Holy Families

Modern Holy Family by Malaika Favorite

A sermon for the Second Sunday after Christmas Day, January 3, 2010. The lectionary readings are Jeremiah 31:7-14 , Psalm 84, Ephesians 1:3-6,15-19a , and Matthew 2:13-15,19-23

Last Sunday (the First Sunday after Christmas Day) in the Roman Catholic Church, was The Feast of the Holy Family. It’s a fairly recent celebration, from the 19th Century, and popularized by Leo XIII. The day is often used to suggest that the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph might be a model of the ideal Christian family. Parents are taught to love one another. Children are taught to listen to their parents. And the mathematics of family is suggested to be that of one plus one equals a blessed three, then four, then five, and so on, with the subtle or sometimes overt suggestion that holiness comes through the human family, and the larger the family, the more faithful the parents.

The Gospel gives images of the Holy Family, but if we look closely, it looks very different from the rendition of artists and many theologians. Its lines are shaky. Its boundaries are blurred. The Holy Family consists of Joseph, probably an older man, who may well have died while Jesus was very young. Joseph is not at the cross. There is Mary, probably a very young woman, a very young mother, unprepared but faithful, unsuspecting, but hopeful. Both Mary and Joseph could be easily ostracized for not fitting in—both had foreigners in their families, and when they went to Egypt, they, themselves became the foreigners.

It all began in Bethlehem, of course, but soon the Holy Family begins to grow.
And it grows in ways no one could have imagined. Shepherds make their way. Wise men from the East—kings, Persians, astronomers. They begin to make their way to the manger, and when they get there, they will find the door open and the welcome warm.

Jesus himself seems to add on to his family as he grows. When he’s twelve, his parents take him to Jerusalem for the Passover. He gets lost, and when they find him, he is in the temple. I imagine him looking at his parents as though this is the most normal thing in the world, as he says, “How is it that you sought me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?”

When Jesus is preaching and teaching and healing, he’s told that his family wants to see him, and one gets the sense that his family might think he’s gone just a little too far. Jesus asks, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?” And stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he says, “Here are my mother and my brothers! For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother, and sister, and mother.”

Jesus seems never to be satisfied that his family is big enough or strange enough. In the calling of the disciples, he adds tax collectors and fishermen. Added to this are rich folks, civic leaders, military officials and soldiers, former prostitutes, adulterers, thieves, bandits, and everything in-between. All at the same table – that table that was set and shared in an upper room, but extends through time and space to us—at that table continue to be all sorts and conditions of people. Even on the cross, Jesus continues to reshape what family is, as he looks at his disciple and his mother and says, “Woman, behold, your son!” And to his disciple, “Behold, your mother!”

Even as the Holy Family grows and expands, it holds together whenever there is a threat. And in today’s Gospel, the family moves to get out of the way of danger. They listen to the angel of God, and they go where God sends them.

And so that’s what we do, too. We move forward.

We listen for God’s clues. Confused and overwhelmed, tired, and perhaps even a little cynical, we pray. We listen the scripture. We listen to the church. We listen to one another. What would God have us do in this new year? What would God have us be and how might God have us be toward one another?

We also cherish our family. We hold onto each other, and given thanks for those who God has put in our lives to love and to share love with. We become thankful even for those who make us mad, who rile us up, because we understand the fragility of life, the quickness with which it can come to an end.

And finally, like Mary and Joseph, we simply go. We go forward. We choose life and we try to share it as fully as possible. We follow the one who conquered death itself; we follow Jesus closely, knowing that he will never, ever leave us. We reach out for others. We give of our money and our creativity and our energy to those to suffer. Through Christ, we begin to see just how big our family really is.

Listening closely to God, holding on tightly to one another, and moving ahead with strength and confidence, we step into a new year.

It is with the family that God gives us that we can celebrate a New Year. In Tennyson’s great poem [excerpts] for the beginning of a year, he sings out for us to

Ring out, wild bells.
Ring out the false. Ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause, and ancient forms of party strife.
Ring in the nobler forms of life, with sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

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

A sermon for a wedding

Our first scripture reading today comes from the prophet Isaiah. Many scholars have made careers out of Isaiah; most suggesting that the book of scripture we call “Isaiah” may be a compilation of at least three different “Isaiah’s.” Nevertheless, what the church has received is “Isaiah.”

If you’ve been anywhere near a church over the last few weeks, as we have moved through the season of Advent, and now celebrate the full twelve days of Christmas, you’ve heard a lot of Isaiah.

Through these weeks the church watched and waited. We heard and sang the old promises as we hoped together for God’s promises to unfold—promises of peace, promises of purpose, of knowledge and wisdom, promises of love.

In today’s reading Isaiah again offers evidence from nature about promises. As rain and snow come down from heaven, do their work of watering, and then return…. just as seeds are planted and then sprout up, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater… in just the same way, God says, God’s own promises, God’s own Word will come and be among us and not fail. God’s word will accomplish and succeed, and result in joy and peace. Trees will clap their hands, hills will burst into joy, all sorts of signs will appear, and all sorts of celebrations will show forth.

St. John traces the movement of God’s word, God’s word that comes with a purpose and succeeds (eventually) in promoting peace and love and joy. The primary Gospel reading for Christmas is from John, who says, “Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory,” … glory that is “full of grace and truth.”

A wedding is a service of words, but especially during Christmas, and especially today, this wedding looks at words in at least three different ways.

There are the words that are exchanged.

There is the Word of God.

And there is the word that Laura and Tom become, proclaim, and share.

We use a wordy service. The words come from the American Book of Common Prayer, which originated in Thomas Cranmer’s Book of 1549, but of course had even earlier roots in Sarum rites, used around Salisbury and most of England since at least the 11th century. And so these words carry weight. Not only to they include the “I do’s” and “I will’s,” they include the words, “I give thee,” “with all that I am, and all that I have,” I honor thee. These are words that have been said over the centuries, and they are words that are said not only with us as audience, but also with a cloud of witnesses—saints who are standing by for help—to pray for you, and the help you. Laura and Tom, I hope you will feel the power of the tradition that upholds you.

We have noticed the wordiness of the rites we observe today, but grounding us all is that larger Word of God, the word pointed to by Isaiah, the Word made Flesh in Jesus Christ. As Laura and others in this room well know, in the Hebrew scriptures whenever God speaks, something happens. God’s dabar, God’s spoken word, never remains merely something that is heard, but always results in something. This Word of God gets behind and drives toward completion. And so whatever words Tom and Laura may say to eat other today, tomorrow, for the rest of their lives, God’s creative Word goes with them, surrounding them, whispering and reminding, soothing and stirring up, offering the power of silence when minds and bodies become too busy, offering a word of insight when things seem stuck.

Sometimes God’s word seems faint, as though God stopped speaking. T. S. Eliot wonders about this in Ash Wednesday,

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

Even when we can’t hear it, even when we can’t quite make it out, God’s word (just as the world’s whirling) continue. Tom and Laura, I hope you will feel the power of God’s word upholding you.

Finally, there are the words we speak today, there is God’s Word that under girds us, and then there is a new word about to be pronounced, about to be spoken and proclaimed. Its syllables are just forming, its language, even, has not really yet been decided. This word-that-is-forming is the love of Laura and Tom. As they come together, they begin to create their own word, a word inspired by the various traditions they bring together, a word growing from and sometimes bouncing off from the Word of God, but little by little, they will create their own word. It’s our job to honor that. The word they create may sound different to some of us. It may look different and we may have trouble figuring out how to spell it. We may have to ask them to repeat it to us, over and over. But it’s THEIR word to create—not ours. The word that is created by Laura and Tom’s love may not appear in any of our books, it may not be a part of our vocabulary, and it may even sound offensive to our comfortable ears—but again, it is their word, their word whispered into their hearts by God who creates, who moves, who never speaks empty words, and whose word changes the whole world.

Laura and Tom, you have begun your word together. As you move into marriage, may it continue to be a word that includes justice, nature, kindness, truth, laughter, and love. May you continue to have the generosity and patience of sharing your word with us. And so, now, let’s get about it, let’s put letter to letter, join the syllables, maybe even violate a bit of syntactical precedence, and get you married!

The First Sunday after Christmas Day

The Flight into Egypt, Fra Angelico

A sermon for December 27, 2009. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 61:10-62:3, Psalm 147 or 147:13-21, Galatians 3:23-25;4:4-7 , and John 1:1-18 .


We do a strange thing to our houses, apartments and churches at this time of the year. We bring inside things that usually belong outside. I don’t mean the mud, salt, and ice we drag in on our feet. I don’t even mean the snowballs that are made and kept in the freezer to prolong the fun of the snow as long as possible. Mostly, what I mean are the trees, and wreaths, and garlands that we bring inside.

Christmas (especially) is a time for bringing inside what is usually kept out.

There are trees and flowers. There are pine cones and perhaps even a hitchhiking bug or two. Our crèche, the church’s nativity scene, allows us to bring even more of the outdoors, in. There is an ox and there are quite a few sheep. And the wise men are slowly making their way to Jesus, even though they don’t really get to come inside until Epiphany.

Bringing things from the outside in is really at the heart of Christmas, because that’s exactly what God has been doing since the beginning of time.

Remember Adam and Eve began as the ultimate insiders. They were inside the garden of Eden, paradise, a magical place and state of being. But their curiosity got the best of them and before they knew it, they had stepped outside the garden. It’s as though they lost their way, they forgot who they were, they forgot where they lived. And so, God began a plan to bring them, and us their children, back inside. This movement of outside-in would take place through the directional sense of the second Eve’s “yes.” It would take place through the cry of the second Adam’s—first as a baby, then as a man, and finally as God-returning-to-God, as God-in-Trinity.

In the early days of Advent we heard the words of the Prophet Isaiah assuring people that their outdoor days were numbered. One day they would be welcomed back in, back into Jerusalem. In today’s reading, Isaiah celebrates not only the return, but even the herald who brings good news of return. God has returned to Jerusalem and now his people are returning, too. The Lord has brought comfort, the Lord has brought redemption, he has brought healing. The Lord God has brought his beloved people home.

In John’s Gospel the homecoming is bathed with light. Even when Adam and Eve first stepped into darkness, the light was there (John tells us), already shining, but they couldn’t quite make it out yet. The light has been growing. The darkness has never overcome it, not in the suburbs of Eden, not in the slavery of Egypt, not in the desert, not in a succession of faithless kings and clueless priests. The darkness has not overcome the light, even though the prophets were silent for a time, even though Jerusalem killed its prophets and stoned those who were sent. Even though sin, even though the cross, even though unimaginable separation and death, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome.”

In order to bring the outside in, God himself went outside. Jesus was born outside the conventions of an ordinary family. He was born outside the warmth of home or security or extended family. Soon after his birth, Mary and Joseph took him out even further. Before long, King Herod would begin his effort to kill the outsider, to try to keep out the light, to try to keep out the life of God in the world. In Jesus, God brought the outside in.

He came to his own home, and his own people received him not. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God; who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth; we have beheld his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father.

Jesus knew what it was to be an outsider. His family seems to have had trouble from time to time understanding him. The disciples didn’t always catch on. The religious authorities found him threatening and were in the middle of the scheme to have him killed. Jesus even died outside the city limits of Jerusalem. But he rose again, he stepped out of death and back into life and in so doing, folded creation in upon itself, outside in. The normal course of things is reversed, barriers are broken and walls knocked down. God had come to us and so we don’t get to God by moving along a straight line. We don’t reach God through good deeds or good works or even good living. We can’t buy our way to God, we can’t sleep our way to God, and we can’t drink our way to God. We cannot think our way to God.

We can only receive. We can apprehend. We can accept. We can allow God to be born anew in each one of us. “[T]he Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth; we have beheld his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father.”

Ephrem the Syrian suggests that we decorate not just our churches, but that we also decorate our hearts. “On this feast,” he sings, “let everyone garland the door of his heart. May the Holy Spirit desire to enter in its door to dwell and sanctify. For behold, She moves about to all the doors to see where She may dwell.” (Hymn 5)

May our hearts be so decked as to woo the Holy Spirit, that we may allow God in even as God bring us more closely into his light, into his laughter and into his life everlasting.

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

Christmas Day

A sermon for Christmas Day, December 25, 2009. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 62:6-12 , , itus 3:4-7 , Psalm 97 and Luke 2:(1-7)8-20.

There’s a movie that came out a few years ago, called Wings of Desire. It’s one of those slightly strange movies, at points in several languages and with subtitles. Among the many things it’s about, it’s about angels.

In particular, Wings of Desire is about one angel who wrestles with whether to remain an angel, someone removed from life, at a distance, watching, but unable to affect. Observing, but unable to intervene. Finally, the decision is made. The angel drops from the sky. One of the first discoveries he makes is that he is bleeding. He’s become scratched in the fall, there’s a little blood—blood, something he’s not had before or felt before or known. He walks in wonder, at the cold, at the light, at the wind, and the feeling of ground beneath, the sight of air above. The angel-turned human busy a cup of coffee. It burns his hand, it’s so hot—but it’s wonderful—to feel, to hurt, to be human.

The movie, as I said, is a strange one. And while it has to do with an angel who wants to be human, it gives us a different perspective on one of the most basic aspects of our being, something we take for granted.

Christmas Day is not a day for theology. It’s not a day for philosophy or theory. It’s a day for love, because it celebrates the depth to which God’s love comes into our world. Emmanuel—God with us, God wanting to be with us, God wanting to be like us, to feel what we feel, to know what we know, to cry human tears, to bleed human blood, to die a human death.

And then because of love, through love, by the power of love, raise the dead to new life and reach back into humanity to lift each one of us into loving eternity.

When God appeared to Moses, he had to take off his shoes. God appeared as distant and removed and awful and terrible. No longer do we, like Moses, take off our shoes in order to step on holy ground—all the earth is made holy, because God has walked on it. No longer do we crouch in the valley near the hill where the Lord hides--- God has come down from the Holy Mountain and stepped into humanity. No longer is God enshrouded in cloud or fire, but God himself is revealed in eyes that cry and laugh and dream and love.

The word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.

The very word of God – the Word of God no longer a long way off, no longer whispered, but shouted out loud. The Word that gave the world its whirling and set the planets spinning – the Word of God put syllable with syllable in a new way, created an entirely new syntax, and spoke in the form of a helpless, crying, needy, smelly, little baby. God’s word of action and creation, of revealing and redeeming took the form of a human creature not even able to care for itself.

We miss the point of Christmas if we only look for magic in the stars and overlook the miracle on earth. As one theologian [Shirley Guthrie] puts it, “When we talk about God’s presence in the world, we’re not simply talking about a “spiritual presence” or a “feeling” or a vague perception of some good or charitable thought. We’re talking about geography: Jesus was born in Palestine, an outpost all but overlooked by the Roman Empire.

We’re talking about politics: Jesus was born in the midst of a census, there was danger of political revolution, and many of the religious expected a messiah who would be a political revolutionary.

When we talk about God’s presence in the world, we’re talking about economics: Jesus was born in a barn to parents of meager means. With the story of Jesus, the Word made Flesh, we’re not just talking about a religious theory or a myth of world religion with nice music attached. We’re talking about the God of heaven and earth, who came into the world as a human being who was ignored, ridiculed and put to death. We’re talking about God who in human form died the same death we die, but rose again from the grave and has opened the way for us to life everlasting. God who touches, who heals, who helps, who forgives, who reconciles, who raises from the death, who restores to life eternal.

God in the flesh, Jesus, has power the transform the ordinary into the miraculous. He brings God’s presence into the everyday and the mundane.

Think of the scriptures. When Jesus meets the woman at the well, their conversation transforms a bucket of water into a symbol of hope and healing. And the woman then tells the village.

When Jesus meets Nicodemus late one night, Jesus brings God’s presence into the life of a religious official, one who thinks he’s got life pretty much figured out. But Jesus explains to Nicodemus how to be born again. Again and again, and again and again and again.

When Jesus meets the rich young ruler, it is God’s presence that shows the young man just how difficult it can to live freely when one is weighted down by too many things.

When Jesus appears to Mary and Joanna and the other woman in the garden, it is God’s presence that shows them the light of resurrection. It is God’s presence that gives them hope and strength. They spread the word and with the other apostles, they build the church.

God’s presence is clear in the scriptures, but what about in our own day?

“The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us!” That’s the good news. Not that the Word of God has come and gone. But that the Word of God dwells among us.

God is with us. God is with our hopes and our dreams. God is in the very things we struggle, God is in the very people we struggle against.

If we are looking for a god who is outside our pain, beyond our longing, removed from our suffering, unfeeling and untouched by who we are and what we need—then we can continue to gaze into the heavens—THAT GOD HAS NOT COME.

But if we look inside our world into the eyes of each other, if we look inside ourselves, if we look for God whose presence permeates our crazy, upside-down world, the we have that God. And we have seen his face. Emmanuel. God with us—God the ever-creating, ever-renewing, ever-forgiving, ever-enjoying, ever-accepting, ever-loving presence with us.

God comes to be close to us, to know us more intimately, to be a part of our lives more fully.
Of all the gifts, of all the things we receive this year, may our hearts be empty and open enough to receive God.


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

Christmas Eve

Audrey and Emma help extinguish the candles after the 4 p.m. Children's Mass.

A sermon for Christmas Eve, December 24, 2009. The lectionary readings are Isaiah 9:2-7 , Titus 2:11-14 , Psalm 96 and Luke 2:1-14(15-20) .

“The whole world being at peace.” That phrase reverberates from the opening words of this Mass. In the Proclamation of the Birth of Jesus Christ, there are those words: We incarnate Jesus not only in the flesh but also in the calendar, as we proclaim that it was “the seven hundred fifty-second year from the foundation of the city of Rome; the forty-second year of the reign of Octavian Augustus;” [and] the whole world being at peace, [that] Jesus Christ was born in Bethlehem.

But, as a colleague of mine pointed out the other day—the whole world was not at peace when Jesus was born. And it has not been at peace at really any point since. Certainly tonight, though we admire the way the snow looks, the way the city feels with so many people gone, the way the church looks with greens hung and candles lit—there’s not a lot of peace.

Our country is at war in two places, but there are many other places where guns and force are used to “keep peace.” But it’s a fragile peace. Clans, tribe, race, ethnicity, state… all fight against each other in some place this very night.

Our families are not always at peace. Hallmark and Christmas carols reinforce that this season especially is one for family, and while some of us give thanks for our families and wish we could be with them more, others recognize that sometimes precisely within families, we are able to treat each other in ways that are wrong and undercut a spirit of peace.

And then there is the question of peace within ourselves. The psychiatric floor at Sibley is well-populated tonight, as are other hospitals and places of rest, respite, and rehabilitation. Peace at a personal level is not a given, and too many of us turn to whatever is at hand in an effort to find peace, to manufacture it synthetically, chemically, and artificially.

And yet, Jesus is born—the whole world being at peace.

The whole world may not have been at peace, but for the central characters in tonight’s Gospel, it must have seemed that way.

Joseph has found peace. It didn’t come easily. It came through a dream that was as much a nightmare as it was a message from the Angel Gabriel. But Joseph found peace by trusting God, by trusting Mary, by trusting himself (perhaps a deep-down, hidden self he’d forgotten was there.) Joseph, with Mary, going to Bethlehem, is at peace.

Mary found peace. Gabriel paid her a visit, too. Peace didn’t come then, but it may have begun to come when she visited her cousin Elizabeth. With Elizabeth, Mary would talk. She could cry, and laugh, and scream, and shake her head at the lunacy of it all, and shake her fist at God for the audacity of it all. But peace began to come, partly through that old song of Hannah, “The Lord makes poor and makes rich; he brings low, he also exalts….” words that Mary would sing in her own voice, words we know as Magnificat. Mary found peace—a kind of hard peace that still had edges on it, that still had weight to it, but peace that was real and was somehow, some way, connected to the life of God.

The Seraphim of Sarov (1754-1833) was a Russian saint of the 18th century who is reported to have said, “If you acquire the spirit of Peace, a thousand souls around you will be saved.”

If you are at peace, if you can be at peace—for a week, for a day, even for a minute--- then people all around you will be saved, and they’ll feel it deep down in their souls.

The “whole world” may not have been at peace when Jesus was born. The whole world certainly isn’t at peace now and may not be in our lifetime, but the birth of a little baby, and the lives of those who were changed because of him so long ago tells us that we can have peace. We can know peace. We can receive peace—at least, at most--- through Jesus Christ.

Christians believe that on Christmas, God took a bold step. God got tired of watching things from the outside of the world and decided to step in, to step up, to BECOME. And God became one of us. God became human. God became flesh and blood to feel what we feel, to hear what we hear, to taste what we taste, to struggle like we struggle, to love like we love, to hurt like we hurt. And to look for peace.

Jesus found peace in God. Though his friends, family, and culture offered other versions, Jesus knew that deep peace comes from God, and God alone.

A traditional Gaelic blessing wishes

Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the infinite peace to you.

Especially on this night, we might add the blessings that come to us from the Gospel.

Deep peace of the brooding Father Joseph to you,
Deep peace of the strong Mother Mary to you,
Deep peace of the adventuresome shepherds to you,
Deep peace of the mystic angels,
Deep, deep peace, of Christ the Life of God to you.

May His peace be born within each one of us, so that others may be saved.

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

Advent II

A sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, December 6, 2009. The lectionary readings are Baruch 5:1-9, Canticle 4, Philippians 1:3-11, and Luke 3:1-6.


Today’s scriptures ask us to prepare ourselves for the coming of God. They invite us to make ready, to “take off sorrow and affliction,” and to “put on righteousness.” We are invited to a way of “repentance for the forgiveness of sins.”

"Repent so that sins are forgiven.” Those are words that sound familiar for church, but what do they mean, really?

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 restoring 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 God is listening, when we say we’re sorry? What does forgiveness feel like?

Especially 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. While most people probably wouldn’t articulate it quite that way, it’s part of how they feel. And so, not much time would be given to thinking about sin, or about doing anything about it.

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 one that 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 our fault, it’s the fault of the individual. It’s that person, (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). Much has been made in our country, especially, about personal religion, personal faith, personal responsibility.
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.

An extreme approach to this is in a second attitude toward sin, and that’s 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, there’s much of our culture that pushes us to begin to think about the societal forces that might have moved the person to do such an awful thing. We don’t say “that person has a demon,” but rather, “that person must have grown up in a bad family, or not had good options, or must have been driven to do such evil.”

When we begin to think about sin, and about repenting from sin, and turning toward God, how do we balance these two dynamics, the personal and the communal?
John the Baptist quoted 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.'"

Sin is, indeed, personal, but it has communal effects. In the name 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 her vision, but continued to pray to God for more insight. Twenty years later, she wrote down an extended version of the vision.

In her vision of the Lord and Servant Julian sees 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.”

Sin can be painful. When we’ve fallen into the ditch and we can’t see out, and we feel cut off and alone, it can feel like death… but if we remember that God is watching, God is smiling at us, encouraging us to get out of the ditch. 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 that be our prayer this season and always.

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

Cooking & Relationships

A sermon preached at a wedding on December 5, 2009 at All Souls.


In my spare time, I try to cook. By reading, by watching other people, and by experimenting, I’ve learned a lot about cooking. And by cooking, I’ve learned a lot about life.

I’ve learned that sometimes the magic is in the mixture.

I’ve learned that sometimes one has to adjust the ingredients, the amount put in of this or that, depending on all kinds of other variables.

And I’ve learned that when I’ve cooked something that’s good—there’s no such thing as too much, because there are always people to share with.

Life, and love have some similarities with those three areas of learning that I just mentioned.

I learned a trick for base in cooking, especially if the dish is something vaguely Italian. You melt some anchovy fillets in olive oil with some garlic, chili flakes and pepper. What results is a smokey-tasting base that is difficult to describe. No individual taste stands out, just a mysterious tastiness deep down in the dish.

Relationships are like that sometimes. When we bring our differences into relationships, there is a richness and a flavor that can’t always be described. Masato and Katie are like that—we could name a whole list of things that are good about their being together, but what word or phrase really captures the energy, the spirit, the love that we feel when we’re in their midst? It is a mystery, but it is a gift from God.

Sometimes when I cook, I have to vary the ingredients because of the humidity, or the kind of flour, or sometimes because the other ingredients simply seem to want to act up. In relationships, in love, sometimes we need to change what we normally bring to the mixture. Those who call a marriage a partnership are wrong if they are thinking a 50/50 kind of partnership, because some days, Katie may only have 10 per cent to give, so Masato will need to supply 90. And other days, it will be just the opposite. The good cook, the good lover, learns to read the situation, to read the day, to read the person they have promised to spend their life with, and to adjust when necessary.

There have been a few times when I’ve tried a new recipe and vastly overestimated the quantities. A three-pound pork roast, turned into Filipino pork adobo could have easily fed a village. And so we shared. We sent people home with take-out bags, with left-overs, and still nibbled on the adobo for lunch all the next week.

Love is like that—it overflows, like in our readings from scriptures today. Song of Solomon, Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians, John’s Gospel—all sing of an overflowing love, a love that begins with God, flourishes in the life of Jesus Christ, and then extends into everyone.

There may well be left-overs from the reception later, but I can guarantee there will be left-overs from this ceremony, and the love that is gathered in this room among friends and family, a love that begins with God, and in our experience, radiates out of Masato and Katie. And so we feast in the abundance of God’s love.

Psalm 34 says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good, happy are those who trust in the Lord.”

It could just as well say, “Taste and see that the Love of God is good, happy are all who join in God’s feast.”

Katie and Masato, may God continue to bless you. May you explore and expand the mixture of your relationship. May you mature into discerning partners who adjust to one another, challenge one another and compliment one another. And finally, may you continue to allow God to increase your love so that it continues to include, to expand, and to overflow.

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

Advent I

Christ in Glory, illumination on parchment, c. 1200, British Museum

A sermon for the First Sunday of Advent, November 29, 2009. The lectionary readings are Jeremiah 33:14-16, Psalm 25:1-9, 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13, and Luke 21:25-36.


A few weeks ago I was in a gift shop and saw a number of really nice painted tiles. Some had religious images on them, interspersed with secular images. The one I bought, as a gift, had on it the Virgin of Guadalupe, along with a map of Los Angeles, and a number of other odd and various images. I loved it, and thought the people who would receive it, might like it also.

As I approached the checkout counter, the man behind the counter was excited that I had chosen the tile. He told me about the artist, and about the other images in the series. He went on to explain that he had bought three of them on the first day. Each of the ones he had bought had had a skeleton on it, as well as other images. He put them up on a wall, all together in one room, he explained.

“Memento mori,” I said. He looked at me, surprised. “Exactly,” he said, “remember your death, remember that you’re going to die. How do you know that, he said?”

“Well,” I said, “It’s sort of what I do,” I said. “I’m an Episcopal priest.”

That phrase, “memento mori,” as many of you know, also refers to a whole genre of art, art that remind people of their mortality, and encourage folks to live a good life, as defined by their culture or religion.

I told that man in the gift shop that “memento mori” was “what I do,” but, in fact, that was an exaggeration. I SHOULD do more to remind the people I know, the people I love, the people I serve, that one day, death will greet us, and we should be prepared.

Our faith encourages us to prepare for life, of course. We are encouraged to prepare for life and life eternal, but we’re also called to prepare for our death.

The Book of Common Prayer even reminds us of this. On Page 445 Episcopal priests are directed “to instruct the people, from time to time, about the duty of Christian parents to make prudent provision for the well-being of their families, and of all persons to make wills, while they are in health, arranging for the disposal of their temporal goods, not neglecting, if they are able, to leave bequests for religious and charitable uses.”

Get ready, Jesus says, because the kingdom may be coming soon. But especially, and perhaps even more importantly, if the kingdom is delayed, if the return of Christ comes much more slowly than anticipated, then we will need to be prepared, all the more. We need to be prepared for life. Memento mori, remember your death, so that you can live life all the more fully.

In teaching his disciples, Jesus uses the fig tree as a reminder. “Look at the fig tree and all the trees,” Jesus says. You can tell what season it is by looking. During Advent, we’re invited to look closely at the world around us, look closely at ourselves, look closely for God. What might God have us see? What have we been walking by, and not noticing? How have we perhaps been too busy, and missed something about to bloom close-by?

Sometimes the church thinks of Advent almost like Lent, and makes it into a penitential season. But that’s not quite the idea, if you notice the movement of the scriptures. The scriptures invite us to take an inventory of our lives, to look closely in the mirror, but to do so in an effort to trim away all that needs to be left behind.

Getting ready can look like a lot of things. Perhaps we do need to get rid of some habits or customs that have been bogging us down spiritually. If that’s the case, then Advent can be a good time for developing a new practice—whether it’s lighting an Advent wreath, opening a different window in an Advent calendar, putting some money aside for a special cause. It might be that you’re feeling called to get reacquainted with scripture this season, to re-read the old stories, to re-visit the prophets, to re-imagine God’s plan for salvation, and incarnation. Or maybe God is calling you to deeper prayer.

Whether we go to God, or God comes to us, Jesus warns (and announces with joy) that the kingdom is near. We can live with a mindfulness about the shortness of life—not in a morbid sense, not in a worried or anxious, or foreboding way—but naturally, joyfully, giving thanks for each breath we’re given, and praying that God would show us how to live to the fullest.

I close with the words of Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury in the 12th Century:

Escape from your everyday business for a short while, hide for a moment from your restless thoughts. Break off from your cares and troubles and be less concerned about your tasks and labors. Make a little time for God and rest a while in him.

Enter into your mind’s inner chamber. Shut out everything but God and whatever helps you to seek him; and when you have shut the door, look for him. Speak now to God and say with your whole heart: “I seek your face; your face, Lord, I desire.”

May God’s blessing be upon us as we begin this new season together. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Christ the King

A sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King, November 22, 2009. The lectionary readings are Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14, Psalm 93 , Revelation 1:4b-8, and John 18:33-37.

Ron Ross has been taking a lot of pictures. Since sometime this summer, he has spent a lot of his spare time, his spare creativity, his spare money— taking pictures of our stained glass windows. And they are phenomenal. Once he takes the picture, he uses three different computer programs to adjust them, to balance the light, to crop the edges, and to allow the window to tell its story. By watching him watching the windows, I’ve learned to look a little differently. I’ve begun to look up high and notice some of the hidden treasures there. I’ve just recently noticed in our resurrection window, there is a sun and a moon. By looking closely, we’ve learned that the strange window over the altar in the Mary Chapel is an almost exact copy of a fresco by Fra Angelico in the San Marco Convent in Florence. But one of the most interesting things I’ve learned from Ron is about the light that comes through the windows.

I used to think that the best days for taking pictures of stained glass were those days when the sun was strong, light streaming into the window, making the colors dance like jeweled necklaces. But I was wrong. The best days for shooting the windows, are when it’s overcast, when the light outdoors is subtle and indirect. It’s then that the window shows up more evenly. It glows more than it burns. It reveals its message slowly rather than all at once.

That we can sometimes see better in the dark than in the light, is a mystery of life. But it’s also a mystery of faith.

Today’s feast of Christ the King is bathed in light. White vestments, a procession, extra chanting and prayers—it’s all somewhat loud and direct. But underneath the noise, there are contradictions. It’s a little like Palm Sunday, the extent to which we are saying “something IS,” only to be able to understand that “something is NOT.” Christ was not a king, in any normal sense of the word. And yet Christ is King. He was powerless over mid-level officials and suffered the death of a criminal, and yet, “To him was given dominion and glory and kingship.” He is a Jewish carpenter from Galilee, and yet he is Alpha and Omega, “who is, and who was, and who is to come.”

The light of day shows us clearly enough what a king or queen looks like. We know what a president is. We know what the Queen of England looks like. In Daniel’s day (Daniel, the author of our first reading from scripture), the King was Nebuchadnezzar, the ruler of Babylon, as the people of Israel languished in exile. Daniel’s apocalyptic visions look for the coming of a king, while commenting upon the evil kings of his day and of those to come for many generations. Daniel writes down his “night visions,” because it is in the dark that he can see most clearly.

A similar dynamic is found in our epistle reading from the Revelation to John. John writes to encourage the faithful who are undergoing trying times. He writes in such a way that he is commenting on the kings of his day using veiled language (perhaps the emperor Nero or Domitian). He fills his prophecies with so many images and beasts, with so much “light” that the truth of his words can best been seen in the dark.

While I don’t want to be accused of having become a Gnostic, with all this talk of light and dark, of good and evil, opposed to one another, I do think even Jesus uses images to tease and fool, while inviting his hearers to look more deeply and carefully and see the truth. Pontius Pilate seems to be in on the joke when he pushes Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus shifts the light a little and dodges the question. Jesus says, “my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate falls for it and asks again, “So you are a king?” Pilate can’t see the truth, for the sun (Son?) in his eyes.

Today’s lessons invite us to adjust our vision. Enjoy the light. Bask in it, even. But next week, as we move into the season of Advent, the light changes. It is turned down a few notches, as we’re invited to notice the darkness of our world, notice the darkness in our lives, notice the contours of God in (and because of) the darkness, with us, beside us, holding us by the hand. As we move through the season of Advent, the light grows, but it’s the true light, as John the Baptist says, “The light [that] shines in the darkness, [that] the darkness never overcomes. “The true light that enlightens” every [single] soul.

Our faith calls us to live among the bright lights of this world, but not to be fooled by them. All that glisters is not gold. All that provides heat does not necessarily warm. We know this, but (being human) we still sometimes chase the false light, we get caught up in stuff, and we reach for crowns.

We worship a king whose crown is made of thorns, whose throne is nothing more than the shoulders of his friends and family, but whose holy realm is open to all who would live (and die) for love’s sake.

A few years ago Cooper Edens wrote and illustrated a wonderful book for children [If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow]. Though I don’t think he intended it to be a lesson in Christian faith, his juxtaposition of silliness and solemnity says something about how truth can be found through tricks of light and dark.

If tomorrow morning the sky falls..[the book begins] .. have clouds for breakfast. . .
If night falls... use stars for streetlights. . .
If the light goes out... wear it around your neck and go dancing. . .
If the sun never shines again... hold fireflies in your hands to keep warm. . .
If you're afraid of the dark... remember the night rainbow.

In a world that is often falsely illumined, fluorescent and bright, faith sometimes calls us into the shadows. There we can pause to discern what is true light, and what is false. Today, let us bask in the light of Christ: who is light and dark, who is king and pauper, who is Alpha and Omega. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

When worlds end

A sermon for the Twenty-fourth Sunday after Pentecost, November 15, 2009. The lectionary readings are Daniel 12:1-3, Psalm 16, Hebrews 10:11-14 (15-18) 19-25, and Mark 13:1-8.

Both the reading from Daniel and the selection we have from Mark fall into that category of scripture known as apocalyptic. In popular culture, people talk about the apocalyptic as having to do with the ending of the world. Apocalypse comes from a Greek word meaning to uncover or to disclose. In the Old Testament reading, Daniel uncovers to the people of Israel about some present day political realities, but he also uncovers the vision of God’s final victory.

Our Gospel today is from a section of Mark’s Gospel in which Jesus speaks with apocalyptic vision. In the very beginning of chapter 13, Jesus and his disciples walk out of the temple in Jerusalem—this huge, strong, beautiful building. One of the disciples says to him, “Look, Teacher, what wonderful stones and what wonderful buildings!” But Jesus responds, “Do you see these great buildings? The day will come when there will not be here one stone upon another that will not come down.” Eventually, Jesus and the disciples leave the Temple Mount, cross the Kidron Valley and reach the Mount of Olives, just directly across from the Temple. Jesus predicts the destruction of the temple, something that, in fact would eventually happen. But we also know that Jesus used the temple as a symbol for his own body. The temple of stones would be destroyed, but a new living temple of the Body of Christ would arise in its place. A world would end, but another world would begin.

As often is the case when he talks about the kingdom of God, Jesus warns his disciples to be alert, but not to pay too much attention to the clock. “Take heed,” Jesus says. Be alert, be on the lookout, stay awake.

Jesus says this to his friends just before he is taken from them. Just before he is put to death. Just before the world basically ends for those who loved him.

Worlds do end. Of course we know our world could end any moment with our own death. Not only with our own death, but sometimes it feels like the world ends when someone close to us dies. Scientists interpret the signs for us—overpopulation, global warming, hunger, AIDS—they tell us the world is ending.

But other situations also can bring about what feels like the end of the world. The world of work can sometimes come to an end for us. The world of a relationship can end—sometimes we have a hand in hastening the end, and sometimes not. A world of ideas or a world of opinion can end, when someone challenges us and makes us think. The job that seemed safe, but vanishes. The person we had planned to spend our life with, dies. The home that seemed permanent, but is taken away—worlds can, and sadly do, end.

Jesus warned that there would be times when it would feel like the world was ending. There would be signs. There would be trials. Notice, but don’t obsess, he seems to say. Don’t hold on too tightly to the things of the world, he says.

When Jesus described to the disciples what the Temple would look like just before it would collapse, he said to them, “when you see sacrilege set up where it should not be, flee to the mountains, let him who is on the housetop not go down, nor enter his house to take anything away; and let him who is in the field not turn back to take his mantle.” The language is familiar. Elsewhere, when Jesus invites someone to follow him into the kingdom of God he warns, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” There’s no time for holding on too tightly. There’s no time for looking back.

If that language sounds familiar, it’s because it echoes another time when God told his people to be ready to move. Eat up what you have, gather your family close in, and don’t even wait for the bread to rise. It will be the Passover of the Lord.

In the Passover, the people of Israel saw the ending of the world as they knew it. Granted it was a world of slavery and oppression, but it had it had been their world. It was predictable. There was limited responsibility for life. But in the love of God, the people of Israel passed over from Egypt into the promised land, from death to life, and from the end of the world to the world’s new beginning.

The signs could already be seen for Jesus and his disciples. The foundation of the mighty Temple itself was beginning to groan under its own strain. And so Jesus observed the Passover with his friends. As he took the bread, blessed it, and broke it, the world was ending. As he took the cup, blessed it and offered it, the world was ending. But as they received that bread and wine, to become that body and blood, the disciples became a part of a new world.

In the new world, things are different. Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the firmament, and those who turn many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever.” A new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth will have passed away, and the sea no more. But God himself will be with us and he will wipe away every tear from our eye and death shall be no more.

May we be alert to the power of God to make all things new until our world is filled with his presence, his laughter, and his love.

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

Sacrifices

A sermon for the Twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost, November 8, 2009. The lectionary readings are 1 Kings 17:8-16, Psalm 146,Hebrews 9:24-28 , and Mark 12:38-44.

Yesterday at the National Cathedral, Rachel got slapped in the face by Bishop Dixon. Actually a whole lot of people got slapped in the face by Bishop Dixon, and a few other bishops. What’s more is that people saw it coming, and seemed happy about it. Maybe I should explain.

Just before the confirmations yesterday, Bishop Dixon came down to the Bethlehem Chapel, where confirmands, priests, and sponsors were gathered. There she offered a little history about confirmation. She reminded everyone that in the very early church, one became a Christian at great risk. Just like in some parts of the world today, to be a person of belief could bring persecution, harassment, prejudice, imprisonment, and even death. By the fourth century, Cyril of Jerusalem writes about this slap: “The bishop would lay hands upon the person, anoint with oil as reminder of the Holy Spirit, and then strike the person lightly on the cheek reminding them to be strong and brave in spreading the faith.” And so, Rachel and others got slapped. It was meant as a reminder that they may be called to do hard things. They may be called upon to make hard decisions. By taking on the Christian faith, by trying to live as a disciple of Jesus, religion becomes much more than a mere hobby. It is more than a weekly respite from the world in which one can admire pretty windows and nice music. It is more (even) than the support and love and nurture that comes from Christian community. Christianity might bring us face to face with injustice, with poverty, with violence, and it, at some point, will probably require from us some form of sacrifice.

Our scriptures today tell various stories of sacrifice. In the first reading, the widow at Zarephath, whose name we don’t know, is just about to give up. She’s just about to sacrifice her life for the worst of all reasons—out of despair, out of a sense of not knowing what to do next, out of a lack of hope. When Elijah sees her and asks her for something to eat, she responds (perhaps sarcastically? perhaps despairingly?) “As the Lord lives, I have nothing baked, only a handful of dough and a tiny bit of oil, and so I’m just going to get a couple of sticks to keep me and my son warm while we starve.” But Elijah, with faith in his heart, with that kind of hopeful persistence that can be irritating when we’re at our wit’s end, Elijah pushes on, “Don’t be afraid. Go ahead and make some bread for me and you and your son, and you’ll find that God will provide.” The widow puts it all on the line. But her sacrifice out of despair is turned into a sacrifice on behalf of someone else—at least here, it involves Elijah, and perhaps Elijah’s hunger reminds her of here responsibility to her son—and so she sacrifices a little self pity, but goes and gets about her task. And God does provide. God makes a miracle out of very little and they all are fed. They stay warm. And they grow in their belief and reliance upon God.

In some ways, the second part of today’s Gospel parallels this story of the widow at Zarephath. In the first part of the story, Jesus has been teaching and pointing out the hypocrisy and show of the Serious Faithful, in this case, the scribes. The long robes meant to be a means of modesty, were being used as a means of pride. Instead of doing their important work – keeping the written documents of the temple, preserving sacred texts, working as lawyers, judges, helping to convey the law of God to the people of God—these scribes were taking advantage. Jesus uses the scribes as an example how NOT to be. And then he points out the poor widow across the way.

Jesus notices how she appears to be poor, but puts in a few coins as an offering. She uses her little bit to help others who may be less fortunate than she is. I bet she sees the indifference and hypocrisy of the scribes, just as clearly as anyone else. And yet, she lets God deal with them, while she does what she thinks is the right thing to do.

I don’t know about you, but I know that for myself, there are times when I’ve not always been able to keep to my own business like that widow at the temple. There are times when I’ve been to churches or cathedrals and I admire the beautiful music and liturgical vestments, the nice buildings, and all the seemingly thriving programs. And when the collection plate comes around, I would rather not give anything, saying to myself, “Well, they clearly have plenty of money. Just look around.” Or perhaps I think my money won’t be spent correctly, or I don’t like the person in charge. There are any number of reasons for me to be stingy. And yet, when I’m most faithful, I realize that giving on behalf of others is not so much about those churches, or cathedrals, or programs. Giving has to do with my own faithfulness. Am I willing to sacrifice for others? Am I willing at least to begin to put my body and soul in a place where I can be used by God for greater good? If I remain stingy and judgmental in every situation, I close myself off not only to those who could be helped through me, but I also close myself off to God.

God invites us to put ourselves in the habit of sacrifice. Sometimes that might mean going without particular things, while we put our money aside for someone else. It might mean fasting—giving up food—while we use that money to help the hungry, or try to listen to our soul and notice our own hunger, opening ourselves up to God more fully. Living and working in community, especially Christian community, we’re sometimes called upon to sacrifice our ideas or our solutions or our desires for a particular direction or ministry—it might be that the Holy Spirit is putting energy behind someone else’s idea for now, and it’s my turn to wait, to trust, and to pray sacrificially.

As is apparent from the reading about the widow at Zarephath and the widow outside the temple with just a few coins for an offering, we are given images of what it looks like to sacrifice. But these are simply reminders for what we already know about ourselves. We do know what it means to be ready to give on behalf of others. We do know that feeling in the pit of our stomach when we sometimes choose not to help someone else, and then we regret it later. We do know what following Jesus can mean and look like.

And yet, as strong as these images of scripture are about our own learning to live sacrificially, the main point in today’s scriptures is not the goodness of widows, or our needing to protect the poor. It’s not even about the blessings that come when we begin to live sacrificially. The key to today’s scriptures, and indeed, to any understanding of sacrifice, comes from the Epistle reading, the Letter to the Hebrews.

There, we’re reminded of a sacrifice for which we can only be grateful. It is a sacrifice made not out of human striving or working or trying to be good. Rather, it’s the very sacrifice of God. The sacrifice of Jesus on the cross has worked to take away the power of sin in our lives and in our world. His sacrifice makes the way for us to see God. It makes the way in which God reaches out for us.

In the life of Jesus Christ, God gives us himself. In the death of Jesus on the cross, God gives us himself. In the resurrection from the dead, the full life of God is given to a dying world, in order to show us the power of sacrifice, the power of God to bring us “out of error into truth, out of sin into righteousness, out of death into life.”

Even though life itself (much less a bishop) may slap us in the face, we have the power of God on our side, to withstand any sacrifice we may be called to make, and to respond to God with love, with gratitude, and with joy.

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