Blogging with Beddingfield

Before the party, silence.

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 00:00:00 +0000

Icon of the Holy Silence

A sermon preached for the Ordination to the Priesthood of Seth Walley, St. Peter's Church, Oxford, MS, January 22, 2012. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 6:1-8, Psalm 43, Philippians 4:4-9, and John 6:35-38.

I think we’re almost ready. We’re almost ready for a party of biblical proportion. The flowers are done. The music is practiced. There’s a bishop, family and friends. We’ve gotten cleaned up and dressed. We are ready for a party.

The scriptures do their part to “pump up the volume.” Isaiah brings in the seraphim whooshing and whirring about, wings fluttering and flying. They’ve got their own soundtrack, too, singing “Holy, holy, holy.” Their music rocks the house, and then comes the smoke-- holy smoke that makes for holy sending forth.

Saint Paul lends his voice (as if there were ever a party he didn’t crash or comment on). And Paul’s word is a simple one: Rejoice. Rejoice in the Lord. Rejoice in the Lord always. And again, Rejoice! Know God’s peace. Know God’s truth. Know God’s excellence. Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice.

And as if all of that weren’t enough—what, with the music and the wings and the smoke, there’s food. The Gospel brings food a-plenty. “I am the bread of life,” says Jesus. Whoever, wherever, however you come to me, you’ll find enough. You’ll eat and drink and be full. And you’ll be filled with so MUCH good stuff that you just can’t help but share and feed others.

Yes, we’re almost ready for a party. We’re ready for Seth to be ontologically changed. We’re ready to reaffirm our faith and assent to our own sending. We’re ready to rejoice-- but before we go on, before we go too far, we need to make sure we’ve extended one important invitation. We need to make sure we invite the Holy Spirit.

Of course, in some ways, that invitation is a standing one. The Spirit is already here, has been here, and will be here forever after. It’s not something we do or bring, but there is a special sense in which we still invite—not so much to summon the Spirit as to notice the Spirit’s presence: here, around us, within us.

In just a bit, we will sing old, old words, “Come, Holy Spirit.” “Come, Holy Ghost.” “Inspire. Anoint. Impart. Enable. Protect. Comfort. Fire up! Teach. Give peace.” All these things are prayers, but they’re also descriptions of what the Holy Spirit does, and will always do.

And then, after we sing this hymn, before our spoken prayers continue, there comes a moment-- a crucial, beautiful, powerful, frightening moment. In that moment we stop.

We do what Christians have done since at least the early Third Century. We keep silence and we pray for the Holy Spirit. Hippolytus, the Bishop of Rome, described it in the year 215: “Everyone will keep silent,” he wrote, “praying in their hearts for the descent of the Spirit.” [The Apostolic Tradition, c. 215].

And so we keep silence. We stop, and wait, and be still. It is a still point.

It’s the kind of still point T.S. Eliot reflects upon in Burnt Norton. [T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets, “Burnt Norton,” II.] He writes,

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

It’s not a party until there’s dancing. But with God there’s always dancing. “Perichoresis” is the fancy Greek term for God’s inwelling, interpenetration, God’s movement in-and-around, God’s holy dance that sweeps us off our feet and into the eternal dance of God’s love. But the dance begins at the still point. The love of God begins and rekindles at a still point.

In the silent moment of this service, we recognize that even though we have just about everything we need here today—we need more. We need more than the Church. We need more than the Scriptures. We need more than ourselves. We need more than we can produce. We need more than we can attain. We need the Holy Spirit.

I love that our Ordinal preserves this holy moment of silence. I love it for Seth’s sake, because there are going to be days for him when he will need that to remember that moment, that pause, again and again. No matter how many books, how many conversations, or how many prayers, he will come those places where all that he brings (and it’s a lot) is just not enough. And so, he’ll need to stop. And pray. And listen. And invite the Holy Spirit.

I love this moment of silence for our sake, too. Because in our work there are, and will continue to be times when we don’t know what to do, or we’ve done all we can do, but we’re stuck. In our daily lives, there are those places where we get stuck: Our child is moving and growing in directions we are not prepared for. Older family are aging and becoming people we don’t recognize and yet we love them, and we’re responsible for them, and we don’t know what to do. Or the job ends. Or, the money runs out. Or, the love disappears. On and on, our list might go—the list of things bring us to the still point in our families, our relationships, our own hopes and dreams and plans, were we have done all we can. But we’re stuck, and we’re brought to our knees, and we need help.

The life Christ shows us that there is one more thing we can do. We can stop. We can ask for help. We can pray, “Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire.” We can pray, “Come ON, Holy Spirit.” We can pray “Come, Lord Jesus.” We can pray simply, “Come.” Or more realistically, we might just pray “Jesus,” as half-curse, and half-prayer. Or maybe we just let the silence pray. But our words don’t matter. It’s the silence that counts.

And God hears. And God moves. And God will show up in surprising and startling and humbling and helping ways. But show up, God does. And then the party (or the occasion, or the task, or the LIFE) really begins.

Seth, don’t forget to stop and ask for help—from God, from Our Lady, from your colleagues, friends, parishioners, and family. And from the Holy Spirit, who works through them all.

And may we, all of us, remember the gift of silence that offers rest, that invites the Holy Spirit, and that prepares us for eternal life with Christ and Creator. Before the party, during the party, and after the party: let there be silence.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

When God comes, do we notice?

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 00:54:00 +0000

A sermon for the Second Sunday after the Epiphany, January 15, 2012. The lectionary readings are 1 Samuel 3:1-10(11-20) , Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17 , 1 Corinthians 6:12-20 , and John 1:43-51 .

Whenever someone is coming to All Souls to meet with me, I try to figure out how they’re arriving. I want to know their approach to the building so that I can be ready. If the person needs to roll something inside, then we meet them at the main doors. If they are coming to the undercroft, then the kitchen door is probably best. If they’re meeting the choir director or heading for the nursery, then there’s another door. If the boiler room, yet another door. And if the person is aiming for me or the offices, then the Woodley Place door, the one with a doorbell on it, is the best one.

As long as I know how someone is coming, I can be ready for them. I can recognize them. I can receive them.

If God were coming to All Souls for a special visit, it would be the same.

I would probably inquire which entrance would be most convenient. I would want to be ready. I would want to be prepared, and I would especially want to recognize – to see, hear, and apprehend God—upon God’s arrival. But, as Downton Abbey’s Dowager Countess Violet puts it, quoting the old hymn, “God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform.” (Season Two, Episode 1, quoting William Cowper’s hymn.)

God moves in a mysterious way. God approaches in a mysterious way. God appears in mysterious ways, and today’s scriptures show us several.

In our first reading, the boy Samuel is sleeping in the hallway of the temple. He’s an apprentice there, so he must have been familiar with the sounds of the place at night. And so when he hears a voice, he assumes it’s the voice of Eli, the old priest whose service he is in. Samuel is probably 11 or 12 years old and, as an apprentice at the temple knows about God, even if scripture says “he did not yet know the Lord.” He must have known all the great stories of the faith, something of the prophets and priests and characters. But he did not yet know God well enough to recognize God’s voice when he heard it. Or, even at a young age, Samuel might not have seen or heard God coming. Samuel might have expected God to come from a different direction, with a different voice, in some different guise. He would have had certain impressions and ideas about who God might be, and how God might work—he doesn’t seem to have been ready for God to rouse people out of bed in the middle of the night. Samuel’s expectations, at first, don’t allow him to hear God. But old Eli helps Samuel to realize God in the vision. He helps Samuel realize God in the nighttime, in a vision, in prayer, and in the silence.

Before we look at our second reading, Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, I think we need first to admit that Paul, himself, had problems recognizing God. Before his vision of Christ on the road to Damascus, Paul persecuted Christians. He did his best to wipe them out. Even after his conversion, even within his preaching and writing, Paul struggles with inner and outer demons that do their best to obscure his vision, to cloud his understanding and limit his perception of all God would do. Paul understands God through reason and rhetoric. And like a lot of us, his own thinking sometimes gets him into trouble. But Paul is wired that way. He has to think things out and talk them out. Paul embodies those words of Walt Whitman: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself.” (Song of Myself) Paul is large. Paul contains multitudes.

And so, Paul is probably the perfect person to preach to the church in Corinth—a worldly, sophisticated congregation. The Corinthians liked to enjoy life, and didn’t always know where to draw the line, and so they were constantly getting distracted by things that would take the place of God for them. But Paul encourages them to look no further than their own two feet. Start with your own body, Paul says. Give thanks for the body—even as it ages, get creaky and worn, stops working correctly and often misbehaves. He says, Stop looking elsewhere for joy or gratification or affirmation—give thanks for the miracle that is each one of us. God has raised and blessed and hallowed the Body. Therefore respect it, give thanks for it, take care of it. Look at your hand in front of your eyes and realize God even in the body.

In our Gospel, it’s Nathanael who almost misses God because he’s expecting God to come from a different direction—to look and sound different from this country boy, Jesus. But here, right in front of him, is the One. Christ doesn’t come from Rome, or any of the other great cities. He hasn’t traveled the world. He doesn’t come from some far away, exotic, rich and wonderful place. Instead he’s from Nazareth. If you go to Nazareth today, it’s not a whole lot different from when Jesus was there, except there’s probably a lot more plastic. We can almost feel and join in Nathanael’s disappointment.

But Jesus senses this. Slowly, in that Christly charming way he has, Jesus begins to talk to him. Jesus talks through him, almost. Jesus lets himself be known by Nathanael. And Nathanael sees something in Jesus, and wants to follow. “Rabbi!” is his simple statement of faith and trust. “You are the Son of the God, the King of Israel.” To which Jesus simply smiles and says, “you haven’t seen anything yet.”

The scriptures ask us today, “Do we see God when God comes? Do we notice?

Or are we busy preparing in the wrong place. Is it like when we’re expecting a delivery at church, and so we’ve unlocked doors, moved things around, turned on lights, and are ready--- only to realize that the person making the delivery is standing patiently on the other side of the building, in a place that is better for them to enter? Do we ever do this kind of thing spiritually?

God might meet us in church or in a vision or in silent prayer, like it was for Samuel. Or God might occur to us in our thinking and or in our conversation, like with Paul. God might even come through a friend who point us in the way, who says “Come and see,” and so we go and see, and we meet the Risen Christ.

But God also might come in a hospital waiting room, in a fast food restaurant, in a board meeting or an AA meeting, in a family gathering or on a first date. God enters our world not so much when and where we think we’re most ready. But rather, God comes where God wills. “God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform.”

This weekend offers a number of opportunities to remember the work and words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He had his own version of “come and see,” as he brought people together to work for Civil Rights. God came to him in through suffering and heartache, through human frailty and his own human nature, but God eventually came in a dream that could be named and offered to others—the dream that

“ . . . little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” A dream that, with Isaiah, “one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together.” [“I have a dream,” delivered August 28, 1963]

And so, in concrete, particular, everyday ways, God has come and keeps coming as we live into the dream for civil rights, for human rights, and for all of God’s dreams to be realized.

The Good News of our scriptures today and the Good News of the faith that is in us is that God comes. God visits. God surprises. God startles. God sweeps us off our feet. God picks us up and draws us close. God comes—not always when we’re most prepared, but God comes always when we are most in need.

Thanks be to God for the power of his visitation, the power to knock down doors and fill our lives with love and with hope. May we realize God’s presence and share God’s power.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Changed, challenged and compelled

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 18:16:00 +0000

A sermon for the Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, January 8, 2012. The lectionary readings are Genesis 1:1-5, Psalm 29, Acts 19:1-7, and Mark 1:4-11.

Before coming to Washington, I would try to exercise a few times a week at a YMCA. The old McBurney Y had been almost entirely vertical—8 or 9 small floors stacked on top so that if you wanted one kind of machine, you might need to go to one floor. If you wanted room to stretch, you’d go to another floor. Much of the workout was simply in navigating the building, up and down, without getting hit by an opening door in a stairwell.

But just before I moved away, a new Y was built. It sprawled more than it climbed, but there was still a kind of stacking to the space. But this time, there were openings between levels, so if you were on the indoor track, you could run around the machines and pool. You’d run over the basketball courts. I liked the elliptical machine—the easier version of a stair-climber—and I tried to get to the gym early so that I could get a particular elliptical machine, in a particular spot. From “my” machine, not only could you watch the runners on the track (and feel self-righteous about saving your knees from that abuse), but I could also see the swimming pool. And on certain days, early in the morning, there in the pool, the babies were learning to swim.

Watching those tiny little kids, who really looked like jerky little tadpoles, always made me laugh. As painful or scary as it might have been for the child, for the onlooker, it was a joyful thing. The whole scene was filled with hope and promise, with tenacity and persistence. It was a great drama, there in the shallow end of the pool. Whenever I watched them, I was reminded of baptism.

The water, the tears, the babies, the parents trying to be helpful but coming to terms with the limits to their care and protection—all of that being played out over and around water. And today, as I think about baptism—the baptism of Jesus and the baptism of us all—I think of some similarities between those swimming classes for babies and the Sacrament of Holy Baptism.

Often on days such as these, the church encourages us to “remember your baptism.” But what, exactly does that mean? Especially for those who were baptized when they were infants, what does it mean “to remember”? I think it’s a little like those swimming classes. Few, if any, of those children will remember the actual class in which they learned to swim. But the fact will remain: they learned to swim. They can swim. Come high water, they will know what to do.

It’s a similar thing with a Christian. The memory may have faded. The details may be fuzzy. But the fact of baptism remains. We were taught to swim, spiritually, and nothing can change that, come hell or high water.

There is another similarity. The babies at the Y did not decide to learn to swim. Their parents did not encourage them to grow up, read and research whether one might best navigate water with paddle or motor or the physical means of swimming. Instead, parents made the decision that this would be good for the child. Later, as the child grew, she might learn other strokes, other styles, and develop her own unique way of swimming. But she had been given the basics, given a great gift that would serve her well in the future.

Baptism is not a magic spell cast over a newborn to protect him from an evil eye. Instead, baptism is a beginning. It’s a free gift. It is a sacrament.

The Catechism in the back of our Prayer Books reminds us that a sacrament is an “outward and visible sign of inward and spiritual grace, given by Christ as sure and certain means by which we receive that grace.” Going further, the Catechism says: “Holy Baptism is the sacrament by which God adopts us as his children and makes us members of Christ’s Body, the Church, and inheritors of the kingdom of God.” Notice who’s doing the action here. Not the child or person being baptized. Not the parent or the grandparent, the aunt or the uncle. But God. Baptism is God’s initiative, God’s decision, and God’s action. It’s the sacrament by which GOD adopts us as children and GOD makes us members of Christ’s Body.

At Christmas we celebrated the birth of a baby, the child of God who is God-in-the-flesh, Emmanuel, God-among-us and God with-us. On Epiphany we proclaimed that this God of life is not only God-for-us, but God-for-all. And today, we remember how Jesus was baptized by John, not so much because Jesus needed to be made holy through baptism, but because, through baptism, Jesus is able to make us holy. He makes us holy through water, water that is animated by the Holy Spirit.

Our first reading from Genesis reminds us that the Spirit of God was there at the very beginning. Even before the earth was made, there was darkness and chaos, but over all there was a wind from God, the breath of God breathed out over the chaos, and rippled over the face of the waters. Water and spirit mingled together and out of them came shape and form and purpose and new life.

In the Epistle reading, Paul is preaching about just this connection of water and Spirit. People say honestly, they didn’t know there was a Holy Spirit. And so Paul preaches, and tells them about the Spirit, and who knows what else he does. He baptizes them and lays hands on them, and they begin to get it. Evidence of the living spirit of Jesus Christ fills their hearts and begins to change their lives.

In our Gospel this energy of water and spirit combines in new form as Jesus is baptized. It inaugurates his public ministry: it marks the beginning, it energizes him, it gets him going, and it pushing him out. Baptism (and the reaffirmation of baptism) does those things for us, as well.

In baptism we are changed. We are challenged. And we are compelled.

Baptism changes us. From dry to wet, we are moved forward, leaving an old life behind. This is a symbol that we can return to as long as we live. At his baptism, God says, “You are my child, my Beloved, with you I am well pleased.” God says the same thing to each one of us at our baptism. It’s our inauguration, our commissioning, our call to action on behalf of Christ.

Baptism claims us as one of God’s own, for us to continue “getting wet” with one another, to get involved, and to allow the power of God to have its effect upon us. Saint Paul understands baptism as dying and rising again. He says, “We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” (Romans 6). As we are continually brought through death to life, through death-dealing circumstances and problems, to new life with its hope and promise, we are changed again and again. And this change has its beginning in baptism.

We are also challenged in baptism. The cold of the water, the strangeness of it. People looking on, the odd priest scooping us out of our parents’ arms—all of it is a challenge. But just as a stone that’s thrown into water disturbs the water and makes a ripple effect, the effect of our baptism will continue to disturb our lives and the lives of those around us as it ripples through time. If others get close to us, they’ll get wet, as well. Our baptism will naturally spill over.

Being baptized challenges us in the way we make decisions, in the way we spend money, in the way we treat other people.

And finally, our baptism compels us to share the gift. Offer water to others. Teach another to swim. We offer baptismal hope when we bring someone to church, when we volunteer in the spirit of Christ, when we extend a hand, or when we share a kind word with someone who needs it. We do this physically through ministries and mission, but we also do it spiritually, as simply as when we help others hear that there is a source of water, there is a God of love, and there is a God who will never let us sink.

Tilden Edwards is an Episcopal priest who helped found the Shalem Institute for Spiritual Formation often speaks of “leaning back” into the presence of God. If you ever see Tilden in a room, you can see him doing this physically, as he actually does lean back, or settle in as a part of his prayer, as a part of being open to God, as a part of “remembering his baptism.” It’s a little like resting in the water, trusting the water to buoy us and hold us. Trusting our baptism that we have learned how to stay afloat and that there is a multitude of saints standing guard around us and ready to extend a hand, should we need it.

On this feast we give thank for the baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, for his becoming like us that we might become more like him. And we give thanks for our own baptism, especially as the memory of our baptism continues to claim us, to challenge us, and to compel us outwards.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Letting our Light Shine

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 16:55:00 +0000

An article for the All Souls Weekly, January 8, 2012

This week the Church enters the season after the Epiphany. In the coming days we reflect upon the ways in which Christ has appeared and continues to appear among us. Isaiah urges, “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (60:1). We’re called to arise, but I think we’re also called to raise up others. We’re called to “let our light shine,” and especially these days, I think we’re called to let our light shine as Episcopalians.

This week the Vatican made public its arrangement by which Episcopalians may become Roman Catholics. I guess for those who are angry with the Episcopal Church this opportunity must seem as if Pope Benedict is offering a sort of new light. But for me, it’s a harsh and artificial light. It’s like a spotlight that is strong, focused, and steady, yet it relegates too much and too many to the shadows.

The light of Christ as perceived and shared by the Episcopal Church is different. Admittedly, it can seem like a softer light. It is a light filtered through scripture, reason, and tradition. And while it may not always be as clear or certain, the Light of Christ through an Episcopal lens is honest. Rather than reveal everything at once, the light we perceive is like the star followed by the magi. It’s a light that points the way and thereby compels us to rely on God and one another so that we can discern our next steps.

As Episcopalians, we have a lot of light to let shine and to share. Our Presiding Bishop, the Most Rev. Katharine Jefferts Schori, continues to lead with a smart competence and a holy wisdom. Our new bishop, the Rt. Rev. Mariann Budde, brings enthusiasm, faith, and passion. She shows a pastoral sensitivity along with a clear commitment to progressive Christianity.

But more than any single leader, our understanding of the Church welcomes and raises up leaders from the pews, encouraging light from all. May the New Year offer us increasing opportunities to share and shine our light.

What's your REAL name?

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 00:51:00 +0000

A sermon for Sunday, January 1, 2012, the Holy Name of Our Lord Jesus Christ. The lectionary readings are Numbers 6:22-27 , Galatians 4:4-7 , Psalm 8 , and Luke 2:15-21 .

I’ve never really had a nickname. For the most part, I’ve always been John. That’s with an H, and it’s not short for anything—certainly not for some longer form adding “a’s” in unexpected places. It’s just plain John.

There was a short time in college when my two good friends were also named John, and that presented a problem whenever we would appear together. At that point, one became Jack, another “Tersh” as an abbreviation of his last name, and me—I became JB. Being Jack, Tersh, and JB, we all relinquished our “Johnship.”

But a lot of people do have nicknames. In fact, there are a couple of people I could name for you ONLY by their nickname. If I had to come up with the person’s given name, I couldn’t do it. When I’ve been around people with nicknames, there’s a question often put to those people. And it’s a question the church asks us today: What’s your REAL name. You may go by “such-and-such.” Your family may know you by something. And you may even think of yourself by a certain name. But today what’s your real name?

In Judaism the real name of God is thought to be so sacred, so beautiful, and so powerful that it’s never said out loud. Instead, observant Jews often refer to God by saying Adonai, meaning “The Lord,” or simply “HaShem,” meaning, “The Name.” Is Islam, there is power and help in praying the 99 names of God. I love one Sunni scholar’s interpretation of the number 99. He says, “Allah is odd.” “Allah is odd [being one—an odd number] and loves odd numbers.” [Muslim ibn al-Hajjaj Nishapuri, Sahih Muslim]. Names are important.

Today’s feast is called The Holy Name of our Lord Jesus Christ. In the Roman Church today it’s a special day for the Blessed Virgin Mary, but even there is a focus on a name—the name given to the mother of Jesus. Their official title of the day is the Solemnity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of God. Theotokos, the word meaning “Mother of God” is quite a name. It is a name given by the faithful, adopted by the Church; a name argued about and a name prayed to. Mary got a new name and on the 8^th day, Jesus a name.

Eight days after the birth of Jesus, his parents take him to the temple for the customary circumcision and naming. Jesus is circumcised and dedicated. His mother is blessed. And Jesus is given the name that the angel Gabriel had said he should be given. He is given the name that is a form of the name Hebrew name Joshua. Jesus means, “salvation is from God,” or “salvation is from the Lord.”

Talk about a big name: Salvation. His name means that he saves. In Christ we receive a new name, and it’s a name that saves. The life of Jesus saves us from a life lived only to the self. The words of Jesus save us from anything or anyone who would demean us or suggest that we are anything other than a child of God.
The healing of Jesus saves us as we pray for wholeness and try to extend his healing to others. The laughter of Jesus saves us from despair. The welcome of Jesus saves us in from the cold. The death of Jesus saves us from the fear of the grave and from dying without a purpose. The resurrection of Jesus saves us from the power of sin to keep us down, the resurrection saves us sin, it saves us—many times—from ourselves.

Jesus saved not only from, but he also saves us for. He saves us for his father, so that God might delight in us his children. Jesus saves us for the kingdom of God, that way of believing and living with one another here-and-now as well as in the future, that way of lifting up one another, encouraging one another and loving one another. Jesus saves us for life—so that in any situation, in any misfortune, in any crisis or calamity we can look through the death to life and to life everlasting.

On this day we celebrate the name that saves and we also celebrate the fact that we share his name. Today being New Year’s Day, it’s a good day to think about names.What names do we carry with us into this new year?Do they suit us?

Sometimes a name that has been given to us or we have given ourselves limits or restricts.Sometimes it even oppresses.The past couple of years’ discussion of the problem of bullying in schools has reminded us of the power of name-calling.

Sometimes those names stay with us and it takes a lot to change them. But that’s where God can come in. Just as, in our first reading, God puts God’s name upon the people of Israel, so God names us. Like the naming in the Book of Genesis, God calls us “good.” Like the naming at the baptism of Jesus and at our own baptism, God calls us “blessed” and “beloved.”

Many have read the book “The Help” by Kathryn Stockett or seen the movie. If so, you’ll remember the several places in which Aibileen Clark, one of the main characters in the story, hugs the little girl Mae Mobley close and says, “You a smart girl. You a kind girl, Mae Mobley. You hear me? . . . .You is kind, you is smart, you is important!” In that moment, and as long as those moments live in Mae’s heart, God’s names overpower whatever small, mean, or hurtful names might have been used by her mother or by anyone else.

As we think about a new year and think about those things we might like to do differently, there is the opportunity for us to take on a new name. Perhaps that name describes how you’d like to be in the new year. Perhaps a new name marks a transition or a turning point for you. Perhaps it is simply a growing more deeply into a name you have already being growing into.

And so, what’s your name? What’s your REAL name?

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Resolutions

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 12:05:00 +0000

An article for the All Souls Weekly, January 1, 2012.

When I think about resolutions for a New Year, I remember words offered by Brother Douglas Brown some years ago at an Ash Wednesday retreat. A monk from Holy Cross Monastery, Douglas had a wonderful way of speaking about spiritual things in earthy and realistic terms. He was talking about Lenten resolutions, those various spiritual disciplines some of us endeavor to take up as we prepare for Easter. He said something to the effect of, “The only time God is interested in our resolutions is when we fail. If we could do it all ourselves, then we’d simply be involved in an exercise in self-improvement. God gets interested when we realize that we need him and ask for help.”

Some people simply don’t bother with resolutions. They’ve given up. Perhaps they’ve become discouraged after having failed in the past. Making a plan or a promise (they feel) simply sets them up for failure, and then they end up feeling worse in the end. But if we were to make resolutions with a good dose of humility thrown in, we might begin to understand that failure can be a part of the process. Failure can lead to growth and the movement forward, especially if it causes us to fall upon God’s help again and again. If we ask for help, it’s amazing what God can send our way: energy, hope, faith, new resources in friends, in teachers or advisors, and in community.

A prayer for the New Year from the Church of England’s Common Worship seems like a good one as we ask for God’s help with whatever might be our hopes or resolutions:

O God, by whose command the order of time runs its course: forgive our impatience, perfect our faith and, while we wait for the fulfillment of your promises, grant us to have a good hope because of your word; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Especially in this New Year, may God accept our prayers and resolutions and surround us with all that encourages us and helps us to be faithful.

Thanks be to God for being VAST

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 15:30:00 +0000

Cultivating the Cosmic Tree by Hildegard of Bingen, 12th century

A sermon for Christmas Day 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 52:7-10 , Hebrews 1:1-4, (5-12) , John 1:1-14 , and Psalm 98.

Last night’s Gospel reading was the familiar Christmas Story: Mary and Joseph go to Bethlehem. There is no room for them in the inn, so they find space in a barn. Jesus is born (God is born) as a tiny, struggling, vulnerable, and dependent baby. The shepherds come and the angels sing. The drama unfolds all around a small child. My reflections last night had to do with what I would call “the smallness of God,” meaning, the way of God to show up in a small child, and then keep showing up in our lives in tiny ways that, at first, might seem completely insignificant.

But since last night, God has grown up. Well, that’s not quite right. What I mean, is that if last night’s story was intimate and personal, about God who comes in small ways; today’s story is about God the majestic, God the Creator of the Universe, and God the mysterious and all-powerful, all-knowing Spirit that hovered over the beginnings of time and will breathe blessing over the end of all time. It’s the same story. It’s still the story of God’s Incarnation, God’s coming into the world in the form of a human being, Jesus of Nazareth. But today’s Gospel, from John, comes from a different perspective.

Richard Burridge gets at some of this perspective when he suggests that “if the other gospels [Matthew, Mark, and Luke] are like symphonies or operas, [then] John is like a great conductor, totally absorbed in his music and straining to ensure that every theme is heard by his audience.” [Four Gospels, One Jesus? p. 134]

The traditional symbol for the Gospel of John is the eagle. As I’ve mentioned before, our lancet windows in the back of the church symbolize the four Gospel writers, the evangelists. Their symbols are also on the carpet at the altar. Luke is represented with an ox. On the other side of the baptismal font, Mark is represented with a Lion. On the far side there is a human being who may look like an angels because of his angel wings: this is Matthew. But there, right by the entrance to the church is John, represented by the eagle.

The eagle suits John because the eagle is high-flying. It’s perspective is different because it sees more. It sees farther. It can put things together in a way that someone or something on the ground in just one place could not possibly put together. And so it is with John’s perspective of who Jesus Christ is, why Jesus Christ is, how God-in-Christ moves among us, and what it means for our lives. John’s invitation for us is to have faith. Simply have faith in Jesus Christ. Have faith in God.

The perspective of the eagle (the perspective of John) invites us to let our questions rest for a bit. Put aside our arguments and suppose—just suppose—that there might be more to the Big Picture than we can currently take in. That’s all faith asks, really. As a friend of mine puts it pretty bluntly: All I need to know about God is that I’m not IT. God is something beyond me. God is something greater than me. God is something more than me.

If last night was about the giggles of children, the braying of donkeys in stables, and the off-key carols of angels giddy from the heights of heaven… if last night was about God’s speaking through what is small—then today, it seems to me, invites us to rest in OUR smallness and to let God be God. The day invites us to a place of simple faith where we can perhaps allow that “God is,” and leave it at that. Behind God is mystery, is love, and still silence. T.S. Eliot reflects of this aspect of God and draws on images from John when he writes

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word. [Ash Wednesday]

Even when unspoken. Even when unheard. Even when unobserved or unrecognized or un-believed, God is.

And in that simple statement there is freedom for us. If God is, then I don’t always have to be. I don’t have to be in charge. I don’t have to be right. I don’t have to understand. I don’t have to as good as I’d like to be, or as perfect, or as generous. I’m still whirling—still growing (falling and getting up again, all through prayer), but our God is big enough to handle me (and you) even when we’re at our smallest.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth. Thanks be to God for being vast.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Thanks be to God for being small

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 03:14:00 +0000

A sermon for Christmas Eve 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 9:2-7 , Titus 2:11-14 , Luke 2:1--20 , and Psalm 96.

Miss Rhoda Harting is a young woman who plans to celebrate Christmas by herself. A character in a short story by Stella Gibbons, Rhoda finds just the right little cottage and begins to gather together everything she needs for a perfect Christmas: a small chicken all to herself, and a little tree with candles. She puts her tree in a pot, fastens on a few tiny candles and ornaments, and can’t resist lighting the candles to make sure it looks just right. She blows out the candles and turns in for the night.

The next day is Christmas, and this being 1940 in Buckinghamshire, England, it snows and everything is beautiful. On Christmas morning Rhoda hears a knock at her door. When she opens it she’s surprised to find three small children. The leader of the three tells a story of a wicked stepmother and asks for shelter. Rhoda takes the children in and proceeds to feed them and share her Christmas with them.

Later, there is another knock at the door. It turns out to be the father, looking for his precocious children. When the kids realize they have been caught in their made-up story, Judy, their leader blurts out, “Don’t tell! . . . I made it up. I made it all up . . . [about the wicked stepmother and the whole thing] We saw your little tree all lit up in the window last night…We wanted to see your little tree. We’ve never had a little tree at home. Everything’s so big. It’s horrid…” (p. 14-15)

The children are drawn to what is small. While most children today don’t use the word “horrid,” I think it would be easy to find kids who might pass by a large, loud, impressive Christmas tree in favor of a smaller one. There might be children (and maybe even a few adults) who feel lost in a giant house with lots of people, and would seek out a little cottage. And now, as in every age, what is loud and grand and dramatic sometimes gives way to what is quiet and small and insignificant. Whenever that happens, we should pay attention. Because God moves in the downward, lesser, quieter way. God is found in what is small.

If we think of God’s self-revelation in scripture, we can see places where God has shown a preferential option for the small. The men and women God raises up as leaders are usually not the high and mighty. David who becomes King is the least likely in terms of toughness and world-readiness. Rahab is a harlot made into a heroine. The prophets are mostly oddballs, misfits, and outsiders to the people they’re called to serve. Even God’s chosen community is weak and vulnerable.

Our first scripture reading tonight comes from the part of Isaiah in which the people of God are in trouble. Assyria, the great power to the north, is a threat not to be toyed with, Isaiah warns. And yet, Isaiah also offers hope. He sees hope in a descendant to the throne of David. “A child has been born for us.” Biblical scholars argue over exactly who Isaiah imagined that child would be—whether someone closer to his own situation and time period—or the Messiah of the future.

But what is clear is that in Isaiah’s words, God is reaching out—reaching for the small, the faithful, the just who are willing to listen and to try to follow God. In that Isaiah’s words move quickly from describing a child who is to come, to describing a mighty savior in all-too-human, political, and cultural terms, we see a paradox in our faith: That what is great, enormous, and indescribably big news actually comes in a small, quiet, almost secret way.

The story of God’s coming, of a child who is born for us happens off-stage from the major events of its time. Joseph and Mary are not married. They don’t travel with their family. They journey to register for the census and have to find space to sleep in a barn. Though St. Luke imagines choirs of angels directing the traffic for shepherds and providing a heavenly chorus, even the angels describe the birth in simple terms: “a baby wrapped in rags, lying in a feeding trough.” The light of a star is needed to supplement the faint light of a poor person’s lantern. Later, the visiting magi will bring incense, which will come in handy for covring up the smell of animals and dung, of sweat and stink and poverty.

Throughout his life, people will be surprised by the everyday, ordinary quality of Jesus. He’s from Galilee. His parents are locals. He is uneducated. He hangs out with common people, with rough people, with sinful people. From the standpoint of the sophisticated and cultured Romans, Jesus is simply one of the “little people” to be ignored, or when creating problems, to be gotten rid of.

To see God in small things runs counter-culture and meets with resistance. In the 1980s Peter Gabriel put words to what has been a large part of the American dream: to use big words to get to a big, big city, to be a big noise among the big boys, to pray to a big god and to kneel in a big church. (Big Time, 1986)

While some might argue that evolution favors the big—the strong over the weak, the large over the small, evolution also shows that those that are too large do not survive. Whether they be dinosaurs, empires, multinational corporations, or people--- growth beyond means eventually turns to weakness and decay. Better to be small. Where vulnerability can lead to collaboration and weakness can promote reliance upon others.

Here and there, in the history of faith, small voices emerge. Once place was near the end of the 14^th century. The church in England was busy being “big” in most ways intertwined with the power of royals and nobles. But in a small room attached to a small church in Norwich, a woman named Julian reflected on her bit of experience with God. God came in a series of visions to Julian, and then she prayed about those visions and wrote about them. This was quiet work, out-of-the-way work, largely ignored work, until almost 500 years later. But in one vision Julian imagines that God places something in her hand.

“The Lord showed me something small, no bigger than a hazelnut, lying in the palm of my hand . . . and it was as round as a ball. . . I was amazed that it could last, for I thought that because of its littleness it would suddenly have fallen into nothing. And I was answered in my understanding: It lasts and always will, because God loves it; and thus everything has being through the love of God. In this little thing I saw . . that God made it, . . . that God loves it, . . . [and] that God preserves it . . . God is the Creator and the Protector and the Lover.” (Showings, p.183)

Julian saw God in small things, and so can we. God comes into the world at Christmas in a tiny way. God becomes incarnate in a little baby. God takes on flesh in all of its weakness and smallness. The Incarnation continues to be felt and seen and heard in small things – a word here, a look there, a hand held, a wrong forgiven, an honest word said out loud, a just word shared.

Especially on Christmas, may the light of a single star illumine us. May the smile of a child reach us. And may we know the touch of God, as small as a baby’s finger, held out for us to enclose our hand around, for us to receive, for us to cradle, and for us to embrace. Thanks be to God for being small. Amen.

Seeing Jesus from a New Point of View

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 15:45:00 +0000

From the All Souls Weekly, December 25, 2011

Last weekend I was at a holiday gathering where there was a young woman who is expecting a baby next month. A friend saw us talking and said, “Show them the sonogram.” And then to us, “You’ve got to see this.” At that, the expectant mother took out her iphone and brought up a picture of her baby in utero. There on the little screen appeared a sonogram image in 3-D.

Though it was a little startling to be shown a three dimensional picture of a developing baby in the midst of cookies, cakes and seasonal silliness, I’ve been thinking that our friend gave me a great gift in sharing the image of her child. She reminded me that as familiar as I may be with the scripture, the theology, the carols, and all the other aspects of celebrating Christmas, God might be inviting me to see some new aspect of Jesus this season. God always adds a new dimension.

Whenever I decorate for Christmas there are certain things I want to go in just the right place. The wooden nativity set my father made goes on the coffee table in my office and has to be placed on a particular piece of fabric. A candle is placed in front, not behind. At home, the Christmas tree goes in one particular corner of the room—nowhere else. Bows on wreaths go on the bottom, not on the top. On and on goes my “Customary for Christmas,” and while there is tremendous comfort in tradition and repetition, I hope I’ll be alert to whatever new insight God might bring this season. Perhaps the tree in a different place might help me see something new. Perhaps a change in my routine can add a new experience of God’s grace and presence.

God brings all kinds of new things into our lives this season—many good, others more challenging. Some of the people we loved and held close last year are no longer with us and their absence will be felt strongly. Sometimes economic changes cause us to adjust our celebrations or change our old patterns. The Good News is that just as God was with Mary and Joseph—in their confusion, their fear, their worries, and their poverty—God is with us, eager to be known in new ways.

St. Thomas: From Suspicion to Sainthood

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 05:30:00 +0000

The Reredos at St. Thomas Fifth Avenue

Thoughts for the Low Mass on December 21, 2011, the feast day for St. Thomas the Apostle. The lectionary readings are Habakkuk 2:1-4 , Hebrews 10:35-11-1 , John 20:24-29 , and Psalm 126.

One of my favorite churches in New York City is the famous Episcopal church on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 53rd Street named for St. Thomas the Apostle. When you go inside, the first thing you see is an enormous reredos over the High Altar. It’s made up of a multitude of saints, and just over the altar is a carving of St. Thomas with Jesus. One architectural description of the carving explains it as St. Thomas “kneeling before Christ, his doubt gone.

I’m not so sure about that.

I wonder if St. Thomas’s doubt ever truly left him. For me, anyway, the great power of St. Thomas’s witness is that he doubts, and the story of his doubt has been handed down through the ages. Thomas sometimes seems more theologically alert than the other disciples, asking the penetrating question, urging Jesus to explain himself.

The early church understood Thomas as the author of another Gospel. There is a collection of sayings called the Acts of Thomas, and there is an apocalypse of Thomas. Tradition has it that Thomas sailed to India and spread the Gospel there. After a long life of preaching and working with the poor, he was martyred in India, but Thomas’s body was taken to Edessa, where his relics were an important source of inspiration to the Syrian Church in the 4th Century. A father of Indian and Syrian Christianity, Thomas continues to inspire. It was not enough for Thomas to hear of the resurrection from Mary Magdalene.

It was not enough for him to hear of it from the two who were on the road to Emmaus. Thomas’s faith came more stubbornly, and had to take into consideration more information. His faith was different from theirs. What appears to others like doubt, indecision, even a lack of faith—for Thomas— simply was his faith. It was his way of faith: A way that was willing to struggle, to look for truth deeply, to weigh the evidence, and only then, to move forward.

St. Thomas not only stands as the father of Indian and Syrian Christianity, he also stands as a patron for those of us whose faith does not always come easily. Thomas stands with those of us whose faith includes a measure of doubt, a bit of suspicion, and maybe even a little cynicism. It’s ok to doubt. It’s ok to wonder. It’s ok even to be a little suspicious—especially since for Thomas (and countless others) suspicion leads to sainthood.

Especially at this time of year, may we be honest with out doubts and honest with our belief, knowing that wherever we may be, God loves us and wants to come to us.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

With Mary in Mind

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 03:21:00 +0000

The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1898.

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, December 18, 2011. The lectionary readings are 2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16, Psalm 89:1-4, 19-26, Romans 16: 25-27, and Luke 1: 26-38.

For many Christians, the Virgin Mary moves in for her close-up this season. She is invoked in music, personified in Christmas pageants, and even used as a tastefully generic holiday image on a postal stamp. And yet, for some more Protestant Christmas, once the decorations are put away, so is any thought of Mary. Roman Catholics tend to make more room for Mary, but too often religious practice falls into superstition, and theology doesn’t exactly find its way into everyday faith.

And as Anglicans, as the Episcopal Church that seeks a “middle way” in most things, when it comes to the Virgin Mary, we are often [surprise!] ambivalent. We mention her from time to time. We might even have a statue or image of her here or there. At All Souls, we even have named our little chapel for her, but what does she matter for our own faith? What does she matter for our relationship with Jesus Christ? And does God mind if we forget about Mary?

I think she matters quite a lot. She matters for our relationship with Jesus Christ, and God “minds” Mary literally, since Mary has been in the mind of God from the beginning. Today’s scriptures provide pointers as to how this all happens.

In our first lesson (2 Samuel 7:1-1,16) there’s a lot of restlessness. King David is in his new house and he wants the same for his God. David wants to build a temple for God. “Here I am living in a great house of cedar, but the Lord God, Creator of the Universe, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, has to camp out in a tent.” And indeed, this is the way God has been moving around. Symbolized by the Ark of the Covenant (the chest containing the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments) has moved around with the people of God with great care

God doesn’t want a house—not yet, anyway. God’s not ready. God says, “No David, I’ve got something else in mind.” “I’ve not lived in a house since the day I brought up the people of Israel from Egypt to this day, but I have been moving about in a tent and a tabernacle.” I will appoint a place, a place where they’ll never be disturbed or hurt. I will give you rest. I will make YOU a house, a dwelling to last forever.”

The word translated as tabernacle can mean several different things. It means “dwelling” and “residence.” Later, when Solomon does build a house for God, a temple, the tabernacle is a special part of that temple, in the sanctuary. The aumbry, the little cabinet in the wall of our Mary Chapel is our tabernacle—it’s the place where the Holy Sacrament is reserved when we are not celebrating Holy Communion. It’s one dwelling place for God, but it’s not the only one. Even when a physical temple is built, the sense that God pitches a tent with his people is never lost.

We can see from God’s conversation with King David that God has a special place in mind. People thought then and (sometimes) now that God meant a physical place—a building, or a city, or country. But God means a person. God has Mary in mind as a tabernacle, a dwelling place, a home from which other homes will also be born.

Patristic scholars and theologians who think a lot about the Virgin Mary would suggest that God has Mary in mind even in the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve represent us at our very best and most pure. They are us when we are at our very best selves, but they are us especially when we’re at our best, and before we know it, we’ve been tricked and we stumble. Whether by pride, or lust, or greed, or anything else—we have a tendency to stumble and fall. We fall with Adam and Eve right out of the garden.

But Jesus (in the theology of St. Paul and others) is a new Adam, a chance to re-do things. Jesus is the new Adam and Mary is the new Eve. As the old Eve says “No” to God. “I’ll go my own way, thank you very much.” The New Eve, Mary, says “Yes.” “Here I am. Let it be according to your word.”

Karl Barth was a Reformed Theologian of the first order. He had no place for superstition or much place for mysticism, either. There was not a “woo-woo” spirit that ever entered his soul. But Barth, of all people, puts it this way:

God conceived humanity as his covenant partner. He purposed to do this by assuming humanity [in Jesus Christ] and tabernacling [dwelling with, camping out with, getting alongside] with his people. [God] must then also have purposed to bring the human race to that moment in its history when it had been so cleared of sin and sanctified by grace that it would be ready to receive the gift of the incarnate divine life. That moment in the history of mankind is Mary. [Church Dogmatics, II/2]

That moment is Mary. That moment is extended and reflected upon in today’s Gospel. God chooses Mary as the new temple, the place to be born, to live and grow. This happens not so that Jesus can be good guy, touch people for a few years, and then die a criminal’s death on the cross. God moves through the cross and brings Jesus to new life, continuing the story of salvation through the power of the cross. The cross redeems Adam and Eve. The cross raises Jesus, and redeems Mary the New Eve, and in so doing the cross creates a way for us.

Though we may cringe at the old phrase of “accepting Jesus in our heart”—too often it smacks of evangelical coercion and religious bigotry—“accepting Jesus in our heart” is really what Christianity is all about. It’s about allowing God to be born in each one of us. Becoming a Christian involves allowing God to make a home in our heart, to dwell with us, to camp with us.

Not only is there a way is made for us to live eternally, but also here, in this life, we are made more. By allowing God to live in us, our hearts grow larger and more generous. As fear falls away, we grow in faith. We grow in forgiveness and acceptance and mercy. We grow in God.

The Good News of this day and this season is that God had Mary in mind. (From the beginning, through the Wisdom literature, with the prophets, in exile and in deliverance, in the Gospel, even on Calvary, and also on Easter Day.)

But the Good News is that God had and has us in mind, too. We are not accidents. We did not “just happen.” Since the beginning of time, God has imagined you, and desired you, and loved you. God wants to be born anew in you and me and all the world, that the angels may have even more to sing about.

St. Ambrose, the 8th century bishop of Milan, in a commentary on the Gospel of Luke, urges us to

Let Mary’s soul be in each of you to proclaim the greatness of the Lord. Let her spirit be in each to rejoice in the Lord. Christ has only one mother in the flesh, but we all bring forth Christ in faith. Every soul receives the Word of God . . . [Our soul] proclaims the greatness of the Lord, just as Mary’s soul magnified the Lord and her spirit rejoiced in God her Savior.

One of my favorite images of Mary is known as the Virgin Hodegetria, the Greek word for “she who shows the way.” In this classic image of Mary, she’s shown holding the baby Jesus and very subtle pointing to him. He is the Way. He is the Truth. He is the life. In that image, Mary models what is means for us to have Christ born in our hearts—simply to point to him with our lives. We might do this boldly and loudly. Or we might do it more quietly and reserved.

The Blessed Virgin Mary is full of grace so that we might be too. The Virgin Mary is blessed so that we might be too. Our Mother Mary is made holy so that we might be holy too. On this Fourth Sunday of Advent, God has Mary in mind. And God has us in mind too.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Advent Expectations

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 15:34:00 +0000

A friend of mine sometimes counsels “expectations lead to resentment.” It’s his way of warning me not to get my hopes up about something or to expect too much. While I recognize the wisdom in that warning, I also think expectations can lead to spiritual growth. I can learn from my expectations and grow through them.

In the Gospel reading for Thursday in the Third Week of Advent we hear Jesus ask the followers of John the Baptist, “What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? What did you go out to see?” (Luke 7:24) Jesus asks them to reflect on their expectations. He asks this because their expectations of John and of the Messiah-to-come are blinding some of them to the fact that the Messiah, the long-awaited and hoped for savior, is standing right in front of them in the form of Jesus. Expectations have caused them to miss what God is doing in their midst.

When our expectations aren’t met we can get angry, hurt, or resentful. But if we pause for a moment and live in the space between the expectations we had, and the reality in front of us, we can learn. If I notice the difference between what I am actually seeing in a given moment and still remember what I was expecting to see, perhaps God can be in that moment of recognition. I may laugh or I may cry, but I notice. Those moments of recognition are what we are given in the season of Advent.

In these final days leading to Christmas, we surely have expectations for parties, dinners, presents, family reunions, phone calls, musical events, worship services, and more. In some cases a sense of foreboding might be mixed with what we expect. In other cases, our hopes might be based on previous experiences or heightened hopes for the future. A question for us to live into is this: Where is God in our expectations? Is God inviting us to pause and look closely at what is around us? Are we noticing the lights, the laughter, and the love already present? Or when there is a lack of such things, do we have the courage and faith to face the emptiness and welcome God even into our disappointments and resentments? Expectations can lead to grace and--this season and always--can lead us into the arms of God.

Even on the darkest night

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 23:15:00 +0000

Thoughts for the feast day of St. John of the Cross (1542-1591), December 14.

December 14 is the feast day for St. John of the Cross. John lived during brutal times. Christian practice in Spain at the time typified much of the superstition, exploitation, and meanness that led to religious reformation in other parts of the world and eventually to reform in Spain. Teresa of Avila was a frontrunner in reform, cleaning up and establishing new Carmelite communities of religious, both men and women. Soon after being ordained a priest, Juan de Yepes joined one of Theresa’s houses of friars. John was a gifted priest, spiritual guide, theologian, and poet. For his mysticism, simplicity of life, and for being friendly to religious reform, he was often mistreated and persecuted by religious officials.

John is famous in popular religious culture for his “dark night of the soul,” which is sometimes trivialized. John’s “dark night” was not just a bad day. Nor was it a tendency to be moody or negative. The dark night is not what we would understand as depression, which can be treated with therapy and medicine.

Instead, John’s “dark night of the soul” is a place of spiritual crisis in which one has no sense that God is listening any more. Prayer, worship, sacraments—all the tools that a person of faith might employ, seem to fail. John described the dark night in a poem and then reflected upon it in a more extended way. He suggests that the dark night can be a place of purgation, a place in which one is stripped of all that usually helps. Though it may feel like abandonment, God is still there. God has not abandoned us. It may be dark out, but the stars are still there.

John’s poem describes the darkness and night as being the bond with the beloved. Through the darkness, longing moves one closer into the love of God.

O guiding dark of night!
O dark of night more darling than the dawn!
O night that can unite
A lover and loved one,
A lover and loved one moved in unison.

(Translation by Loreena McKennitt. Full poem here.

Lightening Up and Lightening Out with St. Lucy

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 02:44:00 +0000

St. Lucy window, All Saints Church, Speke, Liverpool, UK

December 13 is St. Lucy’s Day. Though not much is known about her, from the fourth century onward, stories were circulated among Christians about Lucy, her faith, and her death which came about because of her faith. From early on, especially in Scandinavian countries, Lucy’s feast day took place during the annual celebration of the winter solstice, a time of heightened appreciation for the powers of light over darkness. Candles and light play a large part in celebrations of St. Lucy’s Day.

During the season of Advent, the church has been hearing the words of John the Baptist, who “came as a witness to testify to the light…He himself was not the light, but came to testify to the light.” (John 1:6-8) Christians believe that Jesus is this light, the light that enlightens, strengthens, heals, forgives, and loves all. Jesus is an all-consuming light, who chases away any darkness that threatens to damage us or do us in.

Like St. Lucy, we can help others see, appreciate, and bask in the light of Christ. We can “lighten up” with gratitude when we realize that we are not the light. We don’t have to be the light ourselves. When we act in loving ways, when we show mercy or kindness to others, when we speak up for what is right, or work for justice, we are pointing to the light of Christ.

We lighten up when we acknowledge that Christ is the Light. We “lighten out” as we point to him and try to follow him, and especially when we (like St. Lucy) put God before every other thing in our lives. May the light of Christ and the faith of St. Lucy guide us.

Singing our O's

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 03:34:00 +0000

A brief sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent, preached in the context of a Service of Advent Lessons and Carols, December 11, 2011.

We must have sung the hymn “O come, o come Emmanuel,” at some point when I was growing up. But I remember hearing it for what seemed like the first time. I was in college and had stayed on campus until just before Christmas Eve. It had been a horrible semester academically, and after I turned in my last examination, I stopped into the church just off campus. A handful of people were in the middle of Evening Prayer, so I joined in. The service continued according to the Prayer Book in a familiar way until, just before the end, the priest invited everyone to open a Hymnal. She invited us to sing stanza 2 of Hymn 56. Without accompaniment, we sang somewhat tentatively

O come, thou Wisdom from on high, who orderest all things mightily;
to us the path of knowledge show, and teach us in her ways to go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel!

We stopped there. The small space of wood and stone kept the echo of those last words in a way that made me want to sing more. But I also realized that this “wanting to sing more” helped me to understand the waiting and the longing of Advent. In the singing of “O come” there was a kind of quiet joy. There was what I might call a sad hopefulness, a realization-- all at once-- of sin and despair, but also of redemption and new life. Little did I then know that I had stumbled upon an age-old spiritual practice of “singing my O’s.”

The words we sing in “O come, O come, Emmanuel” come from what are called the “O antiphons,” also known as the Great antiphons or the Greater O’s. That term “antiphon” has come to be associated almost exclusively with music, though really, any sentence said before some other text and then repeated again afterward is an antiphon. We just used an antiphon with the “alleluia” verse before the proclamation of the Gospel. At Matins, or Morning Prayer, we use antiphons before and after the opening psalm that we say almost every day.

In tradition monastic worship, the Greater O’s are antiphons that are said or chanted with Magnificat at the evening office in Advent. At All Souls, we’ll use them in Matins, or Morning Prayer beginning on Friday of this week. Some traditions begin them on December 16, adding an antiphon for the Virgin Mary; while others begin on the 17th, as our hymnal organizes the verses of the hymn we just sang.

In medieval monastic communities, the antiphons were read by the members of the community in reverse order of rank. And so the abbot began, continuing through the various officers such as the gardener and the cellarer, and the final antiphon would be led by the most junior member. Especially in the Middle Ages, people loved form and order, and so it’s no huge surprise that the O Antiphons developed a special order of their own. It occurred to some monk, at some time, that the antiphons could be arranged so that the second word of each formed an acrostic.
If you notice the second word of each antiphon: O Sapientia, O Adonai, O radix Jesse, O clavis David, O Oriens, O Rex gentium, O Emanuel; then when read backwards (from the point of view of December 23) spells ERO CRAS. This simple acrostic gives way in Latin to the phrase, “Tomorrow I shall be present.” To the medieval monk, this just heightened the expectation for the Christmas vigil and the celebration of the Nativity of Jesus Christ our Lord. It was as though Christ himself was singing in answer to the prayers of the faithful.

The sense of longing for God’s presence runs through the verses of the hymn as well as through the original antiphons, where the main verb is the Latin veni, or “come.” “Come, and teach. Come and redeem. Come and deliver. Come and lead. Come and enlighten. Come and save.” Some scholars suggest a close connection between this veni and one of the earliest prayers of the Christian Church: maranatha, “Lord, come.” The same prayer concludes Saint John the Divine’s vision in Revelation: “Come, Lord Jesus!”

When we say, or sing, or pray our O’s, we follow in that line of believers who have longed for the coming of a Messiah. The O antiphons remind us of this history of longing, even as they speak powerfully to those things for which we might personally long and desire.

Whether you join us for Matins, or sing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” use them at home with your family or alone, or perhaps use the O antiphons as guides for prayer or meditation this season, “keeping our O’s” can be a particular joy.

Through music, prayer and mystery, may God continue to work among us and within us.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Medicine made from us

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 23:31:00 +0000

St. John Eye Hospital - Gaza Clinic

A sermon preached at Evensong on December 4, 2011 celebrating the ministry and mission of the St. John Eye Hospital in East Jerusalem. The Evensong was sponsored by the Order of St. John of Jerusalem and held at St. John's Episcopal Church in Georgetown. The scripture lessons were Numbers 21:1-9 and John 9:1-7.

A question rings out of our Gospel lesson: “Who sinned?” The disciples who ask Jesus this question evidently assume that disease is punishment for sin, and that “bad things” only happen to “bad people.” “Who sinned?” they ask. “Who is it? Who’s to blame?”

Jesus answers, “Neither sinned. This man was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work.”

The disciples want an answer for the blindness. They want to blame someone, but notice what Jesus does. Jesus re-frames the situation so that no one is to blame. Instead, Jesus turns the situation outward so that the condition of blindness involves everyone. What was insular and isolating, Jesus opens to others. Like a wound that is given fresh air to heal, Jesus airs this matter: “He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed.” Jesus says, WE must work the works of God who sent us. WE must work the works of God. We. While sickness may feel individual and lonely, healing happens through community.

We can see this in our first reading, as well, in this strange, old story read from the Book of Numbers. The people of Israel are impatient, restless, and whiny. They miss what was familiar back in Egypt—even though they had been enslaved, there had been a certain predictability about it all. And now there isn’t much food or water, and when there is, the quality is awful. And then things get worse.

There come these poisonous snakes. The snakes bite the people, and many of them die. And so the people pray to God, and ask God to forgive their murmuring, their whining and their lack of faith. God hears them, and then God gives them a symbol of healing.
God uses the very thing that has hurt them, and God turns that hurtful thing into a symbol of healing. This new, strange but powerful symbol is of a serpent raised up high on a pole in the midst of the people, when they look upon it, they are healed.

In this story there is at work a kind of symbolic vaccination, like in modern vaccinations, when a little part of a disease is put into us, healing comes from within. But it’s a powerful story of healing that happens right there among the people.

If we look closely, God is uses tremendous economy in working his will out. So often God uses what is at hand, drawing healing and help out of community. When the thousands were hungry, Jesus asked them to look within, find a few loaves and fishes, and from that, all were fed. In another story, a man who is paralyzed is lowered through the roof by his friends. The healing comes as much through the love of his friends as it does from the prayers of Jesus. Over and over again, scriptures show us places where people look to God for healing, and God invites people to look within themselves. It’s as though God says, “I’ve given you everything you need. You just need to be creative and faithful (and generous) in using it. Healing comes through community, and sometimes the medicine itself is of our own making.

In the past year, as people have visited the eye hospital and clinics in East Jerusalem and the other locations, healing has come through equipment and learning and money, but that healing is made possible by community, by the commitment and faithfulness of many in this room. As some have contacted their friends and neighbors who can affect policy, healing has come through community. As we have prayed for one another and with one another, often across several faiths, healing has come from the community God has created with us.

At one point, the religious leaders asked Jesus about the kingdom of God. People were looking for the kingdom all over the place. Then, as now, people look for the kingdom (being the place of ultimate healing and wholeness, the final Beth Shalom) in places – Jerusalem, Washington, a mountain retreat, a place a the beach—or in people—Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Billy Graham—or in technology or chemistry or science--- but Jesus told them, “The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ;There it is!’ For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.” The kingdom of God is within you, and within me.

Healing comes through community. Healing for sight in East Jerusalem can come, in part, from us—from our prayers, from our visits, from our checkbooks, from our donation of time and resources, and from our leverage of relationships. God has, and will continue to heal through community. By the grace of God, and the design and plan of God, the medicine itself, is sometimes made from us.

May God bless the work and mission of the St. John Eye Hospital, its staff and patients, and its many friends around the world.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Letting God

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 13:17:00 +0000

John the Baptist by Matthias Grünewald

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, December 4, 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 40:1-11, Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13, 2 Peter 3:8-15a, and Mark 1:1-8.

The Collect of the Day (the prayer we prayed at the very beginning of our worship ) names two major themes for this Second Sunday of Advent: repentance and preparation. But if we think about it within the context of how things really work in life, one of those themes actually includes the other. Preparation usually includes and involves repentance.

Repentance, we know, is not just about saying “I’m sorry.” It’s not just apologizing or feeling regretful about something. It’s about change. Repentance is about turning from one thing to another. It’s about movement, reversal, and return. Repentance is often about cleaning up and throwing out.

And so, repentance is a part of preparation. When a person prepares to sell a house, the person cleans it up and sometimes makes some changes. It might be painted. Repairs might be made. Furniture may be removed as a part of the preparation.

Someone expecting a child prepares. Space is made ready. A room might be taken over. Some things might be gotten rid of, changes are made—all a part of the preparation.

In our first scripture reading, Isaiah speaks of preparation. God will send a prophet, Isaiah says, who will sing a song of comfort and mercy. Prepare a place for God, he says. The mountains and valleys will be cleared, the rough places smoothed out. Things are going to get cleaned up and thrown out. It may not always be pretty. But in the end, fear itself will be banished, making room for God and the Word of God. Isaiah’s word begins and ends with “Comfort. Comfort, my people.”

That prophet “who is to come” that Isaiah talks about does come in today’s Gospel. He comes in the form of John the Baptist. This strange looking and sounding John comes as a voice (a little bit like Isaiah’s voice) crying in the wilderness: repent, get ready, something good is coming. He is preaching repentance, but notice that he’s asking, pleading, hoping for people to repent not for the sake of holiness, but in order to prepare. “Prepare the way of the Lord,” he says. “Clear way,” “make room,” do what you need to do, but prepare.” Though I love all the great hymns of Advent, I think an appropriate song for the day would come from Tony’s song in West Side Story:

Something's coming, something good, If I can wait!
Something's coming, I don't know what it is, But it is gonna be great! ….
It's only just out of reach, Down the block, on a beach, Maybe tonight . . .

Maybe this morning or this afternoon. So get ready.
John understands his job as making the announcement, getting people ready, warming up the crowd. But notice how clear his is about his job. He prepares, but he’s very clear that another will come, Jesus, who will accomplish the work of God. This is a crucial piece to Christian discipleship, I think—understanding what we’re called to do, and what we’re NOT called to do.

The task for us, as Christian disciples, is to follow in the work of John, to prepare the way for God’s coming, but to also understand the scope of our calling. While we do our part, it’s God’s job to finish things. The work is ours, but the results belong to God. The outcome belongs to God.

As people who try to live and function in what we call the “real world,” this is hard because we like results. We like to achieve, to prove, to finish. We set goals and we like to realize them. But the spiritual world moves in a different way. God is in charge of the way things turn out. We work. We pray. We hope. We do our part, but then we come to a point of having to let go, of waiting in faith and watching as God continues to work, and God’s will unfolds.

We can prepare our children for the world, but we can’t control the way they turn out.
We can prepare our bodies for aging and for stress, but there’s a point where we have to trust in doctors and science, and pray for God’s healing.

Especially in this season, we can look and learn from our own busy lives. For example, I can cook a turkey and all the other food, set a perfect table, have everything just right—but that doesn’t insure that people will get along, that the conversation goes well, or that people will enjoy the time they spend together. I can do my part, but then have to let go.

I can give someone the perfect gift, but that doesn’t insure that they will respond the way I imagine.

On and on the list might go as we enter this season of almost unlimited expectations, with each one—if we’re truthful, we’ll admit that we reach a point where it’s just not up to us. People we know and people in this room are preparing for all kinds of things—visiting relatives, trips away, changes in work, retirement, uncertainty, marriage, the birth of a child, a medical procedure…. And people are doing their part—they’re getting things in order, cleaning up, covering the details, checking off the list. But the good-though-sometimes-difficult-news is that the outcome is up to God.

John the Baptist proclaims, “One who is more powerful (than me) is coming …. And he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.” We have that Holy Spirit. At our baptism we receive the Holy Spirit who protects us from any harm. Who strengthens us for whatever lies ahead. Our baptism, the ongoing presence of the Spirit, and the power of Christ in community, empower us to turn again and again to God.

As we click off the days of December, may God be with us in our preparations, and in our letting go.

In the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.

The Good News of Not Being Finished

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 23:52:00 +0000

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, November 27, 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 64:1-9, Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18, 1 Corinthians 1:3-9, and Mark 13:24-37.

If you’ve been in my office, we might have been in a conversation and you might have looked up to the top of a bookcase. There you would have seen pottery with faces looking out at you, North Carolina face jugs, to be exact.

Face jugs, these pottery jugs with faces on them have an uncertain history. Most of mine come from the Piedmont and Mountain areas of North Carolina. Some say the practice of making jugs with faces on them came from African slaves and had to do with burial rites or memorial practices. Another tradition suggests that the ugliest face jugs were made to keep moonshine, and they were made ugly so they’d scare children away.

I like them because they come from the earth near where my people are from and they make me laugh.

And sometimes, they make me think. I wonder about the faces. Was the potter thinking about a particular person? When the face is especially ugly or contorted, was the potter using the clay as a kind of exercise in aggression-- making a version of someone in particular’s face, and then making it look really ugly? Or was the potter somehow conveying something the potter felt deep inside?

If anyone has ever worked with clay, you know that the object made really does come from the potter. It is shaped by the potter’s hands. Its image comes from the potter’s mind. The potter’s time and talent are expressed in the object. And sometimes, given the ingredients of the glaze or paint that might be used (especially in the old days of using lead glazes); the potter actually risks his or her personal health in crafting the object.

In firing up a kiln, in overseeing the process, sometimes the potter bears marks or wounds that result directly from the process of making pottery. For all of these reasons, it makes sense that Isaiah would use the image of the potter and the clay to express an aspect of our creation and existence from God.

In today’s reading Isaiah begins by lamenting the condition of the world. “O, that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence . . . to make your name known to your adversaries, so that the nations might tremble at your presence!” Isaiah is tired of people ignoring God and God’s ways, and so he’s asking God a question that comes up again and again in the scriptures, and maybe comes up in our own prayers—“Get ‘em, God. Make them pay. Why do you let the wicked prosper? Why don’t you do more for the poor and the oppressed?” Isaiah goes on for a bit, ranting and railing at God. But then, in the midst of his prayer, Isaiah begins to reconsider. Like a little child who throws a tantrum and then finally, exhausted, falls into the arms of her mother, Isaiah falls back into the arms of God. “Yet, O LORD, you are our Father.” And then, the line I like so much, “we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand."

Isaiah begins in a vengeful, angry place and eventually moves to one of compassion. We might expect that in a prophet from the Hebrew Scriptures, but we may be surprised when we encounter language of wrath and vengeance from Jesus. But that’s what it sounds like in today’s Gospel.

Jesus speaks out of a tradition of Jewish apocalyptic literature, an old tradition in which people of faith looked to God to come and save them, especially when things in this world looked bad. Isaiah, Jeremiah, Joel, Ezekiel, and especially Daniel, all contain sections though of as apocalyptic literature—literature that looks for the end of the world as we know it, as God ushers in a new reality for those who have kept the faith. The New Testament also has apocalyptic literature, most famously in the Book of Revelation, sometimes called simply, “The Apocalypse.” But there are also “little apocalypses,” Mark 13, (Matthew 24, and Luke 21). Biblical scholars debate which parts of this chapter might be original to Mark the Evangelist, and even which portions might accurately be attributed to Jesus. But in the general tone of his words, and in the context of our reading and hearing this Gospel on the First Sunday of Advent, I think Jesus is, indeed, speaking.

Christ tells us that everything has a process. Baking a loaf of bread has a preparation time, a time in which changes can be made and the actual bread formed and set, and then a time when the bread is baked and either must be eaten, given away, or will go bad. Everything has a process. People are born, grow mature, and eventually die. The world itself is created, groans and grows through maturity, and will one day come to an end. Jesus is saying simply this: God is not finished with us yet. The end is not quite here. It may be tomorrow. Or it may be hundreds or thousands of years away. We don’t know, and it doesn’t accomplish much to muse on it. It will come when it will come. The point is—we’re in the middle now. There is still time.

It’s as though we’re a jug being fashioned into something by a potter. The clay has been dug, we’re being shaped and formed and molded. Once we’re put into the kiln and glazed, it’s too late. Like those face jugs I have—their faces, whether they sneer, or laugh, or have an evil grin, or gracious smile—once they’re fired and glazed, they’re stuck. We’re like those jugs, except that we’re still on the potter’s wheel. We are still in God’s hands, able to be shaped and changed, and formed for good, formed for love.

Today we begin the season of Advent, a season of waiting and watching, a season of God making and remaking things new. The symbols are all around us. The blue reminds us that part of the early church used this season is special. It is different. The Advent wreath is another symbol of our waiting for increasing light, as each Sunday, another candle is lit. Those who keep Advent Calendars wait actively, as they open one window or door each day-- a reminder that every new day brings a surprise from God.

The lessons we’ve heard today are not meant to scare us into right living or to make us so preoccupied with the Christ’s coming that we miss the holy right before us. Just the opposite. The intention is that we treasure each day, live it as best we can, and rejoice in the fact that we are all in process.

The world may seem beyond repair, but the good news is that God isn’t finished with it yet. Our families may seem broken, but God isn’t finished yet. Our relationships may seem completely out of shape, our own lives might seem like a badly formed clump of clay, but the good news—the really great news, is that God the Potter is not finished with us yet.

May this season bring us increasing light, increasing joy, and increasing love.

In the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Doing Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 14:36:00 +0000

A sermon for Thanksgiving Day. The lectionary readings are Deuteronomy 8:7-18, Psalm 65, 2 Corinthians 9:6-15, and Luke 17:11-19.

For me, today’s Gospel is easy to imagine. It’s vivid. It has strong characters. Jesus is healing. The disciples are not getting in the way. The religious authorities are not trying to control him. And in this short story, some of Mary’s song is being enacted, “great things are being done, mercy is shown, strength is shared, the lowly are being lifted up, those hungry for healing are filled with good things, and God is coming with holy help.” It’s a good day on the way to Jerusalem.

But it’s not a perfect day.

Jesus sees the lepers, but rather than heal them and be done with it, Jesus shares the power of healing. “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” Jesus knows the larger social context well. He knows that without the official sanction of the temple, the community will not fully accept the lepers back in. So the lepers go away. And one returns.

He turns back to Jesus, praises God with a loud voice, falls at Jesus’ feet and thanks him. He is a foreigner, being both a leper and a Samaritan this man is a kind of “double winner,” really. Twice outcast. So perhaps from his vantage point, the healing seemed even more of a miracle. But for whatever reason, the one healed leper returns to give thanks.

As much as I like this story, when I begin to think about where I might have been in the story, or where I might be, I don’t like it as much. Maybe you would have been that one leper to return, but I doubt that I would have been. I might have gone by the temple to check in with the priests, but I think I would have been so excited, so renewed, so strengthened by the change, that I would have simply gotten back with life as I remembered it, or as I hoped it might be. I would have plans. I would have hopes. I would have an agenda—all of which would have been put on hold by the leprosy. So the minute it’s lifted, it would have “show time” for me. It would be back-to-action. It would be back-to-life, in many ways. My feelings of joy and health, and gratitude, would probably not have taken me to the feet of Jesus, but would have taken me somewhere else.

Part of the problem, for me, anyway, is that I’ve often thought of gratitude as a feeling, or an emotion. Our society has encouraged us to express our feelings and show emotion. But where does that leave us when our feelings may point us in the wrong direction? Feelings are flakey. My feelings cannot always be trusted—sometimes they are completely off base. Sometimes they are not rooted in reality.

A friend of mine recently put the theme of this day very bluntly. “Gratitude is about doing something.” Gratitude may sometimes come, and sometimes go, with a feeling. But real gratitude has to do with action, with doing something, with moving outside myself toward another.

Monday’s New York Times had a good little article about the effects of living with gratitude. Not so much feeling grateful, but living with gratitude—sometimes different things. The author, John Tierney, suggests that practicing gratitude is “linked to better health, sounder sleep, less anxiety and depression, higher long-term satisfaction with life and kinder behavior toward others, including romantic partners.” Give thanks to God. Live longer and love better. Happy Thanksgiving!

The article suggests a few things that some of you probably already do. It suggests that if you’re down in the dumps or are facing some kind of problem, try jotting down five things for which you’re grateful. Just put one sentence for each thing. If you just do this once a week, over, a few months, you’ll see a change.

Other practices can be helpful.

Don’t confuse gratitude with indebtedness. Even though I may be grateful to one person, simply letting gratitude soak into my left and turning it outward will affect others, and me.

Make a gratitude visit. Think of a person to whom you’re grateful. Think about what you might say to the person. And then visit him or her in person, and tell them what you’ve been thinking.

As kind of emergency gratitude approach, a gratitude triage or sorts, Tierney suggests thinking of how things could be worse.

When your relatives force you to look at photos on their phones, be thankful they no longer have access to a slide projector. When your aunt expounds on politics, rejoice inwardly that she does not hold elected office. Instead of focusing on the dry, tasteless turkey on your plate, be grateful the six-hour roasting process killed any toxic bacteria.

But gratitude is “doing something.” It may be not speaking. It may be helping someone else. It may be sending a note or making a call. It may be giving away something—something big like money or clothing or a car, or it may mean something smaller, like giving away one’s need to be right, giving away one’s temporary comfort, giving away one’s pride.

Ten lepers are healed. Nine go their own way. But one returns to Jesus, says thank you to the source of his healing, to the source of all creation and life. And Jesus then sends him out, to live out his gratitude.

May God accept our thanksgiving, and show us how to be grateful and do something.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

A King like no other

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 12:19:00 +0000

King Sam (wearing a crown) and JB (wearing a spider), Halloween 2011

A sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King Sunday, November 20, 2011. The lectionary readings are Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24, Psalm 95:1-7a, Ephesians 1:15-23, and Matthew 25:31-46.

A while back there was an article in the Washington Post about Nana Amuah Afenyi VI, king of Otuam, in Ghana. The article describes the king and a relative traveling by taxi in Ghana. The taxi reaches a police checkpoint. The officer stops the car and looks at the driver’s license. “This has expired!” the officer says. But the driver argues, “No, it hasn’t expired.” The policeman gets angry and shouts back, “Don’t contradict me. It has expired.” After seeing that he’s getting nowhere, the driver reluctantly begins to open up his wallet to get money out and pay the “fine.”

At this, the king, sitting in the back seat of the taxi, becomes enraged. The king is a large, dark woman named Peggielene Bartels: she works as a secretary in the Embassy of Ghana here in Washington by day; but by heredity and custom, she has become chief of Otuam. She glares at the officer. “Expiration date 2013. What is this nonsense? His license has not expired. You are trying to extort a bribe from him. I am the lady king of Otuam and I will not put up with this!” ["All the King’s Men," Washington Post, March 14, 2010]. The officer manages to squeak out an apology in the face of what must have been a combination of shock, of surprise, and of fear. This is a king unlike any he has ever seen before. King Peggy, as she is known to some, may not look like a conventional king. But through relationship, people experience her power. Through conversation with her, people hear her wisdom. In bringing problems to her, people get another point of view, one that lifts their own situation.

Today is called Christ the King Sunday. And while we might have images of what a king looks like, or how a king behaves (images from scriptures, or history books, or our own imagination) we should notice than Christ is not a king who wants to be worshipped. He is not a king who wants to sit back in a grand castle and admire his finery. Instead, he is a king in action. Christ compels us closer into relationship with him. By knowing him, by talking to him, by listening to him, our lives are lifted up. Our lives are expanded and made into more.
In the first scripture reading, Ezekiel points to a God who is unwilling to rule from afar. This is not a God on the sidelines, who might regard creation without passion or without interest. Instead, God gets in the middle of thngs. God likes to get dirty—after all isn’t that the very picture of God creating humankind: God stoops down into the mud and fashions friends. In Ezekiel, God is like a shepherd who searches out the lost sheep and rescues them to “bring them out, and to gather them, to feed them and to nurture them.” These were encouraging words from Ezekiel to the people of Israel who were exiled in Babylon. They were longing for their homeland, longing for the familiar, and longing for a renewed sense of purpose and direction.

The second part of Ezekiel’s words point to an even stronger shepherd who prefigures the coming of a Messiah. Here is a shepherd who judges between what Ezekiel calls the fat sheep and the lean sheep. Those who are puffed up, who are full of themselves, who think they have no need of God, will be left behind. Those who are lean and who lean on God, will be saved.

The Gospel today continues with the idea of King on the move. Salvation comes through this king, judgment is a part of it. It’s no great mystery though-- people who have always assumed their safety and salvation may find, in the end, that their names are not on the guest list. While those who have felt themselves unworthy or unfit for the kingdom, who’ve been left out or squeezed out, may just be at the top of the list.

Through it all, Christ calls into relationship. And we will find him when we look and listen more closely to those he loves. Care for those who hunger and thirst, he says, and you will see me. Help those who don’t have enough, and you will see me. Welcome in the one who is left out and you will see me. Visit the one in prison, or engage the one who has just come out of prison, and you will see me. By serving others, one becomes blessed.

And that’s what real royalty looks like, Jesus says. Look for the King of Love in the stranger who is welcomed, in the naked who is clothed, in the hungry who is fed, in the imprisoned who are met, in the lonely who are visited, in the sick who are offered the healing of friendship and prayer.

A few weeks ago, I met a king. It was at the church Halloween party, and the king came in the form of seven-year-old little girl. Samantha refused to be seen as a queen. She was a king, she explained. She was a king complete with crown, cape, and wooden horse to convey her royalty wherever she wanted to go. In some ways, Sam’s idea of a king comes much closer to God’s revelation as king than the most exquisite artistic rendering or the most developed theological concept. King Samantha wanted to play. She brought laughter, and joy, and energy, and spirit. In so doing, she paved the way for this day, when we open ourselves to Christ the King—in his exalted lowliness, in his shabby regality, with his wealth and wisdom poured out freely for all.

St. Paul prays that a spirit of wisdom and revelation might help us to know God, that, “with the eyes of our heart enlightened, we might know what is the hope to which we are called, the immeasurable greatness of God’s power for those who believe.” May Christ the King lead us through the messiness of ministry, even the rockiness of relationship, so that in one another (and in ourselves), the risen Christ would be revealed, known, and loved.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

All Souls' Day 2011

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 21:54:00 +0000

The Columbarium on All Souls Day, November 2, 2011

A sermon for the Feast of All Souls.

“What happens when we die,” is a question asked in every age, by every culture. And yet, people answer it differently. Even people of faith. In the scriptures we’ve heard tonight there are various images.

The Wisdom of Solomon is a collection of sayings and teachings. Included in that first lesson is the idea that life on earth is a kind of testing. But those with faith endure and they grow in the love of God to shine like stars.

Psalm 130 invokes a separation one feels even in this life—in depression or disease or sickness—in which one feels like one is at the bottom of a deep pit or cavern, calling, crying for God to hear. And so we wait. We wait all through the night, but eventually comes mercy. Eventually comes redemption, plenteous redemption.

Paul’s letter to the Thessalonians offers encouragement that those who have died will rise again and the Gospel reminds us that just like when we are born into this world, God whispers “hello, beloved,” when we die, God is there, too, whispering our name in welcome, in love, and in joy.

In all our readings, God offers different images for “what happens when we die.” Through them all, God speaks to us the way we need to hear. God shows up in forms we can recognize. God blesses in ways that feel like blessings, and God heals us through love.

All Souls’ Day invites us to remember especially those saints we have known. We recall the strange ones, perhaps in our own families or among our friends. We recall the delightful ones, whose smile continues to warm us. We recall the fierce ones, who made us slightly afraid, but also made us better people. We remember the ones who perhaps gave us much of the meaning, the reason, the love of life. When they die, a part of us dies. But the Church reminds us that they are alive somewhere, and the Church reminds us that we, too, should feel ourselves resurrected, lifted up, and blessed.

Tonight’s Gospel comes just after Jesus has healed a man in the place called Bethsaida, or Bethesda. The religious leaders are trying to figure out how Jesus has been able to heal, and Jesus connects the power to heal with the power of God to heal. God heals us of every disease and even heals us from death. Jesus says, the time is coming, when “the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, and those who hear will live.” Those who hear, will live.

Those who hear the good News of God in Jesus Christ, live and live again.
Those who hear his message of peace and forgiveness, live and live again.
Those of us who believe that the saints are with God and smile upon us still, live and will shall live again.

This Mass gives thanks for all the saints and all the souls who have inspired us, touched us, loved us, and who are carried still within our hearts. This Mass also gives us power to love, strength to rise, and confidence that the resurrected Jesus Christ walks by our side and leads us into the love of eternal life.

Saint Paul reminds us that

We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. . . . Then shall come to pass the saying that is written: "Death is swallowed up in victory." "O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?" The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. (1 Cor. 15:51-57, passim).

Thanks be to God for the saints and the souls who surround us this night and forevermore.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

People

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 03:44:00 +0000

Communion of Saints by Elise Ritter

A sermon for All Saints' Sunday. The lectionary readings are Revelation 7:9-17, Psalm 34:1-10, 22, 1 John 3:1-3, and Matthew 5:1-12.

Last Sunday our bishop-elect met with some of the clergy and spouses. It was meant to be a casual gathering, one in which we could ask questions of one another and begin to prepare for the future. At one point someone asked Rev. Budde what plans she had for the current staff at Church House, the building that contains our diocesan offices. She answered by saying that it would take her some time to understand exactly what the future needs of the diocese might be, that she would make no rash decisions, and that if, over time, any positions were phased out or changed, she would work with people to be fair and forthright. The person asking the question must have looked unconvinced, because Mariann then said, “I guess what I can say is that I’m not bringing people with me who I want to put to work in Church House. In other words, I don’t have ‘people.’”

We all laughed. But while I would not want to correct my future bishop, and while I know what she meant, I would also suggest (in the context of All Saints’ Day) that she DID have people, she DOES have people, and she WILL CONTINUE to have people. As she moves to Washington, she brings with her all of the people who have ever inspired her in her faith, all of the people who have encouraged her, or challenged her, or pushed her to deeper faithfulness. Our new bishop also moves into a faith community that is ready to offer help, offer support, and to pray with her and for her. That’s what All Saints’ Day is really about—it’s about the fact that, as people of faith, we are never, ever alone.

All Saints Day reminds us that “we’ve got people.” We’ve (all of us) got people.

Having people, having support, having help makes the words of today’s Gospel possible. Otherwise, the Beatitudes would be hopelessly out of reach. They are lofty ideals, they are high, and for many of us, the blessings they contain are far, far away from our every day experience. How many of us are very often among the poor in spirit, the meek, or those who hunger and thirst after righteousness? When have we been pure in heart, shown mercy, or practiced the art of peacemaking?

To approach the Beatitudes is a little like beginning to climb a mountain. Some in the Orthodox tradition have pictured the Beatitudes as a ladder. In a Ladder of Beatitudes, “Each one leads to the next, and is placed in a particular order. To reach the second step, we need to make the first step.”

Whether we imagine the Beatitudes as a ladder, or a mountain, or simply a series of signs that points us in the way of holiness, the good news is that we are not alone in our journey. There are others who have climbed this ladder, who have ascended this mountain, who have received the blessing upon blessing that Jesus offers. These are the saints. And they offer us holy help.

From time to time I call on holy help. For example, when I am running low on faith and when doubt is about to do a number on me it helps me to know that St. Teresa of Avila once went years wondering whether God was really listening. When the political nature of life begins to get me down and discourage me it helps me to know that Hugh of Lincoln, bishop-saint of the Middle Ages, was able to be prophetic with kings as well as commoners. Our local saints inspire and help me, as well. When I’m discouraged about some problem facing our church, I hear the words of our former senior warden, Nancye. And I’m encouraged. At various times, and in different predicaments, I imagine Jeff, and Mary, and Erling, and Frank, and many more.

In the New Testament the word “saint” normally just refers to someone who puts her faith in Jesus Christ. In the New Testament sense one does not have to be a martyr or even a particularly holy person to be called a saint. The Apostle Paul addresses his Letter to the Romans, “To all God’s beloved in Rome, who are called to be saints.” In helping the Corinthian church sort out its squabbles, Paul suggests that the aggrieved parties not go to secular courts, but go “before the saints,” the local gathering of Christians. In Revelation, John shows us various pictures of the saints—some who have died for their faith, others who have died natural deaths—but ordinary believers made extraordinary by the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. And it is a grand and glorious company.

. . . [A] great multitude which no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb!”

We have help in heaven and on earth. We’ve got people. We’ve got saints surrounding us. And by the grace of God, with the power of the Holy Spirit, we can be saints for one another—helping, supporting, encouraging, challenging, growing together into the likeness of God. Thanks be to God that we’ve got people.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Stumbling and Being Lifted Up

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 13:43:00 +0000

A sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost, October 2, 2011. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 5:1-7, Psalm 80: 7-14, Philippians 3:4b-14, and Matthew 21:33-46.

At the age of 47, I find myself sometimes wondering, “At what age can I begin using a walking cane, without looking silly?” It’s not because I want the “look”, perhaps of an English gentleman or country vicar. It’s because I tend to stumble. I stumble on curbs, and sidewalks. I stumble in hallways. I fall up steps, and thankfully not down them. But it seems (to me, anyway) like I stumble easily.

Jesus talks about people stumbling in today’s Gospel. But it’s worse than just stumbling. They fall and become broken, or crushed.

The context for this Gospel, this allegory Jesus tells, is crucial. It takes place in the midst of high drama. Jesus has just entered Jerusalem, sitting on a donkey—the events we commemorate on Palm Sunday. The people on the streets have greeted him with shouts of Hosanna, signaling their perception that Jesus might be more than an itinerant preacher, more than some fringe radical, but actually might be the messiah who will save and usher in a whole new realm. Jesus goes to the temple and he overturns the tables of the moneychangers. He’s making a name for himself.

And so, when Jesus returns to the temple the next day, the temple priests, the religious leaders, see him coming and they stand their ground. And so, here in the temple, in front of the religious authorities, and probably with other people looking and listening in as best they can, Jesus tells the allegory we hear in today’s Gospel.
Jesus knows the passage from Isaiah that was our first lesson this morning. Jesus knows Isaiah as well as the temple leaders. They all known the imagery of a vineyard representing Israel, God’s chosen people. A “beloved vineyard,” which is tended with care and dedication. God has poured himself into the vineyard, and yet the vineyard is not producing. It just lies there.

Jesus builds on this image when he tells his story to the religious leaders. Jesus is reminding them that the temple is a vineyard, the people of Israel are a vineyard, and God has continually sent prophets and messengers to offer help, to point out the broken places and suggest remedies and correction, but over and over again, the prophets have been rejected. And now, God sends Jesus, God’s own son, the prophet of prophets, the gardener of gardeners, the best vinedresser around—and again, the religious authorities are rejecting the teaching of Jesus, and this rejection will build until they put him to death on a cross.

There are several important points to make about this allegory. The first is to be clear that this story is not about the followers of Jesus, who would later be called Christians, replacing the Jews as God’s people. It’s not a “Jewish-Christian” thing. It’s a “leader-people” thing. It’s the Jewish leaders who are full of themselves, corrupt, defensive, and fearful of having to adjust their power and privilege, who reject Jesus. The Jewish people themselves—which include the outsiders, the misfits, the so-called “sinful”—it’s these who embrace Jesus as a good man. They like Jesus, who eats with them, and laughs with them, and enjoys life like they do. They see Jesus as a holy prophet, perhaps the messiah. Many come to see him as the Son of God.

At some level, we might say, “Oh, then this story is about religious leaders who were corrupt and still are, so it’s not about me.” But I think the words of Jesus invite us to ask questions about authority—where do we look for authority? To whom do we give our allegiance? Who do we picture in our head approving or disapproving, when we make decisions, as we live our lives?

I’ve been thinking a lot about this question of “who we look to for authority” since last Sunday, when Bishop Christopher Senyonjo was with us. We had a number of visitors and I was grateful for that. But one visitor, in particular, turned out to be a young man from a very traditional and conservative part of the Anglican Communion. He came and listened. (And I noticed he had no problem with our fellowship or our food at the reception!) But then he wrote an article for his organization. The article has this false tone of objectivity, but in a very subtle way, suggests that Bishop Senyonjo is not what he appears to be. [The article for the Institute on Religion & Democracy can be found here. ] The subtext to the article is that Seyonjo is a revisionist Christian who is leading fringe followers away from traditional teachings of Christianity.

The temple priests and religious leaders of Jesus’ day would be very pleased with the article.

Do we follow structures and leaders who make us feel safe, support our prejudices, and make us comfortable with the power and privilege we wield? Or do we follow Jesus Christ who seems again and again to challenge our perspective, to open doors we didn’t even realize were closed, and to welcome every person? Some traditionally religious people suggest than one should have one’s entire life cleaned up, morally pure, doctrinally righteous and blameless—and THEN, (and only then)—the one is allowed to approach God. My understanding of Jesus is that HE is the only one who is blameless, and the rest of us have a lot of work to do, every day of our life, as long as we are this side of heaven. Life is stumbling and getting back up again.

Jesus suggests that the religious leaders of his day may very well stumble and fall on God’s truth, God’s revelation in Jesus. And their fall may well be fatal.

But for the one who puts trust in Jesus, who attempts to follow God in community, we do stumble from time to time. And we might even fall. But Christ is there to help us up. He sometimes comes in the form of extra strength we didn’t know we had. Christ sometimes comes in a new way of thinking that lifts us up off the ground. And Christ sometimes comes through other people who give us a hand, who give us an arm to hold on to or a shoulder to lean on, and who sometimes literally pick us up and carry us where we need to go.

In today’s Epistle reading, St. Paul puts it beautifully as he says, “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead.

Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.” Paul goes on, “Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 10b-14)

Friends, let us press on in following the Christ who invites, who heals, who raises up when we stumble, and who raises us up even to eternal life. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Lives that follow lips

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 12:08:00 +0000

A sermon for the Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost, September 25, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 17:1-7, Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16, Philippians 2:1-13, and Matthew 21:23-32.

From time to time in the Gospels we hear about the Pharisees. The Pharisees were a particular group of religious people who were extremely concerned with following the laws of God as closely as possible. Many were good and faithful Jews. But some were all caught up in appearances. They worried about how they looked (what people thought when they saw them). They worried about how they sounded, as they spoke to one another and said their prayers. And they worried about how people regarded them, whether they were seen to be people of authority or not. And so, when Jesus comes on the scene—preaching, teaching and healing—the Pharisees are curious and they feel threatened.

They try to get Jesus into a conversation about authority—by what authority does he teach? Where did he go to school? Who did he study with? What are his credentials? But Jesus refuses to get bogged down by these people. Instead, he looks at them, and he looks at the people who are gathered, and Jesus sees a more important point to be made. Almost to prove to the Pharisees how out of place their question is, Jesus asks them the strange question about John the Baptist. Sure enough, it stumps the Pharisees, and when they can’t answer it, Jesus moves on to his larger point.

Jesus tells this story about two children. The first is asked to go into the vineyard and do some work. Evidently, this child has other things on his mind, so he tells his father, no. But after a little while, this first child feels bad about what he has said, and so, he goes to the father and apologizes.
He repents not only of his rudeness, but also, of his unwillingness to work. Presumably, the father accepts his repentance and then the child goes into the vineyard and does a fine job. There is also another child, a second son. And this one is very polite and initially tells the father, “Sure, of course I’ll go and work in the vineyard. But the second child doesn’t follow through.

The Pharisees are listening to this story, but they’re listening with a particular context and tradition. The Pharisees had a teaching that almost seemed to place intention above practice. They may have explained this by arguing that one needs first to have the “right intention” to act; and then, maybe with God’s grace, the right action might just follow the right intention. There is truth to that, but Jesus also sees the problem if one only stays at the level of intentions.

But when Jesus puts the question of faithfulness to them, the Pharisees answer correctly. They agree that the first son did the will of the father, since he repented, whereas the second child was all talk and no action.

And then Jesus sharpens his point. He tells the Pharisees that of all the people who will enter heaven, of all the people who will be received into God’s closest presence, the first will be those who have been honest with themselves and with God, who have shown true repentance, and who have then followed through with the living out of their faith. The last ones to enter will be those who say one thing with their lips and another with their lives.

In the parable that Jesus tells, the first child may sound brash or rude, but the second sounds so polite, doesn’t he? The second son sounds like the sort of person that could be called “a good egg.” But as CS Lewis points out, a person can’t just always be a good egg. An egg has to hatch at some point, or it rots. The polite son is like a good egg that never hatches. It doesn’t produce. It lives only for itself. It sits there and eventually begins to rot. (Darkness at Noon by CS Lewis)

If we were to use this story to think about our world, we could probably say that we all know people who are like the first child and the second child. I wonder if the first child—the one who initially told the father that he would not go into the vineyard—I wonder if this first child is a little like the folks we might know who, Sunday after Sunday, have no intention of coming to church. Maybe their talk is a little course, their lives pretty rough in places; but their hearts are pure in their dealings with other people. They’re blunt, but they’re honest and they don’t make any pretense.

We might know some like the second child, the one who seems so polite and well-intentioned. I sometimes fear that some who go to church every Sunday resemble the second, polite child. We fill pulpits and pews, we sound good enough, and we talk the talk. But do our lives show that the words and life of Jesus really mean anything to us? Do we ever become more than merely “good eggs?”

We have plenty of modern-day Pharisees who would suggest that appearances are everything. They suggest that how we look, how we sound, where we live, what we do for a living—that all of these things reveal who we really are. But the God of Jesus Christ says otherwise. Jesus tells the Pharisees that there are a whole lot of people who are ahead of them on the road to heaven, and chief among them are the prostitutes and the tax collectors. Leading us all into the heaven are some of the poor, the uneducated, the dirty, the foul-mouthed, the alcoholic and addicted, the out-of-shape and unfit, the sick and the dying--- Given such a procession, some might wonder if heaven is a place they really want to go? I can only say, that it sure is a place where I want to go, because it’s a place where there’s no makeup, no costume and there’s no pretense. There’s no “better than,” or “worse than” but a place where each one of us is received by God and made holy, made perfect, made beautiful.

May we be moved each day of faith bring to being a little more our most honest selves—where we speak the truth and live it, and where we don’t really have to even say very much because people can look at our lives and see the risen Lord Jesus Christ.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Building for All Souls

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 11:58:00 +0000

A sermon for the Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost, September 25, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 16:2-15, Psalm 105:1-6, 37-45, Philippians 1:21-30, and Matthew 20:1-16.

If you’ve read the church newsletters and have picked up on the theme of this day, you know that we’re thinking about building at All Souls. In particular, after the 11 a.m. Mass, Jim Clark from MTFA Architecture will be presenting a plan to add an elevator, a proper entrance from the parking lot, and handicapped accessible restrooms. This process has been hoped for and talked about for years, but has finally taken shape over the last year and a half. Representatives from the parish have dreamed, prayed, argued, and planned. The Vestry has approved the plan and is solidly behind it. Initial plans can be viewed here.

So let me say out loud what a lot of us have thought—that question we might have asked ourselves or someone else: How can we possibly think about building at All Souls?

At a time like this, how can we? The economy is bad. Unemployment hovers around 9.1 per cent. Too many we know either don’t have jobs or don’t have jobs that pay or satisfy. Some are retired and living on a fixed income or on investments, and things are unsure. Things are uncertain. Healthcare costs more. Home maintenance costs more. Rent costs more.

How can consider building with a congregation the size and strength of ours? Our active membership is around 350 persons, with an average Sunday attendance of about 150. We have about 162 financial pledges, with a promised pledged income of just under $500,000. But that’s a huge stretch. And this is a bare-bones budget.

Though some in our parish make good money, it takes a fortune to live in this area—keeping up homes, sending kids to school, taking care of aging parents, (or even visiting aging parents) and still trying to save for the future. Our parish grows, but often we grow with younger people, who (frankly) don’t make a lot of money. Or we grow with wonderful people who are just here for a couple of years before moving on (so their investment—spiritually and financially may be lower). Or we add to our number people who come from a background where they were never asked to connect the way they spend their money with their spiritual beliefs.

This question, “How can we possibly build now?” can be shortened to a simple, “How can we?” But that’s a theological question as much as it’s a practical one. And it’s a question that has been asked before.

In our Old Testament reading, the people of Israel are asking “how can we?” How can we move on? How can we move forward? But they feel stuck. They’ve heard about the Promised Land. They’ve been told about God’s love for them. Some remember being slaves in Egypt. But memory is a funny thing. There in the heat and boredom and fear and hunger and confusion of the desert—the old life back in Egypt begins to seem pretty good. “If only we had died there,” they say. But they look to Moses and toGod: “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve brought us ‘into this wilderness to kills us with hunger!’”

Moses understands complaining when he hears it, and so he refers it up to the Divine Complaint Department. “This is bigger than me, God,” Moses says. “You need to do something with these people of yours.” But God hears. And God answers. “You shall eat. And in the new morning, you shall have your fill. And you shall know that I am the Lord your God.”

The people have God’s promises. But before long the promises produce manna—Manna from heaven.

Biblical scholars still debate what manna might have been. Maybe a miracle: as bread comes down from heaven. Or maybe the manna was some kind of plant the Israelites stumble upon. Others suggest that manna is like the Feeding of the Thousands, in which the real miracle is more that people share the little they have with each other, so it seems like a miracle of amazing proportion.

However manna was made, wherever it might have come from, it brings a message as true that day as it is today. God says “I am with you. Have faith, do your part, and I will provide for you. I will provide.”

God provides in our Gospel story, as well. It’s an elaborate story that can help us think about the ways we measure ourselves against others and try to figure out who is more worthy of God’s blessing and provision. But the story has in it the same simple ending as the reading from Exodus: God provides. And the kingdom of God is a place of generosity. And that’s why we can think about building for All Souls.

With our history, with our faith, and with each other-- How can we NOT build?

In 1911, the little group of 15 men and women, along with Dr. Sterrett, began All Souls and they had their obstacles. But they were faithful. They were passionate. We can build on their faith and tenacity.

During the wars, All Souls fought. Some parishioners and friends of the parish died. Many returned to lead and serve and to build. We can build on the vision and strength of those veterans.

On June 1, 1923, Washington woke up to the awful news that the founding rector of All Souls, Dr. James McBride Sterrett, after suffering from depression, had taken his own life. The congregation mourned. But they came to church and they said their prayers. They supported their then rector, Dr. Sterrett’s son.
By the next year, they had built this larger addition of the church, and the Rev. Henry Hatch Dent Sterrett, after his father’s death, continued to pastor All Souls for another 25 years. We can build on their resilience.

All Souls as a parish almost died by the mid 1980s. But there were a few older ladies who kept the doors open, the flowers on the altar, and breakfast in the undercroft. We build on their faith.

In early 90s, too many young people were dying of AIDS. But the rector All Souls opened its arms and its doors. A lot of funerals were done here and from this parish. We build so that spirit of compassion and care.

This summer, a young transgender man was introduced to All Souls. Before he went back to school he asked to meet with me. When we got together, he thanked me for this place—for our welcome, for our acceptance, and for helping him feel the presence of God in a rare way. We can build on that acceptance and welcome.

And finally, in just a few moments we will baptize James Douglas McAllister. Every baptism is a celebration of faith in the goodness of God, in the generosity and care of God, and in the laughter of God. We can build for Jaime and his brother Will; we can build for their parents, and for all the families who look for a place to say a prayer, to help teach their children about Jesus, to make new friends, and to find God.

Given our history. Given our faith. Given God’s promise to be generous always— at a time like this, how can we NOT build?

May God continue to lead us and inspire us. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.