A Cross of Healing

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent, March 10, 2024. The scripture readings are Numbers 21:4-9, Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22, Ephesians 2:1-10, and John 3:14-21.

The San Damiano Cross in Assisi.

If you’ve noticed the windows of bars and restaurants around New York, you may have seen decorations for next Sunday. Though we will observe it as the Fifth Sunday in Lent, for many outside the church (and quite a few inside) it will be St. Patrick’s Day, all day long. People will wear green, decorate with shamrocks, fountains will be dyed green, and legends told again about Patrick, the 5th century bishop and missionary.  A few years ago, at my church in Washington, DC, the Men’s Fellowship had a meeting in mid-March. There was a wonderful parishioner named Louis, who made special table decorations for the event, depicting some of the legends and stories about Patrick.  The one I still remember was a poster that sat in the middle of a table. From one side, it had a view as though one were looking into the front windshield of a car.  Behind the window, seated in the driver’s seat, was a man wearing a miter on his head. In the passenger’s seat was a large snake.  And Louis explained the picture to anyone who didn’t immediately get it:  This was (of course) St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland!

Though it was long before St. Patrick came along, I think the people of Israel in our first reading would have really liked Patrick and Patrick’s reported power to get rid of snakes. Because there in the wilderness, God’s people had a serious snake problem. 

Our first reading from the Book of Numbers is a strange old story.  It’s one of a number of Old Testament passages in which the people of God are “murmuring.”  They are impatient, restless, and whiney.  They’re complaining against God and against God’s leader in their midst, Moses. They miss what was familiar back in Egypt—even though they had been enslaved, there had been a certain predictability about it all.  And now, there isn’t much food or water at all, and when there is, the food is dreadful.  But then it gets worse. 

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

In some ways this story has in it a kind of symbolic vaccination, like in modern vaccinations, when a little part of a disease is put into us.  When things go correctly, our body’s immune system fights the intruder and we become protected from the illness. 

In the Old Testament lesson, the image of the serpent reminds the people of risk involved in life, itself—especially in living a life that tries to be faithful to God.  But the story also tells of God’s protection, of God’s promise to deliver them, and save them.  It is this image of death that is converted to life, that foreshadows the salvation we have through the death of Jesus Christ on the cross. 

In the image of the cross, there is suffering and pain. There is danger and death.  But on the other side of Easter morning, there’s healing.  There’s resurrection.  There’s new life for ever.  The very thing that has hurt (the cross) provides the means for helping. 
 
The fancy, theological word for what happens on the cross is Atonement.  The word implies that Jesus’s action on the cross is some way atones, or makes up for, or is the cure for, our sin.  Some have defined Atonement as “at-one-ment” with Christ—it all comes from the idea of being at-one, of being reconciled, of being brought into harmony and friendship with God through Jesus Christ. 

The cross can’t be explained scientifically.  It can’t even be explained very clearly through theology.  But the cross is understood (if one can use that word) by experience.  What happens on the cross is a mystery that must be explored, experienced, and approached through faith. 

I should say clearly, that I in no way mean to suggest that I understand the full power of the cross. I don’t. But what I do understand is that part of the mystery of the cross involves God turning pain into power.  God uses wounds to bring about healing. 

We experience this whenever people gather with others who have suffered as they have.  When we meet others who share the same wounds—whether that be a traumatic event, a loss, an addiction, some experience of violence, or any other common hurt—we can begin to find healing in the experience of being with each other, of hearing others’ stories, of sharing others’ strength.  If you’ve ever been a part of such a group, you’ll know that while the individuals differ and may not agree on anything else, the common suffering can create a kind of energy, a kind of power, and a kind of strength.  Whether one calls it a higher power or something else, I believe that it’s God who is behind that power.  It is God who is behind the conversion of pain into power. 

We experience healing through the combined experience of pain, but we also come to understand it in ourselves sometimes.  When we are able to be honest, to be vulnerable, again— we begin to move toward healing and toward being what Henri Nouwen and others have called “wounded healers.”

With the Academy Awards happening tonight, I’ve been thinking about movies a lot lately—especially the movies I’d like to give awards to, some of which don’t become all the well know.  One of those movies came out a few years ago with William Hurt, called, “The Doctor” (1991).  The movie begins by showing a heart surgeon, played by William Hurt, who’s at the top of his game.  Dr. Jack MacKee is shown early in the film instructing his interns, “There is a danger of feeling too strongly for your patients,” he says.   “There is a danger in getting involved.  You have to be detached.”   Dr. MacKee’s way with his patients is clinical.  It is cold, objective, and detached. 

That is, until the doctor, himself, discovers that he has throat cancer.  Slowly, he begins to see what it is like to be a patient.  He learns what it’s like to have to wait for hours in a waiting room, what it’s like to fill out endless paperwork, what it’s like to have all the important decisions made on your behalf, as though you—the patient—are not even a part of the process.  You can probably guess the ending of the movie.  It is Hollywood, after all.  Dr. MacKee learns from his experience.  He realizes that the very best healer, the one who can offer the most, will be the one who is aware of his or her own wounds, the one who is aware of one’s own pain.

Prevailing themes in our culture suggest otherwise, of course.  Strength is admired more than weakness.  We’re encouraged to bandage up wounds quickly, and to hide grief.  How often do we hear someone who is grieving, “holding up well.” We say this as though there is some shame in crying, grieving, or showing emotion. In our heart, behind closed doors, in the quiet and at night, we know that real grief is messy.  We know that suffering, disease and illness are disorganized, unpredictable and can almost get the best of us.  There are tears, emotional outbursts, confusing physical effects— in short, as long as there is life, there is life with all of its untidiness. 

There is pain and heartache in life, but God promises to be with us. Today’s Gospel reminds us that God SO loved the world that he entered into it at a fully human level, to walk beside us, to experience what we experience, to know love and heartbreak, and pain, and suffering.

But then, God-in-Jesus goes through the pain of death. Some theological traditions imagine that sometime between his death and resurrection, Jesus even went into hell and freed everyone who might have been bound there, opening the way for all to be born again into new life.

When the people of Israel were making their way through the desert, they were healed when they looked up a the serpent on the pole.  As Christians, we find healing when we look up at the cross of our crucified Lord, but when we walk in the way of the Cross.

There are many images of the cross for our gazing, but one of my favorites is the San Damiano Cross, often called the cross of St. Francis.  Tradition says that when Francis heard God’s initial call, he was looking at a particular crucifix in the church of San Damiano. I love this particular cross because it neither ignores the suffering of Jesus, nor glorifies that suffering.  On the St. Francis cross, Jesus is not alone. He is surrounded by all kinds of people. The crucifix is a kind of icon, including the friends of Jesus and even outsiders. It includes Mary and John the Baptist, but it also includes Peter and John running from the empty tomb on Easter Day. There are angels and patriarchs. There are saints.

The great thing about the St. Francis cross is that there is also room for you and me. The cross of Saint Francis reminds us that even in our darkest times, we are never alone, just as, even on the cross, Jesus was never totally alone.  The cross reminds us of many things, but among them it reminds us of God’s power, God’s intention, and God’s promise of healing and resurrection. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Sorting out the Temples

A sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent, March 3, 2024. The scriptures are Exodus 20:1-17, Psalm 19, 1 Corinthians 1:18-25, and John 2:13-22.

Memorial Garden made of chapel ruins at Virginia Theological Seminary.

Those of you who know a little history about our church know that we are sitting in what is really the third Church of the Holy Trinity. The first parish was founded in 1864 at 42nd Street and Madison Avenue (where air rights are currently selling for zillions of millions… but never mind). The parish grew and so, a new building was built on the same spot in 1873—a huge building that supposedly could seat 2,300 congregants. Because its tile and brick patterns were so colorful, it was nicknamed “the church of the holy oil cloth” by one critic. Over time, leadership changed, demographics shifted, and the parish declined. When Holy Trinity asked the Diocese if it could move northward a few blocks, it was told that there were already enough churches in that area—so Holy Trinity would need to look farther north. In conversations with St. James’ Church, a plan eventually developed whereby Holy Trinity’s property would be sold to help pay the debt of St. James, the two would combine, but a new mission with a church would one day be established in Yorkville. Thus, with the gift and vision of Serena Rhinelander, our current building was built (St. Christopher’s Mission House in 1897 and the larger church in 1899.) And so, this year, we celebrate 125 years of THIS incarnation of Holy Trinity.

I’m reminded of our “three churches” by our Gospel today, in which I think we can see three churches, or rather—three temples.

The first temple we hear about this morning is the physical temple, the one that was standing in Jerusalem, the centerpiece of religion, culture, as what theologian NT Wright has described as the “heartbeat of Jerusalem.” The temple was the place where God and people met. There the veil was thin between heaven and earth. It was the place of pilgrimage and procession, of incense and intrigue, and it’s this area of this temple that Jesus enters and causes a disruption. Though we might associate this story of Jesus overturning the temple tables with his entrance into Jerusalem just before his crucifixion, and we hear it in mid or late Lent each year, the Evangelist John places this story of the cleansing of the temple early in the Gospel. Near the beginning of John’s Gospel, it then sets tone for all that follows. Jesus in John’s Gospel gives the ending away when he says very clearly: “destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.”

This brings us to the second temple in today’s Gospel. Jesus speaks of the temple of his body. He speaks of himself as a temple because it is in him that God meets humanity. It is in Jesus that God is known and loved and worshipped, through Jesus that God makes possible sacrifice, intercession, forgiveness and life eternal. Paul extends this image to include us as well when he asks the Corinthians, “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him. For God’s temple is holy, and that temple you are. (1 Corinthians 3:16-17).

Jesus is the prototype for this new understanding of temple. His cleansing of the temple, the physical action of overturning the tables of the moneychangers and trying to restore purity and sanctity to the physical temple foreshadows his work on the cross. Through the cross and resurrection, Jesus restores, purifies and makes holy. And, he is, indeed, raised up on the third day.

And so, there’s the “first temple,” the one made of stone. There’s the second temple—the one made of the body. But I think there’s also a third temple in today’s Gospel. It’s the temple of the imagination and perhaps it is just as strong as the one made of stone.

Before the actual temple was built by Solomon, there was a dream and a desire to locate God, to have a place that was special to God, a place set aside and made not only holy, but especially holy. And so after years of waiting and praying, God allowed Solomon to build. Years later when the people of Israel were taken off to Babylonia, they remembered their temple and they wept. They remembered the songs that were sung, the worship, the glory. And this became an enormous inspiration and encouragement. By the time of Jesus, the temple was the center of a well-developed system of power and money and status and commerce.

The temple had become many things for many people. For some it was source of income—certainly the taxes sustained a lot of people. For some, to be associated with the temple meant prestige and protection. For the Romans, the temple pacified the people to a certain extent—it kept them at worship and out of trouble. As long as they couldn’t see beyond the incense, they would be blind to injustice. But to the vast majority of people, those faithful and unfaithful who simply tried to get through life–the temple must have represented a mystery—a place where prayers and sacrifices might be offered. Or perhaps they weren’t offered– you really never knew if the priest offered your sacrifice or not, did you? And who was to say whether God would listen?

This third temple, this temple of the imagination, had grown into much more than a physical place for meeting God—part symbol, part magic– for many it had replaced God. It was in the way of God. It was in-stead of God. Which brings all this talk of temples home to us.

On this Sunday when we remember Jesus overturning the tables in the temple, calling into question the structures of the temple, itself, what are the temples in our lives that God wants to cleanse?

Are there things that have become for me like temples, things that get in the way of God’s presence? Are there temples of my own making that need to be cleansed or knocked down?
Are there thoughts or opinions or ideas that God would overturn this season?
Have I inherited temples from others without questioning, or even cleaning up to make my own?
Have I learned from the church in some way particular habits or attitudes that need to be cleansed or thrown out?

Or are there things—pretty things, nice things, comfortable things, things I may have worked hard for, things I saved up for and finally bought, making them mine, mine, mine—are there things that God might be trying to overturn in my world this season?

As the people of God in THIS place, let us give thanks for our several temples—or churches—the one that allows us to worship, and the second, which is the Body of Christ and our bodies united with his, but let’s also be mindful of the need to cleanse, renew, tear down, and rise again, as we follow our Lord and Friend Jesus, who died and rose again, showing us the way forward.
In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Ashes to Rainbows

A sermon for the First Sunday in Lent, February 18, 2024. The scriptures are Genesis 9:8-17, Psalm 25:1-9, 1 Peter 3:18-22 and Mark 1:9-15.

“The Rainbow” by Grandma Moses, 1961.

This year, on Ash Wednesday, we again offered ashes on the front patio, at the gate. Between the cold weather and the competing activities of Valentine’s Day, I don’t think we had quite as many people outdoors as some years. I did meet a Turkish neighbor who explained that while she’s not Christian, she likes the idea that ashes remind her to live each day to the fullest. “It’s a kind of ‘memento mori,’ right?” she asked.  “Well, yes, in a way,” I tried to explain, and gave her what I hoped was a good, proper ash cross on her forehead.

Christians took up ashes from Jewish customs around grief, the idea being that ashes show one’s remorse for sin, and one’s reliance upon God for life and renewal.

Today’s scriptures give us another important symbol, and one that the scriptures tells us was given by God: the rainbow.

The rainbow serves as a reminder, pointing to something in the past, but it also serves as encouragement, pointing a way forward. Even if we can’t see the end, even if the end of the rainbow shifts as we move along, it still urges us to look, to dream, and to imagine what lies ahead. It encourages us to trust where God leads. The rainbow is a good image for our beginning of a new season of Lent.

A contemporary hymn writer captures the tone of this season as he sings,

This is the day for new beginnings.
Time to remember and move on.
Time to believe what love is bringing;
laying to rest the pain that’s gone.
[This is a Day of New Beginnings, by Brian Wren]

A “time to remember and move on.” It’s the rainbow, again. Remembering and moving on. Both are central to the spiritual life and the season of Lent itself can help us to remember and to move on.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is baptized. A voice is heard from heaven saying, “You are my Son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And before the water even dries or the voice of God fades away, Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness. Into the desert, he goes for 40 days and there he comes face to face with all kinds of temptations. Does that not sound a whole lot like the life we live? At some point we all probably know that phenomenon of one minute, knowing we are God’s beloved (we can feel it, we don’t doubt it, everything is going right), but then in what seems like all too after, we find ourselves surrounded by temptation. There are all kinds of temptations, but most of them are symptomatic, nagging, sorts of things. Perhaps the greatest temptation is more subtle—it has to do with forgetting. In the midst of temptation, we can forget who we are, and momentarily, we can forget who God is.

“Remembering” is so much a part of our faith tradition. Over and over, again, scripture says, “Remember!”

Remember this day on which you came out of Egypt.
Remember the covenant I made with your ancestors.
Remember not the former things.
Remember the devotion of your youth.
Remember the law.
Remember those in prison.
Remember, I am with you always.
Remember me when you come into your kingdom.

In Mark’s version of the temptation story, we’re not told how exactly how Jesus was tempted, or really how he faced down the temptation. But we know that he survived it alongside the wild beasts, and he even felt the presence of God’s holy angels.

Matthew and Luke both give us more details about Jesus’ temptations. They say that when the devil suggests that Jesus ignore hunger, listen to his stomach, and turn stone into bread; Jesus remembers. “It is written,” he says to the devil, “‘Man shall not live by bread alone.’” The devil shows Jesus the kingdoms of the worlds and suggests to Jesus they could be his for the taking, but again, Jesus remembers the first commandment, that God alone is Lord of Heaven and Earth. God’s will be done. And then when the devil tries to get Jesus to jump off the tower of the temple and summon up angels to carry him to the ground, Jesus again remembers scripture. 

But he also remembers more than scripture. Jesus remembers who he is, he remembers his baptism and that he is a child of God. He remembers whose he is, that God is watching, is waiting and is even now, aware and present and offering his love.

Martin Luther writes that he sometimes fought off the devil by shouting at him, “I am baptized.” That’s what we do when we make the sign of the cross, and when we dip our finger in holy water and place a little on our foreheads: we are reminding ourselves that we are baptized, that we are loved, and that God is in charge. In the same way, when we see a rainbow, we can recall the covenant God has made—that God will always take care of us and that God is with us. We have not only the old covenant (God’s promises to the people of Israel), but we also have the New Covenant, God’s promise in Jesus Christ sealed and shared with us in the sacrament of bread and wine. Memory keeps these signs and sacraments close by us.

Baptism, Holy Communion, symbols of faith help us to remember. But God also gives us other “memory helps.” Spiritual disciplines like prayer, meditative reading, fasting, keeping a journal, studying, hospitality, almost any activity that is given over to God, and that allows us to give ourselves over to God can be a spiritual discipline. Practiced– that is done over and over again– spiritual disciplines remind us of God. They remind us of our reliance on God, of our need for God, of our connection with God.

In the days ahead, as we practice spiritual disciplines, as we notice the symbols of the season, perhaps giving some things up and taking on other things, may God sharpen our memory and make us alert and awake to temptation, that we might remember the covenant God has made with us. May God strengthen us in the face of every temptation.

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

The Transfiguration: A Preview of Things to Come

A sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, February 11, 2024. The scriptures are 2 Kings 2:1-12, Psalm 50:1-6, 2 Corinthians 4:3-6, and Mark 9:2-9.

A few weeks ago, I went to a move in an actual movie theater. I’m not sure how long it had been, but it had been a long time since I was in an actual theater.  I got there early, and had a book, if I needed it. But pretty soon after I arrived, the previews of coming movies began to play. I had forgotten how much I enjoy the previews, the trailers, the scenes of things to come. I like to see what stories are going to be told, how they might make me think or respond, or even how one of the upcoming movies might change me.

This Sunday, this day in which we hear of the Transfiguration of Jesus, is a kind of preview.  The scriptures and prayers provide a kind of trailer for the full feature that will be the Season of Lent and Holy Week.  Today is a preview of coming attractions.

The preview begins with our Old Testament reading, as Elijah passes off the role of chief prophet to Elisha.  Elisha, the sort of prophet-in-training, seems to suspect something is about to happen, and so he’s hesitant to let the older prophet out of his sight.  The older one, Elijah, tries to move on ahead, but Elisha refuses to leave him.  Finally, Elijah makes it clear that it’s time for him to REALLY move ahead, to die to this world and to join God.  Elisha doesn’t like this—he’s not only going to lose his teacher and friend, but this also means that the full weight of the prophetic ministry is going to fall on Elisha.  But he keeps quiet and watches.

After asking Elijah for courage and strength and whatever else Elijah can impart to him (characterized as “a double share of your spirit”), Elijah suggests that if Elisha is able to watch all that is about to happen, if he’s able to take it all in, if he’s about to stand firm, and absorb God’s majesty in front of him, then that double spirit of Elijah will be his.  And that’s just what happens.

This movement of Elijah away from Elisha, the inclusion of the spirit that remains, and all of this within the work of God— this is a preview of just what is going to happen between Jesus and his disciples.  Through the days ahead, we’ll see how Jesus keeps moving in front of his disciples, almost as though he’s trying to get away from them.  

But what’s really happening is that Jesus is following the call of God, and sometimes he’s just ahead of his friends.  They have to keep catching up, until the time that Jesus has to go part of the way alone.

If this really were a movie preview in a theater, as we approach the Gospel, the music would grow more suspenseful and probably use all of the latest technology to rumble and thunder to great effect.  Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain.  There on the mountain, light settles on Jesus in such a way that he seems to be especially illumined.  The light is not so much from above, or behind, or from below, but just everywhere.  He’s brighter from within somehow.  And then, along with him appear Elijah and Moses.

Elijah represents the great tradition of the prophets, and his presence anoints Jesus as his successor.  Moses, who received the Ten Commandments from God and helped the people of Israel understand the commandments as blessings, and write their message on their hearts—Moses represents the Law of God.  With Moses, Jesus inherits the full weight of the Law and the Commandments, but does just what Moses was trying to get the children of Israel to do—to write the law in their hearts, not just to quote the law of God, as our Prayer Book says, to “show forth [God’s] praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives.”

This Transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain will reverberate through the whole season of Lent for us.  The power of prophecy will go with Jesus as he speaks the truth to the Devil in the wilderness, as he overturns the tables of the moneychangers in the temple, as he cuts through the duplicity of Judas, his betrayer.  The love and power of the law is embodied by Jesus as he lives out the laws of God, dealing fairly with people, caring for the poor, and sacrificing his own personal needs, wants, and desires for the sake of the others, of the community, of the whole world.

At the transfiguration, Peter’s response previews a common response of others in the days that lead up to the crucifixion in Jerusalem.  Why rush things?  Why not do some equivalent of building booths, of sitting down and staying a while.  Why not be content with things as they are?  But Jesus will not be held.

He will not be held by Peter on the mount of Transfiguration.  He’ll not be held by sin in the attempt of the religious leaders to bind him in a mock trial and crucifixion.  Jesus won’t be held by the death of the grave.  Even after the Resurrection, Jesus will not be held down by the needs or expectations of Mary Magdalene, the early believers, or even the church in our day.

Though many aspects of what we will encounter are already encountered in today’s readings, perhaps the most important has to do with words the disciples hear and we overhear in the Gospel.  It happens when a cloud overshadows them.  A voice comes out of the cloud, “This is my son, the Beloved, listen to him.”

Those words are powerful enough, but I almost imagine God adding to that, “no matter what.”  “This is my son, Jesus.  Listen to him, no matter what.”  Whether the disciples heard God say something like this, or whether they picked it up through faith, it seems like the disciples did hear something in God’s message that brought encouragement and strength.  And we’re invited to do the same.

Listen to Jesus, no matter what.  Listen to him on days like the Transfiguration.  When we’re overwhelmed by the presence of God, or by the presence of something larger than ourselves.  We feel the weight of our ancestors upon us, and the people closest to us don’t understand.  Listen to Jesus.

Over the next few weeks, we’ll journey with Jesus through the desert, through the towns, toward Jerusalem, the cross of Good Friday, and the rising of Easter Sunday.  Through it all, we’re encouraged to listen to Jesus.

When in the wilderness, surrounded by temptation and doubt, listen to Jesus who put the devil in his place and moved on in faithfulness to God.

When we’re feeling weighed down by crosses of our day, listen to him who carried his cross and triumphed over it.

When we’re facing dishonesty and corruption, listen to him who called out the moneychangers and overturned their tables.

When it seems like everything around us is about death and decay, listen to him who was raised from the dead and brings new life to us.

Listen to him.  Pray to him.  Follow him.

Today’s readings and prayers do work a little like a preview to a movie, except for a major difference—this movie is not only about Jesus.  It’s about you and me.  It’s about our life.  In the stories, traditions, and sacraments of this coming season, our lives can take on new meaning and purpose as we hear God say to us:  You are my beloved.  Follow, trust, and believe.

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

Still on Tiptoe, 150 Years Later

A sermon preached at the Community of St. John Baptist in Mendham, NJ, celebrating the 150th Anniversary of the Arrival of the Sisters from England to found the Community of St. John Baptist in America, February 5, 1874. The scriptures are Deuteronomy 11:8-12,26-27, 2 Corinthians 5:17-6:2, and Luke 3:15-16, 21-22.

St. John Baptist House at 233 E. 17th St., between 1877 and 1880.

When I was in college, I somehow came across the translation of the Bible known as the New English Bible, and it quickly became my favorite. What I love about this version (which was used mostly in England, from the 1960s until it was updated in 1989 as the Revised English Bible), was that the translators used the “dynamic equivalence” principle for translating. This meant that instead of translating word for word, they aimed to put the meaning of a phrase into the vernacular, while maintaining the essence of the message. This makes for some wonderful turns of phrase.

For example, in Jeremiah 20, when Jeremiah feels let down, if not double-crossed by God, the New English Bible has him say, “O Lord, thou hast duped me, and I have been thy dupe; thou hast outwitted me and hast prevailed.” (Jeremiah 20:7)

Psalm 104 includes the beautiful verse, “Here is the great immeasurable sea, in which move creatures beyond number. Here ships sail to and fro, here is Leviathan whom thou hast made thy plaything.” (Psalm 104:26)

But I especially love the New English Bible’s translation of the beginning of today’s Gospel. Just a few minutes ago, we heard the passage begin, “As the people were filled with expectation.” That’s clear enough. It’s direct. We understand it.

But the New English Bible announces, “The people were on the tiptoe of expectation, all wondering about John….” (Luke 3:15)

The “tiptoe of expectation.” I love that. It’s so easy to picture. We’ve all stood on tiptoe, perhaps to see over other people; maybe to reach up high for something. The other day, I was standing on tiptoe to try to pull a bit of pine garland down from up high in the choir of the church, where the garland would have been happy to proclaim Christmas all through Lent and into Easter.

The people who heard John the Baptist and were really listening, were doing so on tiptoe, as they remained grounded, but at the same time, stretched forward and up, eager for something new. They were grounded in the Hebrew scriptures. They knew the prophets and were waiting for a Messiah. But with John’s preaching, they begin to listen with new ears and look with new eyes to discern if John might be, in fact, that Messiah, or maybe the new Elijah, pointing the way. John, of course, is clear about his role, and he tells them, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” But that must have made his listeners even more curious, as they looked and leaned even more.

One hundred and fifty years ago, when Sr. Frances Constance, Sr. Fanny, and Sr. Emma left Clewer for America, they surely must have been on the tiptoe of expectation. They were grounded in Jesus Christ, in the Church, and in Community. But they were really reaching forward, leaning forward, moving forward. Sr. Helen Margaret was on spiritual tiptoe, as she so wanted to join them, but wasn’t able to do so until a year later. And yet, Sr. Helen Margaret’s vision and prayer, enabling her to dream with God, was able to make her family’s home available at 220 Second Avenue.

Also looking and praying ahead was Mother Harriet Monsell, Mother Superior, who, a little like Moses, could imagine the future, but understood her role was in supporting, equipping, encouraging, and sending forth. Like Moses, she must have warned the sisters, “The land you’re about to enter into is not like here. But I remind you of the blessing of God, and if you are faithful, know that you, too, will be a blessing.”

In his Second Letter to the Corinthians St. Paul reminds us that the “old place” or the “new place” should be irrelevant if we are, in fact, continually being made new in Christ. Just as God’s Spirit is always and everywhere doing something new, don’t take this for granted, he reminds us. Don’t assume the Spirit will manifest just like the old days. Instead, “now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation!”

What does this mean for us?

Well, in part, I think it means that this 150th commemoration should not so much be an occasion for plaques or memorials. It’s not a retirement party. It SHOULD be a renewal, a recommitment, as we all seek to follow Christ on the tiptoe of expectation.

As for the people who listened to John the Baptist and then met and followed Jesus, our calling is to be grounded while being open to the future.

We’re grounded in community, in prayer, in the Rule, in the Church, in the heart of Jesus Christ. But stretching forward, we are listening. We are looking. We are open and receiving of those who long for the love of God, especially those who aren’t even aware of their longing.

As Mother Harriet wrote to the sisters heading for America, I think her words apply to us, as well. She wrote, “[But] you have opened your soul to take in the life of God, and now He will lead you on, as and how He wills. My heart and prayers are with you.”

Let us be strengthened and encouraged that “the heart and prayers” of Mother Harriet, all the sisters, and all the saints surround us as they watch our faithfulness, on the tiptoe of expectation.

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

More into Healing

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany, February 4, 2024. The scriptures are Isaiah 40:21-31, Psalm 147:1-12, 21c, 1 Corinthians 9:16-23, and Mark 1:29-39.

Yesterday was a somewhat obscure date on the church calendar—unless you might happen to be a singer, an actor, or someone else who relies on their voice.  February 3 is the day for commemorating St. Blase, a fourth century bishop and physician in Sebaste, a part of present day Turkey.  As a doctor, Blase was known to have a particular gift of healing when it came to objects stuck in the throat, such as a chicken bone fish bone.  And so, on his day, throats are sometimes blessed, often with a special contraption made of two candles.  An opera singer used to always come to the church I served on St. Blase’s Day, and she affirms that in all her years of singing, she has never missed a performance due to a sore throat!

When we think about healing, we’re moving into complicated territory.  So many things come together when one feels healing—medicine, general condition of the body, the state of the soul, the community, the general condition of one’s surroundings, one’s emotional condition (whether one is worried, or anxious, or free of such burdens).  And then there is God—God stepping into our world in some way, making a miracle, and doing the unexpected, unearned, unmerited, unpredictable thing.

What we do does not replace a medical doctor.  It doesn’t make up for eating a balanced diet, getting some exercise and generally trying to live a good life.  We do not deal in superstition and we don’t offer magic.  What we offer is sacramental—a blessed combination of prayer and touch and love.  This is what the church of Jesus Christ offers when it offers healing:  it offers prayer, touch and love.

In today’s Gospel, Simon Peter’s mother-in-law is healed by Jesus.  He takes her by the hand, lifts her up and the fever leaves her.  Later that same day, people bring to Jesus those who are sick and those who have demons. The sick and the possessed were not allowed in the synagogue or the temple.   These were people who had run out of options.  They didn’t have anywhere else to turn, and so they turned to Jesus.  And he healed them.  Jesus then continues to heal throughout Galilee, in the towns and in the synagogues.  Praying, touching and loving.

Jesus healed people from sickness and from demons.  But he also healed them from and with their surroundings.  He healed public reaction to those who were feared because they were sick, feared because they were different, feared because society had labeled them “unclean.”  I wonder if we ever need that kind of healing, when we encounter another who is sick?  How do we respond to the sick?  What do we say to someone who is newly diagnosed?  What do we say when someone’s treatments are not going well?

So often, if we’re not careful, unconsciously we can begin to pull back, and to move away ever so slightly.  We might justify our distance by saying that we don’t want to say anything stupid, or we think our friend might just need a little space.

But the way of healing (for Jesus and for us) is to move forward.

Jesus always moves toward people—into their neighborhoods, into their homes, into their lives with prayer, touch and love.

Prayer is the first part, and it may seem like the easy part, but it’s the foundation, and we’ll lose our nerve to go any further if we are grounded in prayer.  When I pray for someone to get better or to be healed, I try really hard to be honest with God.  I know that part about “praying that God’s will would be done above all,” but I’m honest when I pray for someone and I ask God to make the person better, to take away the sickness, to make the person strong again.  One way I pray for another’s healing is simply to picture the person in the fullness of health—vibrant, happy, at ease.  That image of the person becomes my prayer as I hold that image in my mind for a minute or two and then imagine the person being that healthy and happy person in the presence of God.

We offer prayer as a part of healing, but we also offer touch.  The touch part of healing has to do with proximity.  Mindful that we live in a complicated age, I’m not for a moment suggesting that we smother one another in hugs and holds.  Touch can be as exclusive as it can be inclusive.  But there are many, many ways of showing physical presence while allowing for personal space. 

Closeness has as much to do with an open posture, with eye contact, with fewer words and with more deeply hearing ears.

We pray, we touch, and with the two, if we’re about healing, then we offer love.  Love can be accepting and warm and soothing.  And sometimes it just needs to be present in calm, quiet ways.  But sometimes love is louder and tougher and more direct.  Soft love for an addict is called enabling.   Love always, always, always has to do with the truth.

And finally, healing often goes beyond what we first see.

With Simone Crockett’s revision of our stained glass window booklet and with the publication of George Bryant’s on Henry Holiday, I’ve been looking closer than ever at our stained glass windows. The central window over the main altar is one I usually refer to as Christ raising Lazarus in the upper section and Jesus raising the blind man.  But there’s more.  Some entitle the window, “Christ the consoler,” and note that to the upper left is the raising of Jairus’s daughter. And the bottom tier has all kinds of people in need. They represent anyone who comes to Christ.

May the Spirt help us to assist in God’s ongoing work of healing, to pray, to move closer to people, and to love as best we can.

With the help of St. Blase and all the saints, may we be healed through Jesus the Great Physician, and may we offer this healing to the world.

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

Healing and Faithfulness

As is my custom, on Annual Meeting Sundays, I offer the Rector’s Annual Report (of the previous year) within the context of the sermon. This year’s Annual Meeting on the Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany, January 28, 2024 reflects on our life and ministry in 2023. The scripture readings are Deuteronomy 18:15-20, Psalm 111, 1 Corinthians 8:1-13, and Mark 1:21-28.

The terra cotta balustrade on the West Porch entrance to the Church, completed in 2023.

Rector’s Report for 2023

The scriptures for today can raise all kinds of questions for us. Among them, the first reading asks, “Who do we listen to?” The Epistle wonders, “What should we eat?” And the Gospel asks, “How do we respond when faced with what feel like demons or negative forces around us?” The scriptures work together to suggest that we listen deeply and closely to God. They suggest that we look to God for guidance, for direction, and especially for healing.

On this Annual Meeting Sunday, it’s this third aspect of God’s presence, healing, that I’m using as a lens for reflecting on our previous year together, the church and program year of 2023.

Last year, we continued to navigate the resurgence of Covid-19 and other viruses, but we did what we could to encourage and foster healing of mind, body, and spirit.

Healing through Worship and Programs
Every Sunday morning, Adam Koch and our choir have helped heal our souls. On Sunday nights, Calvyn du Toit and Joe Bullock have led our worship in beauty and style. I was especially grateful for Adam’s efforts and all those who sang in the summer volunteer choir, with between 20 and 30 people joining each month.

Thanks to Liz Poole, we resumed yoga in person, on Tuesdays, and each week, we’ve had between ten and twenty people come, most of them non-churchgoers.

Our programs have brought healing and equipped us to carry this sense into the community. We’ve done this through a variety of educational opportunities and especially through our summer Sunday morning meditation. Thanks again to Simone Crockett for guiding us in our centering prayer and meditation.

Last summer, Adam and I coordinated a new program we called, “Summer Sounds and Social.” At each of these hot summer nights, we felt God’s healing presence as we shared music, food, fellowship, and learning.

While I resist associating faithfulness with numbers, I am grateful that we are mostly back at pre-pandemic attendance in our worship services. Demographics shift, and some of our most loyal and faithful members have died or moved away, but we are excited to have new people finding us and making us their church home.

We were able to hear firsthand how Holy Trinity’s grant from the Global Mission Commission of the Diocese of New York is helping people in Iraq, when we had programs with SWIC (Standing with Iraqi Christians) and were able to provide hospitality and a dinner program with Father Jerjez and Mr. Kakrash from St. George’s Anglican Church, Baghdad.

Holy Trinity continued to be deepened through our friendship with St. Stephen’s, Rochester Row, our link parish in the Diocese of London. We shared a Lenten series on art and spirituality and co-hosted an online discussion of Artificial Intelligence and Theology. The Rev. Graham Buckle, vicar of St. Stephens, visited in the spring and parishioners from our parishes have visited each other.

Healing Spaces
I don’t think it’s too strong a term to speak of “healing” our building, and in this, we’ve been especially blessed by (“Dr.,” or perhaps “Miracle Worker”) Lu Paone and his team of “specialists.” They’ve detected leaks, repaired drains, averted electrical disasters, renewed spaces to allow income, and much more.

After a power outage zapped our old sound system, we were able to replace it last year. A former rector of mine used to say that the devil lived in the sound system at that church, and so, that sense, the sound system at Holy Trinity has been “healed,” and seems to be helping more people feel included in what we do, say, and sing.

Our columbarium addition was completed and installed last year, and it continues to allow for healing at the time of death, as the remains of loved ones are now able to rest nearby, here with friends, here with family.

Healing in the Community
The programs of Holy Trinity Neighborhood Center, Inc. offer healing every week through the Saturday Supper, regularly feeding between 85 and 100 people. Joe Lipuma and others have attracted new volunteers, and we continue to move closer to expanding programs we might offer from HTNC. I’m grateful to the HTNC Board and to our president David Liston, for all his energy and leadership.

The Thanksgiving Dinner preparation and delivery was again a great success, thanks to members and friends of Holy Trinity and St. Joseph’s: Pat Baker, Erlinda Brent, Lydia Colon, Gretchen Dolan, Mark Kushner, Jeff McCulley, Suzanne Julig, Beth Markey, Joe Lipuma, and Kristen Ursprung. Again, last year, we had a friendraising cookout that became a cook-in because of rain and featured live music by Nick Viest and his band.

Anyone who has volunteered in St. Christopher’s House basement kitchen has probably fought with the kitchen cabinets. A few of us have even been bruised or battered when one of the old steel cabinet doors fell off or one hurt a finger trying to open or close a drawer. But late last year, momentum shifted for a renovation.

A few years ago, a small gift was made and matched by the donor’s company. That money was set aside for future kitchen renovation. Last month, we learned that through the successful application of Christine du Toit, we received a grant from her company, the World Gold Council. That grant, to HTNC, was for $50,000 to be used for kitchen renovation, which means we now have $60,000 to update and renovate the kitchen. We can’t do everything, and we know that there are some obstacles we cannot overcome, short of several million—such as ventilation issues and accessibility—but we are excited about making significant improvements, and perhaps even attracting more funds for future work. Stay tuned for more information.

We continue to work closely with Health Advocates for older People, Inc., and stay in close contact with Search & Care. But our closest neighbor is obviously the Merricat’s Castle School and its parent organization, The Association to Benefit Children. They are not only our major tenants in the Mission House, but they are also friends and family. We congratulate Merricats on its 50th anniversary this year and continue to give thanks for our visions of community and the support of children and families.

Healing through Community and Collegiality
Community and collegiality offer their own healing, and again, in 2023, we have been blessed by the volunteer faithfulness of the Rev. Deacon Pam Tang, the Rev. Doug Ousley, and the Rev. Margie Tuttle.

I’m grateful to our vestry, especially Treasurer Christine du Toit, and Secretary Paul Chernick, and to the Wardens Chris Abelt and Jean Blazina. Completing terms or rotating off vestry were Scott Hess, Leona Fredericks, and Donald Schermerhorn. Thanks to Chris Abelt and Jean Geater for standing for reelection and to Christine for agreeing to be appointed treasurer, even though term limitations require she not be on vestry for one year.

We have a sharp Investment Committee led by Jean Geater. At least quarterly, Jean, Christine du Toit, Franny Eberhart, Tony Milbank, and Alden Prouty met to keep an eye on our investment advisors and portfolio management. Thanks to Alden, who has stepped off that committee. We also have a wise and careful Budget and Finance Committee. Each month Chris Abelt, Jeanne Blazina, Christine du Toit, Jean Geater, Carol Haley, Kate Hornstien, and I meet to take a close look at the numbers. With their help, we are careful with our resources and aim to improve our stewardship in whatever way we can.

In 2023, we grieved the loss of several beloved members and friends of the parish. We mourned the loss of Allison Hajnal, Stephen Kramer, Harry Martin, Slade Mills, and of course, the former rector of the parish, the Rev. Bert Draesel. At the end of February, we celebrated Bert with a full church, several bishops, his family, and much of his music. Later last year, Ada Draesel gave Holy Trinity Bert’s personal piano, which is now in Draesel Hall, continuing Bert’s legacy of creating community and healing through music. Later this year, we’ll move into the public phase of raising money to restore the bell tower and get the bells ringing again in Bert’s memory.

As we look towards the future, I pray that God’s healing presence will surprise us with that attitude found in today’s Gospel, so that we become amazed and ask one another, “What is THIS new thing God is doing?”

There’s already new healing on the horizon. The Rev. Margie Tuttle is going to help us pray, think, and reactivate a healing prayer ministry during our 11:00 AM worship service.

Over one thousand daffodils, courtesy of Simone Crockett and a bunch of volunteer planters, is expected to sprout this spring in our garden.

With new members and friends of the parish, special occasions and celebrations marking our 125th anniversary, and a new Bishop of New York, we look forward to the many ways in which we can continue to move with God’s Healing and Life-giving Spirit.

On occasions like the Annual Meeting, I’m inclined to quote the words of St. Lawrence the Deacon. In the 3rd century, as the Roman emperor was trying to take all the treasures of the church, Lawrence was summoned before the emperor. He demanded that Lawrence turn over the church’s wealth. Lawrence gestured to the people around him, all those who made up the church—rich and poor, healthy and unhealthy, and said to the emperor THESE are the church’s treasures. The church IS truly rich, far richer than the emperor.

In good years and bad years, we have each other. Thanks be to God for the previous year, and may God bless us as we move forward.
Amen.

Redeeming “Evangelism”

A sermon for the Third Sunday after the Epiphany, January 21, 2024. The scripture readings are Jonah 3:1-5, 10, Psalm 62:6-14, 1 Corinthians 7:29-31, and Mark 1:14-20.

I had a friend in college who loved to compete. Every minute he wasn’t in class he was playing basketball. He was also a devout Southern Baptist, considering going off to seminary after college. Had you asked anyone on our floor, he would have been “most likely to be a minister.”

Rick had a routine for Saturday mornings. He would drive to his hometown, about an hour away, round up a few kids from his youth group, go to a public park and play basketball. The idea was to start a pickup game and eventually draw in strangers. At some break in the game, Rick would begin to talk about the youth group, his church and his own faith in Jesus Christ. He would very casually invite any of the new kids just met to join them all for church the next day, to come and hear more about Jesus and God’s love for all people.

My friend would refer to this Saturday morning process as “winning people for Jesus.” In other words, if someone were introduced to the Christian faith in the process of hearing about Jesus, praying to God, reading a bit of scripture, and promising to pattern one’s life after the life of Jesus, then that person had been “won” to Christ.

Now, I fully understand if that sort of evangelism seems completely intrusive and makes your skin crawl. There have been times when I would have said that that sort of thing had to do with a completely different understanding of Christianity. While I have not ever, and can’t imagine ever, being called to “basketball evangelism,” there is something in my friend’s perspective that I admire and I think we can learn from. In the notion of “wining” people for God, there is a sense of urgency.

There’s an old preacher’s story about the devil and his generals trying to mount a new offensive on Christianity, to try to make Christians ineffective in the world. The generals all gather together and the first suggests and idea. “What if we try to convince Christians that there really is no God?”

“No,” says the devil. “That will never work, too many Christians already have a strong sense of God.” The next general stands up and says, “I have it. Let’s convince them that there really is no difference between good and evil, between right and wrong.” But the devil shakes his head again. “No,” he says, “too many already know the difference and think it’s important. We’ll have to think of something else.” Finally, the third general steps forward. “Sir,” he says, “my idea is a little subtle, but I wonder if we might encourage them to continue believing in God, encourage them to distinguish between good and evil, but we simply suggest to them that there’s no hurry in any of this. There’s no need to rush, no need to worry, no sense of urgency.”

I think there is some hurry, and there is a certain urgency– because too many people are being lost. I’m not talking about church statistics, nor am I worried about denominational statistics. I’m talking about something much larger—about losing more and more people to violence— violence in the streets, violence in the home. We lose too many people to addictions, addictions of habit or need. We lose people to lives lived in compulsion, those who are never happy no matter how many things they may buy; happy no matter how many places they have traveled; happy no matter how many people they have used.

There are just too many people living lives that seem to have no purpose, lives lived in a hopeless circle of meeting immediate needs but never making space to recall why it is we might work, in the first place.

Evangelism has to do with sharing our faith. It has to do with sharing good news. It has to do with sharing a bit of ourselves with other people, whether it involves saying something about Jesus Christ through words, through prayer, or through actions. Evangelism, at least as I see it, is a matter of winning and losing. It’s not about church growth or meeting the goals of the budget or putting people on committees—it’s often life and death. It’s about life lived as fully as possible.

In today’s Gospel, the urgency shines through. Jesus calls Simon Peter and the Andrew. These two brothers are busy fishing, casting their nets, making their livelihood. But Jesus makes another offer. He raises the stakes. “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” Jesus calls James and John and invites them to drop what they’re doing, but even so, to use the skills they already have and apply them to a larger purpose. This new purpose will carry them into dangerous waters, indeed, as they are led into messy, untidy, uncontrollable and unpredictable places of faith.

We, too are called to “fish for people” or rather, we’re called upon to use whatever skills, abilities, or gifts we might have in order to help others know the love of God through Jesus Christ. We may be called to teach for people, to cook for people, to build for people, or to listen for people. Whatever it is we may do, in meeting Christ, we have the potential for our everyday work to become ministry and mission. In our teaching, in our cooking, in our building, in our talking and praying and listening, we offer Christ; we fish for people.

At Holy Trinity, we’re pretty good fishers, fishermen and fisherwomen. Some of our members, as individual fishers, are outrageously successful. But it seems that, as a church, our style has not been so much to go out on the high seas or the deep water, but rather to be a little like a lobster trap. If one should wander our way and come inside, then one finds we have quite a lot to offer.

For a few years, we’ve used a slogan on our website and elsewhere that simply says, “The Church of the Holy Trinity: To show and share the love of God.” That’s a great mission and a holy mission. But to what extent do we really do that?

Lobster traps work. But I wonder if, at some point, we aren’t called to respond to that sense of urgency, the urgency of the gospel and the urgency of our own world. What would it look like if we were to fish for people in new ways?

For some, if might look like inviting a neighbor to church some time. It might look like getting involved in a new mission project and bringing people from church with you. It might look like our forming new mission relationships with some of the new refugees who have come to New York City. Or maybe others who need friendship and support around us, or further away—in Central America, the Middle East or Africa. Fishing for people might look like our sitting at a table in our garden on a hot, summer Saturday, just offering water to people who go by. Fishing for people can involve mission and hospitality, evangelism and publicity, music and ministry in all shapes and forms.

Jesus has promised to be with us always. He has told us we should never fear. With hope, and faith and joy, let’s go fishing. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

When God Visits

A sermon for the Second Sunday after the Epiphany, January 14, 2024. The scriptures are 1 Samuel 3:1-10(11-20), Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17, 1 Corinthians 6:12-20, and John 1:43-51.

Whenever someone is coming to Holy Trinity for the first time to meet with one of us—whether it’s the secretary, the music director, or a sexton— I think we usually try to figure out how the person is going to be arriving.  We want to know their approach to the building so that we can be ready.  If the person needs to roll something inside, then we meet in front of the Mission House, by the ramp.  If they are coming to the main church, then the main doors are the obvious place. Sometimes the 87th Street entrance is probably best, other times the Mission House, for the Parish Office. If it’s the boiler room, well, I need to ask, which of the three boiler rooms do you mean?

When we know how someone is coming, we can be ready for them.  We can recognize them.  We can receive them properly.

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

I would probably inquire which entrance would be most convenient.  I would want to be ready.  I would want to be prepared, and I would especially want to recognize – to see, hear, and apprehend God—upon God’s arrival.  But, as the famous old hymn sings, “God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baptism and Defying Gravity

A sermon for The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, January 7, 2024. The scriptures are Genesis 1:1-5, Psalm 29, Acts 19:1-7, and Mark 1:4-11.

You may have seen the news this week as Governor Hochul and Mayor Adams announced plans for a new swimming pool. This summer, a floating, self-filtering pool in the East River is going to be tested, and hopefully can be opened free to the public next year. New York City needs more swimming pools and we need more swimmers. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has cited drowning as the leading cause of death among children 1 to 4 years old.  The Governor added, “If you don’t know how to swim, what you think is a refuge, that break, can become a death trap in an instant.” (NYTimes, “Floating East River Pool May Open to Public Next Year Under Hochul Plan,” January 6, 2024.)

Swimming might seem simple to those who learned early, but if you think about it, swimming is kind of amazing. Swimming gives us power and agency in the water. We’re not defenseless. We don’t have to be victims. We may have to struggle, but there’s a way forward. Swimming is a way that we have of dealing with the uncertainty and danger of water.

Throughout the biblical story of our salvation, water plays an important role, is often dangerous, scary, and threatening. In Genesis, “darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.” But God creates form and matter and order out of the water. The disciples fish on the water, but the smallest storm leaves them terrified. Jesus walks on the water, not just doing a kind of magic trick to amaze, but more to show that the God of Creation always has, and always will have power over the unruliness and the deadliness of water. And so, swimming overcomes the chaos.

A little like swimming, Holy Baptism represents God’s movement through creation, and the sanctifying grace that not only saves us from sinking but gives us new life. Baptism not only enables us to swim in faith, it picks us up to surf!

When Jesus asked John the Baptist to baptize him, he was simply doing what some other faithful Jews might have done—immersion in naturally sourced water cleansed and purified. It could mark an important change or a conversion. It prepared one for presentation at the Temple. But for Jesus to be baptized, it meant even more.
It meant that the Son of God, the human expression of God in our world, was taking on himself the uncleanness and sin of others, falling into water, but raising out again. Baptism and the cleansing of sin foreshadows resurrection and the renewal of life.

Though baptism can seem like a sweet custom to do whenever there’s a new baby, the words and prayers we say remind us of the radical nature of baptism.

In baptism and in the renewal of baptismal vows, we say that we will resist evil and the ways of the devil, and that when we fall down, we’ll get up again and turn to God.

In baptism, we affirm that all people are made in the image of God, and so we refuse the hierarchies and pecking orders of the world, and work to seek and serve Christ in each other.

In baptism, we remind ourselves and the world that there is more to life that what we do for work, or where we went to school, or how much money we make.  We name the injustices and wrongs in the world, and we pledge to strive for justice and peace. We refuse to go along with stereotypes and prejudice and instead, aim to respect the dignity of every human being.

More than swimming, more than surfing, even, baptism, gives us power over the currents that shift and challenge. We could say that baptism helps us defy gravity.

“Defying gravity” is the title of the well-known and much-loved song from the musical Wicked. A recent podcast on BBC4 talks about how important that song has been for so many people. It has provided strength, encouragement, and hope. [Soul Music: “Defying Gravity” from Wicked.]

[You can listen to the song here.]

You may remember the story of Wicked. The so-called Wicked Witch of the West, whose name is Elphaba, was born with green skin.  Being green, looking different, she feels the pain of growing up different and she longs for acceptance. Since the musical premiered in 2003, Elphaba’s story has hit a chord with anyone who has ever felt marginalized, left out, or looked down upon because they were different. And so, Elphaba’s song at the end of Act I marks a change in her, a defining point where she decides no longer to be ruled by the expectations of others, the perceived laws of nature, the prejudices and fears of the people around her. The song, “Defying Gravity” becomes a victory song, a kind of ALLELUIA, as Elphaba claims her voice and begins to forge her own path.  

Though the song is not religious in a traditional sense, it touches the human spirit, and I think, has much of the spirit of God within it.

Elphaba experiences a kind of conversion, a coming to her true self, an acceptance of a Higher Power, as she sings,

Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game

Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes and leap

And then, almost with wings of faith (I think) she sings

It’s time to try defying gravity
I think I’ll try defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye, I’m defying gravity
And you won’t bring me down.

As followers of Jesus Christ, as baptized people, something has changed within us. We’re done playing by the rules of culture or political expediency. We seek justice and life for all. It’s too late to go back to sleep. Time to trust our God-given, and Spirit-infused instincts, and with faith, close our eyes and leap.

Fear can’t bring us down. The news of the world can’t bring us down. Temporary setbacks, health challenges, and those with no faith or hope—won’t bring us down.

With Christ always at our side, we’re defying gravity.

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