On My Fortieth
Isaiah 40: 1-9
December 1, 1996
Today is a very special day. It is special for the church, and special for me personally. For the church, it is the beginning of Advent – a time to prepare for that wonderful grace of God which breaks into our hearts at Christmas. But it’s also a time of celebration for me personally – a time to celebrate my fortieth anniversary as an ordained priest. This day gives me an opportunity to explore, in a very specific way, God’s surprising manner of breaking into my life.
Forty years, that’s a long time to do anything, and particularly the priesthood. At the time, I was one of the youngest people to be ordained. Can you imagine being ordained at twelve? But seriously, I recall thinking, “How can this be happening?” Here I was, young in years, young in the faith, not terribly certain what I believed. I remember saying to myself, “If they really knew what I was like, they would stop the whole procedure right now.” I didn’t so much feel I was making a mistake. The mistake was on the Bishop’s part, who was ordaining me,
Spiritually speaking, I have always seen myself as a slow learner. I have grown into being a Christian very slowly. Being ordained has been one way in which I have developed. I often wake up in the morning, surprised that I have been given another day to see if I can “get it right.” And in the evening, when I say my prayers, I often use that simple Celtic prayer (it’s only one line so even I can remember it.) The prayer goes, “0, Son of God, do a miracle for me and change my heart”
My vocation to the priesthood came to me in my early twenties while I was a youth worker on the Lower East Side of New York City. But it didn’t come as a glowing feeling to help people, or some blinding light. It was more of a challenge. “Well, if you are going to try to be a Christian, you’d better do it with all that you have.” I guess I was a romantic. Once I was admitted to the round table of Christ’s followers, working with teenage gangs, I was ready to go off (to use a Hopi term) on a Vision Quest. The Hopi Indians used this term to describe going into the desert in a quest to discover who they were and what God was beckoning them to become.
My attraction to ordination was, no doubt, a mixed bag of motives, some neurotic and unhealthy. I remember my mother saying that I should go to a psychiatrist. She also said, “How long will it take you to become a Bishop?” I am sure I would not have made it through the very convoluted screening process that the Church uses today. Somehow, underneath all the rational reasons I had for being ordained, was a very deep wish to be accepted. The Episcopal Church seemed like a great club, where only the smartest, the best, the most interesting were its leaders.
And deep down, I wanted to be a part of that club. I have to admit, as I got closer to ordination and began to see the mixed bag of clergy and to identify all the craziness of the church, I felt like part of the problem and not the solution, particularly when I was in seminary. I felt more and more like Groucho Marx, who, when invited to join a club, declined with the words, he didn’t want to be a member of a club that would accept the likes of him.”
But don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad I was ordained. Even though I must admit I had no idea what I was getting into 40 years ago. I suppose to some degree it’s helpful that we don’t look to closely at our motivations. No one who is wide awake would dare to be ordained. I was driven, forty years ago, by a crazy romantic desire to do something for God. To bind myself to God. Now, I see, that God has done something for me. Forty years ago I looked on ordination as a way into acceptance. Now I feel it’s an entrance into heart-work, which includes, more often than not, heart-aches. And where we constantly find ourselves praying, “0 Son of God, do a miracle for me and change my heart.”
You know, we ordained priests should be an enormous encouragement to you who are not formerly ordained, but still understand that ministry starts at Baptism. We who are formally ordained are living signs that God can come into our hearts, and God’s will can go forward in the most unlikely of people.
I think that was what Handel was communicating in his magnificent oratorio. The text, as you know, comes from Isaiah. And it’s the words given to discouraged, burned-out, beat-up people. The oratorio starts out with the soloist repeating with variation, “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people – saith your God.”
The word comfort doesn’t mean retreat, bandage your wounds, suck your thumb, or give up. Comfort here means to strengthen, go forward into the future, and let God’s spirit lift your heart. The intent of the passage is to urge people to watch and wait for the God who comes to make the crooked in our lives straight, and the rough places smooth. The choir expressed this hope so beautifully when they sang, “Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed.”
It was really serendipitous that Bill Roberts chose this day to treat us to parts of The Messiah, for the words of hope, encouragement, and faith really speak to me as I reflect on my years in the priesthood. As I think about going from a suburban parish to the inner city of New York on the edge of Harlem to a mission in a small town to a suburban commuting community and now, to here, a metropolitan, it’s been a long road. One that I will continue for at least three or four more years. A friend of mine asked me on Tuesday, “What makes you keep going when human nature is so rotten and you have been in so many places, both good and bad?” My answer is that through the years there have been a lot of heartaches and headaches, but mostly its been fantastic… and God’s spirit has been there, changing a lot of pain into joy, problems into challenges, and crises into opportunities.
Let me try to pull our thoughts together on this highly personal reminiscing day by quoting that marvelous part found in Fred Buechner’s book, Godric. Godric comes to a point in his life where he wonders whether it’s worth continuing. And the ghost of St. Cuthbert prays over Godric that the Holy Spirit will come down and strengthen him. The prayer goes like this: “Oh Thou, who art the sparrow’s friend, have mercy on the world that knows not even when it sins. Oh, Holy Dove, descend at last and roost on Godric here, that a heart may hatch in him at last.”
Imagine the Holy Spirit roosting on yourselves. We are all like Godric, set aside. And in a sense, I’ve been talking a lot about my priesthood, but it’s really a joint priesthood, and this anniversary is for all of us. So, the word of God to each of us as we celebrate this day is: May God’s spirit come down to us, that a heart may hatch in each of us – as we pray, “0, Son of God do a miracle in us – and change our hearts so that the Glory of the Lord may be revealed.” Amen.
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The Message to Mary
Luke 1: 26-38
December 2, 2000
“Seasons Greetings.” I’ll bet you receive many cards with those words. That kind of greeting is what we expect at this time of the year. When we receive such a card, there is no question as to its meaning.
But imagine for a moment that it’s not December. Pretend it’s July. You pick up your mail, and there among all the catalogues and bills is a card that says, “Seasons Greetings.” You’re puzzled. Is it something that got lost in the mail six months ago? is it some kind of advertising gimmick dreamed up by Madison Avenue to catch our eye? What does it mean to receive this message in July?
That must have run through Mary’s mind, even more so because the greeting came from an angel and not the local mail carrier. What sort of a message from God could this be? Gabriel, the angel, greets her by saying, “Greetings, favored one. The Lord is with you.”
Shock, confusion, bewilderment – whatever Mary’s feelings were, Luke understates them by simply saying, “She was troubled.”
And well she might be. I suspect that Mary knew her own Jewish history well enough to realize that to be favored by God was at best a dubious honor. If Mary had even the slightest knowledge of Scripture, there would be no question of being troubled. To announce to someone that they were “favored of God” might be seen as a promise, but more likely would have been viewed as a threat.
At the center of the drama lies not only the message from an angel, but also Mary’s response. It is this response that forever sets Mary aside as one of the great women of history. In the face of a troubling message, she was able to say, “Let it be with me, according to your word.”
J.B. Philips paraphrases these words in this way: “Let it happen to me, as you wish.” One commentary had this interpretation: “What Mary said was, in effect, seconding the motion of God.” Using the language of parliamentary procedure, the commentator tells us, “It was as if God had made a proposal and Mary, as a loyal supporter, brought it to the floor. She in effect said, ‘I support the proposal, let it happen, let it happen to me.’”
To be told that the favor of God rested upon you was not good news. Instead of bringing order out of chaos, a thing we might hope would happen, the favor of God brought chaos into the order of Mary’s life. Here was a simple, peasant girl, engaged to a solid, dependable man. And surprise, an angel appears, and her world is never the same. The rest of Mary’s life has to be lived under the shadow of being favored by God.
Let me be specific, since most preachers seem to gloss over the facts. Mary was unmarried, and the people of Nazareth may not have been very sophisticated, but they surely could count to nine. Respectable Christians rarely mention this, but Jesus must have been seen as the one who came early to an engaged couple.
We also tend to romanticize the Bethlehem experience. My guess is that it happened a lot earlier than just before the birth. No one, in their right mind, would attempt that difficult journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem with a wife who was about to give birth. I think Mary and Joseph came much earlier to Bethlehem, to get away from the wagging tongues of the people of Nazareth. The old tried and true way to handle things like this was to leave town for a spell, and not to come back until everything was taken care of. So, like others who were favored of God, Mary left the comfortable, known, secure existence of Nazareth for a life living as one of the homeless people.
Perhaps only a woman can fully comprehend the astounding implications of Gabriel’s request. To be asked to become the container for God is an awesome task. And basically, there were 100 reasons that could be given to say no, and only one way to say “Yes.” it would have been so easy to say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” But Mary chose to respond with a resounding “Yes. Let it be with me, according to your word.” Isn’t this true for all of us? Whenever we perceive that God has a message, a task to be done, a job to be shouldered, a ministry to be followed, we are given a choice. We can ignore the message, or we can go with it and say “Yes? Sometimes we wish that someone else were given the task. Sometimes we put off what we know is God’s word to us. But deep down inside, we can’t escape that God sends messages to all of us and we’re faced with choices.
A hungry mother, in our city, played earnestly one Christmas for some food and toys for her little child, but nothing happened. She related her prayer to a cynical friend, who said with a sneer, “What happened to this God of yours? Why didn’t he hear? Why didn’t he answer?” To which the mother answered, “Oh, I’m sure he did hear me and told someone to bring us food and something for my child. But, I guess they forgot, or were too busy.” There is more here than a naive mother’s faith. More often, this is where the breakdown occurs – not with God, who makes the motion, but with us, who walk past a table like the Children’s Christmas project and ignore the message. Mary said, “Yes. Yes, I second the motion. Let it be to me, as you have spoken.” Our failure to do likewise is probably the main reason so little gets done in the world.
If there is to be any word from God this Advent season, it will come from Mary’s story of the Annunciation. If there is one thing I want everyone to hear as we prepare for Christmas, it is the Holy announcement. When the angel of God comes to us, and says, “You, you are the person God has chosen: You are favored of God,” we will know that to be favored means God has chosen to dwell in you, to accomplish his will. In a sense, we might say that greeting suggests that each of us is pregnant. We are being asked to give birth to all sorts of things that God would have us do. St. Augustine said it so well when he wrote, “God has a work to do with us – that will not be done without us.
Advent as a season reminds us that we are close to birthing. You are to be a container for God, and you have been given a timetable. The delivery room awaits. It’s less than four weeks away. Can we respond by saying, “Let it be, Lord. Let it be to me, to us, – according to your word?”
Amen -
Preparing for Christmas
December 12, 1999
Recently, in a visit, someone said to me, “Can’t understand why everyone gets all worked up at this time of the year. The Christmas story is a fairy tale for children with little or no basis in reality” (Just what one needs to hear on the first parish call of the day.)
As we prepare for Christmas, it seems important to respond to that kind of remark, for that person represents many in and out of the church. At best, they look at the Christmas story on a par with Santa Claus tales. At worst, they see nothing worth maintaining or preparing for.
So let’s start our thinking with some honest>n The record certainly is bewildering. The birth stories in the New Testament are not very consistent. If this birth was as unique, why is it that St. Paul, the earliest of the New Testament writers, never mentions it? There is no word in the Epistles about Virgin births, or Angels, or Wise Men from the East. There isn’t even any indication in the first four centuries that the church celebrated Christmas
And let’s take it a step further and ask why two of the four Gospels, Mark and John, fail to mention the Birth. And then, if you look closely at the Birth story in Luke and Matthew, you will find that they don’t mesh very well. Both agree that the Birth took place in Bethlehem. But for different reasons and in different locations.
In Matthew, Jesus was born in Bethlehem because that was the home of Joseph and Mary. In Luke’s account, the one we know best from Christmas Eve, Nazareth was where Mary and Joseph lived. They had gone to Bethlehem to register for taxes.
Matthew tells us about the Wise Men and the Star. Certainly important events to be recorded, if they had taken place. Luke doesn’t mention it, and he simply writes about shepherds and angels. Matthew has Jesus born at home. Luke has Jesus born in a stable because the Inn was overcrowded.
Can you see where we are headed? It’s at best a confusing bunch of stories, particularly if we look closely at the record.
One other problem plagues us as we try to openly deal with this story. And that concerns Jesus’ parentage. Was Joseph Jesus’ natural father, or just his legal father? Both Matthew and Luke insist that Jesus was conceived not by the union of Joseph and Mary, but by the union of God and Mary. For many Christians, that’s the key to the Birth story and consequently to their belief system. For other people, a Virgin Birth is simply poetic license, and they point out that Matthew traces Jesus’ lineage through David, which would indicate Jesus was an offspring of Joseph. Many scholars suggest that the term Virgin applied in those days to any young woman who gave birth before they were expected to be fertile. Other scholars note that many religions have similar stories. God impregnates a human being, who brings forth a powerful demigod figure. And so it goes, everybody interpreting the record and reading into it from his or her own viewpoint. It’s enough to get a person thoroughly confused.
Well, that’s at least some of the more rational arguments. I’ve tried to state them as clearly as possible, because we can’t simply dismiss those issues.
It’s what makes a parishioner say, “Why are you getting so worked up about an empty story with no basis in reality?” It’s what makes many sincere people celebrate the holiday without getting involved in religion. It’s what makes Christianity suspect in many places.
Can we begin to cease thinking of the Gospels as biography and history, memory and myth? Yes, myth; but let me remind you, myth, which is much of scripture, is not the same as fantasy. Fantasies are the telling of wild tales with no basis in truth. Myths tell us of truths that lie beyond the facts. Myths contain eternal truth, and the details are not important. Myths can be experienced, but are not open to the skeptic’s method of evaluation. Did Adam and Eve eat an apple in the Garden of Eden? I don’t know. But this I do know. The story in Genesis is more about the truth of human nature than it is about apples and snakes, and gardens.
Much of the problem of the skeptics is that he or she is searching for one right answer, one official reading, and one orthodox stance. Is it Luke or is it John, which is right? Does three different beginnings signify a lack of honesty? Or is it the same story, only told to different audiences at different times?
We, as searching adults, have a problem. Oftentimes, we say it’s with the Bible – so many conflicting stories. But our problem is not as we would think. The problem is not because of inaccurate or hazy details. The problem is that we have lost our imagination. In our quest for details, for what we call facts, we have lost the truth behind the Christmas story. Somehow, we’ve become unable to see truth beyond the so-called historical, factual material.
I think it was TS. Elliot, who once was quoted as saying, “You can’t appreciate the Bible unless you are a poet.” And I would second that and further declare, you can’t be a Christian unless you are willing to exercise your imagination, and go beyond the critical, skeptical fact-oriented understandings of Scripture.
This being the Advent season, a season of preparation, I want to share with you a story from West Africa. I think it’s a parable for Advent. But, it’s also a solemn warning that we have to see beyond our three-dimensional world.
Once there was a young man who owned some milk cows that weren’t producing milk. One night, he stayed up and watched while a beautiful woman rode down on a moonbeam from the heavens and milked the cows.
The next night, he set a trap for the moon maiden. And sure enough, he caught her while she was milking the cows. The young man agreed to release her if she would marry him. She agreed, but made one condition that she be allowed to go back into the heavens to prepare herself for marriage.
Sure enough, she returned in three days carrying a large box, which a-she placed in their bedroom. Before the wedding, she made her husband-to-be promise that he would not look in the box. They got married and, for a while, lived a full, idyllic time together. But then one day, when she went out shopping, he gave in to temptation and opened the forbidden box.
Much to his surprise, it was completely empty. His bride came in and said, “You looked, didn’t you? I can see it in your face.” The young man replied, “What’s so terrible about looking in an empty box?” And she said, “I must leave you. Not because you opened the box, but because you saw nothing in it. It wasn’t empty. It contained the light, the air, and the smells of my home in the sky. How can I be your wife, if what is most precious to me is nothing to you?”
I think this parable is one of those God stories. It contains a truth beyond any historical details. It’s the word of God from West Africa to those of us preparing for Christmas. It’s the mystery of emptiness.
Advent is an invitation to enter into mystery, poetry, and imagination. The many Biblical stories we hear contain the smells of Heaven, precious truths beyond the facts, wisps of our home with God.
So watch, anticipate, and wait for the Christ child; born of a Virgin who lies beyond our comprehension…But not beyond our Faith.
Amen -
“Discovering Why You Were Born”
Luke 1: 26-38
December 5, 1993
It has been said that the two most important days in a person’s life are the day on which they were born and the day they discover why they were born.
Most of us are very aware of the first day, but we know almost nothing about the second. Our lives are made up of routines, one day after another. As someone said to me, “Life is one damned Birthday after another until we finally pack it all in. And then they put on your tombstone your date of birth and your date of death and a straight line in between.” The treadmill of life – no highs – no lows – no moments of wonder and ecstasy, where we suddenly can say: “For this I came into the world – for this I was born.”
In our Gospel this morning, we are at the beginning of Mary’s story. Mary, as most of you know, was a young Jewish girl who was no different than thousands of other young women. She was not any smarter, not any prettier, not any more pious than any of her neighbors. If you passed her on the street, you would not have looked twice. She was average in every way – except for one thing. She was open to discovering why she was born. She was able to discern the signs. She could hear the voice of Angels.
‘In the sixth month,” we’re told, “the Angel Gabriel was sent from God to a city of Galilee named Nazareth, to a virgin betrothed to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David, and the young woman’s name was Mary.” That’s how the story begins. Nothing unusual, particularly if you understand that virgin here simply means young woman.
A time, a place, and a set of characters are introduced. Life’s routines are mentioned – marriage, city life, families, nothing different – except that we’re given a hint that something will happen. An interruption into the flow of events will be forthcoming. It is as if the author of the story is saying, “Keep your eyes on Mary. She’s about to receive a message from God.”
I would like to remind all of you that, in a sense, this is what Christianity is all about. If we whittle away long enough, and stop arguing over teachings, or ethics, or Orthodoxy, Christianity is about a message and a messenger from God. If we put all the theological books aside, what we’re left with is a love story that starts out with the lover deciding to interrupt the beloved’s routine and communicate. The messenger announces what’s coming next.
So what we have is a young woman named Mary and an Angel coming to her from God, and what he said and what she said and that’s fundamentally what this chapter is about. But behind the dialogue is a basic understanding that life – that routines, can be interrupted by Angels. God finds a way to break into our lives, and this is the essence of the Good News for today. We learn that it is by the message of an Angel that we can discover why we were born. It’s only by an interruption of the routine that we can hear what our lives are all about and what God has in store for us.
Do you remember the last time an Angel spoke to you? Do you recall what this Angel said? This is the beauty of our story. The wonder – the miracle – was not that Mary was pregnant. Lots of people are pregnant. The wonder was that an Angel spoke and that Mary could hear and respond.
You say you have never heard a message from Angel?
You’ve never been accosted by Gabriel or any of his associates? You may be right, but maybe you have not recognized Gabriel – been open to hearing the message. Maybe the Angel was disguised. Mary didn’t stop when Gabriel said, ‘Hail, O favored one.” She didn’t stop and say, “Let me see your credentials.” She didn’t question “if this were for real.” She was living with what we might call a sense of expectancy – a sense of wonder – a sense of discovery. And thus she was open to being interrupted by God.
The great spiritual writers tell us that the problem with most of us is our lack of readiness – our lack of expectancy. We, in our cynical way, don’t think that God will communicate, that Angels are present, that messengers are here for us. “The world,” G.K. Chesterton once said, “does not lack for any wonders of God – only for a sense of wonder.” We don’t lack for Angels – only for a readiness to hear their message.
My friend, Dean Alan Jones of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, tells the story of when he understood this point. He was in Egypt and went to visit a Coptic monastery. He was met with extraordinary courtesy, and even though it was a humble place, he was treated royally. As he was leaving, he asked the Guest Master why they were so hospitable to a stranger – an Episcopal clergyperson whom they had never heard or seen before – and probably would never see again. The Guest Master replied, ‘We treat all guests as Angels just in case.” And the Dean said he learned a lot from that Guest Master. He learned that if you look for Angels and are open to discovering the messages from God, a wondrous change takes place in your life. You begin to find out why you were born and your life takes on new meaning.
But let’s get back to the original story. At the center of the drama is the Annunciation – an experience captured by music, art, and dance throughout the ages. And the centerpiece of the experience is Mary, responding with faith and commitment to the message of the Angel. Do you recall her words? “Let it be to me, according to your word.” No hedging the bets –no provisions –no asking for guarantees – just, “Let it be to me, according to your word.” Cynical, skeptical, half-hearted people can’t say that – only those who are open and listen for the voice of Angels can appreciate the story.
I have a confession to make. While I give out Communion, my mind often wanders. Lately, I’ve been intrigued by what teenagers are wearing. I’ve had two or three teenage girls come to the rail, and they have on a top that reads “Guess.” “Guess what?” I think. Guess what God is saying? Guess what Angels are here? “Guess” – it’s a great tag, but it needs to go further. Guess what you were made for. Guess why you were born. That’s what I wish it said.
Today is a double celebration. We are celebrating the Annunciation (the ‘Big Announcement”) – the story of the message to Mary and her response. And we are celebrating the installation of our newest priest, Gail Freeman.
An installation has to do with a call– an announcement – that one is here to respond to a message of welcome. Gail is acknowledging that she has been led by God – that she was sent by God or by His angels – to be a priest here in this place at this time.
When I was younger, we didn’t install priests – mostly, I think, because we didn’t believe the role was important enough. They were there to hatch, match, and dispatch–and possibly lead worship. It was useful to have someone to disperse the dead – to say a few words when people wanted to set up house, and to declare the names of young children. But that was all.
Now the role has been increased, and by installing someone we acknowledge t: that they may be messengers from God– Angels in disguise. The installation is a reminder that a priest’s task is to help us discover why we were born and what God has in mind for us. It’s an awesome task. And when a person is installed, I hope they get a lump in their throat and can only respond the way Mary did, “Let it be to me.”
What if, what if we heard the voice of an Angel? What if we found what our life was all about and what we were here for? Would we respond, “Let it be me, according to your word.”?
If there is one gift I want to give this Christmas, and if there is one gift I want to receive, it is to have each of us hear the Annunciation personally. If I could enter into that story, then I would be able to respond to the message of Angels. For we, like Mary, were born to carry God – we, like Mary, may be bearers of God’s grace. This is what we were made for, this is what we have come into the world for – this is what the Angels tell us. As we discover this, may we have the grace to say again and again, ‘let it be to me – let it be to me.” AMEN. -
World Aids Day Meditation
December 1, 1999
What a magnificent psalm. My soul waits for God – yet at the same time – I cry out to God – why hast thou forgotten me. The psalmist so accurately reflects the contradictions within us all. The contradiction of longing and hope, of terror and doubt – of facing the realities of suffering and death – and yet hoping and longing for God’s intervention into life.
Tonight, of all nights, is a time of contradiction. A service to mark World AIDS Day – to acknowledge our hope for a cure, and yet to mourn for those who have died. It’s a time to come together to acknowledge the uncontrollability of things – the fragility of human nature – the perverse refusal of life to be packaged and managed.
Tonight, of all nights, we are faced with choices, with understanding, with interpretations. Is it all just luck, fate – that good people should be struck down – or is there more to life than we can understand? To put it in theological language, is all of the suffering within the providence of God? The psalmist waits for God, yet wonders, “Why hast thou forgotten me?” Two ideas on a collision course. God as a comforter, healer, and God as judge, who forgives and loves, who shows mercy but also is in control and makes demands.
So, where are you tonight? is your religion concerned with finding happiness, or is it a religion of facing terror or despair? And the possible absence of God, as well as the presence of God.
Can you take a leap of faith and face the terror with hope – that God will be present – even when we feel a sense of loss?
Frankly, I would like to have all that religion offers – but only on my own terms. I’d like to have a little bit of terror–facing reality – understanding judgment – as well as mercy – just a little bit of terror (not a lot) so that we can switch it off – like a horror movie – which I know will be over. But I don’t want the terror that makes me face my own fragility – that makes me question
n– whether there is a God – whether he/she has a plan – and
whether or not I have a part in that plan.
So my friends, are we blessed or are we cursed? Is your religion a comfort or does it threaten your very existence? The choice we face – is religion a terror in the face of love? Or is it joy at discovering we are loved?
This evening, we mourn for those who have died of AIDS. We let the tears of longing settle in our hearts. But more than that, we are here to remember. Who might you remember – a friend, a love, a name? Can you feel the importance of dispelling anonymity? Can you grasp the importance of reaching out to someone with AIDS?
I think the terror we feel – on a night like this is the fear of intimacy – the terror of partnership. Religion reminds us that we are called into partnership with God. A partnership that acknowledges an intimacy with all creatures from God.
We are here to acknowledge a partnership that entails a pattern of living and dying – of entrances and exits – of beginnings and endings. A pattern of living with God and dying with God.
In my denomination, we have begun this past Sunday singing hymns with words like – O Come O Come Emmanuel. And Emmanuel means “God here with us.” We are preparing to acknowledge that God comes and acts – and loves us into a partnership. A partnership where our tears can turn to joy, and our longings can turn to hope.
So remember – those who have died of this dread disease, but remember them with hope, for they are loved.
I would end our thoughts with some words from Raymond Carver, who died a few years back – but not before he was able to see clearly the contradiction in his own life. Despite his weaknesses – his fragility – he shared the secret of hope in his poem called d
‘And did you get what you wanted from life? Even so – I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved.
To feel myself beloved on the earth.”
And so, tonight, we commend to God those who have died of AIDS. And we hope for a cure – And we affirm that all who are HIV positive or have AIDS – are beloved – for God is with them – and they are with God.
Amen -
“CONFORMING TO THE WORLD’S EXPECTATIONS”
John 1: 44-51
December 2, 1979
There is a well known line of cameras that uses this slogan in its advertising, what you see is what you get. Now this may be true of cameras, but with human beings the claim ought to be slightly changed. What you seek is what you get. Expectations determine perceptions. Or to put it plainly as possible, you usually get what you are looking for
go to the opera expecting to be bored, and you will end up with a boring evening. Newspaper for evidence that the world is going to hell, and you will find a lot of horror stories. Make up your mind that you won’t have a good time at the party, and you won’t. Determined that the church is a haven for hypocrites, and it will be for you.
This is not a religious insight, it is much more a fact of life. What you expect, what you seek, is what you get.
That is why nathaniel’s words ring so true. You will recall from our gospel that a friend, Philip, came up to Nathaniel with the news that he had encountered the Messiah. Who, when and where? Nathaniel asks. And he is told that messiah’s name is Jesus, son of Joseph and Mary, and that he is from Nazareth.
Nathaniel reacts just as many of us would. He reacts with some reservations, a great deal of doubt and a whole lot of skepticism. Out of Nazareth? You said. You have got to be kidding! I know that Tom. I grew up in Canada only 3 1/2 miles away. I know its streets like the back of my hand. I know the people. There is no way that a Messiah could come from that place. Nazareth cannot produce anything heroic, outstanding or godly.
The thing those words are the words of one who has limited expectations. Nathaniel is the patron St. of those who have prematurely focused on what they will find. They don’t expect any more than what they know from the past. Consequently they don’t find anything more than the past continued. What they seek is what they get and Nathaniel didn’t seek anything but mediocrity from Nazareth.
I wonder if this isn’t the root problem for many of us in terms of our beliefs, our understanding of religion, our inability to find God. We have prematurely foreclosed on the way things are and nothing can change our ideas.
This story is told of a man who went to a psychiatrist because he thought he was dead. After several hours, the doctor realized that the man was not to be reasoned out of this fantasy. So he gave him this prescription. Come back in a month but during those 30 days stand in front of a mirror three times a day and say 100 times, dead men do not b 30 days later the man returned to the doctor and told him, this every day for a month, three times a day, I stood beside a mirror and said 100 times, dead men do not bleed. At this point the doctor reached over, gently took his hand and pricked his finger with a needle squeezing the finger and producing a tiny drop of blood grid he looked into the man’s eyes and said, ….Well?
Dear God, the man said, dead men do bleed!
If you have already decided how it will be, if you’re not about to allow any new data to sway your opinions, if you have already hardened your expectations, if you are going to judge the future simply by the past then no one can force new possibilities upon you. You will be like Nathaniel and answer in the same way. -
Memorial Service for Andrea Douglas
Tucson, AZ
October 5, 1996
This past week, sorrow like a mighty wave passed over us. Most of us reacted to Andrea’s death with questions – Why? Why at this time? Why now? What a loss! And so we are left with unanswered questions – or as Unammo, the Spanish writer, said: “All grief comes back to one thing – we’ve run out of time.” There is so much we might have said; so much we might have done. But now we gather here, as a family, with a choice. A choice to ask why and to wallow in loss and curse the darkness, or another option: To celebrate a life. To give thanks for all that Andrea meant to us. Her love of riding, her enthusiasm, her love of people. Andrea, that wonderful childlike person who loved life,
When a parent dies, as did your grandmother, a while ago, they take with them a large measure of the past. But when someone like Andrea dies, they take away the future as well. That’s what makes “the dark at the end of the tunnel” so incredibly difficult. But we gather together to affirm that death is not the end. We gather to say that we know that Andrea continues. She rides on – in God’s kingdom.
It does no good to deny the tragedy we feel. There’s no way to go around it, to put is aside, to forget. Our loss is very real, but not permanent, for this we know. There is no ultimate sundering – only an interruption. Peter Marshall said to his wife as he was dying, “I’ll see you in the morning.” That’s precisely what we are affirming. He was on target. We will be separated but not severed. We have run out of time but not out of relationships. As Scriptures put it “The light shines in the darkness – but the darkness has not overcome it.”
There are things that we know in our hearts that must be said today. Chief among those is that God’s love is much greater than we can imagine. And God’s mercy is much greater than our sinfulness. So, it is with a thankful heart that we can commend Andrea to God. For we know that love is stronger than the abyss of death. And nothing will separate us from the love of God.
Yes, we would have changed things if we could. But as the A. A. prayer says- it so well: “God grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change.”
And so we gather this morning.
In a sure and certain belief – that neither death nor life can separate us from the love of God and that never ends. And God gathers in the fragments of life, and places them in a great mosaic. So that nothing is lost – nothing is wasted.
For if love is immortal
And life is eternal
A death is only a horizon
And a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
The good news we celebrate today is that Andrea is at peace. She is with the Lord, and God doesn’t lose anything_. For whether we live or whether we die – we are the Lord’s
Amen -
“Is This What You Were Born To Be?”
December 4, 1994
We begin this morning with some thoughts from a poet named Kenneth Fearing. Several years ago, he wrote a poem called “American Rhapsody.” It was about some people like us who live in a humdrum way – in a fairly predictable routine in an average sort of community. Fearing writes about one particular long and boring day in a woman’s life. When evening comes and the house is quiet, she sits in the family room with her husband, and together they lose themselves in the blur of the television. They have talked a little, but not enough. Trying to make the time pass with a drink and the 10 o’clock news, the woman gets up and says, “It is time for bed. Are you coming?’ “In a minute, ” he replies. But as she heads towards the bedroom, she hears him switch to the late show. She knows there will be another hour of watching, and that she will be dropping off to sleep alone again. Just before she shuts her eyes, she asks herself the question, ‘Did you sometime or somewhere have a different idea?” And then unable to fall asleep, she wonders for the first time in her life: “IS THIS WHAT YOU WERE BORN TO FEEL AND TO DO AND TO BE?”
These are some of the basic questions in life. You cannot get any more basic than to ask what you were born into this world to feel, to do, and to be. I suspect that we are very much like that woman. We rarely find ourselves raising those kinds of questions. But let me raise the issue in a more positive way. How many of us have done some deep reflection and ever dared to say, or feel – “For this I came into the world. For this reason, I was born.”?
As someone said to me the other day, “Roger, you have stopped preaching and started meddling.” And maybe they were right. One of the purposes of a sermon, I believe, is to begin to meddle. We have become as a culture such artful dodgers that we have avoided, at all costs, the really difficult questions such as: ‘What were you born to do and to be?’ We have become very skilled at denial, and so we fool ourselves into thinking basic questions are unimportant. We prefer to live on the surface of life. But every so often, we are caught, and the question comes to mind, ‘What were you born to do and to be?’
Andrew, in our Gospel this morning, had his life pretty well set. He had gone into the family business. For generations, Andrew’s forebears had been fishermen. They earned a good living. They were respected. And there was a strong cultural expectation that children would follow in the footsteps of their fathers. Settling down in the family trade, getting married, producing children, continuing in the same patterns as their parents – the same humdrum existence as everyone else was not only par for the course, but most people were convinced that this was the way that God made the world. It certainly is easier to live on the surface, not making waves, not raising the difficult questions. And so I suppose that Andrew and his friends never bothered to raise some of those deeper questions. We might even suppose that the culture itself never allowed Andrew to question why he was born and for what reason he had come into the world.
Several years ago, a man came into my office and we began to talk. He was ready to retire and had been a dentist for the last 35 years. During our conversation, he said, ‘You know, I’ve always had a dream of becoming a forest ranger, but it just seemed easier and there was more money and security going into dentistry.” After a pause, he said, “Anyway, how can a 23-year-old kid know what will be satisfying at 60? At 23, I never raised any questions. I just went with the flow.”
Looking back at Andrew’s story, we are told that Andrew comes upon Jesus, and everything gets turned around. The flow suddenly stopped. We’re not really told much of what happens. All we really can observe is that there is an abrupt change of jobs. In today’s language, we might say Andrew had a career crisis. He suddenly goes from the fishing business to the religious business. But underneath what we are told, I suspect that Jesus confronted Andrew with some of those fundamental questions. I have a hunch he said to Andrew, “Is this what you were born to do and to be? Is this why you came into the world?’
An old friend of mine is a man by the name of Dick Bolles. About 25 years ago, he wrote a book called, ‘What Color is Your Parachute?” It has become a bible for job hunters. If you read the book closely, you will discover that it is not simply a manual for finding a job. It really is a deeply theological book that raises some of the basic questions of life. This shouldn’t surprise us for Dick Bolles is not only a famous job consultant – he is also an Episcopalian priest.
In his book, Bolles says, ‘Before we can ever do very well at finding a job, we have to ask a deeper set of questions: What is my mission? which is a way of saying, What is that unique task that only I can do?” In a secular job search manual, he subtly asks the Jesus question. He puts it this way, “The first part of every person’s mission is to seek and find the One who made us, who gives us our mission. And the second is to be committed to doing whatever we can to make the world a better place. And then, after we have paid attention to both of those, we can ask [ the further question, To what kind of actual work, or task, is my ‘ own unique mission?
But, back again to Andrew. Don’t you wonder what it was that made him do such a turn-around? All his life, all his training, all his associations seemed to dictate that he would follow the fisherman’s trade. And yet suddenly he follows an itinerant rabbi. Suddenly, he gives up a job, a life, that is secure and predictable. Was it the benefit package? Was it the retirement plan? Was it the working conditions? I think not.
I would suggest to you this morning it was Andrew’s discovery that he was called. Somehow, he discovered why he had come into the world. Somehow, Andrew discovered that God was counting upon him to do something special. Somehow, he gained a sense of call. And this knowledge made all the difference.
I sometimes wonder how many of us can say that about our own lives. How many of us feel called out to do something special for God? It has been said that the two most important days in a person’s life are the day on which he was born and the day on which he discovers why he was born. Or, to put it another way, the most important day in a person’s life is the day when he or she finds out that God has a special mission in store for them. Without this discovery, you have lost a certain dimension of magic to your life – a certain dimension of feeling unique – of feeling the mantle of God is upon you and your life.
Remember, it doesn’t really matter how we earn a living. It matters terribly how we earn a life. It doesn’t matter what your job is. It matters terribly that you see your job as doing something special for God. It doesn’t matter what drum you march to. But it matters terribly whether or not Jesus is the drummer.
Listen carefully, listen very carefully this morning. Can you not hear Jesus say, “Christian, follow Me.”
Let me close with part of a meditation from John Henry Newman, the great Anglican priest who later became a Roman Catholic Cardinal. He speaks to those of us who have raised the question as to what we were born to do and to be. Maybe he might speak to you.
“God has created me to do Him some definite service. He has committed some work to me that He has not committed to another. I have my mission. I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connections between persons. He has not created me for naught. . . . therefore I will trust Him. Whatever, whoever I am, I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him – in perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him – in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. He does nothing in vain. He knows what He is about.”
May I begin to learn what I am about. And then we might add – like Andrew, may we discover why we came into the world, and for what reason we were born.
Amen -
When Hurrahs Turn to Hoots
Matthew 3: 1-13
December 3, 1995
How quickly the hurrahs of today become the hoots of tomorrow. John, our central character today, was a great success as a traveling preacher, but he ended up at the king’s birthday party looking like a piece of sliced turkey with his head severed from his body.
Most of us know John’s story. At first, when he began to preach, great crowds gathered. His message was fairly direct and simple. Repent. Change your way of life. Become clean. Look after the poor, the neglected, the outcasts. Take from the rich and give to the poor. John was in the prophetic tradition. He represents the time-old message: “Clean up your act. You who are supposed to be the Chosen people. Repent!”
John was forceful. He was like old-time preachers who were under a tent. He had a booming voice, an electric delivery, and a charismatic personality.
Listen to how Fred Buechner describes him. “John the Baptist didn’t fool around. He lived in the wilderness. . . subsisted on a starvation diet. . . wore clothes that even in a rummage sale people wouldn’t have handled. When he preached, it was fire and brimstone every time.”
The Kingdom was coming all right, he said, but if you thought it was going to be a pink tea, you’d better think again. If you didn’t shape up, God would give you the ax like an elm with the blight. He said that being a Jew wouldn’t get you any more points than being a Hottentot, and one of his favorite ways of addressing his audience was as a snake pit. Your only hope, he said, was to clean up your act as if your life depended on it, and get baptized in a hurry as a sign that you had. Some people thought he was Elijah come back from the grave, and some others thought he was the Messiah, but John would have none of either. “I’m the one yelling myself blue in the face in the wilderness,” he said, quoting Isaiah. “I’m the one trying to knock some sense into your heads.”
After a while, John’s message became redundant. And crowds are so fickle. His congregation dwindled, and then one day he made some comments that had political overtones. And, as every preacher knows, you can’t mix religion and politics, or so those who disagree with us are always saying. And every preacher knows you had better not criticize the people in power unless you have a job waiting for you in another town. John’s story ends with his being tossed in jail for subversion and later being executed at the king’s party. How quickly the hurrahs became hoots and cheers became jeers. John the charismatic is soon forgotten. Just another dead prophet. Someone who bursts upon the scene attracts a following and, in a few short years, is abandoned, irrelevant, and redundant.
Where is God for those who have lost their following? Where is God for those who had it made in the past, but are now devalued, unnecessary, redundant? Where is God for the people who walk confidently toward the open door, but find it closed before they are ready to go through it? Where is God for the people who skate along toward a bright future and eventually find the solid ice has cracked under their feet? Where is the God of John the Baptist?
Jesus taught that the concern of God is riveted on the Johns of the world. Do you remember the Beatitudes? it describes how God cares most for those who are poor in spirit, for those who are persecuted, for those who have been abandoned. Is this not John the Baptist? is this not all of us who have suffered the slings and allows of outrageous fortune? Who have been relegated to the sidelines in life?
I remember once going to talk with a spiritual director when I was feeling depressed. I recall saying how lousy life was treating me. How I had been one of the comers in the church, one of the successful cardinal rectors – treated with a certain adulation, asked to preach, and to talk on how to grow a church. But after I’d hit the mid-50s, I suddenly became old hat. What had been hot in the 80’s became stale in the 90’s. And I recall sharing this with my friend, and saying that I felt abandoned by the church.
He listened to my tale of woe and said, ‘You know the two most important words of Scripture are: ‘And Yet.’ I don’t want to minimize your feelings,” he said, ‘but you can look at your situation realistically and then say: ‘And Yet”
And yet, there is something here that God can use.
And yet, isn’t our God a God who picks up the pieces, finds the lost sheep, breathes new life into dead bones, has a future beyond what we might imagine?
It’s good for us to focus on John the Baptist this morning. Not because of his contribution to the Christian story, although the church has always listed him as the Advent Saint, the one who prepares us for receiving the Christ Child. No, it’s good to focus on John for his life shows us the importance of persevering even when the even the hurrahs turn to hoots, the cheers to jeers. Even in prison, when John might have thrown in the towel, John continued to search for what it was that God wanted. You might remember that he even sent one of his few remaining disciples to Jesus, in order to find out if He were the promised one. John’s message might have been dated and redundant, but at the same time, John was able to say:
“And Yet.” And yet God still could use him as the herald of the Christ Child.
Let me end this sermon on John the Baptist by quoting a story that Ken Blanchard shares in a little book that he wrote as a Christmas present to his wife. In the preface, he says, ‘I needed to write this book as much for me as for you.
There was a rabbi who went to live in a corrupt city. Every day, he ran through the streets of the city and shouted over and over: ‘Repent! Turn from your sins. Repent! Turn from your sins.’ Days led into weeks, and weeks led into months, and months led into years.
Every day, the rabbi could be heard shouting his plea. Finally, one day a friend asked the rabbi, ’No one listens to you anymore. Everyone is laughing at you. Why do you continue to do this?
The rabbi was quick to reply. When I first came here, I dreamt of a city turned toward God. I envisioned the city changing. That has not happened, so today I run through the streets shouting my plea to keep the city from changing me.
We have all been there – when the future seems denied, when all the hurrahs have turned to hoots. Can you join John the Baptist and keep preparing for the one who is to come? Are you able to say: “And Yet?” “And yet God continues to use me.” AMEN. -
Wishful Thinking VS Hope
Luke 1: 39-49
December 6, 1992
Several years ago, I heard a story of a woman who desperately wanted to win the Arizona Lottery. Every time she heard that it would be over two million dollars, she would begin to pray like crazy. And the night before the drawing, she would get down on her knees and start a litany going: “ah God, let me win the lottery!” The next day, she would run to the morning paper to see if her name was listed…and it never was there.
But sure enough, the next time she heard of a jackpot of over two million she began to pray again. And the night before, she got down beside her bed and said, “Oh God, I’ve been a good person. I have a family that can use the money. Please let me win the lottery.” The next day, same thing, scanning the paper–her name not listed.
And once again, a few weeks later, two million in prize money. The night before, she knelt down and said: “Oh God, I’m a good church-goer. I’m even an Episcopalian, and I tithe. Please let me win the lottery.” The next day, she picked up the paper, didn’t find her name, but as she was throwing away the paper, a voice came down from the heavens saying: “Hey Lady, give me a break, will you? Buy a ticket!”
Our culture today is wish-ridden, but not particularly hope-filled. We’re like the woman in the story. We wish we would win the Lottery, but we don’t bother to buy a ticket. We look for magic, but have lost the elements of hope.
During these four Sundays in Advent, we’re trying to probe the meaning of hope. By sermons, by music, by readings, we’re trying to put flesh on our understandings of the word, the feeling, the expression, so that we might become a hopeful people rather than a wishful people. The church offers us some images to aid our understanding a highway and a pregnancy, Last week we looked at a highway, this week at a pregnancy.
But first, let’s understand the nature of wishful thinking – something that most of us do more than we care to admit. Wishful thinking is not just another name for hoping. It’s actually an anti–symbol. Anti-symbols are not exactly the opposite of symbols; they are replacements. They take the place and allow us to believe we’ve got the same thing, even though we settle for less. It’s like substituting passion for love or a pulp magazine for great literature, or a cartoon for a masterpiece. Anti-symbols allow us to believe we’re in touch with reality, when all we have is a pale substitute.
The key to understanding the difference between wishful thinking and hoping is to recognize that wishful thinking is generally followed by the word “that.” It has a specific object in view, it’s concrete, and usually looks for magic. I wish that I might win the lottery, or I wish that there were several one-hundred-dollar bills in the collection basket — concrete yet something less than hope. The very specificity of wishful thinking gives it away. We might say I hope that my pain will go away. What we’re really saying is, I wish that it would disappear. Nothing wrong with that wish except that it’s less than hope.
Soren Kierkegaard, the great Danish philosopher, once wrote in his journal just before his death: “Hope is a new garment that has never been worn. Nobody knows how it will look or how it will fit… Wishing, on the other hand, is an old garment. By its very tangibility. It reduces what we wish for to what we know from our past. Somehow, wishing leaves off the sense of mystery and challenge so characteristic of hope.
This is why pregnancy is such a powerful symbol for hope. There is a sense of mystery and wonder associated with pregnancy. We can’t hurry it along. So we’re challenged to wait and see, to be patient. This is one reason that Advent is a difficult time for those of us who are impatient. We want what we want, and we want it now. ( At least tell us what’s under the tree.)
But a mystery like hope isn’t available at Dillard’s for $9.98 while it lasts. Hope is illusory without being an illusion. Hope is shrouded in mystery. “How we see through a glass darkly — and only then shall we see face to face,” St. Paul said. Now we are pregnant, but then (later) we shall give birth. The child will appear. Hope will have a name.
Advent is a time when the church says, “For God’s sake, don’t interpret things too soon. Wait, hesitate, hold back your desires for answers. Live with the question because something is taking its course, birthing in you. What is going to be born hasn’t appeared yet. Hope is that new mysterious garment that will be put on in God’s time and not according to our time tables.”
I’m grateful for our strong music tradition at St. Philip’s. I’m grateful to Judy, the choir, the orchestra — for music speaks to hope far more deeply than words. Bach in Magnificat gives us not only a feel of Mary and her pregnancy, but also gives us glimpses of hope. Like the clouds that surround the mountains in the window, we catch momentary flashes of hope, just as the clouds reveal the mountain tops once in a while. And as the Magnificat continues, it builds in its beauty, but it doesn’t show you everything all at once. The birth comes later, yet the message of the music is that hope is part of the rhythm of our hearts. And you can sense that message at the end of Communion when the choir sings the Gloria.
It’s difficult to get the hang of hoping. Music helps, watching a figure like Mary helps…But I tend to start wishing instead of hoping. Wishing is so ingrained in my life. I use the word hope when I mean wish, and therefore, I speak of hoping for health, wealth, reputation, victories, triumphs and I forget that at the heart of hope, the only basis of hope is the wonderful goodness and mercy of God.
Let me end our thoughts on hope this morning by sharing a story from a man named Viktor Frankl. His story of living through the horrors of a concentration camp speaks powerfully to those of us who search for hope. As far as Frankl understood hope, he began to find meaning in the most miserable of circumstances.
In his autobiography, Frankl gives us an Advent parable. He tells us that when he was first arrested and sent to the concentration camp, he managed to hide a manuscript that he had written. He hid it in his jacket lining. He was hoping (translated this into wishing) that he could smuggle it out and that it would be published and get him fame and help him to be released.
When he arrived at Auschwitz, he had to surrender his clothes and, in turn, was given the worn-out rags of an inmate who had been sent to the gas chamber. “Instead of the many pages of my manuscript,” he writes, ” I found in the packet of the newly-acquired coat a single page torn out of a Hebrew prayer Book, which contained the main Jewish prayer Shema Yisrael: (Hear, 0 Israel, the Lord thy God is one.)”
“How should I have interpreted such a coincidence?” Frankl writes, ” it was a challenge to wait and hope for a future that I could only dimly understand. I was being asked to live with unknown hope instead of being saved by what I could put on paper.” In the depths of the hell of the concentration camp, Franki began to see through a glass dimly. As he put on that prison garment, he caught a glimpse of hope…a glimpse of the mercy and goodness of God.
I pray that each of you, through Advent, will receive a glimpse of hope and not settle for wishing. I pray that the song in your hearts will not be about the presents and the Christmas list, but instead somewhere in the recess Of your mind, you can remain expectant and wait and hear these words:
My soul magnifies the Lord
And my spirit rejoices in God
For He who is mighty has done great things for me
And Holy is his name.
Amen
/se