Waking Up

Wallace waking upA sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter, April 30, 2017.  The lectionary readings are Acts 2:14a,36-41Psalm 116:1-3, 10-171 Peter 1:17-23, and Luke 24:13-35

Listen to the 6 PM version of the homily HERE.

What does it take to wake you up?

An alarm clock? A strong cup of coffee? An elbow in the rib?

Most days, it only takes a wet nose and a “plop” as our 2-year-old dog jumps on the bed next to me around 4:30 in the morning.  I pet her, push her slightly down, and it’s as good as pressing the “snooze” button on the alarm clock.  We’re good for another 30 minutes.  But at 5, we’re up and off to the park.

Some wake up to a rooster crow, and others wake up to the sound of a trash truck.

For the cartoon characters Wallace and Gromit, it takes a little more than any of that. There’s an alarm that triggers a tea kettle, which makes steam which activates a giant hand that pokes the underside of the bed. Then there’s the smell of cheese—a good Stilton or “Stinky Bishop,” usually—and then a spring-loaded bed, a slide, a chute that lands them into their clothes, with a cup of coffee made just like they like it.

We wake up, of course, not only in the morning, but all kinds of things can jolt us awake. Someone swerving into our lane on the road. A change in what we thought was to be our employment for the rest of our life. A child, a niece or nephew, or a grandchild. An unexpected test result from the doctor. And then, the other extreme, after worry and fear, we receive clean results from the doctor, and life is different from before.

We awaken in different ways and at different times.

In today’s first lesson, Peter follows in the footsteps of John the Baptist, trying to wake people up spiritually. His method is a bit blunt, a little like trying to wake up someone by throwing cold water on them. Peter says, “This Jesus, whom you allowed to be put to death—this is the Messiah.” “There’s a lot to answer for, so repent, get your lives in order, get right with God, be baptized and make a new start.”

Peter’s wake-up call seems effective, as the Acts of Apostles reports some three thousand persons were baptized and welcomed into the faith.

In some ways, the whole Easter Story is about the different ways in which people wake up to new faith, and wake up to new life.

One of the criminals who dies alongside Jesus wakes up the reality of the life that is possible. He doesn’t have to die alone. He doesn’t have to re-live his past over and over again. There’s another way, and so he asks for it. “Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”

There’s Mary Magdalene who goes to the tomb that first Easter morning. She has awakened early from sleep, but after she finds the empty tomb, comes into contact with the gardener-who-is-really-God, Mary wakes up to the reality that Jesus is risen from the dead.

Last Sunday we heard how Thomas is trapped in the nightmare of his worries and fears and disbelieving. He struggles to accept what the others seem so easily to believe. Thomas wants proof, and then when proof stands right in front of him, Thomas, too, finally wakes up.

In the Gospel from Luke, the wake-up call is gentler, but no less dramatic. It’s later on Easter Day and Cleopas and one of the other disciples—perhaps Luke—are on their way home from Jerusalem. A stranger joins them, and the stranger seems to know all about what’s happened in Jerusalem, and he’s able to put it all into the context of scripture and prophecy.

The disciples and their guest go home. They continue the conversation, and almost casually, they share a meal. And then they notice a pattern. Just like in the Upper Room, just like that Passover Meal, just like the bread and cup they shared the night of Jesus’ arrest… Jesus “took the bread, blessed, and broke it, and gave it to them.” And their eyes are opened. They recognize him. They wake up.

They wake up to love: the love of God that would not leave them without comfort. The love of God that would befriend, that would die in the place of, that would extend mercy and compassion and forgiveness even from the cross.

They awaken to peace: peace that transcends any and all understanding; peace that is no wimpy peace—this is a peace that has defeated death, that has won victory over violence and put evil in the grave, slammed down the lid and danced on it.

They wake up to the possibility of forgiveness: forgiveness that is beyond imagination, beyond human doing, but by God, through Christ, propelled by the Holy Spirit forgiveness then moves through each of us as we extend it to one another. Forgiveness is never deserved, never earned, never timely, but is always a grace given.

Life wakes us up, but unlike little children who sometimes wake up cranky and disoriented, we can choose how we respond when something wakes us up.

When a notorious criminal or terrorist is stopped, we are naturally relieved at some level, but we can choose how we wake up to that news—do we celebrate with savagery or do we allow God to awaken some deeper meaning for our lives?

As people around our country awaken to flood waters and devastation from storms, do we choose to remain sleepy and ignore their reality, or do we think with wakeful creativity and compassion how we might help?

The 13th century Sufi and mystic Rumi has a wonderful poem that strikes the spirit of an Emmaus awakening. He writes

The early breeze before dawn
is the keeper of secrets.
Don’t go back to sleep!
It is time for prayer, it is time to ask for
what you really need.
Don’t go back to sleep!
The door of the One who created the world
is always open.
Don’t go back to sleep.

–Translation by Azima Melita Kolin and Maryam Mafi, “Rumi: Hidden Music” HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 2001.

As followers of Jesus Christ we have been awakened to the possibility of new life.

There is a whole world to wake up to.

God invites us to wakeful watchfulness, so that we might help wake up the world.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

 

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The Desire for God

ThomasA sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter, April 23, 2017.  The lectionary readings are Acts 2:14a,22-32, Psalm 16, 1 Peter 1:3-9, and John 20:19-31.

People sometimes get frustrated with the Episcopal Church and the fact that our tradition offers a lot of room for interpretation.  Especially confused (and sometimes angered) are those coming from other traditions, in which doctrines and beliefs are more clearly defined. I think of some of the standard questions such as:

Do Episcopalians believe in the Real Presence of the Jesus in the Sacrament of Holy Communion?  Well–, many do, some don’t, and most probably don’t worry themselves too much about it.

At what age should children be baptized or begin receiving Communion?  It varies.

How many Sacraments are there, anyway?  Seven or just two?  Well, as our Catechism (way in the back of the Book of Common Prayer) puts it, there are “Two great sacraments” (Holy Baptism and the Holy Eucharist) and there are other “sacramental rites” which include confirmation, ordination, holy matrimony, reconciliation of a penitent, and unction.  “Although they are means of grace, they are not necessary for all persons in the same way that Baptism and the Eucharist are” (p. 860).

I know this kind of language drives some people crazy.  I also know that it makes our job a lot harder if we’re trying to explain our faith or our tradition.  But I’m grateful for the breadth and generosity of our tradition.  It means there’s room for me.  There’s room for you.  There’s room for just about everybody because God understands we come to faith differently.  God made us that way.

Some people’s faith depends upon signs. Others believe in Jesus without a sign. Some need miracles. Others don’t. Some have faith that is weak, some strong. Some have shallow faith, some have deep faith. These different kinds of faith can be seen especially when we look at the various reactions to the resurrection.

On this second Sunday of Easter, as we continue to reflect on the resurrection and its meaning, we can notice where we are on the spectrum of faith and doubt, and we can be encouraged by the different ways the first followers of Jesus came to believe.

Think of those first witnesses and how they responded to Jesus:

Mary Magdalene had faith that took her to the tomb and she saw the risen Lord through her tears.

The two disciples were walking to Emmaus talked to a stranger.  Their faith led them to extend hospitality, and they saw the risen Lord in the breaking of bread.

Some of the other disciples were fishing on the Sea of Galilee. Their faith led them back to work, and they saw the risen Lord in the midst of their work, and when they reached land, he made them breakfast.

Later, as we hear in today’s Gospel, when some of the disciples seemed to lose faith, they hid out in a locked room and tried to sort things out. But even there—or perhaps especially there in the midst of their fear and worry—the Risen Lord appeared to them, too.

For Thomas the Apostle, it wasn’t enough to hear of the resurrection from Mary Magdalene. These stories all sounded like wishing thinking, or people letting their emotions and hopes get the best of them. Thomas needed more.

And while we tend to describe Thomas as having a lack of faith—for Thomas, this simply IS his way of faith. It is a way that takes nothing for granted.  It’s a way that is willing to struggle, to look for truth deeply, to weigh the evidence, and only then, move forward. In fact, it’s really Thomas’s DESIRE for faith that moves him forward.

Peace be with you, Jesus says. And Jesus offers himself—the resurrected body still bearing the wounds. The story doesn’t tell us if Thomas actually touches the wounds. There is room for our imagination. Artists through the ages interpret this scene differently.  Some show Thomas actually poking his finger in the side of Jesus.  Others show a distance between Thomas and Jesus.  But that distance is important to remember.  It’s the same kind of distance as the one shown between God and Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  It doesn’t represent separation.  It represents movement toward the other.

What crosses the distance is desire, what bridges the gap, is God’s desire for us, and our desire for God.

Too often, I think we hide our desire—to desire shows vulnerability, need, and the admission that we’re not complete within ourselves.  It’s easier for us (individuals and churches) to show a veneer—doctrines, rules, regulations, barriers, and hurdles.  This is why so many people have made a distinction between what they perceive as “religion” (the rules and doctrines that confine and judge) as opposed to “spirituality” (an openness to creativity and curiosity about God.) At our best, the Episcopal way (especially) encourages both a religious practice and a spirituality that grows and changes over time.

Thomas Merton wrote a prayer that points to the space between us and God, the space in which we grow and move towards God.  His prayer asks,

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think I am following your will
does not mean that I am actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you
does in fact please you.
And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.
And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road,
though I may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though
I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Like with Mary Magdalene, like with Thomas, our desire is enough.

The Luke version of the Passion contains a scene that should always be at the heart of  Christianity.  One of the criminals who is being crucified with Jesus asks him from the cross, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  And Jesus tells him, “Today you will be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:42-43).

It really is just that simple.  Christ is risen for us all and reveals himself to all who look for him, who hope for him, who desire him.

Christ is risen for the tearful. Christ is risen for the bold. He is risen for the dishonest and lazy, the broken and beyond repair.  Christ is risen for those who are afraid, and he is risen for those who doubt.  The Lord is risen for us all. Alleluia.

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

 

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Christ Rising

tangereA sermon for Easter Day, April 16, 2017.  The lectionary readings are Acts 10:34-43, Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24, Colossians 3:1-4, and John 20:1-18.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

On Easter morning, Mary goes to the tomb, looking for Jesus. She finds him there, though she doesn’t recognize him at the beginning. She looks through her tears and sees the risen Lord. The other disciples scatter, returning to families or work.  But they, too find the Risen Christ, as he greets them on the beach and in a locked room.  Thomas stands out for finally seeing and accepting the Risen Christ, but Thomas has to look honestly through his doubt, and then he sees.  After the crucifixion, some return to their families, others go back to fishing, but after a time they come together in a locked room, and there they see Jesus. Thomas looks through his doubt and sees Jesus.

The Risen Christ meets us, but we might see him in very different places.  Where do you look for him? In scripture? In music? In friends or family? In tradition? In prayer? In political action or process? In medicine or art?  Where to you encounter Christ?

A friend who is a minister in Maryland, told a story about a woman who went looking for Christ deep within her own grief. Actually, I don’t know that she was even looking for Christ.  She was looking for her husband, for some healing or hope around his death.  And perhaps, she was also looking for herself, wondering who she was, now that he had died.

My former colleague, Terry, had served a parish for a few years in Ohio.  And that part of Ohio was known for its long, cold, and wet winters.

Elizabeth was a long-time parishioner of his church.  She and James had gotten married young, but the start of their marriage was rough.  James suffered from PTSD from fighting in Vietnam, and it almost broke up their marriage.  But they got help, and grew in their love for each other and their love of God.  After about eighteen good years together, James came down with a sudden illness, and died.

It was too soon.  Too much was unfinished.  He was too young, and Elizabeth was devastated. He had died too young, and she was completely unprepared for life without him.

During the whole first year of James’s death, Elizabeth could not bring herself to visit the cemetery.  She just couldn’t, even though she could walk to it, in their small town.  It was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone, but no one knew how to help Elizabeth in her grief.

But finally, near the first year’s anniversary, Elizabeth came to her pastor, my friend Terry, and asked him if he would meet her at the cemetery on that anniversary morning, at 7:30. Terry agreed, but worried that it would be a pretty bleak visit.  March was wet and cold, and the cemetery would be muddy.  Nothing would be growing or blooming, and he worried the whole depressing scene would just be too much for her.  But he agreed.

The night before the day they met at the cemetery, it had snowed.  Because of the rain over the season, some of the graves had sunken in, so the snow made an impression and marked the graves.  Elizabeth arrived a little early, so she walked up the muddy road and got to the place where her husband was buried. She remembered the funeral.  She remembered her husband, and as she looked across the lonely landscape—trees without leaves, dirt and mud everywhere, and the sunken graves— she started to cry. She cried and cried, as though the finality and reality of her husband’s death was finally setting in.  As she cried, she almost didn’t hear the backhoe, the tractor which belonged to her neighbor, George Smith, the cemetery caretaker.  When she heard it, she was embarrassed to be caught in her grief and tears, so she didn’t even look up.

But she felt an arm around her.  He said, “Why are you crying?” Elizabeth just nodded out toward the graves, and then cried some more. He said to her then, “To me, the snow looks like the white cloths those first women saw when they went to see Jesus. The ground that’s sunken on top of the graves looks that way because none of them is there. They are risen. Go home, Elizabeth, and live!”

She felt his arm withdraw and heard the tractor make its way down the hill.

The cemetery looked different to her. She was no longer afraid. The sun was warming her and she felt better.

When her pastor Terry arrived, Elizabeth met him at the gate of the cemetery, and she looked ten years younger. “Come on,” she said, “I’ll buy you breakfast.” Over coffee, Elizabeth explained to Terry what had happened, how she had gotten so upset, had frozen in her grief, and how George had come at just the right time and said just the right thing.

Terry listened, looked at Elizabeth, and said simply, “That’s fine, Elizabeth.  But George Smith is at his daughter’s house in Columbus this week.”

Christ is risen.  Christ rises still.  Wherever there is pain or need or suffering, Christ still rises. In the midst of joy, and promise, and work well done, Christ still rises. In the midst of work, or play, or challenge, or relationships—good ones, bad ones, ones on the mend—Christ rises.

With Easter hearts that burn within us, let us see and know the Risen Christ, and let us be renewed to be his friends and disciples.

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

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Bearing the Name of Christ

Baptism IconA sermon for the Paschal Vigil, Easter Eve, April 15, 2017.  The lectionary texts for the Eucharist are Romans 6:3-11 and Matthew 28:1-10.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

For one of the years while I was in seminary I worked at a little church in South Philadelphia. The church had been formed from two congregations, one Presbyterian and one Episcopalian. Perhaps because of the church’s mixed identity, it was especially open to newcomers and to different kinds of people. In the early 1980’s the church worked very closely with Cambodian and Laotian refugees, many of whom joined the church. Every Sunday morning, in addition to the small congregation that was diverse to start with, there were also five to ten young adults with Down Syndrome and other challenges, who came in a van from a nearby group home. All of them worshipping together. All of them looking for God’s movement in their life and in the world.

One of the most interesting things about this odd little church in South Philadelphia was their baptismal rite—the prayers they used whenever they baptized.  They had carefully blended words from the Episcopal Prayer Book and from the Presbyterian Book of Common Worship, but they had added something else. So as to remind themselves of their unity in Christ, to remind themselves and the world, that nation of origin didn’t matter, skin color didn’t matter, mental ability, facility with language, physical condition—none of these things were important at the font of Baptism—to remind themselves of this enormous truth, each person received a new name at Baptism.

If I were baptized there, they would say to me, “John Christian, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Susan Christian, I baptize you. José Christian, and so on. In the baptismal liturgy each person was given the name of Christ to follow their own.

Through baptism, we die and rise again in Jesus Christ. We die to sin—to it’s power to overwhelm us, to depress us, to feel like we’ll never be a good person, to feel like we’re unworthy of God. We die to evil—to its temptations, to its subtleties, to its suggestiveness. We die to pride—to always having to have our way, to never listening to the other person, to believing that we are better than others.

And we are born anew. We are born into a Christian community where we are always welcome, always accepted, always able to come home. We are born into a way that builds up, that encourages, that that holds us in the community of faith even we feel like we might have just about fallen out.

Throughout the scriptures we’re told about people who are changed with they come into contact with God. Moses never thought he could lead people. Sarah never thought she could have a child. Paul never thought he would stop persecuting Christians, much less become a great Christian preacher and teacher, himself. And this is connected to Resurrection, as Paul reminds us in tonight’s Epistle,

Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? Therefore we have been buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his. (Romans 6:3-5)

The movement of Holy Week allows us to reflect on the events that led up to the crucifixion of Jesus. At the Easter Vigil we reaffirm our baptismal vows. And today we continue to affirm that power of the cross to transform our lives, to lift us up from death and darkness, and to bring us into the light. We give thanks that Christ’s name is engraved on our hearts.

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Good Friday: Part II

Holy-Trinity-Episcopal-Church-Henry-Holliday-stained-glass-window-XLA very short sermon offered (in the midst of a very full liturgy) on Good Friday, which was celebrated at 7 PM at Holy Trinity.  The lectionary readings are Isaiah 52:13-53:12Psalm 22Hebrews 10:16-25, and John 18:1-19:42

Listen to the sermon HERE.

Some of you are familiar with Evelyn Underhill who was an English writer on mysticism and the spiritual life, who died in 1941. More than being just a writer, she was also a practitioner, a person of deep prayer, and you feel the depth of her prayer through her writing.

In one place (The Light of Christ), she talks about how first appearances can be deceiving. She talks about how a friend might suggest you check out a particular church—it has beautiful stained glass windows, for instance. And so, you approach this church, but from the outside, all you can see are windows that look pretty much alike—they’re all sort of dull and dark, thick, and grubby. But then, as she describes it,

Then we open the door and go inside—leave the outer world, enter the inner world—and the universal light floods through the windows and bathes us in their colour and beauty and significance, shows us things of which we had never dreamed, a loveliness that lies beyond the fringe of speech.

She goes on to say that this is a little like our understanding of God. We cannot understand God from the outside, but understanding comes when we enter in.

Holy Trinity is a perfect place to begin to understand some of the mysteries of Good Friday. We are that kind of church from the outside—our windows look sort of ugly and uninteresting, until we come in, and then there’s a whole other world going on.

This day is like that. From the outside, it appears to be named incorrectly. After all, what is “good” about an innocent man, a prophet, and healer and teacher, being killed for no reason other than the fear and anxiety of the religious rulers of his day? But from the inside, from the standpoint of faith, we begin to understand that Jesus has given himself on the cross. What may appear on the outside as failure, will be turned into triumph.

The Good Friday perspective is one that can help us through the dark times. Especially when we only see darkness, when we don’t feel God’s presence, when our soul cries out “Why have you forsaken me?” a Good Friday perspective can remind us that if we go through, if we go deeply into, if we allow God to go with us, then we will move from outside, in and things will look different.

With eyes to see clearly, with faith to perceive the true nature of things, a Ninth century writer was able to sing praise on this day. Theodore of Studios wrote:

How splendid the cross of Christ! It bring life, not death; light, not darkness; Paradise, not its loss. It is the wood on which the Lord, like a great warrior, was wounded in hands and feet and side, but healed thereby our wounds. A tree had destroyed us [in the Garden of Eden], a tree now brought us life.

May God give us the faith of Good Friday, faith to see beyond appearances, faith even to enter into death, so that we may be brought to life again.

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

 

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Good Friday: Part I

THoly Trintiy Crucifixhe Noon to 3 PM service at Holy Trinity was based on St. Bonaventure’s “Office of the Passion of the Lord.”  Some of the meditations were musical and three were spoken–loosely reflecting on the particular “Hour” and the themes of the day.  

You can listen to the three reflections below:
Lauds
Terce
None

Reflection on the Office of Lauds

This service, The Office of the Passion of the Lord, feels like it’s really composed of 8 offices. To speak of an “office,” comes from the Latin word meaning “duty” or “service.” In the Hebrew scriptures, the priests of Aaron were to offer morning and evening sacrifices.  When these stopped being animals, the priest would offer a “sacrifice of praise” to God.  Psalm 119 says, “Seven times a day do I praise you, because of your righteous judgments,” (v. 146), and from the time of St. Benedict in the 6th century, onward, monastic communities often did just that:  they paused from work and study in order to pray to God, seven times a day, or sometimes eight.  Matins might be said at Midnight, and sometimes was called Nocturns.  Lauds would be said in the wee hours or at dawn, usually.  Prime referred to the “first hour”, often about 6 AM.  Terce referred to the third hour, so if the first hour was at six, the third would be at 9 AM.  Sext, the sixth hour, would be at Noon. None (which sounds like Noon, but isn’t) would be at about 3 PM, Vespers or Evening Prayer at 6 PM, and Compline or night prayer at about 9 PM.

If one is familiar with the Book of Common Prayer, one recognizes that our prayer book retains forms for Morning Prayer, Noon Day Prayer, Evening Prayer, and Compline.

We have just said the Office of Lauds, or Morning Prayer.  The psalms historically said at the beginning of the day are psalms of praise, repeating the word, “laudate,” or praise, over and over again.

The Gospels tell how Jesus sometimes got up very early in the morning to go out and pray.

The early morning is a strange time.  As the sun rises, nature awakens. The sun offers reassurance.  Another day, darkness will not rule.

On the night before the Crucifixion, Jesus asked his disciples to pray with him in the Garden of Gethsemane.  They fell asleep. The Gospel of John says that the police, the chief priests and he Pharisees all come to the Garden with lanterns, and torches and weapons—so we know it was either nighttime or early morning.

Morning plays a pregnant part in one of my favorite poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins.  Hopkins had just finished three years in theological college, so perhaps not so surprising is that while the poem entitled, “The Windhover” is at one level a poem about the bird of that name, it’s also about much more.  Carol Rumen, poetry critic for The Guardian, points out,

Christ’s Passion is central to the poem, the core from which everything else spirals and to which everything returns. The plunge of the windhover onto its prey suggests not simply the Fall of man and nature, but the descent of a redemptive Christ into the abyss of human misery and cruelty. References to equestrian and military valour (the dauphin, the chevalier) evoke the Soldier Christ, a figure to be found in the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius of Loyola which Hopkins devotedly practised. The swoop of this hawk-like dove is essentially spiritual, of course. But the poem doesn’t forget or devalue the “sheer plod” of the farm-labourer – another alter ego …The earth is broken by the plough in order to flare gloriously again, and the warm colours suggest crops as well as Christ’s redemptive blood. Beyond that, we glimpse some other-worldly shining, a richness not of earth alone.  (The Guardian, April 5, 2010).

The poem is here:

The Windhover
To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing.

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

Morning always brings a double blessing.  The night is over and forgotten. What was done, was done.  But the new day stretches out in front, with possibility, with promise, with Resurrection.

Reflection on the Office of Terce

Terce is the third hour.  Counting from the Office of Prime at about 6 AM, Terce is prayed around 9 AM.  For many—especially in our city, 9 AM is mid-morning.  Early prayers have been said or not said, and we are well into the workday.  There are slow-walking people in front of us.  There are trains that move all too quickly just before we get to the platform.  And there are appointments, demands, and expectations – through all of which we do well to keep working, to keep moving, and to keep breathing. But if we are too busy, we can fail to notice patterns.

Terce reminds us of the pattern of three: the trinity.  The trinity of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit which, as the Athanasian Creed reminds us is “one God in Trinity, and Trinity in Unity, neither confounding the Persons, nor dividing the Substance.”  The Creed of Athanasius (tucked in the back of our Prayer Book) is a hymn to the Holy Trinity, as it drives the point home:

Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one, the Glory
equal, the Majesty co-eternal.
Such as the Father is, such is the Son, and such is the Holy Ghost.
The Father uncreate, the Son uncreate, and the Holy Ghost uncreate.
The Father incomprehensible, the Son incomprehensible, and the Holy Ghost
incomprehensible.
The Father eternal, the Son eternal, and the Holy Ghost eternal.
And yet they are not three eternals, but one eternal.

The pattern of three is worth noticing.

Three strangers appear to Abram and Sarai.  They are revealed to be angels of God, with good news that Abram and Sarai are going to be parents and grandparents and great-grandparents of a multitude of people—and so they are the forebears of Judaism, Islam, and Christianity.

Even as Christ dies on the cross, Peter is asked if he is a follower.  Three times, he’s asked.  And three times he denies knowing Jesus or being his disciple.

Mark’s Gospel notes the times of day for the Crucifixion:  the Third Hour; Darkness falls over the earth at the sixth hour (Noon), and at the Ninth Hour (3 PM), Jesus cries with a loud voice and gives up his spirit.

But the three-ness of God is not over.  After three days, the Resurrection.

By tradition, Jesus is believed to have died around the age of 33.

In John’s Gospel, after the Resurrection, Jesus appears to the disciples three times, and in that third appearance, Simon Peter is offered another chance for faith.
Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my lambs.”

A second time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Tend my sheep.”

He said to him the third time, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.”

Jesus asks of Peter, and of us:  Do you love me?  Going once… going twice…. But the Good News is that the third time is not the last.  Jesus takes us by the hand and invites us to join in the divine dance that is the Holy Trinity.

Meister Eckhart, the wonderful fourteenth-century German Dominican mystic, asked

Do you want to know
what goes on in the core of the Trinity?
I will tell you.
In the core of the Trinity
the Father laughs
and gives birth to the Son.
The Son laughs back at the Father
and gives birth to the Spirit.
The whole Trinity laughs
and gives birth to us.

Good things come in threes.  The Unity of God comes in three.

Reflection on the Office of None

The office of “None,” or the ninth hour, is spelled “n-o-n-e.”  It looks like none, no one.  That afternoon on Mt. Calvary, it must have seemed as though almost none were paying attention.

One of the most interesting depictions of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ is the painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder of Christ carrying the Cross.  It’s set in a huge landscape, with all kinds of things going on.  People are working.  People are talking.  There are pickpockets and peddlers. Children are playing around the edges, and in many ways, a first glance at the painting makes it seem like everyone is indifferent.  NO ONE is paying any attention.

When we walked the Stations of the Cross in Lent, at the Thirteenth Station we quoted Lamentations, “All you who pass by, behold and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow. My eyes are spent with weeping; my soul is in tumult; my heart is poured out in grief because of the downfall of my people.”

It can sometimes feel like the world passes the church by, the world passes us by, and no one notices.

But—back to that painting by Bruegel. Even though most of the world rolls right on by, the Virgin Mary, John, and the two other Marys wait, watch, and mourn.  In the painting, they are separated from the main events by being placed on a small, rocky plateau. They act out their own, apparently independent, drama, largely unnoticed by the figures behind them.

The Blessed Virgin Mary is the SOMEONE who negates the NONE.  She notices.  She watches.  She waits, and prays, and keeps on loving.  As the first of those redeemed by Christ’s Resurrection, she joins the Communion of Saints in continuing to urge us on, so that we are never left alone.  Even when other pass by, even when it seems like none understand us, or get us, or like us, or even notice us— Mary our Mother watches and encourages.

T.S. Eliot points to the watchful faithfulness of the Blessed Virgin Mary, writing,

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

If Jesus died at the Sixth Hour, the Ninth Hour is truly the test of faith.  But with the Blessed Virgin Mary, John the Beloved, and the other Marys, we join the faithful of all time and place as we wait and watch in the promise of God’s unending Love.

 

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Freed for Service

jesus-washing-peter-s-feet-1876

“Jesus Washing Peter’s Feet” by Ford Madox Brown, 1876. 

A homily for Maundy Thursday, April 13, 2017.  The lectionary readings are Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14Psalm 116:1, 10-171 Corinthians 11:23-26, and John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Listen to the sermon HERE.

Later tonight, we will sing a hymn that is composed by a man named Tom Colvin.  Colvin was a Church of Scotland minister and served as a missionary in Ghana from 1958 to 1964. Before studying theology, Colvin had been an engineer, so he had a lot to share in mission.  But also, in addition to having faith and skill, he had a strong spiritual community supporting him, since he was deeply involved in the ecumenical religious Community of Iona in Scotland.  Like Iona itself, Colvin was passionate about justice and he got involved in service committees, refugee resettlement, and community development projects. He led projects in community development and training in parts of southern Africa and in helping refugees from Mozambique find sanctuary in neighboring Malawi. Perhaps because he carried the music and prayer of Iona with him, he was sensitive to Ghanaian folk music and wrote or adapted hymns using some of these tunes.  The most popular in our country is the one we’ll sing later, “Jesu, Jesu.”  But we will sing a slightly updated version of the hymn.

The one that Colvin wrote, that’s in our hymnal and we’ve usually sung, includes language about slavery.  While the hymn works to reverse some of the tide of colonization as the Ghanaian tune has come this way to missionize us, and the hymn encourages that all serve one another—there are still big problems.  Put simply, I think it’s a problem any time a bunch of white folks (or people of privilege from any race, for that matter) sing happily and glibly about slavery—whether it’s generalized slavery or spiritualized slavery or historic slavery, or any other kind.

The opening verse of the original hymn sings of Jesus who

Kneels at the feet of his friends,
silently washes their feet,
Master who acts as slave to them.

I’m sorry, but in 2017, I don’t have a lot of room to imagine Christ as master or slave.

The final verse of the hymn used to sing

Loving puts us on our knees,
serving as though we were slaves;
this is the way we should live with you.

Again:  not true, not good theology, and not the message of Christ.

Though scripture uses the image of slavery, it’s important for us to sort out the difference between imagery and reality, and to interpret all scripture with an honest eye to ITS context and a very clear understanding of OUR context.

Just last Sunday, in the Palm Sunday Epistle reading from Philippians, we heard one of the most beautiful and significant passages in all of the New Testament.  And yet, there’s a potential stumbling block.  The passage urges

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death–
even death on a cross. (Philippians 2:5-11)

Paul writes in poetic language and in language that would have caught the attention of his audience—in the First Century!  Jesus “took the form of a slave,” but let’s be honest—Jesus did not live as a slave.  He was never forced to work for others.  He was never shipped to another country or made to work for nothing.  He was never beaten or abused until he came into conflict with the religious and civil authorities—action which he stepped into with eyes wide open.  And so, in the Letter to the Philippians, the one that urges us to have the mind of Christ in us, let’s be clear that at the heart of it is the CHOICE Jesus made, the choice he made to give himself over for others.

That choice, alone, rules out slavery by definition.  Slavery is involuntary.  One does not ask to be a slave; one is made to be a slave. To be enslaved is to be robbed of one’s rights, to be reduced to property, and to have one’s soul dampened and denied.

We hear about deliverance from slavery in our first scripture reading, the one we overhear with our Jewish sisters and brothers as they celebrate Passover.  Passover is about freedom from slavery, and understood in our day, it’s about freedom for anything or anyone who enslaves.  It’s about the power of God to free us, release us, and break any bonds that would hold us down— whether that be slavery to sin, slavery through addiction, or slavery to bad relationships, behaviors, or habits.  God frees God’s beloved.  And God frees us to serve.

When we sing a revised version of Reverend Colvin’s hymn later on, we’ll sing one that (I think) gets to the heart of Colvin’s ministry and intention.  We are called to be servants, but we are free to refuse or accept that calling.

We see this in tonight’s Gospel.  Jesus moves in the freedom of God even as the disciples are uncomfortable with that same freedom.  Jesus chooses to wash their feet and it upsets them.  Peter doesn’t want Jesus washing his feet, but I don’t think it’s about the act of foot washing.  It’s deeper than that.  Peter doesn’t want Jesus serving him.  Not only might it put Peter in debt to Jesus in a way he might not be able to repay, but in the service itself, the example, it seems to call Peter to do likewise, and perhaps Peter wants no part in that kind of service.  After all, the Gospels give us glimmers into the disciples vying for position, looking for power, and sometimes following the world’s love of pecking orders and hierarchies.

But Jesus chooses to serve.  He serves his friends and presumably, because the Gospel doesn’t say that Judas has left the supper yet, Jesus serves Judas, his enemy.

Christian service is chosen—that’s the way it works.  If we serve otherwise, it’s something else.  If we serve out of resentment, or out of duty, or out of a sense of debt, out of a sense of people-pleasing—it’s NOT the mind of Christ, and it’s not the spirit of the One who kneels to wash the feet of friend and enemy alike.  Service like Christ is free service that involves risk, it involves being open to the outcome, not knowing how one’s service will be received or acknowledged.  One might be rejected, or received.  One might be thanked or ignored, but if we choose to follow Christ, then we make daily choices to follow and to serve.

We imitate Christ’s service in just a few minutes, as we are invited to wash the feet of another person and to have our own feet washed.  It is a two-way service—to help and to be helped. I understand that foot washing is not everyone’s calling or pleasure.  Please know that you are invited to participate in body, or to remain where you are and participate in spirit.  But I whether you take your shoes off and allow another to wash your feet, you want another’s, or you remain seated, I hope you’ll consider how YOU might be choose to serve with Christ in some new way.

After the foot washing, we prepare to celebrate Holy Communion, the feast of joy that celebrates the faith that God has come to serve us, to serve with us, and to empower us to serve others.

Christ our Passover sacrificed himself for us.  Therefore, in grateful humility, let us keep the feast.

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Join us on Good Friday at Noon for St. Bonaventure’s “Office of the Passion of the Lord”

Bonaventure by Zurbaran

“Saint Bonaventure Visited by Saint Thomas Aquinas,” c. 1659, by Francisco Zurbaran, Madrid.

At Noon on Good Friday, April 14, 2017, The Church of the Holy Trinity will offer a revision of the 13th century Office of the Passion of the Passion of the Lord by St. Bonaventure.

Somewhat like the Office of Tenebrae, the Office of the Passion is a compilation of shortened monastic offices for one day, all focusing on the Passion, or death and crucifixion, of Jesus Christ.  As we pray through the monastic hours of Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline, we will reflect, listen, and sing.  Our revision uses Bonaventure’s 33-verse hymn from the Office and sets the eight sections of the hymn according to well-known chants and Lenten tunes for congregational singing.  Canticles and psalms have been revised according to the Book of Common Prayer (1979) of The Episcopal Church.  Choral anthems include music by Bach and Barber. Organ meditations include music by Alain, Albright, and Bach.
St. Bonaventure was born Giovanni di Fidanza and lived from 1221 to 1274.  As the Seventh Minister General of the Order of Friars Minor, he was an enormous force shaping the Franciscan vision after the death of Francis in 1226.  Though Bonaventure is especially known for his philosophy, theology, and mysticism, he also helped shape the spiritual lives of the Friars Minor through his teaching and preaching. He is thought to have written his Office of the Passion of the Lord (Officium de passione Domini) in the 1250s at the request of King Louis IX.

At 7:00 PM on Good Friday, Holy Trinity will offer the Good Friday Liturgy including scriptures, prayers, a sermon, a choral rendition of the Passion, the Veneration of the Cross, the chanted Solemn Collects, and Communion from the Reserved Sacrament.

More information at www.holytrinity-nyc.org

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Whether Ahead or Behind

Giotto_-_Scrovegni_-_-26-_-_Entry_into_Jerusalem2A sermon for The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday, April 9, 2017.  The lectionary readings are Matthew 21:1-11Isaiah 50:4-9aPsalm 31:9-16Philippians 2:5-11, and Matthew 27:11-54

Listen to the sermon HERE.

On Palm Sunday, we get two readings from the Gospel of St. Matthew.  The longer one, that we just heard, has to do with the final hours of Jesus’s life.  It’s referred to as the Passion of Our Lord (from the Latin, passionem, meaning “suffering” or “enduring.”) We will hear St. John’s Passion on Good Friday, but by reading the Passion on Palm Sunday, we get an overview, a reminder of where this week leads—at least until Friday.

The first Gospel is short and is known as the Palm Gospel, because it basically describes the joyful entry into Jerusalem made by Jesus and his followers. People waved branches—perhaps palms—and that’s why we do it, as well.  We participate in the retelling, in the excitement, and in the hope that Christ IS the one—the one to redeem, to one to save, to one to bring us to God.

The great gift of these scriptures recurring year after year is that while much is familiar, I always notice something new, something different.  This year, I notice a detail in the Palm Gospel.  I notice it because it really frames the invitation we have to move closer to God (this Easter, this week, this day.)

The detail I’m noticing this year is a phrase.  Matthew’s telling of the story has Jesus entering Jerusalem on the donkey, and people spread out their garments and some branches from the trees. And then Matthew writes, “The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” (Mt. 21:9)

Though I don’t think Matthew necessarily meant to make an enormous point out of that sentence, I find in it an expansive view of what it means to follow Jesus.  Some “go ahead.” Some “follow,” but all are welcome.  If we picture that great procession into Jerusalem, and imagine it representing the life of faith, then it’s comforting to me that no matter what my pace, whether I’m paying attention, whether strong in body, mind, and/or spirit, or weak in one area or all— there’s a place for me and there’s encouragement on every side.

Often we hear the life of faith referred to as a “walk with Christ,” or a spiritual journey.  I don’t know about you, but if I were honest (and Holy Week seems like a time for one to be honest) I would have to say there are very few times when I actually feel like I am “walking with Christ.”

Sometimes I’m running ahead.  I’m like a four year old with a two-year-old’s attention span, running ahead to whatever seems interesting to me at the moment.  I can go in all kinds of directions.  Some, not so wise or helpful.  But at other times, I can run ahead of Christ with perfectly good intentions, as in something to with church, with a sense of mission, or a sense of where God might actually want me to be running. But running, I am. And, like a little kid, I sometimes keep running until I fall, or until I become exhausted, or until I get scared. Then I stop, I turn (which theologians would call conversion, metanoia). I look for Christ and I pray.

At other times, the problem isn’t that I’m running ahead, but that I’m lagging behind.  I’m like a child that can’t keep up, or wonder if I’m in the right procession to begin with, or question whether we’re headed in the right direction.  The farther back in the crowd I am—the farther cut off from Christ—the more I have a fading memory of what he looks like, what he sounds like, how he wants to help me make it to the distance.

The entry into Jerusalem includes those that go ahead and those that follow behind, but the entry into Holy Week is a lot like that, too.  We’re all welcome to move toward God at our own pace, whether it’s fast and out front, or slower and more cautious.   This entry, this story, this narrative, this Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ is so rich and deep and true that it includes all of us, wherever and whomever we may be, because to follow Christ is the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

Our following, our relationship with Jesus, may seem to end at the cross, but it really begins there. Death is refocused. Life is sharpened and has new meaning.  To approach the cross and be empowered by it, we are then ready to be raised with Christ in the Resurrection.

It is a full week ahead, and I hope you can join us for some of the liturgies of this Holy Week. But if you can’t, I invite you to take a minute each day, or take five minutes, or thirty, and pray. Sit with your Prayer Book. Listen to music. Walk outside. Help someone. Or simply be silent. If you feel like you’re lagging way behind, then do something to catch up (allowing God to move you forward into his presence). If you’ve been racing ahead, perhaps it is a good time to slow down (allowing quiet into your life so that God can be heard and felt).

The Church invites us this week to enter Jerusalem, as we go into the Upper Room for the Last Supper, as we accompany Jesus to the cross on Good Friday, and as we proclaim at the Easter Vigil, we proclaim together that the light of Christ has never been fully extinguished; and in fact, will grow until it fills the world.

In the 8th century, the Bishop Andrew of Crete encouraged the faithful to “go together to meet Christ on the Mount of Olives.”  He said, “Let us spread before his [Christ’s] feet, not garments or soulless olive branches, … but ourselves, clothed in his grace.. Let our souls take the place of the welcoming branches as we join today in the children’s holy song: ‘Blessed is [the one] who comes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is the King of Israel.’”

May the God of Love bless us this week and always as we seek to be faithful friends and followers of Jesus Christ. Amen.

 

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Out of the Cave

Raising of Lazarus

The Raising of Lazarus, by Henry Holiday, The Church of the Holy Trinity, NYC

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent, April 2, 2017.  The lectionary readings are Ezekiel 37:1-14, Psalm 130, Romans 8:6-11, and John 11:1-45.

Listen to the sermon HERE.

A few years ago, I was able to visit the Catacombs of Priscilla on the outskirts of Rome.  These and other catacombs, around the outskirts of Rome, are where many of the first Christians are buried, when it was illegal for a Christian to be buried within the city walls. Early believers would gather there, underground, to remember their beloved dead and they would celebrate an early form of Communion, remembering the meal Christ celebrated with his disciples and breaking bread with one another. And among all the catacombs, there are at least 40 images showing the Raising of Lazarus. Many from the 2nd century, these images usually show just two people. They show Jesus doing the raising, and Lazarus being raised.  But by the 4th century, the way the story is depicted begins to change.

Icons that tell the story of the Raising of Lazarus still show Jesus and Lazarus, but they also begin to include Martha and Mary, Lazarus’ sisters. Sometimes the disciples are there, too, and a crowd—everyone curious and nosey.  And eventually, in painting the scene, it becomes customary to show one person holding his or her nose. Lazarus has been VERY dead, and he smells like it.

The writer Sylvia Plath imagines the crowd stepping forward to see what’s what as she writes

The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot—
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands
My knees. (“Lady Lazarus”)

The story of Lazarus comes at the end of Lent to prepare us for Holy Week. It has drama. It has compelling characters. And it begins to show us how Jesus can lead us from death into new life.

Sometimes when we hear the story of Jesus raising Lazarus, we can hear it like those earliest pictures portrayed it—as something that happened between two people, between Lazarus and Jesus, between one human being and his or her understanding of God. And maybe that is the way it makes sense to you. Perhaps religion is a very private thing for you, a well-kept secret between you and God. For some, the Raising of Lazarus can be explained away. It can be “psychologized” and over-spiritualized by suggesting that Lazarus was simply very ill, had a vision of Jesus coming to him, was healed, and then told the story of his healing in such a way that it was written down and repeated.

But for me, anyway, I think the Gospel, and life itself, suggests a more literal and a more crowded picture. It’s more in keeping with those icons that show Jesus, Lazarus, Mary and Martha, and crowds of people surrounding them. Rough around the edges, disorganized, and sometimes smelly—this is where God meets us. It’s precisely in these places where we get lost in a cave, God approaches and calls us out. We’re pulled into new life by the people God has sent to us.

The cave can look very different for each of us. Sometimes it’s dark and desolate. We feel like we have no hope. It can be in a crowded room, in a well-appointed home, in what looks to the outside world as a “happy family.” But inside (and inside ourselves) we feel lost. It’s as though a part of us were dead, or were dying.

Earlier, I used a few lines from a Sylvia Plath poem, and I did so almost disingenuously. I managed to find three or four lines in the poem that are funny and in my context could almost sound light, but I did the poem and the poet a disservice, really, by lightening it up. Plath’s poem is “beyond Good Friday.” It’s filled with dark and deathly images as she recalls her own suicide attempts, frames her own experience using images from the Holocaust, and describes much more the pain and misery and confusion of death, without revealing so much as a crack in which light might break in. For her, there seemed to be no light and it would only be a year after writing this poem that Plath accomplish her goal and end her life.

God calls often, “Lazarus, Come out.” “John, come out.” Whoever you may be, whatever your name is, even if you’ve forgotten what your name sounds like on God’s lips, Come out! However dark the cave may seem, come out.

And then, God sends angels to help unbind us. Often they are disguised in the oddest ways. Sometimes God sends a stranger, or someone incredibly annoying, or a doctor, or a specialist, or a friend who calls, or a neighbor who invites us out to walk or for coffee. Maybe it’s a televangelist or an infomercial or the side of a bus or an ad on the Metro—God works in mysterious ways to call us into life.

But at some point, it’s our job to stand up. Lazarus could have gotten cozy in the cave. Who knows, he might have found it a nice escape from being bossed around by two sisters, from having to work, from having to deal with the day-to-day. He could have dreaded the attention that it would cause, if he were to walk into the light. But instead, Lazarus listened to the voice of God, he moved out, and he allowed others to unbind him.

One of my favorite books has always been Walker Percy’s The Second Coming. In it, Will Barrett decides he has had enough of life. There’s no one to look after any more. He’s basically alone. He’s bored and tired and doesn’t really see any point to it all. And so he decides to put God to the test. Barrett goes into a cave to wait God out. If God exists, Barrett think, then God can save him. If not, he will die. And so he sits. And he waits.

But just as he’s settling into the cave, he begins to feel something in his mouth. It’s a pain and it increases. A toothache takes hold, one that becomes blindingly painful. It becomes so bad that Barrett eventually climbs out of the cave. Stumbling along in the woods, he meets a young woman, Allie, who is schizophrenic. In her own way, she is recovering, and together, they help each other out of their “caves.” They help unbind one another. They lead one another into new life.

The Raising of Lazarus gives us a foreshadowing that we, too will be raised at the last day.

But it makes another, and perhaps even more important point: Even in the cave, Jesus is with us. Even in the dark, God calls and sends help to unbind us, to free us, and to bring us again into the light.

The words from a 6th century hymn invite us to come into the open, to move toward Bethany where Lazarus was raised, and to move toward Jerusalem, where Jesus will be raised

It sings the invitation:

Let us depart the mere material world, which is always in a state of flux, and hasten to meet Christ the Savior in Bethany. Let us then dine with Him and with this friend Lazarus and the apostles so that we may, by their prayers, be delivered from our past sins. If we cleanse every stain from our hearts, we shall see perfectly his divine resurrection, which he offered to us when he took away the tears of Mary and Martha. (St. Romanos the Melodist, 6th c.)

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

 

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