May 1, 2016

IV Easter

Acts 16: 9-15; Psalm 67; Revelation 21:10, 22-22:5; John 14: 23-29


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

Music has always been a big part of my identity. The first album I ever owned was a Neil Diamond cassette tape I bought when I was eight years old – it was the one with his hit song “Coming to America” which made quite an impression on my third grade self. As years passed, my musical interests diversified and arguably worsened in junior high as I embraced the 1980s hair metal scene, with bands like Bon Jovi, Van Halen, Ozzy Osbourne, Motley Crue, Poison, Warrant, the list goes on and on. And, yes, a lot of those songs appear with some regularity on my music feed today.  In the 1990s and college, I grew to love artists like Nirvana, Public Enemy, Dream Theater, Johnny Cash, John Coltraine, Tom Waits, Miles Davis, Willie Nelson, Muddy Waters, Stevie Ray Vaughan. You name it, I probably listened to it, and probably still do now.  

Which is why the last six months, musically, has been really tough for me.  We have lost so much talent in such a short time: Merle Haggard, Prince, David Bowie, Glenn Frey of The Eagles, Maurice White of Earth, Wind, and Fire, Lemmy Kilmister of Motorhead. I think I have spent the past six months in a lull, a state of perpetual mourning at the talent we have lost.

There is one songwriter, who thankfully is still with us, Bruce Springsteen. Currently Bruce is touring behind an expanded rerelease of his 1980 album entitled “The River.” The title song from that album, “The River,” is one my favorites of Springsteen.  It is a somber song, one that Bruce describes as written for his brother in law and sister. Speaking about “The River,” Springsteen said “My brother-in-law was in the construction industry, lost his job and had to struggle very hard back in the late 70s, like so many people are doing today. It was a record where I first started to tackle men and women and families and marriage.”

The image of a river is a timeless one indeed.  There is something about the nature of a river, its slow meandering pace, or its quickly cascading rapids, that adequately sums up the nature of our lives. The author of the book of Revelation writes about a river – a river of the water of life – described as bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God right through the middle of the city of new Jerusalem. It is a poignant vision the author sees. As strange as this vision might seem to you and me, it was actually firmly grounded in the prophetic scripture of the Hebrew Bible.

The Biblical prophet Ezekiel writes in chapter 47 of Ezekiel of another mystical vision where he sees another river – this river flowing from the beneath the temple in Jerusalem out through the north gate, to the outer gate, and on.  People reading Ezekiel would have understood that the flowing water of the river, flowing out from the temple, was God.  

Another prophet from the Hebrew Bible, Joel, prophetically wrote about a time when “a fountain shall come forth from the house of the Lord.” I say all this to establish some context for how we understand this vision of a new Jerusalem in Revelation. It was not an original vision the author of Revelation had, but one that goes back to the Hebrew Bible.

What does it mean? The river is God’s timeless, ever flowing presence that is not limited to a church, temple, or building. The river flows out from the temple into the city. It is a reminder to us that the church is not in here. Church is how we live our lives as we, like a river, flow out of this temple, and into the city around us.  

We are the river of this church, flowing out into the city, helping those who we can help, loving those whom God has called us to love, which is everyone.  

It is interesting to me that Springsteen, John of Patmos, and the prophets of Israel, all wrote about a river during times of hardship.  Springsteen wrote during the economic recession of the early 1980s. John of Patmos wrote Revelation during a time of Roman persecution of Christians and Jews in the first century after Jesus’ resurrection. The prophet Ezekiel wrote during the painful exile of Israel at the hands of the Babylonians in 587 BCE. The prophet Joel wrote at an undisclosed time, but nevertheless it was a time of foreign invasion. Amidst all this hardship over centuries, we return to an image yet again – a river of the water of life.  

2016 is an uncertain year to say the least. We are in the midst of an election cycle that has been anything but predictable. We have seen tremendous economic volatility, and we have all seen as a community what thirty dollars for a barrel of oil does for those working in that industry. In the midst of all uncertainty, the fear of jobs lost, and the hope for new opportunities to come, we find ourselves here – back at the River.  

It is in this church where we drink from the river of the water of life, where we find rest and assurance that in spite of what happens in the world, the river of God’s presence flowing from the temple out into the city will never dry.

How do we respond to the river of life that always flows no matter what happens? We join together and we sing. Our hymn might be “Purple Rain,” “Hotel California,” “Mama Tried,” “Home Sweet Home,” or “Texas Flood,” it doesn’t matter. The saints who showed us through music that God’s river is ever flowing, they now join their songs with others in heaven. Their songs join with all the others – flowing into the River, which flows out of heaven and is here now. AMEN.

April 24, 2016

Easter V

Acts 11:1-18; Revelation 21:1-6; John 13:31-35; Psalm 148


THE REV. CARISSA BALDWIN-MCGINNIS

A lamp am I to thee that beholdest me.
A mirror am I to thee that perceivest me.
A door am I to thee that knockest at me.
A way am I to thee a wayfarer...

These are words attributed to a risen Jesus by second century communities said to have followed  Jesus and specifically by following John in whose name the fourth gospel is titled. These words are actually lyrics and part of a hymn known today as the “Hymn of Jesus,” and which may have been sung in a small part of the early church. It comes from the apocryphal Acts of John.

The hymn is a sort of code of spiritual truth, revealing that the depths of the soul and the Divine await us, if we choose to pursue them.  Listen again:

A lamp am I to thee that beholdest me.
A mirror am I to thee that perceivest me.
A door am I to thee that knockest at me.
A way am I to thee a wayfarer....

I do not know why, but these words comfort me in this city where storm water runoff of unthinkable proportion has soaked us, overwhelmed our homes and in some cases taken our lives. The “Hymn of Jesus” has nothing to do with solving the major and complex problems we are facing as a city today, and yet somehow it offers assurance akin to that offered by the Celtic Encircling prayer attributed to St. Patrick:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me…
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger…

Jesus does not say, “I am a life raft for the one who is stranded. I am a Wet Vac for the one whose roof is leaking. I am a rain-absorbing prairie where there is too much cement.” Rather, we rely on each other for such relief.  But when one pursues spirituality as the double helix of everything real, that person’s ability to be strong, patient or resilient is greater especially in times of trouble.

Ironically, this weekend begins the Jewish observance of the festival of Passover. This is of course the festival of freedom. In this week, the story of the Hebrew’s escape from slavery in Egypt to the freedom of the wilderness will be told to the young and old alike. Children will be at table. Families will invite guests for seder suppers. The story of Moses leading the exodus, including a parting of the Red Sea, will be primary. Jews don’t tell these stories to themselves and their children every year to foster some belief in miracles that will deliver safety or justice, but rather they do so in order that the faithful will take courage in times of great challenge.

Prophets are people – regular people - who are given special courage. The nature of that courage is to lead in times of challenge while listening always to the Spirit but with an ear to the ground. A woman with just these qualities who was called Moses by many in her day showed great skill, faith and courage as she guided the enslaved of this country from a place where they were property to a place where they were persons. Her name was Harriet Tubman, and claimed to have lost not one single passenger along the Underground Railroad. She is said to have explained her effectiveness in guiding people to safety in this way. She would listen to the voice of God as she was led slaves north. She would only go where she felt God was leading her.

We learned this week that Tubman’s image will be added to our currency, specifically the twenty-dollar bill. We learn this at the same time that day in and out on any given news outlet we are bombarded by presidential campaign rhetoric that is loaded with fear and hate based on race and nation of origin.  How is it possible that we would move both forward and backward at once? Both truths are true about us.  It would seem that now is a time in America of political overwhelment.

A lamp am I to thee that beholdest me.
A door am I to thee that knockest.

Perhaps it is the intimacy of these assertions by Jesus that makes makes them reassuring. John’s gospel for today in which Jesus’ instructs his disciples to love one another as Jesus’ loved his own conveys that same sense of intimacy. It is an intimacy that will withstand loss and travesty.

To understand this love, let me offer this. One bit of wisdom from the east is that a guru or teacher must love their disciples from the beginning and at all times. However, no love from of the teacher or master can be expected up front from the students. It must come in time. So, to take up Jesus’ invitation that his followers love one another as he loved them, imagine you are the teacher here today and that the rest of us are your students. Imagine committing to sending loving intention to each and to all, the same and at once. Now, let us actually do it. Close your eyes or keep them open.  No one will be looking at you. And for the next period of fifteen seconds, send only intentions of general wellbeing and love to the entire body of us present.

That was not so hard, was it? I do believe that this is what Jesus did at all times and that this is what Jesus was instructing his friends to do. And though it sounds very hard, it in itself is exceedingly simple. You just did it. As an effort, it takes less labor and energy than just about anything else you are likely to do as a member of this church community. I imagine that being one of Christ’s own and loving one another as Jesus loved his followers is to undertake this kind of prayer of love soberly, honestly, and with only positive intention.

Imagine holding this community daily in that intention. Now, imagine widening that circle of community to include the entire, water-soaked city. Imagine doing that once a day for one minute. Now imagine broadening that circle to the entire nation so at war with itself about who we are and who we want to be. Imagine doing those things and trust that the result will be good. These prayers may not change the state of the world, but try it and see what they do to you!

April 10, 2016

III Easter

Acts 9: 1-20; Psalm 30; Revelation 5: 11-14; John 21: 1-19


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

If you read much of the Bible, you might quickly find that it is full of irony. One very good example of irony in the Bible we hear today comes from the book of Acts, involving a man named Saul. Saul has this dramatic, mystical, experience of Jesus while he is walking on a road to the city of Damascus, which in modern day Syria.

The reason why Saul is heading to Damascus is because he was intending to capture, imprison, and potentially murder heretics. Heretics, by Saul’s definition, were schismatic individuals deviating from what he considered true faith, or right belief. These heretics were following a man named Jesus, who Saul considered to be a false messiah. On his way to Damascus, Saul encounters a bright light, and hears a voice speaking to him, a voice, ironically, he believed to be Jesus himself. The voice says “Saul, why do you persecute me?”

The light blinds Saul, and unable to journey by himself, Saul is led by the hand into the city of Damascus where for three days he is without sight, and neither eats or drinks. Meanwhile God speaks to a disciple in Damascus named Ananias, and God tells Ananias to go to Saul and restore his sight. Ananias balks at this request because of Saul’s notorious reputation. God tells Ananias: “Go, for he is the instrument whom I have chosen to bring my name before Gentiles and kings and before the people of Israel.”  

Saul’s sight is restored, and later God gives him a new name, Paul. Paul becomes an apostle and author of at least eight epistles in the New Testament. The change Paul goes through is radical, especially considering in the previous chapter of Acts, which includes multiple stories of Saul entering the homes of Christians, and dragging the men and women out of them and forcefully and violently throwing them into prison. You get the irony? This is the person God chooses to be his apostle: a man who espouses hate toward Christians, and is even complicit in the murder of Stephen, the first martyr in the New Testament.  God looks at Saul and says, “He’s good for the job.” That God chooses Saul is more than just ironic – it gives all of us hope. Because God does not choose the perfect. Throughout the Bible it is the flawed, broken, human people whom God favors. That’s good news to me.

Most of us here this morning would probably not say that our introduction to Christianity was as dramatic as Saul’s. Probably for most of us, our embrace of the Christian faith came not in a sweeping moment of conversion, but rather the movement and flow of a lifetime. At least that is the case for me.  

And yet, I also believe that all of us at some point have an experience of Jesus similar to Saul’s. If we are honest with ourselves, and courageous enough to look inwardly upon our soul, we will, hear the question asked: “why do you persecute me?” Who is asking that question? Perhaps it is the child within you? Perhaps it is the voice of a conflicted conscience? Or maybe it is the voice of God?

It’s up to you to figure out the identity of the voice asking you that question. Many people go their whole lives without having to unveil the identity of that voice. These people do so because facing the person who asks you “why do you persecute me?” takes great courage.

For the few who discover the person asking the question, there is often pain. It is most painful when we discover that the voice asking the question “why do you persecute me?” is not God, it’s not Jesus, it’s not our brother or sister, mother or father, son or daughter. It is your voice. Why do we persecute ourselves? Why do we persecute each other?

I have no satisfactory answer to either of those questions, except to point to the person persecuted on our behalf. The author of the book of Revelation points to a lamb that was slain (or persecuted) and yet is alive and able. The lamb is Jesus of Nazareth, persecuted, slain, and yet also intensely alive and placed upon a throne.  We persecuted a God who created us, redeemed us, and promised us eternal life. We persecute each other, and we persecute ourselves.  

That is the irony – the irony God understands. Because God knows there is more to our story than that question alone. God sees well beyond the persecution, embracing it, transforming it, redeeming every act ever committed by any person against themselves or each other.  Ever sin, every moment of anger, ever bullet fired, every life lost – it is all absorbed into God and redeemed, forgiven, and renewed.  

Persecution itself, is consumed into the holy fire of God, burned and recast into humility and compassion, so that all persecution, all evil, all pain, is wiped away and a new earth and a new heaven are born.  

This is what God does.  God assumes the pain, the suffering, the tragedy, the persecution – transforms it, and like a dove, releases it anew to fly.  

Listen to that voice with you, because the question you hear is not one to be afraid of. “Why do you persecute me?” is a question all of us must answer on our own, and the irony of course is that we often persecute ourselves in order not to answer that question because we just don’t know any better. But God does. Because in and through God, all persecution ends, the wounds on the lamb are healed, and all welcomed into the Kingdom of God. AMEN.

March 27, 2016

Easter II

EXODUS 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14, 1 CORINTHIANS 11:23-26; JOHN 13:1-17, 31B-35; PSALM 116:1, 10-17


THE REV. CARISSA BALDWIN-MCGINNIS

If you are like me you have a million things you feel you want or need to keep track of.  We have so many tasks and to dos that remembering them all requires supernatural power or a very effective system of personal organizing. We keep up with things like phone calls, errands, pet medicines, tree trimming, retirement planning, replacing our tires, calling mom, calling kids, job searching, signing up for health insurance, renewing the bus pass, etc. White collar workers have reports and deadlines. Parents have children’s recitals and birthday parties.  We have things to file and cars to register. We deal with our debts and manage our savings.  In the modern world the to do list is infinite.

One guru of personal organizing says that the remedy is to write it all down. David Allen advocates compiling and listing everything, including the things we will never get to. He tells us to write everything down, because otherwise the mind is cluttered.  If our minds are cluttered trying to keep track of everything, then they will not be free to undertake their best work which is to generate insight and creative vision.

Throughout time the spiritual traditions have looked to meditation and contemplation for this kind of mental and neurological housekeeping. We sit in silence and attempt to master the art of letting our neurotic thoughts race around without attending to them. The better one becomes at ignoring those infinite, pesky, random thoughts, the more frequently important matters surface. One might experience a sense of peace where there had been anxiety.  One might receive an insight about another person with whom there has been conflict.  Solutions to hard problems can arise, and even the mundane in need of attention may make itself known.  Have you ever been in meditation and out of nowhere remembered that it was your brother’s birthday, or that you had an annual medical appointment that escaped your calendar?  This is how the unitive, integrated brain works.  Head and heart and neuropathy are given what they need to function as one system. The benefits unto us are innumerable.

The psyche has a way of bringing up what is important given half a chance, and the spiritual life is about noticing when that happens. Beyond tracking tasks and to dos, our deeper systems of remembrance track profound incidences, especially loss. We may not remember consciously the anniversary of a loved one’s death, but on such occasions we are likely to experience waves of grief, sadness or irritability. We will begin to make connections if we pay attention and show curiosity about those feelings. “Of course!” one might discover. “It is almost the anniversary of the hurricane that crushed my living room.” Or, “Oh my. Tomorrow is the death anniversary of my best friend.”

The question from today’s gospel – particularly Thomas – is how will they remember their leader, teacher, friend and guide who was no longer counted among the living. Thomas’ seeing-is -believing attitude is most unsatisfying perhaps because it hits too close to home.  But when Jesus invites Thomas to place his finger on the wounds in Jesus’ hands and to put his hand into the master’s side, he invites us all to take the spiritual high road. Even though the text does not say so, it seems somehow as though Thomas actually does place his fingers in the wounds and touched the raw, tender side of Jesus. Jesus was willing to be held by others in order that they would trust their own power to effectively teach and heal. What an intimate act of remembering the man, and what a powerful act of re-enfleshing one who had died.

Today we literally ‘re-member’ our congregation through the sacrament of Baptism. With water and anointing oils, with singing and prayer, we say to our new additions, “Welcome!” If we are in relationship with them and they with us, over time we will not be the same. We are enfleshed with new flesh. We have parts of our church body we had not before, and the whole is changed. The message that we remember on this day and that we promise to send and resend to our new companions is that the power of the divine is both inside and all around them.

There is a saying in the Gospel of Thomas that puts it quite directly.

(God’s) imperial rule is inside you and outside you. When you know yourselves, then you will be known, and you will understand that you are children of the living (God). But if you do not know yourselves, then you live in poverty, and you are the poverty.

We come together to know and be known. We do so inside of a spiritual tradition that upholds a deep, psychic path to knowing and being known. We know and are known through honest relationship, and we know and are known through contemplation and prayer. The promise is that in the midst of our neuroses and in spite of our mortality, we can know consolation, deep friendship, renewal and a sense of peace.

On this day of baptizing and re-membering we say to our newest members and potential friends, “Welcome. May you come to know the ways of God which are already both inside and all around you.”

March 27, 2016

Easter

Isaiah 65: 17-25; Psalm 118: 1-2, 14-24; 1 Corinthians 15: 1-11; John 20: 1-18


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

Recently I came across a poem written by a contemporary Presbyterian minister named Kara Root.  The honesty of her written words struck me as apropos for Easter Sunday, as her untitled poem explains why she needs the resurrection.  She writes: “I need the Resurrection because my sister is sick and can't afford insurance, because I've told a weeping Haitian mom, ‘No, I can't take your son home with me.’ Because I've been rushed off a Jerusalem street so a robot could blow up a bag that could've blown up us. I need the resurrection because I've exploded in rage and watched my children’s tiny faces cloud with hurt. Because evil is pervasive and I participate. I need the Resurrection because it promises that in the end all wrongs are made right. Death loses. Hope triumphs. And life and love Prevail.”

Kara’s poem summarizes our Easter faith, punctuating it with a deep seated reality we might not always associate with resurrection. Presiding Bishop Michael Curry, in his Easter Message this year, points to this earthy reality of resurrection when he says that “the world does not need another fairy tale.”  

Today we gather in this holy place because resurrection isn’t a fairy tale. It is who we are, it is our story. As Kara mentions in her poem, all of us need it.  Personally, I need resurrection because without it, my life doesn’t make any sense. If there is no resurrection, then for me, my life is devoid of meaning and purpose.  It is my very ground of being – everything depends on it.

We need resurrection because without it, we have no answer to the suffering and pain we see on a daily basis in this world, whether that is recently in Brussels, or in our own city or even in our own homes. Without resurrection, there is no hope, there is no purpose, there is no point. That said – how many of us tomorrow will live our life as if resurrection is just a fairytale?

How many of us tomorrow will return to our places of work, or to our families, treating the resurrection as a quaint notion from a long ago time that no longer means anything to us in the busyness of our lives?  How many of us will forget in twenty-four hours how central the resurrection is?

I have a theory – and the theory is that as much as we talk about resurrection in the church, we do so to keep it at a safe distance, to domesticate it. And when clergy like myself are successful at domesticating resurrection, then we are successful in making it appear boring and forgettable, at least until maybe when a loved one close to us dies.  

I have buried enough people in my profession to see this happen again and again. There is something about being at a cemetery when you see a casket lowered into the ground or an urn placed into a columbarium that brings curiosity about the resurrection to the surface. Many times people, after watching their mom or dad or brother or sister lowered into the ground have asked me “Where is mom now? Is she in heaven?” They ask me because they expect I have a definitive answer, which because I am human, I don’t.  

Of course I understand why we ask those kinds of questions – we are desperate in such moments for some sense of closure when a loved one dies. We want to know that they will somehow be okay. I get that.  But the question of where someone goes when they die, and yes my answer is heaven, it is not a question I find captivating anymore. Here’s the question I want to ask: not is so and so in heaven – but rather, are we now?  In other words the question I want to ask is “what does the resurrection say not about the dead – what does it say about the living? What does it say about us today?”

My answer is that it says everything.  Because Christ transcended death and now lives, our lives are – ontologically different. Our lives are given meaning and purpose not only because of Jesus’ resurrection, but because his resurrection is our resurrection. We live and never die because Jesus lives and the tyranny of death is overthrown.

It is not a fairytale – it is our story – the story of God reaching into this world bringing life without end for all people. That means you. That means God gave you life, a life that will never end, though one day you will die. But your death is not the end, it is merely a birthday into eternal life. The resurrection of Jesus means that you have already been resurrected.

And because you are resurrected, heaven is all around you. Heaven is here, it is in your home, it is in your car, it is in your place of work. Heaven is in your friends, heaven is in your family, heaven is in your irritating boss at work, and heaven is in your enemy. Everything is resurrected, everything is new.  

Christians call this new life “Easter.” And because it is not just one day a year, we celebrate Easter every Sunday in this church. We do so because we need the resurrection. We need the Resurrection because it promises that in the end all wrongs are made right, that death loses, hope triumphs,  and life and love prevail.” It is anything but boring. It is anything but a fairytale.  It is God’s gift to you, today, and always. Never forget that. Happy Easter. AMEN.

March 25, 2016

Good Friday

Isaiah 52:13 – 53:12; Psalm 22; Hebrews 10:16-25; John 18:1 – 19:42


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

The garden was beautiful. It was a sunny afternoon; the tree branches were swaying in the gentle Mediterranean breeze. The smell of fresh rosemary added to the ambience of a quiet, lazy, summer afternoon. The garden itself is in the city of Jerusalem. It is a quiet, reflective space adjacent to a nearby mountain slope. The mountain is really more of a hill, and at least when I saw it some twenty years ago, the rock face of the hill was nestled over what appeared to be a bus station. If you looked at the rock face of the hill at a certain angle, you were able to see two areas carved into the rock that appeared to resemble eye sockets. Beneath these two holes was another one which resembled a nose, and beneath that, a horizontal indentation that appeared to resemble a mouth. Taken together, the eyes, the nose, the mouth – they resembled, in somewhat of a crude fashion, a human skull.  Immediately I thought of the word Golgotha, which we hear today was the Hebrew word for a place of the skull.  

As I looked toward the rock wall which actually resembled a skull, my gaze drifted toward the top, above the bus station or whatever it was, above the appearance of a skull, and I stood, and looked. And wondered. Where there was now grass atop the hill, were there ever three crosses, upon one of which hung the Son of God?  

It’s hard to say, we don’t know, we have no way of proving. Not far from this rock wall in Jerusalem, if you followed the path through the garden, it lead you to another rock wall, distinctive from the one I just described.  Carved into this wall was a cave-like structure. Upon entering it, the guide told me it was likely a first century tomb where a body was placed to rest. Outside the tomb, there was a small, unique carving beside the entry, which appeared to be an anchor, however in the middle of the anchor was a cross.  The anchor was also upside down –the arms of the anchor, rather than being at the bottom, were at the top. In Christian symbology, the anchor represents hope. The upturned anchor carved outside the opening of the tomb conveys a sense of hope as well – perhaps a way of saying that whoever was in the tomb was no longer there. They had risen. They were in heaven.

This garden I speak of in Jerusalem is called the Garden Tomb. I visited it some twenty years ago.  The tomb and the corresponding skull like rock face were only discovered in the late 19th century. While it seems this tomb dates from the time of Jesus, was it the tomb where Joseph of Arimathea placed the body of Jesus? We don’t know. Perhaps it was.

But even if it wasn’t, the close proximity between that rock hill and that tomb in the garden teaches us something critical for Good Friday. The skull on that rock wall and that tomb teach us that just as the resurrection is impossible without the cross, the cross has no meaning without the resurrection. The story of a Jewish man being crucified is not good news, nor was it exceptional for the time. Many others died in a similar way. What makes the death of Jesus different is that Christians see the cross through the resurrection. There is no way for us to ignore Easter Sunday and think only of Good Friday.

And so the cross and the empty tomb go together – they are the same story. The risen Christ is the crucified Christ, his wounds clearly visible. But the crucified Christ is also the risen Christ. Yes, the cross is an instrument of death, yet for us it is also the tree of life. That is why today is Good Friday.  Death and Resurrection, the cross and the empty tomb, are not separate things – they are two different sides of the great Paschal mystery we honor this week. Death and life are one and the same, redeemed by the cross, and perfected by the tomb whose stone was rolled away. There is no empty tomb without a cross, no cross without a tomb whose stone was rolled away.  

Before leaving the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem, a person gave me a gift – a small sprig of rosemary which grew in the garden. I placed it in my pocket, and carried it with me for the rest of my journey through Israel. The sprig of rosemary flew back to the United States with me, and I placed it in a scrapbook of my journey where it remains today. When I peel back the clear plastic scrapbook page under which it is placed, it still offers up a fragrance of a garden next to hill and a tomb. The rosemary offers a fragrance of sacrifice, of grace, of and forgiveness.

There is no end to God’s love. In a world ravaged by violence and suffering, God entered as a vulnerable infant, who grew into a man whose life ended violently. Today we look around our world, we see suffering and bloodshed in Jerusalem, in Brussels, in our own city. We witness death in hospital rooms, prisons, and in long term care facilities, and we might be tempted to believe that the rosemary in the garden has died. That it no longer offers its fragrance of grace. In the face of death and intolerance we might believe that the carving of the anchor was washed away, covered up, and that the skull on that mountain cleared away and in its place nothing but more concrete and metal and a larger bus station. It is easy to believe such things.

We stare out into a dark abyss demanding an answer from God that death, sickness, disease, and addiction are not bereft of meaning. We find ourselves dead and hanging on a cross, our bodies placed inside a dark tomb. And in the darkness of that tomb we believe hope has died. There is no breath of life, no smell of rosemary. And yet there is also a stirring within us that compels us to protest against this reality.  We get up and in the darkness find the stone and with all our might we press against it, summoning our strength against the principalities and powers of this world. After great exertion, the stone begins to move, and a beam of light, like a flame, enters our tomb and as our eyes adjust we see the garden in all its beauty.  We smell the flowers, we pick the rosemary, and we know death has lost the power of its tyranny. We kick over the anchor, turning it upside down, so that it points to our future – it points to heaven. We are alive.  It is a Good Friday. AMEN.

March 24, 2016

Maundy Thursday

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14, 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-17, 31b-35; Psalm 116:1, 10-17


THE REV. CARISSA BALDWIN-MCGINNIS

This particular holy night of storytelling and prayer is rife with emotion; grief, sorrow, detachment, mutuality and love. The Buddhist monk and teacher, Tich Naht Hanh, reminds us that our strong emotions are best used as fertilizer for our spirit. He teaches that in meditating on our passions – even anger – rather than bracing against them or attempting to deny their existence, we can become more centered and reconciled. We must acknowledge these invisible forces of emotion in order to negotiate a peace with them.  We must show them a mutual regard, so that they do not rule our lives, and also so that we do not attempt live our lives without feeling.

If we can master the habit of demonstrating mutuality with our emotions, then I imagine we may begin to show suppleness as we face one another. But we are programmed to be defensive against our needs and our feelings. We pretend we are indifferent and fully self-sufficient, which is of course the lie that leads to loneliness and social fracture. How often we reject help. How often we refuse hospitality. So how can we then have the capacity to provide help and hospitality, not having accepted assistance in times of subtle or even desperate need? The culture of self-sufficiency is a fantastical foundation on which little stands and from which so many people fall.

So tonight let us be students - disciples - who come to learn to wash and be washed; to give and to receive. Like Peter we may come with discomfort.  Peter seems to reject hospitality provided by someone so great as Jesus.  Or perhaps more deeply Peter resists this sacrament as the portal to all that lies ahead for Jesus and the disciples. It is as though Peter was digging in his heals against what was foreboded. Peter it seems went rigid in the face of what must have been overwhelmingly strong emotion; sorrow, fear, uncertainty, grief, unworthiness.

And so like Peter at the insistence of Jesus we practice this night  revealing one to another, the base part of ourselves. We present our feet for washing as a sign of a covenant of mutuality and the preferential option for intimacy and love over separation and fear.

In 2003 Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove and his wife Leah, American Christian evangelicals who had taken on New Monasticism as way of life, joined a Christian pilgrimage to Iraq. The went in order to be a sign of love to the so called ‘enemy’ and to take a stand against the war. After their mission ended as they were leaving Iraq by way of caravan, the last car in the queue hit a piece of shrapnel and crashed into a ditch. None of the preceding cars noticed. So they kept on, unintentionally abandoning the last car and its passengers in the middle of the desert. Mercifully, an auto full of Iraqis stopped, pulled them out of the ditch, and drove them to a hospital. There the doctor declared to the American patients, “Three days ago your country bombed our hospital. But whether you are American or Iraqi, Christian or Muslim, we will take care of you because we take care of everyone.”

In a state of extreme human defensiveness, this radical principle of hospitality and care will not prevail. So we must allow our emotions life and make them to serve as fertilizer for our souls.

In January of 2006, I myself traveled to the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan to learn about ways that Christians and Muslims were practicing intentional reciprocity. Their habits turned out to be simple. Anglican priests reached out to neighboring imams just to talk. They talked about things like the weather. Later they might progress to topics such as wives and children. The only theological discourse ever undertaken was an embodied exchange of radical hospitality. The imams invited the priests to Eid prayers. The priests invited the imams to Christmas and Easter services.  At such times simple gifts might be exchanged. These were modest yet powerful acts of intimacy in lieu of separation; a preferential option for friendship instead of fear.

William Willimon “…Ministry begins in the heart of God…” When we cross lines of difference – global, spousal, or filial – it can feel like we have entered the heart of God. Those brief moments in which we feel we have entered the heart of God are moments in which we would wish to reside forever. It is a sensation like that described by the poet who speaks of a waterfall:

Christ look at you pouring from the rocks.
You’re so cold you’re boiling over.
You’ve got stars in your hair.
I don’t want to be around you.
I don’t want to drink you in.
I want to walk into the heart of you
And never walk back out.

Oh that we could enter the heart of Divine and never leave. Oh that Peter could have remained at the dinner party with his beloved teacher and feasted forever. Oh that we could put violence and terror back in a box, but from a box they were not born and bred. No, these tragic vices come rather from the heart. When we reach for a balm in the face of attacks such as the one that befell humanity in Brussels this week, we must reach for the divine impulse of love in the world and do everything we can to enter and remain there.

Howard Thurman wrote “There is a universal urgency for both personal and social stability.” Jesus tonight invites us to seek our stability in radical acts of vulnerability and service as well as friendship and love. We must learn to be at once powerful and powerless, active and passive, guest and host. We must choose to love in lieu of slaying and to serve in lieu of sacrifice, exchanging our very selves across lines of any and every difference that separates.

“It’s time,” wrote a singer songwriter from Austin, Texas “It’s time to make the world a better place. Let your love put your fears to waste. No matter who you are or where you’re from. Its time to get together and drop the Honeybomb.”

You are invited into the sticky, sweet mess of mutuality and love that may not dismantle bombs but which does dismantle fear and terror. Come to the table. Before that wash and be washed. Embrace your vulnerability and practice compassionate care of another’s physical base as a symbol of his or her most base and basic need.


Nico Alvarado’s “Time Riggins Speaks of Waterfalls” published in Best New Poets 2014 by University of Virginia Press.

March 20, 2016

Palm Sunday

Isaiah 50:4-9a; Philippians 2:5-11; Luke 22:14-23:56; Psalm 31:9-16


THE REV. CARISSA BALDWIN-MCGINNIS

Terry Tempest Williams retells this story of musical revolution in her recent book “When Women Were Birds.”

“On Friday, August 29, 1952, a pianist named David Tudor stepped onto stage at the Maverick Concert Hall in Woodstock, NY. He sat down on the piano bench, closed the black lid over the ivory keys. And clicked a stopwatch he held in his hand. During this time he was turning the pages of a silent score. He stood twice, to open and close the piano lid between movements. After four minutes and thirty-three seconds, the pianist stood up to receive applause. The audience was stunned.”

Today we reenact two tributes to the power of silence. The first is Jesus’ procession to Jerusalem, and the second is his execution.

To help us understand the silence of the passion and procession, I want to share with you another story from Jewish history that some have likely never hear. It comes from the Jewish historian, Flavius Josephus. It goes like this:

“In the dark of night, Pontius Pilate processed with any number of other Roman troops from Cesarea to Jerusalem. In the dark of night what they carried were effigies of Caesar to be installed throughout Jerusalem.  In the dark of night they installed these ensigns throughout the city to mark that Roman law would now supercede Jewish law. As you will remember Jews were forbidden from the manufacture of any image of God.  Any such illustration would be unthinkable. To assert furthermore that the human Emperor, Ceasar, were God was not just a political affront but the worst of blasphemies.
Having awakened to find the newly installed ensigns and becoming deeply disturbed by them, it is said that the Jews went in multitudes to Cesarea to intercede with Pilate to remove the images. They remained for days, and on the sixth day Pilate ordered his soldiers to carry concealed weapons. He assumed his judgment seat located in an open place in the city. The Jews gathered around Pilate, and then Pilate signaled his troops to surround them.  Pilate then threatened the protesters with immediate death if they did not agree to stop their disturbance and go home. In response the Jews are said to have thrown themselves upon the ground, and laid their necks bare, insisting they would take their death very willingly rather than have the wisdom of their laws to be transgressed.
The silence must have been deafening, for the historian Josephus reports that Pilate was deeply affected by their firm resolution to keep their laws inviolable, and commanded the images to be carried back from Jerusalem to Cesarea.”

Josephus then tells another story of non-violent protest by the Jews that does not end so well. After that the historian offers a single, short paragraph about Jesus the Christ. He is described him as a “wise man,” “a doer of wonderful works,” a “teacher of such men as receive the truth with pleasure” whom Pilate condemned to the cross.

Can we hear then, today’s story of Jesus’ procession into Jerusalem as part of this pattern of creative, non-violent protest? Can we imagine Jesus and the disciples ironically imitating Pilate’s procession of effigies as if to say, “You want to see a procession of the image of God? We’ll show you a procession of the image of God.  This man! The Lord needs a colt to ride!  Get him a colt!”

Luke says some of the Pharisees warned against this protest and procession. Surely they were warning against retaliation from the Romans as well as the blasphemous implication that Jesus was the image of God. But Jesus pushes back.  His words convey this message. “When they have silenced these disciples and they have defeated us all such that there are no more humans to speak truth …Even these stones will shout!”  This is Jesus’ teaching that when deceit reigns there is a capital silencing of truth’s defenders, then silence itself will stand for truth.

The contemporary philosopher Slavoj Zizek says that “…emancipation remains the most daring of all ventures.” Mohandas Gandhi would likely translate Zizek to say that “The pursuit of Truth is the most daring of all ventures.” For Gandhi wrote, “I used to say that though God may be Love, God is Truth, above all… I went a step further and said that Truth is God.”

Sometimes it is in silence that we can hear our deepest personal truth. And sometimes it is the truth of another that we hear spoken in total quiet. Sometimes injustice takes itself so far that there is not a voice left to be heard in which case the silence itself becomes deafening. We can hear in today’s gospel the ineffable truth that is heard in the silence that follows a human’s last breath, be it a beloved grandmother, Jesus the Christ, or a prisoner executed by the state. The silence seems to shout.  

Jesus, a teacher of such men as receive the truth with pleasure. Pilate condemned him to the cross. We say that at this event darkness came over the whole land and the sun’s light failed.

The silence must have been deafening.

March 13, 2016

Lent 5

Isaiah 43: 16-21; Psalm 126; Philippians 3:4b-14; John 12: 1-8


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

Several years ago I went with my family to go watch “The Lego Movie.” I grew up playing with Legos, my wife grew up playing with Legos with her three brothers, we have three boys, they all love Legos, so the movie was an obvious choice for us. While the film is clearly geared to children, there was also a lot in it for adults. The story in the film involves a cast of actual Lego characters living in a Lego world, and tells of their quest to prevent the evil “Lord Business” from using his weapon the “Kragle” to permanently freeze the Legos.  The “Kragle” is actually krazy glue, with a few of the letters missing.

Lord Business’ purpose in freezing the Legos is simple: he wants to control them. To aid him in his quest for control, Lord Business creates evil robots made out of Legos called Micro Managers, which have multiple red eyes and black square heads. The job of the Micro Managers, as their name implies, is control. The Micro Managers ensure that all the Legos are in the right position and acting "perfectly" so that when they are kraglized, or freezed, they look normal.The Micro Managers also take apart any creative, unusual models and rebuild them specifically according to the instructions.

I recognize that if you have never played with Legos, or seen the “Lego Movie,” none of this probably makes any sense. Nevertheless, I was intrigued with film, specifically the Micro Manager characters, because in the past I have worked for a real life micro manager, and you probably have, too.  In the real work world, a micromanager is a manager or boss who closely observes or controls the work of employees. Employees, including myself, generally do not respond well to micromanagement  the very act of a supervisor closely monitoring the work of an employee  implies that the supervisor has little, if any, trust, in the employee. Working for a micromanager was unsettling for me, and I made a promise to myself that one day, if I ever had people working for me, I would never be one myself.

Whether that is in fact true or not, any of the staff members at St. Andrew’s could tell you. I don’t believe that I am, at least at church. But what I have discovered about myself over time is that as negative an experience I had working for a micromanager, and as much as I vowed never to be one myself, I have alas, discovered yet again, my own hypocrisy. I might not be a micromanager at work, but I have learned that I can be one with those closest to me. I can be a micromanager in my marriage and in my family.  

I am doing my work on this in therapy, and through it I have discovered that as a child, I learned from one of my parents that love and approval were conditional. That means that as a young child age my understanding of love and acceptance was one where I felt affirmed and loved when I did the right thing. I felt those good feelings when I got good grades, when I behaved, when I didn’t get in trouble at school. Those things – the good behavior, the good grades – I learned at a young age, were what I needed in order to feel loved and accepted by one of my parents. It was a conditional validation – validation was given when I met the criteria.  Much later I learned that this was a kind of micromanagement and control.  

The tragic story of our lives is that what we often internalize as children, we tend to recreate in our adulthood.  And so I see in myself as a parent the very things I vowed as an adolescent I would never do.  So I am praying for a renewed heart. I am praying for the capacity to love as God loves – with no conditions, no assumptions, no need for control.  

The Bible is full of stories about God’s reckless love that is freely given, without counting the cost. Today we hear about a woman who takes a container of costly ointment and pours it upon the feet of Jesus.  Immediately she is criticized, or micromanaged by a disciple who says it is wasteful to use that ointment when it could easily be sold and the money given to the poor. The disciple is right – you could sell the ointment and give the money to poor. But where the disciple was mislead was in the fact that you cannot control love, and you cannot control the sacrifice a person makes to love. You cannot micromanage relationship. Jesus understood this, and rebuked the disciple. If anyone was worthy to receive this gift, it was Jesus.  

The stories of this kind of love without abandon in the Bible trickle down into our own church community – this parish – and we are empowered to live in a way that doesn’t seek control, but seeks love. A love that involves sacrifice, because if love is anything, it is sacrificial. St. Andrew’s is considering plans to build a new building on this campus, an act that would involve sacrifice on our part, as it would be costly, the least of which is financial.  In my early years as a priest, I would quietly scoff when I heard of churches wanting to do such things like we are considering – building a building. I would scoff, because like the disciple in the Gospel today, I would say to myself, “take all that money to build a building, and give it to organizations helping the poor. Why do you need another building?”

Fast forward a few years, and now here I am standing before you saying, “we need a new building!” The hypocrisy, or change of heart, or whatever you want to call it, is not lost on me. And yet as I read this Gospel story of unconditional love sacrificially given, a haunting question keeps reoccurring in my mind. Is Saint Andrew’s worthy? Are we worth the cost? Are we worth the sacrifice?  

Can we set our internal desires to micromanage, to control – can we set those aside, and with open hands pick up a container of costly ointment and anoint this community, this city? Will we do so without desiring control, without counting the cost, freely giving, anointing all that is holy, for you are worthy to do so. This is what God is calling you to do. We are worthy. AMEN.

February 28, 2016

Lent 3

Exodus 3: 1-15; Psalm 63: 1-8; 1 Corinthians 10: 1-13; Luke 13: 1-9


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

Pontius Pilate is a name familiar to many of us, he is mentioned in the Nicene Creed which we say every Sunday. But who was Pontius Pilate, and what did he do?  Pilate was a prefect, which is a Roman word that simply means governor. He governed over the area of Judea for ten years, from 26 – 36 CE.  Judea was an area in Israel that included the cities of Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and covered about 1,300 square miles.  To put that in some perspective, Judea during the time of Pontius Pilate was smaller than Harris County, which is over 1,700 square miles.  

Pilate served under the Emperor Tiberius, and what Pilate is most known for was his involvement with the trial and crucifixion of Jesus. His reputation as a governor was that he was fierce and not benevolent. As is true of many who held power in those days, Pilate’s power came at the expense of many. The Gospel of John paints Pontius Pilate in somewhat of a more favorable light, as Pilate engages in dialogue with Jesus before his trial, asking Jesus “What is truth?” For some, this seems to be a misread of Pilate’s true character. History reveals Pilate to be a person who seemed more bloodthirsty, more interested in brutal reprisals and suppressing local religious practices than have any interest in philosophical dialogue over whatever “truth” was.  

This morning we get an example of this sinister side of Pontius Pilate. As the story goes, some people from the region of Galilee whom Pontius Pilate believed were rebels against his authority had come to the temple in Jerusalem to present their sacrifices. In this case the sacrifice these Galileans presented at the temple was some sort of animal sacrifice. Pilate was enraged at their audacity to enter into the very seat of his power – Jerusalem – and so ordered his troops to murder all of the Galilean visitors, while the blood of their sacrificial animals was still flowing in the temple’s courtyard. Thus we encounter the graphic phrase in v.1 of Luke’s Gospel that Pilate mingled the blood of the Galileans with their sacrifices.

The sin was Pilate’s cruelty and the sacrilege of murder in the temple, to say nothing of the blatant disregard of the need to prove the victim’s guilt.  After discussing this event which took place, Jesus asks this provocative question to those around him: “do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all the other Galileans?”  

His answer is clear: no, they were not.  Jesus then brings up another case of undeserving victims, in this case a story of eighteen people who died in a construction accident involving the collapse of a tower near Siloam in Jerusalem. Again, Jesus asks the question: “do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?” His answer again, clearly, is no.  

It is not difficult for us today to find our own modern versions of the tower collapse at Siloam, or Pilate’s murdering of the Galileans. Several years ago our nation grieved as a gunman murdered six Sikhs worshiping at their temple near Milwaukee, Michigan. The Old Order Amish School children in their classroom in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Newtown, Aurora, Columbine, Paris, Charleston, Rwanda. And then there are the natural disasters. Hurricanes Sandy and Katrina. The Japanese tsunami and earthquake of 2011, the tornados that struck Joplin, Missouri. The list goes on and on and on. Were the victims of these disasters worse sinners than anyone else?  Did they deserve what happened to them? I believe not.  

In Jerusalem then, and for us today, the challenge is to believe in God in spite of tragedy and disaster, to believe that the hand of God, and the love of God, are at work in the world today. Because it is. Are we able to credibly explain unjust suffering? I can’t, and I would never try. But instead of trying to explain unjust suffering, instead of looking for an answer, I bring my questions here. I bring them to God’s altar, and I leave it there. I bring all my incomprehension, all my fear, all my temptation to believe God is absent in the world – it comes here. It is not a pretty gift to give to God, but I believe God always welcomes it.

The world might be powerful in hate, but that does not make the world God. To the Pontius Pilates of our time, who espouse hate, we respond with love – not ours, but God’s. And we courageously proclaim to our Pontius Pilates that even in the midst of tragedy and disaster, the kingdom of God is at work, and we are never forsaken. AMEN.

February 14, 2016

Lent 1

Deuteronomy 26: 1-11; Psalm 91: 1-2, 9-16; Romans 10: 8b - 13; Luke 4: 1 - 13


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

I want to talk today about the wilderness. Not the wilderness that come to our mind when we think of our national parks – snow-capped mountain peaks, clear lakes and streams, pine trees. I want to speak about the wilderness in the Bible, the place Jesus finds himself for forty days and forty nights. This is a very different kind of wilderness, it is a wilderness the book of Deuteronomy describes as a “a desert land, in a howling wilderness waste.” It’s not a pleasant place to visit, there are no snow-capped peaks, no pine trees, no clear mountain streams. It is a place of devils, dust, and death. I’m doing a good job selling its appeal aren’t I?  

This is where Jesus is today, and you have been there, too. Maybe it just looked like a drab hospital waiting room where the doctor confirmed the tumor was malignant and inoperable. Or maybe your wilderness appeared like the cheap sheets of a hotel bed after you got kicked out of your house. Maybe your wilderness looked more like the parking lot where you couldn’t find your car the day you were fired from your job.  

For 21 Egyptian Coptic Christians on Febraury 15, 2015, one year ago, their wilderness was a beach in northern Libya, where all of them were executed by the Islamic State for no other reason than their faith in Jesus Christ.  Their execution was seen worldwide in a video released by ISIS entitled “A Message signed with Blood to the Nations of the Cross.” All of them were native Egyptians except one – a young African man described as coming from Chad or Ghana. This man was not a Christian when he was captured, but when challenged by terrorists to declare his faith, he reportedly replied, referring to the Christian faith of the Coptic Christians captured alongside him, “Their God is my God.”

Twelve years ago my wife and I unknowingly stepped into a wilderness during a twenty-week ultrasound on our oldest son, who was yet to be born. We were anticipating a joyful experience, learning the gender, counting fingers and toes. Instead our initial joyfulness was met with silence from the technician who kept looking at the image of the brain of our child on the screen, measuring it quietly, saying nothing to us. It turns out a portion of his brain was not developing correctly, it wasn’t large enough. Later doctors expressed concern that our oldest son might not walk, could be blind or deaf, and may never be able to communicate. I remember one awful day when a doctor told us to consider abortion.  Today James is ten years old. He talks, a lot. He is my greatest teacher, teaching me more about the heart-wrenching beauty of the wilderness, than any bishop, priest, or professor.    

See, the wilderness comes in so many shapes and sizes that the only way you can really tell if you are in one is if you look around for what you normally count on to sustain you and you come up empty. No power.  No autonomy. No special protection. Jesus had nothing in his wilderness except a Bible- quoting devil and a whole lot of sand.

None of us seek this place. We go to great length, spending time and money to avoid it, but it is always there.  We cannot hide from it.  

Maybe this is bad news. That is for you to judge. What I can say about the wilderness, though, is that the wilderness is the most reality-based, spirit filled, life-changing places that a person can be.  

Jesus ends up in the wilderness after his baptism because the Holy Spirit literally drives him into it, living on nothing for weeks, and what does all that time, all that sand, all that temptation get him in the end?

It gets him the thing all of us so desperately hunger for: freedom. The wilderness freed Jesus from all devilish attempts to distract him from his true purpose. The wilderness freed Jesus from any craving for things with no power to give him life. The wilderness freed Jesus from any illusion he might have had that God would make choices for him or make his life easy.

After his time in the wilderness, Jesus learned to trust that the Spirit of God that led him into the wilderness would also lead him out, returning to the world with a kind of clarity and true grit he would not have been able to find anywhere else.  

We also learn something about temptation in the wilderness. In Jesus’ encounters with the devil, the astute observer realizes that the things the devil uses to tempt Jesus are things that Jesus already possesses. The temptation is not the stuff the devil offers. Rather the temptation for Jesus is the improper use of the power, and the improper use of ambition.

The value of the wilderness is mostly lost to our culture, and ironically, also largely lost to the church that is charged with preserving it. Author and theologian Henri Nouwen writes that “The long painful history of the church is the history of a people ever and again tempted to choose power over love, and control over the cross.” Our journey through the wilderness is what enables us to choose love over power, to choose the cross over control. It is the Libyan beach, it is the lonely hotel room, it is the doctor’s office, it is here. And once again, the Spirit calls us to be courageous and faithful.  

This is our time, our moment, our wilderness. Will you step into it? AMEN.

February 7, 2016

Last Epiphany

Exodus 34: 29-35; Psalm 99; 2 Corinthians 3: 12-4:2; Luke 9:28-36


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

The other day I was visiting someone in a hospital. As I customarily do on such visits, I brought with me a communion kit. After a visit with this person, they indicated that they would like to receive communion, and so I opened the kit and began unpacking its contents, setting up a small altar upon one of those rolling hospital carts.  

The items inside a communion kit are intentionally small – the paten upon which the bread is placed is smaller than a saucer, and the chalice into which the wine is poured is several inches tall. I confess that in the presence of such small dishes I sometimes feel as if I am playing with a child’s tea set.  

The time came for us to say the Lord’s prayer together, and as we prayed those words together, I began to hear another voice join us. The voice came from across the room, from the other side of a curtain which separated one patient from another.  On the other side of that curtain was another patient, their voice joined with ours to the final “amen.”  

Although the room were in was an ordinary hospital room, I felt I was elsewhere – drawn closely into the warm embrace of God who joins friend and stranger together. As I reflect back on that experience, I now feel regret that I did not ask the person on the other side if we could pull back the curtain, and invite him to share in our communion together. So conditioned am I to respect patient anonymity that I neglected to even consider this a possibility. I will think differently in the future.  

Nevertheless, it did feel like a holy moment to me. It felt like being on top of a mountain.  

The Bible is full of these moments, telling us again and again the stories of people who encountered the holy and sacred in mystical and powerful moments. We hear this morning about one such person – Moses – who found his way to the top of a mountain and there encountered the terrifying direct presence of God that profoundly changed his countenance. The Bible says “the skin of his face was shining.”  People were afraid to approach Moses because they believed that the only outcome of a person’s direct encounter with the majesterial presence of God, was death. No one could see God and live, they believed. Except Moses did. When Moses realized the source of the people’s fear, he covered his face with a veil, and like that curtain in the hospital room, the veil Moses wore had the unfortunate result of separating him from his community.  Moses had seen God, and the outcome of that moment, holy though it was, was a veil, a curtain, that isolated him from the community he no doubt loved.      

Centuries later the Apostle Paul wrote about the problem this veil of Moses presents. The point Paul makes in 2 Corinthians about the veil is that Jesus removes it. That was the point of Jesus’ life, to remove disconnection, to deal end separation between people and their God. That’s what Jesus’ whole life was about. There is no need for a curtain or veil. God is amongst and we are invited to look directly into God and our countenance will shine as a result.  And that countenance, our bright shining faces that have seen the living God never need to be covered.

The very real point of our unity with God, a kind of unity that implies no separation, no curtain, no veil, is the heart of the Gospel we hear this morning. In the Gospel, Jesus takes Peter, John, and James to the top of a mountain and atop the mountain and there the entire countenance of Jesus changes. Reminiscent of the shining of Moses’ face this change in Jesus’ appearance indicates a holy moment, a moment of transcendence. Moses and Elijah appear next to Jesus, in a way I imagine Obi Wan Kenobi, Yoda, and Anakin Skywalker do at the end of Return of the Jedi.  

The shift in the story of Jesus on the mountain from the earlier story of Moses is simple: Jesus upon the mountain is God upon the mountain, a God to whom all can look and for whom all are changed.  

Because a part of God is within each of us, and when we look at each other, I believe we are gazing at a part of God. If this is true, then when we look at each other, the countenance of our faces changes, because in seeing God in another person, we realize we are not strangers, but friends. The person in line standing in front of you at the grocery store? That’s God. The person who cuts you off on the freeway, that irritates you to no end?  Perhaps that is God, too. The person in your family you wouldn’t ever want to have a conversation with but you have to because you are family, and you see each other at family gathering, and you disagree with them completely about politics, religion? That’s God. And the same God calls us to cast off our veils, to pull back the curtains that divide us and really look into the face of another, because God is as close to you as the person sitting next to you now. AMEN.

January 31, 2016

The Epiphany IV

Jeremiah 1:4-10; 1 Corinthians 13:1-13; Luke 4:21-30; Psalm 71:1-6


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

The world was not ready. The people were not ready, they were not willing to hear the local hometown boy stand beside his neighbors with the temerity to teach based on the confidence of his own experience with God – and nothing else. But that’s what Jesus did, anyway. 

Jesus walked into his hometown of Nazareth, and in the synagogue there courageously proclaimed that God’s love has no limits. What Jesus said was unacceptable to the people of Nazareth – they were offended by the idea that they, as people of Israel, did not have exclusive status with God, that were not God’s favorite. How could God love a Gentile as much as God loved a child of Israel? They closed their ears to the message of this prophet who proclaimed just this.

To restate that this has always been God’s plan from the beginning, Jesus reminds them of his prophetic ancestors, Elijah and Elisha, greatly revered prophets amongst the people of Nazareth.  Elijah was a prophet from Israel’s past who lived during a time of great famine in the land.  During this famine, God sent Elijah to care for a woman, a widow, who was a foreigner, not a daughter of Israel.

When he arrived, Elijah discovered she had no food, and only a meager amount of meal to make bread. Elijah instructed her to make bread, and with God’s blessing, the bread she made, she was able to make again and again, it was never depleted. She could eat.  She was restored.

Again God sent Elisha, Elijah’s successor, to heal Naaman, a Syrian military commander, and enemy of Israel.  Naaman was afflicted with a disease, and Elisha instructed him to go wash in the Jordan River seven times and he would be healed. Naaman followed Elisha’s instruction and he was healed. This Syrian warmonger – an enemy of Israel, God healed.  The love and mercy of God are without limit.

When Jesus reminded the people of Nazareth of this fact, they were not very enthusiastic to hear the message that the limitless mercy and love of God are present to all people, regardless of race, class, or gender. So enraged were they when they heard this message they tried to kill Jesus by driving him out of town and throwing him off a cliff.  But Jesus does this cool thing and just passes through them and walks away.

The crowd was angry because Jesus turned their idea of a God as Santa Claus upside down.  “Santa Clause” God is a kind of God who rewards the good kids with toys and punishes the bad kids with lumps of coal. God isn’t Santa Claus! If you don't have a mature spirituality or an honest inner prayer life, you'll end up thinking God is Santa Claus, and the Gospel becomes a cheap novel of reward and punishment.

This has been a hard lesson for the church to learn. After Christianity became the established religion of the Roman Empire, the great biblical concepts of mercy, forgiveness, and God’s love gradually were controlled by formulas. Soon the Church created equations: this much sin results in this many years in purgatory or hell; this much penance results in this much time released from purgatory. Grace and forgiveness became juridical concepts instead of deep spiritual realizations.

The work of the priesthood became sin management and the church largely became a "worthiness attainment system" managed from clergy, instead of a transformational system awakening us from within. When forgiveness becomes a weighing and judging process, then those who are in charge can measure it, define who is in and who is out, find ways to earn it, and exclude the unworthy. But the church, thank God, is not how God works, because God is mercy, and God’s mercy is poured out upon everyone. 

A priest recently wrote of his visit to the 9/11 Memorial at the site of the Twin Towers in New York City.  He described the memorial - a huge waterfall drops down into the darkness of a lower pool the depth of which appears invisible to the human eye. For this priest, the 9/11 Memorial became a metaphor for God’s love: mercy eternally pouring into darkness, never stopping, always filling an empty space. That is exactly what God does, God pours out mercy upon us. The mercy and love of God is not contingent upon our fidelity, our good taste or even our common sense. The widow received it, Naaman received it, and today, that mercy flows to you.  It is God’s gift, a gift that cannot be measured or compared, more valuable than any prized possession, and it is yours. Who will you share that mercy with today? AMEN.

January 10, 2016

The Epiphany

Isaiah 43: 1-7; Psalm 29; Acts 8: 14 - 17, Luke 3: 15-17, 21-22


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

Almost twenty years ago, my brother Randall and I travelled to the Middle East.  Our trip took about a month, and along the way we visited Athens, Istanbul, Jerusalem, Amman, Petra, and Jericho. With only a few days of our trip left, we crossed the border from Israel into Egypt.  

Once in Egypt, we found someone willing to drive us and several other travelers across the Sinai peninsula to Cairo. At some point during our journey, the car broke down. We all climbed out of it, and I scanned the desert horizon around me, and it was miles and miles of endless desert – for a self-confessed Star Wars nerd, the landscape looked like the desert planet of Tatooine.  As the deep red sun began to set in the west, I knew that as long as we followed the sun west, we would eventually arrive at Cairo.  So we began walking, following the setting sun, until a kind person driving along the road picked us up and brought us to our destination in Cairo.   

Thousands of years before, a group of travelers also came from the east, following a star in the nighttime sky. These travelers were presumably astrologers, people who studied the stars. The stars have helped people travel for centuries, whether a sailor at sea, or those who travelled the Undeground Railroad alongside Harriet Tubman. Today, we don’t know what star these astrologers followed, or what it looked like. Some think it was a comet, or maybe the joining of two planets in the sky, or even a supernova. We don’t know.

We do know that they left their homeland because they believed that astrological phenomena, like a bright star, indicated that something important had happened on earth. We know the star, whatever it was, lead them to meet God’s child, Jesus of Nazareth.  

That story marks the beginning of the season Epiphany, which we are in now. The word “epiphany” simply means an event that reveals something about who God is and who we are in relation to God. This morning we hear another story of an Epiphany - the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River. He is an infant no longer, the visiting astrologers have long since left. Jesus is now a man, and his baptism in the Jordan River by John the Baptist is one of the few moments in the entire Bible where all three persons of the Trinity are present: God the Son, emerging from the waters, God the Father, whose voice proclaims “this is my son, with whom I am well pleased” and God the Holy Spirit, who rests upon Christ as a dove.

Today at St. Andrew’s is a day for baptism. It is a day of Epiphany for us as well. Today we will baptize Fiona Berlanta Kirk, Claire Evelyn Woodruff, Robin Michelle Thelen, and Ella Victoria Major. These four beautiful girls are epiphanies to us, they are our teachers about God and about what God is doing in our midst. Each of these young girls come to us with a timeless, ancient message they proclaim in their squeels, their crying, their laughter, and their sleep. The message is this: God is here, present amongst us and through us in our humanity and in our divinity.    

The message of Epiphany is not just Christ’s manifestation to the world through miracles, but the fact that we are God’s Epiphany – we are God’s miracle, we make God manifest in the world today. That is the proclamation of Baptism - it is the voice of God speaking to you now, saying: “You are my child, and with you, I am pleased.” AMEN.

January 3, 2016

Christmas 1

Isaiah 61: 10-62:3; Psalm 147; Galatians 3: 23-25, 4: 4-7; John 1: 1-18


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

Traditionally, the Sunday that follows Christmas is called a “low Sunday.” A “low Sunday” means that people who attended one of the “big” Christmas services earlier in the week are somewhat churched-out by the time Sunday rolls around again, and so we call a day like today a “low Sunday” because the attendance tends to be “lower” than usual.  

Another thing to know about “low Sunday.”  It is almost universal that the Rector is typically on vacation that day, and therefore doesn’t preach. As an associate Rector for almost nine years, I have plenty of old “first Sunday after Christmas” sermons in my folder.  Nine, to be exact!

Even though we are coming down from the proverbial mountain top of Christmas Eve and day, we are still in the midst of the Christmas season. We are actually only on the third day of the season, a day heralded in the song “Twelve Days of Christmas” as an appropriate occasion to give three French hens.  So be sure to pick up your French hens from the ushers as you leave today!

I get that even though we are only on Day 3 of Christmas, the world is ready to move on to the next lucrative, greeting card selling holiday – Valentine’s day.  But while the world is finished with Christmas, with all its “after Christmas sales,” Christmas is not finished with us. We still have nine days left.  And, low Sunday or not, today is Christmas.  So, Merry Christmas everybody!

This morning we hear the prophet Isaiah proclaim these words: “I shall rejoice in the Lord, my whole being shall exult in my God.” These are important words for us low Sunday Christians. We are here today to rejoice in what God has done in the miraculous birth of an infant boy long ago whose life changed the world and is still changing the world today. It is this child for whom the author of Galatians writes that we are all children of God through our faith.

It is this child for whom the author of John’s Gospel calls the very word of God. Another translation of these first few passages of John’s Gospel read as follows: “The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a kind glory, like Father, like Son, Generous inside and out, true from start to finish.” That is Jesus, God’s clearest indication of God’s love for all humanity, and the extreme extent to which God is willing to join us and be with us and to live among us, in our neighborhood.

There are some who smugly say that if Jesus actually turned up at one of our churches, he would very likely be quietly and inconspicuously asked to leave by an usher or a priest. As much as we want to pay lip service to our love for a God who put on flesh to be with us and to know us, we are – if we are honest – often uncomfortable with such an idea.

We are afraid of God knowing us, because if God truly knew us, if Jesus really moved into our neighborhood, then he would know what we are really like. Do we really want to invite God into those places we don’t allow anyone else? Do we really want God moving into that neighborhood?

And yet – this is what Christmas is all about!  God moving in with us – living with us – knowing us for who we really are. Twenty-three years ago, when I was in high school,  I suffered a deep and debilitating depression of which I could see no end. I literally felt that I wanted to end my life. At the end of my rope, and by the grace of God alone, I was checked into a psychiatric hospital where for two weeks I looked very closely at landscapes of my psyche I had never examined before. Until that point, I believed a lie – a lie which stated I needed to be perfect in order to be loved by God. Which I could never be, and thus my depression.

In that hospital one Sunday night, I felt alone, scared, and afraid that my life had no purpose. In a room by myself, closed off from the world, something happened and God met me in that place. God set up camp in my dark and ugly neighborhood, and met me in my pain in a way I had never experienced before or ever expected God to do. Although this happened sometime in March, it was a Christmas moment, because God became incarnate – real – to me that day.

On that day God stopped being something superficial, something I associated with saccharine expressions of false happiness and joy. God took on skin, and met me in a place I didn’t allow anybody access to. Somehow God found it. For some reason God wanted to meet me there, perhaps because I needed to be broken before being made whole through the love of God.  Somehow God redeemed my low Sunday, and it became not a day of fear or shame, but a day that cast an indelible impression upon my spiritual journey.  Who knew!

So I rejoice this Sunday, whether low or not, that today is Christmas, meaning God will meet us where we are now, not where we think we need to be. Are we willing to trust that? I am trying, every day.  I hope you join me. AMEN.

December 25, 2015

Christmas Day

Isaiah 9: 2-7; Psalm 96; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-20


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

I would first like to welcome all of you here on this holy day. If you are a member of this parish – welcome, we are glad you are here. If you are visitor – welcome, and thank you for being here this morning. This church is blessed by your presence.

One of the things that I love about Christmas Day service is that it kind of feels like you  are letting your hair down and putting your feet on up on the couch after all the pageantry of Christmas Eve services, which are beautiful and grand, but Christmas Day service is kind of like the party that happens after the party, the one where all your close friends stay after others have gone home.

If your house is anything like mine this morning, the presents have been unwrapped from under the Christmas tree, and the Christmas tree looks a little bare with nothing under it anymore (except a bunch of dry pine needles if the tree is real!).  For many of us, Christmas trees are one of the real icons of the Christmas holiday. Whether it is a noble fir, or one made of plastic, metal, or with the fake spray on snow – all Christmas trees kindle in me that feeling of Christmas.  

Some time ago I saw a Christmas tree unlike any other I had ever seen. It looked somewhat like the Christmas tree from “A Charlie Brown Christmas” with its bare branches and one or two bare ornaments hanging from it. There were no presents underneath this tree.  It appeared to be in a room surrounded by rubble – broken concrete and steel rebar. The tree, I later learned was in the destroyed home of a Palestinian Christian family living in Bethlehem, the traditional city of Jesus’ birth.

The ornaments hanging from this tree were not what you or I would expect. We have Darth Vader hanging on our tree at home, but on this tree, the ornaments were all constructed out of spent rifle casings the family had found around the ruin of what used to be their home. Bullets as ornaments.  

There it was for all to see – a Christmas tree, a symbol of hope and light, decorated with the spent instruments of violence. This Palestinian family, whoever they were, used bullet casings for ornaments to create something that resembled hope. They used what they had. It was not a fancy tree. But it was one of the most beautiful Christmas trees I have ever seen.

Like the owners of that tree, God also used what was available to create hope: a small, non-descript, unimportant backwoods region of the Roman Empire, a young woman and her husband, and a baby.  A baby born in a manger, a cave or stable, with a feeding trough for a crib.  

And this baby, the Christ child, born of Mary, the God-bearer, is our hope.  

There were no guarantees of this child’s safety, or that of his family. Early on in their life together, they would become refugees, fleeing King Herod’s violent campaign to slaughter the innocents. They would find safety in neighboring Egypt, for a time. This is the Christmas Story: a God willing to risk everything to get to know us, to be with us, to walk beside us in our pain, in our joy, in our complexity, and in our sorrow.

Why? Because of love. God loves you. We aren’t promised security or prosperity – we are promised something far greater – God’s love that spans the entire universe to meet you here this Christmas morning.  

We create hope out of whatever we can. The broken pieces of dreams shattered by the harsh reality of our lives. The irony is that often hope only emerges when things are broken. Whatever it is – spent bullet casings, memories of a broken child hood, the failure of a fractured dream. All of those pieces God is holding and with God’s mercy and grace God is giving the pieces to you, to build what you will – to create hope.

This is what God does – it’s called grace. And it is what Christmas is all about: the risk of love, the promise of grace, the creation of hope. What will you build? AMEN.

December 24, 2015

Christmas Eve

Isaiah 9: 2-7; Psalm 96; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-20


THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE

In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

I would first like to welcome all of you here on this holy night. If you are a member of this parish – welcome. If you are visitor – welcome, and thank you for being here on this holy night. This church is blessed by your presence.

There’s too much going on. Too much to do, people to see, gifts to buy, and it doesn’t even feel like Christmas outside!  80 degrees with humidity!  I was sweating outside today. There is too much to do, and there is never enough time.  When I turn my eyes to the concerns of the world at large, they are met with the plight of refugees, of violence, and of pain. There seems to be no end and no answer. I confess this is no time for Christmas. There is no time for stockings, wrapped presents and the pleasantries of family and friends when the world is facing problems so large and resolve so small. And yet this is what Christmas does to us every year – we are never ready, the world is never ready, and often are caught unprepared to welcome God into our messy, complicated, and beautiful world.   

Our global unpreparedness, our countries entrenched in geopolitical conflict, our cities broken and homes split – none of this seems to bother God. Christmas comes every year; Christ enters our world in spite of its brokenness, in spite of its pain.  Staring fearlessly into the abyss of political and social division, inequality, and injustice, Jesus proclaims this: God loves you.   

Several weeks ago Pope Francis visited Bangui, the capital city of the Central African Republic. The Central African Republic is one of the world’s poorest nations, and one of the places in the capital city Francis visited was the Muslim quarter, called PK5. Since 2012, the Central African Republic has been locked in a civil war that that has strong religious motivations. According to the Human Rights Watch, about 122,000 Muslims lived in Bangui before the start of this civil war.  But attacks by Christian militia groups have driven tens of thousands of Muslims from the country, and there are now about 15,000 Muslims remaining in Bangui, mostly in PK5.   

Pope Francis was determined to visit the Central African Republic, a country devastated by violence and poverty, telling the pilot of his airplane, “I want to go to Central Africa, and if you can’t manage it, give me a parachute.” Thousands stood in the sun along the dusty airport road to greet the pope, many waving palms in his honor. He rode most of the way in an open pope mobile.  

His visit to PK5 culminated in a visit to a mosque, where he sat down on a threadbare rug, next to many imams and other leaders of the Islamic community.  And it was here, that Francis, the head of the entire Roman Catholic Church said the following: “Religiously motivated violence disfigures the face of God. Christians and Muslims are brothers and sisters.” Francis took this trip at great risk. Many warned him not to go because the region was too unstable. The Islamic State had publicly announced a death threat on his life. Francis’ response to the Islamic State was that he we would be willing to speak to them in the name of peace.  

Francis proclaimed the radical love of God for all people, not in a gilded church in Europe, not amongst the political elite, not in the White House, but upon a threadbare carpet in a mosque in a country few know exists.  

Nearly two thousand years ago, the word of God became incarnate in an unimportant, ordinary city on the outer rim of the Roman Empire. Jesus was born not during a time of peace, but of great instability and in the midst of great political conflict between the Jews and the Roman Empire. The timing of the first Christmas was far from ideal. This is why the timing of Christ’s birth was so critical – because God didn’t wait for some ideal time, when things were perfect and peaceful, for Jesus to be born. Because in God’s wisdom, God knew that time would never come! Jesus entered the world as it is now and was then – broken.  

So don’t feel everything has to be perfect at Christmas. The first Christmas was far from it.  As one theologian says, “it doesn’t matter that our lives, or our families or world are not perfect. What matters is that we make a space, no matter how small, for God in our hearts. When we do that, God will do the rest, and Christ will once more be born in the Bethlehem of our lives and the mangers of our hearts.”

When Christ is born in our heart, then we are able to proclaim the message of Christmas which is simple: “God loves you, always, no matter what.” Whether that message is proclaimed in the city of Bethlehem or the Muslim quarter of Bangui, it makes no difference. God is with you, God is with us, God is living and active in the world.  

I believe with all my heart that when God looks at you, God sees the Greatest Miracle in the World.  I believe God looks at you with the same eyes of adoration and praise God glanced at the newborn Christ child years ago. Because just like Jesus, you are the incarnation of God’s love in the world. You are the resurrected Christ to the world, and in you, Christ is born, again and again.   

And that is the miracle of Christmas – you. You are, and will always be, God’s greatest gift. Merry Christmas! AMEN.

December 6, 2015

Advent 2

Malachi 3:1-4; Canticle 4; Philippians 1:3-11; Luke 3:1-6


THE REV. CARISSA BALDWIN-MCGINNIS

People of Advent!

People of an Onset!

People in Waiting!

Our job is this.

It is suspense.

It is only suspense.

And I dare say we likely know little of how to go about it.

For,

When was the last time we upheld great expectation?

When last were we privileged to await something marvelous?

When had we the time to await any thing?

How long since we deferred a single action or gratification?

How many years since we looked out, just looked out?

When did we last feel our desire?

When last did we give Hope the chance to breathe?

These are questions for a people said to be in waiting. These questions are for the children of prophets in a modern, post-modern, east vs. west, Islam vs. Christianity, the people vs. the environment, the integrated vs. the isolated, Shia vs. Sunni, Republican vs. Democrat, capital vs. labor, warming, global culture in which:

We people of faith crave our senses as we overdrive our cognition.

We wish to anticipate anything, because we seem often forced to respond to everything.

We would likely trade food and drink for time to simply look at a baby, a river, even a rock,

given that all our days and into our nights we study primarily highways, bus stops, electronics screens and frozen foods.

We want to recollect our children, as scripture says.

We want to nurse our parents.

We people of faith want desperately to gather at the word of the Holy One.

We desire to embody suspense as the answer to everything, yet the weapons and images of apocalypse overwhelm us.

How then to anticipate new life?

We want to await you, Lord.  We want to await you.

We want to expect you, O Great One, and to prepare non-anxiously for your arrival without needing you to text us about your every stop and updated arrival time. We want to receive you anew just as for the first time and without presuming to tell you who you are.

We understand that our job is suspense, but to undertake this goes against everything we know and may ask more of us than we can possibly imagine.

So, help us, Great Creator. Empower us to discard our sorrow and to don your beauty. Assist us in setting the dark of winter in lights of promise and mercy. Even the score between violence and splendor. Refresh us with your peace. Relieve us of our fears.

Where there is infertility, may we grow family.

Where there is abandonment, let us make claims to one another.

Where there is violation, lead us to wholeness.

If there is failure, show us a new start.

We, O God, sit in your church endangered, silly and in need of you. Help us to feel you are on your way. Help us to wait and to watch and to forget that we think we know anything about who you are.

November 15, 2015

Pentecost – Proper 28

Daniel 12: 1-3, 14-25; Psalm 16; Hebrews 10: 11-14, 19 -25; Mark 13: 1-8

THE REV. JAMES M.L. GRACE


In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. AMEN.

So I typically write my Sunday sermon on Mondays. Mondays tend to be rather quiet days at the church, and they are a perfect time at least for me to thing and reflect upon the scriptures that are appointed for this day. This, by the way, is a peak behind the curtain for any of you who might lose sleep over such things as when I find time to write these things. I am spilling all my secrets now! I didn't write my sermon on Monday of this week however because of a funeral that was here that took up much of the day.  

So I instead wrote this morning’s sermon on Friday of this last week. I was happy with it because it tied into this morning’s Gospel about Jesus predicting the destruction of the temple, and it gave me a chance to offer an alternative interpretation to last week's Gospel about the poor widow offering her two copper coins to this temple that would be destroyed.

I left town Friday evening to go on a Cub Scout camp out and all seemed right at least with my small insignificant world until a news update on my phone pinged, and I read in my tent next to my sleeping son the horror that befall nightclub in Paris in which over one hundred and twenty people were murdered in the name of religion - the most violent act in Paris since World War II. This came one day after another attack in Beirut where two suicide bombers killed 43 people and wounded more than 200.

Whatever meaning the sermon I wrote two days ago had, it washed away like a current drifting from the shore into a sea of helpless darkness. So I started again, typing out new words – these words -  on my phone yesterday afternoon, a small attempt to shine a light in a world that has grown dark once again.

Friday morning I attended a breakfast for the Monarch School, where my oldest son James attends. It is a school for children with neurological differences. A teacher spoke that morning about a field trip she took with her class room to the Rothko Chapel in Montrose. The chapel is a dramatic building, featuring many dark paintings of black landscapes created by the abstract expressionist painter and Russian born Jew, Mark Rothko. The effect these dark monolithic paintings create when you walk into this space is overwhelming. It is like walking into a universe, and as you stand in the midst of that darkness, you are meant to feel small. The teacher recalled how that day one of her students, a boy, stood before the dark painting as something about it captured his curiosity. After a while, his back toward his teacher, the boy turned around, looked at his teacher, and smiled. His teacher shed a tear watching this young boy with so many challenges stand in front of the darkness and smile into it.  

We are to do the same. The Christian life is defined by being ashamed or afraid of the darkness which surrounds us. In two weeks we will begin the season of Advent where our response to the gathering darkness of the winter solstice is to create light. Two weeks from today we will make advent wreathes for our homes so that we can remember that Christ, the true light of the world, is coming into it. The collect we will pray together the first Sunday of Advent will remind us to put on the armor of light so that we might go into a world darkened by hatred and violence and transform it.

In spite of our ability to do the worst, God refuses to give up on us. God stubbornly refuses to let go of Paris, Beirut, and any other place on the world where the tragedy of violence and life lost has occurred again.

God is living and active in Paris, in Beirut, and in every place darkened by human violence. The darkness is real, but it is nothing more than a speck in the light. Theologian and author Anne Lamott asks us, “What are we to do now? We are to do the next right thing.”

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. reminds us to take courage during times like these, writing  “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid.  Follow God into the darkness, and you will redeem it.  AMEN.

November 1, 2015

All Saints Day

Isaiah 25:6-9; Psalm 24; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44


THE REV. CARISSA BALDWIN-MCGINNIS

When we hear the tale of Jesus weeping over the death of Lazarus, our own irreversible losses reverberate in our hearts. Of the many stories of Jesus’ healing and death-reversing power, the story of Jesus reviving Lazarus is one uniquely colored by the intimacy and loyalty of friendship.  If only we could revive our most beloved friends who are no longer with us in this life. And, why does it feel in times of loss as though the death of a beloved friend or family member would threaten our own lives? Why does it feel as though grief wants to become our undertaker? We can’t move. We can’t work. We can hardly speak.  Loss can literally be life breaking. We see this in the numerous cases of the elderly lover who dies just days or weeks after a beloved spouse.

Yet story - myth - can help us to cope with the complexity of such pain.  Jesus raising Lazarus is one. Another is the Sumerian myth of the Goddess Inanna. Inanna was known in Ancient Iraq as the Queen of Heaven and Earth, and she chose do descend to the underworld after the death of her sister’s husband. Entering the underworld required of Inanna to surrender every aspect of herself and her status.  She was made to enter seven portals. At the first they demanded her crown. At the second they took her lapis beads. By the seventh portal she was literally stripped naked and made to surrender her royal robe.  Inanna was then judged harshly, killed and reduced to a piece of raw meat. Isn’t that how we feel in times of deep grief; raw in every fiber of our being?

And yet, there are people who know us well and can reach into our isolation and sorrow. The effort of these companions can inspire the reassembly of our lives. Jesus entered a cave filled with the four-day old stench of death and yet came out with his friend newly revived. In Inanna’s case it was her servant - a woman who knew Inanna’s every move - who instigated Inanna’s return from the underworld. Thanks to the efforts of this loyal friend and servant, two genderless beings were said to have travelled to the underworld and found Inanna’s corpse. One sprinkled upon it the bread of life and the other the water of life. The Queen of Heaven was restored and began her return.

Sometimes we grieve and need the assistance of others. Sometimes it is we who must be watchful for those we know well. If we find them down, depressed or isolated we need not diagnose or attempt to fix them. Instead let us invite them anywhere that is outside their place of pain.

The baptism of new saints into our church fold, a liturgical act that we do today, is a commitment from us to them, that we will be the church of revival. When they turn 50, are depressed by their age, and are paralyzed by thoughts of the future, we will force their removal from the couch and take them to lunch. We will hold their hand when they grieve.  We will look for them when they are lost. We promise to not bee too demanding, judgmental or creepy, and pledge to instead be intimate, safe, strong, helpful and constant. I invite us to pray for each other as we strive to be these latter things, remembering honestly our saints of old and welcoming joyfully our saints of new.