Waking Up

A sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter, May 8, 2011. The lectionary readings are Acts 2:14a,36-41, Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17, 1 Peter 1:17-23 , and Luke 24:13-35 .


What does it take to wake you up?

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

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

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

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

We awaken in different ways and at different times.

In this morning’s first lesson, Peter follows in the footsteps of John the Baptist, trying to wake people up spiritually. His method is a bit blunt, a little like trying to wake up someone by throwing cold water on them. Peter says, “This Jesus, whom you allowed to be put to death—this is the Messiah.” “There’s a lot to answer for, so repent, get your lives in order, get right with God, be baptized and make a new start.”
Peter’s wake-up call seems effective, as the Acts of Apostles reports some three thousand persons were baptized and welcomed into the faith.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc Andrus, the Bishop of California, reminds us that Buddhists do not have an exclusive hold on the idea of “wakefulness.” Though the word, “Buddha” means “the awakened one,” Christians also have a word—the proper name, “Gregory.” Gregory means “wakeful watching.” In some ways, at our baptism, we’re all given the name “Gregory,” in that we’re called as followers of Jesus to be as alert as possible, allowing the Spirit to keep us with eyes wide open, with all senses alive to the presence and movement of God.

Bishop Andrus recalls the particularly watchful Gregory the First, Christian pope in the Sixth Century. Gregory reflected on what happens when one prays when he wrote, “in that silence of the heart, while we keep watch within through contemplation, we are as if asleep to all things that are without.” But as Andrus points out, Gregory’s wakeful watching doesn’t end in contemplative prayer, but also finds expression in active prayer.

During his papacy, things were not always great for the people on Rome. As Andrus tells it,

The citizens of Rome were nearly confined within the walls of the city, the population swollen by the many refugees, and the conditions being like that of a siege. Pope Gregory donated the produce from his family estates and organized a vast network of other farms who donated alms in the form of food for the starving of Rome. This remarkable exercise of Christian leadership deeply endeared Gregory to the people of Rome, changing the status of the Pope with respect not to power but to authority born of love.

[See “Wakefulness” at Bishop Marc Andrus’ blog, http://bishopmarc.typepad.com/blog/2010/11/wakefulness.html.]


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

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

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

It’s appropriate on this day to remember the many times perhaps we’ve been awakened by a mother—maybe gently, maybe creatively, maybe angrily. For the motherly invitations, nudges, shoves, we can be thankful, but we can also ask ourselves: Are we alert when God moves in motherly fashion and invites us to wake up?

The sufi and mystic and poet Rumi has a wonderful poem that strikes the spirit of an Emmaus awakening. He writes

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

[Translation by Azima Melita Kolin and Maryam Mafi, "Rumi: Hidden Music" HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 2001]

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

There is a whole world to wake up to.

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

Naming Resurrection

Noli me tangere by Fra Angelico

A sermon for Easter Day, April 24, 2011. The lectionary readings are Acts 10:34-43 ,Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24 , Colossians 3:1-4 , and John 20:1-18 .


Sometimes when I’m with my in-laws, it gets confusing. It’s confusing not only because there’s usually a lot of food, and conversation is had among mouths full of good things. It’s not only confusing because everyone is talking at once. And not just because the languages spoken often become a hodgepodge of Tagalog, Ilonggo, English, or “Taglish.”

But there’s a particular word that comes up a lot, and every time I hear it, it makes me turn my head. The word is diyan (from nan diyan) and it means something like, “over there,” or “that one” and to me, it sounds just like my name. And so in that corner of the room there is a rapid-fire conversation, clickety-click, “John.” I turn my head, but they’re not talking to me. Then behind me, I hear another conversation, “John.” Again, it’s not me they mean. It’s finally gotten to the point that I just tune out anything that sounds like my name, so that several times someone has actually called me and I miss it, I’m hard of hearing!

In today’s Gospel, it’s only when Mary Magdalene hears her own name that she wakes up from the nightmare she’s been living. It’s only then that she realizes what has happened, that she realizes Jesus is speaking to her, and that she realizes that God has made a miracle.

Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb expecting to encounter death. She goes to pay her respects, perhaps to say a prayer for her friend. But instead, she hears her name, and nothing is ever the same again.

Names are important. For religious Jews, the true name of God is so holy that it’s never spoken, and it’s only written in four-letter symbol. Muslims use the 99 names of God to focus their prayer and to model their hearts more closely on the attributes of God. As Christians, we have inherited the Third Commandment, not to take the Lord’s name in vain. But we also gained a new name in Holy Baptism.

When I say that we gain a new name at baptism, I don’t mean the saint’s name that some old priests insist on a child having. But I meant that at some deep level, when we are baptized, we take on the name of Christ. And the new name we get from God is stronger than any other name anyone could ever call us.

This about Mary Magdalene for a minute. Who knows what names she was known by: daughter, sister, neighbor. Scripture refers to Mary Magdalene as having been cured from “seven demons” but it was only the creative interpretation of subsequent theologians who connected Mary’s demons with sexual sin. Even though scripture says nothing to suggest Mary had been a prostitute, later preaching and art history gave her that name, and it has stuck.

Perhaps we know what it is to be given a name that doesn’t fit. We can change a name legally, but sometimes it’s harder to change the name others have given us. But no matter what we may be called by others, no matter what name may arise when we look in the mirror, God has a new name for us.

In the Bible, there are times when people encountered God and God changed their name right then. It happened to Abram, and Sarai, and it happened to Simon. It happens still. Sometimes God calls us into a new name and we struggle or resist. But other times we pick up its sound, even though we may not hear it entirely, but we turn toward God and we follow. God whispers our true name at the moment of our birth. Our true name is sung like a lullaby at our baptism. And whenever times are rough, or especially good, God speaks our name and we can sometimes hear it. And then, when our eyes close to this world, when we die, God speaks our name loud, clear, and strong. The Good Shepherd knows each by his or her own true name. We can follow because we know his voice.

Most of you know that our parish has had an especially complicated Holy Week as we have struggled to come to terms with the death last weekend of our organist and choir director, Jeff Workman. Jeff and I could never decide how his name should appear in print—he went back and forth, whether Jeff or Jeffrey. One day I asked him if, since he was such a “fancy church musician and all,” perhaps we should call him Geoffrey, with a “G.” We both laughed and he suggested that if we did, we would need to refer to him also as “Master of the Quire,” with a “Q.” I don’t know what name Jeff goes by in heaven, but I assume he and God have agreed on something, and whatever that name is, it must sound like music the beauty of which is beyond even Jeff’s own imagining.

We are called by name in this life and into the next.

How our name might sound came to me in a new way through a novel I read a couple of years ago. Andre Aciman’s, Call Me by Your Name is about a love affair, but even to describe it as such is to degrade and over-simplify. It is a book about life. It is about growing older. It is about the people who move in and out of our lives, who touch us and change us, even if they end up far, far away.

As two characters in the novel discover their love for one another, the story builds to a place where one character says to the other, “Call me by your name.”

Think about that for a moment. What might it feel like to know someone so well, to love someone so deeply, to trust someone so thoroughly that you might call them not by their name, but by your own? Such a place would be an almost unbelievably intimate place, a place of excruciating vulnerability, a place of complete surrender, a place of absolute faith.

In today’s Gospel Jesus calls Mary by her own name, and her eyes are opened and she is able to see the resurrected Christ. She proclaims her faith, she names her love and gives her heart as she calls to him, “Rabboni!.” Master. Rabbi. Teacher.

In this exchange of names there is recognition and love and acceptance. Mary understands. She is given new strength to go and proclaim what she has seen. She goes with the joy of having been the first to recognize Jesus. Though Jesus calls Mary by her name, the level of trust and intimacy and love is similar to her having been called by his name.

Friends, this Easter, the good news is that we are called by his name. We are called to live into his name and to be his body in the world. It is a name that has power over death. It is a name that means love and joy and peace. It is a name that brings everlasting life.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!
The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia!

The Comparative Advantage of God

A sermon for the Easter Vigil, April 23, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 14:10-31; 15:20-21 [Israel's deliverance at the Red Sea] , Ezekiel 37:1-14 [The valley of dry bones] , Psalm 114, Romans 6:3-11, and Matthew 28:1-10 .


As I was growing up, my father would often get my brother and me to help with projects around the house. We did things in the yard. We might re-shingle part of a roof. We would even take up old linoleum and put down new flooring. But then, there were some jobs that my father had the good sense to see, were simply beyond our ability. “You can’t beat somebody at their own trade,” he would say. And so a plumber would be called. Or a roofer. Or an arborist.

What Dad was talking about is basically what economists would call “comparative advantage.”

The Economist Paul Samuelson explains comparative advantage by giving the example of someone living in a small town. This woman is both the best lawyer and the best secretary in town. Though she might be tempted to try to do both, and indeed, would do a fine job—the notion of comparative advantage suggests that it would be to the common good, and to her advantage, to hire someone else to be the secretary. That way, she could put all of her resources into her legal practice. Turned the other way around, let’s imagine the person hired as secretary also had some skills in drafting simply briefs and legal documents. Even though the secretary could do some of the legal work, it would be to the comparative advantage of both for the secretary to be the best secretary possible and let the lawyer be the lawyer. This is the idea of comparative advantage. It’s an economic principle in trade, but it also has some practical implications in relationships of all kinds. It even has implications in the relationship we have with God.

The resurrection is about many things, but among them, I think it shows in no uncertain terms the comparative advantage of God.

It comes down to this: There are just some things God is better at than we are.
And yet, too often, we persist in trying to “play God.”

We keep calendars, and make plans, and arrange our lives (and the lives of other people) in such as way as to imagine that we are in control. Until something reminds us that we are not.

Our parish community has been reminded of just how out-of-control we are this week, with the death of our friend Jeff Workman, last weekend. As I’ve written elsewhere, I have little patience with easy explanations of death or overly-pious observations about death--- though I know full well, these are things we tell ourselves in an effort to restore calm, to suggest that there is a pattern to life, to imagine not only that “life” in under control, but at some level, to imagine that we are still in control. But death reminds us that life is unpredictable, tomorrow is unknown. Jesus wept. And the tears of God are with us in our weeping, until that day when “God shall wipe away all tears.”

Remembering the comparative advantage of God is difficult for us, partly because God has blessed us, his children, with so many gifts and abilities. We can make things. We sometimes can get along with each other. We are capable of heroic rescue and the ability to show enormous compassion. But we are also capable of oil spills, and nuclear accidents, and environmental abuse, and murder, and bigotry, and all of the other things that sometimes cause people to lose a belief in anything beyond ourselves. And yet, the brokenness of humanity is not an argument against God. Rather, it’s a reminder of just how much we need God.

We can work at peace. We can work at medicine and even the extension of life. We can work at peace and justice and freedom for all people. But at some point in all of this, there is a place for us to be ourselves—broken, fallible, sinful, human-- and to allow God to be God.

It is God who brought the people of Israel out of bondage and into freedom.
It is God who put bone to bone in the valley, and showed people just what he can do.
It is God who visited the Virgin Mary and commingled divinity with humanity.
It is God who raised Jesus from the dead.

And it is God who intervenes in our world, who intercedes in our lives, who interrupts our plans and makes for miracles—the miracle of life (a life fully lived here and now) and of life everlasting (the life to which we all are called to live in continual praise and love and laughter.)

Christ is risen from the dead,
trampling Death by death
and to those in the grave
bestowing Life. (Paschal troparion)

When we live as ourselves and allow God to be God, the full power of God is freed to reform and renew and raise us up into the fullness of Easter faith.

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

The Blessing of Now

Jesus Washing His Disciples' Feet by Ford Madox Brown (1821-1893)

A sermon for Maundy Thursday, April 21, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14, Psalm 116:1, 10-17 , 1 Corinthians 11:23-26, and John 13:1-17, 31b-35 .

The Reading from Exodus describes a meal eaten on the run. Moses puts it bluntly, “Eat it with your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand. You shall eat it hurriedly.” Moses rushes the people through their meal because God is busy rushing through Egypt and making a way for the people to go forward, a way of freedom and new life.

When Jesus and his disciples gathered in an upper room to celebrate the Passover meal, they knew the tradition from Exodus, but I think Jesus chose this place and this time not to have a hurried meal. Instead, I think he chose this time and place in order to slow down. Biblical scholars argue about whether Jesus knew exactly what the next few days would bring, or whether he just sensed things were leading in a certain direction. But whatever the case, in the midst of confusion, uncertainty, worry, fear, perhaps some doubt—Jesus chose this supper as a chance to be with his friends and to savor ever minute. To taste the bread. To chew the olives. To smell the wine. To pray with eyes open wide.

Jesus speaks with them very gently. He talks about what might be ahead. When they become anxious, he offers calm. He shows them faith. He tries to prepare them spiritually, and as a symbol of servant hood and of cleaning away the old to make room for the new, Jesus washes their feet.

Simon Peter is uncomfortable with the idea. Probably for different reasons than we might be, but the reluctance, the vulnerability, the hesitation to yield to another, to allow another to touch, and wash, and offer— some of us might be in the same place as Simon Peter, and we might be uncomfortable.

And yet, just like Jesus tries to show Simon Peter that service involves not only giving, not only “doing unto;” but it also involves receiving, and allowing other to do, so Jesus offers us a way of service that makes for communion.

This act of washing feet not only recalls the service Jesus showed his disciples, but it also reminds us of where we are. We’re not back in First Century Palestine. We’re here, in Washington, DC. We don’t (all of us) have stylized, beautiful feet like in paintings or frescoes, we have what we have. And we have one another.

If you look around, you’ll see a sight that will never be repeated again: Each of these people, sitting where he or she is sitting, looking the way they do. This particular configuration of people, in this space, with the light just as it is—will never happen exactly like this again. Water, bread, wine, bodies, emotions…. they are all rare and endangered—endangered by the worries of tomorrow, by the regrets of yesterday, by the distractions of today,

And so, God invites us to be present in this evening. To be present now.

It’s not easy to be present. I remember a time when I was ANYWHERE but in the present. I was in seminary and it was one of the most unfocused and worrisome times of my life. It was Holy Week and I was confused. I was confused about the future, confused about the way my life was going, confused about my sexuality, my friendships, my understanding of God, my vocation… you name it, and it confused me and worried me. I was living with regrets from the past, and yet I was afraid to look ahead, feeling paralyzed by fears of the future. And then in church we sang a hymn.

Now the silence, now the peace,
Now the empty hands uplifted;
Now the kneeling, now the plea,
Now the Father’s arms in welcome;

Now the hearing, now the power,
Now the vessel brimmed for pouring;
Now the body, now the blood,
Now the joyful celebration;

Now the wedding, now the songs,
Now the heart forgiven, leaping;
Now the Spirit’s visitation,
Now the Son’s epiphany;
Now the Father’s blessing,
Now, now, now. (The Hymnal, no. 333, words by Jaroslav Vajda, 1919-2008)

God is here NOW.

Just as Jesus used the Upper Room as a time to be with his friends, so this night provides us an opportunity to be present. A lot has gone before us. The days ahead will bring their challenges, but we are here, in this place. And God is here, in this place, now.

Believing in Jesus

Mary anoints the feet of Jesus by Frank Wesley

From the All Souls Weekly for April 24, 2011.

On Monday of Holy Week we read John 12:1-11. We heard how Jesus visited Lazarus, Mary, and Martha soon after he had resuscitated Lazarus from the dead. It was during this visit that Mary took some expensive perfume and began to anoint the feet of Jesus. Judas, who very soon would betray Jesus, looked on and criticized Mary for her lavish gesture, suggesting that the perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor. But Jesus answers him by suggesting that Judas is missing the point. The thing that matters most is not the perfume. The thing that matters is not even the act of Mary’s anointing.

Instead, the crucial thing is that Mary believes in Jesus. She believes that he has healed her brother and brought him back to life, and she believes that somehow Jesus is the key to ongoing life, to life at its richest, to life with God. The religious rulers were right to worry about this “belief in Jesus,” because such belief did, can, and always will change the world.

Belief in Jesus and his life-giving body (both the Body we receive in Holy Communion, and the Body we form with other believers) has sustained us this week at All Souls.

It was in the afternoon of Palm Sunday that some of us learned of the death of our friend Jeff Workman, our organist and director of music. After we waited for his family to be notified, we began to share the sad news with the vestry, the choir, and the extended parish community. Hearing that a young-looking man in his fifties had died of a heart attack did little to comfort or help make sense of the situation.

When someone dies, I do not care to hear theological justifications or pious clichés. I don’t care if God needs another angel and I don’t think there is always a “reason for everything.” Life is richer and more complex than that. Life (and death) is more mysterious.

But what I do know is that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. Faith in him brought Lazarus out of the cave. Faith in Jesus helped the criminal of the cross to see paradise. Such faith will carry us through any difficulty, any trial, and any heartache. Belief in Jesus will carry us from Good Friday to Easter, from tears to laughter, and from death to life.

Out of the cave

The Raising of Lazarus, Duccio, 1308-11. Kimbell Art Museum, Fort Worth, TX.

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent, April 10, 2011. The lectionary readings are Ezekiel 37:1-14, Psalm 130, Romans 8:6-11 , John 11:1-45 .

Some of you have visited the Roman catacombs, those underground caverns and passageways beneath the city of Rome, where many of the first Christians are buried. Those first believers would gather there to remember their beloved dead, and they would celebrate an early form of Communion, remembering the meal Christ celebrated with his disciples and breaking bread with one another. Some of these catacombs are decorated, and there are at least 40 images showing the Raising of Lazarus. Many from the 2nd century, these images usually show just two people. They show Jesus doing the raising, and they show Lazarus being raised-- Lazarus in his grave-clothes, all bandaged up, looking like a mummy. But by the 4th century, the picture changes.

The depiction changes as icons of the Raising of Lazarus still show Jesus and Lazarus, but they also begin to include Martha and Mary, Lazarus’ sisters. Also, there are the disciples, the crowd, the curious and nosey, and eventually the picture evolves to the point that usually one of the people is holding his nose. This illustrates that point that Lazarus has been dead for four days . . . and smells like it. Jesus says, “Lazarus, come out,” and Lazarus does. Jesus then says, “Unbind him, and let him go.” And so the people step forward. They do so as Sylvia Plath imagines it from Lazarus’ point of view,

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

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

In the Orthodox tradition, the story of the raising of Lazarus gets extra special treatment. The Saturday before Palm Sunday is known as Lazarus Saturday—the focus of the day is on this sign of the power of Jesus, of life over death, of love over despair. For the Orthodox, the week leading up to Lazarus Saturday is spent as a sort of sustained meditation upon this story.

On Monday, Jesus hears that his friend is sick.
On Tuesday, it is heard that Lazarus is very sick and is dying.
On Wednesday, Lazarus is dead and is buried.
On Thursday, it is heard that for two days, Lazarus has been dead.
On Friday, there is expectation, for tomorrow Lazarus will be raised.

And so, throughout the liturgies of the week, Christians are invited to participate in the story, to live with it for a bit, to see where the story intersects with their own lives.

And if we think about it, there probably are intersections.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It sings the invitation:

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

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

Seeing Clearly

A sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent, April 3, 2011. The lectionary readings are 1 Samuel 16:1-13, Psalm 23, Ephesians 5:8-14 , and John 9:1-41 .

Many of you are familiar with St. Teresa of Avila, the 16th century woman who was part mystic, part nun and part religious reformer, but she was also a real person with real feelings and emotions. She rode all over Spain in a horse and wagon, founding convents and confronting local authorities, and did it all with a bad back that gave her almost constant pain. She said her prayers, but her prayers were honest. At one point tired, feeling defeated and stuck in the mud, she is reported to have shaken her fist at heaven and said simply, “God, if this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few of them.”

Sometimes it’s lonely being a Christian. The life of faith can feel that way sometimes. We wonder why it’s so hard. We wonder why things don’t come easier. We might even wonder what the use of believing in God is, since we (as well as others) suffer, are met with challenge, and face illness and death. Other Christians do dumb things and sometimes we’re asked to explain or defend them: non-Christians love to bring up the crusades, or problems in the Roman Catholic Church, or the crazy preacher in Florida who can do nothing better with his time than burn the holy books of other religions. And while we are responsible only for what WE know, and what WE see, we wonder, “Why can’t every Sunday be Rose Sunday, ‘Laetare,’ filled with rejoicing and life and joy?” Why can’t life be filled with roses?

But we know that every Sunday is not Rose Sunday, and some days seem more to be filled with weeds than blossoms. But we’re not alone in getting cut by thorns as we reach for roses. We’re not alone, in the history of faith, with our struggles. Lovers of God have dealt with this from early on.

The church that first heard Saint John’s Gospel knew something about pain and rejection. John warns them, “They will persecute you,” (15:20). “They will put you out of the synagogues; indeed, the hour is coming when whoever kills you will think he is offering service to God,” John says. (16:2)

In today’s Gospel we hear about a man who is healed. It’s similar to another story in John’s Gospel in which another man is also healed, and he is told to take up his pallet and walk. In both stories, the healed person gets into trouble. Neither person was initially asking for help. They weren’t asking for healing. They certainly weren’t asking to be put on the radar of the religious authorities and be made the center of attention for their scrutiny. But that’s what happens and they’re left to try to explain the mystery of God’s ways.

I use the term, “religious authorities” with some intention, so maybe I’ll say a word about this. Sometimes people say the Gospel of John is anti-Semitic because, over and over again it talks about “the Jews.” “The Jews” did not believe that the man born blind had received his sight. People fear “the Jews,” and it’s “the Jews” who are putting people out of the synagogue. But when the Gospel of John says “the Jews” he doesn’t mean the whole people, or even the whole religious people. He means the Jewish authorities, the religious leaders, leaders who (in his day and in many other times become self-obsessed and lose a sense of belonging to God). The Jewish people, many of whom followed Jesus, had very little to say in the matter.

In today’s Gospel and in many other places, the religious authorities miss the point of what’s going on right before their eyes. They become caught up with when the healing is done, how it is done, who sinned and who is paying for that sin… They are blind to what God is doing and blind to how God is healing. It’s the seeing, who are blind.

But the “blind man,” sees. And our scriptures today invite us to see.

In the first lesson the prophet Samuel goes in search of a new king. The sons of Jesse are paraded in front of him, but none of them measures up, though each might initially look like a potential king. But it’s the one who’s out keeping the sheep, David, who is called. Samuel stops, looks and prays. And Samuel sees.

The Gospel about the man born blind is read on this Fourth Sunday in Lent, as we move with Jesus into Jerusalem. With Jesus, we attempt to sort out the various voices and appearances, the things that clutter up our vision and get in the way. And with the blind man who receives his sight, we are invited to stop, look, pray and see.

The religious leaders of Jesus’ day can’t see because of several things blocking their sight.
They don’t think it’s possible to see healing from Jesus.
They don’t expect to see anything new.
They have firm ideas about what they might see, and so they’re not able to see anything different.

Some years ago, I was visiting Jerusalem with a group from my seminary. On one morning, we had some time by ourselves, and so I went back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre with the intention of simply hanging out for a while. I thought I could maybe find a quiet place somewhere in that holy space and simply absorb some of the spirit. I found a seat in an empty chapel and began praying. At one point, I opened my eyes and realized a couple of older, Orthodox nuns were had come in and were sitting near me. Then a few more people came in. And then I began to hear a tremendous racket. A verger was leading a procession right into this chapel—the verger had a great big pole and was smacking it on the floor as this long procession of monks and priests and other important-looking people walked right into the chapel where I was—where I was now trapped. I couldn’t go out the door I had come in, since there was a parade of people coming in. And yet I couldn’t see any other exit. There I sat, this tall guy wearing a bright red shirt and khakis, in the midst of this sea of black clothing, incense and worship in another language.

And yet, I felt invisible. It was as thought no one even saw me. My presence there was so odd, so unexpected, so unreal as compared with what they ordinarily encountered in that space, that there was an aspect of invisibility to me. I leaned over to a woman near me and asked her, “Excuse me, how might I get out?” She ignored me. Then I asked louder, and it was as though I had broken some kind of spell. She looked at me with a look of absolute horror, but seemed to understand my question, and pointed to a the iconostasis, the screen covered with icons, and I so I got up and headed that way, saw a door and made my escape.

I wonder how often that happens in other ways in my life? How often am I blinded to what might be right before me because I don’t expect something new, or don’t quite recognize something that has changed, or perhaps don’t slow down long enough in what I’m doing to notice what is before me?

The religious leaders missed the work of God right before their eyes. But with eyes of faith, the blind man regained his sight, and many who followed Jesus had their eyes opened to the possibilities and promises of God.

Even though every day doesn’t contain roses, and even though the healing of our own ailments may come more slowly than we might hope, the loving power of Christ is to heal and to help, and he offers us his love this day.

May the love of Jesus Christ open our eyes to the depths of God’s love and the ways in which we might be a part of God’s healing in the world.

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

Amen.

Celebrating the Life of Regina Dading

The Sixth Station: Veronica wipes the Brow of the Lord

A sermon for the celebration of the life of Regina Dading on April 2, 2011. The scripture readings are Isaiah 25:6-9 and John 14:1-6.

There’s a picture in the back of the church of Regina and a pigeon has landed on her hand. For a long time, that was all I knew of Regina Dading. That picture was on the cover of the All Souls Parish Profile, the kind of “resume of the church” that was used to look for a new priest after Father John David left in 2005. And so, some time early in 2007 I downloaded the parish profile from your website and I entered the search process. Whenever I looked at the profile to remind myself of some aspect of All Souls, or before I wrote anything for the search committee, or prepared to meet with people from the committee or the vestry, I would take out that parish profile, and would see, first of all, the picture of that lady with the pigeon.

I decided that she must be a character. First of all, she must be the sort of character a pigeon would like—and I don’t think pigeons like everyone. But second, I realized that she must also be the kind of person who has a good enough sense of humor that she would not only allow the church to put her picture on the cover of the parish profile, but that she also just might get a huge kick out of it. I’ve only recently learned that the picture was taken in Italy, when Regina and some of the people from church took a tour. So that’s an Italian pigeon, which explains why it would have such good taste as to pick out Regina for a friend.

Because of her picture on the cover of the parish profile, Regina, for me, was the “face of All Souls.” She, and the other pictures and the text, were all I had to go on—but as I’ve learned over time, I don’t think the search committee could have found a better picture to personify the history, the humor, the tenacity, the quirkiness, and the deep devotion and love for God that are so much of the spirit of this place.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “In my father’s house there are many rooms.” The Father’s House is a place Jesus has prepared for us, so when we get there, it will seem familiar in all the important ways. The Father’s House is no doubt a bit brighter now that Regina is there. And it’s probably a little bit louder, with the combined giggles of Regina and Helen Anderson, and so many of the people they loved in this place who have now gone to a place of even deeper fellowship, better food (even better beer), and a place where, as scripture says, God shelters them with his presence. “[Where] they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water; and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (Revelation 7:15-16)

Though Regina is in another place, much of her spirit continues to guide and teach us, to inspire us to be our best, and to remind us that there is no separation between the Holy Table of God (the Altar) and the holy tables of fellowship in the undercroft, or in our homes, or anywhere we might break bread with another person and share the love of God in Jesus Christ.

I don’t know what Regina thought about the Stations of the Cross that were installed at All Souls a few years ago. But there’s one station, in particular, that makes me think of Regina. It’s the Sixth Station.

Traditionally, the Sixth Station over there is the one where we remember the moment that a woman wiped the face of Jesus. Tradition has given her the name Veronica. But it’s not that someone was actually named Veronica. The name comes from “vera icon,” meaning “true image.”
And so Veronica is an icon of what it looks like to love God. In some ways, the fact that she is a woman who simply showed up and did what was needed at the right time, a woman whose name is not known by many—Veronica symbolizes so many women who have kept the faith over the centuries. Certainly in this parish, during the leanest times, it was the women who kept things going. They kept the doors open, the silver polished, and the stomachs full. They kept the stomachs full not just of church members, but of anyone who would stop by, or anyone in need. Though the Church remembers Veronica at the Sixth Station as wiping the brow of the Lord Jesus on his way to Calvary, tradition does not say what Veronica did next. But I think that if she were anything like the “church women” I know, she probably went home to put food on the table, knowing that people would soon be hungry and need to do something with their grief. Since it’s hard to know what to do with grief, with anxiety, with fear… it’s as good as anything to share a meal with friends. In such a meal we find strength. We find hope. We find God.

As we share Holy Communion, we can do so in the faith and knowledge that Regina is with us celebrating, laughing, and loving. As we continue to share a meal in the undercroft afterwards, again her spirit will be very much a part of what we do. And finally, even as we leave the church later today, her love and her witness to God’s love go with us and help us to find our way today and in the days ahead.

Thanks be to God for Regina, for her laughter and for her love.

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

Thirst

Girls at a village well

A sermon for the Third Sunday in Lent, March 27, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 17:1-7, Romans 5:1-11 , Psalm 95, and John 4:5-42.


When I think of the season of Lent and of today’s Gospel story about the Samaritan woman at the well, I remember a particular church I went in, several years ago. It was Lent. There was purple on the altar and the pulpit and lectern, like most churches use for this season. The church also had a free-standing baptismal font in the back, near the main entrance. This meant that as one entered the church through the main doors, one would walk right by the baptismal font. It was usually filled with Holy Water, and one could take a little, perhaps make the sign of the cross with the wet finger, and remember one’s own baptism.

But on this particular day, as I walked into the church and walked by the font, I was surprised to find no water. There was no water, but the font was not empty. Instead, it was filled with sand and some sort of dried twigs. It made a point having to do with the season of Lent. This church was waiting on Easter for the font to be filled. It was waiting on Easter for new water and that particular congregation was reminding itself that it was waiting for Easter for new life. Until then, it would acknowledge its thirst.

Today’s scriptures are about thirst.

In the first reading we hear how the people of Israel feel like they’re about to die of thirst. It’s a literal thirst, to be sure. But it also seems to be a partly spiritual thirst. After wandering in the desert, they begin to wonder: Has the Lord forgotten us? Is Moses up to the task of leading us? They’re stuck in a cycle of bickering and fussing with each other, of feeling like they’re being tested. Will they ever be relieved of this thirst, this doubt, this frustration? God hears their prayer and Moses makes a miracle. As the psalmist sings, “He made streams come out of the rock, and caused waters to flow down like rivers. He smote the rock so that water gushed out and streams overflowed.” (Psalm 78)

But water doesn’t always come so easily. In the Gospel, water is almost bargained over. We have this wonderful (if long) story about Jesus and the Samaritan woman. It takes place around water, with water, about water. It’s a great conversation between the woman and Jesus. There’s a give and take, a back and forth about it. The Samaritan woman is skeptical. She’s cautious. She wonders if Jesus is just another charmer whose promises are empty. But she still listens, because she’s thirsty for some good news, some glimmer of new life. Responding to her questions, Jesus explains about the water that he can give. He can give water that quenches thirst, water that washes, that completes us, and buoys us up into the loving arms of God.

This story is important because it shows us Jesus going outside the social norms of his day and moving beyond the racial and gender norms of his culture to befriend this Samaritan woman. It reminds us that Christian faith, at its best, moves outward, invites and encourages.

The story is also important because it shows us Jesus as the Lord of Creation—of all creation-- and that includes water. The water is physical and literal, but it is also spiritual. It symbolizes faith itself—our ability to believe that Jesus came, died and rose for us. The water is also hope—hope for God’s protection and guidance, hope for God’s good purposes in our lives and in our world, and hope for our eternal life in God. And finally, the water represents charity—water that is shared, faith that is shared, belief that is shared.

The Samaritan woman is offered living water by Jesus and it’s interesting to me to notice what she does and what she does NOT do. She does not commit herself to a life of meditation upon the water. She does not build a shrine there at the well, a shrine to spend all her days at. She does not start a new form of worship around the water. Instead, she becomes a disciple. She becomes a witness and she goes around telling people about Jesus. In other words, she doesn’t hoard the water or save it up for another dry spell. She goes out offering Living Water to others.

The season of Lent invites us to notice our thirst. For what do we hunger and thirst? Do you hunger for health or healing? For relationship, for someone to love or someone to love you back? Do you hunger for meaningful work, or for a new start with someone, or for some burst of new energy or creativity in your life? We don’t know exactly what was going on in the life of the Samaritan woman who met Jesus at the well, but she had the faith to come thirst, and she had the courage to ask Jesus for water.

In a great old hymn from the 19th century, Fanny Crosby invites us to come.

Come with thy sins to the fountain, Come with thy burden of grief; Bury them deep in its waters, There thou wilt find a relief.

Come as thou art to the fountain, Jesus is waiting for thee; What though thy sins are like crimson, White as the snow they shall be.

Come and be healed at the fountain, List to the peace speaking voice; Over a sinner returning Now let the angels rejoice.

I began this morning by talking about a church I went into that had taken out the water from its baptismal font for the season of Lent. While I understand the imagery, and appreciate the attempt to use a visual to help people think about the season, I think the image can be confusing. Even though we thirst for all sorts of things. Even though we thirst for God, the font of living water is never empty. The church is NEVER without water, if we will look for it from God.

With the persistence, the tenacity, the honesty, and the faith of the woman at the well, let us ask God to quench our thirst not just at Easter, but this day and always.

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

Born from above

Nicodemus Coming to Jesus by Henry Ossawa Tanner (1859-1937)

A sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, March 20, 2011. The lectionary readings are Genesis 12:1-4a, Psalm 121 , Romans 4:1-5, 13-17, and John 3:1-17 .


On the night before Easter, at the Great Vigil of Easter, the church gathers to hear again how God has been working to save his people, from the beginning of time. God saved the People of Israel. God saved those who met Jesus and followed him, and God saves us still. One of the scripture readings often heard in that liturgy is from the Book of Ezekiel (36:24-28). God says

I will . . . bring you into your own land. I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean from all your impurities . . . A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you . . . .

A new heart and a new spirit. This promise comes when people are down and out. They’re tired. They’re beaten. They’ve almost given up. But God gives hope and God makes a promise. Easter, itself, with the resurrection of Jesus Christ, brings the ultimate in a new creation, and all of Easter is a prolonged celebration and meditation on what it means for us, that we have the hope of eternal life, but in today’s scripture, we get a foretaste of God’s life-giving Spirit. We get a glimmer of it in the first reading, and we get a close-up view in the Gospel.

The Reading from Genesis only mentions Abram. God tells Abram and Sarai to “get up and go.” God has a plan for them, and everything is going to be different. Abram and Sarai follow God into a new land, and it seems like over and over again, their faith is put to the test. If they had one view of how their life might go, how things might turn out, it seems like, at every corner, God does something else. This reaches a highpoint when God reveals to Abram and Sarai that they are going to have a child, even in their old age, and they both get a name-change marking the occasion. One would think that after all they had been through, they might be used to God’s way of seeming to change the nature of the game mid-course, but they don’t seem any more accustomed to it than we might be. When Sarah hears that she’s going to give birth at her old age, she laughs, and indeed, that’s how Isaac gets which means, “laughter, or she laughs.”

Laughter is a common response when we finally begin to see what might be unfolding for us in God’s plan. But before the laughter, there are other emotions: fear, loneliness, heartache, confusion, anger… you name it.

Nicodemus must have been going through some of this when he hears about Jesus. We don’t know what had changed or shifted in his life to put him in this place of potentiality, but whatever it was, Nicodemus was tired of the old. He had tried things his way. And so, cautiously at first, Nicodemus approaches Jesus in the night.

Nicodemus is a Pharisee, one of the spiritual elite, a man of social standing and respect and probably known by many of the other religious leaders. He is referred to as the “ruler of the Jews,” so he must have been of special rank and authority. He knows the scriptures. He is educated. He can carry a conversation with the most sophisticated people around and he is nobody’s fool.

But somehow Nicodemus has also come to a turning point in his life. Something has to give. He notices that Jesus is unlike others. Jesus is more than a great teacher. There is something there that not only challenges the mind, but it also somehow makes a claim on the heart. Jesus makes a claim on his whole life. And so Nicodemus draws closer. He comes to meet Jesus by night. He comes by night because he has a lot to lose. He is hesitant. He is afraid.

Jesus tells him that if he wants to see the kingdom of God, he has to be born anew. Born of water and spirit. Born again. Born from above. Born with new belief that God loves the world so very much, that God has come into the world to save it through Jesus.

This is a game-change. Nicodemus probably thought he had life all planned out. Everything was in place, but now this. Nicodemus was fulfilled, or so his thought. He was full, for sure. He’s very “full.” He’s filled with information and knowledge. He’s filled with beliefs and opinions. He’s filled with years of religious practice, of fasting and almsgiving, and praying at the temple, and doing charitable work. Nicodemus has reached old age by living a good, careful and prudent life. And so, why the change now? What is Jesus talking about?

Because God has even more new life planned. And somehow through Nicodemus, others, too, are going to be saved.

It’s tempting (for me, at least) to thing of Lent as a natural time for spiritual growth. We can see things blooming and blossoming outdoors, and so we can imagine that it is within the normal and predictable order of things that growth might be taking new form in us, as well. And while some of that may be true, the kind of spiritual rebirth experienced by Nicodemus is anything but natural. It comes out of nowhere. It doesn’t follow the normal order of things. It involves his being “born again,” or to translate the phrase differently, Nicodemus is “born from above.”

Though we might like to imagine that life follows a predictable course, our actual living tells us otherwise, doesn’t it? A diagnosis from the doctor can change everything. A changing economy or downsizing can change everything. A disaster can change the life we thought we were living. A death of someone we love can disorient us and seem to change everything. And we find we’re in that wilderness place with Abram and Sarai, unable to see or hear God’s promise yet. We’re like Nicodemus stumbling in the dark, unable to make our way just yet, not seeing that there’s any light.

In such times, words often fail. When someone’s house burns down, the worse thing to say is, “You can rebuild.” When someone loses a child or tries to have a child and can’t, one of the worst things to say is, “You can always try again.” And when someone is out of work, though we don’t know what to say to be encouraging or helpful, it’s usually not so helpful for us to say, “You’ll find another job.”

While all these phrases are the things we say because we don’t know what to say, the person with the fire, the loss, the emptiness, is where he or she is. For us to want them to move into another place too quickly is to refuse to see where she or he is. These people (our friends, our family, ourselves) are in a place that feels wild and uncharted. It can feel like a place of loneliness, a place of death even, and a place of ashes. Words don’t sound the same in this place, even when we can hear them.

But while words often fail, we do have one another. When someone near us is struggling, it’s not always the most helpful thing to recommend books, or plot strategy, or offer words of encouragement- though all of these things (of course) have their place. The most powerful reminder of hope in God is to offer ourselves. If there is some part of us that has known God’s rebirth in our lives, if there is some part of us that has felt the rekindling of God’s spirit even when we had been down… if there is some part of us that can live as a witness to God’s power of new life, of new birth, then our presence itself can be a sign of hope for the person who is lost. Abraham and Sarah became spiritual leaders because they had been through the wilderness and survived. Nicodemus became helpful to others because he had gone through his own “dark night of the soul” and had been found by Light again, so he could witness to the light.

A friend of mine was recently reflecting on the time she lost her job a few years ago. With the loss of her job, not only did she lose her income, her health insurance, her sense of stability, but she also lost her identity, since her job was so much a part of her own self-understanding. But, as she puts it, after a while, she realized that she needed to believe in her own journey again. Though she had always thought she had life planned and plotted out, clearly, something else was going to happen. Life wasn’t over, just changed. She had lost one identity, but life was inviting her to find a new one. She had to regain belief in her own journey, that even though the pathway might be through the fog, with the help of others, and with the help of God, she would make it.

What we can offer the person or the people who are suffering is our own strength, witness, and support. If we can convey in some way that we, ourselves have known what it is to be lost in the wilderness and then born from above, this is the hope we can share.

Just a few weeks ago we observed Ash Wednesday. Though the liturgy and prayers of that day can sometimes feel heavy, the day allows us to re-locate ourselves in the drama of life, and death, and new life. We acknowledge the places that are broken and begin to clear away the wreckage. And we allow God to begin again with us. To re-frame the words of Psalm 51,

God helps us to hear of joy and gladness, that the body that was broken might rejoice. God creates a new heart, and a right spirit within us. God gives us the joy of his saving help again, and sustains us with his bountiful spirit. We are delivered from death, and given new lives for praise.

Jesus says that we can be born again. We can be born from above. This happens again and again and again. With God’s Spirit, we ARE (even now) being born from above.

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

Ash Wednesday

A homily for Ash Wednesday, March 9, 2011. The lectionary readings are Joel 2:1-2,12-17, Psalm 103 or 103:8-14, 2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10, and Matthew 6:1-6,16-21.

Often when Jesus tried to explain something about God, he used a story. Jesus told stories from long ago and stories from his own day. When I try to think through the various strains and struggles of Ash Wednesday, I think of a story. But I think of a story from a few years ago.

In 2004 Marilynne Robinson wrote a book called Gilead. The novel takes the form of a long letter from one man to his son. It’s a novel that is really filled stories and memories, with regrets and with hopes. John Ames is the narrator, and he’s a preacher from a family of preachers. In one story, Ames recalls the time that a nearby church had been struck by lightening and burned down. The pulpit was still left, but most of the pews had been reduced to firewood. The people had all gotten together to clean up what remained of the church. “It was like a camp meeting and a picnic,” Ames writes his son. It started raining, but lightly, like a mist. The people sang hymns like “Blessed Jesus” and “The Old Rugged Cross.” They gathered up all the burned books, and made two graves for them, one for the bibles and one for the hymnals. The minister said a prayer over them. The women put the food out while everyone kept working. Ames describes what it looked like with the rain so gently covering all that had burned. “The ashes turned liquid in the rain,” he says, “and the men who were working in the ruins got entirely black and filthy, till you would hardly know one from another.” Ames remembers that his father brought him a biscuit that was covered in soot from his father’s hands. When the child looks at it, his father looks back and says, “Never mind that.”

He says, “There’s nothing cleaner than ash.” [p. 95]

Nothing cleaner than ash.

That sounds strange. Most of us will wash our faces later, to get clean. Ashes seem to stain and are dirty, it makes little sense that they might be clean.

And yet what we enact today has a lot to do with our being made clean. We take on ashes as a sign of penance, as an outward expression of what we might sometimes feel inwardly. That we have done bad things. That we have misused God’s gifts. In just a few minutes we take on ashes and say Psalm 51. The ashes begin to clean. We pray a litany of penitence, and they clean a little more. And then we hear words of promise. We are promised that God pardons and absolves, that we will be forgiven, that God forgets our sins. We hear the promise that we can be made clean, that we will be made clean. And so, there is nothing, really, cleaner than ash.

In the Gospel, Jesus assumes that his disciples will be taking on various spiritual disciplines. He doesn’t say, “If you give alms, if you pray, if you fast.” Jesus says, WHEN you give money, WHEN you pray, WHEN you fast. Don’t make such a big deal out of it. There’s no need to show off. This is not a spiritual competition. Rather, be honest. Learn humility. Put your heart in the right place. Come clean.

Lent began as a season of preparation, and it was especially meant for the preparation of those to be baptized at Easter. At their baptism, the brand new Christian was be outfitted in a white garment-- a new, clean, white garment. The Church says to these people, whether adults or children, “you have become a new creation and have clothed yourself in Christ. Receive this baptismal garment and bring it unstained to the judgment seat of our Lord Jesus Christ so that you may have eternal life.

The Good News for us is that this promise is not just for those being baptized. It is for all of us who are open to God’s grace and forgiveness.

Beginning with clean, black ashes, in this new season, may we be made holy and new.

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

Transfigured by Forebears

A sermon for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, March 6, 2011. The lectionary readings are Exodus 24:12-18, Psalm 2, 2 Peter 1:16-21, and Matthew 17:1-9.


I’m reading a book by a chef named Gabrielle Hamilton. [Blood, Bones & Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, Random House, 2011.] She runs a little restaurant called Prune in New York, and she’s known for being as up front and honest in her speaking as she is in her cooking. Her food is unpretentious and uncomplicated, but creative and nurturing. The book tells part of why both she and her food are the way they are.

She begins the book by describing these amazing summer parties given by her family when she was growing up. As she describes the building of the charcoal fire, the roasting of lambs, the lighting of luminaries through a meadow, and then all the interesting, creative people who would attend, it’s tempting to read that description and think, “wow, what a childhood. I might be a famous chef, too, if I grew up that way,” with a French mother and an artist father who both seem a little “larger than life.”

But then, Hamilton reveals that childhood was not only a long summer party. Her parents divorce. The family goes in different directions, and the whole picture changes. I realize that the story sounds the way it does, the people seem the way they do, because of Hamilton’s telling. By deeply engaging her family (and indeed, through the rest of the book, by deeply engaging other significant people in her life) the author grows stronger. She grows into herself.

I don’t think it’s too much to say that she is “transfigured” by those who have gone before her. She is transfigured by her forbears.

I like that word, “forebear.” Not only does it avoid the awkward construction of having to say both “forefather and foremother,” but it is also more expressive and personal somehow than simply saying “ancestor.” A forebear is someone who has gone before us—whether related to us by blood or by some other means, but a forebear also puts into my mind the idea that even as I might “carry” a forebear with me (inside my head, inside my heart, sometimes in my appearance, in my way of speech, or in my mannerisms), my forebears also sometimes carry me. The memory of them, the presence of them sometimes carries me and gives me strength.

I think this happens for Jesus in today’s Gospel. He and some of his disciples go up a mountain. Matthew’s Gospel doesn’t say what they were doing, whether they were all at prayer, or just Jesus was praying alone, whether they were discussing theology, or simply taking a hike. But there in the midst of their day, Moses and Elijah appear. This appearance is not random, but very specifically related to Jesus. It’s often understood that the appearance of Moses represents the Law of God, and the appearance of Elijah represents the tradition of the prophets. Their presence endorses Jesus as the fulfillment of those two great traditions in Judaism. And then to underscore the meaning of the vision to the disciples, the scripture says Jesus was “transfigured before them.” His face shines like the sun. His clothes begin to glimmer. And then the disciples hear the voice of God saying, “This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!”

The presence of Moses and Elijah should not be underestimated. The first reading from Exodus reminds us of the power of Moses. He received the Ten Commandments from God. He was the go-between for the people with God. God worked through Moses to liberate the people from slavery in Egypt. Moses walked with them through the desert. Moses led them to the very edge of the Promised Land. As if Moses were not enough, Elijah is there, too.

Elijah was believed to have raised people from the dead, brought fire down from heaven, and then when his time was ended on earth, Elijah was thought to have been taken up into heaven in a chariot of fire.

Moses and Elijah were powerful people for Jesus to contend with. He could have chosen a different way of dealing with them. He might have set himself up as being so different from the old ways as to be almost unrecognizable. But instead, Jesus made peace with these two powerful traditions within Judaism. He made peace with his spiritual forebears. And through that process, he was transfigured—he was changed with more strength, with more purpose, with a deeper sense of God’s presence and power.

Transfiguration occurs for Jesus when he recognizes, when he befriends, and when he accepts his spiritual forebears. It happens for us in similar ways. It happens in a variety of areas.

Transfiguration happens in institutions. As a parish that is one hundred years old this year, we have the opportunity for unearthing some of our history, picking it up, and looking at it closely. We can explore how we came to be an independent congregation from St. Alban’s. We can look at the role the parish played in some of the major events of the diocese and the world. We can give thanks (especially on hot days) that this was the first congregation in the diocese to be air-conditioned. (But we can also be aware that most of that HVAC system remains the original equipment and needs to be replaced.) It’s an opportunity for us to study our history, but then decide what we want to do about it. Do we live into the future with an idealized version of what we should be? Or do we get about making our own history, while still being thankful and mindful of the past?

Transfiguration happens in leadership roles, whether one is the head of a women’s circle, the coach of a soccer team, or the CFO of a company. As the rector, I encounter possibilities for transfiguration in my role. All Souls has had some strong rectors. But each new priest has had to deal with the legacy of his forebears. Henry Hatch Dent Sterrett had to follow his father, Dr. James MacBride Sterrett, a dynamic and well-loved priest. Rev. Blackwelder had to follow the powerful legacy of what had been essentially a family business of the Sterretts. Rev. Mackov had to follow Blackwelder, a well-known personality in the local media, and a conservative force in the diocese. Rev. Cave had problems of his own, though some of this may have been in reaction to the powerful legacies he followed. And Father Van Dooren stepped into a church that was largely empty, with stained-glass windows covered with soot, and yet, he found a handful of people thirsty for the Spirit of God. And now, here I am. I don’t have Moses and Elijah looking over my back, but sometimes it feels like my forebears are just as formidable.

We all encounter these opportunities for transfiguration—in our work, in our families, in our organizations, and in our personal relationships. We become transfigured by our forebears when we recognize, we befriend, and we accept.

Recognizing. It’s important to recognize the forces of history and presence that are alive and well around us and in us. Notice them, acknowledge them. Thank them for showing up. Learn about them. What motivated them? What led them on? What held them back? What shaped them?

Befriending. But then, the second step in transfiguration has to do with befriending the forebears. Befriending simply means coming to terms. While we thanked the forebears in noticing their presence, in befriending, we also might shake their hands and thank them to leave now, their work is done. Befriending may include forgiveness. But the coming to terms with our ancestors, our forerunners, the ghosts in our closets, the spirits that invade our relationships (the former spouses or partners)—the befriending of our forebears will allow for the third aspect of transfiguration: acceptance.

Accepting. Having acknowledged, having made some attempt to befriend, God helps us accept who we are in our current position, or relationship, or standing. We can accept all that’s gone into the equation, and we can look forward to the future with new faith and with the confidence that we are not alone. God allows us to move along with the Communion of Saints (and the community of sinners).

I know a lot of people are familiar with the little poem or saying called “Footprints in the Sand.” The poem is about looking over one’s life and noticing that during the hardest times, there appears to be only one set of footprints in the sand. The speaker wonders where God has been during those times, only to hear that those places, with only one set of footprints, are the places where God carried him. This idea can be a powerful reminder that we’re never alone. But in reality, I don’t think the true picture looks like those photographs and posters of “Footprints in the Sand.” At least not for me. Instead of just one set of footprints during the difficult times, I think the picture looks more like a beach party has happened, or a mob scene of confused and unconnected footprints, a whole cluster of footprints, representing all of those who have held me up, prodded me from the past, or taken my hand to lead me into the future.

To imagine the Transfiguration as including a transforming of relationships is in no way to diminish the presence of God or the moments that seem miraculous. It is, instead, simply to affirm that often, God transfigures us with help of other people, God working through them to change us, and get us ready for whatever lies ahead.

For Jesus, the Transfiguration changed him and strengthened him for the way to Jerusalem, the way that would go through the Cross, through death and into resurrection.

As we enter into a new season of Lent this next week, may God continue to work through us toward transfiguration and renewal.

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

Remembering Mary Anne Hitchcock (1929-2011)

The Bean Feast by Jacob Jordaens (1593-1678)

A homily for the Celebration of the Life of Mary Anne Hitchcock. The scripture readings were Wisdom 2:1-5,9; Psalm 23, Revelation 21:2-7, and John 2:1-11.


I sometimes used to wonder where Mary got her training for Coffee Hour. She had well-developed skills for elbowing her way to the food, early and often. When I learned that she had spent some of her childhood in New York City, I wondered if perhaps she had trained at Zabar’s, or maybe she developed her skills closer by at Rodman’s on any given Saturday morning. Or maybe because she was small, she learned early on that she had to stick up for herself. Having one sibling who was 10 years older, again—she had make herself known. And that, she did.

Mary made herself known to us with her brilliant red hair, with her voice that was very willing to be raised (whether it was over changes to the language of prayer, or a question at a parish meeting). And she made herself known with her fantastic, patriotic, Cat-in-the-Hat kind of headpiece. With talk of the upcoming royal wedding in England, several of us yesterday were talking about the little hat-like things some British women wear, called “fascinators.” Well, when Mary put on her red, white, and blue hat, she not only fascinated, she surprised, startled, and astounded, as well.

Before my time at All Souls, Mary and Gloria Wilson were a team. But being the best of friends did not stop them for minute from arguing with one another—up the sidewalk, into the narthex, and right into the pew—whether the preaching was preaching or the choir was singing, if they had an argument to finish, they were going to finish it.

I don’t know what Mary said the very first time I met her, but somewhere near our first meeting, I remember her looking up at me (sort of sideways) and almost accusing me, “So, you’re the new priest! Welcome. Hope you like us and will stay a while.” And then, just as I was beginning to warm to her, she continued. “I have a question.” (Yes?, I wondered). “When are we going to sing some of the ‘old hymns.?’”
I think I tried to respond as diplomatically as possible and change the subject. And though we never talked about hymns for a funeral, I hope that Mary would approve of the hymns for today.

Mary was never afraid to speak up. She was like another Mary, Mary the Mother of Jesus, who appears in today’s Gospel. They’re at a wedding in Cana and there is a disaster, a disaster Mary Hitchcock would have completely understood. They’ve run out of wine, and Jesus’ mother (in good Mary Hitchcock fashion) points it out.

“They have no wine,” she points out. But Jesus doesn’t seem to appreciate the comment. He hears it as a call to action, and he’s not really meaning to be busy right now. But he obliges his mother.

Mary (the Mother of God, that is) knew when there was a potential for a good party. And lucky for her, for the wedding guests, and for Christian tradition, Jesus got busy. After an initial reluctance to perform a miracle then and there (we can imagine him looking at her saying something to the effect of, “Oh, Mom, not now.” But a miracle is made. Water is turned into wine, and St. John calls this the “first of his signs.” That is to tell us that this miracle, this sign, is simply a foretaste of much bigger, much better things to come. The significance of the Wedding at Cana is not that Jesus attended a wedding party. It’s not even that Jesus can so parlor tricks at his mother’s request. Instead, this story shows us something about God’s love. God’s love overflows like water after a torrential downpour, like juice running freely as grapes are pressed, and as we’ll hear on Good Friday, like the water of life flowing out of the side of Jesus Christ, as he shows us the extent of God’s love for us on the cross.

God’s love and mercy are overflowing, unbounded, ever-surprising, and never-ending.

Mary Hitchcock is not the only person to know that the Kingdom of God has a lot of food in it. Another Mary, Mary Francis Kennedy Fisher, known as M.F.K. Fisher, said

“Food for the soul is a part of all religion.” “Food for the soul is a part of all religion, as . . . savages know when they roast a tiger’s heart for their god, as Christians know when they partake of the Body and Blood at the mystical feast of Holy Communion. That is why there can be an equal significance in a sumptuous banquet for five thousand heroes, with the king sitting on his iron throne and minstrels singing above the sound of gnawed bones and clinking cups, or in a piece of dry bread eaten alone by a man lifting his eyes unto the hills.” [Here Let us Feast: A Book of Banquets (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1986) xiv, reprinted from 1946 Viking Press.]

We can be thankful that when we get to heaven, there will be something like the Zagat Survey to all the best places to eat up there. And Mary Hitchcock will be our guide.

Until then, we will miss her. We will miss hearing her voice, trying to answer her questions, seeing her all over the District, wherever there is a street fair or festival. And we will miss her at this altar and at the tables in the Undercroft, places where we exchanged laughter and love.

I mentioned that Mary used to ask me, “When are we going to sing some of the old hymns.” Today, after Communion, rather than kneel as we often do, I invite you to stand with me and sing a hymn that I think Mary would agree is among the best of the “old hymns,” “Leaning on the everlasting arms of God.” It can be sung with gratitude for a life well lived and with joy that Mary now sings and celebrates, and eats and drinks, right along side us in the Communion of Saints.