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Refreshed & Renewed through Baptismal Waters

St. Mark’s, Altadena banner at St. John’s Cathedral, Jan. 11, 2025.

A sermon for the First Sunday after the Epiphany: The Baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, January 12, 2025. The scriptures are Isaiah 43:1-7, Acts 8:14-17, Luke 3:15-17, 21-22, and Psalm 29.

Christians have a complicated relationship with water. At the beginning of the creation story in Genesis, the watery void is darkness and chaos, but God’s Word brings light and life. In our day, the precariousness of water is hard to deny. We pray for more water in California. Our hearts break for those affected by the fires in Los Angeles. We pray for those who have lost their lives, their loved ones, their homes and possessions, their businesses, and their life as they knew it. Would that God rain down a steady, calm, beautiful rain to put out all the fires, to begin to bring healing, and to restore a balance in creation.

But at the same time, just days ago, too much water caused havoc and disaster in North Carolina Tennessee, and Georgia; and caused huge calamity in Valencia, Spain. There, the waters came too fast and too strong, overpowering everything in their path.

In our first reading, Isaiah hears God tell the people
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.

But how are the people of St. Mark’s Church, Altadena, where the church burned to the ground, hearing these words today?  How are the people of All Souls, Asheville, who are worshipping in another church because theirs is ruined by water, hearing these scriptures? 

Well, we can pray that they would especially hear the first part of God’s promise, that no matter what, God is with them, and we can pray that those in need would also feel the strength of our prayers and support.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” These words of God through Isaiah are similar to the words heard at the baptism of Jesus.

Water plays an equally precarious role in our spiritual lives. On one hand, it challenges. Saint Paul understands baptism as dying and rising again. He says, “We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.” (Romans 6). This means that a life of faith will not always be easy. We don’t go from life to death and to new life without some effect, and at the very least, we will be getting wet. The challenges will come to us—whether they come through relationships, political changes, health crises, or disasters of nature, but the water of baptism strengthens us.

The water of baptism, once we receive it, replenishes itself within us, so that we can offer spiritual water, living water, to others. our baptism carries with it the command as well as the courtesy of offering water to others. At Holy Trinity we literally offer water at Saturday dinners. We offer water at receptions and coffee hours and whenever we welcome people. Especially in partnership with the wider Church, we offer water ever people thirst, in hospitals and soup kitchens; in prisons and parks; and in streets and schools.

But we also offer water spiritually, whenever and wherever we introduce others to Christ. We offer water when we simply help people learn that there IS a source of water, that there is a God of love, and that there is a God of forgiveness and compassion.

Jesus received water from John the Baptist. Jesus received water from the Samaritan woman. And he makes it clear that when we offer water to others in his name; it is as good as offering it to the Lord himself. As the heavens open in Luke’s Gospel, the Holy Spirit descends and the voice of God is heard, it must have seemed at first like a storm, like a great thunderstorm threatening rain and water. The heavens opened and water was given, but it came with a blessings.

Just as Jesus was baptized, we are baptized and we are sent into the world baptizing in the name of the Holy Trinity. Our baptism is where we are initially commissioned, and we live into that baptism, we live out that commission for the rest of our lives.

Yesterday, in Los Angeles, at St. John’s Cathedral, four people were ordained to the priesthood. A little like the ordinations in our diocese soon after 9/11, this service was a powerful gathering of God’s people—wounded and wondering, beaten down but unbroken—and it gave witness to the power of our faith.  Michael Mischler was one of those ordained, and he works at St. Mark’s Church, Altadena, which was completed burned by the fires last week. Some 40 parishioners from St. Marks attended the service to support Mark. Since the congregation’s processional banner perished in the fire, those processing to represent the church had nothing to carry.  And so, the children of the church made a colorful poster that they mounted to a processional pole. It said simply St. Mark’s Altadena, and included the symbol of St. Mark—the lion—strong, resourceful, and valiant.

This is the power of baptismal water—it renews. It enlivens. Even in the midst of death, it raises up. Even when they feel like they have no living water to offer, the Holy Spirit provides, and there’s water to share.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” “You are my Child, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

The Prayer Book reminds us that “Holy Baptism is the sacrament by which God adopts us as his children and makes us members of Christ’s Body, the Church, and inheritors of the kingdom of God.” (The Catechism, BCP page 858).

On this feast we give thank for the baptism of Our Lord Jesus Christ, for his becoming like us that we might become more like him. And we give thanks for our own baptism, even as we look for more opportunities to live out our baptism and share the living water with others.

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

The Verb Among Us

A sermon for the First Sunday after Christmas Day, December 29, 2024. The scriptures are Isaiah 61:10-62:3, Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7, John 1:1-18, and Psalm 147 or 147:13-21.


John of the Cross has poem in which he mediates on the Gospel we just heard. The poem is really an extended meditation on the Incarnation—what it means that God has come among us and God continues to move within us and around us as God-in-relationship, or as we say in shorthand, God as Holy Trinity.

John wrote in 17th century Spanish and the Bible he knew best was in Latin, so there is a lot of room for translation of his words.

The Latin phrase for the beginning of today’s Gospel is straightforward,

            In principio erat Verbum, et Verbum erat apud Deum,
            et Deus erat Verbum.

Typically this translates to what we heard this morning, “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.

But instead of translating the Latin Verbum as palabra, Spanish for “word,” John includes some wiggle room, he writes, En el principio moraba el Verbo, y en Dios vivía …

My favorite English translation of John’s poem keeps this nuance and puts John’s poem like this:

In the beginning resided
the Verb, and it lived in God,
in whom it possessed its infinite happiness.

God was the Verb itself,
the beginning was spoken.
It lived in the beginning and it had no beginning.

It was the beginning itself;
That is why it lacked it;
The Verb is called Son, born from the beginning.

In the beginning resided
the Verb, and it lived in God,
in whom it possessed its infinite happiness.

I love John’s poem version of the Gospel of John because of its movement, its energy, and its life.

The Gospel is beautiful and central to the hearing of the Christmas message.  But it’s easy to hear it passively.  The Word WAS, Was, Is, …. My role is to receive.

And yet, we know from the live of Jesus that to receive without responding is to live without faith. The Letter to the Hebrews reminds us that faith is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen.”  But faith is what moves us, it’s what animates us. Faith is what builds bridges and makes peace. Faith feeds and clothes and comforts.

The Word is a verb, and that Verb lives in us and moves us out of ourselves and into the world.

We see the activity of God’s Word at the beginning of time. Our Biblical account of creation happens by a word. In Genesis we read, “The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. And God said, God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light. God said, Let there be this, and let there be that, and after each thing was created, God spoke a single word again: “Good,” God said, “It’s all very, very good.” The Word was busy, shaping and making and proclaiming and blessing.

When John speaks of the “Word,” the Greek term he uses is Logos, and Logos meant more than just a word, more even than all words put together. Way back in Greek philosophy, in the 3rd century BC, Heraclitus said that the Logos “governs all things.” And yet, the Logos is also present in the everyday. Later, the Stoics took up the idea of the Logos and used it to mean “the principle that orders the universe.” So when John uses Logos, or Word, he’s using a term that would have worked as a kind of hyperlink, culturally. To say that the Word was with God and the Word was God, and then to say that this Word, this ordering principle of the universe is completely summed up in Jesus of Nazareth, John is pulling together a lot of different ways of understanding the world.

The Word is a Verb when we allow Christ to be born in our lives. And that frees our bodies and loosens our tongues to be faithful.  So often our politicians and religious leaders offer words, but no actions.  As we end one year and begin another, it might be helpful for us to pray about the ways in which we do the same thing.

Are there ways in which we have offered words, but not acted in any way to follow up, or make the words come alive?  Are there words we’ve used, or thought, or prayed, or framed our lives with that have been mostly nouns, but could accomplish so much more if they were verbs?

The old prayers used in Salisbury, England give shape to words we might use, and so we can pray

God be in our hearts, and in our reaching;
God be in our hands and in our building,
God be in our feet and in our moving,
God be in our heads, and in our understanding;
God be our my eyes, and in our looking;
God be in our mouths
and in our speaking and in our acting.
Amen.

Moved by Joy

A sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent, December 15, 2024. The scriptures are Zephaniah 3:14-20, Philippians 4:4-7, Luke 3:7-18, and Canticle 9.

The Third Sunday of Advent is nicknamed Gaudete Sunday. We light the rose candle, some churches have rose vestments they wear today, and in others, today is the only Sunday in Advent when flowers are allowed on the altar. And, you guessed it, they’re usually roses.

The day takes its name from the Latin minor propers of the day that sing over and over again, “Rejoice! Gaudete!” We hear it in English in our scripture readings, in our music, and perhaps even a little in the air:  Rejoice. It’s almost Christmas!

Last week, the scriptures asked us to prepare—to make room, to clean out, and to get ready for God to do something new. 

This week, the scriptures add another piece:  Prepare for Joy! Get ready not only for what God is going to do, but for the joy that breaks in along the way.

We hear about preparing for joy in our first reading, as the prophet Zephaniah prepares the way for a future of hope. He can preach about what’s coming because he’s filled with the confidence of God. “Rejoice and exult with all your heart,” Zephaniah says, because our God is a God of deliverance and forgiveness. Whatever has happened in the past is over and done. New life is coming. “God will rejoice over you with gladness,” the prophet says. “God will renew you in his love; will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.”

Zephaniah is showing the people of Israel that one way of living into joy is by moving out of the past.

I recently heard a nurse talk about when she did this—when she helped prepare the way for someone, in that same way as Zephaniah, and as John the Baptist. This nurse worked in a drug rehab center and people came in and went out, so one rarely knew what the long-term outcome might be. But she remembered this one man that the other nurses avoided. He was angry and almost violent, and nothing they did seemed to help him move forward. One night, when everyone was just about at their wit’s end, this nurse remembered a left-over cake in the nurses’ lounge. She got a piece, found a candle and put it on the slice and lit the candle, and then she got the other nurses and staff to join her as they went into the difficult man’s room. They sang “Happy Birthday.” The man was so stunned that he didn’t even have a chance to tell them this was not at all his birthday, and the nurse I know explained to him: “This can be the first day of a whole new life for you. The past is over and done, gone forever. Today begins a new life, if you’ll have it.” Through tears and in shock—at least for the moment— the man seemed to catch a glimmer of the possibility. That nurse had helped prepare the way. She didn’t know what the results would be, but she had done her part.

In the Gospel, John the Baptist shows us that another way of living into joy is by doing the small things right in front of us.  John’s words can sound scary and foreboding at the beginning, a little like he’s throwing a bucket of ice water in our face:

“One is coming,” he says, “who will baptize not only with water but with the Holy Spirit and with fire…” and “His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”  But then the very next sentence is, “So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.”

Good news?  What’s the good news that we’re going to be baptized with fire, and one is coming whose job it will be to separate out the good stuff from the junk and will throw all the junk on a fire?  But John gets our attention to wake us up from the past.

John gets really practical.  The crowds ask John what I might have asked John, “Ok, so what do we do? How do we live faithfully? Especially when times are confusing and the bad seem to get more prosperous while the good are steadily losing ground.  What do we do?”

More good news from John:  Do the simple, faithful thing that’s right before you.

Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”

John the Baptist, with all of his slightly scary talk about the end of times and the beginning of new days, of one who is coming who will sort things out and given people their due—when it comes down to it, the way we prepare for God’s coming more fully into our world is through simple acts of kindness and mercy.

And so, we prepare for joy by having the courage to move out of the past, and by doing the little things right in front of us, but also by allowing for God to surprise us.

Last Thursday was the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and you might have seen some of the gatherings or processions around town as people carry images of the Virgin Mary, flowers, candles, and make their way to churches and shrines. The stories around Our Lady of Guadalupe are filled with joyous surprises, but they all begin with a simply, indigenous man in 16th century Mexico named Juan Diego.

It was in 1531 that Juan Diego, Juan was walking on the outskirts of what would become Mexico City. There, he say a vision of the Virgin Mary. But she looked different. Mary appeared as a mestiza, a mixed race young woman and she asked Juan to go to the Bishop and ask permission to build a little house, a place where people could come and meet Mary’s son Jesus. This first appearance was on December 9, but Juan had trouble convincing the bishop. Then also, Juan’s uncle was dying, and Juan felt like he needed to tend to him. And so, after some coming and going, trying and failing, Mary gave a sign. She told Juan to go to a particular hill, and there he would find roses in full bloom.  He went, found the roses, and gathered them up in his work apron, his tilma. He went back to see the bishop.

But again Bishop Zumárraga doubted, but then Jean unfurled his tilma, and out fell all the roses, but even more, on the garment there appeared the vision of the Virgin Mary—as a mixture of the well-known Virgin of the Immaculate Conception, that would have been recognizable to Europeans, but also with the unmistakable darker skin and features of an indigenous woman, recognized by the people who had long inhabited the land.

The symbol of the Virgin of Guadalupe would become a central point for people of mixed backgrounds and histories to find a common welcome to the little house, the place of welcome, where they could meet Jesus in a new way.

Juan Diego was clear that his mission was to relay the news—first to the bishop, but then as a protector of the house, the chapel outside Mexico City, where for days leading up to last Thursday, and still, people are celebrating God’s surprising and joyful grace in Jesus through Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Our job is to prepare—like Zephaniah, like John the Baptist, like the Virgin Mary in scripture and through Guadalupe, and to keep forging ahead in joy, like Juan Diego so that there can be a space, a place, an openness, a peace, in which Christ can be born again.

John the Baptist proclaims, “One who is more powerful (than us) 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 move through these days of December, may God show us how to prepare for joy—to move out of a frozen past, to do the little things right in front of us, and to be open to God’s surprise, whenever it comes.

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

Helped out of a Ditch (of Sin)

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, December 8, 2024. The scriptures are Baruch 5:1-9, Philippians 1:3-11, Luke 3:1-6, and Canticle 4 or 16.

Today’s scriptures ask us to prepare ourselves for the coming of God. They invite us to make ready, to allow God, in the words of Malachi, to “refine us like gold and silver, until we present offerings to the Lord in righteousness….until we are “pleasing to the Lord as in the days of old and as in former years. ” We are invited to a way of “repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” “Repent so that sins are forgiven.” All these words that sound familiar for the language of the church, but what do they really mean?

At some level, it’s all clear enough, probably. Just like when we were children, if we took something that didn’t belong to us, or hit a sibling or playmate, or acted out in some way, our parents taught us what it is like to say we’re sorry. The saying of “sorry” opened up a door to forgiveness, and a way to restore the relationship. We could play again with our friend. We could feel again the closeness and warmth of the love of the parent. But as we grow older, sin becomes a little more confusing sometimes.

How do we repent when we’re not even sure if we have sinned? How do we know if something is our fault, or the fault of someone or something beyond us? How do we know if God is listening, when we say we’re sorry? And what does forgiveness feel like?

In our culture, I think we’ve inherited a combination of attitudes around sin. Some would simply dismiss any talk of “sin” as something outdated and leftover from a time when the church used superstition and power to rule over the lives of the faithful. And so, a lot of people don’t really think much about sin, or reflect much on their part when things seem to go wrong.

But for people who are at some level involved with God, people who seek to be in relationship with God, people who want to follow the way of Jesus Christ, one of two attitudes toward sin often prevails. The first attitude toward sin is intensely personal. The belief is that God has shown us what God expects of us, through the 10 Commandments and other laws, through the life of Jesus Christ, through the preaching of the apostles, and through the teaching of the Church. So, when we break a rule, it’s my fault, it’s the fault of the individual. It’s my responsibility, then to approach God and ask for forgiveness.

This can happen through silent confession (me and God), or might happen through the church’s sacrament of reconciliation (whether using an old fashioned confessional, or sitting aside a priest in the chapel).

And yet, some have pointed out that there is no such thing as an individual Christian. To be a Christian is to be a person of faith in community, and so everything about the living out of our faith involves other people.

At the other extreme of attitudes toward sin is to view sin as primarily communal or social. When we see a tragedy on the news of a person who goes on a shooting rampage, such a view moves beyond the perpetrator to think about the societal forces that might have moved the person to do such an awful thing. One is unlikely to say the kind of thing that might have been said in other ages: “that person has a demon,” or “that person is evil.” But instead, we’re more likely to hear, “that person must have grown up in a bad family, and must not have had other options. They must have been driven to do such evil.”

How do we balance the two extremes—the one that only blames the individual with the one that gives quick and easy absolution to the individual and blames society?

Our scriptures give us a clue. John the Baptist quotes Isaiah by saying, ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’” John, through Isaiah, shows us that sin is indeed personal, but it has communal effects. In the same way, when I repent and am restored to new fellowship with God, that also brings with it a restoration to right relationship with other people. It makes the way not only for justice, but it also makes the way for peace.

One of the best images for dealing with sin, for me, comes from the 14th century holy woman, Julian of Norwich (1342-1416). When she was 30 years old, Julian almost died from a fever or some other ailment, and while she was sick, she received a vision from God. She wrote down the vision, but continued to pray to God for more insight. Twenty years later, she wrote down an extended version of what she remembered and how the Holy Spirit helped her understand its meaning.

In a part of her vision, Julian is shown a great Lord who has a devoted servant. The Lord sends the servant off on some errand, and the servant is excited to do it. But then the servant falls into a ditch. And the servant “is greatly injured” as Julian writes.

[The servant] groans and moans and tosses about and writhes, but cannot rise to help himself in any way . . . And all this time his loving lord looks on him most tenderly . . .with great compassion and joy.” She explains that the servant “was diverted from looking on his lord, but his will was preserved in God’s sight. I saw the lord commend and approve him for his will, but he himself was blinded and hindered from knowing this will. And this is a great sorrow and a cruel suffering to him, for he neither sees clearly his loving lord, who is so meek and mild to him, nor does he truly see what he himself is in the sight of his loving lord.

We can probably identify with the moaning and tossing of the servant who has fallen. Sin can be painful. When we’ve fallen so low that we can’t see out, we feel cut off and alone. It can feel like death. But if we remember that God is watching, God is smiling at us, we can gain the encouragement to begin to try to get out of the ditch. We pray. We ask for help. We look for creative insight. Sometimes we need a boost, and we ask for others to help us. Sometimes, we simply need to do some climbing, get dirty, use our spiritual and physical muscles and simply get up and out. It is the work of spiritual discernment for us to learn to know what is needed to get out of the ditch. God gives us the church for help, the Bible for help, the saints and tradition, and God gives us one another.

The Collect for the Second Sunday of Advent has us ask God that we might be given the grace to heed the warnings of the prophets “and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer.”

May God help us not to be paralyzed by sin, and not to ignore sin that could make us stumble later on. But instead, may God help us believe the words of Jesus when he says, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.”  Jesus extends his hand to help us out, to pull us up, and to enable us to stand, walk, and run again.

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

Christ the King

A sermon for Christ the King Sunday, November 24, 2024. The scriptures are Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14, , Psalm 93, Revelation 1:4b-8, John 18:33-37.

Today we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King. It is a little like a New Year’s celebration in the church, since this day works as a kind of exclamation point to the church year. A new church year begins next Sunday with the First Sunday of Advent, as we slow down a bit, breathe deeply, and begin to think about what it means that God has come into the world in the flesh, as a little baby named Jesus.

But today is Christ the King and in the scripture readings there runs the steady theme of the Kingdom of God.

In the Book of Daniel there are some frightening images. There are fires and flames, beasts and burnings. There is conflict and warfare, but the end result is a kingdom, a kingdom that is glorious and everlasting and serves the Ancient of Days for ever.

The psalm invites us to sing the praises of the Lord God who is like a king. So mighty is our God that all creation rises up to praise him, people, nations, even the waters themselves lift up their voices.

The Revelation to John also celebrates the king as victor. While it gives hope to the scattered Christians being persecuted in the first century, it also describes a cosmic battle of good and evil, where the victory is so complete that even we, living much later, become royals. John gives glory, “To him who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood and made us a kingdom, priests to his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever.” This is a vision of victory that stretches to everyone, making us all kings and queens, princes and princesses, people created in the very image and likeness of God.

In the Gospel, Jesus explains to Pontius Pilate, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews; my kingdom is not from here.” “My kingdom is not from this world.”

From the calling of the disciples, through the healings and parables and teachings, even as they enter into Jerusalem for the celebration of the Passover, there is confusion over this kingdom of God as it pertains to Jesus. He explains his kingdom by what it is not, rather than by what it might be. When asked, Jesus gives simple images. The kingdom is like a mustard seed. The kingdom is a like the yeast used by a woman baking bread. The kingdom is like a pearl of great price. The kingdom is here, but it is not here.
How we perceive the kingdom of God will directly affect how we live out our lives in faith.

The Church over time has understood the kingdom of God in different ways. At some points, it has understood the kingdom of God as a goal for the here-and-now. The idea of Christendom, a civilization ruled by Christian kings, following Christian laws and fighting for Christian ideals allowed for and encouraged the crusades.

It has allowed for the persecution of Jews and Muslims and anyone perceived not to fit into the prevailing understanding of what it means to be “Christian.” There are, of course, still those who would have this nation be an overtly Christian one, with so-called Christian laws on the books, just like people in other places advocate for another religion’s laws to rule the day. But whenever people begin to try to create the kingdom of God in time, before long, the kingdom of God often seems to look a lot like us. It becomes a reflection of our own values and beliefs, and often the uglier side of those believes. However, the words of Jesus are clear: “My kingdom is not from this world.”

Others in the history of the Church have taken our Lord at his word and understood his kingdom as only having to do with heaven, far, far away. Therefore, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness in this world, simply need to wait: they’ll get their justice in the next life. But to believe that the kingdom of God only exists in heaven leaves us with little or no responsibility for the earth where we live.

But there is another view. Instead of the kingdom absolutely now or the kingdom way away in heaven, Christ calls us into a more unpredictable place, to live between the “already” and the “not-yet.” Wherever there are signs of justice and hope and faith, there is a breaking-in of the kingdom. But it’s partial, not yet fully realized.

The season of Advent will give us opportunity to explore this further as we look at what it means for Christ to have come into the world as a child, but also for us to look forward to his coming again in glory at the end of times.

So the kingdom, in some sense, is Christ himself. As he reveals himself, the kingdom unfolds. The kingdom of God spreads out as we receive Christ and come to know and love him and continue to embody his kingdom-goals in our lives. As Saint John realizes from the Revelation, “God has made us (with Christ in us) to be a kingdom.”

This kingdom is not of the world. It is a kingdom of reversals. Our Lady, herself, sang of this kingdom, “He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted those of low degree. He has filled the hungry with good things; and the rich He has sent empty away.” To live with Christ as King is to live with an awareness of this reversal.

His is also a kingdom of welcome. When we read the Gospels it is a wild array of people who come to hear Jesus, who follow him, and who make him their Lord. Some are prostitutes, some are tax collectors, some widows, some soldiers; some are very rich, some are very poor, but they are unlikely to meet except in the presence of Christ. To live with Christ as King is to live in continual welcome of the outcast, of those who have nowhere else to go.

And finally, his is a kingdom of possibilities. To live with Christ as King is to live in expectation, to live in hope, and to live in faith. It is a kingdom of second chances, and third chances and fourth and fifth and sixth chances.

Especially on this day, we give thanks for Christ our King. And we give thanks that it is a kingdom that has been given to us, for us to extend to all of those who might believe. May we rejoice in this kingdom of reversals. May we open our doors to a kingdom of outcasts. And may we open our hearts to a kingdom of possibilities.

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.

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.

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.