect by deepening our relationships, Grow in our understanding and love of the faith, and Serve God in mission to the world and to one another.  Those are the marks of a disciple-forming congregation, and if we continue to do those things, I believe our finances will follow and allow us to live into that mission.  If we continue with steadfast purpose , we will become a worthy recipient of people’s generosity.  We’ve begun working in that direction this past year, of course: we’ve increased our hands-on outreach and giving to worthy organization through our open plate offerings (we gave over $13,500 to charities doing the work of God this past year, a truly wonderful gift!), we’ve had bbq’s and gatherings for our men and women.  We had a successful VBS and an utterly fantastic 150^th celebration.  We are moving forward in our work while recognizing there is more to do.

Some of you may be hearing this and thinking that you don’t feel qualified to take part in God’s work.  You may feel under-equipped, or uncertain about the Bible, or that you have doubts about the faith, or that only those of us who wear a collar are qualified, so you stay on the sideline.  We make excuses about not having enough time (and for some this is accurate when they are dealing with young children and they are subsisting on caffeine, or for those whose lives have been turned upside down), but there is more than enough time if God’s work becomes important to us.  If I’m honest, I think we here at St. Mark’s are living below our potential.  We could be doing so much more for God.

We are called to a team-based approach to our ministry.  We can and should do a better job of equipping our members to actively participate in God’s mission.  We can and should do a better job at providing opportunities to deepen our understanding of Jesus and our faith.  We can and should do a better job of reaching out in service to those in our own community who long for connection with others.  Certainly, we can and should do a better job for our young people, our teenagers–who are personally feeling the impact of our deficit since we are unable to hire a youth leader for them.  We need to make it a priority to build relationships with them, doing things they enjoy and allowing them an equal place in our community.  To our teens I personally want to apologize, and for you to know that I will do all I can to work with gifted volunteers to rebuild our youth ministries, beginning with a youth outreach trip this summer.  You are valued and we want you to grow in faith.

But to do any of this, all of us must take part.  You see, God equips us for ministry; God has already gifted us with the skills we need to take our place in that work.  Some will do it in quiet ways that we never know, the way they reach out to a co-worker or neighbor who is hurting.  Some will take on new leadership roles here at St. Mark’s.  Others will focus our attention on the plight of those who are homeless and are stuck due to the forces of this world.  Others will find their way to the kitchen for our community meals and sharing in our feeding programs.  Some will help an elderly parishioner with her yard work, or simply go over for a friendly visit.  The work is great, the opportunities never-ending, and all of us, all of us, are needed to do that work.

None of us is insignificant to God’s mission in the world.  We are, as St. Paul said, members of Christ’s body, every part dependent on every other part.  We must never forget that.  And we must join together to bring Christ’s good news to our broken and healing world in this year ahead.  May we do so with God’s grace and favor.  Amen.

Eight years ago today on a blizzardy Sunday, I was ordained as a priest and my son was baptized.  I had the good fortune to ask a great friend to preach on that occasion, and he smashed it out of the park. So here’s to Rich Simpson, a fantastic friend and priest, whose sermon I dust off every year on this date to remind me of my call to serve God’s people and to share the good news of Christ.

Rich and I at a clergy gathering recently.

The Ordination of Philip Noah LaBelle to the Sacred Order of Priests and the Baptism of Noah James LaBelle

Sermon Texts: Isaiah 6:1-8; Philippians 4:4-9

 What does it mean for us today that Noah James LaBelle will be baptized in the context of this afternoon’s Eucharist—before Philip Noah LaBelle is ordained to the priesthood? I realize that there are of course practical considerations—family and friends are all in town and so forth. But sometimes profound theology grows out of practical considerations—and maybe it’s even a truism that it’s the primary way Anglicans are prone to do theology.

I propose that we are put in mind today of the fact that before anyone utters the words “Father LaBelle” Noah has made you a “daddy.” And that prior to your priestly ministry you, too, have been “sealed and marked and claimed as Christ’s own beloved”—forever. You, too, have been called to live your life as a response to that love through the Baptismal Covenant. With Melissa you have shared a life together in both marriage and ministry among God’s people long before today. Nothing we are gathered here to do today undoes—or “trumps” that call that came to you and to each of us in Holy Baptism.

We talk a lot about lay ministry in the Church today. And yet it’s thirteen years since Verna Dozier published “The Dream of God”—about a Church where all the baptized understand themselves as called to share in the work of ministry. We aren’t there yet. But the ordination liturgy for a priest in our Church does (as I read it) call upon us to remember that dream and to live into it—and the fact that Noah is baptized today only heightens our awareness of that reality. Priestly ministry is meaningless until we have some understanding of what baptism really means.

But if all the people are ministers, then what exactly is priestly ministry about? I want to insist that it is far more than a black shirt and a collar! The catechism suggests that all of God’s people are called to “represent Christ and his Church”—and that what distinguishes priestly ministry from the other three orders is that we do this by proclaiming the gospel; administering the sacraments; and blessing and declaring pardon in the name of God. The Examination that the Bishop will give expands on these three but it is at its heart exactly the same—so if you listen closely you are sure to “ace” that exam!

First: you are called to preach the gospel. There are many in the Church today—on all sides of the theological debates we are engaged in—who are so desperate and so scared that we are in danger of suffering from a kind of spiritual amnesia about what that true calling is all about. As preachers we are not called to defend an ideology (either on the right or on the left) but to preach the good news of Jesus Christ.

Do so with courage and conviction, trusting that it really is the path toward abundant life. Too many preachers are afraid to trust the gospel because it will upset the status quo. Fear is the greatest enemy of the gospel: fear of lost pledges, fear of empty pews, fear of disappointing the bishop. Don’t be afraid to trust the good news, and know that the true measure of your “success” will not be found by how full or empty the pews are or how well the annual pledge drive goes or what your colleagues say about you.

Consider Isaiah of Jerusalem and today’s Old Testament reading. Remember that for all of his enthusiasm and skill, his preaching and ministry fell on deaf ears. “Here I am, Lord,” we heard him say. “Send me!” But Isaiah’s skill and his commitment to God could not compensate for the hardness of heart and the deafness of the people of his day, as we discover if only we read just a few verses beyond where we stopped this afternoon. We didn’t hear that part because the lectionary committee (in their infinite wisdom) only gave us the nice part (as they are wont to do.) But I would urge you as a preacher not to get caught in the trap of reading lectionary pericopes. Keep reading the Bible…and pay extra attention to the verses that tend to get omitted as well as the books of the Bible that tend to get shortchanged. (I think of Lamentations, and all the post-exilic stuff—Ezra, Nehemiah, Ruth, Jonah; texts that could be essential resources to a post-Constantinian church and yet we largely ignore them.) There are no easy answers—but they could help us to ask better questions. So keep reading the Bible—and encourage those among whom you serve to do the same.

Judged by the standards of this world—and even dare I say sometimes the standards of the institutional Church—Isaiah of Jerusalem was a failure. People did not have eyes to see or ears to hear what he had to say, and the exile did come, and Jerusalem ended up as a city in waste and without inhabitant. The temple was destroyed and the people were in danger of forgetting to sing the Lord’s song in a strange and foreign land. Isaiah of Jerusalem reminds the Church in every generation that we are called to be faithful, not successful, and that is especially true for those of us who are called to be preachers. It is so tempting to be cute or funny or relevant or passive-aggressive. But our work as preachers—as priests—is to preach the gospel, and leave the rest to God.

Remember that even though the Exile came in spite of Isaiah’s preaching, God was still God—all the way through the Exile. Remember that God had a plan even if it wasn’t yet clear to God’s people—a vision of a highway in the desert that would be left to another “Isaiah” to preach—a “deutero-Isaiah” as they like to say at Yale and Berkeley. In ministry there is always someone who has gone before us and someone to follow us—we don’t have to do it all, we just have to try to be as faithful as we can in doing the work God has given us to do.  Remember that the greatest learning of the Exile was that God couldn’t be confined to the Jerusalem temple in the first place—that “God with us” meant (and means) just that—God with us even in the midst of Exile, God with us even in uncharted territory, God with us in the midst of struggle and uncertainty. Remember too that the Holy Scriptures got formed and shaped by the waters of Babylon—not when all was well in Jerusalem, but in Iraq when the future was uncertain. God’s greatest gifts seem to come to God’s people in the midst of what we see initially as finality and great loss. Why? Because God is in the business of doing new things. But after centuries we suffer from amnesia; so it is your job to keep bringing God’s people to remembrance.

Walter Brueggemann says our job as preachers is to “re-script” God’s people away from the script of our consumeristic militaristic unimaginative world (that sees us all as merely “customers”) and toward a new script where we are learning to be disciples of Jesus Christ and witnesses to the Resurrection. He says that is more akin to the work of scribe than anything else—that we are called to be people who are inscribing the text on our own hearts, and then upon the hearts of the people whom we serve. That doesn’t happen overnight. And you and I are called to be preachers in a time of profound Biblical illiteracy. But we begin again at the beginning…and our shared calling as preachers is simply to keep the texts alive in and through God’s people, and when necessary to re-introduce the forgotten ones—because most of us in the Church have a pretty small canon. That should be work enough to keep us busy for some time.

As a preacher, the bishop will soon remind you that you are called also to fashion your life according to the gospel’s precepts. Or as Alan Jones, Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco likes to remind preachers: “you are a word about the Word before you ever open your mouth.” Or as the original “San Francisco” (Francis of Assisi) put it: “preach the gospel at all times; when necessary use words.” That is to say, your life—who you are as a person—is meant to be “good news.” If the words you proclaim from the pulpit bear no connection to the way you are living your life then it will be that much harder for the Gospel to be heard through your lips.

But I want to offer this word of caution: there is a fair amount of false piety in the Church masquerading as “good news.” There will be some who have very definite ideas of what a priest is supposed to look like, about how a priest is supposed to behave and so forth. Very often it will have little to do with the Gospel, and less to do with who God has created you to be. It may well be about their own unfinished business with a parent or some other authority figure—or with some former beloved (or despised) priest in their past—or who knows what else.

Fashion your life not in accordance with other people’s projections, but according to the precepts of the Gospel. But to do that—I repeat what I said earlier: keep reading and meditating on God’s holy Word—not just combing it for material that can preach but seeing in it a mirror that nurtures your own soul, and forms you into the priest God intends for you to become.

Priestly ministry is of course about more than the call to preach but it is never about less than that. But we are Episcopalians for a reason. The genius of our liturgy is that connects us with the most ancient practices of the earliest Christian communities—with a global and apostolic faith—that is always inviting us to come to the Table of our Lord. As preachers this is very good news for us and for our congregations because it means that we never get the last word. Always our job is to point people toward the Table—and to invite them to taste and see the goodness of the Lord.

As priests we have the great responsibility and privilege of taking ordinary gifts of bread and wine and using them to offer God’s people the bread of life and the cup of salvation—inviting them as St. Augustine said to “be what they see” and to “receive who they already are.” That isn’t about having “magic hands”—it’s about the hard work of calling God’s people to discover the holiness of the ordinary—about continuing to find ways to call attention to the ways that the holy is hidden in the midst of the ordinary. Outward and visible signs are just that—signs of an inward and spiritual grace. You are entrusted with administering the sacraments in order to cultivate a sacramental vision of the world—so that people can find God at work in places where they had previously not thought to look.

In a world where everything is tolerated nothing is forgiven. But the gospel offers us a different vision—an alternative “script” to use Brueggemann’s language. The Biblical narrative suggests that we have not lived up to our calling as people created in God’s own image—that we have fallen short and “missed the mark.” And yet we are forgiven and restored and reconciled through the Cross of Jesus Christ anyway—not by our own merit—but because God’s grace is simply that amazing.

The biggest hindrance to full and abundant life in Christ as I perceive it is that people get stuck. And so it is your job—a part of your priestly ministry—not only to administer the sacraments but to pronounce God’s forgiveness and God’s blessing to the people among whom you serve. That is not the same as the work of a therapist. Rather, it is the bold claim that the keys of the kingdom are found in the Church—so that what is “loosed on earth” is “loosed in heaven.”

As we share with all the baptized in a ministry of reconciliation, our peculiar task as priests is this calling to keep uncovering God’s abundant blessings—as a counter-testimony to the culture’s insistence that there isn’t enough to go around, and therefore we have to get what we can and hold onto it. It is our job when things get stuck for individuals and for congregations to proclaim God’s forgiveness as the path through which new life becomes possible.

Even in the midst of our sometimes chaotic confusion, we Episcopalians are deeply rooted in one holy, catholic, and apostolic faith. But always that is an Easter faith. We see the tradition as roots for a living church, not as a relic of some distant past. We trust the living Christ as we strain always toward an ever-unfolding Pentecost and the gifts of the Spirit that help us to be unafraid of change and growth and the new life to which we are called, the new life that the risen Christ brings to our tired lives and to our broken world.

How we sort through all that is never an easy or simple matter. But if we are to stay true to Richard Hooker’s sensibilities—if we keep looking to Scripture, Reason, Tradition, and Experience—then all will be well. It will be messy, but all will be well, and all manner of things will be well. The Spirit will be with us, guiding us into all Truth. As a priest it is your job to keep that vision alive—even when it comes under attack by well-meaning people who want simple answers to difficult questions.

Most of all, “Rejoice!” St. Paul tells the Church in Philippi—and Christians from generation to generation:  “rejoice, again, I say, rejoice! He writes those words as you know, from prison. And what I want to say is that if Paul can rejoice in prison, certainly God’s people in Darien can find joy in each day—no matter how bad things may sometimes be.

C.S. Lewis reminded us that joy is neither happiness or pleasure—and that in fact at times it is even experienced as unhappiness or as suffering. That is the great paradox of our faith. But joy goes deeper—to the heart of life and to the mystery of faith. Joy, as Lewis puts it, is not an emotion—but a person—the person of Jesus Christ. To be a Christian is to be one who is able to “rejoice” even from a prison cell. It is to be able to stand with a parishioner at the graveside of their loved one but even there—even at the grave to make a song.

When a parishioner walks through the valley of the shadow of death and they do fear evil, it is our awesome task as pastors to walk with them—powerless almost always to change the circumstances, but to walk nevertheless (with God’s help) as icons of joy. Even where there is unhappiness or suffering, it is to be an instrument of God’s peace and a light in the darkness—bearing witness to the power and love of God in Jesus Christ. That is never easy work but it is incredibly rewarding work that I know you will do with gentleness and faithfulness.

I think of our old friend, Frederick Buechner, who as you know defines “vocation” as that place where one’s “deep gladness” meets “the needs of this world.” Surely that is what we—the Church—have affirmed in you since you first began to hear God’s calling to this ministry. I pray that always for you there will be “deep gladness” in this work, for we are all too aware that the needs of both the Church and the world are very great indeed.

I remember when I was ordained that the saddest moments for me were when these older priests would say, “if I had it to do over again I’d find something else.” I know far too many clergy—and you probably do too—who are depressed and unfulfilled in their work. They are not bad people, but they are sad people with long lists of grievances.

So let me say in closing—as an “old veteran” priest—that there is nothing I would rather be doing with my life than to be a priest in Christ’s Church—and in particular to be an Episcopal priest at this time in our still unfolding history. There is no doubt that the work is at times difficult and challenging, but it comes with its own rewards.

And the joy we share with all God’s people goes deeper still than anything else—leading us beyond the Cross and to the empty tomb and to a person—the One whom we keep meeting on the Road to Emmaus, or the Road to Darien. The One whose voice we hear when our hearts burn, and we encounter the Word of the Lord in Holy Scripture. The One whom we beg to stay with us and eat, for evening is at hand. The One whom we see revealed in the breaking of the bread and the sharing of the cup.

So keep your eyes and your ears and your heart wide open! And keep pointing to Jesus—in your work as preacher, pastor, and priest. Keep pointing to Jesus—and all will be well.

St. Luke’s Church, Darien, Connecticut

© Richard M. Simpson, January 23, 2004

My very feeble sermon from a day full of emotion.  The prayer I used following the sermon is here as well (taken from someplace on the internet late yesterday, thanks to whoever wrote it!).

Advent 3C, 2012.

There are no words to be found.  No words about the tragic loss of life that will have it make any sense to us.  Nothing I say will dispel the questions that are on all of our minds.  Especially, why?  Why were first graders who had gone off to school in the morning for their spelling tests and gym classes—the ones who were eagerly anticipating Christmas and the rest of Hanukkah—why were their lives cut short?

Today’s Advent theme is “Rejoice!” and we light the pink candle to remind us of the joy that is to be found in coming of the Christ child.  “Rejoice always,” we heard Paul say, and “Do not worry about anything, but through prayer making your requests known to God.”  Worry and fear and dread hang over us all right now, especially those of us with elementary school aged children.  It is hard, if not nearly impossible to rejoice.

As some of you know, Melissa used to teach at the high school in Newtown, Connecticut.  She still has friends in the district, including the son of a close colleague who taught at Sandy Hook elementary we learned yesterday that he had been transferred this year to the other elementary school in town.  I found out late on Friday that a classmate from college that I didn’t know very well named Joel and his wife JoAnn lost their daughter, a six year old girl named Charlotte in this tragedy.  I watched my own six year old daughter head off to the bus stop Friday morning with her mom wondering if she would get all her words right on her spelling test.  I was not wondering if she would come home or not.  I cannot tell you how wonderful that hug was when both our kids got off the bus.

Coming in to pray in the church this weekend, I looked long at the two crucifixes in our nave, especially the one over the high altar.  I was reminded that we serve a God who has suffered as well.  And not only that, but Jesus came to live among us—he is Emmanuel, God with us— and his light shone in the darkness and the darkness could not overcome it.  It continued on, even on that dark Good Friday when all hope seemed lost.

But all hope is not lost.  The light continues on, even though it feels much dimmer now than it was a few days ago.  When things become overwhelming, and it feels that evil will be victorious, we must remember that the light shines on in the darkness.

Yesterday I went with Noah, Olivia and four of their friends to see “Rise of the Guardians” for Noah’s birthday.  The tale is centered on how the Bogey Man, named Pitch Black, came to fill the dreams of sleeping children with nightmares.  The Guardians of the children—Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and the Sand Man—gather to dispel the nightmares.  They are joined by new-comer Jack Frost, who has been picked as a new Guardian to work with the big four.  The Guardians had to fight for their very lives at times, because if the children stopped believing in them then the Guardians would lose their powers and ultimately reach their demise.

So they worked together in order to combat Pitch Black and the fear he brought into the world.  A globe with lights represented the children who believed, more lights meant more children who believed.  As children stopped believing in them, lights would flicker and then go out.  At one point it came down to just a handful of lights, and all hope seemed lost.  But in that dire time, Santa gave the best line of the movie when he said, “It is our job to protect the children of the world. For as long as they believe in us, we will guard them with our lives.”

As members of Christ’s body, as the church, we are called to be the guardians of the children of the world.  We must not let our children be overcome by fear, and we must not be overcome by it ourselves.  Christ came into the world to dispel fear and to bring us love and joy and peace and hope. As the night grows ever longer, we must remember that light came into this dark world, and the light shone on and was not overcome.  Jesus brought love for each of us and will heal the brokenhearted, and in the end love wins.

Some have said that more people carrying guns is the answer, but that will only lead to more violence.  Some religious types have claimed that this is a result of God being taken out of our schools.  We already know more about the perpetrator than we should.  I am not sure how we can work for change, but we must.  Statistics show that 8 more nameless kids will die today from gun violence.  And 8 more tomorrow.  We are called to protect the children of the world and bring the message of Jesus Christ to them.  Jesus comes to bring us joy in the midst of the darkness—not happiness, mind you, but joy deep inside even as we face the darkest times.

Let me share a story about Charlotte that I saw online last night.  She had gotten a new outfit for the holidays, a pink dress and some new boots.  She asked and badgered and begged her mom to let her wear them before Christmas.  Friday morning JoAnn finally relented and let Charlotte wear that beautiful new outfit to school.

The message of Advent is one of expectation and hope, and I know I need the coming of Christ more this year than ever before.  He comes, this Prince of Peace, to heal our broken world.  I long for that this year, for true healing and shalom—wholeness and not despair.  We cannot let fear’s icy grip rule our hearts, but we must turn to Jesus who suffered for us and suffers with us every time tragedy strikes.  He will come in 9 days as that babe in a barn located in some backwater district in the Roman Empire.  When he comes, that crying babe will announce all the more powerfully that God enters into our world to bring light and joy and peace.  And no matter how much the world does not want that message—no matter how much the forces of wickedness seek to extinguish that light—that message lives on as Christ lives in us.  We bring the message of hope to the world on behalf of Christ; we are Christ’s hand and feet, his body, and with him we shower the world with his love.  The light of Christ will not be extinguished.  It will shine bright in this dark, dark world.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus, come quickly.  Amen.

Prayer following sermon:

Holy God,

There are no words.  There is nothing that we can say but instead we cry out.  We cry out in shared grief and pain for the loss of so many children.  We do not understand, and we cannot imagine why someone would murder, why someone would justify this act of violence.  We cannot comprehend.

We come to You in prayer, but our prayer is jumbled. We pray for the families who are grieving.  We pray for those who are wounded and recovering.  We pray for those adults who put themselves in harm’s way to protect others.  We pray for those children that have witnessed this horrific tragedy and will live with this for the rest of their lives.

Our grief is raw. The wound gapes open and we do not know how to stop it.  But we call upon You, O Lord, to comfort those who mourn, to bind-up the brokenhearted.

It is Hanukkah, it is Advent, many are now preparing for these holy days without their loved one.  God, we surround them with our prayers, for we do not know what else we can do.  We surround them with our love, knowing that You are with them, that You hold them close.

Call us together as a community, and as a nation, loving God, to work to end violence, to build a safer community and safer schools for our children.  In this time, help us to come together, for we are stronger together than we are alone, and we know Your comfort and love is shared when we are together.

Keep us close, O Christ. Help us to turn to each other, to seek the help we need, to build up instead of tearing down.  Guide us with wisdom in how we teach our children, and work to end this violence.  Loving God, help us to know You are always with us, and You are grieving with us now.

Charlotte Bacon, 6;
Daniel Barden, 7;
Rachel Davino, 29;
Olivia Engel, 6;
Josephine Gay, 7;
Ana M. Marquez-Greene, 6;
Dylan Hockley, 6;
Dawn Hocksprung, 47;
Madeline F. Hsu, 6;
Catherine V Hubbard, 6;
Chase Kowalski, 7;

Nancy Lanza; 52
Jesse Lewis, 6;
James Mattioli, 6;
Grace McDonnell, 7;
Anne Marie Murphy, 52
Emile Parker, 6;
Jack Pinto, 6;
Noah Pozner, 6;
Caroline Previdi, 6;
Jessica Rekos, 6;
Avielle Richman, 6;
Lauren Russeau, 30;
Mary Sherlach, 56;
Victoria Soto, 27;
Benjamin Wheeler, 6;
Allison N. Wyatt, 6

May light perpetual shine upon them and all the saints.

In Your Holy name we pray.  Amen.