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.

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.

Still on Tiptoe, 150 Years Later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does this mean for us?

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

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

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

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

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

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

More into Healing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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