A sermon for Christmas Day 2014.  The lectionary readings are Isaiah 52:7-10 , Psalm 98 , Hebrews 1:1-12, and John 1:1-14 .

Those of you who know the British drama “Downton Abbey” will know all about the Dowager Countess, Lady Violet. Played by Maggie Smith, Lady Violet typically does not like change. There is a great scene that illustrates this in one of the very first episodes. Lady Violet enters one of the rooms of Downton Abbey, and upon entering the room, she immediately uses her fan to shield herself from something above. It turns out that the chandelier has been converted to electricity. “Such a glare,” she says. “I couldn’t have electricity in the house, I wouldn’t sleep a wink. All those vapors floating about.”

I thought of Lady Violet and her suspicion of electric lights a few months ago when I visited a church that had votive lights—candles that represent prayers of the faithful like ours in the Mary Chapel—except these votive lights had no candles. They were powered by electricity. I had heard of such things but had never seen them. I didn’t get too close (afraid of vapors, or worse), but I think each one had its very own on/off switch. I suppose after a person says a prayer and “turns on” a candle, a sexton or employee of the church eventually goes by and simply flicks the switch: prayer over; light off.

I love candles in church—real candles. I love them not only because they are pretty to look at, but even more, because they remind us of why we’re here, why we have faith. The flames that flicker remind us of the fragility of our faith, the promise of our faith, and the power of our faith.

We know faith is fragile. We have friends and family whose faith has dwindled. Maybe yours is a little weak. It could be that the flame was blown out by a storm or a trauma, or maybe it just died out over time—a candle untrimmed, a wick that needed support, or maybe too long in the face of incessant pressure, like a candle positioned in a drafty space.

Last Wednesday’s Washington Post told the story about St. George’s Chaldean Catholic Church in Baghdad, Iraq. Last year around this time, there would have been 300 or 400 worshippers. But because of bombings and fires, violence against Christians, forced conversions by fundamentalist Muslims, and just the steady erosion of war and culture—there are only about 75 parishioners now. And people keep leaving. Father Mokhalasee, the priest of the parish said, “If it stays this way, we will shrink to nothing. . . .We believe that God wants us here for diversity in the region. Unfortunately, people are afraid of the future, and they are leaving” (Washington Post, December 22, 2014).

A lit candle can remind us that faith is fragile. But a candle also represents promise. I love it when we come into church like yesterday morning and there are new, long candles everywhere. I wonder how long they’ll last. What will the worship be like as we light them? What music will be sung, what prayers will be said to accompany them? Whose faces will be enlightened?

Our Old Testament reading this morning talks about messengers who bring peace, those who bring good news, and reminding us that God reigns. When people gather for a vigil to remember someone who has died, they light candles. When people gather in protest, they light candles. These are signs of hope, signs of what the psalm proclaims when he says:

Sing to the LORD a new song, *
for he has done marvelous things.
With his right hand and his holy arm *
has he won for himself the victory.

The psalmist prays in several tenses. The language is in the past tense, as though God has already done these marvelous things, but the psalmist (just like us) knows that God’s work is not yet finished. Bad things happen. Evil has its day. But the past tense of the song puts us into the future of faith, trusting in God’s goodness, “In righteousness shall he judge the world and the peoples with equity.”

A lit candle can be fragile. It can symbolize and encourage hope. But it can also point to real power.

In George Herbert’s poem “Christmas (I),” the speaker is someone who, in this season, has been riding. He is tired in “body and mind.” He’s worn out and so he stops into a pub for refreshment and rest. It turns out that it’s an inn, but not just any inn. It’s like the Bethlehem inn and Christ is there to welcome all—especially the tired, the weary, the beaten down: “My dearest Lord,” Herbert writes, “ready there to be all passengers’ most sweet relief.” Herbert then plays with the image of light.

O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night’s mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right,
To Man of all beasts be not thou a stranger:

Furnish & deck my soul, that thou mayst have
A better lodging than a rack or grave.

Commenting on this poem, Carol Rumens points to what she sees as George Herbert’s doing “a little metaphysical pruning.” “God has ‘contracted’ his light to be born in human time; he has made his light very much smaller to suit his incarnation” [The Guardian, Dec. 4, 2014]. She suggests that in the way Herbert brings the Incarnation down to this single point of light, light contracted even to the point of a candle, of a person, “Herbert constructs his God’s luminous humanity out of his own.”

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it….And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

The light has come, the light of God’s creation and love, and it has concentrated like a single flame in each of us. The light has made a home in us.

So often when a friend or a family member or even a stranger is in a dark place, we are called upon to bring light. We might be blessed with a word or a gesture of some kind that helps, but more often than not, our presence is what is needed: prayerful, quiet, yet aflame with God’s love.

This Christmas, may the candles continue to burn brightly, but even more, may the flame of Christ’s Incarnation burn in our hearts that we might add light to the world.

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

A homily preached at a Service of Lessons and Carols for the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, December 7, 2014.

Yesterday was the feast day for Saint Nicholas of Myra. And yes, this is the Nicholas who was the fourth century bishop whose life has morphed (for better or for worse) into modern conceptions of Saint Nick and Santa Claus.

Though little is known about the actual Nicholas, one of the most famous stories told of him has to do with a family who had three daughters. As the young women grew up, it became known to Nicholas that the family had no money for dowries for the women to be properly married. The only options for them seemed to be abject poverty or prostitution. But Nicholas saved them from that predicament. He saved them by throwing a bag of gold through their window, anonymously. Some sources say he threw it into the chimney, and you can see where that has led in modern legends. But the point is that they didn’t know who had done this kindness for them. But it changes their lives. It made things better. And I bet it encouraged a mentality of generosity in those young women and all who knew them.

I wonder what we can do to encourage a culture of anonymous generosity. What would it be like if we were able to do things for other people without always looking for recognition or credit?

Some of you may not be familiar with the Order of St. John of Jerusalem. We trace our lineage way back to the Knights Hospitallers who were among the first to provide care for poor, sick or injured pilgrims to the Holy Land. Today, the American Priory of the Order focuses much of its energy on supporting the St. John Eye Hospital in East Jerusalem, with clinics in the West Bank and Gaza.

The rate of blindness in the occupied Palestinian territories is ten times higher than in the West and over a third of the population lack food security. The hospital group treats patients regardless of ethnicity, religion or ability to pay.

Much of the generosity that supports the work of the Order of St. John is hidden, quiet, and anonymous. Sometimes we dress up at bit and we do sign our names on a check or two, but throughout the Order of St. John, much is done in secret. And that’s a good thing, whether we are simply being humble, giving a nod to the true spirit of St. Nick, or perhaps even following our Lord Jesus Christ who said, “when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, 4so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you” (Matthew 6:3).

What if, at Christmas, people got excited about following the REAL Saint Nicholas? What would it look like for us to go out of our way to remain hidden, but give to someone who is needy? What might it look like if we were to incorporate a bit of that spirit into our charity, into our stewardship, and into our holiday gift-giving?

Especially in this season, may we be gracious in our giving and in our receiving, that our hearts might be prepared to receive more fully the gift of God, Jesus Christ who has come in the flesh to be like us, to be among us, to be with us, to be for us.

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

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, December 7, 2014.  The lectionary readings are Isaiah 40:1-11, Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13, 2 Peter 3:8-15a, and Mark 1:1-8.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe this morning or this afternoon. So get ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, November 30, 2014.  The lectionary readings are Isaiah 64:1-9, Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18, 1 Corinthians 1:3-9, and Mark 13:24-37.

When I was in seminary, one semester we had an artist in residence who was a potter. A wooden platform was made over some of the first few pews in the chapel, and a potter’s wheel was put there, and the potter would sit there so everyone could see him and there he would throw a pot and preach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s as though we’re a jug being fashioned into something by a potter. The clay has been dug, we’re being shaped and formed and molded. Once we’re put into the kiln and glazed, it’s too late. Some of you have seen my face jugs—folk pottery from the South. The faces on those jugs—whether they sneer, or laugh, or have an evil grin, or gracious smile—once they’re fired and glazed, they’re stuck. We might think we’re like those jugs sometimes, but we’re not—we’re made carefully and lovingly, but we’re still on the potter’s wheel. We are still in God’s hands, able to be shaped and changed, and formed for good, formed for love.

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

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

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

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

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