Fr. Gordon Byce was telling me about a book he is reading right now, entitled Blink (Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, 2005, Malcolm Gladwell). It is about what we are able to understand from quick impressions, what the author refers to as thin-slices of experience. What we take in, so to speak, in the blink of an eye.
In one experiment, a group of high school students were given lists of unconnected words, and from those lists, they were to pick four words and compose a sentence. This they did. But you know what caught the attention of the researchers. After the experiment, the students left the room together and were all observed as a group, walking slowly and lethargically down the hall.
Because scattered throughout the rows of words were specific words related to old-age: elderly, aged, creaking. Without knowing it, these old-age adjectives had slipped into their thoughts and they waddled down the hall like a geriatric gaggle of decrepit geese.
Fr. Gordon’s observation was - what power there is words and thought, even thoughts that seem merely to skim across our minds.
Along those lines, our passage from John is a remarkable one.
Repeatedly, and at crucial points in John’s Gospel, it comes back to this theme that following Jesus Christ we are entered into a deep and intimate relationship with him and, through him, with God. And that the blood which enlivens this relationship is the self-sacrificing love of Jesus Christ. And without this love, it all falls to the ground. Or, as the passage from last week would put it, like a lifeless vine, we whither and die separated from the love of God.
But it is a point made elsewhere about this commandment that caught my attention.
What makes Jesus’ command to love new?
“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. (John 15:12)
Or, as it is put earlier in chapter 13,
I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35)
And so, what makes it new?
It has been said that this love which Jesus commands is new because it is different from the love revealed in the Old Testament. It contrasts with the love described in the Old Testament.
That’s not quite so. The love of our neighbours is strongly emphasized in the law, as is the love of strangers and foreigners (Lev. 9.18, 34).
And John’s Gospel does not seem to have a contrast with the Old Testament in mind. In fact, quite the opposite may be the case.
In Matthew’s Gospel, there are places where a clear contrast is being made. Jesus says, “You have heard it said” - in reference to an instruction from the Old Testament law - and then says “but I say”, in order to emphasize what is new or unique or distinct from the Old Testament.
“You have heard it said, do not murder. But I say, do not even hate your enemy.”
This sharp contrast between Jesus and the Old Testament does not occur in John’s Gospel.
Instead, as the great New Testament scholar Raymond Brown puts it, the command of Jesus to love one another is new because in Jesus Christ the love of God reaches its climax.
In Christ, the love of God shows its full intensity.
In Christ, it demonstrates definitively God’s destiny for his people and the world.
And in Christ it is offered - the great love of God is offered - as an intimate and personal gift from Jesus to his disciples.
The command of Jesus is new because in Christ the intensity of God’s love is revealed. God’s love for the unlovable. The relentless, inexorable reach of God’s love, traveling that road to the cross, fully aware of the anguish and agony ahead. And not to put too fine a point on it, Jesus meant what he said: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends (John 15:13). He gave his life, and across the generations Christians have simply and obediently followed the example he gave.
Secondly, and I think majestically, the love of which Jesus spoke is new because it fills full the hope of the prophet and the destiny for God’s people:
The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when. . . I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the Lord,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord (Jeremiah 31:31-34).
But finally, this love is new because it has been extended to us personally by Jesus Christ - who lived in this world, who breathed this air, who knew our joys and satisfactions, our sorrows, our disappointments and defeats. We are invited by Jesus into an intimate, deep and familiar relationship with him.
Later, St. Paul would say this very thing of the Corinthian Christians:
You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, to be known and read by all; and you show that you are a letter of Christ, prepared by us, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts. (2 Corinthians 3:2-3)
It is personal. We are invited to know our Lord: through his presence in our hearts; through the sacraments through which we reach for him week by week; and in the fellowship of his body, the church. It is new, because it is personal, and is offered to each one of us. The offer of God’s love coursing through our veins, enlivening our lives.
For the past few weeks I’ve been thinking about Haiti and Sri Lanka. For obvious reasons. A terrible and bloody civil war in Sri Lanka. Abject poverty in Haiti, put to us powerfully last weekend by Fr. Max Accime. And last Sunday evening at Evening Prayer, a direct question was put to Fr. Max: Haiti suffers from debilitating poverty, it has endured successive corrupt governments, and it sits in hurricane alley. “Where do you find the strength to get up each day,” Fr. Accime was asked. “Do you have any hope?”
To which Fr. Max answered simply, “One can always hope.”
But I’ve been thinking, what do Christian do when faced with these sorts of circumstances?
What does the church do, in Haiti, in Sri Lanka.
Well, what is the church in Haiti doing: praying, feeding, teaching.
I mentioned to you a while back that I had met Dr. Jebanesan, principal at the Theological College of Lanka in Pilimatalawa, Sri Lanka. I asked him how they were responding to the civil war.
“Well,” he said, “we teach our students the Gospel. And to help them with that,” he said, “we send the Tamil students into Sinhalese parishes and Sinhalese students into Tamil parishes.”
What does the church do? What does the body of Christ do in response? With the intensity of the love of Jesus, rising from the confidence of God’s redemptive purpose in the world, and with this great love coursing through our veins as our Lord has invited us to share, the church does what these Christian brothers and sisters are doing: praying, serving and teaching. Praying for peace. Feeding and sheltering those in need. Building schools where the young can be given the chance for better lives, better homes, better nations.
And it’s the serving and teaching that matters most, right? Well, that was when I blinked. Blinked over words that I kept using: impossible, hopeless, intractable.
Impossible problems. Hopeless communities. Intractable hatreds.
But then I ‘blinked’. Impossible, hopeless and intractable are not Christian words.
What does the Archangel Gabriel say to a young maiden, chosen by the Lord to bear the Savior in her unopened womb.
“Nothing,” he says, “is impossible with God.”
What does the apostle Paul say to a frightened and persecuted people living in the belly of the Roman beast in the great city of Rome?
Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them . . . No, “if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink . . . Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. (Romans 12:12-21)
And what does the Almighty say to a stuttering shepherd, commissioned with the deliverance of a brow-beaten people out of the hands of the great Pharoah of Egypt:
“This,” says the Lord to Moses, “is why I have let you live: to show you my power, and to make my name resound through all the earth” (Exodus 9:16).
As Christians, we serve and teach wherever we go, but our mission begins with prayer, because we “read, mark, learn and inwardly digest” the words of our faith, the hope of our lives, and the accomplishment of God in Jesus Christ. Prayer because in Christ the intensity of God’s great love is revealed. Prayer because in Christ we have the hope of this great love lifting God’s people and bathing the world. And prayer because from the loving wounds and outstretched hands of our Savior, we are given this love to course through our own hearts and lives for the sake of the world and the glory of God.
Let this prayer be our prayer today.
Sermons & Notes
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
"Past the Empty Tomb" - Easter Sunday, April 12, 2009
Last Sunday there were two fine sermons at St. Paul’s - one from our Bishop, Patrick Yu, and the other earlier in the day from Annette Brownlee.
And in them, two kinds of people described who have encountered Jesus who, for our benefit, the Gospel of Mark offers us in stark and plain terms.
The first is the Palm Sunday follower, with a palm branch in their hands, singing hymns at full voice, thrilled at the thought of what Jesus will do for them - and about to be bitterly disappointed.
It is worth a moment’s pause to consider the disappointment which Jesus Christ can bring.
The disappointment of the person who follows him thinking that a moral life, like one we imagine Jesus living, will lead to an orderly life, hopefully one of some success, at least one quiet and contented. But who discovers that following Jesus one is led into the centre of the storm.
It is the disappointment of the person who follows him thinking that a Christian life will always be happy and one of rich personal relationships. Away from the world's hatreds, into the company of Christians who will never betray or disappoint. Who discovers that following Jesus, one will face the darkness of the human heart. The darkness in our own. The darkness in others.
It is the disappointment of the person who says I want Jesus, I just don’t want anything to do with the church. I’m above institutions, and party spirit, bureaucracies, and blimpish traditions. I want nothing to do with superstition or hypocrisy. But who hears, in dismay, that it is in order to raise up a holy people, a nation of priests, that our Lord inhabits the church and gives his body into our shaking hands and offers his blood to our trembling lips.
And it is the disappointment, quite frankly, of the one who follows Jesus Christ thinking that they can get ahead by doing so.
“We want to be on your left and right,” James and John tell Jesus. But this is a King who serves - and expects his followers to do likewise. And who only once in Mark’s Gospel will be honored with company on his left and right - when two criminals are pinned to crosses beside him (15.27). It is not the glory they were hoping for. It is not the glory Jesus offers.
Jesus Christ loves us. He reaches out to us. He comforts us, heals us, protects us. He answers all sorts of simple, personal prayers upon which we can look with gratitude. But it is love given in order to enlarge our hearts. It is love given in order to draw us in and send us out. It is love with a back bone which simply won’t be manipulated by our narrow goals and prejudices. And every short-sighted Palm Sunday follower discovers this on Good Friday when they hear their hollow cheers descend into cries for crucifixion.
And there is another kind of follower who the Bishop described. It is Simon of Cyrene, the man on the road forced by the soldiers to carry the cross of Jesus to Golgotha.
And I liked the Bishop’s joke. Simon is the great ambassador for everyone who is here today at the insistence of their husband or wife. Simon represents all those who know that there’s a price to pay for Easter Dinner: “you gotta go to church.”
For a month in seminary, I was a student volunteer at a skid-row mission in Chicago. I met a man who bounced back and forth off the street. He was clean and sober when I knew him, was serving as a volunteer at the mission, and was simply a great friend to me.
One night we went out onto Madison Avenue for a tour of the neighbourhood. If any of you remember the TV show Hill Street Blues, that police precinct was not far away and was our first stop.
But the tour included a walk past several of the street missions, some with better reputations than others. “Had all my stuff stolen in that one,” he told me.
“And in that one,” he said, “chapel comes before dinner.”
“There I was born again, and again, and again. New converts get better lunch.”
Simon of Cyrene is the great ambassador for all those who say, “I am here because my grandmother told me. I am here because my father dragged me. I am here because I can’t stay home without making a scene. I am here in body, but don’t think for a moment you have my heart, or mind, or my soul.”
He is the ambassador for all those who have had Jesus thrust upon them. They weren’t looking. They aren’t interested. But they can’t get around him. They have a Roman spear in their back, and they discover - they truly discover - they can’t get around him.
I’ve mentioned before a man who I knew as a pastor in my home church and a chaplain to the local police. But as a teenager he was part of a street gang. One night there was some gun play and he made the national news because he was the nephew of the mayor.
In the gun fight he had tried to shoot his enemy but tripped and shot himself. Because of the injury, the police caught him, arrested him and sat outside his hospital room. And inside the room he was stuck with a kind, old man from our church, lying in the bed next to him. Determined to challenge him. Determined to love him. Determined to follow him to court and to prison. Determined that, whether he wanted it or not, this young man would see Jesus.
Mark’s Gospel is a stark one. It is one in which the mission of Jesus Christ is portrayed in dramatic, violent, agonizing terms. It is one in which the most reliable ending we have portrays everyone frightened and confused.
It is the Gospel in which only two people clearly understand who Jesus is. The devils who see the spiritual battle being waged. And a dusty old soldier, experienced in cruelty, who stands at the foot of the cross, and looks upon the dying Jesus in reverence and wonder.
It is a stark Gospel portrait. But echoing just beyond its border is the triumphant news of the resurrection, waiting for those who will make the trip past the empty tomb.
As Bishop Yu noted, the Gospel of Mark has this beautiful little tease. It says that Simon of Cyrene was the father of Rufus and Alexander (15.21), names which appear nowhere else in Mark’s Gospel. But which almost certainly mean that the sons of Simon would later become known to the Christians who read Mark’s Gospel. Simon and his sons were known because Simon who first followed Jesus by force, discovered the truest thing he’d ever known and would come to follow Jesus in love.
Pope Benedict says, what do we need in life?
We need fellowship. We need relationships that matter. We seek harmony and peace.
But before all that, we need the truth (Behold the Pierced One, Joseph Ratzinger, Ignatius Press, 1986, p. 125). And in the life of Jesus Christ, vindicated by his resurrection from the grave, heaven has shone down upon us, and we have seen the truth.
What did Simon discover? What would the frightened women discover? What would the betrayer Peter discover?
They went off to the grave, armed for the stench of death, and discovered life - life vindicating all which Jesus taught and did and the great mercy he displayed.
The mercy of God who chooses the least of all people to become a holy nation, a beacon of light in the world, who reveals himself in the master who will serve. In the king who will give his life for his enemy.
The mercy of God who clings to these humble people, in their rebellion and disobedience, because of an unrelenting pursuit and a promise he will not give up on to redeem the world.
And the mercy of God with power to reach into the core of this world, grabbing death and sin, and pulling it inside out into light and life.
Those unlikely people, with Jesus thrust upon them, discover the new life of the risen Lord vindicating the great mercy he had displayed among them. They discover life, and mercy and know it to be true. The truest thing in heaven and earth.
“Let the same mind be in you,” says St. Paul, “that was in Christ Jesus.”
. . . who emptied himself, taking the form of a slave . . . And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of . . . death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name . . . in heaven and on earth and under the earth. (Phil. 2:5-11)
And because of him, says Paul, I have come to regard everything as loss . . . “because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord . . . I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings. (Philippians 3:7-11)
Pope Benedict concludes the matter perfectly:
[Jesus] Christ summons us to find heaven in him, to discover him in others and thus to be heaven to each other. He calls us to let heaven shine into this world, to build heaven here. Jesus stretches out his hand to us in his Easter message, in the mystery of the sacraments, so that Easter may be now, so that the light of heaven may shine forth in this world and the doors may be opened. Let us take his hand! (p. 128.)
And in them, two kinds of people described who have encountered Jesus who, for our benefit, the Gospel of Mark offers us in stark and plain terms.
The first is the Palm Sunday follower, with a palm branch in their hands, singing hymns at full voice, thrilled at the thought of what Jesus will do for them - and about to be bitterly disappointed.
It is worth a moment’s pause to consider the disappointment which Jesus Christ can bring.
The disappointment of the person who follows him thinking that a moral life, like one we imagine Jesus living, will lead to an orderly life, hopefully one of some success, at least one quiet and contented. But who discovers that following Jesus one is led into the centre of the storm.
It is the disappointment of the person who follows him thinking that a Christian life will always be happy and one of rich personal relationships. Away from the world's hatreds, into the company of Christians who will never betray or disappoint. Who discovers that following Jesus, one will face the darkness of the human heart. The darkness in our own. The darkness in others.
It is the disappointment of the person who says I want Jesus, I just don’t want anything to do with the church. I’m above institutions, and party spirit, bureaucracies, and blimpish traditions. I want nothing to do with superstition or hypocrisy. But who hears, in dismay, that it is in order to raise up a holy people, a nation of priests, that our Lord inhabits the church and gives his body into our shaking hands and offers his blood to our trembling lips.
And it is the disappointment, quite frankly, of the one who follows Jesus Christ thinking that they can get ahead by doing so.
“We want to be on your left and right,” James and John tell Jesus. But this is a King who serves - and expects his followers to do likewise. And who only once in Mark’s Gospel will be honored with company on his left and right - when two criminals are pinned to crosses beside him (15.27). It is not the glory they were hoping for. It is not the glory Jesus offers.
Jesus Christ loves us. He reaches out to us. He comforts us, heals us, protects us. He answers all sorts of simple, personal prayers upon which we can look with gratitude. But it is love given in order to enlarge our hearts. It is love given in order to draw us in and send us out. It is love with a back bone which simply won’t be manipulated by our narrow goals and prejudices. And every short-sighted Palm Sunday follower discovers this on Good Friday when they hear their hollow cheers descend into cries for crucifixion.
And there is another kind of follower who the Bishop described. It is Simon of Cyrene, the man on the road forced by the soldiers to carry the cross of Jesus to Golgotha.
And I liked the Bishop’s joke. Simon is the great ambassador for everyone who is here today at the insistence of their husband or wife. Simon represents all those who know that there’s a price to pay for Easter Dinner: “you gotta go to church.”
For a month in seminary, I was a student volunteer at a skid-row mission in Chicago. I met a man who bounced back and forth off the street. He was clean and sober when I knew him, was serving as a volunteer at the mission, and was simply a great friend to me.
One night we went out onto Madison Avenue for a tour of the neighbourhood. If any of you remember the TV show Hill Street Blues, that police precinct was not far away and was our first stop.
But the tour included a walk past several of the street missions, some with better reputations than others. “Had all my stuff stolen in that one,” he told me.
“And in that one,” he said, “chapel comes before dinner.”
“There I was born again, and again, and again. New converts get better lunch.”
Simon of Cyrene is the great ambassador for all those who say, “I am here because my grandmother told me. I am here because my father dragged me. I am here because I can’t stay home without making a scene. I am here in body, but don’t think for a moment you have my heart, or mind, or my soul.”
He is the ambassador for all those who have had Jesus thrust upon them. They weren’t looking. They aren’t interested. But they can’t get around him. They have a Roman spear in their back, and they discover - they truly discover - they can’t get around him.
I’ve mentioned before a man who I knew as a pastor in my home church and a chaplain to the local police. But as a teenager he was part of a street gang. One night there was some gun play and he made the national news because he was the nephew of the mayor.
In the gun fight he had tried to shoot his enemy but tripped and shot himself. Because of the injury, the police caught him, arrested him and sat outside his hospital room. And inside the room he was stuck with a kind, old man from our church, lying in the bed next to him. Determined to challenge him. Determined to love him. Determined to follow him to court and to prison. Determined that, whether he wanted it or not, this young man would see Jesus.
Mark’s Gospel is a stark one. It is one in which the mission of Jesus Christ is portrayed in dramatic, violent, agonizing terms. It is one in which the most reliable ending we have portrays everyone frightened and confused.
It is the Gospel in which only two people clearly understand who Jesus is. The devils who see the spiritual battle being waged. And a dusty old soldier, experienced in cruelty, who stands at the foot of the cross, and looks upon the dying Jesus in reverence and wonder.
It is a stark Gospel portrait. But echoing just beyond its border is the triumphant news of the resurrection, waiting for those who will make the trip past the empty tomb.
As Bishop Yu noted, the Gospel of Mark has this beautiful little tease. It says that Simon of Cyrene was the father of Rufus and Alexander (15.21), names which appear nowhere else in Mark’s Gospel. But which almost certainly mean that the sons of Simon would later become known to the Christians who read Mark’s Gospel. Simon and his sons were known because Simon who first followed Jesus by force, discovered the truest thing he’d ever known and would come to follow Jesus in love.
Pope Benedict says, what do we need in life?
We need fellowship. We need relationships that matter. We seek harmony and peace.
But before all that, we need the truth (Behold the Pierced One, Joseph Ratzinger, Ignatius Press, 1986, p. 125). And in the life of Jesus Christ, vindicated by his resurrection from the grave, heaven has shone down upon us, and we have seen the truth.
What did Simon discover? What would the frightened women discover? What would the betrayer Peter discover?
They went off to the grave, armed for the stench of death, and discovered life - life vindicating all which Jesus taught and did and the great mercy he displayed.
The mercy of God who chooses the least of all people to become a holy nation, a beacon of light in the world, who reveals himself in the master who will serve. In the king who will give his life for his enemy.
The mercy of God who clings to these humble people, in their rebellion and disobedience, because of an unrelenting pursuit and a promise he will not give up on to redeem the world.
And the mercy of God with power to reach into the core of this world, grabbing death and sin, and pulling it inside out into light and life.
Those unlikely people, with Jesus thrust upon them, discover the new life of the risen Lord vindicating the great mercy he had displayed among them. They discover life, and mercy and know it to be true. The truest thing in heaven and earth.
“Let the same mind be in you,” says St. Paul, “that was in Christ Jesus.”
. . . who emptied himself, taking the form of a slave . . . And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of . . . death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name . . . in heaven and on earth and under the earth. (Phil. 2:5-11)
And because of him, says Paul, I have come to regard everything as loss . . . “because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord . . . I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings. (Philippians 3:7-11)
Pope Benedict concludes the matter perfectly:
[Jesus] Christ summons us to find heaven in him, to discover him in others and thus to be heaven to each other. He calls us to let heaven shine into this world, to build heaven here. Jesus stretches out his hand to us in his Easter message, in the mystery of the sacraments, so that Easter may be now, so that the light of heaven may shine forth in this world and the doors may be opened. Let us take his hand! (p. 128.)
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Sermon - "The Great Love" - Mark 1.9-15
St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, Lent 1, March 1, 2009
As we follow Jesus into the Lenten wilderness through these few, brief and dense verses, Annette Brownlee’s words from last week must surely be kept in mind. Week by week we gather as the church to be shaped and formed by the word of God.
But before entering the wilderness, we must begin where it began for Jesus, the voice from heaven declaring: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” (Mark 1:11)
Bishop Tom Wright asks the right question here: what, for instance, is the effect on those when the fatherly voice they first knew as a child was a voice of rejection, callousness, harshness, or neglect. What is the effect of a father’s voice which is cold, critical and distant?
And what, by contrast, is the effect on Jesus of this voice, heralding the great love of God? What is the effect for us - that God loves us with a love beyond all measure? And where, exactly, can you go when the great love of God upholds you?
Well, as Mark’s Gospel explains, and as Jesus demonstrates, first of all you can go into the wilderness to be tested and to persevere.
Where is the wilderness?
Well, it’s not that hard to understand. Like the wilderness into which the children of Israel were led. That long desert walk where, with only enough food for one day at a time, the people were being taught to take the next step, to do the right thing, and to trust God.
The wilderness we’ve all known. Of all those seasons where it all seems flat, dusty and hard and we’re still expected to do the right thing.
Every season in life has those wilderness walks. When the only thing clearly before us are the responsibilities of the day - at school, or work, or family life. When we are expected to be faithful, and righteous and true, but what we feel, simply, is stuck.
You know what I like about this description in Mark? It’s the verb. It says that Jesus was ‘driven out’ into the wilderness. It’s a strong word. The effect would be even stronger if we could hear all the times the single Greek word used in Mark’s Gospel. Demons are driven out of ravaged lives. Death is driven out of a little girl. Money changers are driven out of the temple.
At the very least, we know that this was no easy matter for Jesus, either. For the Spirit comes upon him with great force, driving him into the wilderness.
But where Israel failed, where the church has failed, where you and I have failed - on those long, dry desert walks, with only the next step in our sight, Jesus took each step and persevered.
Where can you go when the great love of God upholds you?
Well, you can go into the wilderness, face the tests, and persevere.
And secondly, you can go to the Lord and answer His call.
I’ve mentioned before the simple solution C. S. Lewis offers to those who are having trouble hearing God speak. “Be quiet”, he says. You can’t listen if you can’t hear.
It’s a good place to begin in Lent. Listen. Turn off the radio, TV and Ipod.
Listen.
And in the wilderness, Jesus listened and answered the call of the Lord.
Here is where this brief passage is simply packed.
For when Jesus hears the heavenly voice, in the background a deep echo resounds.
An echo of the second psalm of David where the Lord declares his love for the King who will rule his people:
“You are my son; today I have begotten you” (Ps 2.7).
An echo of the suffering servant, who would bear his people’s sorrows, and take onto himself the wounds of their iniquity:
“Here is my servant [in whom I am well pleased],” says the Lord through the prophet Isaiah (42.1). "By his bruises we are healed (53:5).
An echo the people of Israel yearned to hear in their time. But what no one anticipated was that the king and the servant would arrive in one person. That their king would be enthroned on the cross, forgiving his executioners who spit on him from below.
You know, there’s another passage that may echo here, not as well known, coming from the apocryphal book of Wisdom. Ominously, it anticipates how the servant of the Lord would stand out and be recognized.
“Let us lie in wait for the righteous man,” [the wicked say to themselves], “because he is inconvenient to us and opposes our actions . . . Let us see if his words are true, and let us test what will happen at the end of his life; for if the righteous man is God’s child, [God] will help him, and will deliver him from the hand of his adversaries. Let us test him with insult and torture, so that we may find out how gentle he is, and make trial of his forbearance. Let us condemn him to a shameful death, for, according to what he says, he will be protected.” (Wisdom of Solomon 2:12-20)
The heavenly voice issues a stunning declaration, and with the deep echo of Scripture in the background, Jesus goes into the wilderness to hear the Lord and answer his call.
The call of Israel’s Messiah and King who will lead by a great, suffering love, whose integrity will rise and shine out of insult and crucifixion.
Why is our life so noisy and distracting? Why is the TV always on and the radio always playing. One reason is here. One reason is that we don’t want it quiet. Because if we could hear, we might hear the Lord - calling us to mercy instead of revenge; sacrifice instead of indulgence; service instead of self-promotion.
Where can you go when the great love of God upholds you?
As Jesus has shown us, you can go to the Lord and answer His call.
But finally, you can go into the fray and bring peace.
This is what I noticed first, and I’m sure it’s only a small thing. But all week I kept thinking about the beasts.
I grew up on a farm. We had cattle, chickens, pigs, turkeys, sheep, goats, dogs, cats, mice and rats. From the time we could walk, we walked among the animals. But we were also taught to be careful, especially of wild animals. The foxes mad with rabies. The mother cows, never to be fooled with when protecting newborn calves. Wolves and wild dogs, unpredictable and dangerous.
Usually once a year I try to get home to visit. One of the treats I look forward to is to go out in the cool of the night for a walk. But I don’t like it as I used to. Growing up our home was at the north end of our property and in the midst of the grain land. But for the past 20 years, my parents have lived in a new home they built, placed picturesquely in the pasture land. It is a glorious setting. But alone, outside in the dark, forming a ring around the pasture where the cattle rest, you can hear the coyotes, clearly and close enough to know that they are only a few hundred yards away.
Jesus goes into the wilderness with the devil and the beasts.
We don’t have to think too long, or hard about this, either. He goes into the wilderness and there he faces the danger of the wild animals. There he faces the subtler, but more infinitely more dangerous lures of the devil. And there the angels minister to him. There, in the midst of great danger, the greater love of God upholds him.
And when his time in the wilderness ends, the power that drove him into the wilderness will become the power by which he drives death and devils from the people they ravage. By the end of his time in the wilderness, the wild beasts have done him no harm, and a sign of the future, which God intends, is before us:
The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid . . . and a little child shall lead them. (Isaiah 11:6-9)
Where can you go when this great love upholds you? You can go into the fray and make peace.
The first pastor under whom I served was approaching retirement when we met. For many years he had been a faithful pastor in Hong Kong and China. In an intense period during the Vietnam War he was the Director for the Christian Children’s Fund in southeast Asia, responsible for the lives of 25,000 children orphaned by the conflict. I remember him telling me about hard experiences, including the rescue of a young girl who had been kidnaped.
And at the height of it all, he and his wife endured the sudden and unexpected death of their daughter, a bright, young Christian college student struck down by a vicious and fatal virus.
He is the one I think of who faced the tests and remained faithful over the long walk. Who answered the call to unselfish Christian ministry. Who entered the fray and made peace. And maybe because of his work with orphans, maybe because of the loss of his daughter, maybe very simply because of the great love upholding him, his favorite verse was from Psalm 27: “If my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up” (27.10).
For all those wilderness times in our lives, when the next step and the right thing is hard to do;
For all those summons from the Lord we’ve drowned out, that voice from God telling us that our lives are meant to offer his mercy in the world;
And for all the dangers in the world, all the dangers in our hearts, which paralyze our steps;
For all those times - we have Jesus - who remained faithful, who answered the call, who entered the conflict and made peace, and whose life is offered to us, a light shining in the darkness.
In this Lenten season, let us take the time to listen, pray and reflect. Let us follow Jesus Christ - our Saviour and Lord.
As we follow Jesus into the Lenten wilderness through these few, brief and dense verses, Annette Brownlee’s words from last week must surely be kept in mind. Week by week we gather as the church to be shaped and formed by the word of God.
But before entering the wilderness, we must begin where it began for Jesus, the voice from heaven declaring: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” (Mark 1:11)
Bishop Tom Wright asks the right question here: what, for instance, is the effect on those when the fatherly voice they first knew as a child was a voice of rejection, callousness, harshness, or neglect. What is the effect of a father’s voice which is cold, critical and distant?
And what, by contrast, is the effect on Jesus of this voice, heralding the great love of God? What is the effect for us - that God loves us with a love beyond all measure? And where, exactly, can you go when the great love of God upholds you?
Well, as Mark’s Gospel explains, and as Jesus demonstrates, first of all you can go into the wilderness to be tested and to persevere.
Where is the wilderness?
Well, it’s not that hard to understand. Like the wilderness into which the children of Israel were led. That long desert walk where, with only enough food for one day at a time, the people were being taught to take the next step, to do the right thing, and to trust God.
The wilderness we’ve all known. Of all those seasons where it all seems flat, dusty and hard and we’re still expected to do the right thing.
Every season in life has those wilderness walks. When the only thing clearly before us are the responsibilities of the day - at school, or work, or family life. When we are expected to be faithful, and righteous and true, but what we feel, simply, is stuck.
You know what I like about this description in Mark? It’s the verb. It says that Jesus was ‘driven out’ into the wilderness. It’s a strong word. The effect would be even stronger if we could hear all the times the single Greek word used in Mark’s Gospel. Demons are driven out of ravaged lives. Death is driven out of a little girl. Money changers are driven out of the temple.
At the very least, we know that this was no easy matter for Jesus, either. For the Spirit comes upon him with great force, driving him into the wilderness.
But where Israel failed, where the church has failed, where you and I have failed - on those long, dry desert walks, with only the next step in our sight, Jesus took each step and persevered.
Where can you go when the great love of God upholds you?
Well, you can go into the wilderness, face the tests, and persevere.
And secondly, you can go to the Lord and answer His call.
I’ve mentioned before the simple solution C. S. Lewis offers to those who are having trouble hearing God speak. “Be quiet”, he says. You can’t listen if you can’t hear.
It’s a good place to begin in Lent. Listen. Turn off the radio, TV and Ipod.
Listen.
And in the wilderness, Jesus listened and answered the call of the Lord.
Here is where this brief passage is simply packed.
For when Jesus hears the heavenly voice, in the background a deep echo resounds.
An echo of the second psalm of David where the Lord declares his love for the King who will rule his people:
“You are my son; today I have begotten you” (Ps 2.7).
An echo of the suffering servant, who would bear his people’s sorrows, and take onto himself the wounds of their iniquity:
“Here is my servant [in whom I am well pleased],” says the Lord through the prophet Isaiah (42.1). "By his bruises we are healed (53:5).
An echo the people of Israel yearned to hear in their time. But what no one anticipated was that the king and the servant would arrive in one person. That their king would be enthroned on the cross, forgiving his executioners who spit on him from below.
You know, there’s another passage that may echo here, not as well known, coming from the apocryphal book of Wisdom. Ominously, it anticipates how the servant of the Lord would stand out and be recognized.
“Let us lie in wait for the righteous man,” [the wicked say to themselves], “because he is inconvenient to us and opposes our actions . . . Let us see if his words are true, and let us test what will happen at the end of his life; for if the righteous man is God’s child, [God] will help him, and will deliver him from the hand of his adversaries. Let us test him with insult and torture, so that we may find out how gentle he is, and make trial of his forbearance. Let us condemn him to a shameful death, for, according to what he says, he will be protected.” (Wisdom of Solomon 2:12-20)
The heavenly voice issues a stunning declaration, and with the deep echo of Scripture in the background, Jesus goes into the wilderness to hear the Lord and answer his call.
The call of Israel’s Messiah and King who will lead by a great, suffering love, whose integrity will rise and shine out of insult and crucifixion.
Why is our life so noisy and distracting? Why is the TV always on and the radio always playing. One reason is here. One reason is that we don’t want it quiet. Because if we could hear, we might hear the Lord - calling us to mercy instead of revenge; sacrifice instead of indulgence; service instead of self-promotion.
Where can you go when the great love of God upholds you?
As Jesus has shown us, you can go to the Lord and answer His call.
But finally, you can go into the fray and bring peace.
This is what I noticed first, and I’m sure it’s only a small thing. But all week I kept thinking about the beasts.
I grew up on a farm. We had cattle, chickens, pigs, turkeys, sheep, goats, dogs, cats, mice and rats. From the time we could walk, we walked among the animals. But we were also taught to be careful, especially of wild animals. The foxes mad with rabies. The mother cows, never to be fooled with when protecting newborn calves. Wolves and wild dogs, unpredictable and dangerous.
Usually once a year I try to get home to visit. One of the treats I look forward to is to go out in the cool of the night for a walk. But I don’t like it as I used to. Growing up our home was at the north end of our property and in the midst of the grain land. But for the past 20 years, my parents have lived in a new home they built, placed picturesquely in the pasture land. It is a glorious setting. But alone, outside in the dark, forming a ring around the pasture where the cattle rest, you can hear the coyotes, clearly and close enough to know that they are only a few hundred yards away.
Jesus goes into the wilderness with the devil and the beasts.
We don’t have to think too long, or hard about this, either. He goes into the wilderness and there he faces the danger of the wild animals. There he faces the subtler, but more infinitely more dangerous lures of the devil. And there the angels minister to him. There, in the midst of great danger, the greater love of God upholds him.
And when his time in the wilderness ends, the power that drove him into the wilderness will become the power by which he drives death and devils from the people they ravage. By the end of his time in the wilderness, the wild beasts have done him no harm, and a sign of the future, which God intends, is before us:
The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid . . . and a little child shall lead them. (Isaiah 11:6-9)
Where can you go when this great love upholds you? You can go into the fray and make peace.
The first pastor under whom I served was approaching retirement when we met. For many years he had been a faithful pastor in Hong Kong and China. In an intense period during the Vietnam War he was the Director for the Christian Children’s Fund in southeast Asia, responsible for the lives of 25,000 children orphaned by the conflict. I remember him telling me about hard experiences, including the rescue of a young girl who had been kidnaped.
And at the height of it all, he and his wife endured the sudden and unexpected death of their daughter, a bright, young Christian college student struck down by a vicious and fatal virus.
He is the one I think of who faced the tests and remained faithful over the long walk. Who answered the call to unselfish Christian ministry. Who entered the fray and made peace. And maybe because of his work with orphans, maybe because of the loss of his daughter, maybe very simply because of the great love upholding him, his favorite verse was from Psalm 27: “If my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up” (27.10).
For all those wilderness times in our lives, when the next step and the right thing is hard to do;
For all those summons from the Lord we’ve drowned out, that voice from God telling us that our lives are meant to offer his mercy in the world;
And for all the dangers in the world, all the dangers in our hearts, which paralyze our steps;
For all those times - we have Jesus - who remained faithful, who answered the call, who entered the conflict and made peace, and whose life is offered to us, a light shining in the darkness.
In this Lenten season, let us take the time to listen, pray and reflect. Let us follow Jesus Christ - our Saviour and Lord.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sermon: "Sight" - John 1.43-51
Epiphany II, St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, January 17, 2009
This may not have a lot to do with anything, but it strikes me that our friends to the south, in the “land of the free and home of the brave” are being blessed with a season of grace.
With a remarkable opening act on Thursday as a brave and skilled pilot, flying a damaged passenger plane over New York City, instinctively steered it away from the homes of innocent people, and skillfully landed it on water where, with only minutes to spare, a breathless nation gave thanks for the lives of 155 people who were saved rather than lost.
In some respects it is surely and only a coincidence, but what a dramatic opening to this historic week as the first President of African-American descent will be sworn into office. And for a second time in a short period a great nation, and by historical standards, a great and young nation, will rally around a second of its greatest aspirations: the freedom of all people to live in peace and to be judged by the content of their character, rather than the colour of their skin.
It might be coincidence. I think it’s a season of grace. And now is a time to thank God and to pray for President Barak Obama and the people of the United States.
It was the second year of college when I decided to test a calling to ordained ministry. But when I left high school two years earlier, I was probably more inclined to apply for law school. But the summer I entered college I met someone who caught my eye and turned my head.
And I’ll never forget it. It was a late afternoon on our farm. I had just finished carrying out a dozen buckets of ground wheat and oats to the cattle and was walking down from the barnyard to the house for supper, and there in the driveway sat a magnificent red convertible - I think it was a Datsun 240Z.
And all the way to the house - as I ran all the way to the house - my mind was racing: did one of my friends win the lottery? Did one of my sisters hook a big fish? Who in the world did my parents know who drove a Datsun 240Z?
And as I walked into the house, to my utter shock and amazement, mom introduced me to the new pastor of our Methodist Church. Better yet, a week later, he and his wife, with their little boy, invited me to their home for dinner and a visit. And in his living room - the living room of our new pastor - was the biggest, most beautiful stereo I had ever seen or heard. That evening I listened to jazz for the first time, Chuck Mangione to be specific. And I didn’t just hear Chuck on the trumpet. Over speakers that were crystal clear, I could hear Chuck breathe.
And about a week later I was ready to sign up to be a preacher. “I’ll learn the Creed, I’ll promise to study the Bible, and I’d really like one of those red cars.”
In fact, while the Datsun turned my head, what kept my head turned, more than anything else, was the kindness, humanity and seriousness of our new pastor. We didn’t just listen to jazz. We talked about the Scriptures, and living the Christian life, and most of the things that weighed heavily on my mind as a young man. And, in the weeks that followed, he took me under his wing and invited me along in his work as a preacher and a pastor to the people of our congregation.
His Datsun turned my head. His kindness, and the world he opened up for me, turned my heart.
I had not noticed this before, but there’s something of a joke being told on Nathaniel. When his brother Philip comes up to him and says that he should come quickly in order to meet Jesus, Nathaniel is the one who famously says, “What good could possibly come out of Nazareth?”
But then when Jesus meets him, saying that he saw Nathaniel from a distance under a fig tree, Nathaniel is so impressed by Jesus’ sight and insight that in an instant, he makes a complete reversal in his judgement about Jesus, hailing him as the Son of God and King of Israel. Talk about an impressive first impression.
But an impression to which Jesus replies, in so many words, “I know what has caught your eye and turned your head, Nathaniel. And, in fact, I intend to strengthen your sight, too. But if you stay with me, prepare yourself to see a great deal more.”
At which point, in his remarks about the angels ascending and descending, we are taken back, many years earlier, to a rugged scene in the wilderness and to a man named Jacob racing for his life. Jacob is a thief and a scoundrel running for his life from the brother he has cheated and robbed.
What did Jacob first see? He saw a fortune. The inheritance of land and property of his brother.
He saw honour - however cunningly gained - the birthright from his father Isaac, given to him by his father Abraham, given to him by the Lord. Jacob saw honour and fortune and it turned Jacob’s head. And it churned in Jacob’s heart rottenness and scheming.
But in its own way, a joke is told on Jacob. And the tumult which follows Jacob’s theft of his brother’s birthright and inheritance and is entirely appropriate to the inheritance he had taken by deceit. Because while the Lord was more than happy to have caught the eye of Jacob, was Jacob prepared to see what God sees.
A world created in love which the Lord looked down upon and saw that it allwas good.
A world gone wrong, by the disobedience of its people - leading to the saddest verse in all the Bible in chapter six of Genesis, when the Lord looked down upon the earth and regretted his creation of it (Gn. 6.7).
A world which, in his mercy, God vowed he would not destroy, but would rebuild from the ground up, among the simplest, and humblest - with a fair share of scoundrels thrown in - in order to demonstrate his love.
A world reunited with its Creator through a people formed by God in the wilderness. “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev. 19:1-2), the Lord thundered to them.
And the creation of a people. Not like any people. The people of the Lord, a nation of priests, a light in the world, a vessel of God’s mercy.
Was Jacob prepared to see this? The angels ascending and descending, heaven’s doors opened, and the constitutions of heaven and earth reunited again.
The property of the promise caught Jacob’s eye. But the weight of God’s glory and mercy fell upon him.
And it is a violent reaction, a terrific struggle, as this cunning man is haunted and hunted by the God of Israel. And Jacob’s own great struggle is a perfect representation for the struggle of many of us, haunted and hunted down by the mercy of God. And yet, what beauty the great struggle produced when after a battle in the night an angel, humbled Jacob limps away from it battered and bruised, but with one victory to his credit - new eyes! The first sight through them coming only hours later at the reunion with brother Esau; Esau he had robbed and humiliated; Esau, who welcomed him home in mercy. And it says, Jacob looked up at Esau and saw in his brother's face the face of God.
The same joke is being played on Nathaniel.
I know what you see, says Jesus to Nathaniel. But are you prepared to see what I want you to see?
A woman of ill-repute waiting to be restored.
A man born blind longing for sight.
Proud disciples with dirty feet served by their master.
The risen Jesus forgiving a treacherous friend.
And an angry world answered by the tears of the Saviour who offered his life on the cross for us all.
What do you see when you look at Jesus? Is it a display of power or a promise of relief that catches your eye? But rising from our passage, what are you prepared to see? And are you prepared to offer the Lord your eyes so that he might transform them and help you to see what he sees.
What does all this mean for us?
Well, I thought Annette put it beautifully last Sunday. It means opening ourselves to the love of God, revealed and offered to us in Jesus Christ - the love we dive into at baptism. The love we reach for each Sunday at the table. It means this love flooding our lives from head to foot. It means new eyes looking out into the world through this love, transformed to see what Jesus sees.
It means, as the prayerbook collect for the week past puts so beautifully and modestly: that true to our Lord, we might “perceive”, to know what things we ought to do and may also have the “grace and power faithfully to fulfil the same” (Epiphany 1, BCP).
It means what St. Paul prayed for the people of Ephesus: “that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge (3.18-19)”. To look out upon the world from the vantage point of this great love:
. . . seeing through the anger of a neighbour to the child of God who might be served;
. . . seeing through the obstinancy of a son or daughter to the young man and young woman who is and can be raised to be wise, patient and kind;
. . . seeing a sick and desperate friend and offering them the hope of our Saviour whose hand reaches across the gaping mouth of the grave.
It is a joke played on Nathaniel. A man impressed by the powerful sight of Jesus, who himself is offered new eyes to see. Angels descending and the light of heaven shining through. And through the mercy of God, to see what Jesus saw. To love as Jesus loved. To share the great love of our Saviour in the world. Amen.
This may not have a lot to do with anything, but it strikes me that our friends to the south, in the “land of the free and home of the brave” are being blessed with a season of grace.
With a remarkable opening act on Thursday as a brave and skilled pilot, flying a damaged passenger plane over New York City, instinctively steered it away from the homes of innocent people, and skillfully landed it on water where, with only minutes to spare, a breathless nation gave thanks for the lives of 155 people who were saved rather than lost.
In some respects it is surely and only a coincidence, but what a dramatic opening to this historic week as the first President of African-American descent will be sworn into office. And for a second time in a short period a great nation, and by historical standards, a great and young nation, will rally around a second of its greatest aspirations: the freedom of all people to live in peace and to be judged by the content of their character, rather than the colour of their skin.
It might be coincidence. I think it’s a season of grace. And now is a time to thank God and to pray for President Barak Obama and the people of the United States.
**********
It was the second year of college when I decided to test a calling to ordained ministry. But when I left high school two years earlier, I was probably more inclined to apply for law school. But the summer I entered college I met someone who caught my eye and turned my head.
And I’ll never forget it. It was a late afternoon on our farm. I had just finished carrying out a dozen buckets of ground wheat and oats to the cattle and was walking down from the barnyard to the house for supper, and there in the driveway sat a magnificent red convertible - I think it was a Datsun 240Z.
And all the way to the house - as I ran all the way to the house - my mind was racing: did one of my friends win the lottery? Did one of my sisters hook a big fish? Who in the world did my parents know who drove a Datsun 240Z?
And as I walked into the house, to my utter shock and amazement, mom introduced me to the new pastor of our Methodist Church. Better yet, a week later, he and his wife, with their little boy, invited me to their home for dinner and a visit. And in his living room - the living room of our new pastor - was the biggest, most beautiful stereo I had ever seen or heard. That evening I listened to jazz for the first time, Chuck Mangione to be specific. And I didn’t just hear Chuck on the trumpet. Over speakers that were crystal clear, I could hear Chuck breathe.
And about a week later I was ready to sign up to be a preacher. “I’ll learn the Creed, I’ll promise to study the Bible, and I’d really like one of those red cars.”
In fact, while the Datsun turned my head, what kept my head turned, more than anything else, was the kindness, humanity and seriousness of our new pastor. We didn’t just listen to jazz. We talked about the Scriptures, and living the Christian life, and most of the things that weighed heavily on my mind as a young man. And, in the weeks that followed, he took me under his wing and invited me along in his work as a preacher and a pastor to the people of our congregation.
His Datsun turned my head. His kindness, and the world he opened up for me, turned my heart.
I had not noticed this before, but there’s something of a joke being told on Nathaniel. When his brother Philip comes up to him and says that he should come quickly in order to meet Jesus, Nathaniel is the one who famously says, “What good could possibly come out of Nazareth?”
But then when Jesus meets him, saying that he saw Nathaniel from a distance under a fig tree, Nathaniel is so impressed by Jesus’ sight and insight that in an instant, he makes a complete reversal in his judgement about Jesus, hailing him as the Son of God and King of Israel. Talk about an impressive first impression.
But an impression to which Jesus replies, in so many words, “I know what has caught your eye and turned your head, Nathaniel. And, in fact, I intend to strengthen your sight, too. But if you stay with me, prepare yourself to see a great deal more.”
At which point, in his remarks about the angels ascending and descending, we are taken back, many years earlier, to a rugged scene in the wilderness and to a man named Jacob racing for his life. Jacob is a thief and a scoundrel running for his life from the brother he has cheated and robbed.
What did Jacob first see? He saw a fortune. The inheritance of land and property of his brother.
He saw honour - however cunningly gained - the birthright from his father Isaac, given to him by his father Abraham, given to him by the Lord. Jacob saw honour and fortune and it turned Jacob’s head. And it churned in Jacob’s heart rottenness and scheming.
But in its own way, a joke is told on Jacob. And the tumult which follows Jacob’s theft of his brother’s birthright and inheritance and is entirely appropriate to the inheritance he had taken by deceit. Because while the Lord was more than happy to have caught the eye of Jacob, was Jacob prepared to see what God sees.
A world created in love which the Lord looked down upon and saw that it allwas good.
A world gone wrong, by the disobedience of its people - leading to the saddest verse in all the Bible in chapter six of Genesis, when the Lord looked down upon the earth and regretted his creation of it (Gn. 6.7).
A world which, in his mercy, God vowed he would not destroy, but would rebuild from the ground up, among the simplest, and humblest - with a fair share of scoundrels thrown in - in order to demonstrate his love.
A world reunited with its Creator through a people formed by God in the wilderness. “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev. 19:1-2), the Lord thundered to them.
And the creation of a people. Not like any people. The people of the Lord, a nation of priests, a light in the world, a vessel of God’s mercy.
Was Jacob prepared to see this? The angels ascending and descending, heaven’s doors opened, and the constitutions of heaven and earth reunited again.
The property of the promise caught Jacob’s eye. But the weight of God’s glory and mercy fell upon him.
And it is a violent reaction, a terrific struggle, as this cunning man is haunted and hunted by the God of Israel. And Jacob’s own great struggle is a perfect representation for the struggle of many of us, haunted and hunted down by the mercy of God. And yet, what beauty the great struggle produced when after a battle in the night an angel, humbled Jacob limps away from it battered and bruised, but with one victory to his credit - new eyes! The first sight through them coming only hours later at the reunion with brother Esau; Esau he had robbed and humiliated; Esau, who welcomed him home in mercy. And it says, Jacob looked up at Esau and saw in his brother's face the face of God.
The same joke is being played on Nathaniel.
I know what you see, says Jesus to Nathaniel. But are you prepared to see what I want you to see?
A woman of ill-repute waiting to be restored.
A man born blind longing for sight.
Proud disciples with dirty feet served by their master.
The risen Jesus forgiving a treacherous friend.
And an angry world answered by the tears of the Saviour who offered his life on the cross for us all.
What do you see when you look at Jesus? Is it a display of power or a promise of relief that catches your eye? But rising from our passage, what are you prepared to see? And are you prepared to offer the Lord your eyes so that he might transform them and help you to see what he sees.
What does all this mean for us?
Well, I thought Annette put it beautifully last Sunday. It means opening ourselves to the love of God, revealed and offered to us in Jesus Christ - the love we dive into at baptism. The love we reach for each Sunday at the table. It means this love flooding our lives from head to foot. It means new eyes looking out into the world through this love, transformed to see what Jesus sees.
It means, as the prayerbook collect for the week past puts so beautifully and modestly: that true to our Lord, we might “perceive”, to know what things we ought to do and may also have the “grace and power faithfully to fulfil the same” (Epiphany 1, BCP).
It means what St. Paul prayed for the people of Ephesus: “that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge (3.18-19)”. To look out upon the world from the vantage point of this great love:
. . . seeing through the anger of a neighbour to the child of God who might be served;
. . . seeing through the obstinancy of a son or daughter to the young man and young woman who is and can be raised to be wise, patient and kind;
. . . seeing a sick and desperate friend and offering them the hope of our Saviour whose hand reaches across the gaping mouth of the grave.
It is a joke played on Nathaniel. A man impressed by the powerful sight of Jesus, who himself is offered new eyes to see. Angels descending and the light of heaven shining through. And through the mercy of God, to see what Jesus saw. To love as Jesus loved. To share the great love of our Saviour in the world. Amen.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
The Silence of Angels
Christmas Eve Sermon, December 24, 2008, St. Paul's L'Amoreaux
During my years in college and seminary I worked part-time at a radio station. Mostly I helped with some community programs and Sunday morning I was the announcer for an hour or so of gospel music. It was a small assignment, but I was thrilled. I loved the work, I got a great kick out of meeting the announcers. I was fascinated with the inner life of a radio station. And I picked up some of the jargon which I was ever so eager to show off.
One day at home, we were listening to the radio, when suddenly, between a song and a commercial, all went quiet - for two, possibly three seconds. My ears pricked up, I pointed at the radio, and authoritatively proclaimed: “Dead air!”
My mother did not know pop radio jargon. “Dead what?,” she inquired.
“Dead air,” I said. “The announcer missed his cue. One thing must follow the next without interruption. It's big trouble if there’s ‘dead air’.”
And I always remembered my mother's reply: “I would have called that silence,” she said. “which, sometimes, is golden.”
It would take a while to sink in, but in what I came to realize is a very noisy world, my education about silence had begun. And as years passed, the liturgy of the church played a big part.
Those under whom I trained for the liturgy would often insist that there are times for silence. In the presence of God there are times when you simply cannot improve on what is taking place. There are times when you had better not try.
A few years ago I was baptizing a beautiful little baby girl. The church was full and it was a big and special day for all of us - except, it appeared, for the little girl who began hollering from about the moment she entered the church.
Duly warned, I guess, about the serious undertaking about to be thrust upon her.
And for the first part of the liturgy, her father took her out to the entrance so that the congregation could hear what was going on, and so she could holler at the bulletin boards and all the late-comers. But then her fateful moment arrived, her father brought her back in - and she hollered.
It was, in fact, genuinely awkward. Her parents were embarrassed. The people were fidgeting, because it was hard to hear almost anything but this beautiful little creature sounding the alarm. And I remember thinking, maybe I should say something to lighten the moment. Maybe I should tell a joke. But I thought of what my instructors had said. “There are times when, for better or worse, you cannot improve on what is taking place. There are times when administering the sacraments, you had better not try.”
And so I didn't. And it came time for me to receive the little girl, to baptize her in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to etch a little cross on her fore-head, the symbol of the cruciform life a Christian is destined to lead, and to present her family with a lit candle for her mission in the world. And apart from those ancient prayers, and for the entire time of her baptism, our little angel - and the angels attending here - were silent.
And none of the rest of us dared whisper.
This, no doubt, is a very small point, but over Advent I noticed something about Zechariah and Mary, the two to whom the angel Gabriel came, announcing the births of John the Baptist and Jesus.
Zechariah and his elderly wife were righteous and faithful people from the hills of Judea.
It says he was on duty at the temple in Jerusalem. On first reading, we probably miss the point. But at the time there were thousands of priests in the nation, as many as 18,000, and the chance to offer incense in the temple sanctuary was at the throw of the die and came only once or twice in a lifetime, if at all. This may have been Zechariah’s only opportunity.
And so he enters the Holy of Holies in the temple, and wouldn't you know it, first time in and the Archangel Gabriel appears. Gabriel has descended from heaven with the astonishing news that Zechariah and his barren wife will give birth to a child - the forerunner of the Messiah. First time in the temple and Zechariah will leave with a tale to tell - except, that at the critical moment he blows it.
You’d have thought that surely, somewhere, tucked away in a footnote in one of those old seminary textbooks he would have read the assurance that personal messages from the Archangel Gabriel are trustworthy. Instead, and unfortunately, Zechariah doubted, and was silenced by the angel until the appointed time.
Indulge me for a moment.
Gabriel has another announcement. The earth trembles at this one. We all do. And there are three things to be aware of in Gabriel's message to Mary.
First, the hopes of the nation are being fulfilled.
To her will come the Son of David. The hope of her people. The hope of the world.
". . . in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness- on them light has shined." (Isaiah 9:1-2).
Secondly, the same power of God that was at work at the beginning of the world in at the time of creation is now at work - in unexpected Galilee, in the unopened womb of a young woman, in a person who was otherwise not seeking anything for herself.
“The power of the most high will overshadow you.”
A better word might be ‘hover’, making it clearer what the Archangel is saying.
When does the Spirit of the Lord hover?
In the tabernacle and the temple, when the Spirit descended and hovered over both, expelling all inside.
In the beginning, when the Spirit hovered over the waters, bringing life out of the chaos of water and darkness.
And in despised Nazareth where no one expected anything, over a simple handmaid from whom no one expected much, the Spirit of God descended to bring light and life. To do what only God can do, where only God can do it.
The Archangel explained that the Spirit would hover over her. It is a stunning announcement.
But thirdly, extended to Mary - and to the world - is the divine compliment. The humbling of God's power and holiness among the people he created. With with whom he chooses, out of love, to be present. Among whom he chooses, out of love, to redeem heaven and earth.
“I will give you as a light to the nations,” says the prophet, “that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6)
It is, I think, the stunning moment. We see it here tonight at the creche. The presence of the Almighty God in the arms of Mary. God who comes to us in his only beloved Son. A presence and an offer extended to each one of us. Here in its purest form. God here among us, in search of our response.
It’s a simple thing, and you may not want to make too much of it. Zechariah was a righteous man. God would use him to bring the Herald, John the Baptist, into the world. But for a few days, in response to his doubts, he would be silenced by the angel, given some time to think it through.
But when the question is put to Mary, to the one, some might say, who doesn't get much out of it.
To the one whose chief characteristics will be to ponder, and wonder, and witness and obey.
To the one whose joy would be the joy that shines through the tears.
When the Almighty reaches out to Mary, when the glory, purity, beauty and holiness of God is offered to Mary, she answers:
“Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”
Unlike any other exchange between a human and an angel in Scripture, Mary has the last word. And the Archangel Gabriel is silent.
For whom will we live? For ourselves or for the One who has created us. Today I invite you to accept the invitation that God extends to us in Jesus Christ. To offer your life in humility and repentance. To receive the gift of God’s own life and to permit yours to be made over by his presence. And to become a light in the world to the glory of God. Amen.
During my years in college and seminary I worked part-time at a radio station. Mostly I helped with some community programs and Sunday morning I was the announcer for an hour or so of gospel music. It was a small assignment, but I was thrilled. I loved the work, I got a great kick out of meeting the announcers. I was fascinated with the inner life of a radio station. And I picked up some of the jargon which I was ever so eager to show off.
One day at home, we were listening to the radio, when suddenly, between a song and a commercial, all went quiet - for two, possibly three seconds. My ears pricked up, I pointed at the radio, and authoritatively proclaimed: “Dead air!”
My mother did not know pop radio jargon. “Dead what?,” she inquired.
“Dead air,” I said. “The announcer missed his cue. One thing must follow the next without interruption. It's big trouble if there’s ‘dead air’.”
And I always remembered my mother's reply: “I would have called that silence,” she said. “which, sometimes, is golden.”
It would take a while to sink in, but in what I came to realize is a very noisy world, my education about silence had begun. And as years passed, the liturgy of the church played a big part.
Those under whom I trained for the liturgy would often insist that there are times for silence. In the presence of God there are times when you simply cannot improve on what is taking place. There are times when you had better not try.
A few years ago I was baptizing a beautiful little baby girl. The church was full and it was a big and special day for all of us - except, it appeared, for the little girl who began hollering from about the moment she entered the church.
Duly warned, I guess, about the serious undertaking about to be thrust upon her.
And for the first part of the liturgy, her father took her out to the entrance so that the congregation could hear what was going on, and so she could holler at the bulletin boards and all the late-comers. But then her fateful moment arrived, her father brought her back in - and she hollered.
It was, in fact, genuinely awkward. Her parents were embarrassed. The people were fidgeting, because it was hard to hear almost anything but this beautiful little creature sounding the alarm. And I remember thinking, maybe I should say something to lighten the moment. Maybe I should tell a joke. But I thought of what my instructors had said. “There are times when, for better or worse, you cannot improve on what is taking place. There are times when administering the sacraments, you had better not try.”
And so I didn't. And it came time for me to receive the little girl, to baptize her in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, to etch a little cross on her fore-head, the symbol of the cruciform life a Christian is destined to lead, and to present her family with a lit candle for her mission in the world. And apart from those ancient prayers, and for the entire time of her baptism, our little angel - and the angels attending here - were silent.
And none of the rest of us dared whisper.
This, no doubt, is a very small point, but over Advent I noticed something about Zechariah and Mary, the two to whom the angel Gabriel came, announcing the births of John the Baptist and Jesus.
Zechariah and his elderly wife were righteous and faithful people from the hills of Judea.
It says he was on duty at the temple in Jerusalem. On first reading, we probably miss the point. But at the time there were thousands of priests in the nation, as many as 18,000, and the chance to offer incense in the temple sanctuary was at the throw of the die and came only once or twice in a lifetime, if at all. This may have been Zechariah’s only opportunity.
And so he enters the Holy of Holies in the temple, and wouldn't you know it, first time in and the Archangel Gabriel appears. Gabriel has descended from heaven with the astonishing news that Zechariah and his barren wife will give birth to a child - the forerunner of the Messiah. First time in the temple and Zechariah will leave with a tale to tell - except, that at the critical moment he blows it.
You’d have thought that surely, somewhere, tucked away in a footnote in one of those old seminary textbooks he would have read the assurance that personal messages from the Archangel Gabriel are trustworthy. Instead, and unfortunately, Zechariah doubted, and was silenced by the angel until the appointed time.
Indulge me for a moment.
Gabriel has another announcement. The earth trembles at this one. We all do. And there are three things to be aware of in Gabriel's message to Mary.
First, the hopes of the nation are being fulfilled.
To her will come the Son of David. The hope of her people. The hope of the world.
". . . in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness- on them light has shined." (Isaiah 9:1-2).
Secondly, the same power of God that was at work at the beginning of the world in at the time of creation is now at work - in unexpected Galilee, in the unopened womb of a young woman, in a person who was otherwise not seeking anything for herself.
“The power of the most high will overshadow you.”
A better word might be ‘hover’, making it clearer what the Archangel is saying.
When does the Spirit of the Lord hover?
In the tabernacle and the temple, when the Spirit descended and hovered over both, expelling all inside.
In the beginning, when the Spirit hovered over the waters, bringing life out of the chaos of water and darkness.
And in despised Nazareth where no one expected anything, over a simple handmaid from whom no one expected much, the Spirit of God descended to bring light and life. To do what only God can do, where only God can do it.
The Archangel explained that the Spirit would hover over her. It is a stunning announcement.
But thirdly, extended to Mary - and to the world - is the divine compliment. The humbling of God's power and holiness among the people he created. With with whom he chooses, out of love, to be present. Among whom he chooses, out of love, to redeem heaven and earth.
“I will give you as a light to the nations,” says the prophet, “that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6)
It is, I think, the stunning moment. We see it here tonight at the creche. The presence of the Almighty God in the arms of Mary. God who comes to us in his only beloved Son. A presence and an offer extended to each one of us. Here in its purest form. God here among us, in search of our response.
It’s a simple thing, and you may not want to make too much of it. Zechariah was a righteous man. God would use him to bring the Herald, John the Baptist, into the world. But for a few days, in response to his doubts, he would be silenced by the angel, given some time to think it through.
But when the question is put to Mary, to the one, some might say, who doesn't get much out of it.
To the one whose chief characteristics will be to ponder, and wonder, and witness and obey.
To the one whose joy would be the joy that shines through the tears.
When the Almighty reaches out to Mary, when the glory, purity, beauty and holiness of God is offered to Mary, she answers:
“Here I am, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”
Unlike any other exchange between a human and an angel in Scripture, Mary has the last word. And the Archangel Gabriel is silent.
For whom will we live? For ourselves or for the One who has created us. Today I invite you to accept the invitation that God extends to us in Jesus Christ. To offer your life in humility and repentance. To receive the gift of God’s own life and to permit yours to be made over by his presence. And to become a light in the world to the glory of God. Amen.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Eat to Live
Matthew 6.24-34, St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, Pentecost 2, May 25, 2008
I have always admired Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States, for the courage and determination he showed as the Civil War President, that horrible four-year struggle from 1861 to 1865. But this week the admiration increased when I realized that during the same time he was involved in another titanic struggle, the second one, however, being against the granite of the Sierra Nevada mountains.
As a lawyer, he studied and wrote some of the early legislation that would lead to the construction of an intercontinental railroad. As a Senator he was one of the far-sighted politicians who vigorously supported its development. And as President, he fought this battle as hard as he fought the Civil War - and fought both of them at the same time.
If you know much about Canadian history, you’ll know that the construction of the Canadian National Railway, connecting the country coast to coast, was one of the great steps forward in the maturation and development of the country. The same would be true in the United States, with a similar large obstacle as engineers tried to figure out how to get through the mountains separating the west coast from the rest of the country.
Now, I have to beg your pardon if my history lessons get a little muddled from time to time. Much of this is not from what I’ve read, but from audio books that I listen to. So if a particularly difficult point is clouded by some strange reference to a Bob Newhart joke about bad bus drivers, and I start humming a line from John Rutter’s requiem, well, at least you’ll know what’s on my Ipod.
All that to say, from what I understand, one of the biggest challenges was not far from the west coast starting point. Almost immediately, surveyors and engineers were bucking heads with the Sierra Nevada, which is pure granite. At some points, 8 inches was all they moved in one day. And imagine, if you can, that this was done by hand. No jackhammers, no power tools, no tractors. Just shovels, picks, wheel-barrows, gun powder, muscle and ingenuity.
Here’s an example.
Many of paths for the mountain railway tracks were chipped out of the side of these granite mountains. And the only way to do it was to lower a man in a basket, who would then hand-drill a hole into the rock, stuff it with gunpowder and a fuse - a long fuse - and then yell as loud as he could to get the others to pull him up and out of the way before the charge blew. The rock was so hard that many times the blast simply blew out of the hole, with no movement of rock. So, they’d lower him back down, by hand he’d drill a longer hole, stuff it full of gunpowder and then try again.
And here’s a little history about race relations that I find intriguing. According to railroad historian Stephen Ambrose (Nothing Like it in the World), many of the men blowing the granite were Chinese. Do you know why? It is not because they were forced into the worst and most dangerous jobs. It’s because they were the only ones who knew how to do it and were eager to prove their ability. Initially, the racism they faced on the train crews was the suspicion that they were incompetent.
"But we know how to do this," they replied.
"They did build the great wall of China," one supervisor agreed.
And so, in hand-made bamboo baskets, they dropped down to the side of their granite foe, drilled holes, stuffed gunpowder, and carved a railroad. It was, and remains, an incredible feat. The victory was astonishing. A great country, joined from coast to coast, moving people and goods, building cities, farms, villages and giving hope, opportunity and prosperity to millions.
But one little extra.
Stephen Ambrose points out that the construction crew chiefs were usually loud-mouthed Irishmen with language that would curdle pavement. That said, they rarely resorted to violence in dealing with their men. Why? Well, because the men they commanded spent their days, morning to night, swinging picks and hauling rock. Their muscles were hard as steel. Throw a curse at them, if you needed, to get them going after lunch. But pick a fist fight and you’d likely get trounced. So hard did they work that after a day of hard labour, the crews returned to their camps in the evening in order to enjoy delicious meals. And sometimes it didn’t matter if the meals were all that well prepared. Says Stephen Ambrose, after that kind of hard work over a long day, it all tasted delicious.
This great battle against granite took place at the very same time as the Civil War, the great battle between northern and southern states. In fact, the railway was always part of it. One of the reasons for the route that was eventually taken is that northern politicians would not allow a southern route for fear that it would aid and abet the slave trade and the slaveholding states.
The Civil War exacted an horrific cost. It went on much longer than anyone thought and anyone wanted. The price in human life was astronomical. And President Lincoln suffered in every way, including political suffering. The summer before his re-election in 1864, no one, including Lincoln, thought he could win. But by summer’s end the tide had changed, he won the November election, and all knew that the war would not finish until the southern states surrendered and the north and south were reunited.
What happened that summer? It’s the work of historians to pick the moment or moments when things change. But here’s one that I like.
If you can imagine the northern capital of Washington D.C., where Lincoln and the Union Forces were centred, and a hundred miles south, Richmond, Virginia, where Jefferson Davies and the Confederate forces were centred, throughout the war the Union forces made several attempts at pushing south and capturing Richmond. It was the obvious thing to do. Take over the capital. Capture the leaders, if you could. Demoralize the people. But they couldn’t do it. In spite of tremendous advantage in terms of the number of soldiers available, every time the northern Union forces attempted to push south, they got bogged down, outflanked, tricked or distracted.
Time and time again, the northern forces would organize a great army, begin the trek south, get whooped in battle, and then head back to Washington defeated and disgraced.
But in the spring of 1864, the Union forces had a new General, Ulysses S. Grant. A short, quiet, unkempt, soldier with a bad rap for drinking, but fearless and determined in battle.
And here is, I think, the turning point. In the spring of 1864, the northern forces did what they always did in the spring. They bundled up their gear, headed south, picked a fight and got beat. And to a soldier, they all expected orders to pack up, and head back to Washington. But when they got to the road, there was no such order, and they saw General Grant marching south.
They’d just been beat in battle, just like always, but unlike the generals before him, General Grant became even more determined. And he was moving south.
You know what the soldiers did?
They cheered. They threw their hats in the air. They followed, they fought and over the next nine months, they stayed and won.
This was a general like them. This was a general come to build on the sacrifice of their lives, not to waste it. And behind him was a President who they trusted and loved, who had given everything he had, all his political credit to support them. Because before them all was the opportunity for a great and free country for all Americans. As the President would say after that November election:
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. (2nd Inaugural Address, Abraham Lincoln.)
If I were to summarize our lesson from Matthew, I would say this - food and drink are for something. And when our lives are lived for God’s purpose of extending mercy, working for peace and righteousness, and serving those in need, God provides for his hungry servants and it all tastes great. Our lives are meant for a great enterprise. And those who join it will be provided for. Those who offer their lives can be as certain of the Father’s provision for them as was the Father’s provision and protection of his only Son.
You get the point, I think. This is not an iron-clad guarantee that we will never suffer or do without.
Our Lord’s own life was a simple one, lived to accomplish the will of God, but made sweet by the food and drink shared with his disciples and the company of the forgiven.
Our Lord’s life was a sacrificial one, leading him to a lonely cross, but vindicated three days later by his glorious resurrection. And when Jesus promises that the Heavenly Father will provide and that He cares, it is a promise we can depend on just as surely as we believe that Jesus was vindicated by the Father and lifted from the grave.
My grandfather used to tease me: "Do you eat to live, or live to eat?"
Come to the Feast which the Lord has provided. Eat to live. Offer your life for his glory and as His servants in the world.
Amen.
I have always admired Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States, for the courage and determination he showed as the Civil War President, that horrible four-year struggle from 1861 to 1865. But this week the admiration increased when I realized that during the same time he was involved in another titanic struggle, the second one, however, being against the granite of the Sierra Nevada mountains.
As a lawyer, he studied and wrote some of the early legislation that would lead to the construction of an intercontinental railroad. As a Senator he was one of the far-sighted politicians who vigorously supported its development. And as President, he fought this battle as hard as he fought the Civil War - and fought both of them at the same time.
If you know much about Canadian history, you’ll know that the construction of the Canadian National Railway, connecting the country coast to coast, was one of the great steps forward in the maturation and development of the country. The same would be true in the United States, with a similar large obstacle as engineers tried to figure out how to get through the mountains separating the west coast from the rest of the country.
Now, I have to beg your pardon if my history lessons get a little muddled from time to time. Much of this is not from what I’ve read, but from audio books that I listen to. So if a particularly difficult point is clouded by some strange reference to a Bob Newhart joke about bad bus drivers, and I start humming a line from John Rutter’s requiem, well, at least you’ll know what’s on my Ipod.
All that to say, from what I understand, one of the biggest challenges was not far from the west coast starting point. Almost immediately, surveyors and engineers were bucking heads with the Sierra Nevada, which is pure granite. At some points, 8 inches was all they moved in one day. And imagine, if you can, that this was done by hand. No jackhammers, no power tools, no tractors. Just shovels, picks, wheel-barrows, gun powder, muscle and ingenuity.
Here’s an example.
Many of paths for the mountain railway tracks were chipped out of the side of these granite mountains. And the only way to do it was to lower a man in a basket, who would then hand-drill a hole into the rock, stuff it with gunpowder and a fuse - a long fuse - and then yell as loud as he could to get the others to pull him up and out of the way before the charge blew. The rock was so hard that many times the blast simply blew out of the hole, with no movement of rock. So, they’d lower him back down, by hand he’d drill a longer hole, stuff it full of gunpowder and then try again.
And here’s a little history about race relations that I find intriguing. According to railroad historian Stephen Ambrose (Nothing Like it in the World), many of the men blowing the granite were Chinese. Do you know why? It is not because they were forced into the worst and most dangerous jobs. It’s because they were the only ones who knew how to do it and were eager to prove their ability. Initially, the racism they faced on the train crews was the suspicion that they were incompetent.
"But we know how to do this," they replied.
"They did build the great wall of China," one supervisor agreed.
And so, in hand-made bamboo baskets, they dropped down to the side of their granite foe, drilled holes, stuffed gunpowder, and carved a railroad. It was, and remains, an incredible feat. The victory was astonishing. A great country, joined from coast to coast, moving people and goods, building cities, farms, villages and giving hope, opportunity and prosperity to millions.
But one little extra.
Stephen Ambrose points out that the construction crew chiefs were usually loud-mouthed Irishmen with language that would curdle pavement. That said, they rarely resorted to violence in dealing with their men. Why? Well, because the men they commanded spent their days, morning to night, swinging picks and hauling rock. Their muscles were hard as steel. Throw a curse at them, if you needed, to get them going after lunch. But pick a fist fight and you’d likely get trounced. So hard did they work that after a day of hard labour, the crews returned to their camps in the evening in order to enjoy delicious meals. And sometimes it didn’t matter if the meals were all that well prepared. Says Stephen Ambrose, after that kind of hard work over a long day, it all tasted delicious.
This great battle against granite took place at the very same time as the Civil War, the great battle between northern and southern states. In fact, the railway was always part of it. One of the reasons for the route that was eventually taken is that northern politicians would not allow a southern route for fear that it would aid and abet the slave trade and the slaveholding states.
The Civil War exacted an horrific cost. It went on much longer than anyone thought and anyone wanted. The price in human life was astronomical. And President Lincoln suffered in every way, including political suffering. The summer before his re-election in 1864, no one, including Lincoln, thought he could win. But by summer’s end the tide had changed, he won the November election, and all knew that the war would not finish until the southern states surrendered and the north and south were reunited.
What happened that summer? It’s the work of historians to pick the moment or moments when things change. But here’s one that I like.
If you can imagine the northern capital of Washington D.C., where Lincoln and the Union Forces were centred, and a hundred miles south, Richmond, Virginia, where Jefferson Davies and the Confederate forces were centred, throughout the war the Union forces made several attempts at pushing south and capturing Richmond. It was the obvious thing to do. Take over the capital. Capture the leaders, if you could. Demoralize the people. But they couldn’t do it. In spite of tremendous advantage in terms of the number of soldiers available, every time the northern Union forces attempted to push south, they got bogged down, outflanked, tricked or distracted.
Time and time again, the northern forces would organize a great army, begin the trek south, get whooped in battle, and then head back to Washington defeated and disgraced.
But in the spring of 1864, the Union forces had a new General, Ulysses S. Grant. A short, quiet, unkempt, soldier with a bad rap for drinking, but fearless and determined in battle.
And here is, I think, the turning point. In the spring of 1864, the northern forces did what they always did in the spring. They bundled up their gear, headed south, picked a fight and got beat. And to a soldier, they all expected orders to pack up, and head back to Washington. But when they got to the road, there was no such order, and they saw General Grant marching south.
They’d just been beat in battle, just like always, but unlike the generals before him, General Grant became even more determined. And he was moving south.
You know what the soldiers did?
They cheered. They threw their hats in the air. They followed, they fought and over the next nine months, they stayed and won.
This was a general like them. This was a general come to build on the sacrifice of their lives, not to waste it. And behind him was a President who they trusted and loved, who had given everything he had, all his political credit to support them. Because before them all was the opportunity for a great and free country for all Americans. As the President would say after that November election:
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. (2nd Inaugural Address, Abraham Lincoln.)
If I were to summarize our lesson from Matthew, I would say this - food and drink are for something. And when our lives are lived for God’s purpose of extending mercy, working for peace and righteousness, and serving those in need, God provides for his hungry servants and it all tastes great. Our lives are meant for a great enterprise. And those who join it will be provided for. Those who offer their lives can be as certain of the Father’s provision for them as was the Father’s provision and protection of his only Son.
You get the point, I think. This is not an iron-clad guarantee that we will never suffer or do without.
Our Lord’s own life was a simple one, lived to accomplish the will of God, but made sweet by the food and drink shared with his disciples and the company of the forgiven.
Our Lord’s life was a sacrificial one, leading him to a lonely cross, but vindicated three days later by his glorious resurrection. And when Jesus promises that the Heavenly Father will provide and that He cares, it is a promise we can depend on just as surely as we believe that Jesus was vindicated by the Father and lifted from the grave.
My grandfather used to tease me: "Do you eat to live, or live to eat?"
Come to the Feast which the Lord has provided. Eat to live. Offer your life for his glory and as His servants in the world.
Amen.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Interrupted
1 Peter 2:1-10 , The 4th Sunday of Easter, St. Paul’s L’Amoreaux, April 13, 2008
I attended seminary at Asbury Theological Seminary in Wilmore, Kentucky, nestled in a little county town in the heart of Kentucky bluegrass country. And in my first year as part of the program of preparation for pastoral ministry, I was sent to a nearby orphanage. All of us in the class were assigned to different institutional settings, like the orphanage, or a hospital or a prison chaplaincy, and usually after a weekend of service, we’d meet the next week in class to think over our experiences.
My first week, I noticed a little guy about six years old. I was about 22 at the time, came from a family of three sisters and a pile of cousins, always thought that I could get along with children, and enjoyed doing so. So I went up to this little fellow and said hello. He didn’t say anything.
Figured he didn’t hear - and so I said it again. ‘Hello, how are you? My name is Dean.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at me. And he walked away. The experience of it was not simply that I had been ignored. It was as if it hadn’t even registered that someone was standing there, speaking. It was the first time I remember feeling like a speed bump.
I mentioned it to my supervisor at the orphanage. “That’s Bobby,” he said. “Treated very badly in his home and finally taken out. Don’t be surprised if he’s a little shy around adults.”
I mentioned the experience back in class. In class we were to think through things and, if possible, go back to hard parts and try again.
“Next time I’ll try chocolate,” I said.
“But before you do that,” said one of my classmates impatiently, “get down on your knees where he can see you, look him in the eye, and ask him if he’d like to play baseball or something.”
“Hmm,” I said thoughtfully in class. “What good would that do,” I said to myself. “Chocolate is sure-fire.”
But the next weekend, there was Bobby, still treating me like pavement, and I thought, “Well, might as well try.”
I went over to Bobby, got down on my knee, stared him in the eye, and said, “Bobby, go over to the playground, pick up the bat, and I’ll pitch to you. See how well you hit.”
Again, didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything, walked around me - though it felt like over me like you walk over sidewalk - and ran off.
“What did she know,” was my first thought. “Should have used chocolate,” as I watched Bobby run off . . . to the playground . . . where he leaned over, picked up a baseball bat, turned around and for the first time, looked at me. And with only his eyes, he ever so forcefully and clearly said, “Pitch!”
So I pitched. And over the course of that term made a great little friend.
It was quite an experience at the orphanage, and there were parts I found very hard. The atmosphere among the kids was often very rough. Fighting and quarreling with the supervisors was routine. And it was hard to face what they had experienced at such a young age, often from the ones with the greatest obligation to protect them. I learned a little of how badly their thoughts and emotions were manipulated. And I learned about the sad cycle of it all, that the parents abusing them were 90% likely to have been abused themselves. And, unless interrupted, it would likely continue.
But I remember one weekend, a busload of us traveled a few miles away to a church where the young people sang in the morning service. And between songs, the director gave some of the young people a chance to speak, if they wanted to. One of the roughest of the bunch stepped forward and said, tearfully. “This is my family,” he said. “These people love me. And they have given me a chance.”
In I Peter, chapter two, there is a list of vices which the author says should not be characteristic of the Christian: Rid yourselves, therefore, of all malice, and all guile, insincerity, envy, and all slander. (NRSV)
These vices are common enough that they were no doubt raising their ugly heads among those to whom this letter was written. But there’s something intriguing about this list. For this particular group of Christians, these vices were also abuses directed toward them.
Situations are described in which clearly Christians are being maligned, slandered and abused. In light of these situations, they are counselled not to seek revenge but rather to follow the example of Jesus Christ.
In verse four, it says: Come to [Jesus Christ], a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight (NRSV).
In verse twelve, it continues: Conduct yourselves honorably among the Gentiles, so that, though they malign you as evildoers, they may see your honorable deeds and glorify God when he comes to judge. (NRSV)
And then, clearly and forcefully, the argument is summarized in chapter three: Keep your conscience clear, so that, when you are maligned, those who abuse you for your good conduct in Christ may be put to shame. For it is better to suffer for doing good, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil. (1 Peter 3:16-17, NRSV)
Now the point I wish to emphasize is that usually when we think about vices such as these - malice, guile, insincerity, envy, and slander - we think of them as personal problems or failings. But here in 1 Peter it is also recognized that many times these vices arise as a direct consequence of having faced them. They arise as a form of self-defense. In other words, if as a Christian you are constantly having lies told about you, why shouldn’t you stretch the truth yourself or lie about those who have lied about you? If people are being cunning against you, why should you have to be the one to always act honestly and play it straight? In other words, it is one thing to show Christian love among those who you expect to return it. It is another thing altogether to show Christian love when it is greeted by malice, insincerity, and slander!
And that takes us to the heart of this passage. 1 Peter is like an architect’s draft for a great building, whose cornerstone is Jesus Christ, who knew himself what it was to be ill-treated. For among those he served, Jesus was despised, rejected, and forsaken. But to the surprise of those who opposed him, God sent him to interrupt the downward cycles of hatred and rebellion in our world and to free us to serve.
He bore our sins on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness. (1 Pe 2:24)
How does this happen in a person’s life? How are the downward spirals interrupted?
It happens, often times, because another Christian has come into our life and through their kindness and truthfulness have interrupted our lives. In the life and witness of that Christian, we have seen Christ himself and our lives have been set free.
It happens in some cases because, in a dark moment, we have had a direct experience of God’s grace in our lives, and have been lifted to a higher plane.
This past week I heard a radio interview with Bishop Victoria Matthews, and at a time of uncertainty and confusion in her life, it was just such an experience of God’s grace that brought relief and offered direction which she would never doubt and from which she has never veered.
And it happens because it is true. Hatred, cunning and cruelty are not the final words to be spoken in this world. The final words are the words of forgiveness, mercy and reconciliation from the lips of Jesus Christ on the cross. And with his resurrection three days later, we realize that not only what he said was great. What he said was true. In fact, the mercy, forgiveness and compassion of God is true are the truest thing we know.
As Peter puts it so beautifully: He bore our sins on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness. (1 Pe 2:24)
I urge to open your life to God’s redeeming work. Accept the mercy God extends. Let the downward spirals be interrupted. And then enter gladly into the family business of sharing the mercy of God with others.
As 1 Peter describes it for us all:
[By the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ you have been made] a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy. (1 Pe 2:9-10)
I attended seminary at Asbury Theological Seminary in Wilmore, Kentucky, nestled in a little county town in the heart of Kentucky bluegrass country. And in my first year as part of the program of preparation for pastoral ministry, I was sent to a nearby orphanage. All of us in the class were assigned to different institutional settings, like the orphanage, or a hospital or a prison chaplaincy, and usually after a weekend of service, we’d meet the next week in class to think over our experiences.
My first week, I noticed a little guy about six years old. I was about 22 at the time, came from a family of three sisters and a pile of cousins, always thought that I could get along with children, and enjoyed doing so. So I went up to this little fellow and said hello. He didn’t say anything.
Figured he didn’t hear - and so I said it again. ‘Hello, how are you? My name is Dean.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at me. And he walked away. The experience of it was not simply that I had been ignored. It was as if it hadn’t even registered that someone was standing there, speaking. It was the first time I remember feeling like a speed bump.
I mentioned it to my supervisor at the orphanage. “That’s Bobby,” he said. “Treated very badly in his home and finally taken out. Don’t be surprised if he’s a little shy around adults.”
I mentioned the experience back in class. In class we were to think through things and, if possible, go back to hard parts and try again.
“Next time I’ll try chocolate,” I said.
“But before you do that,” said one of my classmates impatiently, “get down on your knees where he can see you, look him in the eye, and ask him if he’d like to play baseball or something.”
“Hmm,” I said thoughtfully in class. “What good would that do,” I said to myself. “Chocolate is sure-fire.”
But the next weekend, there was Bobby, still treating me like pavement, and I thought, “Well, might as well try.”
I went over to Bobby, got down on my knee, stared him in the eye, and said, “Bobby, go over to the playground, pick up the bat, and I’ll pitch to you. See how well you hit.”
Again, didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything, walked around me - though it felt like over me like you walk over sidewalk - and ran off.
“What did she know,” was my first thought. “Should have used chocolate,” as I watched Bobby run off . . . to the playground . . . where he leaned over, picked up a baseball bat, turned around and for the first time, looked at me. And with only his eyes, he ever so forcefully and clearly said, “Pitch!”
So I pitched. And over the course of that term made a great little friend.
It was quite an experience at the orphanage, and there were parts I found very hard. The atmosphere among the kids was often very rough. Fighting and quarreling with the supervisors was routine. And it was hard to face what they had experienced at such a young age, often from the ones with the greatest obligation to protect them. I learned a little of how badly their thoughts and emotions were manipulated. And I learned about the sad cycle of it all, that the parents abusing them were 90% likely to have been abused themselves. And, unless interrupted, it would likely continue.
But I remember one weekend, a busload of us traveled a few miles away to a church where the young people sang in the morning service. And between songs, the director gave some of the young people a chance to speak, if they wanted to. One of the roughest of the bunch stepped forward and said, tearfully. “This is my family,” he said. “These people love me. And they have given me a chance.”
In I Peter, chapter two, there is a list of vices which the author says should not be characteristic of the Christian: Rid yourselves, therefore, of all malice, and all guile, insincerity, envy, and all slander. (NRSV)
These vices are common enough that they were no doubt raising their ugly heads among those to whom this letter was written. But there’s something intriguing about this list. For this particular group of Christians, these vices were also abuses directed toward them.
Situations are described in which clearly Christians are being maligned, slandered and abused. In light of these situations, they are counselled not to seek revenge but rather to follow the example of Jesus Christ.
In verse four, it says: Come to [Jesus Christ], a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight (NRSV).
In verse twelve, it continues: Conduct yourselves honorably among the Gentiles, so that, though they malign you as evildoers, they may see your honorable deeds and glorify God when he comes to judge. (NRSV)
And then, clearly and forcefully, the argument is summarized in chapter three: Keep your conscience clear, so that, when you are maligned, those who abuse you for your good conduct in Christ may be put to shame. For it is better to suffer for doing good, if suffering should be God’s will, than to suffer for doing evil. (1 Peter 3:16-17, NRSV)
Now the point I wish to emphasize is that usually when we think about vices such as these - malice, guile, insincerity, envy, and slander - we think of them as personal problems or failings. But here in 1 Peter it is also recognized that many times these vices arise as a direct consequence of having faced them. They arise as a form of self-defense. In other words, if as a Christian you are constantly having lies told about you, why shouldn’t you stretch the truth yourself or lie about those who have lied about you? If people are being cunning against you, why should you have to be the one to always act honestly and play it straight? In other words, it is one thing to show Christian love among those who you expect to return it. It is another thing altogether to show Christian love when it is greeted by malice, insincerity, and slander!
And that takes us to the heart of this passage. 1 Peter is like an architect’s draft for a great building, whose cornerstone is Jesus Christ, who knew himself what it was to be ill-treated. For among those he served, Jesus was despised, rejected, and forsaken. But to the surprise of those who opposed him, God sent him to interrupt the downward cycles of hatred and rebellion in our world and to free us to serve.
He bore our sins on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness. (1 Pe 2:24)
How does this happen in a person’s life? How are the downward spirals interrupted?
It happens, often times, because another Christian has come into our life and through their kindness and truthfulness have interrupted our lives. In the life and witness of that Christian, we have seen Christ himself and our lives have been set free.
It happens in some cases because, in a dark moment, we have had a direct experience of God’s grace in our lives, and have been lifted to a higher plane.
This past week I heard a radio interview with Bishop Victoria Matthews, and at a time of uncertainty and confusion in her life, it was just such an experience of God’s grace that brought relief and offered direction which she would never doubt and from which she has never veered.
And it happens because it is true. Hatred, cunning and cruelty are not the final words to be spoken in this world. The final words are the words of forgiveness, mercy and reconciliation from the lips of Jesus Christ on the cross. And with his resurrection three days later, we realize that not only what he said was great. What he said was true. In fact, the mercy, forgiveness and compassion of God is true are the truest thing we know.
As Peter puts it so beautifully: He bore our sins on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness. (1 Pe 2:24)
I urge to open your life to God’s redeeming work. Accept the mercy God extends. Let the downward spirals be interrupted. And then enter gladly into the family business of sharing the mercy of God with others.
As 1 Peter describes it for us all:
[By the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ you have been made] a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy. (1 Pe 2:9-10)
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