Encountering the Holy

 

Luke 5:1-11

Epiphany 5 / Year C

When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’s feet, saying, “Go away from me Lord for I am a sinful man!”  For he and all who were with him were amazed at the catch of fish they had taken in.

Perhaps you have noticed over the last few weeks our first lessons have been “call” stories – descriptions of the initial time God reached out to a particular person and appointed him to be a prophet.  Last week it was Jeremiah, this week Isaiah and Jesus’ first disciples.

The German theologian Rudolph Otto wrote the book The Idea of the Holy.  Published in 1917, its ongoing impact on theological thinking over the last century is incalculable.  Otto studied accounts of people encountering what he called “the Holy” and found these events typically contain two elements: one is a feeling of awe, majesty, and urgency and the other is an experience of something wholly other, distinct, and unlike anything else one has known.  While we are attracted to and fascinated by the Holy, he noted a typical initial reaction is one of fear and unworthiness; a sense of the possibility of divine wrath.  This, he observed, yields once a person becomes aware of the Holy One’s goodness and compassion.  It then inspires a person’s self-surrender to what is being encountered.

Do you remember a couple of weeks ago we listened to the account of Ezra reading the book of the Law to the people at the Water Gate in Jerusalem?  Hearing God’s word becomes a divine encounter.  Quickly, people realize the tremendous gap between what the Law calls them to do and what they actually have been practicing.  They weep and they mourn – Otto’s sense of fear and unworthiness.  But Ezra tells them to go home and prepare a celebratory feast because “the joy of the Lord is our strength” – Otto’s self-surrender to God’s goodness and mercy.

And we see this pattern emerging in today’s reading with Peter.  Clearly, he is attracted to Jesus and fascinated by him.  Why else would he allow Jesus to use his boat as a teaching platform and why else would he go out to the deep water and let down his nets when he knows darn well from a whole night’s toil there are no fish out there!  As soon as he apprehends the size and scope of the miraculous catch he realizes he is in the presence of the Holy and is completely overwhelmed with a sense of his own unworthiness.  But rather than departing from Peter, Jesus draws in closer and calls him to a higher industry – fishing for people.  Peter and his associates don’t even bother to take their fish to market.  They drop everything and immediately follow Jesus.  They have been caught.

Have you had an experience with the Holy which in any way mirrors what Rudolph Otto describes and what we see in our readings?

When a person is ordained to the deaconate in the Episcopal Church he or she kneels before a bishop who places his or her hands on your head and says a prayer to impart the gift of the Holy Spirit.  For me, this was a very powerful moment, a mixture of so many things happening all at once.  One thread present was a sense of unworthiness.  Who am I to be filling this role?  That feeling was also present (along with many others) at my marriage ceremony.  How can I possibly keep the vows and promises I am making and live into the person the ordination and marriage liturgy call me to be?  I realized at both occasions a person not feeling at least a little bit of self-doubt doesn’t fully grasp the gravity of the commitment he or she is making.

When a person is ordained to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church he or she kneels before a bishop and all the priests in attendance stand around and join in the laying on of hands.  I had been told before the ceremony to keep my neck and back straight or else all those hands pushing down on me would crush me.  It was sound advice.  I can still feel the weight of those hands, not as burdensome, but as empowering.  It was a wholly other feeling.  A young person from the parish made my ordination stole.  On it are the words from today’s reading from Isaiah, “Here I am, send me.”  I had been caught.

What have your encounters with the Holy been like?

And here is another question: do these encounters come to us completely uninitiated by us or are there things we can do to invite the Holy into our presence?

Like Moses who turned and saw the Burning Bush, I think some of our most powerful encounters with God occur at God’s whim.  I have a sense God is a bit coy and is neither captured nor coerced.  Even at a seminal moment such as ordination, the Holy One engages the human on the Holy One’s own terms.  I can share with a person being ordained to the priesthood, “Keep your back straight”, and this will continue to be sound advice.  I can even share my sense of unworthiness and empowerment, but God will work God’s way independent of my insights.  Still, has Rudolph Otto observed, these encounters bear consistent, similar traits. 

I can also testify to the times I have engaged in certain spiritual practices which have invited the Holy to be present.  For example, I have walked a labyrinth only four times, each time in a different setting (such as on the holy Island of Lindisfarne on the shores of the North Sea and in our own Parish Hall).  No matter the location, each time has resulted in a deep encounter with the Holy and each time I received a clarity changing and shaping my life moving forward.  These experiences have led me to be judicious about engaging in this particular spiritual practice because I don’t want it to become ‘common.’

One final though about how and when you might encounter the Holy.  Let’s consider again Peter’s experience.  On the one hand, I love the image of going out into the “deep water.”  It suggests there is a connection between taking a huge risk and encountering the Holy.  I’ve seen this connection manifested, for example, in people or groups who go on a mission trip to a region or country entirely different from ours and encounter people of faith whose lives lack many of our basic amenities, but whose hearts are filled with the joy, peace, self-lessness, and thanksgiving we thirst for in ours.  When, where, and how do you set off for “deep waters”? 

I also recognize this metaphor is something completely different for Peter.  He is accustomed to the deep waters.  He labors on them night after night.  For him, what is unique in today’s reading is how he goes out to do the same-old-same-old, but in a new way.  Yes, he is fishing, but now he is doing it in the daytime.  It makes no sense.  Jesus is a carpenter… a land lover.  What in the world can he offer to Peter about the skill of fishing?  But Peter is open to new possibilities.  “OK, let’s give it a try!”  It suggests being willing to break with routine and experiment may be yet another way we invite the Holy into our lives.

One of the central themes of the liturgical Season of Epiphany is God’s calling – calling you, calling me, calling us a parish, as a Church, as a people.  I pray we will always be open to the presence of the Holy, filled with awe and a sense of something unlike everything else in our lives.  May this give us a sense of place and purpose deeper than anything else we can imagine or hope for.

"I Didn't Like the Sermon!"

 

Luke 4:21-30

Epiphany 4 / Year C

In the 1950’s the Rev. Rufas Womble was rector of the church I served in Richmond.  Still in the area once he retired, Rufas had a reputation for telling three jokes at the beginning of every sermon.  So, in memory of him, here we go... 

After listening to a long and tedious sermon, a little boy asks his father about what the minister does for the rest of the week.  “Oh, he’s a very busy man,” the father replies.  “He takes care of church business, visits the sick, ministers to the poor, and prepares for next Sunday’s sermon.”  Then the father adds, “Talking in public isn’t an easy job, you know.”  The boy thinks about this for a while and then says, “Well, listening isn’t easy either.”

A pastor preaches a sermon titled, “The Unknown Depths of God.”  After the sermon a member of the congregation comes up to the pastor and says, “I believe you can go the deepest, stay the longest, and come up with the least of any preacher I have ever heard.”

A newly ordained minister was called to be the pastor of a small, rural congregation.  On his first Sunday he is dismayed to find one of the parishioners brings a dog to the worship service.  The young pastor speaks politely to the man and asks him kindly to leave the dog outside.  The man obliges and then takes his seat.  After the service members of the Vestry tell the new priest the man has been bringing his dog to services for years and it has never bothered anyone.  They fear the dog’s owner might never come back again.  So that afternoon the priest pays a visit to the man’s house and apologizes.  “Don’t worry about it a bit,” the man replies, “It all worked out,” he says.  “I wouldn’t have wanted my dog to hear that sermon anyway.”

Like the first joke, most preachers have the reputation of going on too long.  Like the second, some have a reputation of having nothing much to say.  Like the final joke, a few have a reputation of being able to infuriate on a consistent basis.

In today’s Gospel reading we pick up where last Sunday’s lesson left off.  You remember how Jesus goes to his hometown synagogue and is asked to read the scripture lesson and offer comment.  What we hear today is the response.  Jesus’ sermon was not long.  In fact, it was very brief.  It was not shallow.  But boy, did it ever infuriate the congregation.  They are so mad at him they take him to the outskirts of town and nearly throw him headfirst off a cliff.  Years ago at the church I served in Iowa, a local banker so loathed the preacher’s sermons he paid to have the Sunday newspaper delivered right to his church pew where he made a show of reading it during the sermon.  As rude as that was, it doesn’t come close to what the people of Nazareth attempted.

Have you ever heard a sermon that made you mad?  I mean really mad?  Sometimes it can be a good thing.  Sometimes we need to be brought up short and called to account—sometimes.  But sometimes preachers irritate and to no real end—sometimes.  And sometimes we get upset because we think the preacher should have said something else.

I suppose every preacher has his or her own definition of a sermon and each has his or her own unique approach to this very complicated enterprise.  For me, listening to a sermon is listening in on a conversation.  It is a conversation that has been taking place in the heart, mind, and soul of the preacher.  Participants in the conversation include the Holy Spirit, the lessons assigned to be read, the liturgical time of the year, events in the life of the congregation and its members, current national and world events, and a whole host of other voices that come from books, articles, lectures, and previous experiences. 

The majority of the conversation takes place during the course of the week leading up to Sunday’s service; although some parts of it have been going on in the preacher’s innermost being for weeks and months and years.  Each Sunday the preacher attempts to summarize the conversation in a way that is interesting, challenging, enlightening, and spiritually filling to the listening congregation. 

I know most people listen to sermons hoping to learn something about God, about the Bible, and about life.  Most of the time we listen to gain a new perspective on these important matters.  I also know it is easy to fall into the habit of listening to hear things you agree with and disagree with. 

Some years ago one of my colleagues wrote this in his church’s newsletter:

Sermons are intended to challenge people with the Gospel message.  As such they are not meant to be mere reflections of conventional wisdom.  They are meant to question, to stimulate, and to call us to repentance and change.  If you have listened to a sermon that does not call you to these things then chances are you have not heard a good sermon.

If you hear something that upsets you there are several things you can do.  First, ask yourself if you heard exactly what the preacher said.  Perhaps you misunderstood.  Second, ask yourself if the preacher is right.  Sometimes we react negatively to something we know is true, but we do not want to hear.  Next, go to the preacher and seek clarification.  Statements like; “Tell me more about your thoughts on this subject” or “Did I understand you correctly when you said…” are good ways to engage the preacher.  Finally, pray about what you have heard.  Pray for yourself and pray for the preacher.  Pray that God’s will and God’s word would be known by both of you.

I don’t know what the response was to his article, but I always thought it was good advice.

Because the sermon is an articulation of an inner conversation, the best response to a sermon is more conversation.  It is a conversation taking place in the heart, mind, and soul of the listener during the sermon and the days that follow.  The best sermon complements I receive are the ones when somebody stops by the office and begins a conversation by saying, “I have been thinking about what you said in your sermon last Sunday…”

If the only spiritual food you receive all week comes from the sermon they it is likely you will be hungry most of the time.  Sermons function best when they are used as water to prime your spiritual pump.  Without them sometimes it can be difficult to get the water flowing.  With their assistance, the spiritual well inside of you can deliver reservoirs of living water.  

In our Old Testament reading for today, God says to Jeremiah, “I have put My words in your mouth.”  We might ask ourselves who speaks for God in this place.  Upon whose lips has God placed God’s words?  I dare say God’s words are not the exclusive domain of the preacher.  We all speak for God.  Collectively we have God’s word in us.  Discovering this truth, embracing, and unleashing its power ought to be one of our highest priorities.  How will we begin to do it?

The Reading of the Written Word

 

Luke 4:14-21

Epiphany 3 / Year C

The film The Black Robe tells the story of how in 1634 a Jesuit missionary carries the gospel to native people in the interior regions of what now is Canada.  In one scene the missionary tries to persuade a Huron chief to let him teach the tribe how to read and write.  The chief sees no benefit to this practice of scratching marks on paper until the Jesuit gives him a demonstration.  “Whisper to me something I do not know,” the priest says.  The chief thinks for a moment and replies, “My women’s mother died in the snow last winter.”

The Jesuit writes a sentence on a piece of paper and walks a few yards over to his colleague.  Not one word is spoken.  The colleague takes a glance at the note and says to the chief, “I am sorry to learn that your mother-in-law died in a snowstorm.”  The chief jumps back in alarm.  For the first time he has encountered the magical power of writing, which allows knowledge to travel in silence and to dart through space and time.

The earliest known use of symbols to convey meaning is found in paintings on cave walls dating back over 100,000 years.  What we would consider writing appears to have developed independently in four different locations – Mesopotamia, Egypt, China, and Southern Mexico – beginning around 3,500 BC.  Centuries ago the uneducated thought those who could read were akin to gods.  It was held to be a mysterious gift, on par perhaps with being able to predict the future.  It required special gifts – or so it was believed. 

Our readings this morning focus on the reading of the written word, and not just any word… God’s word.  Reverence for Scripture has been a prominent feature of Judaism down through the ages.  We sense this reverence in the reading from Nehemiah.  The story recounts an episode taking place in Jerusalem shortly after the return from exile.  The people gather in the square near the Water Gate and ask Ezra the priest to read the law.  There is a liturgical procession during which Ezra reads and the people respond.  Working in small groups, the Levites then teach the people about the meaning of the text they have just heard.

Three motifs stand out in this story highlighting the significance of the Torah in the life of God’s people.  First, there is a community focus to the event. The reading is not simply relegated to scholars, spiritual leaders, or those in the upper echelon of society.  All the people are present – men, women, and children.  Second, the story emphasizes the importance of understanding what is read.  The long reading is divided up into smaller, more manageable parts.  It is then interpreted so people can understand what they have heard.  And did you catch how they misinterpret the meaning at first; thinking it indicates God is unhappy with them?  “Not so,” says Ezra, “We will celebrate, for the joy of the Lord is our strength.”  Finally, the story demonstrates the need to act on what has been read.  Understanding is not enough.  St. James wrote, “You must not be hearers of the word only, you must also be doers of the word.” 

After contemplating God’s unfathomable glory revealed through the majesty of the heavens, the poet of the 19^th Psalm reflects on the wonder that is God’s law.  It is perfect, pure, and clean.  It provides refreshment, light, and wisdom.  God’s word, the poet says, is more valuable than gold and sweeter than honey.  The poet reacts to God’s written word with an awe and wonder much like Huron tribal chief’s reaction to the missionary.

In our Gospel reading from Luke we hear again the story of Jesus reading from the Scriptures in his hometown synagogue.  The community is gathered.  Jesus will first read the text and then offer an interpretation.    He is the son of a carpenter, a local boy.  Although it appears he has received no formal training he has been absorbing teaching all of his life.  He has stolen away with the priests in the Temple.  He has become acquainted the message of John the Baptist.  But most of all, he has found the Kingdom of God in the simple, ordinary, everyday events of life – a sower scattering seed, a woman looking for a lost coin, a son being reconciled with his father.

Jesus reads the appointed lesson from the prophet Isaiah.  After the reading is concluded he offers commentary: “Today,” Jesus says, “What the prophet hoped for so many years ago, what you have just heard with your ears, has been fulfilled in me.”

Our Old Testament reading for this morning is loosely set at the dawn of one era and the sunset of another.  The Hebrew people are beginning to use parchment - written records - as a way of keeping their stories and traditions intact.  But most of the people do not read or write so they spend hours listening to those who can.

We live at the sunset of that age and the dawn of another.  Words are giving way to images; listening to viewing.  More and more reading, writing, and listening are work.  Countless seminars and books are available to help today’s public speaker capture and keep the attention of the audience.  And a growing number of seminars and business gurus are offering classes on the art and skill of listening.

All of this has powerful implications for the Episcopal Church and congregations like ours.  We seek to communicate the gospel to an age where the skills necessary to receive our kind of proclamation are increasingly out of step with the times. 

It strikes me the Liturgy of the Word is not primarily about being entertained.  It is about a community of people gathering together to hear again the sacred stories and writings of our tradition.  We cannot sit back passively and wait for them to capture our attention.  We must view this as a time of activity, a time of work, a time demanding gifts and skills which very little else in our cultures asks us to use.  If we want to be transformed by the reading and interpretation of the word, then we must approach this time both with reverence and with discipline.  Then, and only then, will it be able to grab us and possess us. 

It is our great privilege to hear the Scriptures read this morning.  It is our calling to listen for God’s voice speaking to us through them.  It is our great responsibility to endeavor to understand what they mean for us in our time.  It is our great calling to apply what we sense and what we learn to who we are and to what we do. 

When the Wine Runs Out

 

John 2:1-11

Epiphany 2 / Year C

One of my colleagues made an admission on our zoom call with the bishop this past week.  She exhaled a sigh and said, “I have lost my mojo.”  She was discouraged, flat, spent.  Using the vernacular of today’s reading from the gospel, we might say the wine had run out of her life.  We all have been there and given this enduring pandemic it is becoming more and more frequent for each of us. 

For her part, the bishop was (as always) very pastoral and comforting.  Then she posed a question to us, “What do you do when you run out of mojo?”  Never one to keep my thoughts to myself, I chimed right in and described how down I was after Christmas.  Two things seemed to help me, I said.  One was talking about it in a sermon, which I did two weeks ago.  The simple act of giving a name to where you are is the beginning of getting some kind of a handle on it.  Think about Mary’s role in naming today’s challenge at Cana, “They have no wine!”  If she had not named it, Jesus would not have known to act.

The second thing that helped me was being able to celebrate communion again on Sunday morning because we had a week to distribute communion-to-go bags.  There is something very powerful “always and everywhere” to give thanks to God – even in (and especially during) these unprecedented times.  The wine may run out for a season, but it will be brief and in time discouragement will give way to celebration.

I started to read a book in preparation for what we might focus on for a Lenten program.  It is called The Gratitude Project.  It is a collection of writings and essays put out by a research group at U.C. Berkley.  This group has spent twenty years exploring “the roots of happy and compassionate individuals, strong social bonds, and altruistic behavior.”  What they call “the science of a meaningful life.”  And they have learned firsthand how gratitude has the power to transform lives, families, neighborhoods, schools, workplaces, and even nations. 

I’m only a tenth of the way into the book, so I have a lot to learn.  Already I have awakened to some things right in front of each of us; so close as to become invisible.  For example, the researchers define appreciation as “the act of acknowledging the goodness of life.”  It is not the denial of bad things and real challenges.  Rather, it is the awareness there are positive things in our life.  Gratitude, they say, goes one step further by recognizing “how positive things in our lives… are often due to forces outside ourselves, particularly the efforts of other people.”  Grateful people have a certain level of humility because they understand they could not be who they are without the contributions of others. 

Hopefully you are becoming more aware of this every time you go to the grocery store, as an example.  I am more aware of the people who are working there – cashiers on eight-hour shifts and stockers who are not simply clogging up the aisles, but stocking the goods I am there to purchase.  The empty shelves serve as a reminder this work does not just happen by itself.  I am more aware of the truckers and warehouse workers who are struggling to fill inventories.  Then there are the manufactures and farmers and so many, many other people who make it possible for me to buy a loaf of bread and a dozen eggs.  When you stop to think about it, it really is remarkable you can drive a few minutes from your home and purchase pretty much everything you need for any meal you want.  As the collect says, “help us not to forget that our common life depends on each other’s labor.”

The Gratitude Project states there are four components to gratitude:

·       What we notice for which we are grateful.  It is easier to be grateful for the extraordinary, but more difficult to be cognizant of the ordinary blessings of everyday life.

·       How we think about why we have been given these good things.  Was it a spontaneous act or did it come with strings attached?

·       How we feel about the things we have been given.   At Christmas we see commercials of a husband leading his wife out to the driveway where a brand new Lexus is parked, complete with massive red bow on top.  That has never happened to me.  Instead, I open a package from Grandma and discover she has knit me a pair of mittens.  How do you feel about the things you have been given?  Can you appreciate every act of generosity?

·       What we do to express our appreciation.  If Grandma is present, I may say “Thank you.  They look like they will be so warm.”  Or I may give her a hug.  If she is not there, I may call her on the phone or write her a note (Well, given I was raised in the north, you know I didn’t write a note!).

Does gratitude matter?  Does it make a difference in a person’s life?  One study asked a group of people to identify six goals they wanted to work on over a ten-week period.  Half of the group was also instructed to keep a Gratitude Journal in which once a week they recorded five things for which they were grateful.  Those keeping a journal made 20 percent more progress on their goals than those who did not. 

In another experiment, two four-year olds are in room playing and one child is given two treats.  Some choose to keep both while others opt to share.  When the children not given the two treats are put in a new environment with a different child and then give two treats, those who experienced sharing are significantly more likely to share than those who did.  Gratitude fosters generosity and selflessness.

As I am reading the book I am acutely aware it is written from a secular perspective.  It does not talk about faith communities and religious beliefs, which is OK because I can fill in the blanks.  It occurs to me if you want to get your body in shape you will join a fitness club.  And if you want to do something positive for your community you will find different ways to volunteer your time.  And if you want to grow your sense of gratitude you will go to church. 

Think about it, gratitude is at the very heart of who we are and what we are all about.  We are grateful to God for life and love and the goodness made known to us in creation.  And we are grateful for one another – the choir anthem, the cup of coffee, the flowers on the altar, the listening ear, the word of prayer, the attention to building and grounds… I could go on and on.  There is a reason the second half of our service is called “The Great Thanksgiving.”

But let me close by telling you this.  My phone rang just as I sat down to begin writing this sermon.  It was my colleague who had lost her mojo.  She wanted to tell me how much she appreciated me and my willingness to say I too have been discouraged.  Like me, she found naming it was the beginning of moving beyond it.  After the zoom she went for a walk – an activity which always opens her to the good things in life – and this too moved her forward.  She could not thank me enough for what I shared.  “Well,” I said to her, “Let me tell you about the sermon I am about to write…” 

Mojo returns.  Discouragement has its day and then must yield to gratitude.  Water does turn into wine!  Amazing!

Certificates, Certificates, and More Certificates

 

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

Epiphany 1 / Year C

If you read what I wrote in the E-News this past Friday, you already know one of the greatest occupational hazards of being clergy is the tendency to collect a lot – and I mean A LOT! – of certificates.  I have framed and hanging on the wall of my office the following:

·    A certificate from Virginia Theological Seminary indicating I earned a Master in Divinity degree.

·    A certificate from the Diocese of Ohio indicating I am an ordained Deacon in the Episcopal Church.

·    Another certificate from Ohio indicating I am an ordained Priest.

·    A certificate from the Diocese of Virginia know as a Letter of Institution giving me the authority to serve as the Rector of the Church of the Epiphany in Richmond.

·    A certificate from Union Theological Seminary indicating I earned a Doctor of Ministry degree.

·    And finally, a Letter of Institution from this diocese giving me the authority to serve as Rector of St. Paul’s.

And, as if all this isn’t enough, I also have framed invitations to both of my ordinations.  The diocesan certificates for ordination and institution are each signed by the bishop who presided at the service.  Each bears the mark in wax of the bishop’s signet ring, which is a nice, quaint little touch.

I’ve started to wonder what will happen to all these certificates when I retire and no longer have an office.  Will I want to display them in my home?  Probably not.  And even more, what will happen to them when I am called to my heavenly home?  Will anybody want to hang them anywhere?  Again, probably not.  At best, someone might want to recycle the frames and matting, but who knows.

These certificates seem to be designed on the premise the bigger the document the more prestigious the thing it proclaims.  How interesting then the two most important certificates I have are not framed, not on display, and not very large.  They are my birth certificate (an achievement I had little to do with) and my baptismal certificate (again, my part involved being held and getting my head wet).  The birth certificate indicates the date and place of my birth, but fails to record my parent’s surprise that after the birth of a daughter a son was in route just two minutes behind.  The OB had not shared with them his hutch my mother was carrying twins.  The baptismal certificate again mentions the date (December 29, 1959), place (Sheridan Community Presbyterian Church in Pittsburgh), and officiant (Rev. Alfred C. Peterson).  It does not indicate my mood or behavior at the ceremony, but I am confident I was “the cutest baby EVER!”).    

My birth certificate indicates who I am and to which family I was born.  My baptismal certificate indicates whose I am.  I am God’s! 

I am not the first preacher to observe if we had this right the baptismal certificate would be the size of the ordination document and the ordination the size of the baptismal.  The Lutheran theologian Gordon Lathrop states ordination merely gives a clergy person a place to stand in the assembly and a function to perform.  To be in the assembly one must be baptized, and this, he says, is foremost, primary. 

From the catechism of the prayer book we learn several things happen when we are baptized (page 858):

·    We join with Christ in his death by dying to the old life of sin.

·    We rise with Christ in his resurrection to a new life of grace.

·    We receive the forgiveness of sins.

·    We are filled with the Holy Spirit.

·    We are spiritually birthed as members of God’s family, the Church.  It conveys upon us full and complete membership in the household of God.

Notice nowhere in the catechism does it indicate baptism means you will go to heaven when you die.  This sacrament is not primarily about next life life insurance, although this is how many treat it... “I am so relieved to have the baby done.” 

Foremost in baptism we are named and we are claimed.  This is what happens to Jesus as he rises out of the water.  God speaks, “You are my Son (naming and claiming), the beloved, with you I am well-pleased” (being known and being loved). 

Did you pick up on how these themes are present in this morning’s reading from the prophet Isaiah? 

·    I am the God who created you.

·    I am the God who formed you.

·    I am the God who redeems you.

·    I have called you by name.

·    You are mine.

·    You are precious in my sight.

·    You are honored.

·    I love you.

This is what your baptismal certificate proclaims about you.  Can any other document, description, or accolade be more significant than this? 

Perhaps, like me, you were baptized as an infant and have no recollection of the day or its meaning.  For people like us, Confirmation serves as a sacramental moment when we have the opportunity to make a mature profession of faith by stating we embrace the vows, promises, and beliefs made by our baptismal sponsors. 

Again, many a youngster has been pushed into and through Confirmation as a rite of passage or as a graduation from Sunday School.  If this is your story, has there been a moment since then when the Christian faith became your own?  Has there been a time when you realized you have been named and claimed, known and loved?  It would be nice if this all fell neatly in line in our life with the sacraments of baptism and confirmation, but it often doesn’t (in spite of our best attempts).

Still, this morning I invite you to revisit your own baptism.  Do you have a certificate or any other item documenting the occasion (a picture, a candle, a cross)?  Compare you understanding of baptism with what the Catechism teaches.  Ponder to what degree you embrace being named and claimed by God, being known by God and being loved.

“You are mine,” says the Lord, “I love you.”

The Flight of the Holy Family & The Suspension of In-Person Worship

 

Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23

Christmas 2 / Year C

How was your Christmas?  Mine?  Meh.  In fact, almost everyone I know had a Christmas ranging from subdued to downright joyless.  Families opted not to get together.  Travel plans were cancelled.  And, of course, here at St. Paul’s we suspended in-person worship.  In the past we derived some level of comfort and meaning from virtual worship and family zooms, but the sun has set on that day to be sure.  Virtual pales in comparison to being together.

Based on what I have learned this past week about Covid cases in our parish family, I am convinced people would have been exposed at both of our Christmas Eve services by folks who were contagious, but not symptomatic at the time.  While the adage better safe than sorry applies, it does not fill the void left empty by not celebrating Christmas Eve together in this place or by gathering free of fear with family and friends.

As I ponder today’s first reading from Jeremiah, the prophet’s vision of restoration and renewal describes so accurately the journey we have been on since returning to in-person worship last May through the Fourth Sunday of Advent:

·       A remnant of Israel will return.

·       Those who have been scattered will be gathered together.

·       The flock will have a Shepherd.

·       They will be consoled and shall be radiant.

·       They will be like a watered garden and never languish again.

·       The women will dance and the men will be merry.

·       Mourning will give way to joy, sorrow to gladness.

·       The priests will have their share of fatness (insert punchline here) and the people will be satisfied.

All of these images describe the feeling I had about our parish life as we prepared to celebrate a festive Christmas here.  We were experiencing first-hand what the author of the 84^th Psalm so wonderfully describes:

How dear to me is your dwelling, O Lord of hosts!

  My soul has a desire and longing

for the courts of the Lord;

  my heart and my flesh rejoice in the living God.

Happy are they who dwell in your house!

  they will always be praising you.

For one day in your courts is better

than a thousand in my own room,

  and to stand at the threshold

of the house of my God

  than to dwell in the tents of the wicked.

After being unable for so long to worship in this space, we returned with a new and deep appreciation for this place.  After having been isolated from one another for so long, we returned with a new and deeper awareness of how much we value the people we know here.  Attendance was growing.  The Choir was back.  Families supported several outdoor special events.  Finances are holding steady.  We are pursuing a new and exciting outreach opportunity.  While many of my clergy colleagues are down in the dumps about what is (or is not) happening in the churches they serve, I am the rare priest who is optimistic and enthused about what is going on in my ministry context.

And then came Christmas.  It felt like running into a brick wall I did not see coming. 

From this morning’s Gospel reading we learn the idyllic image of the Creche scene does not linger for long.  Ominous signs abound.  The real possibility of danger permeates the air.  If you read the text carefully you will discover the magi visit Jesus, not in the stable on the night of his birth, but in a home when he is a child, most likely less than two.  So the events we read about today don’t happen in real time as rapidly as they happen in liturgical time.

Still, Joseph, who like his namesake from the Book of Genesis, is a dreamer, receives a troubling message from an angel while in a deep sleep.  I am sure he and Mary moved to flee Bethlehem with the same speed we moved to suspend in-person services.  The Holy Family, which was settled around family and friends, become refugees in Egypt (of all places) where once God’s people were enslaved.  It must have been a dark and disheartening time for them. 

Sadly, so many in our world today can empathize with them, knowing first-hand what it is to be a refugee.  Just last month Episcopal Migration Ministries resettled its 100,000 person since being formally established in 1980.  That is quite a milestone and it is good to know our church is working to welcome refugees just as various people and communities in Egypt welcomed the Holy Family.  Young Jesus experienced firsthand who he was to become: “The Light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.”

Through the vehicle of dreams God gives Joseph both warnings and guidance.  And Joseph is wise enough and faithful enough to pay attention to what he is being told and to act upon it, no matter how unwanted or inconvenient it may be.  I can’t say God has ever spoken to me in a dream, but I do believe we are offered the same spiritual guidance and warnings through the collective insight of our parish family, and especially through the leaders on our Vestry.  Sometimes the guidance we discern is problematic, but always it is necessary.

The good news in today’s reading is found in Jeremiah’s vision of restoration and renewal.  What we experienced in the second half of 2021 is but a foretaste of what is to come.  And the good news in today’s reading is found in the joy the poet of the 84^th psalm experiences by being in God’s house.  We will know this joy again, hopefully sooner rather than later.  And the good news in today’s reading is, like the Holy Family, our time as refugees is necessary for our own health and safety.  Like them, God is with us to see us through.  And like them, our time of exile one day will come to an end. 

 

A Girl, a Mother, a Dog, and an Unattended Moment

 

Christmas Eve / Year C

I want to share with you a wonderful memory which happened over 25 years ago.  I was driving on a two-lane state highway in late September with nothing but time on my hands.  I had a convertible at the time and on this sun-splashed fall afternoon I had the top down and not a single care in the world.   As I made my way north out of town a school bus pulled in front of me.  Now this was in Iowa, were the only fate worse than being stuck behind a school bus is being trapped behind a hog-hauler!  But it was such a beautiful day and I was not in any particular hurry to reach my destination, so I was not upset at the intrusion to my travels.

After about two miles the school bus began to slow down for what would be its one and only stop before turning off the road and getting out of my way.  In the distance, sitting in the grass, I could see a mother and a dog waiting.  The dog (one of those whippet breeds) spotted the bus approaching and came to life.  It spun in circles, wagged its tail, leapt in the air wildly, and barked with joyful anticipation.  As the bus came to a stop the excited canine inched as close to the vehicle as it dared, while the mother sat ten yards back on a grassy hillside. 

A little girl about kindergarten age emerged–complete with book bag, coat, and other paraphernalia–and made her way toward her mother.  The dog, who obviously had not yet adjusted to having the girl be away at school after a long summer of perpetual togetherness and play, ran up to her, jumped all around her, and gave her the biggest, wettest lick on the face you could ever imagine.  Then the two of them ran side by side to the mother who received the little girl into her arms with the kind of hug that could melt away any and all cares.  Arm in arm they began to walk down the long drive that led to their home; the dog beside them, a frenzy contained in a skin of fur. 

With that the bus pulled away (and I with it), but the scene played out before me has stayed with me all these years as vivid in my mind’s eye as the day it occurred.  It seemed to me those few seconds from the time the bus approached to the time the girl ran into her mother’s embrace were as perfect as any could be.  For one instance there was nothing but joy and happiness and peace and love.  In that moment I felt as if I had received a foretaste of heaven because it was so pure and good and it was everything we wish life could be all of the time and everywhere.

The poet T.S. Elliot described an experience like this as being an intersection of the timeless with time where the particularity of place opens onto infinity.  In Elliot’s words, we perceive this kind of event only in momentary “hints and guesses,” and not through the ordinary methods of rational knowledge or sensory perception.  In order to grasp the significance of moments like these for what they truly are, he says we need to rely upon our deeper spiritual nature.  Elliot called these experiences “unattended moments,” and they come to us as surprise, as gift, and as grace.

In 1976, the writer Michael Paffard published a book titled The Unattended Moment.  It is an anthology of writings by people who had what he describes as “brief flashes of experience... so out of the ordinary... they do not seem to fit into our ordinary pattern of experience.”  Like my experience, he says unattended moments are brief, but intense.  Paffard goes on to say,

The unattended moment may come when we are travelling in a train, ill in bed, reading a book or washing the dishes; in the most humdrum surroundings we may be ‘surprised by joy’...  If we have an unattended moment at a concert or in a picture gallery or while reading a poem we are likely to think of it as an intense aesthetic experience.  Similarly, if the moment comes in a Cathedral or at some religious ceremony we shall probably think of it as religious experience.

I think T.S. Elliot would have said the birth of Jesus was an unattended moment where the finite world opens to the Infinite.  There in the manger lay the infant human God.  Could there be a clearer sign indicating in this world there is goodness; there is beauty; there is joy; there is love?  Have innocence and wisdom, vulnerably and power, ever met so perfectly?  Has there ever been an event which has inspired the human spirit as dramatically?  Has there ever been a moment as fleeting as this one that has touched the world as deeply or affected the course of history as significantly?

The Nativity is a sign indicating good will triumph over evil and light will shine in the darkness; in our lives, in our community, throughout the world, and all of history.  Its message says we are loved so deeply no pain, no wrong, no evil, nothing imposed upon us by others and nothing imposed on us by ourselves, can separate us from God’s gentle but true love.

I pondered just how many unattended moments I have experienced in my life, but I can’t seem to figure out if it is many or if it is but a few.  T.S. Eliot lamented “we had the experience, but missed the meaning.”  I am confident the Infinite breaks into the finite all the time all around us.  We are always in the midst of God’s presence and activity, but often fail to recognize it. 

It took an angelic choir to get a few shepherds to investigate the Incarnation and it took a celestial light to garner the attention of a group of magi.  Other than this handful of people, everyone else in Bethlehem missed the meaning of the birth of a child in an animal stall.  It is easy – far too easy – to do.

One final thought about the little girl and the school bus...  The rational part of me informs my romantic side the blissful scene I witnessed between a mother and her daughter was in no way indicative of the entirety of their home life.  Surely they have their share of hardships, fights and unhappiness.  But none of that mattered during the brief respite of bliss I witnessed on that fall afternoon. 

Though it was in no way as significant as the Nativity, the two are similar in one narrow sense.  Both impress upon me what a line from Eucharist Prayer B attempts to describe: “We give thanks to you, O God, for the goodness and love which you have made known to us in creation.”  Praise God for such epiphanies, and praise God for this night!  My Christmas prayer for you is this season and all your life will be filled with unattended moments.