Blogging with Beddingfield

This Blog is Moving

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 01:43:00 +0000

My new blog site is called Words, Nevertheless.

You can reach at http://jfbeddingfield.wordpress.com/

If you would like to receive each new posting (usually a sermon) by email, simply go to the new blog site and look at right menu. You can enter your email address there and an email will be sent to you asking you to confirm your choice to receive blogs.

Thanks for following. Unfortunately, I'm not able simply to transfer the email addresses to the new blog, so I apologize for the need to re-subscribe.

Praying in the Face of Anxiety

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 15:51:00 +0000

Some years ago, the theologian Paul Tillich suggested that anxiety arises whenever we’re confronted with the possibility of “nonbeing.” Tillich thought the primary source of anxiety in our age to be spiritual in nature, arising from questions of meaninglessness and emptiness. Of course, the issues that create anxiety for us show up in immediate ways like budget cuts, governmental dysfunction, a broken healthcare system, increasing inequality in education, income, and opportunity, etc. But I think Tillich is right that underlying all of these is the larger question of “Why bother?” Even if one decides that the goal of life is to create a bubble of safety for oneself or one’s own immediate family and focus on that, any number of things can—and usually will— burst the bubble.

In the First Letter to the Thessalonians, St. Paul writes, “pray without ceasing.” These words can easily be glossed over or read as glib advice given by someone who’s never had a bad day. But for those who have taken Paul’s advice and put prayer into practice, such prayer works like an undercurrent to life, bringing a decrease in anxiety, an increase in faith, and a deepening sense of purpose and direction.

This Lent, I encourage you to adopt a prayer that you can use at any time, in any place. Pray it over and over again when you’re worried. Pray it continually when you’re anxious. Pray it when you’re happy. Pray it as often as you can and see where it takes you. You might use the Lord’s Prayer. Or you might adopt the ancient, Jesus Prayer, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” Another traditional prayer is, the Trisagion, “Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy Immortal One, have mercy upon us.” Generations have found comfort praying, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

When we pray, we are not casting spells. Danger and heartache do not immediately disappear. But through prayer, we are brought closer with Jesus into the love and care of God and given a second wind from the Holy Spirit.

Choosing Well

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 12:49:00 +0000

A sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, February 24, 2013. The lectionary readings are Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18, Psalm 27, Philippians 3:17-4:1, and Luke 13:31-35 .

Mae West had her own take on navigating the season of Lent. In one of her movies, her character puts it bluntly. “Between two evils,” she says, “I generally like to pick the one I never tried before.” (Klondike Annie, 1936)

Mae West points out the reality of life—we have choices to make, and we make them. Sometimes it’s between two good options, and sometimes it’s like in the movie Argo when the CIA supervisor explains to the Secretary of State, “Sir, this is our best bad idea.” Even in the most dire of situations, there are usually still a few choices that we can make. At the very least (or is it “most?”) we can choose how to feel. We can choose how to view our situation. We can choose how we will respond to the consequences of our decision.

Life is full of choices. Faith is full of choices.

We are often confronted with whether to choose God or some other god, as in last week’s Gospel as Jesus was tempted in the wilderness. We’re sometimes presented with the question of whether to choose the way of faithfulness or a sometimes quicker way of safety and comfort. And, finally (practically and personally) we’re often confronted with whether to choose blessing over curses.

In our first reading (from Genesis) Abram has to choose whether he’s going to keep on listening to this God who insists he is the One, True God or whether perhaps it’s time to try some other god. He hasn’t become Abra-ham, yet. He hasn’t come to that point of conversion, marking a decisive change in his following God that even comes with a name change. It’s still early in the game. But God has promised. “Your reward will be very great,” God says. And so, Abram is wondering when the good stuff is going to start rolling in. “Where’s IS that reward, God? You’ve promised me children, where are they?” But just at the point of Abram’s possibly choosing to go a different route, God answers. In this case, God saves him from making a bad choice. God says, stop doubting, stop worrying, just be faithful, hang on a little bit. “I am the Lord who brought from Ur of the Chaldeans to give you this land to possess.” (In other words, I am the Lord who brought you out of the middle of nowhere into SOMEwhere. I know you, and you know me.) Lucky for Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, Abram chooses God.

In today’s Gospel, the choices are subtle and hidden beneath all the action. The religious and secular leaders feel threatened by Jesus and so they try to run him out of town. But Jesus tells them to send a message to the leader. Jesus chooses to stay, and to stay faithful. But he knows that there are others who will decide to follow a different way. He mourns over the city of Jerusalem, a city that has rejected prophets in the past—a city that represents so much, a city with wealth, power, tradition, sophistication, creativity, diversity—but it seems to be choosing to reject Jesus, and in so doing, rejects the movement of God.

Saint Paul describes this kind of rejection in graphic terms. He speaks of those who are “enemies of the cross of Christ,” those whose “god is the belly,” … whose “minds are set on earthly things.” But for us, Paul says, we who choose to follow Jesus (whether we follow well or poorly) Paul assures us that “our citizenship is in heaven,” and from there comes our savior Jesus Christ.

That’s a choice for us. We choose that citizenship in heaven. Sometimes our parents choose it for us at baptism, but we grow to a point where we choose Christ for ourselves. The choice may come at some formal occasion, such as a first Communion, or confirmation, a marriage, a funeral, or at some unexpected time. We can find ourselves choosing Christ in the midst of worship, or in the midst of prayer, or in a crisis, or in a time of emotional or spiritual intensity.

Sometimes the choices for being faithful come daily, if not hourly. Robert Morris, an Episcopal priest in New Jersey, describes an insight about this that came when he stubbed his toe. Wrestling with Grace: a Spirituality for the Rough Edges of Daily Life (Nashville: Upper Room, 2003).

He describes something most of us have probably experienced. He remembers walking through his house and accidentally stubbing his toe on a step. With his first breath, he yelled something along the lines of “God…” and he may have even added a few other words. But with his second breath, it occurred to him that the words he had already said were really a kind of prayer. To cry out, “God” – no matter what else may be added on is a kind of prayer.

That’s all in what Morris calls “the first breath.” But then there’s the opportunity of a second breath. In the second breath, we make a decision, we make a choice as to whether the prayer is going to be a blessing or a curse. When Father Morris stumped his toe, he realized that he had begun a prayer, and so he might as well finish it. “God” turned into “God bless,” “God bless my toe, God bless me in my clumsiness, God bless me and have mercy on me.”

Think about all the situations that come up for us daily in which we have the opportunity to turn first breaths into second breath prayers—the person on the other end of the phone, the person across from us at the meeting, the child who is ignoring everything we say or do or ask, the neighbor next door, the boss who can never be pleased, the family member who (after all these years) still doesn’t get it… They all can drive us to frustration and we can respond with a blessing or with a curse.

All deep religious practices, at some point, pay attention to the breath. Yoga, tai chi, Christian meditation and Centering prayer all teach us to notice our breathing. Christ invites us to pay attention to our first and second breath prayers. The first ones are from the gut, they’re reactive. But the second ones can come from a place of faith and reason and openness to God’s Spirit. By paying such attention, by choosing blessing over curse, we begin to pray like Jesus prayed. In so doing, we choose to follow Jesus Christ, we choose to turn toward Jerusalem (and even the Cross), and we choose to turn toward God.

Choices surround all of us—but whether it’s about a career, or a special person, or finances; vocation, or how to respond to someone who makes us mad—may the Holy Spirit guide our choices, help us to watch our breath, and to live toward the way of blessing. Any choice will have consequences as life plays itself out. But with faith, the only bad choice is the one we make without God. As long as we chose WITH God, God moves us toward blessing— with Abraham and Sarah, with St. Paul, with the St. John and the Blessed Virgin Mary and the disciples, and with the faithful of every age—into the eternal blessing of Christ’s presence and peace. Thanks be to God for the gift of choosing.

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

Living into Virtue

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 12:33:00 +0000

A sermon for the First Sunday in Lent, February 17, 2013. The lectionary readings are Deuteronomy 26:1-11, Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16, Romans 10:8b-13, and Luke 4:1-13.

If asked to name the Seven Deadly Sins, I bet most of us could come up with a good list that was close to, if not exactly, the famous seven. Just in the past few years there have been essays in magazines, movies, and a beautiful little series of books by Oxford that includes Robert Thurman on anger, Phyllis Tickle on greed, and Wendy Wasserstein on sloth. So that’s three of them, right there: anger, greed, and sloth. Can you think of the others? I bet you could: lust, pride, envy, and we can’t possibly forget gluttony.

Sometimes those preparing to make a formal confession are given the list of the seven deadly sins as a framework for thinking about coming clean and getting honest. Those in twelve-step recovery programs often think about the seven sins as they make a self-inventory and this can all be helpful information for one wanting to make a change.

Ash Wednesday began the season of Lent. Repentance was the theme of the day, and in some ways is the theme of the season—repentance, which means “turning.” Turning away from sin. Turning towards God. The Church has succeed at letting society know what to turn from. But we’re less accomplished at naming the Good to which we invite people. Even within ourselves, we’re often very good at naming the sin, diagnosing the problem, sometimes getting carried away with just how sinful we may be until our sinfulness becomes a kind of perverse pride. This kind of pride in being bad sneaks up with the thought that “I’m special in my fallenness.” There’s no way God would forgive me, no way there’s room for me in God’s mercy, no way God can forget what I’ve done.

If repentance is about turning away from sin, then it means turning toward something and it seems important we know what that “something” is.

There are the seven deadly sins, but did you know there are also seven virtues? These seven can be thought to correspond to the “deadly” seven. Over time, tradition has developed several versions of the seven virtues. But typically, there are four cardinal virtues from classical antiquity: justice, temperance, prudence, and fortitude (or courage). To these are added the three “theological virtues” of St. Paul: “faith, hope, and charity.” (1 Cor. 13) Other virtues are sometimes included, such as chastity, diligence, patience, kindness, and humility.

The virtues can be helpful as targets, as goals, as reminders of what we’re turning towards. If one were turning away from gluttony, one would turn more positively toward temperance. If one were trying to turn away from pride, one would lean into humility, and so on…

In a way, this is what Jesus does in today’s Gospel when he is confronted by the devil in the desert.

“Command this stone to become a loaf of bread”….. The devil teases Jesus with food. If Jesus has been in the desert long, surely he’s getting hungry. Characterized as one of the seven classic sins, the devil is tempting Jesus with gluttony. If some is good, then lots must be better. But Jesus responds calmly, without need. He responds with the virtue of temperance.

Next, the devil shows Jesus all the kingdoms of the world and says, “to you I will give their glory and all this authority…” A more current version of this is in the 1980s movie, “Jesus of Montreal,” in which a promoter/producer type takes the Jesus character to the top of the skyscraper and says, “with your talent, this city could be yours." This appeals to so many things. But cast in terms of the seven deadlies, it could be understood as the devil tempting Jesus with greed. Again, Jesus quotes doesn’t over-react. He calmly quotes scripture, and puts the devil in his place with the virtue of charity.

Finally, the devil takes Jesus to Jerusalem and dares him to jump off the pinnacle of the temple. The devil is mocking Psalm 91 that we said earlier, “He shall give his angels charge over you… they shall bear you in their hands, lest you dash your foot against a stone.” But Jesus senses the distortion and smells in it the temptation of pride. Jesus answers with the virtue of humility.

So even though it was probably surprising to Jesus that the devil shows up in the wilderness, Jesus could counter with something positive, something constructive, supported by scripture.

We might dismiss this Gospel as a kind of miracle story. This is the Son of God, after all, of course he would know the right thing to say, the right thing to do, in order to resist temptation and dodge sin. But we can still learn from his technique. In order to move away from something negative, Jesus focuses on something positive.

That works for us, as well, in very practical ways. If I want to drink less caffeine, I could chose to focus on the caffeine intake. I could obsess about it. I could read about it, talk about it, pray about it. Or… I could make it a practice to drink more water. Over time, by drinking more water, I would probably find I was drinking less caffeine. If I want to eat less junk food, I can eat more apples. But it works with trickier aspects of ourselves as well.

If I want to be less critical of people, I can make a practice to think of one good thing about each person I see.

The virtues of prudence, justice, temperance, fortitude, faith, hope and charity are good goals for the spiritual life. We could add in the heavenly virtues of chastity, charity, diligence, patience, kindness, and humility. It could be a Lenten discipline to memorize the virtues.

But we don’t have to memorize the virtues to benefit from their power and almost magnetic ability to pull us away from sin. It’s for us to allow faith to remind us that there’s always an alternative to sin. There’s always some positive force, some better alternative that can move us closer to God.

In the temptation in the desert, Jesus remembers scripture. He remembers what would later be characterized as virtues. But even more, Jesus remembers who he is, he remembers his baptism and that he is a child of God. He remembers whose he is, that God is watching, is waiting and is even now, aware and present and offering his love.

Martin Luther writes that he sometimes fought off the devil by shouting at him, “I am baptized.” “Baptizatus sum!” (LC IV, 44). He would write this on his desk, he would shout it at a vision, he would sing it to himself.

That’s what we do when we make the sign of the cross, and when we dip our finger in holy water and place a little on our foreheads: we are reminding ourselves that we are baptized, that we are loved, and that God is in charge. The sacraments help us fight temptations.

In the days ahead, as we practice spiritual disciplines, as we notice the symbols of the season, perhaps giving some things up and taking on other things, may God make us alert and awake to temptation, that we might remember our baptism and move toward virtue.

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

The Way of the Cross

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 16:27:00 +0000

Every Friday in Lent at 7 p.m. we pray the Way of the Cross at All Souls. As we move through the church, we are given an opportunity to hear scripture with new ears and to see visual representations of our Lord with new eyes. We are invited to respond to the Way of the Cross, and indeed, to the Way of Christ, with new hearts.

The devotion known as Stations of the Cross, or the Way of the Cross, is thought to have begun in 4th-century Jerusalem, as pilgrims sought to be close to the places where Jesus walked. The number of stations, or places where Jesus paused on his way to be crucified, has varied with tradition and time. Monks and nuns who visited the Holy Land took the idea of the Way of the Cross back to their monasteries, and so, by the 16th century, a number of monasteries and convents began to have small artistic representations of the Stations of the Cross in their chapels. Prayers would be said at each representation and this practice eventually spread to churches. The number of stations finally became fixed at fourteen. Of these, eight are based directly on events recorded in the Gospels and six (stations three, four, six, seven, nine, and thirteen) are based upon tradition.

Participating in the Stations of the Cross allows us to pray with our imagination. We imagine what it must have been like for Jesus to walk through the city of Jerusalem carrying his cross. We imagine how we might have reacted or not reacted. And perhaps most of all, we can imagine where God must have been in the midst of that struggle. To recognize God in such times is at the heart of Lent.

Ashes

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 19:22:00 +0000

Detail from the Lenten Array Frontal at All Souls by Davis D'ambly

A sermon for Ash Wednesday, February 13, 2013. The lectionary readings are Joel 2:1-2,12-17,
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10, Matthew 6:1-6,16-21, and Psalm 103.

Last night we gathered in the meditation garden to burn our leftover palms from last year’s Palm Sunday. The Church does this by what people sometimes call “ancient custom,” which really means, “No one can remember exactly when this started, but we have fun doing it, and so we think we’ll keep on doing it for a while.” And so, last night, we burnt our palms. We burned a lot of palms and a good supply of ashes was made. But it’s not so easy to burn palms. Once the fire dies down, the charred remains of the palms then need to be ground down. A mortar and pestle do the trick, but even then, it takes some elbow grease and some patience. Odd particles need to be picked out and thrown away.

It’s difficult to burn palms, to reduce them to ashes, but I think there’s a good Lenten symbol in that for us. Things can burn up, but they don’t easily vanish. Things can be ground down to almost nothing, but it takes a lot to pulverize them. And that’s why we need God.

It takes a lot to break things down to nothing, and this is especially true when we’re thinking about intangible things. Regrets, mistakes, memories, grudges, bad things done and good things left undone—all can seem to recede from memory, but it’s difficult to dissolve their residue. Sin persists. And though we may hear the words, we may see the priest make the sign of the cross, we taste the body and blood of Christ-- it’s sometimes difficult to actually feel forgiven.

But that’s just what we’re called to live toward—forgiveness, absolution from sin, resolution from wondering whether we’ve made the cut, freedom from worry. Salvation from sin.

We burned palms last night not to make the definitive ashes that would answer all our Ash Wednesday questions for this day and all time. But we burned ashes because we could, and because, joined with our prayers, our faith tells us that God sees what we do, and God understands what we hope and what we pray.

The Gospel today gives us some very practical words: Beware of practicing your piety before others. . . whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you. ..whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites . . . And whenever you fast, do not look dismal . . . Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth . . . All of these sayings remind us that the spiritual life is one that is to be lived into slowly, over time, as God calls us, step by step. Repentance doesn’t happen all at once; forgiveness doesn’t happen all at once. But there is time, which is the gift of life, and the gift of life evermore.

Every year about this time I re-read T.S. Eliot’s poem entitled Ash Wednesday. Each time I read it I understand it less, but in a way I think Eliot captures this dilemma of living between confession and absolution. Eliot writes

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks . . . .
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.

A little like the Gospel, there is practical advice: sit still, to know the peace of God, pray to the Mother, the Father, our God all-loving. As we begin this season of preparation for the joy of Easter, may God grant us the vision of all our sins and regrets being burned to ashes, burned to ashes and blown away.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Foundations

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 04 Feb 2013 18:37:00 +0000

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, the day on which All Souls launched the public phase of the capital campaign, All Souls Forward: Living Up to Our Name. The lectionary readings were from the Book of Common Prayer, "For the Mission of the Church," Isaiah 2:2-4, Psalm 150, Ephesians 2:13-22, and Matthew 28:16-20.

A few weeks ago, a parishioner who has been working on the capital campaign committee made a suggestion for how I might approach the sermon for today. He suggested we sing “The Church’s One Foundation,” just before the sermon and that then, I make the point that the church’s foundation—this church’s foundation on the new addition—will depend on you (and me). We can determine whether our foundation will be stone, or brick, or stucco, or something even cheaper. I suppose if we had the real version of Jennifer Johnston’s fake million-dollar-bills (you’ll see them in the window decorations downstairs) then we could build a foundation of titanium with marble casing!

Foundations matter. There’s a famous parable Jesus tells about someone who a house built on various foundations, the point being—build on something that’s strong, that’s reliable, that you can count on.

The image of a strong foundation runs throughout our worship today. Isaiah imagines the House of the Lord as being built on a strong foundation. He refers to it as a mountain—mighty, high, immovable, impenetrable…. “The mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains… raised above the hills…,” the focus of many nations. From that solid, unshakable stronghold comes teaching, instruction, and the Word of the Lord. It’s a grand vision for any House of the Lord.

The psalm continues the spirit, praising God in his holy temple. Again, it’s a temple that is a firmament of power, a vast and magnificent thing.

Later this morning, we will sing “The Church’s One Foundation.” The choir will sing “Upon this Rock,” and on and on these strong, solid images go. Foundation upon strong foundation.

But guess what—even though our church building stands pretty strong—the oldest part from 1913, the larger worship space since 1925, and the education wing since the 1950s, and we’ve withstood earthquakes, ice-storms, floods, and hurricanes--- we’re actually NOT on a very solid foundation.

We’re on landfill.

The geophysical survey confirms that there’s a lot of strange stuff underneath us. Landfill is stuff thrown away. In some places it’s absolute junk—old cars and waste that is compacted… all kinds of things. Under us there’s probably a lot of rock taken from elsewhere, some concrete, and metal, and some stone, … and who knows what else there might be.

All of this means that our lovely building—this building into which we bring our hopes, and worries, and loves and losses, where we say our prayers, where we Commune with the Body and Blood of Christ…. is on top of junk, trash, and rubble.

But that’s ok. It’s actually ideal for a church, because this is what churches are—places for us to bring all the junk, the detritus, the mistakes, the failures, the stuff we’d love to throw in a hole so deep that no one can ever see it—the church is a place for all of this to be brought before God.

And no other place in the world gives us that opportunity.

The Letter to the Ephesians talks about the Church, the faithful community, being built upon a foundation of the apostles and the prophets. “Who we are” is built upon the saints. But think about those people for a minute. None of them was perfect in this life, but they were made perfect in their willingness to offer themselves to God—warts, worries, and all.

The prophets “mis-hear” God more often than they get a direct word from God. Much of the accounts we have of prophets has to do with God’s trying to straighten them out, God’s making something out of the mess the prophet has often made.

The disciples seldom understand what Jesus is saying, and many of the stories we have about them are stories that allow us to imagine that perhaps we might have acted differently, had we been right there with Jesus.

Most of the saints are the same way—they struggle with their faith, they don’t always get it right, but they bear their wounds and Christ the wounded healer blesses them and makes them well, and whole, and renewed.

Last week I was able to sit in on a class at Virginia Seminary. The class was looking at T.S. Eliot’s poem Four Quartets as prayer. In one section of the “Dry Salvages,” Eliot plays with the idea of water washing over our lives, and with it all of the stuff we’ve done or thought or said—the stuff we hoped we’d thrown away, or hidden, or buried, or burned. The water uncovers all of this and washes up. “It tosses up our losses,” Eliot says, and he wonders when it ever ends, with wave after wave turning up. “Where is the end of it, the soundless wailing…. Where is there an end to the drifting wreakage…?”

Eliot answers his own question as the movements of the Four Quartets flow along, and it has to do with the Incarnation. It has to do with Jesus, who redeems everything. Jesus is like those children in other countries and our own who pick over what we throw away. They pick over the trash heaps, looking for what’s salvageable. Except for Jesus everything is precious—all our mistakes, all our failures, all our sins are redeemed in Christ. Each one is turned into something beautiful and useful. Junk is turned into jewels. It’s just like a beautiful building built on a dump, like a landfill becoming a place for All Souls.

We are redeemed, and that’s why we baptize the way today’s Gospel urges us. We are saved from having to sort through all the trash of our past, all the scraps of our striving, all the sin that would try to take us down with it. Christ raises us up to new life. And that’s what we have to share. That’s why we do mission. That’s why we welcome everybody to the table. That’s why we’re moving ahead on accessibility and hospitality—to extend Christ’s love onward and onward.

We don’t worship our building. We are not defined by our building. But it is a home base for us as we move through the world. It’s a place to return to, to come home to, to see old friends and meet new ones, to renew and sustain ourselves at the familiar, common, but most uncommon Table.

T. S. Eliot drew inspiration from his own life, from water and wind, and fire and earth, but he also built upon other poets, one among them, George Herbert. As many of you know, Herbert was an English parish priest in the 1600’s and the bulk of his poetry is organized around the image of a temple or church. The poems describe the inner reality of things that might at first seem mundane. And in one poem, Herbert writes about the foundation.

MARK you the floore ? that square and speckled stone,

Which looks so firm and strong,

Is Patience :

And th’ other black and grave, wherewith each one

Is checker’d all along,

Humilitie :

The gentle rising, which on either hand

Leads to the Quire above,

Is Confidence :

But the sweet cement, which in one sure band

Ties the whole frame, is Love

And Charitie.

Hither sometimes Sinne steals, and stains

The marbles neat and curious veins :

But all is cleansed when the marble weeps.

Sometimes Death, puffing at the doore,

Blows all the dust about the floore :

But while he thinks to spoil the room, he sweeps.

Blest be the Architect, whose art

Could build so strong in a weak heart. (“The Church-Floore,” from The Temple)

We will do the best we can trying to keep a firm foundation on landfill, but may Christ our Redeemer remind us that however shaky our spiritual, physical, psychological, or moral foundation—if we bring it to him, he will sort through and strengthen. He makes junk into jewels. This is the good news we live and the good news into which we invite all the world.

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

Looking for God's Glory

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 20 Jan 2013 16:30:00 +0000

A sermon for the Second Sunday after Epiphany, January 20, 2013. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 62:1-5, Psalm 36:5-10, 1 Corinthians 12:1-11, and John 2:1-11.

In Martin Luther King, Jr.’s famous last speech, he ended it by saying he wasn’t worried. He was happy, he wasn’t afraid of anybody. “Mine eyes have seen the glory,” he said. “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

He was quoting a hymn, of course, the hymn some of us know as “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Both he was doing more than simply quoting a hymn, since its tune and its words had strong, powerful associations with them. The tune was a folk tune, from an old spiritual especially loved and sung by African American soldiers in the Union Army during the Civil War. There were a number of different words to the song, and the soldiers would change them, depending on the context and the audience. Whichever words were used, no matter the context, when other African Americans and people yearning for freedom heard the tune, they recognized it as a freedom song, and heard notes for a new day.

That tradition continued, but in 1861, Julia Ward Howe visited Washington and met Abraham Lincoln. Based on that trip and on her own passion for peace, abolition, and women’s suffrage, Howe wrote new words to the tune, making the hymn that is familiar to many today. Whether it was the songs sung by soldiers, or Howe’s words, or words used since, the refrain is the same: “Glory, glory, hallelujah.“

Glory becomes a prayer. There’s an urgency to it, like a fight song for a victory you can almost taste, for wanting it so bad. But in that same cry for glory there’s also a sense of already having tasted a bit of what is to come. As Dr. King said, he’d been to the mountaintop and looked over. His faith told him what was possible. His faith helped him see what was inevitable, and the idea of “glory” helped get him there.

If we notice, a the of glory goes right through our worship, like a great chorus singing underneath everything else we do or say. We join that chorus when we echo the Christmas angels in our opening song of praise, “Glory be to God on high.” Later in the Eucharist sing along with Isaiah and the whole heavenly host, again singing, “Heaven and earth are full of your glory.”

But what is the “glory” of God? What do we mean? What are we singing about?

Today’s Gospel gives us a hint. There, in the midst of a crowd, in the midst of a huge party, a wedding with lots of in-laws, and probably a few out-laws and wedding-crashers, there is Jesus. Jesus is there and also his mother, Mary. A crisis occurs when it appears there’s no more wine. So Mary urges Jesus to do something. Though he seems almost to talk back to her (the interchange sounds more abrupt in English than intended) Jesus does it. He acts. He goes through with what John the Evangelist describes as the first of his “signs.” And then John puts all of this into context.

Repurposing the jars that were set aside for Jewish purification rites, turning water into wine, putting marriage in the context of a communal relation--- all of this works together as a sign “that reveals his glory.” It reveals not only Christ’s glory, but the glory of God.

The glory of God shimmers at the edges of perception. At first glance, looking dead-on at a situation, things seem to be one way. In the Gospel, the problem is clear: there’s no more wine. But the Virgin Mary can see that just at the edge of things, a little to the side, something is ready to break in, and that something is not of this world—it’s beyond the ordinary, beyond our hoping, beyond our imagining. It’s something that comes from a place of faith in “what can be.” What ought to be. What might be.

In our first reading from Isaiah, the prophet tells the people of Judah about God’s work of restoration and renewal. They’re going to be called by a new name, a name already known by God. No longer forsaken, but beautiful. No longer desolate, but delightful. And yet, the people of Judah just aren’t there yet. They can’t hear Isaiah. They can’t see the possibilities because they’re stuck in fear and funk. They’re stuck in their own sadness and the daily grind of their situation. They only see clouds, while the whole time, Isaiah knows the sun is about to break through.

St. Paul talks about glory too, in his Letter to the Corinthians. Paul sees God’s glory in what first appears to be those mundane, ordinary, petty differences between people—those same differences that make us individuals, but also sometimes annoy and bother. But Paul sees these as opportunities for God’s glory to go to work—in the grace of God, with the eyes of faith, the particular characteristics of each one of us are taken up by God’s glory and transformed into spiritual gifts. God’s glory takes babble and makes it eloquence. God’s glory takes miserliness and makes it good stewardship. God’s glory takes water and turns it into wine.

In the Gospel, it’s Mary who first point to glory. She sees it in Jesus, but it’s that same glimmer she must have seen when Gabriel first hovered overhead. She saw it in the humble love of Joseph, who believed not only the angel, but also believed Mary. She saw glory shine in the faces of Anna and Simeon as they held the Christ.   Mary saw glory at Cana, and she would see it again on Calvary: the glory of God to become more than we might otherwise. The glory of God that enables us to become more loving, more giving, more believing.

Isaiah, John the Evangelist, Mary the Mother of God, and Martin Luther King, Jr. are all saying a similar thing: They’re saying, “don’t get stuck looking down. Don’t get stuck looking at yourself. Don’t get stuck counting the cards you’ve been dealt. There’s more…. Look for the glory and live into it.”

Mary shows us how to spot it. She says to the servants, the waiters, the stewards… She says, “Do whatever he tells you.” Look to Jesus and follow him, wherever that takes you.

Gerard Manley Hopkins saw God’s glory in “dappled things,” in the multitude of God’s making: in trout and fire-coals, in farmlands and trades. He sees God’s glory in

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.

God’s glory comes to us so that it might reverberate, spread out, and return to God in an ongoing energy of praise and love.

But sometimes, in our lives, we can’t see God’s glory in the dappled things or in much of anything. And yet, it’s there, in potential and possibility.

For the scientist, it might come at that point of refusing to settle for the same old way of doing things, for the given answer and the obvious solution—and so you say a prayer and look for God’s glory to help.

For the businessperson it might come with risk—not the kind of risk to make more simply for the sake of more, but a risk on an entrepreneur, a start-up, an investment that stands a chance of overflowing into social good—so you make your move, say a prayer, and allow God’s glory to do its work.

Wherever you may be stuck—whether in a relationship, a habit, an outlook ,… whether you’re looking for a job or stuck in the one you have, we can all of us follow the Virgin Mary’s lead—look to Christ and follow him. Do what he tells us. Do the next right thing in faith, and let God’s glory move and make, love and live.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said his eyes had seen the glory of the Lord. But it was more than that—he saw, and pointed to, and lived into God’s glory with his whole being. On this weekend of celebrations and beginnings, may we allow God to use everything we’ve got-- our eyes, our mouths, our hearts and hands—everything we are, have been, and may be—to perceive and point to God’s ever-unfolding glory, glory that moves us over the mountaintop, that frees, and that saves into eternal life.

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

The Inauguration of Faith

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 17:00:00 +0000

A sermon for the First Sunday after Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, January 13, 2013. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 43:1-7, Psalm 29, Acts 8:14-17, and Luke 3:15-17, 21-22.

Right now, downtown, bands are playing, oaths are being said, and over-caffeinated members of the Presidential Inaugural Committee are desperately trying to manage one another as they rehearse next week’s Inauguration. The official inauguration stores are open, and red, white and blue bunting is appearing all over.

An inauguration, of any kind, even if it’s the second, is the official beginning. Certain people are present. Formalities are followed. Tradition carries the day even as there is some newer, contemporary aspect included.

The idea of “inauguration” is rooted in the classical world, especially in ancient Rome whenever there were official state functions and augurs were present. The augurs were priests, or soothsayers, or official diviners who read the future or the signs of the times, often by watching the flight of the birds. They could, in that way, tell what “augured” well for the future. Any official beginning in the Roman state included the augurs in attendance. An inauguration, then as now, meant a mixture of tradition and pageantry, stateliness and hope, hope that the birds were telling the truth and hope that the gods were on the side of the new leader.

The spirit of the inauguration outdoors coincides with a spirit of inauguration indoors (at church) as we celebrate the Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ. 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 the baptism of Jesus and our own baptism. 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. And we recall our own baptism, our own inauguration as Christians.

But to remember our baptism is not just to play-act, or dig out old pictures, if we have them. It’s not even just to light a baptismal candle, if we still have ours, it is to touch base with our baptism and allow that through our baptism, God saved us. God saves us still, and God will always save us.

The water that runs through us is water of redemption, water that has saved us. Isaiah reminds people that it was the water made holy that saved them in crossing over from Egypt. And so, the water that saves us at baptism is connected to the water that saved the people of Israel. It’s connected because God is in the middle of it all.

The psalm reminds us of water’s power in creation—the power to create and refresh, but also the power to destroy and wash away. “The voice of the Lord is upon the waters, the God of glory thunders.” It breaks cedar trees. It splits the flames of fire. It strips the forest bare. But it also gives strength to God’s people. The voice of the Lord that moves upon the water gives us a blessing of peace.

It’s that blessing of peace and strength that the apostles are so eager to share in the reading from Acts. As soon as Peter and John hear that people in Samaria are interested in the word of God, they go to visit. They go to lay hands on them, to pray over them, and to share the Holy Spirit with them. They go, in a sense, to play in the water with these new friends—to join in their new-found faith, and to teach their new friends how to swim in the deep water, to be baptized not only in the name of Jesus, but also with the power of the Holy Spirit—the Spirit that moves in community, that flies when spirit meets spirit, that grows whenever faith is shared.

If we were to think of baptism as jumping into the water, then we should view it NOT as one of those amazing divers who jumps from a high place, soars through the air downward, and cuts through the water in silence, without even so much as a ripple. Instead, baptism is like going in “cannonball style.” It’s about making a splash, about God’s displacing and disrupting the matter of the universe. It’s about jumping in, making a difference, and sharing the water.

In baptism we do jump in. Baptism is a change, it is a moving forward, a leaving behind. At the baptism of Jesus, 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. We don’t need the augurs to read the flight of the birds. We have the symbolic wings of the dove of the Holy Spirit to show us the way forward. We’re called to get wet, 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). We will not go from life to death and to new life without some effect, and at the very least, we will be getting wet.

In baptism we also make a difference. Like a stone that’s thrown into water and makes a ripple effect, the effect of our baptism will ripple throughout our lives and into the lives of others. It will naturally spill over. If you ever watch a group of kids at a swimming pool, you’ll notice that as soon as an adult looks away, the action becomes about who can make the biggest splash, the most dramatic jump into the water. Who can displace the most water? It’s all about being seen, about making one’s mark, about standing out. As Christians, we could use a little more of this childish instinct. Being baptized marks us as belonging to Christ—it makes us different, different in the way we make decisions, in the way we spend money, in the way we treat other people. As the children in the swimming pool know, there’s a big difference between splashing water in someone else’s face and in simply making a big splash oneself. We also know that difference and as Christians are called to be respectful to those of other faith or no faith, but it still make a splash with our own faith.

We get wet, we make a splash, and finally, our baptism carries with it the command as well as the courtesy of sharing water to others. Every week there are some from this parish who participate in volunteer ministries around the city. Some literally share water, and tea, and food. Others sit on boards, help with fundraising, or haul food from one place to another. In just a few weeks, our Endowment Board will meet to review applications for mission grants, grants that have enabled us to further the prayers we say and make them more tangible for people in need—for victims of the storm in New York and New Jersey, for tornado victims in the south, and for people in Honduras, South Africa, the Middle East, and elsewhere. In the streets of this city, in the farthest corners of the globe, many of you share your spirit and the spirit of Christ in you, as you work and travel and do research and offer guidance-- you give of yourselves for the bettering of God’s creation. In sharing the OUR spirit, having been baptized with water and the spirit, we water to others.

The folks downtown are probably about finished with their rehearsal and next week will be the real thing. As our country gets ready to celebrate the inauguration of a new presidential term, there are hopes and there are worries. But as we watch the inauguration of one person and a new leadership, we also have the chance to re-commit ourselves to our individual and collective callings as people living in this particular country. In a similar way, on this day the church calls the Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, though we (ourselves) are not baptized again, we reaffirm our own baptismal covenant. We re-commit ourselves. May the Spirit refresh us, commission us to do faithful ministry in the new year, and fill us with the very power of God.

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

Words and the Word

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Tue, 25 Dec 2012 15:00:00 +0000

A sermon for Christmas Day, 2012. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 52:7-10 , Hebrews 1:1-12 , John 1:1-14 , and Psalm 98.

There are a number of different websites through which one can subscribe to a “word of the day.” For example, from Merriam Webster the word of the day for today is a phrase more than a word. Today’s word is “Lord of Misrule.” The Lord of Misrule is the master of Christmas revels in England especially in the 15th and 16th centuries. In Scotland, the same person was called the Abbot of Unreason. Both terms originated probably in the celebration of a Feast of Fools, which usually took place on January 1.

The word we choose or the word we choose NOT to choose says a lot about us. We can try to impress. We can try to mislead or suggest. We can do all sorts of things with words.

Next Saturday the Church commemorates Thomas Becket, who died, legend says, because of a word. Thomas was Archbishop of Canterbury during the reign of King Henry II. Though tensions between Thomas and Henry had been brewing, the story is that a word (or a few words) said in frustration by the king were interpreted by the king’s men as a desire to have Thomas killed. A “word” killed Thomas Becket.

Words matter. They can, and do hurt. A little girl thinks she is ugly, does so only because someone has called her ugly. A little boy thinks he’s dumb, not because he is, but because someone has called him dumb. Words shape us. If we were to look back over our lives, I’m sure we could recall times when a word has stuck us as a weapon almost, and it has hurt. Perhaps just as painfully, in a spirit of confession, I bet most of us could recall a time when we’ve used words as weapons and hurt others.

Words can hurt, but words just as surely can heal. A well-chosen and well-placed word can offer encouragement, hope and life. I remember well the morning of my ordination to the priesthood. There were seven of us to be ordained. Our families, friends, and parishes had all gathered at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. We were already nervous when the Canon for Liturgy asked all of us seven to meet the bishop in a side chapel. We immediately wondered if someone’s paperwork had not come through, or if there were some scandal brewing that no one knew about. Every conceivable problem went through our minds. And then the bishop came into the chapel. Taking a deep breath, he prefaced his remarks as you might imagine—commenting on the gravity of the day, the ontological change about to take place in our souls, the life for which we would be responsible for living in the future, and then he said, “So, I have something to say to you that I hope you’ll remember. Be nice.” Just a couple of words—well- chosen words that I complete fail at remembering or living out—but words I aim for.

It is no coincidence that our Biblical account of creation happens by a word. “The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. And God said, God said, "Let there be light.” And there was light. God said, Let there be this, and let there be that, and after each thing was created, God spoke a single word again: “Good,” God said, “It’s all very, very good.”

The Word was busy, shaping and making and proclaiming and blessing. The Gospel of John picks up on this power of a word to create. “In the beginning was the Word,” John says, “and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it….And the Word became flesh.”

When John speaks of the “Word,” the Greek term he uses is Logos, and Logos meant more than just a word, more even than all words put together. Way back in Greek philosophy, in the 3rd century BC, Heraclitus said that the Logos “governs all things.” And yet, the Logos is also present in the everyday. Later, the Stoics took up the idea of the Logos and used it to mean the principle that orders the universe. So when John uses Logos, or Word, he’s using a term that would have worked as a kind of hyperlink, culturally. To say that the Word was with God and the Word was God, and then to say that this Word, this ordering principle of the universe is completely summed up in Jesus of Nazareth, John was pulling together a lot of different ways of understanding the world. He was describing in his context, what it meant for God to be born in the world. John used a word to bring together different worlds.

While Jesus was born once in the event we celebrate at Christmas, he is also born again and again in our own lives and in our world wherever we make his love known. One way we can bring Christ into our world in through our words.

Just as we know words can hurt, so, through the love of Christ, our words can take on

additional power to heal, to love, and to lift up. Guided by the Holy Spirit, our words can do much more than simply offer kindness, though in our world, that is no small thing. But even more, informed and influenced by the Spirit, our words can offer life and love to those who may have forgotten how such words even sound.

As we look toward a new year, I’m hoping to watch my words very carefully. I’m going to be praying that my words might help and heal rather than criticize or tear down. I invite you also to think about your words, pray about your words, and may God guide us all to speak truth, to speak for justice and to speak in love.

May God be our my head, and in our understanding;

God be in our eyes, and in our looking;

God be in our mouth, and in our speaking;

God be in our heart, and in our thinking;

God be at our end, and at our departing.

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

The Night Fear Began to Fade

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 24 Dec 2012 23:31:00 +0000

Nativity by Brian Kershisnik

A sermon for Christmas Eve 2012. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 9:2-7 , Titus 2:11-14 , Luke 2:1-20) , and Psalm 96.

There’s a strong tendency to be sentimental at Christmas. Trees and lights, and good-smelling things in the kitchen. Memories fill our minds in such a way that even when they’re bittersweet, they’re still beautiful, and precious. And so in a haze of warmth, with a whiff of incense in the air, we hear the words of an angel, “Do not be afraid.”

They sound soft, like a prayer. Had just one sheep made a sound, the angel’s words might have been lost to the shepherds. “Do not fear” can fall like a mist or a snow, nice, but not really accomplishing much. Such words can be like much of the spirituality of our day—harmless, but hollow and not really very helpful.

“Fear not. Do not be afraid.” These words of the angel are not new ones, of course. That angel, or another, has used those same words again and again, ever since God breathed life into the world.

Do not fear, God says to Moses. Do not fear, an angel says to Gideon. Do not fear, Boaz says to Ruth. David says “do not fear.” Isaiah says, “Do not fear.” The angels pick up the song again in the Gospels and say to Elizabeth and Zechariah, “Do not fear.” And famously to Mary, the angel says, “Do not fear.”

But what do these words mean? Do they mean anything? Almost as soon as the birth of a savior is celebrated, King Herod issues a decree that all of the male babies in the area of Bethlehem should be killed. Angels come and go, but warfare, disease, famine, violence and the other all-too-real aspects of life and death go on, in saecula saeculorum.

“Do not fear…..” [But] there is something for us to hear in those words, I think. The fact that “Do not fear” is repeated again and again tells us that fear is never quite dispelled. It doesn’t go away easily. Faith doesn’t make it vanish. Good works can’t work it away. It’s not the stuff of disposition or personality. Each new generation, each new person, faces fear that seems custom-tailored, personal, unique, and as though no one has ever faced it before.

The angel is usually the messenger. Angels are pictured to be above it all, literally and spiritually. Artists show them as powerful and strong. They are majestic and look evil in the face. Angels are fearless, or fearsome. But at least one writer, Frederick Buchner, allows for another view, and to me it seems a more realistic view. He writes,

Gabriel told Mary what the child was to be named, and who he was to be, and something about the mystery that was to come upon her. [And then,] “You mustn’t be afraid, Mary,” he said. But “As he [Gabriel said those words] he only hoped [Mary] wouldn’t notice that beneath the great, golden wings he himself was trembling with fear… [trembling with fear] to think that the whole future of creation hung now on the answer of a girl.” [Peculiar Treasures, p. 39]

Gabriel is like a parent who tries to comfort a child, but whose primary prayer is that the child won’t see the parent’s own fear. Gabriel is like our president a few weeks ago, like our leaders at press conferences. Gabriel is like us when we try to be brave, when we tell ourselves there’s nothing to fear, and yet, the world around us, and in some cases the world within us, gives us plenty of reason, in fact, to be afraid.

But faith gives us a way forward, and it is anything BUT sentimental. Faith gives us a way to move with fear, to use fear as an energy that draws us out of isolation, out of ourselves and into the care and trust of a living and loving God.

I have a theory about fear, a “feary,” if you will. It’s a simple observation really, but I’ve found it true in my own life. Whenever I am afraid, if I share my fear with someone, my fear begins to diminish. You might imagine lots of reasons why that’s not a good practice, and sometimes I’m held back by all the various considerations that rattle around in our heads: Can I risk showing my fear? What happens if I show people that I don’t have it all together? What right do I have to burden others with my fears? Won’t it just raise their anxiety, as well?

And yet—the thing of it is—what I’ve seen anyway in my own life-- is that just the opposite happens. When I share my fear, mine and the other person’s begins to diminish.

Though Gabriel’s wings might be shaking, they shake less after he goes to Mary.

Mary had her own fears and she could have turned in the other direction and run. She could have made other decisions. But instead she takes her fear with her and goes to her cousin Elizabeth. And there, some of the fear begins to fall away.

Joseph is told that Mary is pregnant with a child that is not his, but he takes that fear with him and goes to Mary’s side. Fear is turned into prayer, which is turned into action, which leads them into the will and way of God.

The shepherds are terrified at their vision. But they take their fear with them and go to Bethlehem.

That’s the invitation for us, to take our fear with us, join up with others, and take it to God, to go to Bethlehem. There at the cradle, fear isn’t wiped away by angels’ wings, but by facing it together, we can allow fear to become prayer, that becomes action, that carries us into God’s future.

Fear can change us for the worse. We see plenty of that all around us. Fear of reputation or losing an argument can keep us from talking to those who disagree with us, it can ruin relationships, and it can shut down a government. Fear of rejection can poison an emerging love. Fear of failure can prevent risk or change or growth.

But fear can also change us for the better, and change the whole world. When I think of fear that motivates and wakes up and changes, I think especially these days of Malala Yousufzai. Malala is the Pakistani teenager who won’t let fear stop her. Since she was 11 she’s been demanding that she and other girls in the Swat Valley region of Pakistan be allowed an education. Even when the Taliban took over the valley in 2009, she kept on blogging. When they raided homes to confiscate books, she hid hers under her bed. She says she was scared, but she kept on blogging and kept motivating. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, even as her fingers must have been shaking as she typed. In October of this year, the Taliban got her, and they shot her in the head. She’s now recovering in England, there appears to be no brain damage, and she keeps on speaking out. The Taliban’s fear-based plan is backfiring, as Malala shares her fears with others, their fear fades, and they get stronger.

This is the point of Christmas. Christ is born into a world of fear. This little baby who is born in a manger is the life and light of God come into a dark world. And yes, sometimes it seems to be growing even darker. But Christ is born. God has become incarnate to show us that the way to love and life eternal happens not through angels, not in clouds, not even in music or prayers or comforting words, but through the hard work of relationship, of humanity, of meeting Christ in one another and proclaiming Christ born, died, and raised again.

This Christmas and in the New Year, may God give us the faith to share our fears—with God and one another, so love might continue to be born in our world.

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

Magnified with Mary

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 23 Dec 2012 16:30:00 +0000

The Virgin and Child at All Souls

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, December 23, 2012. The lectionary readings are Micah 5:2-5a, Psalm 80:1-7, Hebrews 10:5-10, and Luke 1:39-55.

Having grown up in Protestant churches in North Carolina, my first real meeting with the Blessed Virgin Mary happened in a footnote. It was my first semester of seminary at one of the proudest and most conscientious Reformed seminaries [Princeton Theological Seminary, 1987], but we read as a survey text, a book by John Macquarrie. There, in a footnote, was mention of a group called the Ecumenical Society of the Blessed Virgin Mary. I was intrigued. I felt like I had stumbled upon a secret that had been kept from me, and so I went to the library and began to find pamphlets and newsletters from the Ecumenical Society. Thoughts were offered by Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Catholics, and the Orthodox. This began for me what has resulted in first a journey of the head, then of the heart, and now perhaps one this is increasingly incarnate.

When I first ran into, or rather, “read into” Mary, I did now know that while John Macquarrie started out a proper Church of Scotland theologian and minister, when he was teaching at Union Seminary in New York City, he one day visited a church in Times Square, a church named for the Virgin Mary. That visit continued a deep conversion process that resulted in Macquarrie’s reception and ordination in the Episcopal Church. His first Mass was celebrated in 1965 in the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, the church where I also said my first Mass and served before coming here.

Some believe (and I agree with them) that the best hope forward for people of faith (those of us who are Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox, but also, the surest way forward with Jews and Muslims) is for us to follow together Mary, the mother of Jesus. Miriam, the Jewish girl, never for an instant diminishes her Jewishness. Christians revere her for giving birth to the savior. Muslims acclaim her as righteous and chosen, and in fact, an entire chapter of the Quran is named after her. In addition to interfaith and ecumenical discussions of Mary, in the last few years, Pentecostals and Evangelicals have also begun to re-examine Mary. The famous experiences of Mary in the lives of ordinary people—Guadalupe, Fatima, Medjugorje—as well as the quiet, personal experiences, happen when we are vulnerable, when we are humble, when we most need God.

Mary sings from this place of humility and neediness in her song, Magnificat, the Latin shorthand for the beginning of, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” In the medieval church Mary’s Song was the highpoint of the evening office, it followed the reading of the Gospel, incense was offered and it led right into the prayers. When Thomas Cranmer simplified the monastic daily office and edited the first English Book of Common Prayer, he retained the Magnificat as a kind of highpoint at Evening Prayer. When we offer Evensong, the first canticle is Our Lady’s Song, Magnificat. When Evensong in done in grand style, it is during Magnificat that the altar is censed, and then the thurifer goes right down the middle aisle of the church, censing all of the people. The spreading of incense is a reminder that Mary’s song is also to be our song.

She begins by singing, “My soul magnifies the Lord.” But in fact, the Lord has magnified Mary. Through today’s scripture lessons, there runs a theme of God’s magnifying work, of the way in which God enlarges and creates great things out of things that were small.

In the first reading the Prophet Micah singles out Bethlehem, tiny Bethlehem. “From you shall come forth the ruler in Israel. And he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God. And they shall dwell secure, for now he shall be great to the ends of the earth.”

The second reading is from the Letter to the Hebrews, a kind of poetic argument about the ways in which Jesus is both high priest and perfect sacrifice, who accomplishes salvation for us in a way that nothing else can. Hebrews argues that no amount of offering from us, no amount of sacrifice or work or good deeds or perfect living will ever accomplish what was accomplished by the simplicity and purity of Christ’s faithfulness to God. God is more pleased by the simple act of faithfulness than the complicated scheme of temple sacrifices and offerings.

Throughout the scriptures there is a theme of God choosing what is small and insignificant. Israel was not the mightiest of the nations. Moses was not the most likely to lead the people of Israel out of bondage. David was not the most likely to be king. Sarah was not the most likely to be the matriarch of an entire people. Great things were not expected from Jonah the prophet, Ruth the Moabite, Ezekiel or Esther, and many others.

Mary’s song in today’s Gospel sings with eloquence the song of God’s reversals, of God’s ability to turn everything upside-down and inside-out. The lowly and ignored are seen and appreciated. The mighty are put down and the left out are lifted up. The hungry are fed and those who are full are sent away. God remembers. God shows mercy. God magnifies.

I wonder in what ways we are being called to be like Mary and to magnify the Lord even as we are aware of the way that God magnifies our efforts and prayers? What can we do to lift up the lowly, to help feed the hungry, to offer healing to those who hurt?

Shannon Kubiak is a youth leader and writer who wrote a great little book a few years ago called “God Called a Girl.” She writes

Mary was a nobody, yet she found favor and blessing with God. How many times do we look in the mirror and find a nobody staring back at us? We often limit what God can do with our lives because we think our upbringing, our appearance, or our life is not a sufficient tool for the hands of God to use….[But] if Mary really was a nobody, all it took for God to make her “somebody” was one miracle on a lonely day when she was just going about her daily business… God called a girl. And that girl changed the world. The same God is calling again, and this time He’s calling you.” (God Called a Girl, p. 14-19, passim)

May we sing with the Blessed Virgin Mary the song of God’s reversals, of God’s surprises, and of God’s magnifying love, that we may do our part to magnify the Lord.

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

The All Souls Altarpiece

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Wed, 19 Dec 2012 15:45:00 +0000

The All Souls Altarpiece (2010)

At home, one of the best parts of Christmas involves unpacking ornaments and decorations and being flooded with memories and stories of other Christmases. It’s also like that at church, as we light Advent wreath candles, sing familiar hymns, decorate, and especially as we place the All Souls Altarpiece in the Mary Chapel.   In 2010 our altarpiece was built by John Coates and painted by self-taught artist Louis von Rago, based on an outline by Ed Perlman. It combines both traditional and contemporary elements, and is meant to be especially accessible to children. At the 4 p.m. Children’s Mass on Christmas Eve, the crèche will come to life with needlepoint figures made by parishioners, a project coordinated by Susan Morrison.

Some of the images on the altarpiece are scriptural: the angels, the sheep, the ox, and the donkey. But other images come from tradition, such as white lilies representing the purity of the Virgin Mary. These also foreshadow the crucifixion of Jesus, since a popular medieval white flower was from the mustard family, whose Latin name is Cruciferae. The red carnation is known in Northern Europe as Naegelblume or nailflower, because its blossom was thought to represent the serrated edges of a medieval nail. Together, the flowers represent all creation’s joy at the birth of a savior, but also connect his birth with the death and rebirth we celebrate at Easter.

The more contemporary symbols include shepherds wearing “technicolor dreamcoats” and multicultural angels playing instruments (including a saxophone) who sing “happy birthday” as well as “Gloria in excelsis Deo.” The black sheep among the others represents all of God’s children who may come to Christ through unconventional paths, many of whom form the heart of All Souls parish. The manger is complete with a “barn cat,” whose sainted relative (a cat who has died and gone to heaven) can be seen watching from the top left side of the roof.

Like the householder in the Gospel of Matthew, we seek to “bring out of our treasure what is new and what is old.” We look and listen for God to speak out of the old, as well as the new. Glory be to God in the highest.

Preparing for a Christ Who Suffers With Us

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 20:57:00 +0000

A sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent, December 16, 2012. The lectionary readings are Zephaniah 3:14-20, Canticle 9, Philippians 4:4-7, and Luke 3:7-18.

There’s a problem with calendars. Calendars and seasons can fool us into thinking that there is a natural course for things. One season leads to the next, one day to the next. Summer fades into fall, which leans into winter, which melts into spring, and so on. In this hemisphere we expect Easter to be in the spring, and Christmas to be in winter. But it doesn’t always happen that way, spiritually. That’s the trouble with calendars and seasons. They fool us into a false belief in order, control, and predictability. Until life interrupts.

The Church calendar is open to the same problems. Here, on this day, we would like to be observing Advent, the Third Sunday being a particular day of joy in a season of increasing light, increasing hope, until everything builds to Christmas Eve, when we proclaim God is with us, Immanuel! Joy to the world!

But the world interrupts. In too many ways, today seems the last few days seem more appropriate to the occasion marked by the Fourth Day of Christmas, the remembrance of Holy Innocents.

The Feast of the Holy Innocents, on December 28, refers to the slaughter of innocent children carried out by King Herod in his attempt to rid the world of Jesus. But it has become a day for remembering the innocent victims of every age. The senseless violence of the past few days: Oregon, Connecticut, Alabama, and a planned act in Oklahoma--- put us on equal ground with those in the first century, in every century, who ask “Why.” Of course, there’s no good answer, no good honest answer.

One of the best I’ve heard recently was from a man I know who, when faced with an impossible situation, asked an older woman, “How is this in any way God’s will?” The wise woman told her friend, “Honey, they’re a lot of wills out there in the world. And not all of them are God’s.”

When such things happen, I don’t go first to policy changes, or retribution, or vengeance, or justice. Other people have those jobs and they are doing them. But my job is to go to God. And I invite you to go with me this morning.

Today I go to God following the thinking of a theologian named Jurgen Moltmann. In 1943, Moltmann was in his hometown of Hamburg, as bombs fell on that city and killed 80,000 people. He lived, but wondered why others didn’t. He writes that his deepest question was not so much “Why would God allow this?” The question, for him was not “Why?” Instead, the question was “Where?” “Where is God in such suffering?” Moltmann would go on to become one of the most significant theologians of our era, answering his own question with an understanding that God is in the midst of suffering. Jesus, our brother, suffers with us. It’s a little bit like when Catherine of Siena asked God, “My God and Lord, where were you when my heart was plunged into darkness and filth?” And then, out of the silence, she heard God answer, “My daughter, did you not feel it? I was in your heart?”

And so, on this Third Sunday of Advent, we interrupt the seasonal color of blue or purple with the color of rose, the color of the heart. It is purplish blue tinged with blood, really. The passion breaks into our season of hope and expectation, as well, but if we allow it, the passion of Christ (his death and resurrection) will provide a deeper and truer foundation for joy that is to come.

This is what John the Baptist is talking about in the Gospel from last week and today. He is preparing the way, and if his words seem brash or hard, it’s because he’s trying to help people see that while God brings deliverance and justice and love and acceptance, eternal and everlasting mercy and forgiveness and welcome--- God is also with us in the wilderness. God is with us in the painful times. God loves us with a passion that is so strong that it becomes incarnate in Jesus Christ who lives and dies and fights and loves and suffers and rises again—WITH US.

In today’s gospel, John works to clear away anything that might obstruct or dampen the way of Jesus.
Those of you who have a long religious tradition, John says, don’t be so quick to think you’ve got a straight route right into heaven. Don’t rely on your past. “What then should we do?” the people ask.

But John keeps preaching. He says that folks should share with one another. Don’t hoard up things for yourself. Give some to those who don’t have enough. And even the tax collectors ask him, “What then should we do?” John keeps preaching. And the soldiers ask, “What should we do?”

Each time, John replies not with some impossible task. He doesn’t demand that people be heroic in their service. He’s not calling folks to a life of extremes or even a particularly religious life. Instead, he says basically—do the right thing. To the crowds, he says, “If you’ve got extra, share with someone who has none.” To the tax collectors he says, “Be fair. Do honest work.” To the soldiers he says, “don’t be bullies or threaten or extort.” In other words, “engage in the world around you.” The way to God is into action, not away from it. Death would have us retreat, isolate, and turn away from others. But the life-changing way of Christ points us forward, into the messiness of life with others wherein we will surely come to know the suffering Christ, but we will also meet the risen Christ again and again and again.

John the Baptist also tells us how this is possible when he says to prepare for one who baptizes not with water only, but also “with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”

Baptism by water is outward, it’s external. It can make a point, it can change lives. But John points to a deeply baptism still—a baptism with the Holy Spirit and with fire, an internal baptism. This second baptism sometimes comes with the first, and sometimes a few years or many years later. The second baptism might be loud and everyone might see a difference in your life. Or it might be quiet, silent, almost unnoticeable.

When we think of the problems in our world—violence, poverty, oppression, inequality—all of them can and should be addressed through outward means—like a baptism with water, we become visible. We write and email and organize and vote and protest and agitate. But that’s only part of the battle, because, as that wise grandmother said, “There are a lot of wills out there, but not all are God’s.” And that means that whether we are aware of it or not, we are engaged in a spiritual battle, as well. And for that, we need the God of Angel Armies, the God of Abraham and Sarah, of Isaac and Rebecca, of Mary and Joseph and Jesus the Christ—we need that internal, deep-down conversion to God’s love and purpose that John calls a baptism with spirit and fire.

Jurgen Moltmann makes the point that “Christ isn’t merely a person. He’s a road too. And the person who believes in him takes the same road he took.” “We cannot grasp Christ merely with our heads or our hearts. We come to understand him through a total, all-embracing practice of living,” of following him. And the Gospels tell us what that life looks like: “Go and preach: the kingdom of heaven is at hand. Heal the sick, cleanse lepers cast out demons.” (Matthew 10)

Proclaiming God’s kingdom to the poor means giving back to them the divine dignity of which the violent have robbed them. Healing the sick means planting the seeds of life in this world of death. Cleansing lepers means accepting the handicapped who are pushed out of our society. Casting out devils means shaking the idols set up in our national and social life, to which so many of the weak have been sacrificed. In other words, men and women who take Christ’s road take up the struggle of life against death. (Moltmann, Jesus Christ for Today’s World, p. 47)

Last night in the undercroft, 20 or 25 of us did just that. It was the Sunday School’s St. Nicholas party, but it was a lot more than that. On a day filled with too much bad news, too much sensationalism, too many opinions ranging from quick fixes to despair. We represented a mixture—racially, economically, socially, politically. We had heterosexual parents and homosexual parents, single parents and married parents. We had kids who are advanced for their age and kids who learn, or interact, or speak at their own pace. And once we were together, we shared a potluck dinner. The kids wrapped the gifts that you all have bought for the children at Transitional Housing Corporation. The children made little gift bags for our older adults who don’t get out as much. And then St. Nicholas came. Our usual St. Nick has the flu, so we were prepared to simply have Marcia or me read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. But someone heard, and urged her husband to step up. We dressed up Clive Brady and he read the story beautifully.

Our little gathering was not grand, not fancy, and not earth-moving. But it was our declaration of life. It was our affirmation of faith in Jesus Christ who is about life and love and joy.

Too many in our world will feel like today is a combination of Good Friday and Holy Innocents, but we can pray that over time, and with the help and love of others, they may know very deeply and closely the God who suffers with us, Christ our brother who holds us and carries us forward in love, in hope, and even in joy.

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

Gaudete: Joy Breaks In

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 17:14:00 +0000

One of the great gifts of praying daily Morning Prayer at All Souls is watching the windows change with the light. Tuesday through Friday, a few of us gather at 7:15 for Matins, reading the scriptures from the daily lectionary, praying the psalms appointed for the day, and asking God to be with us and to reveal himself in the world in the day ahead. Often, the church’s stained glass windows compete for our attention.

The St. John the Evangelist window by Tiffany, between the Main Altar and the Mary Chapel, comes alive in the morning. As the light outside moves and trees sway, the colors dance and shine with St. John’s preaching. The large window of Jesus over the Main Altar claims special attention sometimes when the sun seems to hover directly behind, coloring us with the image of Christ and making the angels seem as if they’re moving. Other times in the year, we finish Matins and turn to leave the church and are almost knocked over by the brilliance of the Goodhue window over the baptismal font. On such days, the light is so strong that we remember it on days that are cloudy or overcast, or even at night.

The Third Sunday of Advent is a little like the light we experience through our windows. Gaudete Sunday, Rose Sunday, or Refreshment Sunday—whatever name you prefer—breaks into our season like a burst of light, interrupting our listening, intruding on our waiting, and injecting a new sense of urgency. Something is about to happen, and it is coming from God!

Gaudete Sunday takes its name from the first word of the traditional choral introit appointed for this day, Gaudete in Domino semper, “Rejoice in the Lord always,” echoed in our Epistle Reading from Philippians 4:4-7. We are urged to rejoice because “the Lord is near.” God’s closeness means that worry, anxiety, and uncertainty are all taken into the heart of God, who “guards our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” Like the sun that moves around our building to reveal new sights and visions, God’s grace moves around us, interrupting our lives with joy, with promise, and with hope. May we perceive the increasing light of Christ this season.

God's Word in the Wilderness

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sun, 09 Dec 2012 21:54:00 +0000

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, December 9, 2012. The lectionary readings are
Baruch 5:1-9, Canticle 4, Philippians 1:3-11, and Luke 3:1-6.

The year before I was born, Maurice Sendak published his children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are. I’m not sure when the book came into our family, but I remember that book as among the very first of my favorites. I grew up with the story of Max, who puts on a wolf costume, gets into trouble, and is sent to his room. There, whether by dream or something else, Max’s room becomes a wild jungle. He sets sail on a boat and reaches an island where there are huge, scary, beasts where “the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.”

The place “where the wild things are” can seem like that. For Max, the “wild place” is set apart from the warmth and comfort of his home, where family and food are. Throughout history, the wild place, the desert, the wilderness, has been juxtaposed with the city—a place of safety and warmth.

For many throughout history, it is only the barbarians who live outside the walls of the city. Saint Augustine imagined the ultimate Christian community as the City of God, and throughout the Jewish, Christian and Muslim traditions, Jerusalem is imagined as a place of privilege. The city is the holy place, the place of order and justice, a place of charity and community and faithfulness.

On the other hand, the wilderness is unruly. It is where monsters and demons live. It is a place of chaos and disorder. The wilderness is to be feared. The people of Israel wander for 40 years in the wilderness. Jesus is tempted in the wilderness.

How strange, then, that in today’s scripture readings God’s word comes from the wilderness. Baruch’s message is that those who are in the wilderness will be brought back. Sorrow and affliction will be turned into beauty and glory. God will bring them back, even on a royal throne, they will return. No one will be forgotten. No one will be lost. But everyone will be included in the new Israel, a place filled with joy and glory and mercy and righteousness.

The word of God comes to John the Baptist in the wilderness, and John seems to have kept one foot in that wilderness experience throughout his ministry, whether his preaching was in the outlying areas or in the courts of King Herod. John’s is the voice of one “crying in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord.” John the Baptist seems to have been strengthened by the wilderness. He seems to have felt God’s call in the wilderness.

John’s word is especially appropriate for us, I think, because as much as we might like to live in spiritual cities (those places where things are orderly, harmonious, faithful and connected to God), we, most of us, have some sense of living in the wilderness.

For most of us, every day is not Christmas. Every day is not filled with the excitement and assurance sung by Mary when she knew that God was with her and that from that moment onward, God would be with creation in a new way.

For too many, and certainly for many among our number, the day to day experience of God is less that of being near the manger (an arm’s reach from Jesus), but more like being apart from God, in a wilderness.

One can find oneself in the wilderness almost anywhere.

Especially this time of year, in the midst of an office party, between the laughter and lightness, right when everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves, you can find yourself in a wilderness. There is a feeling of emptiness and being alone.

Or as Christmas approaches, travel is expensive, time-off is short and the ones you love are far away. And you feel like you’re stuck in the wilderness.

Or because of health—your own or someone else’s—you simply don’t feel much like celebrating this year, and you feel the wilderness.

Who knows what it is that puts us in the wilderness, that makes us feel like we’ve been sent into exile—the death of a friend or loved one, problems at work, problems in a relationship, family dynamics, questions about God, or just the stress of this time of year—whatever it might be, the wilderness can seem all too real.

But for those who are in the wilderness, or for those of us who know it’s territory, let the word of God be heard: “Prepare. Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.” Because “every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be brought low, the crooked, straight; the rough, smooth, and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.” All flesh, all people, every one of us—will see the salvation, the saving strength, the saving love, the saving mercy and redemption of God. There is hope in this message. There will be a way out and a way forward, and that way will be filled with Christ.

In Sendak’s book, Max is made king of the wild things. But eventually, something about the wilderness, something he learns from the wild things themselves, something he learns from deep within, makes him miss home, and so he renounces his kingship, sets sail, and returns home, where a warm dinner is waiting. All is forgiven.

Whether we spend our time in the wilderness or in the city, the Spirit of God invites us with words that urge us to know God’s presence more deeply this season. May we prepare our hearts through repentance—that constant turning toward God—that we may know God and know his love for us and for the world. And so, with our hand in God’s, “let the wild rumpus start” now.

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

Christ, Our All

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 03 Dec 2012 02:52:00 +0000

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, December 2, 2012. The lectionary readings are Jeremiah 33:14-16, Psalm 25:1-9, 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13, and Luke 21:25-36.

Today we begin the season of Advent, a season of waiting and watching. 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 Early Church used it as a time of preparation for baptism, and it also foreshadows royalty, as we await the coming of a King. The Advent wreath is another symbol of our waiting, as each Sunday, another candle is lit. Those who keep Advent Calendars open one window or door each day-- a practice of focused waiting and watching. The lessons that the Church gives us for this morning and the next few Sundays are all about waiting and watching and preparing. But for WHAT are we waiting? For WHAT are we on the watch?

It is traditional during Advent to talk about the two aspects of waiting and watching for the Lord. It is, we are told, a sort of two-track season, and we travel both tracks at he same time. One aspect has to do with our re-telling the story of the coming of a Messiah, the one who was born in the manger, Jesus of Nazareth. The other aspect of our waiting and watching has to do with the Second and Final coming of Jesus, as is hinted in the prophetic scriptures and especially in the Revelation to John.

But I wonder if the season isn’t more about a third way that Jesus asks us to watch and be ready. Bernard of Clairvaux speaks of such a way, but it’s also something Jesus point to whenever he talks about the kingdom of God. Troughout his earthly ministry, Jesus spoke about the kingdom of God. You are not far from the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God is very near you.

And finally, in Luke’s Gospel, Jesus says, “The kingdom of God is not coming with signs to be observed; nor will they say, “Lo, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you!” Jesus invited apostles, disciples, strangers, friends and enemies, to see the kingdom of God that was already around them. And that’s his invitation to us.

Learn from the fig tree, Jesus says. “From the fig tree learn the lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer in near. So also, Jesus says, when you see these things taken place you know that the Son of Man is near.”

That other day will come, when the Son of Man parts the clouds and the angels gather up the elect. But Jesus tells us, “don’t spend your time looking for signs or clues. Instead, look at what’s right before you.” Jesus invites us to watch for the kingdom of God's presence all around us. Not just in the re-telling of the Bible stories. Not just in the waiting for the final coming of Jesus. But right now, right here, in these in-between times.

The kingdom of God is in the midst of you, Jesus says. It is for us to notice. To watch. To look, to see, to taste, to smell and to feel.

How do we spot the kingdom of God? There are several clues. The kingdom of God is among us when we see acts of mercy. Our world talks a lot about justice, but when we’re on the receiving end, which of us really wants justice? But when we are shown a kindness that we did nothing to deserve, when we are given a gift that we did not earn or expect, when the hungry are filled with good things and the lowly have been looked upon with favor. The kingdom of God is in our midst.

The kingdom of God is among us when we see acts of forgiveness. Forgetting may be impossible, but through the love of Jesus Christ, there is such a possibility as forgiveness. Even when we can’t bring ourselves to forgive, we can pray that Christ might forgive on our behalf and move us toward the day when we, too, can forgive even as we have been forgiven. When we say we’re sorry, and someone else looks at us with a convincing smile and says, “It’s ok,” the kingdom of God is in our midst.

And the kingdom of God is among us when we see acts of love. There are still those people in the world who put others ahead of themselves. Sometimes they are parents. Sometimes they are children. Sometimes they are friends. Love happens when we throw out all of the planning, the percentage-based giving, the calculating, the expecting a return--- and we simply love for loves’ sake. When we love like God loves— God’s kingdom is in our midst.

Bernard of Clairvaux wrote,

“We know that there are three comings of the Lord. The third lies between the other two. It is invisible, while the other two are visible. In the first coming he was seen on earth . . . In the final coming all flesh will see the salvation of our God, … The intermediate coming is a hidden one; in it only the elect see the Lord within their own selves, and they are saved. In his first coming our Lord came in our flesh and in our weakness; in this middle coming he comes in spirit and in power; . . . Because this coming lies between the other two, it is like a road on which we travel from the first coming to the last. In the first, Christ was our redemption; in the last, he will appear as our life; in this middle coming, he is our rest and consolation. . . .
Keep God’s word in this way. Let it enter into your very being, let it take possession of your desires and your whole way of life. Feed on goodness, and your soul will delight in its richness. Remember to eat your bread, or your heart will wither away. Fill your soul with richness and strength.

Today at the 11 Mass, the choir sings one of my favorite anthems. “E’en so, Lord Jesus,” based on Revelation 22. I remember the first time I heard it: I was in seminary and it was my first semester. I had signed up for too many classes and had gotten involved in too many other things and was completely overwhelmed. Relationships seemed to be falling apart. I had no idea whether I should be aiming for ordination or not. I wanted Jesus to come, alright, and I wanted him to come quickly. I wanted that semester to end. I wanted my depression and confusion to end. I wanted change of some kind and in some ways, I wished the world I was experiencing might end and a new world begin. And about this time of the year, I heard that anthem. A recurring part of the hymn sings, “E’en so, Lord Jesus, quickly come, and night shall be no more; They need no light nor lamp nor sun, For Christ will be their All!” After hearing that anthem, after praying those words, it was as though something had shifted. There was a new sense that, one day, somehow, Christ would be “my all,” and that would be enough. It was enough now to hope for. It would one day be enough to experience.
That Christ might “be our all” is what Jesus asks, invites and promises. May Jesus quickly come, and may Christ become our All.

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

Kneeling in Heart and Body

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 16:48:00 +0000

At All Souls, one encounters a variety of postures in prayer. Especially when it comes to kneeling, the informal Episcopal Church slogan, “All may, some should, but none must,” certainly applies. Physical limitations prevent some from kneeling and whenever one is unsure of one’s stability or strength, I hope that person will feel comfortable standing for prayer and communion. Others cannot kneel. But whether permanently or temporarily unable to kneel, one may always “bend the knee of the heart,” to paraphrase the apocryphal Prayer of Manasseh.

Even though I often pray kneeling, increasingly, I find that kneeling is not simply a physical act. Perhaps at its deepest, kneeling has more to do with an attitude and an orientation.

One of the most helpful perspectives on kneeling I have found recently comes from the author, Ernie Kurtz (Shame &Guilt, 1981, rev. 2007). He suggests that kneeling can be understood as a “middle position—half-way between standing upright and lying flat.”

Sometimes, when we feel overwhelmed by life, by work, by limitation, or by sin, we feel like we have no power and there is nothing we can do. Kneeling is a reminder that we are never so low as to be lying flat. We can always do something, even if it is only to raise ourselves up just a bit, to kneel. We can get up on our knees. At the other extreme, we are sometimes completely full of ourselves, imagining that we need no one and that nothing can bring us down. Kneeling then reminds us of our need and helps us in humility. There’s a balance between control that is absolute and control that is abdicated. “You can do something,” Kurtz writes, “but not everything.”

The poet Ann Weems imagines that in each of our hearts there is a Bethlehem, a place for God to be born. She writes, “In the excitement and confusion, in the merry chaos, let's listen for the brush of angels' wings. This Advent, let's go to Bethlehem and find our kneeling places” (Kneeling in Bethlehem, 1987). Whether your bowing is spiritual or physical, whether in heart or in body, I invite you to join me in kneeling, as we observe God’s coming into our world in new ways and with new power.

Christ the King

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 29 Nov 2012 16:00:00 +0000

Resurrection Window by Goodhue, All Souls Memorial Episcopal Church

A sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King. The lectionary readings are Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14, Psalm 93, Revelation 1:4b-8, and John 18:33-37.

Today we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King. It is a little like a New Year’s celebration in the church, since this day works as a kind of exclamation point to the church year. A new church year begins next Sunday with the First Sunday of Advent, as we slow down a bit, breathe deeply, and begin to think about what it means that God has come into the world in the flesh. But today is Christ the King and in the scripture readings there runs the steady theme of the Kingdom of God.

In the Book of Daniel there are some frightening images. There are fires and flames, beasts and burnings. There is conflict and warfare, but the end result is a kingdom, a kingdom that is glorious and everlasting and serves the Ancient of Days for ever.

The psalm invites us to sing the praises of the Lord God who is like a king. So mighty is our God that all creation rises up to praise him, people, nations, even the waters themselves lift up their voices.

The Revelation to John also celebrates the king as victor. While it gives hope to the scattered Christians being persecuted in the first century, it also describes a cosmic battle of good and evil, where the victory is so complete that even we, living much later, become royals. John gives glory, “To him who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood and made us a kingdom, priests to his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever.”

This is a vision of victory that stretches to everyone, making us all kings and queens, princes and princesses, people created in the very image and likeness of God.

In the Gospel, Jesus explains to Pontius Pilate, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews; my kingdom is not from here.” “My kingdom is not from this world.”

From the calling of the disciples, through the healings and parables and teachings, even as they enter into Jerusalem for the celebration of the Passover, there is confusion over this kingdom of God as it pertains to Jesus. He explains his kingdom by what it is not, rather than by what it might be. When asked, Jesus gives simple images. The kingdom is like a mustard seed. The kingdom is a like the yeast used by a woman baking bread. The kingdom is like a pearl of great price. The kingdom is here, but it is not here.

How we perceive the kingdom of God will directly affect how we live out our lives in faith.

The Church over time has understood the kingdom of God in different ways. At some points, it has understood the kingdom of God as a goal for the here-and-now. The idea of Christendom, a civilization ruled by Christian kings, following Christian laws and fighting for Christian ideals allowed for and encouraged the crusades.

It has allowed for the persecution of Jews and Muslims and anyone perceived not to fit into the prevailing understanding of what it means to be “Christian.” There are, of course, still those who would have this nation be an overtly Christian one, with so-called Christian laws on the books, just like people in other places advocate for another religion’s laws to rule the day. But whenever people begin to try to create the kingdom of God in time, before long, the kingdom of God often seems to look a lot like us. It becomes a reflection of our own values and beliefs, and often the uglier side of those believes. However, the words of Jesus are clear: “My kingdom is not from this world.”

Others in the history of the Church have taken our Lord at his word and understood his kingdom as only having to do with heaven, far, far away. Therefore, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness in this world, simply need to wait: they’ll get their justice in the next life. But to believe that the kingdom of God only exists in heaven leaves us with little or no responsibility for the earth where we live.

But there is another view. Instead of the kingdom absolutely now or the kingdom way away in heaven, Christ calls us into a more unpredictable place, to live between the “already” and the “not-yet.” Wherever there are signs of justice and hope and faith, there is a breaking-in of the kingdom. But it’s partial, not yet fully realized.

The season of Advent will give us opportunity to explore this further as we look at what it means for Christ to have come into the world as a child, but also for us to look forward to his coming again in glory at the end of times.

So the kingdom, in some sense, is Christ himself. As he reveals himself, the kingdom unfolds. The kingdom of God spreads out as we receive Christ and come to know and love him and continue to embody his kingdom-goals in our lives. As Saint John realizes from the Revelation, “God has made us (with Christ in us) to be a kingdom.”

This kingdom is not of the world. It is a kingdom of reversals. Our Lady, herself, sang of this kingdom, “He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted those of low degree. He has filled the hungry with good things; and the rich He has sent empty away.” To live with Christ as King is to live with an awareness of this reversal.

His is also a kingdom of outcasts. When we read the Gospels it is a wild array of people who come to hear Jesus, who follow him, and who make him their Lord. Some are prostitutes, some are tax collectors, some widows, some soldiers; some are very rich, some are very poor, but they are unlikely to meet except in the presence of Christ. To live with Christ as King is to live in continual welcome of the outcast, of those who have nowhere else to go.

And finally, his is a kingdom of possibilities. To live with Christ as King is to live in expectation, to live in hope, and to live in faith. It is a kingdom of second chances, and third chances and fourth and fifth and sixth chances.

Especially on this day, we give thanks for Christ the King. And we give thanks that it is a kingdom that has been given to us, for us to extend to all of those who might believe. May we rejoice in this kingdom of reversals. May we open our doors to a kingdom of outcasts. And may we open our hearts to a kingdom of possibilities.

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

Dealing with Fear Through Thanksgiving

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 19:38:00 +0000

Cheeses with Almonds and Pritzels, by Clara Peeters, c. 1612-1615, Cleveland Museum of Art

A sermon for Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2012. The lectionary readings are Joel 2:21-27, Psalm 126, 1 Timothy 2:1-7, and Matthew 6:25-33.

Often it is said that the opposite of faith is not doubt. The opposite of faith is fear.

I used to believe that more than I do now, since I think—as I grow, and age, and experience more of life—I think faith can sometimes be found precisely THROUGH fear. By facing fear, by naming fear, by moving through fear (with the help of others), one can begin to feel the strength and care of God as a shield, as armor, and as a cloak of protection.

Today’s scriptures might sound a little surprising for a Thanksgiving Day because they include so much talk of fear, and worry and anxiety. The well-known words from Matthew are before us, in which Jesus says bluntly, “Do not worry about your life…” “Do not worry, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ [Try telling that to the hundreds of people in the line at the grocery store last night! ]

I wonder what the man with NY license plates (who cut me off in traffic yesterday as he was gunning for an entrance into a shopping store parking deck) would have said, if I had rolled down my window, smiled and said, “Do not worry about what you will eat or drink…?” (Luckily, I kept my window up, said nothing but a quick prayer for the man, and so, I’m standing before you now-- alive.)

“Do not fear” can sound like empty words and the phrase can sound like the worst sort of platitude. But on Thanksgiving Day, in the context of our prayers and our pause to be thankful, this question of fear and faith can be approached in a different way.

For fear to go away, it needs to be replaced by something: confidence, strength, know-how, information, results, assurance. Or, fear can be replaced by the act of thanksgiving. Jesus says “do not worry about what you will eat or drink, do not worry about tomorrow, do not worry about the future.” And yet, when we do worry, perhaps that’s the time to try to be thankful, to try to jot down or say out loud the things we DO have, the times God HAS been present, the people who HAVE been with us when we most needed them. Fill that fearful space with a prayer, a prayer of thanksgiving, and we’ll find that the anxiety begins to shift a little. God gets in that space to remind us that God is God, and God will be with us in the future, just as God has been with us in the past.

In just a few weeks, we will hear the message from the Angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary. Seeing terror in her eyes, watching her shake for fear, the angel will say to her those famous words, “Do not fear, Mary.” But then notice her response. She doesn’t immediately shake off the fear with newfound faith that makes everything instantly all right. She sings.

She sings a song of thanksgiving, reminding herself (and all creation) of God’s nature to lift up the lowly, to fill the hungry with good things, and to keep his promises.

Thankfulness doesn’t fill the empty chair at the table, where someone used to sit, but who has died since the last Thanksgiving. Thankfulness doesn’t magically create a job for us, or a full pantry, or friend to share our worries with; but the act of being thankful can erode the power of fear and worry. And once fear is gone, we can begin to enjoy what is present, what is near, what is given.

Austin Farrer writes about enjoyment. He says

The best way of thanking God is to taste his goodness with all our palate. It is no use making speeches of thanks to a musician, if you are bored by his performance. You may deceive him, indeed, if you are a clever hypocrite, and can act the attention you can’t be bothered to bestow. But God reads our hearts, and he knows whether we taste his kindness, or not. Enjoyment is the sincerest thanks. (The Brink of Mystery, p. 67-68)

Thanks be to the God of all good gifts, the God who banishes fear and fills our hearts with joy.

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

Giving Thanks by Looking Around

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 16:57:00 +0000

Near the top of my gratitude list is the time I spent at the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in New York City. The rector, the Reverend Stephen Gerth, taught me how to cense an altar, how to say Mass, and how to look through ritual and custom to find the heart of Christ. Stephen also taught me how to give thanks simply by looking around.

I remember countless social occasions, parish happenings, and liturgical celebrations when the rector would, at some point, command the room and ask everyone to stop. He would say something along the lines of, “I invite you to take a moment. Look around the room. Notice everyone who is here today and remember their faces. Take in this scene, because this particular gathering, this combination of people and circumstances, will never happen again.”

Some might find such words maudlin, but I always found them deeply meaningful. I appreciated his interruption, almost like pressing the pause button in the middle of a great movie so that details might be noticed. Stephen was right to point out the rare, the unique, and the once-in-a-lifetime nature of our being together, whether such a time was a high occasion or an everyday event.

This Thanksgiving is the sixth year that Erwin and I will be at All Souls for Mass in the morning, and then in the undercroft all afternoon, continuing the feast. When I think about the last five Thanksgiving dinners, I recall how the room looked different each year. Some of our beloved saints have died and now enjoy an even greater feast in heaven. A few parishioners have moved away, and some of the family, friends, or neighbors who joined us in the past were simply passing through. Each year has been different, but each year has been a gift. And I’m grateful to have noticed.
Wherever you may spend time over this Thanksgiving weekend and through the holidays ahead, I invite you to try that little practice Father Gerth taught me: look around, notice what is special in that moment, and give thanks to God for the gift of life and those around us.

Following through (with our prayers) after the election

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 12:55:00 +0000

On the day after the elections, at Matins and Mass at All Souls, we offered words from the Book of Common Prayer (p. 820):

O Lord our Governor, whose glory is in all the world: We commend this nation to thy merciful care, that, being guided by thy Providence, we may dwell secure in thy peace. Grant to the President of the United States, the Leaders of our District, and to all in authority, wisdom and strength to know and to do thy will. Fill them with the love of truth and righteousness, and make them ever mindful of their calling to serve this people in thy fear; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, world without end. Amen.

This is a fine prayer, as far as it goes. I’m sure that it was prayed in many Episcopal Churches in our country over the past few days. Some of our leaders themselves may have used this prayer or a similar one. But saying the prayer once does not necessarily make for peace, wisdom, strength, truth, mindfulness, or any other thing we might hope. Just as with campaign promises and plans, prayers also need follow-through.

Though I prayed the prayer with intention on Wednesday, the power of that prayer will continue as I interact with leaders and others in the political process in the days ahead. Through God’s grace, the intention of that prayer will reverberate as I encounter people who may disagree with my own particular political views. Can we disagree while hoping for a common good, while calling the best intentions out of one another, and while trying to resist immediately attributing motive to the other?

Some might suggest that such charity toward another has no place in the cold, hard world of money and power. But the money and power don’t seem to be getting very close to solving our problems, do they? I’ll keep praying for our leaders and for the many in our parish and beyond who work to support them, oppose them, and carry out programs and initiatives. May God guide us all.

Love that reaches up and out

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 00:57:00 +0000

A sermon for the Twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost, November 4, 2012. The lectionary readings are Deuteronomy 6:1-9, Psalm 119:1-8, Hebrews 9:11-14, and Mark 12:28-34.

When I was little, I learned in Sunday school that it was important to remember the two dimensions of the cross. A cross has an upward axis and that reminds us of our relationship with God. But the cross also has a horizontal axis, which reminds us of our relationships with each other. Both need to be in order for us to be right with God.

I learned that incredibly simple (if not simplistic) understanding of the cross maybe 40 years ago. But I’m not sure if I’m any closer at all to reflecting that kind of balance as I try to live my own life in the way of the cross.

The first great commandment: “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength;” and the second, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” are at the center of what it means to walk in the way of the cross. Those two great commandments are at the center of the scripture readings today.

We hear the summary of that first commandment at every Mass at All Souls. We hear it also today in the reading from Deuteronomy. Moses tells his people that God has promised to watch over them and to love them and to keep them safe. They will pass over from slavery into freedom, from bondage into liberty. They will be free. They will live. And so, he says, give thanks to the God who saves. The Lord is one. Love him with your heart, and your soul and all your might. Moses urges people to love God with their soul, but that word he uses for “soul” is a rich one.

It means to love God with your whole self, with your life, with the creature that you are, with your whole person, with your appetite, with your mind, with your desire, and with your passion.

The Second Commandment, “to love your neighbor as yourself” is sometimes thought by Christians to have originated with Jesus. But it is older. Rabbis long before Jesus had joined the commandment of loving God, with the command of loving neighbor. It’s found in the Book of Leviticus (19:18) and elsewhere. When Jesus links the love of God with the love of neighbor, he is simply following the great prophets of Israel, continuing the witness of Isaiah, and Jeremiah, and Amos.

In today’s Gospel Jesus has a conversation with a man who is called a scribe, a man who is educated in the laws of God and in their interpretation. As the conversation plays out, the scribe and Jesus agree about the commandments. They agree that the mark of faith is to “love God and love neighbor,” and for that agreement, Jesus says to the man, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.”

This scribe agrees with the teachings of Jesus, in his head. He can assent to the essential doctrine and can even affirm the interpretations of Jesus. And according to Our Lord, this man is “not far from the kingdom.” But it is that distance, that space between apprehending the kingdom of God and actually reaching the kingdom of God that makes all the difference.

“Almost” doesn’t count, except in a couple of things, and neither of them are Biblical.

The Gospel of Mark has a momentum to it, and this momentum is moving toward the cross. The scribe is lacking something. Like the rich man in an earlier story, the scribe here is lacking the follow-through. It’s not enough just to agree with Jesus. It’s not enough simply to be familiar with his teaching. Faithfulness is shown in one’s willingness to follow the cross—and this means the whole cross, including the love of God and the love of neighbor.

At All Souls we spend a lot of time on the love of God. We worship deeply and lovingly. We love God with our whole heart and soul and mind and strength. We love God “from the gut,” here. But do we do as well with the second commandment?

There’s a church I know in Houston, Texas, that since 1954 has matched, dollar for dollar, the money spent in the operation of the church and its programs with money given to those in need in the community and the world. Can you imagine such a thing for All Souls, or any church? We should imagine it and we should pray for such a day. We’re known all over the district and beyond for our worship and for our openness and hospitality. Those are great things. But let’s say out loud what we all know: The quality of our prayer does not feed a hungry person. It does not put clothes on the back of the poor. Our prayers do not build houses, or provide water, or send children to school.

“Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one; and we shall love the Lord our God . . . [and] our neighbor as ourself.”

Our prayers can provoke us. They can encourage us, and they can help us to look upward and outward and beyond ourselves. Our prayers can take us into the midst of the other.

There are lots of places to start. Melissa Barrett is the organizational head of our outreach, but the real outreach happens with individuals, with pairs, with small groups. Some have done a lot over the years, but they need help. Our Christ House volunteers need help. We need someone to take gathered food to the food bank. Listed in our weekly insert are notices from Transitional Housing, Samaritan Ministries, and many other organizations. I celebrate a monthly eucharist at St. Mary’s Court, a residence for older adults over in Foggy Bottom. You could attend and visit with some of our older friends. There are transitional houses of various kinds in our neighborhood, and there are various opportunities to become involved in Adams Morgan and beyond.

There is much that can be done toward loving our neighbor. Loving our neighbor flows into our worship, and flows out of our worship. I don’t want to worship less, but to explore new ways of moving out of our worship into the world.
Some of you are familiar with the term, “Anglo-catholic.” It has to do with a particular movement and a continuing spirit of reminding Anglicans of our Catholic roots, of what we have in common with the whole Christian Church. An Anglo-catholic perspective takes seriously the sacraments, is careful about worship, doesn’t feel that we have to invent prayer and ritual on the spot according to what may feel relevant in the moment, and a true Anglo-catholic perspective seeks to honor the body of Christ in other people just as much as in the Sacrament.
Some consider the 1920’s to have been a heyday of the Anglo-Catholic movement. There were strong churches, wise priests and active parishes. At a meeting of the Anglo-Catholic conference of 1923, The Right Reverend Frank Weston, the Bishop of Zanzibar, gave the closing address. He preached that day,

If you say that the Anglo-Catholic has a right to hold his peace while his fellow citizens are living in hovels below the levels of the streets, this I say to you, that you do not yet know the Lord Jesus in his Sacrament . . . Go out and look for Jesus in the ragged, in the naked, in the oppressed and sweated, in those who have lost hope, in those who are struggling to make good. Look for Jesus. And when you see him, gird yourselves with his towel and try to wash their feet.

That dimensional aspect of the Cross still cuts both ways, doesn’t it? It takes us upward and outward. May God show us mercy, and may our Lord Jesus give us the strength to be faithful, that we might walk in the way of the Cross. May we continue to love God with extraordinary beauty, extravagance and unapologetic grandeur, but may we also be motivated to move beyond these walls and participate in the transformation of the world.

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

Listening through All Souls

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Sat, 03 Nov 2012 00:00:00 +0000

The Resurrection, Fra Angelico, San Marco Museum, Florence

A sermon for All Souls' Day, November 2, 2012. The scripture readings are Wisdom 3:1-9, Psalm 130, 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18, and John 5:24-27.

The psalm sums up this night pretty well. “Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord.”   Psalm 130, known by its Latin nickname, “de profundis” has been prayed and played through the ages. It’s the same, regardless of the version we use, “de profundis,” “Out of the depths,” (KJV), “Out of the deep,” (BCP), or with Eugene Peterson’s translation, “Help, O Lord, the bottom has fallen out of my life!”(The Message).

St. Augustine, in his very last days, when he was extremely sick, is said to have written the words of Psalm 130 on his walls. He wanted to read them, and pray them, and breathe them with his very last breath.   John Wesley heard these words sung as an anthem one day at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and it was later that same day that he felt his heart “strangely warmed,” which began conversion, renewal, and a whole new direction for his ministry.

The depths out of which the psalmist cries are deep, dark waters. They’re like the depths at the beginning of creation, when chaos ruled. They’re like the depths into which Jonah fell. They are just like the deep waters feared, and skirted around, and finally crossed by the people of Israel as they moved toward freedom.

On this All Souls’ Day, we can only imagine how this psalm must sound to people in New York, New Jersey, and other areas so hard hit by the recent hurricane. The depths are all too real. All the scriptures about watery chaos, about darkness, and feeling lost—that’s their physical reality. We pray for God’s closeness and presence with them.

For too many others, and maybe some here, crying to God from the deep, “de profundis” is less a physical experience than an emotional one, or a spiritual one. The death of a loved one can make us feel like we’re drowning. An illness can make us feel like we’re swimming in deep water, but losing our strength. The demands of work and family, and life itself, can even swamp us.

The prayer of psalm 130 begins, “Out of the deep have I called to you, O Lord,” and then prays that God would hear. But the other scriptures, and, in fact, our faith itself, suggests that the answer to the prayer comes not so much with God’s hearing us, but more through OUR listening and hearing God.

The reading from Wisdom warns us that our eyes can mislead us. It will seem like those we have loved have died. It will look like disaster. It will appear as though they are far, far away. But they are with God. They are alive and well. We shouldn’t believe everything our eyes suggest.

To the Thessalonians, in our second reading, Paul declares. He preaches. He sounds the word that God’s own trumpet will sound one day. The archangel calls, and the dead are raised. And we will be raised with them. And so, listen well. Open your ears for the wind, for the trumpet sound, for the angel wings, for the raising up of all creation.

Jesus says, “anyone who hears my word and believes ….” We don’t have to strain our ears to hear. We don’t have to learn a cryptic language. We don’t have to learn to listen in some new way. We are given ears to hear… we just need to listen, to quiet the voices and the noises and the worries and the fears, and the doubts, and simply listen.

In the poem named, All Souls, May Sarton suggests that we listen through the lives of others, even through the lives of those who have died.   She asks,

"Did someone say that there would be an end,
An end, Oh, an end to love and mourning?
What has been once so interwoven cannot be raveled,
nor the gift ungiven

No, instead, she says,

Now the dead move through all of us still glowing,
Mother and child, lover and lover mated,
are wound and bound together and enflowing.
What has been plaited cannot be unplaited
- only the strands grow richer with each loss
And memory makes kings and queens of us.

And then, Sarton suggests that we grow into a deep place, but no longer the deep that feels overwhelming and scary, but a new deep that is full of life and the ones we have loved. And that’s where the listening comes in:

Dark into light; light into darkness, spin.
When all the birds have flown to some real haven;
We who find shelter in the warmth within,
Listen, and feel new-cherished, new-forgiven,
As the lost human voices speak through us
and blend our complex love,
our mourning without end."

Mourning and grief perhaps never end. But they change shape. They change tune. They change us, as we listen for God, and we begin to hear God’s love for us more deeply.

Listening, actually has to do with obedience. That word, “obedience,” is often misused in church. Too often, “obedience” has to do with following rules, fulfilling commandments, conforming to law. But the word we have in English, “obedient,” comes from the Latin, “ob,” meaning to, or towards, and “oedire,” meaning “to hear.” To be obedient is to “hear towards,” to “listen into,” even when it’s not clear what we’re listening for, or who we’re listening to.

One of the most beautiful contemporary settings of Psalm 130, De profundis, is by Avro Pärt. In order to write the music (or the prayer), the composer had to listen. And Pärt sometimes listens in an unusual way. It’s a method that uses a primary voice or tune, in this case to sing out mournfully, the words of Psalm 130, while underneath and overtop, there are little sounds, bell-like, building, wrapping around, increasing. Asked about this idea of little bells ringing around a theme, Pärt explains

Tintinnabulation is an area I sometimes wander into when I am searching for answers - in my life, my music, my work. In my dark hours, I have the certain feeling that everything outside this one thing has no meaning. The complex and many-faceted only confuses me, and I must search for unity. What is it, this one thing, and how do I find my way to it? Traces of this perfect thing appear in many guises - and everything that is unimportant falls away. (Richard E. Rodda, liner notes for Arvo Pärt Fratres, I Fiamminghi, The Orchestra of Flanders, Rudolf Werthen, (Telarc CD-80387).

When we’re in the depths, stuck out in the deep, with no sight for land or friend or help of any kind, the answer forward is in obedience—true obedience. The answer is in “listening toward” Christ, “listening toward” his love, “listening toward” his promise of eternal life. We may not hear the words clearly at first. But through faith, we can live “listening toward” God’s welcome, until the day the words are clear and strong because they’re being whispered in our ear, with God’s eternal embrace.

May we have ears to hear the wisdom of All Souls speaking through us, and may we listen into the Resurrection to Eternal Life. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Which cup?

noreply@blogger.com (John Beddingfield) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 00:47:00 +0000

A sermon for the Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost, October 21, 2012. The lectionary readings are
Isaiah 53:4-12, Psalm 91:9-16, Hebrews 5:1-10, and Mark 10:35-45.

Back in August, I was in Seattle for Brenda Sol’s ordination. One morning I went into a coffee shop with every intention of buying a cup of coffee and continuing to walk and explore the city. The shop was one of a major chain, but was decorated within an inch of its life to reflect the very hip, very green, VERY Seattle neighborhood. As I stood in line, I noticed that everyone in front of me was ordering coffee just like we might up the street, but when they got their drink, it came in a ceramic cup. Every single person got a cup “to stay,” and they weren’t saying anything unusual. I tried to look over the counter to see if, if fact, they even had paper cups for taking away, and finally I saw a few, but it was clear to me that paper cups were just not the “done thing” in this particular shop. I worried what might happen if I ordered a coffee “to go.” Would the cool music stop, the lights be turned up full, and everyone stare? Would they instantly label me as “East Coast,” or would they boo me out of the shop calling me a “tree killer” and the most conspicuous of consumers? I ordered a coffee, got a ceramic mug, and sat down, as though I had planned to stay, all along.

That Seattle coffee shop is not the only place where “which cup” takes on additional meaning. If you go to buy coffee in 7-Eleven, (in a paper cup) you are asked to choose between an Obama blue one or one that is Romney Red. In that context, the cup I choose makes a statement, if not a vote.

In today’s gospel Jesus asks James and John if they are sure they’ve chosen the right cup. They have left their former lives; they’ve begun to follow Jesus. But he asks them, “Are you able to drink the cup that I drink?” “Are you able to be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?” These brothers, who Jesus nicknamed “sons of thunder,” thunder forth and respond, “Yes. We are able.”

In today’s Gospel and in several other places, Jesus uses the cup as a symbol, as an image that holds within it a number of different things. The cup from which Jesus drinks holds suffering. It is layered with service and sacrifice. But finally, it is a cup that overflows with joy.

In the Garden of Gethsemane we see the cup of suffering. Jesus prays in agony. His friends fall asleep. The authorities are coming. And he prays to the Father, “if it be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt.” Through his acceptance, through his prayer and through the love that he continues to show others, Jesus begins to transform the cup of suffering into a cup of redemption.

We need to say one thing for certain: and that is, that suffering is not always changed into redemption. Suffering, itself, is not to be glorified. Children who die of AIDS, women who die from abuse, the elderly who die alone and forgotten—this kind of suffering is pointless.

There is no redemption in it and we blaspheme if we in any way suggest that it might be a part of God’s will. Rather, it is the will of God to redeem, to bring to life, to restore and we are most faithful when we do everything we can to lift one another out of such suffering.

But there is another kind of suffering. Suffering that is on behalf of others is of a different quality. It is a different cup altogether. In today’s first reading Isaiah sings of a Suffering Servant. In words we also read on Good Friday, we typically see Jesus as the one who has “borne our infirmities and carried our diseases. . . by whose bruises we are healed.” But the interpretation of Isaiah by faithful Jews before Jesus (and after) is also relevant. Israel understood itself as the suffering servant. As the nation suffered but remained faithful, others would be see and would be brought to God. Through the suffering of a remnant, the whole world might be saved. The idea that redemptive suffering is communal rather than individual may sound odd in a culture as self-focused as ours. But I think about it for a minute, it invites me to worry less about what I, alone, might accomplish. It encourages me to think and pray about what we might all be called to do together. In what ways might we be called to suffer so that others might know redemption and life? (Not a popular question, and not a question easily answered.)

When Jesus asks James and John if they are able, he is asking if they are able to endure suffering. He is also asking if they are willing to live a life of service. Jesus makes it clear that the kingdom of God is not built on power or greatness, but on serving one another.

Ours is a faith of one-anothering. Jesus uses that term over and over again: “love one another,” “bear one another’s burdens,” “submit to one another,” and “encourage one another.” Our faith comes alive when we are able to serve one another—not just in volunteering or being busy or performing tasks—but really letting down our guard, allowing the other person closer, and even being open to being changed by the other. The cup of service is one the disciples drink from. They share this cup and they pass it on.

We continue to pass it on. After every Eucharist we pray that we might be sent into the world to love and serve God. Well, we accomplish that “loving and serving” not in the abstract, but by loving and serving those made in God’s image.

Jesus drinks and shares a cup of suffering and a cup of service, but the cup he lifts highest and offers to all is, in the end, filled with joy and celebration. It is, for lack of a better term, a victory cup. It is beyond any hope of a Holy Grail because as we share this cup of the blood of Christ, we really drink in everlasting life, here, together and everywhere the Mass is celebrated.

In this Gospel where Jesus explains that greatness comes through service, and honor comes through sacrifice, he also asks if the disciples are truly able to undergo a baptism like his. Just as Moses led people through the water from slavery to freedom, baptism with Jesus submerges us in death. It is a death to sin. A death to the power of the world. A death to the demands of the devil. It is a death to self and a dying to selfishness. But we are brought out of death into new life. Baptism changes us, it changes everything and we are made new. We are born again and enabled through confession and forgiveness to be born again and again and again. If we choose it, that is.

We have many choices, of course. Too often we begin trying to live a good life, giving occasional attention to God, but gradually drinking more and more of this world. Before we know it we are satiated with ourselves, with work, with relationships, with success, with our goals and plans and schedules. We loose our sense of taste for things holy. And so, to sip of religion can at first seem bitter and strange.

Austin Farrer describes this taste as “God’s goodness” on our palates, a taste with a “new and unthought-of flavor”. “God’s goodness,” Farrer writes, “which we taste in wine and in bread, in friendship and in every blessed thing, is the love that died in agony for our salvation. That is where the taste of it comes out; yet it is not a bitter taste; it is the wine of everlasting joy.” (The Brink of Mystery, p. 67)

And so, the suffering, the service, and the sacrifice, are all poured into one cup, one cup that overruns with everlasting joy. Which cup will we choose? Strengthened by the risen Christ, may we choose wisely, with faith and with love.

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